My crippling fear of the Wii, which I wrote about the other day, has led me to some nostalgic, wistful contemplations on my history as a video game-playing couch tater. I've been a bit out of the loop lately, as far as keeping up with the latest and greatest systems goes, but it seems like I've always had something around.
So here, for your amusement (actually my own), I've gathered together the This is Your Life lineup of the consoles that I've had.
This may not be a picture of the exact system my dad brought home for Christmas in '76, but it's pretty darn close. The whole family had a high time with this little device. But I think it broke after about two months. Not bad, considering the vicious tempers that the men in my family tend to have; we break stuff when we lose.
Favorite Game: Pong.
Overall Impression: Revolutionary parlor-fun for any home!
This was actually a home computer, and not a video game system. But the only 'computing' I did on it was typing in the craptacular games that came printed in Compute! magazine every month. Games were loaded using an audio cassette player and/or a plug-in cartridge. This system came to a sad, bitter end when I tripped over the cassette cable and ripped the motherboard clear out of the case.
Favorite Game: Tunnels of Doom!
Overall Impression: Nice keyboard. Pretty to look at. Crappy system.
My first 'modern' console system, with plug-in cartridges, remote controllers, and all the other niceties we've come to take for granted. Also, the VCS (later 2600) was the only computer system I've ever owned with simulated wood grain panelling. This was also the first system that had a nemesis: The Mattel Intellivision. I reviled anyone who owned the Intellivison on principle, despite the lovable George Plimpton.
Once the system became obsolete, I inherited cartridges from everybody who'd ever had one. I still have about 200 games and a working system in my mom's attic.
I still can't believe my parents bought this for me and my brother. It cost something like $200.00, way back in 1982, and the game prices were outrageous. Still, it's probably my favorite system I've owned, despite the risible controllers. This system was relatively rare compared its predecessor; it was practically unknown relative to the 2600. Nevertheless, a bitter hatred developed between owners of the 5200 and the Colecovision. Rich boys had Colecovision.
Favorite Game: Dreadnought Factor, one of the Best Games Ever. Or maybe Star Raiders.
Overall Impression: Awesome-looking box; best game selection at the time.
Another 'Home Computer' entry. Despite being released five years after the TI-99, the specs weren't any more impressive. I did actually learn to program BASIC on this computer; it also had a spreadsheet, called FinForm, and a word processor, called FileForm. Both of which sucked ass.
Favorite Game: Utopia.
Overall Impression: Crappy keyboard, crappy games. A better BASIC implementation than the TI, though.
After five years, I had finally played my Atari 5200 to death. The automatic RF-switcher had stopped working, the controllers were all broken, and replacement parts were impossible to find. Heading off to college, I decided that I needed to drop 250 bucks on a video game system. Despite the fact that I blamed Nintendo for Atari's bad fortunes, I ponied up the cash for this little beauty, along with a light gun. I'm still completely baffled how the light gun worked.
This system, along with Super Mario Brothers, was 100% responsible for flunking my freshman year roommate out of Georgia Tech. Sorry 'bout that, Ernie.
Favorite Game: Super Mario Bros. Or Genghis Khan.
Overall Impression: Underpowered, less fun than the 5200, but not bad.
Once I got tired of waiting for a decent hockey game to come out for the NES, I finally decided to pick up something with a little more oomph. Since I worked at a toy store, I was confronted every day with the 16+-bit consoles that all the cool kids were buying. Turbografx, Super Nintendo, Jaguar. All of them were enticing, but my ex-girlfriend had had a Sega, so that was the deciding factor. I bought the Genesis, which came with Sonic the Hedgehog, and plunked down another 30 bucks on NHL Hockey '94. I never bought another game, even though I played just about every single day. I still can't figure out why NHL '94 never got old.
Favorite Game: NHL '94 or Sonic; that's all I ever bought. I can't stress enough that I played the crap out of these games. For years and years.
Overall Impression: First console I ever had with stereo sound. I'm not sure why I think that's awesome, but there you go. Awesome.
I can't believe I didn't buy a gaming unit for almost 14 years! I actually wanted to get an XBox, have it mod-chipped, and run it as a game console and a front end for my MythTV server. But that would've cost about 300 bucks, even without buying any games for it. The PlayStation 2 was also very seductive, but they're still chargin over $200 for it.
So, I dropped $70 on the less-capable, three-year-old GameCube, which came with the excellent, if weird, Mario Smash Football. The games are cheap, if you buy from Amazon, and some of them are excellent. Also, since people are upgrading to XBox 360s, you can get loads of cheap used games. That will probably just increase now that the Nintendo Fanbois are buying Wiis.
Favorite Game: SSX 3: Snowboarding without freezing your nards off. Metroid Prime kicks a little butt, too.
