1. Spell your name without an E,R,S,H,K,I,M,L,C,A,Y,N: PPB
2.Are you single? Yes
3.What is your favorite number? 23
4.What is your favorite color? I would say black, but it's so basic and essential. So, instead of that, I'm going to go ahead and say blue.
5.Least favorite color? I get tired of purple.
6. what are you listening to? Clap Your Hands Say Yeah's self-titled album.
7.Are you happy with your life right now? I'm not unhappy with it. I abide.
8.Are you involved with anyone? No.
9.What is your favorite subject in school/ college? Creative Writing.
10.Do you shop at Abercrombie? I've never even been in an Abercrombie store. I wouldn't rule out going because, really, I don't know how they differ from other clothing chains. If something there looks good on me I should get it. If not, so be it. Clothes are clothes.
11.Do you have money? On me at the moment? Yeah, there's some in my wallet right now. I also have a lot of change kicking around.
12.Would you take an ex back? It would depend on the circumstances. Relationships are too complicated for a yes/no answer sometimes.
14.Are you gay? No.
15.Where do you wish you were right now? I am where I wish I was. How lucky is that? I'm in my bedroom at my desk with good music playing and I'm trying to piece together thoughtful answers to these questions.
16.What should you be doing right now? I should be sleeping because I have to work in the morning, but right now this is too damn fun.
THE CANS:
Can you blow a bubble? Damn skippy I can.
Can you do a cart wheel? Yes, especially when I'm drunk.
Can you touch your toes? Last time I checked I can.
Can you wiggle your ears? ? No.
Can you touch your tongue to your nose? No, but sometimes I wish I could. That's a practical skill.
THE DIDS:
Did you ever want to be a fire fighter? Not really.
Did you ever want to be a teacher? I think so. I'm not sure I'm the right kind of role model for impressionable youths, though. I would have to put on a very good respectable front for that.
Did you ever break the law? Who hasn't broken a law or two? Anybody who says they haven't is not the kind of person I would trust.
THE DOs:
Do you like rollercoasters? Yes I do.
Do you own a bike? No.
Do you play the lotto? Sometimes I do. Most of the time I don't. I usually forget to play it.
Do you like football? Yes I do.
Do you have a shopping addiction? I'm not addicted to shopping, but I would say that I have no problem spending money.
THE DOES:
Does your family have family picnics? No.
Does your wallet have any pics in it? No.
Does a soft answer turn away wrath? I KNOW it does.
THE LASTS:
Last person you hung out with? I hung out with my friends from high school on Sunday night. We went to the High Run Club and, as always, it was so very comforting to be around them.
Last car ride? I drove home from the poetry reading at Yianni's on Wednesday night.
Last text message? I texted Jessica to see if she received a book that I passed along to her for her to read.
Last baby you held? I can't remember. It's been a long time since I held a baby. I go to more funerals than anything else.
LAST THING?
What was the last thing you bought? Pizza from Pizza 73 so that I would have something to eat while I watch "Taken" last night.
What was the last thing you had to drink? I had a can of Cherry Coke.
What was the last thing you watched? I watched Attack Of The Show earlier this afternoon.
What was the last thing you read? I'm currently reading "Pygmy" by Chuck Palahniuk. The last book I read before that was "The Delivery Man" by Joe McGinniss Jr. Oh, and I read "Where The Wild Things Are" before bed the other night, if that counts for anything.
What was the last thing you hand wrote? I jotted some notes for a poem that I've been working on in a pocket-sized Moleskine book.
THE WHOS:
Who was the last person you talked to on the phone? My mom.
Who was the last person you took a picture of? I snapped a picture of Michael Gravel at the poetry reading last night. It had been a long time since I got to see him read. And what he read was earth-shattering. I felt compelled to take a picture for posterity's sake.
Last person to leave you a comment? On my blog it was Daniel. On my Facebook page it was Nilos.
Who last hugged you? I don't get hugged a lot so I would have to say it was Colleen a few weeks ago when I dropped her and Kristy off.
Who last IM'd you? I can't remember. I don't get a lot of IM's.
CURRENTLY:
What color shirt are you wearing? I'm wearing a black hoody.
Have any tattoos? No. I can't commit to a design or image that would go on my skin for the rest of my life.
Have you any piercings? No.
Straight hair or curly or wavy? Short and straight.
Where are you? I'm at my desk in my bedroom.
HAVE YOU EVER:
Failed a class? Not that I can remember.
Confessed your love and been turned down? Yes. It was a long time ago. Do that enough and pretty soon you learn to just keep stuff like that to yourself.
Sang in front of a crowd? If you can call it singing.
SIX THINGS YOU WILL FIND IN YOUR ROOM:
I'll avoid the obvious answers and give you something unexpected. Let's see, in no particular order...
-A lava lamp with red lava (or wax or whatever you want to call it) that I like to have on when I watch movies in bed.
-An incense holder shaped like a black dragon.
-Two cheapy bottle openers that I bought at a Safeway in Phoenix, Arizona.
-A stash of candy that I keep inside a box on one of my bookshelves.
-A small box of letters that I kept from when I was teenager and sometimes read when I want to feel a fresh sting of regret.
-Numerous issues of Juxtapoz magazine because I love the art they feature in them. I keep the back issues too, just so I can flip through them sometimes and ooo and ahhh at all the pretty pictures.
THREE RELATIONSHIP QUESTIONS:
1. In a relationship? No.
2.Want a relationship? Sometimes when you ask me this question I will say yes and other times I will say no.
3.Wanna get married? Someday I think I would like to be. I'm not sure how good of a husband I would make.
FOUR THINGS ON YOUR MIND:
1. I'm wondering what I'm going to be like when I'm an old man. I'm pretty eccentric right now. I would like to be even more eccentric, but not to the point of being certifiable.
2. What's the next line? I'm always thinking about the next line.
3. Am I boring you to tears?
4. I'm thinking of taking a long, hot shower before bed to just wind down and daydream some more.
The way to win your heart? I'm not even sure I know my own heart. So, it follows then, that I haven't even found a way to win it. When I figure it all out, I'll fill you all in because I want to be in love with everybody.
When was the last time you really laughed? I'm always laughing. Really laughing. Everything is funny if you think about it the right way. Even tragedy. The other day I caught a bit of the last HBO comedy special George Carlin did before he died last year and I laughed and cried at the same time. Bill Hicks always gets me like that too. Actually, the last really good laugh I had was a message thread I saw on 4chan that had a picture with two words in it: "IT ALL" and the person who posted the picture said this, "I think this picture says it all." It does. Indeed, it does.
What are you like when you're drunk? I'm entertaining and philosophical and daring and friendly.
Do you drink milk straight from the carton? Just imagining the texture of a milk carton against my lips kind of makes me cringe. I keep the milk in a glass, thank you very much.
Who knows a big secret about you? I'm not sure. I'm too plain and uninteresting to have big secrets.
How long is your hair? It's very short.
Who was the last person who told you they loved you? It's been so long that I can't remember. Probably my ex.
When was the last time you sang out loud? Tonight when I was listening to "Let The Cool Goddess Rust Away" by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.
What did you have for breakfast? I slept until 5 p.m. I went right into dinner. That was leftover pizza.
Is your birthday on a holiday? No. I like to make my birthday into a holiday for everybody though. Don't just get me gifts, get gifts for everybody. Then everybody looks forward to my birthday.
Can you cook? It depends on who you ask. But let's just keep it I wouldn't starve if I was alone.
Did you have a nap today? Not today.
What do you wear more, jeans or sweats? I wear suits more than anything else. After that I would say sweats since I'm around the house a lot. When I go out, it's jeans.
When is your birthday? February 10.
Where did you get the shirt you're wearing? Below The Belt. You would think that with a name like Below The Belt they wouldn't have shirts, but they have shirts. They should change the name of the store to Below And Above The Belt.
Do you have any regrets? Sure. Lots of them. Biggest one is not being more accessible to the people I like and who, in turn, like me. I'm distant and solitary a lot.
Do you use an alarm clock? I use my cellphone as an alarm clock.
Whats the first thing you notice of the opposite sex? Hair.
What color is your favorite shoe? Black. My shoes are uninteresting.
Who would you like to see right now? Nobody. I want to be by myself right now.
Who was the last person to call you? My mom.
Are you a social or antisocial person? I don't know. I like people. I love people. I love their quirks. I live vicariously through their stories. I miss people even when they're around. But I can be very antisocial sometimes if I feel introspective and reflective.
Have the cops ever come to your house? No.
Do you have a tan? I'm pasty white.
Would you rather sleep in the bed with someone, or alone? Right now, alone. When I'm lonely, with someone else. Luckily I'm not lonely right now.
Ever had braces? No, but I wish I had.
Are you afraid of the dark? The dark is too intimate to be afraid of. I'm afraid of noises I hear in the dark sometimes, but that's different.
Have you ever been in a mosh pit? Yes I have.
Do you always wear your seat belt? My car makes an annoying dinging sound when I don't, so, yes, I wear one all the time just to spare myself that inconvenience.
Who was the last person to disappoint you? I try not to let people disappoint me. I can't remember when the last time was. I try to put everything in perspective. Has anybody ever done anything to me that was worth being disappointed by for a significant amount of time? Not really.
You know what you want to do with your life? Sometimes I think I do.
When and why did you last cry? Last weekend. I miss George Carlin being in the world.
How do you feel about piercings and tattoos? I'm open.
Do you believe that what comes around goes around? I think so.
What is your favorite fruit?
Banana.
Does anyone love you? Depends on what kind of love you're talking about. I think so, though.
Where is one place you want to visit? I would love to get lost in New York City. I've thought about just going by myself and trying to find a Bohemian lifestyle with lots of drinking and partying and all that good stuff. I want to have a philosophical discussion with a well-versed stranger.
Have you ever crawled through a window? Yes. A long time ago.
Are you a morning person or a night person? I am an all-day person.
Are you a forgiving person? Very much so.
What are you listening to right now? I'm still listening to Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.
Ever had a drunken night in Mexico? Nope. Not yet.
Who was the last person to smoke a cig in your presence? I can't remember.
Are you taller than 5'6? Yep. 5'10.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Protip For Alberta Campers
Camping season is fast approaching here in desolate Alberta, Canada (sorry Tourism Alberta, your cheque bounced hard and fast; that's the only endorsement you'll get from me). With the warmer weather comes what promises to be many cherished memories, "off-road" vehicles getting trashed actually going off-road, wild mountain lion attacks, cases of West Nile Virus, and whatever else it is you campers partake in year after year while I, being pasty white and incredibly handsome, enjoy the finer things in life like running water, internet porn, and periodic suburban gunshot wounds.
