Defeat, Thy Name is Mario

Creativity is a bit of a mixed bag to possess. Don't get me wrong, it's great to be able to imagine and create things that are of my own design. I think it may be something akin to penis envy. My theory is that creativity is largely our way of channeling the natural instinct to procreate and sire future generations. I'm male, so I can't make babies; I'm a bit crucial to the process, but in the end, all I do is provide the seed. Also, since no one is exactly willing to mate with me at this particular juncture, I've decided to make due with my musings. Ideas are my brain babies, and the great thing about them is that they don't eat or poop, but they do sometimes keep me up at night because they won't shut up.

I think I may have discovered my kryptonite though. There is apparently one thing that dulls my senses to the point where I suffer from a prolonged case of writer's block. It's not inactivity, because I do that all the time and I'm still able to crank out a little nugget of genius every once and a while. It makes me feel a little dirty to actually admit to this thing, because it has been with me for much of my life, and it worries me a bit that it has this effect on me. I'm going to share it with all of you because it does no good to hide things like a critical weakness, because eventually, your archnemesis will discover it anyway and hit you with it when you least expect it. This way, I get to be paranoid about it and be prepared for an impending attack.

My weakness...is video games.

There. I said it. It's out there all pink and naked for all the world to see. Video games give me massive writer's block. I don't quite understand it. I've been playing video games since I was five years old. Over the years they have given me plenty of joy, but at the same time, one could argue that they might also be a soft addiction for me. Whenever I get my hands on a new game, I have to play the hell out of it. I just do. This usually means going until I beat it, but it also may just mean until the shine wears off, but I usually beat it first. I'm voracious at this. I think it goes back to when I was younger and could never afford to by games, so I always rented them. This meant that I only had five days to enjoy a game, so I got really good at finishing just about any game in that time span. Unfortunately, I now have the scratch to buy, but that impulse still resides within me and rears its ugly head from time to time.

To throw myself completely into something like that robs me of the ability to do anything else. When I game, that's all I do. It sucks, because it's fun, but at the same time, I now know what it does to me, so there is a certain bittersweet quality to it now. I can't ever give it up. I love video games too much for that. Maybe moderation is the key? It seems to work for everything else in my life up to this point. We'll see. Rest assured though that I will be putting down the controller soon and be ready to rock and roll for 2009. I can't tell you what to expect, but what fun would it be to know ahead of time anyway? I'm no seer, but I see some interesting times ahead, and rest assured that all of you devoted followers will be privy to whatever useless bits of my wisdom leak out onto the ol' Mind Munch. I've already got one treat in store, but I'll save the details for bit later...

Channel Wipe-Out

I know that television is no great bastion for people of consciousness. In fact, I find that one of its great appeals is its simplicity, at least when it comes to channels. There is a golf channel, a news channel, a men channel, a woman's channel (two actually, three if you count Soap Net), a science channel, a sci-fi channel, and multiple movie channels. What you see is what you get. You never have to ask, "Oh, Country Music Television, I wonder what that channel is about?" The answer is self evident: crappy music sung by semi-literate yokels.

Lately though, there has been a frightening and disturbing shift in TV: airing programming whose content has nothing to do with the premise of the channel on which it is being shown. I first noticed this phenomenon years ago when I saw "Goodfellas" airing on Oxygen, the Oprah channel. I let it slide because I thought maybe women actually have an appreciation for awesome mob movies, plus I don't really watch Oxygen, so it did not really impact my life. What a fool I was. My refusal to nip this problem in the bud would soon spread to my home turf in the worst way imaginable.

I love History. I study it, I live it (well, we all live it), and breathe it. As a result, the History Channel is one of my personal favorites. I'm not going to say that everything they do is the best history lesson, but at least you get what you expect. Not anymore. The channel, now simply known as "History" has forsaken me, the penultimate fan, in favor of a broader appeal. What kind of appeal? Just today, I saw a show entitled "Sex in Space" that was all about the possible ways to bump uglies in zero gravity. Now I'm not going to say that this is a rediculous idea. I've thought about that scenario since I was fifteen, except for one little problem...IT'S NOT HISTORY! Not a single part of it! This is just the tip of the banality iceberg though. You'll have less success finding an actual documentary in a typical History programming lineup than a myopic amputee would at a braille edition of Where's Waldo.

Some of these shows don't even sound real. I'd expect to find a show called "Jurassic Fight Club" to be a parody on a sitcom, not a legitimate (and I use that term loosely) television program. The most obvious thing is that the channel is attempting to compete with Discovery by expanding the definition of history to include natural history. This leads to shows like the aforementioned dinosaur frag-fest, plus "The Universe" and "Monster Quest," shows about everything under and beyond the sun and things that do not even exist (except Bigfoots). Now I like to keep an open mind, but Natural History is not proper History; it's Science. History is the human historical record started around 5,000 years ago in the fertile crescent of east-central Asia. No dinosaurs. No cavemen. No black holes. No giant salamander monsters that inhabit the jugles of Djibouti. It's simple. And I'm not even going to give "Ice Road Truckers" the decency of a rant, sufficed to say that if I wanted to know what these people did for a living, I'd pick up a job application.

I know documentaries aren't everyone's favorite thing to watch. They are the brussels sprouts of the entertainment world, but there are people who like them, including me. It's a shame to see decent informative material get sidelined by populist trash that has less educational value than watching a chimp jerk itself off (that's the kind of stuff you get on Discovery). Luckily, the good stuff has fled to the relative safety of niche channel History International, but it's only a matter of time until this plague of basic cable spreads to the premium package. And if it does happen, we won't know what to do because nobody will have watched that awesome documentary on the Black Death.

In Hoc Signo Vinces, Suckers

The holidays are here again, and there is a certain magic in the air. I can't quite describe it, but it feels like I need to go out and help my fellow man. So that's what I'm gonna do! How will I do it, you ask? Why, through the gifts of understanding and insight, with just a pinch of my perverse desire to destroy people's preconceptions of reality, of course.

Merry Xmas to everyone out there. Yes, I said "Xmas", not "Christmas", but I could have because they mean the exact same thing. Yep, how many times have you seen people write one or the other and then attempt to justify themselves.

"I always write 'Christmas' because I want to remind people what this season is really about." I guess the true meaning of Christmas is apparently correct spelling. Sorry, Linus, I guess you better put the blanket down and rethink your life.

or,

"'Xmas' is better because it is not exclusive to Christians, so more people can enjoy it."

Of course, these two views will bicker back in forth over which one is more appropriate for the season. Ok, you two, settle down, have a seat, warm up some Orville-Redenbacher, and listen to my warm tale of holiday tradition. To start off with, you're both wrong. Especially you, Mr. Secular-Pants.

Here's a little religious history for you folks. One of the earliest symbols used by the Christian cult (yes, in its infancy it was a cult, get over it) was a little thing called the Chi Rho.

Pretty, isn't it? "Chi" and "Rho" are the Greek letters for "X" and "R" and also happen to be the first two letters in the original redition of "Christos" or as you probably know it, "Christ". This symbol has been around since the third century, and Constantine made it the Nike swoosh of the fourth century Roman Empire.

So, to summarize: in Greek, "Christ" starts with an "X", so semantically, Xmas and Christmas mean the exact same thing. In fact, Xmas might even be a little more pious as it is more faithful to the roots of the Church. Feel duped yet?

So why the confusion anyway? It's because people don't do their homework, or at least not the right assignment. Spend a little less time focusing on Algebra where "X" is a blank interger and try cracking a History book next time. I'm not saying that all people need to just get over themselves and celebrate Christmas, because that's rediculous. Who would work on December 25th? What it does show is that this whole PC sensitive-to-all-people-at-all-times is pretty much a crock of shit. You don't like Xmas? Then don't celebrate it! Just don't try to neuter it because it makes you more comfortable. You can't cut Jesus's balls off, he'll just heal them, and probably make them bigger and made of brass so that he'll have no scruples about kicking your ass for trying it in the first place. And don't think he won't do it because he's Jesus. That whole "turn the other cheek" thing is just a way to make his aiming easier.

Chris Crocker Can Finally Shut the Hell Up!

At the risk of sounding like a total whore for the entertainment industry, I feel the need to give some serious props to someone: Ms. Brittney Spears.

Doesn't it feel like yesterday when we were all convinced that we'd see her bald, bloated, drug-addled corpse lying on the floor of a seedy motel room on Entertainment Tonight? Well guess what, America? The bitch is back...with a vengeance. Her new album sold over half a million copies in its first weekend; not too shabby by most measures. She's been running the entertainment circuits and making appearances with Madonna at the annual Who-Gives-A-Flying-Fuck Awards (sadly, there was no making out this time).

I am genuinely happy with how well that chick has turned her life around for a few reasons. One is because, even though I love a high profile train wreck as much as the next person, I actually felt bad for her. I mean, there are psycho hose beasts who get off on that kind of negative PR, but it really seemed like the media was trying to kill her. But we backed off. We let her fade away for a while. I don't know if it was Dr. Drew who made us aware of her problems, or Trey Parker and Matt Stone for pointing out how absurd the whole scenario was, but we gave her some slack to get her shit together. That gives me hope that maybe we aren't quite as morally bankrupt as those preacher folk lead us to believe. As a culture, we've gotten past watching people get mauled by lions to satiate our bloodlust; at least now we don't have to actually go any where to get it.

