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Sunday, December 10th, 2006
3:54 pm - Interesting points from the conclusion of William F. Buckley Jr.'s most recent column
I end by acknowledging that the season is open to entirely unexplained, let alone systematically examined, teasers. To display my own: How about a national drive to buy a chair for Wolf Blitzer when he appears on CNN?



Now, since we all know that CNN really could come up with a chair for Wolf using its own resources, what we are really complaining about is something else. Look for the larger meaning, since there has to be a larger meaning. Somebody said to the producer, or else the producer said to somebody, “There is too affluent a feel to CNN. We must inject it with something that suggests the relevance of speed, the deliquescence of mere events, the electricity we bring to the . . . whole . . . global scene!” Pause. One after another, the company are beginnng to nod their heads. “We’ll have Wolf standing when he makes his commentary! That will confirm our psychological . . . qui-viveness — ”



“Qui what?” Marjorie removed her glasses, looking up.



“Ya want that in Latin, Marjorie? What you need is a cigarette.”



But all of them had now made notes, and Wolf is chairless.

current music: Mastodon-Blood Mountain

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3:49 pm - Important information in the event that a Christmas occurs near you
Well my friends it has happened again. Here I am sitting alone in
front of the computer and I am totally bored and for those of you who've read my
earlier work entitled "Thanksgiving, what the heck is the deal?", and
I've only gotten responses from three of you, then your probably cowering in
abject fear and wonderment at what this inexplicable paradox that is my mind is
about to lay before you. Well, if you've read the subject heading then you
know that in my boredom I've come up with yet another question that is just
wreaking havoc in my brains and that question is of course, "Christmas
traditions, what the heck is the deal?"

Right up front I would like to take issue with this whole Christmas
tree business. What is it about people that we spend, as a country, millions
of dollars to build and maintain homes so that they keep nature on the
outside and then when Christmas rolls around we go out and bring in one of the
most prone to needle shedding and sap dispensing trees that God saw fit to create?
Then there's this whole business of decorating. Are we trying to hid the
fact that yes we brought a tree into out house by making it look like a
display at Hallmark? Who do we think we're fooling anyway? What's more I can't
understand how we came up with an idea like this in the first place. I
can only suppose that one day some enterprising guy saw that if people were
crazy enough to bring a tree into their homes then it wouldn't be too much of a
stretch for them to festively decorate them while they're at it. Armed
with this holiday inspiration and a large assortment of discarded artificial
hip and shoulder joints from the nursing home of his grandmother, whose name
was Ethel by the way, he welded them to fish hooks and began promoting his
idea by sneaking out in the middle of the night and putting these multipurpose
hip/shoulder joint/fishook/tree enhancers, or ornaments as they would
later be known much to this young man's displeasure. The reason for this was that
one day when he was a young boy his grandmother, also named Ethel but from
his father's side the first one being from his mother's side though she was
technically his stepmother because of an unusual amendment tacked on to
last year's trade reform bill, took him to see the local cathedral to see the
gargoyles and flying buttresses, which his grandmother described as the
ornaments of the cathedral. Now this poor unfortunate young man would
have had a hard enough time if he only had to deal with the disappointment of
discovering that the buttresses did not actually fly but he also
discovered that neither do the gargoyles fly because there was another young boy
visiting the cathedral that day who, thinking the gargoyles could fly, pushed one
off of the building and it came plummeting down on the poor unsuspecting
grandmother. Well, needless to say the grandmother splatted all over the
place and ever since then when the young man hears the word ornament he
just stares off into space and twitches a lot, but I digress. We are supposed
to be looking at Christmas Traditions, not one young man's mental trauma
which brings me to the next Christmas tradition we shall be looking at.

Perhaps one of the most festive, colorful, and physically dangerous of
all the Christmas traditions is that of the last minute shopper. Every year
literally thousands of stressed out individuals invade the malls of
America on Christmas Eve day searching for the gifts that aren't there anymore
because some smart alec had to go and get all their Christmas shopping done right
after Thanksgiving. The mall is not only occupied by frantic last minute
shoppers, however, there are also those of us who go just for the sheer
pleasure of watching these frantic people darting about like so many
chickens with their heads cut off, their tails on fire, and their credit cards
ready to go into any hand that will take them. We who view this yearly spectacle
can be divided into two distinct groups: the smart alecs who got all their
shopping done right after Thanksgiving and the poor innocent dopes who
are about five seconds away from the dawning realization that they have
forgotten to procure that final vital and by now totally unavailable gift. To
witness the spectacle of this individual coming to realization, leaping up from
the bench, and joining their already frantic brethren is the goal of every
one of us smart alecs.

The final Christmas tradition which I wish to discuss is one of my
personal favorites. This tradition is none other than that of Wassailing. What
can bring more joy than the random selection of a residence from which to
entreat through song the inhabitants therein for a generous helping of that
mysterious substance known throughout the world as wassail (with the exception of
certain parts of the African country of Botswana where wassail is instead known
of as liasaw which is a corruption of the original tribal tongue and therefor
not recognized by the United Nations or by the BIG COW (Bipartisan
International Grant institute and Council Of Wassailers) or any of it's affiliates,
subsidiaries, or sponsoring organizations. Over the years the scarcity
of quality wassail has increased and many wassailers have failed to renew
their licenses without which it is impossible to be assured the full protection
of Wassailer's Protection Services. Despite recent set backs in the field
of wassailing many still enjoy the activity due to the lucrative financial
prospects afforded by a recent amendment tacked onto the wassailing
BI-laws in the summer of 1998 which states:

(To the tune of "Here We Come a Wassailing")
If the master of the house cannot provide the wassail
then you're entitled to his debit card and PIN number
Love and Joy unto you
unless you can't provide the wassail
then severe financial penalties shall come to you
then severe financial penalties to you!

Thanks to amendments like this one, better public awareness, and the
advent of canned wassail the age old art of wassailing is making a major
comeback and can be expected to be seen once again as one of the driving forces in
Christmas tradition in the years ahead.

current music: Motorhead-Hammered

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Thursday, October 26th, 2006
10:23 pm - I'm the one who brings the Christmas candy
I am not however the one who brings the Devil's brandy

My good shipmates, All Saints Day approaches. Before that cometh Ol' Scratch's second favorite holiday. That being the one our more long winded acquaintances refer to as All Hallow's Eve. For reasons that largely escape me despite the setting of numerous traps, the eve of the eve also has come up for special nomenclature. Specifically I speak of Devil's Night. More accurately I speak of Devil's Night afternoon. More to the business at hand I say starting around 2:30 in the afternoon this coming Monday 30 October I intend to show horror movies and lots of them.