One thing that you campers will not be able to partake in for a little while at the very least, is the tried and true tradition of the cheery campfire. No hot dogs on sharpened sticks, no marshmallows set aflame and sizzling black, no disposal of evidence by fire. Nope, none of that for you. Dry conditions. High risk of forest fire.
And really, who the fuck would want to travel out into the woods and sit around WITHOUT a campfire. Campfires are fun. They burn stuff up, they make your clothes smell, and they provide the lighting for some of the most miserable experiences of you life. That time you got so drunk you passed out face down in the mud? Yep, it was by the fireside. That time you got so drunk you passed out face down in the mud and got sodomized by a lecherous grizzly bear? You better believe that was by the fireside too. He probably wouldn't have been able to see what he was doing had you been anywhere else.
So then what? Are you just going to go out into the wild without fire? How will the bears see to rape you? How are you going to char a tubesteak? What else will you use to burn all that excess gasoline and all those old tires you pack your vehicles with?
If you start a fire the game wardens will have you thrown into PMITA prison for a stiff sentence.
Or will they?
Here at Michael Appleby industries we are always coming up with new ways to make your life easier. And after 2.75 years of research in our state-of-the-art laboraties (i.e. my basement) we have developed a way for you to go camping during the fireban and enjoy your campfire too.
We call it, I didn't start this fire, officer.
Here's how it works.
Quite simply, when the game warden approaches your campsite, taser in hand, to bust you for having a campfire during the fireban you defend yourself by saying, "I didn't start this fire, officer." Resist the urge to sing it a la the early 90's Billy Joel song.
Then proceed to explain that you were trying to douse the fire with uncooked weiners and marshmallows.
Really, what the fuck is he going to do? You can't be busted for trying to put out a fire. So what if your methods of trying to extinguish a fire during the fireban are stupid. I guarantee you that if you throw enough weiners at a fire it'll be snuffed out. You just didn't bring enough weiners to snuff the fire right away. You can't be busted for that. Same goes for marshmallows. Dump enough marshmallow on an out-of-control forest fire, which the one in your campsite seems to be, albeit in the very early stages, and that fire will be toasted. Toasted marshmallows that is! Sorry, I was waiting for some excuse to bust that one out.
Anyway, the point is that without the surveillance equipment that cities conveniently have in spades no one can prove whether you started the fire or if you were trying to put it out with a frying pan and a quarter pound of bacon.
If you're asked what caused the fire, just say, "Lightning strike." If the skies are clear say, "Squirrel spontaneously combusted. Damnedest thing I ever saw," maybe throw a dead squirrel in the fire before you try using that one. Really, who cares how the fire started, you're fighting it! Ask the warden for help. Make it convincing.
"Look man, we can argue all day long as to how a squirrel spontaneously combusted right in that fire pit, but what's important is that it happened and now we have to deal with it. Alberta's woodlands are at risk! Quick, grab more weiners, I think we can create a buffer between the fire pit and the rest of Alberta if we can just get enough weiners in there."
Sure enough, you'll get your hot dogs and your toasted marshmallows, your campfire sing-alongs. Not only will you not be arrested for it, but they should damn well give you some sort of medal of valor for corageously fighting the bane of all humanity: fire.
Disclaimer: Do not actually attempt this. While this tactic might work, our R&D department has also found that well lit campsites experience instances of grizzly bear sodomy 268% more than completely dark campsites. You're best to play it safe and make your campsites look completely empty of all human life.
One thing that you campers will not be able to partake in for a little while at the very least, is the tried and true tradition of the cheery campfire. No hot dogs on sharpened sticks, no marshmallows set aflame and sizzling black, no disposal of evidence by fire. Nope, none of that for you. Dry conditions. High risk of forest fire.
And really, who the fuck would want to travel out into the woods and sit around WITHOUT a campfire. Campfires are fun. They burn stuff up, they make your clothes smell, and they provide the lighting for some of the most miserable experiences of you life. That time you got so drunk you passed out face down in the mud? Yep, it was by the fireside. That time you got so drunk you passed out face down in the mud and got sodomized by a lecherous grizzly bear? You better believe that was by the fireside too. He probably wouldn't have been able to see what he was doing had you been anywhere else.
So then what? Are you just going to go out into the wild without fire? How will the bears see to rape you? How are you going to char a tubesteak? What else will you use to burn all that excess gasoline and all those old tires you pack your vehicles with?
If you start a fire the game wardens will have you thrown into PMITA prison for a stiff sentence.
Or will they?
Here at Michael Appleby industries we are always coming up with new ways to make your life easier. And after 2.75 years of research in our state-of-the-art laboraties (i.e. my basement) we have developed a way for you to go camping during the fireban and enjoy your campfire too.
We call it, I didn't start this fire, officer.
Here's how it works.
Quite simply, when the game warden approaches your campsite, taser in hand, to bust you for having a campfire during the fireban you defend yourself by saying, "I didn't start this fire, officer." Resist the urge to sing it a la the early 90's Billy Joel song.
Then proceed to explain that you were trying to douse the fire with uncooked weiners and marshmallows.
Really, what the fuck is he going to do? You can't be busted for trying to put out a fire. So what if your methods of trying to extinguish a fire during the fireban are stupid. I guarantee you that if you throw enough weiners at a fire it'll be snuffed out. You just didn't bring enough weiners to snuff the fire right away. You can't be busted for that. Same goes for marshmallows. Dump enough marshmallow on an out-of-control forest fire, which the one in your campsite seems to be, albeit in the very early stages, and that fire will be toasted. Toasted marshmallows that is! Sorry, I was waiting for some excuse to bust that one out.
Anyway, the point is that without the surveillance equipment that cities conveniently have in spades no one can prove whether you started the fire or if you were trying to put it out with a frying pan and a quarter pound of bacon.
If you're asked what caused the fire, just say, "Lightning strike." If the skies are clear say, "Squirrel spontaneously combusted. Damnedest thing I ever saw," maybe throw a dead squirrel in the fire before you try using that one. Really, who cares how the fire started, you're fighting it! Ask the warden for help. Make it convincing.
"Look man, we can argue all day long as to how a squirrel spontaneously combusted right in that fire pit, but what's important is that it happened and now we have to deal with it. Alberta's woodlands are at risk! Quick, grab more weiners, I think we can create a buffer between the fire pit and the rest of Alberta if we can just get enough weiners in there."
Sure enough, you'll get your hot dogs and your toasted marshmallows, your campfire sing-alongs. Not only will you not be arrested for it, but they should damn well give you some sort of medal of valor for corageously fighting the bane of all humanity: fire.
Disclaimer: Do not actually attempt this. While this tactic might work, our R&D department has also found that well lit campsites experience instances of grizzly bear sodomy 268% more than completely dark campsites. You're best to play it safe and make your campsites look completely empty of all human life.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Still Asking Rodents To Give You An Understanding Of Weather Patterns? You're A Winner! (where the hell is a sacasm emoticon when you need one?)
Okay, recently (well, not so recently given my timing, but you know what I mean), Groundhog Day was upon us and then it was over again just as suddenly as it arrived. I thought that I would take this opportunity to fill you in on the outcome of the day's festivities in case you were living underneath a rock. Do you want to know what the little varmint had to say? Do you want to really know the verdict? On February 2, 2009, Punxsutawney Phil (who the fuck names their kid Punxsutawney Phil? I don't care what species you are, that name is bullshit) emerged from his little hidey-hole, held up by the scruff of his neck and saw his shadow, which according to the rule of the holiday signifies: WHO GIVES A FUCK?
Holy shit! After all the centuries of development that the human race has gone through, after all the technological marvels we have shit out onto the earth, after all the research, all the study, all the years of diligence, this is how we, as a race are going to try to estimate how much longer winter is going to last? Some smelly ground rat is going to emerge from his feces-laden den to a host of slack-jawed idiots and media types to determine whether or not he can see his own shadow and if he does that means winter is going to last six more weeks? What the fuck? Seriously? Is that how homey rolls? We can shoot a man onto the face of the moon, but damned if we can't figure out this whole weather and changing of seasons business without consulting an animal that is significantly less advanced than we are. Fucking rights!
First of all, why this bunch of arbitrary bullshit? Why groundhogs seeing shadows signifying anything? Why does it have to be six weeks? Who the fuck makes this shit up? I weep for the future if we're going to continue to gather each year outside some ground weasel shit den, salivating because we would probably just as soon eat the little rat as we would ask him for a prediction on the weather.
"Hey Cletus, when y'all think the winters(sic) going to be done for? My's Christmas breeches is wearing thin-like."
"I don't know, Jed, but that earth-pig is looking mighty dee-lish. Fetch me my double-aught and I's gonna shoots us up some dinner! Yee-haw!"
End scene.
Secondly, what the fuck difference does it make if winter lasts six more weeks, four more weeks, two more weeks, or 12 more minutes? What are you going to do about it if you don't like what the little rat-pig has to say about the future? Why not just do as the rest of the functioning world does and just cope with it? Winter will be over when winter is over. That's how it works, folks. It's that simple.
I assure you that no Old Man Winter is hiding in the proverbial ether, waiting with anticipation for the little mule-squirrel-earth-slug to see his shadow before literally, or figuratively since we're talking proverbs here, shitting snow out of his ass for six weeks, dancing around as he does so proclaiming, "Sorry morons, the litte rat-fuck saw his shadow, now you're mine! All mine! HAHAHAHA!" If there's one thing that science has taught us about ground rats it's that they're wrong, we're right, manifest destiny for humanity, tough titty for the rodents. Get used to it. We won. The war is over. Now get back on my spit, I'm going to roast you over an open fire.
So, please, please, pretty please, just leave your tribal superstitious bullshit nonsense on the funny pages. Keep it out of the regular media. I might need to learn something important. I do not give a fuck if some ground-pig woke up and saw his shadow. Six more weeks of winter or an early spring, big fucking deal. I'm not going anywhere. I just abide.
Holy shit! After all the centuries of development that the human race has gone through, after all the technological marvels we have shit out onto the earth, after all the research, all the study, all the years of diligence, this is how we, as a race are going to try to estimate how much longer winter is going to last? Some smelly ground rat is going to emerge from his feces-laden den to a host of slack-jawed idiots and media types to determine whether or not he can see his own shadow and if he does that means winter is going to last six more weeks? What the fuck? Seriously? Is that how homey rolls? We can shoot a man onto the face of the moon, but damned if we can't figure out this whole weather and changing of seasons business without consulting an animal that is significantly less advanced than we are. Fucking rights!
First of all, why this bunch of arbitrary bullshit? Why groundhogs seeing shadows signifying anything? Why does it have to be six weeks? Who the fuck makes this shit up? I weep for the future if we're going to continue to gather each year outside some ground weasel shit den, salivating because we would probably just as soon eat the little rat as we would ask him for a prediction on the weather.
"Hey Cletus, when y'all think the winters(sic) going to be done for? My's Christmas breeches is wearing thin-like."