Another reason Brit's turnaround warms the cockles of my heart is because she holds a special place in my heart...or maybe that's my crotch...I'm not exactly sure. She reached the zenith of her career during my adolescent years. As a young boy on the cusp of becoming a man, I would have sold my own mother for one night with Brittney Spears. C'mon, if you trace her career, she'll appeal to just about any guy with a pulse. Innocent girl with a dirty mind? Check. Teenager whose chastity is questionable? Check. High class stripper? Check. Heir apparent to Madonna? Check. She even appeals to gay guys who wear way too much mascara. Seriously, that cat is the one who needs a doctor, or at least the number of a good beautician. Did the whole of Male America really want to watch one of its greatest sex symbols go out like this? Rule three of The Sex Object Handbook clearly states, "Leave a beautiful corpse."

Finally, now that the Brittney cosmos has once again realigned, there is void in the fabric of public ridicule, ripe to be filled by the giants, he-shes, and bearded ladies of generations past. Now is the time to say farewell to reality TV and welcome back to the ten-in-one from the days of old. Give it back to people know how to exploit a crowd of rubes. All thanks to Brittney. Thank you, Ms. Spears. I do not know you (and desperately wish I did), but thank you.

Reindeer Beats Essay

I don't know why I'm writing something right now. By all rights, my brain should be shut down to the point where only my brainstem is still functioning in order to keep my basic biological functions. I'm not here to bitch about how much final exams suck though, because I get enough of that crap in people's Facebook profiles. Tell me if this sounds familiar: "So-and-So is [insert stupid generic statement about how tough finals are for you]."

Don't get me wrong, a lot of people are under a lot of stress right now and need a way to vent off, and that is perfectly fine and healthy, but do me a favor: exercise, get laid, cry, or whatever, and move on. There is a lot of sympathy from peers in college about this time of year, but try and look at it another way. From the outside looking in, finals have to be one of the most rediculous looking rituals in society. You have young people at their physical and sexual peak, and instead of going out and grabbing life by the balls as is their job, they cloister themselves away for a week, stop sleeping, and do nothing but work. Does that sound normal? Does that sound healthy?


That second question is easy...no it's not healthy. I've seen people do things to themselves this week that most rational individuals would never even consider. When else does combining Red Bull, amphetamines, and Colombian nose candy actually sound like a good idea? It makes me almost wish that I were a drug dealer, they must look forward to this time of year like it was Christmas...in addition to actual Christmas that is. I'll bet a drug dealer's Christmas is sweet.

Everything we do right now goes against what our bodies want us to do.
The body says, "Go to sleep, you need rest." And you respond with "Fuck you; I need to study." So then your body says, "No, fuck you!"

And then you go, "Fuck you!"

And your body is like, "FUCK YOU!!!"

And you're like, "I'll sleep later!"

And it's like, "You sleep now!"

And you're like, "Later!"

And it goes, "NOW!!!"

So you go, "Fuck you!"

And it's like, "FUCK YOU!"


Repeat ad infinitum until you realize that it's 6:00 AM and all you've done is argue with your body all night rather than work on that twelve-page term paper. Nobody wins. Is that what we've come to? Is this what life is about? No. Who else gets to piss away 90% of his time and then blow his whole energy load on a single event? Wait...I know who: Santa Claus.

If you think you've got it bad, think about Santa. This guy is old and out of shape, and he has to do everything in one friggen' night. And nobody give me that magic shit either. St. Nick may be able to bend the laws of our physical reality, but you can't tell me that that doesn't require some degree of effort. Even Jesus broke a sweat once in a while, and he is at least as powerful as Santa. All of you students should drop to your knees and thank God that you're not Santa! At the very least, you should at least have a renewed appreciation for the crap that he does for us. Don't just dismiss him as corporate America's whore; Chris Kringle does more than that. Thank Santa! Love Santa! Worship Santa!

ALL HAIL SANTA!!!

Chunkhi Sighting?

This photo was taken in Eureka, Missouri just a few days ago.

The victim was a family pet that had recently gotten out of its home and was wandering about in the woods. The family launched an extensive search: signs, phone calls to both local police and animal control, and looking both by car and on foot, but with no results. After a week of searching, the family's seven year-old daughter finally gound the body in the forest just a few hundred yards behind the main house.

What sort of monster would do this? There was one witness who, although she was not able to provide any solid details, described hearing two animals struggling, a terrible noise that sounded like howling cluck, and then saw a figure leap into the trees and swing away.

Sound familiar? It is my expert opinion that this poor animal was the victim of a Chunkhi. I had hoped that those reports from a few months ago were hogwash, but unfortunately it seems that they weren't. It looks like a Chinkhi might be around for the holidays.

Lock your doors extra tight this Christmas.

Ranger Rick: Terrorist

It has begun. There is a threat to America greater than any other we have ever faced. Smarter than fascism, more intimidating than communism, and more cunning than Al-Quaeda. Indeed, this group knows no boundaries, no nationality, not even religion. It doesn't even regard species as a concern, save for one: Homo sapiens. To this organization, humans are the scourge of the earth and must be eliminated at all costs. The animals of the wilderness have united to destroy us.

Don't believe me? Have a gander at this:

http://www.kmov.com/video/topvideo-index.html?nvid=310682

Chilling, isn't it? Oh, sure, you may laugh at the seemingly rediculous nature of the story, the scorched racoon prints on the metal plate, and the electric company's light-hearted take on the whole thing, but don't fall for it!

Read between the lines, people! The largest power outage caused by a single animal; fifty-one thousand homes without power. Schools, government offices, and hospitals closed because of it. And this wasn't the first time it has been done either. Isn't it obvious what's going on here? The animals are banding together in a consolidated effort to destroy human society and usurp our role as the dominant force on the planet.

They know that we have superior technology and infrastructure, but that without them, many of us are sitting ducks to the harshness of mother nature. This is why they target our power stations. Taking out our electricity is the fastest way to level the playing field. The frightening thing is that they do not rely on advanced tactics, they survive because of their numbers, and are not above sacrificing one of their own in order accomplish their goal, hence the string of crispy critters found near exploded transformers. That racoon is now in heaven welcoming his seventy-two open dumpsters filled to the brim with refuse. And there are plenty more where he came from willing to give their lives to the cause. Right now, there are caves filled with baby animals being conditioned to follow the animal extermist doctrine.

Not that we humans are passive victims in all of this. There are those among us who fight in the underground against these furry foes. You think zoos are research and conservation facilities? Wake up! They're the prisons where captured animal terrorists are incarcerated and interrogated for information, but so far not much has been obtained, the largest obstacle being that animals can't talk. Why do you think every time a tiger or an elephant escapes from a zoo they go totally apeshit and start killing visitors; if they are going down, they're taking as many of us with them as possible. Chimps aren't trying to be cheeky when they thow poo at you; that's biological warfare.

We have made strides in other areas as well. Some animals do not agree with the doctrine of woodland radicalsim and have defected to our side. This is why we cannot simply go out and kill every animal we see (please, please, don't do that!). The greatest among these is Coco, the gorilla that can speak sign language. She is the Enigma Machine of the war between Man and Animal. Other animals try to avoid conflict entirely; like pandas. Pandas are the hippies of the animal world. They are stupid, lazy, and spend all of their time chomping on leaves and don't give a shit about anything else. They are just as bad as the enemy. Fucking pandas!

Some animals have even infiltrated into our culture and have formed splinter cells on the inside to unravel human society. Some are high profile, like Smokey the Bear and Tony the Tiger. What scares me about these guys is that they are dangerous animals in their own right, but they have become sophisticated enough to gain our trust and respect. Don't be fools! Pets are the same. They pretend to care about us, but they are just biding their time until the Revolution happens. Some may have in fact succumbed to Stockholm Syndrome and do generally love you, but only in a sick twisted terrorist-relating-to-his-hostage kind of way.

With so many critters on earth, how can such an organized movement actually take place? It is because their leader is the most cruel, cunning, and manipulative beast to shuffle about on four legs...Opossum Bin Laden. For years, this crafty marsupial has been pulling the strings of the animal attacks through his various cuddly lieutenents. He is in all seriousness the most dangerous creature on the planet. He will not rest until all humans have been killed and dominated by the beasts of the forest. If you see Opossum Bin Laden, report him to the Department of Homeland Defense so that he can be captured and tried by professionals. Do not attempt to aprehend him! He must be considered armed and dangerous at all times.

Anyone out there who doubts my words with claims of, "Awwww, but they're so cute, though," you are already lost to the enemy's propaganda. You Vichy pussies just better get out of the way once the final atack begins and this goes from an underground terrorist movement into total war. You've been warned.

The Perfect Stocking Stuffer

I'm usually of the opinion that current advertising has never been worse or more oversaturated in our culture, but I saw something today that may have changed that. Traditionally, PSAs have been infamous for their rediculous messages and even more rediculous production quality, but this was unlike anything that I have ever seen, and I feel compulsed to share it with others who are sure to appreciate it. I have struggled to find the commercial online, but to no avail, so I'll simply describe it to you:

"A woman in her thirties is seated in a warmly lit room with hints of holiday decorations, the camera tightens in on her face.
'This year, give your man the gift he really wants. Schedule him for a regular prostate exam.'"

I didn't hear the rest of the commercial because I was too busy gasping for air between guffaws. It's every man's dream to wake up bright and early on Christmas morning, scamper down the stairs to see what Santa brought you for being a good boy this year, but instead of an Xbox 360 or a new bike, you find a doctor with a rubber glove under the tree. It's a Christmas miracle!

Not that I'm against proper health care and the importance of regular checkups, but this has to be the worst Christmas gift ever. Worse than that piece of shit sweater that your myopic aunt gives you every year. I don't even know how it would work. I've tried to figure it out, but I just can't put my finger on it. Do you get a doctor under the tree as described above? Does Santa do it? Sweet Jesus on a Unicycle! That's right, you go to bed tonight with the image of Jolly Ol' Saint Nick pumping your grundle with only the light of the yule log and the Xmas tree to guide that finger that shoots him up your chimmney. If that happens, you might want to forgo the milk and cookies and just leave a box of latex gloves and a bottle of K-Y Jelly. I don't even think prisoners deserve that, and they are used to being sodomized by fat guys with beards.

