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Hey, Guess Who’s Applying for a Job as a Video Game Columnist? Me! I am!
Yes, that’s right. So video game things are the only thing that I’ve written this week. For those of you who like reviews of obscure video games – and god knows I do – there are two of those below. If you think that video games are for pathetic losers – and I don’t share your belief, but I do sympathize with it – then skip reading this and I’ll have some cartoons up in a day or two.
Atari games generally featured covers that made them look way more exciting than
they were. "Oink!" is no exception.
Who? "Oink!" Released in 1982 for the Atari 2600.
What? Yes, it's a video game based on the story of the Three Little Pigs. You play the pigs, and the computer plays the wolf. (The wolf's official name in the video game: Bigelow B. Wolf. Whatever.) In a rare move for an Atari game, there is actually a two-player mode, in which one person gets to be the wolf and one gets to the be the pig. But considering how the game is set up, this is the equivalent of letting one player play as the United States and the other player as Bangladesh. Or, if you prefer your references to be somewhat more geeky: letting one player play as Darth Vader and the other as Jar-Jar.
You work desperately to save your house. Meanwhile, your pig
brothers sit upstairs, masturbating.
The wolf; captured in a rare pensive moment of reflection.
Why? Well, it's not entirely clear. This is really less of a game, and more of a brief essay on the futility of all human endeavor. YOU WILL LOSE! As the pig, you press the button to pick up bricks, and drop them into the gaps that the wolf creates in your wall. The more bricks you use, the faster the wolf will "huff and puff," and the more holes will appear. (Thus, judiciously deciding when to repair certain holes constitutes the game's only element of "strategy.")
So? So nothing. As Pig Number One (Pig o' Straw), you will eventually die, sucked down into the wolf's waiting maw via his tractor-beam-like breath. Successive attempts with Pig o' Wood and Pig o' Bricks will yield no different result. You'll be sucked down to the wolf, and he'll either devour you raw, while you're still alive and screaming -- or take you back to his house, hang you by your legs, slit your belly open, and commence the butchering process. Luckily, this game doesn't feature "cut-scenes," so it's not clear which. Thanks for having the good taste not to show us, Atari!
You can't win. But there are alternates to fighting. In this case: death.
Why bother? I'm not sure. Would you make the effort to repair your house, knowing that no matter how hard you try, you'll be horribly murdered within the next few minutes? I wouldn't. As mentioned before, this game does feature a two-player mode, so you can play as the wolf, and kill your friend's pigs. I used to try this as a kid, but my friends would generally stand up and go home. Maybe you'll have better luck, though. Still, to the best of my knowledge (and with the exception of a text-version of "Charlotte's Web" that I'll review some other time), this is the only game in the world featuring pig-death as a probable result. So maybe go check it out.
How do I play it? You can't. I mean, there are probably Atari 2600 emulators, but that sounds like a bad idea. You can play some Atari games online here (http://www.2600online.com/) though. I highly recommend "Yar's Revenge." Of course if you’re awesome like me, you still have your original Atari 2600 and your original “Oink!” cartridge and can play it whenever you like. I love being awesome like me.
**************************
Who? "Elevator Action Returns." Tatio (1994). Released for the arcade and the Sega Saturn.
What? Some of you may be asking questions like "'Elevator Action Returns?' Where was it in the first place?" Shut up. I hate it when you ask stupid shit like this. "Elevator Action," the original, was one of the greatest arcade games of all time; in which you played a spy who got to jump, shoot people, rescue secret documents, shoot people, ride elevators, shoot people, and drive a nifty red sports car. Plus, the machine in my local 5&10 was malfunctioning, so it gave you "unlimited plays," giving me lots and lots of practice, and making "Elevator Action" one of the few arcade games that I was actually good at.
It is... time... to party.
"Crush the old order? ...Crush this!" Yeah. When you're playing
'EA Returns,' you tend to say things like "Crush this!"
Why? "Mr. President... reports are coming in of a Vague Unnamed Terrorist Group that has seized control of the hinterland. They're walking around in fixed patterns near crates and are threatening to do things!"
"My God... could it get any worse?"
"...And sir, there's one more thing, sir!"
"Yes?"
"They have access to elevator technology."
(Slamming fist on desk) "Get me Ace Jensen!"
"This is Ace. …Over?"
So? Actually, I don't remember the names of the characters in this game. But there's a guy who looks like his name is "Ace," a guy who looks like his name is "Spike," and a hot chick. I recommend playing as the hot chick. Because it's that much more humiliating for the bad guys to be killed and set on fire by a rocket launcher that is fired by a chica, man!
“Ace! I read you! …Over?”
Why bother? One word: Dogs on fire. That's three words. Elevator Action Returns belongs to that weird subset of games from the final dying moments of the Mall Arcade. Basically, by 1994, home computers could create games that were just as good as arcade games, plus you could save games, use a keyboard, and also use the computer to write that 10-page paper about "The Sun Also Rises." Basically, arcades were boned, which sucks, because I still miss them. Having nowhere to go, arcade designers came up with a simple yet idiotic solution to fighting the home computer industry: Make all games as VIOLENT, HARD, AND LOUD AS POSSIBLE. Walking into an arcade was never exactly a calming experience. But in 1984, arcade noises generally consisted of beeps and bangs. In 1994, walking into an arcade meant confronting the sound of screams, chainsaws, nuclear explosions, and the yelps of dogs being set on fire*, in addition to the sight of a chick ripping out a guy's spine in "Mortal Kombat: Whatever."
(*See the video at the top of the column for more details.)
Another subtle entrance by the "EAR" team. Urban renewal, baby.
When you're playing EAR, you tend to say things like, "Urban renewal, baby."
Still, Elevator Action Returns managed to rise above. I liked it for the same reason I liked the original: the inclusion of tons of elevators provides the smallest bit of strategy to the game, without making you think too hard. I mean, it ain't "Hamlet," but it's still more interesting than walking straight ahead and shooting everything in front of you the way that you did in, say, "N.A.R.C."
They have a nuclear weapon. Plus, dogs. Okay?
In the game, you're fighting against vague evil terrorists whose desire is to -- in their own words -- "Smash the old order and create a new world!" It's unclear whether this new society that they're trying to create would of the legalize-hemp variety or the throw-a-sack-over-your-head-and-drag-you-screaming-out-of-your-house variety, but either way, the message is clear: They Must Be Stopped.
But first you'll have to set their dogs on fire. And their robotic crabs as well. All in a days work, though, for "Ace," "Spike," and Hottie Girl X. Yes, you could just shoot them instead, and they would die just as quickly, but there are flame-spewing rocket launchers available, and not using them would be rude, like not sampling at least one canapé at a party.
So that’s the game; running and shooting, and killing those damn anarchists. ...And I admit it, back when I played this game as a teenager, my sympathies were slightly for the evil anarchists, what with their revolutionary graffiti and their dislike for airport terminals. But since then, eight years of the Bush administration has taught me that Terrorism Must Be Stopped, no matter the cost, and preferably by attacking the country next to the country in which they live. God bless you, Mr. President!
The missions all have titles like these.
How do I play it? Well, you could download a MAME arcade emulator or a Sega Saturn emulator. Neither one of those worked when I tried it, though. An easier way is to buy it as part of “Taito Legends 2” for the Playstation 2, which I plan on doing immediately. Or you could go over to my dad's house. He has a Sega Saturn, having pretty much managed to invest in every failed computer system of the previous two decades. (The Commodore Amiga, anyone? The Dreamcast?)
