Why Gamers Suck

All right, so I'm a dedicated gamer, given the chance. After a shitty workweek, unleashing "Burning" Takarov, priest of the thoroughly evil god of Fire and Poison on an unsuspecting village in the company of the equally vile Lovefist brothers had a cathartic joy to it. And of course, our interminable avatar campaigns in the World of Darkness allow an even more direct opportunity to blow off steam.

But let's face it, all gamers suck. Here's why-


1- We will tell you about our characters, knowing full well that you do not give a fuck. We will also tell you about how much we hate it when people tell us about their characters, because that's how we roll.

2- We find our in-jokes funny. Then we ruin them by explaining them to you. Honestly, if you weren't there, "that time Mike said we'd kill him if he fucked up" just isn't that funny.

3- We will argue endlessly about truly pointless shit in imaginary worlds. You have not experienced Hell until you've seen a Forgotten Realms fan throw down with a Greyhawk fan about the respective merits of their settings. And while just about everyone on Earth is capable of this, only gamers and other geeks will get in a frothing rage about why Elminster could totally kick Mordenkainen's ass. If they start citing page numbers, you're probably on the internet, and should just navigate to a porn site to unwind.

4- We, aware as we are of stereotypical social awkwardness, will still pick on gamers who "do it wrong." In the game store I worked at in Bloomington, we had a guy we called C.K.W. (Coolest Kid in the World) who we endlessly put down and abused in-game. A simpler, mature solution would have been to not let him play since his style pissed us off. But lord knows, we can't turn a fellow gamer away. Especially not when he's more pathetic than we are and makes us look better by comparison.

5- We have to be cool. And we have to prove it. Drunken rednecks have nothing on pencil-wristed gamers when it comes to dick-measuring contests. About shit that is usually either trivial, fictitious, or just useless.

6- Our system is better than yours. We have a tendency to cling to a gaming system we like as if it contained the only water left in the universe. And revised versions of systems we like are greeted with hostility. For example, I started playing D&D when it was AD&D 2nd Edition. A system, which, by the way, sucked the meat missile. GOD it was awful and arbitrary. But it took me a while to warm up to 3rd Edition, because, well, it was change. And would Eldred Shadowmere, Dual-Wielding Ranger Who Could Totally Kick Drizzt's Ass And I had The Stats To Prove It survive the transition unchanged?! WHO KNEW?!

7- If you don't like a system, you clearly just played it wrong. Of course. It has nothing to do with the fact that you hated how it worked. Or that character creation required ninety-seven charts... or had NO charts! GASP! Our terminal inability to accept style differences stems from another problem...

8- We are frequently one or two players short of a good group, and will therefore take in strays who then have an awful time while we mock them. Lord knows, if we just loosened up and had fun, we might get farther, but THIS game is S E R I O U S. We promise. With all of these differences, each group inevitably feels it is doing things "right," and pities others who can't get the hang of it, which feeds back into 4, 6 and 7.

9- We spend money on crap we could easily make up. Don't believe me? World of Darkness: Hong Kong. Rather than, say, looking into an area's history and making up your own imaginary shit to put in it, you instead buy White Wolf's. Doubly shaming if you're playing a game in a TOTALLY fictitious world. News flash- Almost none of their fluff is that great or original. If you make up some derivative crap, don;t worry- you're just like 97% of published fantasy or science fiction novels.

10- We are aware of every single one of these flaws, and we do nothing about it. Seriously.

Now, in conclusion, let me say that I still love this damned hobby, and I miss my old group to death. Why? Because we try as hard as we can to mitigate some of this list. Say, I'm sure my old seat's open, why don't you drop by and try a game? Don't worry if you don't get it at first, but they're totally doing it right.

The Kobuk Catechism

The following are phrases, words and notions that I've adopted in the ten weeks I've lived up here... Explanations are best kept to a minimum- nothing ever gets explained terribly well up here, and I kinda like it.

OMGWTFFTS- "Oh My God, What The Fuck, Fuck This Shit."- Sort of the mantra for our first week of school. I still keep it handy.

"Probably not today."- Says it all.

"Nothing works here."- Ditto.

"A Plan is just a series of events that don't happen."

"Adii"- Inupiaq for "I don't waaaaaannnna." Best said in a grating whine.

"Sometimes always never."- Once in a blue fucking moon.

"Alaapaa."- Inupiaq for "It's cold." With perhaps a "god damn it" on the end, depending on the tone.

"Make your peace with ugly"- A repeated catchphrase from Yours Truly to the two experienced teachers who are new to Village life.

"Never ever do this."

There's something about the northern latitudes that brings out the macho insanity in nearly everybody.

And I don't mean the "Hey, y'all, watch this!" brand you find down south, either.

No, I'm talking about the kind of macho insanity that makes heading out on an icy river after sundown in a small john-boat to set nets sound reasonable.

Or the kind that makes you leap at the chance to work on top of a rickety fish-rack, passing a chainsaw back and forth.

Or hop on a 4-wheeler without checking fuel status to roar into the mountains on a joyride into totally uninhabited wilderness.

In other words, you start doing the kind of thing that makes responsible people cringe.

But don't worry- you're hardly alone.

Cameras and Me.

Let's make on thing perfectly clear.

I hate cameras.

Part of it may be that I am, to be charitable, the least photogenic person I know. I'm nothing to sing about in the flesh, but photos of me are almost universally awful. Whatever's left of my vanity doesn't need the abuse.

And then there's the fact that pictures don't fucking get it.

I saw the sunlight playing over the mountains behind town a few days ago. The trees with their fall colors, the undergrowth in its rich shades of red, lit by the powerful sun... And I know that any picture I took would merely be pretty. It would not capture what moved me to take it in the first place.

I also loathe the way people (myself included, lord knows), will strike poses and mug for the damned camera. Heaven forbid you should be caught looking like yourself. No picture of a person that isn't grainy security footage ever captures their real face- just the face they decided they wanted on film. And frankly, fuck that noise.

Because NO ONE demanded it!

My review of the Friday the 13th series, from start to remake, film by film.

Here we go.

Friday the 13th
The original, and the one that has the least to do with Jason Voorhes, the franchise's iconic monster. A fairly well-scripted little piece of work, and an example of something many slasher flicks neglect- The viewer is led to at least kind of like most of the victims, and all of them have lives beyond being impaled, stabbed, or otherwise doomed. These are people with plans for the future- plans which are, of course, fucking doomed. As anyone who saw Scream can tell you, the killer in this film is actually Jason's mother, Pamela Voorhes. Jason himself is presumed dead, having drowned years earlier. He does pop up to fuck with the heroine near the end, looking like a waterlogged, zombified little boy. We can therefore assume that this film regards him as dead or Undead, because he hasn't visibly aged since his drowning. All told, a pretty damn solid movie.

Friday the 13th, Part 2
And here we get Jason himself as the main man. The script still focuses mainly on the helpless chumps whose deaths are inevitable- one of whom, in a wheelchair, is killed so awesomely that they use his last ride with a knife in his head as stock footage for the rest of the series. Jason is reinvented as having survived his alleged drowning and runs around with a bag over his head, in the tradition of The Town That Dreaded Sundown. Jason is basically just a big, tough, normal dude (or so we are led to believe). He takes a hellacious pounding and is presumed dead at the end of the film. Not as good as the original, to be sure, but still pretty damn good.

Friday the 13th, Part III
The only reason anybody even remembers this one is basic sequential numbering. Oh, that, and it introduces Jason's hockey mask... about 75% of the way through the movie. While some token effort is expended on the victim characters in this one, the effort really falls flat. This also marks the first time we see Jason surviving anything truly unbelievable, but it's still attributed to his being an insanely tough mortal. An axe to the head puts him down, apparently dead. With that said, this third entry is a horrible clunker, with all of the right elements there, but in a bad mix.

Friday the 13th IV- The Final Chapter
This, in many ways, marks the first film in the series as it would later be perceived. Jason gets carted off to a morgue (an axe to the head can kinda do that) where he wakes up, kills some chumps, and wanders off. The victim cast in this is a little better than the last, but still nothing to write home about. Still, we at least acknowledge that some of them are people we sort of care about. This film also introduces Tommy Jarvis, who has the distinction of being the only non-Jason character to appear in multiple installments of the series... and survive. Jason does his thing, kills some folks, and then Tommy and his sister trick the big ox, get the drop on him, and basically hack his shit up. Jason is pretty emphatically dead at the end of this one- the "sequel shot" is Tommy's face as he hugs his sister in the hospital. Of course, since he's played by Corey Feldman, it feels less like dread and more like "what a funny-looking kid." Oh well. Still kinda fun.