The commercial was dead serious, but I pray to God that nobody treats it as such. Never before have I been so happy to be young and single. Fellas, if you have a woman and she suggests this to you, kick her ass to the curb! If you think you've got yourself one of the good ones and can't bear with trading her in for a different model, then respond to her in a way to let her know that you respect her opinion and wishes:

"Ok, honey, I'll do this because it's Christmas and I love you, but you have to let me do it to you on my birthday."

Compromise is one of the cornerstones of a healthy relationship after all.

Waiter, I'll Have the Screwball Comedy

Art is like food. No, it's more like art is food; for the mind anyway. Maybe I'm just on this train of thought because I haven't eaten anything today and am starting to get a case of the crazies, but maybe, just maybe, I'm onto something here. Rather than try and extend this metaphor onto the whole of art and art culture (I'd rather not try and see if I can can make my head explode, but that would be a good start), it would probably be best to tweak the lens here a bit and get a visible beam with which to work. For now, I'll stay in the realm of films, as this is the one with with I am the most familiar (besides cartoons that is, but that's more of a subset).

Now bear with me here as we return to the original premise that art is food. Stop right now and write down as many different foods that you can think of...it's ok, I'll wait. It's not like this is going on in real time or anything. Really...just take a few minutes and do it.

Did you do it? C'mon, just do it for sixty seconds.



I'm not going to continue until you do it, so you might as well just get it over with. *glare*



Ok, so you probably came up with quite few right? Some were your personal favorites, maybe something you had at a nice restaurant on the last date you went on, something you saw on one of those shows on Food Network that you watch but will never admit to your friends (it's alright, we all think Rachel Ray is kinda hot), or maybe just whatever is sitting around in your house right now. I'm sure there was at least some diversity in your list. This same principle can be applied to movies as well.

Not all films are created equal, and it is a simple truth of the universe that some are better than others. Certain high-quality films are like a fine dish of coq au vin; it uses the finest ingredients and, when placed in the hands of a master chef result in something that is a delight for not only your palette, but every sense is set aflutter at its presentation and consumption. These are your complex, character-driven stories that tug at all of your emotions and have you leaving the theater like you have witnessed something wonderful. This is the stuff Oscar contenders and time-tested classics classic are made of, think Citizen Kane or There Will Be Blood. These are so good that you may think that you see God. Oppositely, you may not be a fan of fine French cuisine, but you can at least appreciate the greatness of it, even if it isn't exactly your cup of tea.

Next up we have something like The Dark Knight, a great film by most standards. I won't go so far as to procalaim it one of the greatest movies ever, but I thought it was phenominal, and it has made a billion dollars, so there has to be something there. I would put it maybe on par with either a really good steak or maybe a kobe beef burger, something meaty that is above the rest in quality, but not quite on the same level of subtlty and complexity as something an Iron Chef would whip up in kitchen stadium. It's great, and most people would pay to enjoy it, maybe even enough to order seconds, like when it gets re-released in January (actually it would be thirds for me).

Then we have delicious classics that everybody can love or appreciate in some way. This is where I place cats like Spielberg. These guys understand something fundamental about human nature and seek to express it. Stuff like E.T., Jurrasic Park, and the like are the apple pies and meatloafs of cinema. Well made, delicious, and done with just the right amount of love. These movies make us feel good because they appeal to us on a very basic level, the same way the smell of fresh-baked cookies tickles your nose when you come home from school. These movies are more likely to be our comfort food, the stuff we turn to when we know how we want to feel a certain way.

These categories are all a bit broad. Now we get into the more specific categories that have less general appeal, but have definite niche followings. Action films are like barbeque, a male pastime involving meat, fire, and just the right amount of spice to give it a good kick. On the other side of the coin, chick flicks are a box of chocolate covered strawberries, they're sweet, make you feel good when you're down, and can be used by men to make you chicks like us more. Imagine kiddy films as a big bowl of your favorite cereal, everyone has his or her own personal fave and likes to indulge once and a while and remember a simpler time. If you like to try new things and want to experiment with something you've never seen before, those rogue independent films are like the fried squid tentacles, something you just need to experience because it expands your personal boundaries a bit. It won't kill 'ya, and who knows, you might even like it.

There is one area that I have to address seperately. There's junk food, and then there's just plain crap. A lot of films are simply guilty pleasures that we like to watch even if we know they aren't very good for us. It's ok, I've seen TMNT three times too. But some movies are just the equivalent of fried butter, nasty shit that shifty carnies try to sell to us in the spirit of fun. I'm thinking particularly of the recent _____Movie trend. You know, Scary Movie, Date Movie, Action Movie, and its cheap imitators. This is the kind of stuff that we have no business putting into our bodies, because it tastes terrible, and its only going to make our lives shorter and less fulfilling.

Although each of these categories has its own value (for the most part), remember that it is never good to eat too much of the same thing all of the time. A balanced diet is the key to a healthy and happy life, and the same goes for movies as well. They can't all be glorious masterpieces, or else our tongues would become dull, nor can they be all cheap popcorn, because it just isn't that nutritious, and if all we ate was junk food, we'd all be fat blobs of shit that could not longer fully appreciate all life has to offer. So remember to always peruse the menu, ask about the specials, and tip your waiter.

Rabbit Holes of Grandeur

I’m a realist. Some would take that to mean that I am an uninspired pessimist, but that’s not it. I’m a realist because I first and foremost believe in the concept of reality. We live in a material realm that is bound by certain rules and limitations. As part of that paradigm, we are similarly constrained, meaning that we are only capable of doing so much…sort of. You see, we have one gift that is not bound by these chains. Love or hate our big, fat inflated heads, one thing we have that everybody loves is the human imagination. Creativity, fantasy, these are the things with which we waste our time. Everybody fantasizes. You name a subject, and somebody fantasizes about it. Why do we do it? Honestly, reality gets a little boring on us sometimes. We just need to escape and not be ourselves every once in a while. It’s a perfectly human desire.

Luckily, we live in a culture that is brilliant at distracting us from our lives, perhaps maybe too well. We can go to the movies or watch TV and play make-believe. Centuries of books titillate us with words that we use to paint pictures in our minds. If you like a bit more control, there are plenty of video games to allow for a little vicarious living, or you can simply put on some music and just tune out to the world and get lost in your own head. Everybody has some sort of sexual fantasy too; that one thing that we’ve always wanted to do, or have done to us, but haven’t had the sand to request, either because we’re too embarrassed or it’s illegal in most states. In your mind, you can be on a beach in Mexico, a superhero, the world’s greatest lover, or Senor Speedo, the Mexican beach-bum superhero who all the women want in the worst way.

Some fantasies are best left in your head. If you really did smack that blithering idiot who sits next you in class in the head with a large freshwater fish, there would probably some sort of consequence there, and not the cheering of the entire class like you’d hoped. Some can come true when all of the stars are aligned properly. Maybe one day you’ll meet a guy who gets off tying you up and smacking you with a large freshwater fish, just like you’d dreamed of on so many lonely, fishless nights. It is candy for the soul; a sweet little yummy that brightens up our day. Also like candy, we sometimes get the naïve conception that it is all we need in order to be happy. Fantasy is like Vermont: it’s a nice place to visit, but you’d kill yourself if you had to live there.

Some people don’t take too much of a shine to this concept. We call them addicts. Addiction, in a nutshell, is any unhealthy fixation that interferes with normal daily functioning. I take this to mean that addiction is what happens when a person would rather live in fantasy than reality. For them, reality is a cruel and harsh place where nothing ever goes the way it should, and life is just one horrible misfortune after another. Some turn to the tried and true methods of coping with mind-altering substances. These classics all have the same story: spiral and burnout until it just can’t cut it anymore. Chemical addictions are a totally different animal and I am no Dr. Drew. As much as I’d love to hold back Keith Urban’s hair while he yacks into a trash bin, that’s not my scene. Psychological addictions though are a little easier to wrap my head around.

There are some tried and true culprits to run to here as well. Let’s check them off: Gambling? Check. Eating? Check. Porn? Check. Video Games? This one I know personally. There was I time in my life that, in retrospect, might have been a bit of a soft addiction, that is until I saw those news stories about those kids who do nothing but play World of Warcraft until they literally waste away in their desk chairs. I have some sympathy for these people. They have deep rooted issues that require serious help in order to save them from themselves.

Having said that, some people just need to get their shit together…

Like one couple in the UK that I saw today. They met online and were soon married. Ok, so it’s not exactly The Notebook, but it works for these modern times. So these two ended up with their happy ending…until she caught him cheating with a call girl. Well…it wasn’t exactly cheating. She caught him cuddling with the other woman on “Second Life”. Have you heard of this thing? It’s an online virtual world where you design an avatar for yourself and live a life however you want. To reiterate, you live a normal life, only it’s online. Who the fuck needs to save the world from mutant alien zombies when you can go buy groceries? This woman divorced her husband for sleeping with a woman online, and not like phone sex or anything, just clicking and letting your pixilated pants python do the rest. She actually divorced him for playing a game. This is sadder than sad. I’ve seen pictures of these people, and that cat was not exactly Frank Sinatra. The only way he could have gotten laid was with a fake internet puppet.

Folks, here’s the bottom line: reality can be tough sometimes. Wear a cup. It’s not going to be happiness and sunshine all of the time. If it was, then happiness would have no meaning when you do encounter it. So go ahead and step through the looking glass once and awhile, just remember to leave some bread crumbs so that you can find your way back.

