What happens when an imaginative kid finds himself in a series of creatively bankrupt jobs as an adult? What will he do when he's forced to grow up? "Emblogification Capture Device" is a humorous exploration of education, career, employment, lifestyle, politics and pop culture.
As I've said before, the first thing I'd do if I had a time machine is go back to 1997 and kill George Lucas with a shovel. But the second thing I'd do is pop back to 1985 and pay a visit to a certain shy, awkward, retiring, insular teen.
***
"Hey!"
"Oh, Jesus! Where the f#@k did you just come from?!?! You scared the crap outta me!"
"Sorry, sorry!"
"Who...who are you? And what the f#@k are you doing in my room?!?"
"Well, technically, it's my room, too. Y'see, I'm actually...you."
"You're...me?"
"Yeah, I'm you at age...um,...frrar de rass a mass."
"What's that? I didn't catch you, you sorta trailed off there a bit."
"Forty-two! Alright! I'm forty-two! I'm you at forty-two friggin' years old!"
"Oh, wow...really? I didn't recognize you what with that shock of white hair and your vaguely pear-like shape..."
"Yes, fine, I know! I'm workin' on it, okay?"
"So, what are you doing he...wait, is that blood?!?!"
"Oh, yeah, that's nothing. Don't worry about it."
"Nothing?!? Who's blood is that?!!"
"It's um...it's George Lucas's blood."
"George Lucas!?!? What...why?!?!?"
"Well, did you notice how Return of the Jedi kinda sucked a little bit?"
"Um...yeah."
"Well, in 1999 Lucas starts filming the Star Wars prequels and they end up making Jedi look like Citizen Kane."
"Whoa, really? I didn't see Citizen Kane..."
"Oh, you will. In 2001. And you're gonna love the shit out of it."
"Cool. Still, did you really hafta kill him?"
"Trust me, kid, it was for the best. Sooooo...whatcha doin' there? Drawing? Writing?"
"Oh, nuthin' really. Just workin' on something stup...Hey, wait! If you're me then you should know what I'm doing!"
"I do know, Matlock, I'm just tryin' to make polite conversation."
"What's 'Matlock'?"
"Never mind. It looks like you're working on some sort of D&D adventure, right?"
"Yep. I'm gonna run my first adventure for Greg, Lawrence and Stuart this Saturday. It's gonna be awesome!"
"Yeah, I know. They're really gonna dig it."
"Hey, can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Are we still playing D&D when we're forty?"
"Not nearly enough, dude."
"Bummer. So, why are you here?"
"Well, I just wanted to come back and pass on some advice. First off, I know that books, movies, and games are cool and all, but there's a big, wide, wonderful world out there and you really need to start living in it."
"Great. Apparently old me sounds a lot like our friggin' parents."
"Yeah, well, I hate to break it to you, pal, but they were right. You're only young once so you really need to start enjoying it!"
"What are you talking about?"
"Yknow, get out there! Buy some decent clothes! Get a new pair of glasses! Go to parties! Get drunk and go skinny-dipping! Start mackin' on girls, fer Chrissakes!"
"Okay, not only does old me sound a lot like our parents, he's also apparently a giant perv."
"Who...? What...?!? No, I'm not a perv! I'm just sayin' that you need to take advantage of this time in your life, when you have absolutely no responsibilities! Have some fun, for f#@k's sake! Live a little!"
"Whatever. The girls that I'm interested in at school don't even know that I'm alive. Even if I could screw up the courage to talk to them I'd probably end up sounding like an idiot."
"And that's the reason why I really wanted to talk to you. Look, you're a decent, smart, good-looking kid. You should be happy."
"Yeah, well, it's not that easy. Do you think I want to be nervous and depressed all of the time?"
"I know, buddy. It ain't easy. But if it makes you feel any better, everyone you know is dealing with the same thing. In fact, most of them are trying to contend with a lot worse. The only difference is that most kids have a small but persistent voice inside their head that re-assures them every day that they're gonna be okay and that things are gonna get better. For some reason, you can't hear that voice right now, but I'm here to tell you that it's there. You just gotta start paying attention to it."
"Hmmmm, that sounds a lot better then the inner voices that I have been listening to."
