Review: Rambo

Well well well, if it isn't my old friend the inter-net. Hello friend, if you're reading this. I do apologize for the lack of blogging, if you've missed it. I don't generally subject my reader (you) to this sort of thing, but since it's the only recent film I've seen, and because reviewing stuff is easy, here I go.

I should first point out how amusing the names in this franchise are. The first movie, being very unlike its sequels, and probably having been made with no sequels in mind, is called First Blood. By rights, we should be talking about the First Blood franchise, but they decided to call the second film Rambo: First Blood Part II, which apparently left them with no choice but to call the third film Rambo III. When making a fourth film, it occured to someone that they actually don't yet have a movie that's just called Rambo, so the movie that could've been called First Blood Part IV or Fourth Blood, or Rambo IV is just Rambo. This is funny.

The newest Rambo film, coming some twenty years after the last one, is first and foremost a testament to the power of the Human Growth Hormone. Just look at those guns. (No, not the ones that are really guns.) That man is 60 years old. Much to the credit of Stallone and his pharmacist, I never once questioned that the dude is still capable of Post-Traumatic-Stress-induced carnage, on a massive scale. Which brings us to the carnage itself.

I should point out right now that I certainly went to this film expecting to see a lot of violence, much like one would expect to see cute woodland creatures in a Bambi movie, or a golden retriever that is good at sports in an Air Bud film. It is, in short, pretty much all the franchise has to offer. With the exception of the first Rambo film (with its single on-screen death), the formula has been pretty simple: Rambo kills corny Soviet baddies in corny ways, often involving a bow and arrow with explosive arrowheads. Yeah.

That said, I was pretty shocked. For starters, and I wouldn't have thought that this was possible, this film is a lot MORE violent than its predecessors. Stallone, who also wrote this film and all of its predecessors, was apparently sitting down at his trusty typewriter and said to himself "Y'know, mugshlug grug hmmm junkpagug," which translates (roughly) into English as "You know Sly, you handsome old devil, I really think that the best way to convey in this film the character's disillusionment with postmodern methods and attitudes towards warfare, vis-a-vis his current situation as a forgotten veteran of the American-Vietnam conflict, would be to have him kill more people than he did in previous films. Yes, I think that's a sound idea." Second, and this is where the movie digresses from its roots, the violence that is shown is a whole lot more disturbing.

Certainly, an essential element of the formula (which remains pretty much intact) for these films is "establish badness of bad guys." In previous installments, this meant Russkies would beat up malnourished American P.O.W.'s who have been kept in Vietnam decades after the U.S.'s departure, or shoot poor Afghan freedom fighters from helicopters. In this movie, the bad guys (Burmese military goons on an ethnic cleansing trip - sadly the cold war ended and Rambo no longer fights Soviets) bayonet babies, rape women, burn people to death in their bamboo huts, and press young boys into military service. We get it, these are bad guys. Sadly, this does serve to make them more believable (and detestable) bad guys (this is, after all, what real bad guys do). However, this is most certainly not what I expected from a Rambo film.

Yes, I am in fact complaining that the violence in this film was not mindless enough, at least not for the film in question. I could be wrong here, but if the good guy is going to be Rambo, a decidedly not-believable hero, I think I would be much happier with him fighting not-believable villains. Superman fights Lex Luthor, he does not fight Osama Bin Laden (although really, that might be cool). What makes the Rambo films fun (if they're fun at all, which most of you will probably dispute) is just how ridiculous they are. Going to see a Rambo film means going to watch a shirtless, mulleted commando kick-boxing a Russian soldier who is the size of a truck and is probably named something silly like Ivan Drinksalotofvodkavich down a hole, after pulling the pins out of all the grenades he's carrying. Silly stuff. The most disturbing thing about previous Rambo films is that they make violence so corny. The most disturbing thing about the new film is that it makes violence so... violent.

The good news is that while the baddies have gotten a lot badder (and more disturbing), Rambo pretty much stays Rambo. The film is at its best when it's bandanna-sporting, sad-eyed, monosyllabic hero (he never even pronounces his own surname in the film, since that would require TWO syllables in a single word) is doing his cheesy commando thing, typically involving impossible feats of strength, stamina, agility, and accuracy with a firearm (or bow and arrows). So, while Rambo goes overboard when it's trying to be a Burmese Schindler's List, it works pretty well when it's just content to be a Rambo film. The sad thing is that this mostly happens in the film's third and final act, after you've endured roughly an hour of film dedicated to the bad guys being bad to innocent non-combatants, occasionally bookended by Rambo doing something cool. It's like watching a martial arts movie where the bad guy spends most of the film beating up schoolchildren, only to have one good fight with the good guy at the end.

So, there you have it. I'm not really sure why I bothered, I'm guessing that you've either seen this already, or you weren't planning to anyways, or you've stopped reading my blog altogether. I'll try to write something else soon. Have a lovely day.

All is quiet on New Year's Eve

It's the eve of the New Year already, and what better way to ring in the last few hours before the new year (this time without capital letters) than by completing my stupid 3-5-3 streak on this blog! Hold on to your heads amigos, this post's shaping up to be a real doozy. I'm thinking about re-thinking what I'm doing here at The Republic in 2008. I created this blog in order to keep in touch with family while I was in college, and to have a reason to make myself write every now and then. Not that I have any aspirations as a writer, keep in mind, but I do enjoy doing it and I thought it'd be good to have an excuse to write something every now and then that wasn't a paper. I still want to have the outlet for the written by-product of whatever it is that my mind does, but I should probably try to give myself something to write about. I guess I just feel very fortunate that both of you read this thing every now and then, and that I owe it to you to give you the best output possible. I think I'll also alter the colour scheme or what-not again, because that's easier, but I really do want to write better than I am right (write?) now. Have I babbled enough? Good. Now's when I really get the hamsters cooking in hollandaise with garlic, not to eat, mind you, but to use as bait for when I finally get that tiger trap put together. If there's one thing a tiger can't resist, it's navigating his web browser away from this blog whilst eating hamster-in-hollandaise-flavored potato chips, which you can only get in certain countries, even thought they're made right here in Detroit at Frito Lay. What? Why? Who? Forget all of those silly questions, and then ask yourself if it's really time (When?) to stop hitting me with that inflated latex glove for no apparent reason. Sigh. Happy New Year, Republic of D.Cous. readers!