Friday the 13th V- A New Beginning
Dear Christ does this one suck. Jason makes an appearance as hallucinations in a now young-adult Tommy Jarvis' mind, but he's not actually in the fucking movie. Nope. In fact, we're told he was cremated, and his ashes scattered. So we sit around this funny farm where Tommy's gone for therapy, while someone (we're supposed to think it's Tommy) runs around killing people. Had it actually been Tommy, it would have been predictable, but cool. But nope, we have some nutjob in a different hockey mask killing people for a reason they clearly just trumped up out of nowhere. Yes. Our killer isn't even a real character... nor are most of his victims- from here on in, they're purely caricatures who elicit no sympathy. This one isn't even required viewing for the series, because nothing that fucking happens in it is referenced ever again, aside from a throwaway line in the next film. It's not even a good movie in its own right- it's a crap movie cashing in on a franchise it's only part of because someone figured they could crap out a script in time.

Friday the 13th VI- Jason Lives
Apparently the folks at Paramount agree with my assessment of part V, because they quietly sweep it under the rug in this one. We open with Tommy Jarvis having gotten out of the institution, driving to Jason's grave in order to burn his body. So much for the cremation they referenced in Part V. So Tommy and his dumbfuck friend dig up Jason, Tommy loses his shit and stabs the corpse with part of a wrought-iron cemetery fence... which is then struck by lightning, resurrecting Jason. This is the first time he quite explicitly comes back from the dead. For some reason, Tommy has Jason's hockey mask- wouldn't that thing be in an evidence locker somewhere? I guess given the Undead Killer in this movie, I can let that bit of stupidity slide. So, Jason gets up and starts killing people. Tommy has a hard time getting anybody to believe him... and why not? They fucking buried a corpse which has been nice and dead for years before this fuckhead dug it up. Ah well. Tommy and his new girlfriend manage to lure Jaosn out into the lake and chain him to a rock, keeping him pinned and immobile under the water. Yay. Honestly? Dumb as it is, this may be my favorite "supernatural" Jason flick. It's dumb in the right ways.

Friday the 13th VII- The New Blood
Since things weren't dumb enough yet, this flick introduces a telekinetic chick to serve as Jason's foil. She dredges him out of the lake (which, you know, nobody should have been allowed near, what with the undead killing machine stuck out in it). He slaughters some people whole she grapples with Daddy issues before whupping Jason's ass via telekinesis, and dumping him in the lake. Again. Ugh.

Friday the 13th VIII- Jason Takes Manhattan
Possibly the worst of the films to actually tie into the storyline. This one is just idiotic. Amusingly, Jason doesn't "take" Manhattan until about three quarters of the movie has dragged by. Not only do we not care about his victims at this point, we now don't give a shit about the "hero" characters, either. They're bad rehashes of earlier characters, and by the time they're in New York, being chased by Jason, we share the locals supposedly cold-hearted indifference to their fate. The whole movie from the time the Statue of Liberty is sighted is one long, poorly-told joke about what jerks New Yorkers are. Oh, and apparently Manhattan's sewers flood with toxic waste every night. 'Cause, you know. Cities work like that. This one sucks so hard, it was explicitly not in continuity for the next film.

Friday the 13th IX- Jason Goes to Hell
We have no idea where the hell this one takes place in relation to the others. Part of that is because New Line, not Paramount, made it, and some of the intellectual property didn't make the jump. But there is no reference to anything except Jason's supposedly drowning as a child, his Mom killing some people, and his own alleged body count. The movie opens with Jason being blown apart by a S.W.A.T. team, and then it just gets weirder. See, Jason's body, it turns out, is just a shell. He's actually demonic. Or something. Anyway, some coroner eats his heart, gets possessed, kills some people, and then Jason jumps bodies a time or two. It's all very strange. In the end, some character we've never seen before this film says he has a magic knife that can kill Jason. He gets killed, but our hero manages to cack Voorhes, who dissolves. And then Freddy Kruger's glove drags the hockey mask down. This movie makes very, very little sense. But it's poetry compared to the next entry in the series...

Jason X-
Because, of course, Jason belongs in space. This movie is a total piece of shit, which I am proud to say I saw in theaters. Jason gets cryogenically frozen, thawed out in the future and, of course, starts slicing up teenagers in space. He gets blown to hell at one point, then gets rebuilt by futuristic nanotech looking like Super Shredder. Super-Jason fucks around, kills some people, then gets blasted out into space, and appears to be almost destroyed by atmospheric reentry. Or something. Honestly, this one was so goddamned stupid it deserves some kind of award.

Freddy vs. Jason-
Putting that behind them, New Line finally gave fans of the slasher subgenre what they'd wanted for ages... and did a way better job than Alien vs. Predator of delivering the goods. Oh, it still sucks- Kane Hodder wasn't cast as Jason because they wanted someone with "kinder eyes"- even though Jason still just basically kills everything in sight, making it hard to feel much sympathy for him. This is basically a Nightmare on Elm Street movie that happens to include Jason- Freddy carries most of the plot, and is seen as the greater menace. But what the hell, it's the fun kind of stupid.

And Finally-

Friday the 13th (2009)
This franchise went for a reboot, and high goddamned time. This flick is pretty formulaic, being sort of a group remake of parts I-III. Jason is definitely supposed to be a non-supernatural human in this one- he's portrayed as more sneaky and skilled than simply unstoppable. Not bad, but, as all remakes are doomed to, it broke no new ground. Some of the kills were noteworthy, but honestly, this one illustrates how little of impact the original would have had if it were released today.

And there you go.

Maybe next time I'll do another series.
Maybe not.

My Home

I live in a marvelous place. A legitimate checklist for my Saturday follows-

1. Check ammo status.
2. Sharpen Kukri.
3. Don gunbelt, pack knapsack.
4. Pay off The Russian.
5. Ride into the mountains.
6. Tea and sandwiches on a mountainside.
7. Shooting practice.
8. Ride back into town reeking of cordite.

Well Hello Again.

It's been a while, hasn't it? Pull up a stump and don't mind the fish heads. The lady from the dog yard hasn't been by yet today.

When last we met, I was eulogizing my late Grandfather. Before that, I was basically pinwheeling my arms wildly and waiting for my job to begin.

A lot of water under the bridge since then.

As intended, I packed my worldly goods up and shipped them and myself off to a spectacularly scenic little corner of the Northwest Arctic, finding employment as a schoolteacher.

And oh, what a clusterfuck it has been. And at the same time, what a marvelous decision.

The bad is almost all job-related.

I don't know if I'm a good teacher, a bad teacher, or perhaps the sort of teacher who burns his entire community to the ground. It's early yet- we just finished our second week of classes.

What I do know is that any and all time spent learning about the ancestral culture of the locals is wasted. Simply and utterly wasted. Because it has sweet fuck-all to do with the students. I've gotten more mileage out of the childhood tales of some of my more colorful friends than any amount of Native Heritage study. And thank whatever deity is listening that I actually appreciate casual brutality, or I would find living here to be a chore.

As it is, the teaching is difficult. My students, bless their enlightened little hearts, do not give a shit. They ask me "why we gotta read?" And while I have answers to THAT one, some others are trickier. For example, Health Class. It's a load of shit. They know it, I know it, anyone who has ever taken Health knows it. I'm reasonably sure even the Sex-Ed part is Abstinence Only- in other words, it's an hour every day that serves as torture for both the class and for me, while teaching nothing that's going to stick.

So some classes are awful and some are good- and they all have the unusual problem that they go off every day, instead of rotating like they do in larger schools. And then we have the real gravy part.

As a small school, we have a staff of five... or should. Four full-time teachers, and one Teacher/Principal. Until the end of the first week, when our Teacher/Principal, impelled by drama from last year, transferred to another school. Yes. The pigfucker gets in one week's worth of time-wasting, then rides off into the sunset, leaving us high and dry. As of this writing, we're not completely sure what the hell is going on or who will take over. This will be a semester dictated by who manages to fail the least. It's going to be a long, hard slog.

So much for the job. I get my first paycheck soon, and so much of it is already spoken for it hurts to think about.

But the place... the place is another story altogether.