In the interest of details that means that here at the Bat Fancy you can come to see copious and gratuitous violence, spooks, and duggery of the skull variety. Weather permitting General Lew Wallace (he's my grill) will ply his trade and we shall know the joys of grilled meat to accompany us as we feast our eyes and glut our souls on the cinema of happy good times all gone horribly wrong. Bring your own items if you want in on the grillin'.

If you're only wanting the horrors do not show up too late as sometime between 9 and 10 that night those procedings will cease to make way for the weekly meeting of the Unformed Society for Wrestling Enthusiasts.

A word of friendly warning and clarification may be needed for the benefit of some of my more or less timid subscribers. When I say horror I mean horror. This will not be an exhibition of simple suspense films. Anyone who attends will be allowed input concerning film selection. The films will all come from the library of the Film Society of the Cincinnatus. There is a good sized variety of everything from silents (Nosferatu and The Phantom of the Opera) to classic horror (Dracula and The Invisible Man) along with a few slashers (Texas Chain Saw Massacre and Halloween) weird sci-fi horror (Alien and The Thing) as well as just plain weird stuff involving theme murders (Theater of Blood and House of 1000 Corpses) religious horror for the more pious sensibilities (The Exorcist and Exorcist III) and much much much much more. These are all going to have monsters, mad killers, or some fun combination. The Legion of Decency will not be happy with anyone who joins in for this little hurly burly, so if what now defunct Catholic censorship groups think of you is a concern of yours I reccomend you flee. I said flee!

I thank you for your attention.




BOO!

current music: Dio-King of Rock and Roll

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Tuesday, August 22nd, 2006
12:24 am - All About Eve
Released in 1950, this is a film that has earned the distinction of being known as the, cover your ears Mother, "bitchiest movie of all time." I would not presume to disagree. Furthermore, despite my long standing policy to discourage that sort of behavior from the feminine half of the species, I think it would do most of them good to see this film. Deep down inside this film, amidst all the various and sundry other things going on there is the still small message to women to take some time and chill the hell out. It'll do you good anytime your less attractive habits begin to get the better of you.

Long have critics praised the film for its supposedly intelligent treatment of several prominent female characters. Joseph L. Mankiewicz, who wrote and directed, is naturally given credit for dealing with the women so well. It is argued that this film has an understanding of women. That is a silly notion and I want each and every one of you to expunge it from your fool heads immediately. Joseph L. Mankiewicz was an alcoholic New York writer. That is to say he did not understand women any better than any man does, he can just make it sound like he understands women.

It should also be pointed out that Joseph L. Mankiewicz was an alcoholic New York writer who had gone out to Hollywood where he proved that an excellent screenplay does not need a brilliant director. He was a good enough director to keep out of the way of his own script.

What Mankiewicz does illustrate is the notion that women can be filled with wide-eyed devotion and heartless calculation simultaneously. To what degree the one is able to overpower the other goes along way to determining the character of the woman. I do not think this necessarily stands as an accurate assessment of all women, but sufficient personal experience prevents me from rejecting it out of hand. The thing is Mankiewicz never fully explains all the various behaviors he expertly portrays. He does give excellent examples of three male responses to whatever it is men are doing. There is the playwrite who, generally without realizing it, pretty much falls for whatever any woman tells him so long as she does not openly attack him. There is the director who has very nearly had enough with how the women are behaving. Finally there is the theatre critic who knows exactly what all the women are doing and will do. He also knows that he does not understand why women do what they do and that he does not really have to.

Men do not understand women. Women do not understand men. In lieu of understanding we get good dialogue and three different narrators to the protracted flashback that is the bulk of this movie.

Discussed even less than the men in this movie is the ending. I will not give away the details. I should also stress that nothing in the actual film definitely implies that my suggestion for what goes on immediately after the film ends. In my version after the credits roll, Phoebe kills Eve and tries to assume Eve's identity. One thing leads to another and if you're willing to change several plot points and recast the Buffalo Bill character as a woman, then I can now officially declare "Silence of the Lambs" to be an unofficial sequel to "All About Eve." I have yet to work out the details of how a noted theatre critic could be incarcerated as the cannibalistic psychiatrist Hanniabl Lecter, but give me a minute . . .

. . . This could take a while. In the interim go see "All About Eve" or at least some other movie that's better than what ever movies you have been watching. You know that junk you plop yourself in front of and then cry yourself to sleep each night while trying to convince yourself you were in fact entertained.

current music: Blind Guardian-Welcome to Dying

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Thursday, July 20th, 2006
12:22 am - What a falling off there was
Long now has the mind of man held within its twisting depths a fascination with the sacred and the profane. First they are viewed in distinct motifs within the embryonic mind of the man-child. Subsequent mental development draws into sharper relief their inherent juxtaposition. Finally comes one of the most natural impulses of fallen man. The elements of the sacred and the profane become interwoven.

The Holy Bible and Nicholas Meyer's director's commentary for Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country tell us that "The Devil hath power to assume a pleasing shape." So it is with Old Scratch and thus shipmates it should come as no surprise that our own damned minds, the Elect included, are so adept at creating odd confluences of good and evil. In this way man at once takes part in and makes some sense of the cursed nature of this tainted orb.

By way of a for instance there is an excellent example to be found early on in John Ford's landmark film "The Informer." To illustrate the dire straits of the poor in Ireland, Ford provides us with a shot of a young woman standing under a street light. For the first few seconds the woman has a shawl draped over her head and onto her shoulders in a style distinctly reminiscent of the Virgin Mary as often depicted in religious iconography. There is a look of sadness and resignation on her face and when she pulls down shawl it reveals she is actually a "lady of the evening" shall we say. For further study see also various examples of the film noir genre and Sergio Leone's "Once Upon a Time in the West" in which none of the principle characters are purely good. There are just purely evil ones and those that struggle mightily against the impulse.

The preceding was inspired by the fact that this past afternoon I found myself driving behind a car that had a pink ribbon "fight breast cancer" sticker just above a vanity license plate that said "BOOBEY". Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

current music: Metallica-Outlaw Torn

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Monday, July 17th, 2006
2:55 pm - Somebody out there requested it
All of you now have to suffer.

