Perhaps its because I’m a masochist or maybe it’s the fact that I’m the sick sort of soul who sees the magic in the truly horrifying. Regardless there is something truly enchanting about having a shitty job. Aside from the discounts it’s the only thing that explains why I continue to work at a comic book store for minimum wage. The amazing and tragic specimens of humanity that walk through that door make it all worthwhile. One of my most hated and therefore favorite customers is the kind of character I couldn’t come up with on my own even with unlimited amounts of the finest drugs. Allow me to paint the picture for you. About five foot eight inches tall and two hundred eighty pounds. An oversized fanny pack clinging to the underside of his porcine breadbasket which seems to be perpetually wrapped tightly in a purple polo shirt which bears the war wounds of ultimate cheeseburgers of days gone by. Would you expect any less than greasy matted hair? I would assume not. However, allow me to up the anti; mutton chops. This addition baffles me every time I see his nauseating visage. Is this suppose some sort of hip garnish who’s intent is to convince you that you’re not eating uncooked pig intestine stuffed with Crisco? Its not working. His fingernails are unreasonably long. I can only assume the reason for the protractedness of his nails is to accommodate the accumulation of the crusted sewage that won’t fit in his fanny pack. Granted he is not a pretty man but it only gets better from there. He has a ritual. He comes in at the same time every day without fail. He walks directly to the new comic book rack and picks up the most recent Scooby Doo comic book or some comparable children’s title. Then its right over to the adult section where he carefully chooses very important titles like Sticky, Blowjob or Anal Intruders From Mars. It’s a horrifying and amazing juxtaposition. This is where our interaction begins which is just as ritualized as the rest of his weekly trip to the comic book store. I tell him how much he owes for his smut and children’s books and he gives me the money. I carefully drop the change into his palm with the intent of avoiding direct contact with his disgusting paw. Then even if I already have his comics in a bag and have them held out for him to snatch up and run off to mothers basement he says the same thing,

“I’ll take a bag. If you got one.”

Yes I have a bag. Its right here. Your comics are inside of it. Take it and go away.

People are magic and horrible. If you’re disgusted take a moment and let it wash over you’re pallet like a fine wine. There’s a reason Da Vinci liked to work in grotesques.

Like most straight men with a set of testicles hanging from between their legs there’s a part of me somewhere that wishes I was capable of performing the ol’ fuck and flee on any pretty young girl which causes the blood to flow in all the right places. Unfortunately for me and fortunately for a few pretty young girls my parents chose to raise me with some respect for the fairer sex. It’s this engrained belief which has resulted in missing out on more than a few nights of filthy no-strings raunchy sex. On the second night of my first US tour I had one of the most painful experiences regarding my inability to treat women as objects. I had a girlfriend at the time and as if it’s not hard enough to be away from you significant other there also just happens to be all kinds of girls willing to offer their bodies for single serving use simply because you’re in a band. The show was in Seattle and there was a blonde girl with a figure that was capable of throwing babies into seizures. It was painfully obvious that this young lady was desperate to get a chance to try to damage my sensitive parts. And good god did I ever want them damaged. The way she presented it seemed like a perfect idea regardless of what any girlfriend’s, wives or priests had to say about it. Despite the fact that there was a part of me making a list of all the depraved acts I wanted to perform in, on, around and to her we had to leave that night to play Vancouver the next day. I proceeded to explain this to her and mentioned that she should ‘come on out’, as if it was just short drive across town to drop off some movies to the video store. I hopped in the van to leave certain that I would never see this girl again. However it seemed that this young lady was far more persistent than I gave her credit for. She did show up in Vancouver and this time she had brought back up. Between them, these three girls had enough curves to give a café racer wood for months. During our set I watched these predatory sex demons point at me while exchanging what I’m sure we’re tactical methods any army would kill for. After we had finished playing, they descended like vultures.

“We’ve got a hotel room a few blocks from here,” they told me “we’re just gonna go back and get naked. You should come over.”

‘Yes’ I thought, ‘I should come over. I should come right over. In fact we should leave right now. I’m not sure I have enough time to preform all the depraved acts I have written down in my note book here. Times a wastin!’

Although the reality the reality of the situation was that I didn’t say that in fact I didn’t say anything like that.

“Umm… That sounds really cool. I mean… I would love nothing more than to go back to your hotel where the three of you will be uhh… Naked. But I you know… Have a girlfriend”

I had figured that the unveiling of this information would be just cause for these ladies to relinquish their campaign. However, the one flaw in my rational was due to the fact that I had yet to learn one universal truth. That being that most girls wanna get laid as much as most guys do. The statements that followed were not unlike the ones I received later upon relating this story to many of my male friends.

“What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.”

“It doesn’t count if it’s in another area code”

“When are you ever going to get a chance to have sex with three girls at once?”

It was this last rebuttal which had almost caused me crumble. I’d like to tell you that I’ve had plenty of chances to have sex with three girls at once. Perhaps I have and just didn’t realize it but I can tell you this; none since have been served in such a blatant and enticing fashion.

