The Simpler Life

I am convinced that the disease which afflicts our society is not so much stress, as insisting on yielding to sources of potential stress. I am surrounded, all day, by people who base their sense of self-worth on their levels of dangerous, heart-disease inflicting torment, and yet who consistently moan and bitch about how great life would have been before such irritations; and who yet, in the same breath, speculate on how humans existed before the advent of cellular phones.

Stress is only what you allow it to be. Yes, modern employment is harrassing and filled with little annoyances. The phone rings. The fax machine makes incomprehensible burbling sounds. The printer isn't networked, no matter how many times you click the add printer button on the baffling Microsoft console of doom. Ah, for the simple, gentle life before modern technology, when life was easier, more relaxing . . .

Wake up at 4:30 in the morning, right as dawn breaks. Get dressed, no central heat, no shower. Crawl outside, where it's 35 degrees F. Find some wood. If you're lucky, it got chopped the day before. Possibly by someone else, even. Grab an armload and carry it into the house, which is drafty and has no plumbing. Light the fire, without a Bic, and hang a big heavy kettle. Wait, strike that. Go back outside, pump the water out of the well you dug yourself, put it in a bucket, bring it in, and then fill the kettle. Grind some grain and add it to the water, and eventually, while you stagger back out and (if you're doing well and can afford them) feed the chickens which you have to kill yourself with an axe when you want to eat one, it will boil and you can make some disgusting mess of porridge, which can then sustain you all day while you labor in the fields wearing scratchy sack clothing, so that you can go to bed at dusk (or get eye strain mending your rags by candlelight) and get up the next day and do it all over again. If you're female, you'll most likely die during childbirth at some point, covered in blood and laying in a pile of dirt. No birth control. No painkillers. No antibiotics.

How did people live before cell phones? Well, you were presumably alive for more than the past ten years, you figure it out. Why am I not stressed out about getting up in a relatively warm house, running my hot bath out of the tap, buying a three dollar latte, and sitting down in a comfortable chair and answering email? Because I'm not a fucking moron.

Why do some of us have the luxury of being raw foods organic vegans? (Not the Editor, of course - I devour cows with a spoon.) Well . . . because it's not, in fact, 1800. Or anytime earlier than that. Or later than that, and anywhere else in the world. We have it pretty good, folks. I am not somehow less good at my job because I don't wank all the fucking time. I come home, pet the cat, feed the zombies some human flesh (raw foods of a sort, and organic, most of the time), and play some mindless video games, and really, it's not too bad.

So relax. What's the worst that can happen? We get a temp job. The rent still gets paid. There's still organic soy slime in the refrigerator to suck off of a recycled paper plate. Get over it.

Finally, finally the media has realized the truth!

I always knew that the Onion was the most reliable newspaper in the country. Although I'm a little offended that they didn't call me for a quote. At least I've succeeded in keeping a low profile, I suppose.

http://www.theonion.com/content/node/41676

It's great coverage of a little-known and deadly problem, but even so their zombie fortification/survival tips are woefully incomplete.

Epistolary Wankery

Dear Readers,

This is one of those times when, although the idea of writing anything seems too tiring to contemplate, the wanking must go on. Humans seem able to bitch, even when they ought by all rights to be too exhausted even to open their mouths, it's one of the hallmarks of being a part of the species. In fact, if you ever meet anyone who's able to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune with silent dignity and restraint, be assured they're a pod person, zombie, or other verminous doppelganger, and kill them without hesitation. (The Romans knew this, that's why then invented crucifixion.)

So, to prove that I am none of the above, I will hereby wank without restraint.

1) The Editor is currently afflicted with some mystery illness which manifests itself almost entirely in itchy bumps all over the arms, legs, and parts of the torso; no amount of Benadryl seems capable of making this any less aggravating.

2) The (many) pills that the Editor is taking are nausea-inducing and make your head float somewhere above - and not in one of those nice fluffy white clouds, either, more in the smog zone above Los Angeles.

3) While we're at it, why don't I have a whole bunch of slaves to bring me tea at all hours? That sure would be nice.

That was actually some fairly limited wankery, and you should all be grateful. See? I've given every reader something else not to complain about. And god knows my readers in particular need something like that, you bunch of whimpering whiners.

Love, The Editor

P.S. Did I mention that the drugs make you really, really out of it?

Zombies: Back By Popular Demand!!!

So, some of my (few and mainly imaginary) adoring public have expressed a violent desire . . . perhaps, a strong wish . . . no, all right, fine, a faint inclination, to receive more information on zombie defense strategies.