It has long been my contention that even the worst day of a persons life can be salvaged if that person is wearing a comfortable pair of socks. Try it sometime. All you have to do is arrange to have the worst day you can possibly conceive of and then have them play nothing but Fatboy Slim songs on the radio while wearing uncomfortable socks. Then, when you have reached your breaking point and you feel your soul on the verge of freefalling into the fiery abyss, put on the most comfortable pair of socks you can find. Then go hit Fatboy Slim upside the head repeatedly until he promises never to write another song, and you’ll swear you never felt better. That’s the joy that is a comfortable pair of socks. Quite possibly the sock is the greatest of all garments. I certainly think so. Where else can you turn when your feet are all sweaty and stinky? Certainly not to a poly-cotton blend sweater! Certainly not to a pair of Nike shorts! Certainly not to a boyfriend or girlfriend! (I realize a boyfriend or girlfriend is not a garment, but if you’ve seen the way some of them behave around each other you know there isn’t much difference. YUCK!) Yes there is no greater friend, no better boon companion to mankind than the sock! Sure the left sock has been known on occasion to behave dishonorably and abandon you and it’s mate, but the right sock is truly the paragon of virtue, steadfastness, and dependability.

Is there more though? Is there more that the sock offers to humanity as a whole besides loyalty and the willingness to absorb sweat? Most of you would probably answer, “no.” Not I! I knew somewhere down in the depths of my soul that there had to be more to it. Nothing that has been so helpful to mankind can be limited to merely absorbing sweat generated by human feet. There must be more! Being so determined to discover something I was bound to find it. Little details like the lack of something to find have never stopped me before and I see no change to that in the near future. Just to keep you from being in suspense here is what I found.

Those of you who have been with this silliness from the beginning will no doubt remember the Tibetan monks who have been of no help to me in any of my quests for knowledge. Well I threw experience to the wind and knock me over with a feather taped to a lead pipe; they had some answers for me! It turns out that besides their absolutely heavenly fudge there other area of expertise just happens to be the secrets of socks. After months of rigorous training, which I forget, and a five minute instructional video on how to learn the secrets of socks entitled, “Take My Socks and Walk A Mile: One Man’s Journey to Full Enlightenment and Warm Wooliness All In One Weekend,” which I don’t remember much of except for the three minute music video at the end I learned the secret of gaining enlightenment through socks. When the socks absorb the sweat of the common foot, the weave of the wool (which just so happen to perfectly align with the rotation of certain moons throughout the universe and the rotating restaurant at the top of that Space Needle in Seattle) there is a chemical reaction that when inhaled through common nasal passages takes the mind into what is only known as the Stereophonic Transcendental Intercollegiate Nook of Knowledge. At least that’s what the Monks call it.

Since the invention of the sock, total enlightenment has been quite literally at our toe tips! Sadly mankind has also been quite literally washing away this enlightenment! I don’t need to tell you that when I realized that I had been washing away all my chances I was quite upset. I almost started to cry. The Monks said not to worry though. They, in there intermittent wisdom, had preserved a pair of socks for nigh unto three hundred years. These socks had been worn by such historic figures as George Washington, Napoleon Bonapart, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and Dizzy Dean. The things were practically dripping with enlightenment. It’s said that one whiff of these things by Walt Disney is responsible for Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, and Algonquin Aardvark. Admittedly the third one didn’t quite pan out, but who can predict the way public opinion will go? Still, two out of three not being bad, I thought why not give it a try? The Monks couldn’t think of a reason not to either, and so they grabbed the sacred chest containing the socks out of the trunk of their Elkamino and popped that sucker open. I tell you that as soon as that thing was open I started feeling more enlightened. I wanted to close the thing up again and bury it! I overcame this impulse and proceeded to sniff my way into enlightenment.

My first conscious perceptions while within the Stereophonic Transcendental Intercollegiate Nook of Knowledge was that I was in a sort of bus terminal. I sat down on a bench. Not long after I had sat down, a guy who looked like Forrest Gump, save the fact that his head looked like Lillian Gish (not just Lillian Gish’s head mind you, the whole body was Forrest’s head). He then explained to me in a voice that seemed to be emanating from Lillian Gish’s purse and that sounded like a cross between Bob Villa and Joan Rivers that this is where all the left socks go on their pilgrimage to Nirvana. It seems that no one has had the hart to tell these die-hard Nirvana fans that not only has the band broken up, but also of course the fact that Kurt Cobain is dead. If that alone wouldn’t rend their hearts asunder, just tell them about the Foo Fighters and that would completely finish them off. Instead the powers that be are content to let all the left socks mill about in the stadium waiting for Nirvana to take the stage and passing the time watching the now obscure opening acts that have come from our world to keep them occupied. Up next will be Vanilla Ice, followed by the Spin Doctors, and finnaly New Kids On The Block before we take a break. Britanny Spears and the Backstreet Boys are due to show up any minute.

I know it seems odd, even cruel, to keep the left socks waiting like this for something that will never happen, but it turns out that there being there is foundational to the existance and stability of the universe or something like that. It was getting late and I was content to take my complimentary basket of fudge, (this is where the Monks get the recepie it seems) return to the real world, and leave it at that. It is my belief that one ought not to tamper with such things as the foundations of the universe, even if it is socks.

current music: White Zombie-Black Sunshine

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Monday, May 15th, 2006
6:52 pm - In the continued interest of illuminating the unobscured
Warning: The following is being written by a 100% bonafide Y-chromosome
bearing male. It is therefore the wish of the publisher inform any and
all readers of the possibility of errors being made as the subject chosen is
one that shall for all time remain alien to him because of the biological
restraints listed above. If any discrepancy does exist it is the sincere
request of the writer and publisher that you kindly keep it to yourself
because we just do not want to go there. Thank you.

I write to you today to discuss something that it has recently come to
my attention that we all must deal with through the course of our lives.
That something is a mother, or mom as she is often referred to as or in some
cases mommy, ma, the matriarch, maternal one, or hey you. Just what are these
strange creatures whom seem to hold so much sway over our existence and
what of the strange powers that they seem to posses? No matter what we do we
cannot escape the fact immediately upon our arrival on this planet we are
issued a mom. Even those of us delivered into this world by
C-section or "untimely ripped" and "not born of a woman" as Shakespeare put it have a
mom. That being my particular case it is a fact that I can attest to out of
much personal experience.