Overall Impression: A year or two past its prime, but a lot of fun on the cheap, as far as recent consoles go. Also, a great-looking piece of equipment. Unfortunately, the ol' console magic of the Genesis and the 5200 just isn't there.
So, what's next?
Maybe I'll get myself an XBox 360 at some point. I like the XBox Live concept, and there are some good-looking games out there. There's no way in Hell I'm dropping 600 bucks on a PlayStation 3, so it's the most logical choice.
Hubert sat, looking thoughtful, twirling the wine in his glass. The pendulum had swung his way, and he was taking his time about answering the question posed.
"I see," he began, placing his wine on the table and artfully removing his spectacles. A handkerchief had appeared in his other hand, with which he slowly began polishing the half-moon lenses. "Well, I can forgive the thought behind that particular question. His genius can be difficult to see."
Roger was flabbergasted. "I'm sorry, did you just say, 'his genius can be difficult to see'?"
"Yes," answered Hubert, raising his eyebrows.
"Well," continued Roger, "I'm not exactly sure I understand what that means."
Hubert sighed heavily and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. "It means, Kubrick's genius could be difficult for the– ", he hesitated. "For the casual observer to even notice, let alone truly understand." He took his glass in hand once more, and sat back in his chair, obviously pleased with his explanation.
Roger grabbed his beer glass, finding it sadly empty. He reflexively raised it in the air, swiveling his head looking for a waitress. Frustrated, he sat the glass back on the table and looked at his companion. "Why in heaven's name would genius, of all things, be difficult to see?"
Huber smiled and, slowly, as if addressing a child, said, "my dear boy, Kubrick's genius lies in the details of his actions, the subtleties, you understand. An uneducated observer could very well miss the meaning – indeed, the very existence of the nuances that separate him from inferior film directors." Check-mate, thought Hubert.
"For example?" Roger asked, one eyebrow raised.
Hubert sat deadly still. Even the wine lay dead in his glass. The bar seemed to have gone silent around them. Their eyes locked, the conversation became a Mexican standoff, each party afraid to blink. No, thought Hubert, feeling suddenly panicked. He's not afraid to blink.
Suddenly, an arm reached around Roger's shoulder, sat a full glass of beer on the table, and expertly whisked the empty glass away. Startled, Roger looked around, trying to see who it had been that had brought the beer. There were no waiters or waitresses to be seen.
Shrugging, Roger grabbed his glass and took a quick gulp. Pondering his glass, he said, "well, I call bullshit."
It was Hubert's turn to be flabbergasted. "But, how can you say that? Have you never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? It's
genius!"
"It's a dud!" cried Roger. "What in the world is 'genius' about a bunch of men in gorilla suits dancing around a big black rock? It's the most asinine thing I've ever seen!"
Hubert cried out in terror. "Don't say that!"
But Roger continued. "It's three and a half hours of tripod shots! Didn't Mr. Boy Genius ever hear about tracks and dollies? About camera work! And what, exactly, did all those shots of astronauts jogging around in circles have to do with the central dramatic theme? That was half the movie, men in t-shirts jogging in place!"
Hubert gingerly sat his thin-stemmed glass on the table, despite the rage betrayed in his reddening face. "Kubrick was trying to convey the utter tedium involved in interplanetary flight, I'll have you know."
"'Utter tedium' is right, I'd say. That should have been the name of the movie! 2001: Utter Tedium. You know that part of the movie, where they're doing the interviews from Jupiter or Titan or wherever? The announcer says something like, 'the 8-minute delays between responses, caused by the distance between Earth and Jupiter, have been edited out for brevity'."
Hubert nodded, dreading what would surely come next.
"Well, I'm frankly amazed that Mr. Genius Director didn't leave those eight-minute delays in the movie."
Hubert straightened himself in his chair. "Ooooh, that's exactly the kind of cheap-shot I'd expect from a, a, casual observer like yourself!"
"Well," offered Roger, "just explain to me one thing. What's the compulsion that drives people to consider this obvious hack a genius?"
"Your question is flawed," countered Hubert. "There's nothing 'obvious' about Stanley Kubrick being a 'hack'."
Roger thought for a moment. "Well, you said yourself that his genius could be difficult to detect. Are you suggesting that he was trying to come across as a hack?"
Hubert sensed a possible opening though which he might escape. "2001 is an intellectual film about man's evolution as a sentient being, and his relationship with his creator, whoever or whatever that might prove to be. It's not Armageddon; I'm sorry that Bruce Willis was too young to be involved with the project. Perhaps if there'd been more explosions you would've found it more to your liking." With a dramatic motion, Hubert crossed his legs, crossed his arms, and raised his wine glass to his lips.