Noël

Merry Christmas. I still feel somewhat ecstatic every time I say that, so I apologize if it's gotten on your nerves by now. The festivities have mostly wound down, though I still have one family Christmas party and whatever I end up doing for New Year's coming up, which admittedly may be nothing. Lindsey and I managed to attend both of our families' parties and visit with siblings and friends in from out of town over the past few days. I'm extremely grateful that our families live only a short distance apart, and that we didn't have to choose between either seeing my family or hers. I received some fun gifts, I think none that I shan't enjoy using greatly. I had no figgy pudding whatsoever, and I still have no idea what it's like, but there were ample cups of good cheer enjoyed, to say nothing of the other assorted goodies with which I've been fattening myself for the slaughter of late. I couldn't help but think, when Christmas day was upon us, that I wasn't ready. I had the superficial things out of the way, I thought, but notwithstanding that we celebrate it every year, the coming of the Savior among us seems significant enough to me that the celebration of such an event should involve a great deal more spiritual reflection than I've ever put into it. Still, when I awoke shortly after the sun on Christmas morning, no longer because of the anticipation of new toys and good food, but because of that nefarious device which I daily inflict upon myself for that express purpose, I was struck with a remarkable feeling of joy. I didn't feel that the world was suddenly peaceful, or that my life would suddenly sort out all of its own problems, nor did I feel as if the spirit of Christmas had somehow transformed me into a better version of myself. What struck me, I think, was the realization that behind the silly lights and gifts and slightly less silly talk and songs about peace on earth and goodwill towards men, we have a very real reason to be filled with unimaginable joy in the person of Jesus. It suddenly felt to me as if all of the silly things were not just some tradition which we drag out every year for lack of anything better to do when the weather gets cold, they are our imperfect attempts at celebrating something truly beyond our imagination in its greatness. I simultaneously felt sad for all of the people (often including myself) who wish our grocery store cashiers Merry Christmas and buy gifts for our loved ones just for the sake of doing so. I know I'm not saying anything worth reading here, but sometimes I have to step back and remember that for all of my skepticism about this or that insignificant thing, I truly believe not only that the most spectacular miracle imaginable could happen, but that it has. Merry Christmas!

Snow Snow Snow Snow!

Hello friends! Last weekend was an eventful one here in the Republic, and one which brought our first substantial snowfall of the year. I started this post a few days ago, so I may as well finish it now:

On Friday evening I attended (with various representatives of Lindsey's family) Lindsey's youngest brother's school Christmas pageant. Lindsey insisted on arriving some forty minutes early, in order to be sure of getting seats and parking. Things were already hectic when we arrived, but Lindsey knew the bouncer from college, and so he got us in without having to wait in line or pay the exorbitant cover charge. No, wait. That didn't happen. As you may expect, the parking lot and gymnasium were as yet mostly empty. Mr. Mish had already staked out the best filming location with his tripod and new video camera, and saved us some seats right near the nuns in the fourth row. I suppressed as best I could the rumblings of my stomache, greedily eying the saran wrap-covered refreshments, to be served after the programme. In my haste to be forty minutes early I had neglected to nourish myself, and was now haunted by the pangs of a most awful regret for having done so. About half an hour later the rest of the parental press corps arrived, and things got rolling only a few minutes behind schedule, which is quite impressive considering that the cast is entirely made up of elementary schoolers in cute costumes. "That one in the star costume is my granddaughter," the nice lady next to me said. "How cute," I said. "The one in the crown is my... um... future brother in law? Yeah." About halfway through saying so, it occurred to me that that might sound odd. The pageant was incredibly cute and funny, and I don't think I have ever in my life seen so many cameras. Dawheeze (yes, that is her real name) has a much better account of the whole thing here. I shall only mention that first through third graders performing Handel's "Unto Us A Child Is Born," dressed as various characters of the Nativity, is very funny.

Saturday late afternoon I went out to get a tree with my sister Reenie and my brother Brendan, and Brendan's son Geno. The tree farm had of course already been well visited by this time, and the pickings were slim (particularly for the particular pickers among us), but in the end I think we managed to get two nice trees, though I haven't seen Brendan's in decorated form. Saturday evening Linds and I went to a Christmas party hosted by some friends, which they have every year and which is always a lot of fun. I was amused that even at a non-family party, five of the other attendees, not including my fiancee, are in my immediate family. Big families are fun. The snow was coming down hard as I drove home from the party, but for some reason I didn't think to park my car any differently when I got home, which turned out later to be a mistake.

Sunday morning I awoke to Maureen knocking on my door suggesting that I leave for mass with her, since there was no reason for us both to hazard the weather in separate cars. I hurriedly prepared myself and rushed out the door to join my sister, already in the car. The street had been ploughed at some point during the night, but it had since snowed a few more inches. For those of you who inhabit warmer climes than ours, to plough the road means to use a large vehicle with something like a shovel on the front of it to take all of the snow off of the surface of the road, and put it on my car. Good thing I was carpooling. Given the state of the roads, we were probably going to be late, if we got there at all. Unfortunately, we didn't even get out of our own driveway in under ten minutes, and without the help of two neighbors. At that point it was decided that we were not going to make it to mass at all, so instead we went to the hardware store to get another snow shovel, and then returned to shovel out the driveway, and possibly to find my car. Kara, our other housemate, was there when we got back (she had managed to escape the driveway earlier), and explained to us that all masses had been canceled on account of weather in any case, so it was just as well that we didn't make it. We spent the rest of the afternoon shoveling the snow (we managed to recover my car), and then decorating the Christmas tree, which turned out to be more of an endeavour than I had expected it to be, cheifly because Reens insisted upon having every twig of every branch thoroughly wrapped with lights. In her defense, it looks much better than it would had I been left to my own devices.