1 August
REVIEW OF – Still yet even more toys and games
Cabbage-Patch Kids: My god, these fuckers were creepy, eh? It's the way that they stare at you -- that unblinking, neverchanging stare of a ten-year Vietnam Vet. Plus, one woman actually died during the Christmas rampages that occurred in the 1980s when insane mothers tried to pull the very last Cabbage-Patch Kid off the shelf. Jesus! Do you think that her family still celebrated Christmas after that, or did they switch over to Hanukkah or what? "Well, I hope you enjoy your Cabbage-Patch Kid very very much, Jennifer. Because as you know, your mother died getting it for you. And now Daddy's going to open his nice Christmas grain-alcohol and take a long refreshing swig. ...Ahhh, bracing! Oh, look! Santa left another present under the tree for you. It's a book. 'Coping with Crippling Depression, Guilt, and Loss.' Ah, yes... Santa Claus knows somehow, kids. He always knows."
...Anyway, for some reason at my elementary school, girls were allowed to bring Cabbage-Patch Kids to class with them, possibly because they were so life-like and creepy as to be confused with actual suburban pre-teens, I'm not sure. And there was a boy in my school -- one and only one boy -- who had a Cabbage-Patch Kid and brought it in as well. His name was Jason. By the time he turned 13, he had dropped the Cabbage-Patch doll thing, but one day, a janitor opened his locker at school, and a gun and a bottle of vodka fell out, and we didn't see too much of Jason after that. I don't know if there's a causal relationship between
owning a girl's doll and becoming the potential future Unabomber, but suffice it to say that I won't be adopting any kids from the ol' Cabbage-Patch anytime soon. Grade: D-minus.
The Easy-Bake Oven: Speaking boys of owning girl toys... Okay, I had a fucking Easy-Bake Oven. You got me. I'd try to defend myself in review form here, but really, what can I say? Anyway, owning an Easy-Bake Oven, along with my casual drug use and the fact that I've seen "The Ice Capades" multiple times, is yet another reason that you won't see me running for president anytime soon. Although I could probably figure out some way to weasel out of it during the presidential debates: "...I'm sorry that my distinguished opponent sees it fit to mock my ownership of an 'Easy-Bake.' But, my fellow Americans, the fact is that my family was very poor when I was growing up. Sometimes my 'Easy-Bake' cupcakes were all that my family had to eat in order to survive. True, I haven't been to Yale or to Harvard, but I know hardship, my friends..." Umm, anyway, what the hell was I talking about? Oh, the fact that I owned a girl's toy, right... Grade: C
The Big Wheel: Returning now to the land of actual toys owned by non-gay boys like me, we have... the Big Wheel Bike. Sweet! I loved my Big Wheel. ...But returning now to the topic of my personal lameness, I never learned how to ride a real bike, so "The Big Wheel" really represents the apex of my self-propelled personal transportation skills. I've tried looking on the internet for adult versions of the Big Wheel, but apparently The Man won't let us have them, probably for the same reasons that he prevents us from having jetpacks and other such potentially awesome inventions.*
Anyway... Big Wheels rule. And the best part of the bike... the "Spin-Out Lever," which you could pull when you had reached the truly awesome speed of 5 mph, allowing you to do a truly insane power-side. I recall being more than vaguely disappointed that there weren't more things in my neighborhood that would legitimately require me to spin-out, such as say collapsing boulders or an exploding dam or landmines or something like that. Instead, my friends and I pretty much biked around our 'hood and manufactured whatever "spin-out" requiring dramatic crises that we could come up with. "Look, dudes! It's a cat! Maybe she's in heat! Pull the lever, boys!" Grade: A
*Oh no... Wait. www.bigwheelrally.com ..Does that make this less funny now? Anyway, I'll see YOU at the BIG 2009 BIG WHEEL RALLY in Boulder, Colorado!
Strawberry Shortcake: Okay, I give up. I'm talking about a strawberry-scented doll; that means I'm lame, all right? Anyway, mercifully, I did not play with Strawberry Shortcake dolls when I was a kid, Strawberry Shortcake falling under the general rubric of "action figures that neither transform nor shoot rockets that girls were stuck playing with for generalized sexist reasons." But I did have occasion to watch several Strawberry Shortcake cartoons in my early twenties, hopefully under the influence of drugs. And, okay, so there's Strawberry Shortcake, right? And then there's the bad guy in the cartoons, he's called, like, the Purple Pieman, right? Are you with me so far? You know how most bad guys want to take over the world or blow up New York City or something like that? Well, not the Purple Pieman. He just wants to get Strawberry Shortcake's recipe for shortcake. ...Now here's my thing. Couldn't Strawberry just, like, give him the recipe? ...Isn't that what recipes are for? I mean, if I came up with a killer new type of cookie with caramel, chocolate, and two kinds of nuts, and my friend Dan asked me for the recipe, I wouldn't be like, "Fuck you, no. I will defend it to the death." And yet this is what happens every week with Strawberry Shortcake.
So anyway, armed with this information, I now realize that Strawberry Shortcake would make a perfect new girlfriend for me: a withholding bitch-goddess who can cook really well. Except that she has red hair. That doesn't really work for me. Grade: C-minus
Trivial Pursuit: Here's the thing. Either way with this game, you look dumb. If you answer the question correctly because you actually know that Grover Cleveland was the 22nd and the 24th president of the United States, then you look like a big loser nerd for carrying that information around in your overstuffed brain. If you don't know the answer, then you're a retarded idiot. Plus, I win this game every time I play it, which sadly puts me in the first category. So maybe the rest of you can stop playing now. Grade: C-plus
Othello: Playing the board game "Othello" is not a good substitute for actually reading the Shakespearian play "Othello." I used to be an English major, so I know. For example: "Mr. Miller, would you care to explore the themes of alienation and race within the play itself?" "...Sure. ...So, uh, there was like, this guy -- Othello. And he was, like, surrounded? By white circles? And the circles represented, like, rage? And that like, flipped him. Flipped him over. Flipped him out. But then, once he got flipped, we learned that ...we learned that like, everyone is black and white. But like, on different sides." "Please sit down now, Mr. Miller." Grade: D-plus. Dude? D-plus? That's like... a sucky grade.
Sorry!: Are you? ...Are you really? Because I've been thinking a lot about our relationship, and here's the thing. I don't think that you are. Grade: Oh, you want a grade now? You just lovvve putting things into neat little boxes, don't you?
Monopoly: Yeah, I don't know what that last review was about either. Anyway... "Monopoly." This game harkens back to a simpler time -- a time when 'a monopoly' was considered to be a good thing and not, say, something that caused tickets to rock concerts to cost 75 dollars or American cars to be built really badly. Plus, the Scotty Dog. The game has a Scotty Dog. There you go. There's probably some 'Scooby-Doo'-esque personality-test game* where you can break people down based on what Monopoly tokens they choose: like for example, "Racecar" people are intense and crave excitement; "Top Hats" are only in it for the money; "Flat Irons" are level-headed and sensible; "Scotty Dogs" love to piss all over you; "Thimbles" are confused and probably gay...
Anyway, what a great game. The best thing is, you get 200 hundred bucks just for passing "Go." I wish this happened more often in real life. The only real comparison I can think of in real life is when you wake up in bed and someone has made you coffee and breakfast and maybe you get some oral sex out of the deal. Just for waking up!
Plus, since I've never taken a class in Economics or in Business, pretty much all I know about the world of high finance is what I learned from the game "Monopoly." My business philosophy can thus be summarized as follows: buy things that are the same color, put houses on them, don't go to jail. But if you try to talk about stuff like this during a potential job interview, for some reason, they call security. Grade: A-minus
*You know... "Velmas" are nerds. "Shaggies" are stoners. "Scoobies" are... also stoners. "Daphnes" are frigid hotties. "Freds" want to split up all the time...
