February 6, 2010

Alien Apocalypse

Normally I have been blogging about experiences in college. No tonight I have a list of demands and other lists that are sure to cause hilarity. Mainly in dealing with movies

My list of demands for movies

1. Original Content: Now damn you! Yes biopics can be cool. So can movies based off of books. But I have not seen too many movies that aren't based off of something or resemble something lately. I am not asking for the next Indiana Jones or some other hugely awesome original series I am just asking for a movie that is cool and original. I know the writers don't get paid enough but damn it man they are starting to get too damn uppity.

2. Aaron Seltzer and Jason Friedberg both commit Japanese Ritual suicide on national television for all to see. Sure the first _____ movie was funny. After that it went downhill faster than you can say Manos the Hands of Fate. I have seen bad movies. Ones that are so bad that they are funny. These are not that. These are abominations. There are hundreds of awesome movie ideas that never get made each year, and these guys get to make failtastic movies that make nerd rage turn into nerd wrath. They have taken from humanity and deserve to die. Painfully.

3. Michael Bay's middle name should be officially changed to "shit is gonna blow up in my movies." Well pretty much should be. It often does.

4. Tarintino deserves a medal.

5. More B-Movies that are so bad they are fun to watch.

6. World War Z needs to come out before 2012

7. Same with the captain america movie

8. More voyage of the self movie without being to freaking preachy.



Here is my next list. Super Powers I want.

1. Protection from mind control, brainwashing, telepathy etc. Cause the second someone has super powers there is always some jackass who wants to control minds. This gets around that.

2. Total understanding and control of Electricity AKA "God Mode." This would mean I would never have to care again. I could literally look at a person funny and kill them by ripping all the electricity from their body and using it as an tazer on the person next to them or hack an atm with.

3. Doppleganger powers. Or basically shape shift into other people. Mostly just to fuck with people and get into nice clubs without having to use power 2 to browbeat people into letting me in.

4. Telekinesis. Because sometimes traffic pisses me off or if something is to distant for me to reach I could always get it.

5. Teleportation. Easy way to save money and make money. Also nice way to be near friends or whatever. It would make life a lot easier. Sorta like in jumper only without having to have gone to the place before.

6. Knowledge theft. Basically I would be able to learn everything another person knows by touching them. So if I touched a quantum physicist I would know all the stuff he knows about quantum physics.

7. Photographic Muscle Memory. Anything I see Bruce Lee do I can do, same with jackie chan or chuck norris.

8. Not dying when falling from great heights or whatever. Because jumping off of a building and not dying or being injured would make life really fun. I see someone down below and want to freak them out and just land beside them.

9. Control of fire. Just in case they didn't get the picture with the electric death.

10. Summon Velociraptors to attack things and do stuff for me. Just because it would be cool to watch.

11. The ability to punch someone in the face whenever I wanted-- and it would be legally and morally justified when I did it. IE if I punch someone in the face I could never get in trouble for it. That would be the coolest super power ever.



I will make more lists sometime. But I am done for now.

Don't forget to breathe today!

I work at a book store in a pretty small town. I've been working there for about a year and a half and I've been greeted thousands of times by all sorts of different people in many different ways. I've also heard thousands of different farewells. For example, it rains a lot here, so I might say something like "stay dry out there" as the customer is leaving the check out counter. Or, "drive safe" to tourists, etc. They may, sometimes say something similar in return. But recently I heard what I think is the most bizarre "so long" ever. This guy was only middle aged (late 30s maybe early 40s). He looked pretty damn normal. Everything was just fine until he said what he said to me. I rang up his books, put them in the bag, gave his change and said "Have a great day."

He said, "Thank you, you too. Stay out of jail."

"I'm sorry?" I say back to him.

"Stay out of jail." He says again.

"Oh", I say.