Well, say no more! The Editor has so painfully few truly useful occupations, that it is a true pleasure to do something altruistic, particularly when none of my readers would honestly have to be too concerned about imminent zombie attack, were it not for the somewhat shoddy security measures currently in force in my lab. Look, I didn't expect them to chew through concrete. It was an honest mistake, it has been rectified, and really, I live next door to an Alzheimer's home - no one can tell the difference anyway.

Back to the matter at hand. As you all recall, I posted a basic primer on anti-zombie tactics, some of which were I admit difficult for the average person to carry out. We are not all professionally paranoid. So, for the layman zombie survivor, I have made up a list of the most bare-bones (pun not intended - besides, if you follow my advice, you may still have flesh on your bones after the holocaust of living dead has destroyed civilization as we know it) essentials to have on hand, in case of sudden attack. There are many lists of this kind available, some of which can be found on our own Homeland Security Website (refer to previous post), but I assure you mine is better, although featuring fewer graphic representations of yuppies being sprayed in the face with biological contaminants.

Zombie Survival Kit, basic version

1 sawed-off shotgun (good for brain disintegration; also doubles as brain-smashing blunt object at close quarters, or when the idiot you foolishly allowed to accompany you, rather than throwing him/her behind you as a distraction, loses all your shotgun shells)

10 boxes shotgun shells (so that you may inevitably end up with one shell and a hundred pursuing zombies anyway)

1 bunch bananas (zombies don't like the taste of potassium; I have verified this through extensive research)

2 coils heavy nylon rope (so that it may inconveniently catch on objects while you are carrying it wrapped around your body, thus delaying you and ensuring your doom)

1 bottle vodka or Scotch (according to preference; actually, this is part of the "General Daily Survival Kit", also available for purchase, but why not include it here)

1 pair high-quality running shoes (cowardice is the better part of valour)

1 spray bottle zombie repellent (may I recommend Super Lerx-Off Brand Liaox Entity Repellent, also good against limp, failed ex-theatre executives)

1 carton cigarettes (obviously)

2 cigarette lighters (to light cigarettes with; also good for cooking food, purifying water, and many other secondary uses)

1 shovel (for some reason, this is always the most-used implement in any zombie attack situation; don't ask me why just get one and hit things with it)

1 attractive female companion (for sex)

1 bumbling male companion (for comic relief, since laughter defuses even the most terrifying and deadly situation, and to be sacrificed later; also provides contrast in eyes of attractive female, making you look almost human)

1 box condoms (ribbed for her pleasure isn't really, so I've been told, just a word to the wise)

2 rolls toilet paper (two-ply)

If space allows, bottled water, non-perishable foods, a radio, emergency flares, and such can be added; but if space allows, you're carrying too much and will fall down, thus being buried beneath an avalanche of ravenous corpses.

With these items at hand, and having followed some of the Zombie Fortification tips previously posted, you can be fairly sure of surviving long enough to come to an even more miserable and demoralizing end than you would have had you simply succumbed to begin with.

New Post Coming Soon

We apologize for the inconvenience. The Editor's brain is currently under construction. However, in the mean time please note that zombie attacks have decreased 12.7% since 1994, and we are currently occupied with trying to reverse that trend. Thank you for your attention.

AA can't save people; only Jesus can.

Amen, brother. Hallelujah. And thanks for the fucking newsflash, Sherlock cocksucking Holmes. The thought above is brought to you courtesy of one of the many brilliant pages littering the blogscape, and I'm not even going to post a link to it because it's so lame. It's about someone who's very Christian and hangs out in jails trying to bring comfort to inmates. Sounds like a good time, doesn't it? Almost as exciting as Howie, though I will admit that Christian guy knows how to spell, if nothing else. Credit where credit is due. Do you think Jesus gave him power over the rules of grammar? Or is that more of a Holy Spirit kind of thing? I need to learn more about Christianity, I mean, I've read the Bible and all, but it just doesn't answer truly important questions like that one.

Do check out this site, though. This person apparently lives under an end table. Does anyone have a different interpretation of this?

Here is the current contender for "Least Likely to Succeed as a Species Variation". Then again, she probably fucks more than most of my entire city combined. Makes you really appreciate Planned Parenthood, don't it?

And for anyone who's ever wanted to explore the seedy underbelly of the wild and crazy antics of Christian college students, now's your chance. I recommend about a teener of really good glass, because otherwise you'll fall asleep before the page even loads.

That concludes tonight's episode of "Behind the Blogs: the Man, the Mystery, and the Pointless Bullshit That Random Idiots Think is Interesting for Some Unknown Reason". Tune in next time for more entirely irrelevant links to things that no one, least of all the Editor, actually cares about.