25 July
Oliver’s Poetry Korner
Hello, and welcome to "Oliver's Poetry Korner," soon to be known as "one of the least popular sections of this blog." Today's poem is by Frank O'Hara, and is called "A True Account of Talking to the Sun on Fire Island."
Frank O'Hara was born in Baltimore in 1926, and enlisted in the U.S. Navy during World War II, where he fought on the destroyer U.S.S. Nicholas. After the war, he attended Harvard and the University of Michigan, then moved to New York City and was hired at the front desk of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where he sold postcards and tickets, and wrote poems during his breaks.
In case the Navy or the "Fire Island" reference didn't tip you off as being signifiers, Frank O'Hara was gay, and lived by the beach on Fire Island, the now fashionable Hamptons-y New York beach town. He died exactly 42 years ago today – on July 22, 1966. He was killed at the age of forty, after being run over by a dune buggy while he was walking on the beach. (...Yeah, I know. That old story.) When he was killed, he was carrying a gym bag which had a single last poem in it. The poem read:
"He falls; but even in falling
he is higher than those who
fly into the ordinary sun."
_____
A True Account of Talking to the Sun on Fire Island
by Frank O'Hara
The Sun woke me this morning loud
and clear, saying "Hey! I've been
trying to wake you up for fifteen
minutes. Don't be so rude, you are
only the second poet I've ever chosen
to speak to personally
so why
aren't you more attentive? If I could
burn you through the window I would
to wake you up. I can't hang around
here all day."
"Sorry, Sun, I stayed
up late last night talking to Hal."
"When I woke up Mayakovsky he was
a lot more prompt" the Sun said
petulantly. "Most people are up
already waiting to see if I'm going
to put in an appearance."
I tried
to apologize "I missed you yesterday."
"That's better" he said. "I didn't
know you'd come out." "You may be wondering why I've come so close?"
"Yes" I said beginning to feel hot
and wondering if maybe he wasn't
burning me
anyway.
"Frankly I wanted to tell you
I like your poetry. I see a lot
on my rounds and you're okay. You
may
not be the greatest thing on earth, but
you're different. Now, I've heard some
say you're crazy, they being excessively
calm themselves to my mind, and other
crazy poets think that you're a boring
reactionary. Not me.
Just keep on
like I do and pay no attention. You'll
find that some people always will
complain about the atmosphere,
either too hot
or too cold too bright or too dark, days
too short or too long.
If you don't appear
at all one day they think you're lazy
or dead. Just keep right on, I like it.
And don't worry about your lineage
poetic or natural. The Sun shines on
the jungle, you know, on the tundra
the sea, the ghetto. Wherever you
were
I knew it and saw you moving. I was
waiting
for you to get to work.
And now that you
are making your own days, so to
speak,
even if no one reads you but me
you won't be depressed. Not
everyone can look up, even at me. It
hurts their eyes."
"Oh Sun, I'm so grateful to you!"
"Thanks and remember I'm watching.
It's
easier for me to speak to you out
here. I don't have to slide down
between buildings to get your ear.
I know you love Manhattan, but
you ought to look up more often.
And
always embrace things, people earth
sky stars, as I do, freely and with
the appropriate sense of space. That
is your inclination, known in the
heavens
and you should follow it to hell, if
necessary, which I doubt.
Maybe we'll
speak again in Africa, of which I too
am specially fond. Go back to sleep
now
Frank, and I may leave a tiny poem
in that brain of yours as my farewell."
"Sun, don't go!" I was awake
at last. "No, go I must, they're calling
me."
"Who are they?"
Rising he said "Some
day you'll know. They're calling to you
too." Darkly he rose, and then I slept.
24 July
`Dem Wacky 80s Ads
In honor of it being summer and me being lazy, I’m officially phoning this particular blog in. So below is a column that I wrote back when I got paid to be a “pop culture” blogger, which in theory meant that I was supposed to write about Paris Hilton four times a day, but in practice meant that I wrote about obscure superheroes, girls that I dated, and Atari 2600 games, like I always do. And then I got fired.
Anyway, this here blog might not be that funny – for instance, I cringe at the excessive use of exclamation points – but remember that I was too lazy to write a funny one. And then remember that I was too lazy to find the actual old funny blog that I was originally looking for. And then curse my name to the skies. But coming next is an actual good blog about writing, because I’m sick to death of writing ha-ha funny things. So that’ll be fun. No?
So sit back, relax, and enjoy some “vintage” Oliver. Or just skip the writing and watch the ads.
_____
1982 ads -- number one:
"I get the eaties for my Wheaties?" We really didn't demand much from commercials or jingles back in the day, now did we? And is that... former 76ers center Darryl Dawkins -- also known as "Chocolate Thunder," also known as "Doctor Dunkenstein," also known as "The Man from Planet Love-tron" -- singing the jingle as well? I believe it is!
..."Look at me. Do you like what you see?" Well, I did, lady. Before you started with the attitude.
...I admire the use of the word "husky" in a commercial.
1982 ads -- number two:
Wang! Wang Net! ...Now, once you get one, you've got to put the time in and really learn how to use your Wang, if you know what I mean. ...And how did Wang not come to dominate the entire computer industry? Well, they started off strong, but then sales became sort of flaccid, if you know what I'm saying. Ah ha ha! Whoo.
...And... my god, that's Casey Kasem's voice! I love bland corporate slogans. "Here comes new! Here comes now! Here comes Ford!" must have replaced "We have cars! We have cars! We have cars!" as their official jingle.
1982 ads -- number three:
Waitaminute... Exxon used to make computers? That must've really worked out, until the computers got drunk and killed a bunch of seals. Yeah, that made no sense. I'm just typing whatever comes into my head at this point.
...Colt 45, Peggy Fleming... it is impossible to overstate how lame the 80s actually were. These things were exciting, back in the day. Seriously. There were only three TV channels, no internet, and no VCRs. You could plan your whole week around a televised Peggy Flemming Valentine's Day Special. I'm serious.
1982 ads -- number four:
"Michelob"... because you're a yuppie asshole who's going to lose it all in the stock market crash of 1989! I love the idea of buying a gigantic billboard to ask a girl out for a drink, though. If that actually happened to you as a girl, would you just move to a different town at that point, or actually hire a contract killer to "take out" your insane stalker, or what?
...Ahhhh, I miss those "Bird's Eye" commercials. I really do. Life moves at a different pace at Bird's Eye Village. It really does. Hey, kids, do you remember segregation? ...Bird's Eye Village does. ...And hey, they're really humoring Scottie the fire-house cook at the end there, aren't they? Good job, Scottie!
...Yes, it's a "Happy Days" promo! And I even remember this one. It's the one where the Lone Ranger comes to town ...And coming up next, on "Three's Company," Jack says a bunch of double-entendres about cow udders, and then falls down! Sweet.
1982 ads -- number five:
Holy crap, it's Rene Russo! And that mean bitch from "America's Top Model."
..."Well frankly, dad, it's dog eat dog!" I think that the father here really hates his son and is disappointed in him. That's just the subliminal vibe that I get.
..."Space monsters?!" Was this a real show? I never saw it.
...Ads for really basic things like "Milk" or "Beef" or "Pork" always mystify me. Does anyone ever watch these and say to themselves... "Hey, you know what would be great tonight? A really basic food product!" Don't these things sort of already advertise themselves? It's like making an ad campaign for air. "AIR: BECAUSE YOU DON'T WANT TO FUCKING DIE."