The river runs by the front of the village, rich with fish and a lot of fun to boat around on. On all sides, there is nothing but empty space. An old mine lies about fifteen miles out of town, easily reached by 4-wheeler, nestled in the mountains. The village lies on flatlands immediately south of the mountains, hemmed in by forest and tundra in a delightful mix. Caribou pass by so close that hauling their carcasses back to town is a short trip, and every day I feel as if I've woken up in a postcard. It's also a place that, in spite of the rampant alcoholism and abuse, or perhaps because of it, accepts little things that I enjoy. When I walk down the road with my kukri and my .45 on my belt, the only questions I get are "what kind of gun is that?" and "where did you get that knife?" When a small child lands a pike, no one so much as blinks if I use my kukri to finish the fish off. If I come back into town with an armload of bones or antlers, no one feels a need to comment. If someone wants a dog put down, there's no song and dance about animal cruelty... someone just takes the mutt out to the airstrip and shoots it, then hauls its corpse to the dump.

In other words, it's a place where folks leave one another alone unless they're invited over or unless they need something. It's a place where I run the risk of being the most sentimental man in town.

And it's a place where I can watch old women dress out fish with an ulu in less than fifteen seconds. Where fish racks dot the riverside, and where caribou bones lie under nearly every house.

In other words, if I can stand the teaching for few hours a day, it's possibly one of the best places in the world for me to be.

So Long, Grandfather

My maternal grandfather passed away last night.

While I am saddened by this, I am utterly unsurprised.

Gramps was 91, and had been failing ever since spring. He last looked like himself eighty-one days ago.

Gramps went to sea when he was very young, served in the Navy through the Second World War and afterward, and raised my mother and all of her siblings along with Granny. He knew how to fix almost anything. He was working on the roof of his house when he was over eighty years old.

I am descended from one tough, tough, tough, IRON-tough old man.

I have no regrets about my relationship with my Gramps.

He has been a part of my life since well before I was born, and I don't see how that's going to change now. What he taught me and what he gave me will always be with me. If I'm supremely lucky, I'll be able to pass some of it along, and if I really outdo myself, I'll be half as capable as he was by the time I die.

He gave me a pocketknife... a little one... that I had on me today, before I'd heard. But I've been thinking of him.

He taught me to drive a boat. Some of the highest praise I've ever received in my life was when I heard from someone else that he thought I'd brought it into shore properly (which is to say, jumping over the side and hauling the bowline in with me). He taught me to drive his old Toro tractor. He drove his dog-infested RV back and forth across the country year after year, getting the hell out of Indiana for the winter.

He made sure I always had an air conditioner in working order when I stayed at the farm.

He was one of the few people I could shut up around, simply because I knew he didn't need me to say a damned thing.

I'll miss you, old man.

But I also know you hated being fussed over, and you'd be downright irritable if I moped around because of you, so I'll carry on as I always have.

Thanks for all you taught me.
Thanks for all you gave me.

Godspeed.

A Tribesman Far From His Tribe.

"Parting from friends is a sadness- a place is just a place." - Dune

So, my sister and I watched Blazing Saddles again tonight, and while I enjoyed it, it brought home a simple, unpleasant truth.

I miss the FUCK out of my compadres.

Where I used to be able to drag my broke ass across town and always find a couch to crash on and a place at table, I now find myself more or less trapped at home until I head for Kobuk.

The little things- casual abuse shared by people who knew better than to be offended by it. Someone to bitch about things with who didn't feel the need to solve my fucking lame-ass problems.

A shared sense of identity, honestly. When in the company of my weird, heavily-armed family, I always know where I stand. I belong as I don't think I ever have before (which speaks volumes about just how fucked up the folks I run with are). I can truthfully say that they are "home" in their own twisted way.

I miss the hell out of 'em, but I'm taking the long view- I may be in Kobuk for just two years, or I may live there for twenty.

But whether I'm thirty and bored with it or I'm sixty and the thought of an Alaskan Arctic winter is more than I can stand, I know some folks who'll put me up.

And that's worth remembering.

On Comic Book Nerd Rage

So apparently, someone is tweaking Wonder Woman's costume and origin.

This, of course, has the nerds who care in a frothing rage.

Which is funny, since, speaking as a comic book geek myself, I have the following observation to make-

Scarlet Spider/Spider-Clone- It sucked, people hated it, it went away.
Superman Red/Superman Blue- It sucked, people hated it, it went away.
The Eric Masterson Thor/Thunderstrike- It sucked, people hated it, it went away.
The Arrowcar- It sucked, people hated it, it went away.
The High Lords in X-Force (you know, immortal mutants as a community) - It sucked, people hated it, it went away.
Azbat- It sucked, people hated it, it went away.
Superman's Mullet- It sucked, people hated it, it went away.
Iron Spider Armor - It sucked, people hated it, it went away.
Avengers Disassembled- It sucked, people hated it, it went away.
Spoiler's Death / Leslie Thompkins' Character Assassination- It sucked, people hated it, it went away.
X-Corps- It sucked, people hated it, it went away.
Punisher versus Demons- It sucked, people hated it, it went away.
The Kinder, Gentler Magneto- It sucked, people hated it, it went away.
The Punker, Edgier Storm- It sucked, people hated it, it went away.
Nightcrawler the Priest- It sucked, people hated it, it went away.
The offscreen death of Sebastian Shaw- It sucked, people hated it, it went away.
Hal Jordan as the Spectre- It sucked, people hated it, it went away.



This too shall pass.

Traps and Tricks

So, the old cat died a while back.

For all of her faults, the old girl did one thing, performed one service we kind of miss these days.

She provided guilt-free pest control. No voles could survive in her radius, and her mere presence was a deterrent.

Now that she's gone, the duty has fallen upon me- because neither my sister nor my mother have the stomach for it.

And thus it is I who bait traps with tasty treats for the little creatures. It is I who place them in locations of value. And it is I who haul the little corpses outside and dump them for the shrews and carrion birds.

It's funny.

My sister flat-out refuses to bait traps. She claims it's too "serial killer" for her.

I can try to explain that there's no malice in my heart when I set these traps. I sincerely wish these rather dim-witted little creatures would simply stay away from the trash can and the flour and the rice on their own... But wishing doesn't feed me.

But I doubt she'll ever grasp that.

This wouldn't bother me, except that she wants them gone more than anyone.

After all, I'll be gone in August. I can only hope she figures out that what we need to do often has no emotion connected with it at all.

Back Home Again...

No, not in Indiana.

After a long-ass month suffering through educational theory, leavened with useful moments of teaching summer school, I have returned.

Life, of course, has moved on without me, and thus the doctor from Utah wants his damn money.
I also have to buy supplies for a year.
And a plane ticket to Kobuk.
And get a physical.
And otherwise get my shit together.

So, after having a month of mine utterly wasted, I can finally get on with the whole affair.

A Poem About Teachers.

Composed today, by yours truly.
It well never be posted on the wall of any public school, but I'm going to keep it in mind for the year(s) ahead.

A good teacher is like an AK-47.
Simple, effective. Goes everywhere.
Will work in cold wastes or humid jungles.
Strong enough to take it...
Loose enough to roll with the punches.
A marriage of form and function,
Combining flexibility with relentlessly engineered purpose.

Teaching the Unteachable, Day 2

More clusterfucking, albeit more organized.

Have to design a classroom layout which, funny to say, is actually good practice for something that seems to be neglected all too often.

Of course, since I'm a generalist, I get to cover the walls in random crap willy-nilly.

Teaching the Unteachable, Day 1

Well, THAT was a big shiny clusterfuck.

Well, that's unfair. Some of the content we covered was useful.

But mostly it was a clusterfuck.

Also, having revised my lesson plan from January? Yeah, I liked it better before. Thankfully, it's over and done with. Praise... whoever.

Springtime in Alaska

So, as I pack and prepare to go waste an entire month in Anchorage, I figured I'd take one of my peaceful strolls through the woods. Just something I do.

And then I rediscovered the joys of spring in the Interior.

We have several wildfires going in the surrounding area, with the end result that no matter what the prevailing winds turn out to be, the entire area is blanketed in a haze of smoke from several hundred (possibly several thousand) acres of empty wilderness blazing away like a giant campfire.

As a result, anyone stepping outdoors is almost instantly kippered.

But the smoke is NOT enough to deal with the insect life- as your lungs fill with smoke, your skin is attacked on several fronts by great swarms of mosquitoes hellbent on draining your blood, and then the yellowjackets or bald wasps decide to pay a call to snack on the mosquitoes...

