New York, Fall 1985. The Doomsday Clock, a representation of potential nuclear strikes between the U.S. and Russia sits at five minutes to midnight. Costumed vigilantes, once belles of the ball, celebrities now forgotten, have been outlawed by sitting 5th term president, Richard Nixon. (who, even in an alternate time line does not escape the mantle "Tricky Dick") The only thing that stands against certain annihilation is Dr. Manhattan, a government sponsored super-being who can manipulate his environment and everything in it on a quantum level and serves as the ultimate deterrent. This is the backdrop for Watchmen, written by David Hayter (X-Men) and Alex Tse, directed by Zack Snyder. (300)
Adapted from a graphic novel by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons, my immediate instinct is to draw comparisons between the film and the original effort. Upon seeing it however, the film really stands on its own. The book is something that should be read in it's own right, but isn't a prerequisite. It's on Time's 100 Best Novels and has been discussed by far more intellectual people than myself. The minutia of comparing panel to frame does not hold much appeal to me, nor I expect the reader.
Zack Snyder has created a visually stunning experience, truly a technical masterpiece. The meticulously crafted details of each scene is sure to drive moviegoers toward multiple viewings. Depth of scene is easily one of the film's strong suits and set design in this film is often incredible. CGI is utilized throughout the film, most notably in the case of Dr. Manhattan, with his glowing blue skin and faux nakedness. It never overtakes the film however. This could be due to the fact that the film clocks in at over two and a half hours, but I'll choose to believe Snyder was trying to maintain as much gritty realism as possible.
Realism is the key element that will most likely divide audiences on Watchmen. The addition of real world celebrities, talk show hosts, and politicians contribute to a sense of familiarity and serve to flesh out the time period in this alternate history tale. The cold war setting was something fresh in the American mindset before this new "cold" war on terror. But the outlandish costumes, at times noirish dialogue, and over the top action sequences do serve to remind us that we're watching superheroes. Luckily, The Dark Knight has acclimated us to the idea, or at the very least, possibility of heroes and villains. The latest incarnations of Batman ask us the question, "How would Batman exist outside of fiction?," instead of, "Can't Batman ice skate to defeat Mr. Freeze?" While this isn't a Dark Knight review, it deserves mention for tearing down the preconceived notions of a comic book movie. So too, does Watchmen. Unsurprisingly, its novel counterpart leapt forward the comic book medium when it was released.
Both films are character dramas involving superheroes and there the similarities end. While Knight is focused on telling the story of human nature through one man (Joker), Watchmen instead tells it through many men. (and women) Performances range from excellent to average, with Jackie Earle Haley standing out as the lovable ultra-conservative sociopath, Rorschach. Certain to be overlooked is Patrick Wilson, who delivers an excellent performance as the impotent and endearing Nite Owl (II). Malin Akerman exudes sexiness as the Silk Spectre (II) and delivers a convincing performance, despite her volcanic hotness. Jeffrey Dean Morgan as the Comedian is having a blast with his performance, notable since he almost passed on the movie. Thin is Billy Crudup as Dr. Manhattan, playing the film's foil to its human nature plot, as a being all but devoid of humanity. Crudup is an excellent actor in his own right, it's just that an entity entirely based on logic, math, structure, and other scientific concepts isn't that interesting to watch. Even Spock got pissed from time to time.
Watchmen leaves it up to us to decide whether it's comedy wrapped in a tragedy or a tragedy wrapped in a comedy. I don't mean to go all fortune cookie, but I think this is one of the film's best features. We're meant to weigh the positive benefits of technology with the creation and possible use of nuclear weapons. On the other hand, out of despair and suffering, heroes rise. There's an endless cycle explored, and a multitude of examples such as these. The film's ensemble cast really serves to highlight its main character, the aforementioned human nature. We see human nature twisted through the eyes of a dictatorial president, celebrated through the love that Nite Owl has for Silk Spectre, and completely misunderstood through the eyes of Dr. Manhattan. It's fitting that the film's symbol is that of a smiley face with blood on it, only reinforcing the idea that comedy and tragedy must coexist.
It all works wonderfully, if you buy it. Make no mistake, there is some responsibility on the part of the viewer. I don't mean to suggest that an imperative exists to love this movie at all costs, but instead offer that Watchmen is an experience, not just a film, and requires an active participant. To an extent, all films require some suspension of disbelief. Watchmen requires a bit more. The film is at times both hyper-realistic and completely fantastical, often in the same scene. The political and sociological nature of the film broadly interpreted makes fits in with our world view, but at the ground level is (mostly) told through the story of costumed heroes. None of this lessens the work. It's exceptional, a must experience. It's also enjoyable and at times humorous, but chooses to focus more on exploiting our own human nature and voyeuristic tendencies, told almost like a game of chess, where each piece reveals a different aspect of the game. To some cold, to others masterful, but always interesting.