"Which brings me to my next point. When are you gonna start thinking about your...er, our future?"
"Oh, God! 'Incoming Lecture Proximity Alert'!"
"Cripes, don't be such a friggin' dweeb! Look, you gotta start thinkin' about what you're gonna do for the rest of your...er, our life!"
"I have no idea whatsoever. Honestly!"
"Look, I can understand your paralysis. The school you're going to right now sucks balls."
"Yeah, tell me about it! The only thing they're interested in is teaching math and science! They treat literature, creative writing, and visual art like a big joke!"
"I know. That's why you can't wait for a teacher or a guidance councilor to help you. You've gotta do it yourself! Start researching schools that'll give you the accreditation to do what you really want. Hey, what about art school?"
"I thought about it, but every time I mention it to someone they make fun of me and tell me that I'll never get a job."
"F#@k 'em! Look, the world needs more creative people! And you need to do something about it before you find yourself sitting in a gymnasium, writing an exam with three-hundred commerce students, most of whom'll end up working in a call center."
"What's a call center?"
"You don't want to know. Seriously."
"Well, to be honest, what I really want to do is go to film school."
"Okay! Great! That's awesome! Vancouver, Los Angeles, Toronto and New York all have great film programs..."
"Oh, no! I'm couldn't possibly do that!"
"Why not?"
"Well...I'm scared."
"Scared? Scared of what?"
"I'm scared of people."
"Why?"
"I dunno. I guess I'm always worried about what they think of me."
"Okay, I'm gonna tell you the truth right now and I want you to take it to heart. By the time you're forty, you won't give a damn about what other people think of you. So, why don't you just cut to the chase and start believing that right the f#@k now!?!"
"Heh, heh."
"What? What's so funny?"
"Nothing. I'm just glad you stopped by."
"Yeah, me too. Take care of yourself, okay?"
"Wait! Before you go, I just gotta know...are we gonna be okay? In the future I mean?"
"Yeah, buddy. We're gonna have a great future. Just know that, right now, you've got the power to make it even better."
***
Sadly, even if time machines did exist, this conversation would probably never happen. And that has nothing to do with a temporal paradox preventing the both of us from being in the same place together at the exactly same time.
What can I say? I was a really shy kid.
EPIC PHOTOSYoung Me Now Me is a pretty cool blog! I'm gonna try and do one of these photos when I'm home this X-mas...
EPIC THEORY I'm totally convinced that time travel is more feasible then "now me" successfully initiating a dialog with "young me".
A BRAVE FAILURE If I end up doing one of these Young Me/Now Me things I hereby promise to remain fully clothed.
Simply by providing an abundance of open-gaming tables last year the organizers of Hal-Con ensured that everyone in my circle of friends would be going back. In fact some of us were so impressed that we made a point of getting passes for two days instead of one.
But as I was perusing their website two Fridays ago, I began to worry that they'd scaled back this consideration. As such, we decided to forego our traditional pre-Con breakfast on Saturday morning in lieu of registering early, getting a jump on the long line-ups and finding a place to pitch. This allowed one member of our esteemed Fellowship, Sabina, to scout ahead and reserve a spot for us.
I have to say, the organizers did a fantastic job this year improving line-up efficiencies. They had a metric shit-ton of folks helping with registrations, which really helped to expedite the admissions process. In fact, it didn't take very long for the rest of us to re-united with our dauntless scout. This gave us plenty of time get our bearings and ponder what board games we should roll out first.
This year the gaming area of Hal-Con was on the third floor of the World Trade and Convention Centre. The dedicated floor space was impressive and the library of check-outable games was pretty comprehensive. On the down side, our paranoia regarding the availability of open gaming tables turned out to be somewhat justified. At face value, it looked as if there were only six free play tables and the rest was set aside for organized tournaments and game demos.
"Only six 'freeplay' tables? WTF!?"
The first table we snagged could only seat five or six people so we quickly Borg'ed a larger playing surface that could accommodate double that number. After all, at any give time we could have Andrew, Sabina, Mike and myself as well as Chad and his entire family playing games all at once. We really needed all the space we could possibly eke out.