And if you insist on having some sort of unhealthy vice, I’ve already though that one out. Go back and read my “Vice Guy Syndrome” post.

Fatum Gratia Fatum

What does it mean to be weird? The dictionary tells us that it means as follows:

1. Involving or suggesting the supernatural; unearthly or uncanny: a weird sound; weird lights.
2. Fantastic; bizarre: a weird getup.
3. Archaic: concerned with or controlling fate or destiny.

That third one I find particularly intriguing. Not only does it make my latin title make more sense, but it also gives the word a great degree of power. "Concerned with or controlling fate." Damn that's cool!

Be honest with yourself, what is the first thing comes to your head when you think of a weird person? Is he or she different? Unusual? Perhaps a bit repelling? I'd bet a hefty sum that none of you thought of "sexy". Be honest, now. If you didn't think of Weird Al Yankovic, you probably thought of that guy you went to high school with who was a big nerd, or who could always bring a conversation to a screeching halt with non sequiters like, "You smell like the fabric softener my mom uses on my towels." Did that make you feel uncomfortable just reading it? You bet your ass it did! The bottom line is that you probably thought of "different".

Well, I'm here to change those misconceptions. I'm especially speaking to you ladies out there who flock to my wisdom and hope that somwhere in my enchanting musings you will find the key to all your dreams. Never in my life have I heard a woman say, "I want a guy who's really weird." I've heard, "Why do I always get the weird ones?!" I hear that one a lot. I've been alderman of that before. Why the stigma? You confuse "weird" with "unattractive". In my experience, "weird" is usually meant as a put-down. It's used when a person is at a loss to find any actual descriptive terms for a person. Rarely is the word used as a term of affection; it's been known to occur, but only seldomly.

Do you know what weird means to me? I follow more in the vein of the actual definition of the word. Uncanny, fantastic, unconventional; are these traits to be avoided? What gal wouldn't love to be able to say that she has a fantastic guy? A weird person to me is a special kind of uniqueness. It means a possessor of immense creativity and imagination, someone who is capable of creating without the yoke of what is expected or normal. The Weird have self confidence and don't give a furry rat's ass whether or not you hold them in a low regard. Confident, unique, imaginative, able to surprise you...are any of these appealing to anyone out there?

What's my big point? This: weird is sexy. Weird is an awesomely attractive personality trait to me. Note the word "personality". I do not equate weird with physicality in any way. Pretty people can be weird, they just usually aren't because the attention they get for being pretty gets in the way of developing truly interesting character traits. However, if I think you are cute and weird, you better start clearing your weekend calendars! Others out there may want to at least experiment with this approach. If it doesn't work for you, that's cool; live and let live and all that rot, but at least give it a try and see what happens.

Woah...I just realized how meta this post is.

Liter-bug (short "i" sound)

In the back of my mind, I can't help but feel like I am contributing to the downfall of literate society. I resisted doing something like this thing here because I don't like the way a lot of technology is affecting the English language. It leads me to believe that many in our society have a secret addiction to nitrous oxide. How else can you explain the gatling gun of "lol"s that barrage me anytime I engage people in an online forum? I actually do know people who laugh that much in a conversation, but they are merely the exception that proves the rule.

The import of my grievance is that I treasure this wacky little toungue of ours. It may not have the same controlled complexity and subtlety of Chinese, or the lilting passion of the Romance languages, or any other of the wonderful qualities as the countless languages that dot this wet little marble we call home, but it's ours, and I'm pretty proud of what we've done with it. One of my efforts in life is to share that love that I feel in mind and in my heart. The best way to share language is easy: books.

To say that I am a voracious reader would be a bit of an exaggeration. It's a bit like a love affair; I get what I can, when I can, and only when I'm in the mood and the content suits me. When I do read, I don't waste my time with pop young adult novels that get all of the attention and get movies made that draw in droves of obsessed fans who only end up disappointed. Not that I'm knocking film adaptations of books though. Gone With the Wind was just that, and it's one of the best ever made (or at least one of my favorites). I don't read books; I read literature. Does that make me sound snobbish enough? What I mean is that when I read, I want to work for it. I don't read as a simple escape fantasy, I've got plenty of other ways to do that. If it does happen to strike me, I don't shun it, it just isn't my primary reason for picking up a book. I need to feel stimulated and challenged; intellectually, emotionally, artistically. Reading for me is a full experience, and I welcome it. For this reason I treasure books. I read them, and keep them, and wear them out until I fear that they may come apart if I read it just one more time. Each one I finish is a conquered enemy; a sparring partner who remains as a trophy unto itself to remind me of what it has taught me. I make a conscious effort to expand my personal library, and so far I've done pretty well for a guy my age. You may not be able to judge a book by its cover, but you can judge a man by the books he keeps.

I seek out only the most worthy of foes. I was in a large chain book store today, and quite frankly, I was rather disappointed. Most of the books I saw were of the more popular persuasion, new big hits on the Amazon list and Oprah's Book Club. I can forgive the graphic novels, self-help books, and all other manner of reading material that people enjoy, but the thing that got me was the quality of established literary canon. Cheap reprints were wrapped up in flashy paperback covers adorned with rediculous pictures that make the paintings in my dentist's waiting room look like the Sistine Chapel. Is this how we treat the greatest works of our language and culture? Sure there were one or two nicer prints with quality hardbound covers, but they were tucked to the side, and four to five times more expensive. I understand the cost differences in printing, but why must the quality goods be hidden like the hideous, deformed twin locked in the attic? On the one hand, the high price pleases me as it reflects the value of the book itself, but on the other, it limits who is able to buy them, including my broke ass.

My hunting grounds are the book fairs. Everyone from churches, to YMCAs, to garage sales offer libraries of tomes that are rediculously low in price. A single sawbuck will get me a bag-full of quality works. Books that are worn and have been loved; books with character. These are the books that I love. Brand new books feel so sterile, like a hospital room. They have that smell, they won't stay open; it's like they don't want to be read. Not like the book fair books. Each page is coated with the dust of appreciation and experience. Through one reason or another, they were forced to part ways from their owners, but good people like me come and rescue them to be read and loved again.

What can I say? My heart has worms. Book worms to be exact.

NERRRRRRRRRDS!!!

Nerds are an interesting subculture. They are harassed, bullied, and ridiculed by many, and yet this does not phase them, either because of their Illuminati-like control over the world's workings, or because they lack the social cues to care. Either way, I have always felt conflicted about nerds. I grew up watching Star Wars, I played QuizBowl for three years in high school, I can name all fifty states in alphabetical order in less than 30 seconds, and yet I have never seen myself as a nerd. I don't speak Klingon, I'm average at best at chess, I don't read comic books, and I only know enough about computers to be dangerous (I used to think Java Script was knowing how to read that fucking cuneiform tablet of a menu at StarBucks).

I have fought this label for most of my life, and for the most part, it has worked. I run from it, and yet I cannot escape a beast that is chained to my ankle. Some of my dearest friends are unashamedly nerds. There have been other nerds that I could not stand because I found them too goddamned annoying; the ones who refused to watch modern movies and read The Onion like it's holy writ, mostly. So how can I put my soul at peace here?

Like this: I am a nerd, but a special kind of nerd. I'm not full on retainer-on-the-lunch-tray, but I can still pass myself off as one if need be. I am the daywalker; able to walk amongst them, yet never fully be one of them. I am a man's nerd. I know James Bond and Indiana Jones inside out. I know how to choose and fix a good glass of Scotch. I'll debate The Who versus Led Zepplin. I will eat even the cheapest steak just because somewhere it will make a hippy tear up. This is who I am. And I am no Tigger, I am not the only one of us out there. I call out to you now my fellow daywalker brethren. We no longer need to hide our love of Weird Al, nor must we hold back our understanding of professional sports. A new age is dawning, brothers and sisters! Take my hand and walk with me into this dawn, for once we no longer hide from ourselves or others, we can rise up and make our voices heard!

The Meaty Truth

Upon further review, I have decided to abandon any more discussion of politics, so my fix-it plan for this country will stay in my head. Instead, I've got a bee in my bonnet that has irritated me enough that I have to go on my second rant in as many posts.

The bee goes by the name of PETA. You've all heard of these guys, the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. They pride themselves as the largest animal rights group in the country and see themselves as the ultimate champions of defending animals from cruel and inhumane behavior. Sounds good, right? Save all of the cute fuzzies from mean ol' humans like us, that's what PETA wants you to believe their mission is...it's a quaint idea, ain't it? I like protecting animals. My cat is a rescued stray. I swerve to avoid hitting cute little turtles and squirrels. I understand and respect the way in which animals are prepared for the nourishment of my body. Guess what? PETA hates guys like me.

Here's PETA's philosophy in a nutshell. They want total animal liberation from the slave chains of humanity. You can look it up on their website, that's what it says. That means no meat, no horseback riding, no products derived from animals, no pets (this is the one they trick you on...suckers), and no animal biomedical testing. To them, animals are our slaves and need to be liberated. I'm gonna call shenanigans on them right there! I refuse to believe that animals are our complete moral equals. I respect life in all of its forms, but I am not about to put a chicken on par with even the lowest scumbag on earth. When a cow can debate philosophy with me, then I may consider putting down the burger, but so far, none have stepped up. Why are pets slaves? My mother had a dog for twelve years, and I literally had to compete for her attention with a 14-pound miniature poodle. It's funny, I don't remember that part from Uncle Tom's Cabin. Animal testing? I think there are millions of Type A diabetics alone who would have a bone to pick there. And I won't even go into the whole "The Holocaust on Your Plate" campaign. I don't have enough nasty words in my vocabulary to talk about that; go look it up for yourself if you're interested.