Roger took a sip of his beer, and kept the glass held below his chin. He frowned. "Okay, let's drop 2001, then. It's just a science fiction movie. That's no true measure of talent when it comes to directors. I mean, it's no Blade Runner."
Hubert exploded. "What is it with you, anyway? Stanley Kubrick is the most universally-respected director in the history of film, and 2001: A Space Odyssey is generally considered his magnum opus. Are you just being contrary?"
Roger slammed his glass on the table. "No, I'm just saying that it's a bit cold out for the Emperor to be walking around starkers!"
Hubert's eyes narrowed, the shaking of his hand sending ripples through the wine in his glass. "You wouldn't!"
"Oh, I would! If I have to hear one more time about how great the most boring science fiction movie of all time is, just because people are too afraid to say it's boring, boring!, I'll bring up Apocalypse Now! Don't push me!!"
Hubert's face had become purple. Not Apocalypse Now, he thought. The fatal blow. The Big One. If I have to defend Full Metal Jacket against that movie, I'm doomed! Suddenly, his expression changed. His features seemed to collapse in upon themselves. He appeared to have grown smaller, older, slumped in his chair. "Okay," he sighed heavily. "What do you want from me?"
Roger took a long swallow from his glass. He grinned, flush with victory. "I want you to tell me when you last sat through 2001: A Space Odyssey. In its entirety."
Hubert grew even smaller. "Oh, please. Not that..."
Roger's sadism knew no bounds. "Oh, yes. I want to know when, and I want to know where."
"Well," shrugged Hubert. "I bought the DVD."
"Have you unwrapped it?"
"Well..." Hubert's face developed a wrinkle, running from his mouth to his eyebrows. This became a crack, which became a trough, through which poured a river of tears. He broke down. Roger placed a gentle hand on Hubert's troubled brow, and lay his head on his own shoulder.
Could somebody please tell me why, for the love o' God, everybody in the world has a hard-on for Stanley Kubrick? The WordPress theme you're looking at is named after him. I can't even read an Open Source Meganerd Article without getting a gushing ejaculative on who "the Best Director ever" was. Looky here, Poindexter: Stick to what you know and keep the tangents down to a minimum.
Let's take a look at Stanley's oeuvre, shall we? (courtesy of IMDB)
Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Sucked. Legend has it, Kubrick wasn't director enough to coax good performances out of the two biggest stars in Hollywood, Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise. A fitting end to an overrated, over-played career.
Full Metal Jacket (1987)
Sucked. The script is world-class, but the music, editing, and pacing of the movie (aka direction) were all off. The acting is also terrible.
The Shining (1980)
One of the only movies of Kubrick's that I actually like, and that's just because Jack Nicholson is a maniac. I mean, get a load of the music! And who the hell casted this movie? Shelly Duvall?! Talk about watching one man carry an entire production on his back, you can just see Nicholson rolling his eyes every time somebody besides him speaks.
Barry Lyndon (1975)
Never heard of it.
A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Another premium example of Kubrick's failure as a director. Terrible lighting, terrible acting (except for the always-excellent Aubrey Morris as Mr. Deltoid), horrifyingly bad art direction, lousy special effects, and the abject dumbing-down of an awesome story by Anthony Burgess. It shows how Kubrick never could keep his actors in line when a B-list palooka like Malcolm McDowell could walk all over him like he did in this overrated sleazefest.2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
Ugh. Gack! The movie that epitomizes the lemming-like fascination people have with Kubrick. This is one of three movies I've walked out of after paying money to see it; the other two were Kill Bill vol. 1, and Chariots of Fire. Boringest, longest, most overwrought pile of self-important static camera shots ever produced. The only good thing about this movie is that it inspired the opening scene to History of the World, Pt. 1.
Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)
This is a funny movie, but only because of Peter Sellers. George C. Scott got so absolutely fucked by Kubrick that he died hating the man, almost 40 years later. In the DVD version, it's explained that Scott's performance was so blatantly over-the-top (just watch the "Blast-off!" scene near the beginning) because of Kubrick: He shot each of Scott's scenes three times, one comical, one subdued, and one so ridiculously overdone that it could never be put into the movie. At least, that's how it was explained to the actor. During editing, Kubrick decided to put in only the overacted takes. It almost ruined Scott's career, which was a lot more impressive than Mr. Best Director Ever's.
Lolita (1962)
Yawn. How do you make a boring movie out of a hot young teenage girl crushing on a frustrated, vulnerable older man? Why, just ask Mr. Best Director Ever!
Spartacus (1960)
Typical late 50s gladiator movie. Memorable only for the fact that Kirk Douglas is the biggest badass of all time.