While decorating the tree we put on a few Christmas CDs, one of which was Bing Crosby's Complete Christmas Recordings. It really was complete, containing a few different versions of "White Christmas," and no fewer than four versions of "Silent Night." What struck me about the CD, aside from the mostly great music (I still don't care for "Sleigh Ride" or "Here Comes Santa Clause"), was that there was probably a half-dozen or so Christmas songs on there that I'd never heard before. These weren't bootlegs or obscure carols in Polish or anything like that, these were-high quality recordings of accessible, radio-friendly pop tunes about sleigh rides and Saint Nick and makin' out under the mistletoe by none other than Buh-ba-buh-ba Bing Freaking Crosby. Given that modern radio's current Hallyday repertoire consists of 2,897,992 versions of roughly twelve songs (including Crosby's hit version of Irving Berlin's "White Christmas"), you'd think folks would be all a-buh-buh-buh-bout it, if you know what I mean. Weird.

In the early evening I set out in my newly-excavated automobile towards my parents' place, intending to relax and visit with my younger siblings over a cup of hot chocolate. The roads were still pretty bad, but I sort of like them that way. What I don't like, as I believe I've mentioned before, is other drivers when the roads are sort of bad. With this in mind, I opted to take the road less traveled by to my folks' place, which, interestingly enough, turned out to make at least something of a difference. I was rolling down Bemis Road at what I thought would be about the right speed to maintain control of the car and still push through the snow and up the hills, when I noticed up ahead of me what I think was a light green Ford Edge, barreling down the middle of the road. "It's ok," I thought. "There's plenty of road for both of us if we just slow down a little and stick to the sides of the roadway," which is what I did and he did not. He kept right on cruising down the middle of the road as if I did not exist at all, leaving me a mere 1/3 of the road and taking 2/3 for himself. "Lord, please help this guy not to hit me," I managed to mutter. My prayers can often be rather selfish. His portion of the road turned out to be more than he needed and mine turned out to be less than I needed, and in the end I had to veer off into the ditch to avoid collision, at which point he went about his merry way, and I got out my phone to call for help. I had to laugh a little, my prayer had been answered. Fortunately, before the requested help could arrive, unrequested help in the form of a very nice guy named Randy stopped and offered to tow me out of the ditch with his tow strap and 4x4 truck. How could I refuse? I dug enough of the snow out from underneath my car to find someplace to attach the hook, and a few moments later I was back on the road. After thanking Randy for his help and wishing him a merry Christmas, I made it the rest of the way to my folks' place with no trouble.

That's all for now, friend. If I write any longer, Laura will wonder why I keep joshing her about long posts. Only five days until Christmas!

And December Rolls Onwards

Well, by Jingo! If it isn't the Twelfth of the month already! Time does fly. It's been freezing rain on and off (and on again) for the past week here in Michigan, leaving the world a startlingly unpicturesque melange of mud and ice, with a generous helping of road salt everywhere there are roads to be salted (which, as you know, is everywhere around here). On Sunday I took an afternoon drive down to Hillsdale to see my friend Matthew's voice recital, which was awesome. On the way down there though I was caught for some time almost directly behind a salt truck, on a section of highway which afforded no passing zones for several miles. The poor Cousmobile was both forced to travel at speeds so slow as to be unsafe to the sanity of its driver, and was subjected to a horrible, corrosive barrage of the hateful sodium. It actually made me glad for the freezing rain coming down all the way back, cleansing my poor car of the disgusting gray film in which it had been enveloped. Secretly, I sort of enjoy bad road conditions, because they give driving anywhere a sense of adventure, and demand more attention of the driver. I think I would enjoy it more if there were no other drivers on the road to worry about. Yes, true to human nature, I trust other peoples' driving abilities far less than I trust my own. I've taken two more cracks at Christmas shopping since posting last, not counting one or two of the online variety, and have reached two useful conclusions:
1. Christmas shopping isn't that bad, when you know exactly what you're looking for and where to find it (though I can think of one notable exception which I cannot discuss here at this time). All you really have to put up with is the bad music, and the fact that you're in a store (as a general rule, I'm very uncomfortable in stores).
2. Christmas shopping takes forever when you don't know exactly what you're looking for and/or where to find it.
I also discovered that while I prefer shopping alone for myself, Christmas shopping is far more pleasant with company, and that I am so lazy that standing and walking around in stores for as little as two hours makes me very tired. The good news is that I'm done with it all. Being an unmarried (at the moment) man, this means that I'm done with any and all Christmas-related stress. I don't have to host a big get-together or bake cookies for a hundred children or put up with relatives I don't like or any of those other things that some people (women) seem to find stressful about the Hallydays. I just show up at someone else's house, eat someone else's food, and put up with someone else's crazy relatives. Actually, that's a lie. I put up with my own crazy relatives. You can't outsource everything. That said, I actually get along pretty well with my family, so I'm probably the one they have to pretend to like. Maybe I'm easy to fool.

We Wish You A Happy Holiday, We Wish You A Happy Holiday, We Wish You A Happy Holiday, and A Happy New Year!

