Fly On Thunderbird.

It was 1994. A somewhat cool if not humid evening on field for the Brandon Eagle's homecoming game. It was the one game during the year we were almost guaranteed to win, as we were playing the Bloomingdale Gucci-Crew. I don't remember the details of the game, but as halftime rolled around we were treated to the sounds of Chris Isaac, playing "Wicked Game" 3 or 4 times in a row, as he didn't remember any of his other songs. There was a brief pause as the field was cleared of middle-aged women who swooned themselves into a drunken stupor. Then, from out of the sky parachuted none other than legendary rock band Quiet Riot, instruments in tow and perfectly tuned upon landing so they could belt out their 1 facemelter "Cum On Feel Da Noize". Metal health drove the crowd mad.

Ok, this didn't actually happen. But it was talked about constantly as being the greatest possible high school half time show ever.

I bring up this memory because Kevin Dubrow, lead singer of Quiet Riot, passed away this weekend. I'd actually gotten to see the band once in Louisiana, playing in a mansion that was converted to a sort of underground rock club. It was entertaining, if not a little sad. But for all the jokes about Quiet Riot that myself and others have made, I really don't think a band has entertained our imagination more. So fly on, thunderbird. Hopefully you'll get to your destination in a slick black cadillac.

Nell!

Yes, that is a very dated reference to the animated mounty, Dudley Doright. Why do I make this reference? Because I have come to realize that I am a veritable Magneto. No, not for iron and metals, which would admittedly be awesome. Instead, my powers of polarization seem to attract the Damsels in Distress. The Queens of Quandries. The Mistresses of Mental. I am their masculine Statue of Liberty, holding the torch in the middle of a sea of instability.

Case in point: Today I'm sitting at my desk when this absolutely gorgeous girl walks in. Picture a young Joan Jett, sans 80's hairdo. The other technicians damn near fell off their seats watching her come in. She comes up to the desk and coos that she needs some help getting her amplifier out of her car. So, I stroll out to her mid 80s Volvo station wagon, grab her amp, and walk back in, the lady smiling at me the whole time. During the entering of the information, she's flirting with me like mad, leaning over the desk and laughing way too much at things I say that are slightly sarcastic. As I move her equipment to the back, she starts singing. Tuneless....tuneless singing. I come back to have her sign her paperwork and notice the wedding ring that she's been gamely trying to hide.

From this I gathered that a) she's in a crappy marriage and I seemed like just the morally corrupt fellow to help her out of it and b) she's stark raving mad.

I could write this off as a one time deal if I hadn't noticed that this has been a sort of pattern for me ever since I was at least 18.

I know all women are crazy. This is a scientific fact. The only reason the study hasn't been released is because all women ARE crazy and actually having the documentation to proove it would only drive them further over the edge. The thing is, the ones that always find me are the ones who already pulled a mental Thelma and Louise and the car hasn't landed yet.

Look for me to be making an appearance on Springer some time in the not too distant future.

The Musical Travesty Tour: Part 4 - Color Me Badd

So one day, Kenny G., George Michaels, Vanilla Ice, and Terence Trent D'Arby got together and decided to capitalize on the all male singing quartet fad that was sweeping the nation. After the huge success stories that were Boyz II Men and Jodeci, Color Me Badd burst onto the scene with "I Want to Sex You Up," which casually invites women to come inside, take off their clothes, with the promise of being made to feel at home. I, for one, don't know a single woman that feels at home when taking off their clothes, unless they spend an ample amount of time in their own home running around with the lights off yelling "don't look at me." Looking past the accidental financial success that this group became off their one hit (yet somehow managed to have a "Best Of" album) this is one terrible, terrible mistake.

Lacking the fun, sincerity, and even somewhat philosophical nature of Boyz II Men, and the testosterone to pull off the "dirty" songs like Jodeci, Color Me Badd estrogened their way to a hit single, relying mainly on pretty boy posturing and the stupidity of teenage girls (see: New Kids on the Block). Despite all this, the group enjoyed fairly large financial success of their first 2 albums.

Then, out of the clear blue skies, the success that Color Me Badd had enjoyed was pulled from underneath them on the release of their 3rd album. Some would say it smells like justice. Others would say it smells like inevitability. The record, however, will clearly show that it Smells Like Teen Spirit. That's right, ladies and gentlemen. The smooth, corporate white-boy R&B sound that was Color Me Badd was shut down by the crunchy fuck-it-all white-boy sounds of Nirvana.

Having lost their contract after their 4th album went no-where fast, the band split. This is not the end of the story though. One would figure that this would be enough, but this group has been responsible for far greater travesties post mortem.

Sam "I Swear I'm Not Kenny G" Watters went on to become a music producer, responsible for polluting our air with Celine Dion, Anastacia, and 98 Degrees. Kevin "I Probably Am Terence Trent D'Arby" Thornton went on to the lucrative gold mine that is gospel based hip-hop. Mark "one of the other white guys" Calderon is now...god help me...an insurance salesman. Bryan "Ice Ice Latte" Abrams is star of VH1's "Manband" and is currently recording a single with the Insane Clown Posse.

It's eerie how some of these are tying together.

Dennis Kucinich has balls the size of watermelons.

I say this without ever having seen them. It would explain why that red headed amazon is married to him, though. The reason I bring up the testicular fortitude of our would-be Elrond the Elf King of America is this:

Dennis Kucinich has put forth a motion to impeach Vice President Cheney.

I can seriously see Kucinich hiking with Sean Astin as they move to through the mechanical heart of the Dark Lord Cheney into the fires of Mount Doom. I also know for a fact that Cheney has an army of orcs and the viscous Nazgul at his disposal deep inside Number One Observatory Circle.

I expect a massive smear campaign against Kucinich to hamper his presidential hopes to come directly from the White House. I also expect an oath to smear his face with the blood of the elf-kin to come from Cheney.

The reasons for the impeachment stem back to the infamous claims of chemical weapons that were supposedly being held in Iraq, with Kucinich boldly calling The Dark Lord a liar, and selectively picking apart intelligence for his own purposes. Having summoned all the courage of his friends Pippin and Merry, and with some help from the wise Gandalf, Kucinich presents his argument to the grand council of Man, the Judiciary Committee:

"The Vice President's deception upon the citizens and Congress of the United States that enabled the failed United States invasion of Iraq forcibly altered the rules of diplomacy such that the Vice President's recent belligerent actions towards Iran are destabilizing and counterproductive to the national security of the United States."

And merrilly did Tom Bombadil dance and play his flute as Kucinich continued:

"In all of this, Vice President Richard B. Cheney has acted in a manner contrary to his trust as Vice President, and subversive of constitutional government, to the prejudice of the cause of law and justice and the manifest injury of the people of the United States."