Paths of Glory (1957)
It's OK. Kirk Douglas is the usual badass. If you want to see this movie done well, check out the Tales From the Crypt episode Yellow. Basically the same story, also starring Douglas, but with better directing by hack horror goon Robert Zemeckis.
Kubrick was an egotistical journeyman director who coasted to fame on the backs of Kirk Douglas and Peter Sellers; two actors who even Mr. Best Director Ever couldn't dominate into acting like high school drama fags. He was just another overrated blowhard, with one or two halfway-decent movies and an army of posers trying to make a god out of him, to the greater glory of mediocre artist-wannabes everywhere.
You want to know who the actual best director ever was? Here's a list of people whose jocks Kubrick wouldn't be director enough to carry, take your pick:
Most of you probably know about Mac "fanboys". These are people that hang out exclusively on Apple-related websites, and wait for years on end for the application to work, for free, at the Genius Bars in Apple Stores. You need look no further than Flickr to see how far this obsession goes: People photograph themselves taking their freshly-delivered Macs out of the boxes, like the birth of the first child. This is known as OOBE-pr0n.
What you may not have known, is that there's a similarly scary stalker element for Nintendo products. These are known as Nintendo Fanbois. I have no idea what could turn somebody into one of these, seeing as Nintendo really isn't all that. But I just noticed that the Wii's are starting to arrive, and the Wii-OOBE-pr0n is coming hard and fast.
I've personally owned a few pieces of Nintendo hardware. The NES was my first console after the venerable Atari 5200; I still play my Gameboy Color when I'm sitting on the can; and I bought my GameCube just 4 months ago, the first console I've bought since the Sega Genesis in 1992. Never once have I considered myself a Nintendo 'fan'. I have no idea who Shigeru Miyamoto is supposed to be, a fact that would get me kicked out of any Nintendo fetishist's house.
But the Wii? I feel goofy enough sitting around playing games with a normally controlled console; I absolutely will not subject myself to this:
The level of ragging that I would receive from my otherwise loving, gentle sweetie is beyond measure. I will die with dignity, and avoid the Wii, methinks.
Ok, that was easy. I'm on WordPress now like every other schmoe, so notice that the URL's changed for the start page. If you don't mind, just update your links! I also cleaned up the Blogroll for a bit, so if you're not on there anymore, just lemme know!
I also toyed around with the idea of putting Google Ads on the site. I got the following answer to my inquiries:
Hello Eric,
Thank you for your interest in Google AdSense. Unfortunately, after
reviewing your application, we're unable to accept you into Google
AdSense at this time.
We did not approve your application for the reasons listed below.
Issues:
Inappropriate language
Which, y'know, I thought I had it under control for the most part. Oh, you mean that inappropriate language.
Despite how hokey and contrived it is, I love Halloween. There's nothing like the chill that runs up your spine when you sit around the campfire with the weenies a-roasting, trading eerie experiences and stories about hooks hanging from car doors.
When I was a kid, I loved watching monster movies. Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, Lon Chaney Jr. and Sr., they all kept me up late into the night every Friday, when Ted Turner's flagship station WTCG sent forth the Friday Night Frights on Channel 17.
Yep, I loves me a good scary flick, and apparently Osbasso, Mr. HNT Himself, does too. And, following Osbasso's example, I figured I'd compile an off-the-cuff list of my top 10 favorite all-time scariest monster movies.
Number 10: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) Freddy Krueger was a damn fine monster, end of story. The sequels were ridiculous, but the first 'Nightmare' was an original, violent, perfect-for-high-school-date horrorfest.
Number 9: The Fog (1980) Adrienne Barbeau, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Janet Leigh of Psycho fame all on one screen: Now that's some lung power. There's more screaming in this movie than all John Capenter's other movies combined, and for good reason: This is one scary-ass slasher. The Fog is one of those forgotten classics from the great horror wave that the 70s rode out on; great but forgotten murder-fests like Dead and Buried or The Howling. Definitely worth checking out.
Number 8: Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte (1965) Not really your typical horror film, but a white-knuckle piece of Southern Gothic that really gave me the heebie-jeebies when I was a kid. To me, Bette Davis was always the loony, axe-wielding Charlotte instead of the vamp everyone else knew her as. And the scene of the murder, the guy with the missing hand, that's pure campfire goodness right there.
Number 7: Jacob's Ladder (1990) Good old-fashioned devils, demons, zombies, and chicks getting vaginally impaled by giant lizards. Plus, it's Tim Robbins when he's not being a dick. The creepiest thing about this movie is probably unintentional, however, with Macaulay Culkin doing the weary-eyed man-child Gabe.
Number 6: Halloween (1978) Still on Number 6, and already we've got two John Carpenter movies. Halloween was the movie that started the whole Jason / Freddie / Chuckie craptaculousness that dominated the horror scene in the 1980s. And Michael Meyers could still kick any serial killer's ass this side of Hannibal Lecter. Which brings us to...
