I Fucking Hate You Facebook, I Really Do!

I used to have a facebook profile.

That, alone, should work as the understatement of the year. I used to be amongst the millions of happy-go-lucky users of one of the most succesfull social networks of this, our current decade. Used, were; all key words in the plot that thickens.

To me, as to the countless, facebook used to be the shit. Now, quite literally, I consider facebook to be not more than shit. It profoundly sickens me that at random times in the day I think it through, long and hard to return. Should I give in? Let go of my pseudo-antisocial tendencies and stop my ongoing hate campaing against the network in question? Should I go back and have my grip on the pulse of the community?

It sickens me because for a moment, as tiny as it is, I think of the reasons why I should go back ignoring the fact that it is this same reasons why I left facebook, a badly hurt, agonizing beast on the side of the road shaking madly in cold and desperation, holding dearly for life with it's guts spilling all over the asphalt of the cybernetic highway were I so boldly ran over it high on frustation, hatred and a trigger happy state of mind.

At least, for me, that's what I did.

Most of my friends have heard the tale of my farewell to the evil site. Today I told it again. It's a tale for the ages, complete with unfulfilled expectations, broken hearts and a yearning for what never came. But it's not a tragic story, no one but the beast died in the process. And as I told my friend today, as I told some before, one day, someday, the evil site will fall, just like the many before it. A new one might emerge, but the one will die, as it did for me, as it will for many.

My hatred, my spur of disdain and this current rant, naturaly, is the result of a moment of weakness were, as I previously stated, I sickened myself, because I thought about it, I deeply considered going back, reopening my page and clicking away, finally coming to terms with the fact that there are people I never ever see anymore. And then I realized just how horrible a notion that would be.

Going back at the openess, at the focus group and center stage. At the one place were you're everything and everyone can know it. The hell with private settings and selectivty, facebook exists for one reason only and that is to terminate all and every strain of privacy there has ever been or will ever be. A person that prohibits information or turns away from the many things a facebook profile offers is not a true user of the site, and therefore no fun at all.

Lucky for me, I'm the dullest, most boring sunavabitch this side of the mississippi, or I can pretend to be and bitch, moan, reject and turn against the evil site. I can't go back, I won't go back. I don't want to, now that I think about it. It did me wrong, it terminated surprise and originality and exchanged it for a false-on sense of comepetivity at being the first to know something, or saying the coolest line of the week. Being the most interesting person ever and standing out from the group of a couple thousand billion people.

It was all a lie, and at the end of the run it left me with half-assed projects and no expectations. I learned, the hard way, not to believe the internets fable of the pretty interesting girl no one seems to care about, but you. That forgotten, wild specimen that just so very special only I have acces to her. I learned not to trust the coolness of my photographs or the way I dealt with imformation, giving in for the funny and unique or the honest and good willed, for it is all a death trap.

I fucking hate facebook now, because I fell for every dirty trick on the book and would still do if the wretched machine still had a chance. But I sprung from it's death grip, onto my own individual terms and turned my back on it. Fuck Facebook and everything it stands for. We allready have msn. Far as I'm concerned, it's all we fucking need. But the charade lives on.

All the dirty old tricks, all the people I welcomed into my life, half hopping to reconect with those whom I estranged, and keeping in touch with those whom I see allmost everyday. Thinking that in the years that've passed, magically, they've all transformed and now complete the full circle that is my personality. They all want to hear about movie facts and comic-based opinions.

They all want to hear the string of echoes that stir in my head, all the talk and walked based on my all-time greatest heroes, from the ones that I knew back in junior high, to the ones I know now. All those people want to hear the same rant 100 million times that firmly state Kevin Smith is a superior life form, Woody Allen is a fucking genius and Hunter S. Thompson is a demigod. All of them believe in the frightening posibilities of a zombie outbreak and understand chat room lexycon.

They're interested on the latest news concerning the gaming universe, they all love the 80's and enjoy watching anime. They all like the same music I hear and they are cool and crazy and free.

They're not. Not all of them can be this way. Not everyone can be a happy sunavabitch whom I can hang with and now that I understand it, I don't want them to be.

Because then what need would I have of my friends? To see them, talk to them? What need would there be to stand out? Why should I even bother showing up in our usual hanging spots? Anything I wanna know about them, I can just check it on facebook? Their current moods, their vacation pictures, their opinions, their concerns, their worries, their struggles, their merits, their conquests.

I could easily tell if they're dating or not. If our friendship is really worth the effort or heading to the gutter. Everything would be at my reach, nothing would be a surprise or a revelation.

Fuck Facebook and everything it represents.

Because I value the truth and beauty that is coming to school one day and finding out that my best friend has grown a beard, that somebody else started dating that one chick they've been eyeing out for a while. Because if somebody really cared about me being somewhere they would flat out say it, invite me or whatever. Because no one has the right to know something about me I wanna keep a secret or that I don't mind a few people knowing.

Beacause I don't wanna deal with cutting ties to people and situations, to past lifes and forgotten moments that remain so for a reason.

This is what I want, my voice to reasonate in the walls of my subconcient mind having anyone worth their salt reading them if there is any true and real interest.

This is what I'm happy with.

The Bitching.

The Complaining.

The make believe that everything is fucked, but I stand above it with reverence.

In this age and time, this is what I value. People are a mystery, one that only few are really worth uncovering. And in my weakened state, I was compelled to go back and taking the easy way onto uncovering the secrets of the soul that hid on those very special people. But I was wrong. There is absolutely nothing even remotley heroic or divine of loging in, typing some words, browsing some page and pretending to have something in common with someone just by looking into their page.

That isn't having something special with someone, that's cheating. There isn't surprise. There isn't context. There's just facebook and it's own particular habbit of exhibiting people.

Fuck Facebook. I'll decide what kind of awesome I fuckin' am.

God plays dice with me

It would seem apropiate to renew my blog and begin this new post with a positive feeling...or at least make fun of anything.

But doing so would be a direct offense to everything I stand for, an offense to the universe and the matter that surrounds me and an all-together kick in the crotch with a pointy hollow steel rod welded to the tip of a massive pendulum that weights over 500 lb atached to another massive steel rod that measures a good 34 meter and has been lifted (or swayed) to a complete angle of 120 ° over a height of....you know what? The pendulum comes down from high above and weights a lot.

You don't need to know physics just to realize a heavy object dropped from a high height at high speeds that will inevitably colide with your nuts or your snatch is going to hurt a lot.

Because that's the pretty little joyfull oyster that is my life. It's in moments like this when I most truly and really miss George Carlin....Cause he always made me laugh and he always made me realize the truth the world hid through his words. It's in moments like this when I think of him and of Lewis Black and Hunter S. Thompson and Jesse Custer and Spider Jerusalem, because they all had it worst. And they all would know what to do in a case like this.

So it turns out, bitching is forthemost the designated feeling to be held at this point's notice. I did bad in school, I'm still a few miles off being the bad ass I want to be, I still get cornered and stomped, my love life is a contemporary play whose only purpose is to explore the inequities and misadventures of being an idealistic young adult with so much ambition but near to no drive to get what he wants in the modern age.

The modern age being a mish mash of a digitalized era were pop stars are 15 year old girls made to look like highschool skanks marketed to males from preubecsent hormonal age were anything in a skirt and a halter top is jacking-off material to the upbeat new and improved pedophilic pervert that holds an important spot in society but every now and then enjoys the vissage of Miley Cyrus cock teasing the camera.

A lot can be said of the modern age. Our current time. Our wonder years. Politics and counter politics become steady jokes as time goes by. On one side we have either the top notch model of the idealic asshole running the country. Any country. My country, your country. France, Italy, USA, Mexico, Canada. It doesn't fucking matter.

Or

The breath-of-fresh-air straight-out-of-the-oven newly designed optimized and easy to handel head of state, made to fit just right in anyone's mind bearing all that is needed out of a real man, an honorable man.

I don't hate President Barack Obama, I don't even dislike him. If I were a northamerican citizen I would've voted for him, and I don't believe in voting as much as Rush Limbaugh believes the holocaust never happened (and if this pun has already been used elsewhere, I'm sincerely unaware of it and sorry for plagarizing, because plagarizing, without knowledge, is still writing someone else's briliant ideas).

But politics have been simplified for us punny mortals. There aren't any more tyrants and warlords which make enthusiastic writers like me or the many out there viciously, blood hungered and make us step out into the rain, the mud, the filth, the shit and anywhere else were we can fish and reap the truth. There aren't any more monsters and crooks like there used to be, just stupid fucking morons posed there as warning sings.

"DON'T FUCK WITH US.

WE MADE THIS MAN A PRESIDENT"

So they read. And counter politics (as well as anything counter) used to be run by wasteoids and freak heads. People who spent too much time away from the sun, people who would wet themselves beofore standing off from their chairs or starve to death before ungluing themselves away from the computer monitor back when hacking was underground and penalty of the law. Those that, unlike the fearsome journalists, would seep and uncover all the secret little details in our world from the comfort of their pseudo-homes by way of the interweb.

