Adventures of Hercules
Lou Ferrigino
They made a sequel? Sweet Zombie Jesus, you have to be
kidding? Did they even watch the first movie before they slammed
down their cash to make the second? I thought not. Well
It's been two whole months, and then some, since I finished the Lou
Ferrigno Hercules movie. It took that long for the effects to
wear off and for me to recover from the shock. Unlike the first
movie, I managed to watch the entire thing without using the fast
forward button once. Like the first one, I had to turn the beast
off for a day and come back to it. It made my brain hurt.
Where to start. Well this movie seems to have been made by the
exact same people in the exact same style as the last. Same
cheesy 'special effects', same crap-tastic costuming, hell it even had
the same actors and the same freaking villain! I kid thee not,
the same actor playing the same villain. They resurrected the bad
guy, because he was oh so tough, you know with all the dieing he
managed to do in the end, and they used him again. Yeah, be
afraid Herc, be very afraid.
That's right. They resurrected King Minos, the evil user of
science, to fight against the power of the vaguely benevolent Gods and
the natural order of the universe. Was this movie funded by the
Roman Catholic church? I mean really, evil science? Science
the cause of chaos? In the end Minos didn't get any wicked ass
gizmos in which to battle the other bad guys with, he gets magic eye
beams, and a magic flaming sword. Make up your minds damn
it. is he supposed to be using a kick ass orbital death-ray
launched by the evil United States, or is he using the evil black
magic, invented by the United States? One or the other please.
Well the second movie actually seems to follow a plot that is at times
nearly makes sense. Well the story goes that Zeus' six magic
thunderbolts of something or other were stolen by some rebellious
goddesses led by Hera. These disaffected Hippies, thought to
gain, I'm not quite sure why they did it, but they did it anyway.
Well, yeah that's great, the thunderbolts are missing, the world is in
danger, send the Hercster to the rescue!
Well first of all, before all that started, some evil priests were
sacrificing a scantily clad babe to some god or demon of fire.
Two other scantily clad babes watch the goings on, and decide that they
don't like what they see, so they go for help. They consult a
pair psychedelic butterfly women, who tell them they need the help of
Hercules, and they'll find him in the forbidden valley. Just a
note, there's always a forbidden valley it seems in fantasy movies, and
the valley is forbidden for a very good reason. People in these
movies never seem to remember this fact.
Well The Herc gets to earth. The first thing he runs into is a
creature that I suppose is a werewolf, only it looks more like a
Greying cousin It from the Adams family, who happens to be wearing a
cheap baboon mask, with some dog-like sound effects added on top.
I'm not making this up, nor do I wish I were capable of making
something like this up. Brain Damage! Sadly the rest of the
movie doesn't get any better.
Once again to the so called special effects. The costumes are
cheap, both for the main human characters and for the monsters that
they fight. Some of the monsters use animation techniques.
Not that fancy-schmancy computer stuff, but the old fashioned
way. So old fashioned it seems, that they felt that they were
making it up as they went along. The stop-motion claymation that
they made use of, was out-done by such 1950s and 1960s fare as the
Sinbad films and Jason and the Argonots, not to mention Clash of the
Titians. No, it seemed more like a bad Gumby short at
times. The rest of the animation was just simplistic color,
bright primary hues mostly. Flat and boring.
Oh, I can't forget my favorite part of the movie, the Amazons fight
scene. Chicks with guns kick ass. It is a proven
fact. Much ass is kicked by chicks with guns. I cannot
reiterate this enough. Imagine my surprise and delight when the
Amazons were about to attack. And then disappointment when I
discovered it was just a bunch of men in drag. That's right kids,
rather than getting real amazon like women, they just dressed men up in
drag, gave them fake breasts and everything, and then dubbed it all
over with womens voices. No wonder the Amazons lost, not only
were they poseurs, they were also a group of confused young men.
Then there were the absolutely confusing aspects of the movie.
Zeus, at one point, confronts his arch nemesis chaos. I shall now
recreate the scene for you...
Chaos-chick: We're a lot alike you know, we balance things
between us?
Zeus: Oh yeah? Well poopy head, I gots me the time on my
side baby!
*A giant animated skull comes down and zaps her with a death-ray*
Zeus: Eat it clown!
I don't get it either. It seemed random, like it was added simply
for the chance to let their effects crew draw a giant skull and then
have it attack someone. The entire movie was like that. It
also went along with the first flick in it's blatant attempts to
butcher the original classical mythology. Though at least this time
there weren't any giant robots to fight against. The movie did
make a fair attempt at destroying my sanity and giving me epileptic
seizures. Why did I pay money for this crap?
The worst part is, I have failed to learn my lesson and keep watching crappy movies.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Adventures in Bad 80s Cinema 1
Hercules - Lou Ferrigino
Well I found myself in Shopko as I was in need of toothpaste. All the
colors and flavors, I did have myself a good time all the way to at the
checkout line at the end. Well there lo and behold stood the usual
selection of $9.99 dvds. Having nothing else to do during my wait for
the old ladies in line ahead of me I decided to peruse their selection.
You've probably guessed that Hercules caught my eye. It wasn't even old
school Herc. It was the new(ish) Lou Friggno(aka the hulk) from the
early 80s. I should probably say it wasn't an it, it was a they. Yes,
two movies for 9.99 and they're Herc movies! I've seen a lot of Herc
movies, as a fairly avid fan of the MST3K, so on impulse I dropped my
$10 for this dvd. I could have asked myself "What's the worse that can
happen," But as I've said, I've watched a lot of MST3K, I already knew
the worst.
I know what you're thinkin, Lou Friggno as the Hercster? Who could turn
that down? Not me. Not me.
I will say right now, impulse items suck.
First of all there's the Mythology aspect. Now for an analogy. Imagine
a little midget dressed in Greek attire, this little one is Greek
Mythology. Now imagine three large men who are built like Lou Friggno,
and hung like mr ed, they're the director and the producers and whoever
else was involved in the making of this piece of work.
Lou 1 - Hey, look at that, I've always wanted to have sex with a midget.
Lou 2 - Me too.
Lou 3 - I like shiny things!
The midget - Hey guys...Eeep.
Well to make a long story short, no lubrication was involved and the
midget couldn't walk right for a month. You can fill in the rest
yourself and store it in your wank tank for as long as you need.
It really wasn't good. It was like potluck of Herc, Herc Cliff Notes.
If the notes were concocted by a autistic stoner child who kept on
getting suduced away by the wonderful, tasty chips that come off the
wall under the kitchen window. Thank god for this kid, because
otherwise I would have never known that Alantis was the capital city of
Thebes. Guess my grasp of history and Geography was a bit off.
Well then onto special effects. What can I say? It was the early 80s
and Disco was in it's final death throes, but sadly it wasn't dead yet,
at least not in this movie. Think the Bionic Man sound effect, but for
the deaf. They would add random flashes and shapes of color to signify
that the Hercenheimer was doing something noteworthy beyond flexing his
pecs and being all oily and confused.
Some of the idea's were fairly cool, just poorly executed. Jason and
the Argonots from how ever many decades earlier was more believable. As
was the stop motion claymation from those terrible Sinbad movies from
the 60s.
Herc ends up fighting three, count them, three different robots. I
shall repeat that last word since it bears repeating. Robots. Now to
repeat the statement one more time, Herc fights robots. I must have
fallen asleep in in my Myth classes, because I don't recall this
chapter of the stories. I know that Godzilla once fought a robot. Steve
Urkel too had a android nemesis. But Herc? They must have lost this
technology with the burning of the Library at Alexandria. To think of
all that we lost! Makes me wonder if the Egyptians had a Deathstar
floating around the Nile.
The swords and armor were made from what looked like shiny plastic.
They were of the vein of what one would expect from that era of movie
making. Gaudy and poorly thought out.
Once again, this is a movie from the early 80s, and a Herc movie to
boot. It leaves one last question. Where are the breasts? You have a
movie that had so much potential to be the fodder for late night
Cinemax addicts, and they threw it all away. The only exposed breasts
belonged to Lou, and though they were rather large, they also lacked
the soft allure of the female bosom. The entire movie is full of
fairly attractive women, and all of them scantily clad, would it been
so difficult to have them wrestle in mud? It's not like there's any
integrity left to the film anyhow.
Well I found myself in Shopko as I was in need of toothpaste. All the
colors and flavors, I did have myself a good time all the way to at the
checkout line at the end. Well there lo and behold stood the usual
selection of $9.99 dvds. Having nothing else to do during my wait for
the old ladies in line ahead of me I decided to peruse their selection.
You've probably guessed that Hercules caught my eye. It wasn't even old
school Herc. It was the new(ish) Lou Friggno(aka the hulk) from the
early 80s. I should probably say it wasn't an it, it was a they. Yes,
two movies for 9.99 and they're Herc movies! I've seen a lot of Herc
movies, as a fairly avid fan of the MST3K, so on impulse I dropped my
$10 for this dvd. I could have asked myself "What's the worse that can
happen," But as I've said, I've watched a lot of MST3K, I already knew
the worst.
I know what you're thinkin, Lou Friggno as the Hercster? Who could turn
that down? Not me. Not me.
I will say right now, impulse items suck.
First of all there's the Mythology aspect. Now for an analogy. Imagine
a little midget dressed in Greek attire, this little one is Greek
Mythology. Now imagine three large men who are built like Lou Friggno,
and hung like mr ed, they're the director and the producers and whoever
else was involved in the making of this piece of work.
Lou 1 - Hey, look at that, I've always wanted to have sex with a midget.
Lou 2 - Me too.
Lou 3 - I like shiny things!
The midget - Hey guys...Eeep.