"Who Watches The Watchmen?," is the tag line of the film and question painted throughout. It originates in Latin, but its modern usage is more about instilling a guardian class with the will to do right without the desire for power, exhibited in our division of government. In Watchmen, I think it means something entirely different to the flawed characters we're presented with, and by extension, the audience. It's more about watching themselves from themselves. In other words, will we be our own undoing? This makes Watchmen as poignant now as it ever was, and hopefully, barring any cataclysmic events, will be for years to come. Enjoy the film.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Sunday, March 1, 2009
An open letter to Alan Moore, creator of Watchmen
With the upcoming release of Watchmen in theaters, Alan Moore was interviewed by Adam Rogers of Wired magazine about everything but the film it seems. Moore is no stranger to controversy regarding his work being brought to the silver screen and on every single translation has demanded his credit be removed. For those not in the know, that's From Hell, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, V for Vendetta, and the current Watchmen. One saw his influence in The Dark Knight as well, with Christopher Nolan giving Heath Ledger a copy of The Killing Joke, also written by Moore, as a reference for his character.
Considered one of the more influential writers in the medium, he's credited by many comic enthusiasts as having altered the medium in a very fundamental way with the introduction of more serious tones into his books. Watchmen, in particular, exemplifies this. It should also be noted that he was not the only one, and almost simultaneously, Frank Miller was using similar themes in books like The Dark Knight Returns and Batman: Year One. It was the maturation of the medium, a new dawn for adult-oriented themes to be explored, and the birth of the modern age of comics.
At this point, you're probably wondering about the title of the blog, and possibly a little bored. In order to understand the context of the forthcoming letter, it's necessary to provide a bit of a prelude. With that out of the way, I'll also offer some links:
Alan Moore Wired Interview (I'll mostly be referring to the first page)
Alan Moore Wikipedia Entry
An Interview From Youtube
These links serve to flesh out the character of Alan Moore himself, a eccentric legend who has devolved into a semi-coherent, more gandalfian than Gandalf shadow, full of anti-american sentiment and bitterness toward the medium that fostered his popularity.
Dear Alan,
I've followed and admired your work for years, first discovering you through early Swamp Thing issues and later, more prominently, with Watchmen, and The Killing Joke. If I were pushed to produce a top ten of all things comic-dom, you'd undoubtedly make more than one appearance.
Now go fuck yourself. Seriously, what happened to you? Have you so completely lost touch with your audience that you now choose to condescend them?
I can appreciate the desire to not see your work sullied by a weak film adaptation. I can even respect the anger that you direct at Hollywood and the individuals you feel have wronged you there. What I cannot ignore is the bitterness you show for your audience, your supporters, especially when you've made several anti-american statements. I'm referring of course to your comment on the V for Vendetta film, "Those words, 'fascism' and 'anarchy,' occur nowhere in the film. It's been turned into a Bush-era parable by people too timid to set a political satire in their own country."
Aside from being more of a stab at your audience than the filmakers, this statement is completely untrue. America has a long history of political and social satire, more recently to the point of exhaustion. While often characterized as a listless and lazy lot, one would hope I'd not have to explain the dangers of stereotyping to an accomplished writer such as yourself.
Sadly, this isn't the only example. More recently, in your interview for Wired, purportedly for the Watchmen film, but in reality a venue to shill your latest work, you're quoted as characterizing the archetype of the superhero as "...I wonder if the root of the emergence of the superhero in American culture might have something to do with a kind of an ingrained American reluctance to engage in confrontation without massive tactical superiority."
Even more incredulous is your previous statement: "It has occurred to me that the superhero really only originates in America. That seems to be the only country that has produced this phenomenon."
I confess I don't even know how to address the idea of Americans needing superheroes as some sort of massive inferiority complex. It's too Freudian to even bother with, and negated by the fact that your premise is entirely fallacious. Instead, I'll tackle that.
The idea that the superhero is an American creation is such a failure of the imagination, I'm still wondering if you were misquoted. Since our first ancestor was painted slaying a woolly mammoth, the superhero was born. The Greeks had Jason, Achilles, and Hercules to name a few. The English, Beowulf. And most overlooked as such, The Jews (and later a large percentage of the world) had Jesus.
Not to mention, in your more recent work, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, you use literary characters that not only draw direct correlation to modern superheroes, but can be characterized as such themselves. The Invisible Man, Dr. Jeckyll/Hyde, Mina Harker, Dracula's "Bride" all ring true with the modern superhero.
More important than your inability to have any sense of history for a medium you helped mature (other than a very narrow history of the content of your own works), I can no longer abide your rabid sentiments towards your fans. Would it surprise you to learn that a large percentage, if not a majority of your work is purchased by Americans? I'm not sure how alienating your audience is any form of reprisal to the difficulties you had with U.S. publishers.