Two last notes, just in case anyone read this far: the zombies are doing better, after their recent bout with alcoholism. AA didn't save them, though, Jesus did. And just for you, my dear, you know who you are, a link to the masterminds behind a certain piece of soiled weather which shall not be named at this time. Please note the availability of an upcoming album for preorder! Get it EVEN SOONER than if you ran to the store and pressed your eager little nose against the window of the Wherehouse early in the morning of the big day!

It's Like a Bloodstained Hurricane

What, precisely, is very much like a "bloodstained hurricane"? Pretty much everything, it turns right out. What cannot be compared to a bloodstained hurricane? Certainly not the Editor.

Spork this, bitch

So here's the question: what do sporks really mean? Are they an existential expression of modern humanity's need for utensils which do . . . gasp . . . MORE THAN ONE THING? Or are they just kind of pointless and plastic? An associate of mine found this site, which he sent to me, and it is possibly the most revolting spork ever made. My zombies won't even eat off of this thing, that is, assuming that they would ever consider using utensils at all, instead of simply ripping the rotting flesh from one another's bones with sharpened, filthy incisors, while moaning and flailing wildly.

Anyway. The point which the Editor was, admittedly incoherently and with the utilization of multiple unnecessary clauses, attempting to make, was: even ravening, slimy, hairless, mindlessly gnawing dead things which kill you and turn you into a living corpse wouldn't use this stupid spork. C'mon, guys, this is not Sporkcalibur. (I know, Mike, I know, I haven't sent it to you yet. Just wait, it'll be worth it, and covered with zombie saliva.) It's FLESH COLORED, for Christ's sake. It looks like a flea comb gone horribly, horribly wrong. For a person who cares deeply about the potential of the fork/spoon hybrid, this is a loathsome and vile excursion into the land of the great travesty of human existence.

Seriously, folks. The Editor may be blind drunk, but some things are just not okay.

It's the end of the world as we know it

Thank you, REM.

I feel fine now.

Anyhoo. The Editor is currently considering the great and pressing problem of the modern zombie film. Now, no one is more surprised than I that Hollywood would at one point have gotten something right - however, the fact remains that George Romero did have it pretty much spot-on, originally. Zombies are slow. They moan, and stumble, and hold their limbs at always hilarious angles. I mean, it's so funny to watch them, I just never get tired of it. They're so cute. It brings a tender smile to the face of even the hard-bitten and jaded Editor . . . but that's another matter. Like I said, I'm shocked that the directors of zombie movies would manage to have it right.

Which brings me back to NEW zombie movies. Okay, so, what the fuck? Viruses? Running around all fast? I object to this. I happen to know, without any doubt, that zombies act just like they did in the original Night of the Living Dead. I mean, this is my life, for fuck's sake. Who would know better than the Editor? My zombie lab is thriving, since my research staff get bitten one after another, and I really can't keep any of them alive for more than a week or two . . . and they all end up slouching around their cages, making gurgling sounds, and bumping into one another. They do not scream with rage and then figure out how to climb out, and then run like Olympic 500 meter champions after hapless victims who still think that holing up in a shopping mall is a pretty good idea.

See, those old zombie movies were pretty much like documentaries. They showed what really happens when the living dead run wild. These new films, they're just mindless entertainment. So join with me in calling for a return to the classics. No more 28 Days Later, Dawn of the Dead remake bullshit. I want aimless gnawing! SLOW, aimless gnawing, to be more precise, and lots of it.

Rant of the day

So, goddamn it you guys, I'm totally hooked on this fucking show, and can't stop watching it, and now it's two in the motherfucking morning and I have to be at work in the a.m., as you well know, Tifanie, and I'm still debating watching another episode. You have ruined the editorial life. My lab is neglected, the zombies are starving, my research staff has been drinking beer and fucking off for hours. The emergency ammunition hasn't been restocked in days. I feel like one of the crack squirrels in Central Park, only I'm not quite up to that level of rationality. It could also be all of the codeine and scotch, but who's counting . . . anyway, the next time you loan me DVDs, warn me first that all other activities will cease and I'll sit here for an entire night and obsess over funeral directors! All right? Thanks.

