There is a phenomenon out there that I find absolutely unexplainable. It’s called LARP. Now I am a geek. A huge, unrepentant, geeky geek. I spent a considerable part of my teens and twenties in candle lit rooms eating barbecue Pringles, drinking Cherry Coke, and arguing with my fellow geeks that my 12th level Dwarven Cleric could totally kill a dragon with my +12 Battle Hammer of Doom. I own my geekiness. Part of owning this quirk of personality is the understanding that I will get made fun of for it. I TOTALLY get the new Alltel commercials with the cellphone guys in the van when they snort that “…Dungeonmasters don’t have levels!” There is a certain way one is perceived when you can understand what a d12 is, or can quote entire scenes from Monty Python’s Holy Grail, or explain – with great conviction – that while the fight scene from the original Star Trek where Kirk battles the Gorn on Cestus III is still the WORST choreographed fight scene ever…it’s still one of your favorite episodes. Some of us rise above this (like myself) and actually move out of our mom and dad’s house and actually have real sex with real girls and go on to lead normal lives. But, even considering the levels of geekiness I am capable of – even normal Role Playing geeks like myself shake our heads when confronted with the wrongness that is LARP’ing. This is the lowest level of geek – the geeks that get made fun of by other geeks. They are the Untouchable Caste. It is all that is wrong with being a geek. And this guy encapsulates the whole evil, filthy practice… and does it well. There but for the grace of the dark gods of Krynn go I.
And to further show how geeky the good Doctor is… I present a really cool grammar, linguistic thing. I am a word geek. This sort of stuff please the geeky English major that I am….
Yeah, yeah. I know... another political thread. But I also feel it’s really, really, really chilling. This has overshadows of Kristallnacht and if this isn’t something that scares the hell out of you, it should. This is how democracy ends… "First they came for the Communists, but I was not a Communist so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Socialists and the Trade Unionists, but I was neither, so I did not speak out. Then they came for the Jews, but I was not a Jew so I did not speak out. And when they came for me, there was no one left to speak out for me. – Martin Niemoeller 1892-1984 "
This is one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen written. Especially considering the writer’s field and audience. I don’t have much more to say about it, just that I’m so impressed with Christine’s courage…
This was a really cool article that struck my zombie fancy. In spite of, or maybe because of, the whole cold war slant… this had the feel of one of those news excerpts that science fiction writers throw into a story to help show how “advanced” their story is from modern day. It had a definite Heinlein or Asimov feel. It could have been written in the 50’s or 60’s. It’s got the Cold War US vs. Russia angle, the wondrous, clean burning, alternate fuel in Helium-3, and even the idea of mining rights on the moon. Gods! I am absolutely chock full of the geekiness today.
At first I thought this was a tongue in cheek piece of satire, but then it dawned on me that this guy is absolutely serious. This is exactly the sort of fearmongering and agenda pushing I was afraid the Virginia tech shootings would cause. Taken in conjunction with the earlier article about dictatorships, and I find myself lamenting what little liberty we have left to give up. I am a minority among my fellow liberals in that I feel that the second amendment is as important and inviolable as every other one in the Bill of Rights - - and fucknuts like this would make the eventual Bush dictatorship EASIER by disarming us. An unarmed populace is no longer classified as citizens - -they are subjects. And idiots like this and the Brady gun-grabbers would rather we become defenseless because they are afraid of guns and the crazy whackos who would want those same evil, people killing weapons. I hope this guy becomes the victim of a home invasion. What do you want to bet if that happens, and his wife or daughter gets raped, he’d want a gun then?
And finally…
Jesus Titty-Fucking Christ! Spiders! In his ear!!!! Gaaaaagghhh! Aaaaaahhhhhhh!!!! Oh god! Oh god! Where’s a Q-Tip!?! The Doctor is an arachnophobic and this is just wrong! Spiders are fucking evil!!! I’ve said for years that this is what they do when you sleep…but nobody fucking believed me!!! You see! I! WAS! RIGHT!
Go. Leave now. I must go and shudder uncontrollably in the nearest available corner. AFTER I track down some earplugs….
Taking over the world... one undead soul at a time.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Friday, April 20, 2007
Dr. Z's Conveyance of Doom II
So the weather finally broke and I spent some time washing and waxing the Harley.
Behold! Doctor Zombie's Conveyance of Doom. Tremble in fear! Wallow in your jealousy!
Now I'm a bald, sexy, motorcycle-riding badass!
Now scram, you! Begone before someone drops a house on you!!!
Behold! Doctor Zombie's Conveyance of Doom. Tremble in fear! Wallow in your jealousy!
Now I'm a bald, sexy, motorcycle-riding badass!
Now scram, you! Begone before someone drops a house on you!!!
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Obligatory Virginia Tech Posting
So I was watching the Today show yesterday. They had a graduate student from Virginia Tech on. The reason they were interviewing her was because she went to high school at Columbine.
Yep. That's right. She was there at Columbine and she was there at the Virginia Tech shooting. Talk about having the worst damned luck in the world.
She was actually in the cafeteria when Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold were going from table to table, extermininating all of the kids who had ever done them wrong. And now, years later, she's got to live through this shit again.
I don't know about you, but I wouldn't stand next to this chick during a lightning storm...
All in all, this whole thing in Virginia sucks. The thing is, every time something like this happens, I can't help but sympathize with these poor guys who freak the fuck out and start shooting people. I was one of those kids who wore dark clothes in high school. I was one of those kids who got picked on by the beautiful people. My friends and I were a little too smart, a little too weird, a little too nihilistic and misanthropic.
I understand. Not that I went that way, but I understand.
I have two concerns with this whole mess. First, that it will give the Democrats in Washington an excuse to institute additional gun bans. I'm a liberal. I'm REALLY liberal. But I also grew up in a family of sportsmen who hunted. Also, my father was a cop. I grew up around guns and I differ from many of my liberal counterparts in that I feel the Second Amendment is inviolable and sacred. And, if the liberal pussies at most American universities (Virginia Tech included) would allow licensed concealed carry holders to carry their weapons on college campuses, 33 people might not be dead right now. We don't need more gun laws, we need common sense loosening of the current laws. Guns - in the hands of licensed citizens - are the first line of defense. Cops can't be everywhere and can only respond to situations like this after people begin dying. So where does that leave those who are there, defenseless and facing the psychotic gaze of a mentally unbalanced nutjob?
My second concern is that this tragedy will allow the anti-gun agitists to push their agenda and, in so doing, bury the deeper issues that should be at the forefront of any rational evaluation of this tragedy. Namely, that there are kids out there who need help. Kids who are walking timebombs that have all the signs. To extend the metaphor, they are ticking so loudly that anybody with a reasonable ability to interpret such things should hear it. Generation Y, the current generation of kids born after 1980, have lived their whole lives with the belief that they are the center of the universe. They are the "Baby On Board" generation who have been told that they can be anything they want and do anything that they set their minds to...all while being catered to and pampered by overindulgent parents. This manifests itself in increased rudeness, a sense of entitlement, and a need for continued attention. And when they don't get it - - some of them end up like this guy Cho. Or Eric Harris. Or Dylan Klebold. And that's where the focus should be...
Enough for today. I know return you to your regularly scheduled mental breakdown...
Yep. That's right. She was there at Columbine and she was there at the Virginia Tech shooting. Talk about having the worst damned luck in the world.
She was actually in the cafeteria when Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold were going from table to table, extermininating all of the kids who had ever done them wrong. And now, years later, she's got to live through this shit again.
I don't know about you, but I wouldn't stand next to this chick during a lightning storm...
All in all, this whole thing in Virginia sucks. The thing is, every time something like this happens, I can't help but sympathize with these poor guys who freak the fuck out and start shooting people. I was one of those kids who wore dark clothes in high school. I was one of those kids who got picked on by the beautiful people. My friends and I were a little too smart, a little too weird, a little too nihilistic and misanthropic.
I understand. Not that I went that way, but I understand.
I have two concerns with this whole mess. First, that it will give the Democrats in Washington an excuse to institute additional gun bans. I'm a liberal. I'm REALLY liberal. But I also grew up in a family of sportsmen who hunted. Also, my father was a cop. I grew up around guns and I differ from many of my liberal counterparts in that I feel the Second Amendment is inviolable and sacred. And, if the liberal pussies at most American universities (Virginia Tech included) would allow licensed concealed carry holders to carry their weapons on college campuses, 33 people might not be dead right now. We don't need more gun laws, we need common sense loosening of the current laws. Guns - in the hands of licensed citizens - are the first line of defense. Cops can't be everywhere and can only respond to situations like this after people begin dying. So where does that leave those who are there, defenseless and facing the psychotic gaze of a mentally unbalanced nutjob?
My second concern is that this tragedy will allow the anti-gun agitists to push their agenda and, in so doing, bury the deeper issues that should be at the forefront of any rational evaluation of this tragedy. Namely, that there are kids out there who need help. Kids who are walking timebombs that have all the signs. To extend the metaphor, they are ticking so loudly that anybody with a reasonable ability to interpret such things should hear it. Generation Y, the current generation of kids born after 1980, have lived their whole lives with the belief that they are the center of the universe. They are the "Baby On Board" generation who have been told that they can be anything they want and do anything that they set their minds to...all while being catered to and pampered by overindulgent parents. This manifests itself in increased rudeness, a sense of entitlement, and a need for continued attention. And when they don't get it - - some of them end up like this guy Cho. Or Eric Harris. Or Dylan Klebold. And that's where the focus should be...
Enough for today. I know return you to your regularly scheduled mental breakdown...
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Jumping Everybody Else's Train...
Just in case you weren't aware.... Bush lost the war.
Pass it along.
Tell the world.
This is what happens when big-eared, c-average, underachieving grotesqueries steal elections and the White House; lie to us; and use 9/11 as an impetus to fuck around where we don't belong.
Americans are dead.
And George W. Bush will surely try to pass the blame when we have to slink away from Iraq like diseased rats. Don't let him lie yet again and try to blame everybody but himself and his bloodthirty thralls. Because he most assuredly will, and he and his rabid, boot-licking lackeys will question OUR patriotism. This above all things I understand least. How does my opposition to a war equate to a lack of patriotism? And how does my "lack of patriotism" cause a civil war in Iraq and Afghanistan? Has my vociferous opposition to an illegal occupation CAUSED American soldiers to die? Doesn't seem likely, does it? And yet the Ann Coulters and Rush Limbaughs and Dick "Shoot-a-poor-fucker-in-the-face" Cheneys will question my love for my country?
Excuse me while I snort in derision. (Snort!)
The reason American's are dying every day is because of Article II, Section 2 of the US Constitution.
And don't let anybody else tell you otherwise.
Pass it on...
Pass it along.
Tell the world.
This is what happens when big-eared, c-average, underachieving grotesqueries steal elections and the White House; lie to us; and use 9/11 as an impetus to fuck around where we don't belong.
Americans are dead.
And George W. Bush will surely try to pass the blame when we have to slink away from Iraq like diseased rats. Don't let him lie yet again and try to blame everybody but himself and his bloodthirty thralls. Because he most assuredly will, and he and his rabid, boot-licking lackeys will question OUR patriotism. This above all things I understand least. How does my opposition to a war equate to a lack of patriotism? And how does my "lack of patriotism" cause a civil war in Iraq and Afghanistan? Has my vociferous opposition to an illegal occupation CAUSED American soldiers to die? Doesn't seem likely, does it? And yet the Ann Coulters and Rush Limbaughs and Dick "Shoot-a-poor-fucker-in-the-face" Cheneys will question my love for my country?
Excuse me while I snort in derision. (Snort!)
The reason American's are dying every day is because of Article II, Section 2 of the US Constitution.
And don't let anybody else tell you otherwise.
Pass it on...
Friday, April 06, 2007
So why does JC get a pass when he rises from the dead...
... and I get angry villagers with torches and pitchforks!?!?
So – in lieu of the approaching Easter weekend, I’ve attached an email I got from my kid sister. It’s a nice little tribute to the upcoming holiday!
It’s been edited some, for appearance and clarity…
By the way, my sis – the ex-Becki Zombie (she got married this last summer and dropped our time honored and terror inducing surname) – feels much the way I do about organized religion. This makes me giggle!
Top Ten Reasons Why Beer Is Better Than Jesus
10. No one will kill you for not drinking beer.
9. Beer doesn't tell you how to have sex.
8. Beer has never caused a major war.
7. They don't force beer on minors who can't think for themselves.
6. When you have beer, you don't knock on people's doors trying to give it away.
5. Nobody's ever been burned at the stake, hanged, or tortured to death over his brand of beer.
4. You don't have to wait 2,000+ years for a second beer.
3. There are laws saying that beer labels can't lie to you.
2. You can prove you have a beer.
1. If you have devoted your life to beer, there are groups to help you stop.
Top Ten Signs You're a Christian
10- You vigorously deny the existence of thousands of gods claimed by other religions, but feel outraged when someone denies the existence of your god.
9- You feel insulted and "dehumanized" when scientists say that people evolved from lesser life forms, but you have no problem with the Biblical claim that we were created from dirt
8- You laugh at polytheists, but you have no problem believing in a Trinity god
7- Your face turns purple when you hear of the "atrocities" attributed to Allah, but you don't even flinch when hearing about how God/Jehovah slaughtered all the babies of Egypt in "Exodus" and ordered the elimination of entire ethnic groups in "Joshua" -- including women, children, and trees!
6- You laugh at Hindu beliefs that deify humans, and Greek claims about gods sleeping with women, but you have no problem believing that the Holy Spirit impregnated Mary, who then gave birth to a man-god who got killed, came back to life and then ascended into the sky.
5- You are willing to spend your life looking for little loop-holes in the scientifically established age of the Earth (4.55 billion years), but you find nothing wrong with believing dates recorded by pre-historic tribesmen sitting in their tents and guessing that the Earth is a couple of generations old.
4- You believe that the entire population of this planet with the exception of those who share your beliefs -- though excluding those in all rival sects -- will spend Eternity in an infinite Hell of Suffering. And yet you consider your religion the most "tolerant" and "loving".
3- While modern science, history, geology, biology, and physics have failed to convince you otherwise, some idiot rolling around on the floor speaking in "tongues" may be all the evidence you need to prove Christianity.
2- You define 0.01% as a "high success rate" when it comes to answered prayers. You consider that to be evidence that prayer works. And you think that the remaining 99.99% FAILURE was simply the will of God.
1- You actually know a lot less than many Atheists and Agnostics do about the Bible, Christianity, and church history -- but still call yourself a Christian
An Open letter to Dr. Laura, or GWB, or Pat Robertson, or any other closeminded Conservative douchebag
Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's law. I have learned a great deal from you, and I try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend homosexuality, for example, I will simply remind him or her that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination. End of debate.
I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some of the other laws in Leviticus and Exodus and how to best follow them. To wit:
When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord (Leviticus 1:9). The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. How should I deal with this?
I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as stated in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?
I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness (Leviticus 15:19-24). The problem is, how can I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.
Leviticus 25:44 states that I may buy slaves from the nations that are around us. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Canadians, but not Mexicans. Can you clarify?
I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself?
A friend of mine says that even though eating shellfish is an abomination (Leviticus 10:10), it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this?
Leviticus 20:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle room here?
I know you have studied these things extensively, so I am confident you can help.
Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.
So – in lieu of the approaching Easter weekend, I’ve attached an email I got from my kid sister. It’s a nice little tribute to the upcoming holiday!
It’s been edited some, for appearance and clarity…
By the way, my sis – the ex-Becki Zombie (she got married this last summer and dropped our time honored and terror inducing surname) – feels much the way I do about organized religion. This makes me giggle!
Top Ten Reasons Why Beer Is Better Than Jesus
10. No one will kill you for not drinking beer.
9. Beer doesn't tell you how to have sex.
8. Beer has never caused a major war.
7. They don't force beer on minors who can't think for themselves.
6. When you have beer, you don't knock on people's doors trying to give it away.
5. Nobody's ever been burned at the stake, hanged, or tortured to death over his brand of beer.
4. You don't have to wait 2,000+ years for a second beer.
3. There are laws saying that beer labels can't lie to you.
2. You can prove you have a beer.
1. If you have devoted your life to beer, there are groups to help you stop.
Top Ten Signs You're a Christian
10- You vigorously deny the existence of thousands of gods claimed by other religions, but feel outraged when someone denies the existence of your god.
9- You feel insulted and "dehumanized" when scientists say that people evolved from lesser life forms, but you have no problem with the Biblical claim that we were created from dirt
8- You laugh at polytheists, but you have no problem believing in a Trinity god
7- Your face turns purple when you hear of the "atrocities" attributed to Allah, but you don't even flinch when hearing about how God/Jehovah slaughtered all the babies of Egypt in "Exodus" and ordered the elimination of entire ethnic groups in "Joshua" -- including women, children, and trees!
6- You laugh at Hindu beliefs that deify humans, and Greek claims about gods sleeping with women, but you have no problem believing that the Holy Spirit impregnated Mary, who then gave birth to a man-god who got killed, came back to life and then ascended into the sky.
5- You are willing to spend your life looking for little loop-holes in the scientifically established age of the Earth (4.55 billion years), but you find nothing wrong with believing dates recorded by pre-historic tribesmen sitting in their tents and guessing that the Earth is a couple of generations old.