It's The People's Republic of D.Cous.'s multicultural Hallyday Season post! We here at the Republic would like to start out by wishing all of you the very best this Hallyday season. We would also like to point out, though it's as plain as the nose on your face (or the very big one on his), that Johnny Hallyday is awesome. It turns out that at least half of the Hallyday lights that I put up at the office (see the last post) don't work after all (though I swear I checked them), so I'll have to take them down and replace them at some point. Oh well. I've actually managed to get some of my Hallyday shopping done early this year, which is unusual enough for me that when I mentioned it to my friend Jonathan, he remarked "is it December 23rd already?" I was present and sort of participated in Lindsey's family's tree decoration last weekend, I think for the third year in a row. I only "sort of" participated because each member of La Famille Mish has their own designated ornaments to hang (and, if I'm not mistaken, designated parts of the tree to decorate), so I mostly sat around and tried out the family's new video camera, getting candid footage of tree decoration and a few property disputes over prime tree space that nearly developed into Wild West-era range wars, among other traditional Hallyday activities. Suffice to say, I loved it. I'm also looking forward to tree decorating at my folks' place when they get their tree (provided that I get invited, which is a toss-up in my family), which I'm sure will be a different affair altogether. It will probably start with us going through the huge box of Hallyday lights only to discover that (and this is my official prediction, a 5% improvement since last year) 15% work. We'll then spend at least half an hour cannibalizing bulbs from one string of lights in order to augment the other, and another ten minutes or so untangling lights (it's always the strand that works which is most tangled). After wrapping the two strands of working lights around our Hallyday tree, we'll open up the giant box o' ornaments, and begin searching for ornaments that are neither broken, nor ugly. Finding few that fit these criteria, we'll broaden them a bit, probably whilst making some comments about how we should get Mama and Papa some new Hallyday ornaments one of these days. If it goes anything like previous years, roughly zero ornaments and zero ornamentation zones on the tree will posses any particular sentimental value to anyone, and people will hang ornaments based roughly on their height (which is getting more difficult as Owen and Fiona grow up, approaching the maximum possible height in my family of 5'6"), with a ladder thrown in there to make sure that the branches more than 6' off the ground still get decorated. We'll probably throw on one of our family's few Hallyday-themed LP records (unfortunately, none of these feature Johnny himself) whilst decorating the tree. Ah, the Hallydays. Speaking of which, while you're out there getting your Hallyday shopping done on the Inter-nets, you might consider using this, which is a search engine designed to help you spend that last $2.50 needed on Amazon to qualify for free shipping. Cool, eh? I thought so. That's all for now, stay tuned for four more posts this month, the majority of which are likely to be Hallyday-themed.

ADDENDUM:
I doubt that any of you care that much, but the song linked to above is a Christmas love song addressed to Johnny Hallyday's daughter, who, according to Wikipedia, Johnny and his wife adopted in 2004. The music video, again according to Wikipedia, appears to depict them going to Vietnam to meet her. Also, by sheer coincidence, Johnny announced his pending retirement from live performance within a few days of me blogging about him. Strange, no? What's that? You don't care about Johnny Hallyday? Oh, come on. You're no fun any more.

If I Must, I Must

My fingers are numb, my face is red, and I'm standing on a ladder putting up fake pine branches wrapped in Christmas lights which, against all odds, seem to work. All I want is some hot chocolate, but for some reason I can't keep the first verse of "Silver Bells" from running through my head. It has apparently been recorded by everyone who has ever been in the music business, probably as some sort of initiation ritual, but the version that gets stuck in my head at this time of year (I don't much care for the song, by the way) is from the 1975 LP record "Merry Christmas From Sesame Street," which I believe my parents still own (much to their chagrin). Sigh. I guess I'm ready for December to be here. I do love a great deal of it very much, though I shall have to try to avoid stores and such to the greatest extent possible until it's all over with.

In other, totally unrelated news, it appears that the rumors that have (apparently) been circulating in unsavory corners of the entertainment industry for lo these many years are in fact true. I don't know what else to say, really. I only bring it up because some part of me, and it's a part of myself which I do not fully understand, is thinking hell yeah. The only thing I can be led to conclude is that there is either some part of me which loves to suffer, or else one which enjoys terrible, terrible cinema.

This Is Not My Day (Part One?)

Anyone remember the film Good Morning Vietnam? Sure you do. It was that Robin Williams film about how the Vietnam War was bad, partly because it was poorly executed and partly because of the horrible loss of life, but mostly because the people in charge of running the darned thing were a bunch of squares who didn't like Rock n' Roll. No wonder we lost. I remember the film as being somewhat amusing, but now that I think about it, it has about the same plot as Williams' films Patch Adams, Mrs. Doubtfire, and Jumanji (ok, not Jumanji). Anyways, I only bring this up because there's a scene in the film where Robin Williams' character just can't take all the lameness that his superiors force upon him any more, so he breaks military protocol by describing an actual event on the air, rather than a sanitized-to-protect-morale version of said event, but he does so by cleverly stating that everything that happened DID NOT happen, right after describing how it happened in detail. Have I lost you yet? You aren't really reading this anyways? Good enough. Anyways, Paragraph break!

That whole first paragraph was really just a preamble to this one, where I tell you about my day, only because my day is boring, I'll tell you about what didn't happen today. Capisce? It all started this morning (or did it?), when I didn't wake up in the cargo hold of a large freighter that wasn't bound for some tiny, nameless atoll that is not in the South Pacific, and is not the base of operations for some Crazy Organization Bent on the World's Eventual Besmirchment (COBWEB). A seven-foot tall one-eyed man with lots of buckles all over his black leather attire (which would've looked almost comical had it really existed) did not splash some dirty salt water in my face, which subsequently didn't burn in my various cuts and bruises. "How are you finding your quarters?" he did not say, sneering. "Wouldn't it be easier to just tell us all about this Plan 50-WD of yours?" he did not add. I did not defiantly spit in his eye. He then didn't come a step closer to teach me a lesson, which is what I would've needed had I really been there and had he really existed, and I didn't pull myself up by the chain that wasn't attached to the handcuffs around my wrists and suspended from the ceiling, nor did I deliver a swift, powerful kick to the middle of his fat, ugly face. If I had though, it would've been enough to knock him unconscious, allowing me to use one of the silly buckles he had on him to pick the lock in my handcuffs. It wasn't just the opportunity I needed. In the nick of time, I didn't escape. I didn't make my way unseen to the deck of the boat only to see that we had nearly arrived at the island that wasn't our destination. How long wasn't I unconscious below deck? How many days hadn't it been? I didn't jump overboard and swim to shore before the rest of the guards noticed me. Whatever hadn't drawn me there, whoever hadn't shanghaied me, wasn't waiting on that island.

