I always seem to start reading a good comic book when it is too damn late. Vertigo's The Losers ended its run in March of 2006. Too bad, too. Andy Diggle penned some pretty horrifying things:
What we call history is merely the chaotic turmoil of phase transition as societies shed outmoded models of centralized control and dynastic hierarchy in favor of free market capitalist democracy....

In other words--everybody wants to be American. Some people just don't know it yet.

Within the next two hundred years, every nation on the planet will have embraced this American model. It is as natural--and is as inevitable as evolution. Except we don't have two hundred years. The planet is dying. Global environmental melt-down is just around the corner. The next World War will not be fought for ideology, or strategic superiority, but for food and water. For survival.

Sometimes nature needs a helping hand. I am that hand. And this....

This is the end of history. --Max (not so nice guy)

The Losers, Issue 26--Unamerica, part 1

If you don't play World of Warcraft, very little of this will make sense to you. Even if you do play WoW, you might just not get it. If, on the other hand, you play a druid, well....then just sit back and enjoy.

How did Sharon Stone achieve such diva (pronounced bitch) status? Her only successful starring role has been at Mr. Skin. Now there is a sequel to Beaver Shot 101, and I just can't wait (pronounced sarcasm). Then again, Ms. Stone has added her voice talent's to such works as Harold and the Purple Crayon, so perhaps her Hollywood star is still on the rise.

Kashmir -Surfing the Warm Industry

Fun stuff.
The Comeback

Please Please Please

Very Loud

Let's just pray that never happens.

Ye goode olde days.

Wazzup Bloggerites?

Hoist a few for me. Yes, it is true. I am taking a day off from drinking scotch, and what, I ask you, could be a better replacement? Here's to kissing rocks and kidnapping wee folk for their gold. Oh, and here's to me and one stellar hangover. The partying begins at midnight and goes all through the day, hipflask topped off, breath mints in the breast pocket. I and other Americans defiling yet another holy day. So cheers! Truly.

Well, it finally happened. If it didn't happen here, it would have happened somewhere else. It has certainly happened often enough before. You see, in a previous life, same body, just previous life, I was a critic. Not a big, rotund Ebert like critic, and not a just-running-around-pointing-out stuff critic. I actually went to school to learn the "art" of criticism. More accurately, I honed my abilities to critique a work of art, place it in its cultural perspective, or merely comment on its "value." Most of what I chose to examine in this fashion fell into the literary categories of novels and short fiction. However, from time to time, a poet would come along that I was particularly interested in and I would spend time examining his or her greater works. If I was incredibly lucky, I might even get to meet this person face-to-face. James Welch, author of Winter In the Blood, comes quickly to mind. Now, the tricky part. Some daring individuals will find out that you are a professional critic, and yes, I do carry a union card. Once the greasepaint of everday existence is removed, and your secret identity exposed, they come with notebook in hand and say, "Please read my poems, and tell me what you think." Rarely, and I do mean RARELY, do they want the honest opinion. Most often they are looking for some stamp of approval to justify the paper and ink wasted on their dark meanderings through despair, loneliness, adulterous forays, and just about any other cliche laden crap they could muster. But it happens, and I accept, and I tell them, if I even remotely like the work, I will comment on it, and I will be brutally honest, I will tell you where you go astray, and I will tell you what you need to do to fix it. Like BASF, the chemical company, I don't make the products you use, I just make them better. If I don't like the work, and to be honest, I generally don't, I will merely thank the person, and leave them with the comment that the poems/short stories/novels were "nice." Suffice it to say, the Klown has been found out, and I received a "nice" collection of "poems" today. 

Normally I don't like to point out if someone is a complete waste of air, but Michael Medved has got to be one of the poorest uses of carbon, oxygen, nitrogen, and argon (yes, we all have a wee bit in us) since I got booted from freshmen chemistry for trying to create life myself. Whilst channel surfing, I happened upon a Medved interview wherein he was able to rail against liberal Hollywood and listen to him bash Brokeback Mountain, Crash, Capote, and Transamerica. Oddly enough, he seemed to think that Chronicles of Narnia was a fabulous piece of art, and managed to drub Wizard of Oz (as a center of gayness)....Oh poor, poor Mr Medved, how difficult it must be to live in such a sullied world as this. Though you may never win any major awards (as most of the movies, directors, and actors that you bashed did) at least you can lay claim to the first annual, post-Oscar, Squish the Klown STFU award. Now please go away. 

Okay, I will be the first to admit (as though someone could admit for me) that I do a pretty piss poor job of keeping this thing up to date, but I am so durn busy! Well that is not exactly true, I do have waaay to much free time. So much, in fact, that I spend most of it playing video games. Sadly, I have purchased more games than I could play in a lifetime, but isn't that what being an American is all about? Well, recently I was able to combine two addictions into one, and bought Hulk: Ultimate Destruction for the Ol' XBox, and I have to say that it is quite fitting that the little XBox light that mocks me from time to time glows gamma green. Feel the rage! Hulk SMASH, and very little else, but who cares! All in all, not a bad game and was rated as the best comic book game of the year, but look at the competition: Fantastic Four (the game based on the movie)....ugh! The best comic book game(S) of all time have to be the Spiderman 1 and 2 that I snagged for the PS2....deep and engrossing and all those other fancy ass words that reviewers use to get you to buy shhtuff. Hulk:Ultimate Destruction was so good, that it prompted me to hunt down a comic book store in my new "home town" and get those box subscriptions going again. So, I now have about 2 dozen titles that will be arriving semi-regularly and taking up more of my free time. That combined with trying to kick my NyQuil addiction means more irregularity than anyone really cares to read about. 