Well to make a long story short, no lubrication was involved and the
midget couldn't walk right for a month. You can fill in the rest
yourself and store it in your wank tank for as long as you need.
It really wasn't good. It was like potluck of Herc, Herc Cliff Notes.
If the notes were concocted by a autistic stoner child who kept on
getting suduced away by the wonderful, tasty chips that come off the
wall under the kitchen window. Thank god for this kid, because
otherwise I would have never known that Alantis was the capital city of
Thebes. Guess my grasp of history and Geography was a bit off.
Well then onto special effects. What can I say? It was the early 80s
and Disco was in it's final death throes, but sadly it wasn't dead yet,
at least not in this movie. Think the Bionic Man sound effect, but for
the deaf. They would add random flashes and shapes of color to signify
that the Hercenheimer was doing something noteworthy beyond flexing his
pecs and being all oily and confused.
Some of the idea's were fairly cool, just poorly executed. Jason and
the Argonots from how ever many decades earlier was more believable. As
was the stop motion claymation from those terrible Sinbad movies from
the 60s.
Herc ends up fighting three, count them, three different robots. I
shall repeat that last word since it bears repeating. Robots. Now to
repeat the statement one more time, Herc fights robots. I must have
fallen asleep in in my Myth classes, because I don't recall this
chapter of the stories. I know that Godzilla once fought a robot. Steve
Urkel too had a android nemesis. But Herc? They must have lost this
technology with the burning of the Library at Alexandria. To think of
all that we lost! Makes me wonder if the Egyptians had a Deathstar
floating around the Nile.
The swords and armor were made from what looked like shiny plastic.
They were of the vein of what one would expect from that era of movie
making. Gaudy and poorly thought out.
Once again, this is a movie from the early 80s, and a Herc movie to
boot. It leaves one last question. Where are the breasts? You have a
movie that had so much potential to be the fodder for late night
Cinemax addicts, and they threw it all away. The only exposed breasts
belonged to Lou, and though they were rather large, they also lacked
the soft allure of the female bosom. The entire movie is full of
fairly attractive women, and all of them scantily clad, would it been
so difficult to have them wrestle in mud? It's not like there's any
integrity left to the film anyhow.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Round and round they go.
The general theme to this blog, at least in the beginning was that I would visit a place with my camera and take pictures along the way. Pretty damn simple. Except that I've been writing about adventures that don't really require photos, and I've not been bringing my camera since most of the events have arrived on short notice. It doesn't help that I went from having a lot of free time but no money to some extra money but little free-time. Paradoxes are a bitch. Growing up sucks. Here we are. Thus, I don't update too often. Only when something new and vaguely interesting comes into my life.
I live a dull life, as these pages will attest.
We kicked off the evening with BBQ at Sandmanns. If you ever visit town, be sure to give them a whirl. The food is inexpensive, plentiful and delicious. To the point that I feel the need to pimp them here to people who live across the far corners of the world.
I really don't enjoy spectator sports. Before I got lazy, I used to love playing games like soccer (football for the rest of the world) and badminton. I was reasonably decent at baseball, I even liked to run. Then, I graduated high school and drifted more towards geek culture and the computer gaming and general nerdiness. Yeah, I've played Dungeons and Dragons, and despite that I do one day entertain hopes that I will actually get to kiss a girl. It'll happen. Maybe. If I'm really lucky.
Anyhow, I just don't excited about watching other people play games. I don't gamble, and I'm not playing. I have nothing invested in whether or not a team wins are loses. I've lived in too many places to be attached to a club just by the fact that they 'represent' my home school/city/state. I've always been like that. I just take no pride in something that arbitrary and lame. Somebody else won a game that I wasn't playing. Meh.
But then, I watched Blood on the Flat Track: Rat City Roller Girls over that wonderful service that is Netflix. I found a new sport to appreciate.
Roller Derby has been around in one form or another since the 1930s. It's popularity waxes and wanes over the years and has been experiencing a resurgence over the last decade or so as leagues pop up all over the country. I hear it's really quite popular over on the west coast. But here in the midwest we have managed to cobble together a few teams. Which is cool, since It means that I didn't have to go far to experience this new delight.
Let me describe Roller Derby. Imagine one of those ancient Roman Chariot races where the chariots try to speed around the course and pass each other while beating the crap out of their . Roller Derby is kind of the same, in the fact that wheeled competitors are going around in circles around a track while inflicting harm. That's about where the comparison ends. Derby is a team sport where the opposing teams wear roller skates. The basic gist is as follows, there are about six players from each team on the floor. They're broken into two groups. The pack is made up of the majority of the players. They skate around in circles together as a big group, elbowing one another and generally carrying on in good fun.
Now for the scoring of points. Each team has a player called a Jammer. They start well behind the pack a moment or so after each round begins. The Jammer's job is to try and pass as many of the opposing players as possible. For each player they pass, they are awarded one point. There's some strategy here. The first Jammer to pass the entire pack is given the title of lead Jammer. It is in their power to call off the round whenever they please. Thus the strategic element to the game.
Then you have the coach, whose job it is to stand on the sidelines and yell “Skate faster!” and “Keep Skating.” The dude must be somebody's retarded brother. The special guy that wears a bike helmet and swim floaties wherever he goes, and he was just given the job to shut him up and make him feel special. Really, a coach on the sidelines is nearly completely useless in this sport. But hey, I love how the absurdity adds to the color. Don't change a thing.
Honestly, the spectacle gets repetitive quick for people like me. Roller Derby is rather linear and simple in nature. The players always go in the same direction. They always have the same goals. It's about like NASCAR, but with more intentional violence and far less deadly crashes. Yeah, they're really not allowed to get too physical out on the floor.
Where does it get interesting then? Well, here abouts anyway, the Roller Derby teams are almost entirely made up of female members. That's right. Girls on skates. Wait, it gets better. Girls in skimpy outfits on skates. Glee! Sex and violence. All the aspects that make for good entertainment. Women in hotpants and stockings bouncing off one-another.
That's about it. But what more does anyone need?
So, I had several weeks heads-up with the derby. I knew it was coming. I could have brought my camera. But I didn't. Why? Well, for the same reasons I don't often get pics at conventions of girls. I just feel like an utter perv. I am a perv. I know this. Known it for a while. But I don't like to draw attention to the fact.
But, should you ever get a chance, take in a match and make sure you experience this great sport live. Girls in skimpy outfits grinding and colliding with one another. Life is good.
The local league has two teams, and they import other teams to play against from such places as Chicago, Kalamazoo and Stepford CT. After watching Blood on the Flat Track, I looked up Roller Derby on my old friend Google and found our local league. I mentioned it to the Fat Man, who had also seen the documentary, and we made plans to hit it for my birthday celebration this year. Last year it was the Art Institute in Chicago. God, I'm a dork.
I'm waiting for the day that Derby gets the international attention that it disturbs. When it replaces soccer/football as the world's sport. Not likely to happen, since flat tracks and rollerskates are a lot more expensive than a ball and a field. But hey, it can at least make a showing in the Olympics. If Synchronized Swimming is recognized, Roller Derby is desperately under represented.
I live a dull life, as these pages will attest.
We kicked off the evening with BBQ at Sandmanns. If you ever visit town, be sure to give them a whirl. The food is inexpensive, plentiful and delicious. To the point that I feel the need to pimp them here to people who live across the far corners of the world.
I really don't enjoy spectator sports. Before I got lazy, I used to love playing games like soccer (football for the rest of the world) and badminton. I was reasonably decent at baseball, I even liked to run. Then, I graduated high school and drifted more towards geek culture and the computer gaming and general nerdiness. Yeah, I've played Dungeons and Dragons, and despite that I do one day entertain hopes that I will actually get to kiss a girl. It'll happen. Maybe. If I'm really lucky.
Anyhow, I just don't excited about watching other people play games. I don't gamble, and I'm not playing. I have nothing invested in whether or not a team wins are loses. I've lived in too many places to be attached to a club just by the fact that they 'represent' my home school/city/state. I've always been like that. I just take no pride in something that arbitrary and lame. Somebody else won a game that I wasn't playing. Meh.
But then, I watched Blood on the Flat Track: Rat City Roller Girls over that wonderful service that is Netflix. I found a new sport to appreciate.
Roller Derby has been around in one form or another since the 1930s. It's popularity waxes and wanes over the years and has been experiencing a resurgence over the last decade or so as leagues pop up all over the country. I hear it's really quite popular over on the west coast. But here in the midwest we have managed to cobble together a few teams. Which is cool, since It means that I didn't have to go far to experience this new delight.
Let me describe Roller Derby. Imagine one of those ancient Roman Chariot races where the chariots try to speed around the course and pass each other while beating the crap out of their . Roller Derby is kind of the same, in the fact that wheeled competitors are going around in circles around a track while inflicting harm. That's about where the comparison ends. Derby is a team sport where the opposing teams wear roller skates. The basic gist is as follows, there are about six players from each team on the floor. They're broken into two groups. The pack is made up of the majority of the players. They skate around in circles together as a big group, elbowing one another and generally carrying on in good fun.
Now for the scoring of points. Each team has a player called a Jammer. They start well behind the pack a moment or so after each round begins. The Jammer's job is to try and pass as many of the opposing players as possible. For each player they pass, they are awarded one point. There's some strategy here. The first Jammer to pass the entire pack is given the title of lead Jammer. It is in their power to call off the round whenever they please. Thus the strategic element to the game.
Then you have the coach, whose job it is to stand on the sidelines and yell “Skate faster!” and “Keep Skating.” The dude must be somebody's retarded brother. The special guy that wears a bike helmet and swim floaties wherever he goes, and he was just given the job to shut him up and make him feel special. Really, a coach on the sidelines is nearly completely useless in this sport. But hey, I love how the absurdity adds to the color. Don't change a thing.