Slight of Hand and Twist of Fate

Gweetings, music wuvahs! Huhuhuhuhuhuhu. How's November been to you? Good? Splendid. I don't suppose that you've missed much (or even missed me) if you haven't seen me lately, but I've been getting by alright. I was excited, even though I had sworn never to return, to journey to that city I'd rather not mention if I mayn't, to see indie-rock weirdos The Decemberists in concert, but something, perhaps naught but the unsavory aura of that unholy place, deterred said troubadours from their stated purpose, and in fact led them to discontinue the remainder of their performance tour wholesale. Would that a fissure would open in the earth to blot from its gentle face such a ghastly blemish as that city, so rudely named for one of our Great Nation's worthy progenitors. But enough of such things.

What have you been at?
Composing Haikus perhaps?
I would like to know

I visited the 'dale last weekend, crashed on a friend's futon and went to a rock concert. All of these were fun except the futon, which was uncomfortable but is still very much appreciated. I was shocked by how old I felt, I don't remember college kids being so young. I was always amazed in college at how easy it was to survive and feel normal in an environment where you're surrounded only by your peers, sleeping irregularly and living on terrible food. I'm not sure whether it's more surprising that I used to live like that, or that, for the most part, I no longer do (I still can't cook).

I finished Hawthorne's The House of The Seven Gables a week or two ago, and am most of the way through The Blithedale Romance. Neither is as good as The Scarlet Letter in my estimation, but both have their merits and are quite enjoyable to read. I'm also going through Augustine's Confessions again. Despite my usual aversion to re-reading books (I will admit that this is mostly irrational), I've gone through this one probably three times before, and it's still quite good. I would love to check out a different translation at some point, though this one isn't at all bad ( that is as far as I can tell, I certainly can't read Latin).

That was a brief summary of my thoughts, and as you might have predicted, in no particular order. I shall hopefully post again before Thanksgiving Day, though I refuse to make any promise of this. Do stay warm, it's beginning (halfway through the month) to feel somewhat like November out there.

I don't know why I even bother...

You know, for the first eight months of the year, I posted very consistently. But then, curse my miserable fate, I noticed. Now I'm cramming, just to maintain a stupid streak on this stupid blog, because now I feel as if I must. Somebody help me, I'm going insane. Now if you're like me (and I'll bet a round chicken in a dumpling stew that you are) you're probably wondering by now where we're all going with this, and brother I'd be lying to you (that'll be the day!) if I were to say that I'm not very often wondering this selfsame thing, but let's not concern ourselves with such matters at present, goodness knows that worrying never hurt the worrisome, except for all the worrying. What am I talking about? I'm talking about good, cold, hard, American granite, with your name (and if you buy a big enough slab, that of your wife) carved on it for all of your posterity to visit once a year until they grow accustomed to your once-conspicuous absence. How much will it cost? Never you worry about that, think of it as an investment in a future without you in it. Now there, there, don't go running for your dear life until you've heard the best part: If you divide three elephants by fourteen vultures, that comes to just enough pachyderm fillet to make sure that nobody, and I mean nobody comes through that door unless they say the password, which as we all know is the last four stage directions for the Sugar Plum Fairy: "Dance, twirl, then dance some more, then get offstage you're killing Tchaikovsky." Just remember that one man's Jalopy is another man's Lincoln Continental, and one man's Lincoln Continental can very quickly become another man's Lincoln Continental, if the first man happens to leave the keys in it. I think that just about does it for now, I feel a strange urge to eat pumpkin pie, but as I haven't any (there was none in the Lincoln Continental I just stole), I suppose I'll have to make do without, and perhaps its for the best after all.

A Shameful Omission

Somehow, and I swear it wasn't for the purposes of coming up with another post, I left out of my previous list one of the worst things about Halloween (besides prostitute costumes): Halloween-themed songs. Every year around this time I seem to have forgotten last year's barrage of "The Monster Mash," and unsuspectingly turn on my radio, expecting to find one of the normal ten songs that the radio plays these days. At first, it was just as I had suspected. The Fray's "How To Save A Life" was clocking in its ten quadrillionth play on the air, so I was still suspecting nothing when I changed the radio station, only to hear "The Monster Mash" in all its badness, coming through my tortured car speakers. It was too much. I changed to the classic rock station, only to hear some piece of rubbish I've never heard before, but was so bad that it could only find airtime if it were somehow related to this stupid holiday. If my bruised memory serves, I would guess that the song was called "Dracula's Girl," or perhaps "Dracula's Sister," and had been made sometime around 1979. Shiver. I've stuck to NPR and my CD player since then, my fragile nerves can only handle that sort of thing once in a great while. Knowing my luck, Terry Gross will interview whoever the heck wrote "Moster Mash" on Fresh Air, and it'll be all over. They'll find me sitting in a bunker here behind my wall, waiting for the worms to come.

By Request...

