"I think you might want to buy a knife."
Claudia's eye never wavered from the peephole as her left hand rose carefully to grasp the button at the end of the security chain.
Even though she wanted to shriek, or puke, or run.
The scrawny young man standing on her well-lit front porch didn't seem very threatening. He actually looked a bit like a grown-up Harry Potter, with his mousy hair and wire spectacles and refusal to raise his head and try to look threateningly yet fruitlessly in backwards through the peephole, like all proper late-night potential dangers should.
Still, she was freaked. She asked him to repeat himself as she quietly pinned home a security device designed to stop any intruder, so long as any intruder weighed less than ninety pounds and wasn't intent on getting inside.
"Please," said the stranger out front. "I think you might want to buy a knife."
Claudia's eye never wavered from the peephole as her left hand rose carefully to grasp the button at the end of the security chain.
Even though she wanted to shriek, or puke, or run.
The scrawny young man standing on her well-lit front porch didn't seem very threatening. He actually looked a bit like a grown-up Harry Potter, with his mousy hair and wire spectacles and refusal to raise his head and try to look threateningly yet fruitlessly in backwards through the peephole, like all proper late-night potential dangers should.
Still, she was freaked. She asked him to repeat himself as she quietly pinned home a security device designed to stop any intruder, so long as any intruder weighed less than ninety pounds and wasn't intent on getting inside.
"Please," said the stranger out front. "I think you might want to buy a knife."
Continue reading Short Story: Door to Door.
For years, I've kept a mental list of celebrities, pseudo-celebrities and sort-of-famous people with whom I'd like to have a beer (read: get knackered) and some interesting conversation.It's not about hotness or star-fucking. It's just about people I see onscreen or online or in the news that make make me go, 'hmm, I think I'd get along with him/her in real life, at least for a little while.' You know what I'm talking about; you just think they get it, or you get them, and that you could probably find a bunch of crap to talk about that has nothing to do with how much you liked their book or movie.
So here is the Top Ten from my Beer List, in some sort of order that's subject to change depending on the next thing any one of them says into a microphone. There are definitely a few more, but not many - famous people are generally wealthy, and wealthy people are generally vapid and irritating beyond reason - and most of the ones not on this list are already dead, making it really tough to bond over a shot of chilled Patron with an icy Modelo back.
Two more things, quickly: One, David Cross and John Swartzwelder are locked in a perennial tie for eleventh place on my Beer List, not because I wouldn't like to hang out with them, but because Cross probably has tons of idiots clamoring to buy him a drink and would just rather be left alone for a while, and Swartzwelder seems like he really doesn't want to hang out with anyone. And two, I know I'm lucky in the drinking partners life has already afforded me - I'd rather have a few off the wood with my fiance, friends, brother-in-law and the guys and girls of the Tampa/St. Petersburg music scene than anyone else in the world.
Click through for the list.
Continue reading The Beer List, July 2008.
I think I've finally decided what I want to happen to my earthly remains - that means my corpse, you know, the thing that serves no intrinsic purpose after death and stinks and eventually rots if worms/predators don't get to it first - after I die.
I mean, not the burial-or-cremation part. I've always wanted to be cremated, after whatever still-useful organs are harvested. Because, seriously, anyone who doesn't want to give their organs to recipients and/or science before having their body burned to ash is either insane or taking miserliness to insane levels. WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING TO NEED YOUR BODY FOR?! If you want a place for your family to come and remember you, spend that $8,000 on having an artificial reef sunk, and your ashes spread over it; that way, we can all honor your life by catching the delicious grouper and amberjack you hath wrought, bringing life even in death, forever and ever amen. Or whatever. The point is, getting torched isn't going to hurt, I promise, and it will save valuable property for golf courses and Slip-N-Slide setup.
Plus, you know ... zombies [shudder].
No, I'm talking about what I want to happen between the gasp-choke-rattle and scoop-scoop ("Those're some fine ACL tendons there, Lou"), and the toboggan ride into the Final Toaster.
I mean, not the burial-or-cremation part. I've always wanted to be cremated, after whatever still-useful organs are harvested. Because, seriously, anyone who doesn't want to give their organs to recipients and/or science before having their body burned to ash is either insane or taking miserliness to insane levels. WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING TO NEED YOUR BODY FOR?! If you want a place for your family to come and remember you, spend that $8,000 on having an artificial reef sunk, and your ashes spread over it; that way, we can all honor your life by catching the delicious grouper and amberjack you hath wrought, bringing life even in death, forever and ever amen. Or whatever. The point is, getting torched isn't going to hurt, I promise, and it will save valuable property for golf courses and Slip-N-Slide setup.