"His treachery runs deeper than you know. By foul craft, Cheney has crossed Orcs with goblin men. He's breeding an army in the caverns of Isengard. An army that can move in sunlight and cover great distance at speed. Cheney is coming for the Ring!" Screamed Ted Stevens as he donned an ashtray as a helmet and shot Wayne Allard (R -CO) with a bow and arrow he'd apparently been keeping under his desk.

In all seriousness, may this pass, and may God have mercy on Kucinich's soul.

The Musical Travesty Tour: Part 3 - Woodstock '99

The 30th anniversary of the beloved original Woodstock was an attempt to recreate the success and feelings of community from the 1969 outdoor festival, where there was a celebrated "sense of social harmony, the quality of music, and the overwhelming mass of people, many sporting bohemian dress, behavior, and attitudes."

Woodstock '99 was pretty much the polar opposite of that original spirit of peace, love, and understanding. To quote MTV News anchor (and collossal douche bag) Kurt Loder: "It was dangerous to be around. The whole scene was scary. There were just waves of hatred bouncing around the place, (...) It was clear we had to get out of there.... It was like a concentration camp. To get in, you get frisked to make sure you're not bringing in any water or food that would prevent you from buying from their outrageously priced booths. You wallow around in garbage and human waste. There was a palpable mood of anger." In short, a cluster-fuck.

There were plenty of acts playing at Woodstock '99 that sort of fit the mold of the artists that played the original, including The Roots, DMB, Alanis Morrissette, and Elvis Costello. However, the inclusion of Rage Against the Machine, Limp Bizkit, Metallica, Megadeth, Insane Clown Posse, and the ever present ne'er-do-well Moby ended up working an already frenzied crowd into even more of a frenzy. The fires, looting, and violence is pretty well blamed on Limp Bizkit, who's song "Break Stuff" apparently worked the crowd into a frenzy. (This is either because of the songs lyrics inviting people to "give me something to break," or because Limp Bizkit sucks so horribly bad that the crowd grew angry and restless.) Further adding to the fire, literally, was an on stage burning of the American flag by Rage Against the Machine, and an apparent attempt by the Red Hot Chili Peppers to encourage more bonfires by playing a cover of Jimi Hendrix's "Fire". (It should be noted that Kiedis stated the song was played as a request from Jimi's daughter who was in attendance.)

By the end of the night, there were 4 rape charges being made, at least one of which took place in the middle of the mosh pit, a small bus in flames along side a few of the towers and booths, ATM machines and concession stands robbed, and 7 arrests.

Surprisingly, noone died. This is the only thing that puts the '99 Woodstock ahead of the original, which saw 3 deaths (none due to violence.)

It's hard to say whether or not promoters will try to pull a 40th anniversary Woodstock out in '09. Given that greed is a strong motivator, I'd look for this next accident waiting to happen to be promoted by the middle of next year.

The Musical Travesty Tour: Part 2: Celine Dion

Some might say this is an easy target. It is. However, I'm not focusing on the expanse of Celine Dion's reign of musical terror that harkens back to the days of Disney soundtracks with Peebo Bryson, cluminating in her Hitler-esque domination of the music charts thanks to the Titanic soundtrack, and her current status as the new Las Vegas mainstay. No, Ms. Dion has committed a far more greater and savage act of audio-terrorism with her performance at the Divas Las Vegas show:




http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FONt47Z0KZg

That's right, ladies and gentlemen. She covered AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long." For those of you that live in the South American rain forests in grass huts, "You Shook Me All Night Long" is a song full of thinly veiled innuendo essentially referring to the lead singers sexual exploits with an American woman, which is only properly belted out in the gravelly yowl and male machismo that is Brian Johnson's voice. Now, it may come as a surprise that this song has been covered previously by other female artists, such as Kelly Clarkson, Tori Amos, and most understandably Melissa Ethridge. But none has made such a Hindenberg-like disaster of the song as Celine Dion, who tainted it with her vile Canadianess and Singier-than-thou attitude. This is including the Apologetix Christian version entitled "You Booked Me."

Somewhere, deep in his subterranian lair, Peebo Bryson has seen this. He has seen and he is pleased. For decades he has watched as the reanimated skeleton that is Celine rise to untold pop fame and pop fortune. And he bides his time, knowing that this musical nugget is the beginning of Celine's inevitable decline, and he will rise again...

Unconscionably White

The other day, a fellow came into the shop looking for us to do a repair on an arm for a record player.

"This is a vintage arm for a vintage player and..." blah.

As this precious "vintage" arm was in the back having contacts soldered, I noticed that this man was unconscionably and invariably white. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm white. However, I carry myself with a degree of sullenness and attitude that prevents me from being "white". What do I mean by this?

Picture Dave Chappelle's parody of the average white man. Throw that character into some khaki shorts and a polo shirt, give him some bad wire rim glasses, and add an irritating sniffle, and you have the unbearable whiteness of being that was this guy.

To top everything, he's trying to look into our storage area and keeps asking "Do you have any vintage _ for sale?" where "_" was any piece of audio equipment that happened to pass through his head. After about the 5th time telling him that no, we do not have anything for sale and no, we are a repair shop not a vintage item store, I finally took the tone of annoyed asshole and plainly told him "No. Nothing. Period."

To this he kept trying to peer in back to see if perhaps I was lying to him and was stashing all the "vintage" audio equipment on the planet in some kind of National Treasure-esque masonic storage chamber, when finally the tech came out and handed him his contact arm.

As he left the shop, he kept looking back, not at me, but at the storage area, shuffling his sockless dock shoes as he walked away to a life filled with listening to Michael Bolton on his vintage audio equipment while scarfing down numerous egg salad sandwiches with massive amounts of mayonnaise on white, white bread.

Seriously, I could easily see this guy doing that.

The Musical Travesty Tour: Part 1: Godsmack

Hello, dear readers.

I have decided to start ranting about one of my favorite subjects. Music. When the spirit catches me, I will be bringing up bands, musicians, and songs that I feel are a detriment...not only to music, but to society in general. I call it The Musical Travesty Tour. I'm kicking this event off with rock station favorite, Godsmack.

Popular belief is that this band got their start as an Alice in Chains cover band. This is not the case. However, their musical stylings have been compared to AIC frequently, and the name of the band itself comes from an Alice in Chains song. If you can listen to the music long enough during the many Marines and Army commercials they are featured in, you can almost pick up the influence.

This is where any favorable comparisons to Alice in Chains will stop. Unlike the Layne Staley headed AIC, Godsmack is one of the most lyrically retarded bands to grace the airwaves. The music is alright, if you're into the more contrived end of the hard rock spectrum, but the words come off as hastily written attempts to end each line with an "ay" rhyme scheme.