Now all the edgy guys are comedians on television. The hackers are your next door neighbors (you know...as long as you're not that next door neighbor) and the internet is available to everyone, which in turn have made it a knack to deal with gossip columns and funny videos.

I didn't wrote porn on purpose, because porn has always been there, will always be there and is, perhaps, one of the last remaining remmants of the true society that have existed since Greece was the shit. Before christian conservatives and slavery. Before the new world, which has fall right back at the hands of the sick and the poor from which it was once denied.

And that is only politics...and a very, very, very light side of it.

It's the way of things. Which is why I miss Carlin and I long for Lewis Black. Because I'm roaring right now, deep from within my entrails lies something so powerful that's been building over time...again. But there's no need to release it like I used to, you don't deserve it and my blog doesn't deserve it either. It's my path, the one I've chosen, the one that's meant for me. It's the way of things and I hold no grudges against that.

Sufice to say, I love and hate my life. I love the joyus wonders that have crossed and keep crossing my way. Hate it for the little dwarves and elves that hid behind the shadows grinnin like morons and waiting for the perfect moment to dry hump my leg.

If you don't happen to know it, dwarves and elves are the most hideous creatures in the known universe. They're not scary, just utterly disgusting, like a leaving-breathing knee-sized aging sack of balls with teeth sharp enough to puncture little holes on your leg and nails so goddamn large and pointy and sharp they make little scratches. Needles to say, all of this isn't deadly, just somewhat painfull and really fucking annoying.

They sweat and stink of shit and piss and rot. They have the foulest breathes from eating nothing but filth and they tend to bleed when they get over excited, either from bitting their lips to hard or just as some twisted featurette in their nature.

Sometimes they bleed from their badly shaped scrawny decaying penis. But their squeel. Their orgasmic whaling is perhaps the most obnoxious sound a human can ever hear. It's distinct mark is that of a creature that's horrible in every single way and very horny.

We, as humans, are marked to walk through life with momets that equal one of these beings dry humping your leg. Men and women with worst luck actually get raped by these devilish fiends. Sometimes by more than one.

But we continue. It just so happens that the world and everything in it belong only to those able to walk through the filth and the shit and get their colons lightly desintegrated by these creatures and keep on walking, knowing that they get better at walking on mud and filth and shit every time, all the while wearing a make shift necklace of dwarve's and elve's eyes, ears and fingers. You know, as tokens of having defeated this moments.

This is how I feel at the moment. On the verge of something big and important, close to an exit but still knee deep in dank water and in almost pitch darkness. The important thing to do is know there is an exit.

Forget about the fucking government, the fucking media, the fucking bullshit. Forget about who's fucking who and who's getting fat. Forget about the needless and the useless and stick with the interesting and promising. I assure you, knowing that Kanye West is a total shitbag is not at all fullfilling since, personally, I couldn't give more than a fuck about Taylor Swift and knowing so does not make me a happier person.

Knowing that what happens to Batman in "The Dark Knight Returns" or how does Silent Hill, the original game go or the words to Break Stuff by Limp Bizkit and half a billion things about movies in general, is far more important. Even the little things, are far more important, like what happened this last couple of weeks. Those are the true treasures in a over-digitalized world were mantaining an edge is the least people could do.

Not cross it, just have it. I miss Carlin, but I know we all have a little of him inside ourselves, because we're all bastards.

And a bastard is what I want to be. Thanks for the time and the trouble, thanks for everything piece of shit/cake life. Thanks for showing me watchmen the movie and Eureka Seven the anime. Thanks for making there be religion and publishing books that defy it, defile it or flat out piss on it. Thanks for making me a bad student but the most awsemost guy that I even make myself proud and tap my shoulder for just being there, saying that or doing something.

And thanks to all my friends, past and present. They're the ones keeping me at bay. Them and the promises, because even when either one of the two have failed, I haven't. Not as a human being. Not as who I'm supposed to be.

Thank you. I am blessed.

And fuck god, the house always wins.

No Title #2

Ever been in that situation when, just as you're about to look at the world with a clean-clear view or a different, yet positive new perspective, the Universe gets cute and "tests" you in a way?

I fucking hate those situations. Because I almost, almost, always loose.

Almost. This is enough for me to loose, just significantly, a lot. And I fucking hate it how what comes into contact acts in a way that my, at the time fucked up mind, plays it so that it seems everyone's against me. I hate it because it only happens when I try my best to be happy. Good Omens; just played that card, didn't I?

It's the paranoid dreams all over again, of saying one thing and then losing ground to my goddamed luck. Its many things. How I feel. How it makes me feel. One thing and already things look bleak, desperate, and stupid. I already start to play the scenes in my head, what is to come. I'm already fighting people in the future because of what they said. I'm calling them names, casting them dirty looks and rejecting them as people as it was.I'm losing ground already.

And all because of one tiny little moment. Now I'm a bit relaxed, I go with it. Fuck it, it's what you do. There's no two ways about it, there's no I could've, I would've and to think otherwise would be a complete loss of my time and a sure-as-hell one-way ticket down a long, sufferable and very familiar path to me. One were at some given point I realize I fucked it up. So fuck it.

To think at all that this is in part thanks to some people would also be sufferable. I have enough to deal about with myself than to have others trying to pitch in so if you whoever you are and will be in or out of my life, if you don't understand this, don't try too. Don't even bother in reading the rest of it. It's not even a message, it's a rant. A personal rant. Because after dealing with the fact that nobody reads this stuff then I might just as well use it as an outlet.

But it isn't what I want. What I'm really after is balance, comfort and commodity. To know that this one aspect of my life is in order because I've had it with the temporary friendships. But one thing that is true, beyond a reason of a doubt, is that I didn't felt like this the first time someone went away. And in all good measure, the circumstances will do their best to just sink it in.

I remember, though, a day in which it wasn't at all too bad and we all had our laughs and joys. And I remember that day, it stood out. It was a good day. But it was also the quintessential map of things to come. Now, as always, I stand and feel the cold, the confusion, the anger, the rage, the hate and violence that come with it. To know that I've been shaked.

Never again, so I said, and not so easily. When I wrote my eulogy to Carlin I said nobody could shake me that easily anymore. This isn't easy, far from it.That's what it is. The feeling of not wanting to do anything, dropping all attempts to change something. Not now, not while things are like this.

In 1 week time I go back to school. By then I must have resolved sleeping periods amongst a few other things. In the meantime all the pretty girls and undisclosed anger/hatred/violent needs can stumble up and form in a macabre state and mock me or leave me be. All the confusion can form up in a shell and crumble crushing me in its wake.

THE FUCKING SKY CAN VERY WELL LIT UP AND BLAZE AT MY HEAD, for I will feel that and drop a few "f" bombs in public. A lot can happen, much more to my dismal. One thing is certain though. Everyone, men and women alike, have their boys or girls and whilst all of them round up and chit-chat their merry-go way into exaltation, be sure to know, you can all kiss my ass. For I will sure miss my boy.

In 1 week time I go back to school under near to perfect period placements, towards a brand new semester filled with thrills and wonders, with the people I know and love and perhaps even new ones at that.

1 week...and one of my best friends won't be there.

A good-harted fiery individual who isn't afraid or bullshit ridden. Who fits just perfectly into our lives, who makes us laugh and chill and have a good time and who, safe to say as my real best friends tend to do, has shown me a way. Strong beyond anyone's personal view, hated by some, love by us and bassist player for the band.

1 week and a very fucking important person...won't...be...there.

Fuck.

Good Omens

I could bitch about anything, I really could. The heat, the boredom, the weirdness of it all and how everything is mockingly connected to some distant fact in my life but as I write this while beatboxing, I suddenly want more. Not the usual rantings, about movies, why they are cool, why I am cool to know so much about them or comic books or daily situations.

I want rants, don't get me wrong I live for rants about anything. I'd even sit through a religious rant (Jesus Camp, nuff said). And why? why, because of the solely beauty of morbidity.

I'd sit through a religious rant or a political rant for the same reason I'd read all the coments on a youtube video, just to get sickeningly fed with people's opinion's that, mind you, sometimes differ greatly from my own. And that pisses me off, but I do it, because I might well not have enough respect for myself. BUT TODAY, today stands out for a reason and that reason is that I'm fed up with the FUCKING FUCKED UP-NESS OF THE SITUATIONS THAT SURROUND ME!!

So...I've been messing arroung, getting my thrills and daily adventures out of whatever the world can provide me, be them online, live, recorded somewhere or published and republished in the time span between 1917 and 2006. I've seen TV shows, I've finished complete anime seasons, watched movies that were on hold and I have even fooled around in other people's blogs and for all the time consuming activities, I fancy...It's not enough.

I mean seriously, it's not only that every day while fighting to stay awake some bone is thrown in my direction, some obscure or public occurrance happens and while I get round to write about it, all, if any, inspiration leave my putrid self in search of more meaningfull places, like my friends (who'd known?). And so I stumble back in my chair, rock my earphones and sit while listening to "I'm on a Boat" for the 128th time in a row.