May as well skip this one; I should have

So everyone has a different way of dealing with suddenly running into ghosts when they least expect it. There are certain times and places where ghosts are almost de rigeur; spooky old castles, crumbling graveyards, the Editor's closet, etc. But what do you do when a ghost pops up in the middle of a downtown bar? Well, some might run, some might ignore the disturbing apparition, others might just shrug and order a slightly stronger drink. The Editor has a beer with it, calls it a close friend, and proceeds to agonize over it for hours or days or years. However: this is a moment of change. I have enough trouble with zombies as it is to allow other sorts of undead to have any kind of impact. Enough already. I never understood before now why people seem to be hung up about their pasts for ever and ever and ever, to the ultimate destruction of everything they try to build. It is simply because it's actually harder and more painful to admit that everything one has held dear, or had faith in, is irrelevant, thus admitting that one's own judgement is lacking, and that all the time that's already been spent on said irrelevancy is time completely wasted.

Therefore, the Editor has made an executive decision. No undead, besides the ones in the lab, will be allowed to affect the Editorial lifestyle; the others can go and fuck themselves. No more time wasted, no more pointlessly self-indulgent wallowing in self-pity, whining, stress, and moments of angst. In short, no more melodrama. I think I'll move on to comic opera, it's a lot more fun.

Presentation of Articles Written by Foreign Students Here

Pyongyang, June 19 (KCNA) -- "Song of Praising Great Man," a meeting for presenting articles written by foreign students studying at Kim Il Sung University was held at the Taedonggang Club for the Diplomatic Corps on June 18 on the occasion of leader Kim Jong Il's start of work at the Central Committee of the Workers' Party of Korea. At the meeting which began with chorus "Song of General Kim Jong Il" students presented their works carrying their ardent reverence for President Kim Il Sung and Kim Jong Il.

In occasional notes "Before an immortal monument to his autographs", poem "Song of the eternal sun" and other works performers expressed deep reverence of humankind for the President and Kim Jong Il who is carrying forward his cause.

In poem "Song sung on Ryonggun Peak" and record of impression "A country of Songun politics", Chinese and Iranian students stressed that as led by Kim Jong Il the DPRK is throwing bright rays all over the world as a great country shining with Songun politics. Diary "Along the trace of the great man" and written impressions "My pride" expressed eulogy for Kim Jong Il. Korean songs including immortal masterpiece "Azalea" and "My Blessed Life" were sung.

The meeting ended with chorus of the Korean song "Dear Name".

It almost makes Fox News seem like actual information, doesn't it?

A Personal Moment

The Editor rarely indulges in diatribes about events in my private life; after all, as a zombie researcher, there's not much that's fit to be made public. It's all too gruesome for general consumption. However, in this case an exception has to be made.

About two weeks ago, I realized that I truly do have to get out more. To put it simply, with all that time spent in the lab, and the hours devoted to employment (zombies are a calling, but they do NOT pay the bills, you may be surprised to learn), and the bits and pieces left over being given to these posts, there was very little left for the Editor to have what might be called a love life. So, in order to avoid actually leaving the facility, and interacting with people in a social environment, I put a personal ad on a website.

To my great surprise, the response was good. Several of the emails I received appeared actually to have been written by Homo Sapiens, and living ones, at that. (That's a big thing for me; I spend so much time with dead people, that it's nice to occasionally have a conversation that's not mostly groaning, and attempts to eat my brain. Meeting people in bars is truly challenging.) So, to make a long story short, the Editor went on an actual blind date, a first for me and hopefully a last as well. (I do not mean this to reflect poorly upon my date, as a person; they turned out to be great company, and attractive. But the stress of the event itself, or rather the buildup, was a bit much.)

The stress came mostly from those first few moments of walking into the coffee place chosen for the rendevous, and wondering if I had arrived first, or if any of the singularly unappealing specimens before me was the individual I was doomed to be pleasant to for a minimum of an hour. That was sheer terror. Rarely is the Editor fully unmanned by the strain of impending doom, and this was one of those times. And to make matters worse, the Editor was without an internet connection, and therefore unable to turn to Homeland Security for solace. So there I was, drinking a cup of tea and waiting for the unknown, without even a comforting diagram of an exploding nuclear warhead pointed at the crotch of a walk signal to get me through. That was a dark ten minutes - until my real date walked through the door and turned out not to be a beastmonster. And that is the scintillating true story of the Editor's dating life, the only one which will ever be published here. Back to what's important.

Ideasculptor noticed the very same little Homeland Security picture which most appealed to me - the one of the guy looking thoughtfully at the biological agent, as it comes out of the container and onto his face. The drawing of his thought bubble, which contains a biological contaminant symbol, is indeed particularly fine. "Hm," he seems to be saying, "that sure does look like something that'll curdle my gonads. Kinda seems to be squirting right into my face. Maybe I should just stand here?" Does that reflect the federal government's overall approach to Homeland Security? Are they too busy trying to settle the New York traffic department's copyright lawsuit, based on the suspicious resemblance of the little radiated man to the walk signal, to actually do anything useful? These are all questions which may or may not be answered at a much later date. For now, just remember: If there is an explosion or other factor that makes it difficult to control the vehicle, pull over, stop the car and set the parking brake.