While Mike and Andrew took a quick inventory of the vendor room, Sabina and I reviewed our schedules and pondered what our first game should be. Given that the signature session with John Rhys-Davies was happening within the hour, we really didn't want to get into a lengthy game that we couldn't finish in time. In fact, we silently hoped that Mike and Andrew would be back in time for us to get away.
During this time a well-intentioned but slightly militant Hal-Con volunteer came up to our table and started to cross-examine us:
HER: "Hi, are you going to be playing board games here? ME: "Um...yeah." HER: "Are they board games that you bought here?" ME: "Well, yes. (Lying!) We've got a couple of friends down in the vendor section right now." HER: "Okay, but did you check with anyone to make sure that it was alright for you to play games here?" SABINA: "Well, I'm pretty sure that the map in the convention guide said that these are the 'free play' tables." ME: (Lying, again) "Plus I did check with a couple of people and they said that it was okay for us to be here." HER: "Oh, okay! Sorry, I'm new to this and I'm just getting the hang of things myself!"
Now before I go on my rant, I want to declare that the Hal-Con volunteer staff was nothing short of amazing. But just like every other Con that includes board-gaming in its curriculum, I should be permitted to bring in my own previously purchased board games, play the crap out of them and meet with some of my fellow local gamers. Especially if I paid thirty bucks a day for the privilege of being there.
Look, unless I'm standing on top of a table with my pants down around my ankles inviting people to check out my "Warhammer" then you really need to make like Luke in his landspeeder and "move along".
Mercifully Andrew made our occupation completely legit by coming back from the vendor room with a board game called Lords of Waterdeep. After that, I decided to tempt fate somewhat by setting up a little guerilla-style promotional display for my book. Self-whoring is fun!
"Um...sure I paid a booth fee."
After that I had a chance to poke around for a little bit. After video-bombing some of the exotic-looking board games being set up, I checked out the awesome array of Dungeons & Dragons paraphernalia assembled by local RPG group "The Gelatinous Dudes". After that, I rummaged through the vendor section, snagging a copy of the Star Wars: X-Wing Miniatures Gamefrom Mike at Monsters Comic Lounge. Hooray for tax-in game dealz!
When I got back, Sabina and I made a bee-line for the autograph session. Although I was super-excited at the prospects of meeting John Rhys-Friggin'-Davies, Sabina was positively beside herself. Her natural abundance of nervous energy was clearly heightened by her T.V. co-workers, who were milling around with cameras and threatening to videotape her meeting with the highly-revered actor!
Just a quick word about John Rhys-Davies. He's easily one of the most recognizable character actors of our time. In addition to portraying weighty historical figures like King Richard in Robin of Sherwood, Vasco da Gama in the mini-series Shōgun and Macro in I, Claudius, John has also served as "Fellowship of the Ring" charter member / spokes-dwarf Gimli in The Lord of the Rings trilogy, General Leonid Pushkin in Bond flick The Living Daylights, Professor Maximillian Arturo in the classic sci-fi T.V. show Sliders and (my own personal favorite) master excavator and archaeological sidekick Sallah from Raiders of the Lost Ark and Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.
While both of us inched ahead incrementally in the lineup we encountered yet another irksome phenomenon: entitled arseholes armed with "Warp Passes". I can only assume that these things were premium-priced tickets that let self-important jerkstores blast through autograph line-ups and snatch up front-row seats at events. Well, I gotta tell ya, this might sound like a good idea in theory but in practice it's a f#@king pain in the nacelles.
There was one particularly oblivious social reject* who decided (on a whim, apparently) to blow through the line-up and cut in front of Sabina. The moron didn't even have anything ready for John to sign, he just felt like exercising his authoritah to put the rest of the world on hold. The really funny thing was that John noticed that this clown was holding up the lineup. Eventually he 'shooed' the guy away with a wave of his hand, flashed a look of bemusement and then encouraged Sabina to ignore him and come on over.
The item that Sabina tabled was a Lord of the Rings poster featuring John as Gimli in full dwarven regalia standing slightly behind Orlando Bloom as Legolas. After John realized that it was futile to sign such a huge poster with a standard Sharpie he pulled out a marker the size of a lightsaber hilt and went to work.