Speaking of friends, I'd like to take this unbeknownst moment and confess that I've been getting my kicks from, amongst many places, a certain blog written by a certain young lady who fancies a certain knack for things electric and if she EVER gets to read this non-sequital pages of rantings and such I would like to share with her that strange feeling I get in those wee hours of the morning when the mood's just right and the light is ok, the tunes are enticing and my mind swirls with thoughts.

Right when I say to myself "hmm, It's been some days since I read anything interesting, I wonder if the certain young lady has posted anything new" and whaddaya know, SHE HAS!!!! Not only that, but it kinda stands out and suddenly brain up here goes "Shit this is good" and bye bye go all wishes to write.

I don't feel bad though, she deserves the attention and while it seems I'm sucking up to her, I fancy the girl and her friends, she's cool (as are most the people I meet). Cool people seem to attract two things: Despair and more cool people. SOOOOO to those days, were I mysteriously think "I wonder if there's somehting new" and there is and it's really good, I salute her with this old school rhyme (set to the tune of Easy-E's Boyz in the Hood)

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Stay up late
At around 2:oo
Just thought that I had to get my blogging soon
Gotta get readin' befo daylight sets in
Befo' my body get's used to the lack of sleep

About to stop, allmost said good night
Then I felt I really had to stay online
Tried to remember.
It was a blog
I didn't knew much, only that it ended in pop

At my laptop, started clicking some letters
Was done soon, clicked the key "Enter"
Got to the site and to my surprise
I was soon reading them posts, from first to last

Now I hear my iTunes play (play)
Hearing a theme song from a Mehca Anime
I't so witty and smart h0w this girl writes
Let me tell you what kinda' stuff you might find

There's a post about Woody and a picture of the 'chords
Something about pet peeves
How un-lucky are Dumb Girls

Went to the blog to humor her
Little did I know I'd return every now and then
A thought comes up what does it mean
I haven't charged my Nintendo DS, Oh Em Gee

Returning to the point in the song, I must say
It's so fun to read what goes through Mrss. Pop's head

´Cause girls like her are a dime a dozen
Somehow, it seems, her friends are just as awesome
I should know about that, I can read people moods
No doubt about it, Wendy and Babs got it going on too.

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My rhymes are guetto and dope and leet, all at the same time. Suck that T.I. (I hate that fucking asshole!!). Well that was my litte shout-out to a blogging soul sister, may she be in good times.

Meanwhile, as I try to find any meaning to life after Avatar and Michael Jackson, the world swirls past around and shakes me in the most unexpected ways from the comfort and stallness of my own home. Seriously though, I've got a high powered fan blazing away at me and my elbows are sweating. But enought of the nasty details, on with the crazy rantings...

I. HATE. THE. ENTIRE. CAST. OF. HOUSE MD!!!! Except for two people, Dr. Wilson and House Himself.

I have to get this out of the way because it's been eating me inside not to know what the fuck is going on. I've been watching it lately, trying to figure why everyone loves the show, all my friends, all my medial friends, allmost anyone I know that has ever seen a House episode LOVES house.

AND WHY!!!! WHY has been the question pounding away at my cerebellum for the last 2 seasong I own. WHY do people endure this. WHY does it still air after that fatefull first season. WHY does it feel strangely unwatchable yet I'm compelled to watch it to the last minute.

I GOT IT!!! Today, exactly at 3:15 in the evening, roughly 12 minutes after I awoke, I saw another episode (the one were Michelle Thatchenberg has a tick in her...lady bussiness and is caussing her to experience all sorts of shannananigans) and finally found out the why.

WHY does anyone see it? WHY is it still on the air? WHY has it won awards? WHY does no one bother to make any change in the storytelling? Because, AND ONLY BECAUSE, of Dr. Gregory "AWESOME" House. Because in the weird alternate universe of Dr. House everything seems, seems, normal. BUT IT ISN'T.

EVERYONE!!! is as stiff as a board, when people get sick, they get sick of the most unsual, rare once in 5 lifetimes diseases at the same time they have at least 2 or 3 other things that always put the guys off scent, there's no such a thing as ethic, much less medical or work ethic (how come they always find a way to get into people's appartments and nobody ever does anything?) and nobody listens to House, EVER, even though he is ALWAYS right.

That's the strange weird dull fealing that comes with the warm, fuzzy feeling I get when Hugh Laurie says anything at all. The show is un-oroginal, repetetive as fuck and everyone else (except for our very own Dr. House and Robert Sean Leonard of Dead Poet's Society fame) is the epitome of HATRED!!!

This people are stuborn and weak and increadibly stupid. There's the girl who has weirdly evolved from that cute, naïve girl who had a crush (read O-V-B-I-O-U-S) with House during the first season to a megalomanical bitch, who's nosy as fuck and gets involved in absolutely every case, besides I get the slight idea that sometimes she goes jus a little bit overboard trying to proove House wrong.

Then there's the black dude who is just as obnoxious, pedant, stupid and CANNOT PUT HIS FUCKING EYEBROWS DOWN!!!!! SERIOUSLY, BRAW, WHAT THE FUCK!! DID YOU GET A PLASTIC JOB IN THERE, WHAT'S WITH THE PERPETUAL LOOK OF "I told you so" YOU HAVEN'T TOLD ANYONE SHIT SINCE THE SHOW STARTED. Then there's the blonde bitch (what's his face, the Awestrelian one) who's the definition of stupid times a fucking asshole.

AND LET US NOT FORGET the power tripping, über BITCH that is their boss. Why did the producers got rid of Chi McBride? Why did they let Sela Ward leave? WHY DID NO ONE GOT RID OF CUDDY!!?!?!?! She's not cute, she's not hot, I don't find her the least bit appealing and Hey, you know? I get when House's *team* gets it wrong, I get it, They're supposed to, they're idiots. But his boss!!! If anyone listened to what cuddy had to say...fuck it, if anyone listened to what ANY of the supporting cast memebers had to say, people would actually D I E.

But cuddy...She's always threatening to fire House, to lay him on his arse, to let him go, to take him of cases...I just saw one were she had a patient and neglected him (a six year old) while House had a hunch and followed that hunch and discovered kiddo had a problema and started treating him and was well on his way to save him and stepped out of line and BUTTFUCK CUDDY came along and demoted him, told him he was off the case.

I get it and I think so do you, If anyone listens to anyone BUT House, people would DIE, countless of countless of people would die, but cuddy is supposed to be the boss, so why the fuck is SHE still working....AND NOW I KNOW WHY!!!

My rush, my exaltation, it comes from knowing how much I hate all this characters and how much I hate they always demote House, and deaminish him and try to ignore him and make him an idiot and when proven to be right no one gives the slightest thank-you to him. I finally understand that everyone is an asshole AND THEY CAN'T LEAVE.

Why? Simple, because then House couldn't make complete fools out of them and give them snappy comebacks and virtually defeat them at absolutely everything, starting, by being an actual doctor. SO SUCK IT PACK OF MORONS, they have to stay. They have to stay and endure the endless array of insults from a medical genius they ' ' hopefully ' ' will never be.

Because House is the ultimate bastard. He's rude, gross, dirty, unethical, inmoral, depraved, unclean, unshaven, immature and an all around bastard and you love him!!! They tell him to kiss their ass, he tells them to suck his dick. They go around demoting him, he goes beyond authority. They kick him out on the streets, he cane-hops his way round the back and into the hospital. They try to put him down, he rests assured that everyone will fall...and they do. Suckers!

So as to the rantings, I could bitch about the heat, the boredom, how Michael Jackson's death hurt me so much and how much Avatar filled a gap in my life. I could rant about movies like the summer's flop that was Transformers 2 or how I feel about Terminator Salvation or how much I'd like to watch Harry Potter and The Half Blood Prince and bitch about what they missed and made up. I could go on and on and on and on about a lot of things, but I won't. Because I've already done two of the three things that secure a better tomorrow.

Prove the world Dr. Gregory House and Dr. James Wilson are the only two human beings on HOUSE MD and praise my friend's blog besides diggin in that people SHOULD watch Avatar (seriously, it is that good) and my little written mention to MJ (I'll promise an euology some day).

But the third thing, the one that assures me great things will come...

Today, as again I woke from a three-four hour sleep after staying up for most of last night up until 7:30, as I went through my day as expected by doing absolutely nothing, it came the time that I took a nap....

I dreamt of a theatre. In that theatre, far back on the seats, there was a man, far from the people on the primary rows. I walked by the man, looked at him and said

"....You're Johnny Depp"

To which the man responded "Why yes, yes I am"

And I said "Wow, How you doing Mr. Depp?"

And he said "Fine, fine thank you. Just enjoying the play"

To which I responded "I see that Mr. Depp, say you know this reminds me off Hunter S. Thompson"

Which made him say "You know about Dr. Thompson?"

To which I said "Oh shucks Mr. Depp! I love Dr. Thompson and I love his work"

And he said "Hey! So do I...uhh please....Call me Johnny, come sit here, tell me more about Thompson"

...