Honestly, the spectacle gets repetitive quick for people like me. Roller Derby is rather linear and simple in nature. The players always go in the same direction. They always have the same goals. It's about like NASCAR, but with more intentional violence and far less deadly crashes. Yeah, they're really not allowed to get too physical out on the floor.
Where does it get interesting then? Well, here abouts anyway, the Roller Derby teams are almost entirely made up of female members. That's right. Girls on skates. Wait, it gets better. Girls in skimpy outfits on skates. Glee! Sex and violence. All the aspects that make for good entertainment. Women in hotpants and stockings bouncing off one-another.
That's about it. But what more does anyone need?
So, I had several weeks heads-up with the derby. I knew it was coming. I could have brought my camera. But I didn't. Why? Well, for the same reasons I don't often get pics at conventions of girls. I just feel like an utter perv. I am a perv. I know this. Known it for a while. But I don't like to draw attention to the fact.
But, should you ever get a chance, take in a match and make sure you experience this great sport live. Girls in skimpy outfits grinding and colliding with one another. Life is good.
The local league has two teams, and they import other teams to play against from such places as Chicago, Kalamazoo and Stepford CT. After watching Blood on the Flat Track, I looked up Roller Derby on my old friend Google and found our local league. I mentioned it to the Fat Man, who had also seen the documentary, and we made plans to hit it for my birthday celebration this year. Last year it was the Art Institute in Chicago. God, I'm a dork.
I'm waiting for the day that Derby gets the international attention that it disturbs. When it replaces soccer/football as the world's sport. Not likely to happen, since flat tracks and rollerskates are a lot more expensive than a ball and a field. But hey, it can at least make a showing in the Olympics. If Synchronized Swimming is recognized, Roller Derby is desperately under represented.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Meeting Crazy Number 2 - Electric Boogaloo!
So, more in the realm of both driving the manual, and meeting the crazies. I'm an office monkey by trade, I was hired to pick up the slack where needed. That is my job, deliver mail, run to the bank, pick up office supplies, clean the office, data entry. Whatever task doesn't have a specific position to cover it, I get to do it. Fine, it keeps my day a bit varied and a little free. And thus a little more interesting.
Thus, when called, I get to step in for our delivery driver, head across the state and drop off some supplies at a facility that the company services. (or even drop off supplies in town)
All the patients in the facility are victims of car accidents and have, among other things, suffered head trauma and brain damage. Some of the residents are a bit on the crazy side. Most have been rather friendly. The sister says that the most depressing instructions she's ever read involved a cream that stated 'apply to stumps'. That's the kind of place I get to visit. I'm much more careful around cars these days, whether it's driving or just crossing the street. After dealing with people who are no longer what they were, I don't want to end up the same way.
And please don't bring up the one-eyed man who doesn't like to wear his glass eye or eye-patch.
I must say that I am spoiled. My aged Lumina has cruise control. Cruise control is nice on long car trips, you set it and the car stays at a constant speed, going up or down hills. I was rather disappointed and surprised when I hit the cruise button in the company car and nothing happened. Even after I pressed it five more times. Hey, it could have just been a short, we don't exactly have a top of the line luxury car. Nope, no luck there. I discovered the next morning that there's a master switch on the steering-wheel I didn't know about that turns the cruise control on and off. Once again my ignorance has defeated me
I was in for an evening of cramped muscles and watching the odometer. Huzzah!
The night was a little longer, and the drive a bit shorter for the lack of Cruise Control. Usually I try and keep within about five miles of the speed limit either way. For that trip? I tried to keep it under 80. It's a funny psychological glitch that drives people to join the herd. Countless times during those four hours on the road I found myself unconsciously accelerating as another car passed me by, or sped up on my tail. These pressures are a bit easier to ignore when the car runs itself. Instead, I have to confront my sheepish tendencies. Bahh ha ha ha!
Somewhere around 2 or 2.5 hours and one cramped leg later, I made it to the facility. Didn't get lost, or turned around this time. Only took three trips to memorize the path.
On the way back to the car I was accosted by a man taking a smoke break. Judging by the sound of his voice, he probably smokes at least five packs a day, and has done so since he was five. On the odd days, he takes a bottle brush to his throat, just for that little extra touch. Anyhow, he called me Hippie. To which I can only respond "That sounds like me!" The long hair and all you know. Well, what followed was a five minute lecture on the evils of the Johnson and Johnson Corporation. It appears that J&J have started putting all sorts of nasty additives into their products - Battery Acid being one of them - all in order to create "Male Pattern Baldness", since it didn't exist before the J&J company was formed.
Tell that to the bald whore-monger Julius Caesar. (He suffered from Pattern Baldness, for those of you my two readers, who don't get the reference) Et Tu Juilui?
Why would they do this? You ask. This big corporation Well J&J make Rogaine, and they have to pimp it somehow. So if the tobacco industry is focusing on making cigarettes safer and more addictive, then why the hell not? Listed on the ingredients for my bottle of shampoo are several chemicals whose names I can't pronounce - except for the word acid - I ain't a chemist, for all I know they stand for dirt and the life blood of a virgin.
So, I was introduced to a new conspiracy theory. Sweet. I love conspiracy theories, the crazier the better, they're fun. He also told me what kind of shampoo to buy. I didn't catch the name, sorry, but it's expensive and comes in liter bottles. So, go forth and buy random expensive shampoos so that your hair doesn't melt. You heard it here first.
After this encounter, I've decided to wear my kilt more often. That way I don't get called Hippie, or if I happen to grow a beard, Jesus. With a Kilt, long hair, and maybe the beard - I'll be a highlander. I might have to carry a sword too. But the fashion-folks always say to accessorize properly. And maybe the crazies will avoid a dude packing a broadsword(my skinny ass would just look comical hauling about a claymore)
Some 12 hours later, I was called on to make a local delivery. It was to an older gentleman who was hooked up to his oxygen tank. Now - I commend him in choosing freedom and comfort. Pants are confining and uncomfortable. But good sir, since you've gotten rid of pants for those very reasons(so I am assuming, since I didn't bring the topic up in conversation) would it not be better to have switched to boxers. Or maybe a kilt. I'm sure there must be some black folk in Scotland by now, you could swing it.
***(Please don't swing it, at least while I'm around)***
So, am I building up Karma for something really good? Or working off something really bad?
Thus, when called, I get to step in for our delivery driver, head across the state and drop off some supplies at a facility that the company services. (or even drop off supplies in town)
All the patients in the facility are victims of car accidents and have, among other things, suffered head trauma and brain damage. Some of the residents are a bit on the crazy side. Most have been rather friendly. The sister says that the most depressing instructions she's ever read involved a cream that stated 'apply to stumps'. That's the kind of place I get to visit. I'm much more careful around cars these days, whether it's driving or just crossing the street. After dealing with people who are no longer what they were, I don't want to end up the same way.
And please don't bring up the one-eyed man who doesn't like to wear his glass eye or eye-patch.
I must say that I am spoiled. My aged Lumina has cruise control. Cruise control is nice on long car trips, you set it and the car stays at a constant speed, going up or down hills. I was rather disappointed and surprised when I hit the cruise button in the company car and nothing happened. Even after I pressed it five more times. Hey, it could have just been a short, we don't exactly have a top of the line luxury car. Nope, no luck there. I discovered the next morning that there's a master switch on the steering-wheel I didn't know about that turns the cruise control on and off. Once again my ignorance has defeated me
I was in for an evening of cramped muscles and watching the odometer. Huzzah!
The night was a little longer, and the drive a bit shorter for the lack of Cruise Control. Usually I try and keep within about five miles of the speed limit either way. For that trip? I tried to keep it under 80. It's a funny psychological glitch that drives people to join the herd. Countless times during those four hours on the road I found myself unconsciously accelerating as another car passed me by, or sped up on my tail. These pressures are a bit easier to ignore when the car runs itself. Instead, I have to confront my sheepish tendencies. Bahh ha ha ha!
Somewhere around 2 or 2.5 hours and one cramped leg later, I made it to the facility. Didn't get lost, or turned around this time. Only took three trips to memorize the path.
On the way back to the car I was accosted by a man taking a smoke break. Judging by the sound of his voice, he probably smokes at least five packs a day, and has done so since he was five. On the odd days, he takes a bottle brush to his throat, just for that little extra touch. Anyhow, he called me Hippie. To which I can only respond "That sounds like me!" The long hair and all you know. Well, what followed was a five minute lecture on the evils of the Johnson and Johnson Corporation. It appears that J&J have started putting all sorts of nasty additives into their products - Battery Acid being one of them - all in order to create "Male Pattern Baldness", since it didn't exist before the J&J company was formed.
Tell that to the bald whore-monger Julius Caesar. (He suffered from Pattern Baldness, for those of you my two readers, who don't get the reference) Et Tu Juilui?
Why would they do this? You ask. This big corporation Well J&J make Rogaine, and they have to pimp it somehow. So if the tobacco industry is focusing on making cigarettes safer and more addictive, then why the hell not? Listed on the ingredients for my bottle of shampoo are several chemicals whose names I can't pronounce - except for the word acid - I ain't a chemist, for all I know they stand for dirt and the life blood of a virgin.
So, I was introduced to a new conspiracy theory. Sweet. I love conspiracy theories, the crazier the better, they're fun. He also told me what kind of shampoo to buy. I didn't catch the name, sorry, but it's expensive and comes in liter bottles. So, go forth and buy random expensive shampoos so that your hair doesn't melt. You heard it here first.