Now these are all ideological concerns; they don't hurt anybody. It's just something to discuss in the salons with booze-hound writers and corpulent French women. What really pisses me off about PETA, and I mean REALLY pisses me of is their actions, especially the ones they don't want all of their naive members to know about.

Item 1: The offensive protests that they stage, especially the ones that destroy personal property. If some asshole came up to me and poured red paint onto my favorite leather jacket, I would face a difficult decision: do I (A) Punch the fucker in the face for messing up my shit, or (B) Punch the fucker in the face for messing up my shit, and then steal his wallet so that I can buy a new jacket. The second one is a little more ironic, but stealing is wrong after all.

Item 2: PETA is a not-so-silent partner for groups such as ALF. No I'm not talking about the awesomely hilarious alien from the 80's, it's the Animal Liberation Front, a domestic terrorist organization that firebombs medical testing facilities and other illegal-type activities on behalf of woodland critters. Yep, PETA funds terrorists. I'm not making this shit up. The funds are visible on their tax returns, going to people like Rodney Coronado, a convicted arsonist. Do you PETA members like being associated with terrorists? Hey, PETA: the next time you want to take out a lab, you might want to try flying a plane into it, I've heard that gets pretty good results.

Item 3: I won't sugar-coat this one. PETA has euthanized anywhere from 60-80% of the animals that it rescues annually. It kinda speaks for itself, doesn't it? petakillsanimals.com has all the info you want on that.

Now, this is the part where I pull over and make my little warning to any of you who might misinterpret my words here. I am not attacking vegetarians, conservationists, or those who believe in preventing cruelty to animals. These are all individual lifestyle choices, and it is your right to choose them, especially that last one. Nobody wants to be cruel to animals. The issue merely lies in the differing opinions of what is cruel. But if you want to make your voice heard, please, please, don't do it through PETA. Don't let their pretty celebrities and Disney double-talk fool you, they are not what they seem.

Again, I did not make these facts up. Do a little research and see for yourself.

What do I want to see happen? First, I want to see Ingrid Newkirk, PETA's founder and President, locked in a cage with either a grizzly bear, a honey badger, or a horny, adolescent chimpanzee, her choice, and then let nature take its course. Second...you know what...I think I'll just take the cage for now.

Relax, Don't Do It, So We Can All Get Through It

I know it's all the buzz right now, and I feel like I might be just be riding the wave of everything that has gone on in the last few days, but at the same time, I can't just ignore the fact that we just had an election, so what I'm gonna do is give my two cents for everything. Remember that two cents is a pretty paltry amount, so you can either take it and put it in your piggy bank, just toss it away, or maybe take it and give it to some homeless guy who stands by the corner and sings famous TV show theme songs. It's your choice.

First, I want to talk to all of you McCain supporters out there. You all need to calm the hell down. It sucks your man lost, it really does. A lot of you are probably feeling kind of lousy right now, and that's ok. Nobody likes to feel like they bet on the wrong horse. It's human nature to feel bad when you don't get something you want (the holidays are just around the corner, so remember that one). You all fought the good fight, and gave it your best, but it's just not the GOP's time to shine. Take some time to recover, lick your wounds, and regroup in four years to keep the ruling party honest. In the meantime, realize that just because Obama won does not mean that we are all doomed. Politics have an ebb and flow in this country. One party gets to call the shots for a while, we roll the dice, and after a while, people will get bored or frustrated and want change. Think of it this way: what if Bush had been a Democrat? Assume that the mess of shit we're in is still there, but think of it as the consequence of a Democratic administration? What kind of change would people want then? Obama did not invent change. It's a two way street, and given enough time, it'll be time to switch back. It's the way this country works. So suck it up and get ready for the 2010 midterm election.

Now for all of you Obama supporters. Y'all need to really calm the hell down. Stop acting like you just fought the third American Revolution. I call it the third because Thomas Jefferson called his election the second one. Refer back to some of my earlier statements. It was the Dems turn at the helm. They could have run a ceasar salad for president and won. Of course, don't think I'm trying to detract from Obama's achievements. By most standards this was an historical election. Not the greatest or most important one ever (stop fooling yourselves and read a history book), merely an historical one. Obama strikes me as a fellow who has a lot of potential, and I sincerely mean it when I say that I hope he is able to live up to the image that he has created in the hearts and minds of many Americans. He's got the same sway over the hoi polloi that Clinton and Kennedy had, but so far he doesn't appear to have the same shady alter-ego as them. I hope I'm wrong, but during his inauguration, he could just whip it out and say, "Suck on this, America!" Crude, but I think it illustrates my point, which is don't put all of your faith into one man to fix your problems. He's the president. He works for us, remember? We have to take the reins and fix this crap, not him. If you put all your eggs into Obama's basket, you are only going to end up disappointed. He's not some messiah. He's a man, and a politician at that. And while we're here, stop making such a big deal out of the color of his skin. Sure, it's big deal that he is the first president to be of African descent, but stop throwing so much light onto it. Give it an acknowledging nod and then let the man do his job come January.

My major idea is this: everybody needs to chill out. Seriously, have a drink, pop a xanex, and take a step back for a little perspective. Realistically, not a whole lot is going to change here, so relax. If it's good enough for Frankie, it's good enough for me.

Next time...my own solution for the political gap in this country...

Go Fuck Yourself

Alright, it's November, and that means that I don't have to worry about this scary series anymore. In the future, I think it is best for me to avoid such long and drawn out themes. It restricts my thoughts, and we just can't have that now, can we? Now then...

We've all heard the old chestnut "opposites attract". Now this may hold up for physics, and it may even hold true for many relationships out there, but I can't help but ponder the contrary. What if you had someone who was exactly like you in every way? I'm not talking about a person of the opposite gender who has a startlingly high number of things in common with you; this simply will not do. Regardless of how many things you may have in common, he/she is still a different person from you and will never truly match up exactly. I'm talking about an exact carbon copy of who you are: every hair, every pore, every thought, idea and motivation canned up in your brain, what you love, what you hate, what you don't give a flying rat's ass about; every single fiber of your being. Consider him/her an exact clone of yourself in every sense of the word.

How would you feel about this person? Would you want to hang out with him? Would he be your drinking buddy? Would you think he's an annoying douchebag? Would you love him?

The answer is ultimately nothing but a reflection on how you perceive yourself. If you like yourself and have a positive and healthy self-image, you'll probably like your clone and think he's awesome. If you have low self-esteem and think that you suck, then guess how you'll see your clone? Most likely, you'll love some things and hate others about your clone if you're one of the normal, well-adjusted people out there.

I suppose the core issue that I want to address here is this very important question: Would you go gay for yourself?

Now stop and analyze your reaction to that sentence that you just read. How did it make you feel? Shocked? Disgusted? Well get off your high horse and get honest with yourself. I strongly believe that given the choice, most people would go gay for themselves, even if they have never had a gay thought in their entire life. I mean, if you aren't willing to bump uglies with yourself, who can you do it with? You masturbate, don't you? You know you do. It's ok; your secret is safe with me. If you masturbate, you have absolutely no reason to be weirded out by the thought of having sex with yourself, especially if you're one of those types who tapes themselves or does it in front of a full length mirror. You know who you are.

Think about it. Here is a person who knows everything you know, so there are no secrets between you. Your clone knows all of your turn-ons and turn offs, what gets you hotter than the gulf coast in July, and what to absolutely never ever do. It has the potential to be the best sex you'll ever have. There is a flip side however.

Part of the thrill of sex is discovery and experimentation, two things that become easier with a partner other than yourself. I could see sex with yourself maybe getting a little boring. Perhaps the best way to view this would be to look at sex with yourself as a kind of comfort food, like a shaggable bucket of ice cream. Even if everything else in your life sucks, there is at least one person who will still roger you silly. The moral here: sex with yourself is fine, but it should probably be in the context of some kind of open, polyamorous relationship, so you need a partner who is nice and understanding, and preferably has a clone of his/her own.

The Million Dollar Question

What scares you more than anything else?

It's a simple question. I'm not talking about what fills you with anxiety; a lot of stuff can do that. Anxiety is what you feel when you're walking through a dark forest and hear something move in the darkness. Freaky yes, maybe even a first step to real fear, but not fear unto itself. I'm talking about real, unrestrained fear. Something that happens when your amygdala takes the wheel away from your frontal lobe and steers the car right into the median. Pure, cornered animal terror.

Actually, I don't think that this question can be truthfully answered by most people. I know I can't. I've had moments where I would have bet money that I would be dead in the next few seconds, I'm arachnaphobic, and I'm amazingly insecure, and yet I still don't think I can do it. If you can answer this question truthfully, you probably don't even want to think about it, let alone say it. Real fear is the kind of thing that scars us for life; the stuff of PTSD. The cause of it almost has to be death, or at least severe harm. You lose total control of yourself. All you want to do is escape. You'll do it by any means necessary, even if that means to kill. Can you justify killing if you're too high on adrenaline to restrain yourself because you were reduced to a frightened cornered animal that would do anything to survive?

People claim that they are afraid of a lot of things. Change, loneliness, being misunderstood, commitment; these are just some of the bullshit things that people claim scare them. That's not fear. Sure, they may be some legitimate issues that cause a great deal of stress and axiety, but it's not fear. I wonder how someone who has experienced true fear views these kind of things. Do they see it as a farce; worthless fretting over ultimately meaningless issues? Do they become amplified, creating more fear? Do they fill you with joy by the simple fact of being around to feel them?