When I woke, I just lay there on the bed and said "Johnny Deep and I are Friends". If that's not a Good Omen then there is no God.

Peace.

A Cold Day In Hell

I wake up wiping sweat with my hands as my eyes get used to the lack of light around me. Something glitters, off in the distance. Something...green. I reach out in front of me to a dark empty space. I make out a small dark lit room with a bed, two night tables at my left and a television set at my right. I'm in a motel room.

"Thought you'd never wake up"

Someone's in the room with me....a woman. She's staring out the window into the abysmal night from where a neon green light shines at us. Her voice is low and swift, like swiping through water. I try to compose myself. I'm in a couch sitting in the dark looking straight at her. I'm wearing a suit, it feels uncomfortable. The air is stale and hot, dry like my throat.

"Go clean up to the bathroom, we have to go"

I want to talk but the words don't come out. My mouth feels sore and stingy. Swallowing what feels like razorblades, I stumble to an awkward stand as I notice my whole body aches. My legs and shoulders hurt, my arms are void of strength, my hands feel weird and my head hurts. Bad.

I turn to see a door, open it and head for the sink. I turn on the lights, turn on the faucet, and wash my face and mouth. I'm wearing a black suit with a white shirt and black tie. The shirt has blood on it. I look up to find my image in the mirror in front of me after being able to see properly. It scares me.

The left side of my face is bruised and my beard is full grown. It wasn't when I went to bed. But the bruising is bad. Either I was being a very naughty boy or someone really doesn't like me.

I fall back into the room shaking at the sight of my shiners were the woman stands taking puffs out of a cigarette looking cool and pretty. Her image somehow begs me to understand I was probably the luckiest idiot the night I came across such a beatiful dame. Either I said the right words or had the right money, she just looks too out of my grasp, but something about her feels like I just signed my soul to the devil. She doesn't fit with any of it. Not this room, not with me, not with those clothes.

I look at her and at the room, I know I'm not dreaming but I don't even dare ask her where I am. My head is turning, my heart is pounding and my left side feels heavy, stiff. Like something's pressing on my ribs.

"Shape up Tommy, we gotta make bail"

I smell alcohol in my clothes and wonder why am I bruised like this, why my shirt has blood on it, whose blood is it. My throat still feels like I swallowed a sword. With certain reluctance I muster -Greg- and sit on the bed for a while. She just says -What?- as I try to pick my thoughts and make up from down.

"My name is Greg"

A part of me expected her to say I was being stupid or crazy or tell me to stop playing, after all, she did call me Tommy with certain confidence. Instead a silence overwhelms the room till I finally look back at her and confront her stare. Somewhere, somehow, I struck a nerve. She stays mute standing in the middle of the room with the window looking out into the street. -Stand up- she says dry and cutting unlike before.

She doesn't pace her steps anymore and rushes me out the door, down the hallway, down the stairs to the parking lot towards a light brown Lincoln. She looks at me and asks -What's my name?- to which I stare at her, unable to respond. She's scared. She looks everywhere before popping up the trunk of the car.

"I know how this might look, I KNOW HOW IT MIGHT SEEM!!"

For a brief second I sense a small sob coming out of her mouth

"You told me to show you this if necessary. You said it might help. Tommy, we have to get out of here, now!"

After her small, nearly-impossible to hear little yelp, she motions me to look inside.

There's a man inside the trunk. Dead. His jaw is bent out of place, his eyes are white, his face is twisted and punched into a funny looking way. Some bones are visibly broken, piercing through his suit and somebody slashed his neck deep. Real deep, almost decapitated this poor bastard. I can see he's missing an ear and there's dry blood everywhere.

But the truly shocking thing at that moment isn't that I'm looking at a brutally murdered man, or the fact that I'm far away from home, or the woman, or the bruises, or the suit or the motel, but that I know this guy. I'm picturing him in my mind, fully dressed in business attire, with glasses waving his hand, extending it to meet mine. I know him, I can picture his house, I know it's his house. I have recollections of being with this man, golfing, fishing going and coming as if we were friends our whole life.

I remember him, for a second I remember my school before it all becomes a blur and wonder for just a split moment how are we conected.

I know who he was

I know I did this to him.

I know it was me who got into his house one night and did this to him. I don't know why, I don't know how. I just know I pulled up the strength and courage to do it.

I tortured and killed a man.

I can picture my hands beating him. I look at my hands; there are tattoos on my knuckles. On my left hand there are the four suits of a poker deck and on my right hand there are several markings on the backside of my palms that go up my sleave, god know how far up my arm.

When I went to bed I didn't had any tattos.

The knuckles on both hands are scratched and worn as if I've been whailing away at brick walls and shattered glass. I take a look around in search for anything that can tell me were I am. It's very dark. I look at the plaques in the car and they read NEVADA, but around me there are forest-like areas filled with pine trees. I'm not anywhere in Nevada.

I look at the woman who's now standing still on the side of the car, smoking frenetically. With the help of the light from the neon sign, I can see her eyes are glassy and bloodshot. She's taking drags off the cigarette and looking worried. She's also lightly bruised.

I'm still picturing the man in the trunk and how he looked like alive. I see him one more time. There's no way I can know how this man looked like when he was alive just by looking at the body. No one could.

I could run, shout, head the other way. I still feel something pressing at my ribs. Something is pressing at my ribs. I put my hand on over my coat and I feel it. I don't even have to look inside, I know it's there. For a brief second I wonder if it's loaded.

I move towards the woman, ask her name. Her glassy beautiful eyes look back at me. No doubt she's trouble. She stays still, swallows and says...

"Eve"

My head swirls, suddenly I feel relaxed. I grab the cigarette in her hand, take a drag and ask for the keys. I open her door and as she gets inside I get a strange feeling. I move on to the driver's seat and open the door.

Right before I get inside something stings and I turn around abruptly. Nothing. I move on, get inside, turn on the engine. It's all too natural. I drive out the parking lot and into the highway. I know I'm far away from home, have been for long judging by my state. I know I'm in trouble, somehow, someway.

I know I did that to the man in the trunk. Now I've got a hunch and by now the only genuine thing that scares me. I feel like someone's watching me. Back at the motel, before I got into the car...It was like could someone's eyes darting at my back, seering my skin.

We're a couple of miles away from the motel, none says anything. She looks forward without a peep coming out of her mouth. I can't even hear her breathing. Maybe because I'm having trouble hearing anything other than my own. A gun rests inside my coat against my ribs, I might need it. There's a dead man on the trunk and I'm making a run for somewhere at 2:45 in the morning.

I can't shake the feeling that someone's watching me.

A Cold Day In Hell revised

FRIENDS AND FOES! BEWILDERING CREATURES OF CREATION! MY MOST BEAUTIFUL AQUAINTANCES!

I welcome you and all to a dark universe in which shadows hide dangers far beyond the reaches of the human mind and night seems to be the perpetual state of time. Reality seems tainted by the sins of men and madness creeps behind every step you take. WELCOME, be you all, TO A PLACE that would put FUN HOUSES to shame!!!!

Welcome, to the stage and chamber in which you shall play your biggest role yet.
A museum of sorts, should you look at the walls. Thou shall findeth that the doors..are...CLOSED!!!

Nobody escapes; nobody ever gets out, not before the trail, not before the laughs. A place built for, and BY, paranoid schizophrenics with delusions of being chased and split personality disorders. A look in the mirror means a look at your face or a sentence for life.

Crowded streets that turn empty at a sway of your feet, madmen leading a turbulent carnival at your expense.

I WELCOME YOU, to my world.

A world of deceit and black magic. A place without real love. Were innocent men mingle with troubled women and fall into a spiraling vortex of DOOM. This is my home, this is the place.

Night never ends in the FILM NOIR universe.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Finally, after a year put on hold, the subject has surfaced again. In my not-so-meticulous-though-I-rather-wish-it-was mission to shed some light on movie matters I have failed on previous occasions to make an honorable mention at one of cinema's most beloved genres and for the matter one of my own favorites.
Film Noir has raged and evolved in such a manner without actually loosing it's essence to which an unaccountable number of followers and scholars have broken time barriers. Here I am, for example, now 21 and clamoring at something long before my time. It wouldn't surprise me there were younger persons, perhaps ignorant to the fact that they also love the genre.

The thing is that, you can't overlook the superb quality in the storytelling of a Film Noir. I am one of the many who had no fucking clue I loved it after some time. I believe my first encounter with the subject was, and I shit-you-not, in a Garfield cartoon.

First, some history...and I promise it won't be shitty.

Back in the 1940's, even when Technicolor technology already existed (which means movies could be in color now, and did for over 20 years) some studios started distributing movies that used black and white filters. Not only that, as time would tell, but they also made some unusual uses of low-key lighting to create heavy shadows and dim scenarios. The obvious was that the movies had a darker, somber tone to them.

The visual symbols were plain. Film Noir, literally translated to Black Film. But the darkness did go beyond just the lighting, it went to the storytelling, to the cast and script and circumstances.

Movie critics, connoisseurs and the public in general started noticing the sudden back trail at the colorless features and notices one too many aspects in the films. Finally a French critic named Nino Frank baptized the genre as Film Noir.

