Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Friday night, while riding on the tram. It was well after midnight, and my sweetie and I were on the way home from a friend's birthday party. While we were waiting for the train to get rolling, some drunk guy got on board and started harassing the driver for no obvious reason.
Apparently sensing danger, the driver called the police to have the man removed from the train. The cops arrived and, after some muss, fuss, and pepper-spray, wrestled said drunk guy to the ground.
Here you can see them giving him the German version of the Rodney King treatment.
What I don't really get is this: See that guy with the blond hair looking at the camera? The one who's got his knee stuck in the drunk guy's kidneys? He wasn't a cop. He was just some other drunk guy. I'm not sure why the cops would let some random drunk guy join in on the police brutality here, seeing as that's sort of their job.
So, does that mean if I see someone getting arrested, I can run up and give him the elbow?
Republicans are so afraid to run on their merits that they continue to resort to dirty tricks.
Listen to this robocall (.WAV) being sent to Virginia voters:
Tim Daly from Clarendon got a call saying that if he votes Tuesday, he will be arrested. A recording of his voicemail can be found online at: www.webbforsenate.com/media/phone_message.wav
The transcript from his voicemail reads:
"This message is for Timothy Daly. This is the Virginia Elections Commission. We've determined you are registered in New York to vote. Therefore, you will not be allowed to cast your vote on Tuesday. If you do show up, you will be charged criminally."
Daly has been registered to vote in Virginia since 1998, and he has voted for the last several cycles with no problem. He has filed a criminal complaint with the Commonwealth's attorney in Arlington.
I've been hearing these stories from the left ever since I started voting. The only voter intimidation I've ever personally witnessed is the same constant badgering of conservatives as racist, homophobic, reactionary, Christian fundamentalists that has become the mainstream criticism of the right in the media and, indeed, in general discourse. Now, I'm supposed to believe that the Republican party is creating personalized-yet-automated phone messages for Democrats in an attempt to illegally disenfranchise Daily Kos readers? While I'm for it in principle, I doubt they'd be that brazen.
What they're actually charging here is that Republicans are calling voters and threatening them with arrest if they vote Democrat. Now, I'm pretty jaded to the shrill whining that passes for Progressive political discussion, so I usually just scroll past such news stories as so much humbug. But what does that do for our general political alertness level? Who's actually going to notice if some sort of diabolically crooked electioneering really does subvert the American political process? I don't think that Diebold is really on the side of Republicans, guys. At least not to the point that they'd rat out a Democratic administration in y'all's favor.
The Democrats are going to get trounced in this election, at least if they get what they deserve. I'm so fed up with their mock outrage, I'm almost wishing I hadn't thrown my vote away on Libertarians. Get out there; vote Republican; and let's see if we can make that vein pop out on Kos's forehead again.
When I was up visiting the Straight White Guy last month, we discussed one thing that I'd always forgotten to talk about at blog meets: Blogging.
Eric puts out content more consistently than most bloggers, so I thought it would be interesting to know how goes about doing it. Unfortunately, he belongs to that shady Mu-Nu sect, so most of what he was saying came across as so much glassy-eyed Scientology to my untrained ears.
So, how does Rube 'post' a 'blog', you may ask? Well, let's take a look behind scenes!
[cue 'Leave it to Beaver' music and throaty-voiced announcer]
First off, Rube has to decide that he wants to post. This is actually the most difficult part of the entire process, and the weakest link in the chain of productivity.
If Rube make it past that hurdle, Rube fires up his trusty blogging program, ecto (click pictures for bigger versions):
So, Rube clicks on 'New', and up comes the dreaded blank page of inspirationlessness.
This is usually the part where I sit there a moment, wait for something to happen without my intervention, then close the application in bitter, crushing defeat. But today, we've got this post here to write, so onward! I choose a category from the list on the right, and start a-typing.
But at some point, I've got to get these screenshots in here. No problem, just hit the attachments button and choose an image:
And Viola, it pops it right in there.
Once I've gotten my (admittedly lackluster) post put together, I can either save it, with the vain hope that at some point in the future I'll actually try to improve it, or publish it without regard to quality, accuracy or entertainment value. So, I hit publish. At which point, ecto does the rest of the work, contacting the server, uploading the pictures, pinging Technorati, and God knows what tedious grunt work that needs to be done.
And that's how it gets done over here at YouBitch! So, what's your kit?
Here's a minor update the BugMeNot Browser Button™. It's a little javascript-bookmarklet for your browser toolbar/favorites that will popup the BugMeNot Password for the page you're currently viewing.
In Mozilla/Firefox, just drag it to your Favorites/Bookmarks toolbar. If you reach a registered-only news page, just click the button. In Internet Explorer (which you shouldn't use anyway), right-click the link and choose "Add to Favorites". Popup-blockers like Google Toolbar might interefere with its operation, unfortunately.
Still haven't found a way to make it pop up above the current browser window...
I opened up TextMate so's I could do me some programmin'. It updated itself to the latest version and reloaded, as it often does, and then it popped up the following release notes:
[2006-11-02: REVISION 1324]
[REMOVED] TextMate no longer pays tribute to human sacrifices, rape, nor does it show a picture of the God of the deaths in your dock -- ticket 945BEB5D
Which, you know, good thing, too. I was getting tired of all that rape stuff while I was trying to code.
Like I said, once you start those male hormones flowing, you reduce what little brain the poor man has to something terribly, terribly primitive. That reptilian brain can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with, feels no pity, or remorse, or fear, and absolutely will not stop, ever, until it has succeeded in injecting a healthy dose of genetic material into your poonanny.
If men were computers, they would have what's known as a Reduced Instruction Set. You save a lot of cycles that way.
My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