"I don't know, Jed, but that earth-pig is looking mighty dee-lish. Fetch me my double-aught and I's gonna shoots us up some dinner! Yee-haw!"
End scene.
Secondly, what the fuck difference does it make if winter lasts six more weeks, four more weeks, two more weeks, or 12 more minutes? What are you going to do about it if you don't like what the little rat-pig has to say about the future? Why not just do as the rest of the functioning world does and just cope with it? Winter will be over when winter is over. That's how it works, folks. It's that simple.
I assure you that no Old Man Winter is hiding in the proverbial ether, waiting with anticipation for the little mule-squirrel-earth-slug to see his shadow before literally, or figuratively since we're talking proverbs here, shitting snow out of his ass for six weeks, dancing around as he does so proclaiming, "Sorry morons, the litte rat-fuck saw his shadow, now you're mine! All mine! HAHAHAHA!" If there's one thing that science has taught us about ground rats it's that they're wrong, we're right, manifest destiny for humanity, tough titty for the rodents. Get used to it. We won. The war is over. Now get back on my spit, I'm going to roast you over an open fire.
So, please, please, pretty please, just leave your tribal superstitious bullshit nonsense on the funny pages. Keep it out of the regular media. I might need to learn something important. I do not give a fuck if some ground-pig woke up and saw his shadow. Six more weeks of winter or an early spring, big fucking deal. I'm not going anywhere. I just abide.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Who Wants Some Fucking Nesquik?
Because I've been feeling kind of blah the past few days I'm going to point in the direction of 5secondfilms. I really like how they do the whole internet sketch comedy thing blended with the ultimate in brevity. If you watch a sketch that doesn't seem that funny, hey, that's okay, it was only 5 seconds long, move on to the next sketch. So far, though, this one is my favorite. If you see me quoting it please punch me in the liver.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Something About This One Gives Me A Case Of The Warm Fuzzies (One, Two, The!)
Coming to the Sundance Film Festival this year is a little Norwegian horror movie called Dead Snow, and after having had a chance to watch the trailer for it on YouTube, I can honestly say I have a pretty good feeling that this movie is going to be the drop-dead-gorgeous-woman-whose-t-shirt-just-spontaneously-rips-open-to-expose-huge-globous-breasts-that-god-never-intended-to-be-concealed of motion pictures this year. I mean, holy shit, it has zombies, and nazis, and Norwegian women, and zombies, and chainsaws, and a German tagline that beckons people to the multiplex for some foreign cinema gold.
Speaking of the German tagline, if you watch the trailer I just embedded for your viewing pleasure (go ahead and watch it right now; I'll wait), it kicks in at about the 1:30 mark. In German it reads: "Ein, Zwei, Die!" How awesome is that? Oh wait, you don't speak German? I speak it Ein Bisschen (that's German for a little bit), which makes me that much cooler than most people, so I'll translate it into English. In English, that tagline goes, "One, Two, The!" Those Germans, always with the postmodern taglines to their zombie movies.
That kind of reminds me of one of the better episodes of The Simpsons, in which the movie Cape Fear gets spoofed. During a scene that features Sideshow Bob at a hearing to see if he should be paroled for prison this exchange takes place between Bob and a prosecuter...
Prosecutor: What about that tattoo on your chest? Doesn't it say die Bart die?
Sideshow Bob: No, that's German
[unveils tattoo]
Sideshow Bob: for 'The Bart The'.
Parole Board Member: No one who speaks German could be an evil man.
Indeed Parole Board Member, indeed. That's why I think the Nazi zombies in the movie Dead Snow might actually be misunderstood from just watching the trailer. I have a feeling that these Nazi zombies might actually be here to help us.
One, Two, The!
Sunday, January 11, 2009
A Sure Sign Your Actions Are Influenced By Jackass
Hey there, long time, no see.
So, today I was at work. Dutifully, as usual. And something happened today that more or less scared the shit out of me. It wasn't scary in the sense that a psycho killer with a meat cleaver and a necklace of children's teeth was leaping out from the shadows telling me that he wanted to butt-rape me, though I'm not really sure why I just put all of those elements together in a single sentence, but I will just roll with it. And, now that I think about it, the idea of being stalked by said psycho killer is definitely scary and I will probably have to watch myself at work from now on especially when I am going into darkened areas of the building. But, anyway, where was I?
Okay, so I did get scared at work today. And it was scary in the sense that when I thought about what happened I got scared not because of anything around me, but rather an idea that I almost, almost, almost went through with. And when I tell you this idea that I had you're going to think that I'm an idiot and you'd probably be right, especially if I had actually done this thing that I thought I should do.
So, there I was, doing my rounds around the casino floor, looking for slot machines in need of assistance, customers in distress, beautiful women who only go to casinos on the weekend, psycho killers with meat cleavers and an ass fetish, etc. etc. I found a particular slot machine that had a faulty door. That is to say the machine itself was reporting that its door was open when if you look at the machine you not only see that the door is shut, but if you try to open the door it's definitely shut and locked. This happens from time to time. Slot machines refuse to work properly if it thinks that a door on it is open somewhere. And, to top it off, there was a customer at the machine waiting to play it. So this one had to be fixed.
Usually, to fix one of these problems all one has to do is simply open and close the door and it's kind of like reminding the machine what an open door actually looks like or something like that. I suspect it's more complicated than that. Actually, it is more complicated than that, but if I told you I'd kill you. Not that I'd kill you because it's privileged information, but I'd kill you from boredom because it's a bunch of technical jargon that goes nowhere and really has little bearing on my story or utter fear. Just leave it at when I open the door a team of leprechauns, mounted on unicorns swoop down from atop Mount Bullshit and whisper a special message into a bluetooth headset (leprechauns like to keep up with all the latest technology; I'm not making this shit up) that lets the machine know, "Hey my shit is closed up so let's behave like it is."
So that's what I did with this particular machine. And sure enough, leprechauns and unicorns and bluetooth goodness and the slot machine started working again.
For
exactly
two
spins
and then back to not working because it is saying that it's main door is open. It's at this point in time I did that thing that Curly from the Three Stooges did whenever he got frustrated with inanimate objects, that sort of self face slap and whine. So I try to open and close the door again, this time with a little more force so as to summon a few extra leprechauns, this time with bluetooth megaphones (oh, you better believe they have those). And, as before it started working again
for
exactly
two
more
spins.
And more Curly reactions. More frustration. I definitely wanted to help this customer spend all his money.
And then I get to the scary part. Prepare yourself, folks.
So, obviously, opening and closing the slot machine was not a good enough repair job for this particular problem. So what does a logical guy do? Well, I suppose a logical guy would go and find somebody who knows a more permanent fix for the problem. Seems reasonable. What does a weirdo like me do?
Well, I sort of looked around, sizing up chairs in the vicinity and after having determined they were all kind of short I looked at the customer who was waiting to use this malfunctioning machine and I was this close, this close, to asking him, "Sir, how tall are you?"
Why would I ask that, you ask? Well, for a split second, I thought that my next course of action, you know, after opening and closing the door on the slot machines a few times, would be to deliver a flying elbow drop like Randy Macho Man Savage from a great height. For that split second I thought, Okay, I'm just going to get this guy to hoist me up on his shoulders. Then, I'm going to jump, but I have to get some air on the jump and then I'm going to stick my elbow out and smash it the fuck down on top of the slot machine. I mean that would work, right? Logically speaking, that is. It goes: try the most logical thing to fix a problem and then, if that fails, deliver the elbow drop from the top rope a la Randy Macho Man Savage.
Michael, that's not even scary. How is you thinking like a moron supposed to scare the bejesus out of me?
Because the amount of time I was in this idiotic mindset was disproportionately large. Here I am, a man with a university education, giving careful consideration to delivering a flying elbow drop to an inanimate object from atop the shoulders of another man. And this, with a university education! What the fuck?!?! Who does that?
Don't worry folks, I didn't actually go through with it, but after fixing it (I turned the machine off and then back on again, not quite the force of flying elbow drop, not quite the dramatic oomph) I was walking away and that's when I got scared. I almost slapped myself, not like Curly from The Three Stooges, but full-on face slaps going, "What in the hell were you thinking? You can't actually consider a flying elbow drop to a slot machine you're trying to fix! When does a flying elbow drop actually fix anything?!?!"
And what's really scary is that if I can consider this course of action once what's to say that I won't consider it the next time or the time after that? It's keeping me up tonight, folks. It's keeping me up.
So if you're visiting the casino where I work one day and you round a corner and you hear some grown man with a university education exclaim, "Oooooo yeah!" followed by the crunching sound of an elbow shattering inside its sleeve of meat and muscle and bone, you'll know that I finally settled on the most logical step after trying to open and close the door being the elbow drop.
Sleep easy, everybody. An idiot is born.
So, today I was at work. Dutifully, as usual. And something happened today that more or less scared the shit out of me. It wasn't scary in the sense that a psycho killer with a meat cleaver and a necklace of children's teeth was leaping out from the shadows telling me that he wanted to butt-rape me, though I'm not really sure why I just put all of those elements together in a single sentence, but I will just roll with it. And, now that I think about it, the idea of being stalked by said psycho killer is definitely scary and I will probably have to watch myself at work from now on especially when I am going into darkened areas of the building. But, anyway, where was I?
Okay, so I did get scared at work today. And it was scary in the sense that when I thought about what happened I got scared not because of anything around me, but rather an idea that I almost, almost, almost went through with. And when I tell you this idea that I had you're going to think that I'm an idiot and you'd probably be right, especially if I had actually done this thing that I thought I should do.
So, there I was, doing my rounds around the casino floor, looking for slot machines in need of assistance, customers in distress, beautiful women who only go to casinos on the weekend, psycho killers with meat cleavers and an ass fetish, etc. etc. I found a particular slot machine that had a faulty door. That is to say the machine itself was reporting that its door was open when if you look at the machine you not only see that the door is shut, but if you try to open the door it's definitely shut and locked. This happens from time to time. Slot machines refuse to work properly if it thinks that a door on it is open somewhere. And, to top it off, there was a customer at the machine waiting to play it. So this one had to be fixed.
Usually, to fix one of these problems all one has to do is simply open and close the door and it's kind of like reminding the machine what an open door actually looks like or something like that. I suspect it's more complicated than that. Actually, it is more complicated than that, but if I told you I'd kill you. Not that I'd kill you because it's privileged information, but I'd kill you from boredom because it's a bunch of technical jargon that goes nowhere and really has little bearing on my story or utter fear. Just leave it at when I open the door a team of leprechauns, mounted on unicorns swoop down from atop Mount Bullshit and whisper a special message into a bluetooth headset (leprechauns like to keep up with all the latest technology; I'm not making this shit up) that lets the machine know, "Hey my shit is closed up so let's behave like it is."