After noticing that Legolas was the more dominant figure on the poster, John suddenly thundered: "Oh, that Orlando Bloom! Here, I'll sign for him!" He then proceeded to scrawl a big "O.B." on a Post-It note and plaster it right over Legolas's pretty-boy mug. YES!!!
I couldn't help but watch Sabina as she drifted away from the encounter, looking slightly dazed. But when I heard that famous baritone voice declare "Hello, young man!" I quickly snapped back to attention. I looked up to see John flash a genial and approachable smile while he bade me to come over. After a quick reality check, I confidently strode up and shook his hand.
Without a doubt, John was one of the nicest celebrities that I've ever encountered. Our meeting was a genuine moment of quid pro quo; for every question I asked of him, he asked one of me. As he signed by 8" x 12" picture of Sallah he asked about what I did for a living and I told him that I was trying start up a career as a writer. He then asked what I wrote about so I told him about my book and this blog, as well as my entertainment and tabletop gaming sites. The opportunity to talk about this gave me the perfect in-road to ask him about his first trip to Nova Scotia as well as Gimli's accent and what it was like working with the delightful Denholm Elliot in Raiders and Crusade.
If I ever have to go on an archaeological dig, I'm totally bringing my old buddy Sallah.
Boundlessly impressed by John's approachability and his warm and friendly demeanor, Sabina and I wandered back to base camp, just in time to witness Andrew and Mike polishing off a game of Sentinels of the Multiverse. All of us then indulged in a few games of Saboteur, which turned out to be a simple yet highly-strategic card game. Taking advantage of the time between turns, I roamed around the main floor with my video camera, trying to document all of the board games, RPG's, video games, writers, artists, vendors, displays and amazing costumes! Surely no easy task.
By the time we finished up our overtime match of Zombie Dice, Sabina and I had to hustle downstairs to take in John's Q&A. By the time we found the right place there was already a pretty sizable line up. As we slowly filtered into the massive Main Stage room we noticed that there were several rows of empty seats right up front and that most of the floor seats were already occupado. As such, both of us moved to stand just behind the last row of chairs, content to remain at attention for the next hour in exchange for the clear view.
But then we heard an open call for Warp Pass holders to help themselves to any of the empty seats in the first two rows! After a small handful of people took up this offer, the volunteer staff did what they could to shift the already-seated folks closer and accommodate as many of the standees as possible. As you can imagine, this was comparable to herding a bunch of catnip-intoxicated felines.
As seats suddenly became available towards the back I made the single most idiotic decision of the entire weekend: I decided to sit down. Man, I wish I could hop into a Tardis and go back to prevent myself from making such a stupid call. At the time I thought that I could just lean out into the aisle or hold my camera aloft to get a clear view of the stage. Unfortunately, by plunking my ass in that fateful seat I ended up fumbling a video capture opportunity of a lifetime. ARRRGGGHHHH!!!
We sat down with a reasonably clear view of the right hand side of the stage. Unfortunately, John sat to the left and when fans began queueing up to the microphone to ask questions, my line of sight became totally blocked! For awhile I tried holding the camera over my head, but my sad, frail, Gollum-like limbs gave out on me within a few minutes. Then I tried shooting between all of the craning heads and costumed headgear but invariably someone's melon ended up in the way.
Then I tried standing up but it was already too late. Every decent vantage point had been snapped up and I certainly wasn't going to block anybody else's view. Begrudgingly I took my seat again only to have someone's kid start wailing on cue right behind me. Awesome.
I'm still haven't forgiven myself. The previous year I was in the perfect spot to capture Nicholas Brendon's Q&A. That year there were no accursed Warp Passes and Sabina and I managed to nab front row seats just as the Kag Kanada Klingon assembly began to break up.
I've since written this debacle off as a highly egregious learning experience. Unless I can somehow score front row seats, next year I'll just find the best possible vantage point and shoot from eye-level while standing up. Particularly galling to me is the fact that John's Q&A had some really amazing highlights, including a wonderful moment where he lapsed into full Gimli rage mode!
Here's everything that I managed to cobble together from my paltry footage. Excuse me while I don the Cone of Shame.