Yeah, it can be a bit rough.

But, on the other hand, as I walk through the smokey, bug-infested woods, I do so with a rifle on my shoulder, a pistol and a kukri at my belt, and the freedom to piss wherever I please more or less self-evident.

God I love my home.

As a certain Comrade of mine has recently engaged in this exercise, I'm bored enough to do the same.

Basically, this is the soundtrack of "Peyote Coyote- the Musical," with song titles dredged up from the flotsam and jetsam of my subconscious

They are color coded. RED items are Chorus/Ensemble numbers. Green items are duets, while bold green indicates a duet I'm not part of. Yellow items are chorus/dance numbers with no lyrics. Blue items in italic are, of course, my solos, and the bold version is a solo by someone else.
Act I
Overture (Cold and Dark)
Northern Nowhere.
Placid
The Northernmost Denny's
Outward Bound
So Long, and Don't Wait Up
Act II
What in Hell?
The Hoosier Tango
I've Grown to Hate It Here
You and I Make No Sense
Scumfucks/Brothers in Arms
Friday
We're All Too Drunk To Taste This Chicken
Where the Hell am I Going?

Act III
A Home I Barely Understand
Where Did You Come From?
A Last Year
An Unaccustomed Feeling
Fridays (Reprise)
In Love and Lust We Trust
Graduation
On the Drift
I'll Keep A Light On
A Visiting Pretext
Come Back
Ciao Italia
South

Act IV
On the Drift (reprise)
Welcome Back
The Hoosier Latitudes
A Company of Scumfucks
So Long (It's Been Real)
Fuck.
Brothers in Arms (reprise)
We'll Sort it Out
Damned if I Know
Iron and Fire
The Birth
I'll Be Damned

Act V
The Last Winter
Goodbye For Now
Fuck Utah.
Back in the North


And that's all... for now.

Rainbow in the Dark

So, in the wake of Ronnie James Dio's passing, I find myself moved to talk about my experiences with the man's music.

I discovered Dio late in life, first hearing his driving, awesome "I" while hanging out with a scumfuck buddy of mine in college- specifically, my junior year of college.

I did not immediately become a devotee.

Oh, I liked what I heard- I rapidly became one of those guys who remind people that Ozzie wasn't Sabbath's only vocalist- but I wouldn't say I became a fan.

No, it was during the year above the donut shop that I truly came to love the work of Dio.

Partly, it was exposure- my roomies all liked him to one degree or another, and so the music was on more.

Partly it was my own growing interest...

But mostly, I owe the boys of Tenacious D.

Dio's part in their film The Pick of Destiny is brief, beautiful, and it made a believer out of me.

When I found that he'd nailed his recording for the audio track in almost no time, I was further awed.

So I'm grateful for the tunes, the style, and most definitely the insanity of Ronnie James Dio.

As a dear comrade in arms said the day Dio died, "Now rocking Heaven and Hell."

Rock on, Ronnie.

Sporting Goods Stores

... and why they are the enemy.

So today, I went in search of more ammunition. I had to leave entirely too much of it in Utah.

At first, I was going to go by the local gun shop that has served as my family's armory since 1984. After all, they have a long history of not bullshitting us about what we need.

And then I find that they have gone out of business. Just like that.

Rest in Peace, Down Under Guns.

So, instead of a GUN store, you know, a place where everything I need is in plain sight and where the countermen are knowledgeable, I have to go to a sporting goods store.

And there in the back corner, buried behind a pile of kayaks, fishing poles, and pup tents, I find their firearms section.

It is a disorganized shambles. Worse, when I ask about a tactical sling for my SKS, I get a sea of blank looks from the clean-cut kids running the section.

Fuck.

But no matter! I need a new mess kit as well, surely...

But no.

"I dunno man, you might wanna check out an army surplus-"

"You drove that place out of business."

"Oh, right..."

Fuck this noise.

Ladies and Gentleman, Boys and Girls...

... there are SO many things in this life that I hate.

I hate crowds. Any time I'm around more than, say, ten people, it drains me.
I hate parties. Most parties are simply crowds. I've enjoyed a whopping... I think three parties in the last decade.
I hate people. GOD do I hate people.
I hate being told what to do by people I'll never meet.
I hate waste- wasted time, wasted food, wasted money- it all sticks in my craw.
I hate suburbs. Oh GOD do I hate suburbs.
I hate litter. Why can't you morons pick up after yourselves?
I hate the fact that I'm apparently "really smart," but still stupid enough to let this sort of thing bother me.
I hate being lonely, and how I'm least lonely when I'm alone.
I hate the fact that I haven't been laid in four years, and that I haven't tried harder to do something about it.
I hate stupid twits who blather about "communication" when they're incapable of it.
I hate media outlets, and how we've come to rely on them even as we shout from the rooftops that they can't be trusted.
I hate the need to scurry around collecting acorns like some stinking squirrel just to stay alive.
Most of all, I hate the fact that the culture around me seems so bent on swinish self-destruction.

But I suppose it's goad enough to get ready.

Notes from the Library...

... so is it just me, or is it not true that 90% of all enforced instruction one receives in life is either forgotten, ignored, or despised?

Because looking back on what I know, all the stuff that has stuck has been what I sought out of my own volition.

The stuff I was forced to learn? Deliberately ignored, even when it might have been of use to me.

Compulsion clearly does the mind no favors.

Holy crap, it's just sunk in...

.... so, having been hired to go to Kobuk, I've been looking over the employee benefits section of their website...

And holy shit, it's awesome.

I will have health insurance.
I will have guaranteed furnished housing.
I have access to a tax-sheltered annuity.

Real jobs RULE.

Awake at 3 AM

Has anything good ever come of being awake (and, important caveat, alone) at three o'clock in the morning?

Never in my experience.

No, this particular time of night lends itself to awful introspection.

While I wouldn't go so far as to call it complete bullshit, the conclusions one reaches about oneself at 3 AM very seldom hold up in the light of day.

Which is funny, because at the time you draw them, they seem like moments of crystal clarity that you've been ignoring or lying to yourself about.

Most important, of course, is the fact that you never achieve anything except a fit of depression.

I'm sure there's some series of studies detailing this exact phenomenon, but the simple fact of the matter is, a 3 AM funk doesn't make any goddamned sense. Why 3 AM? Why not 2 or 4? Why is it that the so-called "Hour of the Wolf" does so much damage?

I have no idea.

And it pisses me off.

A Word...

So, as I blundered about this past week, shuttling to and from my job slinging pizza, I couldn't help noticing the Earth Day festivities shaping up in town.

It was a gigantic crock of egregious bullshit... as anyone with eyes could have seen.

We had a bunch of middle-class, upper-middle class, and upper-class intellectuals feeling guilty in their shirts with collars, ties, and fashionable dresses, and a bunch of smelly, unwashed, dreadlocked hippie white kids feeling smug and self-righteous in their grungy t-shirts and hemp pants.

Neither group is one I'd trust to accomplish a simple act like tying its shoes without fucking up, and I know what the view from the inside is like.

So, while the least competent people in town got together to listen to speeches on how their responsibility as stewards of the planet is immeasurable, the rest of the world just went about its business. And why not? They have theirs.

My disgust with and for my fellow man is hard to chart, and it's not like I'm appreciably better.

But God damn it, I don't lie to myself about it. I don't pretend that getting wide-eyed and nervous for one week out of the year excuses all the fucked up, wasteful things I do.

Living sustainably is going to require a cutting back in so many areas it's simply beyond what most of us- fat, happy, and easily distracted- are willing to give up.

In part, this is why I look forward to the next year or three of living in a village of fewer than 150 people.

I will HAVE to give up some of the things I take for granted. I will HAVE to be careful about what I throw out.

Because yeah, you can recycle your glass jam jars... or you can turn them into glasses and save us all a lot of goddamn trouble.

Tips and the Single Scumbag

So, to no one's surprise, I continue to be single and continue to hate it.

But there are definitely silver linings to this particular dark cloud.

For one, I'm going to be hell and gone in the middle of nowhere next year. I don't know of many relationships that can survive that much time apart, and I know even fewer women who'd follow a guy into a village of less than 150 people with limited access to the wider world and a position above the Arctic Circle. So there's that.

And then there's something that came to mind as I counted my tips from work tonight.
It's all mine.