4- You believe that the entire population of this planet with the exception of those who share your beliefs -- though excluding those in all rival sects -- will spend Eternity in an infinite Hell of Suffering. And yet you consider your religion the most "tolerant" and "loving".
3- While modern science, history, geology, biology, and physics have failed to convince you otherwise, some idiot rolling around on the floor speaking in "tongues" may be all the evidence you need to prove Christianity.
2- You define 0.01% as a "high success rate" when it comes to answered prayers. You consider that to be evidence that prayer works. And you think that the remaining 99.99% FAILURE was simply the will of God.
1- You actually know a lot less than many Atheists and Agnostics do about the Bible, Christianity, and church history -- but still call yourself a Christian
An Open letter to Dr. Laura, or GWB, or Pat Robertson, or any other closeminded Conservative douchebag
Thank you for doing so much to educate people regarding God's law. I have learned a great deal from you, and I try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend homosexuality, for example, I will simply remind him or her that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination. End of debate.
I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some of the other laws in Leviticus and Exodus and how to best follow them. To wit:
When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord (Leviticus 1:9). The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. How should I deal with this?
I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as stated in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?
I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness (Leviticus 15:19-24). The problem is, how can I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.
Leviticus 25:44 states that I may buy slaves from the nations that are around us. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Canadians, but not Mexicans. Can you clarify?
I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself?
A friend of mine says that even though eating shellfish is an abomination (Leviticus 10:10), it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this?
Leviticus 20:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle room here?
I know you have studied these things extensively, so I am confident you can help.
Thank you again for reminding us that God's word is eternal and unchanging.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Some Hot Buttered Links!
I’ ve got some great Theater of Terror related links and news to throw up. Some of them may be a week or two old, but that’s largely because I’ve been so busy with work lately (and I just came back from a three day Communications conference for work. (Craptacular as it may have been. Sigh. ) Anyway, some great, great news out there!
Rob Zombie News!!!! The first is this article from Fango about The Werewolf Woman of the S.S. You may or may not know it, but Rob wrote and directed one of the intermission ‘trailers’ for Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez’ orgasm inducing Grindhouse. It’s got some delicious pictures of Sherri Moon Zombie, and looks fan-fucking-tastic! I read another article in the NY Post that said that Grindhouse was almost certainly going to get an NC-17 and much of that rating can be attributed to the nasty little vignette that Rob put together. Rock on! Here are two more links about Rob’s remake of Halloween. There’s some info about the script and story, as well as some casting announcements. All I’ve got to say is that he’s gone and made a brilliant casting choice in Malcolm McDowell as Doctor Loomis. Brilliant! Also, he’s managed to cast Danielle Harris in the film. Danielle played the little girl Jaime in Halloween 4 and 5. You may also recognize her as Bruce Willis’s daughter from The Last Boy Scout (one of the best action movies EVER!). Well, little Danielle grew up into one of the hottest goddamned woman on the planet - - and Rob’s got her doing a nude scene. Rob Zombie is a god among men.
I don’t know about you, but I am soooo excited to see what Zombie does with Halloween. Truth be told, Halloween is one of my top three horror movies of all time. And, if anybody but Rob or John Carpenter himself were to remake it, I’d probably be screaming and actively campaigning to have those responsible garrotted. But it looks like Zombie’s got a great vision and from everything I’ve read, he’s a true fan - - so hopefully he can do it justice. Either way – I’ll be in my seat at the first showing…
In other movie news – Disney’s released the trailer for the new Pirates of the Carribean. Dark Gods help me, I love this series. And I love Keira Knightly… dear, sweet, tiny Keira. I’d sever an undead arm to meet her…
And in British film news – Shaun and Ed, from Shaun of the Dead, are back! Their new movie - Hot Fuzz - will be hitting US theaters in May. Check out the film’s web site and the trailer that can be found there. Looks like more fried gold, chum! Shaun of the Dead was one of the most brilliant, funny movies I’ve ever seen – and I expect these guys will do a similarly great job skewering the cop film genre.
For my friend Stephen – who’s as nutty about the Doctor Who as me – here’s a great little weekend home improvement project. This is cool on so many geeky levels that it defies logic!!!
And in Tech News - Prevent skynet from becoming self aware! Find Sarah Connor!
And – because it’s been a few weeks since one of my rants against organized religions and the Holy War being conducted by the whackos on the extreme right in our country – I found this to be a really interesting article. The argument is that, basically, if the fundie Christians insist on bringing religion into our schools, that’s fine. Just so long as we provide OTHER religions as a counterpoint. How loud do you think they’d squawk if, right after the Intelligent Design As An Alternative To Real Science class, their little fundie spawn had to go to a Wiccan bonfire, or a Pagan Goddess ritual? Fair is fair, right?
Enough for now, my lovely undead minions. Back to the mines! I need various minerals and heavy metals to build my newest doomsday device! Go! Back to work!
Don’t make me put the leeches on you…
Rob Zombie News!!!! The first is this article from Fango about The Werewolf Woman of the S.S. You may or may not know it, but Rob wrote and directed one of the intermission ‘trailers’ for Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez’ orgasm inducing Grindhouse. It’s got some delicious pictures of Sherri Moon Zombie, and looks fan-fucking-tastic! I read another article in the NY Post that said that Grindhouse was almost certainly going to get an NC-17 and much of that rating can be attributed to the nasty little vignette that Rob put together. Rock on! Here are two more links about Rob’s remake of Halloween. There’s some info about the script and story, as well as some casting announcements. All I’ve got to say is that he’s gone and made a brilliant casting choice in Malcolm McDowell as Doctor Loomis. Brilliant! Also, he’s managed to cast Danielle Harris in the film. Danielle played the little girl Jaime in Halloween 4 and 5. You may also recognize her as Bruce Willis’s daughter from The Last Boy Scout (one of the best action movies EVER!). Well, little Danielle grew up into one of the hottest goddamned woman on the planet - - and Rob’s got her doing a nude scene. Rob Zombie is a god among men.
I don’t know about you, but I am soooo excited to see what Zombie does with Halloween. Truth be told, Halloween is one of my top three horror movies of all time. And, if anybody but Rob or John Carpenter himself were to remake it, I’d probably be screaming and actively campaigning to have those responsible garrotted. But it looks like Zombie’s got a great vision and from everything I’ve read, he’s a true fan - - so hopefully he can do it justice. Either way – I’ll be in my seat at the first showing…
In other movie news – Disney’s released the trailer for the new Pirates of the Carribean. Dark Gods help me, I love this series. And I love Keira Knightly… dear, sweet, tiny Keira. I’d sever an undead arm to meet her…
And in British film news – Shaun and Ed, from Shaun of the Dead, are back! Their new movie - Hot Fuzz - will be hitting US theaters in May. Check out the film’s web site and the trailer that can be found there. Looks like more fried gold, chum! Shaun of the Dead was one of the most brilliant, funny movies I’ve ever seen – and I expect these guys will do a similarly great job skewering the cop film genre.
For my friend Stephen – who’s as nutty about the Doctor Who as me – here’s a great little weekend home improvement project. This is cool on so many geeky levels that it defies logic!!!
And in Tech News - Prevent skynet from becoming self aware! Find Sarah Connor!
And – because it’s been a few weeks since one of my rants against organized religions and the Holy War being conducted by the whackos on the extreme right in our country – I found this to be a really interesting article. The argument is that, basically, if the fundie Christians insist on bringing religion into our schools, that’s fine. Just so long as we provide OTHER religions as a counterpoint. How loud do you think they’d squawk if, right after the Intelligent Design As An Alternative To Real Science class, their little fundie spawn had to go to a Wiccan bonfire, or a Pagan Goddess ritual? Fair is fair, right?
Enough for now, my lovely undead minions. Back to the mines! I need various minerals and heavy metals to build my newest doomsday device! Go! Back to work!
Don’t make me put the leeches on you…
Monday, March 19, 2007
Doctor Zombie's Conveyance of Doom!
Suck it, bitches!
The Doctor now has a Harley! I pick it up on Saturday.
Here's what it kind of looks like - I'll have better pictures next week.
The Doctor now has a Harley! I pick it up on Saturday.
Here's what it kind of looks like - I'll have better pictures next week.
That is all.
Move along, nothing to see here...
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Guilty Pleasures, Venom, and Filth
Some links have been building up in my saved file and I thought I’d throw them out there.
Still so hot! Lucy counts as a guilty pleasure, and I’m ecstatic that she is on Battlestar Galactica now. She will very likely become my backup, auxiliary Zombie Queen. After Mrs. Zombie of course… It’ll be like Big Love on HBO. Mrs. Zombie will be the Head Zombie Queen, and Lucy Lawless, Charlize Theron, and Sarah Silveman will be the backup Zombie Queens.
Speaking of Sarah Silverman, dark evil gods is she hot! And she’s hot in a different way then most famous babes. Besides the fact that she’s smoking hot looks-wise - - I totally think she’d be cool to hang out with. She’s funny, smart, and would have no problem farting in front of her man.
I want Sarah Silverman.
I want her in a deep, dirty, primal way.
Anybody else think this bodes ill? I expect that there is some Lovecraftian explanation for this and messing with it will cause bad things to happen. I, for one, welcome our new overlord and master, Cthuhlu! Ia Ia Cthuhlu Pthagn!
I found another celebrity with a Blogger account. I think it’s cool that celebs are using the same system as I do. I don’t know if it’s the ease of Blogger for posting, or if it’s just lame-ass cheapness on the part of the celebrity for not hiring a real web designer. Either way, I’m thinking of putting together a blog with links to all the celebrity blogs I can find. Unlike MC Hammer though, ol’ Pete doesn’t have an email address. Too bad, but maybe not so bad. Now I’ll probably get a knock on the door from the Justice Department for linking to the site of a known pederast. Won’t be the first time…
Speaking of getting my name put on a list for some dumbass thing I’ve written… This was an interesting read. John Edwards is really cool, and I was bummed when he didn’t get the Democratic nomination last time around. This time, he seems to really be courting the grassroots Gen X and Y voters with his online campaign blitz. Of course, he runs the risk of what happened in the article. Which brings me to my own stupidity. This blog, and my honesty here, have most likely torpedoed any chance I might have had to be a political force to be reckoned with. Oh well, no loss there. Just kind of funny though – the writer of the article was astute in observing that he would have been a liability to the Edwards campaign. I’m certain my railing against Fundie Christians, the Right Wing whackos, President George W. Fucknut, and anybody else who I don’t like is a definite political liability.
Thing is - - I don’t care.
And in that same vein – once again – Ann Coulter is a dirty whore who exemplifies all that is wrong with the Right Wing Conservative Machinery of Lies and Death. She says exactly what all of the idiots who listens to her and buy her books are thinking. Republicans are ALL racist, homophobic, hate mongerers – and she’s the one they call on to say all the bad things the “Official” RNC can’t say. Don’t think for a minute that the RNC doesn’t encourage her or give her the hateful soundbites she spews like a poisonous ejaculate. And bravo to Edwards for capitalizing on it.
Of course – this whole Edwards thing is academic as Gore will enter the race in August and September and lock up the Democratic nomination. Gore in 2008!!!
By the way – according to this site, I’m banned in China! Woo-hoo! I guess I’m a voice of Democracy and I scare the hell out of the Communist leaders of Big Red. Sweet.
And finally – check out my buddy Snake’s custom shop – Sick Shit Customs. The Snake fucking rocks and, when I finally do get my Harley, he’ll be helping me pimp it out. Rock and roll, brotha!
That is all.
Still so hot! Lucy counts as a guilty pleasure, and I’m ecstatic that she is on Battlestar Galactica now. She will very likely become my backup, auxiliary Zombie Queen. After Mrs. Zombie of course… It’ll be like Big Love on HBO. Mrs. Zombie will be the Head Zombie Queen, and Lucy Lawless, Charlize Theron, and Sarah Silveman will be the backup Zombie Queens.
Speaking of Sarah Silverman, dark evil gods is she hot! And she’s hot in a different way then most famous babes. Besides the fact that she’s smoking hot looks-wise - - I totally think she’d be cool to hang out with. She’s funny, smart, and would have no problem farting in front of her man.
I want Sarah Silverman.
I want her in a deep, dirty, primal way.
Anybody else think this bodes ill? I expect that there is some Lovecraftian explanation for this and messing with it will cause bad things to happen. I, for one, welcome our new overlord and master, Cthuhlu! Ia Ia Cthuhlu Pthagn!
I found another celebrity with a Blogger account. I think it’s cool that celebs are using the same system as I do. I don’t know if it’s the ease of Blogger for posting, or if it’s just lame-ass cheapness on the part of the celebrity for not hiring a real web designer. Either way, I’m thinking of putting together a blog with links to all the celebrity blogs I can find. Unlike MC Hammer though, ol’ Pete doesn’t have an email address. Too bad, but maybe not so bad. Now I’ll probably get a knock on the door from the Justice Department for linking to the site of a known pederast. Won’t be the first time…
Speaking of getting my name put on a list for some dumbass thing I’ve written… This was an interesting read. John Edwards is really cool, and I was bummed when he didn’t get the Democratic nomination last time around. This time, he seems to really be courting the grassroots Gen X and Y voters with his online campaign blitz. Of course, he runs the risk of what happened in the article. Which brings me to my own stupidity. This blog, and my honesty here, have most likely torpedoed any chance I might have had to be a political force to be reckoned with. Oh well, no loss there. Just kind of funny though – the writer of the article was astute in observing that he would have been a liability to the Edwards campaign. I’m certain my railing against Fundie Christians, the Right Wing whackos, President George W. Fucknut, and anybody else who I don’t like is a definite political liability.
Thing is - - I don’t care.
And in that same vein – once again – Ann Coulter is a dirty whore who exemplifies all that is wrong with the Right Wing Conservative Machinery of Lies and Death. She says exactly what all of the idiots who listens to her and buy her books are thinking. Republicans are ALL racist, homophobic, hate mongerers – and she’s the one they call on to say all the bad things the “Official” RNC can’t say. Don’t think for a minute that the RNC doesn’t encourage her or give her the hateful soundbites she spews like a poisonous ejaculate. And bravo to Edwards for capitalizing on it.
Of course – this whole Edwards thing is academic as Gore will enter the race in August and September and lock up the Democratic nomination. Gore in 2008!!!
By the way – according to this site, I’m banned in China! Woo-hoo! I guess I’m a voice of Democracy and I scare the hell out of the Communist leaders of Big Red. Sweet.
And finally – check out my buddy Snake’s custom shop – Sick Shit Customs. The Snake fucking rocks and, when I finally do get my Harley, he’ll be helping me pimp it out. Rock and roll, brotha!
That is all.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Anger
I’m so not happy right now. I had a shitty weekend and I’m none too pleased in general.
So – I tracked down a Harley for a good price. I called the dealer where it was at and spoke to a salesmen no less than 4 times. I was looking at a 1973 Harley XLCH. It’s an old Sportster with an 1100 motor. I’m all about the old school look, and the old school Ironhead motor it came with. So I talk to this tool salesman 4 times and he assures me that this bike is pristine. It runs great, it has zero major problems, and is in great shape.
“Does it leak oil,” I ask, fully expecting it to – but also wanting to know what I’m getting into.
“Nope!” He replies.
“This bike is rideable, right?” I ask, “Because although I expect to wrench on it, I also would like to tool around and play on it before I begin the major rebuild on it. Spring is coming.”
“It’s ready to go, man,” he says.
“Are you sure” I ask.
“Absolutely!” he says.
I had this conversation 4 goddamned times. I was assured it would be a ready to go, rideable bike.
Soooo, I take a day off of work. I ask my dad to take a day off of work. We load up my buddy Snake’s trailer, my bike for trade, and Zombie Boy (who was sick on Friday and was off of school). We then drive 2 ½ hours to Pittsburgh to get my new (older) Harley.
Then we get there and see it.
Let me give you the breakdown of what was wrong with this bike:
-It had a shitty battery that would not hold a charge because it had an aftermarket alarm on it that was drawing the battery dry.
-The entire electrical system had all kinds of problems.
-It was beat and dinged, with scratches and rust on all of the tins, the cylinder heads, and the pipes.
-It had a Honda CB 350 seat that was bolted to the rear fender with a rusty lagbolt. The front of the seat was DUCT TAPED to the tank!
- When I lifted the seat, the wiring was stuffed under the seat in a big, tangled, matted ball. The aftermarket alarm system had wires that randomly dangled from different parts of the bike.
-Remember the rideable part? The brake pedal was BROKEN OFF! So I guess it was rideable if I didn’t want to FUCKING stop!
-Remember the no oil leak part? Yeah – that was a lie too. There was a significant leak off the rear cylinder head that ran down and dripped off of the back of the sheared brake pedal.
-And – finally – when it started (with a jump only) it sounded great, except for the spray of oil that poured out when it was under compression.
I understand that they wanted to get rid of it. And I might have taken it if it was $500 bucks and local. It would have cost me another $2k or so to get the bike rideable. I could have dealt with this. But this knob KNEW I was coming from Cleveland. KNEW that I was going all the way to Pittsburgh (which is another story in and of itself. Cleveland Browns fans DO NOT willingly go to Pittsburgh. I and my father were truly pilgrims in an unholy land. Pittsburgh Steelers fans are known to be vile sodomites and cannibals!)