Plus, you know ... zombies [shudder].
No, I'm talking about what I want to happen between the gasp-choke-rattle and scoop-scoop ("Those're some fine ACL tendons there, Lou"), and the toboggan ride into the Final Toaster.
Continue reading In Celebration of Geri X's "When I Die".
I don't know what it is about ShamWow shiller Vince that makes me like him. He's not an overly slick or polished pitchman, but he's not some schlep who wandered in off the street on the day they decided to shoot the not-quite-infomercial, either. He's obviously been selected because he fits some middle-aged executive wannabe's idea of "hip." Look, he's almost got a faux-hawk! Actually, he looks a bit like a dirty blonde Johnny Knoxville who knows that if he shows a little too much personality during this particular community-service gig, they'll stop giving him hours and start giving him jail time. Still, he can't help himself - he's gotta smarm it up just a bit.
Maybe that's exactly what it is about Vince that makes him so much more interesting to me than the average criminally overenthusiastic, set-chomping cut-rate product pusher. He just seems like a guy who knows he's got a cheesy job, but has discovered he has a little charming talent for it, so what the hell? He'll do the job, cash the check and be able to laugh about the whole thing at the bar, instead of leaving or picking a fight when somebody wants to buy the ShamWow guy a shot and a "wooooooooooo!"
I'm good for a round, Vince - whatever you want. And the "woooooooooo!" is completely optional.
Maybe that's exactly what it is about Vince that makes him so much more interesting to me than the average criminally overenthusiastic, set-chomping cut-rate product pusher. He just seems like a guy who knows he's got a cheesy job, but has discovered he has a little charming talent for it, so what the hell? He'll do the job, cash the check and be able to laugh about the whole thing at the bar, instead of leaving or picking a fight when somebody wants to buy the ShamWow guy a shot and a "wooooooooooo!"
I'm good for a round, Vince - whatever you want. And the "woooooooooo!" is completely optional.
The Bitter, Aging Hipster is nearing 40. He no longer enjoys the
lavish attentions of the music, film and energy drink industries. (He
actually thinks the energy drink industry has something to do with
magic, or voodoo, or some shit.) But despite his anger at the
unavoidable realization that he's no longer ad candy, the B,AH feels he
has wisdom to pass on to the next generation of vapid, trendy,
self-absorbed teens and twentysomethings who express their
individuality by firmly entrenching themselves within a uniform group
of like-minded kids who somehow still think they're all alone and
misunderstood in the big bad world. So, every week, he answers two
made-up questions about Living In The Mainstream While Still Pretending
To Be Original with warmth, understanding and love. Except without
those three things.Dear B, AH,
Obviously, you like old shit, and hate new shit. I like some old shit that somehow stays cool (or becomes cool again) myself. But isn't it weird how some old shit that stays cool is actually cool, and some of it just completely sucks and should've died a painful death and stayed buried? I mean, what the hell's up with Teen Wolf? Why do 21-year-olds like me even know Teen Wolf? A-Team good. Teen Wolf bad. So who decides what deserves to be remembered or even loved? Is there a mathematical formula? It seems too random. But seriously, Teen Wolf sucks. Miami Vice too.
Anachronistic Anarchist
Dear AA (shudder),
Continue reading Ask The Bitter, Aging Hipster: '80s Treats, So-Called Meats.
Yeah, I'm still totally watching this crap, if only because the very first episode wasn't half bad, as far as cliche-dependent, gore-eschewing watered-down-for-TV horror dreck goes. The Eric Roberts episode was 'meh,' and I missed it last week (I was working on a final mix for the new Nessie EP - coming soon!), but this week's John Landis-directed episode provided me with a diverting round of Guess The Twist that lasted all of about, oh, seven minutes or so.Oh, John Landis. Has it really been 27 years since An American Werewolf in London, and 16 since Innocent Blood? And have you really spent that time directing episodes of Dream On and Psych? I was going to completely rationalize away any fault of yours with regard to your transparent installment. I was going to blame it on the bad actors reciting the hackneyed dialogue by the guy who wrote Jeepers Creepers. I was assuming you were saddled with inferior material and questionable talent. But you not only know that mugging human scenery-chainsaw from USA or TBS or whatever, you've worked with him!