All that walking around cash is mine. No dates, no birthdays, no anniversaries, all of the meager cash I bring in belongs solely to yours truly. Not the best motive, to be sure, but when you're used to being as damned broke as I am, it matters.

Now, would I chuck it all in if I found a nice young thing willing to give me a try?

Five years ago, the answer would have been a resounding yes.

But in that five years, I've seen what floundering around after you're dropped like a bad habit can do to you, and now, I have to look out for myself.

Love can make you do insane, crazy, stupid, wonderful things, and if I fall in love again, I'm sure it'll do precisely that.

But until then, I'm keeping my eyes on the prize- financial freedom.

Because without it, I'm always going to be some jerk mooching off of his parents and having pipe dreams about his contributions to his friends.

And I've had quite enough of that for one lifetime.

A New Name

So, I changed the header on this little exercise in blathering.

I have a couple of reasons, but first and foremost, now that I'm clear of Utah and back in Alaska, I can honestly say that I do not, in fact, hate it here.

It's home, or as much home as I can claim anywhere, and the land is the sort of thing dreams are made of. For one thing, it's actually possible to get away from the rest of the human race if one is so inclined.

I can do things like fire my guns without having the police show up.

Even in our cities, places like Anchorage (where I am sitting, at present), one can see impressive natural features without having to look terribly hard. My 11th-floor hotel room has a commanding view of the Cook inlet. Not a boat in sight, either. What I love most is how the city, the most built-up, urbanized part of it, just dead-ends at the beach. You can go from modest-sized city to empty space in ten steps.

I'm glad I was born before humanity filled up the land. I can see it coming- my childhood haunts are getting houses put on them, old trails now dead-end, or worse, get converted into driveways. And if this happens in Alaska, of all places... It'll be a miracle if there's any open space that isn't some kind of park left in a few decades.

And I have no stomach for a world even more crowded than the one we've got.

'Cause I may not hate it HERE, but you can bet your ass I hate PEOPLE.

Of Scum, Fire, and Hope.

Some time ago, a few of us tried to figure out what united our happy little tribe of miscreants.

And we were drawing a blank.

Almost anything any of us liked was not merely disliked but despised by at least one of the others.

And then someone mentioned fire, and we all got quiet.

We are a collection of utterly despicable pyros, devoted to the art of setting things ablaze to an unhealthy degree. All of us know a bit of fire science, and our fires run the gamut from perfect coals for camp cooking to towering infernos that only an imbecile would get within miles of.

And for a couple of years, we accepted fire as the unifying cultural element we shared.

Then the baby came along. Our fearless leader begat spawn. And we all found her delightful.

To put this in perspective, we are not generally a bunch of soft-hearted baby-lovers. In fact, we mostly regard(ed) children as wretched little creatures that couldn't even handle ammo runs adequately.

And all of us would cheerfully kill in this child's defense. And by "kill," I mean "wallow in atrocity and bloodshed."

And in some strange way, I think that may be the only damned thing that saves us. Our own survival is fine and all, but it goes nowhere without some kind of future. And these kids that our own have started having? They motivate us in ways we don't fully comprehend.

Thank heavens for that.

Scraps From a Geek Bible.

Some of my closest friends know that I've put a little effort into making a sort of "agnostic bible."

Which is to say, I collect quotes from any source that fit my undefined and scattershot approach to a worldview... And no source has been quite as rich as the universe of Dune. Which is funny and kind of sad, given the Dune-verse's take on religion in general and rote litany in particular... with that said, here are a few excerpts from my latest cullings...

Dune
"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain."
- The Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear

"Bless the Maker and all His Water. Bless the coming and going of Him, May His passing cleanse the world. May He keep the world for his people."
- While I'm not even a Deist, as such, I've always found Shai-Hulud a more credible notion of a Deity than anyone who gave a damn about the fate of an individual human. And this quotation expresses an attitude toward the unknown that I can support.

"Let us not rail about justice as long as we have arms and the freedom to use them."
- From Duke Leto, rather than any of the weird ideologies in the novels, but a useful aphorism.

"Parting with friends is a sadness. A place is only a place."
- Nothing sums up what the last few years have taught me quite so well.

Dune Messiah
"You do not take from this universe. It grants you what it will."

Children of Dune
"This is the fallacy of power: ultimately it is effective only in an absolute, a limited universe. But the basic lesson of our relativistic universe is that things change. Any power must always meet a greater power."

God-Emperor of Dune
"You should never be in the company of anyone with whom you would not want to die."
- If ever my view on socializing were summed up.

Chapterhouse: Dune
"Laws to suppress tend to strengthen what they would prohibit. This is the fine point on which all the legal professions of history have based their job security."

"Show me a completely smooth operation and I'll show you a cover up. Real boats rock."

A Game of Thrones"The common people pray for rain, healthy children, and a summer that never ends. It is no matter to them if the high lords play their game of thrones, so long as they are left in peace. They never are."

The Fellowship of the Ring
"Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends."

"The wide world is all about you: you can fence yourselves in, but you cannot for ever fence it out."

"He that breaks a thing to find out what it is has left the path of wisdom."

The Return of the King"If we all got angry together something might be done."

Back North

So, about a week ago, I managed to escape the hellhole of Utah and return to the hellhole I grew up in, Fairbanks, Alaska.

I am already a little happier.

For one, I am back on familiar ground. The forest I ran through as a child is still here, I know the roads, and I know where almost everything is.

And with luck, I'll be someplace where I can learn a thing or two inside of a year.

You see, it came to me while I was dragging myself over the hills and dales of Ogden, that I may be in a position to be of extra help to my comrades in arms, given enough time.

Because I will be living in the closest thing available in the United States to a Third World country. Many Village houses have no running water, and getting supplies from the wider world is both expensive and time-consuming.

Essentially, I will be getting a much-needed test run in areas like personal rationing and fending for myself with what is at hand. Yes, I'll have a safety net.

But you have to start somewhere.

A Tree-Hugging Moment

Yes, you read right.

Today, I felt a very hippiesh sense of rage at, of all things, litter.

Allow me to elucidate-

I was walking the dogs along a Utah mountainside, as I do every day.

And then the old dog, who doesn't so much as grunt when her arthritis keeps her from jumping into the car, actually yelps.

The cause?

A bail of rusty barbed wire some asshole had dumped on the hillside. While the bail itself hadn't been impacted, the old girl didn't see the single strand sticking out until it had lacerated her leg.

So, I don't know what the fine for littering is here, but I DO know that whatever moron left that thing out there cost my family three hundred bucks in veterinary bills.

So what say we skip the middleman, and the responsible party either cuts us a check for three hundred bucks OR I go and inflict three hundred dollars worth of damage on something they value.

That's fair, right?

Ooops.

Vengeance. What a shitty hippie I'd be.

Missing the Bugout

In two days' time, several of my dearest friends will be traipsing off to live like animals and receive instruction on unpleasant facts for four days or so.

My greatest regret is that I'm not going.

I will not be huddled in a tent or under a tarp in the cold spring rain. I will not get clubbed down with pugil sticks. I will not hoff it over muddy ground to a campsite in tick-infested woods.

Instead, I will be existing in relative comfort, perhaps hauling my still-gimpy carcass up a mountain every day, but otherwise living high on the hog.

But I would trade every shower I'll be taking, every night in a warm bed, every well-cooked meal for just an hour on that bugout.

Here, I am merely a freeloading scumbag (a fact my father seldom lets me forget), respected by none and bored at all times.

There, I would be cold, damp, tired, probably hungry... And among friends who respect me as I respect them, whose hardships I gladly share, and whose goals make sense to me. I would be working toward something I believe in. I would, in other words, be happy.

I don't think I can express just how much I wish I were there, hunkered down on damp leaves, rifle in hand, cursing the rain as it runs down my back.

I'll miss the bugout. And all I can do to console myself is think of the future, when, with luck, I'll get to go again.

On Airline Websites

So tonight, I tired to book a flight home. Away from this Mormon-infested helhole.

And both Delta and Alaska Airlines have the worst websites known to man.

There is no place to make note that I'll be bringing two dogs. There is no place to make note of number of bags. None of it.

On either company's website.

Instead, one must go through a lengthy game of phone tag.

I thought the whole point of allowing online booking was to eliminate phone tag.

Apparently not.

Apparently, it is meant to force you to wait around so long that fares double.

I am, of course, not joking.