So. I told them I didn’t want the bike and – I’m a bit embarrassed about this – in my rage, I murdered everyone at the dealership and bathed in their blood.
They shoulda known better than to mess with Doctor Zombie.
The search for a Harley continues…
So – I tracked down a Harley for a good price. I called the dealer where it was at and spoke to a salesmen no less than 4 times. I was looking at a 1973 Harley XLCH. It’s an old Sportster with an 1100 motor. I’m all about the old school look, and the old school Ironhead motor it came with. So I talk to this tool salesman 4 times and he assures me that this bike is pristine. It runs great, it has zero major problems, and is in great shape.
“Does it leak oil,” I ask, fully expecting it to – but also wanting to know what I’m getting into.
“Nope!” He replies.
“This bike is rideable, right?” I ask, “Because although I expect to wrench on it, I also would like to tool around and play on it before I begin the major rebuild on it. Spring is coming.”
“It’s ready to go, man,” he says.
“Are you sure” I ask.
“Absolutely!” he says.
I had this conversation 4 goddamned times. I was assured it would be a ready to go, rideable bike.
Soooo, I take a day off of work. I ask my dad to take a day off of work. We load up my buddy Snake’s trailer, my bike for trade, and Zombie Boy (who was sick on Friday and was off of school). We then drive 2 ½ hours to Pittsburgh to get my new (older) Harley.
Then we get there and see it.
Let me give you the breakdown of what was wrong with this bike:
-It had a shitty battery that would not hold a charge because it had an aftermarket alarm on it that was drawing the battery dry.
-The entire electrical system had all kinds of problems.
-It was beat and dinged, with scratches and rust on all of the tins, the cylinder heads, and the pipes.
-It had a Honda CB 350 seat that was bolted to the rear fender with a rusty lagbolt. The front of the seat was DUCT TAPED to the tank!
- When I lifted the seat, the wiring was stuffed under the seat in a big, tangled, matted ball. The aftermarket alarm system had wires that randomly dangled from different parts of the bike.
-Remember the rideable part? The brake pedal was BROKEN OFF! So I guess it was rideable if I didn’t want to FUCKING stop!
-Remember the no oil leak part? Yeah – that was a lie too. There was a significant leak off the rear cylinder head that ran down and dripped off of the back of the sheared brake pedal.
-And – finally – when it started (with a jump only) it sounded great, except for the spray of oil that poured out when it was under compression.
I understand that they wanted to get rid of it. And I might have taken it if it was $500 bucks and local. It would have cost me another $2k or so to get the bike rideable. I could have dealt with this. But this knob KNEW I was coming from Cleveland. KNEW that I was going all the way to Pittsburgh (which is another story in and of itself. Cleveland Browns fans DO NOT willingly go to Pittsburgh. I and my father were truly pilgrims in an unholy land. Pittsburgh Steelers fans are known to be vile sodomites and cannibals!)
So. I told them I didn’t want the bike and – I’m a bit embarrassed about this – in my rage, I murdered everyone at the dealership and bathed in their blood.
They shoulda known better than to mess with Doctor Zombie.
The search for a Harley continues…
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Weekend Update
Just a quick late night post -
I may have found a Harley. Actually I HAVE found a Harley, but it's just a matter of closing the deal.
In that vein, and considering the deal itself, I need to come up with some cash - and quick. So I've decided to put one of my guns up for sale.
So - any of my readers here in Ohio who might be interested in a nice .45 caliber hand cannon - go to http://zombieautumn.blogspot.com/. This is a seperate blogger site i set up to post pics and info on my Harley quest.
Wish me luck - - the plan is to sell my gun, put $400 or $500 down on the Harley, and trailer my Vulcan 3 hours away to Pittsburgh to do a trade and pick up the new bike.
The new bike, btw , is actually an old bike. I'm looking at a 1973 Harley Sportster with an Ironhead or Shovelhead motor (either term is acceptable, it just depends on when you started riding bikes!). It's immaculate, has had the top and bottom end completely rebuilt this last summer, is chromed out, and still has the original paint and Harley/AMF badging on the tank. I've been dying to get my undead hands on an old ironhead for ages. The plan is to chop it up a little bit (nothing big, just some 12-14" ape hangers, a solo seat, some hollow and growling and LOUD drag pipes, and an extra set of tins to throw on it to make it look more like an old school bobber.)
Keep an eye out for pictures!
Oh - and on a side note - I got some great news Friday night at work. I've been trying for ages to change my job situation at work. I've been posting for jobs left and right, but getting nowhere. I'm currently a corporate trainer - and I love training, it appeals to the actor part of me that is always clamoring to be the center of attraction - but I really want to be writing. I want a job where I can use my writing skills and English degree. And I was getting no where fast. Until Friday.
I got an email from my boss asking me to call her at home on Friday as soon as I got in (I work nights right now, so my boss is usually gone on Fridays before I get anywhere NEAR being in to work.) Anyway, I call her with no small bit of fear. It's never good to get one of those emails from the big b'wana, ya know?
So imagine my surprise when she said that she had been approached by her boss' boss, and the manager of our Communications group. Apparently, some work I'd done on some projects impressed the communications manager enough for her to want me to come to her team and work with her. Soooo, I'm being transferred to the Communications Team where I'll be writing internal procedures and intranet updates, as well as writing external communications for the PR and Marketing department!
I start Monday.
Suffice it to say it's been a good weekend. Now if I can just sell the H&K and close the deal on my Harley - life will be grand and wonderful!
I know, I know - that's really cheery and upbeat for me, everybody's favoritely morose and antisocial evil scientist. Too bad. Bite me. Don't harsh my mood, worms.
Unpleasant dreams...
I may have found a Harley. Actually I HAVE found a Harley, but it's just a matter of closing the deal.
In that vein, and considering the deal itself, I need to come up with some cash - and quick. So I've decided to put one of my guns up for sale.
So - any of my readers here in Ohio who might be interested in a nice .45 caliber hand cannon - go to http://zombieautumn.blogspot.com/. This is a seperate blogger site i set up to post pics and info on my Harley quest.
Wish me luck - - the plan is to sell my gun, put $400 or $500 down on the Harley, and trailer my Vulcan 3 hours away to Pittsburgh to do a trade and pick up the new bike.
The new bike, btw , is actually an old bike. I'm looking at a 1973 Harley Sportster with an Ironhead or Shovelhead motor (either term is acceptable, it just depends on when you started riding bikes!). It's immaculate, has had the top and bottom end completely rebuilt this last summer, is chromed out, and still has the original paint and Harley/AMF badging on the tank. I've been dying to get my undead hands on an old ironhead for ages. The plan is to chop it up a little bit (nothing big, just some 12-14" ape hangers, a solo seat, some hollow and growling and LOUD drag pipes, and an extra set of tins to throw on it to make it look more like an old school bobber.)
Keep an eye out for pictures!
Oh - and on a side note - I got some great news Friday night at work. I've been trying for ages to change my job situation at work. I've been posting for jobs left and right, but getting nowhere. I'm currently a corporate trainer - and I love training, it appeals to the actor part of me that is always clamoring to be the center of attraction - but I really want to be writing. I want a job where I can use my writing skills and English degree. And I was getting no where fast. Until Friday.
I got an email from my boss asking me to call her at home on Friday as soon as I got in (I work nights right now, so my boss is usually gone on Fridays before I get anywhere NEAR being in to work.) Anyway, I call her with no small bit of fear. It's never good to get one of those emails from the big b'wana, ya know?
So imagine my surprise when she said that she had been approached by her boss' boss, and the manager of our Communications group. Apparently, some work I'd done on some projects impressed the communications manager enough for her to want me to come to her team and work with her. Soooo, I'm being transferred to the Communications Team where I'll be writing internal procedures and intranet updates, as well as writing external communications for the PR and Marketing department!
I start Monday.
Suffice it to say it's been a good weekend. Now if I can just sell the H&K and close the deal on my Harley - life will be grand and wonderful!
I know, I know - that's really cheery and upbeat for me, everybody's favoritely morose and antisocial evil scientist. Too bad. Bite me. Don't harsh my mood, worms.
Unpleasant dreams...
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Digging Out
I'm still in the midst of digging out of the 2 or more feet of snow we got this week, and I'm tired from shoveling - so not much creative stuff today. And - to all my fellow Clevelanders - sorry about that. I was certain I'd worked out the kinks with my Winter Death Ray. Oops!
So- in lieu of anything funny or creative - I found a few random links I wanted to toss up because I thought they were cool and – being an evil, undead zombie bastard – I figured I’d hoist them upon you!
First, I have a meme for you. It was put together by the cats over at Evil Incorporated. It’s a test to see how evil you are. I wound up in the 75th percentile and am "Fairly Evil". I suppose that there’s always room for improvement, but I should say I question the validity of the test questions. There not necessarily indicative of, nor give any real sense, of the depths of Evil that I – Dr. Zombie - am capable of. I’d ask the creators how they came up with their test questions, but alas, I sent a cadre of evil, undead, zombie minions over to the offices at Evil Inc. I expect that the test developers have most likely been either: a) devoured, or b) turned into undead zombie minions. Either way – they probably rue the day the tried to quantify my evilness!
I found a great site with some really cool downloadable fonts that I expect I will be utilizing from time to time. They’re all horror themed and I thought I’d share…
Go Go Godzilla! This is an awesome scientific analysis of everybody’s favorite atomic-breathed, Tokyo-stomping, monster-fighting therapod! I absolutely love this sort of stuff. I think that this sort of thing should be encouraged. There is something so groovy about taking pop culture icons and other “un”serious, unscientific stuff like this and dissecting it, and looking at it from a serious scientific standpoint. I’ve seen a few out there, like explanations of how zombies work that are just damn cool. Someday, I’m going to write a serious, academic paper like this on something completely ridiculous; like the science behind Ridley Scott’s Aliens, or how to build your own plasma rifle in the 40 megawatt range. Also, note the condemnation of the big budget Godzilla from the Matthew Broderick film. Only in the world of internet geekery would one hear that creature called “Gino”; or “Godzilla in name only!” The internet was build for geeks like me…
I found this site while surfing Craigslist for Harleys and other stupid stuff to spend money on. It looks like this guy is running a site that specializes in vintage horror toys, shirts, movies, etc. I was just telling Mrs. Zombie how I would love to do this sort of thing, but with a website/e-business and an actual store front. Something much like Halloweentown Store, a place out of LA that has a huge internet business, but also a huge store. (I think that Rob Zombie is a part owner of this company, or at least has an interest, because you can get things like autographed Rob Zombie merchandise from them.) And I think it might do well, especially in downtown Willoughby where I live or – even better – in a little bohemian neighborhood in Cleveland Heights called Coventry. I’m sure I’d make a killing with all of the little Goth kids who seem to be everywhere in Northern Ohio. Besides, there’s something about Cleveland that seems to breed horror junkies. Maybe it’s our strong horror host background, or our natural affinity for all things dark. Either way, I dug this guy’s site, so give him some traffic! (Plus – check out his free bumper stickers. Free is always a great deal!!!)
Finally – I want to drive some traffic to one of my fellow bloggers, Phronk. Those who know me know how much I love Goth and Industrial music, and also know how much I love the music of native Clevelander Trent Reznor. Phronk wrote a great article about the upcoming Nine Inch Nails album and some of the crazy viral marketing they’re using to sell it. Just a great read… check it out!
So – that’s all for tonight. As you can see, I’m making an effort to be better with my updating, so expect more goodness within a day or so!
Unpleasant dreams…
So- in lieu of anything funny or creative - I found a few random links I wanted to toss up because I thought they were cool and – being an evil, undead zombie bastard – I figured I’d hoist them upon you!
First, I have a meme for you. It was put together by the cats over at Evil Incorporated. It’s a test to see how evil you are. I wound up in the 75th percentile and am "Fairly Evil". I suppose that there’s always room for improvement, but I should say I question the validity of the test questions. There not necessarily indicative of, nor give any real sense, of the depths of Evil that I – Dr. Zombie - am capable of. I’d ask the creators how they came up with their test questions, but alas, I sent a cadre of evil, undead, zombie minions over to the offices at Evil Inc. I expect that the test developers have most likely been either: a) devoured, or b) turned into undead zombie minions. Either way – they probably rue the day the tried to quantify my evilness!
I found a great site with some really cool downloadable fonts that I expect I will be utilizing from time to time. They’re all horror themed and I thought I’d share…
Go Go Godzilla! This is an awesome scientific analysis of everybody’s favorite atomic-breathed, Tokyo-stomping, monster-fighting therapod! I absolutely love this sort of stuff. I think that this sort of thing should be encouraged. There is something so groovy about taking pop culture icons and other “un”serious, unscientific stuff like this and dissecting it, and looking at it from a serious scientific standpoint. I’ve seen a few out there, like explanations of how zombies work that are just damn cool. Someday, I’m going to write a serious, academic paper like this on something completely ridiculous; like the science behind Ridley Scott’s Aliens, or how to build your own plasma rifle in the 40 megawatt range. Also, note the condemnation of the big budget Godzilla from the Matthew Broderick film. Only in the world of internet geekery would one hear that creature called “Gino”; or “Godzilla in name only!” The internet was build for geeks like me…
I found this site while surfing Craigslist for Harleys and other stupid stuff to spend money on. It looks like this guy is running a site that specializes in vintage horror toys, shirts, movies, etc. I was just telling Mrs. Zombie how I would love to do this sort of thing, but with a website/e-business and an actual store front. Something much like Halloweentown Store, a place out of LA that has a huge internet business, but also a huge store. (I think that Rob Zombie is a part owner of this company, or at least has an interest, because you can get things like autographed Rob Zombie merchandise from them.) And I think it might do well, especially in downtown Willoughby where I live or – even better – in a little bohemian neighborhood in Cleveland Heights called Coventry. I’m sure I’d make a killing with all of the little Goth kids who seem to be everywhere in Northern Ohio. Besides, there’s something about Cleveland that seems to breed horror junkies. Maybe it’s our strong horror host background, or our natural affinity for all things dark. Either way, I dug this guy’s site, so give him some traffic! (Plus – check out his free bumper stickers. Free is always a great deal!!!)
Finally – I want to drive some traffic to one of my fellow bloggers, Phronk. Those who know me know how much I love Goth and Industrial music, and also know how much I love the music of native Clevelander Trent Reznor. Phronk wrote a great article about the upcoming Nine Inch Nails album and some of the crazy viral marketing they’re using to sell it. Just a great read… check it out!
So – that’s all for tonight. As you can see, I’m making an effort to be better with my updating, so expect more goodness within a day or so!
Unpleasant dreams…
Monday, February 12, 2007
Sending Out An SOS!
The Police were on The Grammy's last night! This means it's official! The Police are getting back together.
Mrs. Zombie has been exasperated with me since last Thursday about this whole Police reunion tour thing. It's all I've talked about all weekend and she's had about enough.
You see, Sting and the Police are my favorite band. Seriously.
In terms of my favorite bands or artists (and in ascending order), they are:
5) Peter Gabriel
4) Rob Zombie
3) The Sisters of Mercy
2) The Cure
1) Sting and/or The Police
I know - this list shows my age. And I know that it dates me as surely as Carbon-14, but it's hard to let go of those formative musical experiences as you get older. And The Police were probably the first band that can be said to be responsible for much of my later musical life. If not for the Police, I'd have never listened to punk music, which means I would have never listened to alternative music. Without the Police, I would have never gotten an ear for truly well built music that was cutting edge, but mixed with an potent combination of reggae, jazz, blues, classical, and new wave punk. It's because of Sting and several Police songs that I read Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, Jung, and Nabokov.
I remember being 12 or 13 and riding my 10 speed bike to my friend's house with a Sony Walkman cassette blasting out The Police: The Singles in all of its scratchy, pre-Dolby audio glory. These friends, two beautiful and fun twin sisters named Kelli and Shelly, were the object of much childhood (and I daresay high school and maybe some college) lust and I can't hear Wrapped Around My Finger without thinking about them. Later, when I went to college (with both Shell and Kell!) we met and made several friends, two of which were Stephen and Kimber (or Ber).
I've mentioned Stephen before - he's my hulking, but gentle friend with an affinity for playing guitar, eating inhumanly hot food, and Doctor Who. The thing is, he and Ber had grown up in Cincinnatti together and we knew we were working with some serious karma when we all discovered that we shared an unconditional LOVE for the Police.
Of course, we were in college when Sting's masterpiece, The Soul Cages came out, and we spent many a night in a darkened room, having serious college conversations while Sting sang about the death of his father. But we spent as equal an amount of time talking pseudo-intellectually while we played Outlandos D'amour, Regatta De Blanc, Zenyatta Mondatta, Ghost in the Machine, Synchronicity, and Brimstone & Treacle.
And now they are getting back together.
I wrote Stephen an email when I first heard the rumors, telling him to get a passport because I was concerned they'd start the tour in Europe and, given their history, there is a serious possibility that they'll only do a few shows before Stewart Copeland and Sting realize how much they still hate one another and the tour implodes. That's how serious my love for the Police is. I would consider the ramifications of ditching everything to jet off to Europe to see The Police in concert. And when I say ramifications, I come to the thing that so irks Mrs. Zombie - - the possibility that I'd risk divorce to see a concert.