As for the Watchmen movie, I find it unfortunate that you choose not only to not participate, but to disavow. I've read your recent work, and while entertaining, your greatest work is behind you. I would think any chance to spur an entire new generation into reading this opus 23 years later would be worth jumping at. You clearly state in the article that you don't feel the film can ruin the original content, and with that, I agree. So, why then, cast such a pall over the whole affair? Do you plan to relinquish any profits received from sales brought on by the movie? In a declining comics market, I think not.
You were once something, and though now you are not nothing, you are certainly something else entirely. It's clear from the interview that you appreciate the work you did on Watchmen, just not so clear that you want others to. A rebellious attitude in your youth is in its way noble, but in your mid 50s, with former co-creators puzzled, and your threats to remove your name from all work you don't own, you grow tiresome.
So seriously, go fuck yourself. But only after you read this.
Sincerely,
Greg
Considered one of the more influential writers in the medium, he's credited by many comic enthusiasts as having altered the medium in a very fundamental way with the introduction of more serious tones into his books. Watchmen, in particular, exemplifies this. It should also be noted that he was not the only one, and almost simultaneously, Frank Miller was using similar themes in books like The Dark Knight Returns and Batman: Year One. It was the maturation of the medium, a new dawn for adult-oriented themes to be explored, and the birth of the modern age of comics.
At this point, you're probably wondering about the title of the blog, and possibly a little bored. In order to understand the context of the forthcoming letter, it's necessary to provide a bit of a prelude. With that out of the way, I'll also offer some links:
Alan Moore Wired Interview (I'll mostly be referring to the first page)
Alan Moore Wikipedia Entry
An Interview From Youtube
These links serve to flesh out the character of Alan Moore himself, a eccentric legend who has devolved into a semi-coherent, more gandalfian than Gandalf shadow, full of anti-american sentiment and bitterness toward the medium that fostered his popularity.
Dear Alan,
I've followed and admired your work for years, first discovering you through early Swamp Thing issues and later, more prominently, with Watchmen, and The Killing Joke. If I were pushed to produce a top ten of all things comic-dom, you'd undoubtedly make more than one appearance.
Now go fuck yourself. Seriously, what happened to you? Have you so completely lost touch with your audience that you now choose to condescend them?
I can appreciate the desire to not see your work sullied by a weak film adaptation. I can even respect the anger that you direct at Hollywood and the individuals you feel have wronged you there. What I cannot ignore is the bitterness you show for your audience, your supporters, especially when you've made several anti-american statements. I'm referring of course to your comment on the V for Vendetta film, "Those words, 'fascism' and 'anarchy,' occur nowhere in the film. It's been turned into a Bush-era parable by people too timid to set a political satire in their own country."
Aside from being more of a stab at your audience than the filmakers, this statement is completely untrue. America has a long history of political and social satire, more recently to the point of exhaustion. While often characterized as a listless and lazy lot, one would hope I'd not have to explain the dangers of stereotyping to an accomplished writer such as yourself.
Sadly, this isn't the only example. More recently, in your interview for Wired, purportedly for the Watchmen film, but in reality a venue to shill your latest work, you're quoted as characterizing the archetype of the superhero as "...I wonder if the root of the emergence of the superhero in American culture might have something to do with a kind of an ingrained American reluctance to engage in confrontation without massive tactical superiority."
Even more incredulous is your previous statement: "It has occurred to me that the superhero really only originates in America. That seems to be the only country that has produced this phenomenon."
I confess I don't even know how to address the idea of Americans needing superheroes as some sort of massive inferiority complex. It's too Freudian to even bother with, and negated by the fact that your premise is entirely fallacious. Instead, I'll tackle that.
The idea that the superhero is an American creation is such a failure of the imagination, I'm still wondering if you were misquoted. Since our first ancestor was painted slaying a woolly mammoth, the superhero was born. The Greeks had Jason, Achilles, and Hercules to name a few. The English, Beowulf. And most overlooked as such, The Jews (and later a large percentage of the world) had Jesus.
Not to mention, in your more recent work, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, you use literary characters that not only draw direct correlation to modern superheroes, but can be characterized as such themselves. The Invisible Man, Dr. Jeckyll/Hyde, Mina Harker, Dracula's "Bride" all ring true with the modern superhero.
More important than your inability to have any sense of history for a medium you helped mature (other than a very narrow history of the content of your own works), I can no longer abide your rabid sentiments towards your fans. Would it surprise you to learn that a large percentage, if not a majority of your work is purchased by Americans? I'm not sure how alienating your audience is any form of reprisal to the difficulties you had with U.S. publishers.