And yet, despite our innate aversion to fear, we can't help but want to flirt with it. I suppose that's why this time of year is so popular. I'm especially thinking of haunted houses. We actually pay money to people who let us walk through a series of rooms where we experience a brief glimpse of what it feels like to lose control to fear. And lose control some people do. I walk through haunted houses and admire the production values, but I've had grown adults grab onto me and try to climb me like some kind of cat tree; sometimes even complete strangers. Why do we do it? So we know what it feels like to be really afraid? I don't think so. No matter how believable a haunted house is, we know in the back of our minds that it's fake and that we're in no real danger. If one of those zombie clowns actually walked up to you and grabbed you around the throat and started squeezing, then you'd really freak out. Adrenaline junkies are similar but a little different. Jumping out of airplanes, base jumping, rock climbing, it's all just different approaches to the same idea: fake fear. I don't want to just write this off as some form of emotional masturbation. This is toying with our survival instincts. We do it for an easy reason: to prove our intellectual superiority over more primative drives. We like to think that we can look the devil in the eye and not flinch, but let's face it: we're still animals. Our simple brains are there for a reason, and that is that they keep us alive. Therefore, since I believe that my body knows what's best for me, I try to avoid such negative vibes. Why try to feel afraid when I can do something to feel happy, often with less effort, like actual masturbation.

So what scares you more than anything else? I have no idea, and probably neither do you, and I think it's best that we keep it that way.

The Lady of the Evening

DISCLAIMER: THE PERSON DESCRIBED IN THIS POST IS ENTIRELY FICTIONAL (AS FAR AS I KNOW). ANY SEMBLANCE TO ANY ACTUAL WOMEN I KNOW IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL, SO DON'T READ TOO DEEP INTO IT. I'M DISHING THIS STUFF STRAIGHT UP.

I am being haunted. I don't think it's a ghost, but something has been haunting me for years, and I've just now realized the gravity of it. I think I'm being haunted by a woman.

Since I was about 14, I have occasionally had strange dreams. Taken seperately, each one is nothing odd. They are dreams in which I interact with a woman in various ways, ranging from helping her move into a dorm room, her convincing me to go swimming alone with her, and most recently, keeping her company in a dark scary forest with intimate results. The part that freaks me out: it's been the same woman every time!

Now I don't hide the fact that I dream about women, and usually like it. I've dreamt about female celebrities, gal pals, former girlfriends, and casual acquaintences. But I have no idea who this dream woman is. This is not some girl I know, indeed I have never seen her before in my entire life. Her exisitence is a complete mystery to me. She can't represent any one person, because the only women I have known for that long are relatives (and don't even go there, you sick bastards).

I can never remember her face when I wake up, but I do retain a certain sense of familiarity every time one such dream occurs. I can also recall a few general details that have been consistent. She has somewhat long, straight brown hair, is shorter than me (around 5'9"-5'10" maybe) and has a somewhat slender build, but not overly skinny. Her appearance is never exactly the same. When I was 14, she looked about my age, and has continued to age with me over the years, as if she's growing with me. Her personality is usually the same too. She's typically very quiet, but is very sweet and can be a little timid, but she has a wild streak that can lead her into some interesting situations. She also really like me. A lot. I daresay she needs me. Although she's the same every time, most dreams involve an introduction in which there is immediate and intense chemistry between us, so much so that some dreams end up with us presumably married years later and still very much in love.

Sounds like a good deal, right? No. The reason being that every time I wake up from one of these dreams, it feels like my heart is breaking upon the realization that it was all a dream. I had one last night, and I actually fought myself for about an hour this morning trying to force myself back to sleep so that I wouldn't have to give her up, yet again. It sucked. I was Eeyore for the rest of the day because of it. Why? Why?! Who is this woman and why do I love her this much even though she doesn't exist?

I have a few theories regarding this somnambulist siren. One is that she's my anima, my dormant inner female fighting to express herself. Another is that she's simply my subconscious defragging all of my male urges while I sleep. The final major idea is the one I've invested the most stock in, probably because it's the most optimistic one: she is the woman of my dreams. Now I don't put a lot of faith into the "one soul mate" theory, but I also realize that all bets are off when it comes to love, so I can't help but wonder, what if this chick is my one true love, reaching out to me astrally in some sort of nighttime communion? Is she real? Could she actually exist, and beyond that, have dreams about me and wonder who I am? Are we destined to one day finally cross paths and experience the same connection that has heretofore only been the stuff of dreams? I wish I knew. She doesn't even have a name that I know of, but if you're out there, know that I know you, and while not actively seeking you out, secretly hope that one day we shall meet, because if you are real, if I can even experience a fraction of the love for you that I feel in my sleep, I will die a happy man.

Hurm...I just realized how heavy this post was. I need to come up with something a little lighter next time.

What the Hex Going On?

A rare twofor today, but I have to get this out in the hope the maybe someone out there will have a solution. You see, I have been cursed. Some cosmic being has decided to jerk me around for shits and giggles. The last twenty-four hours have been one thing after another, leading to a day of bad luck that can only explained by some kind of bad juju, and it's starting to freak me out a little. Let me explain my day...

It started on a decidedly sour note. I had a little tiff with a friend of mine the previous night, and you know when they say don't go to bed angry? They were right on the nose. I could hardly sleep; tossing and turning and sweating like I had a fever that was breaking. By the time my alarm went off, I was too tired to even utter my usual early morning chain of swear words. Not only was I not rested, I was still mad. I don't know if anyone out there has ever actually woken up mad, but it's a weird sensation. You're super pissed and feel like crap, but it takes you a second to remember why. So these feelings loom over me for most of the morning, making me unable to focus in class, and eventually, I resolved to forego the rest of my classes and take a mental health day. Realistically, I was only missing one class, and I had the notes for it already, so it was no great loss.

Following a rage-fueled drive home (always good for the body and mind), I made it home and immediately started working to raise my spirits. I went through a little routine that always perks me up, and before I knew it, I was full of forgiveness and cheerfulness and thought that I had this crappy day licked, that is until I left again to do some errands. All I wanted to do was go to the bank, mail a bill, and get my broken watch looked at, that's all. How could I have possibly forseen the threat that loomed after me next? I mean, who wakes up and prepares themselves for an automobile collision with an oven. Yes, an oven, as in I drove my car into an oven as I was leaving. To make things clear, "oven" is not some code word for deer, I literally mean a kitchen appliance used for baking. I didn't even see it coming; it just jumped out at me from behind a bush or something. I'm seriously considering sending a very angry letter to the Missouri Department of Conservation about the growing problem of wild ovens popping up in the suburbs and being a nuisance. So I hit this oven and have to stop and drag it to the side of the road and sweep up all of the broken glass from the shattered front observation window. Once everything was cleaned up, I proceeded to do my errands with a new dent and streak of white oven paint on the side of my car. Joy.

I return for dinner, and proceed to break a plate, a rather sturdy plate mind you, as I was dishing it out. It was at this point that I started to think that something was a bit off. I do not have days that are this bad. Somebody must have cursed me somewhere. I'm hesitant to do anything now for fear of it backfiring and resulting in me breaking something else. So if anyone has a solution for curing me of this spiritual malady, let me know. I've already prayed, lit a candle, performed a tarot reading, consulted a ouija board, and sacrificed a bull, a goat, and two chickens. Any other pointers out there?

Unlimited Potential

There is an old riddle/paradox out there that has confounded even our greatest minds for the longest time: What happens when an unstoppable force meets an unmovable object? Sure, this conundrum last popped its head up in The Dark Knight, but it goes back way farther than that. I find it a fascinating question, largely because in order to contemplate it, you have to shut off the logical portion of your mind. Logically, only one of these forces could actually exist, and based in a physical universe that is finite, neither of them could. So all you people who cling to the teat of logic like a baby squirrel monkey does to its mother have to check your hats at the door.

I love it because it is such a great metaphor for conflict. On the one hand, you have the unstoppable force, a being of limitless drive and energy that can never stop. I cannot help but respect and admire the sheer ambition and motivation of it, always moving forward without giving a damn about anything that might stand in its way. I know poeple like this, and although that drive sometimes leads to them acting a little self-involved and oblivious to the feelings and needs of those around them, they know how to go out there and grab life by the balls and take what they want from it.

Then you have the unmovable object. Stalwart, determined, unbending to anything, it's the epitomy of strength. I know people like this as well. They are the ones who commit to a conviction and refuse to yield. Unmovable often comes across as stubborn, prompting those around it to ask, "Why don't you just move? Is it that hard to change?" When your very nature is to be unmovable, the aswers to those questions are, "Because I can't," and, "Yes it is." Just as the force will not stop for anything, the object will not budge. Why does it not move? Is it out of fear for losing something? Is it to prove a point that was long ago forgotten? Or does it simply do it because that is what unmovable objects do?

So, the stage is set and our characters are in place. What happens when they collide? Do they destroy one another? Do they merge and become a single entity? Do they create a new unlimited paradigm? One thing I do believe is that one cannot triumph over the other. They are both too perfect and too pure to be destroyed by the other. There is no winner and there is no loser. This of course means that either both win or both lose. Ever the optimist, I'd like to think that both end up winning, but this can't happen if the two remain in their present states. A fundamental change must take place in both, not by one, but by both parties involved. The object cannot suddenly decide to move, nor can the force choose to retard itself. There must be balance; a give and take in the universe.

So why ponder such things at all? Peace and clarity. Two things that I wish more people had.

This Will Destroy Us All

I have recently discovered what is quite possibly the most terrifying monster that has ever existed. This is no mere mythical beast that has been relegated to the annals of the oral tradition. Every other supernatural demon of hell is dwarfed in the mere shadow of this creature. Yeti, gorgons, bunyips, even the Beast of Gevaudan can't hold a candle to it.