'Cause I'd totally do it.
Anyway. As of now, the only thing in terms of dates I've heard is that they are doing stadium shows (two shows per stadium because they know they can make some motherfucking cash by playing TWO sold out stadium shows per town. Gods know I'LL probably try to go both nights if they come to Cleveland. $200-$400 ticket price be damned!). The only dates they've announced are July 5th and 6th at Fenway Park and July 26th and 27th at Wrigley Field. Let's hope they do something closer because I need to make this as painless as possible for Mrs. Zombie and a three or four day road trip is not going to help me maintain the domestic tranquility that I have a hard enough time maintaining with my constant talk of Jeep upgrades and Harley purchases!
So, wish me luck and - if luck decides to turn her fickle back on me - is there anybody out there who'd be willing to put up a homeless, seperated, and downtrodden evil zombie scientist? I'll bring my Messages in a Box Police boxset...
Spam Stock update - as of the close of business today:
QCPC is down 6.67%, which means I've lost $151.50 of my initial $1k investment
AUNI is UP 5.71%, which means I've gained $55.55 of my initial $1k investment (!!!!)
WEXE is down 9.1%, which means I've lost $90.90 of my initial investment.
For those who are interested, I'm using a site called How The Market Works to track my spam stocks. It's a really cool site in that it lets you invest $10,000 in fake money however you want and then tracks your stocks for you. It allows you to sell and buy however you see fit. In addition to my Spam Stocks, I've spent the remaining 10K on various other companies that I thought I might be able to make some money on and/or just really interested me. I've invested in Apple Computer, Chipotle Mexican Grill, Daimler Chrysler, Harley Davidson, Halliburton, Marvel Enterprises, the unnamed company I work for (A fortune 50 Insurance company in which I DO have a stock interest), and Exxon Mobile (who just posted the largest profit ever, something like 600 bazillion, kabillion dollars. Hell, I'd be stupid to not jump on the back of that bloated whale - -the environment be damned!)
So we'll see how this pans out after 30 days.
Good night, dear reader. Unpleasant dreams.
Mrs. Zombie has been exasperated with me since last Thursday about this whole Police reunion tour thing. It's all I've talked about all weekend and she's had about enough.
You see, Sting and the Police are my favorite band. Seriously.
In terms of my favorite bands or artists (and in ascending order), they are:
5) Peter Gabriel
4) Rob Zombie
3) The Sisters of Mercy
2) The Cure
1) Sting and/or The Police
I know - this list shows my age. And I know that it dates me as surely as Carbon-14, but it's hard to let go of those formative musical experiences as you get older. And The Police were probably the first band that can be said to be responsible for much of my later musical life. If not for the Police, I'd have never listened to punk music, which means I would have never listened to alternative music. Without the Police, I would have never gotten an ear for truly well built music that was cutting edge, but mixed with an potent combination of reggae, jazz, blues, classical, and new wave punk. It's because of Sting and several Police songs that I read Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, Jung, and Nabokov.
I remember being 12 or 13 and riding my 10 speed bike to my friend's house with a Sony Walkman cassette blasting out The Police: The Singles in all of its scratchy, pre-Dolby audio glory. These friends, two beautiful and fun twin sisters named Kelli and Shelly, were the object of much childhood (and I daresay high school and maybe some college) lust and I can't hear Wrapped Around My Finger without thinking about them. Later, when I went to college (with both Shell and Kell!) we met and made several friends, two of which were Stephen and Kimber (or Ber).
I've mentioned Stephen before - he's my hulking, but gentle friend with an affinity for playing guitar, eating inhumanly hot food, and Doctor Who. The thing is, he and Ber had grown up in Cincinnatti together and we knew we were working with some serious karma when we all discovered that we shared an unconditional LOVE for the Police.
Of course, we were in college when Sting's masterpiece, The Soul Cages came out, and we spent many a night in a darkened room, having serious college conversations while Sting sang about the death of his father. But we spent as equal an amount of time talking pseudo-intellectually while we played Outlandos D'amour, Regatta De Blanc, Zenyatta Mondatta, Ghost in the Machine, Synchronicity, and Brimstone & Treacle.
And now they are getting back together.
I wrote Stephen an email when I first heard the rumors, telling him to get a passport because I was concerned they'd start the tour in Europe and, given their history, there is a serious possibility that they'll only do a few shows before Stewart Copeland and Sting realize how much they still hate one another and the tour implodes. That's how serious my love for the Police is. I would consider the ramifications of ditching everything to jet off to Europe to see The Police in concert. And when I say ramifications, I come to the thing that so irks Mrs. Zombie - - the possibility that I'd risk divorce to see a concert.
'Cause I'd totally do it.
Anyway. As of now, the only thing in terms of dates I've heard is that they are doing stadium shows (two shows per stadium because they know they can make some motherfucking cash by playing TWO sold out stadium shows per town. Gods know I'LL probably try to go both nights if they come to Cleveland. $200-$400 ticket price be damned!). The only dates they've announced are July 5th and 6th at Fenway Park and July 26th and 27th at Wrigley Field. Let's hope they do something closer because I need to make this as painless as possible for Mrs. Zombie and a three or four day road trip is not going to help me maintain the domestic tranquility that I have a hard enough time maintaining with my constant talk of Jeep upgrades and Harley purchases!
So, wish me luck and - if luck decides to turn her fickle back on me - is there anybody out there who'd be willing to put up a homeless, seperated, and downtrodden evil zombie scientist? I'll bring my Messages in a Box Police boxset...
Spam Stock update - as of the close of business today:
QCPC is down 6.67%, which means I've lost $151.50 of my initial $1k investment
AUNI is UP 5.71%, which means I've gained $55.55 of my initial $1k investment (!!!!)
WEXE is down 9.1%, which means I've lost $90.90 of my initial investment.
For those who are interested, I'm using a site called How The Market Works to track my spam stocks. It's a really cool site in that it lets you invest $10,000 in fake money however you want and then tracks your stocks for you. It allows you to sell and buy however you see fit. In addition to my Spam Stocks, I've spent the remaining 10K on various other companies that I thought I might be able to make some money on and/or just really interested me. I've invested in Apple Computer, Chipotle Mexican Grill, Daimler Chrysler, Harley Davidson, Halliburton, Marvel Enterprises, the unnamed company I work for (A fortune 50 Insurance company in which I DO have a stock interest), and Exxon Mobile (who just posted the largest profit ever, something like 600 bazillion, kabillion dollars. Hell, I'd be stupid to not jump on the back of that bloated whale - -the environment be damned!)
So we'll see how this pans out after 30 days.
Good night, dear reader. Unpleasant dreams.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
So - like many of you, my work email has been inundated by tons and tons of ads through our email system. Now, some of you may call such emails spam, but I take a much more benevolent approach to this correspondence. I figure, if someone's sending me an email, and it's not my boss yelling at me for things like:
A) calling the CFO, in a branch meeting, a "dumb shit who couldn't add one plus one if he used his mistresses nipples" loud enough for him and his apparent mistress to hear,
B) putting ex-lax in the processing department's coffee club filters because it's always funny to watch them all scurry for the bathroom, moaning and clutching their guts in panic because they just can't seem to hold their mud,
So there they are - QCPC, WEXE and AUNI. And, ignoring the horrible spelling and atrocious grammatical errors that offend my oh so delicate sensibilities (if I had grammatical nerves, they would be grated upon!!!), let's pretend I just called my imaginary zombie minion stockbrocker and put a grand down on each of these stocks. Three supposedly hot stocks. I'll keep a eye on them over a month.
Best case scenario - I'll make some money and prove that the spammers are doing a real service that is, sadly, underappreciated.
Worst case scenario - that's three large I coulda spent on Cia_lliss!@! - turning Bub the Zombie Wonder Worm into an ass-kicking, name-taking, tokyo-stomping, Empire-State-Building- scaling MANZILLA! Woo hoo!
A) calling the CFO, in a branch meeting, a "dumb shit who couldn't add one plus one if he used his mistresses nipples" loud enough for him and his apparent mistress to hear,
B) putting ex-lax in the processing department's coffee club filters because it's always funny to watch them all scurry for the bathroom, moaning and clutching their guts in panic because they just can't seem to hold their mud,
or, C) photocopying my genitals (I mean sheesh! You'd think that if you did something once like six months ago, people would quit bringing it up!) ,
...it can't be all bad.
So - anyway - all my new friends: like ErrinaGinelle who wants to help me become "Manzilla!" by buying grosses of Via_grra! and Cia_aliss!!! and Levi_ttra!@! (sic) send me all kinds of helpful and obviously concerned emails about the size, girth, and hydraulic pressure of my zombiefied junk. I figure they're doing a public service here.
(Not that Bub the Zombie Wonder Worm has any size, girth, or hydraulic issues... no siree Bob, all the plumbings in perfect and sometimes inappropriately occurring order downstairs in my Spiderman underooos!) But it's nice to know that my new friends like ErrinaGinelle, and IshbelEvanoff, or JairusBonds got my back if Bub the Zombie Wonder Worm decides to get all wonky.
The thing that really fascinates me about this spam, though, are all the ones I get from spammers who try to sell me stocks. My question is, Does anybody ever BUY these stocks? Of course, I'd add to that Is there anybody stupid enough to listen to a spammer in the first place?, but that would mean I'd be underestimating the stupidity of a significant portion of the US .
The cultural and intellectual backhole known as the American Midwest (in which Ohio is on the edge of!) is responsible for raising the median family income of Nigeria from 39 cents a week to roughly $7.5 kabillion a year. Whole cottage industries in Nigeria have been built upon the simple premise that dumb, trusting, Christian (and yet ultimately greedy) Americans will send you gobs of money if you send them a letter offering to buy their crappy $1100 Ford Escort - - provided you cash their $50K check, and send the difference back.
But - I'm veering from my point. So, I was curious about these "HOT STOCK TIPS!!!"that I "CAN'T LET PASS ME BY!". So, I am going to do a little experiment. I'm going to invest an imaginary $1000 dollars in three of these hot and oh-so-spammy stocks. I'll watch them on a daily basis and, after a month, see if I would have been made as rich as my spammer friends claim.
Sooooo,
I went and picked three random stock alert emails from my spam file. These are them:
From Efua Fatag
Re: Get InON Hot Energy
Stocks!
Good news from QCPC give you the real alternative to hit the jackpot. QCPC is a company with far-sighted
targets. Company strategy is to diversify within the power supply marketplace and build strong, niche oriented operations around the globe. QCPC take a long-term view of business, focusing on growth and overall progress of our subsidiaries in future.
Company has chosen one of solar power producer. As you know oil prices are getting higer and higer! A great amount of electricity generating plants uses oil-products. May be your domestic electrical power supplier or heat register works by using oil-products. Modern technologies of solar extraction also are very
effective in bad light or sun and the accumulating energy can be saved inside special batteries. That is why we can talk about full energy-independent house. In 21 century of high technologies we can't imagine urban life without energy. Many states in the USA has enough reserve of solar power to generate needed electric energy. Furthermore the President realizes the important role of this policy and allocated $1 Billion to Renewable Energy. U.S. Department of Energy FY 08 budget includes $179 million for the President's Initiative. Particularly Solar America Initiative - $148 million; This company is at the right time and place now. They have chosen promising line of activity for your share investments and we negotiated a contractwith Samlex America, which has manufactured and distributed power supply products to more than 90 countries
worldwide since 1991. Pathfinding product designs, strict quality control, and responsible after sales service
provide customers with high quality power conversion products at extremely competitive prices.Because of this news the prices of the QCPC stocks are about to fly up. QCPC's financial condition is
steady now. An overall market and economic situation are also can better affect the performance of the QCPC's shares.
From Lola Fitzgerald on 2/1
It's just started.
RE: This one are producing the real GOLD!
Millions will receive this message, million will
think, thousands will
buy,others will see
market activity and price will
rise.
I will
continue to push it untill company will show they positive
results.
696A7B78757477786E6A687268776645776C6A787B3374
Sy-m-bol:
WEXE
From: DonovanGroves
Re:Mummified Baby Found
The Beauty of the peenny stoock arena
is that shares appreciate so quickly! A bit of inside info and
returns of
1000% are not unheard of. We are bringing you what is REAL HOT right now. Weekly
blitz has started. Millions of mans will see this message todays morning.Guess
what will happen next few days.Did you end your papertrade already ?Time to try
it on real.
With lucrative deals in China, American Unity Investments
(AUNI-OTC-BB) is exactly where you want to
be.
Currently trading at around 16 cents, AUNI^OB is firing
up a massive publicity blitz to showcase their successful dealings in China.
We are looking at this one shooting up to the $1.00 mark once results
are announced and the promotion officially begins (several days)! Rise projected
87.5% up. Wednesday expectations around +31% +0.05(0.21) at least and +75%
+0.12(0.28) at most (not bad). You know thet we know something new.
Look at monday
result - it rise already - was 0.08 now 0.168.
So there they are - QCPC, WEXE and AUNI. And, ignoring the horrible spelling and atrocious grammatical errors that offend my oh so delicate sensibilities (if I had grammatical nerves, they would be grated upon!!!), let's pretend I just called my imaginary zombie minion stockbrocker and put a grand down on each of these stocks. Three supposedly hot stocks. I'll keep a eye on them over a month.
Best case scenario - I'll make some money and prove that the spammers are doing a real service that is, sadly, underappreciated.
Worst case scenario - that's three large I coulda spent on Cia_lliss!@! - turning Bub the Zombie Wonder Worm into an ass-kicking, name-taking, tokyo-stomping, Empire-State-Building- scaling MANZILLA! Woo hoo!
Friday, February 02, 2007
Lovecraftian Homage
So I've been working for the last week or so on an homage to my favorite horror writer, H.P. Lovecraft.
Unfortunately, I've been unable to get the right feel for the story and I'm - quite frankly - getting frustrated.
So, if anybody who's familiar with the Great HPL's work could provide some feedback, I'd be really grateful...
Whaddya think?
*********************************************************************************
Miles Richard Whitcomb peered about the thick fog of the docks, shivering in the damp sea air. He sighed in frustration as he tried to find his way through the thickest fog he had ever encountered. It swirled and drifted about him like thick, muslin gauze.
Suddenly, he jumped in fright as a drunken sailor lurched unannounced out of the gloom. The drunken sailor staggered passed Miles, cursing and stumbling before disappearing into the ether again. Just as quickly as he had appeared, the drunk was swallowed up by the night; a smell of gin and his unwashed body the only evidence of his passing.
‘That’s quite enough,’ Miles thought, primly. ‘Enough is enough!’
He was about to turn around and return to his automobile when he saw a sign appear out of the swirling gloom before him. He squinted at it and saw, with no small amount of disappointment, that it bore the picture of a misshapen black bird perched upon a gravestone. Below it, written in faded and peeling paint, was a name; The Shunned Crow.
He had found his destination, although he was at something of a loss to explain how. For that matter, he wondered how on earth he had been convinced to come to this out of the way seaside pub at this time of night in the first place. After all, Miles did consider himself a reasonably smart man, and this conviction made this current lapse in judgment all the harder to understand. In fact, he now felt slightly foolish that he had even agreed to this meeting at all.
He thought back to the first letter he had received from the man he was coming to meet. Mr. Otep was, as he claimed, a representative of the Egyptian government and he had first corresponded with Miles a little over six months ago. Mr. Otep had contacted Miles as a result of a search for some pieces of missing antiquities. Now, nearly a half year later, Miles regretted his casual mention to the Egyptian that he was going to be in Boston for business. His correspondent was overjoyed at the news and had insisted on a face to face meet. Before he could object, and despite his initial misgivings, Miles suddenly found himself agreeing. He was damned if he knew how it had all transpired, but that was how he now found himself on a dark, foggy, dock in upstate Massachusetts.
He was not pleased and, had his upbringing allowed him to somehow honorably break his word, he would have uncaringly stood up Otep. Unfortunately, he was not capable of such rudeness.
And yet, despite his resolve to stand by his word, the hour drive from Boston to Kingsport alone had almost convinced Miles to turn around. Even still, a strident inner voice clamored at him to leave – to turn around and drive as fast as he could back to Boston. In fact, the voice was worse now that he was at the rendezvous point.
Steeling himself against his urge to flee, he pulled his coat tighter about himself and readjusted the leather satchel that was slung over his shoulder.
Miles spied a flight of three steep steps that led down to the bar’s entrance. He descended and reached for the scarred and black pub door, pushing it open and stepping across the threshold. As he did so, billowing tendrils of cloying sea fog followed him into the dimly lit room.
He paused uncertainly at the entrance; struck by the age of the room and bar before him. Shaking off the cold and his own chilling apprehension, he ducked and entered beneath a low slung ceiling, its exposed beams supporting the floor of the building above. Nailed at random spots to the ancient beams were oil lamps that threw a dim and unfriendly light over tables set about the room. An ancient brick fireplace in the far left corner threw yet more light, but that light too seemed somehow pale and unnatural.