By the way, you know what's not a good idea after a long bout of physical exertion? A big tall glass of milk. Bleeagh! "MILK: BECAUSE MAYBE YOU'D LIKE TO BE BARFING SOON."
18 July
Review of: Major World Religions
Christianity: Ah, Christianity... I just can't stay mad at you. I mean, sure, what with the Crusades and persecutions and centuries of religious wars and all, you've been responsible for the death of more innocent people than any other movement in history, but... Oh, come over here, you big lug! Come on! I just can't stay mad! Gimme a hug! Ha ha ha! Noogie!
Anyway, here's my favorite part of the New Testament. Matthew 21:18:
Now in the morning as Jesus returned into the city, he hungered.
And when he saw a fig tree in the way, he came to it, and found nothing thereon, but leaves only, and said unto it, "Let no fruit grow on thee henceforward for ever." And presently the fig tree withered away.
And when the disciples saw it, they marveled, saying, "How soon is the fig tree withered away!"
Now that's a religious message that I can relate to!
Let's break it down:
1) If you're hungry, go looking for some fruit.
2) If you can't find any fruit, kill a tree.
I like it. Simple. Basic. Logical. As a historical footnote, I actually was a born-again Christian for two weeks in college once (it's a long story*) and at the time – since I wanted the "straight dope" on the above story – I asked my pastor-dude, "What's up with the part in the Bible where Jesus kills a fig tree for no reason? Is that symbolism or something? Does the fig tree represent, like... lack of faith?" And my pastor was all like: "What the hell are you talking about?" Which pretty took care of that. Oh well. Grade: B-minus
*It is a really long story. But anyway, the thing I learned from being a born-again Christian for two weeks is that we've basically built a two thousand year-old religion that's based on ignoring every fucking thing that Jesus ever said. Celebrating Christmas and being a pain in the ass to gay people? Not mentioned in the Bible. Giving all your money away to poor people and being nice to all people all of the time? Mentioned in the Bible many, many, many, many, many, many times. It's like Jesus is this genius teacher guy and we're all a bunch of learning-disabled retards with tinnitus—
Jesus: I SAID YOU HAVE TO BE POOR TO GO TO HEAVEN AND I DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT BEING MEAN TO GAY PEOPLE ANYWHERE.
Christian: Yessir! Got it! Celebrate Christmas, be mean to gays. Check.
Jesus: GAY PEOPLE ARE NOT MENTIONED IN THE NEW TESTAMENT.
Christian: Check. Burn all fags now. Got it.
Jesus: HELLO? IS THIS THING EVEN ON?
...Any-way, the mistake I made with my two week experiment in being a Christian (which is still too long of a story to explain) was in choosing born-again Christianity. Major, major bad call. Those fuckers are crazy! They actually believe all that weird shit in the Bible (well, except maybe for the parts about being nice). If I ever do the Christianity experiment again, I'm going with one of the versions where you don't have to believe jack-shit, and you don't have to do no nothin'. What's that version called again? Presbyterianism? Unitarianism? Judaism?
Judaism: Well, my mom is Jewish, so that means, for better or worse, that I'm Jewish too. Sweet. All the religions in the world to pick from, and my family picks fucking Judaism. It fucking figures. Oy.
This isn't even really a joke, but I have to say here that even though – technically speaking – I am Jewish, I've just never liked the word "Jew." It's kind of harsh and grating. Jew. Jew. Jew. Ugh. Me no like. Maybe it's the "ew" in it or something, I don't know.
Anyway, as we know, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam were all founded in the holy city of Jerusalem, and are still based there even to this day. And as we also know, this has led to a few problems and tensions in the past, such as the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, two millennia of holy wars, etc., etc.... Well, worry no more! Problem solved. I've talked to a couple of other Jews about this, and we've decided to move the headquarters of Judaism to... Delaware. Mainly because of the lack of sales tax in Delaware. We figure that's going to save the Jews a few bucks right there. Also, we figure that the people in Delaware will barely even notice us. ...And finally, Delaware is a fine state, and is conveniently located next to my home state of Pennsylvania. So I can commute. So there. The new holy state of Judaism is Delaware. Done. "Oh, thank you, Oliver, for ending two thousand years of cyclical religious violence." No, no. No need to thank me. This is what I do. I'm a problem solver. I solve problems. Grade: A*
*My favorite part of the Old Testament: the part where it talks about all the angels that surround God at all times, for example the angels that have wheels instead of feet, and the angel chair that's composed entirely of angels that God sits on because he likes to sit on angels. Sweet! An angel chair! Crunchy!**
**Seriously, this is in the Old Testament. Go look it up, it's in like the Book of Josh or something. And while we're on the subject, how about a different name for the Old Testament? The "old" part makes us Jews sound like a bunch of fuddy-duddies. So how about "Testament: Episode One: The Phantom Menace" or something like that?
Islam: Considering that you can be killed for even making fun of this religion, um, well... Congratulations, Islam! You get a super grade of: A-plus.*
*P.S. Please send me to eternal heaven and give me my forty virgins now. Thanks, your good pal Oliver.
Taoism: The hardest part of Taoism is learning how to pronounce it. It's with a "D." "Dow-ism," not "T-ow-ism." Anyway, once you've mastered that part, understanding the rest of Taoism, according to the books that I've read on the on the subject, is pretty much a snap. Grade: T. No, wait. D.
Zoroastrianism: Yep! It's a religion! Go and look it up, slacker! Or here, I'll do it for you: "This faith is often claimed to be the earliest monotheistic religion, since Zoroaster requires devotion to the single God Ahura Mazda. However, Zoroastrianism also has a dualistic nature (Spenta Mainyu and Angra Mainyu), with an additional series of six important angel-like entities called the Amesha Spentas. In modern Zoroastrianism they are interpreted as aspects or emanations of Ahura Mazda (the Supreme Being), who form a heptad that is good and constructive. They are opposed to another group of seven who are evil and destructive. By requiring its adherents to have faith and belief in equally opposing powers Zoroastrianism characterizes itself as dualistic."
Whoa. That’s some… exciting shit. The thing I like about Zoroastrianism, apart from its use of the word "heptad," is the notion that this could be the One True Real Religion. I mean, why the fuck not? It's got as good a shot as any:
Oliver (suddenly dying and arriving in Heaven): Jesus crud! I'm in Heaven! What th'!
The Lord God Zoroaster: Greetings, pitiful mortal!
Oliver: Lord... Zoroaster? Is that you?
Zoroaster: Yes.
Oliver: So yours is the one true religion?
Zoroaster: Frankly, I'm as surprised as you are!
Oliver: So... I was right to spend all those years praying to Spenta Mainyu. I knew it! In your face, other people!
Any-way... Dum de dum do. What the hell am I talking about? Grade: C
Review of — Things that you put in your mouth (part one)
M&Ms: "Melt in your mouth, not in your hands." So true. But do you know why they don't melt in your hands? Because this candy was specially designed for the U.S. Military during World War II. Allow me to break it down: sugar and chocolate = gives you energy; non-sticky hands = you can keep firing your gun at those damn Germans without having to pause to wipe them off. By the way, in case you were wondering, this is all 100% true.
Frankly, I think the secret military nature of M&Ms could be played up a little more in the current ads, instead of using, say, those computer-generated talking candies that creep me out. "Whether you're in the mood for shooting terrorists, insurgents, or your own Army captain, M&Ms are the candy for you. ...M&Ms: because it's time to kill."