Feeling insecure? Well, you will be.

Whereas, I have recently acquired my laptop from Ideasculptor; and whereas, he has informed me that I must post once per week to avoid repossession of said cheap and good hardware; and whereas I want to keep it; I am now posting. Congratulations, Ideasculptor, you have successfully blackmailed the Editor. That's actually quite difficult to do, as I'm usually the first to inform everyone whenever I do something illegal, stupid, or just plain embarrassing. Why hide it?

It makes me wonder about you, though, Ideasculptor; these posts don't seem worth an almost new laptop. But whatever you say. I'm not arguing.

So, for everyone's delectation this evening, I direct you to our very own Homeland Security website. Have you ever wondered what radiation looks like, when it's directed at the groin? Wonder no longer. There are stick figures standing by to inform you. Questions about the possible results of chemical warfare? They will be answered, in short, easily comprehended sentences. Frankly, anyone who needs this website, deserves their lung-vomiting eye-bleeding fate. And really, if you're in the last stages of Ebola, trying desperately to drag yourself into the kitchen for some water, or maybe just to die, do you stop in along the way to run "biological weapon exposure symtoms" through google, and then go to the website, and gaze blearily through blood-clouded eyes (if they're still attached to your head) at the small round-headed graphic man standing behind a radiation shield, hoping that all of your internal organs will return to a state of solidity? Actually, that'd probably be about as productive as anything else, at that point. We are all doomed. Doomed, I tell you! Fire and brimstone! Plagues of squirrels! Midgets with AK-47s, descending upon the suburbs in very small helicopters!

Thank you, Homeland Security. I feel much more secure now, in the knowledge that every time I need to see a small, badly-proportioned diagram of several suspicious looking containers of nuclear material, I have somewhere to go.

Howie Part II: Revenge of the Literate

Howie, my pet. Since posting my last, it came to me that perhaps some of my previous comments may have seemed hurtful, nay, even mean. Let me just state for the record that I feel it to be my bounden duty to educate those whom I feel to be in need of my help. In fact, I feel like feelings, those that you truly, deeply feel, feel more heartfelt when felt up under a cashmere sweater . . . sorry, sidetracked. (Using the same word, over and over and over and over again, has a bit of a drowsy, soothing, hypnotic effect, does it not? Of course, what can one do, when one has the vocabulary of an invertebrate? A difficult quandary, to be sure.)

And I apologize to any more junior members of my audience, who may or may have ever felt up anything at all.

Now, it seems, I must apologize yet again, as I may have just insinuated that no human female voluntarily comes within several leagues of the Fearless Defender of Truth and Italics in the History of Education.

Should I display how truly, deeply, really sorry I feel, yet again? I feel like this examination of all of our feelings might become monotonous at some point.

And it just did. For a moment there, I thought I might have accidentally strayed from my own blog to Howie's. Hmmmmm. But, back to the matter at hand. Just to refresh everyone's memory, here's the previously quoted passage from Howie's blog:

I am not a so-called «bot» and I am not stupid. I am an education major at Princeton University and you do not get into an Ivy League school by being stupid. My GPA is a steady 3.8. I wish to educate those who I feel are uninformed, and I have been vilified. I feel that once you open your mind, you will feel that there is a progressive answer to today's issues. You have to open your mind not keep it narrow. I am messenger for progressive change. My views are shared by many people.

Howie, Howie, Howie. What are we going to do with you? I pray to all gods and idols that were ever made, not release you upon an unsuspecting elementary school class. Can you even imagine walking innocently into your first day in the third grade and finding . . . Howie? Perhaps he'll do us all a favor and join Teach for America, and get himself sent to the worst, most crime-ridden high school any ghetto has ever seen. As a true liberal, and lover of the people, he would no doubt love them even more at very, very close range. He can tell them about how, coming from a college which costs more per year than their entire family's income, he really, truly, knows how they feel, understands them, and wants to educate them.

So Howie. I will now, out of what piddling quantity of goodness remains in my cold, bitter soul, let you in on a secret. The best way to lose all, and I do mean every last single drop, of credibility as a member of the hoi polloi, is to . . . anyone with me here? Anyone? That's right, go to an incredibly exclusive university, populated almost entirely with the very wealthy, and set oneself up as an intellectual. Yep, that's it all right. The only people who will, for the rest of his life, be able to look at Howie without hatred are well-educated wealthy white people. And they will not tolerate him until he learns to spell.