Examples:

"I'm not the one who's so far away..." - Voodoo (rhyme continues throughout the entire song)

"Twistin’ everything around that you say (Yeah)! Smack me in my mouth 200 times every other day." - Keep Away

"I feel for you: better fu**in go away. I will behave, you better go away. I'm doing the best I ever did. I'm doing the best that I can. I'm doing the best I ever did. Now go away. " - Whatever.

"And I can’t take it any f***ing way! Can you feel it? I gotta live with it everyday. And I can’t take the pressure, I’m going insane. Now go away! " - Bad Religion

"Hey, why don't I just go and eat some hay. I can lay by the bay, make things out of clay, I just may, what'd ya say? " - Happy Gilmore

Ok, the last one wasn't a Godsmack song, but it easily could have been.

Despite the band being a musical Wal-Mart version of Alice in Chains and as lyrically capable as an Alzheimer's patient with Down Syndrome, this band maintains a sort of popularity. Personally, I blame monster truck shows, NASCAR, and crystal meth. They get steady airplay on most rock stations, and are featured on a number of motion picture soundtracks. I hope one day the world will catch up and realize what a crap band this is, and leave them in the same place I first saw them: Broken down on the side of the road, waiting for a tow-truck to haul them away.

Disclaimer: The above content is solely the opinion of the author. Anyone who thinks otherwise is entitled to their opinion, however horribly wrong it may be.

The Greatest Trick the Devil Ever Pulled...

David Copperfield. For those who don't have their fingers on the pulse of current events, here's a brief rundown of the situation:

LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - FBI agents have raided a Las Vegas warehouse owned by magician David Copperfield -- for reasons they did not disclose -- and media reports said that they seized nearly $2 million and computer equipment.

...

Media reports said FBI agents seized nearly $2 million in cash from the building, along with a computer hard drive and a memory chip from a digital camera system during Wednesday's late-night operation.

...

"We understand there is an investigation, are in touch with the investigators, and are respecting the confidentiality of the investigation," Copperfield's attorney David Chesnoff said in a statement cited by Las Vegas broadcasters.

I know this is going to sound cynical, but any time you see siezures of computer hard drives and memory chips from digital cameras, there's usually only one conclusion.

For his sake, I hope he knows how to make pictures of child pornography dissappear from his computer.

This from the guy who managed to pull Claudia Schiffer in her hey day.

This is the kind of thing I would have expected from Doug Henning. He always seemed a bit creepy. But David Copperfield? The guy did a cameo on Scrubs, for chrissakes.

Finally, a candidate I can get behind.

Mr. Colbert has announced his bid for the presidency of the United States, running in South Carolina and South Carolina alone on both the Democratic and Republican tickets. Announcing that the ticket would possibly be Colbert-Huckabee, Colbert-Putin, or Colbert-Colbert and attempting to fill out the paperwork to be part of the debates, you know this is a gigantic joke. Sadly, it's a joke that the country can get behind. If he actually decided to pursue this to it's apex, he could actually pull it off. He managed to get a bridge, a sea turtle, a state of the art 747, and a hockey mascot named after him. What would stop him from rallying his "nation" from pulling off the ultimate joke? As Colbert himself put it : "...it's clear that the voters are desperate for a white, male, middle-aged, Jesus-trumpeting alternative."

This is going to be one hell of a ride.

Dante's Lament

"I'm not even supposed to be here today!" - Dante Hicks

This, technically, isn't true for me. I'm supposed to be here today. Part of me enjoys the fact that I'm working again and getting paid steadily. The downside is that I'm worried that my class work will suffer. When I had an abundance of free time, the projects I turned in for class were masterpieces of technological artistry. This is not my opinion, but that given by my instructors and fellow class mates. Now I feel my class work will suffer as I don't have much free time at all to complete the assignments. Gotta love Catch-22s.

On the work front:

Things are going alright, despite the butting heads of the 2 owners and their conflicting ideas on the direction the company should go. This usually leaves me as the involuntary red-headed stepchild of disagreements, as one of them will tell me to handle a situation one way, while the other wants it handled another way, leaving me to bear the brunt. It's pretty shitty, but I'm used to handling that on a much grander scale, so it's not too big a deal.

On the school front:

I have no idea how things are going. I'm failry sure I'm passing all of my classes with at least a B, but I never can tell. My Tuesday night teacher is usually in a rush to just get us out of there, which is fine as I want to be home in time for House. Thursday and Saturday classes are the same instructor, who is cool as the other side of the pillow, he just drags class out beyond the time they're supposed to end, mainly because he has a lot of information we'll need and not enough time to get it to us. As there's nothing usually pressing on these days, it's no big deal.

Anything else:

Britney Spears. Holy fuck. If there's a white trash Hall of Fame, she'd be the main attraction. The local morning DJs have said that the only mother who's worse than Brit is the prostitute in New York that was busted for snorting cocain off her 2 month old's stomach while breast feeding. Those kids are screwed if K-Fed is the positive rolemodel in their lives.

Danny Bonaducci (sp) is now my hero.

And I'm bored off my ass.

The CSI Suite and the Trip Home.

While in North Charleston, SC, stay at the lovely Masters Inn Motel. Amy and I had booked what was apparently the CSI Suite. This wasn't just because the strong probablity that if you shined a black light on the comforter it could be picked up by Voyager as far away as Neptune, but because the box spring of the bed had what appeared to be a massive, massive blood stain on one side, and blood spatter on the other. This was a bit disconcerting. The staff, however, was very friendly.

I had to spend a good deal of time in the room as 1) Amy couldn't get off work for most of the weekend and 2) I had no form of transportation other than my 2 now blistered feet. My first morning spent there treated me to a car horn in the parking lot that went off for no apparent reason, and no visitor to the motel stepped outside to claim it as theirs. I walked to a local check cashing place (to cash a check of course) tripped a bit over some broken sidewalk to be ridiculed by a passenger in a passing vehicle. On my way back to the hotel, this same vehicle was at either Subway, Burger King, or the encased ATM between the 2, where I was met with "Haha...you're the guy that tripped." "Yes," I replied. "But I'm walking fine now, and you're still a douche."His friend got a kick out of this.

Sunday met with the hotel being visited by the local constables 3 times, once with a paramedic. The first time was about a drunk white guy beating on peoples doors demanding to use their phones. The second time included a paramedic. Not sure what this was about as they had shown up during a trip to Subway. I can only assume that 'something bad happened.' The third time was about a domestic dispute between an "ashy crack head" and a "no good chicken head ho." I caught this part as I was leaving to go to Subway again, and caught the tail end with the cops as I got back.