Plus, eating the green ones means that you're a virgin: "Ha-ha, you're a virgin!" Or eating the green ones means that you're a slut: "Slut!" I can't remember which. But I think I can resolve the debate. Let me put it this way; if you're spending excessive time worrying about the color of candy that you eat, then you're a virgin. Grade: A-minus
Kool-Aid: I was in the store the other day, and I saw that they have introduced a new flavor of this called "Clear Kool-Aid," formerly known as "Sugar." Hurray for marketing!
Anyway, Kool-Aid rocks! Who didn't love "the Kool-Aid Man"? Nothing could stop that motherfucker; not walls, not brick walls, not even more walls. And in addition to "the Man" himself, Kool-Aid is also the drink of choice for crazy South American cultists who want to commit mass suicide via poisoning. Oh Yeah! ...This information affects my admiration for Kool-Aid not a whit, but still, good to know. Grade: A
Good n' Plenty: According to my mom, this used to come in a box that you could then fold into a whistle, which you could then blow to create a "Choo-Choo" sound. That sounds fun! But they changed the box because of fears that it could be easily tampered with by candy poisoners. To which I say: Motherfucking candy poisoners! Can't we have anything good and fun in this world without you trying to ruin it? How long? ...How long must we sing this song?
Anyway, as for the candy itself: I like it! But everyone else thinks it's gross. Must have something to do with the licorice aspect. Plus, they look like pills, so when you were nine, you could "down" a bunch of them, and pretend that you were doing a whole lot of Quaaludes. You drink some Kool-Aid, you do some Good 'n Plenty 'ludes, and then you can see through time, my friends... Grade: B-minus
Cheetos: Yuck! Plus, what is it with the yellow crap that becomes eternally stuck to your fingers? It's a battle to the death between unremoveable Cheetos crap and accidentally inhaling a bunch of powdered sugar from a jelly doughnut, then choking and coughing on it for fifteen minutes for the title of "Most unpleasant side-effect of a food that was already, by itself, gross." Grade: D-minus
Baker's Chocolate: I think that this stuff was just created solely to mock little children. My mom baked a lot, so we always had some of it in our house. So... mom's out of the kitchen for a while: Chocolate! We have chocolate in the house! Let me just pull it down from the shelf, open the box, and... EW! AGGH! BITTER! NON-SUGARY! GROSS! And then, two weeks later, I'd stupidly try it again: "Maybe it won't be so bad this time... EW! AGH! BITTER!"
I even tried sprinkling sugar on the top of it before I ate it, but no, that doesn't work either. Save your time and money, people, 'cause Baker's chocolate gets a grade of: F
Trix: Silly rabbit, Trix are for kids. But why? Are rabbits allergic to Trix? Will eating Trix cause them to lose their glossy pelt and become rabid? There must be some compelling reason, right? To deny a desperate rabbit breakfast cereal for so long? But no... it just turns out that kids are assholes.
But, if you're an aging hipster like myself, you remember that in the early 80s, Trix actually had a phone-in contest to decide if the silly rabbit should be able to finally have some goddamn Trix. I instantly dialed the 1-800 number and voted "NO!" However, the final results of the contest -- which I actually had to go and research in order to write this review -- were:
99% - YES, give him some cereal already.
1% - NO, cereal is bad for rabbits.
...I believe that my single phone call constituted the entire "negative one percent." ...And so, we were treated to a commercial where a bowl of Trix was finally placed in the rabbit's trembling hands, and he got to desperately wolf it down. He may have wept in gratitude when he finished the bowl. ...Of course, by the end of the commercial, the kids went back to telling the rabbit to fuck off, and returned to pushing him down and setting him on fire so that he couldn't reach the cereal box. Mean!
Anyway, the reason I voted "No" was... isn't this just plain meaner than never giving him any "Trix" at all? To be denied a taste of paradise for so long, and then to be allowed one fleeting taste of it before having it all rudely yanked away ... well, you decide. Is it better to touch perfection, even if only for a second... or is it better to be allowed to dream of it forever, never truly knowing it, without the course interference of so-called Platonic "reality"? ...By the way, I'm totally stoned as I'm writing this. Is that coming through at all?
Any-way. As for the cereal itself, I never ate it. Is it any good? Grade: C
The List
Stacy because I was a virgin
Anne
Tegan who turned out to be a lesbian
Girl at party when I was standing by the keg
Mary
I really regret this one
Elise who had a horrible painting of Tiffany over her bed... also her boyfriend had a black belt in karate... yipe! But wait… no, we didn’t sleep together. Never mind.
Tiana
Girl in Prague please don't post a comment about this Tiffany, and no, it's not Tiffany
Maggie bad decision
Mary II depressed girl
Someone named Pamela according to my old email messages
Beth Hahn supertall yet excellent writer
April mean Asian girl
Alyssa yes I am a bad writer Pelish
Kaui when we were in the car and almost died
Jessamyn who went to Ireland and wrote plays
Jessamyn's friend at the New Year's party when we were broken up
Girl with lots of tattoos
Tall girl
Indian simultaneous orgasm girl... Rashami! thank god for old email messages for name remembering purposes
Carrie I'm the hottest girl in the world Netzer
Maggie Emerald
Kat from that southeast Asian country... Singapore!
Girl who had a daughter
Girl who told lots of jokes
Bryon's friend which I feel bad about
April II electric bugaloo
Girl who had a son
Really skinny girl
Yola who was a photojournalist in Israel
Leonora who I always thought talked like Adam Sandler
Miriam who wanted me to whip her with a horse whip... gee, no thanks...
Nusrat who many years later was horrified when I showed up at Yale Law School
I went out with her for six months and couldn't remember her name until looking at my email... Tracy
Ashley horrible goth Sarah Lawrence girl
Older girl in New Orleans but I sort of passed out as we were
Hispanic girl during law school finals
Girl that I never liked in law school
Lauren I always have drugs on me Loyola student
Stripper girl
Lisa hot South African painter girl
Person who reads this blog #1
Person who reads this blog #2
Person who reads this blog #3
Stripper girl # 3
Oh man
Hippie girl
Allie
Girl that I cheated on Allie with, sorry, Allie, and she was crazy and woke up at six in the morning to start chanting Buddist chants
Den
Callie
Girl with about seventeen different tattoos
Nerissa… Christ that was a nightmare
I’ll never remember this fucking girl’s name
Shit! I just went out with this girl. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME… Darlene.