So that's what I did with this particular machine. And sure enough, leprechauns and unicorns and bluetooth goodness and the slot machine started working again.
For
exactly
two
spins
and then back to not working because it is saying that it's main door is open. It's at this point in time I did that thing that Curly from the Three Stooges did whenever he got frustrated with inanimate objects, that sort of self face slap and whine. So I try to open and close the door again, this time with a little more force so as to summon a few extra leprechauns, this time with bluetooth megaphones (oh, you better believe they have those). And, as before it started working again
for
exactly
two
more
spins.
And more Curly reactions. More frustration. I definitely wanted to help this customer spend all his money.
And then I get to the scary part. Prepare yourself, folks.
So, obviously, opening and closing the slot machine was not a good enough repair job for this particular problem. So what does a logical guy do? Well, I suppose a logical guy would go and find somebody who knows a more permanent fix for the problem. Seems reasonable. What does a weirdo like me do?
Well, I sort of looked around, sizing up chairs in the vicinity and after having determined they were all kind of short I looked at the customer who was waiting to use this malfunctioning machine and I was this close, this close, to asking him, "Sir, how tall are you?"
Why would I ask that, you ask? Well, for a split second, I thought that my next course of action, you know, after opening and closing the door on the slot machines a few times, would be to deliver a flying elbow drop like Randy Macho Man Savage from a great height. For that split second I thought, Okay, I'm just going to get this guy to hoist me up on his shoulders. Then, I'm going to jump, but I have to get some air on the jump and then I'm going to stick my elbow out and smash it the fuck down on top of the slot machine. I mean that would work, right? Logically speaking, that is. It goes: try the most logical thing to fix a problem and then, if that fails, deliver the elbow drop from the top rope a la Randy Macho Man Savage.
Michael, that's not even scary. How is you thinking like a moron supposed to scare the bejesus out of me?
Because the amount of time I was in this idiotic mindset was disproportionately large. Here I am, a man with a university education, giving careful consideration to delivering a flying elbow drop to an inanimate object from atop the shoulders of another man. And this, with a university education! What the fuck?!?! Who does that?
Don't worry folks, I didn't actually go through with it, but after fixing it (I turned the machine off and then back on again, not quite the force of flying elbow drop, not quite the dramatic oomph) I was walking away and that's when I got scared. I almost slapped myself, not like Curly from The Three Stooges, but full-on face slaps going, "What in the hell were you thinking? You can't actually consider a flying elbow drop to a slot machine you're trying to fix! When does a flying elbow drop actually fix anything?!?!"
And what's really scary is that if I can consider this course of action once what's to say that I won't consider it the next time or the time after that? It's keeping me up tonight, folks. It's keeping me up.
So if you're visiting the casino where I work one day and you round a corner and you hear some grown man with a university education exclaim, "Oooooo yeah!" followed by the crunching sound of an elbow shattering inside its sleeve of meat and muscle and bone, you'll know that I finally settled on the most logical step after trying to open and close the door being the elbow drop.
Sleep easy, everybody. An idiot is born.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Michael Appleby's Theory Of Relativity
Somewhere along the way, culturally speaking, older women got a whole lot sexier. That is to say, you watch television, you watch movies, you put on a Madonna album, or you read something by Anne Rice, and older women seem to be depicted more and more as being sexual deviants. You know the old lady who looked after Tweety Bird in the Bugs Bunny and Roadrunner Show? She probably got her kink on with that umbrella she always seemed to be carrying (the fact that she carried it even on sunny days was a dead giveaway). It's a sick world where old ladies do nasty things that some pornstars probably wouldn't even touch with a ten foot pole or they would touch a ten foot pole sexually, but not the acts that old ladies perform with said sexual ten foot poles. Where was I going with this? I forget in the mental haze that is comprised of pornstars, ten foot poles, and old ladies...
Oh yeah...I was talking about old ladies. Thank god for back tracking.
Don't mention it, Michael.
So anyway, the reason why I mention all these older ladies with their sick, sick perversions is because the other day I saw a man wearing a t-shirt that read: I Love Cougars. I didn't pause to ask him if he was referring to the kind of cougars that play with balls of yarn and eat mountain goats or the kind of cougars that play with balls of semen and eat mountain goats only not in the way that the other cougars eat mountain goats.
Excuse me while I pat myself on the back for that last mental image.
Much better.
Okay, so I took it to mean that he was referring to cougars who were not felines.
Damn it, Michael, would you come to the point already? What do MILFs and crusty, old tavern wenches have to do with relativity?
The guy who was wearing said t-shirt was easily in his mid-40's. Relatively speaking a cougar to him should be eating earth worms instead of mountain goats, or, more accurately, be getting eaten by earth worms only not in the way that she ate mountain goats which was not the way that those other cougars eat mountain goats. Relatively speaking. Did he really love cougars in his mid-40's? Was he, in fact, some sort of necrophiliac? Or was he a furry? Why did his pants have so many stains? Why were his fingernails yellow? How many rhetorical questions can a guy ask in an essay about bingo hussies before it gets annoying?
Two.
The guy really loves his sexually charged dynamos who shopped for support hose and sported the latest kerchief fashions straight from the dollar bin at Wal-Mart or Canadian Tire or wherever the fuck it is that really, really old women do their kerchief shopping sprees.
Mildred? Mildred? It's Mable, I just called to tell you that the pension cheque just came in and I have an inkling to spend it on itchy dresses, fake pearls, and kerfchiefs, lots and lots of kerchiefs. I'll call the geriatric wagon, let's go to Kinko's (or wherever in the hell it is us old ladies like to shop)!
That concludes the role-play portion of this essay, now back to the point.
"Cougar" is a term that is relative like a lot of things. Proof of this resides in the fact that when I was just a young sprout in the world I considered women who are now the age that I am to be cougars. I am the male equivolent of a cougar to young women. I'm sexually charged and I eat mountain sheep (they're female mountain goats, don't you know?) But now that I am the age of what I once considered the cougar cut-off line those women whom young sprout Michael Appleby would have considered cougars are just plain old women (sorry plain, old women, you just aren't that dignified to be labelled cougars anymore). Cougars to me, now, are women who are that age that their teenage children wander the malls and leave their sexy mothers home alone for the afternoon.
But you, sir with the t-shirt, you should probably avoid cougars now because they would be really, really, really old.
Or just buy a new t-shirt that reads: I Am Sexually Aroused By Women My Own Age. And then on the back you can put: Really Old. Ha Ha Ha.
I'm totally going to invent that t-shirt and become rich.
Or maybe you were actually a furry the whole time. In which case, kindly disregard all of this because it was all for naught. And seriously, you like mountain goats for real? Sick. Just sick.
Oh yeah...I was talking about old ladies. Thank god for back tracking.
Don't mention it, Michael.
So anyway, the reason why I mention all these older ladies with their sick, sick perversions is because the other day I saw a man wearing a t-shirt that read: I Love Cougars. I didn't pause to ask him if he was referring to the kind of cougars that play with balls of yarn and eat mountain goats or the kind of cougars that play with balls of semen and eat mountain goats only not in the way that the other cougars eat mountain goats.
Excuse me while I pat myself on the back for that last mental image.
Much better.
Okay, so I took it to mean that he was referring to cougars who were not felines.
Damn it, Michael, would you come to the point already? What do MILFs and crusty, old tavern wenches have to do with relativity?
The guy who was wearing said t-shirt was easily in his mid-40's. Relatively speaking a cougar to him should be eating earth worms instead of mountain goats, or, more accurately, be getting eaten by earth worms only not in the way that she ate mountain goats which was not the way that those other cougars eat mountain goats. Relatively speaking. Did he really love cougars in his mid-40's? Was he, in fact, some sort of necrophiliac? Or was he a furry? Why did his pants have so many stains? Why were his fingernails yellow? How many rhetorical questions can a guy ask in an essay about bingo hussies before it gets annoying?
Two.
The guy really loves his sexually charged dynamos who shopped for support hose and sported the latest kerchief fashions straight from the dollar bin at Wal-Mart or Canadian Tire or wherever the fuck it is that really, really old women do their kerchief shopping sprees.
Mildred? Mildred? It's Mable, I just called to tell you that the pension cheque just came in and I have an inkling to spend it on itchy dresses, fake pearls, and kerfchiefs, lots and lots of kerchiefs. I'll call the geriatric wagon, let's go to Kinko's (or wherever in the hell it is us old ladies like to shop)!
That concludes the role-play portion of this essay, now back to the point.
"Cougar" is a term that is relative like a lot of things. Proof of this resides in the fact that when I was just a young sprout in the world I considered women who are now the age that I am to be cougars. I am the male equivolent of a cougar to young women. I'm sexually charged and I eat mountain sheep (they're female mountain goats, don't you know?) But now that I am the age of what I once considered the cougar cut-off line those women whom young sprout Michael Appleby would have considered cougars are just plain old women (sorry plain, old women, you just aren't that dignified to be labelled cougars anymore). Cougars to me, now, are women who are that age that their teenage children wander the malls and leave their sexy mothers home alone for the afternoon.
But you, sir with the t-shirt, you should probably avoid cougars now because they would be really, really, really old.
Or just buy a new t-shirt that reads: I Am Sexually Aroused By Women My Own Age. And then on the back you can put: Really Old. Ha Ha Ha.
I'm totally going to invent that t-shirt and become rich.
Or maybe you were actually a furry the whole time. In which case, kindly disregard all of this because it was all for naught. And seriously, you like mountain goats for real? Sick. Just sick.
Monday, June 09, 2008
I Have No Clue What To Tell You
Click Here.
You know, I tried to come up with a title for this blog entry that sums up what I found in the linked article perfectly. No matter what, though, nothing I could put together in words communicated it succinctly enough.
Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.
I'll summarize the article for you because the article itself is pretty short and easy to follow. Basically, in Vancouver, the police department has patted itself on the back and said, "Hey look at us! We're a bunch of clever shits!" Well, kind of, but what they did do was, get this, start deploying life-sized cardboard traffic cops on city streets to trick drivers into thinking that their speeds are being clocked. Hey! Look at us! We've irritated drivers without even having to physically be present on the city streets! We're fucking awesome! High Five!
And you know what? Good for them. I think if a person can find a way to accomplish all his/her goals at work by deploying a cardboard cut-out, that person is far smarter than me. I know that when I am at work there are times when I wish I had a cardboard doppelganger to stand in for me and have irrational insults thrown at it in endless barrages that seem to always reach the same points: I'm a crook and casino games are rigged and it's not even gambling unless the player makes money 100% of the time. If the cardboard Michael Appleby, superstud, could just stand there and take the verbal assault on the chin for me I could at ,the very least, double my productivity.