A while ago, someone, no doubt trying to get me to shut up about whatever it was I was going on about at the time, suggested that I do a post about Halloween, or as you may know it, er... Halloween. I guess I could also call it "All Hallows Eve," that sounds goode and olde timeye. In any case, as time is short, and I'm in desperate need of two whole posts after this one, and yet before midnight tomorrow (in order to lift some curse or something, I don't know. Work with me here), I'm going to give you, my devoted (and in most cases imaginary) readership a breakdown of the D.Cous.-Approved and Non-D.Cous.-Approved portions of this ridiculous holiday.
On the "Approved" side of the ledger, there's:
1. Candy
2. Costumes
3. Parties
4. Carving pumpkins
I would also mention Pumpkin Pie (note the ever-so-appropriate use of capital letters), except that I haven't had any yet. All of these things are pretty fun, and there isn't much about them that has anything to do with witches, ghouls, etc... I just finished carving up a pumpkin, which I had much fun with, and though I can't speak for the Linds, I think we both enjoyed the costume party we attended.
Now then, we move to the "Not-Approved" side of things... There's really a lot of material here, honestly too much for a post such as this, but the ones that jump out at me are as follows:
1. Lawn decorations. Too easy? Yeah, probably. The lights, the inflatable cartoon characters dressed as monsters, the fake cobwebs on the bushes, the fake tombstones, the witches hanging from trees. Good grief. I actually love it when people go buck-wild with Christmas decorations, but since Halloween isn't really celebrating anything, it seems really lame to go out of your way to decorate your house.
2. Trick-or-Treating. I know what you're thinking. Why do I like costume parties and not trick-or-treating? Because costume parties don't involve invading someone else's privacy. I will admit that I never did trick-or-treat as a child, but I don't think that factors in too much. I don't like strangers coming to the door and asking me for stuff, even if they are dressed like Spider-Man. Costume parties have the added benefit of being somewhat like Masquerades, which as we all know, are cool.
3. Vandalism. A well-played prank against friends is kind of fun, as long as it's done right, whatever. Toilet paper all over a stranger's trees? Not so whatever.
4. Ghosts, witches and stuff.

That about does it for now, will post more soon. Peace.

Before My Laptop Battery Dies

Good gracious and a half, blogosphere, my five-post October is in jeopardy! Crazy. Cecelia recommended that I give the world my thoughts on All Hallows Eve, which I shall attempt to do at some future date (hopefully before the fact), but for now my battery is dying and the World Series is on television, so I'll just leave you with a screenshot that is making my evening funnier:
Addendum: I apologize to the multiple commenters who mistook my screenshot for a pop-up ad. I have my settings in Firefox such that I don't see too many pop-ups any more, and hadn't thought of the possibility of such a mistake. Also, I did of course buy the song.

October

I learned this morning by listening to the radio during my two-minute commute that it's Breast Cancer Awareness Month, of which I was previously unaware. I guess I knew that there was such a month, but I wasn't aware of what month it was, or even if it was the same month every year. In any case, I figure that it's high time that I started doing my part in the valiant fight against the not-quite-leading-cause of death among people with breasts. However, as it seems that lots of people are already out there raising money for research towards finding a cure, there probably aren't enough people out there raising money for future treatment, in case they just don't find a cure. Given that we here at The Republic of D.Cous. are not typically given to a great deal of optimism, it seems like our fund raising efforts would better be spent raising money for future treatment, after we've wasted all of our cancer-fighting dollars on a cure that they probably won't find anyways (I have it on good authority that 1/3 of all cancer research donations go to buying Nintendo Wiis for research scientists and their friends*). So, while the starry-eyed hippies of the world are out there walking for The Cure to our nation's chronic lack of Nintendos, I'll be walking, driving, eating, sleeping, and sitting on my couch watching Jeopardy! for Treatment in the likely event that they don't end up finding The Cure. How does it work? Simple. While I'm doing all these things, probably wearing my as-yet unmade "Save The Breasts" t-shirt and sweat band, you can walk up to me and give me money, which in turn I will (I promise) give to people who are at risk (e.g., women, and certain men). I may even hop onto Cafepress dot com and make up "Save The Breasts" t-shirts for all y'all, and then if you buy them, I'll give the money to the at-risk. I'm not quite sure how that part will work, really. I've never walked up to a stranger, handed them money and said "Hey, save that in case you get breast cancer someday and need money for treatment." Hmm. Talking to strangers. Most difficult. Right.

*This is probably not at all true.

Unfinished business...

Ahem. Ladies and Gentlemen, I do not know who Paul Southworth is, nor do I find his webcomic particularly funny, however Gec has suggested to me that perhaps, for reasons unknown, Paul Southwick reads my blog. Why would Paul Southington want to read my blog? Maybe to turn the Greatest World-Domination Scheme Of Our Times (if I do say so myself) into a dumb one-liner. For shame, Paul Southerncomfort, for shame. Anyways, I'm not one to be sore, so I'm offering Mr. Southstein the opportunity to contribute to the Plan 50-WD Fund (it's for the children), and I'll even put his name (whatever it may be) into the drawing for puppet governorship of the world's leading producer of vanilla. Didn't know that, did you Paul Southkowski? Yeah, didn't think so.

So sorry about another Link-heavy post here, non-Paul Southpaw readers, I wish I could write a good blog, but you'll have to settle for consistently poor blogsmanship. The devil you know, eh? Look out for five posts in the month October, guaranSheed.

Down To The Wire

Well, I said I'd try my darnedest to meet my quota this month, and I have to admit that even as I sit down to write this hack rubbish, I'm not sure what in the name of Jim Johnson, defensive coordinator for the Philadelphia Eagles, I'm going to write about. Don't ask me how I know who Jim Johnson is, I don't know, but look it up, I think that's who he is. Right now I'm over at Eric's place, congratulating him on figuring out how to load pictures onto his internet blog page website, and trying to make green beans (as well as a few has beans) and spaghetti work and still manage to get to the church in time for my brother-in-law Mark's 9:00 holy hour. Why am I talking about this? Because that's what is happening right now, for me, and this is my blog, baby. Ah, perfect. The noodles are done, and Eric's just placed a piece of salty toast in front of me. Seven minutes to eat. I'm not sure exactly from whence came to him (take that, fans of clear and concise writing) his recipe for salty toast, but he insists on calling it garlic toast, maintaining that there is garlic somewhere in the salt. It's not bad, don't get me wrong, but I believe this piece of bachelor cuisine to be particular to himself. The man should have a cooking blog, in addition to his always-interesting blog about drawing comics in the nude. Ok, I lied about the nude part, do check out his blog. Mmm... hot, delicious spaghetti. I must eat fast, will try to post again tonight to meet quota. Vive le blog!

"When you go your way and I'll go mine..."