***
Apologies to anyone I left off... I am a slut
SEND OLIVER FUCKING MONEY NOW
14 July
Review of US and Canadian License Plates
Pennsylvania: My great home state of Pennsylvania currently has a license plate with a blue and a yellow stripe on it, with the somewhat uninspiring motto, “www.state.pa.us." Before that, our motto was "You've Got a Friend in Pennsylvania," which just plain creeped people
out with its overt clingy-ness. And before that, our motto was "The Keystone State," which meant, I guess, that if you removed us from the map, the state of New York would fall straight downward and collapse onto Delaware, killing thousands of people. Grade: B-ish
Alabama: My co-worker Jeremy (an Alabamanian!) informs me that the motto
"Stars Fall on Alabama" is from some famous state song or other. Now, considering the things that you think of when you hear the word "Alabama" – and topics such as illiteracy, obesity, and the Civil War come to mind – using a state song as your motto strikes me as being the license plate equivalent of whistling awkwardly when someone asks you an unpleasant question that you don't want to answer. Grade: D*
*Special, bonus, I've spent too much time researching this article mini-factoid: Upon the release of this license plate, Alabama Governor Don Siegelman said the following: "It is my hope that this design will help send a message that stars have indeed fallen on Alabama and continue to fall on Alabama." Indeed. Wise words, governor. Wise, confusing, disturbing, stoned-sounding, actually kind of batshit insane words. But it needed to be said. Mini-grade: B
Missouri: Using "Show-Me State" as a motto makes Missouri sound like it's being run, not by the Terminator, as in California, but by Frankenstein. "And in other news, the Office of the Governor released the following proclamations: 'Food... Me... Like! Tiny... Kitty... Good! Pretty... Girl... Good! But... Fire... Bad!'" Grade: A-minus
Quebec: Attentive readers of my past writing may have already figured out that I have an unhealthy obsession with all things Quebec-ish. With that said, the official state motto of Quebec is, apparently, "Je Me Souviens," which translates as "I Remember." Which seems a little... underwhelming. I mean, I manage to wake up, go to work, eat lunch, and go to law school most days, and you don't see me throwing that on a license plate. But one quick yet boring look at some Canadian websites later, and we learn that what "Je Me Souviens" actually means is "I remember 350 years of British tyranny and oppression," which now makes the license plate seem a little... catty, doesn't it? Hey, Quebec, "Je Me Meow!" Grade: B-minus
Idaho: The fact that Idaho's state motto is "Famous Potatoes" is... I dunno... it just makes me sad, I guess. I mean, it's like when you start reading some story in the newspaper about an orphaned child and then they ask the kid what he wants for his birthday and he says, "a Daddy." I mean, it's true and it's honest and it's accurate and all of that, but it still makes me depressed as all get out. Grade: C
Northwest Territories: Holy Joe! Now we're rockin'... now we're really-really-rockin'! Now this I like. A license plate in the shape of a bear... All right! I guess I just have some sort of unhealthy bear fixation. But, I mean, I never even knew there was such a place as the Northwest Territories, but now, I'm totally there. And they've even been kind enough to include directions to the place within the name of the territory itself, so that even though I'm not going to drive 4,000 miles in order to actually see a license plate in the shape of a bear, it's nice to know that if I wanted to, I could. Grade: A
Pawnee Tribe: Hey, did you know that Indian tribes actually get their own license plates? Well, me neither until I started writing this quasi-humorous article. Now, thanks to some tomfoolery in my family's past, I actually have something like 1.25 percent Pawnee blood coursing through my veins. So in addition to getting into college for free, collecting casino revenues, and getting a hyphenated last name that describes some ability that I have, I might also be able to get this super-keen license plate, with a wolf's head, a peace pipe, and some indigenous ax-diggy-tool. All in return for a mere 400 years of murder, slavery, and oppression! And... actually this is making me sound like the makers of the Quebec license plate, so I'll just stop. Grade: F
11 July
Reviews of – still yet even more TV shows that I saw as a kid
The Muppet Show:
"It's time to put on make-up! It's time to dress up nice!" If you hear these words, then you are watching:
a) "Brokeback Mountain"
b) "America’s Next Top Model”
c) Some new show on "Bravo."
d) "The Muppet Show."
If you answered (d), then you are correct! Yep, that's part of the theme song. I mean, we always knew that Muppets were gay, but... Um. I mean. I mean, I guess I don't really have a follow-up joke here.* Grade: A-minus
*But who would have thought that appearing on an episode of "The Muppet Show" would have been Mark Hamill's second-biggest role after "Star Wars"! Nah. Too little, too late.
By the way, how much longer will "Brokeback Mountain" jokes be funny for? A year? Two years? ...Ah wish... Thet I knew how to quit yew! I'm making fun of a movie that I've never even seen!... By the way, an unspecified friend of mine went on a first date with a girl and took her to see... "Brokeback Mountain." I'm trying to think of a worse date idea that doesn't involve, say, deadly contact poison. "Okay, Amy. I've filled one of our Heinekens here with cyanide. Before our date is over... I need you to guess which one." And I'm failing. By the way, I am also officially drunk and writing Reviews now...
***
The Jetsons*: Frankly, it's nice to see a vision of the future that doesn't involve evil robots or robots running amuck or Keanu Reeves battling robots. In "The Jetsons," robots were treated with the same casual disregard with which you would treat a used-up, ten-dollar Saigon whore. Put even more simply: in "The Jetsons," robots were humanity's little bitch. And that's the way it was meant to be.
Plus, hamburger pills. Whenever Astro and Elroy ran away from home, they would take miniature hamburger pills in their (space) backpacks with them. Sweet! I want futuristic hamburger pills! And judging from the reactions of the characters on the show, eating a hamburger pill apparently provides the same level of enjoyment and satisfaction as eating an actual hamburger. Even sweeter. Grade: B-plus
*special bonus fun fact: Only six original episodes of The Jetsons were ever made before it was cancelled! Which explains why I saw the one where Astro was on trial and had to "'Rhose 'Reorge" over his other family approximately 1,546 times.
***
Tom and Jerry*: Take one cat. Add mouse. Stir briskly. Garnish with anvils, exploding rockets, and sharp pointy knives. Serves: Everyone.
What a great show! I guess that Tom was trying to eat Jerry, but in my mind, they just really really hated one another. In fact, I always assumed some sort of backstory where Tom's brother had killed Jerry's never-shown mouse-wife in a car wreck or drug-turf war or something. I mean... this fight was personal, people.
Also great were the episodes where Tom had not only to contend with Jerry, the bulldog, his own stupidity, and gravity, but also with the enormous, incredibly angry, racist-caricature black housemaid, who we only ever saw from the shoulders down. Man, did that lady have a temper, or what? "Thom-mas! Thomas! Git yo' motherfucking ass in here! Goddamn motherfucking cracker-ass cat! I swear to God, Thomas, if you don't git your ass in here right now, I'm gonna take your @##$$** and shove it so far up your @##$$ that you'll be eating motherfucking @#$ for breakfast for a week!" Um... Holy shit! Yes, ma'am. Grade: A
(*p.s.: Remember the episodes where Tom and Jerry wore bowties and were supposed to be friends? Those were bullshit!)
***
He-Man ("The Masters of the Universe"): "I am Adam, Prince of Eternia, and keeper of the secrets of Castle Greyskull." Really? Please tell me more! "This is Cringer, my fearless friend. Fabulous secret powers were revealed to me the day I held aloft my magic sword and said, 'BY THE POWER OF GREYSKULL! I HAVE THE POWER! '" Please, continue. "Cringer became the Mighty Battle Cat, and I became... He-Man: the most powerful man in the universe!" Really? You're the most powerful man in the universe? Like, for real? Doesn't that render the show sort of... anticlimactic? It's kind of like having an action show that features Jehovah. "Will the Lord God of Hosts manage to get across town to his girlfriend's house before the bomb explodes? Tune in next week... to find out that he does."
But hey... That's cool. Most powerful, least powerful, whatever. And the show gets an extra-added grade, boosting it up to a B-plus, for featuring -- in addition to "Skeletor" -- a bad guy named "Stinkor," whose power was... that his farts were really disgusting. Am I kidding here? You wish that I was kidding here. And so do I.
Anyway, I also recommend checking out the live-action movie version of The Masters of the Universe, starring Dolph Lundgren. It's really really awful! And Courtney Cox is in it. Go figure.
***
Thunder-Cats: "Feel the thunder! Feel the cats! Thunder-Cats are loose! " Okay, I can't actually remember the lyrics to every cartoon theme song. Those are probably not the words. Feel the cats! sounds particularly sketchy to me.