I honestly did not know what to say...let alone what to think. What on Earth does something like that mean, exactly? I mean, don't get me wrong here, "Stay out of jail" is great advice. Common sense, really. Like, "Hey, don't murder anybody today!" or "Have a good day, oh, and don't go running anyone over with your car." And I definately plan on doing just that...staying out of jail. But what gets me is this: Why did he say it? Why did he say it to me? Do I look like someone who's been to jail before? Do I look like someone who belongs in jail? What is it that made me look like I needed to know this piece advice?
I really felt offended. I couldn't believe that someone would just assume that someone else has been to jail before, assume that someone look as thought they should be put in jail...what a judgemental sommammabitch!

Nevermind...
February 5, 2010

Next to godliness...

I really enjoy the days when I'm on a specific assignment at work and I don't have to share a desk with people on other shifts. The desk I'm working at is in a separate part of the office, so I'm pretty much alone for the entire day unless I go on walkabout. No one else uses the desk on other shifts, because there are plenty of desks in the main part of the office and fewer people working. The supervisors also don't want people "hiding" at the back desk and slacking off. Slacking off at work is a privilege, not a right. And I have seniority.


I don't just enjoy it because of the solitude. I enjoy interacting with my co-workers...whether they enjoy it or not varies. Telling my one co-worker she's wasting her time taking the civil service exam and that she most likely won't even pass it would be one of those not enjoying my interaction times. People don't react to blunt honesty very well. It's her own fault...she told me to stop lying to her. That killed most of my daily fun. The last thing I was able to do was convince her that cyber sex was something robots did in Karaoke bars in Japan. It's not my fault she believes everything I say.


I'm wandering off point here. Where was I? Oh yeah, my desk.


It is nice knowing the solitude is there if I need it, and it makes writing blogs and wasting time on the internet a much less clandestine operation. Why I really enjoy it though is that I've discovered I am a rather anal neat freak. And my co-workers are filthy animals and need to be put down.


I like having things organized. It makes my brain happy and allows me to work more efficiently. I also like things clean. I'm not a germaphobe, far from it, but most people have their limits. I'll stick my tongue right in a girls asshole, but some unidentifiable yellowish grunge on my desk and I have to clean everything.


The funny thing is I KNOW most of my fellow employees keep a clean house or apartment. They are not unregenerate slobs. Yet they treat their desk at work the way a 2 year old would treat...well...most surfaces in your home. Something about being at work and any sense of manners or cleanliness just leaves their brains.


We have a lunch table, but most just eat at their desks. This is not so bad if you can eat like a human being, wipe your desk off and MAYBE wash your hands before working again. Instead you have crumbs everywhere and giant coffee stain circles staring at you. You have greasy fingerprints on the keyboard and (oh this is my favorite) on the monitor, because even though you have a pointer ON THE SCREEN it's easier for people to see what you are pointing at by actually placing your sausage fingers right on it.


I don't think I'm asking for much for people to treat their workspace the way they would if it was a space in their home. I shouldn't have to clean up after adults, should I?


Or maybe I'm the one that's a little too anal. I like things in order, I can't help it. I want to know where things are in case I need them. I feel comfort when things are alphabatized and numbered and put in their proper place. I like things clean and smelling fresh and not leaving excess residue on my person. It's not something that dominates my personality. I don't freak out and rage when things are a little messy. I just feel much better when they aren't.


Someone's eating potato chips. I can hear it.


*sigh*


I hope I can stay back here for at least a couple of months.

You've been hit by, you've been struck by a smooth...dork?

beep
 beep
   beep                beep
                       beep
b u z z        beep
b
u
    buzzzz   z   beepbeep
z
           z         b
beep                u
beep                   z
beep                    z

buuuuzzzz

Huh? oh. it's the phone. text.


ugh.

what could anyone want at this hour? oh wait. what fucking time is it? I glance at the phone. Only one way to find out. I silence the buzzing and beeping and take a look at the screen, hitting a slew of buttons in the process in my half asleep state. When I look down at the screen, it's on the main background. I have no idea yet who sent the text. Still, it's only about 9:30 p.m. I guess I fell asleep while reading. How lame am I? It's fucking Friday night...