Number 5: Silence of the Lambs (1991) Although billed as a psychological thriller and not as horror, any movie that can make a grown man sweat with and cover his eyes while watching people get brutally murdered is close enough for government work. Name one thing that Jason did that was scarier than the Jame Gumb Tuck Dance *Shudder*. Much as Halloween opened the door for the splatter movies of the 80s, 'Lambs convinced studios that making intelligent psychothrillers like Se7en and Memento could be profitable.
Number 4: The Mummy (1932) Every other monster film from the so-called Golden Age of the 1930s up to the 1950s is a steaming, ridiculous pile of shit next to The Mummy. It's the only good movie that Karloff ever made, Frankenstein be damned. Looking at Karloff getting his tongue ripped out and embalmed alive makes Lugosi's Dracula look like a Paulie Shore character. The look on his face as they're applying the last bandages is pure terror and claustrophobic dread. That movie still gives me nightmares, and welds me to the couch every time I see the opening title.
Number 3: Jaws (1975) Ah, yes: Steven Spielberg, when he wasn't an ET-loving pussy. My mom actually took me to see this when I was five years old. My brother, who was seven, puked when the shark bit Cap'n Quint in half. Any movie that can make a kid puke has to be high on the list. This movie still has some of the best performances I've ever seen in a monster flick. Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfus, and Robert Shaw: Who'd'a thunk it.
Number 2: The Thing (1982) The third and final James Carpenter entry. This is one of the best horror movies ever made, and the first one on this list that I bought on DVD. Creepy crawling heads, jumping blood samples, guys getting body parts bitten off, nightmarish bugs popping out of dogs, and more slime and steamy entrails than a slaughterhouse floor, and you still never know who the bad guy was. Man, what a ride.
Number 1: Alien (1979) A slimy little alien chews its way out of John Hurt's stomach, flashes his silver pimp-grill at the astonished crew, and takes off into the airducts. Monster movie gold. I saw this one at my grandmother's house in 1981, back when she was the only relative I knew who had cable television. When the Hurt threw himself on the table and started screaming, my grandmother covered my eyes so I couldn't see what was happening. Though it was probably well-intended, the nasty-ass sound effects scared me more than the visuals probably would have. I imagine this film is way up there on most people's lists, so I'll just leave it at that. Best Monster Ever.
A couple of days ago, I was sitting in a bar that I used to consider the worst in the world. It's improved its fortunes of late, and has been overtaken by the current Worst Bar in the World by a large margin. The wait staff has changed a few times, and I believe that's the reason this bar has gotten better. It's not the fact that better people were brought in; the old staff was full of good people, mind you. I'm an optimist, and I believe that people must be corrupted before they can become bad. It's just that high turnover is just about the only way to keep a bar staff honest here in the workers' paradise. Complacence is deadly in the food service.
So, with fresh meat behind the counter and an admirably-patient clientele, fortune seemed to have been smiling of this erstwhile Worst Bar in the World. There was an English couple sitting next to me, reading through a German phrase book to order their drinks. What is the German phrase for a Slippery Nipple, you may ask? Rütschige Brustwarze, actually, but please don't order one, on the off-chance you might actually get it. They were speaking English to each other, and broken German to the barmaid, but everything was getting taken care of in order.
A couple of tables over, two German girls were discussing Great Britain, and the strange habits of its simple, hard-working folk. They were making sweeping generalizations about the Londoners, the Geordies; about their food, drinking habits, work ethic, and literature. I wondered if the two English people in the room, sitting next to me, were picking up any of their conversation, and could set them straight, or simply be amused that they're discussing it with such earnestness.
Having spent a couple of weeks in the States recently, I missed places like that: A watering hole, to be sure, but not a saloon or a meat market. There were clean tables about, and comfortable chairs, and dark corners where you could hide; a place to read, or to write, or tap away on your laptop, or just sit and think for a bit, or just be alone to have some peace of mind. They'd bring you a glass of beer, if you wanted, or leave you be, and no one seemed put out by the fact that you were sitting there watching everything, smiling, observing as it all flowed by.
Sitting in bars, watching humanity go by. Blues music on the speakers, bar staff doing their job, or not. Drinkers sitting in the corner waiting for other drinkers, waiting for inspiration, or maybe just waiting for last call. Indicators, you could call them, annoying little Jiminy Crickets that tell you when you've had enough.
You've got to hand it to humans, they've found a common language that every one can speak. Every civilization that has ever existed has found a way to brew beer. It's probably the only human invention that can claim that. The Aztecs never even figured out the concept of the wheel, but there they were on Saturday night, getting loaded and hitting on barmaids.