It seems that in order to complete our analysis of the paragraph above (which is, after all, from one of the greatest philosophers of our time; it would be foolish to dismiss it hastily) we shall have to post yet again, perhaps even later this evening. The Editorial fingers weary, and zombies need to be fed. Wait a minute . . . and I had to ask what we were going to do with Howie, when the answer was right at my rotting, gnawed fingertips!

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the wonderful world of HOWIE!!!

Well, thank you, thank you . . . I know it's been a while, I'll have to wait for the frenzied cheering to die down before really beginning my post . . . anyway, by popular demand, the Editor has taken a few moments from the ever-absorbing laboratory (I need a new batch of expert assistants, by the way, some more have been eaten) to post a few words.

So. My attention has been drawn to an individual named Howie. Might I add, my unfavorable attention. In lieu of sending a cadre of zombies to his no doubt pitiful, filty, and louse-infested abode (because after all, even zombies have standards, for god's sake), let us examine a specimen of his prose. It's slightly less grotesque than your average stool sample, but only very slightly - don your Hazmat suits please, or at least some goggles and dish gloves. It's really too bad that anyone who is able to read Howie's words of wisdom are already too intellectually advanced to profit from them. I wonder, has he tried reading his posts aloud to the local home for developmentally disabled children? They might enjoy them, or they might at least derive some amusement from vomiting upon him. As would we all, I might add. However. To the point.

Here is a recent posting from Howie's page:

I am not a so-called «bot» and I am not stupid. I am an education major at Princeton University and you do not get into an Ivy League school by being stupid. My GPA is a steady 3.8. I wish to educate those who I feel are uninformed, and I have been vilified. I feel that once you open your mind, you will feel that there is a progressive answer to today's issues. You have to open your mind not keep it narrow. I am messenger for progressive change. My views are shared by many people.

So, let us take this one little baby-logic-step at a time. After all, the Great Howie, Educator of all he Surveys, may deign to stop in himself at some point, and I do so want him to be able to follow along. The rest of you, who are in all likelihood able to construct a paragraph, please be patient as I lower my Editorial style to a sufficient depth.

We can leave to the side the first sentence, since statement one is patently irrelevant, and the second, open to a longer debate than I, at least, happen to have time for. The fact that he is an Education major at Princeton is quite possibly true; it is unlikely that anyone, were they to invent a provenance for themselves, would choose something so ineffably dull.

Now, it seems that my supper is ready, but I would like to point out to you, oh Howie the Infinitely Educated, that George W. Bush, whom you deride continually, if without wit, is himself a graduate of an Ivy League school. Whilst I'm away having a peaceful dinner, please do decide between these options: a) G.W. Bush is actually intelligent; or b) you may or may not in fact possess the intelligence of an average sized tapeworm. I'll be looking forward to hearing your commentary on the topic, when I get back . . . and I will be back.

An evening at the theater

So, a short comment on zombies and their activities. They mindlessly eat flesh, wander about moaning, and generally can't do a whole lot of useful and productive activities. I just happen to be at the opening night of a production at the local theater, and happened to think about this while watching the audience milling about drinking free wine. Random, don't you think? Don't know why that would even cross my mind, really.

However, there's much to be said for the free wine. It is 1) free; 2) wine; 3) free wine; and there's not really a four, as with two words and one combo there's not much you can do.

So ends the Third Age.

Here reprinted by permission of the author, namely me, is my opinion of Peter Jackson and all of his post Aussie-slasher works.

This was stimulated by wandering through the science fiction and fantasy section of Borders, and seeing, I kid you not, "The Backstory of Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings For Dummies" on the shelf. I postulate that, in fact, the movies were made from that volume, rather than anything actually written by J.R.R.


My Heart May Be Full of Bile, But Viggo Mortensen's Mouth Is Full of Choad: A Review of Peter Jackson's The Two Towers
by E. Worthington, Esq.

Perhaps the second thing which should have aroused my anxieties concerning the film The Two Towers was the fact that the screenplay was written by director Peter Jackson's wife, Frances Walsh. (The first thing, of course, was the abysmal paucity of merit in its prequel, The Fellowship of the Ring.) Now, it is of course possible that a screenwriter could be hired out of sheer nepotism and still, by chance, possess some modicum of talent. Unfortunately, we were not so lucky in this instance. Ms. Walsh is a member of the 1% of the population who could genuinely benefit from a junior college English class, the kind where they teach you about metaphors for 17 weeks or so. Hmm . . . let's think for a moment, shall we, class? Just based on the fact that The Lord of the Rings is a novel of the fantasy genre, perhaps the theme might be, to hazard a guess, Good versus Evil.