The pub looked like it had been around, and changed very little, since the 1700’s when Kingsport was established as a shipping port. Miles could easily imagine generations of sailors, pirates, and privateers reveling in rum-soaked debauchery. The room was redolent with the stink of bad alcohol and bad tempers; a stink that stretched back like a passed storm cloud over the last 300 or so years.
A quick survey showed him that it was a slow night at the Shunned Crow. Besides himself, Miles saw that the pub’s only other occupants were a bartender and two sailors near the fireplace. The sailors were either passed out from drink or dead.
If Miles had felt uneasy about this rendezvous before, he now felt doubly unsure.
Making his way across the sawdust coated floor, Miles cautiously approached the bar. The bartender barely looked up from a newspaper spread before him on the dented and gouged bar top.
As he drew closer, Miles felt his unease grow. There was something odd about the bartended and it wasn’t until he drew closer that he saw what it was. Miles was certain that the bartender was one of the ugliest men he had ever laid eyes upon. The bartender had large, protruding, unblinking eyes and his ugly and angular face had an unhealthy pallor, made more so by the dimly lit ambience of the bar. Additionally, his chin was almost nonexistent and, Miles noted with some revulsion, he had a slightly fishy smell to his clothes or skin.
With great control, Miles stopped himself from wrinkling his noise in distaste.
“Excuse me,” Miles said, “I’m supposed to be meeting somebody. Has a Mister Otep been in this evening?”
The bartender did not speak. He simply pointed back the way Miles had come. Miles followed the gesture and realized that there was a small alcove near the fireplace that had been hidden from his view by the door. Sitting there, his face cloaked by shadows, sat a man in dark clothing.
“Thank you,” Miles said to the bartender. After a second of consideration, he added, “May I have a beer, please?”
The bartender again said nothing as he moved to get a glass. He turned and began filling the dark mug from a keg behind the bar. As he waited, Miles found himself uncomfortably drawn again and again to the bartender’s strange eyes. It seemed to Miles as though the man was incapable of blinking. It took a moment before Miles realized that he himself was blinking rapidly, his own eyes suddenly and sympathetically dry. He had to force himself to stop blinking as the bartender returned.
Miles picked up his glass and laid two quarters on the bar.
“Keep the change,” he said, turning away. The bartender still said nothing as Miles made his way to the table.
“Mr. Otep?” he asked when he reached the dark alcove.
“Yes, Mr. Whitcomb,” the dark man said, leaning forward, “Please, sit down.”
Miles hesitated before he sat, and when he did he looked at the strange man he had inexplicably come to meet at this sinister and out of the way pub.
Mr. Otep was a tall, muscular man, as was apparent by the fit of his clothes. He wore a dark pea coat and leather gloves over hands that seemed unusually broad. Otep also wore a black turban. And - as Miles had expected and as befitted a man of Middle Eastern origin - Otep had dark skin and a swarthy look. What Miles had not expected was the severity and sharp angles of the Egyptian’s features. The Egyptian might have been described as handsome, but his handsomeness was somehow marred by the coldness of his black eyes.
Miles took a sip of his beer to hide the sudden shiver that he felt race up his spine and down his arms and legs.
“It’s so nice to meet you after all of this time,” Otep said, smiling.
“Yes, and it is nice to meet you also, Mr. Otep,” Miles replied.
“Have you brought the item, Miles? I can call you Miles, can’t I?”
“Yes, quite fine, Mr. Otep,” Miles felt himself relaxing. There was something disarming about the dark man’s quiet politeness.
“I must say I envy you, Miles. You are fortunate to have had such a famous relative.”
“It’s really not what you would think, Mr. Otep,” Miles replied dismissively, “There are few who would call my Uncle Howard famous, and certainly not those who read mainstream literature. Sadly, my Uncle was a writer of a small sub-genre that few people seriously read once they reach adulthood.”
“Oh, I must politely disagree, Miles,” Otep purred, “Your uncle was an amazing man who will undoubtedly live on through his works. Howard Phillips Lovecraft was a visionary, Miles; a literary visionary!”
“If you say so, Mr. Otep,” Miles said, not really believing it. For his part, he had found his late uncle’s writings rather wordy and somewhat anachronistic. Miles said as much.
“Anachronistic? Please explain this word, Miles. English is not my first language” Otep apologized.
“My Uncle Howard always fancied himself a Victorian English gentleman who had had the misfortune of being born on the wrong continent. His writings reflected the style of a bygone era. ”
“Ah!” Otep breathed, “I understand, Mr. Whitcomb. But, I expect that much of what you say is most likely tainted by your Midwestern values and upbringing. Please don’t take that as an insult or sleight. In fact I almost envy you your provincial American attitude.
“Thank you, Miles said, unsure of the compliment.
“I’ve just realized,” Otep said, “that I’ve never asked you what is it you do for a living, Miles?”
“I am an engineer for the Willy’s Overland Motor Company, in Toledo. I was born and raised there, in fact.”
“That, I suspect, may have something to do with your evaluation of your uncle’s works. Do you feel that your mechanical tendencies affect your appreciation of art?”
“I wouldn’t say that, Mr. Otep. I enjoy art as much as the next man. I just never really developed a taste for the medium in which my uncle wrote. Let’s just say that my tastes run to the more realistic and less fantastic.”
“Toledo?” Otep asked, his brow furrowing in thought, “Isn’t that where the protagonists from one of your uncle’s more celebrated works came from?”
“I believe it was called The Shadow Over something or other. Yes. He wrote that story after my mother and I visited him one summer. He told me later that he had used me as a basis for that story’s main character. It is somewhat flattering.”
“Yes, I imagine it would be, Miles. But, enough small talk. Let us, as you American’s say, get down to business.”
Otep leaned forward expectantly as Miles reached into his satchel, retrieving the object that had brought him to this dark, seaside pub. It was a wooden case, the size of a cigar box and made of a polished, rich mahogany. Carved upon it was a strange symbol that looked much like a misshapen star with a flaming eye at its center. It was an exquisitely crafted piece that showed a remarkable level of workmanship.
By his manner, it was apparent to Miles that Otep was not concerned with the box so much as with what it held.
“And the sculpture,” Otep breathed, “it is inside?”
“Yes, Mr. Otep, it is. Truth be told, I find the sculpture actually quite ugly and I don’t particularly care for it. The only attachment I have to it is that it was left to me by my uncle when he passed away ten years ago.”
Miles opened the box, revealing an obsidian carved statuette that could only be described as horrific. As he often did when he looked upon it and despite its being an inanimate object, Miles mused that it sat almost malevolently in its ugliness. The carven figure was vaguely octopoid, but it also bore disturbingly humanoid characteristics.
All in all, it was most unpleasant to look upon.
He glanced to Mr. Otep who looked upon it with a predatory longing.
“You see,” Miles explained, “As I wrote, it is not something one puts on display for when company comes to visit.”
“It is breathtaking,” Otep said, much to Miles’ surprise.
“Yes, well,” Miles said, closing the box. Otep looked almost heartbroken to lose sight of it.
“What would you say, Mr. Whitcomb,” Otep said as he turned his black gaze upon Miles, “If I offered you one hundred thousand American dollars for that sculpture?”
Miles visibly started. He blinked in shock before answering.
“As I said in my letters, Mr. Otep,” Miles replied as he slipped the box into his satchel, “I am not interested in selling it. If indeed it is of Egyptian origin, I will be happy to allow you to take photographs and molds of it for your government. Although I absolutely detest the piece, it is a gift from my uncle. I feel obligated to keep it if only as a cherished heirloom.”
“Would you let it go for two hundred thousand dollars?” Otep countered.
Miles looked positively distressed at the amount of money he was being offered for the sculpture, but held firm. He shook his head, “I’m sorry, Mr. Otep. No. I came to Kingsport here at your request and out of respect for your cultural heritage. I did not come to sell the statue. I am most sorry.”
The Egyptian smiled again, and Miles again felt that same sense of disquiet.
“Of course, Mr. Whitcomb,” Otep said, “Forgive my…coveting of your inheritance. Your uncle had an enviable eye for antiquities. May I enquire as to whether or not you have any other objects de art or papers from your uncle’s estate?”
“This is the only thing I have left. I have donated all of Uncle Howard’s letters and papers to Mr. August Derleth in Wisconsin. He is compiling many of them for posterity and for inclusion in a volume of books.”
“That is unfortunate, Miles - most unfortunate.”
Suddenly, Miles smelled a strong fishy odor and sensed a presence behind him. He half turned to see the bartender hulking over him. Too late to react, Miles could only flinch as the bartender struck him with a club.
Miles fell into unconsciousness.
**********************************************************
He awoke to find himself once again embraced by thick fog.
In the distance, there was the muted tolling of a channel buoy. Miles also heard the lapping of water and smelled the sharp tang of sea water. It carried the heavy, fishy, decomposing odor of harbor water.
Groaning, he rolled over to find himself on the deck of a skiff. Peering with anxiety through the fog, he saw with some relief that he was still at dock. Remembering what had happened, he whispered a small prayer of thanks to God that he was still alive.
As he struggled upright, he winced as his head thudded painfully, no doubt from where he had been struck. Just as he sat up, he heard the clumping of footsteps and he saw that Mr. Otep and the bartender were approaching from the ship’s wheel house. The dark Arab was talking, and as they drew near, Whitcomb heard their conversation.
“…now that we have the statue,” the Egyptian said, “tell your brethren to meet us. The time is nigh, Obed. Dagon will be pleased.”
The bartender said nothing. He simply stopped by the rail of the deck and began taking his clothes off. Watching with mounting horror, Miles saw the bartender reveal a body that was not entirely human.
The bartender’s skin was rubbery and marbled with veins. It was stretched tight over oddly shaped joints. The creature’s feet, for it was obvious that the bartender was not entirely human, were long and webbed like those of a frog. The horrific beast finally spoke, but not in words that Miles recognized. It made several raspy, wet, croaking sounds, and Otep nodded as thought he understood. It then turned and slid clumsily over the side of the skiff. There was a splashing into the dank water below, and then silence.
Miles was quite certain that he was losing his mind.
Otep turned, walking towards Miles. He smiled again and Miles felt his blood run cold..
“Ah, Miles. So glad you could join us again. I apologize for my friend’s overzealous in subduing you. It pleases me that you’re not seriously injured as I have other more sinister plans for you.”
“Dear God,” Miles said, “what is going on?”
“I am taking care of some unfinished business, Mr. Whitcomb. It took me a considerably long time to find both you and that artifact your uncle left you. Before that, it took me the better part of twenty years to find that Lovecraft had it. It was fortuitous that he left it to you and that I could strike up a correspondence with you. My luring you here has been a long time coming.”
“Who are you, really?” Miles asked.
“Why, Miles, don’t you know?”
Otep bent down and grinned, his toothy smile seeming too wide and too evil. Suddenly and right before Miles’ disbelieving eyes, the man’s skin seemed to darken and grow blacker, like the ends of a piece of paper placed in a flame.
Miles shrieked and, to protect his sanity from this new horror, Mile’s mind dredged up a memory from his youth. Something he had buried deep down within himself since he had become an adult.
In his mind, he was suddenly twelve years old again and in his childhood bedroom back in Toledo. It was night time and he was reading a copy of Weird Tales by candlelight. The memory flooded over him and he suddenly remembered what he had forgotten in the long years since then.
With dagger-like recall, he remembered that had spent countless nights in his childhood room, shivering in fear and delight as he devoured every story his Uncle Howard had written. He had loved reading all of the old pulp magazines! He had been so proud of his uncle and loved to see the name H.P. Lovecraft on the cover of Amazing Stories or Weird Tales.
He had wanted to write like Uncle Howard, then. It was only when he had grown older and become an adult that he had given up the foolishness of science fiction and horror stories. He felt shame as he realized that he had turned away from his uncle’s genius and his own dreams of becoming a writer in favor of a solid and bland career in Mechanical Engineering. . His shame warred with the dread and horror that he felt as he realized that Mr. Otep was one of the nightmares that could only have been conjured from Lovecraft’s imagination.
All of this came to him as he lay shivering on the mist soaked deck, looking up into Mr. Otep’s black eyes. They were the cold, dead, predatory eyes of a shark and they had no trace of white
“You can’t be real,” Miles whispered, “You can’t be real.”
“Humans are so imaginative,” Nyarlothotep growled, “It’s part of your nature to create and dream and fantasize endlessly, and yet – inexplicably – you all deny the supernatural when in its presence. It’s a special gift you have that is, sadly, wasted.”
Mr. Otep knelt and looked at Miles with those chilling eyes and continued, “Some of you though, some of you are special. Some humans have a special insight that sees more than the imagined. Artists like Hieronymus Bosch, or Hienrich Fuseli, or even your dear, departed Uncle Howard. They look beyond the nightmares and see the horrors that are real and hidden from most humans’ eyes. They see the real, but the other humans see it as simply the fantastic. Lovecraft himself alluded to this in his story, Pickman’s Model. Imagine the horror, Miles; poor Howard Phillips languishing in his agoraphobia and writing about the nightmares that lurked at the edge of his sight. Nightmares that were there, unseen by those around him but undeniably real!”
“No!” Miles screamed. The logical, adult part of him refusing to believe what the long repressed child within knew as certainty. He was paralyzed, frozen in fear.
Just then there was a large splashing in the darkness and fog. It grew louder and louder and suddenly several man-sized, frog-like creatures swarmed aboard the ship, croaking and pointing into the fog. Mr. Otep stood and walked to the edge of the rail, peering into the gloom.
After a long moment there was heavier splashing, but it was subtly different from that of the frog creatures. Beneath the clamor of the splashing there was a heavy, liquid, breathing sound that was both horrifying and inhuman.
The dark man at the rail laughed and raised his arms, a parody of Christ on the cross. The sounds drew nearer and nearer and suddenly, out of the darkness, a giant ropy alien appendage appeared. The unnatural limb was smooth and black. It was grotesque and wrong and throbbed from within with an unnatural luminescence. The tentacle wrapped itself around Otep, caressing his dark clad form in greeting. Meanwhile, the frog creatures began croaking and moaning and chirping in orgiastic pleasure at the arrival of this new terror.
And then, when he thought it could get no worse, Miles felt something within himself snap as he saw more of the bioluminescence slowly emerging from the fog. Whatever it was, the monstrosity that was approaching was terrifyingly huge. It was mind-boggling and Miles could feel an evil wind coming in draughts through the chill fog.
“DAGON!” screamed Otep.
At this, and fearing that his life and very sanity were in peril, Miles’ paralysis broke and he leapt up from the deck. In a mad, fear-filled dash, he scrambled over the far end of the skiff to the dock below. He fell painfully, but was up in a flash, running in blind terror into the fog and darkness-cloaked streets of the small sea town. Behind him, he heard Otep let out a cry of rage and he heard other sounds; sounds of the frog creatures moaning in despair, the sound of flapping feet in pursuit, and, finally, a bellowing roar. It was a roar that would haunt his nightmares; it was a roar of a creature that did not belong in this world.
It was the roar of the black, glowing creature.
It was the roar of madness.
Miles did not look back. He darted in primal fear up the twisted alleys and treacherous cobblestones of Kingsport.
After what seemed like an eternity, he finally found his automobile. Safely within it, he raced southwards towards Boston. He realized with mounting dread, that he still had his satchel with him. Afraid of what he might find, he felt with trembling fingers within the leather bag. As he had feared, he touched the familiar polished surface of the box Uncle Howard had left him.
“Dear God,” he whispered, “they’ll never stop looking for this!”
His mind already damaged and his heart thudding like a drum within his chest, he drove on through the night, uncertain of what to do next. He was only sure that he had had his eyes opened to a new, terrifying world and that the dark and not entirely human Egyptian would never stop looking for him or for the artifact he had at his side.
“Thanks, Uncle Howard,” he moaned.
Unfortunately, I've been unable to get the right feel for the story and I'm - quite frankly - getting frustrated.
So, if anybody who's familiar with the Great HPL's work could provide some feedback, I'd be really grateful...
Whaddya think?
*********************************************************************************
Miles Richard Whitcomb peered about the thick fog of the docks, shivering in the damp sea air. He sighed in frustration as he tried to find his way through the thickest fog he had ever encountered. It swirled and drifted about him like thick, muslin gauze.
Suddenly, he jumped in fright as a drunken sailor lurched unannounced out of the gloom. The drunken sailor staggered passed Miles, cursing and stumbling before disappearing into the ether again. Just as quickly as he had appeared, the drunk was swallowed up by the night; a smell of gin and his unwashed body the only evidence of his passing.
‘That’s quite enough,’ Miles thought, primly. ‘Enough is enough!’
He was about to turn around and return to his automobile when he saw a sign appear out of the swirling gloom before him. He squinted at it and saw, with no small amount of disappointment, that it bore the picture of a misshapen black bird perched upon a gravestone. Below it, written in faded and peeling paint, was a name; The Shunned Crow.
He had found his destination, although he was at something of a loss to explain how. For that matter, he wondered how on earth he had been convinced to come to this out of the way seaside pub at this time of night in the first place. After all, Miles did consider himself a reasonably smart man, and this conviction made this current lapse in judgment all the harder to understand. In fact, he now felt slightly foolish that he had even agreed to this meeting at all.