I've seen a lot of shit happening in bars across the world. I've met a lot of strange characters, and taken part in that strange subculture that exists between Happy Hour and closing time. I remember sitting in a bar with a buddy back in 2000, knocking back Scotches in a late-night dive in Salzburg. We were killing time before going back to the hotel, having spent the day touring a salt mine, drinking it up, talking smack. An Austrian soldier grabbed me by the shoulder and asked, in German, if I we were Americans. Frank Sinatra was playing on an honest-to-goodness Wurlitzer in the corner, and I told him, likewise in German, we were Americans, and if he'd sit down and have a drink with us, I'd be buying.
He said he didn't speak English, but if I was buying, he'd be more than happy to rattle on and let me translate. Soldiering is a job I respect, so I figured I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. He pulled up a bar stool and sat down, clinking glasses with me and my friend, introducing himself with much effort, hi, how are you, nice to meet you, et cetera. Having exhausted his English, he turned to me, and asked if we were soldiers, too. I said, hey man, do we look like soldiers? Then he shook his head and said, "prepare for war."
Within the next five years, he explained, the world will begin to explode. Austria will close its borders, Germany and France will be overrun by immigrants and descend into civil war, and countries in the Balkans will solidify under evil rulers, and begin attacking their neighbors. Italy will be the first to fall, and its conquerors will take the war to France. Unrest would then continue to the Low Countries, Scandinavia, the Baltic Republics. At which point, Central Europe would be adrift in a sea of starvation and war that America would be slow to rescue them from.
I stared at him, a bit overwhelmed. He was drunk, that much was clear, and I began to wonder just what they taught their solders there in Austria. Then he stood up and said, Amerika ist die letztze Hoffnung, and kissed me, right on the lips. (You know, I wanted to write "but not in a gay way" right after that, but what could be gayer than kissing a dude on the lips in a bar at three in the morning?) Luckily, he sat his glass down on the bar and walked out the door, before it got to that awkward exchanging of telephone numbers and hotel key-cards stage.
My friend sitting next to me, who didn't understand a word, said "what was that all about?" I sat there silent for a moment, then said, "the guy's obviously a Sinatra fan..."
I, Rube, the blogger behind YouBitch!, am known throughout the world as a man of taste. No one is more demanding than I when it comes to what I choose to wear. And believe you me, money is no object when it comes to quality footwear. Therefore, it's a pleasure to present to you, my dear reader(s), the finest piece of footwear that I have ever owned, the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace.
As you see, these are $172.00 well-spent. While the basic black never goes out of style, the subtle use of turquoise blue in the logo decals (which sadly peeled off the first day I was wearing it) really gives this objet d'art that much-appreciated flair! Whereas other manufacturers might include an embossed logo plate to mark up their own products, the Malleo Sprint identifies itself with quality and design. In fact, the only identifying labels left after initial use were the washing instructions sewn inside the boot, which are translated into near-perfect English right under the proud heading, "Made in China".
In order to keep the price down, Malleo eschewed such niceties as double-stitching, cotton laces, high-quality materials, metal eyelets for the laces, or hard plastic ankle supports. What remains is a sleek, flexible, and sporty ankle brace that bends with you, and will stay tied together for an impressive 15 to 20 minutes at a stretch.
In order to put things into perspective, I'll compare the Malleo Sprint Ankle Brace to the second-most expensive piece of footwear I've ever owned, the CCM Pro Tacks Sr. Ice Hockey Skates.
At $280.00, these pro-level skates have a noticeably lower price than the $344.00 that a pair of Malleo Sprint Ankle Braces would have cost. The Pro Tacks are made in the sweatshops of Ontario, using cheap Canadian labor, in contrast to the fine old-world Chinese craftsmanship of the Malleo product. Although cheaper than the Malleo Sprint, the Tacks do include some features not found in its more expensive counterpart, such as leather uppers, cotton laces, metal eyelets, superior ankle support, Kevlar shielding, and a 4mm high-carbon stainless steel blade that allows the wearer to walk on ice. The skates also provide superior ankle support to the Malleo, but all of this comes at the cost of that Malleo Style.
$172.00 for a fucking ankle brace. What kind of fucking Mafia operation is the German health-care system?!???!? I ought to sic the police on these cocksuckers for insurance fraud. There's getting fucked, and then there's getting FUCKED!
These dirty, socialist, backstabbing, money-grubbing cocksuckers! I just got a bill in the mail for an ankle brace that I got from a local orthopedic place. $172.00 for an ankle brace.
Anyone who's been there will recognize this scene. Cigarettes and coffee, bullshit and ammunition, the things that make a visit to the Straight White Guy the hoot that it always is.
Eric and Fiona were, as always, the consummate host and hostess, making sure there were enough ribs to go around.