I stretch a minute then check into the message. The first thing I see when I look at the list of texts in my inbox is a winkyface ;)  I don't even need to see the name beside it to know who sent it. Only 1 person sends me that sort of message, S. It's like code for 'get your ass over here.' 

hmm... waking up from an impromptu nap or any nap sometimes feels like waking up in the a.m. so I think I'd really enjoy the company. S is pretty fucking cute and his voice reaches baritones that make my knees weak. I message him back.

-hey, hey...feel like some company?

-indeed.

-Let me change really quick and I'll head your way.

-Sure thing, babe.

-oh...text me the directions again just in case.

I stretch some more and then hop in the shower. I really just want to wash off the day since I worked and then napped. I throw on a pair of jeans and a sweater, touch up my makeup, and brush my teeth. I grab a jacket and give myself a final glance in the mirror. I smile at my reflection...I look pretty nice...

When I check the phone, I do have my directions. good boy. 

I get to his place after passing the right road the first time. Fuck. I keep doing that. He shows me around since he moved to the other part of the duplex since the last time I visited. I take it all in appreciatively. He has a good eye for decorating. It's a nice place in all but totally a bachelor pad with the large flat screen television and video/surround sound/etc being a prominent feature in the living room.

We talk about the books on his shelves for a moment then he says he's thought of the perfect movie to watch...Have I seen Mystery Science Theatre 3000 (or mst3k to the dorks of the world of which i am now one)? No, I haven't. He's flabbergasted.

"Well, great then...it'll be a new experience for you. You'll like it. I hope, anyway."

He puts it on and makes us some popcorn...brings me a glass of water and tells me to get comfy. I settle against his side on the couch as the movie starts. It's good. The idea is pretty fucking odd, I must admit. The scientific experimentation part of it anyway..but I laugh often at the random quips. It's that sort of dry humour that I love. 

Part of the way through, we've finished our popcorn and he wraps his arm around me. Aw. He leans in to kiss me and momentarily, I am kinda pissed that I'm going to miss part of the movie...this fucker is totally blocking my view. Damn but whatever. One thing leads to another and I end up missing the whole last half of the movie and then some. But now I'm totally ready to finish it. I mean despite the good bit of fun I've just had, I'm looking forward to seeing the rest. We find the spot where we left off and settle back down on the couch. The last part is definitely as funny as the first. I keep giggling. I may have even snorted but I won't say for sure. On this day, I become hooked on MST3K in a bad way. 

After the movie, we make small talk and somehow it comes up that I need a lesson on the proper way to kill a zombie. Are we really discussing this just after we were fucking in the other room? Yes. Yes, we are. This is how I roll. No cuddling please. Let's have ridiculous, meaningless conversations or play Mario or eat fruit...but I digress...

sex and the art of zombie killing.


So, he shows me the game Left 4 dead. In this game, you kill hunters, smokers, boomers and tanks. Smokers lash out at you with long ropey tongues. Hunters are in hoodies and pounce on their prey to attack. Boomers are grossly fat fuckers that explode globs of flesh and blood all over you when you kill them...and might just spew green vomit before you put them out of commission. Tanks are like the Incredible Hulks of zombies and make the game a wee bit tougher. I don't play video games really, but in the right environment, I don't mind watching someone else play. Apparently, this one was at least moderately fun to watch considering I am so informative (even a year later writing this).  A warning flashes on the screen that the next door would open to a HORDE of zombies. Horde means such an impossibly large mob that, if real, only Woody Harrellson would be able to survive it. Just before S crosses his character through that door and into chaos, he throws me a side glance and says, "Let's shoot some shit, alrighty?"






Fuck. I swooned. Hard.

And the moral of this story? Well, my stories never teach anything positive...but we'll just go with this:

If you show your dorkiness, she will cum.
February 3, 2010

Age is Just a Number

"Come here, I have to talk to you!"

"Alright..."

"Ok, listen...this has to remain confidential. I mean no one can know. Not even God."

"Of course," I say warily. Pharmacy customers can tell you some really disgusting tidbits, but I move to the side of the counter away from everyone else anyway. I figure this has to be more interesting than entering insurance reconciliation payments.