Hey, if anyone out there captured the entire Q&A, drop me a link and I'll "EPIC" it below with a credit!
After everything wrapped up 'round 3:30, Sabina and I slowly inched our way through the throng of people to our table. We played another game of Saboteur, this time with Matt and Chad, and then finished the day with the "Escape in the Truck" scenario from Last Night on Eath: The Zombie Game.
Another thing that kinda sucked was the fact that Hal-Con fell on the last weekend before Halloween and I was committed to go to a costume party. This meant that I had to leave Hal-Con early Saturday night and miss the Nerd Army / Paul & Storm concert which was slated to begin at 6:45 that same evening. Oh well, I guess that's the way the dilithium crystal crumbles!
But going downtown turned out to be a really fun time. We went to the Lower Deck's annual Halloween party and spent most of the night trying to guess what people were dressed up as. Needless to say, more than one Hal-Con refugee drifted into the bar that night:
Little know fact: when not looking for droids or shooting at rebels with appalling poor accuracy rates, Imperial Stormtroopers can often be found at local cantinas playing air guitar with their blaster rifles and bobbing their helmets to crappy Bruno Mars songs.
Knowing that I had an early rise the following morning, I played the role of designated idiot and abstained from drinking copious amounts of Guinness. Nevertheless, I still got home around 2 pm and subsequently experienced a genuine system shock when my alarm clock went off at 7 am the next morning. Motivated by the promise of yet another blissful day of geeky revelry, I dragged my sleep-deprived carcass out of bed, got cleaned up, had a snack, grabbed my fun bag (?) of games, jumped in the ole' Ninjamobile and hauled ass down to the Dork Tower.
I arrived at our muster station (the Starbucks on Barrington Street) way ahead of everyone else. As I waited for my peeps to arrive I hit upon a stellar idea: since I didn't have my entry bracelet for Sunday yet, why not take a dart up to the convention center, get registered and run back in time to meet up with everyone else? Brilliant!
Ah, no. When I got up there I learned to my disbelief that the registration desk wouldn't be open until 9 am along with everything else. I thought about sprinting back to Starbucks but then I remembered what Sabina had gone through on Saturday in order to secure a table. Since she wasn't there to help us again, I decided to stick it out. Unfortunately I had no way to get ahold of my party and inform them of the brilliant scheme that my caffiene-deprived brain had cooked up.
When 9 am finally rolled around, I rushed the registration desk, got my bracelet, ran to the back of the entry lineup, rushed up two floors and parked my ass at the very same table that we'd used the day before. Even still, I had to fend off threatened incursions from other gamers. Eventually my posse gave up on waiting for me and walked up to the convention center. Imagine their surprise when they came off the elevator, rounded the corner and saw me siting there as if I hadn't moved from the previous day!
Honestly, Day Two at Hal-Con was a complete and total blur. I know that I picked up a copy of the Dungeon! board game from Mike at Monsters Comic Lounge. I know that we played a slew of board game (like Lords of Waterdeep, Magic: The Gathering, and Small World Underground) and that they were all so friggin' engrossing that I completely lost track of time. I know that the schedule that I'd so lovingly assembled and printed off for myself completely fell by the wayside. The next thing we knew it was 5:30 pm and time to get the f#@k out!
Notwithstanding my complete and utter failure to document the Q&A's, I still had an absolute blast. In fact, we all enjoyed our time at Hal-Con 2012 so much that most of us have already commiteed to being there for all three days next year!
I just need to strike a better balance between my board gaming and all of the cool organized activities that are constantly going on. Next year I'll pay more attention to the major events and sneak in the odd board game during my "down time".
But then there's another philosophy: Hal-Con is an awe-inspiring tsunami of pure, unadulterated geekery which you really should allow yourself to be swept up in.
In fact, to go into something like this with an agenda or a work ethic is almost anathema to the whole giddy, disorienting experience.
NOT-NEARLY-AS-EPIC-AS-ACTUALLY-BEING-THERE Here's my humble l'il video ode to Hal-Con 2012:
FAIL Trust me, I saw nothing at Hal-Con that even came remotely close to these cosplay disasters.