Brothers and sisters, I'm here to tell you, those things were tasty. As a recent convert to the pleasures of the flesh, any flesh, I was like a child at Disneyland, eyes wide with wonder. That mess o' ribs was easily enough for ten people, and we three just about finished them off. Eric was dogging it, focusing as he was on the biscuits, otherwise we would've had them. The evening continued comfortably, owing to a pleasant meat-eater's high and a bottle of 12 year old Scotch that, sadly, didn't survive the night.
The next morning, after the pork hangover wore off, Eric and I did get a chance to double-team the lovely, topless, and above all discreetSylvia.
(apparently, discreet has a whole different shade of meaning in other cultures)
Although the plan was to go out shooting, the closest we got was eating cheeseburgers outside the range, as documented by Eric.
It was a beautiful day; nothing ventured, but much gained, if only in the area of lazy whiling that we all too often forget to explore. And besides, I've heard that getting your clock cleaned at the pool table builds character.
As you might have gleaned from my last post, I'll be flying to America tomorrow. Normal warnings to potential terrorists apply. I'll be in the North Georgia/Atlanta area until October 24th. Anybody up for a beer? Send me an email or write a comment, and maybe we can organize an ad hoc blogmeet.
The first time I met Ken, in May of 1994, he scared me to death. Walking up the stairs to his office, the top floor of a storefront in the old downtown of Norcross, Georgia, I felt like I was entering a haunted house. The walls were alarmingly slanted; as I walked up, the steps creaked, the lights were out, and, despite the hot summer outside, the interior of the building was cloaked in gloom and seemed cold, somehow. I was there for a job interview.
The door to the office stood open, the spooky half-light revealing two rooms that were stacked high on all sides with dusty old pieces of computer equipment, ten years obsolete or obviously broken. There was a blonde sitting at the reception desk, filing her nails like Sam Spade's secretary in the Maltese Falcon. I introduced myself, and asked where I could find the boss.
She pointed at a dark hole in the wall, a doorway without a door, beyond which lay a dark room, strobe-lit by the sputtering of a faulty flourescent light fixture. I walked slowly toward it, and warily poked my head inside. At the far end of the room sat a dark shape, half-obscured by a desk piled high with old floppy drives, ribbon cables, and tabloid-sized computer magazines, still in the cellophane mailing wrappers. A swing-armed lamp switched on behind the stacks, and an enormous pony-tailed hippy-head leaned round it, eyeglasses reflecting the white, pulsing light. "Well, hey there! You must be Eric", boomed a radio-announcer voice. "Well, yes I am," I answered. That's when I noticed there were two gigantic Doberman pinschers about three feet away from where I was standing, staring at me like I was a six foot Milk Bone. That's pretty much how it went for the next six years.
Our little company was called NSS, Inc. You've probably never heard of it, but it was the best computer support company in Georgia at the time. We had customers spread from Rockmart to Savannah, made up of people that taught the blind to use computers, or examined old men's prostates, or maybe built fuel tanks for F-14s. At any given time, we were supporting over 2000 seats. We helped our customers transition from DOS and UNIX workstations to Linux and Mac and Windows NT; we showed them what email was, and what it was good for. We explained to them what then-cryptic acronyms meant, like WWW and Y2K. The tech world is never what you might call stable, but the 1990s was a frantic time to be the computer guy. We were a 2-man operation, and we helped usher in the Internet revolution.
And that was only during work hours. Any time we weren't screwing computers together or crimping 10base2 connectors, we were discussing anything and everything. Ken had an amazing grasp of history, logic, and rhetoric; and more importantly, he had the talent to apply concepts across disciplines. He could use aristotelean logic to figure out what was causing a Novell server to abend. In the same vein, he once explained to me an elegant and sophisticated Libertarian system of government using a Token Ring network diagram as a visual aid. He had a talent for abstracting a concept, transmitting it through time and space, and rematerializing it unharmed in a completely different setting. All this happened as an aside to our real job. During lunch hour, or the time between calling it a day and actually leaving the office, that's where the real magic of NSS happened.
Pretty early on, Ken stopped being just a boss, and became what you might call a mentor. The amazing discussions that we had taught me how to truly understand what I was doing, and what it meant in the greater context of life. I quickly understood that the processes I learned could be reduced to principles and applied to anything. I had acquired a lever that could truly move mountains, that of applied rationality. And I had never even imagined such a thing until I met Ken.
For six years, we spent every workday together, but we never saw each outside the office. Although I was a heavy drinker at the time, and Ken had an impressive cabinet full of single malt Scotch behind his desk, we never had a drink together, not a drop. I knew that he had a gun-safe in the server room, stocked with a legendary array of firearms, from Uzi to Desert Eagle. Or maybe he didn't; I never saw him open it, and didn't really want to. It was all about the work, the conversations, and the intellectual boxing matches that I always lost, to good effect.