Really, though, I'm not too concerned with the police dotting the landscape with carboard cops. It's a proven fact that cardboard cut-outs increase urban tourism by 1.7% and provide much needed kindling to city transients. What I wanted to really get at with this little tirade of mine, is a quote from the article, which is as follows:
And these mock-ups are so realistic that while being tested on a Vancouver street this week, "a tow-truck driver pulled up and started talking to it," Staff Sergeant Ralph Pauw told a press conference on Thursday.
Really?
Seriously?
You're a tow-truck driver and you see a realistic cardboard mock-up of a police officer, drive up to said mock-up, and just start conversing with it? At some point during that conversation, which undoubtedly would be one-sided, if that sided at all (I like to imagine that the word "talking" referred to monosyllic grunts and the possible flinging of one's own feces), would you or would you not notice the total lack of a third dimension in the person you're "talking" to?
As a Canadian, one thing that I took pride in for a great number of years was our education system. I stood proud as a educated member of society and, given, the proper platform, I would boast about how intelligent and cultivaed we were as a nation. Then I read an article in which an authority figure describes how an average tow truck driver tried to strike up a conversation with what is, for all intents and purpose, a piece of fucking cardboard!
Hey Joe! Long time, no see! How are the wife and kids?
-Distant, blank stare from an image pasted to a sheet of cardboard.
What? Why aren't you talking to me? Was it something I said? Oh my god, it's your wife, isn't it? You got a divorce and it's still a really hard thing to talk about? Oh my god! I'm so sorry man! I had no idea! I feel for you. I went through the same thing not three years ago almost to this very day. It still pisses me off sometimes when dudes are coming up to me at parties without having been in touch with me for so long and they're all like, "Dude, man, how's the old ball and chain lifestyle treating ya? You must be having crazy married sex every day?" And seriously, when they say stuff like that it hurts me a lot. Even talking about it now gets me a little choked up. I'm so glad to have people like you around because you really no how to listen.
-Distant, blank stare from an image pasted to a sheet of cardboard.
Well, aren't you going to say anything? Look man, I apologized for bringing up the subject of your wife. She was no good for you anyway. She was a total tramp. I saw her whoring herself out at that party that one time, going up to guys and like rubbing herself all up in there, you know? I was going around and I was all like, "Hey dude, don't be lured by the va-jay-jay, you know what I'm saying? She's married to Joe! And fucking around behind his back? That ain't right, man! That shit just ain't right! No way! No how! If Joe don't fuck your shit up with some traffic citations I'll fuck your shit up because I'm loyal to Joe!" I did my best, dude, but I mean there's no way for me to be watching out for your lady twenty four seven because I mean I got shit to do sometimes. That's just how it is. But I was looking out for you when I could. I really was.
-Distant, blank stare from an image pasted to a sheet of cardboard.
Goddamn it Joe! Say something! We're bros! Amigos!
-Distant, blank stare from an image pasted to a sheet of cardboard.
Fine be an asshole! You know what? You're a piece of shit! I fucking hate you. No wonder your wife practically raped me at that party! All you do is you sit there what with your radar gun just aiming all the time! I mean, when the fuck do you ever just put the radar gun down and interact with people? Huh? Seriously! This whole stoic officer of the law schtick? It gets fucking old real fucking fast!
-Distant, blank stare from an image pasted to a sheet of cardboard.
I fucking hate you! I don't even know why I took the time to pull over to talk to you. Listen to all these people honking their horns because I'm slowing them down just so I can find out what's happening with big city cop Joe. And what kind of appreciation do I get? None. You, sir, are a big bag of dirty douche! Fucking fall on your taser, you piece of shit!
Then the tow truck driver speeds off and the gust of wind that the sudden departure of his tow truck creates blows over the cardboard cut-out.
And... end of scene.
I don't know exactly where I was going with that one, but I think I threw it out there and somehow managed to bring all right back in at the end. Kudos to me.
I suppose I shouldn't abandon all hope when finding out that a tow truck driver can try to have a conversation with a piece of cardboard.
No wait. Before I continue I just have to say this again: Really? Seriously? A piece of cardboard? And you stop your truck to talk to it? Which cereal box did you get your driver's license from? What was the inanimate object saying back to you? Really? Seriously?
But, like I said, I should be able to salvage something out of this new-found knowledge about where we stand in the scheme of things. Canada against the world. All that sort of mumbo jumbo.
And I guess it's this. Maybe the idea of a cardboard cut-out of Michael Appleby, superstud, isn't such a wacky idea after all.
You know, I tried to come up with a title for this blog entry that sums up what I found in the linked article perfectly. No matter what, though, nothing I could put together in words communicated it succinctly enough.
Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.
I'll summarize the article for you because the article itself is pretty short and easy to follow. Basically, in Vancouver, the police department has patted itself on the back and said, "Hey look at us! We're a bunch of clever shits!" Well, kind of, but what they did do was, get this, start deploying life-sized cardboard traffic cops on city streets to trick drivers into thinking that their speeds are being clocked. Hey! Look at us! We've irritated drivers without even having to physically be present on the city streets! We're fucking awesome! High Five!
And you know what? Good for them. I think if a person can find a way to accomplish all his/her goals at work by deploying a cardboard cut-out, that person is far smarter than me. I know that when I am at work there are times when I wish I had a cardboard doppelganger to stand in for me and have irrational insults thrown at it in endless barrages that seem to always reach the same points: I'm a crook and casino games are rigged and it's not even gambling unless the player makes money 100% of the time. If the cardboard Michael Appleby, superstud, could just stand there and take the verbal assault on the chin for me I could at ,the very least, double my productivity.
Really, though, I'm not too concerned with the police dotting the landscape with carboard cops. It's a proven fact that cardboard cut-outs increase urban tourism by 1.7% and provide much needed kindling to city transients. What I wanted to really get at with this little tirade of mine, is a quote from the article, which is as follows:
And these mock-ups are so realistic that while being tested on a Vancouver street this week, "a tow-truck driver pulled up and started talking to it," Staff Sergeant Ralph Pauw told a press conference on Thursday.
Really?
Seriously?
You're a tow-truck driver and you see a realistic cardboard mock-up of a police officer, drive up to said mock-up, and just start conversing with it? At some point during that conversation, which undoubtedly would be one-sided, if that sided at all (I like to imagine that the word "talking" referred to monosyllic grunts and the possible flinging of one's own feces), would you or would you not notice the total lack of a third dimension in the person you're "talking" to?
As a Canadian, one thing that I took pride in for a great number of years was our education system. I stood proud as a educated member of society and, given, the proper platform, I would boast about how intelligent and cultivaed we were as a nation. Then I read an article in which an authority figure describes how an average tow truck driver tried to strike up a conversation with what is, for all intents and purpose, a piece of fucking cardboard!
Hey Joe! Long time, no see! How are the wife and kids?
-Distant, blank stare from an image pasted to a sheet of cardboard.
What? Why aren't you talking to me? Was it something I said? Oh my god, it's your wife, isn't it? You got a divorce and it's still a really hard thing to talk about? Oh my god! I'm so sorry man! I had no idea! I feel for you. I went through the same thing not three years ago almost to this very day. It still pisses me off sometimes when dudes are coming up to me at parties without having been in touch with me for so long and they're all like, "Dude, man, how's the old ball and chain lifestyle treating ya? You must be having crazy married sex every day?" And seriously, when they say stuff like that it hurts me a lot. Even talking about it now gets me a little choked up. I'm so glad to have people like you around because you really no how to listen.
-Distant, blank stare from an image pasted to a sheet of cardboard.
Well, aren't you going to say anything? Look man, I apologized for bringing up the subject of your wife. She was no good for you anyway. She was a total tramp. I saw her whoring herself out at that party that one time, going up to guys and like rubbing herself all up in there, you know? I was going around and I was all like, "Hey dude, don't be lured by the va-jay-jay, you know what I'm saying? She's married to Joe! And fucking around behind his back? That ain't right, man! That shit just ain't right! No way! No how! If Joe don't fuck your shit up with some traffic citations I'll fuck your shit up because I'm loyal to Joe!" I did my best, dude, but I mean there's no way for me to be watching out for your lady twenty four seven because I mean I got shit to do sometimes. That's just how it is. But I was looking out for you when I could. I really was.
-Distant, blank stare from an image pasted to a sheet of cardboard.
Goddamn it Joe! Say something! We're bros! Amigos!
-Distant, blank stare from an image pasted to a sheet of cardboard.
Fine be an asshole! You know what? You're a piece of shit! I fucking hate you. No wonder your wife practically raped me at that party! All you do is you sit there what with your radar gun just aiming all the time! I mean, when the fuck do you ever just put the radar gun down and interact with people? Huh? Seriously! This whole stoic officer of the law schtick? It gets fucking old real fucking fast!
-Distant, blank stare from an image pasted to a sheet of cardboard.
I fucking hate you! I don't even know why I took the time to pull over to talk to you. Listen to all these people honking their horns because I'm slowing them down just so I can find out what's happening with big city cop Joe. And what kind of appreciation do I get? None. You, sir, are a big bag of dirty douche! Fucking fall on your taser, you piece of shit!
Then the tow truck driver speeds off and the gust of wind that the sudden departure of his tow truck creates blows over the cardboard cut-out.
And... end of scene.
I don't know exactly where I was going with that one, but I think I threw it out there and somehow managed to bring all right back in at the end. Kudos to me.
I suppose I shouldn't abandon all hope when finding out that a tow truck driver can try to have a conversation with a piece of cardboard.
No wait. Before I continue I just have to say this again: Really? Seriously? A piece of cardboard? And you stop your truck to talk to it? Which cereal box did you get your driver's license from? What was the inanimate object saying back to you? Really? Seriously?
But, like I said, I should be able to salvage something out of this new-found knowledge about where we stand in the scheme of things. Canada against the world. All that sort of mumbo jumbo.
And I guess it's this. Maybe the idea of a cardboard cut-out of Michael Appleby, superstud, isn't such a wacky idea after all.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Semi-New Poem: Every Time You Pass
Okay, so for those of you who were in the audiences at the Raving Poets reading series "Heart Beat" this will probably not be a new poem for you because I read it over a month ago. Mind you, I'm neglectful of my little blog sometimes and so I'm finally getting around to putting up some new poetry and, of my new poetry, this is some stuff that got pretty positive feedback (or at least I thought it did). The poem is called "Every Time You Pass" and it's one that all started with the idea of cupping the smell of a woman with one's tongue for safekeeping. Odd, I know, but it was something that just sounding interesting to me when I tried putting it to words. Enjoy.
Every Time You Pass
I had to hold the smell
of your perfume
in the roof of my mouth,
for fear of losing it
permanently.
Draw in the big breath.
Hold it.
Keep holding
until the room
turns to floaters,
ghost splotches
over egg-shell white,
over off-white,
white noise,
static from a ceiling fan,
helicopter blade beating
drums in circles
into oblivion.