*P.S. FAIL The same mouth-breather that tried to cut into the autograph line-up in front of Sabina kept surfacing. At one point in time, he actually attempted to weasel his way into one of our in-progress games. When we told him to go pound sand, he spent the next few awkward moments rummaging around in Andrew's game collection and mauling the stuff we'd purchased in the vendor room. Dude would make an awesome TSA agent.
As I documented in last year's Halloween post, I became addicted to the horror genre at a pretty young age. Almost too young, since I wasn't old enough to sneak into movie theaters and home video at the time wasn't as accessible as it is now. As a neophyte horror fan growing up in a small town, my options were really limited.
So, for the longest time, I had to be content with reading about scary movies instead of seeing them. The authors of many of these books seemed to be older dudes who thought that the genre began with Silent Films and began to tip into despotism with the bloody and boob-ridden Hammer cycle of horror remakes. A lot of these writers seemed to believe that the more extreme examples of modern horror (from 1968 onward) actually had the essence of evil woven right into the very fabric of the film itself.
As a good little dweeb who's mindset was safely cloistered away in a Catholic school, I had no problem subscribing to this hypothesis. After all, I'd been thoroughly traumatized by such slo-pitch fare as Poltergeist and Night of the Living Dead. When I was able to sneak in the odd VHS rental of heavy hitters like An American Werewolf in London I quickly became convinced that certain movie directors were certifiably nuts and had the ability to cast a "fear" spell on the viewer at will. They didn't use magic wands or enchanted staves to do this. They used cursed film stock, clearly marinated in the essence of pure evil.
Up to that point in time, I'd survived several system shocks but I knew that there was still one film so dark, so intense, so unremittingly nasty that a viewing was inevitable. Unfortunately, my trusted horror film anthology writers did very little fortify me:
"...for all its goriness and the contempt heaped upon it by those who considered its overt ghoulishness too much, (this is) an amazingly influential movie." Horrors: A History of Horror Movies by Tom Hutchinson and Roy Pickard
"...the most talked about film of its day. A movie that people just had to see, if they could stand it. For years studio publicists issued claims that this or that horror film was so terrifying that people with weak hearts should not attend or that members of the audience had fainted or fled the theater screaming. The same sort of claims were made about (this film) but at least some of them appeared to be true. The difference was that instead of being frightened out of the theater, people had to leave because they were feeling disgusted or sick. A good deal of the impact of the film came from scenes of the girl spouting obscenities in the devil's voice and the most talked-of scene was one in which she vomits what looks like split-pea soup in full view of the camera." Horror Movies by Daniel Cohen
"...the Satanic occupee...breaks every rule of social behaviour from urinating on the carpet to emitting large quantities of spinach-green vomit. En route she masturbates with a crucifix, levitates her bed, speaks with a voice deeper then Paul Robeson and hurls a well-intentioned priest out of the window." Horror Films by Nigel Andrews
Really? Seriously!? Surely you weren't allowed to show such things in a film. I actually found myself humoring the opinion of prototypical televangelist Billy Graham: if the film-makers willingly opted to exhibit such dark material then the resulting movie had to be the embodiment of pure Satanic influence. I was at an impasse. I couldn't call myself a horror film aficionado and not see this movie. On the other hand, if I watched it, was I playing with spiritual nitroglycerine?
In the end, my addiction to fear won out over prudent and rational thought. One day, during Christmas vacation (ironic!), I went down to the video store, rented a copy of this notorious video nasty and then waited patiently for my parents to vacate the premises. Like a true masochist, I shut off all the lights in the house and then hunkered down to watch what was supposedly the scariest film ever made.
The Exorcist (1973)
Right off the bat, director William Friedkin came at me full-bore using the power of sound. During the scene in which Father Merrin (Max Von Sydow) discovers a small demonic headpiece, he employed a weird, ambient, electronic buzz which sounded like a cloud of flies. Instantly I was ill-at ease. This technique was used again later when Merrin engages in a stare-down with the full-sized statue of Pazuzu. As a small-town rube, I even found the dissonant Arabic singing (which I now recognize as the "Athan", or the call for prayer time in Islam) which accompanied the film's title card to be slightly unnerving.