Lyrics Revisted

About a year ago, I listed lyrics I enjoyed. A lot has changed since then, for good and ill, but I feel like the issue deserves a bit more analysis than I gave it before.

Some of these will be repeats, but, you know, tough.

"I'm living in a foreign country but I'm bound to cross the line/beauty walks a razor's edge someday I'll make it mine."
- Bob Dylan, "Shelter From the Storm."

Seriously? This more or less sums up the last ten years for me. I've gone from place to place, well outside of what I consider "home," groping for purpose, success, or even just a sense of place.

"Bury your treasure, burn your crops/Black water rising and it ain't gonna stop."
- Clutch, "(In The Wake Of) The Swollen Goat"

Nothing sums up what I see on our horizon quite like this. Bleak? Yeah. Honest? Absolutely.

Next, and corny as hell, but still vital-

"We didn't start the fire/It was always burning/Since the world's been turning/We didn't start the fire/No we didn't light it/But we tried to fight it"
- Billy Joel, "We Didn't Start the Fire."

The fate of every generation, really. None of us built the world we end up in, and damn does it suck sometimes.

"Arm yourself because no-one else here will save you"
- Chris Cornell, "You Know My Name."

Truer words have seldom been spoken.

And god love Monster Magnet. Seriously. Clutch writes better songs, better music, more insightful lyrics. They are better in every way.... except that Magnet resonates with some creepy, creepy fucking part of my brain.

"I left my throne a million miles away/I drink from your tit/I sing the blues every day/Now give me the strength/To split the world in two/I ate all the rest and now I've gotta eat you"

"I lost my soul when I fell to earth/My planets called me to the void of my birth/The time has come for me to kill this game/Now open wide and say my name"

- Both from Monster Magnet, "Space Lord"

What does it say about me that I regard this as a prayer of the sort I can get behind?

And finally, a song that Magnet performed but did not write... but I prefer their cover to the original.

"Your life slips through your hands/Like grains of sand/You watch it go/There's no time to be lost/You'll pay the cost/If you say no/There's no way out of here/When you come in/You're in for good"
- David Gilmour, "No Way Out of Here."

On My Bedside Manner

All right, let's face it...

My bedside manner is fucking HORRIBLE.

A good friend of mine had a little diabetic "episode," and his girlfriend called us in the middle of the night saying he couldn't breathe.

My first thought, of course, was "why is she calling us?"

Luckily, she HAD, in fact, called the ambulance first.

So we all troop down to the emergency room and wait around a while.

Never let it be said I don't care.

But then we slip in to see him. There he is, with oxygen being piped in to his nose. And he starts talking.

All right. Problem was he couldn't breathe, now he can talk. I'm done.

And off I go.

This, by all reckonings, was actually a fairly considerate showing on my part.

Most of the time, I don't even show up.

It's not an atavistic dread of sickbeds, either.

I simply don't have anything to contribute.

Now, there have been times when the "field medic" position has landed upon me. And THEN, my brusque manner actually helps.

"Here. Random bag of Mexican pills. Might help your cough."

But if someone is needed to hold your hand while you feel puny?

Too bad. Find someone else. Preferably someone with a caring disposition and a nice smile.

I'd rather be useful, if I can, or absent, if I can't.

Which makes my current role, helping nursemaid my father, an exercise in reciprocal neglect. Because it wasn't that long ago that he was looking after me... and I saw where I got it.

I don't resent it. After all, it's who I am, at this stage.

But it IS amusing to think about... the two guys with the WORST bedside manner on Earth having to trade off care and consideration. If I didn't still have a pulse, I'd think i was dead and serving out a purgatorial sentence.

Top Ten "Son of a Bitch Must Pay" Moments in Film

In what is quite possibly the greatest film of all time (I'm kidding. Kind of.), Kurt Russel intones the mystical line "Son of a Bitch Must Pay."

Which leads me to think of all the great moments in film... wherein the bad guy does something REALLY bad and you just KNOW he's about to get horribly pounded into goo.

What follows are my top ten (although not in any specific order) "Son of a Bitch Must Pay" moments in the movies I've seen.

"Son of a Bitch Must Pay"- Big Trouble in Little China
The one that started it all. What's funny in this particular case is that the "son of a bitch" does not, in fact, "pay" until far later in the film. I include it here mostly to be thorough, and I'm not going to describe it in much detail. Go watch the damn movie. You owe it to yourself.

Treebeard gets pissed- The Two Towers
You know the scene. Merry and Pippin make their only real contribution of any value by leading the craggy old Ent toward the swathe of destruction Saruman's forces have made in Fangorn Forest. The second the old pile of lumber realizes what has happened and how he and his kind have been betrayed, he unleashes a howl that presages some truly heinous whuppings for the denizens of Isengard. Poor stupid Uruk-Hai.

The Death of Junior- Godzilla versus DestroyerIn the Godzilla films of the late 1980s and early 1990s, the wretched concept of a "baby" Godzilla is reintroduced. We all remember Minya/Minilla. And if you don't, well, thank your lucky stars. The whole notion is crap. But it paid off remarkably well in 1995, when the decision was made to end the so-called "Heisei" series of Godzilla films. A big ugly... crab-bug thing called Destroyer, evolved from the Oxygen Destroyer that killed Godzilla back in the first movie shows up and starts wrecking shit, right as Godzilla's own radioactivity finally starts to kill him.

But the big guy isn't the only thing in Destroyer's path. No, the big ugly crab also decides to wax Godzilla's adopted "son," but only after sadistically toying with him.

The actual fight follows the typical Godzilla pattern, wherein Godzilla gets the fuck knocked out of him only to come back tougher and badder to win. What makes this stand out is why it happens.

After a series of drubbings, Godzilla stumbles over to his son and tries to nudge him awake. Realizing that the only creature he gives a rat's ass about has been killed, Godzilla unleashes a truly hellacious beating, causing his foe to vomit green blood before simply blasting it until it can barely try to limp away.

Tony Jaa Loses His Goddamned Mind- The ProtectorAt the climax of a movie that has already featured Jaa breaking the limbs of what looked like eight hundred men in one long haul, he discovers that the elder of the two elephants (don't ask) he has been trying to rescue has been killed. Although he takes a little more of a beating before he really gets going, there is no doubt in anyone's mind that someone is going to fucking DIE for what they've done.

Ellen Ripley Fights the Queen- AliensThroughout the film, Ripley has adopted Newt, even going so far as to venture in the Xenomorphs' hive to rescue her. The big throwdown, however, happens aboard the Sulacco. When the Queen, having stowed away on the dropship tears Bishop in half and then proceeds to try to ferret Newt out as her next victim, Ripley shows up in a loader exosuit and puts the hurt on the big space bug.

"Get away from her, you bitch."

Amen.

Inigo Montya Finds Count Rugen- The Princess Bride
"Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."
Inigo Montoya finally finds the man who slew his father years before. At first it looks like the Spaniard is on the ropes, particularly after Rugen rather easily inflicts what LOOKS like a fatal gut wound.

But Montoya rallies, fighting past his injury and disarming Rugen, leading to a line that is only as intense as it is because of the lack of cursing in the film as a whole.

"Offer me money."
"Yes!"
"Power too, promise me that."
"All that I have and more, please..."
"Offer me anything I ask for."
"Anything you want."
"I want my father back, you son of a bitch."

The Death of Kyuzo- Seven SamuraiNear the end of Kurosawa's epic, Kyuzo, the quiet, withdrawn swordsman is shot dead by one of the muskets carried by the bandits. Kikuchiyo, seeing where the shot came from, rushes the gun, Although he himself is fatally shot, he runs the last of the bandits to ground and kills him before expiring.

The Exosuit- District 9
The entire movie has shown our "hero" running, hiding, and being a prick. Near the end of the film, Wikkus finds himself piloting a Prawn Exosuit. While his intial impulse is to flee, he overhears the mercenaries of his former employers are about to kill his alien comrade. Doing an abrupt about-face, he proceeds to unleash true unholy hell upon the mercs, in the process giving us a fight scene that took the entirety of Transformers 2 out back and capped it like a lame horse.

Dance With the Devil- Batman (1989)While it had its warts, the first attempt at a serious Batman film provided one of the best (if wasteful) climaxes in the franchise's history. After the Joker has pretty much wrecked the whole damned city, he is finally hunted to his last refuge in a belfry, where he holds the fair damsel hostage. Batman mows through his goons and, upon reaching to Joker, says the man's own catchphrase to him.