He thought back to the first letter he had received from the man he was coming to meet. Mr. Otep was, as he claimed, a representative of the Egyptian government and he had first corresponded with Miles a little over six months ago. Mr. Otep had contacted Miles as a result of a search for some pieces of missing antiquities. Now, nearly a half year later, Miles regretted his casual mention to the Egyptian that he was going to be in Boston for business. His correspondent was overjoyed at the news and had insisted on a face to face meet. Before he could object, and despite his initial misgivings, Miles suddenly found himself agreeing. He was damned if he knew how it had all transpired, but that was how he now found himself on a dark, foggy, dock in upstate Massachusetts.
He was not pleased and, had his upbringing allowed him to somehow honorably break his word, he would have uncaringly stood up Otep. Unfortunately, he was not capable of such rudeness.
And yet, despite his resolve to stand by his word, the hour drive from Boston to Kingsport alone had almost convinced Miles to turn around. Even still, a strident inner voice clamored at him to leave – to turn around and drive as fast as he could back to Boston. In fact, the voice was worse now that he was at the rendezvous point.
Steeling himself against his urge to flee, he pulled his coat tighter about himself and readjusted the leather satchel that was slung over his shoulder.
Miles spied a flight of three steep steps that led down to the bar’s entrance. He descended and reached for the scarred and black pub door, pushing it open and stepping across the threshold. As he did so, billowing tendrils of cloying sea fog followed him into the dimly lit room.
He paused uncertainly at the entrance; struck by the age of the room and bar before him. Shaking off the cold and his own chilling apprehension, he ducked and entered beneath a low slung ceiling, its exposed beams supporting the floor of the building above. Nailed at random spots to the ancient beams were oil lamps that threw a dim and unfriendly light over tables set about the room. An ancient brick fireplace in the far left corner threw yet more light, but that light too seemed somehow pale and unnatural.
The pub looked like it had been around, and changed very little, since the 1700’s when Kingsport was established as a shipping port. Miles could easily imagine generations of sailors, pirates, and privateers reveling in rum-soaked debauchery. The room was redolent with the stink of bad alcohol and bad tempers; a stink that stretched back like a passed storm cloud over the last 300 or so years.
A quick survey showed him that it was a slow night at the Shunned Crow. Besides himself, Miles saw that the pub’s only other occupants were a bartender and two sailors near the fireplace. The sailors were either passed out from drink or dead.
If Miles had felt uneasy about this rendezvous before, he now felt doubly unsure.
Making his way across the sawdust coated floor, Miles cautiously approached the bar. The bartender barely looked up from a newspaper spread before him on the dented and gouged bar top.
As he drew closer, Miles felt his unease grow. There was something odd about the bartended and it wasn’t until he drew closer that he saw what it was. Miles was certain that the bartender was one of the ugliest men he had ever laid eyes upon. The bartender had large, protruding, unblinking eyes and his ugly and angular face had an unhealthy pallor, made more so by the dimly lit ambience of the bar. Additionally, his chin was almost nonexistent and, Miles noted with some revulsion, he had a slightly fishy smell to his clothes or skin.
With great control, Miles stopped himself from wrinkling his noise in distaste.
“Excuse me,” Miles said, “I’m supposed to be meeting somebody. Has a Mister Otep been in this evening?”
The bartender did not speak. He simply pointed back the way Miles had come. Miles followed the gesture and realized that there was a small alcove near the fireplace that had been hidden from his view by the door. Sitting there, his face cloaked by shadows, sat a man in dark clothing.
“Thank you,” Miles said to the bartender. After a second of consideration, he added, “May I have a beer, please?”
The bartender again said nothing as he moved to get a glass. He turned and began filling the dark mug from a keg behind the bar. As he waited, Miles found himself uncomfortably drawn again and again to the bartender’s strange eyes. It seemed to Miles as though the man was incapable of blinking. It took a moment before Miles realized that he himself was blinking rapidly, his own eyes suddenly and sympathetically dry. He had to force himself to stop blinking as the bartender returned.
Miles picked up his glass and laid two quarters on the bar.
“Keep the change,” he said, turning away. The bartender still said nothing as Miles made his way to the table.
“Mr. Otep?” he asked when he reached the dark alcove.
“Yes, Mr. Whitcomb,” the dark man said, leaning forward, “Please, sit down.”
Miles hesitated before he sat, and when he did he looked at the strange man he had inexplicably come to meet at this sinister and out of the way pub.
Mr. Otep was a tall, muscular man, as was apparent by the fit of his clothes. He wore a dark pea coat and leather gloves over hands that seemed unusually broad. Otep also wore a black turban. And - as Miles had expected and as befitted a man of Middle Eastern origin - Otep had dark skin and a swarthy look. What Miles had not expected was the severity and sharp angles of the Egyptian’s features. The Egyptian might have been described as handsome, but his handsomeness was somehow marred by the coldness of his black eyes.
Miles took a sip of his beer to hide the sudden shiver that he felt race up his spine and down his arms and legs.
“It’s so nice to meet you after all of this time,” Otep said, smiling.
“Yes, and it is nice to meet you also, Mr. Otep,” Miles replied.
“Have you brought the item, Miles? I can call you Miles, can’t I?”
“Yes, quite fine, Mr. Otep,” Miles felt himself relaxing. There was something disarming about the dark man’s quiet politeness.
“I must say I envy you, Miles. You are fortunate to have had such a famous relative.”
“It’s really not what you would think, Mr. Otep,” Miles replied dismissively, “There are few who would call my Uncle Howard famous, and certainly not those who read mainstream literature. Sadly, my Uncle was a writer of a small sub-genre that few people seriously read once they reach adulthood.”
“Oh, I must politely disagree, Miles,” Otep purred, “Your uncle was an amazing man who will undoubtedly live on through his works. Howard Phillips Lovecraft was a visionary, Miles; a literary visionary!”
“If you say so, Mr. Otep,” Miles said, not really believing it. For his part, he had found his late uncle’s writings rather wordy and somewhat anachronistic. Miles said as much.
“Anachronistic? Please explain this word, Miles. English is not my first language” Otep apologized.
“My Uncle Howard always fancied himself a Victorian English gentleman who had had the misfortune of being born on the wrong continent. His writings reflected the style of a bygone era. ”
“Ah!” Otep breathed, “I understand, Mr. Whitcomb. But, I expect that much of what you say is most likely tainted by your Midwestern values and upbringing. Please don’t take that as an insult or sleight. In fact I almost envy you your provincial American attitude.
“Thank you, Miles said, unsure of the compliment.
“I’ve just realized,” Otep said, “that I’ve never asked you what is it you do for a living, Miles?”
“I am an engineer for the Willy’s Overland Motor Company, in Toledo. I was born and raised there, in fact.”
“That, I suspect, may have something to do with your evaluation of your uncle’s works. Do you feel that your mechanical tendencies affect your appreciation of art?”
“I wouldn’t say that, Mr. Otep. I enjoy art as much as the next man. I just never really developed a taste for the medium in which my uncle wrote. Let’s just say that my tastes run to the more realistic and less fantastic.”
“Toledo?” Otep asked, his brow furrowing in thought, “Isn’t that where the protagonists from one of your uncle’s more celebrated works came from?”
“I believe it was called The Shadow Over something or other. Yes. He wrote that story after my mother and I visited him one summer. He told me later that he had used me as a basis for that story’s main character. It is somewhat flattering.”
“Yes, I imagine it would be, Miles. But, enough small talk. Let us, as you American’s say, get down to business.”
Otep leaned forward expectantly as Miles reached into his satchel, retrieving the object that had brought him to this dark, seaside pub. It was a wooden case, the size of a cigar box and made of a polished, rich mahogany. Carved upon it was a strange symbol that looked much like a misshapen star with a flaming eye at its center. It was an exquisitely crafted piece that showed a remarkable level of workmanship.
By his manner, it was apparent to Miles that Otep was not concerned with the box so much as with what it held.
“And the sculpture,” Otep breathed, “it is inside?”
“Yes, Mr. Otep, it is. Truth be told, I find the sculpture actually quite ugly and I don’t particularly care for it. The only attachment I have to it is that it was left to me by my uncle when he passed away ten years ago.”
Miles opened the box, revealing an obsidian carved statuette that could only be described as horrific. As he often did when he looked upon it and despite its being an inanimate object, Miles mused that it sat almost malevolently in its ugliness. The carven figure was vaguely octopoid, but it also bore disturbingly humanoid characteristics.
All in all, it was most unpleasant to look upon.
He glanced to Mr. Otep who looked upon it with a predatory longing.
“You see,” Miles explained, “As I wrote, it is not something one puts on display for when company comes to visit.”
“It is breathtaking,” Otep said, much to Miles’ surprise.
“Yes, well,” Miles said, closing the box. Otep looked almost heartbroken to lose sight of it.
“What would you say, Mr. Whitcomb,” Otep said as he turned his black gaze upon Miles, “If I offered you one hundred thousand American dollars for that sculpture?”
Miles visibly started. He blinked in shock before answering.
“As I said in my letters, Mr. Otep,” Miles replied as he slipped the box into his satchel, “I am not interested in selling it. If indeed it is of Egyptian origin, I will be happy to allow you to take photographs and molds of it for your government. Although I absolutely detest the piece, it is a gift from my uncle. I feel obligated to keep it if only as a cherished heirloom.”
“Would you let it go for two hundred thousand dollars?” Otep countered.
Miles looked positively distressed at the amount of money he was being offered for the sculpture, but held firm. He shook his head, “I’m sorry, Mr. Otep. No. I came to Kingsport here at your request and out of respect for your cultural heritage. I did not come to sell the statue. I am most sorry.”
The Egyptian smiled again, and Miles again felt that same sense of disquiet.
“Of course, Mr. Whitcomb,” Otep said, “Forgive my…coveting of your inheritance. Your uncle had an enviable eye for antiquities. May I enquire as to whether or not you have any other objects de art or papers from your uncle’s estate?”
“This is the only thing I have left. I have donated all of Uncle Howard’s letters and papers to Mr. August Derleth in Wisconsin. He is compiling many of them for posterity and for inclusion in a volume of books.”
“That is unfortunate, Miles - most unfortunate.”
Suddenly, Miles smelled a strong fishy odor and sensed a presence behind him. He half turned to see the bartender hulking over him. Too late to react, Miles could only flinch as the bartender struck him with a club.
Miles fell into unconsciousness.
**********************************************************
He awoke to find himself once again embraced by thick fog.
In the distance, there was the muted tolling of a channel buoy. Miles also heard the lapping of water and smelled the sharp tang of sea water. It carried the heavy, fishy, decomposing odor of harbor water.
Groaning, he rolled over to find himself on the deck of a skiff. Peering with anxiety through the fog, he saw with some relief that he was still at dock. Remembering what had happened, he whispered a small prayer of thanks to God that he was still alive.
As he struggled upright, he winced as his head thudded painfully, no doubt from where he had been struck. Just as he sat up, he heard the clumping of footsteps and he saw that Mr. Otep and the bartender were approaching from the ship’s wheel house. The dark Arab was talking, and as they drew near, Whitcomb heard their conversation.
“…now that we have the statue,” the Egyptian said, “tell your brethren to meet us. The time is nigh, Obed. Dagon will be pleased.”
The bartender said nothing. He simply stopped by the rail of the deck and began taking his clothes off. Watching with mounting horror, Miles saw the bartender reveal a body that was not entirely human.
The bartender’s skin was rubbery and marbled with veins. It was stretched tight over oddly shaped joints. The creature’s feet, for it was obvious that the bartender was not entirely human, were long and webbed like those of a frog. The horrific beast finally spoke, but not in words that Miles recognized. It made several raspy, wet, croaking sounds, and Otep nodded as thought he understood. It then turned and slid clumsily over the side of the skiff. There was a splashing into the dank water below, and then silence.
Miles was quite certain that he was losing his mind.
Otep turned, walking towards Miles. He smiled again and Miles felt his blood run cold..
“Ah, Miles. So glad you could join us again. I apologize for my friend’s overzealous in subduing you. It pleases me that you’re not seriously injured as I have other more sinister plans for you.”
“Dear God,” Miles said, “what is going on?”
“I am taking care of some unfinished business, Mr. Whitcomb. It took me a considerably long time to find both you and that artifact your uncle left you. Before that, it took me the better part of twenty years to find that Lovecraft had it. It was fortuitous that he left it to you and that I could strike up a correspondence with you. My luring you here has been a long time coming.”
“Who are you, really?” Miles asked.
“Why, Miles, don’t you know?”
Otep bent down and grinned, his toothy smile seeming too wide and too evil. Suddenly and right before Miles’ disbelieving eyes, the man’s skin seemed to darken and grow blacker, like the ends of a piece of paper placed in a flame.
Miles shrieked and, to protect his sanity from this new horror, Mile’s mind dredged up a memory from his youth. Something he had buried deep down within himself since he had become an adult.
In his mind, he was suddenly twelve years old again and in his childhood bedroom back in Toledo. It was night time and he was reading a copy of Weird Tales by candlelight. The memory flooded over him and he suddenly remembered what he had forgotten in the long years since then.
With dagger-like recall, he remembered that had spent countless nights in his childhood room, shivering in fear and delight as he devoured every story his Uncle Howard had written. He had loved reading all of the old pulp magazines! He had been so proud of his uncle and loved to see the name H.P. Lovecraft on the cover of Amazing Stories or Weird Tales.
He had wanted to write like Uncle Howard, then. It was only when he had grown older and become an adult that he had given up the foolishness of science fiction and horror stories. He felt shame as he realized that he had turned away from his uncle’s genius and his own dreams of becoming a writer in favor of a solid and bland career in Mechanical Engineering. . His shame warred with the dread and horror that he felt as he realized that Mr. Otep was one of the nightmares that could only have been conjured from Lovecraft’s imagination.
All of this came to him as he lay shivering on the mist soaked deck, looking up into Mr. Otep’s black eyes. They were the cold, dead, predatory eyes of a shark and they had no trace of white
“You can’t be real,” Miles whispered, “You can’t be real.”
“Humans are so imaginative,” Nyarlothotep growled, “It’s part of your nature to create and dream and fantasize endlessly, and yet – inexplicably – you all deny the supernatural when in its presence. It’s a special gift you have that is, sadly, wasted.”
Mr. Otep knelt and looked at Miles with those chilling eyes and continued, “Some of you though, some of you are special. Some humans have a special insight that sees more than the imagined. Artists like Hieronymus Bosch, or Hienrich Fuseli, or even your dear, departed Uncle Howard. They look beyond the nightmares and see the horrors that are real and hidden from most humans’ eyes. They see the real, but the other humans see it as simply the fantastic. Lovecraft himself alluded to this in his story, Pickman’s Model. Imagine the horror, Miles; poor Howard Phillips languishing in his agoraphobia and writing about the nightmares that lurked at the edge of his sight. Nightmares that were there, unseen by those around him but undeniably real!”
“No!” Miles screamed. The logical, adult part of him refusing to believe what the long repressed child within knew as certainty. He was paralyzed, frozen in fear.
Just then there was a large splashing in the darkness and fog. It grew louder and louder and suddenly several man-sized, frog-like creatures swarmed aboard the ship, croaking and pointing into the fog. Mr. Otep stood and walked to the edge of the rail, peering into the gloom.
After a long moment there was heavier splashing, but it was subtly different from that of the frog creatures. Beneath the clamor of the splashing there was a heavy, liquid, breathing sound that was both horrifying and inhuman.
The dark man at the rail laughed and raised his arms, a parody of Christ on the cross. The sounds drew nearer and nearer and suddenly, out of the darkness, a giant ropy alien appendage appeared. The unnatural limb was smooth and black. It was grotesque and wrong and throbbed from within with an unnatural luminescence. The tentacle wrapped itself around Otep, caressing his dark clad form in greeting. Meanwhile, the frog creatures began croaking and moaning and chirping in orgiastic pleasure at the arrival of this new terror.
And then, when he thought it could get no worse, Miles felt something within himself snap as he saw more of the bioluminescence slowly emerging from the fog. Whatever it was, the monstrosity that was approaching was terrifyingly huge. It was mind-boggling and Miles could feel an evil wind coming in draughts through the chill fog.
“DAGON!” screamed Otep.
At this, and fearing that his life and very sanity were in peril, Miles’ paralysis broke and he leapt up from the deck. In a mad, fear-filled dash, he scrambled over the far end of the skiff to the dock below. He fell painfully, but was up in a flash, running in blind terror into the fog and darkness-cloaked streets of the small sea town. Behind him, he heard Otep let out a cry of rage and he heard other sounds; sounds of the frog creatures moaning in despair, the sound of flapping feet in pursuit, and, finally, a bellowing roar. It was a roar that would haunt his nightmares; it was a roar of a creature that did not belong in this world.
It was the roar of the black, glowing creature.
It was the roar of madness.
Miles did not look back. He darted in primal fear up the twisted alleys and treacherous cobblestones of Kingsport.
After what seemed like an eternity, he finally found his automobile. Safely within it, he raced southwards towards Boston. He realized with mounting dread, that he still had his satchel with him. Afraid of what he might find, he felt with trembling fingers within the leather bag. As he had feared, he touched the familiar polished surface of the box Uncle Howard had left him.
“Dear God,” he whispered, “they’ll never stop looking for this!”