Auditory elements continued to be Friedkin's greatest weapon. Even after the film segued to more familiar environs, I was kept off-kilter by the strange, unnatural noises coming from Chris MacNeil's well-to-do attic. And then came the gloriously unnerving strains of "Tubular Bells" by Mike Oldfield. Could there be any more appropriate musical accompaniment as Chris (Ellen Burstyn) walks home through the October leaves and wind? To this day, the only comparably effective piece of music I can think of is John Carpenter's soundtrack for Halloween.
The matter-of-fact sensibilities Friedkin applied to good effect in those early Iraq scenes were expertly transplanted to Georgetown. For the first time ever I met famous actress and single mom Chris MacNeil (Ellen Burstyn) and her cherubic, freshly-scrubbed daughter Regan (Linda Blair). I couldn't help but notice that their scenes together were completely devoid of illusion, conceit or pretension. Their candid performances and the film's documentary style really sold the film for me. I was completely and totally on board.
I watched with growing interest as one of my current practices was ignored and a future warning was proffered. As a child, I was always cautioned about "catching a draft" while I slept, so my bedroom window was frequently barred shut overnight. Honestly, growing up in Newfoundland where the temperature barely exceeds twenty-five degrees Celsius, this really isn't a big deal. In the film, Regan sleeps with her window wide open, allowing easy access for something considerably more malevolent then cold germs. I remember feeling very superior about myself while watching this.
Then Regan shows her mom how she communicates with her invisible friend "Captain Howdy" via a Ouija Board. I'd never seen such a thing before and I didn't encounter one in the flesh until many years later. Contrary to the self-moving planchette and the inference that the demon introduced itself to Regan via this "spirit board", a bunch of us ended up messing around with one of these things in University.
That is, until we had a super-creepy experience in which we contacted the spirit of a four-year-old girl who claimed that she'd been drowned in a bathtub. When we tried to get her to elaborate, all the planchette did was alternate between the letters "M" and "B". After hours of coaxing, the spirit slowly, methodically and accurately began spelling out "MOMMY BAD" over and over again. Needless to say, that pretty much ended my career as an amateur medium.
Back in The Exorcist, I was then introduced to a sad-sack Jesuit priest named Father Damien Karras, brilliantly portrayed by Jason Miller. After a seemingly pointless scene in which a street derelict asks him for spare change ("Could you help an old altar boy, Fatha? I'm a Cat-lick!"), Damien heads back to the sort of scummy old neighborhood that once existed in 70's-era New York City. Karras pops in on his aging Greek mater who adamantly refuses to leave "her home", even though her apartment looks like someone detonated a broom closet filled with religious artifacts.
As a certified psychologist, Karras would be swimming in loot and much better equipped to care for his ailing mother if he'd just gone into private practice instead of becoming a priest. A real moment of terrestrial horror occurs when his mother ends up in the sort of facility that 60 Minutes would try to smuggle a camera into. As Karras pushed his way through a horde of dementia-ravaged zombies, I got shades of visiting my own grandmother, recently institutionalized in the latter stages of Alzheimer's. There'd been a consistent vein of fantasy running through all of the horror movies I'd seen to that point, which allowed me to detect the comforting facade of fiction. In the case of The Exorcist, Friedkin neglected to throw this psychological life preserver out to me.
Not long after we see that Damien Karras is at a spiritual impasse, finding it virtually impossible to council people experiencing a crisis in faith. "There isn't a day in my life when I haven't felt like a fraud," he tells a compatriot at one point. Since priests were considered a bedrock of conviction to me as a child, it was shocking to hear even a fake one make this sort of on-screen admission. I suppose this really speaks volumes about how authentic Jason Miller is in this role.
Up to this point, I really couldn't describe The Exorcist as a scare-a-minute fun house ride. In fact, by modern standards, the first quarter of film is downright pedestrian. But every time I watch the film I'm profoundly impressed with William Friedkin's patience. By exhibiting restraint and treating the audience as if they have an attention span he gives us three-dimensional characters we care about while lulling us into a false sense of security. At the same time, he's planting tiny seeds of of discord in our primitive reptilian brains.