To fully understand the institution of Motherhood, as it is known, we
must first look at its humble beginnings in the small German village of
Hokkenschnott during the spring of 1932. Up to this point, as I'm sure
you are all well aware, the common practice for the procurement of babies was
of course storks. A proud and noble bird they would swoop down to the homes
of the expectant parents and unceremoniously dump them on the front steps
where the baby would await discovery by his/her parents. This could take a
period of several days even weeks if the parents were out of town at the time or
if the husband just didn't feel like taking out the garbage that month.
More often than not, however the child could wind up landing in the bushes and
not be discovered until puberty. This coupled with the propensity for some
of the children to land on their heads as a contributing factor in how the human
race was able to get people like Plato, Sir Isaac Newton, Benjamin Franklin,
and The Marx Brothers. Due to the economic stagnation brought on in Germany
by the first World War the good citizens of Hokkenschnott could no longer
afford to retain the services of my Great-grandfather Fritzy Mosbacker, expert
collector, trainer, and purveyor of storks. Particularly those of the
baby carrying kind, though he was also an expert with kind that could juggle
torches and knives while reciting the works of Josephus Flavius, but I
digress. No longer able to support himself in the stork business Fritzy
was forced to move to America where he was able to open a lucrative string of
Kosher Delis, who would have guessed that stork was Kosher to say nothing
of how versatile it can be with sandwiches. This was all well and good for
Fritzy but all did not bode well for the citizens of Hokkenschnott who
were faced with the prospect of having no further offspring. Decisive action
had to be taken. A meeting of the entire town was called to address the
crisis and a solution was decided upon. Since the storks could no longer be
relied upon to provide the children it was decided that the villagers themselves
must take over the responsibility. The question then came up of whether the
husbands or the wives should take the responsibility. Since the husbands
had to work all day and really didn't have the time for it it was decided
that the wives, who up to this point had done nothing but yodel all day, should
take up where the storks had left off. In honor of this historic decision all
mothers yodel as loudly as they can at the moment of childbirth. The villagers
were overjoyed at the convenience of being able to keep tabs on the child's
exact location up to the point of birth and the fact that they no longer had to
dig their kids out of the bushes was also a big plus. It was not long before
this new method of procuring children had spread all over Germany and most of
Europe. The method of using storks shrank into obscurity and the Great
Baby Carrying Stork is all but extinct (Fritzy's Deli's went international at
about the same time). It is, however, widely rumored that in certain parts of
Poland the old practice of using storks still exists to this day. When
the second World War was over the American soldiers returned home to tell
their wives of this new European method of procuring babies and instigated the
Baby Boom.


Now that we've taken a brief look into the history of motherhood let us
now look into the strange powers that mothers seem to have been imbued with. First is their acquisition of eyes in the backs of their heads which
afford them almost godlike omniscience. Once they have spotted their young
child in the midst of some malefaction they will almost instinctively burst into a
fit of rage and yelling frenzy the likes of which will strike paralyzing fear
into whomever is faced with it. What is even more astounding is the mother's
ability to completely and immediately extinguish this rage at a moments
notice, an example would be answering the telephone, and compose herself
as if she had been peacefully knitting the entire day. The fact that most
mothers can do this in the reverse, going from complete serenity to hellish rage
just is easily, is something of constant concern. Another of the mother's
amazing capabilities is that she could be debating one of the greatest
philosophers or orators of all time and be able to silence them, no matter how resolute
their position or snappy their witticism, with four simple words. Those words
are, "Because I said so!" The single most mysterious and inexplicable of the
maternal powers and one which scholars, philosophers, theologians, and
cab drivers have been debating and discussing for years is the mother's
almost obsessive belief that no matter how much or what manner of filth their
child has managed to immerse themselves in the only way to get it off is for
them to spit on a handkerchief and wipe all over the child's face.

This concludes our look into the institution of motherhood it's history
and some of it's intricacies and so I would like to leave you, especially
those of you who are highschool seniors getting ready for college. Be nice to
mom, because she's the one you'll be calling when your pile of dirty laundry
is so rank that the EPA is considering declaring your dorm an environmental
disaster area and asking what they mean by separating the clothes.

current music: Danzig-Mother

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Tuesday, April 11th, 2006
9:43 am - What you see is real. What you smell is unfortunate.
The world that we live in today is one that is filled with violence and danger. Our cities are plagued with so much violent crime that one begins to wonder why we haven't just nuked all the cities of the world and be done with it. The answer of course being that we ourselves are in these same cities and the fact that we too would be meeting a hasty conclusion seems to more than offset the satisfaction we would have in seeing the crime problem come to an abrupt halt. There are some people who claim that the satisfaction would outweigh the obvious downside, but those people are few and far between as the state requires that they be kept in separate cells.

Some people have decided to solve the problem by taking the exact same strategy of those who find themselves in the midst of an earthquake. That's right, they get away from it so that it can't kill them. And just where do they go to rid themselves of the dangers and inconveniences of urban living? They go to rural housing developments just like the one I used to live in, and there they find the peace and serenity that only can come from the knowledge that they can't shoot you because your in the middle of nowhere so they can't even find you!

It would be nice if it were that simple wouldn't it? Sadly all is not as it at first seemed. I recently made the discovery that buried in the yard of every rural housing development across America is a fully functional Septic Tank! Imagine my shock, amazement, and even horror to discover that what I had always considered to be the very essence of peace and tranquility in my life was in fact little more than a hiding place for a highly sophisticated piece of military hardware! I immediately set out to discover just what exactly was the reason for there being a Septic Tank in my backyard. My search began by trying to discover just who this General Septic was. Sherman Tanks are named for the great Civil War general William Tecumseh Sherman who gave us such great quotes as, "War is all Hell," and, "Hello, my name is William Tecumseh Sherman." After extensive study in every military library that I could sneak into I discovered the remarkable history of one General George Albert Septic, his wife was named Anna by the way, who commanded a division during the Vietnam War.