This is how
you
are always fleeting.
I had to hold it
with my tongue
in the shape of a cup
where the red delicious’s
couldn’t drown it out
in apple
and the peaches
couldn’t seduce it
into being something
that it already
transcends.
I ensconced it with
memories of mornings
that hung with
my suit jacket over
the back of your chair
while suns slinked
through your windows
with birdsong.
Your blue leg:
a tattoo of trumpeter swans
taking off
the way rockets do
leaving a visible
spectrum of
tumbling dahlias,
blue as watercolor and
daisies that make
yellow ellipses
between their white petal
sentences
of: “Stay, stay behind my knee.
Kiss my shin
until your lips
are calcified by the bone.”
The whole time
holding it in,
sheltering it,
reveling it
waiting for the room to spin into black,
passing out
every time you pass.
-Michael Appleby
April, 2008
Every Time You Pass
I had to hold the smell
of your perfume
in the roof of my mouth,
for fear of losing it
permanently.
Draw in the big breath.
Hold it.
Keep holding
until the room
turns to floaters,
ghost splotches
over egg-shell white,
over off-white,
white noise,
static from a ceiling fan,
helicopter blade beating
drums in circles
into oblivion.
This is how
you
are always fleeting.
I had to hold it
with my tongue
in the shape of a cup
where the red delicious’s
couldn’t drown it out
in apple
and the peaches
couldn’t seduce it
into being something
that it already
transcends.
I ensconced it with
memories of mornings
that hung with
my suit jacket over
the back of your chair
while suns slinked
through your windows
with birdsong.
Your blue leg:
a tattoo of trumpeter swans
taking off
the way rockets do
leaving a visible
spectrum of
tumbling dahlias,
blue as watercolor and
daisies that make
yellow ellipses
between their white petal
sentences
of: “Stay, stay behind my knee.
Kiss my shin
until your lips
are calcified by the bone.”
The whole time
holding it in,
sheltering it,
reveling it
waiting for the room to spin into black,
passing out
every time you pass.
-Michael Appleby
April, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Declaration Of Independence (For Cocks)
Man, you know what I saw on T.V. the other day? Another Cialis commercial. It doesn't really matter how clever they write the ads for any of the boner pills out there, every time I see them I get a little bit angry.
Now, don't get me wrong, I think it's great that I get to see commercials with middle-aged shlubs dancing around in public and singing the praises of their chemically induced hard-ons, maybe doing some sort of trombone pantomime with their penises. What irritates me, though, is the fact that we live in an age of men needing pills to even just be physically able to fuck their wives and/or girlfriends and/or alternative lifestyle partner and/or hapless barnyard orifice (I think that is the first time in human history that anybody has put those three words together). It seems to me that men just were able to get hard-ons without so much chemical dependency. Where along our evolutionary track did we lose that ability? I hate to think that someday I will be relegated to the same fate as some guy who feels it's necessary to Gene Kelly my way into the workplace singing about my schlong to my coworkers and getting high-fives for something as simple as increasing blood flow to my crotch.
I'm sure that those of you out there whom I work with, have worked with, or will work with are probably dreading the day that I twirl into work and fill you all in on how I got it up. Sure, I'll probably get fired for filling you all in on such matters and I'll probably get sued for sexual harassment by some of you sensitive types, but getting a stiffy is worth all the legal hassle and unemployment in the world.
But back to the matter at hand...
So seeing the Cialis commercial the other day made me think about the downfall of man. Quite literally a downfall when we're talking about hard dicks. And after some quiet deliberation and a lot of consideration I think I've arrived at the source of the problem itself. The problem is the hard-on itself. It used to be that back in the day a man could walk around with a hard dick all day long. He'd go into the corner store with his hat dangling from him crotch. He'd go to the supermarket and use it to weigh bananas. He'd prop open doors with it. Essentially, what men had was a fifth limb. And they could use it for sex, which was nature's way of rewarding such a versatile piece of meat.
Then, somewhere along the way, men were taught to be ashamed of their hard-ons. I can't pinpoint at which point in history that it happened, but suffice to say that if you walked into the corner store with your hat hanging on your naughty bit somebody would gasp like you just raped a donkey in the candy aisle. Basically, the world got itself really, really sensitive to the concept of a man having blood circulating to his cock. Years passed and men had to change their way of thinking. Instead of thinking, "Damn it, where's a fucking coat hook when you need one?" they started thinking "Oh man, I hope I don't get a hard-on because that would be so embarassing right now."
Basically our brains started to shut out cocks down.
Now we need pills just to have sex. How sad is that? The ghosts of cavemen, Henry Miller, and James Dean are laughing at us men right now. Some lot we turned out to be.
So, I have a proposal, more of a declaration of independence for cocks I suppose. Men, you have to change your way of thinking about things lest you wake up one day and need Cialis to give you a boner for 36 hours (I'm not even sure why you would want one for that long). If you think something dirty or you see a beautiful girl or you just need a coat hook or a door jam, just let it happen. Societal norms be damned! Fucking political correctness is ruining the species! The less you try to stifle a hard-on when you don't need one, the more likely you'll get one when you want one, and without the fucking pills.
Your cock, the cavemen, Henry Miller, and James Dean will thank you.
Now, don't get me wrong, I think it's great that I get to see commercials with middle-aged shlubs dancing around in public and singing the praises of their chemically induced hard-ons, maybe doing some sort of trombone pantomime with their penises. What irritates me, though, is the fact that we live in an age of men needing pills to even just be physically able to fuck their wives and/or girlfriends and/or alternative lifestyle partner and/or hapless barnyard orifice (I think that is the first time in human history that anybody has put those three words together). It seems to me that men just were able to get hard-ons without so much chemical dependency. Where along our evolutionary track did we lose that ability? I hate to think that someday I will be relegated to the same fate as some guy who feels it's necessary to Gene Kelly my way into the workplace singing about my schlong to my coworkers and getting high-fives for something as simple as increasing blood flow to my crotch.
I'm sure that those of you out there whom I work with, have worked with, or will work with are probably dreading the day that I twirl into work and fill you all in on how I got it up. Sure, I'll probably get fired for filling you all in on such matters and I'll probably get sued for sexual harassment by some of you sensitive types, but getting a stiffy is worth all the legal hassle and unemployment in the world.
But back to the matter at hand...
So seeing the Cialis commercial the other day made me think about the downfall of man. Quite literally a downfall when we're talking about hard dicks. And after some quiet deliberation and a lot of consideration I think I've arrived at the source of the problem itself. The problem is the hard-on itself. It used to be that back in the day a man could walk around with a hard dick all day long. He'd go into the corner store with his hat dangling from him crotch. He'd go to the supermarket and use it to weigh bananas. He'd prop open doors with it. Essentially, what men had was a fifth limb. And they could use it for sex, which was nature's way of rewarding such a versatile piece of meat.
Then, somewhere along the way, men were taught to be ashamed of their hard-ons. I can't pinpoint at which point in history that it happened, but suffice to say that if you walked into the corner store with your hat hanging on your naughty bit somebody would gasp like you just raped a donkey in the candy aisle. Basically, the world got itself really, really sensitive to the concept of a man having blood circulating to his cock. Years passed and men had to change their way of thinking. Instead of thinking, "Damn it, where's a fucking coat hook when you need one?" they started thinking "Oh man, I hope I don't get a hard-on because that would be so embarassing right now."
Basically our brains started to shut out cocks down.
Now we need pills just to have sex. How sad is that? The ghosts of cavemen, Henry Miller, and James Dean are laughing at us men right now. Some lot we turned out to be.
So, I have a proposal, more of a declaration of independence for cocks I suppose. Men, you have to change your way of thinking about things lest you wake up one day and need Cialis to give you a boner for 36 hours (I'm not even sure why you would want one for that long). If you think something dirty or you see a beautiful girl or you just need a coat hook or a door jam, just let it happen. Societal norms be damned! Fucking political correctness is ruining the species! The less you try to stifle a hard-on when you don't need one, the more likely you'll get one when you want one, and without the fucking pills.
Your cock, the cavemen, Henry Miller, and James Dean will thank you.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
One Of The Coolest Music Videos I've Ever Seen
Click here.
The link goes to a site that contains what can only be described as an interactive (go ahead try clicking Win's hands and face while he sings) music video for the Arcade Fire song "Neon Bible." I just thought I'd pass that link along to you because I just watched it for the first time and it blew my mind!
The link goes to a site that contains what can only be described as an interactive (go ahead try clicking Win's hands and face while he sings) music video for the Arcade Fire song "Neon Bible." I just thought I'd pass that link along to you because I just watched it for the first time and it blew my mind!
Monday, March 03, 2008
Ghosts I-IV
If you're like me you're trying to buy a download of Nine Inch Nails' latest offering "Ghosts I-IV" today. It's available for download only through various Torrent sites or you can go to the official website and purchase a download for as little as $5.00. Musically, it's 36 tracks of instrumental NIN bliss. Right now I've got it playing on the website's player while I wait for the download to complete.
The reason why I'm writing any of this right now is because the Nine Inch Nails servers are packed to the gills with hungry fans wanting the new albums. Packed to the gills means that the downloads are sluggish to say the least. It took a long time before I even got the download started. It's been downloading the .zip file for roughly ten minutes now and I only have 2% of the thing done. It'll be a bit of a wait before I can get it over to my iPod.
I just thought I would give you a heads up in case you were thinking of getting the album for yourself. Be prepared for a digital line-up at the till. In the end, though, it will be worth it. I'm very excited.
Monday, February 25, 2008
New Poem: "Futility"
On March 5, 2008, the Raving Poets return to their cozy little Yianni's basement, The Kasbar. Details of the next reading series we're doing can be found at the Raving Poets' website. I hope to see all of you there. It promises to be a great feat of literature. In the meantime here's a new poem. It's short and sweet.
Futility
I mailed you a tin can.
It should have arrived by now.
I'm very sorry;
the postman made me cut the string.
-Michael Appleby
February, 2008
Futility
I mailed you a tin can.
It should have arrived by now.
I'm very sorry;
the postman made me cut the string.
-Michael Appleby
February, 2008
Sunday, February 17, 2008
It's Official: Everything You Do Is Killing The Environment
Click here.
Government officials are now citing drinking bottled water as immoral. Some of you are probably drinking a bottle of water as you are reading this and, you know what, you are monsters!
It's about damned time somebody came out and said it. Every time I see some jerk cracking open a bottle of water I vomit emotionally because I know that Mother Nature is getting raped repeatedly for her sweet, sweet mineral water.
Okay, now seriously, what exactly can we do that won't destroy the planet tomorrow?