Over the years, he has been a huge influence on me. His intelligence, knowledge, and clarity have been an inspiration, and can serve as an example to us all of how men should be. I wouldn't be half the man I am today had it not been for the time I spent with him as a part of NSS, and I would like nothing more right now than to shake his hand and tell him, thank you, with all my heart.
Ken Ashbaugh died last Sunday, at the age of 56. His services will be held Saturday, October 14th, in Stone Mountain, Georgia. I've booked my flight from Munich to Atlanta, and will be there to pay my respects to this most remarkable man.
Hot-linking is the embedding of other people's content in your own web page, usually without attribution. You do it, for example, when you copy the URL of an image and paste it into the code of a blog post. Instead of hosting that image yourself, you're basically stealing someone else's bandwidth to display something.
I don't really mind people hotlinking my stuff. I get a lot of referrers from forums, for example. People link to a lot of stuff from my sketchbook pages, despite the generally low quality of the drawings. I usually let it slide.
But for some reason, I just couldn't help myself when it came to these guys. The general douchebaggery of the page made it irresistible. Hint: Check out 'Hobbies'. They'd loaded this picture from my server on their page without asking. They won't notice it, either, at least until their browser cache expires.
I could've done worse; just ask A-Heldin. She learned the hard way.
Love is, as they say, a many-splendored thing. A man's dealings with the fairer sex are the sweetener that makes his life bearable. It gives us dignity and hope, and keeps us in line when we'd rather be smashing chairs over each other in a swinging-door saloon with straw on the floor.
But a man's psyche troubles him sometimes. There's a bitter feeling, not quite jealousy, really, more like an undignified curiosity, that creeps into his head. How do I stack up? What's she really thinking? Does she sometimes say to herself, in tender moments, "wow, that was a good orgasm, but not quite as good as that one time, when that muscle-bound bartender did that thing with his thumb..."? It's not that we, as men, begrudge her past orgasms or anything. I mean, we're glad she had them. Why shouldn't she? But still, it's the male brain's duty to throw shit like that around when it doesn't have anything productive to take care of.
Men generally have only two problems with women: They're not virgins when you get them, and they don't die when you lose them. With exceptions, of course. Coming to terms with either of these things seems nigh impossible for the male ego. Luckily, nature has compensated for this by making men borderline autistic. As long as we aren't directly confronted by the history or future of our women, we're pretty good at convincing ourselves they don't exist.
Some guy in her past had more money than you; some guy had a bigger johnson than you; and some guy had better moves in the sack than you.
When I was a kid, Georgia looked a lot different than it does today. In addition to speaking English, we also had a different flag. Here's the old Georgia flag that I grew up under:
Now, the astute among you will discern a certain element to this flag that is a bit, shall we say, politically incorrect. This flag was introduced in 1956, and incorporated the Confederate Battle Flag, last seen in the Late Unpleasantness. This was done, legend has it, as a response to the growing Civil Rights Movement.
Fast-forward a bit to the Clinton presidency. Having our first black president, it became fashionable to declare the struggle for Civil Rights won, and for the Southern states to slowly divest themselves of Confederate symbolism. In 2001, drunk with the spirit of reconciliation and brotherhood, Georgia started flying a more neutral flag, reminiscent of its antebellum flag.
Attractive, if a bit hard to get tattooed on your biceps. As a compromise between the banjo-playing Beatty-rapers and the Freaknikers, the Confederate Flag lost its prominent place, but remained hidden in the footnotes. After 9/11, people began complaining that the Confederate Battle Flag, a symbol of violence and sedition against the U.S., had no place on an official American symbol. So, Georgia once again replaced their flag with a more neutral version.
Now, many people mistakenly call the Confederate Battle Flag the "Stars and Bars." In fact, it's hard to say the words without the same Southern drawl that Uncle Jesse used when he said it. But the Stars and Bars was actually the official National Flag of the Confederacy, and looked like this:
Now, let me get this straight: Instead of displaying the Battle Flag as a part of the State Flag, Georgia actually adopted the entire Confederate National Flag? You crackers aren't even trying any more.
The question I'm struggling with is whether to forsake the Confederate Navy Jack, and remove it from my backpacks. I wear it as a person who's proud to be from the Southern U.S., but I've been called out on it a couple of times. And when you look at it realistically, what exactly is it about that flag that I'm proud of in the first place?
It's not exactly good word-of-mouth advertising when your products explode while sitting on people's laps. And it's not exactly helping matters when one of the victims is the main developer of Linux.
Luckily, no bikini-girls were harmed in this incident.