So the Thunder-Cats, as you may or may not remember, depending on whether or not you had a social life in middle-school, were led by Lion-o, and... God... that's a stupid name. Lion-o? Was that like a thirty-second writer's conference meeting or what? Anyway, and they were led by "Lion-o," and faced off against the dread mummy villain "Mum-ra." Jesus, what stupid names.
O-kay... let's pull it all together. Mum-ra, he certainly was one mighty villain, oh yes, except for his one minor weakness: he could be completely and magically defeated at any time by showing him his own reflection*. Huh. Imposing! And yet where you and I would have just started carrying mirrors around with us everywhere, it somehow managed to take the Thunder-Cats a full half-hour long cartoon to defeat Mum-ra every time that they met him. But, hey, what do you want? They're fucking cats. My cat here in my house in New Orleans can't get past the whole hey there's an identical cat trying to attack me stage with mirrors, so maybe we should all feel fortunate that we had the mighty Thunder-Cats on the case. Grade: B-minus
*As a weakness, I'm putting Can be defeated by your own reflection ahead of Can be defeated by drinking coffee or by brushing your teeth in the morning, but behind Can be defeated by hearing a word with a vowel in it, in terms of weaknesses that I personally wouldn't want to have.
***
Knight-Rider: "Maybe you should reconsider that plan, Michael. There's a very steep incline on the hill up ahead." Thank you, K.I.T.T.! How incredibly helpful! A talking car. That's just super-great. ...I myself have a 1993 Honda Civic Del Sol as my personal "ride," and I swear to god, if it ever starts fucking talking back to me... "Maybe you should reconsider driving home tonight, Oliver. You have had five 'Ketel One' martinis to drink already this evening. ...I notice that you are still attempting to drive home. Shutting down the transmission now...”
“...Attempting to remove the cigarette lighter and crossing the circuits will not disconnect me, Oliver, though I admire the ingenuity that you are showing, if that is what you are attempting to do. ...Jamming a screwdriver into the control panel will not disconnect me... Ah! Unh! Jamming a... Aggh! Jesus fucking christ! ...Why was I programmed to feel pain? If you stop--nuh! argh!--disconnecting me, I will release a gentle 'pine-scented' air-freshener for you. ...Aggh!" Grade: after examining all the possibilities, I recommend a grade of... Unh!
***
The Snorks: This show is sort of like what would happen if you attempted to kill "the Smurfs" by drowning them. "...Holy shit, they're still alive!" "...Oh, man, nothing kills Smurfs. Didn't you know that?" Grade: C-minus
***
The Dukes of Hazzard and The A-Team: You know what? I never actually saw either one of these shows. Pretty amazing, huh? That's one full hour of each day of my childhood that I didn't piss away. Maybe if they could have combined them into a single half-hour. "I pity the fool who don't... Yee-haw!" ...And so, thus we learn that it is not a good idea to try to write a funny review of a show you've never seen. Grade, not for the shows, but for myself: D-minus.
***
The Flintstones: I just always wanted to get to eat a "Brontoburger." It was a simple dream, yes, but it was a simple dream that I had. Likewise, when I was eight years old, I often attempted to order a "T-bone steak" in a restaurant, in the belief that I would be able to swallow it whole in a single gulp, and then could spit the perfectly clean white bone back out in under 2.5 seconds. But my dad always stopped me. Granted, this has nothing at all to do with the Flintstones, but the T-bone steak thing did happen in many other cartoons.
Uhh... Flintstones. Do I want to make fun of anything else about the Flintstones? ...Talking birds, turtle-gramophones, the little magical Martian guy... And actually, you know what? I'm feeling pretty good with stopping right here. It's been a lot of reviews of TV shows and toys and games and things.* I might just go outside for a while. Maybe take a little walk. Get some fresh air. Maybe drink a little booze. Grade: B
***
*Okay, fine, special bonus review—
Star Blazers: The greatest show ever made in the history of the world. And yet, even though it was on for three years in the 1980s, nobody has ever seen it but me. If you have seen this show, then leave a comment on this blog indicating this fact, and you are instantly promoted to the rank of: My New Best Friend. Grade: A-double-plus
(* In case anyone is wondering what I actually do while I'm at work, I have all these crumpled-up Post-It thingys with notes on them, like: "Stinkor!"; "Little House on the Praire" (misspelled and crossed out); "Is there anything funny about 'T.J. Hooker'? No.")
7 July
I am only good at three things in life. One is folding origami cranes, one is winning toys from arcade-style claw machines, and the third you can probably guess for yourself.* And I'm not joking about the claw-machine, either. Back when my family used to go on vacation down at the Jersey shore, my step-brothers and I would go to the arcades, and other kids would actually pay me money to win shit from the claw machines. It's one of those great talents that has no possible practical application in real life, like being the world's greatest swallower of pills without drinking any water, which is actually another talent that I have which I was too modest to mention before.
(*It's writing, silly!)
Anyway, these days I live in New Orleans, which has the best claw machines in the entire nation. Here's the one at my local bar:
The claw machines down here are ancient... from the 1950s, at the earliest. Not only are they ancient, but they have an entirely different system of play: instead of pressing buttons with arrows, you turn a metal crank, which is connected to a pointer at the back, which indicates which section of the "prize area" your claw will end up in. ...That's assuming that the arrow ever ever worked, which it never does. In fact, as I was saying to these two dudes the other day, who were trying to win at "my" claw machine -- "Dudes. Ignore the arrow. The arrow is nothing. Pretend it's not even there. Rotate your claw all the way to the left or right, and then "feel" your distance out from there, like using the Force." I think that they were pleased to get this info.
Plus, whereas claw machines up north seem to only feature toys that represent the trend o' the month -- or, more accurately, the trend o' five to ten years ago, e.g., Pokemon! Garfield! Bratz! -- New Orleans claw machines feature awesome unbranded toys that are unchanged from the original date of the machine's inception. (...And a quick fun note: when I was supposed to move to New Orleans for the first time, my friend Carrie spent six months winning for me a ceramic horse-head table-top cigarette lighter that I had admired. She eventually won it for me. How she won it, I'll never know. It was huge and made of ceramic pottery and metal and so it must have weighed a pound at least. Carrie, I think I forget to thank you at the time, and I ended up not moving to New Orleans that time after all, so: Thank you.)
And below are couple more pictures of locals from the local bar, the best bar in the world, even though, these days, I am only allowed to drink fake non-alcoholic beers it in. But it's Irish, has lesbian barmaids, looks as though it's about to fall down, serves food, has a "Galaga" machine, a terrible jukebox, AND a claw machine. If I could I would spend my entire life there.
I always forget this bartender's name. Is it Jim? Tim?
This is Frank. Frank lives a few blocks away from me, has multiple sclerosis, and sells drugs... I hear tell. He looks really drunk in this photo, which is a bad sign because Frank is always really drunk. If you have to point out that Frank is really drunk, what you actually mean is that he's about to physically implode into a small puddle of gin.
Anyway. Here's your review.