Good gravy, I get myself a good five-three-five-three streak going on (or is it the other way around?), and then one crazy month happens and I'll probably never get another two posts out by month's end. Oh well, that's what comes of having a lot to do and nothing much to say. Actually, now that I ponder upon it, what have I been doing with myself? I turned twenty-three this month, which feels older than it sounds. I was thrown a surprise party, which wasn't all that surprising but was a party with nearly my whole family and Lindsey's as well - all at Casa Mish, bless them. Even my brand-new niece Jane made an appearance. She arrived a few days before my birthday, breaking my immediate-family-wide stranglehold on birthdays in the month of September. Whew, did that last sentence make sense to you? Nope? Sorry. Yes, stranglehold. I guess this means that one of our birthdays shall henceforth be neglected in the interest of the other, and I'm not holding out much hope that it won't be mine. Still, I can't very well be sore about it, she's the cute one, and (for the first few years at least) probably easier to shop for to boot. Maybe when she becomes a teenager we'll go back to celebrating my birthday instead of hers. I did get some pretty kickin' gifts this time around, though. I won't name them all, but Linds is taking me to see BOB FREAKIN'DYLAN for the occasion. I tell ya, that woman's a keeper. Seriously. I've been on a psyched out Dylan kick ever since, which I guess isn't saying much because I'm always on a Dylan kick, but it is saying something. Trust me. Gec gave me Chronicles, Volume One, Bob Dylan's autobiography of sorts. I was a little nervous to start reading it, since I generally don't want to know more about artists I admire, but it's really a great read and I've nearly finished it. Dylan's writing style is always compelling, and he manages to write about his times and his music without really writing about himself much, which suits me just fine. It's like the book form of one of his best surreal mid-sixties songs, with characters wandering seemingly aimlessly in and out of a narrative which still somehow manages to sound cohesive.

Anyways, there's more to write about, but if I write about it now I'll never reach my quota. Watch your head out there, you never know when it may be in some kind of peril.

And if only to meet my quota... Post Number Ninety-Two!

Greetings once again. For those of you just now tuning in, I am D.Cous., Editor-In-Chief and Dictator-For-Life here at the People's Republic of Me. Aw, who am I kidding? You aren't just tuning in, are you? Nope, of course you're not. Why would you be? Silly me. Well then! What shall we talk about? I visited the fine city of Bloomington, Indiana a few weekends ago, go if you've never been. Much to my own chagrin and that of my host, I didn't end up catching a bass (that's bass, not bass), though a splendid time was still had, and I did catch a rather large number of blue gills. I saw John Mellencamp's mansion, that has to count for something. Hmm... on second thought, no. No, it doesn't. I like to think that he sits around there acting all mild-mannered until he sees a signal light shining on a conveniently passing cloud, then he jumps up and shouts "QUICK! TO THE COUGAR-CAVE!" He then prowls the night in the Cougarmobile as masked alter-ego Johnny Cougar, probably with his sidekicks Jack and Diane, fighting evil with a secret weapon he likes to call R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A., and taunting evil-doers with lines like "Hey, Decepti-scum! This is our country! Prepare to hurt so good!" Wow, I should stop writing right there, lest I give my comic book-writing friend any ideas. This stuff's just too good to give away for free. Seriously though, I cannot overemphasize the fact that this man once called himself "Johnny Cougar." Heh heh, Cougar. Tangents aside, I had a great time in Bloomington. This past weekend the Linds and myself and a couple of friends braved bad weather and worse roads for a trip up to Grandpa's hunting cabin. Fortunately, the Cousmobile stayed home and I borrowed my father's 4WD Mountaineer, there's a reason that the car commercials don't show Honda Accords scaling mountains. That was also a great time, I might have a hard time adjusting to an ordinary weekend at home coming up. Well, that's all for now. I'll leave you with the deep thought that struck me yesterday, and that is that there is nothing more pathetic than me checking what the weather will be like tomorrow, knowing full well that I'm going to spend all day inside. Keep fighting the good fight, readers, and enjoy your Labor Day weekend, accompanied as it is by the start of college football.

Post Number Ninety-One (The Long One)

Imagine, if you dare, that you are back in the tail end of the 1980s. Some years ago it seems that Haley’s Comet, while passing earth and wreaking its usual apocalyptic havoc, managed to get itself stuck in orbit around the earth, causing all manner of heretofore inconceivably atrocious occurrences of a most bizarre and otherworldly nature for the better part of a decade. The hideous and the weird are now commonplace. Everyone has a perm. David Bowie and Jim Henson make a movie together and nobody seems to bat an eyelash. Popular music, with few notable exceptions, is awful. Unforgivably awful, even. Films are no better. The muses of fashion, art, and architecture seem to have drowned themselves in a sea of petroleum byproducts, its bed cluttered in twisted metal. Volcanoes have erupted all over the known world. Crows fly by in the thousands, sometimes swooping down on the young and impressionable, forcing them to wear spandex and swear (lest their eyes be pecked from their sockets by a thousand hungry beaks) that Van Halen is the best band, like, ever. Glossy makeup and giant earrings on what would've been attractive women! Tight, stone-washed jeans! Heavy Metal! Chaos! FLASHDANCE! Yuppies ran screaming through the front door of their suburban 3-bedroom homes yelling “YE GODS, why didst thou smite the world with the cruel blight that is the NINETEEN EIGHTEES? What was our offence?”

Somehow, in the midst of all this, something happened that was no less strange, but felt somehow less tainted by the filth and decadence of the age than the chaos which surrounded it. How exactly it happened no one knows, but somehow, drawn by some power unknown to them (or any other), Bob Dylan, George Harrison, Tom Petty, Jeff Lynne, and Roy Orbison found themselves together in Dylan’s home recording studio, if Dylan could be said to have a home, somewhere in California. None could answer as to their purpose for being there, but as they were all there, in a recording studio, and seeing how they were musicians and all, they decided to form a band, write some songs, and lay them down on a record. So they did, as if it weren’t the strangest musical meeting of the minds that any of them had ever experienced, which it almost surely was. Imagine Tom Petty and Bob Dylan singing backup for, anyone, and then imagine them doing so for Roy Orbison, on a record also featuring, and produced by, the leader of the Electric Light Orchestra. And then throw in one of The Beatles. Weird. Of course, once you have that group together, inconceivable as it may be, it would be still more inconceivable if they didn’t have Jim Keltner play drums, seeing as he’s Jim Keltner and that’s what he does, so they did. Oh yeah, and Ray Cooper. That’s right. THE Ray Cooper.