The four of us went back and forth for a while I leaned on the flimsy crutch of an excuse that was having a girlfriend. Finally they relented.

“Look, we’re gonna go back to the hotel take all our clothes of and smoke some pot. If you decide you wanna come by here’s the room number”.

So I stood there holding the golden ticket watching them walk away while they pawed at each others asses which I’m sure were the flavor of some exotic candy the likes of which I would never taste. As regret washed over me like a punch to the groin a friend of mine walked over and asked me,

“What the fuck did you just do?”

As I explained to him what I had repeatedly told my hunters it started to sound even more ridiculous.

“You’re a jackass.” He declared as he snatched the hotel number from my hand and disappeared into the night. I didn’t see him til the next day when he showed up at my hotel room. I had tried desperately not to think of the kinds of things that had gone on in that hotel room but I knew there was no way he was going to let me live in comfortable ignorance. He walked right up to me with a satisfied and smug look on his face smiled and said,

“Wanna smell my fingers?”

I told him that I couldn’t. I had a girlfriend after all.

There are people who simply never fail to blow me away. Granted there may be an easy win for folks who are incredibly talented, creative or beautiful but I’m not talking about people like that. I’m referring to folks with absolutely no sense of self awareness.

Morbidly obese women with shirts that say “naughty” or “princess” dragging filthy faced toddlers by the arm.

Old people who smoke.

Individuals whose lives are unequivocally unsatisfying yet make to move to change.

Now those people are tragic blind heroes, People who boldly continue a long pattern of stupidity in the face of a whole world that disputes their very lifestyle. There is no doubt you’ve seen these people, grown men with thin finely braided rat tails. At first blush these folks may appear to be clueless and yes, in a way they are. However the fact of the matter is these people are heroes. They are the Davies to realities Goliath.

Often times when I am graced by the presence of these types my reaction is much the same as most of society.

            “Good god what horrible timeless rock did this person crawl out from under so that I may avoid tripping over it and falling into the time rift?”

            However, there are occasions when I am able to swallow my repulsion and see them for what they are; freedom fighters.

            A few nights ago I was out in front of a club at about one in the morning and one such majestic creature brought his reality colliding with mine. I was sitting on the curb enjoying a smoke and a cup of coffee when said individual walked by. He was sporting the aforementioned rat tail and he was well past drunk. As he made his way past he eyed me and stopped to pose a query.

            “Hey bro, what’s up with you, just drinking coffee?”

            “Yeah well, I’ve got to drive later.”

He started to stagger away and here’s where the magic happened. Once he was about 10 feet away he whirled around and declared,

            “I gotta do drugs later”.

I have no doubt that he did have to do drugs later. He had to do drugs later, tomorrow and every moment for the rest of his life. In his mind I was the fool and perhaps the reality of the situation is that I am.

Six months have passed since the rage virus has annihilated the British Isles. The U.S. Army declares that the war against infection has been won, and that the reconstruction of the country can begin. As the first wave of refugees return, a family is reunited–but one of them unwittingly carries a terrible secret. The virus is not yet dead, and this time–showing no outward symptoms–it is more dangerous than ever.

I am of the opinion that if your going to be fan of zombie films you can’t be to picky. Of course the films of Romero and Fulci are easily my favorites of the genre but, if your going to put hard and fast rules on what makes a good zombie flick you’re only going to be able to watch four movies for the rest of your life. 28 Weeks Later lands squarely in the domain of the imperfect yet enjoyable zombie flick. The plot can at times be somewhat contrived and predictable but contains enough new ideas to keep your interest.

The performances are solid and Walt’s dad does a decent turn as an American helicopter pilot. Director Juan Carlos Fresnadillo and Cinematographer Enrique Chediak do a fairly decent job recapturing the feel that Danny Boyle created for the original film. However there are moments where they seem to go over board. While the original film boasted a highly kinetic look tastefully juxtaposed by stretches of almost frightening calm the sequel tends to take the kinetic look a bit too far. There we’re good sections of the film’s action sequences where I had no idea what was happening on screen. Extreme camera movement can be a highly effective way of creating tension but it’s a fine line. Just as the original film the score by John Murphy goes a long way toward developing the feel of the film

All in all 28 Weeks Later is a good zombie film and well worth the price of admission. It’s a decent story with fair amounts of gore even if you cant exactly see where it’s coming from.

Kurt Vonnegut Dead At 84

I wonder if Kurt and Hunter are having drinks yet?

I saw Kurt Vonnegut speak in 1996. It was simply amazing. A few minutes into his talk my cousin turned to me and quietly asked,

“Is he drunk?”

He most certainly was. Despite the fact that he was obviously three sheets to the wind Vonnegut slurred his way through one of the most touching and hilarious speeches Ive ever heard. At 16 years of age it was topicaly on point for me. The thrust of his talk spoke to the idea that as a culture we dont offer our children an true coming of age ritual. Because of this our children our forced to create their own. What do adults do? They have children, have sex, take drugs, drink.

He was funny, sweet, caring and drunk.

And Kurt Vonnegut was without a doubt a truly stunning writer.