Ah, playing City of Villains. Rather a late start on the game, and really didn't like City of Heroes that much, but I need a break from World of Warcraft periodically. As you might guess, this little fellow is named Squish the Klown; he is pretty fantastic with the gunplay, I must say. 

This slays me. Apparently, there are English lit instructors out there who still believe that students will read the notes version, write their term paper and still expect to pass the class. Okay, maybe there are students who will attempt it. I guess what I find really astonishing is that the profs think that if the campus bookstore doesn't sell them, then the plagiarism issue will magically go away. (I assume that they are worried more about plagiarism than sheer laziness, because it is the job of the instructor to stave off the yawns when discussing the "classics." And no amount of cribbing, cheating, or calculating is going earn a below average student an A on a term paper.) Are the instructors even remotely aware of google? Or the fact that this information is one mouse click away anyhow? When did instructors re-enter the paleolithic era, communicating in grunts and cave paintings. Make your damn classes more challenging! Do not tolerate the surface level exploration of these texts. Plot summaries only tell the plot! The true study of literature is the discussion what these ideas mean in relation to the historical moment, the cultural zeitgeist, the Freudian ramifications, the Marxist nuances, the reader's own interaction with the text, the deconstruction of the plot's elements. If you are simply quizzing where Robin bought the red hat in chapter 22, then you are doing more of a disservice to the work of art than a measly $4.95 synopsis ever will.

I hate when you have to download a video. I mean it is so much more convenient when it just opens in a new window and plays. This goes for everything from porn to white trash blowing things up. But this one is definitely worth the time to download, even if you have never played World of Warcraft (and by the way, why don't you?)

Two hits from Narnia.

Ah, Jedi Love. Or where Little Jedis come from. Or, why I quit playing this game and moved on with my life.

Wow. Just simply. Wow.

There is hope and a kind of beauty in there somewhere, if you look for it.
H. R. Giger

New addition to the extended klown family. My sister just had a baby today (it is her birthday as well, if that is any indication of how organized her life is). Mother and baby are doing just fine. The new one's name is Greer.

Crows get a bad rap throughout mythological history, but look what they have to deal with. 

Man, I love the old school games. I just got Zoo Keeper in a collection of games for the Xbox, a steal at $19.99. Zoo Keeper was the one game that I remember drawing the largest crowd at the neighborhood 7-11. I dumped countless quarters into that damn thing trying to beat my brother's high score, Bob Scrignoli's and Wayne Zacher's. While I excelled at Mr. Do!, I never quite got the top spot on Zoo Keeper (which had "rest:" levels reminiscent of Mario--notice the resemblance?). Anyhow, back in the day when high scores mattered and you identified yourself with three simple initials, I was known as BOO. Anyone who entered ASS guaranteed that the game would be reset, and a the race for number one would begin anew. Sometimes I think that Tom, the night manager was the one who would enter ASS, as it assured that there would be a ton of us hanging around at night keeping him company and bolstering profits as we struggled to re-achieve those multi-million point high scores. 

What the hell is it with ninjas anyhow? Can they cook? Nooo. 

If you're happy and you know it...

then you aren't medicated enough. Or, if your names doesn't begin with C check this website out. If your name is Christopher, however, then you are probably already aware of this blog. If you are Christopher and you are not aware of this blog, then you drink too much (if not more than I do).

Pay particular attention to the January 8th entries. Notice, no Elvis. That's right kiddies, January 8th is now Klown DAY! Whoooohooo!

A little update on the post B-day blitz. The Hockey game was a bit of a letdown. The new NHL is kind of, well, soft. Kind of a lackluster game. The Wild lost, but that's not what made it so miserable. Even the fans sat on their hands. This is MINNESOTA! Hockey games and church should not be interchangeable on the decible meter.

I was drunk under the table by 10:30. Granted, I was out with a bunch of military boyz (read: professional alcoholics) but still....I used to be able to go all night long, puke and still make it to work on time. SheeSh!

Ice, beer, and my brother. Tonight we rekindle an old tradition of taking in a hockey game in celebration of another trip around the sun. When I was growing up, my mother would always plan a birthday party around a UMD Bulldogs' game.

I have been away from hockey for a number of years, living out west (No, I really don't think hockey belongs in Phoenix, LA, San Jose, etc.). So, with the move back to the tundra, I can once again, paint my face, get drunk on $7 dollar beer, and cheer the home team on toward victory.

What a strange, tribal thing it is to engage in.

The sound of bones creaking

Well, I awoke today undeniably on the other side of the hill. The peak is somewhere in my rearview mirror, and I am beginning to make my descent. You know what? Never felt better and more at peace. My twenties, well, what I remember of them were about getting drunk, chasing the idea of love, getting drunk, and maybe eventually getting a degree. But mostly about getting drunk. My thirties were all about catching up for the time lost. The super competitive go, go, go of what? Who was I really succeeding for? Sure, I helped myself out, but at what expense? I lost time with my family that I will never recover, and I helped make money for ungrateful suits without a hint of genuine thanks.

Forty. All that is gone. I am near home. I am at peace with the universe. Well, okay, I have been forty for a little over an hour now. We'll see what tomorrow brings. The other side of the hill brings a much, much better view of what lies ahead.

A little bit older; a whole lot scarier. 

Wow, has it been that long~?

Nearly two months away from the keyboard. But the klown, like the phoenix, has risen from the...whatever.

Just got bored with the same old. Not a lot happens here in the heartland. Not a lot to report. And with the gray winter days, not a lot of things even seem funny enough to send your way.

But lo and behold, something to report. Fortieth birthday just around the bend.

Apparently, I have just a scant 7 years left. Which is nearly 2600 blogging days until they find me in the bathroom, boxers around ankles, dead on the toilet. Elvis and I share more than just a birthday.