Now to get real dirty, Film Noir has stretched to unimaginable lengths when dealing with characters and storylines, yet keeps a distinctive feeling to all. The movies dealt, in their majority, with subjects close to the decay of human nature.

Almost all are crime dramas, with the main characters being the average Joe, the hardboiled detective or the ambivalent gangster. All cut by the same knife, middle age men who were hard drinkers and chain smokers with questionable morals drawn to attractive women, who meant trouble, and trouble in general.

They would always be drawn to situations where the world was directly or indirectly against them. They were the good guys even though they were the bad guys. They were tough and loners, standing ground for no one but themselves and the few people they actually trusted (which in most movies turned up dead).

Fighting rackets, mob guerrillas, vicious scumbags from all sorts and sizes and in general falling desperately into a viper’s nest, a wolf’s lair. The dragon’s mouth. Street wise and able to withstand anything from a beating to a heavy dosage of mind alliterating drugs. These were the heroes; scruff, dirty, mean and real, these were the ones whom I believed in, unlike the pristine ones.

The women were trouble because they meant business. Film Noir never knew such a thing as the weaker sex. Sometimes they were straight up bad ass, others they used their sexuality coming on as fragile and naïve when in reality they were…well…bad. And then there were the times when they were the criminal masterminds, plotting to commit a crime and get away with it, letting some poor sap take the fall. These were the femme fatales, women who were as smart as they were sexy. And shit bang, were this women hot.

The dialogues were jewels. Over the top, 50’s urban oriented lingo; like wise guy talk. The detectives talked like the scumbags they were after and all of this, you can bet you sweet ass to more, to a Jazzy, cool soundtrack.

Film Noir saw its run end somewhere among the 1950’s after stories of ruthless cops, corrupt cities, dangerous good looking dames, criminal masterminds and a solitary all-for-nothing-no-holds-barred detective or their criminal counterpart that drew the line somewhere who fought all the previous were no longer interesting…

..Or so it was thought.

Film Noir resurfaced as Neo-Noir which in turn branched into a serious of noir oriented movies that go from the Sci-Fi Noir (Terminator, Blade Runner), Psycho Noir (Blue Velvet), and a weird but subtle, neo-noir of sorts called by Wikipedia parody noir of which stands out the, and I quote, quintessential Neo-noir of the 70’s.
Not for nothing it’s my favorite movie of all times.

Modern day, Noir based works of art could be found in Sin City (both the graphic novel and the movie), Max Payne (The videogame, not the shitball fucked up movie), some Batman works (The Long Halloween for example) and of course, the classics. I loved it, all my life, because I saw something in these people. Perhaps it was the fact they weren’t muscle masses like most action heroes whom I saw a definite line of separation. Maybe it was the cool atmosphere of cigarette smoke, whisky glasses and Jazz tunes. It could’ve even been the lonely guys, fighting of the world and the shit, one dirty fuck at a time.

But I love it, none the less, and now I invite you to look out for one of cinema’s most beautiful, inventive and impressive genres.

A Year In Movies... Sorta...kinda... ALLRIGHT FINE, IT'S JUST ME BITCHIN' ABOUT A COUPLE OF MOVIES.

You know, to all there is I never really talked about Film Noir or the decay of modern cinema like I promised. Heck, I rarely ever write in here anymore. Figured people just don't seem to care much for anything not posted on facebook...Which is why I'll put this up there as soon as I'm done with it.

So....It's been quite a while. Matter of fact, it's been nearly a year since I did the Carlin piece. Took some time I guess and then I just plainly forgot. 'Lot of things happened since then and specially lot of movies came out. Some way more suckier than the rest. But what did stood out was amazing. Though, here's something I didn't expect even when some people had warned me about it.

Watchmen

There, I said it. Watchmen sucked, and for anyone in the know-how with this things, it really isn't a surprise. It was an ok movie, but Watchmen. Watchmen was something to get at, you know? in comic book terms, this was the adaptation that would've set the record straight. "Comics can be smart, who'd known?" people would say.

BUT NO, fuck that shit, we're stuck with the wannabe piece of crap delieverd by a fuckin' retard. I wrote once, I'll write it again. Zack Snyder, you're a fucking idiot...and I say that with love.

How was it? When he pitched the idea for watchmen, how did it went?

"300 was a FUCKING success!!!! (Money rolls). We HAVE to do something like that again"

"Well, Mr. Snyder, there are a number of graphic novels out there that you could ad..."

"NO TOMMY!!!!!, my wonderful assisntant, We won't just do any graphic novel adaptation, WE'LL DO A FUCKING MASTERPIECE!!!"

"Ummm, ok, may a suggest..."

"QUICLY TOMMY!!! What's the HARDEST.... no, that's not how it went ...

"QUICLY TOMMY!!! What's the MOST BELOVED COMIC BOOK IN THE HISTORY OF COMIC BOOKS!?!?!?"

"Well, sir, if I had to mention one, right out the top of my head...I guess Watch...."

"GREAT!!!!!!!!!!!! WE'LL DO THAT!!! QUICLY, CALL WARNER (or fox, however you wanna look at it), TELL 'EM WE GOT A GREAT-FUCKING-IDEA!!!!"

"Uhh...But, sir...Don't you think it would be a little hard to...."

"NONSENSE!!! It will be EPIC like EVERYTHING I direct"

"Uhh...ok...But, wouldn't you at least like to take a look at the novel to see if you'd wanna do it"

"...Hmmm, you got a point tommy, fine get me a copy"

(a few hours later)

"Let's see......girls, explosions, blood, end of the world, stuff I don't get.... :mummbles: ....uhh, OH MY SWEET GOD IN THE SKY, A BLUE PENIS!!!! I'LL MAKE THIS FILM"

and that's how it went. Seriously though, it was a good try. YEAH YEAH I KNOW I SAID IT SUCKED, but really, when it comes down to it, I read the fucking book, I know what happens. So even when I didn't get my favorite lines from the book in the movie, I still got to see firsthandendly, and bask, in thy fearfull simetry. Rorscharch people, he and Manhattan truly took the movie.

At least...I have that...And it would've been enough had it not been for the completely obnoxious and unecesary sex scene were Snidey took away all psychological depth and meaning when Night Owl and Silk Spectre (The second ones) had ominous sex to the beat of Hallelujah, or whatever the fuck that song is called.

Is ominous the right word for it. Don't know, don't care, Scene sucks. NOT sexy at all.

And Dragon Ball, does no one have any respect for fanboys and fangirls anymore? Snyder and Watchmen: The movie came out like Fellini and 8 1/2 compared to that irreverent piece of shit. Beyond shit, I mean the movie does it's best to suck, you get the idea it's a friggin parody or something. Goku is a pansy-ass angst-ridden teenager that can't get girls and can't do anything right? Bulma is an expert marksman, who misses every single little fucking shot? Yamcha is a Japanese surfer dude? chi chi (milk in mexico) is an asian hottie? pikolo is a fucking...something...

THE FUCKING LIST IS ETERNAL!!!! To say the least would be to say it sucks. They, somebody really really hit a nerve with that fucking movie. And people still want me to have faith on the american version of AKIRA. Oh yeah, pfff, sure. Go ahead, do that. Surely it won't be bad.

Tell you one thing, IT BETTER not be bad, because then legions of faithfull followers will do what they do best. Bitch.

Oh yes we will. We'll flod the hotlines and channels with constant ranting about how much did AKIRA sucked and it won't stop there. There'll be forums and mail petions and more forums and people will go on forever. SO IT BETTER BE, at least, VERY FUCKING DECENT.

You see, this is just part of what I mean when I say modern cinema has decayed. There's the casual flicker of light here and there but most of it is better still made up than adapted. A lot of movies have come on to suck, there hasn't been anything as epic as before, Pacino is loosing street cred, that can't be right.

The movie bussiness is certainly not what it used to be, at least by some standards. You still get your epic win here and there but seriously sometimes it's as if the people in charge wanted to make this about the benjamins and movies ain't completely about that. Real cinematographers do it for the lulz and for the prestige and for the inmortality of a realy good fuckin' story.

There hasn't been a clever long lasting Horror Flick in a long time. There hasn't been a truly epic war story in a while. A blissfull completely intelligent hillarious comedy...some people don't even know they exist. And it's all been thanks to the need for the green. What the fuck?

Still, light allways shines at the end of the tunnel. True, there may not be another Star Wars or Godfather saga in a nearby future or an Urban/in the Guetto story done with dignity or even a There's Something About Mary coming anytime soon, but there sure are good movies out there. One just has to find them.

Education helps, I mean if anyone went to see Fast and Furious and thought it was a masterpiece or a Wayne brothers production and thought it was a laugh riot and completely innovative then that somebody suffers from some sort of severe dumb-fuckness.

That's it for now people. Movies to see: Frost Nixon (Incredibly fucking brilliant), Miracle at St. Anne's or something like that (War movie aobut an african-american batallion, good), REC (spanish horror movie, later adapted into an american version called Quarantine; Both are just fucking spectacular), VickyChristinaVarcelona (I missed Woody Allen, good to have 'im back), etc...