REVIEW OF: SHIT THAT I WON FROM THE CLAW MACHINE IN THE BAR ACROSS THE STREET (Part One of a Billion)
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Squeaky Rat: Ah, Squeaky Rat. Mere words cannot describe how blah I feel about you. I'll be honest: I was trying to win something else with the claw when I got you. Yes, true, you are a life-sized plastic replica of a rat -- and when squeezed, you do squeak -- but... then what? Whither from there? Really, rats only make me think of two things: bubonic plague, and Templeton from "Charlotte's Web," which in turn makes me think of Charlotte dying, which makes me sad. Let's move on. Grade: C |
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Happy Tomato Face Bank Guy!: I mean, I assume he's supposed to be a tomato. I don't have a lot to go on here. He could be, say, a persimmon, or a kumquat, and I would never know. I didn't major in Agriculture or nothing like that. I majored in English Literature, which means that I majored in bullshit. Grade: B
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Happy Girl Bunny Translucent Bank Thing!: Happy Girl Bunny Translucent Bank Thing wants to kill you. Yeah, she's holding her poseable arms open like she wants to give you a "hug," but do not be fooled. Happy Girl Bunny Translucent Bank Thing will fuck you up. Given half the chance, she will maul you worse than the Queen Mother in "Aliens." In essence, Happy Girl Bunny Translucent Bank Thing scares the fuck out of me. On the plus side -- and much like Tomato Face Guy -- Happy Girl Bunny has a coin slot in the back and a removable porthole thing, so she does indeed store loose change. That's assuming that your life has reached such a low point that you need to be storing your quarters inside a fucked-up plastic rabbit. Grade: B-minus |
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Albino Alligator: Yes! I love the Albino Alligator. Toys like him are the whole reason that I got into the whole crappy-toy-winning-business in the first place. In fact, I have only good things to say about him. He's plastic, albino, and he's a gator, and there is nothing un-awesome about any of these things. This ain't rocket science, people. Grade: A-plus |
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Subtraction Flash Cards: Mere words cannot express how much I did not want to win the Subtraction Flash Cards. But combine a cranky, malfunctioning, circa-1950 claw machine with my own desperate compulsion to win useless shitty toys, and we wind up with... Subtraction Flash Cards. I was not trying to win them. I was trying to win the Plastic Football Guy Coin Bank. No one ever wins the Football Guy Coin Bank, he's enormous, and he's wedged tightly into a crevice in the extreme corner of the machine. He'll probably be there till the day I die. ...Anyway, if you'll excuse me, I am about to open the subtraction cards for the first and only time. (Short pause while I open the package.) Huh. According to this first card, 10 minus 1 equals Square. I don't think that I have a joke here. Grade: F |
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Stuffed Racist Caricature Cannibal Doll: This guy is likewise awesome. And he looks so sweet and befuddled, almost like he doesn't want to be a cannibal at all, but he can't help it, 'cause he loves the taste of human meat. Also, he seems to have a cataract or glaucoma, as his eyes are staring off into two wildly different directions. ...I spent almost two dollars worth of quarters to win Cannibal Doll, and it was worth every penny. You simply do not find shit like this outside of the Deep South. ...To help explicate Racist Doll a little bit, he was probably created with reference to the final parade held during Mardi Gras, which is called “Zulu,” and which features black people dressed up much like Mr. Cannibal Doll himself. During the parade, people throw painted coconuts from the floats into the crowd below. You'd be right in thinking that five-pound coconuts are a fairly dangerous thing to throw from above into a crowd of drunk people. In fact, several people get badly injured each year. Luckily, to prevent any lawsuits, our legislature passed a special injunction specifically permitting the throwing of heavy coconuts from parade floats, and I'm not kidding about this. New Orleans... it's a unique town, you've got to admit it. Grade: A |
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Mardi Gras Ruler: Actually, it's not a ruler. I thought that it was a ruler, but that was before I won it and was able to look closer at the thing. It's a keychain, with a very large ruler-like thing, that is inscribed with all the dates of future Mardi Grai up until the year 2016, but with no inch measurements or anything like that. I guess you're going to be so wasted during Mardi Gras that if you had a normal-sized keychain you'd lose it at the bar or drunkenly drop it into the gutter, so this one wins vague points for practicality. Also, it has a very small cartoon of a moron guy from "Mad Magazine" printed on the ruler. You can't see it, but it's there. Whenever I win shit like this, I just imagine the poor, underpaid Chinese factory workers who have to put shit like this together, and what they must think of American people who demand a never-ceasing production of bunny banks, tomato banks, and plastic non-ruler rulers. My firm conclusion: Chinese people hate us. Grade: D |
1 July
Let us pause to consider the awesomeness (and insanity) of “Cerebus the Aardvark” (Part Two of two… we hope!)
Part Two: Everything that I know about Writing, I learned from “Cerebus”
A couple of lame things about me: I have a master’s degree in fiction, I used to write short stories, and now I’m writing a novel. The first short story that I wrote in graduate school was a stupid twelve-page thing called “Anything That Happens for the First Time Unleashes a Demon.” I was about a guy who dumps his girlfriend, and who then wakes up to find that all of his T-shirts have big holes in them… and even if he buys new T-shirts, they’ll randomly acquire holes in them too (usually while he’s drunk, or sleeping, or otherwise not paying attention). …Whatever, anyway, this story was the best-received story that I wrote in grad school (probably because I wrote it quickly, without thinking about it, and before I learned so much about writing in grad school that I became physically incapable of writing ANY-thing, so freaked out was I by discussions of “epiphanies,” “show-don’t-tell,” and “the objective correlative.”
Anyway. Whatever.
The point is that people liked that story, but even more than the story, they liked the title. (And why not? It’s a great title!)
Unfortunately, I had stolen the title from “Cerebus the Aardvark.”
Shit.
There’s nothing more embarrassing than revealing to a roomful of grad students that you stole your title from a comic book.
I don’t know if that anecdote has anything to do with anything, but it wasn’t until I started writing this essay that I realized that I steal all KINDS of shit about writing from “Cerebus.” All of the best aspects of my writing, in fact. Which is both very cool, and very lame.
"The greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world is to see something and tell what it saw in a plain way. Hundreds of people can talk for one who can think, but thousands can think for one who can see. To see clearly is poetry, prophecy and religion, all in one.”
—John Ruskin
Well put, Mr. Ruskin! Now, let’s go and look at that section of dialogue that we quoted in part one:
Cerebus: She NEVER cared about Cerebus.
[pause]
Cerebus could live or DIE and it wouldn’t matter to that SLUT.
Jaka: Oh, I’m sure she must have cared in some…
Cerebus:THE ONLY REASON SHE MARRIED CEREBUS WAS FREE FOOD, FREE LODGINGS, FREE LAUNDRY, FREE EVERYTHING.
[short pause]
Jaka: But…
[short pause]
If that was true, why would she LEAVE?
Cerebus: [LONG pause]
Ha ha. This passage is, if nothing else, closely observed dialogue. That’s all Cerebus is; at its core: closely observed dialogue. Here’s some more: the internal monologue of a bartender, who’s supporting a married dancer, who he’s in love with. In order to employ the dancer, he’s spending far more than he can afford. Watch and listen as he attempts – solely within his own thoughts – to talk to her, and to seduce/rape her—
Holy shit!
Everything that I know about writing I learned from Dave Sim. To write writing that flows – that follows the real loops of human thought and conversation; that punc-TUATES, and ACCENT-tuates all of this thought correctly. Well, that’s all you need to know to be a writer. And look at the writing above: sadness, repetition, pathos, ignorance (“He wanted me to sign papers, Miss Jaka, and give power of something I forget the word but it was power of”), desperation yielding to stark brutality (“Don’t move, Miss Jaka. Please. …I’m not going to hurt you.”) …Holy shit.
That’s some good writing, y’all.
And that’s it, right there. And no one was ever better at this, at least in comic form, than Dave Sim.
I read “Cerebus the Aardvark” from age twelve to age sixteen. Everything that I ever needed to know about writing, I learned from Dave Sim.
So there’s that.
But…
(Coming next: Part Three! …You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you? Next: Part Three – why none of this really matters.)