"You know I'm a nurse, an R.N., right?"

"uh-huh." And I do. She's mentioned it before now.

"Anything I tell you is confidential, right? I know it is. You're like my psychiatrist. That's why I like you. I can tell you anything."

This must be good.

"Well, I'm taking care of this older guy who's on chemo, chemotherapy, you know? He met this woman at church a few weeks ago. This morning he asks me if it would be okay...now listen to this...to take half a viagra. Can you believe that?"

We laugh for a minute like schoolgirls after the health teacher says "penis."

"This woman is like 75 and he's got to be 150, I swear." She wrinkles her nose up and glances at one of my coworkers. "I've got to watch what I'm saying around here. They might think I'm a (she lowers her voice to a whisper) prostitute!!"

I laugh because she's right. She's not far off at least. The entire time she's been here Eagle Eye, one of the Bitch Twins, has been watching every move she makes to ensure she isn't shoplifting on the $1 aisle. "They probably would," I say and roll my eyes a bit. A few, most, of my coworkers are pretty uptight and a little snobbish. Their sense of humor is close to nonexistent. "Is the churchlady interested?"

She scoffs. "In his money!! He's a millionare. He won't touch me though. I'd kill him if he did. Half a Viagra...I told him he needed to talk to his doctor. His chemo doctor. I don't know. He's got to be like 150."

"Well, at least he's still got, you know, the desire and all that."

"I better watch him closely. He better not touch me ever. He wouldn't do that. I'm sure he wouldn't. After he told me about it, I had to lock myself in the bathroom. I almost laughed right in his face. God. How old is she?" That last question is whispered as she nods her head toward a coworker of mine who is close to her age.

"53 or 54 maybe..." I whisper back.

"I thought she was like 62! Shit. She's only 2 years older than I am? I'm going to have to go to church after that," she giggles. "Do you think I should get highlights in my hair or would that be silly?"

"I think you should. I mean, look at my hair." I untuck my bangs from behind my ear. "It's like 3 different colors."

She looks over my labcoat at all my shiny flair. "I'm going to get some buttons like yours and a white jacket with my name and R.N. on it. I'll get a button that says, Jenniy's sister."

"You should," I say as the movie poster for Single White Female flashes through my head.

We laugh and her phone rings just as I'm asking if she's gotten a chance to read a book I let her borrow. The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga.

"Hello? Hey. Hey, no. I'm talking to my girlfriend. Can I call you back? Yeah, I'll call you back." She hangs up the phone. "Do what now, sugar?" she says to me...

"Have you gotten to read that book yet?"

"God yes. I'm almost done then I'm gonna read it again. You know how you pick things up the second time around that you've missed?"

"Yeah, I'm guilty of skimming through some parts when I'm reading."

"Me, too!! I think all good readers do. I love to read. I get up, go to work, and go home to read. I'm going to let my boyfriend read it. He is so fucking fine. And it's the best sex I've ever had. I can't let any of these other people hear me. God. They're nosy but you know all about that...I don't have to tell you a thing."

"Yes, yes I do."

She lowers her voice to barely above a whisper. "We should get together for coffee soon. Call me. You've got my number still, right?"

"Right here in my labcoat pocket, yeah. And we do. It'll be fun."

"I need someone I can talk to about things."

"Yeah, I get that. Most people around here probably don't get your sense of humor."

"Shit. No. I swear I'm going to quit saying those words tomorrow." She tosses that statement towards my coworkers in a louder voice. "But you do. That's why I had to come tell you about the old man. I figured you'd get a laugh. 150 and asking for half a viagra. On chemo. I think it's all in his head. Or at least I would hope. I've got to get out of here before I get you in trouble not that you'd get fired or anything. You're needed up here."

She turns to walk off and looks back over her shoulder. "See you in church, girl!!"

This Time It's Personal

"Jesus, I really enjoy your company these days. You're really helping me get through my toughest days."