There's several more, be sure of that, you just have to find 'em.

NEXT POST: FILM NOIR

That's it folks, good times, good year (school year) good everything.

Always Remember Who Is The Man That Set Me Free

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Film Noir, The Decay of Modern Cinema and Why The Happening Doesn't Happen #2

You guys, this is, like, totally my first followup post. Yay!!!

Ok, so. As told before by me, there is but one moment that completely and utterly obliterates this fucking movie (The Happening). No, it's not the fact that the ending sucks. No, it's not the fact that, regardless of how believable the plot can be, it still doesn't really add up for a decent horror movie. No, it's not the fact that Wahlberg's acting consists of clean language and a "I wanna take a shit" grin throughout the goddamn movie. And No, it's not the fact that most of the movie happens in the country side as opposed on the movie posters which was kind of a turn off for me.

It's the kids that get blown away by shotguns.

THERE, I FUCKING SAID IT!!!! WHO ON THEIR RIGHT FUCKING MINDS COMES UP WITH A SCENE LIKE THIS?!?!?!?! WHO ON THEIR SHITFULL LITTLE HEADS DARES TO MAKE AN AUDIENCE UNDERSTAND THIS?!?!?!?!?! ARE THEY OUT OF THEIR FUCKING MINDS?!?!?!?!?!

Sooooo....halfway round the movie, after we've put up with seemingly enough bullshit and welcome some cinematic sense anytime soon, our heroes and the addition to the group who are two teenage kids that don't look a year over 16, give or take, wind up in front of this house. Finally, some shelter to protect them from the mean, vicious, sucide inducing plants. As they come closer to the house, I'll say, it started to give me a certain sense of uncertainty while seating in the movie theater with my sister and her friend. I didn't said anything of course, but had you been me, you wouldn't have shaken that feeling either.

Come to think about it, nobody would've shaken that feel of uncertainty. It was a big, old "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" style house. From the outside it looked so decrepit that you could just hear it squick by looking at the damn thing. As the group of survivers comes closer to that house we see how it's pitch dark on the inside...and on the outside there's nothing but old, rotting window wodden blinds and a big ass tree. Old one too, as they say in the movie. So now you have what I called "shit factors" when I saw it. Shit Factors meaning that any of those two can give way to a moment were you conciusly go "Shit, I didn't expect that". Here being the windows and the big ass tree.

The window blinds looked like you could knock them the fuck off with your elbow. Now for some reason, I thought "Imagine what a shotgun could do to those things". We're talking old, non sturdy wooden blinds. AND A BIG ASS TREE, by now, it's pretty clear that anything plant is bad. So what happens? Good guy Wahlberg starts looking inside the house through the cracks in the window and when realising there's movement inside asks for help.

Here's an important lesson in horror movies. People's psyche is fired when watching this movies. I mean, anyone will get inmersed in the storyline of any horror movie, wether it's good or bad. Now, something life has tought us and Death Proof's very own Quentin Tarantino has remarked; In a horror movie, you don't hate the maniac killer, the vicious monster, the underlying threat to people's lives or anything related to that matter. You hate the assholes. The men and women who, among the events that unfold and threaten the very way of life in people, act like utter idiots. They don't help, they don't die and they repeatedly get in the way. We're talking the skeptics or the overly fanatic, the stuborn, the bastards or bitches, and finally the people that take advantage of others. Be it the sassy white bitch or the rapist macho mother fucker.

In this movie, it just so happened to be the owners of said creepy house. Upon asking for help, our hero encounters that the current tenants don't want to open the fucking door and let them in, not because they might be infected, nor because they might bring said sickness into the house. They won't let them in, get this, because according to the owner of the house, Mark Wahlberg and company could be the terrorists. AHA!!!! A redneck asshole who's got his head far up his ass to realize a man, a woman and three minors of which non of them represent a serious threat are not terrorists, even though he could hear them. Wow, talk about hating material.

The scene carries on, the kids get impatient. "OPEN UP BITCH!!!" shouts one of them (By the way, one kid is white the other is black). The one that does stands in front of the doorway, the other starts hollering from a window. The man still refuses and you can feel the tension. Suddenly the voice from inside says somehting like "OPEN THIS" or something and out comes the long, stiff barrel of a shotgun and voila. White kid goes down. Not only does he go down, we get to see from his back how all the little pellets of the shotgun shell pierced right through his whole torso.

Everyone shrieks in fear, the dramatic music get's pumped and just as his friend, the black kid, looks in horror at the bloody body of his now deciesed friend, another barrel comes from within the cracks and points to his right side temple and boom. There goes the black kid. Now, I have to admit that this is horror. True, undeniable horror. The kids get killed, that used to be a big no-no in the horror film industry and only the directors with the cojones and the compelling story line could pull that off. Why then does this scene piss me off so damn much I even dared to write all of this?

Simply put, there is no retaliation. The kids get shot, the other flee the scene and we know nothing of Tim Fuck and the hillbilly gang. Nothing!!!!!Nada!!!!Zero!!!! Two kids, two perfectly and incredubly inocent kids have just been blown away BY FUCKING SHOTGUNS!!!! And nobody does anything. That's it, that's what pisses me off so much. You waste your time and energy creating this scene. You strive to make it perfect, you wanna lead audiences to fear, to hate, to suffer. Good, now were's our goddamn price. As a director/writer/whatever you can't ask that much from an audience.

Hey that's me. Maybe you'd think "DON'T KILL THE KIDS", wereas I think "Go ahead. Kill the little buggers. It adds up for the suspense and thrill of the movie. BUT WERE'S MY FUCKING PAYBACK?!?!". That scene had me haiting a non existing sorce of evil. Non whatsoever. It wasn't enough the guy was undeniebly stupid and wild, clearly he's some country ass boy who, like I said before, must be the sort of stupid white american macho asshole to believe. Firmly hold the fact that this people might be terrorists as truth. Well it isn't enough to lead me into believing this, analysing the situation and draw up conclusions. Now you also want me to swallow up the fact that, not only can't I see his face, but neither do I get to see Trigger McHappy in all his republican gun enthusiastic shitface fucking existence bite the dust.

NOT FUCKING FAIR. You don't do that. The assholes, as unnimportant to the story IS STILL THE ASSHOLE and nothing says satisfaction more in a horror oriented movie, were violence of any kind is condoned, than watching most of this very own violence get wasted senslessly on the one goddamn asshole. Fuck the plants, fuck the people. If somebody really deserved to die, was White Trash Toby sitting on his stupid rural ass on that movie. And it might seem like I'm overreacting but come on. In horror movies, if you're gonna kill the kid, you best make sure someone pays for it. It's hard allready to see someone die from a shotgun blast that's not the bad guy, let alone a kid.

That's what I'm talking about. All I get was a voice, were's the promise that them assholes gonna end up killing themselves? Were's the scene in which the big ass tree gets inside the house and chokes that motherfucker to death? Dude, it's pissy. When you're watching such bullshit all around you, like an unworthy plotline, crappy acting, out of role personalities and stupid solutions to way too over themselves problems, the LAST thing anyone needs is watching the kids get shot, in the chest and in the head....with a shotgun....FOR NO APPARENT REASON...and sitting there as nobody does anything.

That's not the Mark Walhberg I know, that's not how Zoey Deschanel would leave it and there's absolutely no way in fuck end hell M. Nigh Shyamalan would let any of his stories go this bad. Not even a curse word, or a "YOU SHOT A KID, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!!!". Not even a face, I mean not even have a decency to show us what to hate but give us something to hate anyways. Last time I cheked, unfocused anger was not a huge seller.

So if this movie sucked so bad, why invest time on it? Why talk about it silly? I'll tell you why, because there are other examples of better movies. Examples of movies that don't seem to be better movies but are anyway.

This is Mr. Bitchin Telling you, It's all about the audiences true needs. Tune in next time to find out what movies are keeping it real in the revange department, which are the movies that are decaying the medium and what in the holy darn world is all that about Film Noir.

Film Noir, The Decay of Modern Cinema and Why The Happening doesn't happen. #1

"It was done, it had happened. The people, the places, the images. It was all worthless now. Any attempt for me to fix this was now miles away in a highway of despair filled with broken illusions that could cut you up like shards of fine glass laid on the floor and terrified screams emanating from the souls of those as unfortunate and unprepared to visualize this horror.

Still, I didn't know what was worse. Knowing of this crime and it's effect on us, acting up on the impotence it carried within or being like the others, uncaring, unaware, indifferent. Nevertheless, we had been cheated, lied too and I felt cheap, maybe cheaper than some regular bar fly looking for a little adventure. Me the wise guy, I thought I had this all figured out but in the end it was me who got played for a fool. I felt like one too.

It all started about a week ago, or so. My lil' sis had her friends come over. Too young to be asked to the ball, too old to play with dolls. Perhaps that's why the house got to small for them. They needed out, they needed air and for multiple reasons I was assigned the task to take 'em out. Little did I knew that I was leading them and myself towards disaster. We took all the precautions; I even invested in my decision. Said that it must've been the right path to choose. So I got along with the idea that all was gonna be ok.