His mind already damaged and his heart thudding like a drum within his chest, he drove on through the night, uncertain of what to do next. He was only sure that he had had his eyes opened to a new, terrifying world and that the dark and not entirely human Egyptian would never stop looking for him or for the artifact he had at his side.
“Thanks, Uncle Howard,” he moaned.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Music To Soothe The Zombie's Soul
I just wanted to turn readers onto a great site that I've been living at for the last couple of days. It's called iJigg and is probably one of the coolest music sites I've found on the web in ages.
It's sort of the same concept of Youtube where, instead of uploading videos, anyone can upload music. The best part is that it has a super fast load speed, and it has some awesome electronic music.
I especially like Untravel (it reminds me of my friend, kimber's, brother's band - Venus Hum); and Real Sick Fuck (Bestiality is always funny. It's a musical version of what Randall reallly wanted in Clerks II!).
Apparently, the site owners are working through some legal issues, but hopefully you'll be able to download the music to iPods soon.
Speaking of which, Mrs. Zombie let me go out and buy myself an iPod back in December for my birthday. I got a basic shuffle and, truthfully, I LOVE it. I looked at, and could have bought a more expensive nano, or the super size, ultra expensive iHoozawhatsis, but I was really sort of drawn to the simple, sleek design of the shuffle.
If you're on the fence about whether to spend the money on an mp3 player, you cannot go wrong with the Shuffle. For about $70, I have about 150 songs loaded, WITH ROOM FOR ANOTHER 100 or so. I downloaded some things from iTunes, and then ripped the rest from my own cd collection.
Now, you may be saying "But you can't pick your songs! It shuffles your music and you have no control over what it plays next!". And this is true, but I don't see a problem with that. You see, every song i put on it I LOVE. So I don't care about the order.
Plus it's seriously the size and weight of a half dollar. 200 plus of my favorite songs, in a non-skipping player that clips on my shirt for when I go mountain biking is sexy - no matter how you look at it!
Now if i could just download some of the stuff from iJigg...
It's sort of the same concept of Youtube where, instead of uploading videos, anyone can upload music. The best part is that it has a super fast load speed, and it has some awesome electronic music.
I especially like Untravel (it reminds me of my friend, kimber's, brother's band - Venus Hum); and Real Sick Fuck (Bestiality is always funny. It's a musical version of what Randall reallly wanted in Clerks II!).
Apparently, the site owners are working through some legal issues, but hopefully you'll be able to download the music to iPods soon.
Speaking of which, Mrs. Zombie let me go out and buy myself an iPod back in December for my birthday. I got a basic shuffle and, truthfully, I LOVE it. I looked at, and could have bought a more expensive nano, or the super size, ultra expensive iHoozawhatsis, but I was really sort of drawn to the simple, sleek design of the shuffle.
If you're on the fence about whether to spend the money on an mp3 player, you cannot go wrong with the Shuffle. For about $70, I have about 150 songs loaded, WITH ROOM FOR ANOTHER 100 or so. I downloaded some things from iTunes, and then ripped the rest from my own cd collection.
Now, you may be saying "But you can't pick your songs! It shuffles your music and you have no control over what it plays next!". And this is true, but I don't see a problem with that. You see, every song i put on it I LOVE. So I don't care about the order.
Plus it's seriously the size and weight of a half dollar. 200 plus of my favorite songs, in a non-skipping player that clips on my shirt for when I go mountain biking is sexy - no matter how you look at it!
Now if i could just download some of the stuff from iJigg...
Friday, January 05, 2007
Where's Winter?
So - - my father and I got into a fight about global warming the other day. I think he’s full of shit.
As I sit here, it is raining (and parts of where I am are flooding for the THIRD time in 6 months) and it is about 60 degrees. There was a little snow back in October, and then it has not been colder than the high thirties since then.
This is unheard of here in Cleveland. When I was growing up, I remember months and months of snow. And months of “booger-freezing cold”. For those of you who’ve never lived in the northern latitudes of North America, you have no idea what booger freezing cold is. It’s what happens when it gets so cold outside that, as soon as you go out, all of the moisture in your nostrils freezes instantly; causing a constricting, tickly, not entirely comfortable feeling in your nose. This phenomenon was a regular part of growing up here in Northern Ohio. And it is happening less and less.
We also have an interesting geographic and meteorological anomaly living here on the southern shore of Lake Erie. It’s called Lake Effect Snow. It’s what happens when Actic, Canadian air blows across the warmer Lake Erie water. This produces snow. Lots and lots of snow. Ungodly amounts of snow. A few miles in from the lakeshore, about where my house is, this combination of meteorological confluences dumps snow on an area known, oddly enough, as the Snow Belt. It is much worse south of me,in a small village called Chardon, and the surrounding areas of Geauga County.
They have been known to get snowfalls that can be measured in the tens of feet range. As in 10+ feet of snow with a good storm.
The thing is, Geauga County is weird in that the people that live there are one of three things. 1)Affluent business people who commute into Cleveland and live in $500k plus houses. They live in Chardon for the ‘provincial, bucolic charm’ of living on the edge of ‘the country’. It’s them, or 2) The Amish. Ohio has the largest Amish community outside of Pennsylvania, and they all live in the snowbelt. I personally don’t mind the Amish, except when I’m in a hurry and they are in their buggies going 15 fucking miles an hour down a 60 mph state highway. Well, that and their funny beards. .
And that leads us to the third denizen of greater Geauga County. They would be the dumb rednecks who’ve been in Geauga County for generations. They really don’t farm or anything, but they all have pickup trucks with stickers that say such enlightened, nonstereotypical things as “Git ‘R Done!!!”, or “Ain’t Skeered”, or the ever popular one of Calvin peeing on the logo of whatever brand of truck they’re NOT driving.
And here is what I lament most about Global Warming. It was these same rednecks who would, when I was growing up, park their trucks when the snow got too deep and pull out the handy-dandy snowmobile to get around. There’s nothing more heartwarming than to drive past a bar on a Friday or Saturday night along US Route 6 in Geauga County and see twenty or thirty snowmobiles lined up in the parking lot.
Then, every year, one of these dumb and hopelessly shitfaced rednecks would be cruising home a bit too fast after last call and invariable find a wire across someone’s driveway.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the true tragedy of global warming. No more decapitated rednecks, because it’s 60 goddamned degrees in January in the Northern Great Lakes.
“‘Cause decapitation, that’s funny – I don’t care who you are…”
As I sit here, it is raining (and parts of where I am are flooding for the THIRD time in 6 months) and it is about 60 degrees. There was a little snow back in October, and then it has not been colder than the high thirties since then.
This is unheard of here in Cleveland. When I was growing up, I remember months and months of snow. And months of “booger-freezing cold”. For those of you who’ve never lived in the northern latitudes of North America, you have no idea what booger freezing cold is. It’s what happens when it gets so cold outside that, as soon as you go out, all of the moisture in your nostrils freezes instantly; causing a constricting, tickly, not entirely comfortable feeling in your nose. This phenomenon was a regular part of growing up here in Northern Ohio. And it is happening less and less.
We also have an interesting geographic and meteorological anomaly living here on the southern shore of Lake Erie. It’s called Lake Effect Snow. It’s what happens when Actic, Canadian air blows across the warmer Lake Erie water. This produces snow. Lots and lots of snow. Ungodly amounts of snow. A few miles in from the lakeshore, about where my house is, this combination of meteorological confluences dumps snow on an area known, oddly enough, as the Snow Belt. It is much worse south of me,in a small village called Chardon, and the surrounding areas of Geauga County.
They have been known to get snowfalls that can be measured in the tens of feet range. As in 10+ feet of snow with a good storm.
The thing is, Geauga County is weird in that the people that live there are one of three things. 1)Affluent business people who commute into Cleveland and live in $500k plus houses. They live in Chardon for the ‘provincial, bucolic charm’ of living on the edge of ‘the country’. It’s them, or 2) The Amish. Ohio has the largest Amish community outside of Pennsylvania, and they all live in the snowbelt. I personally don’t mind the Amish, except when I’m in a hurry and they are in their buggies going 15 fucking miles an hour down a 60 mph state highway. Well, that and their funny beards.
And that leads us to the third denizen of greater Geauga County. They would be the dumb rednecks who’ve been in Geauga County for generations. They really don’t farm or anything, but they all have pickup trucks with stickers that say such enlightened, nonstereotypical things as “Git ‘R Done!!!”, or “Ain’t Skeered”, or the ever popular one of Calvin peeing on the logo of whatever brand of truck they’re NOT driving.
And here is what I lament most about Global Warming. It was these same rednecks who would, when I was growing up, park their trucks when the snow got too deep and pull out the handy-dandy snowmobile to get around. There’s nothing more heartwarming than to drive past a bar on a Friday or Saturday night along US Route 6 in Geauga County and see twenty or thirty snowmobiles lined up in the parking lot.
Then, every year, one of these dumb and hopelessly shitfaced rednecks would be cruising home a bit too fast after last call and invariable find a wire across someone’s driveway.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the true tragedy of global warming. No more decapitated rednecks, because it’s 60 goddamned degrees in January in the Northern Great Lakes.
“‘Cause decapitation, that’s funny – I don’t care who you are…”
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Still looking for a Harley!
For those of you who know me - - you'll know that I've been looking for a Harley for ages. I love the Harleys!
Anyway - I've been looking for a while and have been trying to work some barters or trades with various old Sportster owners, but to no avail. To help with that, I'm posting my current bike everywhere on the web.
To that end: I'm gonna post up a picture of my bike (or at least a picture of a similar bike I stole from Google) on the site for a couple different reasons. They are, in no order of importance:
A) I have a pretty good local readership. Maybe someone who looks at my site would be interested or knows someone who's looking for a good beginner motorcycle (especially if gas prices go up this upcoming year!),
B) I need to link to a picture for some of the on line forums I frequent,
and, C) I'm hoping SOMEONE will take pity on me and buy the damned thing so I can purchase a cheap, basket case Harley before spring gets here. A bunch of my buddies I ride with (with such warm and cuddly names as "The Snake" and "Rabid Wolf") have been really busting my undead balls to get a Harley, and I've been taken with the idea of purchasing an old, old ironhead Harley (That's from the 60, 70's, or early 80's) and turning into a chopped bobber. And I can't do that if I can't sell my Kawasaki Rice Ride!!!!
Sooooo, here's a picture of it....
My bike looks exactly like that - - but it has saddlebags. Actually - The bike itself is a 2002 Kawasaki Vulcan 500 ltd with about 3500 or so miles on it (that's subject to change if the global warming keeps it as warm as it's been this winter :) ) It's always been garaged, comes with saddlebag supports and a tank bib with a pocket for sunglasses, cellphone, etc...
And it can be all yours for the low, low price of $2500 or best offer...
Whaddya think? Know somebody who wants one? Would YOU like one. Truthfully, it'd make a great bike for a beginning rider.
And if you know Mrs. Zombie - - don't let her give you grief about me and my quest for a Harley! She isn't serious. Really.
Anyway - I've been looking for a while and have been trying to work some barters or trades with various old Sportster owners, but to no avail. To help with that, I'm posting my current bike everywhere on the web.
To that end: I'm gonna post up a picture of my bike (or at least a picture of a similar bike I stole from Google) on the site for a couple different reasons. They are, in no order of importance:
A) I have a pretty good local readership. Maybe someone who looks at my site would be interested or knows someone who's looking for a good beginner motorcycle (especially if gas prices go up this upcoming year!),
B) I need to link to a picture for some of the on line forums I frequent,
and, C) I'm hoping SOMEONE will take pity on me and buy the damned thing so I can purchase a cheap, basket case Harley before spring gets here. A bunch of my buddies I ride with (with such warm and cuddly names as "The Snake" and "Rabid Wolf") have been really busting my undead balls to get a Harley, and I've been taken with the idea of purchasing an old, old ironhead Harley (That's from the 60, 70's, or early 80's) and turning into a chopped bobber. And I can't do that if I can't sell my Kawasaki Rice Ride!!!!
Sooooo, here's a picture of it....
My bike looks exactly like that - - but it has saddlebags. Actually - The bike itself is a 2002 Kawasaki Vulcan 500 ltd with about 3500 or so miles on it (that's subject to change if the global warming keeps it as warm as it's been this winter :) ) It's always been garaged, comes with saddlebag supports and a tank bib with a pocket for sunglasses, cellphone, etc...
And it can be all yours for the low, low price of $2500 or best offer...
Whaddya think? Know somebody who wants one? Would YOU like one. Truthfully, it'd make a great bike for a beginning rider.
And if you know Mrs. Zombie - - don't let her give you grief about me and my quest for a Harley! She isn't serious. Really.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Do you smell something burning?
Just a quick update because I’ve been woefully negligent in updating…
It was a good Yule. Zombie Boy and Wolf Girl got everything they asked for from Santa (except for the two or three things they asked for within twelve hours of Christmas. Sorry, kids - - Santa braves the rude and claustrophobia inducing masses at the local mall only once or twice during this ‘alleged’ season of good will. Sorry - - you gotta let him know about the Heelies BEFORE he’s done his shopping.)
So – what’s the new year got in store for Doctor Zombie?
Well – I’ll be working on more writing. I need to finish my current novel and also try to get some freelance work. I’d love to write for some Indie horror movie rags; mags like Fangoria or Rue Morgue, so I’ll be pestering their as yet unknowing editorial staff to let me contribute. I expect I will most likely need to come to the editor’s houses at night, while their sleeping, and do various evil things to them in a coercive attempt to further my own nefarious writing ambitions.
I’ll also be doing more movie reviews in general. Expect a big change in the site within the next few months. I’ll be redesigning it and making it more of an online zine. Don’t worry though, my lvoely undead minions - - I’ll still be blogging.
And then, there’s the big project on the horizon…
I’ve got one word for you: Solar Death Ray.
I’ve been perusing various sites and have decided to start work on my very own Solar Death Ray. Some of the cool sites that have inspired me are Solardeathray.com, some coolness over at Zombie Squad, and this article on Wired that I found. That and I caught the Mythbusters episode where they attempted to recreate Archimedes Death Ray. I’m not sure about the design I’m leaning towards, but I assure you, you will see updates and pictures of my alpha and beta melting-shit-just-because-it’s-cool! tests.
So - - the new year promises much for Doctor Zombie and my plans for world domination. Happy New Year!
It was a good Yule. Zombie Boy and Wolf Girl got everything they asked for from Santa (except for the two or three things they asked for within twelve hours of Christmas. Sorry, kids - - Santa braves the rude and claustrophobia inducing masses at the local mall only once or twice during this ‘alleged’ season of good will. Sorry - - you gotta let him know about the Heelies BEFORE he’s done his shopping.)
So – what’s the new year got in store for Doctor Zombie?
Well – I’ll be working on more writing. I need to finish my current novel and also try to get some freelance work. I’d love to write for some Indie horror movie rags; mags like Fangoria or Rue Morgue, so I’ll be pestering their as yet unknowing editorial staff to let me contribute. I expect I will most likely need to come to the editor’s houses at night, while their sleeping, and do various evil things to them in a coercive attempt to further my own nefarious writing ambitions.
I’ll also be doing more movie reviews in general. Expect a big change in the site within the next few months. I’ll be redesigning it and making it more of an online zine. Don’t worry though, my lvoely undead minions - - I’ll still be blogging.
And then, there’s the big project on the horizon…
I’ve got one word for you: Solar Death Ray.
I’ve been perusing various sites and have decided to start work on my very own Solar Death Ray. Some of the cool sites that have inspired me are Solardeathray.com, some coolness over at Zombie Squad, and this article on Wired that I found. That and I caught the Mythbusters episode where they attempted to recreate Archimedes Death Ray. I’m not sure about the design I’m leaning towards, but I assure you, you will see updates and pictures of my alpha and beta melting-shit-just-because-it’s-cool! tests.
So - - the new year promises much for Doctor Zombie and my plans for world domination. Happy New Year!
Friday, December 08, 2006
Movie Review - The Gamers (2002)
So I’ve mentioned before a small and as yet unrealeased independent film starring an old friend of mine, the lovely Carol Roscoe (actress extraordinaire!). She worked with a group of improv actors in Oregon called The Dead Gentlemen. These crazy guys have expanded their comedy empire to include several low, low budget indie films; including The Gamers: Dorkness Rising which features my friend Carol.
Well, I managed to get my cold, undead hands on a copy of their first production - The Gamers – and I’ve got to say it is a piece of cinematic fried gold!
As I said, it is a really low budget flick. That being said it was actually well written, had decent (if bottom dollar) production quality, and was downright hilarious.
The plot revolves around a group of college age guys who return to their dorm from a movie on a Friday night to begin a night of role-playing. They are involved in an adventure in an AD&D-type universe and, as they play, the action shifts from their dorm room to the adventure itself - with the actors playing both their real life and game world characters. Leaving on a quest to stop the evil Shadow and save a princess, the adventurers make their way across a fantasy world filled with harrowing evil; or at least some members of the local SCA Guild.