She has her eyes closed while she lays supine, head propped on a makeshift pillow. She carries Jesus in her heart and although she speaks to the empty room, she closes her eyes to focus the conversation inward. Some days she feels guilty for only opening up and allowing him in during her darkest hours. It should have been this way all along, she says on those days. Mostly she's just thankful for the support, love, and company.

"You are my savior in more ways than one, you know. You complete me and give me something to wake up for each morning. Our talks are so wonderful and inspiring for me, Jesus.

Yes, I know you're here for all of us and love us all unconditionally. That must take tremendous strength. Does it bother you that I never allowed you in until I was so hurt?

That's good, then. I'm glad you can understand.

Well, honestly, I don't think I've ever known unconditional love before now."

She smiles sweetly and drifts off, snoring lightly. It's been this way for weeks now. Her relationship with Jesus started as simple prayers for help. She lost her job, her home...she was repeatedly assaulted on the streets. She's had quite a time over the last several months and is very thankful to have this anchor to keep her steady. Her lowest came when she was picked up by the police just 3 weeks ago. She had turned to prostitution on occasion when she had no other means to feed herself. She hated every minute of it, but sometimes life just works that way, she has stated....you have to do things you'd never thought yourself capable of just to be able to survive.

She doesn't really understand what happened that evening. An older man picked her up downtown. He was nice enough and treated her gently. He even offered to give her extra money. She doesn't know why she attacked him with the box cutter she had in her jacket pocket, but she did. She injured him badly and likely permanently disfigured his face. When the policemen found her in an alley close to the man's vehicle, she was covered in blood and curled into a tiny ball screaming about wolves in sheep's clothing.

That was the night Jesus came to her.

The night of her salvation...

The days go by and her talks with the Lord Jesus Christ become more frequent and lengthy. She no longer lays with her eyes closed during these talks either. She sits in a chair in the room. She's alert and animated talking at length about any number of topics. At this point, she talks more than not pausing only to listen to Jesus' responses. The inappropriate direction these talks have taken has been surprising to say the least.

She gets flustered and flirty. Her face flushes and she rubs her hands over her thighs, up her sides, and occasionally over her nipples which always harden early on in the talks. And she's begun to rub herself through the crotch of her pajamas...

"I know it isn't right, I know. I need you...in my mouth, in my cunt, even in my ass, Jesus. Everywhere. I need that closeness with you just like all the preachers and ministers do.

Yes, I'm sure. How could I not want you? Your body is exquisite. Your cock is perfectly large, and on top of it all, you've been here for me when I needed you most. I need to show you how much that means to me.

Say what you want but I think you disrupted my whole life this way just so I could fuck you the way you need to be fucked. I'm here now, so take me."

She bites her bottom lip and sighs audibly when she calls Jesus a naughty boy for stroking his cock in the chair across from hers but never takes her eyes off that empty seat.

It's been quite a buildup and on this day, the number of observers in that little room behind the mirror has tripled since she first came here. Hospital gossip spreads like wildfire and it seems everyone wants a peek at the hot little number that fucks Jesus in observation room c. Someone has even brought popcorn. Off color jokes circle around the room mostly involving the woman's mental health...how much medicine would you have to feed her to keep her from biting your dick off but keep her coherent enough to give a great blowjob...things like that. Her primary diagnosis is schizophrenia and although with this illness, a stabilization of medication is necessary to decent functioning, doctors have withheld the meds needed to treat it. Apparently, her budding relationship with Jesus is much too entertaining to let medications ruin it for everyone. Instead, they opt for one medication to control her aggressiveness.

A round of applause roars through the gathering as she pushes her hand in her panties and starts finger fucking herself while screaming OH GOD Fuck me harder Jesus.
February 1, 2010

Wanderer


He sat alone. It was better that way. Behind him, on the other side of the room, an electric fan swayed back and forth. He could hear it working, but he couldn't feel the air moving around him. It was heavy. He could hear water dripping from the tap. It was late. Later than he thought it would be. He thought he would have gotten more done. He was wrong. His cigarette, lit, sitting atop the edge of a tomato soup can ashtray crackled the almost silent crackling of slow burning paper. He didn't listen for it now, he knew its song. He had once though,by accident, stuck in a similar spot. Not knowing what to do, lost in thought or rather lost in an absence of thought, he had scratched his ear, holding that cigarette between his fingers. Once he noticed it, just by his ear, it yelled at him, like logs rolling over top of a parking lot of light bulbs. Just put it down.