In 1968 General Septic proposed a plan to dig a massive tunnel from Saigon (the capitol city of South Vietnam) to Hanoi (capital of North Vietnam) so as to make for more convenient invading of communist controlled Vietnam. Why a tunnel you ask? General Septic seems to have suffered from a chronic case of hayfever that prevented him from even being able to cut his own grass. He naturally would have brought along the neighborhood boys who normally cut his grass and have them cut their way through the jungle to Hanoi, but they dodged the draft and fled to Canada where they used there lawnmowers to make snowcones and have been running one of the most lucrative snow cone franchises in Canada. This was all well and good for the neighborhood boys, but it left General Septic with the problem of just how he was to get through all that jungle to Hanoi without sneezing so hard that his head exploded and consequently throwing his entire division into a panic since they would assume that there beloved leader had been shot by a sniper who wasn't even there.

I don't need to tell you what sort of logistical and strategic problems face a military unit whose commanding officer explodes due to an undiagnosed nasal condition which in the field his soldiers can only assume to be fire from the enemy. This is the exact reasoning that prompted General Septic to propose his plan to tunnel the armies way to Hanoi. In a tunnel you can't be shot down, have a sudden attack of hayfever, and should the unfortunate and totally unexpected ambush occur then they will be pre-buried as it were. The simplification of the entire invasion process is really what sold the Pentagon, not the plan's feasibility. Work began immediately and the initial stages of the project went completely according to plan.

Things were going so well, in fact, that General Septic neglected to consult the map of Hanoi's sewer system, and since sewer pipes are specifically designed so that they will only be in the way when you don't know where they are, General Septic's men had no trouble finding them whatsoever. It was at this point that General Septic joined the ranks of such highly quoted individuals as General William Tecumseh Sherman when he gave us the immortal words, "Oh crap!"

What followed was the biggest onslaught of crud to ever be the result of something decided on in Washington. Once things calmed down the government began the long task of removing all evidence of the operation. This meant removing the tunnel section by section from where it had been dug. These sections were placed in large tanks and shipped back to the States. The question that I'm sure you're asking yourselves at this point is what did they do with the large vacant area left by removing the tunnel. They simply stuffed it full of styrofoam peanuts and neither Vietnamese government has ever noticed the difference. With the tunnel and General Septic both safely removed from Vietnam the only question left was what to do with them. General Septic was sent to Canda to search for draft dodgers, but soon resigned his commission and joined the neighborhood boys in their snowcone business. The tanks were taken to the undeveloped rural parts of this country and buried for safe keeping. Little did they know that within a few years everyone would suddenly become aware of the dangers of city life, which they had been totally oblivious to up to this point, and begin moving into these undeveloped rural areas. At first it was decided to maintain the cover up and hope that no one ever found out. All this changed when control of this secret was turned over to someone else who decided that the government was going to too much trouble over some tanks of Vietnamese sludge. Informative brochures were sent to the Post Offices of America where, like everything else in the "Please Take One" rack of any government building they went unread.

Rest assured those of you who sought to escape the violence of city life in a rural housing development that there are no weapons buried in your backyard. Just the last remenants of an idea a man had. A man who was too stupid to take a coulple of allergy pills before taking off into the jungle and subsuquently caused us to have to go to all this trouble. Dosen't it just make you so glad that we live in a country where things like that are possible? I mean at least we know that some good came out of all of this. Canada has better quality snow cones than it used to and that has to count for something.

current music: Iced Earth-Alive in Athens

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Wednesday, March 15th, 2006
1:36 am - It seems to me that this betrayal is like another fall of man
The following is what professionalism prevented me from writing on the paper of a student who for their revised book review turned in a word for word copy of their original book review.

You arrogant cuss!
You grey rat!
Opportunity comes meekly knocking at your door and you spurn it like some woman of the night.
The unmitigated gall of this act shall fuel resentment in my heart against you and all your kind to the third and fourth generation.
You Judas!
If you even think of attempting to argue this grade I shall set you on a spit roast you over an open fire.
I close the iron door upon you.
I would be disappointed in you if I did not already think you an addle-brained popinjay.
You worm!
You swine!
You upstart!
You are a disgrace to the family name of Y----, assuming such a thing is still possible.
If I were a violent man and given to strong drink and I happened upon you while I was deeply in my cups then by thunder I would cut you, sir, from nave to nap.
You task me. This pathetic attempt at academia is but a pasteboard mask. 'Tis the thing behind the mask I chiefly hate; the malignant thing that has plagued Graduate Assistants since time began; the thing that maws and mutilates our race, not killing us outright but letting us live on with half a heart and half a lung.
To the last I grapple with thee!
From Hell's heart I stab at thee!
For hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee!
You do not correctly identify the thesis
You must cover the entire book (Appendices etc.)
This is too much report and not enough review
Biographies are NOT novels

Well shipmates that started out nice and cathartic, but things seem to have turned a bit dark somewhere along the way. Oh well, it's like what W. Axl Rose once said, "I met an old cowboy/I saw the fear in his eyes/Something tells me he's been here before/'Cuz experience makes you wise"

current music: The Cult-Beyond Good and Evil

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Tuesday, March 7th, 2006
10:58 pm - Kingdom of Jones
The Devil come South
But he don't come here
'Cause we kept him out
For a long bloody year

We'll ride through Hell on earth
And a messy pile of bones
You know there ain't no Johnny Rebs
In the Kingdom of Jones

Fork-tongued fire eaters
Preaching for secession
Dehumanize the Black Man
The poor White Man's ascension

Bloody rope of hangman
Saboteurs and knives
Don't walk near as far as Billy Yank
To take some traitors' lives

Burn stars and bars from the sky
Rebellion is the reason
Not against the establishment
Against gray coated treason

Patriots of the nation
Unfaithful to our state
Not a war and not a law
Keep wicked mind from hate

Havoc
A dog of the war bites feeding hand
Revenge
Hero blood flowed from villain land
Liar
Skin the serpent ruling under the bed
Possessed
Killing the demon that makes the dream dead
Mutilation
Cutting off the hand before it offends
Judgement
These are the means that condemn all the ends

current music: Pantera-The Great Southern Trendkill

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Friday, February 24th, 2006
11:46 pm - We've whipped 'em! We've whipped 'em! We'll hang Jeff Davis from a sour apple tree!
That's what the overly optimistic Union troops shouted at the battle of First Manassas (or Bull Run) when victory seemed a certainty.

They were wrong.