What works so well about this movie is that it resonates in that geeky part of you. You know, that part that anyone who’s stayed up all night – casting spells, or crawling through dungeons, or arguing how their Dwarven Cleric could totally kill a dragon with his +12 Hammer of Inconvenient Doom - must recognize. Basically, it is a movie by gamers for gamers. Anyone who’s gamed will recognize the in jokes of the gaming world. There’s the guy who has to argue every rule. There’s the mishap where the other gamers accidentally kill one member of the party. There’s even an attempt to backstab an enemy in a bar with a ballista that does 264 points of damage.
This flick has it all, dear readers!
I’ve always said that it takes a special kind of person to role play. There’s an intelligence, wit, and creativity that many in the outside world lack. And it is a quality, an essence, that other gamers can sense. Basically, we geeks can smell one another. And the Dead Gentlemen smell like my kind of geeks. Huzzah!
In fact, I’m half thinking I might make Mrs. Zombie watch this as she’s never understood the nerdiness Dr. Z’s capable of. It’s that kind of movie, friend. It is laugh out loud funny, it’s quotable, and it will even appeal to those who aren’t part of the RPG’ing world.
My only complaint was a small one in that the copy I had would not turn off the English subtitles. It was at first distracting, but actually helped later when the poor sound transfer showed. Other than that, it should be obvious how much I liked this movie. (So much did I like it in fact, that I will most likely be shelling out the $20 to pick up the Director’s Cut that was just recently released. It makes me salivate even more for the sequel - -The Gamers: Dorkness Rising.)
So, my final verdict on this is that you MUST purchase this and encourage these guys to make more movies! Doctor Zombie commands all of his undead minions to go to the Dead Gentlemen Site and give them some hard earned sheckels! Do it, my lovely zombie minions! Do it now!
Doctor Zombie’s Rating: 5 out of 5 Chomped Brains!!!
Well, I managed to get my cold, undead hands on a copy of their first production - The Gamers – and I’ve got to say it is a piece of cinematic fried gold!
As I said, it is a really low budget flick. That being said it was actually well written, had decent (if bottom dollar) production quality, and was downright hilarious.
The plot revolves around a group of college age guys who return to their dorm from a movie on a Friday night to begin a night of role-playing. They are involved in an adventure in an AD&D-type universe and, as they play, the action shifts from their dorm room to the adventure itself - with the actors playing both their real life and game world characters. Leaving on a quest to stop the evil Shadow and save a princess, the adventurers make their way across a fantasy world filled with harrowing evil; or at least some members of the local SCA Guild.
What works so well about this movie is that it resonates in that geeky part of you. You know, that part that anyone who’s stayed up all night – casting spells, or crawling through dungeons, or arguing how their Dwarven Cleric could totally kill a dragon with his +12 Hammer of Inconvenient Doom - must recognize. Basically, it is a movie by gamers for gamers. Anyone who’s gamed will recognize the in jokes of the gaming world. There’s the guy who has to argue every rule. There’s the mishap where the other gamers accidentally kill one member of the party. There’s even an attempt to backstab an enemy in a bar with a ballista that does 264 points of damage.
This flick has it all, dear readers!
I’ve always said that it takes a special kind of person to role play. There’s an intelligence, wit, and creativity that many in the outside world lack. And it is a quality, an essence, that other gamers can sense. Basically, we geeks can smell one another. And the Dead Gentlemen smell like my kind of geeks. Huzzah!
In fact, I’m half thinking I might make Mrs. Zombie watch this as she’s never understood the nerdiness Dr. Z’s capable of. It’s that kind of movie, friend. It is laugh out loud funny, it’s quotable, and it will even appeal to those who aren’t part of the RPG’ing world.
My only complaint was a small one in that the copy I had would not turn off the English subtitles. It was at first distracting, but actually helped later when the poor sound transfer showed. Other than that, it should be obvious how much I liked this movie. (So much did I like it in fact, that I will most likely be shelling out the $20 to pick up the Director’s Cut that was just recently released. It makes me salivate even more for the sequel - -The Gamers: Dorkness Rising.)
So, my final verdict on this is that you MUST purchase this and encourage these guys to make more movies! Doctor Zombie commands all of his undead minions to go to the Dead Gentlemen Site and give them some hard earned sheckels! Do it, my lovely zombie minions! Do it now!
Doctor Zombie’s Rating: 5 out of 5 Chomped Brains!!!
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Furry Raccoon Bastards, Part Deux...
So - - my brother Curt stops by a few weeks ago.
“Hey!” says he, “You’re a psychopath. Do you have any bottle rockets?”
“I resent that!” I protested, “Why would you assume that I’m a psychopath who would have dangerous and illegal (in the state of Ohio) explosives just lying around the house?!? I have kids, for chissakes!”
He arched an eyebrow at me.
“All right,” I said, “I’ve got the better part of a gross left over from the Fourth of July. I may also have a Roman candle or two. What do you need them for?”
Well, it turns out my brother had been having some trouble at his new house. He has a nice addition off of the back that has a big fireplace in it. Apparently he had a family of raccoons living in it and he was looking for a way to get rid of them.
Now, you’ve read of my previous battle against the raccoons, so you know I and the furry interlopers have history. That said, though, I had to ask, “So why don’t you light a fire and smoke ‘em out?”
“Well,” replies Curt, “I can’t light a fire because the chimney needs to be cleaned, and the chimney sweeps won’t come clean it with a family of raccoons lurking inside. Also, lighting a fire seems somehow… cruel. That, and I’m sure it’d cook them and it’d smell bad. You know?”
I nodded, not relishing the image of cooked baby raccoons. I added, “Besides, how would you get their charred furry bodies out once they’d died?”
“Exactly!” my brother said, “So, I thought I’d just, you know, get some firecrackers and scare them out. Besides, the Raccoon Removal Guy is REALLY expensive.”
I frowned, thinking through his plan. Although the idea of submitting the raccoons to an artillery barrage not unlike the German Blitz on World War II London seemed somehow less humane, there WAS the opportunity of playing with explosives. Also, it would save my brother some money. And I'd get to play with firecrackers.
The eight year old part of my brain won the argument and fell firmly on the side of firecrackers.
“Cool,” I said, “Let’s go.”
So we retrieved my bag of thunderous doom from the laboratory. (That’s how I 've labeled the waterproof container I keep my firecrackers in. It is emblazoned in big letters “DR. Z’S THUNDEROUS BAG OF DOOM!!!”. That’s so it’s not confused with, say, the Christmas ornaments.) and we headed over to Curt’s, after a short stop at the store for a couple of 8 packs of Guinness.
We arrived and proceeded to set up. His wife peaked her head in and asked what we were planning. We only got as far as “Firecrackers” and “Big Ba-Da-Booms!” and "Han's team is on Endor and they should have turned off the shield generator..." when she shook her head in disgust.
“I’m going to my sister's because one of you two idiots is going to lose a hand or an eye and I’ll be damned if I’m going to drive you to the hospital,” she said.
Why is it women never recognize a good plan when they hear it?
Anyway. We set up and, as we drank a few beers, came up with the finer points of our plan. We retrieved a piece of plywood and a cinder block from the garage. After setting a ladder against the house, we lugged these to the roof. Our intention was to, once the raccoons were extricated from the chimney, run up and put the board over the top. We would, after a few days, replace it with a screeen when we could afford it. (We’d blown any available cash we’d had on us on Guinness and beef jerky at the local Quick Stop. Plus, Curt’s wife had refused to give us any more money because of some nonsense about “not contributing to our stupid, drunken, Irish shenanigans.”)
So, after placing the wood and brick, we scurried back down and ran to the family room, where we proceeded to have a few more frothy Irish adult bevarages. After locating a box of Blue Tip matches, we let loose with the barrage.
I’m sure the neighbors must have thought we were insane as, for the next 40 minutes, it looked like hellfire was spewing from my brother’s chimney. After we had drank the rest of the beer and shot through several hundred bottle rockets and a dozen or so Roman candles, we called off the assault. (This was roughly about the time we were drunk enough that it sounded like a good idea to get some duct tape and make a super bottle rocket by taping 50 or so of them together. Remarkably, and defying the expectations of either of our wives, we showed rare good judgement and decided that the raccoons had most likely had enough.)
So we staggered drunkenly outside, up the ladder, and placed the board over the top of the chimney, securing it with the cinder block. I'm not sure, but I think this is the point at which I fell off of the roof. In an act of brotherly love, Curt left me unconscious and snoring in the fallen leaves in his flower beds, assuming in his drunkeness that I'd planned to stay there in the first place.
I woke up some hours later and staggered home.
“Jackass,” my wife said, seeing my drunken state. She rolled her eyes at my disheveled appearance. (My clothes were muddy and torn, I smelled of gunpowder and Guinness, and I was well and truly blotto.) I staggered off to bed without so much as a good night kiss. I'm not sure why.
I was awoken the next morning by my wife, who woke me by throwing the phone at me where I lay on our bed; snoring, farty, naked, and in the grips of a horrible hangover.
“It’s Curt’s wife,” she said, “You two idiots have done it now.”
It turns out that there were some inherent flaws in our initial plan. Curt had left me asleep in the planter and went inside to find that, now that we’d capped the top of the chimney, all of the bluish smoke and haze from the metric fuckton of bottle rockets we’d sent up the chimney was now backing up into the house. So, in his drunken state, he’d gone back to the garage and placed another piece of plywood against the bottom of the fireplace - - holding it in place with several straegically placed pillows. He too, then staggered off to bed.
That’s were the flaws of our plan became apparent. In retrospect, it would probably have been a good idea to post a lookout outside to see if the raccoons actually CAME OUT of the chimney. Although a seemingly simple idea to any Monday morning quarterback, I have to admit that it wasn’t so apparent when you’ve got a hand full of fireworks just dying to be blown off.
Remember my World War II analogy from earlier? Well, while we were bombing Oxford Street and Picadilly Circus like Germans in Messerschmidts, the raccoons were holed up like Londoners in the Underground. They apparently waited out our artillery, like the furry balls of evil that raccoons are, and waited until the house had grown quiet later that night.
It was then that they crawled out of the chimney like ninjas - - furry, spiteful, angry ninjas.
They knocked over the plywood in the family room and in an act of wanton rage and disrespect, proceeded to shit all over the room; tear up the pillows and couch; and defile my poor brother’s almost priceless collection of Dragon Magazines.
He and I spent several long, hungover hours cleaning it up the next day. We then called the Raccoon Removal Guy - -who charged us an arm and a leg to remove the furry interlopers.
So - - what’s the aftermath? Well, it didn’t turn out too well for me. I’m now required to check with Mrs. Zombie every time I think about any unauthorized uses of DR. Z’S THUNDEROUS BAG OF DOOM!!!; all harebrained, money saving schemes Curt and I come up with must be submitted to a panel that includes at least three wives; and – worst of all – I’m not allowed to participate in anything that involves the word ‘raccoon’ in it anymore. Uncool.
I swear, the furry bastards are out to get me…
“Hey!” says he, “You’re a psychopath. Do you have any bottle rockets?”
“I resent that!” I protested, “Why would you assume that I’m a psychopath who would have dangerous and illegal (in the state of Ohio) explosives just lying around the house?!? I have kids, for chissakes!”
He arched an eyebrow at me.
“All right,” I said, “I’ve got the better part of a gross left over from the Fourth of July. I may also have a Roman candle or two. What do you need them for?”
Well, it turns out my brother had been having some trouble at his new house. He has a nice addition off of the back that has a big fireplace in it. Apparently he had a family of raccoons living in it and he was looking for a way to get rid of them.
Now, you’ve read of my previous battle against the raccoons, so you know I and the furry interlopers have history. That said, though, I had to ask, “So why don’t you light a fire and smoke ‘em out?”
“Well,” replies Curt, “I can’t light a fire because the chimney needs to be cleaned, and the chimney sweeps won’t come clean it with a family of raccoons lurking inside. Also, lighting a fire seems somehow… cruel. That, and I’m sure it’d cook them and it’d smell bad. You know?”
I nodded, not relishing the image of cooked baby raccoons. I added, “Besides, how would you get their charred furry bodies out once they’d died?”
“Exactly!” my brother said, “So, I thought I’d just, you know, get some firecrackers and scare them out. Besides, the Raccoon Removal Guy is REALLY expensive.”
I frowned, thinking through his plan. Although the idea of submitting the raccoons to an artillery barrage not unlike the German Blitz on World War II London seemed somehow less humane, there WAS the opportunity of playing with explosives. Also, it would save my brother some money. And I'd get to play with firecrackers.
The eight year old part of my brain won the argument and fell firmly on the side of firecrackers.
“Cool,” I said, “Let’s go.”
So we retrieved my bag of thunderous doom from the laboratory. (That’s how I 've labeled the waterproof container I keep my firecrackers in. It is emblazoned in big letters “DR. Z’S THUNDEROUS BAG OF DOOM!!!”. That’s so it’s not confused with, say, the Christmas ornaments.) and we headed over to Curt’s, after a short stop at the store for a couple of 8 packs of Guinness.
We arrived and proceeded to set up. His wife peaked her head in and asked what we were planning. We only got as far as “Firecrackers” and “Big Ba-Da-Booms!” and "Han's team is on Endor and they should have turned off the shield generator..." when she shook her head in disgust.
“I’m going to my sister's because one of you two idiots is going to lose a hand or an eye and I’ll be damned if I’m going to drive you to the hospital,” she said.
Why is it women never recognize a good plan when they hear it?
Anyway. We set up and, as we drank a few beers, came up with the finer points of our plan. We retrieved a piece of plywood and a cinder block from the garage. After setting a ladder against the house, we lugged these to the roof. Our intention was to, once the raccoons were extricated from the chimney, run up and put the board over the top. We would, after a few days, replace it with a screeen when we could afford it. (We’d blown any available cash we’d had on us on Guinness and beef jerky at the local Quick Stop. Plus, Curt’s wife had refused to give us any more money because of some nonsense about “not contributing to our stupid, drunken, Irish shenanigans.”)
So, after placing the wood and brick, we scurried back down and ran to the family room, where we proceeded to have a few more frothy Irish adult bevarages. After locating a box of Blue Tip matches, we let loose with the barrage.
I’m sure the neighbors must have thought we were insane as, for the next 40 minutes, it looked like hellfire was spewing from my brother’s chimney. After we had drank the rest of the beer and shot through several hundred bottle rockets and a dozen or so Roman candles, we called off the assault. (This was roughly about the time we were drunk enough that it sounded like a good idea to get some duct tape and make a super bottle rocket by taping 50 or so of them together. Remarkably, and defying the expectations of either of our wives, we showed rare good judgement and decided that the raccoons had most likely had enough.)
So we staggered drunkenly outside, up the ladder, and placed the board over the top of the chimney, securing it with the cinder block. I'm not sure, but I think this is the point at which I fell off of the roof. In an act of brotherly love, Curt left me unconscious and snoring in the fallen leaves in his flower beds, assuming in his drunkeness that I'd planned to stay there in the first place.
I woke up some hours later and staggered home.
“Jackass,” my wife said, seeing my drunken state. She rolled her eyes at my disheveled appearance. (My clothes were muddy and torn, I smelled of gunpowder and Guinness, and I was well and truly blotto.) I staggered off to bed without so much as a good night kiss. I'm not sure why.
I was awoken the next morning by my wife, who woke me by throwing the phone at me where I lay on our bed; snoring, farty, naked, and in the grips of a horrible hangover.
“It’s Curt’s wife,” she said, “You two idiots have done it now.”
It turns out that there were some inherent flaws in our initial plan. Curt had left me asleep in the planter and went inside to find that, now that we’d capped the top of the chimney, all of the bluish smoke and haze from the metric fuckton of bottle rockets we’d sent up the chimney was now backing up into the house. So, in his drunken state, he’d gone back to the garage and placed another piece of plywood against the bottom of the fireplace - - holding it in place with several straegically placed pillows. He too, then staggered off to bed.
That’s were the flaws of our plan became apparent. In retrospect, it would probably have been a good idea to post a lookout outside to see if the raccoons actually CAME OUT of the chimney. Although a seemingly simple idea to any Monday morning quarterback, I have to admit that it wasn’t so apparent when you’ve got a hand full of fireworks just dying to be blown off.
Remember my World War II analogy from earlier? Well, while we were bombing Oxford Street and Picadilly Circus like Germans in Messerschmidts, the raccoons were holed up like Londoners in the Underground. They apparently waited out our artillery, like the furry balls of evil that raccoons are, and waited until the house had grown quiet later that night.
It was then that they crawled out of the chimney like ninjas - - furry, spiteful, angry ninjas.
They knocked over the plywood in the family room and in an act of wanton rage and disrespect, proceeded to shit all over the room; tear up the pillows and couch; and defile my poor brother’s almost priceless collection of Dragon Magazines.
He and I spent several long, hungover hours cleaning it up the next day. We then called the Raccoon Removal Guy - -who charged us an arm and a leg to remove the furry interlopers.
So - - what’s the aftermath? Well, it didn’t turn out too well for me. I’m now required to check with Mrs. Zombie every time I think about any unauthorized uses of DR. Z’S THUNDEROUS BAG OF DOOM!!!; all harebrained, money saving schemes Curt and I come up with must be submitted to a panel that includes at least three wives; and – worst of all – I’m not allowed to participate in anything that involves the word ‘raccoon’ in it anymore. Uncool.
I swear, the furry bastards are out to get me…
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