He had two sheets in front of him. Two identical sheets of white printer paper. Standard Letter size paper. The only difference was that one was full of words, and the next was blank. He knew everyone had been here before, he had stayed with other friends as they struggled with it too. But these moments, where words just wouldn't come, these were new to him. He knew they would come. Just like he knew they would come for the others. Did he even have anything worth writing about? He remembered them from school. They were 12 of them. Friends. Or at least at the time they were. More likely they had all been just enemies in a common arrangement and suffered each other to make their own paths a little easier to bear. 12. One of those numbers that kept popping up in his mind now. His brain making associations out of nothing, trying to jump into the next page. 12 in his grad class. 12, the number on his apartment door. 12 cigarettes left in his pack. His mind took 12, 1, 2, and added, subtracted multiplied and divided them in as many ways as he could and thought of all kinds of things that were beside the point. That's what you did with numbers right? built a system around them. Ordered things? Put them in a row and on display? He was too easily sidetracked. He was tired. He needed sleep. His dog could sleep any time of the day. His dog was Bukes. Every now and then, Bukes would scratch his ear with his hind paw. But he was sleeping now. And but for the fan and the drip and the crackling, it was quiet.

2 pages. 1 full. 1 empty.

The windows were shut and the doors locked in his studio apartment. He had received an advance from the publisher based on a short story he had written 3 years ago. Since then, he had been busy. Not productive, not clever, not innovative, not original or stimulating, not at all interesting and completely out of ideas. He had kept up with the others. Some he would read about, and others he would hear about through the grapevine. He was, seemingly, doing better than most of them. Maybe he just bought a better suit and used better toothpaste than they did. Maybe he told a better story when the wine allowed him to. Maybe his turn was next. He just needed an idea. Three of them, from his days as a student, had published books of short stories, and one had his novel published. But that would be all. He needed one good idea. He felt as though he might never find it. He had little past experience to base it on. He never traveled. He never fell in love. His parents were healthy and even his grandparents were still vigorous. No one he cared for had ever died, or been stricken with disease. He had never gotten into a fight, never threw a glass against a wall, never kicked something as hard as he could just to see how it felt. He needed one good idea.

He reached for his water. Took a drink. It was cold still, but moving south towards tepid. IT helped his throat. His heart rate had dropped. He was taking his time figuring out what came next. 2 pages. There was a window across the table from where he sat. The curtain was drawn, white, and there were spots on it where it hung against the sill. He'd have to clean them. On the table before him, his ashtray, his glass of water, one #2 pencil with an eraser on the opposite end, DixTico, open cigarette pack, the empty bottle of scotch, capless and 2 pages. 1 full. 1 empty. It was a large table. Too big for his kitchen, really, but there it was. The items didn't take up that much space and were spread about each taking up enough of the surface area so as not to disturb any of the other items. It seemed to him that the knife took up the most space. It was to his right. He had set it down carefully. The blood on it was thick. Thicker than he thought it could be. And it was dark. So dark. He let his eyes wander about the room. On his kitchen floor lay one of the short story writers.

2 pages. 1 full. 1 empty. All he needed was a good idea. they were eleven now. But that would change soon too.





January 31, 2010

Incredible Idiots




wow. ever have one of those days where you thought you might as well just pack it up. write your mom good bye. climb to the roof of a four floor building (cuz who we kiddin? we're all way less in shape than our singles-sites profiles lead randoms to believe) and take a flying fucking leap?


this is now.

I may be the last in the world for this one, but...

(are you ready? just checking cuz it'll floor you.)