It hails from the untamed jungles of the Indian subcontinent. The first sightings go back thousands of years. Farmers reported seeing a creature about the size of a dog when on all fours and brown in color, looking vaguely like a combination of a wild jungle fowl and a monkey. It was covered in a coarse covering that resembled either heavy fur or thin feathers. The legs and feet are bare and end in long talons. Long, muscular arms allow it to swing through the thick jungle flora to create the illusion of flight. Dark glassy eyes meet your gaze as they rest above what can only be described as a toothy beak. The early people of India gave this abomination of nature a name, a name whose origins are lost with their early language, but it still casts a chill down your spine.

They called it Chunkhi.

The chunkhi is no mere legend though. Over the centuries, sightings of the chunkhi have continued. Once in a while, you can catch an article in New Delhi newpapers or Indian television reporting that children have gone missing, storefronts being damaged, or food getting stolen. Most of the time, these are commited by hoodlums or the occasional monkey, but don't be fooled, the chunkhi is responsible for at least some of these instances.

So far, these events have been contained to India, but last month, I found an obscure newspaper article from a few years ago that reported a strange creature found near the Nebraska/Missouri border. When questioned, the witness replied, "Well, it looked like a cross between a chicken and a monkey!" Poignant and terrifying words. Could the chunkhi have come to America somehow?

Now is the time to be afraid.

So That's Why They Call It Liquid Courage

I have found something out that may get me the Psychologist of the Year Award. Never mind that I'm not a psychologist, but it's that awesome that they'd give it to me anyway. I have found the conclusive link that proves that fears are learned behaviors and are largely the result of our overly complicated brains.

Allow me to enlighten you: it came to me last night as I found myself in the woods in the middle of the night completely by myself. I'm talking totally alone, as in I could have been attacked by bears and nobody would have heard me scream, nor the bears munching on my delicious flesh. Yes, I taste delicious; kind of a combination of BBQ, onion, and cheddar cheese. What bear couldn't resist that? Anyways, I digress...so I'm out there in the forest, completely alone, and I start to get this weird creepy feeling in the pit of my stomach. The woods at night is not a good place for me.

I have a particularly active imagination (go back and read some previous posts if you don't believe me) and my mind loooooves to play tricks on me. It's a curse that I've carried my entire life. As a tyke, I'd lay awake in my bed, looking around my room at all of the black, amorphous shapes that could be the Grim Reaper, or a mummy, or some black-shrouded demon that was going to get me and drag me down to hell. I don't see those things anymore (the shock therapy helps, zappy zappy!), but a dark area still plays out as some some twisted game of staring at clouds. I'll turn my head and think I see some vaguely human shape and jump pretty good. Another family trait is that I startle extremely easily. It really friggen' sucks. All I have to do is zone out for a minute and the slightest thing will make me jump like a chihuahua in front of a twenty-one gun salute. I was carrying a trash bag and almost shit myself because its ruffling sounded like someone was running up behind me. The worst part about the whole thing is that there is never any release to the fear, just a constant dread. At least when you watch a scary movie or go to a haunted house, something jumps out and scares the piss out of you and the tension dissipates. If it builds up long enough, it's almost orgasmic. So as I walked around in this state of horror blueballs, I remembered something that had happened to me the previous night.

I was at a reptile show as part of a wedding reception, and by this point the open bar had started to take its toll on me. A brief aside: I did not put "Go to a reptile show drunk" on my Things To Do Before I Die List, but I should have and recommend that all of you do, cuz it's awesome! At one point in the show, I was holding a tarantula in my hand. A tarantula in my hand! A MOTHERFUCKING TARANTULA IN MY GODDAMN HAND!!! To educate some of you out there, I am a pretty big arachnaphobe, which is fancy talk for spiders scare the bejeezus out of me. So for me to hold this huge fucking spider in my hand was kind of a big deal. I knew what I was doing, but I didn't care. I knew that I would normally have wigged out and maybe even killed the thing accidentally, but I didn't. Sure I tensed up and all of the blood flushed from my head, but I've done that in the bathroom before. So in my drunken state, I was less fearful of having a tarantula in my hand than I was stone sober on the forest at night.

My final conclusions: fears are ultimately the result of our higher reasoning skills jerking around our older reptilian brain. If alcohol is present in sufficient levels to shut down that pesky frontal lobe, then it is very likely that not as much stuff will freak you out. Had I had my load on in the trees, I probably would have felt much more at ease, as well as probably singing "More Than A Feeling" at the top of my lungs. I think I have stumbled onto a whole new area of research that should seriously be investigated further. I mean, how hard can it be to find people to pay and get drunk? Who says students can't get interested in the sciences?

I'll be famous!

Send in Anyone BUT Them!

Alright now, it's October and I've been pussyfooting around this whole scary shit series long enough. It's time to get serious. We're going to deal with a truly contemptable plague of evil that is sweeping across our society and threatens to destroy us all...

...CLOWNS!

The irony of clowns is so sweet, I'm pretty sure it will give you diabetes. Here we have a universal class of human beings who have devoted themselves to the art of making people laugh, and yet they are one of the most feared and misunderstood images in our world today. Does anyone not know somebody who is afraid of clowns? Are you afraid of clowns? I'll bet you are. Yeah, you put on a brave face and pretend that you can take it, but as soon as one of those jolly white-faced fellows saunters in your direction, your heart starts to race, and you begin to wonder if he's going to hit you over the head with that balloon pump and drag you off into an alley where he'll do unspeakable acts to you. What exactly? Murder? Rape? Ritualistic sacrifice? All of the above? Don't ask me, it's your imagination, sicko.

What is the source of coulophobia, as it's called in clinical circles? The most basic reason it would seem is the makeup. The face of a clown is meant to exaggerate the existing features and contours of the clown's face. Now exaggeration is the cornerstone to comedy. I refuse to dissect humor, but funny is built upon blowing things out of proportion. This distorion of reality is not natural, humans with faces this grotesque would be shunned by mainstream society. Think of that hunchbacked dude from 300. That guy made week-old road kill look like a good lay. Clowns take that look and apply it in a brightly colored 2-D pattern on their faces. It's easy to see why this weirds people out, especially young kids who are still trying to conceptualize the world around them. You think you finally have a grasp on what other people should look like, and then all of a sudden in comes this clown to the schema. Holy-fuckin'-shit-balls-with-nuts-and-a-cherry-on-top!

So, this basic premise is in place. What happens next is that some of the more creative among us decide to run with the idea and make a caricature of it, creating a class of clowns that are freaky in their own right. It, Poltergeist, Spawn, Batman, and even Doctor Roxo the Rock and Roll Clown have all created pre-packaged images of scary clowns that require no thought of our own to understand how evil these bastards are. Add to that instances like John Wayne Gacy, a very real monster, and its no wonder why so many people today are terrified of clowns. It's a wonder I'm not; I was scared of everything as a kid. I was scared by my dad in clown makeup once as a very young lad, but that's the only instance I can recall.

What really unnerves me about clowns is none of these factors. What bugs me is the fact that there is an entire school of art that is devoted to clowning. Individuals who take this stuff so seriously that they have developed an entire craft to putting paint on your face and wearing giant shoes. This whole Commedia dell'Arte thing robs clowning of its basic principle, and if there is one thing that guides me in this plane of reality, it is that...say it with me now...

Jokes are not funny if you have to explain them!

Of course there are also Ute myths of a race of cannibalisitic clowns known as the Siats, so maybe there is something to this scary clown thing.

I will leave you with the supposed eerie words of one of the masters of horror, Lon Cheny: "There is nothing funny about seeing a clown in the moonlight."

If you do see this, run like hell, if you haven't shit yourself first.

This Post Dedicated to Larry Harmon, the King of TV Clowns

Neither Prime, Nor Composite

Consider this the compliment to the Cuddle Monster. This is no monster though; no ghouls, freaks, or spooks are involved in this one. In fact: it is the lack of these things, as well as everything else that motivates this fear. I can only describe it as the fear of being alone. Abandonment is the most primal of fears. It is instictual in fact; engrained on our very DNA. So why do we fear being alone? The answer appears to be simple enough: because life is one big game of dodgeball and it really sucks when you're the only one on a team and everyone is trying to peg you square in the nuts from across the gym.

We're social animals. We need the company of our own kind. The only critters out there that are good at being alone are the ones that are singularly created killing machines whose sole purpose is to be a mean little bastard to everyone else (i.e. honey badgers). We homo sapiens are more complicated than that, and we've certainly done a good job at trying to avoid ending up alone. I mean, everything from marriage, to sports, to racism is fundamentally based on the idea of unity; that it takes more than one person to make something happen, to find happiness.

In a more psychological sense, we need others because it gives us value. The very fact of knowing that somewhere out there in this big clusterfuck is at least one person who cares about what I do make us feel good; like we matter. And we do, because as soon as you really let yourself become entwined into another person's life, your actions become a deciding factor in those of that person, maybe even the thing on which his or her happiness is contingent. This is only one extreme though. Meaningful relationships are key, but there is an entire spectrum of interaction that fulfills so many other needs, from the utilitarian to the truly miraculous.

This is not to say that isolation is not without its virtues. Can you truly understand yourself as an individual without the occasional quiet moment of reflection. Whether it's meditation, prayer, laying down for bed, or taking a shit, we allow ourselves times of reflection because sometimes it sucks to be around other people. In the end though, we all want to go back to others.

Are we afraid to be alone because it leaves you with no one around, or because it only leaves you around? Only you can answer that question.