The trip home was fairly uneventful. There was a drunk guy and his girlfriend (Yes, Ashley...the same one as on the trip up.) There was the disgruntled asian employee. The overly chipper bus driver taking me from Orlando to Tampa. (Though, admittedly, he was better than the first bus driver I had.) Then the hour wait for someone to come pick me up at Tampa Union Station. Now I am home, road weary but glad the weekend was, at the very least, eventful.

For a little added fun, enjoy the pool rules for the Masters Inn:

Adventures in Railway Travel

I'm in South Carolina visiting Amy. I got here via Amtrak. Long gone are the visions of yesteryear when railways were steeped in victorian grace and style. The only things that haven't changed are the Stations, and most of them I've seen are worse for wear if not in complete disrepair. The journey started simple enough. It began with a bus.

Tampa Union Station is being refurnished, having long passed it's expiration date. The service there is akin to that of the Wendy's on East Hillsborough Avenue - people who generally could care less about actually performing their job so much as collecting a paycheck for whatever their weekend vices may be. I'm betting with this lot it was cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon followed by an evening of leering over strippers and/or child pornography.

The bus driver was possibly the most competant employee in the Amtrak stable, with excellent timing and a somewhat genial attitude. Upon arriving at the comparatively modern Orlando Union Station, I was treated to a sleazy looking nacho vendor who was doing his best to peer through the windows of the building and ogle the women or men or children and a train that was close to an hour late. The temperature and irritablility were rising quickly as the stench of perfume, cologne, deoderant, body odor, cigarettes, and spicy spanish cooking intermingled.
When the train finally did arrive, the second most competant Amtrak employee ushered us in, assigning everyone a seat. As I went to the number I was to sit in, I found there was an elderly gay gentleman already sitting there. This was a bit off-putting. I walked my way back to the usher, and told him of the situation.

"Well, you the one I assigned to it. I'll tell him to---wait a minute. My mistake. Just take the next seat." So, in a train car full of empty seats, I'm seated next to "a gay" that keeps looking at me oddly. I don't have anything against gay people. I'm not even uncomfortable around them usually. This guy was giving me the creeps though. As soon as the train starts moving, I head to the Lounge Car, get a Sam Adams, and head to the dining car. This is where I met my new friend Ashley. After finishing a flavorless chicken sandwich and she a cheesecake that was apparently quite good, I made my way to the Lounge, and she to the restroom to take a smoke break. (For those of you planning to travel by train, Ashley clued me in to the almost flawless method of smoking in the bathroom. There's a fan that sucks air outwards, so if you just blow the smoke into it, noone will be the wiser.)

The train continued, and as it proceeded further north, the clientel boarding began to look shadier and shadier. I attempted to watch a few movies on my lap top, but apparently a large part of working on a train involves sitting in the lounge car, talking loudly, then complaining that your movie is too loud and interrupting the conversation.
We entered South Carolina at about 8pm, Ashley went to grab some dinner and brought another new friend back to the table with her. Her name was Inot (sp) and she was from Israel. We shared stories about how effed up the US Foreign Policies have become, the pros and cons of rail travel compared to train travel, and various other interrupted conversations.

The interruptions came from another table in the lounge, where a 48 year old wigger (I shit you not) was in a heated discussion about how his life is blessed and that 50 is the new 40, and some how these two items are related. Thankfully, the train arrived at my stop. I bid my new friends farewell and began my weekend in Charleston, SC.

Unfunny.

Saturday morning's class is Audio Visual study. Essentially we're learning how to make and edit film, which is great, because that's sort of the area I want to get into. It's an interesting class, the instructor is awesome. Our first day, we watched 12 Angry Men followed by Dark Star. If you've never seen Dark Star, it's Mystery Science Theater 3000 fodder at its finest. Anyway, after viewing this, everyone was talking about how bad it was, when the teacher said "Guess what? You think you can do better, you're getting the chance to prove it." This weekend, we were split into groups and given a small script to film, and it took our group roughly 1/2 an hour to get what will break down into about 1 minute of film.

This class would be awesome were it not for the slovenly bastard sitting near me.
I've referred to him as the unfunny re-animated corpse of Chris Farley. Same delivery and off-timing of Farley, with only 1/4 the comedic content. That, and he can't complete a sentence without saying "fuck" at least twice.

During the films, this jagoff would not shut up. And it's not a quiet aside comment to his near by, comparatively reserved buddy. It's a loud, obnoxious mood breaker. A bit like a fart in a nice restraunt on a first date.

During the explanation of our project, he went on for half an hour in five minute intervals about the history of Mr. Rogers, based solely on the mention of a sweater and one "beautiful day in the neighborhood" reference.

As he sits near me, I loudly expressed my sudden sympathetic attitude towards the young asian gentleman from Virginia Tech. (What...too soon?) After a moments thought, he silenced himself for 3 minutes, spending a majority of that time in front of the classroom scratching his crotch.

For those of you familiar with "Super Troopers" picture Farva, and take away his charm and grace, and you have this guy.

Saturdays are going to wear me very...very thin.

The Most Racist Man in America

We had done some work on a power amp for a guy from the southern part of Florida. By "southern part," I don't mean geographically. Mentally, this guy is "southern." He's a snake farmer. This alone drags up images of rebel flag curtains and posters of David Allen Coe. He had been calling us every day for 2 weeks wanting a status check on his equipment. Some would say he was being cautious, others pushy. I know for a fact it was because no one would talk to this man unless they were being paid to do so. This is where I fit in.

So Friday we had his equipment ready to go. He shows up 1/2 hour before closing and starts rambling on about how he's a reptile farmer and blah blah blah. It was harmless enough. As I'm waiting for the credit card program to acknowledge my existance, he begins telling jokes. The first one was harmless enough. Borderline offensive, but just enough so where it was slightly amusing. The jokes quickly degraded into what must have been the Joke of the Day printed on the back of the placemats in the Klan's Dixieland Pork Sandwich Cafe. The N-word was prevalent, though he made enough anti-semetic remarks to make Mel Gibson offended. Finally, after 5 minutes of non-stop garbage I look at him and say "Dude...my dad's black." This, of course, is complete bullshit.

The look on his face was priceless.

"I'm letting you get away with this, because you couldn't possibly have known that I was half black. Maybe you should be more considerate before starting these sorts of jokes."
This was followed by stuttered apologies, quick signatures, and an embarrassed exit. My boss came around the cubicle wall, tears in his eyes. "That is the one thing we didn't consider trying. Thank you."

It's good to finally work somewhere where my mouth doesn't get me in trouble.

Dirty Micks.