"Have you ever danced with the Devil in the pale moonlight?"

He then goes on to kick the everlasting shit out of the man who (in this version) killed Batman's parents in a highly satisfying manner.

Mani Bites It- Le Pacte Des Loups
While much of the movie is cheesy and deeply flawed, the scene wherein Grégoire de Fronsac's companion Mani is killed presages a savage beatdown of Biblical proportions.

Fronsac, who has spent most of the movie as the "brains" and using firearms when he engages in combat at all, finds the lair of his enemies and slaughters his way through them in pure, brutal hand to hand. Never thought I'd see a Frenchman unleash so much whupass, let alone that I'd find it so satisfying.

My country, 'tis of thee.

"America makes me very angry at times. It's the closest to being right- but it could be out of sight."
-Stevie Wonder

"People have been going off and doing their thing since time began. But it's important that they remember themselves and who they are. They've got to stay in touch with the earth."
-Curtis Mayfield

"[F]or the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor."
-If you don't know, shame on you.

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

"A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the People to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed."

"No Soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house, without the consent of the Owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed by law."

"The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized."

"No person shall be held to answer for any capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when in actual service in time of War or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation."
"In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district where in the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the Assistance of Counsel for his defense."

"In suits at common law, where the value in controversy shall exceed twenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved, and no fact tried by a jury, shall be otherwise re-examined in any court of the United States, than according to the rules of the common law."

"Excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted."

"The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people."

"The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people."
-Once again, if you don't know, shame on you.

"Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."
-Seriously, if you don't know...

Education Revisited

Nothing, and I mean nothing, kills one's belief in a program quite like watching a video wherein someone teaching others to teach better manages to be staggeringly dull.

I find it hard to stomach instruction when the lessons involved are almost unspeakably boring, and cannot fathom what I am supposed to derive from it.

The gist of the several hours worth of video clips I've slogged through this week?

"Know thy students, know thyself."

It's a pile of horseshit.

But heaven help me, it's the path to a real job.

A Religious Experience

So, having been raised agnostic, I've never really understood what people get out of faith.

I really don't.

I cannot conceive of a God who gives a shit what we do on an individual basis, any more than we care about what a given single ant is doing at a specific moment in time.

Or to put it another way, God may see the fall of every sparrow, but I don't think He/She/It/They cares very much.

But I do find myself profoundly awed and moved, from time to time, to feel something I feel must be akin to religious devotion.

Standing on top of a small mountain in Utah, looking down at a small herd of bison grazing on a bleak island in the Great Salt Lake as a powerful wind whips salt spray nearly a mile up the mountain to me.

Watching as a magnificent storm tears its way through the sky of southern Indiana, the lightning dancing from cloud to cloud.

Seeing a bird of prey strike at its victim, doing exactly what it was built to do.

The feeling of warm, familial camaraderie I experience with my friends as we sit around a roaring campfire under a beautiful full moon.

Standing uphill of Secret Creek near Talkeetna, and turning to find Mount Denali clearly outlined as if it's only three feet away.

Hearing the crash of waves on the seashore as I walk along a cliff in northern California after sunset.

The almost insane joy I feel as I fire a round and it slams into the target.

The sounds of gifted singers performing, say, the operas of Puccini.


Thing is... no church I've yet encountered would include any of these in its services.

And thus, I remain uncommitted.

But I do live in awe of the universe we inhabit, and some of the things we, as a species, do for no readily apparent reason.

The Death of Effort...

... came about as soon as the new computer had arrived.

Seriously.

This damn thing destroyed my entire day yesterday, and it wasn't even particularly hard to set up.

It's just... seductive.

"Hey, you know how slow and crunchy your old machine has gotten? Take a look at THIS."

And then my brain melts and it's four in the morning and I've done.... nothing of value.

Accursed machine.

How I love it.

Of Moose and Men

Dinner tonight consisted of steaks hewn from the carcass of an honest to God Alaska Moose.

How I've missed that flavor, the taste I've always considered something of a blend between beef and venison.

My only regret is that I wasn't the one who'd killed it.

No, this largess came from a relative of my dad's best friend. That worthy does not buy meat in grocery stores.

Not when a moose can tip the scales at well over one thousand pounds.

And thus, while I sat in an unfinished house in Ogden, God-Help-Us-Utah, I was able to feast upon a wild creature struck down for no more reason than because it is, in a word, delicious.

My enthusiasm to return to Alaska could not have gotten greater... but it IS more motivated now.

The High Country

So, I have finally found something I enjoy doing in Utah.

Today, instead of limping around the neighborhood as physical therapy, I drove up into the mountains and started walking up an old, unused road.

And somewhere up there in the big empty, I managed to have a good time.

I saw nothing particularly noteworthy- just the mountains around me.

I did nothing particularly cool- just limped along for about an hour and a half on my bad leg, letting the snow cushion the impact with the ground.

Nothing profound, nothing earth-shaking.

Just a stroll in the sun in the high country, in sun strong enough that I was in my t-shirt in short order.

And I would have kept walking forever, if I hadn't had the dogs with me.

After all, old crappy roads have to end up somewhere.

But for just about ninety minutes, all was right with my world.

And that's worth a bit of gratitude.

An Educational Experience

So, as part of my gradual plan to drag myself out of abject poverty, I have some hoops to jump through.

Among them, a series of online video clips by the people who determine the standards by which this profession is judged.

And dear lord, are they idiotic.

In one of these segments, clearly developed by someone who has never had a job outside of education, the virtues of a three-ring binder to encourage organization are touted.

I had several three-ring binders in my youth.

I broke or otherwise destroyed every last one of the useless things trying to make the crap fit inside.

Additionally, at 28 years of age, I have long moved past the need for a smiling, encouraging teacher.

In fact, those who know me can attest to the fact that I respond very badly to cheerful people.

And thus, I find these videos far harder than the classroom observations, online discussions, and travel involved in this job.

Because in many ways, they seem to encapsulate everything I hate about the profession, and everything I intend not to do.

Students are not morons. Even the ones who are morons do not take being talked down to terribly well.

Because if there's one thing we come out of school filled with hatred for, it's the patronizing fucks who treated us like children.

So, much as I did in some of my classes, I will nod, pretend I give a fuck, and jump through the hoops so I can leave.

My, but education is in good hands.

Burning the Midnight Oil.

Okay, so it's 11 PM. Blow me.

I find myself online and writing this because, at present, the whole damn house is fll of gimps.

I think my puppy is the only completely healthy creature here.

I, of course, am still on crutches.

My sainted father is now ALSO on crutches, and hooked up to the cryo-cuff I got with my surgery. And taking my pain meds. I'd be angrier about the loss of premium lortabs for later sale if he hadn't paid for them in the first place.

My mother just got over injuring her wrist and is now arguably the most able-bodied human in the house... but I still need to open jars for her.

Between three people, we have four good arms and four good legs.

Pretty damned pitiful.

The final float in the Gimp Parade is our old Labrador, Carmen, who is now reaching that creaky arthritic stage that all old dogs seem to achieve overnight.

Which leaves my puppy, once again, as the healthiest specimen we have. I'd cry if it wasn't so damned funny.

Ten Years After

Due to a few messages about my high school graduating class' ten year reunion (which I won't be attending- not because I'm too cool, but because I'm too busy. And poor.), I've started to think.

Ten years ago, I was a very different person. Some things never change, but I can honestly say I barely recognize the addle-brained 18-year old I used to be.

Ten years ago?

I was a skinny virgin whiteboy who had showtunes in his walkman (yes, walkman), a trenchocat that looked preposterous on me, the 2nd Edition AD&D Players handbook memorized, and was convinced I knew what I was doing.

Now? I'm a stockier non-virgin-but-not-getting

-any whiteboy with mixed CDs in my Discman (I'm always behind the curve), an olive-drab jacket that looks all right on me, the Pathfinder RPG rules memorized, and no clue what I'm doing.

Yessir, I've come pretty far in the last decade.

Ten years ago, I didn't own a gun, my own car, or a computer. I owed no money to anyone.
Now I own three guns, a '97 Saturn that looks like a thousand miles of bad road, and a computer cobbled together from spare parts and bad ideas. I now have a five-figure debt.

Ten years ago, I had never been drunk.
Now, I get utterly shitfaced drunk as an inoculation about every six months, give or take.