As for the Watchmen movie, I find it unfortunate that you choose not only to not participate, but to disavow. I've read your recent work, and while entertaining, your greatest work is behind you. I would think any chance to spur an entire new generation into reading this opus 23 years later would be worth jumping at. You clearly state in the article that you don't feel the film can ruin the original content, and with that, I agree. So, why then, cast such a pall over the whole affair? Do you plan to relinquish any profits received from sales brought on by the movie? In a declining comics market, I think not.
You were once something, and though now you are not nothing, you are certainly something else entirely. It's clear from the interview that you appreciate the work you did on Watchmen, just not so clear that you want others to. A rebellious attitude in your youth is in its way noble, but in your mid 50s, with former co-creators puzzled, and your threats to remove your name from all work you don't own, you grow tiresome.
So seriously, go fuck yourself. But only after you read this.
Sincerely,
Greg
Friday, January 16, 2009
iRant Part 2
Not much of a rant because there's some beautiful people involved. But I needed a part 2, and my life isn't that exciting. Names have been changed to respect the innocent.
The Jihad in my mouth
I'm not a picky eater. No, really, I'm not. I'll try most anything once. I regularly eat sushi at several of the local restaurants. I once tried puffer fish at a sushi bar in NY and faked a heart attack just to see if the chef would be prepared to fall on his own fillet knife. He didn't, and failed to see the humor in my attempt. Also in NY, it would not be surprising to find me trying such cuisines as Ethiopian, a delicious plate of vegetable side dishes and stew served with no utensils. Instead, one uses the flat bread provided, called injera, as an instrument for eating. Basically, it's like making a taco. The flavors are quite unfamiliar, but not unwelcome and often taste vaguely like barbecue. So from Argentian empanadas and Filipino style tilapia (served with head on) to Jamacian braised ox tail and Senegalese Mafe (peanut butter stew), I may not have tried it all, but certainly quite a bit.
While Raleigh can potentially be diverse, it's not the cultural bastion that NYC or LA might be. With that probably not needing to be said, options can be limited and thus I'm always poised to check out new restaurants. Also, it's nice to test some place before you take a potential date there. And I like to know where the exits are. So it was with diverse palate, slight hunger, and a spring in my step that I found myself pulling into a small Middle Eastern themed strip mall in one of the suburbs of Raleigh. The strip mall contained a Middle Eastern grocery, toy store, and restaurant. It was a pure blend of capitalism meeting culture. I also believe there was some sort of place of worship as a crowd seemed to be exiting en mass. To be clear, this place probably doesn't get much traffic in the form of the average white guy in blue jeans and a bright blue shirt. I received a couple of sideways looks, not really out of anger, but more just confusion. The fact that I pulled up in white cargo van probably didn't allay any hesitation towards me. For all they know, I could be some angry redneck who doesn't support their right not to eat pork. Luckily, for me at least, there was a pregnant lady struggling to load boxes into her SUV. I walked over and asked if I could help. She happily agreed, and any tension in the parking lot, perceived or genuine, was long gone.
As I strode into the restaurant, a modest number of tables with a counter and a buffet....wait buffet?!!? Hell yeah, I am all about the buffet. And man, was it beautiful in all it's brown-ness. Some kind of greenish brown stew here, a darker brown stew her, and a toasted butternut sort of brown here. And of course, the red chicken. More on that in a minute. I joke about the colors, but I was actually pretty excited. It all smelled pretty good, and honestly, most "authentic" food looks ugly anyway. Or I just like to rationalize, take your pick. I walk up and ask if I can take a plate to go. I wasn't quite ready for his response. You'd think he was marrying me off to his firstborn daughter or something. He treated me like a visiting dignitary, beckoning me to try the "Haleem" and other dishes I wasn't able to recognize through his thick accent. I had such high hopes. Especially for the red chicken with peppers and onions.
At this point, I should say that I've had Middle Eastern as well as different styles of Mediterranean food before. So I dove into this expecting some spice. The average American palate is probably pretty bland, or at least that's what pollsters say when they run out of political topics, so I understand that I might need to eat this mixture of dishes with some bread and a glass of water. And personally, I'm not the greatest with spicy food. But I'm willing to try. Nothing could prepare me for what came next. As I was driving home, I leisurely popped a piece of the red chicken in my mouth. It was like a bomb went off. I had no water, only the bread that was offered with the meal. As I mow through that, I try to clear the spots from my eyes, ignore the sensation of my nose bleeding, and desperately cling to the road.