I have a new partner in crime in my classes. I don't know his name. He doesn't know mine. We just refer to one another as "Dirty Mick." The new semester has started, and it's already been a friendly competition to see who can call out more people on their bullshit, who can make the most two-sided comments to the instructor, and who can get away with what. Unfortunately, I can't take credit for the 'Dirty Mick' angle. T'was the other Dirty Mick that slung the first derrogatory phrase. The beauty of this lies in the acceptance on both of our parts of being Dirty Micks. So when the instructor began her cautionary statements about using ethnic slurs in class, I stated "It was not a slur. I am a Dirty Mick. That Dirty Mick has me pegged." To which the other Dirty Mick replied, "Yes, see, it takes one to know one." This left the instructor in a bit of a pickle, because no-one else in the room could claim Irish heritage. We went and grabbed some Guinnesses...or Guinnessi...whatever the plural is...after class and decided that it would be best to just carry on through the quarter with the Dirty Mick monickers, slinging it the way rap artists swing the "n" word. This should be a great semester.

Enter the Wigger

"Think of how stupid the average person is, and realize half of them are stupider than that."

- George Carlin

Enter the Wigger. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, Urban Dictionary provides the following definition:

A male caucasion, usually born and raised in the suburbs that displays a strong desire to emulate African American Hip Hop culture and style through "Bling" fashion and generally accepted "thug life" guiding principles. Often characterized by his car, or "whip": usually an econobox modified with at least twice the car's book value in non-power producing modifications or an SUV with at least 5500 lbs. of curb weight. Traditional trucks can also qualify here, depending on locale (southern states' percentages are higher). All vehicles are also mandated to have at least 19" chrome alloy wheels, regardless of make. The typical wigger is also characterized by a strong desire to adorn gold jewlery (especially heavy gold chains) and athletic warm up suits. All equipment and clothing will be paid for by the parents of the individual in question, or the parents of said individual's "shorty" through the use of said shorty's credit cards. A general disposition of "hard" will be displayed among other wiggers and to kids around their neighbohood (usually labelled a 'subdivision' or 'gated community' due to its mass produced housing develoment origins). This disposition will immediately be dropped and replaced by a more typical "white boy" disposition when in the presence of actual African Americans ( with exceptions: Those whose origins trace to the suburbs being the most prominant.).

The definition applies to the winner of a human being that strolled into the back of our shop today. Around 5:30 everyday, the FedEx truck arrives to pick up any packages we have outgoing. The driver usually hangs out for a bit and shoots the shit because it's his last stop of the day. He's not in for 2 minutes before G-Unit Johnny comes strolling in the back door with a "Yo B, I'ma need you to move that truck." I had to do a double take, but this guy was undoubtedly white, wearing a white tank top and shorts three sizes too big for him (Note: This is why a guy my height can't find clothes that fit.) The FedEx guy looks at him and explains he'll move in a minute. "I need you to move that shit now."

In a voice that completely failed to capture the ethnic background from whence it sprang, I say "Check yo self, son." Wigger's eyes focused on me with a bit of a puzzlement. "Yeah, dog, he's going to move his rizzide when he's done picking up these packages. Now get the fuck out." This seemed to frustrate the Wigger, but after what appeared to be a quick assessment of his situation, he let out a disheartened "aight" and stepped outside.

After the FedEx guy left, my boss told me that was kind of a stupid thing to do, he could have been armed, etc. I accepted my chastising, because deep down I felt good about it, and my boss laughed about it after explaining his concerns.

I hate wiggers.

Your daughter's a whore. Here's why.

All you see on the news is Lindsay Lohan's latest arrest, what psychological scars Britney Spears has managed to inflict on her children, and Paris Hilton getting slapped on the wrist for severe traffic violations. Then you see the same living the sweet life and whoring it up on MTV or whatever. Throw in the crap shows that that channel produces (i.e. Laguna Beach and that crap with the spoiled rich 16 yr olds), and they're being inundated with the message that being a spoiled little whore is socially acceptable. Even the daughters of our President, who by his own account is about as close to God as the Pope, are slutting it up in college. Girls Gone Wild make millions off this sort of thing. (I'm still waiting on someone to release a Girls Get Sensible DVD series where they are broken down crying trying to explain to their parents why they're on TV showing their goods and making out with other girls. That'll be a seller!)

I blame the media. There are plenty of the Hollywood celeb girls that AREN'T doing stupid shit. You never hear about that. Natalie Portman is a strong, outspoken member of FINCA International, a nonprofit group that helps women in impoverished countries start their own businesses. You never see anything about this. If you do, it's just a brief flash on the news or a blurb in an obscure magazine article. You also never hear about her driving her car into a pedestrian, then drunkenly blaming said pedestrian for spilling her cocaine all over the inside of her overpriced SUV. Hilary Duff is an animal rights enthusiast and a member of Kids with a Cause. She has donated $250,000 to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina. She traveled to a New Orleans elementary school and worked with USA Harvest to distribute meals. In 2005, she donated over 2.5 million meals to Hurricane Katrina victims in the south. Didn't hear jack about this either, did you? Even Christian Aguilera, who is essentially a singing stripper, does a massive amount of charity work, including work for the abused women's shelter in her home town of Pittsburg. So why don't we hear anything about the good stuff?

The news doesn't sell 'good.' Apparently if the news gets low ratings, it will be cancelled or something. Like that would ever happen. News programs should be the one avenue on TV that doesn't have to cater to the ratings crowd. They should just be able to report. But that doesn't happen. Instead, all our young women in this country are hit with a never ending wave of crap that tells them that if they ever want to make it, be cool, be accepted, they better start being little gold digging bitches in tiny shorts.

Once again, I weep for the future.

Finally, the Rock has come back to The Realm of Employment!

It has been close to 9 months since I quit/got fired from The HD Call center. 9 months of applications and resumes, tests and background checks, rejections and turn downs and I finally found a job that will work with me on my school schedule and not give me shit. Is it a dream job? No. It's working front desk at a small electronics store. The downside: All customer service is pretty much face to face. The upside: Not that much in the way of customers coming in. Pay isn't great, but they said they'd raise it after 90 days. Best part? I can wear jeans and t-shirts and not have some khaki wearing polo-shirted pawn of the establishment give me shit about it. No, it's not the dream job, but I'll tell ya, it'll work for now.

Please, Comedy Central, get rid of Mencia.

Mind of Mencia, the Comedy Central show hosted by Carlos Mencia, has quite possibly become the most ridiculous show on television. It's completely lost it's humor, and it didn't have much to work with. For those of you that aren't familiar with him or his show, Carlos Mencia is a stand-up comic who focuses mainly on stereotypes of races and sexual preferences. It's really all the material he has. He's been openly accused of plagiarism from several comedians, including Joe Rogan and George Lopez.

The main complaint I have is that he's just not funny. His material is contrived and has become tired. Any shock value that would have been gained from some of his more outrageous comments is lost in predictability. With Mexicans, it's lawn jokes. Blacks, chicken and watermelons. Jews, the penny pincher bit. It's stale.