After this encounter, I've decided to wear my kilt more often. That way I don't get called Hippie, or if I happen to grow a beard, Jesus. With a Kilt, long hair, and maybe the beard - I'll be a highlander. I might have to carry a sword too. But the fashion-folks always say to accessorize properly. And maybe the crazies will avoid a dude packing a broadsword(my skinny ass would just look comical hauling about a claymore)
Some 12 hours later, I was called on to make a local delivery. It was to an older gentleman who was hooked up to his oxygen tank. Now - I commend him in choosing freedom and comfort. Pants are confining and uncomfortable. But good sir, since you've gotten rid of pants for those very reasons(so I am assuming, since I didn't bring the topic up in conversation) would it not be better to have switched to boxers. Or maybe a kilt. I'm sure there must be some black folk in Scotland by now, you could swing it.
***(Please don't swing it, at least while I'm around)***
So, am I building up Karma for something really good? Or working off something really bad?
Saturday, September 18, 2010
My half-assed adventure in learning a stick
Ding! Did you hear that? This toon just went up a level. Rank two Office Bitch! That's me! Wow, all that time spent camping the filing cabinet finally paid off! And what do I get? A new skill point! Sweet! Where do I spend it? Another rank in filing? Or maybe I could up my stats in Computers: Basic and finally figure out where they put the Any Key.
“Mike, the company car, it is a manual. Do you know how to drive?” She asked.
“No, said I. I maxed out automatic.”
“Well, you'll want to fix that yes? Manual driving is requirement for class. You need skill. Driving for getting stuff is your job.” Goddamn class requirements. I was going to invest in some Shmoozing With the Boss, or Sleeping With Your Eyes Open. Hell, there's always the old standby Looking Busy. But that's what happens when you roll up an Office Bitch. Isn't it just?
Just gotta check that description one last time... By taking this skill you will be proficient operating motorized automobiles using the manual transmission. These vehicles have a lower sticker price, and are more fuel efficient. Besides, chicks dig a dude who can drive a stick!
I dropped my solitary skill point into Operating Manual Transmission.
There are two ways to attack this problem. Procrastination isn't one of them. The first being to find someone who knows how to drive a manual and say, “Hey you! You know how to do this! Teach me!” That's the mentor route. Pretty shiny!
I've seen Karate Kid. I know that finding a qualified teacher is the better way to go.
But then I've seen porn too, and know that hot chicks answer the door in lingerie and offer the pizza boy sexual gratification in exchange for free pizza. Well, guess what didn't happen when I played the delivery driver campaign?
Yeah, I went with option two. I Googled it. There are a surprising number of videos available on the subject. So I dove in. Got the fundamentals. A picture is worth a thousand words? Well a video is worth a whole freaking library baby. I was ready.
The company owns a tiny, blue car that probably gets amazing gas mileage. The company owns it. Not me. Now they were sending a Low Level Peon out to try to learn a new skill in this dangerous machine.
Step one, push the clutch pedal to the floor. Start the car. Step three, select gear. Reverse. I wanted to back up. Now, how the fuck do you get this thing into reverse? Those inside, between the gales of laughter at my Noob Status, took pity on me and sent out a low level teacher. She kindly pointed out that there is a trick into getting into reverse. With that hint, the car started to move.
First gear! Time to go forward. About three whole inches and then the car stalled.
The man who normally drives the car is a Level Eight Delivery Driver, with at least a dozen ranks in Creepy Old Dude. He leaves the car smelling like smoke and the radio set on Glenn Beck. The radio in this car is a funny one. Pushing the volume knob mutes all sound. For the time being. Which means, that every time you start the car, the radio comes back to life, and there's Glenn with his usual manipulative crazy noise. Everytime the engine stalls, it needs to be restarted.
And there's Glenn with the crazy in his head.
The carrot and the stick. Girls love a dude who can drive a manual, that's the Carrot. Glenn Beck is the stick. Or a douche. Go, Mikey, Go! Learn fast and you will be rewarded. Fail to improve and you will suffer the consequences! Glen flogged me onward. One would think, towards improvement.
The carrot and stick method didn't work that well. After about the fiftieth stall, I punched the radio. Glen beck didn't shut up. I did take one point of damage to my hand. That's what you get for attacking an NPC in town I guess. I conceded defeat for day one. And then less so for day two.
Finally, I enlisted the help of Mister Miagi. His was an air of unerring Zen as he sat calmly in the passenger seat and in a kind and cheerful way, pointed out why I was a grade A doofus who would never know the love of a woman(for women love men who can drive a manual). Oh, and that the car was stalling because I wasn't giving it enough gas. And yes, It was fine to leave the clutch a little way in while I started to accelerate and the slowly ease off.
Huzzah! I finally qualified for rank one!
If I were an utter nerd, and I am, I would describe my skillz with a manual as such: Say instead I squandered my single point on something useless like proficiency in short swords. Say, that
“All right, that is the sharp end. I point that at the monsters. Or, here abouts, the small woodland creatures. Ouch! What the fuck? Oh, right, keep the sharp end away from myself. I'll have to keep that in mind. Check this out. Ah, shit, dropped it. Ouch, how did I cut myself? Stupid pointy end, why is it so sharp. Hey, it has a scabbard!”
And so forth.
So, I can get out of the Parkinglot. Where are the girls?
“Mike, the company car, it is a manual. Do you know how to drive?” She asked.
“No, said I. I maxed out automatic.”
“Well, you'll want to fix that yes? Manual driving is requirement for class. You need skill. Driving for getting stuff is your job.” Goddamn class requirements. I was going to invest in some Shmoozing With the Boss, or Sleeping With Your Eyes Open. Hell, there's always the old standby Looking Busy. But that's what happens when you roll up an Office Bitch. Isn't it just?
Just gotta check that description one last time... By taking this skill you will be proficient operating motorized automobiles using the manual transmission. These vehicles have a lower sticker price, and are more fuel efficient. Besides, chicks dig a dude who can drive a stick!
I dropped my solitary skill point into Operating Manual Transmission.
There are two ways to attack this problem. Procrastination isn't one of them. The first being to find someone who knows how to drive a manual and say, “Hey you! You know how to do this! Teach me!” That's the mentor route. Pretty shiny!
I've seen Karate Kid. I know that finding a qualified teacher is the better way to go.
But then I've seen porn too, and know that hot chicks answer the door in lingerie and offer the pizza boy sexual gratification in exchange for free pizza. Well, guess what didn't happen when I played the delivery driver campaign?
Yeah, I went with option two. I Googled it. There are a surprising number of videos available on the subject. So I dove in. Got the fundamentals. A picture is worth a thousand words? Well a video is worth a whole freaking library baby. I was ready.
The company owns a tiny, blue car that probably gets amazing gas mileage. The company owns it. Not me. Now they were sending a Low Level Peon out to try to learn a new skill in this dangerous machine.
Step one, push the clutch pedal to the floor. Start the car. Step three, select gear. Reverse. I wanted to back up. Now, how the fuck do you get this thing into reverse? Those inside, between the gales of laughter at my Noob Status, took pity on me and sent out a low level teacher. She kindly pointed out that there is a trick into getting into reverse. With that hint, the car started to move.
First gear! Time to go forward. About three whole inches and then the car stalled.
The man who normally drives the car is a Level Eight Delivery Driver, with at least a dozen ranks in Creepy Old Dude. He leaves the car smelling like smoke and the radio set on Glenn Beck. The radio in this car is a funny one. Pushing the volume knob mutes all sound. For the time being. Which means, that every time you start the car, the radio comes back to life, and there's Glenn with his usual manipulative crazy noise. Everytime the engine stalls, it needs to be restarted.
And there's Glenn with the crazy in his head.
The carrot and the stick. Girls love a dude who can drive a manual, that's the Carrot. Glenn Beck is the stick. Or a douche. Go, Mikey, Go! Learn fast and you will be rewarded. Fail to improve and you will suffer the consequences! Glen flogged me onward. One would think, towards improvement.
The carrot and stick method didn't work that well. After about the fiftieth stall, I punched the radio. Glen beck didn't shut up. I did take one point of damage to my hand. That's what you get for attacking an NPC in town I guess. I conceded defeat for day one. And then less so for day two.
Finally, I enlisted the help of Mister Miagi. His was an air of unerring Zen as he sat calmly in the passenger seat and in a kind and cheerful way, pointed out why I was a grade A doofus who would never know the love of a woman(for women love men who can drive a manual). Oh, and that the car was stalling because I wasn't giving it enough gas. And yes, It was fine to leave the clutch a little way in while I started to accelerate and the slowly ease off.
Huzzah! I finally qualified for rank one!
If I were an utter nerd, and I am, I would describe my skillz with a manual as such: Say instead I squandered my single point on something useless like proficiency in short swords. Say, that
“All right, that is the sharp end. I point that at the monsters. Or, here abouts, the small woodland creatures. Ouch! What the fuck? Oh, right, keep the sharp end away from myself. I'll have to keep that in mind. Check this out. Ah, shit, dropped it. Ouch, how did I cut myself? Stupid pointy end, why is it so sharp. Hey, it has a scabbard!”
And so forth.
So, I can get out of the Parkinglot. Where are the girls?
Friday, September 10, 2010
On The mean streets of GR.
Today, while walking the streets of Grand Rapids, I met Tony. Tony Indoctrinated me on the Secret Handshake in the midst of informing me that he liked me and that I had nice shoes. Tony Is from GR and I should tell them that. Yes Tony, my folks are doing just fine.