But it wasn't. I took them to watch....M. Night Shyamalan's The Happening.

The rest is history and to the day I still carry that burden over my shoulders"

...

Ok, so I might've exagerated a liitle bit. Big deal, that movie sucked and it shouldn't have. What the fuck, dude? It's Shyamalan. Motherfucker is like big on horror themed movies and suspense thrillers, so what the hell went wrong here?

The Happening, written and directed by M. Night Shyamalan and starring, Tough guy Mark Wahlberg, Pretty eyes Zooe Deschanel and John Leguizamo juts doesn't happen. Where's the intensity? Where's the feeling? Where's the meaning? Where the fuck is Shyamalan? Are we seriuosly supposed to belive this is him? Are we to accept that the same man who brought us to our knees with his rendition of a ghost story called "The Sixth Sense", the same man who showed us a movie about superheroes like we've never seen before with Bruce Willis on the lead role no less (Unbreakable), THE SAME GUY WHO SCARED THE LIVING SHIT OUT OF ALL OF US WITH SIGNS (SIGNGS, PEOPLE, SIGNS!!!!! THEY WERE FUCKING ALIENS. WHEN'S THE LAST TIME YOU GOT SCARED BY ALIENS?)...made this?

Ok, reason numero 1 why I'm so outraged buy this. Shyamaln directed AND wrote this. Now, I have an undying respect for people who write and direct their own movies. Generally they're just increadibly good. But this, this movie isn't Shyamalan AT ALL. First, there's the plot

...................SPOILER ALERT.....................not that you should care.....

So, finally and after years of abuse, planet earth decides to take action and what best way to do so than letting plants, yes plants, kill humans. But they don't do it in a fashionable way. They don't raise from the ground and start strangelling people, neither do trees start stepping on people or are there any diabolical branches that rape young women slowly and painfully a lá Evil Dead. No, what do plants and other specimens of the green leafed species do to take on motherfuckin humans? They evolve and release toxins into the air that, when sniffed, humans give up on their logical skills and kill themselves. that's right, KILL THEMSELVES!!!! In the most gruesome way possible. As soon as they've, so to speak, been infected, people grab whatever is at hand to kill themselves. Not before acting weird (not making any sense in what they say, walking backwards, shit like that).

So far, so good. The storyline seems good, the premises are awesome and at first it all seems perfect. People star killing themselves, shooting themselves, willingly falling off from buildings, evem coming up with ignenious ways to die. All this are valuable elements for some scary shit, why, then, does the movie blow?

The acting. Come on, really? Mark Wahlberg? Marky Mark? You put him as the film's wussy. What gives? Wahlberg is this science teacher who becomes the leading man in what seems to be the end of time. Along his best friend/math teacher Leguizamo, Leguizamo's in-movie-daughter who adds up for the cuteness factor in the movie and his now-distant-due-to-relatioship-problems girlfriend, he sets out to find a place that appears to be safe. Safe meaning nobody who appears not to have suicidal tendencies grab hairspray and a blowtorch and come up with a way to melt their own face (Doesn't happen, but like I said, ingeniuos) are there.

So naturally, you would expect this guy to be tough as nails or at least pretty straight forward. WRONG. Wahlberg's character does not develop as anything in particular. Early on in the movie he's a concerned guy, not so big into action and oviusly not a threat to society. As the movies keeps going, his character fails to realize the imminent danger that surronunds the story line and even come up with any witt what-so-ever. Maybe it was the director's intention to portray an average joe as the movie's hero. But everybody knows, that regardless the scenario, survival horror oriented plots allways wind up with the main character growing a pair in the midst of battle. Besides, Deschanel is off her personality. She's a witty, smart ass gal, she can also be tough. So why make her the pessimist damsel in distress who's ever so scandalous little secret involved having dessert with some guy.

Really, the movie suggests she might be cheating on Wahlberg and she just had a fucking dessert with some guy. Then, it's the storyline itslef. So people and the media start pulling out their own theories and without a moments notice pull out the big pointy finger and bame it all on terrorism. Because it isn't enough they live in the fucking deser, they somehow got a hold of some chemical weapon that screws you up so badly that you'll kill yourself, again, in the most gruesome way possible.

This was actually a good point. Taking in consideration Shyamalan is of middle eastern descent, not only is he blatanly making fun off the publics paranoid fears in a tongue in cheek fashion, he's also exploiting today's biggest weakness of the american people. Terrorist attacks on small town in the middle of butt fuck nowhere, miles away from anything remotley important and with small population census. Only true red, white and brute americans would buy that. But beyond that point nothing supports the story, we're suggested that it isn't terrorits (NO, REALLY? YOU'RE FUCKING KIDDING ME) by another character. Instead he suggests, it's the plants. The plants evolve when facing new threats, and since humanity aren't exactly a ray of fucking sunshine, it was only a matter of time before plants went "WHO'S THE BITCH NOW?".

The problem with this is that it's to early on in the movie. Now we know what's wrong and there's no mystery. On the other hand, the character that suggests this is a goddamn farmer. A farmer for christ's sake, who minutes after getting introduced to the story IS TALKING TO FUCKING PLANTS. He also says that it's been proven by science that is you talk nice to plants, they'll respond to the stimulus, which is true. I know that, HOW ABOUT THE REST OF THE FUCKING WORLD? the plot is believable; both things are true. Plants do respond to stimulus giving the fact of quantum physics and other things, therefore plants do act on sweet talk AND it's also true that they evolve in a rapid manner when facing a new predator therefore creating new improved deffenses against other types of creatures. Mother nature is tough you guys.

So then, how does it work? Nobody ever really explains that, how do the plant pick and select their victims so they can sniff up suicide sented leaves? At first we're told it's big groups of people, then if the plants think they're threats, they have it in for them. At the end the plants get super sensitive and start "attacking" one person at a time (though we only got one example like this) but somehow the leading guys, which at this point it's just Wahlberg, Deschanel and the little girl, don't die or get affected by the plants. So I'm pushed to believe "OK, the plants attack people who has negative feelings, like anger or hate" but if so, then why did all the other people die. They surely weren't all angry. Scared out of their asses, but not angry.

At lasts, and I'm saving this because of it's hate inducing nature, the one moment in the movie, the point of no return, the minute were it jumped the shark and it all went to hell. The scene were the shit hit the fan....Look onto the next post, to find that out.

A Rose in the Gutter

Twas one lonely afternoon, amidst a summer now gone
That I remember I saw a friendly ghost
Sure, I was half asleep and out of this world
But I know what I saw, and what I saw was a girl in grey robes.

She was sweet and quite happy
I can tell by the way her face looked
She was tender and sassy
I can tell by the feeling that gave me her touch

She holded my face between her beautiful ghastly hands
She looked dead on in my eyes
I was obliged, and quite happy, to look back
"Wake up" she said in a calm tone as I shuffled back to this land

I had forgot about that, about a nice day in which I came back
Though at first I gave credit to my imagination and my mind
I know what I saw; I saw a time to pass
I saw a moment that would sooner than later come to my life

That day I felt alive, unlike I had on previous occasions
No wonder I forgot, There was no reason to remember
But now I see why that day was so special
Call it a dream or a vision, but what I saw made me feel better.

....

Just as there's no decent or coherent explanation to what I just wrote, there's no reason to do so. A simple as a flickering ray, just a eenie-winny-tiny-teeny spick of whatver the fuck it is that holds your mind at bay in this realm. It's simply a word, a sentence, an hours-long stone cold talk or a close-to-insignificant gesture that things are going to be ok.

A rose in a gutter, it's one of the good cliches. Kind of cliche that's true, honet. Kind of cliche that works. We've allways got our rose in the gutter, a really beutiful thing that's on the most unexpected of places. That's that tiny spick, the flickering ray, the 1% chance that things will work out in the end in the 99% probability to fail. That's what it is.

To anyone who's ever been alive, that 1% is worth something, it's hope and hope is allways worth something. I remeber one day when I was 16 that I had that dream. I was in my couch, slowly falling asleep, getting to the point in which you're half awake, half asleep. Illussions start to kick in, and I started to see places, people mixed with memories. Like witnessing the formation of a dream, and right smack in the process of falling asleep, I saw a girl that closely ressembled a cartoon, the nature girl from Fantasia 2000.


She told me "Wake Up" and I woke up rapidly, allmost alarmed because it felt so. It felt as if someone had kneeled to wake me up. When I did, I just felt nice. And just like that I forgot about that day, I forgot about that dream and forgot about allmost everything from those times. Ocassionally I remember those moments with everything including how I felt, what it felt.

And there it is...Right now, I feel it. Creeping up my spine working its way to my head. That feeling. The drive, the inspiration and every single other thing out there that just lets me know that it is time once again, the memories, the dreams, the feelings. All of it, and then a little more that just make up for all the time spent, all the time lost. It's time. Slowly the irrationality kicks in. Each time more and more I remember, but this time is a good one. It's not like when I'm all sad and pathetic, no this is one of the good ones.