I have a feeling that Comedy Central keeps this show going because Mencia is willing to do the bullshit that Dave Chappelle bailed on. You know, the overstereotypical race humor that Chappelle was originally trying to counteract. That's why Chappelle was so monumentally successful. He broke the stereotypes. His humor was misleadingly intelligent. Mencia is out in the field beating dead horses, and is doing it under the guise of defending free speech.

There have been some good shows on Comedy Central that just go missing. They could bring some of them back. Hell, they could re-run yet another episode of MAD TV. Even fill it with dead air. Anything would be better than that show.

The Last Legion

On paper, this is a good film. The story follows the young last emperor of Rome as he flees his fallen homeland, led by a priest, the last of his guards, and a dishonored assassin of Alexander's empire. It is basically the telling of the story of Uther Pendragon, the rise of Camelot, and the tale behind Excalibur. As interesting as this could have been, shoddy direction, poorly executed effects and a few bouts of bad casting/acting completely ruined it. This isn't to say that the movie was entirely bad. Ben Kingsley was excellent, and Collin Firth was pretty good as an aging Marcus Aurelius. The eastern assassin lady, whom I originally rolled my eyes at during the trailer, actually wasn't terrible. Not that the character fit in well, but she definitely could have been worse. It was much more believable than Kiera Knightly's "Legolas" rendition of Guenevere in 2004's "King Arthur." She also added a necessary bit of eye-candy without having to resort to the obligatory "naked in a waterfall" technique that usually hits these movies. In a rare move for these epic historical films, they sprinkled in a few moments of comic relief, which did make me chuckle a bit, but sort of detracted from the movie. The real problem with this film falls with the evil guy at the end of the film. He's bad enough to where I can't remember his name, nor did I care enough to figure out who the actor was. I know the character's name began with a "V", that's about it. The special effects didn't add anything to the film, either. The fireballs and arrows looked fake, even by 90's CG standards. If you're set on seeing this film, wait until it shows up on TNT or TBS or something in a few months.

Superbad = Funniest Movie of the last 5 years.

Go to any video store and you'll find at least 300 goof-ball high school comedies. Take every conceivable funny moment from those comedies, turn them to 11, and you've got Superbad. Seth Rogan and Evan Goldberg penned this film that is both hilarious and nostalgic, vulgar and poignant. It does so without the "high school comedy" stereotypes that usually plague these films. There's no cocky jock or unattainable cheerleader characters. It focuses more on the awkwardness of the late teen years and does so terrifically. Jonah Hill (I Heart Huckabees, Knocked Up) and Michael Cera ("Arrested Development") star as Seth and Evan, 2 life long school friends who face going to separate colleges after graduation. Jonah plays Seth perfectly as the foul mouthed, sexually fixated ball of hormones, and Cera pulls off the "be respectful to women" foil like he lived it himself. Throw in a geeky kid with a fake I.D. and 2 police officers trying to prove that "cops are cool" and you've got one hell of a comedy.

The jokes are over the top, the physical humor manages to stretch beyond "foot to crotch" (though that does happen a bit), and the chemistry between the characters gels incredibly well. Definitely check this one out in the theaters or whatever.


On the opposite end of the spectrum is Kickin' it Old Skool. Jaime Kennedy plays a 32 yr old who was in a coma for the last 20 years. While watching this movie, you envy the scenes where he's on life support. The concept is kind of like Big meets Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo, but without the sentimentalism of Breakin' or the sweet break dancing action of Big. It has a few moments where you chuckle, but nothing to write home about. It was essentially like watching Malibu's Most Wanted, but centered more around break dancing than gangsta rap. Thankfully I didn't pay to see this, and didn't have anything better I could have been doing, or I probably would have started cutting myself about half way through it. I will say that the dance offs were well choreographed, and the first 10 minutes of the movie had enough 80s cultural references to give a glimmer of hope to the movie, but that just added to the let down that came with the rest of the movie. Just to give you an idea of how bad it was, David Hasselhoff's cameo appearance is the funniest part of the movie. So if you're in the mood to lose the will to live, give this one a go.

Kurt Loder is an idiot.

You guys remember Kurt Loder? For those that don't, Kurt Loder is the current head of the MTV News department. He's been a staple of the MTV News since the late 80s and is apparently close friends with Madonna. His big news moment was being the first person to break the news of Kurt Cobain's suicide. He's also a contributing editor of Rolling Stone Magazine and co-wrote the Tina Turner biography.

Kurt Loder is also a complete idiot.

See, my college shows Fox News on all the televisions. Why? No idea. I guess they want to lighten the break area up with some fiction. Anyway, as I stepped in the doors of the school not 10 minutes ago, one of the 'eye candy' anchors that the news channels have hired to boost ratings was interviewing Mr. Loder. Why? Because Kurt Loder is railing against universal health care.

Kurt Loder. Speaking against universal health care. I figure some HMO dropped some coin in his pocket to try to appeal to the 'MTV Generation' and make the concept of socialized health care seem 'uncool.' All he's doing is sitting there spewing the same bullshit dogma we keep hearing about waiting lists and tax hikes, except making it insulting by saying that "young people don't understand it's not free."

According to most sources, the MTV Generation includes the tail end of Generation X and the first crop of Generation Y, essentially those born in the latter half of the 70's and the beginning of the 80s. I fall into the first half. And I'm not an idiot.

Everyone knows that in order to get government provided health care, taxes will increase. Everyone also knows that - even with employee benefits - you have to pay for health care through insurance anyway. To have Kurt Loder, who has about as much social impact as Dustin Diamond, go on Fox News and start preaching like he's a man of importance about an issue to which he has no frame of reference is moronic. Everyone knows about the 'waiting list' issue. What they don't tell you is the 'waiting lists' are for elective surgeries. The procedures that are critical get taken care of when they need to. The ones that can wait go on a list. It's better than having to wait for the OK from an insurance company that doesn't want to part with your money for something you need.

In closing, they need to put Kurt Loder back under the Viacom rock they found him under and never ask his opinion on anything of political and social relevance again.

Thank you, and good night.

Best. Video. Ever.

First off, let me just say how much I hate Panic At the Disco. No, it's not because I'm getting old and think that all new music sucks. It's that I have musical taste and can say - unflinchingly - that 85% of the new music that craps through the radio sucks. Panic At the Disco is just the same rehashed emo garbage that, for some god awful reason, appears to appeal to the kids. I really can't tell the difference between Panic At the Disco and Fall Out Boy, other than Panic tries to church up their shitty songs by giving them longer titles and Fall Out Boy ruined a perfectly good Simpsons reference by taking the name for their shitty band. That being said, I hope you enjoy this video that was shown to me by my pal El Dewsio, who added the subtitle:

New lyrics:

i chime in with "have a fucking bottle in the face you cunt" it's much better to see this kind of thing live at a fucking concert

It's just around the corner

Considering the anniversary of the event that Rudy Giuliani is basing his entire campaign on is right around the corner, I thought I'd take some time and post a link to 'Loose Change.' If you haven't seen this, it's pretty compelling. While you do have to take some of it with a grain of salt, they have some very good arguments.