It was, needless to say, a strange experience. And one that I quickly moved away from, before Tony decided he wanted my shoes, or that I would make the prefect sex zombie to keep in his closet. What I'm really hoping though that Tony isn't actually a member of the resistance. A soldier dedicated to fighting the alien invasion. That might prove awkward, especially after the big attack when I decide to join the underground to avenge my slain parents.
Now don't get me wrong. I appreciate Captain Tony's dedication to freeing us from the oppressive yoke of the Glort Collective. But why couldn't it have been the cute blond with the bodonkadonk who introduced herself, groped me and pointed out my finer qualities?
Needless to say, I'm avoiding that street from here on out. Don't want to give Tony any ideas. Like that I'm stalking him. Or that I'm gathering intelligence for the High Inquisitor Gr'lvlclh'gnt to crush the resistance.
It was, needless to say, a strange experience. And one that I quickly moved away from, before Tony decided he wanted my shoes, or that I would make the prefect sex zombie to keep in his closet. What I'm really hoping though that Tony isn't actually a member of the resistance. A soldier dedicated to fighting the alien invasion. That might prove awkward, especially after the big attack when I decide to join the underground to avenge my slain parents.
Now don't get me wrong. I appreciate Captain Tony's dedication to freeing us from the oppressive yoke of the Glort Collective. But why couldn't it have been the cute blond with the bodonkadonk who introduced herself, groped me and pointed out my finer qualities?
Needless to say, I'm avoiding that street from here on out. Don't want to give Tony any ideas. Like that I'm stalking him. Or that I'm gathering intelligence for the High Inquisitor Gr'lvlclh'gnt to crush the resistance.
Friday, August 13, 2010
A really half-assed adventure.
On the subject of moving.
It's easy to tell who a good friend is. They're the ones who will willingly help you lug twenty-some boxes of books, plus furniture, plus everything else in your house up a flight or two of stairs that are barely wide enough to accommodate a large man. Thankfully, in this case at least, I'm not a particularly large man. Then again, being big and beefy would help the cause of moving as I summoned the power of Heracles and hurled book laden boxes through the second story window, barely breaking a sweat as I did.
That push-up I did a couple years ago didn't really help as much as I had thought.
Stupid exercise.
Evil and I had been living in a house on the northern side of town, in a peaceful neighborhood on a dead end street for like two years. We were there with a third friend, Zombie-Clone42(here on ZC42). ZC42 is a friend of Evil's from college, they were in the local Renn group together, and after I decided to move down from the great white north they got together and we went in on renting a house together, a 50s era Bungalow made built by a man who didn't know jack about building houses. The walls were a literal three inches thick, interior and exterior. Hell, it took us eighteen months to finally find the one electrical outlet jack in the bathroom. I won't miss the house.
But I do hate moving, and in March ZC42 informed us that she was going to move in with another friend to go back to school - after her beau finally got into his house. That process wasn't easy and pushed back our move from April/May to August. It's rather stressful not knowing where you're going to be and when, but in the grand scheme of things, no big deal.
We got the new place about four days before we were expected to move out of the old. Cutting it close, I know. In the end were were reduced to searching the skeaziest place on the net, well one of them anyhow, craigslist. NerdMoment Surfing Craigslist for housing felt like hitting up Mos Eisly Cantina, dirty, grimy and sketchy. All while wondering if you were going to be raped and murdered by a profoundly ugly man with an attitude problem. /NerdMoment
But we found a place, in the SE part of town, in a place where the old Money meets the ghetto, literally, we're between two neighborhoods, with Hippi-land off further East. The streets are lined with giant old Victorian Era homes. Yeah, we found ourselves a colorful neighborhood, one with multiple personality disorder. But it seems to be safe and mostly quiet. With the exception of a couple of loud neighbors. (One dude woke us up at around 3 in the morning one day, yelling at someone across the street that she owed him money and that he didn't like her any more - that went on for fifteen minutes.) Oh, and the house next door? That seemed to house a geriatric dude who was selling pot. Schizophrenic neighborhood indeed.
There was a clear window of weather on Saturday, where the heat of the day rose to the threshold of a mere high seventies low eighties. Even some spots of rain, so we lucked out and got ourselves a good day to move. We rented a truck from UHaul - a seventeen footer, that wasn't available till around 4PM. That we loaded up with the furniture. I was exhausted by the time it was full, after three or so car loads of the heavier boxes(damn my OCD nature when it comes to my library. War and Peace abridged? I'm never going to read that! Why do I still have it? In case of a zombie uprising, duh! Gonna need a wide variety of reading material to pass the time when the world ends.).
So, I was beat before we began to make the biggest and largest push, so I left the really heavy stuff to the people who are actually in reasonably good shape. Curse the last month of sitting on my ass as I waited for the never ending heat-wave to pass. It has not aided my endurance. Sad day. Worse because Josh of the Goth was running in circles after we got the last of the mess hauled in. Running in circles. Aren't members of the Goth counterculture supposed to be generally against physical exertion and other activities that might take them out under the fearful the sun?
Needless to say, I was rather sore the next morning.
We've been here for two weeks now, the house was about squared away. That first luxury, broadband internet, was installed six days after we moved in. How I miss the internet. It is my connection with the world at large. It is a luxury that I can live without if need be. I am not yet so far addicted that i can't take a few days off without logging on. But thankfully I didn't need to since one of our neighbors had an open port on their wireless router. Huzzah for free internet! At least until our own came. Huzzah for a solid internet connection and a freedom from the paranoia that the open port has a packet-sniffer attached.
The biggest loss in the move? My super gunky comfortable couch of awesome. The cradle of my ass. The place where I ensconced myself and wrote at least two different novels, played countless games and watched even more movies. Super awesome couch of extreme comfort: You will be missed by myself and my extremely discerning ass.
A slight stumbling block on the road to comfort was when DTE informed me that it would take them ten days to finally switch on our gas. Ten days without being able to cook meals(correction, we used the crockpot for two weeks - note: cooking rice in a crock pot was inadvisable, 2 cups took three hours and turned to a mush). Ten days of cold showers. Hot showers are the symbol of civilization itself. To hell with sliced bread. But I can live with cold showers. Or even going without, though I like my comfort, and who doesn't?
Several days was all it took before the house was more or less in order. Two weeks were out before I made my last visit to the old house. Now I begin to wander around with some familiarity, as I navigate in the darkness to find a drink of water. I know where everything is already, not difficult since the furnishings are rather sparse in this apartment, leaving a lot of open floor space that has yet to be commandeered by any piece of furniture.
I was wondering though, how long does it take for a house to become a home? I still refer to this apartment as 'the apartment' rather than home. Though I've not really thought to any of my last several domiciles as homes, but houses and apartments. Maybe because I rented? Or didn't intend to stay too very long to make it a home? That isn't to fair, I stayed in my crappy rathole studio apartment for around five or six years and maybe I considered it to be home. But how long did it take before I stopped waking up in the middle of the night and trying to remember where I was? Only to wonder when it came back to me? I did that quite a bit at the old house, but not at all here. I rather like the new apartment, it's open and airy. We have a library/game room. The rent is cheap, though the digs are a little run down. Hey, it perfectly suits my needs, and even some of my wants.
But how long until the newness fades completely and I begin to think of this strange new house as my home? What does that take? What sort of things need to click in the mind? Just day in and day out boring old familiarity? Like a new pair of underwear? Or does it take willingness on my part?
A pity we're still in GR I guess. But then, in more interesting environs, we wouldn't get this space for the right price. Everything has a trade off.
Unless something drastically changes, such as my finally deciding to move out to the Pacific North West, or Evil gets married, I don't plan to leave any time soon. The one bright point is that moving boxes downstairs has to be a lot easier than carrying them up.
It's easy to tell who a good friend is. They're the ones who will willingly help you lug twenty-some boxes of books, plus furniture, plus everything else in your house up a flight or two of stairs that are barely wide enough to accommodate a large man. Thankfully, in this case at least, I'm not a particularly large man. Then again, being big and beefy would help the cause of moving as I summoned the power of Heracles and hurled book laden boxes through the second story window, barely breaking a sweat as I did.
That push-up I did a couple years ago didn't really help as much as I had thought.
Stupid exercise.
Evil and I had been living in a house on the northern side of town, in a peaceful neighborhood on a dead end street for like two years. We were there with a third friend, Zombie-Clone42(here on ZC42). ZC42 is a friend of Evil's from college, they were in the local Renn group together, and after I decided to move down from the great white north they got together and we went in on renting a house together, a 50s era Bungalow made built by a man who didn't know jack about building houses. The walls were a literal three inches thick, interior and exterior. Hell, it took us eighteen months to finally find the one electrical outlet jack in the bathroom. I won't miss the house.
But I do hate moving, and in March ZC42 informed us that she was going to move in with another friend to go back to school - after her beau finally got into his house. That process wasn't easy and pushed back our move from April/May to August. It's rather stressful not knowing where you're going to be and when, but in the grand scheme of things, no big deal.
We got the new place about four days before we were expected to move out of the old. Cutting it close, I know. In the end were were reduced to searching the skeaziest place on the net, well one of them anyhow, craigslist. NerdMoment Surfing Craigslist for housing felt like hitting up Mos Eisly Cantina, dirty, grimy and sketchy. All while wondering if you were going to be raped and murdered by a profoundly ugly man with an attitude problem. /NerdMoment
But we found a place, in the SE part of town, in a place where the old Money meets the ghetto, literally, we're between two neighborhoods, with Hippi-land off further East. The streets are lined with giant old Victorian Era homes. Yeah, we found ourselves a colorful neighborhood, one with multiple personality disorder. But it seems to be safe and mostly quiet. With the exception of a couple of loud neighbors. (One dude woke us up at around 3 in the morning one day, yelling at someone across the street that she owed him money and that he didn't like her any more - that went on for fifteen minutes.) Oh, and the house next door? That seemed to house a geriatric dude who was selling pot. Schizophrenic neighborhood indeed.