The creepy-funny closeups of the children at the beginning were great, trademarked Landis touches. So was the screaming little girl running through the bride's tense-instrospection scene. But, honestly, this is the worst Fear Itself I've seen yet, and it came from the director of some of my favorite comedy and horror flicks. What's wrong with "In Sickness and in Health" is what's wrong with pretty much all American horror these days - it coasts on tired tropes. It assumes it can't show us anything new, and doesn't bother to try. Hell, it doesn't even bother to make fun of the stereotypes, something at which Landis used to subtly excel.
Becks is fairly addicted to A&E's Intervention, the compelling/depressing/sometimes uplifting/always arguably exploitative reality series in which real people suffering real holy-God-wow levels of addiction hit bottom for the cameras before getting blindsided with a treatment-or-shunnage ultimatum by their family and friends.
(I don't mean to be harsh - that's pretty much the definition of an intervention in the first place.)
For me, watching the show is always a surprisingly uncomfortable experience. It's like being on stage at your high school graduation, and the kid three names in front of you goes into a full-blown epileptic seizure right when the diploma hits the hand.
It also inspires this weird inner vacillation between wondering about my own drinking, and feeling totally fine about it because, you know, I don't see myself throwing up blood while sobbing (on camera!) shortly after threatening my mother with a broken bottle during a "discussion" about how infrequently I clean the part of the laundry room where I sleep (again, on camera!) anytime soon. Then again, I have thrown up on camera, and ruined the odd shitty job or casual friendship due to hangover or weakened brain-face filter.
What Intervention needs is a watch-along checklist, a rundown of the show's most commonly recurring indicators that those of us viewing the program at home might've progressed beyond the realm of "occasionally problematic lifestyle" and into "we went ahead and ordered the tombstone with this year's date on it." And here it is, after the jump:
(I don't mean to be harsh - that's pretty much the definition of an intervention in the first place.)
For me, watching the show is always a surprisingly uncomfortable experience. It's like being on stage at your high school graduation, and the kid three names in front of you goes into a full-blown epileptic seizure right when the diploma hits the hand.
It also inspires this weird inner vacillation between wondering about my own drinking, and feeling totally fine about it because, you know, I don't see myself throwing up blood while sobbing (on camera!) shortly after threatening my mother with a broken bottle during a "discussion" about how infrequently I clean the part of the laundry room where I sleep (again, on camera!) anytime soon. Then again, I have thrown up on camera, and ruined the odd shitty job or casual friendship due to hangover or weakened brain-face filter.
What Intervention needs is a watch-along checklist, a rundown of the show's most commonly recurring indicators that those of us viewing the program at home might've progressed beyond the realm of "occasionally problematic lifestyle" and into "we went ahead and ordered the tombstone with this year's date on it." And here it is, after the jump:
Continue reading A&E's Intervention: That's Not Me, Is It? Naw, That's Not Me..
So, yeah, it's been almost exactly a month since I dropped by here and did my part to make the digital universe just a little bit brighter. I'd love to say that I've been spoon-feeding the great white sharks of the Great Barrier Reef, or getting halfway through that book about a revenge road trip that's been rolling around my brain for the better part of a year, or "helping" a couple of exotic dancers who look like but aren't twins through their Daddy issues.
But basically, I've been working a new gig, and worrying about my mom. (Looks like she's going to be ok by the way, thanks.) The job is very word-intensive; plus, it involves posting and commenting on news items, and yadda yadda come home and do the same blah blah blah.
(I did find time to cover one of my Telecasters with duct tape, though -- hey, I was bored.)
But basically, I've been working a new gig, and worrying about my mom. (Looks like she's going to be ok by the way, thanks.) The job is very word-intensive; plus, it involves posting and commenting on news items, and yadda yadda come home and do the same blah blah blah.
(I did find time to cover one of my Telecasters with duct tape, though -- hey, I was bored.)
Continue reading The Time, She Do Get Away from Ye.
1. Change that outside light bulb that's been burned out for, like, four weeks.
2. Pretend like it didn't matter, that it's just a stupid TV show, dammit.
3. Go to Push Ultra Lounge to see Palantine and Experimental Pilot.
4. Shower, for Chrissakes. I smellz like dieing.
5. Finish reading the Sex And The City issue of Entertainment Weekly, so it doesn't look like I'm stretching it out until the premiere.
6. Walk the dog. Milo is, seriously, a box of bon-bons away from being the sane young male dog version of a crazy old cat lady shut-in.
7. Edit Crider's Dethklok story.
8. Finish writing that song about the chick that dumps her boyfriend's body into the Bay, but it's not what you think.
9. Wash all the dishes, as opposed to just enough to make the dish rack seem kind of full.
10. The hustle.