...Green Day's American Idiot is being produced as a Broadway Musical.

So, holy shit. Do all the old punks have mortgages now?

"American Idiot follows the exhilarating journey of a new generation of young Americans as they struggle to find meaning in a post-9/11 world, borne along by Green Day's electrifying score. This high-octane show includes every song from the acclaimed album American Idiot, as well as several songs from the band's Grammy-nominated new release, 21st Century Breakdown.

Apparently when masturbation's lost it's fun you write shit music that appeals to the lowest common and find a way to make jewish grandmas everywhere take the newest man in the family to a show for christmas.

I seriously have not had any time for Green Day since Dookie. What's better than your mid teens at punk shows? I saw GD in support of this album at the Bob Guertin Arena (in Quebec) when I was 15. This was in a whole different province with a lower drinking age. Being 6'3 at 15 means you buy the beer. My friends Ryan, Chris and I split a case of 50 and smoked a couple grams before sinking into Gen Adm. I remember more of that show than I do from the shrooms and hash brownie combo at the Pink Floyd show the next year.

So. Here's Dookie. Spend 45 minutes thinking about how much fun it was to be a teen and ignore the disappointment of a Broadway Green Day. Low quality and it sounds like it should be on tape.

Fuck You

American Psycho

\

Most people my age or around my age are bound to remember seeing the movie American Psycho. It was a killer thriller of a different breed at that time, at least to me. The cast was pretty classy....Christian Bale, Chloe Sevigny, Jared Leto, Willem Dafoe, Reese Witherspoon, Samantha Mathis, Josh Lucas, and more. I was a senior in high school at this time and I'm pretty sure I had it bad for this movie because of the eye candy. For example:




Not to mention the wicked shower scene right near the beginning featuring Bale's perfect, perfect ass. Even the straightest of men envy that ass. Okay so yeah movie. It was odd as are most movies I've ever really liked. Patrick Bateman, played by Bale, is a 27 year old investment analyst on Wall Street. He's wealthy, attractive, and lives it up in high society. He's also a cocaine addict who enjoys torturing and killing...well, anyone--hookers, old girlfriends, coworkers, one night stands, police officers, bums, homosexuals, cab drivers, dogs, rats...anything with a pulse. The movies is full of senseless murder, music diatribes, yuppie cockstains, and even has an explosion. It's dark and it makes you think. It creates the kind of unease that good thrillers are supposed to as opposed to the torture and gore porn we're becoming used to today with movies like Saw. It makes you think...makes you wonder about the people closest to you. 


There's another side to this though....

What most people don't know, however, or don't seem to know, is that this movie is actually based on the novel of the same name by Bret Easton Ellis which was published in 1991. Not too long ago I figured I'd give the book a shot since I'd liked the movie so much when I was younger. I thought I'd get more insight into the character and enjoy it more. Just before I actually started it, I was warned. Philemon told me it was just too much at some points and that a lot of it was unnecessary. I thought he might mean the descriptions were just too wordy...that certain parts just didn't add to the story and were, in that regard, unnecessary. Wrong. I know what he meant now and saying that certain parts weren't necessary to the story is like saying that spitting while you talk isn't necessary for effective communication. Understatement.


The movie was not even the tip of the iceberg when it comes to most of Bateman's activities and in no way does it prepare you for what you're going to read. For example, here is a scene from the movie where Bateman murders a fellow employee of Pierce & Pierce:




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Now this is how the same scene reads in the book:


The ax hits him midsentence, straight in the face, its thick blade chopping sideways into his open mouth, shutting  him up. Paul's eyes look up at me, then involuntarily roll back into his head, then back at me, and suddenly his hands are trying to grab at the handle, but the shock of the blow has sapped his strength. There's no blood at first, no sound either except for the newspapers under Paul's kicking feet, rustling, tearing. Blood starts to slowly pur out of the sides of his mouth shortly after the first chop, and when I pull the ax out--almost yanking Owen out of the chair by his head--and strike him with it again in the face, splitting it open, his arms flailing at nothing, blood sprays out in twin brownish geysers, staining my raincoat. this is accompanied by a horrible momentary hissing noise actually coming fromt he wounds in Paul's skull, places where bone and flesh no longer connect, and this is followed by a rude farting noise caused by a section of his brain, which due to pressure forces itself out, pink and glistening, through the wounds in his face. He falls to the floor in agony, his face just gray and bloody except for one of his eyes, which is blinking uncontrollably..."