Very well, this established, some keywords for Good: intelligence, morality, honor, dignity, nobility . . . these are words which we fervently wish we could apply to the film's representations of Tolkien's characters. To our dismay, however, every single one of them has been transformed, through Ms. Walsh's magical keyboard, into a shaggy, uncouth caricature of him or herself. (I would suspect her of having accidentally mistaken the Harvard Lampoon's Bored of the Rings for the original text, and adapted that into a screenplay, were there any trace of the collegiate satirists' wit, style, and ingenuity to be found in the script of the movie.) The most glaring example of this is the conversion of Aragorn, who is (according to Tolkien - I assume most would accept him as an authority in this matter) over a hundred years old, and the descendant of the ancient kings of Middle-Earth. He is above and beyond the normal man: his wisdom is second only to that of Gandalf and the Elven elders, his strength and resilience are unparalleled, his greatness of soul undoubted.

But, hey presto! Suddenly he is a swaggering biker-movie escapee, with his head thoroughly soaked in canola oil. One scene, which it pains me to recall, is a particularly good exemplar of this. He strides into Theoden's great hall, shoving the doors open violently, and shakes the excess grease from his head like a dog, spattering the guards with droplets. The expression on his face could only be described as sulky. From dignity to the puerile pique of offended machismo: what a marvellous imaginative journey Frances Walsh has made.

Of course, she cannot bear the entire weight of the blame. And she doesn't need to -- there's plenty to go around. Someone other than her had to have decided to cast Viggo Mortensen in the role of Aragorn. I say, blame Peter Jackson, who really should have known better. Even the unknown, inexpert actors whom he hired to star in his 1987 alien-invasion tour-de-force Bad Taste had more than two-and-a-half facial expressions, which upon careful observation is the most that can be credited to Mr. Mortensen.

In a like manner, the personality of almost all of the characters has been drained out of them by this film. Theoden, instead of reviving his strength of will, and desire to have some control over his own destiny (as evinced by his decision to go to Isengard and confront Saruman), just gets highlights and a bad case of yellow-belly. Essentially, he changes not at all, and is the same wimpy loser he was when Wormtongue ran the show.

Faramir, whose decision to let Frodo go his way was in direct contrast to his brother Boromir's weakness in the face of temptation, as Tolkien had it, is now a second Boromir, attempting to take the ring from Frodo and then realizing the error of his ways. David Wenham is obviously a competent actor, and was actually well cast in the role of Faramir. The part which was written for him is a travesty, but he can't be faulted for that. But the portion of the film dealing with Faramir is poor not only from the perspective of plot accuracy, but also simply as filmmaking. Much time is taken to show Frodo and Sam struggling on foot through the wilderness, but when Faramir takes them to Osgiliath, and then brings them back to Ithilien, mere seconds of travel time are allowed. It is a mind-bending continuity error, to say the least.

But to the issue at hand. The essential problems with this film are then, first, the lack of understanding of the underlying point of the story, and second, the gross plot changes which are apparently made at random. Granted, a director who has to work with Hollywood is compelled to make some changes, some allowances for a shallow, puerile audience, in adapting literature to the big screen. Two different media require different methods. Well and good. For example, the omission of Tom Bombadil in the first movie is understandable; there is no practical way to present that segment of the story in a format which a mass market audience would appreciate. Omitting the entire journey to Isengard, however, not only seriously retards the development of the plot but deprives this same audience of one of the most exciting and interesting episodes of the story.

And some changes seem self-defeating. The addition of a battalion of Elvish warriors who arrive at Helm's Deep just in time to save the day is not only stupid in and of itself, but takes so much screen time that other things have to be edited out. Instead of sending Elves from Rivendell, why did they not simply include Aragorn and Eomer's heroics, or the dark trees, the Huorns from the heart of Fangorn forest? These things are exciting, adventurous, atmospheric, and lend themselves very well to portrayal on film. Not to mention, they were actually imagined and written by Tolkien, who in case you've forgotten (as Peter Jackson and his lovely bride seem to have done), actually wrote this story in the first place.

Not only have they eviscerated the plot, but along with it they have sucked out any actual soul or meaning which was to be found and replaced it with the very worst of teenage "culture," if such a word can be applied in this context. But, as I expected nothing better, I am not disappointed. So much for standards.