Attack of the Cuddle Monster

Tonight, I'm going to get a little tangental. I'm not dealing with a proper monster; maybe kind of like cookie monster. It's somewhat relevant because I'm dealing with something that really freaks some people out. Officially, the topic is personal space with particular attention being paid to its role in interpersonal relationships, but from here on out, in the spirit of the season, its nom de guerre shall be known as the Cuddle Monster. I don't really know what got me thinking about this. Maybe it's just some kind of cosmic energy with it being the autumnal equinox and all, maybe it's because Fall gets me kind of twitterpated, or maybe it just happened for no damn reason at all.

This little bugger is a crafty beast. It has no one singular corporeal form, it instead appears in a different form to each person. It can be anything from an unwanted kiss, to a forced hug, to anyone stepping within 18 inches of you. Let's face it: people are kinda particular about their personal space. What is it that makes us so defensive about our little bubble? Of course, the only person I can speak for is myself, so why not use me as an empirical baseline to be used in all future research?

Having said this, I'm pretty liberal when it comes to other people touching me. I remember once hearing a beauty pageant question that went along the lines of, "Which of the five senses could you absolutely not live without?" Although I wasn't in the running, although I should have been, I immediately came up with an answer that I always have with me in case the issue comes up.

"I could not, would not, live without my sense of touch. To never feel a balmy summer breeze, the embrace of a child, or the gentle kiss of a loved one is a life incomplete, lacking that most fundamental elements of happiness, the ability to feel good from the smallest of God's gifts."

*applause applause* I get the crown.

I for the most part welcome friendly touching, especially from members of the fairer sex. There isn't a lot that I won't let a woman do to me...well, almost...pending certain laws and public statutes...plus you have to remember that Jesus is watching. Anyways, I suppose my comfortability stems from the fact that I had very warm, physically affectionate parents growing up, so it's what I know. I can see others having more distant parents, so physical closeness makes them uncomfortable, or it could be rebellion against over-affectionate parents. I have to laugh when I see a couple like this. They love each other, but the closest they ever come to expressing it is a fist pound. I kind of like to pretend that once you find a good enough person, you'll want to be all cuddly, as gross and annoying that it is.

As much as I actually like the Cuddle Monster, I hate it when he rears his head in public. I have the same opinion of new love that I do of drug users: you have your right to do what makes you feel good, but do it away from me or suffer the consequences. Sorry folks, a salud to the fact that you're getting laid, but keep it out of my face.

So in conclusion, I guess depending who you are, the Cuddle Monster can either be a fearsome beast with the potential to make you incredibly uncomfortable, or more in the vein of Grover, a cute, if sometimes annoying, little fuzzy dude that can make your day.

Frankly Speaking

Brief short answer test question: which classic monster has been misrepresented more than any other?

Answer: Frankenstein's Monster

Aside from the obvious nomenclature issues (Frankenstein is his creator's name, not his name), for the most part, this poor guy has been reduced to a green zombie. This is not of course a slam on zombies; they'll get theirs in due time. Let's start with the source: Frankenstein was written by Mary Shelley, then 19 year old lover of Percy Bysshe Shelley, one night in 1816 after the two of them and Lord Byron had spent the evening drinking and reading ghost stories. They then resolved to see who could write the scariest story. Mary wrote Frankenstien, and Lord Byron gained the inspriation for The Vampyre, the forerunner of the gay Victorian vampire. Clearly Mary was the winner.

So the creature was designed to be frightening from the beginning, and indeed he was. Imagine a man sewn together from various exhumed bodies. Now, take all of those Hollywood images of a green skinned gargantuan with the giant flat top and bolts in the neck, and throw them out the f-ing window. Keep the height, but give him long, black hair and an eerie tranluscent yellowish skin that allows you to see his blood vessals and such underneath. Eeeeeew!

The grotesqueness is key to the scariness, but there is more at work here than pure pug fugliness. What is truly scary about the creature is that despite his outward appearance and superhuman strength and endurance, he is a man; a man with feelings, a mind, and all of the trappings of humanity. He feels loneliness, fear, anger, and vengeance, and is fundamentally weak enough to succumb to them as we all are, and though he is capable of murder, he still suffers from remorse after the act. He is as complex a character as any other, and by complex, I mean more than,

"Meeeeeh, I'm a horrible misunderstood monster who is hated by others, but you are the one person who sees beyond the mask, but you still don't know if I'll suck your blood, so let's make out."

This idea was translated in an excellent manner by Boris Karloff in the classic Universal film. You could see the pain and confusion in his eyes, you felt it as much as he did. It broke your heart when he accidentally drowned the little girl, because you knew that he was still a danger and had to be stopped. This model was only charactured in subsequent portrayals, adopting the "Herman Munster Model". I will note that for all of its problems, Van Helsing did a decent job at restoring at least some of the creature's nobility, even if it was at the loss of its scariness.

So why is he scary? It's not just that he is a hulking brute with an unnatural visage. Frankenstein's monster scares us because he was created by a mortal. He is man-made, and he is largely a failure at the attempt to create life. We fancy ourselves as the most talented beasts to walk the planet and are capable of anything, and yet we are not. The sky is not the limit, and there are some things that we simply cannot do, or should not. We possess the potential to create our own destruction, and not as a faceless disease or other abstract means, but in a grossly twisted reflectionof ourselves. We fear him because he reflects our own shortcomings as individuals, and as a species. We look in the mirror and are horrified at what looks back at us.

Harem Scare 'em

As a buildup to Halloween, I have resolved to do a series of posts regarding things that are scary (and some things that aren't, like vampires). You could say that this series is a continuation of the two previous posts regarding Bigfoot and those lame-ass bloodsuckers. Consider this the Frasier to their Cheers.

We of course can't delve deeply into this subject matter without addressing the common denominator here: fear.

Fear has a certain allure to it. I loved how it was a central theme to Batman Begins. I never felt that the Scarecrow got enough credit. Fear is such a primal feeling; it could be interpreted as motivating almost every single human action. We date because we are afraid to die alone. We eat because we are hungry and afraid that there may not be food around later. We believe in God because we're afraid that life ends when we die. We're afraid to be afraid because it makes us look weak. A bit pessimistic with a touch of nihilism? Maybe, but there is still a grain of truth to it.

Fear drives our need to survive. Things scare us because our fusebox of a brain tells us that we are about to end up in a serious world of hurt unless we do something...and fast. This usually manifests itself in "GYAAAAAAAAH!" Although not a psychological anthropologist, I presume that it is a desperate effort to scare away the potential threat. What usually happens though is that you just end up looking like an ass in front of everyone else, which leads me to my next point:

Just like everything else in nature, we humans have gone made a very simple thing wa-hay too complicated. Take the simple fact that the only too innate fears we have are of abandonment and sudden, loud noises. Everything else is learned, and of course our huge friggen' noggins have gone and messed things up to the point where some people are afraid of the most rediculous things (i.e. the color blue and the letter "Q").

It will be interesting to see where I end up going with all of this. We'll look at some more of the classic monsters, whether they are scary or not, the funny side of fear, and, if there is time, what scares me. After all, if I can't take it too, why bother with this at all?

It's not the teeth that suck

I have a question that I wish to pose to the universe:

Does anyone besides me remember a time when vampires were scary?

This question has been brought to the surface because of the recent popularity of the Twilight series of novels, the latest literary phenomenon that has every teenage girl (and plenty of emotionally stunted young women) foaming at the mouth like rapid honey badgers at the mere mention of the books; and in the name of all that is holy, don't mention the movie or risk being torn apart like a dime store pinata (ComicCon this year taught us this lesson all too late, lest we forget). Another contemporary catalyst is Alan Ball's new series TrueBlood on HBO. Although I am a huge of of Six Feet Under, I fear that Mr. Ball may have sold his soul to a rediculous fad.

These two entries are only the most recent of a serious epidemic in our society: the systematic castration of vampires. What was once a terrifying spawn of evil has become an over-sexed wet dream for people with overactive imaginations. How did we go from Bela Lugosi to Robert Pattinson? I suppose Anne Rice has her fair share to do with it, but I won't solely saddle her with the blame. I don't like to point fingers, but if she can do for Jesus what she did for vampires, religion is about to get a lot more interesting.

I have never understood the sexual appeal of vampires. I'm not knocking sexual fantasy here, but what is it about a reanimated corpse shambling out of its grave, turning into a rabies-ridden bat, flying into your room while you sleep, and drain you of your life essence is sexy? I get that the neck is an erogenous zone, and biting can be an exciting part of foreplay, but really? It's a reanimated corpse! I will repeat that for any of you who delude yourselves with that horse shit about vampires being a seperate race, or some result of scientific experimentation...a re-a-ni-ma-ted corpse. One who has been dead for an indeterminate amount of time and has mytically been given the ability to move around. This is a broad definition of course, since nearly every culture across the planet has some kind of vampire mythology.

Even worse are those few nuts out there who think thay they are actual vampires. Again, everyone's free to live your lives as you please, but for godssake! The real shame is that these people are incredibly outgoing and creative. They could write the next great novel or direct the next great film, but instead, they waste their creative juices on lame The Crow-inspired costumes and lamer goth club scenes.

Y'know, in some parts of the world, vampires are given the respect they deserve. Many a small village in Eastern Europe still carry around small holy relics and hommade fetishes to ward off such profane abominations of nature's laws. They carry out burial rituals to ensure that their deceased loved ones don't become the walking damned. These people have it right.

I say, if we're going to embrace this whole "monsters are hot" thing, let's be all inclusive. Let's do it werewolf style (it's the same as doggystyle, only during a full moon) and watch zombie porn ("Zombie have brain delivery!" *bow chicka wa wow*). Don't forget ladies, Frankenstein's monster has detachable parts. We can have Red Cap orgies and bugger yetis until the kelpies come home. They've got it all at Crazy Fritz's Supernatural Sex Emporium!

If any of these suggestions are actually turning you on, you need help and should call a therapist. Consider this an intervention.