There was a clear window of weather on Saturday, where the heat of the day rose to the threshold of a mere high seventies low eighties. Even some spots of rain, so we lucked out and got ourselves a good day to move. We rented a truck from UHaul - a seventeen footer, that wasn't available till around 4PM. That we loaded up with the furniture. I was exhausted by the time it was full, after three or so car loads of the heavier boxes(damn my OCD nature when it comes to my library. War and Peace abridged? I'm never going to read that! Why do I still have it? In case of a zombie uprising, duh! Gonna need a wide variety of reading material to pass the time when the world ends.).
So, I was beat before we began to make the biggest and largest push, so I left the really heavy stuff to the people who are actually in reasonably good shape. Curse the last month of sitting on my ass as I waited for the never ending heat-wave to pass. It has not aided my endurance. Sad day. Worse because Josh of the Goth was running in circles after we got the last of the mess hauled in. Running in circles. Aren't members of the Goth counterculture supposed to be generally against physical exertion and other activities that might take them out under the fearful the sun?
Needless to say, I was rather sore the next morning.
We've been here for two weeks now, the house was about squared away. That first luxury, broadband internet, was installed six days after we moved in. How I miss the internet. It is my connection with the world at large. It is a luxury that I can live without if need be. I am not yet so far addicted that i can't take a few days off without logging on. But thankfully I didn't need to since one of our neighbors had an open port on their wireless router. Huzzah for free internet! At least until our own came. Huzzah for a solid internet connection and a freedom from the paranoia that the open port has a packet-sniffer attached.
The biggest loss in the move? My super gunky comfortable couch of awesome. The cradle of my ass. The place where I ensconced myself and wrote at least two different novels, played countless games and watched even more movies. Super awesome couch of extreme comfort: You will be missed by myself and my extremely discerning ass.
A slight stumbling block on the road to comfort was when DTE informed me that it would take them ten days to finally switch on our gas. Ten days without being able to cook meals(correction, we used the crockpot for two weeks - note: cooking rice in a crock pot was inadvisable, 2 cups took three hours and turned to a mush). Ten days of cold showers. Hot showers are the symbol of civilization itself. To hell with sliced bread. But I can live with cold showers. Or even going without, though I like my comfort, and who doesn't?
Several days was all it took before the house was more or less in order. Two weeks were out before I made my last visit to the old house. Now I begin to wander around with some familiarity, as I navigate in the darkness to find a drink of water. I know where everything is already, not difficult since the furnishings are rather sparse in this apartment, leaving a lot of open floor space that has yet to be commandeered by any piece of furniture.
I was wondering though, how long does it take for a house to become a home? I still refer to this apartment as 'the apartment' rather than home. Though I've not really thought to any of my last several domiciles as homes, but houses and apartments. Maybe because I rented? Or didn't intend to stay too very long to make it a home? That isn't to fair, I stayed in my crappy rathole studio apartment for around five or six years and maybe I considered it to be home. But how long did it take before I stopped waking up in the middle of the night and trying to remember where I was? Only to wonder when it came back to me? I did that quite a bit at the old house, but not at all here. I rather like the new apartment, it's open and airy. We have a library/game room. The rent is cheap, though the digs are a little run down. Hey, it perfectly suits my needs, and even some of my wants.
But how long until the newness fades completely and I begin to think of this strange new house as my home? What does that take? What sort of things need to click in the mind? Just day in and day out boring old familiarity? Like a new pair of underwear? Or does it take willingness on my part?
A pity we're still in GR I guess. But then, in more interesting environs, we wouldn't get this space for the right price. Everything has a trade off.
Unless something drastically changes, such as my finally deciding to move out to the Pacific North West, or Evil gets married, I don't plan to leave any time soon. The one bright point is that moving boxes downstairs has to be a lot easier than carrying them up.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
When I won't go to the adventure, the adventure comes to me.
The post ww2 era bungalo that we rent was built out of cardboard and paper clips and set on a concrete slab. With the two inch thick walls, it's basically the next rung up from living in a trailer. Fifty years it's been setting on this very spot, and that attests to the infrequency of tornado producing storms in the area. Or maybe the fact that the house isn't a trailer, and the true trailer parks in town form a more powerful attraction for the freak weather.
Anyhow, we do live on a concrete slab. Which rather precludes the existence of any sort of shelter, say a basement, in case of a storm. Stay in the house? Certainly sounds like a plan if you're tired of life.
The thunder had a bizarre feeling sound, like it had been created in a laboratory apart from nature. It was to clear and pure. It almost felt like it was being played in mono as the storm rolled in off the lake last night. and with the storm came the usual rain, though there was a definite lack of wind. Strange, since the storms just seem to bulldoze their way through with strong gusts leading the front.
No matter, I was enjoying the fact that the air was finally cooling down enough to start to think about sleeping. The hot, humid, summer nights keep me awake well past when I'd like to be asleep and I was wrestling with that.
And then the sirens kicked in.
I got up and turned on my laptop while looking for clothing to put on. Fucking Ubuntu took forever to boot and the sirens just kept on blaring. This is one of those few occasions that I actually wished we had television, so that we could check the weather channel to get live updates. No, all we have to rely on is the internet.
Now, supposedly the emergency broadcast station was built for events such as this. You know, the emergency broadccast station that is preceded by those really loud and annoying beeps. the one where they inform you that this was only a test, but had something wild actually happened, then the wailing would be followed by some helpful advice and information. Yeah, that emergency broadcast station. The one that's sposed to pop up when storms hit! The one that was glaringly absent from the airwaves during that last storm. I know, I scanned through the dial. No interruptions, just the same talk and music.
Is our deficit so deep that the government was forced to scrap the emergency broadcast system?
Anyhow, Evil packed up the cats, I grabbed the essentials, my keys, wallet, ipod, phone and laptop(laptop was first, I wasn't about to leave behind to the delicate touch of mother nature, five years worth of hard work), and we headed to party with Josh and Stacey - for our friends are smart and reside in a house with an actual basement. Bonus, they only live about half a mile away.
We jumped into my old Lumina and made tracks.
The storm was insane. There wasn't much wind, and it was barely raining at all. But the lightning was intense. Bolts were staggering through the sky fast enough to keep up with my adrenaline fueled heart. They fell in every direction, but I don't recall too much thunder. In the fifteen or twenty years that I've lived in this state, I've never seen anything like that before.
The Goths welcomed us into their home and then herded us down into the computer room in the basement where they took turns trying to compel their cats into the relative safety of pet carrier boxes. Tell you what, cats do not like to be compelled into small boxes. Now for the count, four adult humans and five cats all packed together in a room that was about six feet wide and seven long. Mind you, this room wasn't empty, it was well furnished, and comfortable for say two. On the upside here, our friends use this room not only for their computing needs, but also as an armory for thier sword collection. So in case the apocalypse came, we'd be prepared with the best that the world of stainless steel decorative pieces has to offer. Huzzah!
So there was sat as Josh and Stacey took turns cranking the radio as we listened to the country station - the only station in town that preempted their programming to give us the sad huddled masses information about what was happening out there. Thanks country station, though I usually think your music sucks, you did come through in a pinch. While we listened we cracked jokes about our inevitable doom and enjoyed some gallows humor. Really, what else can you do while hiding in a small room in your friends' basement? Well, there are a few other options that come to mind, but none of them seem appropriate for the circumstances.
I doubt that any of my companions would appreciate the sentiment of "If I'm gonna go, I'm not wearing any clothes." Nor would the folks when they got the call from the police. so the pants stayed on. This time.
After about an hour of huddling, and making Sparta jokes(the funnel cloud was seen heading for Sparta Michigan, thus the 300 references), we were given the all clear. Evil and I packed the cats, the laptop, and headed back to the house in what turned out to be a rather anti-climatic experience. Oh well. So it goes.
Anyhow, we do live on a concrete slab. Which rather precludes the existence of any sort of shelter, say a basement, in case of a storm. Stay in the house? Certainly sounds like a plan if you're tired of life.
The thunder had a bizarre feeling sound, like it had been created in a laboratory apart from nature. It was to clear and pure. It almost felt like it was being played in mono as the storm rolled in off the lake last night. and with the storm came the usual rain, though there was a definite lack of wind. Strange, since the storms just seem to bulldoze their way through with strong gusts leading the front.
No matter, I was enjoying the fact that the air was finally cooling down enough to start to think about sleeping. The hot, humid, summer nights keep me awake well past when I'd like to be asleep and I was wrestling with that.
And then the sirens kicked in.
I got up and turned on my laptop while looking for clothing to put on. Fucking Ubuntu took forever to boot and the sirens just kept on blaring. This is one of those few occasions that I actually wished we had television, so that we could check the weather channel to get live updates. No, all we have to rely on is the internet.
Now, supposedly the emergency broadcast station was built for events such as this. You know, the emergency broadccast station that is preceded by those really loud and annoying beeps. the one where they inform you that this was only a test, but had something wild actually happened, then the wailing would be followed by some helpful advice and information. Yeah, that emergency broadcast station. The one that's sposed to pop up when storms hit! The one that was glaringly absent from the airwaves during that last storm. I know, I scanned through the dial. No interruptions, just the same talk and music.
Is our deficit so deep that the government was forced to scrap the emergency broadcast system?