There can be only one . . .

So, spring is upon us, and zombies are experiencing the first throes of young love . . . the Editor is experiencing a total lack of young love, for a wide variety of reasons too tedious to explore here, but they are good ones. Having zombies really does occupy the majority of my time. Sort of like children, only dead, rotting, and out to kill you by any brutal means in their power. The Editor retracts my penultimate statement. I believe it is exactly like having children, although as a crusty old unmarried individual, this is based solely upon the experience of others.

So we turn to a consideration of the relative intellectual merits of employees in the service industry, for no apparent reason. The Editor has recently been plagued with several young ladies, employed by the local coffee shop nearest to the place of employment of the Editor; no matter how many times I request a medium sized English Breakfast tea, it never seems to quite sink in. I have received decaf English Breakfast, Earl Grey, Chamomile, hot water with no tea bag in sight, and on one memorable occasion, a double nonfat latte. Is it a hearing problem? Does the Editor's slurred, (frequently hungover . . . ahem) morning tones make "English Breakfast" sound so much like "nonfat latte"? Or are these folk simply the most abject of morons? The research staff is working on it, or at least trying to; but unfortunately, they work best when drinking a caffeinated beverage of choice, and such does NOT seem to be forthcoming. Ever. No matter how I beg, plead, beat my head against the counter, and run screaming from the coffee establishment, in tears. (The Editor is fragile, in that brief period between waking and drinking tea, which is why this is such a daily trauma.)

A small example of the general mental capacity of these girls:

Brunette Girl: Do you ever, like, use the computer?
Blonde Girl: Yeah, sometimes, I mean, to like, go online.
Brunette: Cause I never go on the computer. But when I do I like, try to touch the screen.
Blonde: (unencouraging noise)
Brunette: Yeah, there's this, like, computer at my house, and like, I touch the screen and go, like, why aren't you working? And then I like, see the mouse. Heeeee HHHHHEEEEEEE!!!
Blonde: Oh my god, like, yeah. Is it a laptop or something? I like, used computers in high school, and I could, like, get a really good paying job, but I mean, it's so not me, or whatever.

God help us all.

Especially the Editor, who depends on Tweedledee and Tweedledum (except that they're both Tweedledum) to get my morning sustenance to me in good order. I'm just going to get an IV, and trail it around after me, rattling the wheels and drooling on myself, just for effect.

The above is entirely verbatim; it was seared on my memory, as if someone had stuck a burning hot brand of the word "Nitwit" on my brainpan.

Just to continue the day's seeming dialogue theme, I will leave you all with a few lines from the most excellent film "The Chronicles of Riddick", which has the unique distinction of comparing unfavorably with "Battlefield Earth". ("Battlefield Earth", for those of you not in the know, is a movie produced by John Travolta at the behest of L. Ron Hubbard, in which he also stars as a "Psychlo", a big alien with finger prostheses and platform boots. Some guy rides around on a horse with flowing blond hair, and rats are eaten. So when I say that C of R is a poor film by comparison, you know what I mean. They're both must-sees, in every sense.)

Random guy on the planet of Crematoria (!): What're you gonna do with that soup cup?
Riddick: It's a teacup.
Random guy: What're you gonna do with that teacup?
Riddick: I'm gonna kill you with my teacup.

Think it couldn't get any better? Well, Riddick DOES kill him with the teacup, and then fights the Necromongers for the rest of the movie. My god, it gave me feelings no other cinematographic experience has before or since. Feelings I had thought impossible . . .

Now you all know that the Editor is alive and well, I shall depart for distant climes once more. So long, suckers.

I have been informed that my last post is getting old

Thank you, Ideasculptor, for your commentary on my silence, which has lasted lo these many weeks. You see, the zombie lab has moved from Cuba to California, since I have a new identity, and I have been dealing with logistics, the scope of which my reader cannot even imagine. Moving body parts, and pushing them through customs . . . getting the zombies to seem like humans, for the drive past the Mexican border . . . getting passports for said zombies . . . what country do you even pretend that they're from? My god, it's a full time job for more staff than I have left, given the fact that I fed most of them to my research subjects.

I am now reeling from the effort, and dead drunk. Scotch is the usual beverage of choice, but tonight we attempted the Jack Daniels, and are feeling it, oh yes. Good old American whiskey is not for the faint of heart. The Editor is faint of heart, and wishes to pass out on the most conveniently available horizontal surface. Actually, the horizontality of said surface is negotiable; as long as it is sort of warm, or at least not outside, we'll be all right; the zombies are locked up for the night, and all is quiet on the western front. Good night.