Due largely to Stonewall Jackson and the advent of troop transportation via train things soon took a turn for the crappy for our friends in blue. Take heart shipmates, things turned out ok for those of us who like America. A surprising number of the people who read the book I grade reviews for don't seem to know that. As they would have it Robert E. Lee is an American hero, the greatest general ever to take the field, and, in the words of one student, "Robert E. Lee was the greatest of all time." The greatest what remains a mystery. I guess they were implying he was the greatest everything. That being the case I must disagree. On this earth there is no greater renderer of British troop movements during the Boer War in papier mache than Wellington "Slagheap McGee" Kurosawa of 386 Osgood Lane, Scooter Point, North Dakota. So there, hrumph-pum-ptooey.

They remain the dim young hope of our nation's future.

I think that covers that. Now then, bubble pipes at the ready and when the signal is given we shall begin the hunt. Wait for it. Wait for it.

current music: Meat Loaf-Bat Out of Hell II: Back Into Hell

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Tuesday, February 14th, 2006
10:32 am - I have a few prepared remarks and then we'll open it up for questions.
I suppose that it is possible that there may be those of you who
actually thought that I would somehow find in my relentless pursuit of what the
heck the deal is an atom of decency and reason somewhere within the fiber of
my being that would give me cause to show mercy on this holiday when you
like to think about candy, flowers, that special someone, and, to those of you
who are single, where the heck that special someone is. All of which, I might
add, makes me want to hurl. In answer to you I think Yul Brener said it best
in the film The Ten Commandments when he said, "Let him rave on that men
shall know him mad."

Like all other things St. Valentine's Day has a history behind it, and
like all other things I of course am well acquainted with that history and am
more than willing to share it with you. (Note to the squeamish this is your
last chance to bail out and to go on living in your feverish little dream
world believing that Valentine's Day is all warm and fuzzy as you sit in your
easy chair cozy as Alistair Cook while eating Nut Goodies and sipping hot
cocoa. You've been warned!) As those of you who took the time to read what was
in the parenthesis, and I know some of you do, the picture that I'm going to
paint for you is not going to be a pretty one. This is a story of
bloodsport and brutality, men in bulky armor and tight pants, and quite a large
amount of chocolate, but I digress. On with the bloodsport!

Our story begins, as most do, at the beginning. I take a moment to point out to you that in some
cases the story does not actually begin at the appointed place, known as the
beginning, and that this has been known to cause a certain amount of
confusion and boredom especially when the story begins halfway through it circles
back to get you caught up with itself and then you have to see the same things
all over again and by this time you have either totally forgotten what you
already know or you miss some vital piece of information because you are watching
the film with a dimwitted friend who does not understand the concept of a
flash back and feels that the story should be told in chronological order to
alleviate confusion, a view which you yourself now hold especially when
you find out that you've explained everything just in time to find out who
the key grip was. Rest assured that the story that I am about to relate was
decent enough to agree to begin at it's respective beginning for the sake of
those of you who are still trying to keep up.

As I said earlier our story begins at its beginning and this stories beginning is during the time of the War of the Roses between France and England (Not to be confused with the War of the Roses between England and England, this War of the Roses started when the King of France was visiting the King of England and the King of Frances dog piddled on the Queen of England’s rose garden). The place is in a small field just to the south of Normandy, which has since been turned into a parking lot so you can imagine how hard it was for me to dig up the archeological evidence that
would irrefutably substantiate my story and is also why I don't have any. The
trouble all started when the heads of each army dispatched 100 men to the
small village of Faire en Renvoir where the finest chocolate shoppe (note
the European spelling) in all of Europe was reputed to exist. Well, both
armies arrived at almost exactly the same time, the English troops actually got
their about ten minutes after the French and claimed that they were just trying
to be fashionably late. Well, as you know, get enough Frenchman and
Englishmen together and there's going to be a fight and the fact that the two
countries were already at war didn't help matters much. The English immediately
whipped out their swords and yelled out, "Here we come!" that being the proper
British thing to do, Queensbury Rules and all that jolly rot, and to which the
French quite rudely replied, "No kidding!" The French really could have been
just a little more polite. In the first place the battle was in France so they
were the hosts and in the second they never would have noticed that the
English were coming if they hadn't started yelling. The battle began and it was
one of the bloodiest atrocities that mankind has ever born witness to.
This is the account of the battle in all its bloody and stomach churning glory.

(Edited for Content)

Well wasn't that one of the most thrilling and bloody accounts that you've ever heard? Of course it was. With the battle over and one the surviving dozen English troops were getting ready to do their
duty for their fallen commander and place his heart in a small box to take it back
to England to bury it as was their wont. Just as they were about to do this the thought
occurred to them that the wife of their fallen commander would be
depressed enough as it is without receiving a chunk of her departed husband in a
box so instead they decided to fill the box with chocolates from the shoppe and
take that to the widow. The heart they placed in one of the bags that the
chocolate was normally put into and sent it to the king of France as what
they were sure would be a real knee slapper of a joke on him. And so the
twelve brave Knights of Longstem returned from the War of the Roses to deliver
the box of chocolates to their commander's widow, Mrs. Vale. It was on that
day that they assured Mrs. Vale, in times of trouble that there would always
be twelve Longstems with a box of chocolates to cheer her up. That my
friends is the really fake true story of Valentine's Day. All that stuff about love
and a half naked winged baby who flies around indiscriminately pumping the
unsuspecting full of arrows is all just a bunch of hooey.

current music: Iron Maiden-The X Factor

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Thursday, February 9th, 2006
8:02 pm - The Buddy Lee of Humans
I write tonight of that most quintessential of American artists, Buster Keaton. Buster Keaton was one of the great comedians of the silent film era. Many engage in a drawn out debate over whether he or Charlie Chaplin was the superior. Shipmates I will speak plain. These heated debates are pointless and draw attention away from the really important issues. In any event Chaplin was a whiny punk.

Though his genius was many splendored, one thing that particularly endears him to myself is his insurmountable implacability. In "Steamboat Bill Jr." an entire town is literally collapsing around him, but does that get him down? Why no! He just keeps happening to fortunately be standing in the one place where wreckage does not crush him. Unphased he moves onward, ever onward. In "The General" when the train behind his somehow gets ahead of him while they are both on the same track, does he let his reason slip away? Hell, Michigan no! He just kind of blinks a couple times. On a simpler scale, when he has been utterly humiliated by failure in "The Cameraman" he turns to the feminine interest and declares that he will make good next time.