What the hell is in this I think? This is literally the stuff of nightmares and chemical weapons. A bunch of thoughts race through my clouded mind as I try to make it home. If some Islamo-facist (or whatever buzzword we're using) terrorist cell really wanted to fuck us up, this seemed like a viable way. A new weapon of mass destruction, perhaps? Then I wonder if it's something far more localized. Did the restaurant owner suggest dishes knowing that the weak constitution of my American stomach would be adversely affected? Only to laugh with his employees as I made my exit? I clearly saw other families enjoying the buffet. I saw what looked to be a 6 year old boy plating up some red chicken. Maybe it was just me, or maybe it was just that dish.
I reconsider as I arrive home and try the rest of the meal. The "browns" as I'll affectionately call them, offer no reprieve. It's like Spice-a-palooza, with a mash pit wrecking havok in my mouth. The chick pea stew is like kindling, the lamb like a blaze. Ok, now I'm fucking irritated and confused. What the hell do these people put in their food? I mean, honestly, do you have to spice a lamb up that much for it to taste good? If so, maybe sheep should be left for grandma's sweaters and lonely farmers. It was fucking relentless. And I didn't stop. I ate the whole fucking meal. It was challenging me, sharply calling out finish it, as if I were to then execute some sort of Mortal Kombat fatality. I even went back to the red chicken. I knew I shouldn't have. C'mon, red chicken? Red means stop everywhere. It's like the brightly colored defense mechanism of an African tree frog, which predators find appetizing until they realize it's poisonous. So I ate it, and cried, partially emasculated by a plate of food, partially due to the food's effects. Thankfully, the only permanent damage is to my ego and kitchen floor, where I accidentally spilled one of the "browns" and it melted through the linoleum.
I'm headed back next week.
The Jihad in my mouth
I'm not a picky eater. No, really, I'm not. I'll try most anything once. I regularly eat sushi at several of the local restaurants. I once tried puffer fish at a sushi bar in NY and faked a heart attack just to see if the chef would be prepared to fall on his own fillet knife. He didn't, and failed to see the humor in my attempt. Also in NY, it would not be surprising to find me trying such cuisines as Ethiopian, a delicious plate of vegetable side dishes and stew served with no utensils. Instead, one uses the flat bread provided, called injera, as an instrument for eating. Basically, it's like making a taco. The flavors are quite unfamiliar, but not unwelcome and often taste vaguely like barbecue. So from Argentian empanadas and Filipino style tilapia (served with head on) to Jamacian braised ox tail and Senegalese Mafe (peanut butter stew), I may not have tried it all, but certainly quite a bit.
While Raleigh can potentially be diverse, it's not the cultural bastion that NYC or LA might be. With that probably not needing to be said, options can be limited and thus I'm always poised to check out new restaurants. Also, it's nice to test some place before you take a potential date there. And I like to know where the exits are. So it was with diverse palate, slight hunger, and a spring in my step that I found myself pulling into a small Middle Eastern themed strip mall in one of the suburbs of Raleigh. The strip mall contained a Middle Eastern grocery, toy store, and restaurant. It was a pure blend of capitalism meeting culture. I also believe there was some sort of place of worship as a crowd seemed to be exiting en mass. To be clear, this place probably doesn't get much traffic in the form of the average white guy in blue jeans and a bright blue shirt. I received a couple of sideways looks, not really out of anger, but more just confusion. The fact that I pulled up in white cargo van probably didn't allay any hesitation towards me. For all they know, I could be some angry redneck who doesn't support their right not to eat pork. Luckily, for me at least, there was a pregnant lady struggling to load boxes into her SUV. I walked over and asked if I could help. She happily agreed, and any tension in the parking lot, perceived or genuine, was long gone.
As I strode into the restaurant, a modest number of tables with a counter and a buffet....wait buffet?!!? Hell yeah, I am all about the buffet. And man, was it beautiful in all it's brown-ness. Some kind of greenish brown stew here, a darker brown stew her, and a toasted butternut sort of brown here. And of course, the red chicken. More on that in a minute. I joke about the colors, but I was actually pretty excited. It all smelled pretty good, and honestly, most "authentic" food looks ugly anyway. Or I just like to rationalize, take your pick. I walk up and ask if I can take a plate to go. I wasn't quite ready for his response. You'd think he was marrying me off to his firstborn daughter or something. He treated me like a visiting dignitary, beckoning me to try the "Haleem" and other dishes I wasn't able to recognize through his thick accent. I had such high hopes. Especially for the red chicken with peppers and onions.
At this point, I should say that I've had Middle Eastern as well as different styles of Mediterranean food before. So I dove into this expecting some spice. The average American palate is probably pretty bland, or at least that's what pollsters say when they run out of political topics, so I understand that I might need to eat this mixture of dishes with some bread and a glass of water. And personally, I'm not the greatest with spicy food. But I'm willing to try. Nothing could prepare me for what came next. As I was driving home, I leisurely popped a piece of the red chicken in my mouth. It was like a bomb went off. I had no water, only the bread that was offered with the meal. As I mow through that, I try to clear the spots from my eyes, ignore the sensation of my nose bleeding, and desperately cling to the road.