Anyhow, Evil packed up the cats, I grabbed the essentials, my keys, wallet, ipod, phone and laptop(laptop was first, I wasn't about to leave behind to the delicate touch of mother nature, five years worth of hard work), and we headed to party with Josh and Stacey - for our friends are smart and reside in a house with an actual basement. Bonus, they only live about half a mile away.
We jumped into my old Lumina and made tracks.
The storm was insane. There wasn't much wind, and it was barely raining at all. But the lightning was intense. Bolts were staggering through the sky fast enough to keep up with my adrenaline fueled heart. They fell in every direction, but I don't recall too much thunder. In the fifteen or twenty years that I've lived in this state, I've never seen anything like that before.
The Goths welcomed us into their home and then herded us down into the computer room in the basement where they took turns trying to compel their cats into the relative safety of pet carrier boxes. Tell you what, cats do not like to be compelled into small boxes. Now for the count, four adult humans and five cats all packed together in a room that was about six feet wide and seven long. Mind you, this room wasn't empty, it was well furnished, and comfortable for say two. On the upside here, our friends use this room not only for their computing needs, but also as an armory for thier sword collection. So in case the apocalypse came, we'd be prepared with the best that the world of stainless steel decorative pieces has to offer. Huzzah!
So there was sat as Josh and Stacey took turns cranking the radio as we listened to the country station - the only station in town that preempted their programming to give us the sad huddled masses information about what was happening out there. Thanks country station, though I usually think your music sucks, you did come through in a pinch. While we listened we cracked jokes about our inevitable doom and enjoyed some gallows humor. Really, what else can you do while hiding in a small room in your friends' basement? Well, there are a few other options that come to mind, but none of them seem appropriate for the circumstances.
I doubt that any of my companions would appreciate the sentiment of "If I'm gonna go, I'm not wearing any clothes." Nor would the folks when they got the call from the police. so the pants stayed on. This time.
After about an hour of huddling, and making Sparta jokes(the funnel cloud was seen heading for Sparta Michigan, thus the 300 references), we were given the all clear. Evil and I packed the cats, the laptop, and headed back to the house in what turned out to be a rather anti-climatic experience. Oh well. So it goes.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Steampunkery commence!
Conventions. I seem to be repeating myself here, a lot. Conventions are a re-occurring theme here abouts. And to be honest, this is a half-assed adventure blog. Gator-wrestling is likely to be out of my realm of experience. As is fighting ninjas/pirates/nazis in the analog world. Well maybe pirates. Fucking pirates, they infest Rennfaires. And the internet. Cheap rum-loving bastards. I'm also not likely to take part in political protests - I don't think a few dozen or even a few hundred angry people waving signs does too much good in our polarized nation. Really, I'll just stay home and bitch/debate online, it gets just as much accomplished (zip).
The adventures tend to lead me somewhere off in time to imaginary places. For the comic cons, we visit the fantasy parallel worlds where super-heros walk the land, and pretty girls dress up in spandex to tease the nerds. Right on. I'm a creepy old perv! Lead the way man!
Next is the on the list is the Renaissance festival. That Disney world of make-believe where everyone pretends to visit Europe of the 1500s. Don't ask me why they grill Maize and smoke Turkey Drumsticks as the common fare for the event. Neither of those were introduced to Europe until well into the 1600s at the earliest. None of that needs explaining at a theme park though, we like our fantasy. And who wants facts to get in the way of a good story? Certainly not I.
What else could be left?
Steampunkery, that's what!
Imagine a world where Electricity, the basis of our modern lives and all of our technological marvels (Refrigerators, televisions, computers and the internet) was never actually invented. Imagine a world where we still use steam to power our world, and where human creativity took steam power to the very limits conceivable by our 20/20 rear-vision. Set it all in the early 1900s where people still appear in Victorian style dress, or better, as cowboys. Airships rule the skies. People use the queen's proper English. All around you can hear people engaged in what they imagine proper turn of the 20th century conversation as they delve deeper into their characters. Is an image starting to form yet? Good.
According to the Wikipedia The Steampunk movement/genre started to gain hold in the late 1980s and early 1990s. So it's a fairly new experience and relatively unknown to the world at large. In face, the World Steam Expo in Detroit was a first time event. That's not to say that there aren't other Steam Expos, and ones that have been around for years. It is to say, that this is the first time World Steam had appeared. World Steam doesn't yet stack up against some of the other Geek Conventions in which I've attended, at least in sheer size, with hundreds instead of thousands of attendees over the course of the weekend.
I went, for the same reason I always go. To be a slack-jawed gawking Yokel. My path in life seems to be that of a spectator and chronicler. This seems to be a side-effect, or perhaps a contributing factor to my love of History. Which is again why I'm attracted by Rennfaires and the Steampunk lifestyle. Of all the different Geek pageantry I've seen, to be honest I would be most likely to actually put together a Steam-punk outfit to join in the cosplay. I really enjoy the visual aesthetic. And who doesn't want to wear leather and goggles?
I can understand the draw of this Era. Teddy Roosevelt was president. Air Ships and the dawning of our modern world. Britain was at the zenith of it's power and America was a rising star in the world. Humanity seemed to be on the cusp of enlightenment as the secrets of the universe began to open up and we seemed to be the masters of our destiny.
Of course this is rather a rosy painting of the past, as most nostalgically fueled genres. Racism was deeply embedded in our culture, even up to the greatest and most empathic minds of the day. Also, with steam-power the widespread burning of fossil fuels and wood, leading to dreadful black smoke filled skies that we're finally just starting to get away from. With no electricity driven refrigeration food storage was less than reliable. Finally, there was a general lack of medical technology. Did someone out there say anti-biotics? I sure did. all in all, I'd rather live in the present or future.
In fact, this was the first event ever that I've been able to wear a kilt(mostly because it was the first time I've had a kilt – else I would had donned it for Michigan Renn last year). A side-thought, that kilt is the most wonderfully comfortable garment that I've ever owned. I wish I hadn't waited so long.
We were supposed to meet the Fat Man for this, but he backed out due to illness, leaving our group short of any real drive or goals. The Fat Man was the one who happened across the WSE, and was the driving force to see some of the exhibits and acts that the convention had lined up. He wanted to attend at least one of the concerts. So it was up to Evil, myself and The Goths. Sadly my camera died and I didn't get too many pictures this time around. Not even of the rest of my party. Sad day indeed. There were so many pretty girls and great costumes in attendance. A good thing Girls of the Con was around to capture some of them where I generally failed.
Compared to other cons, this one was rather expensive. $30 for a day pass. Also, there was so much less to see, just one largish room with merchants and a couple of acts, as well as smaller rooms with various panels. But then, it is the first year, and the convention is aimed at a smaller core audience. On top of that the attendees were vastly more dedicated. Being a core group, about 90% or more of the people were participating in some level of costumery – be it lame like myself and my manskirt, or quite advanced and intricate like the dude dressed as Steam-Fett.
One thing I noticed about the Steam Con was a higher level, for lack of a better word, purity. Normally in the larger events there are people of all shades of geekdom in presence. Mostly that means cosplayers. You have the pirates and Weeaboo-monkies and Starwars nerds. Trekkies, and Goths and Superheros. All mixed together seemingly at random as the boundaries between the different aspects of geek culture slowly fade away and people get together
For the Steampunk convention, everyone seemed to be on one of two pages, folks who got in the spirit and came in a Victorian style costume, the vast majority, and tourists who wore their street clothes. I was stuck somewhere between page one and two while the Goths went all out with a fantastic costumes. Evil went as a nerd girl, not really dressed as anything, but not in her normal street clothes either. She didn't really seem to drawn any looks or comment. Really, in this sort of crowd, standing out is difficult and the costume needs to be either exceptional and imaginative, or extremely bold or revealing.
There were the usual oddities. Corsets were heavily in favor. As well as women who didn't seem to know when to say when. I am of course referring to the girls who wear corsets so tight that their breasts are forced to try and eject themselves from the garment. Though this is amusing, it falls short of being sexy, while looking quite uncomfortable in the process. This would be a prime example of a failed costume.
The best costumes really looked as if their owners put a lot of time/money/energy/thought into them. Big surprise right? But there were some spectacular and well assembled outfits on the floor. Eureka, this is why I paid my thirty dollars and drove 3 hours on a Sunday! And I thank these people for all their hard work and dedication to their hobby, and sharing the results with the rest of us.
That is another aspect of the Steam con. Maybe I'm biased, as I tend to pay more attention to the female half of the species, but I think that women actually seemed to out-number men here. At Rennfest it seemed to be an equal split, and at the comic con, I would guess 85/15 in favor (or not) of the men.
The downside of This adventure was that the one event I actually attended was less than thrilling. I went to the Air Captain's Job Fair – For captains looking for people to add to their crews. It started around a half-hour late. To top that off, of the eight expected booths, only four captains showed up, making the event rather a flop. The volunteers involved were a little overly self-important and attendance was lackluster. I was hoping for an actual panel where the captains got up and presented information and answered questions. I guess this is more to my preference, since I wasn't channeling the spirit of 1900 and had no idea what sorts of questions I should ask. Maybe I should have done my homework first. No, not me. Instead I stood around in my beloved kilt and watched the goings on for a few, like a nerd-voyeur, before meeting back up with my crew.
We skipped the one Concert that sounded interesting.(disappointing because the clips I listened to sounded good) We went and got nutrition instead. PF Changs again(the last time was for the Fat Man's 30th). There we made a nuisance of ourselves as our group slowly grew from four people to seven. Food-wise nothing special, just a vaguely Asian themed chain restaurant. Tasty, but the sauces have that bottled taste and texture to them. The portions are large. We stayed for about two and a half hours, wowing our waitress with our costumery. We suggested that she hit the convention later on after her shift ended, since she had an interest in Victorian era dress.