I should warn you that anyone who watches this is pretty much deemed a conspiracy nut, and you'll recieve a phone call from Hannity & Colmes after it ends telling you 'seven days.' You'll be fine. I will also say that this film is given instant credibility because Fox News will lash out vehemently at anyone who sites it or any of the theories contained within. That should tell you how close to the truth this film actually gets. (on a side note, Fox News wouldn't know 'fair and balanced' if it was tattooed on Bill O'Riley's forehead.) At the end of the film, they have plenty of links you can go to to do your own research and decide for yourself.

My favorite argument is about the Osama video. I'm not going to spoil it, but after watching this, you really...really...have to question what the hell we're doing over seas.

So kick back, grab some pop corn, and...one way or another...prepare to be outraged.

First Biggie and Tupac, and now...

The music world is in turmoil with the retirement of M.C. Rove. Though his music career was brief, it was steeped in the kind of sinister street cred that even the most hard core 'gangsta' rap artist strives for. His lyrics consisted of nothing more than "M.C. Rove," but those simple words launched him into the Hip Hop Parthenon, much like Lil Jon. I think no broadcast truly captured the moment as well as this one:

Lobbyists are people too.

"I see in the near future a crisis approaching that unnerves me and causes me to tremble for the safety of my country. . . . corporations have been enthroned and an era of corruption in high places will follow, and the money power of the country will endeavor to prolong its reign by working upon the prejudices of the people until all wealth is aggregated in a few hands and the Republic is destroyed."

-- U.S. President Abraham Lincoln, Nov. 21, 1864

Hillary Clinton. Let's not beat around the Bush here. You'd be pretty hard pressed to find anyone with any kind of influence in Washington that doesn't have at least one lobby in their back pocket.

"Yes I will because, you know, a lot of those lobbyists, whether you like it or not, represent real Americans. They represent nurses. They represent social workers. Yes, they represent corporations that employ a lot of people."

-- Hillary Clinton, upon being asked about
continued acceptance of lobbyist contributions.

It doesn't matter what the reasoning is behind it. That money is essentially bribe money. It's a way to make sure that corporations and special interest groups get what they want, regardless of how it effects the rest of the country. Michael Moore attacks this pretty efficiently in "SiCKO," pointing out everyone in government who is taking money from HMO lobbyists (including Bush and Hillary), and how that's helped dampen the rally cry for universal health coverage.

So where do I go from here?

I'm seriously at the point where I'm just going to vote for the person that is most likely to give late night talk show hosts the best material:

Colon Cleansing

"This town needs an enema!" - Jack Nicholson, Batman

In case you folks haven't caught the media blitz, election season is nearly upon us. To this, I say "Whoopty Shit." You can write me off as a disenfranchised Gen-Xer, anarchist, what have you, but what the hell is the point of the electoral process in this country? It has completely lost any and all meaning. We aren't even electing presidents anymore thanks to the Bush administration. I don't care if you're Democrat, Republican, or none of the above, this cat has turned the entire system into his own personal litter box, and he sure as hell won't let you scoop it. Even going beyond allowing Bush to essentially wipe his ass with the Constitution, the Declaration of Independence, the Geneva Convention, personal space, and just plain old common sense and getting to the candidates looking to swoop in during the regime change, there's really not much hope there. Why? Because as idealized and down to earth and "for the people" as each candidate may seem, as soon as that olive wreath is put on their heads, it all goes out the window. I'm not saying every candidate is full of shit. I'm sure that there are some that really and truly want to get into the White House because they feel they can make a difference. That doesn't matter anymore.The entire system has become free enterprise with lobbyists and agendas taking precedence over the common people. You know. The voters.

"People shouldn't be afraid of their governments. The government should be afraid of it's people." - Hugo Weaving, V for Vendetta.

There is no fear, nor shame, in our government. Any misstep is covered up, and those that know or attempt to correct it are set up or manage to disappear of the face of the earth. "Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed." (The Declaration of Independence) I don't remember voting on any of this mess. Don't even remember being asked. Not even a courtesy flier. The government can now do warrantless wiretapping. To tell you what a screwed up concept this is, the Microsoft integrated spell checker doesn't even recognize "warrantless" as a word. This basically means they can now just listen in on your conversations on a whim. Here's a few more gems from The Declaration of Independence. Let me know if any of this sounds vaguely familiar.

"The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.

He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his Assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.

He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.

He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their Public Records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.

He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.

He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected, whereby the Legislative Powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the mean time exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.

He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.

He has obstructed the Administration of Justice by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary Powers.

He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.

He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people and eat out their substance.

He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures.

He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil Power.

He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws..."

Some of those strike a chord? Sure, not all of them apply, but there are some definite similarities.

I think it's high time we flush the system that has long since become corrupt and lost it's original meaning. Toss out the old hats, the lobby sheep, the ones that have lost touch with humanity. Fill the government with actual people. People with neighbors who may have had to borrow a lawnmower. People who will put the good of the populous before the good of the pocket. People that won't be easily swayed by corporate hand outs. One things for sure, I definitely don't see Serpico in this lot of candidates. Do you?

Chapter 2.

Tank grudgingly sat up in his bed and glared moodily at his window. It didn't matter what he did, or how he covered his window, the sun always managed to find a way to hit him directly in his left eye at roughly 8:13 every morning. The window is currently covered with aluminum foil, a shade, a set of blinds, and a heavy black curtain. Somehow, the sun found a gap at the seam of the foil, bounced a ray off a framed autographed photo of Christopher Walken on the wall, which reflected the ray directly into Tank's left eye. And it sat there until he woke up. And every morning he'd finish off the bottle of water he opened the night before, and spend the first five waking minutes glaring moodily at the window and cursing quietly to himself. He ran a hand through his short, bristly red hair and stumbled through the series of empty plastic water bottles to the door of his bedroom, stretching his rail thin frame and working the creaks out as he moved. His feet shuffled grudgingly as he made his way through his apartment to the back porch.

The porch was the selling point on this apartment. The apartment itself was cramped, over-priced, and the sort of salmon color that you can only get away with in Florida. The complex was built at the edge of one of the last few untouched stretches of real estate in the Tampa area, overlooking a man made lake which touched the shores of a God made forest. And every morning Tank would sit on this porch, light a cigarette, and watch the smoke swirl around the sun as it shyly peeks over the trees, like a dog that knows it did something wrong. It was during these moments that Tank always found a way to forgive the sun for waking him up so mind-blearingly early when he really didn't need or want to be.