Ten years ago, if you'd asked me where I saw myself in ten years, I would have spewed some vague blather about theatre.
Now, if you ask me where I see myself in ten years, I laugh despairingly, shrug, and say "Who knows?"

Ten years ago, I knew NONE of the people I met in Indiana. Now I can't imagine a life where I DON'T know them.

A lot has changed, and I couldn't say for sure whether the changes have been for good or ill.

In some ways, I miss the confidence of my 18-year-old self, that cocksure arrogance that I'd sort things out.

In other ways, if I met my 18-year-old self, I'd kick his ass into a fine red mist for all the STUPID shit he/I saw, did, didn't do, and believed.

One thing I do know however... In spite of the dashing of about every ambition I had at the time, in spite of the train wreck I've made of my financial situation, in spite of my continued inability to figure out what I'm doing, I'm more secure- not confident, mind you, but secure- in my own skin than that scrawny, awkward kid I was ten years ago would have imagined possible.

And thank heavens for that.

Of Taste and You

Allow me to begin by slaughtering some sacred cows.

Ready?

I hate Pink Floyd.
Most Jazz pisses me off.
Dio was better than Ozzie as Sabbath's front man any day of the week.
College sports are, frankly, boring as fuck (I will make exceptions if YOUR school or its most hated rival are somehow involved).
The NBA sucks.
No car excites me in the slightest.
The allure of Will Farrel escapes me (aside from Anchorman, which, frankly, would have looked good on anyone).


Now, the point of all of this?

The point is, my distaste for any and all of these things shouldn't fucking matter to anyone but me.

But without fail, ONE of these opinions will start a war of words in any and all social settings I have ever encountered.

Which goes beyond being stupid.

Your world will not end if I hate your favorite movie or band.
But it might if you keep bugging me about it.

College Networking- The Scumfuck Method

Once upon a time, there was a very geeky hombre from the far north.

He had, through various ways and means, ended up attending school in Indiana, and, aside from the fact that the place was flat and full of people he didn't like, was making a go at getting his worthless degree.

The first two years passed uneventfully, as he drifted through school, making almost no impression beyond a few strong attachments, mostly to women he found attractive and unattainable. And then there was the Scumfuck.

Our hero and two of the women he was surrounded with ended up in a course on stickfighting. One of them found the instructor attractive, and had followed him into the course from his Hapkido. Our hero followed them because A- Why not? and B- Bashing people with sticks had a certain ring to it.

It was in this class that he would encounter his single best friend from his college years, a large fellow who often wore a shirt bearing the legend "BDSM Instructor."

As neither one of them had a sparring partner (because both of them apparently intimidated the morons in the class), they ended up as partners. They were lazy.... incredibly so. So lazy, that neither one bothered to get the other's contact information so they could actually practice. Their meetings outside of class that semester could be counted on two fingers. They did not bond over their sloth, either, but simply jumped through the hoops and came out of the class with a basically positive view of one another and little else. Our hero also got to show off his insanely poor social radar in his new friends' presence at a Halloween party, although, really, in hindsight, the actual outcome of the evening was better, because it further cemented an important bond. The next semester, our hero took up his new comrade's recommendation to enroll in Modern Arnis.

Here was stickfighting. Here was also a class where the two of them gave a shit- and, having had prior acquaintence, actually started hanging out. They shared several important traits- A nerdish love of roleplaying games, a love of good food, and an indifference to their peers that amounted to mania.

They also got along because neither one much cared what the other did. Our hero would routinely ignore the depraved sexual acts of the Scumfuck and his then-girlfriend in the name of Warcraft III on the Scumfuck's computer.

On such foundations are lasting friendships forged.
Things got even better the next year, because the two ended up rooming on the same floor of the same dorm. That would be the year of the hallway ambush, where they terrified their floormates with toy guns from the dollar store. It was also when they started hanging out for its own sake. Neither being the sort to trust easily, being basically paranoid bastards, they came to an accord rare in the college experience of either.

The next year (our hero's last as an undergraduate) was the best. Our hero had finally found himself a girlfriend, and was head over heels in love. The Scumfuck's relationship with the psychotic cunt who would later nearly destroy him was at its best. The boys were happy... and still taking Arnis. It was our hero's only class on Fridays, and he almost never skipped it. After class, the two would walk to the Scumfuck's dorm, bullshitting, while they waited for the soon-to-be Psycho Ex to pick them up for their ritual Friday dinner.

Things had become almost domestic. When our heo's girlfriend was in town, she and the Ex had a female to talk to while the boys dicked around and contemplated world domination.

When our hero graduted, the Scumfuck gave him the graduation presents he has gotten the most use out of- a compass, a knife, and some Army manuals on improvised munitions and boobytraps. The least expensive presents are always the best.

Over the next year, while our Hero farted around working at a lumberyard and spending as much tme as possible around his girlfriend in Alaska, the Scumfuck was the only one he made any effort to keep in touch with. It was a bad year for the Scumfuck. His Grandfather (in biology- socially, the man was his father) fell ill and died. The psycho girlfriend proceeded to make his life increasingly unbearable. Our hero paid a visit to Indiana that fall, before things truly went to shit, ostensibly to work on his Graduate School application- really, to spend time with his girlfriend and to see his old comrade in arms.

By the next winter, the Scumfuck was out of school. Our hero, however, returned to Indiana in earnest, endeavoring to attain in-state residence for his second attempt at graduate application- and to be near the girlfriend, of course.

The scumfuck was a short distance across town, living with the Psycho Grilfriend downstairs from two of his old friends from his hometown.

When they broke up, and he moved in with the friends, our hero started spending more and more time there. After all, they were some of his only frends in the area.

The next year would see our hero's relationship with HIS girlfriend end.

The night he got the word, the Scumfuck had a chunk of venison in the crockpot and invited him over. There, drunk on Scotch and playing Twisted Metal: Black, our hero fed himself and dealt with the emotional shock.

The next year, he and the Scumfuck (and the two amigos) were roommates. It was a time of great poverty for all of them, but it was a year of great promise. The strange little family started to gel, in weird ways.

Our hero moved out when the lease was up (mostly because he expected to be leaving the state in short order), and did one of his patented disappearing acts. Still, after he got a job at Crane, and found the old place to be more or less on the way home, they saw more of him.


Particularly when the baby came along. The year pased largely in a blur, but the next apartment of each of them turned out to be on opposite ends of town.

No matter. The next year and a half would have our hero seeing more of the Scumfuck and his family than he had when he'd lived with them.

And when the time came for him to leave Indiana, saying goodbye to his weekends and game nights with them would be the hardest.

For all of you who found a job introduction or a spouse in college, you have my condolences. There just aren't enough awesome Scumfucks to go around.

Super Bowl Sunday

Is, as always, going to be an overproduced nightmare, a study of atrocity against the simple joy of watching large men in body armor beating the crap out of each other. Sad but true.

We have, of course, gotten lucky the last two years, and seen great football between bouts of talking head idiocy and incredibly expensive commercials.

But the game usually sucks.

So, how is it that this, the unsung National Holiday, has managed to hold on so long?

I guess it's because of people like me.

People who really do know better... but tune in anyway, desperate t see a new champion crowned, even if the game is actually an awful, one-sided blowout.

So as you sit on your couch today, cheering on the Colts (or the Saints. I guess. Fuckers.), I want you to remember-

I will KILL you if you fuck up my enjoyment of the most commercialized day of the year.

Because much as I love to think differently, I too worship at the shrine of Capitalist Amerika at least once a year.

And I hope to see some overpaid schlub in tears by day's end.

Awareness

Let's get this part over with- my powers of perception are selective, at best. For example, I'm terminally unaware of social signals. I don't even know what "being given the eye" looks like.

But damned if I don't seem to put most of the schmucks I see on a daily basis in the shade.

When you jack into your headphones at the bus stop, when you stare at your cell phone for the entire duration of a bus ride, when you avoid making eye contact with anyone around you out of fear... You are putting yourself at far greater risk than an accidental contact ever could.

Because while you, like me, may find your traveling companions tiresome, it's no excuse to ignore what's going on around you.

And if you're on your headphones when someone's backing out of their driveway? You might just end up as roadkill.

So, for the love of whatever god, gods, or ethical constructs you may believe in, unplug the fucking headphones, put your goddamn cell phone away, and have a look around.

You never know what you might be missing- and I don't mean the love of your life.

I mean the crazy guy with a machete in his hands walking behind you.

Little things like that merit your attention.