I'm not sad. It's the memories, all over again one by one in my mind. But they're not screaming or making fun at me. My head spins around that notion, I'm standing but I'm not alone. Everything that surrounds me isn't a reminder of darkened times and pittyful moments. It's taking hold allready, like in my last post. The nothingness, the what-could've-been scenarios. They take shapes, forms, images of people I know and love or hate. But they're not laughing. They're not even smiling, they just look back at me, pranks and jokes now spent, bottles on the floor, remains of an ongoing party at my back, a celebration of the weakend state of my mind, which lives no longer and they're looking at me just as I look back.

They know I'm angry, they know I'm furious, they know I'm drunk and high with strength and hope and exaltation and love. They know I'm not afraid and that scares them. It's my rose in the gutter. It's me, it's my mind, it's my friends, my mum, my family, my books, my stories, my movies, my EVERYTHING. It's realizing that IT NEVER STOPS and therefore THERE SHOULD BE NO FUCKING REASON FOR ME TO FEAR. It never stops, the shit, the suffering, the pain, so why the fuck should I. Me who has come all the way up to here being the way I am and doing the things I do.

Every single little thing that I've allways wanted to say and do. All the fucking things I've allways wanted to be, it's been building up, waiting, and it's time once again to let it out. My kids, my boys and girls, my dear beloved readers who might wander ever so carelesly into this space and find nothing new and interesting or stumble upon the key phrase or word they needed to read, this is me. The insanity, the senselessnes, the constant and abundant feeding to my ego on this rare special ocassions.

It's why sometimes I pass as an italian from brooklyn called Frank. It's why I suddenly speak in as many accents as I possibly can, because I want to do it. It makes me happy and what let's me go through. Fuck it, anything I don't care I'm training to be a New Yorker so I gotta be hardcore just as I am all fluffy and nice, I gotta get things done, I gotta get things said. At least, I know that there will allways be the next thing to a rose in the gutter.

Shaky Promises and Half Truths: The Unnerving Reality of What is to Come

It's that time allready when we all look at the mirrors, take a deep breath and tell ourselves that which we need to so the day can carry on forward. We're on the verge of a new year, 2008. We're in the beggining of a process called New Year's Resolutions. All the things we said we would do, all the things we're doing are just the first steps into our prominent succes or our inevitable failure. The only thing that, at most, is definite, is our desire for the better in our own lives however and whatever the cost of it.

It's in this times were I tell to myself things are gonna go different from now on. It's in this times were I face those old ghosts of mine who, regardless of the many, many pep talks and all those self medicated spoonfulls of wisdom, courage and self-esteem, refuse to die or even walk away. But specifically, it's this time in the early morning that I just sit quietly awaiting the giant that approaches and this year's battle for my survival. It's here and now were my mind plays tricks on me, deceives into missery and sadness. Emoeness.

I begin to understad now, this is what happens to those who stay up late. After hours and hours of continuos conciousness, the wrong type of memories strike in. It's only the mentally ill who stay up this late and carry on. Beings without real souls who have not a care in the world for anything but themselves. Those who do, like me, suffer the consecuences of a world and a reality not made for us. It is what consumes us, what makes us act like utter savages. Worlds were thoughts are made up of ironic moments in our lives, hurful remarks and sudden thoughts of what-could've-been scenarios.

It is here were most radiant smiles turn grimm. Were brilliant minds turn to mush. They are this hours, the one were drugs, fear, pain and humiliation reign. It's here were they all work together to make up for the time they loose during the day, scheeming plans to take control of my life and those like me who wander in the unknown realities of this late hours.

I talk and write, so as not to loose my mind. I'm being bombed by irrational thoughts of envy towards people who do not deserve it, ongoing questions and impossible dessires. I feel dragged, compelled to stay here until I've gotten statisfied. Obligated to finish and call it a day. A crooked and faulty day. I wish it weren't so but I can't stop it. Not now, I lack the stregnth to stand up and not look onto the computer.

I look for answers were there is no question, I walk in circles threateaning the nothing that it better keep it's eyes open. For me. For what is to come. Yet nor I nor anybody truly know. People could have an idea, but nobody really knows. I feel, though I ignore, therefore I fear. Slowly and thankfully fear and anxiety leave my body. False sense of emptyness and lonelyness disipate with the immediate tick-takcs of the keyboard. I'm beggining to get back my senses.

I coulnd't go to sleep because I had to do something. Check my mail, see this page, something. Sometimes I see it as a sickness that never really heals. It's been some time since I actually had a goodnight sleep and therefore some time since I just lied down to rest instead of lying down, sitting or standing and talk to myself. It's hard to wonder, to face the truth and swallow my anger or pride. It's tough to stay up this late and fight the mixed memories and thoughts I get when there is nothing to do, nobody around. Everyone I know just might be asleep. Maybe not. I just hope they're not to fighting themselves. It's tyresome and probably very unhealthy.

I was, like, totally gangzta

So the other day I thought I'd get started on something, you know, perhaps a short story or a full length story. It's just that I hardly write any more. Sometimes I just spent days at a time without picking one single pen. I blame my surroundings, by Odin's beard, I know I would've been a computer wiz or a literature freak had I not spent so much time in front of the tube. But what can you get? At least I know stuff, you know. I'm not completely screwed up.

I'm just saying 'cause, well, it kind of scares me. See, I tell everyone that I'm a geek. Saves me the trouble of letting someone down if, well, if they looked at me and thought "I'm pretty sure that guy totally rocks" and then it turns out I totally rock in a whole different fashion. But the thing about being a geek, well sometimes I just don't know that much. You know, I'm not a mathematical or physics genius and I'm really not that much into software or programing and such or my grades are just either average or below. It scares me.

I'm afraid to be just another asshole into some fad, like emos or the new generation of gangstaz. They're sickening, and then I could be just a more complex version of them. I really shouldn't worry that much, I just don't wanna come of as a poser. I was called a poser once in my life and it hurts your pride. I kind of deserved that too, by the way. You've heard about all this people in their 20's, 30's perhaps, and sometimes they look back at how they were in the 80's and say it was probably the worst they've ever been. EVER.

Well, that's just how I feel about Junior High School. I was a putz, a schmuck and an idiot. I dressed in Hip Hop Gear. Thing was that back then I was pretty dorky. Fuck, I'm 20 and I still don't know how to fucking drive. Imagine a kid with an Ecko jersey about 2 sizes bigger than his (and I was, after all, XL) with matching Ecko shorts that came somewhere near being pants and some suave Phat Farms on my feet. White, of course, as the winter's snow. And how could I forget the icing on the cake, Braces. Fuck grillz, I had metal braces.

At this point it comes into account that I myself could very well be considered white. Naturally when people saw me the last thing that'd ever cross their minds was that I was this nice sensitve guy who likes to watch movies. I was a dork (probably still am) clumsy in all and every single aspect and not that appalling. I didn't even had a thing. You know how everyone just has to have a thing. I didn't, or at least I didn't knew of any. At least any I could use to pick up girls. I remember back then as well that when I started talking about my "favorite" artists, Snoop Dogg and S.P.M. would come into conversation.

Also I would get blank stares and "who are them?" as responses.

I had abosolutely NO street cred which made things a lot worse. In fact, I still don't know what's worse. Having spent all those years not acting like I was all tough and hard or having spent those years acting all nice and cute with those cloathes and styles. After that time I realized just how stupid I really looked and how popular and mainstream had all that gotten. I mean the table turned from me being the outcast who dressed as a rapper, to the another one in the bunch...which is why I stopped the whole thing. I know I shouldn't care, but if I wanted to enjoy the company of more smart type people, I seriously had to stop people from believing that at any minute I could throw down some sick rhyme about bitches and ho's or popping a cap on some nigga's ass or me being this blinged out mack daddy playa who was to cool for school.

I've never been to cool for school. And that is me talking.

So in the long run, you know...I don't know. I mean, people say I'm a geek, but that's kind of getting to be the thing, you know. Or at least I feel like it. To tell you the truth, maybe I'm not really that geeky. I mean, I can talk to girls and be flirty and what not, and I can (at times) be good at sports and Sometimes I require the use of wikipedia to know about stuff. But in the long run, I guess I'm more geek than not. I'm into comics and videogames and movies and books and a shitload of other things, I just don't wanna use them as some cultural status so as to say how geek-y-eshly cool I am.

Now I know I shoul've stuck with that from the beggining, probably I would've had it a lot less harder. I still listen to Hip Hop, but I also listen to all sorts of music. Even the Hip Hop is sort of different. None of that Thug Gangzta bullshit, now I'm keeping it real with Old School Dance Hip Hop, Protest, Jazz Rap and the newly discovered Nerdcore. And I guess for as much things I don't know about, there's just this bunch of things I do and it's great.

What lets me sleep at night comfortably knowing that I'm in no way a sell out or fake?
Well, just my gut feeling that I'm not. Like it or not, at least now I'm happier.