Of course, being me, I had heard about The Traveling Wilburys (for so they were called) before. I was something of an insomniac during my first two years of college, and on those late nights when I couldn't sleep, I would often mosey on down to the television room of my dorm, inhabited in those wee hours by the nocturnal strain of that strange species that is the male college student. The guys there knew me only as "D," for so I had first introduced myself. I suppose that they fit a certain stereotype pretty well: They wore mostly dark colors, had better than a working knowledge of Magic: The Gathering, and more often than not it seemed as if a few of them could use a shower. They were pleasant enough, though. I suppose that I must've seemed as odd to them as they did to me. I would wander down in the middle of an Inuyasha marathon, dressed in my burgundy bathrobe and fuzzy pink slippers, with a mess of blond hair around my shoulders, and then I'd just sort of sit down and engage in conversation, as if they weren't watching telly. The most talkative of the group (to me, at least) was Erick, a tall fellow who you would probably peg as the quiet type, but who could (as it turns out) talk for quite a while, if you ask the right questions. I think I may be reasonably good at asking the right questions. Among other things, Erick seemed (or seems, rather) to have an encyclopedic knowledge of popular and even not-so-popular music (he could tell you all about Elvis or The Beatles, but preferred Alice Cooper), and being something of a music nerd myself, our questions often drifted towards that side of the lake. He's an interesting guy. At some point, actually after I had ceased to live in the dorm, Erick was sitting behind me in a music theory class, and asked me if I'd heard The Traveling Wilburys. I told him that I'd heard of them, in the way you heard about Bigfoot or space aliens at Roswell, but that I'd never been able to track down any of their music. "It's all out of print," he explained, "I'll burn you a CD." College is great. True to his word, the next time we met he handed me a CDR marked only with a green "X," drawn by a Sharpie marker. Some of the tracks wouldn't play on my computer, and the sound quality of the tracks that did work indicated to me that someone had ripped their cassette tape or LP. But hey, it was pretty good.

There are a few things that are important to keep in mind here:

1. This was the late 1980's. Dylan, whose career has had a lot of ups and downs, was in something of a low period here. George was also not producing his best stuff in 1988. Orbison was about to record a comeback album that would be hailed as his best work since the sixties, but tragically died before it was released (final production work was done by Lynne and several others, including Bono). None of these guys, except for maybe Tom Petty, were making their best stuff at the time.

2. This was, actually, an accident. They all happened to be in the same place at the same time, and they all, like many, many, musicians, were friends with George Harrison. They weren't attempting to make the best album ever here, and if they did, it wouldn't have worked.

3. Half of the appeal here is the sheer weirdness of it all.

What they did end up making, however, is pretty fun. They apparently wrote and recorded the first album in a matter of ten days, and then Lynne and Harrison cleaned up the tape and did some mixing and production work before releasing the thing. Here's a video of the lead single from the album, "Handle With Care." The rest of it is pretty much like that. As you can see, this isn't going to top any sane person's "Top Ten" list (although the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences nominated it for "Album of The Year," it lost to Bonnie Rait's "Nick of Time"), but it's pretty fun. I especially like the fact that everyone is very clearly in the late 1980s, and looks very goofy to prove it. The poofy hair and goofy clothing, combined with the group vocals, are more than vaguely reminiscent of The Muppets to me. Booyah.

Oh yeah. I only thought to mention this because the Wilburys' two albums (the second, sadly, without Roy Orbison) have recently been re-mastered and re-released in a re-diculously, um, really remarkable box set. Of course, I just lose CD cases and what-not, plus it's all cheaper on iTunes, so I iTunes'd it instead. Fun.

And the award for "Most Gullible Man On Earth" goes to...

Des Gregor.

Item #233 on the list of Signs That You're Being Scammed On The Internet: A woman you've never met who lives in Mali offers you, a sheep farmer in your late fifties, $85,000 IN GOLD to marry her.

Here's an excerpt from The CIA World Factbook on Mali:

Mali is among the poorest countries in the world, with 65% of its land area desert or semidesert and with a highly unequal distribution of income. Economic activity is largely confined to the riverine area irrigated by the Niger. About 10% of the population is nomadic and some 80% of the labor force is engaged in farming and fishing.

Now, I also notice the part about "a highly unequal distribution of income," but I'd be willing to bet that the folks who have $85k in gold just collecting dust in the closet don't have to outsource the marriage of their daughters to 56-year-old Australian sheep farmers. It's the rest of the populace that would love to marry themselves and their children out a' Dodge.

That said, we at The Republic of D.Cous. are not without sympathy for Mr. Gregor, who made his way to Africa looking for money and a new bride, and instead found a group of unpleasant fellows who threatened to chop off his limbs with machetes. We're just saying that he should've seen something of this sort coming. So here's a piece of absolutely gratis advice for Des Gregor, should he happen upon this blog:

Should a former high-ranking official of a now-defunct third-world government ask for your assistance in transferring monies out of his tiny, war-torn country in exchange for a large portion of said monies, say no.

Sorry for yet another worthless post, dear readers (if you're keeping track, this makes 90 straight). I noticed the other day that I'd made 3 posts in January, 5 in February, 3 in March, 5 in April, 3 in May, 5 in June, and 3 in July. Isn't that weird? Anyways, I figure that after this post I only need to make 2 more this month to keep the streak going. "Why," you ask? Why indeed.