Yes, shipmates, you read correctly. I am praising a man who placed feminine interest in everyone of his films. I accept this from Keaton for two primary reasons. The first is that I am sympathetic to the reality all popular filmmakers face which was so eloquently expressed by Carl Denham in the original, and by that I mean vastly superior, version of "King Kong." The public is not content with action, adventure, danger, comedy, and spectacle in a moving picture. You've got to throw a chick in their too for the human interest. Second and more important is the cunning twist Keaton worked into some of his films regarding the tried and true happy ending of the hero always getting the girl. Keaton always got the girl even though sometimes that girl was an idiot. For an example of that we again turn to Keaton's Civil War comedy epic, "The General," wherein Keaton and the feminine interest are desperately feeding wood into a locomotive engine so that they may escape the enemy. The feminine interest pauses only to notice that one of the logs has a hole in it. Upon noticing the hole she considers for a moment before throwing the log out the side instead of into the engine.

Movies where the hero saves a smart chick are a dime a dozen. Let's hear it for a hero not afraid to save a stupid chick.

current music: Iced Earth-Dark Saga

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Sunday, February 5th, 2006
6:43 pm - Once more without feeling
Blah blah blah shipmates. Blah blah blah blah blah blah. Blah blah watching a movie at 8 p.m. on Tuesday at my place. Blah blah blah anybody can show up if they wanna. Just what movie? Danged if I know. Show up and give input. Blah blah blah. I'll make popcorn. Blah blah blah BLAH blah. Don't eat the yellow snow.

Blah blah blah.

current music: Dio-Shame on the Night

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Monday, January 23rd, 2006
12:03 am - An Address on the Eve of the 25th Anniversary of My Birth
with apologies to William F. Buckley Jr. and his address to the Yale Class of 1950 at their 50th reunion.

It strikes me that twenty-five years it not so very long a time. There were only twenty-five years between the debut of the original series of Star Trek and the premier of Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country. Twenty-five years is only half the time between the first Independence Day in 1776 and the fiftieth one when both Thomas Jefferson and John Adams breathed their last. Indeed we are now only twenty-five years and three days past the first inauguration of Ronald Reagan.

If the whole of a man's life is like the passing of a vapor to the Lord, then the first quarter century must be so fleeting that mists have barely gathered. Even as vapors go, at this stage an observer would likely remark on how much there was yet to do and on how little had as of yet been accomplished.

So much for all of that. I am not the Lord and my perceptions suffer accordingly. Current statistics suggest that I have lived not quite one third of my life. Still with so much before me I cannot help but note the great mass behind.

In my time I have traveled much of this great country of ours. I have been to Israel. I was present when Ohio State ended their seven year losing streak against Michigan. I was also there when Ohio State faced Notre Dame for the first time in roughly sixty years and thus bore witness to the first time Ohio State defeated Notre Dame ever.

Apart from what I have seen and done, many things have also happened to me. At the age of three or four I argued on the air with the host of a local children's television show over how properly to draw a monster. I was nearly pushed onto the feat of then Vice President Dan Quayle. Following the directions of a so-called health food cook book I, as a young boy, contracted food poisoning and spent one week in the hospital wondering why the nurses could never find a vein for my I.V. the first time. Equally exciting was that cold December morning in the first grade when my right foot was run over by a station wagon. My mother tells me my classmates were quite impressed by the news that I was on crutches.

Now I find myself cozily deposited upon the brink of bidding farewell to dear old twenty-four. Thus far I have had good times and bad. I have done things for which I am both pleased and proud. I have done things for which I still cannot think upon without shame and shudders of regret. There are things I have said and written which have both educated and entertained. Far more often my words have been perplexingly confounding at best and scathingly inappropriate at worst. Even as I sit here and write that sentence I can hear a faint chorus of agreement born upon the wind.

Peering ahead we behold the vast expanse of indecipherable inevitability that is the future. Stonewall Jackson claimed that he felt no fear during battle because he knew that God would take him at his appointed time and not a moment sooner or later. In the night between the Union's bloody first and victorious second days of the Battle of Shiloh, William Tecumseh Sherman remarked to Ulysses S. Grant, "We've had the Devil's own day." To which Grant replied, "Yep. Whip 'em tomorrow though." In as much as I fail to live up to the principles of these two anecdotes, may we all strive to better live according to them.

Let us now lift our cups to twenty-five. Either I shall live to see the end of it or it shall live to see the end of me. In any event I hope it proves to be cracking good viewing for the rest of you.

current music: Alice Cooper-Constrictor

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Monday, January 16th, 2006
6:21 pm - To whom it may concern
And for the private amusement of those it does not

It is with great pride and trepidation that I can now announce that for the first time meetings of the Film Society of the Cincinnatus will be open to the general public. These meetings will be held every Tuesday at 8pm in one of the society's two screening rooms. Popcorn will be provided upon request along with limited beverage selection. Generally a discussion will follow.

A few words about the Film Society of the Cincinnatus

The Film Society of the Cincinnatus was founded to promote watching good movies and being good Americans. (NOTE: Should any member of the Society be a citizen of another country they are welcome to be a good American anyway or they remain a good citizen of their own country.) The Society takes an active role in promoting the good movies part and generally leaves the good Americans part to the discression of the membership.

The first of these public meetings will be held on 24 January 2006. The steering committee has tenatively selected The Thin Man as that week's film.

The Thin Man (1934)

Starring William Powell and Myrna Loy, this film is an adaptation of Dashiell Hammett's novel by the same name. It is a combination of murder mystery and screwball comedy, a genre sorely missed in current cinematic climate. The film was nominated for Best Picture and has been featured in Roger Ebert's series The Great Movies. It should also be noted that this film and its sequels had a profound psychological impact upon many if not in fact all of the Society's current members.

On a side note this innagural public meeting will also mark the birthday of Film Society of the Cincinnatus founder Randolph Charles Fitzallen.

The preceding has been underwritten by a grant from the Stewart Media Group

current music: Bride-Snakes in the Playground

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Wednesday, January 4th, 2006
4:31 pm - Flash!
A-ah!

The internet in general, and such things as these journals in particular, are sometimes touted as great resources of information. Everything that happens faithfully recorded with little regard for obscurity or general tedium. This shipmates is our best chance of preventing anthropologists some three millenia hence from assuming that toilets were our household gods due to their pervasiveness in modern structure and proclivity towards surviving forthcoming nuclear holocausti.

To this I say phooey.