What the hell is in this I think? This is literally the stuff of nightmares and chemical weapons. A bunch of thoughts race through my clouded mind as I try to make it home. If some Islamo-facist (or whatever buzzword we're using) terrorist cell really wanted to fuck us up, this seemed like a viable way. A new weapon of mass destruction, perhaps? Then I wonder if it's something far more localized. Did the restaurant owner suggest dishes knowing that the weak constitution of my American stomach would be adversely affected? Only to laugh with his employees as I made my exit? I clearly saw other families enjoying the buffet. I saw what looked to be a 6 year old boy plating up some red chicken. Maybe it was just me, or maybe it was just that dish.
I reconsider as I arrive home and try the rest of the meal. The "browns" as I'll affectionately call them, offer no reprieve. It's like Spice-a-palooza, with a mash pit wrecking havok in my mouth. The chick pea stew is like kindling, the lamb like a blaze. Ok, now I'm fucking irritated and confused. What the hell do these people put in their food? I mean, honestly, do you have to spice a lamb up that much for it to taste good? If so, maybe sheep should be left for grandma's sweaters and lonely farmers. It was fucking relentless. And I didn't stop. I ate the whole fucking meal. It was challenging me, sharply calling out finish it, as if I were to then execute some sort of Mortal Kombat fatality. I even went back to the red chicken. I knew I shouldn't have. C'mon, red chicken? Red means stop everywhere. It's like the brightly colored defense mechanism of an African tree frog, which predators find appetizing until they realize it's poisonous. So I ate it, and cried, partially emasculated by a plate of food, partially due to the food's effects. Thankfully, the only permanent damage is to my ego and kitchen floor, where I accidentally spilled one of the "browns" and it melted through the linoleum.
I'm headed back next week.
iRant part 1
As if the Internet needed more rants, I thought I'd take some time and share some delightful thoughts with all of you. This is, of course, all true.
Welcome to the Jungle, We've got Fun and Games
My headset broke this weekend, marking the third one to have problems in as many weeks. You'd think I was using them as some sort of advanced torture device or as a facilitator in nightly masturbation. But no, apparently talking into the damn thing is just too much. What a stress test, eh? In response, I head over to the local Tar-Jey to replace it only to find none in stock. The next closest store is a GameSuck(tm), but I'm under blood oath not to shop there. Short on time (and patience), I decide to tempt fate and head into the wilds of the worst retail store imaginable. They were five minutes from closing and had partially put the chain-like gates down on the windows, leaving the door as the only entrance point. Though a security measure to keep people out, the gates made the place look more like a zoo whose only inhabitants were social anxiety affected 20 something males in pithy T-shirts. You know the type. These are the guys that actually *read* Maxim, before promptly cutting out the pictures for a future collage.
So it was in utter surprise that I found a cute 20 something female working behind the counter as I strolled into the store. I at first thought she must have had clubbed feet, but it seemed her gait was unaffected. Naturally, she must be brainwashed then, I thought. Her partner in crime, and I use that term rigidly, based on previous experiences with this retail store, was a late 20s, early 30s white dude with half-dollar spacers in his earlobes. As a side note, who in their right mind finds this sexy? No stranger to admiring ink or piercings, I find this type of body modification unappealing in every sense. Only a dude who has never had his ass rightly kicked (and should) would consider even attempting such nonsense. Or is it some sort of GameSuck(tm) tribal ritual based on pre-orders sold? Twenty gets you quarter sized hole, while fifty gets you half dollar sized!
Anyway, amidst my shock, I did manage to check out Cutie's hands, thus confirming her gender. One can never be too careful when entering the hub of evil. Feeling the filth start to wash over me only seconds after walking in, I head over to the Xbox section to look for a headset. Only wireless on the shelves. How can this be? Resigned, I head to the counter where Spacer Boy is embroiled in deep conversation with another customer. The topic seems to be the finer points, as if there were any, of the new Ninja Gaiden Sigma Collector's Edition for the PS3. Cutie looks incredibly confused and casts furtive glances over towards the door, evidently ready to make a mad dash for it. She must be new, I think. There's hope for her yet.
I ask her about the headset and she looks to Spacer Boy for approval. He's too busy trying to sell the NGSCE (fuck if I type that again) to the poor lost soul still stuck in his web of deceit. Never mind the fact that it isn't even out yet, but that's this company's M.O. I really want to have a T-shirt made up that says "Ask me about pre-orders and you'll get a free ass-whopping," but that's pithy enough that GameSuck(tm) might try to keep me as one of the exhibits. And I cannot live on Mountain Dew alone. I decide instead to let Spacer Boy finish his tirade.