I was quite disturbed by this book and for the first time in my life I had to stop reading here and there...just walk away from the book for a few days because it was too much for me to handle. It made me wonder what sort of sick fuck could think this up and live with it day after day while writing the scenes and what sort of pyschopath it would really take to 'be' Patrick Bateman. The author is Patrick Bateman's sickest desires and thoughts and quite frankly I want to know what the fuck is wrong with him. Here are some examples that made me wonder:


...blue and red intestines bulge out and I drop the dog onto the sidewalk...the sharpei drags itself around in a circle, its tail wagging, squealing, and it starts licking and sniffing the pile of its own intestines, spilled out in a mound on the sidewalk, some still connected to its stomach....
The band Motorhead formed in 1975 in Great Britain by bassplayer, songwriter, and singer known to fans as Lemmy, who has remained the band's only constant member. Motorhead has widely been known as a metal band, but even the creator, Lemmy, disagrees. Instead, the band just plays rock and plays what they feel--the commons sense evolution of rock as it was already known. The band was pretty successful during the 70s and 80s. Several singles were featured on Britain's top 40 and the band is actually number 26 on VH1's top 100. Arguably the most famous Motorhead songs is Ace of Spades. It's thundering bass riffs emphasize their ability to play faster, harder, and stronger than anyone else in the metal genre at the time. Another song loved by most and also one of my favorites, Overkill. The epitome of Motorhead's winding fast and gutteral, powerful, edgy rock n roll lyrics is exemplified in Overkill and is fully backed by Lemmy's artisan basswork, Fast Eddie Clark's lightening guitar work.


...using the power drill with a detachable, massive head I widen that hole while she shakes, protesting, and once I'm satisfied with the size of the hole I've created, her mouth open as wide as possible, a reddish-black tunnel of twisted tongue and loosened teeth, I force my hand down, deep into her throat, until it disappears up to my wrist...and grab at the veins lodged there like tubes and I loosen them with my gingers and when I've gotten a good rip on them violently yank them out through her open mouth, pulling until the neck caves in, disappears, the skin tightens and splits...
..force her mouth open and with the scissors cut out her tongue, which I pull easily from her mouth and hold in the palm of my hand, warm and still bleeding, seeming so much smaller than in her mouth, and I throw it against the wall, where it stickes for a moment, leaving a stain, before falling to the floor with a tiny wet slap. Blood gushes out of her mouth and I have to hold her head up so she won't choke. Then I fuck her in the mouth, and after I've ejaculated and pulled out, I mace her some more. 
Those aren't even the parts where I had to take breaks so just realize I'm doing you a fucking favor and thank me on your knees or buy me things. I'll take either one just so long as you're on your knees in person. You'll look better that way. Either way, I really must say, even though a good number of people might disagree with me, that I have absolutely no respect for this author. This book was over the top ridiculous in it's violence. Any story about a serial killer needs violence. It's inherent, but I don't need that sort of thrill from a read. I don't think anyone does. He can create powerful images with written word and that, by and far, is a great gift, but he abuses it with this book. I doubt seriously that I'd read any other books he's written or watch any moves based on them (Rules of Attraction). I really would rather this sick fuck not make another dime for all the rest of his life.

Excuse me now, I have to go return some videotapes.
  

about me. not really.

dear you,

i don't talk about my child or being a mom. i don't talk about my garden. i won't mention my craftiness (often) or how much i save each week with coupons. if you're looking for that sort of thing, you're in the wrong place.

instead, let's abandon the tethers of domestication for a moment and remember what it's like to laugh at vulgarity and the world at large.

xo,

j

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