In that spirit and in an effort to further smudge the lines of journalistic ethos within the internet I will now present a so called "year in review" entry composed of the first line of the first entry of each month. The fact that I myself am not saying where I got the idea, or even have been making entries for a solid year only go to further the distortion of the public record. With each keystroke these future primary sources become less reliable. Take that graduate students of the future. It's sack-cloth and ashes for you!

Ha, ha!

Anywho

Here is my 2005 Year in Review, y'all.

January:
Here is my 2004 Year in Review, y'all

February:
"Circled 'round him thrice/Close your eyes with holy dread/For he on honeydew hath fed/And drunk the milk of Paradise"

March:
Throw pillows are swell.

April:
The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that I'd be a cracking good governor of South Dakota.

May:
I'm going to start referring to you, the readers, as "shipmates" from now on, and here's why.

June:
If the mark of nobility has ere found its way onto the tragi-comic canvas of man than surely it was in the form of the well executed beard.

July:
Hail and howdy-doo shipmates.

August:
The title says it all shipmates.

September:
I am currently residing in my third Cincinnati address within the space of one year.

October:
As our world becomes more and more complex, we struggle to discern just what has been the deciding factor in the way things are today and what will be the driving force behind the way things will be tomorrow.

November:
Oh for a muse of fire to singe the hinders of these collective heads of knuckle for whom God hath ordained me the grader of their papers!

December:
It is perhaps supremely fitting that I cannot remember where or when I heard the above phrase, but often has it trapsed merrily through my mind.

(burp)

You are excused.

current music: Judas Priest-Painkiller

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Wednesday, December 7th, 2005
6:32 pm - On account of seeing as how I apparently have to
The following is almost entirely facetioius because that's what's expected of me.

Seven things to do before I die:

1) Maintain a strict regimine of breathing consecutively
2) achieve levels of eccentricity still undreamt of
3) find someone who likes the same kind of movies I do
4) perform feats of lunatic daring
5) to be proud, not of being a butler, but of being a good butler
6) bring an end to modernity and post-modernity
7) hunt the white whale on both sides of water and all sides of land until he spews black blood and rolls dead out

Seven things I cannot do

1) that voodoo that you do so well
2) understand the womens
3) smell flowers
4) snap my fingers (I can snap most everything else)
5) whistle without the aid of a toilet seat (nowhere near as bad as whatever you're thinking but still you probably shouldn't ask)
6) grasp the innate appeal of putting milk all over perfectly good cereal
7) figure out just why there are so many songs about rainbows

Seven things that attract me to chicks

1) the fact that each possesses her own unique neuroses does hold a certain degree of fascination for me
2) they can't grow beards (makes me feel special)
3) unholy amounts of static electricity
4) somebody came up with snickerdoodles and I think all the dudes were busy that week
5) they're 70% more likely to like old movies
6) none of them have killed me (I guess that means I owe all of them one)
7) None of them thought I could come up with seven things either

Seven books/series I think swell

1) Moby Dick by Herman Melville
2) This is Orson Welles by Orson Welles & Peter Bogdanovich
3) Thurber: Writings and Drawings by James Thurber
4) The Americans: The Colonial Experience by Daniel J. Boorstin
5) Miles Gone By by William F. Buckley Jr.
6) Hannibal by Thomas Harris
7) The Thing on the Doorstep and Other Weird Stories by H. P. Lovecraft

Seven movies I would watch over and over again

1) The Ninth Configuration
2) The Thin Man
3) F for Fake
4) The Adventures of Robin Hood
5) The Big Sleep
6) Gettysburg
7) The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp

Seven people who have to do this quiz now

1) Boutros Boutros-Ghali
2) The Mighty Kwinn
3) The Muffin Man
4) The Great Gonzo
5) Roger Ebert
6) William F. Buckley Jr.
7) Billy Dee Williams

current music: Black Label Society-Stronger Than Death

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Sunday, December 4th, 2005
11:40 pm - I am so exquisitely empty
It is perhaps supremely fitting that I cannot remember where or when I heard the above phrase, but often has it trapsed merrily through my mind. To, if only for a moment, shed the thousand natural shocks the flesh is heir to, not through any suicidal fever dream, but more constructively through a temporary repose within the tranquility of nihl is what I call good living.

There shipmates sits my most perplexing way 'round to "normal." Once several years ago, nevermind how many, I heard a bit of news that much troubled me. Then someone misunderstood me and told me the news was untrue. Almost immediately they realized they were mistaken and confirmed the news. Still there was that vital moment. My anxieties and my relief dashed in consecutive instants. The result an emotional Switzerland of hospitable neutrality.

In subsequent years I have found myself far more receptive despair than joy within the context of the manufactured event. Even so, shipmates, my life has not been devoid of revelry.

Ah, revelry. There's the most honest of emotions. The profound and penetrating rage of joy in whatever one is doing or more fundamentally whatever one is. No manufacturing that. It comes, tarries, and departs wholly at its own caprice and is the only true joy my days know.

That's the key shipmates. Find the even keel and let the extremeties and outward flourishes take care of themselves. Revel in the void until the good stuff gets here.

current music: Ozzy Osbourne-Diary of a Madman

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Tuesday, November 15th, 2005
2:34 am - Imperious Ceaser now turned to clay might plug a wall to keep the wind away
Oh for a muse of fire to singe the hinders of these collective heads of knuckle for whom God hath ordained me the grader of their papers! By my faith shipmates these are the times to try men's souls. Is there not one spark of the divine left amongst this generation? My earlier discourse on beards suggested that things were in a bad way but they may have already taken a swan dive down the toidy. As my more learned subscribers know, nothing better addresses the complexities of Charleston slave society in the 1820s than that most well turned of phrases, "blah blah blah."

Still I am undaunted. Is that to say that I feel I am the one to turn the academic tide? Is that to say that like John Wayne in "She Wore a Yellow Ribbon" I have been fated to wield sword of destiny? No not really though that would kick unholy amounts of booty. As it is I must content myself to remain "The Boy who Saved Halloween." A more dubious honor I've never bestowed upon myself shipmates I can assure you.

In summation I am not the most awesome thing in the world but things seem to work out for me sometimes, the kids aren't alright, and if watching a movie about two gay guys who kill for kicks with someone who had to light a candle to fend off my bodily funk is a date then for the sake of future generations the entire system needs to be overhauled. As an impartial outside observer I reccomend bringing back dueling, foxhunting, and governing for sport.

current music: Blind Guardian-Live

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