While I wait, I intermittently stare at Cutie's impressive chest and watch some displaced 15 year old fail the easy version of "Cherry Pie" on Guitar Hero 2. (noob) The song appropriately sets the mood for Cutie and I, hence the staring. But honestly, I feel altruistic towards both of them. While I'm sure Cutie gets plenty of attention, it's most likely slight glances and the occasional compliment barely recognizable through a deep stutter. Let's face it, most of the patrons have given up the idea of sex long ago and are likely salivating over the games. I see what I think is a slight approving nod from her regarding our eye to breast contact. She digs me.
The 15 year old certainly isn't going to win over any fans with his performance, but I feel for the kid, so I try and support him. No chuckle escapes me. I fear he's got a long road ahead of him if he can't even fit in with the geek crowd. But for a brief moment in time, plastic guitar in hand, I want him to feel like the animated rock star he's trying to emulate. He then moves on to "Heart Shaped Box" and loses me completely. I resist the urge to throw something at him.
Ten minutes later, I'm starting to get bored. I could ask Cutie out, but that would probably require having to come back to this store. My steely resolve offers the better judgement. I politely, because that's how I do things, breach into the conversation and ask for a standard wired headset. Spacer Boy looks at me in annoyance and says that they have one register down, tells me I'll have to wait. And then continues his now 15 minute conversation about Ninjas. I vow to stop him before pirates are mentioned. It doesn't come to that. My interruption is enough for Lost Soul to make his exit, without buying the game. Great, I think, now he's going to be *real* helpful.
After checking in the back, he tells me that they have none available. Apparently, I am required to wait 20 minutes for this information. While at the counter, the 15 year old kid hands in the guitar. I swear I see a tear stream down his face as he leaves. I cling to the last hope that he's not a picky eater, thus potentially finding some friendships along what's sure to be a rocky road. Spacer Boy snaps me back to attention with the revelation that he has used headsets available. In desperation, I contemplate the idea. My first thought is of the vicious earwig used to control the mind of Chekov in Wrath of Kahn. It is possible that one could hide in the ample foam provided in the headset's earpiece. My second thought is that if my mind is gravitating towards Star Trek, I've already been here too long. But I really want to get a headset. No, I *need* to get one. I'll risk the earwig. But then I think about the mouthpiece and the possibility of some 13 year old using it to practice his human beat box maneuvers. My mind is not my own anymore.
Spacer Boy tries to up sell me on the wireless headgear. Prepared for such a tactic, I respond that those on my friends' list that have tried it have not had good luck. It seems to often cause feedback and buzzing for the recipients of the voice. He agrees, but responds that incoming is fine. I tell him I'm not the kind of asshole that likes to subject friends to uncomfortable noise, but instead the kind of asshole that likes to argue with GameSuck(tm) employees. He doesn't relent. I then tell him I have an extra thirty dollars if Cutie wants to give me a handjob in the parking lot if you *really* want to up sell. It barely registers, so I ask him where I can buy a can of Lysol, pay for the used headset, and head out the door. As I leave, I see Cutie shoot me a slight smile. There's a sadness to it, not unlike watching your cellmate make parole, forced to wonder when, if, you'll ever get out. In this case, her prison is the Communications degree she thought would be so valuable, only to be let down. Now, forced into retail prostitution, life seems hopeless. And as I walk out the door, having these thoughts, feeling a slight sadness myself I think; I should have asked her out.
Welcome to the Jungle, We've got Fun and Games
My headset broke this weekend, marking the third one to have problems in as many weeks. You'd think I was using them as some sort of advanced torture device or as a facilitator in nightly masturbation. But no, apparently talking into the damn thing is just too much. What a stress test, eh? In response, I head over to the local Tar-Jey to replace it only to find none in stock. The next closest store is a GameSuck(tm), but I'm under blood oath not to shop there. Short on time (and patience), I decide to tempt fate and head into the wilds of the worst retail store imaginable. They were five minutes from closing and had partially put the chain-like gates down on the windows, leaving the door as the only entrance point. Though a security measure to keep people out, the gates made the place look more like a zoo whose only inhabitants were social anxiety affected 20 something males in pithy T-shirts. You know the type. These are the guys that actually *read* Maxim, before promptly cutting out the pictures for a future collage.
So it was in utter surprise that I found a cute 20 something female working behind the counter as I strolled into the store. I at first thought she must have had clubbed feet, but it seemed her gait was unaffected. Naturally, she must be brainwashed then, I thought. Her partner in crime, and I use that term rigidly, based on previous experiences with this retail store, was a late 20s, early 30s white dude with half-dollar spacers in his earlobes. As a side note, who in their right mind finds this sexy? No stranger to admiring ink or piercings, I find this type of body modification unappealing in every sense. Only a dude who has never had his ass rightly kicked (and should) would consider even attempting such nonsense. Or is it some sort of GameSuck(tm) tribal ritual based on pre-orders sold? Twenty gets you quarter sized hole, while fifty gets you half dollar sized!