It's getting to a point where I'm thinking that since there's nothing that we can do to promote a healthy viable planet with healthy, happy people we just need to go balls out in the opposite direction. Instead of drinking a bottle of water, for instance, just go ahead and dump used motor oil in your neighbor's garden.
What? What? What? What? How can you promote such a morally reprehensible act?
Oh it's quite simple really, if the state of affairs is so bad around here that we have to dismiss drinking bottled water as being just as evil as arson, puppy dog tossing, and bread-loaf sodomy, we need to start doing things to make drinking bottled water not seem so bad, comparitively speaking. So go ahead, start dumping oil. Go take a dump in the hallway of your nearest hospital. Go punch a baby. Give it a few weeks and your government officials can put bottled water in it's proper moral category.
Sure, a bottle of water may not move you to the head of the line in the Mother Nature gangbang to oblivion, but at least your not out there punching babies or peeing on hobos.
Government officials are now citing drinking bottled water as immoral. Some of you are probably drinking a bottle of water as you are reading this and, you know what, you are monsters!
It's about damned time somebody came out and said it. Every time I see some jerk cracking open a bottle of water I vomit emotionally because I know that Mother Nature is getting raped repeatedly for her sweet, sweet mineral water.
Okay, now seriously, what exactly can we do that won't destroy the planet tomorrow?
It's getting to a point where I'm thinking that since there's nothing that we can do to promote a healthy viable planet with healthy, happy people we just need to go balls out in the opposite direction. Instead of drinking a bottle of water, for instance, just go ahead and dump used motor oil in your neighbor's garden.
What? What? What? What? How can you promote such a morally reprehensible act?
Oh it's quite simple really, if the state of affairs is so bad around here that we have to dismiss drinking bottled water as being just as evil as arson, puppy dog tossing, and bread-loaf sodomy, we need to start doing things to make drinking bottled water not seem so bad, comparitively speaking. So go ahead, start dumping oil. Go take a dump in the hallway of your nearest hospital. Go punch a baby. Give it a few weeks and your government officials can put bottled water in it's proper moral category.
Sure, a bottle of water may not move you to the head of the line in the Mother Nature gangbang to oblivion, but at least your not out there punching babies or peeing on hobos.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Natural Selection Is Working Just Fine. Stop Screwing With It, Glomobi!
So I was watching television the other day and saw an ad for a Glomobi service. Glomobi, for the uninitiated, offer a range of services for cellular phone users all over the place. Text message the word "JOKE" to blah, blah, blah, blah and you'll have trouble not crapping your pants from getting the funniest jokes in the world sent directly to your cell phone! You know the kind of service I'm talking about. Or you'll get asked a suspiciously easy trivia question for which you have to text a multiple choice answer to a number and you'll win a ba-jillion dollars in cold, hard cash (that's probably even a direct quote from one of their ads). Am I an annoying fuckwit wasting your valuable time with painfully obvious questions? Text A for Yes or text B for No to 55555 and you might win 14 zillion ba-jillion buck-a-roos in solid gold coins!
Anyway, now I'm rambling...
So, there I am watching television and this Glomobi ad comes on telling me to text the word DOUCHEBAG to some number and I would, in turn, be sent the latest and greatest pick-up lines to wow the ladies with. Was I sick of being a dweeb sitting around in Bullwinkle boxer shorts and masturbating to Girls Gone Wild infomercials? Was I ready to (gulp!) approach a living breathing girl with actual breasts and naughty bits armed with pick-up lines that will leave her practically ripping her clothes off before I could finish saying my first sentence? Damn straight I was!
If I could rewrite the alphabet I would put U and I beside each other.
Girl, your feet must be tired because you've been running through my mind all day long.
So just text DOUCHEBAG to some weird phone number that has no area code and make sure you pack lots of condoms!
Alright, that's probably not verbatim how the ad went, but it's pretty close.
The point isn't the commercial itself, though.
So what's the point?
Well, in the natural world we have this thing called natural selection. The best traits you have get carried on and augmented further in the next generation when you reproduce and the worst qualities get weeded out slowly the same way. Darwin came up with this theory and it's worked rather well. So now all those dweeb who sit around in their Bullwinkle boxer shorts and set their VCR's to record Girls Gone Wild infomercials (why do we need so many Girls Gone Wild infomercials anyway? Another topic for a blog, perhaps?) are going out and getting laid, and, probably, reproducing.
This is not a good thing.
The whole notion of the species adapting for survivability is being fucked up by guys who text Glomobi and get the latest and greatest pick-up lines to totally score on unsuspecting women with.
I'm new in town. Could you give me directions to your apartment?
Aren't we supposed to keep these idiots from reproducing? The last thing we need is a new generation with the social grace of wet potato sacks.
And women: why do you go to bed with anybody who uses these lines? And don't say that women don't go to bed with these guys because somebody has to be going to bed with them. If they weren't successful using these lines there would be no return customers to the Glomobi service.
These guys walk up to you, cell phone clutched in their meaty paws and they say, "Hold on a sec." Then they text DOUCHEBAG to 55555, get their opening line sent to them and use it on you. And you sleep with them!
Meanwhile, guys who don't use their cell-phone as a crutch for coming up with conversation openers fall by the wayside in favor of these dorks!
It's enough to force a guy to never leave his house and never change his Bullwinkle boxer shorts.
Anyway, now I'm rambling...
So, there I am watching television and this Glomobi ad comes on telling me to text the word DOUCHEBAG to some number and I would, in turn, be sent the latest and greatest pick-up lines to wow the ladies with. Was I sick of being a dweeb sitting around in Bullwinkle boxer shorts and masturbating to Girls Gone Wild infomercials? Was I ready to (gulp!) approach a living breathing girl with actual breasts and naughty bits armed with pick-up lines that will leave her practically ripping her clothes off before I could finish saying my first sentence? Damn straight I was!
If I could rewrite the alphabet I would put U and I beside each other.
Girl, your feet must be tired because you've been running through my mind all day long.
So just text DOUCHEBAG to some weird phone number that has no area code and make sure you pack lots of condoms!
Alright, that's probably not verbatim how the ad went, but it's pretty close.
The point isn't the commercial itself, though.
So what's the point?
Well, in the natural world we have this thing called natural selection. The best traits you have get carried on and augmented further in the next generation when you reproduce and the worst qualities get weeded out slowly the same way. Darwin came up with this theory and it's worked rather well. So now all those dweeb who sit around in their Bullwinkle boxer shorts and set their VCR's to record Girls Gone Wild infomercials (why do we need so many Girls Gone Wild infomercials anyway? Another topic for a blog, perhaps?) are going out and getting laid, and, probably, reproducing.
This is not a good thing.
The whole notion of the species adapting for survivability is being fucked up by guys who text Glomobi and get the latest and greatest pick-up lines to totally score on unsuspecting women with.
I'm new in town. Could you give me directions to your apartment?
Aren't we supposed to keep these idiots from reproducing? The last thing we need is a new generation with the social grace of wet potato sacks.
And women: why do you go to bed with anybody who uses these lines? And don't say that women don't go to bed with these guys because somebody has to be going to bed with them. If they weren't successful using these lines there would be no return customers to the Glomobi service.
These guys walk up to you, cell phone clutched in their meaty paws and they say, "Hold on a sec." Then they text DOUCHEBAG to 55555, get their opening line sent to them and use it on you. And you sleep with them!
Meanwhile, guys who don't use their cell-phone as a crutch for coming up with conversation openers fall by the wayside in favor of these dorks!
It's enough to force a guy to never leave his house and never change his Bullwinkle boxer shorts.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
The Roar!
On September 21, next Friday to be more informal, the third annual Roar literary festival takes place here in Edmonton. Click the picture will take you to the official website for the festival. You would do well to go to the website and check it out. There are a ton of great shows going on that night if you are into poetry.
My own little part to play in this year's festival happens at Three Bananas (9918 - 102 Avenue, Edmonton) at 8:00 p.m. I am one of the four poets featured in the "Fabulous Leprechaun Burlesque." The poets in the show recently had a meeting to discuss our plans for the show and I am pretty damn excited to be part of this fanastic show. Aside from me there is Patrick Pilarski, Nicole Pakan, and Adam Snider, all poets whom I am in awe of every time I hear them perform. This is going to be a great show.
If you're looking for something to do next Friday night, do check The Roar out. It'll will shock and enlighten, entertain and enthrall.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Thoughts On Being Explicit
So tonight, after I got home from work, I thought that I would kick back and listen to the latest Garner Andrews podcast. After opening up my iTunes and starting the latest podcast I found myself looking through all of my downloaded podcasts and noticed something that made me smile.
As some of you out there may know, or maybe not, I was featured in a couple of episodes of The Raving Poets' podcast Live At The Kasbar. It's an accomplishment that I'm actually very proud of because now when I introduce myself to strangers and such I get to say, "Hello, I'm Michael Appleby. Yes, that Michael Appleby, Mr. Podcast." What made me smile as I was looking at the listing for The Raving Poets' podcast was that it had been labelled explicit, which is iTunes' way of warning potential listeners that somebody in the podcast has a potty mouth or is saying something that may be offensive.
And I smiled.
I kind of like the idea that something I did has been labeled explicit. Now, it may just be something that Randall Edwards, the man who puts the podcasts together, did in the process of uploading the podcasts. You know, kind of like Apple asking people who are podcasting if anything in their podcasts is objectionable in the slightest way please check this box and, voila, you now have an explicit tag. Or, hopefully, somebody somewhere far off in some internet bunker deep in the crust of the earth listens to each and every podcasts and decided objectively whether or not an offering is explicit before labeling it accordingly.
Either way, though, I like the idea of being explicit. It kind of makes me feel a little more dangerous than I really am. I hope that parents shield their kids when they see me because they just don't know what that crazy Appleby character is liable to do. He just can't be trusted.
He just can't be trusted.
It's a liberating feeling. As though I am liable to do anything at any given moment.
If you want to feel better about yourself just do something that is scary like that. Be explicit. It's wonderful.
Oh, and if you haven't checked out the podcasts yet go to link I provided or just click here.
As some of you out there may know, or maybe not, I was featured in a couple of episodes of The Raving Poets' podcast Live At The Kasbar. It's an accomplishment that I'm actually very proud of because now when I introduce myself to strangers and such I get to say, "Hello, I'm Michael Appleby. Yes, that Michael Appleby, Mr. Podcast." What made me smile as I was looking at the listing for The Raving Poets' podcast was that it had been labelled explicit, which is iTunes' way of warning potential listeners that somebody in the podcast has a potty mouth or is saying something that may be offensive.
And I smiled.
I kind of like the idea that something I did has been labeled explicit. Now, it may just be something that Randall Edwards, the man who puts the podcasts together, did in the process of uploading the podcasts. You know, kind of like Apple asking people who are podcasting if anything in their podcasts is objectionable in the slightest way please check this box and, voila, you now have an explicit tag. Or, hopefully, somebody somewhere far off in some internet bunker deep in the crust of the earth listens to each and every podcasts and decided objectively whether or not an offering is explicit before labeling it accordingly.