Tank was a pirate. Professionally. Not the swashbuckling, mutineering, looting, plundering, bucanneers that Johnny Depp has managed to repopularize, but the sort of pirate that hacks computer programs, movies, and music and manages to make a living off of it. His parents are not proud of this and tell all their friends that he's in real estate. What his family fails to understand is that he does all this legally, consulted by fairly large corporations to test their copyright protection, and manages to make a little money on the side as a benefit. And he gets to work at his own pace, usually stretching projects out for fairly longish periods to give these software companies a bit of an ego boost, thinking they've come up with a real doozie of a copyright solution. In reality, Tank could hack through just about any program they sent him in under a day.

He stood up from his chair on the porch, yawned as he slid the glass door open, and ambled to the kitchen to get a cold taco and a can of Pepsi to start his day off. As he walked to his computer, he clicked on the television in time to catch the tail end of a news story about some form of theft and the beginning of the weather. He chuckled to himself. It's summer in central Florida. Anyone who's lived in the Tampa area for at least a year could tell you what the weather's going to be like in the summer. Hot and humid in the morning, thunder storms in the afternoon and evening, with slight chance of hurricane towards the end of the week. He didn't need to see the weather. Tank immediately switched on the DVD player and popped in a copy of Brewster's Millions.

As the sounds of Richard Pryor floated through the apartment, Tank sat at his near by computer desk, listened to the soft hum of his system booting, and gave one more stretch. A picture of Angelina Jolie from Hackers greeted him as the computer finally woke up.

"Good morning, gorgeous," he said, as he did every morning. "What have we got for today?"

He clicked his e-mail short cut and waited a few seconds for all the messages to file into his inbox. This isn't to say that Tank is popular, or even that overloaded with work. He did the math in his head one morning and figured out that a full ninety-eight percent of the mail he recieved was garbage. This morning he filtered through the multiple offers for college degrees, get rich quick real estate plans that didn't require college degrees, get laid quick escort services, offers to strengthen his manly prowess (presumably for the escort service), webcam girls, and the joke emails he keeps recieving from a little old lady in Boston who thinks he's her grandchild, despite his messages politely telling her otherwise.

After narrowing the field down to the crucial two percent, he lit a cigarette and got down to business.

From: Yancy, William
PlayRight Digital Entertainment

Hello Tank! It's been a full week since we gave you that new copyright system, and we haven't heard anything back from you. I assume this time we may have finally stumped you! We'd like your feedback as soon as you get a chance. We're looking to implement this on our next DVD projects.

Tank sighed and put his standard response:

This is a tough one. I'll have to get back to you.

He went through three more of the same sort of messages from different companies until he came to one from Sunshine Systems, which caught his eye.

From: Gable, Carla
Sunshine Systems

Tank. We need the program back. We have to end the contract. Due to corporate policy, I can't go into details. We will honor the pay we owe you for the time spent working on our project, and will keep you in mind for future needs.

This was puzzling. It was also the first time since he started this sort of operation that Tank had lost a client. The situation concerned him pretty deeply too, as Sunshine Systems was not only lucrative business for him, but being local made their checks easier to cash.

Tank's mind began to swirl with self-doubt and conflict. Did he do something wrong? Did they find someone else that would work cheaper? Had Sunshine Systems been bought out? Taken over? Did they just scrap the project they'd hired him for?

At that moment, Richard Pryor shouted in front of a large crowd on the television.

"What are you gonna vote!?"

"None of the above!"

Chapter 1.

Through the clearing in the trees above, the thunderheads loomed over and stared down at him like a bunch of disappointed school marms ready to slap his wrists with a one point twenty-one gigawatt ruler. He looked at his hands in the dingy sunlight reflecting off his floating critics, clenching his fists. They felt rubbery and strange. Unfamiliar. The hands he'd known since floating in the womb twenty six years were now as warm and recognizable to him as a bleary eyed vagrant on the side of the highway. He stumbled deeper into the woods, following the sounds of the river ahead. The thunder growled it's accusations, but the wind made like a willing accomplice, pushing him forward. Encouraging him. He drove himself forward, the anxious voice in his mind telling him that everything would be alright once he made it to the river. The voice of logic sat sullenly in a small corner of his mind, realizing hours ago that he was just going to be ignored anyway.

He froze for a moment as the sound of a woman's voice flowed through the wind coming from behind him.

"For......one.....left...."

The broken phrase swirled around him like a specter, chilling him. His pulse raced. His eyes searched the surrounding woods frantically, trying to find the source. The lilting female voice sounds strangely familiar.

"For.....one....left...."

Then it hit him like a sock full of soap. When he bolted from the car, he left his door open. The voice was coming from the navigation system. He let out a relieved laugh and pressed onwards.

He picked up the pace as the sounds of the river grew louder, pushing away the branches that were trying to smack some sense into him. Lightning cracked near by with all the subtlety of knuckles in a library, causing him to pause for a moment to make sure he hadn't been punched. Continuing forward, he could make out the opposite river bank through the brush ahead. He stormed onto the small beach by the river and gave a cry of success, yelling at the sky as if to say 'I told you I'd make it!'

Now he was at a loss. His plan was pretty clear when he first ditched his car on the highway. Run through the woods and head for the river. The river always seemed to be the answer in movies. There was always some form of escape to be found there. And here he was. The fire that swelled from his small success was being extinguished by logic, who was tired of sitting in the corner and being ignored. The man looked around now, slightly panicked. Huge, stinging drops starting falling from the grim, jaundiced clouds. He was trying to form the next part of his plan. He could follow the river down stream. Or maybe he'd go upstream. Or maybe he should avoid the stream all together and just go across the river. Or maybe he should just go back to his car and face his consequences.

He knelt down by the river and stuck his hands in to scoop some water to his drying mouth. The water was cool to the touch, and his tongue could already taste the hundreds of things that water shouldn't taste like. As the liquid made contact with his mouth, the chill shot through his system like a spark, jump-starting his weary, delusional mind. He threw himself into the dirt, laughing out loud as he yanked one of his shoes off and started running around in circles, plodding a giant, confusing path through the bank of the river. He knew people would come looking for him, and when they find his car, they'd be sure to search the woods. The least he could do would be to make it confusing for them.

After a few minutes of trudging through the wet sand and dirt, he admired his handy work. That would surely throw off any would be pursuers. With a new found energy, he slid his shoe back on and started walking through the river, figuring that would be the easiest way to not leave footprints. With a sense of hope and freedom, he grinned, knowing he was a man who had just retaken control of his destiny. It was around this time that the school marms had made up their own minds about his destiny and brought their cruel ruler down.