Anyway, amidst my shock, I did manage to check out Cutie's hands, thus confirming her gender. One can never be too careful when entering the hub of evil. Feeling the filth start to wash over me only seconds after walking in, I head over to the Xbox section to look for a headset. Only wireless on the shelves. How can this be? Resigned, I head to the counter where Spacer Boy is embroiled in deep conversation with another customer. The topic seems to be the finer points, as if there were any, of the new Ninja Gaiden Sigma Collector's Edition for the PS3. Cutie looks incredibly confused and casts furtive glances over towards the door, evidently ready to make a mad dash for it. She must be new, I think. There's hope for her yet.
I ask her about the headset and she looks to Spacer Boy for approval. He's too busy trying to sell the NGSCE (fuck if I type that again) to the poor lost soul still stuck in his web of deceit. Never mind the fact that it isn't even out yet, but that's this company's M.O. I really want to have a T-shirt made up that says "Ask me about pre-orders and you'll get a free ass-whopping," but that's pithy enough that GameSuck(tm) might try to keep me as one of the exhibits. And I cannot live on Mountain Dew alone. I decide instead to let Spacer Boy finish his tirade.
While I wait, I intermittently stare at Cutie's impressive chest and watch some displaced 15 year old fail the easy version of "Cherry Pie" on Guitar Hero 2. (noob) The song appropriately sets the mood for Cutie and I, hence the staring. But honestly, I feel altruistic towards both of them. While I'm sure Cutie gets plenty of attention, it's most likely slight glances and the occasional compliment barely recognizable through a deep stutter. Let's face it, most of the patrons have given up the idea of sex long ago and are likely salivating over the games. I see what I think is a slight approving nod from her regarding our eye to breast contact. She digs me.
The 15 year old certainly isn't going to win over any fans with his performance, but I feel for the kid, so I try and support him. No chuckle escapes me. I fear he's got a long road ahead of him if he can't even fit in with the geek crowd. But for a brief moment in time, plastic guitar in hand, I want him to feel like the animated rock star he's trying to emulate. He then moves on to "Heart Shaped Box" and loses me completely. I resist the urge to throw something at him.
Ten minutes later, I'm starting to get bored. I could ask Cutie out, but that would probably require having to come back to this store. My steely resolve offers the better judgement. I politely, because that's how I do things, breach into the conversation and ask for a standard wired headset. Spacer Boy looks at me in annoyance and says that they have one register down, tells me I'll have to wait. And then continues his now 15 minute conversation about Ninjas. I vow to stop him before pirates are mentioned. It doesn't come to that. My interruption is enough for Lost Soul to make his exit, without buying the game. Great, I think, now he's going to be *real* helpful.
After checking in the back, he tells me that they have none available. Apparently, I am required to wait 20 minutes for this information. While at the counter, the 15 year old kid hands in the guitar. I swear I see a tear stream down his face as he leaves. I cling to the last hope that he's not a picky eater, thus potentially finding some friendships along what's sure to be a rocky road. Spacer Boy snaps me back to attention with the revelation that he has used headsets available. In desperation, I contemplate the idea. My first thought is of the vicious earwig used to control the mind of Chekov in Wrath of Kahn. It is possible that one could hide in the ample foam provided in the headset's earpiece. My second thought is that if my mind is gravitating towards Star Trek, I've already been here too long. But I really want to get a headset. No, I *need* to get one. I'll risk the earwig. But then I think about the mouthpiece and the possibility of some 13 year old using it to practice his human beat box maneuvers. My mind is not my own anymore.
Spacer Boy tries to up sell me on the wireless headgear. Prepared for such a tactic, I respond that those on my friends' list that have tried it have not had good luck. It seems to often cause feedback and buzzing for the recipients of the voice. He agrees, but responds that incoming is fine. I tell him I'm not the kind of asshole that likes to subject friends to uncomfortable noise, but instead the kind of asshole that likes to argue with GameSuck(tm) employees. He doesn't relent. I then tell him I have an extra thirty dollars if Cutie wants to give me a handjob in the parking lot if you *really* want to up sell. It barely registers, so I ask him where I can buy a can of Lysol, pay for the used headset, and head out the door. As I leave, I see Cutie shoot me a slight smile. There's a sadness to it, not unlike watching your cellmate make parole, forced to wonder when, if, you'll ever get out. In this case, her prison is the Communications degree she thought would be so valuable, only to be let down. Now, forced into retail prostitution, life seems hopeless. And as I walk out the door, having these thoughts, feeling a slight sadness myself I think; I should have asked her out.
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