Either way, though, I like the idea of being explicit. It kind of makes me feel a little more dangerous than I really am. I hope that parents shield their kids when they see me because they just don't know what that crazy Appleby character is liable to do. He just can't be trusted.
He just can't be trusted.
It's a liberating feeling. As though I am liable to do anything at any given moment.
If you want to feel better about yourself just do something that is scary like that. Be explicit. It's wonderful.
Oh, and if you haven't checked out the podcasts yet go to link I provided or just click here.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
World War Z: An Oral History Of The Zombie War
I very recently finished reading Max Brooks' novel World War Z: An Oral History Of The Zombie War. I had read his other zombie book The Zombie Survival Guide: Complete Protection from the Living Dead some time ago and was quite impressed with how thoroughly Brooks approached the subject of a zombie apocalypse. In the survival guide he expounded, at great length, on various strategies for surviving a zombie attack, but what really struck me was how a lot of the examples he provided in that book would make excellent premises for novels. He was giving little glimpses into really captivating zombie stories. In World War Z he goes one step further, instead of siting examples of how survival strategies worked during a zombie infestation he writes about characters who give their accounts of how they coped in a world going through a zombie apocalypse.
No longer would I have to try to imagine for myself how stories in that zombie-ravaged world would go down. Here it was, at greater lengths than the examples provided in The Zombie Survival Guide. Mind you, the stories aren't all that long because the fictitious Max Brooks is interviews many survivors and compiling their accounts of what happened from their points-of-view. That's how the book is presented: a series of interviews chronicling different stages of the war with the zombies, from the onset of the plague to the pushing of humanity to the brink of extinction to the war to reclaim the planet from the zombie oppressors. This manner of telling the story really provides a broad scope and I was really awe-struck by how meticulous Brooks was in exploring facets of how a zombie apocalypse would affect the world. He was finding stories that you just don't see in zombie movies. It was fascinating to see how global the war really felt in World War Z. That is this book's greatest strength and something that I wish makers of zombie movies will learn from.
I love zombie movies. They provide an excellent platform for suspense and for social commentary. The genre lends itself to social commentary so well by virtue of the fact that zombies, by nature, are usually depicted on an epidemic scale. There is never just one zombie, or if there is, that number balloons to epic scales. Naturally, it becomes more than a problem that one person deals with and becomes more of a problem that large groups of people address, opening the door for all that great food-for-thought on societal topics. World War Z takes a lot of that much further than zombie movie has ever gone.
Sometimes, I found the messages and morals were heavy-handed, but I can't really find fault with it since, if these are to be understood as interviews, transcripts really, people tend to be heavy-handed in communicating their viewpoints in their story-telling. I can let the heavy-handedness slide. Other than that, sometimes the really engaging stories just were not long enough for my liking, as though in my mind I was saying, "More, more!" Again, nothing I can fault Brooks with really because that could very well be me loving the book too much.
This is a book you should definitely check out even if you're not into horror books because the way in which this book is presented, the horror of the face-to-face encounters with zombies isn't so much the focus of the stories as the transition of the world in turmoil and the changes in its inhabitants. It's as entertaining as it is thought-provoking. Do check it out. I insist.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
New Poem - "Affront"
Here's another poem that was performed at the last Raving Poets series that I'm finally getting around to posting. I think this one is more in my loveable scumbag mode of writing. It's called "Affront." Enjoy.
Affront
It had to be said.
It had to be whispered
how much I wanted to fuck you
while we sat in church
at your nephew’s christening
because I didn’t want to disturb
the rest of your family
with the sudden rush of blood to the wrong head.
You looked at me
like I was Lucifer himself,
whoever he is,
and angrily whispered back,
“You can’t talk like that in church.”
And to be honest
I got a bit mad too
because I saw it
as more of an affront to God
that he could read my thoughts
and know what I was thinking,
but he couldn’t hear me
speak honestly about what I was thinking
because that was just wrong somehow.
And to be honest,
what I was thinking
was a lot more graphic
than anything that I had just whispered
and God could see it all.
This church was his house.
My house where I always talk dirty to you
was his house.
My own skull was his house too.
I think he would prefer that I tone it down
and omit details like the misplaced banana,
the feather duster, confectioner’s sugar,
and the jar of honey.
As opposed to just
putting it out there.
Every detail
frankly vocalized.
I was doing him a favor in his house
with this minor bit of censorship.
But it had to be said.
It had to be whispered.
-Michael Appleby
May, 2007
Affront
It had to be said.
It had to be whispered
how much I wanted to fuck you
while we sat in church
at your nephew’s christening
because I didn’t want to disturb
the rest of your family
with the sudden rush of blood to the wrong head.
You looked at me
like I was Lucifer himself,
whoever he is,
and angrily whispered back,
“You can’t talk like that in church.”
And to be honest
I got a bit mad too
because I saw it
as more of an affront to God
that he could read my thoughts
and know what I was thinking,
but he couldn’t hear me
speak honestly about what I was thinking
because that was just wrong somehow.
And to be honest,
what I was thinking
was a lot more graphic
than anything that I had just whispered
and God could see it all.
This church was his house.
My house where I always talk dirty to you
was his house.
My own skull was his house too.
I think he would prefer that I tone it down
and omit details like the misplaced banana,
the feather duster, confectioner’s sugar,
and the jar of honey.
As opposed to just
putting it out there.
Every detail
frankly vocalized.
I was doing him a favor in his house
with this minor bit of censorship.
But it had to be said.
It had to be whispered.
-Michael Appleby
May, 2007
Thursday, July 05, 2007
New Poem - "Spark"
Sorry that I haven't been posting very much lately. I've been a busy boy of late. Lots of living life away from my keyboard. It's not that I haven't been writing, but I've been really distracted from getting to my beloved blogging. Here's a poem that I actually performed a while back in the "Rapture" series with the Raving Poets. You'll notice that it's dated for July and that's because I just did some revising to it and it feels like a busier poem to me now, a little more dynamic than its first draft. Oh, and I've learned how to indent text using html. I never bothered to learn that before, so yay for me! I suggest reading this out loud while listening to the song "A Tender History In Rust" by Do Make Say Think. That's the song I was listening to when I first drafted this poem and I think it makes a great soundtrack. It was meant as a sort of companion piece to "Lamp Men Of Midnight" in that I was going with that same nocturnal feel. I love the night. I love it. Anyway, enjoy it. Feel free to leave feedback or just tell me how much of a pretentious boob I am. It's all welcome.
Spark
Nocturnes after midnight and I am looking for a spark in a square mile of darkness.
X-Rays of the Man In The Moon came back negative. Nothing is broken. Not a lunar banana bone is out of place.
All us creeps and sidewalk crawlers walking in the Black-Out City, no electricity the media will say, “crippling,”
all us sullen solipsists and recreational somnambulists are children again, barefooted, open-eyed, jaws yawned in awe of the suddenly apparent spectacle of night, pinholes in black construction paper appearance of night, diamonds on witch’s cat’s ass.
Milling from lit candlewick to tea light to tiki torch, matches in hand, flames as bees on pollen bends,
drunk on boxed win, remembrances of the last great time we heard a Billie Holiday record, incandescent light bulb light
and sodium glow in our neighborhoods after dark.
I am holding your hand.
Your name is on my sleeve along with my heart and your name is in the roots of my hair and the tip of my tongue, at the foundation of 27 different marriage proposals that find comfortable silence beneath the shelter of my breath—
vespers at best.
Just waiting for the moment to be right,
the breeze to part your hair a certain way,
or headlights reflecting halogen crystals in the whites of your eyes.
And the city, turned a bible in and ink well is silent enough that the choruses and choirs humble themselves
to whispers and whistles of songs we recognize, but not quite recognize
or muted bits of laughter cobwebbed between intimate friends
the way you laugh when I hold up a lighter, waving it back and forth, quietly calling out:
Somewhere Van Gogh is sighing. His Starry Night is alive in concrete, bronze statues of men on horses, workmen on city benches treating themselves to immortalized lunches, bicycles launched perpetually over the fountains in front of city hall frozen on a time line, cyclists always amazed.
And I’m sighing. You’re sighing. We’re sighing,
sinking down easy on park lawn over riverbanks, waves of hazy navy blue and purples that border of pitch.
Maybe the right moment never arrives,
but I’m at ease with the waiting and the pacing, bellows breath, almost asleep, time and welcomed darkness,
meandering the way that people might or riverbanks do,
realizing that sometimes no spark at all
-Michael Appleby
July, 2007
Spark
Nocturnes after midnight and I am looking for a spark in a square mile of darkness.
X-Rays of the Man In The Moon came back negative. Nothing is broken. Not a lunar banana bone is out of place.
All us creeps and sidewalk crawlers walking in the Black-Out City, no electricity the media will say, “crippling,”
all us sullen solipsists and recreational somnambulists are children again, barefooted, open-eyed, jaws yawned in awe of the suddenly apparent spectacle of night, pinholes in black construction paper appearance of night, diamonds on witch’s cat’s ass.
Milling from lit candlewick to tea light to tiki torch, matches in hand, flames as bees on pollen bends,
drunk on boxed win, remembrances of the last great time we heard a Billie Holiday record, incandescent light bulb light
and sodium glow in our neighborhoods after dark.
I am holding your hand.
Your name is on my sleeve along with my heart and your name is in the roots of my hair and the tip of my tongue, at the foundation of 27 different marriage proposals that find comfortable silence beneath the shelter of my breath—
vespers at best.
Just waiting for the moment to be right,
the breeze to part your hair a certain way,
or headlights reflecting halogen crystals in the whites of your eyes.
And the city, turned a bible in and ink well is silent enough that the choruses and choirs humble themselves
to whispers and whistles of songs we recognize, but not quite recognize
or muted bits of laughter cobwebbed between intimate friends
the way you laugh when I hold up a lighter, waving it back and forth, quietly calling out:
Freebird! Freebird!
Somewhere Van Gogh is sighing. His Starry Night is alive in concrete, bronze statues of men on horses, workmen on city benches treating themselves to immortalized lunches, bicycles launched perpetually over the fountains in front of city hall frozen on a time line, cyclists always amazed.
And I’m sighing. You’re sighing. We’re sighing,
sinking down easy on park lawn over riverbanks, waves of hazy navy blue and purples that border of pitch.
Maybe the right moment never arrives,
but I’m at ease with the waiting and the pacing, bellows breath, almost asleep, time and welcomed darkness,
meandering the way that people might or riverbanks do,
realizing that sometimes no spark at all
is all the spark you’ll ever need.
-Michael Appleby
July, 2007
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