After chatting a bit, we put together a conceptual airship crew of our own out of our regular adventuring group:
Josh(One of the Goths) as Captain. This is a bad idea as he tends to get us killed, but he also gets to take the lead due to our general apathy.
Evil – Brutal First Mate. Anyone so named should be in charge of raids and miscellaneous brutality. They can have like a Mal/Zoe dynamic going where Josh gets us into trouble and Evil kills people.
Stacey (Goth Number two) as the Lead Engineer. She has mad hand skillz. That's right, skills with a Zee.
Dora as The Mad Scientist.
The Fat Man as Neelix from Star Trek Voyager (Cook/Morale Officer/Ambassador(He's a chatty bitch)).
Dutch as the master of Arms. He wins by default here since he's easily the most physically fit member of the group. And he tends to have road rage issues. Plus, though he does most of our driving(he has the nicest car) if you combine him with the Fat Man, they tend to get lost. Which leave me.
I get to be helmsman and navigator. If you're still thinking Firefly, forget it. I'm not overly witty, and Evil is my sister.
So this is what I learned from the con, which turns out to be nothing really. It was a good trip.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Motor City Madness 2010.
I suppose that everyone likes to create and abide by meaningful traditions. Holidays and get-togethers and the like. Spending a Saturday in May in Novi Michigan surrounded by hundreds of fellow dorks, seems to be fast becoming one of ours. Welcome brethren the High Holidays of Nerddom. Where our people gather and celebrate.There were a number of differences between this year and last, most minor. First we attended on a Saturday, second we didn't get there right as they opened, third there wasn't any particular celebrity that I really wanted to meet - not since a certain someone broke my heart last year. Why Taimak? Why? I just wanted to get my copy of Last Dragon signed. Anyhow, the later show time meant that the convention center and parking lot were both rather on the full side. The party was already in full swing. Shazam!
*I should have gone as a pirate!I should have gone as a pirate!I should have gone as a pirate!*
Oh and the best part... There was a gun show going on in the room next door. Think of it, curmudgeonly old second-amendmenters thrown together with a bunch of Geekkin on a gloriously beautiful Saturday in May. Clearly, nothing happened, but in my mind I see the nerds and militiamen squaring off, while my people rely on knowledge gleaned from a decade of playing World War 2 games and MMORPGS to try and take down a squad of grizzled Vietnam Vets. The enthusiasm. The slaughter. The getting banned from the Novi Convention Center. That'd be a spectacle worth telling the neighbor's grandkids about.
There are, I think, four interlocking reasons to come to a comic convention. The first and most blatantly stated of the lot is obviously the swag. The comics/games/toys/videos/shirts/swords that the vendors come to pawn and geeks of all shapes and sizes(but mostly of the male mold) come to collect. It is a material celebration of our various obsessive passions. We can pay our $25 for the privilege of collecting nicknacks and ever increase our pile of useless stuff that our moms will have to donate to Goodwill when we move out of our parents' basement (which for most of us will be about three days after we die of a massive cheeseburger, Mountain Dew and pocky induced coronary at the age of fifty when they have to chainsaw our hairy, pimply corpses in half to get us out of the house).
*Oh Mal, Jayne, you've really let yourselves go!*Honestly, reason one doesn't much appeal to me. I am that special combination of poor and cheap. I don't have a special love of comic books or toys. If I'm going to buy a sword, I want it to be functional damn it, not a decorative piece of over-priced stainless steel to mount on my walls. They go in the same bin as the toys. My collective addiction lends itself to books that I'll probably never read. I have those by the bookcase here in FunkyTown. That about just leaves the shirts. Maybe one day. When I have extra money to spend. On the other hand, I can get all those shirts on the web somewhere... so why bother?
Attraction number two? Meeting the artists of you favorite comics(and others you've never heard of). There are some amazingly talented people that show up to these events. They come to sell their art and interact with their fans. Or if they haven't got many fans yet, to try and establish a base. One way or another, there they all are, sitting and waiting for three days as hundreds of dorks pass them by. The wonderful thing is, these people tend to be friendly and engaging for anyone who approaches their booths. They want to sell art. and I would guess, make a connection and build a community as well. Last year I bought two small prints from RAK , Two dollars worth of art, and he smiled and shook my hand as if I had spent a thousand instead. That's pretty damn cool there. No pretensions, just fans and artists connecting.
*Ghostbusters. San Fransisco branch.*Three. The Larch. Oh, and Celebrities. Calling these people at times "Celebrities" is definitely stretching the definition of the term a bit. Sure, you get Shatner and Adam West, Tom Savini and Sandahl Bergmen. The various great idols of nerd culture. A handful of well known names(At the bigger conventions). The rest of the stock run the gamut of the semi-well known to the absolutely obscure. Hey, did you want to meet the third Nameless Storm Trooper to die in the famous opening assault scene from Star Wars: A New Hope? Well here's your chance! And for an extra ten dollars you can even get his signature! I am not shitting you! It'll only cost you an hour or two at your crappy minimum wage job to cover it!
Who does that appeal to? A line of ink on a slip of paper? You can't eat it, and the signature doesn't improve any tangible aspect of the product that you're having signed. I like Tom Savini's work (The man looks extraordinarily uncomfortable and a bit bored when dealing with his fans, I don't blame him), but I don't think I want to give him a portrait of Andrew Jackson so that I might have him scribble on my copy of Dawn of the Dead. I can see wanting to meet and chat with an admired star. I personally would to meet the Dead Gentlemen. And then Frolic hand-in-hand through a sunlit meadow with Emily Olson and Don Early. Don't judge me. I admire their work, and like to frolic through sunlit meadows. Why not combine these two interests?
*At one point, the Joker there had a harem of four girls in costume. Batgirl there is proving her metal by actually making eye-contact with a nerd at a comic con. That is courage.*For me, the fourth and most interesting aspect of Conventions, and the reason that I keep going back, is the fellow attendees. I've mentioned this before, and am probably beating a dead horse on the subject. The same goes for Renn Fests as well. Folk of varying fame are all well and good, but really, so what? They're here because this is a job, a source of income. Mayhaps they enjoyed playing those characters that we so delight in - the actors I think would prefer to lead us through our little fantasies rather than partake of the feast with us. When I was eight, after seeing all their movies, I thought that Sly and Arnie would make the best soldiers in the world, my Dad voiced the opinion that they might rather prefer to pretend being super-soldiers. Dad was right.
Still, there is that connection, between the creator and the admirer that is difficult to break. And the celebs are here, hob-nobbing (from behind a table) with the masses. My friends the Fat Man and Dutch went as Silent Bob and Jay respectively. Their shining moment was when one of the actresses from the movie Clerks pulled them aside to get a picture with the two of them. I got to take that picture for them. Here is a clear example of the bond between guest and attendee.
*Where does Jesus usually fit in to these? Is he here as a zombie hunter? Pope Comics features Jesus Christ Zombie Slayer!*But the other fans. They pay to be there. A comic con is almost like a rave for my people. Where we turn over our money for a chance to rub shoulders with our fellows. Sadly, around 90% of our fellows are dudes. With geek chicks being rare, and cute geek chicks rarer still. The prize being the cute geek chick in the revealing costume. I'm left wondering though, how many of the Batgirls and Slave Leias are actually fellow fans. And how many are just there as exhibitionists. The optimist in me hums rather loudly and states that most of the girlfolk about are a combination of the two. They're fans, who also like to bait their male counterparts.
*Speaking of Zombie-hunting*Because this is a half-assed adventure, I will tell of the trip back.
Since I was 14 or so I've wanted to visit Hell Michigan. Cool name huh? It's up there with Climax and Spread Eagle Wisconsin. Maybe almost as epic as lake Titicaca. Who wouldn't want to visit? I was personally curious to see what drove this town to give such a definite name to their little burg. And it was on the way back home. So why not? Dutch and the Fat Man were down. Evil One was a bit skeptical.
What we expected was a sad little podunk in the middle of the country decked out to take advantage of the name. Devils, and painted flames and all that. That was what we got.
*Wait. No Booze in Hell? Satan, you're a dick.*Sort of.
To call Hell a town would be a gross exaggeration. No. A blatant lie. Village? Hamlet? No. Tourist Trap? Bingo. Hell consists of a souvenir stand/restaurant/convinience store rolled up into one. A bar. An icecream parlor. And a place to play mini-golf.
That is all.
The town doesn't exactly live up to it's name. Though it seems to be rather popular with Bikers - as there was a gang/convention in town. They might have been there for the wedding reception. Yes. There was a wedding reception going on, In Hell, that very day. I have to wonder what the theme of that wedding was to lead to Hell for the reception. All of them reverberate with an original proclamation of 'No' as a central core.
*Now you've seen Hell Michigan. All of it.*No post office, or school or video rental store. Hell isn't really a failed town trying to hold onto whatever it might have been. It's just a speck out in the middle of nowhere with a cool name. A speck that is trying to market that name for money. It's the American way.
Getting past that, the food was a pleasant surprise. It was damn good, plentiful and inexpensive. After last year, with the creepy waitress at the greasy spoon diner sporting unappealing fare, this was a change for the better. Vastly. The employees seemed to enjoy throwing hell around, have a helluva good day, what the hell, and that sort of thing. What did you expect? It was part of the experience.
Finally, the four of us left Hell behind by paths unknown, leaving Dutch's GPS device to lead the way. I think that thing is possessed by a demon as it drove us directly through the heart of Banjo-Rape country. Along a gravel road and past forgotten farms.
*Ya'll ever seen Deliverance? Me neither. But I've heard enough to know that this is a bad place to be.*
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