As Chris inched through the attic, still seeking the source of the disembodied noises, her candle suddenly exploded in a gout of flame, causing me to pee a little. Downstairs, Regan is shown lying wide-eyed awake in her bed. The next morning a priest brings flowers into a local church, where he discovers that a statue of the Virgin Mary has been obscenely desecrated. It was at this point in time when I began to realize that I was in b-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-g trouble.
Like Karras, my own faith was pretty much non-existent at the time. The Mount Cashel scandal had exploded, and priests once regarded as pillars of the community were being exposed as pedophiles and perverts. But even as such stories were coming to light, it was still difficult to shrug off fifteen years of religious indoctrination. Seeing the perverse state of that otherwise beatific statue, obviously shot on location, made my head spin (pun not intended). Immediately I began to wonder if Friedkin had his own dirt on the church. Why else would the clergy allow him to commit something so nakedly blasphemous to film?
The film then systematically went about shattering one taboo after another. Thumbing her nose at her mom's HIGH SOCIETY soiree, Regan materialized from out of nowhere, predicted doom for one of the guests and then decided to test the carpet's Scotch Guard capabilities. In a glorious moment of 70's-era pop-psychology, Chris kept re-assuring Regan that it's "just nerves" and if she "takes her pills everything will be fine". At the time I was pretty sure that a mittful of sedatives wouldn't do much to prevent a kid's bed from bouncing around on the floor.
After subjecting Karras to a bad dream so vivid that I knew it was contagious, Friedkin proceeded to contrast this with Regan's own medical nightmare. Indeed, her spinal tap is documented in such sweat-inducing detail it's like watching an excised scene from Faces of Death. The juxtaposition between real-world fears and traditional supernatural horror was almost too much for my fifteen-year-old brain to handle. Eventually all of these bugaboos merged together so seamlessly that they were completely indistinguishable from one another.
Since a kid's room is normally a place of safety and asylum, I watched in abject fear as Regan's attempted to kill her. Then, from out of nowhere, an impossibly evil voice emerged from within this hitherto angelic little girl and croaked "Keep away! The sow is mine!" This was then followed up with a stunningly loathsome open invitation for the gathered physicians to violate the demon's host. It was as someone had just hit me upside the head with a two-by-four.
Friedkin's unwillingness to strike the same note of terror over and over again instantly got under my skin. He had every fear covered: the loss of a loved one, mental and physical illness, a lack of faith, loss of control, and the threat of unexplained external forces. He kept ringing all of these disparate bells at once, battering my psyche with an orchestral arrangement of unadulterated fear and creating an overwhelming sensation of resignation and despair.
Like Chris MacNeil, I grew increasingly enraged as the doctors and scientist keep shining her on, clearly willing to say anything to preserve the illusion of reality and keep the engine of medical enterprise intact. It's not until a psychologist's family jewels get crushed before a small team of shrinks begin to humor the possibility of an exorcism. Even then, their attitudes are condescending and tongue in cheek. "The victim's belief in possession helped cause it. And just in the same way, this belief in the power of exorcism can make it disappear," once of them says, probably in an effort to get Regan's enraged mother out of his office.
So, what makes Chris, a staunch atheist, seek help from Catholic priest whom she openly describes as a bunch of "witch doctors"? More then any other, the next scene in the film can be credited for packing churches to capacity in the first few months of 1974. Chris comes home after yet another futile meeting with eggheads only to witness the entire contents of her daughter's room spinning around, poltergeist style. She also notices that Regan is using a pilfered crucifix in a rather, shall we say, unconventional manner.
Accompanying this shock is a still-convincing, one-hundred-and-eighty-degree head spin and the sort of language that would make Bill Hicks wince. Chris's resulting screams linger unnaturally, providing the perfect segue for the next shot of Karras cresting a hill in silhouette, surrounded by skeletal trees and a corona of fall leaves. It's an appropriately chilling effect for a transition that offers little visual comfort or reprieve.
I stopped the movie at this point, turned on all the lights in the house, and tried to gather my shattered wits. I'd never seen anything so egregiously and deliberately shocking. Even at this jaded stage in my life, after witnessing some of the goriest, nastiest visions ever committed to film, this sequence still sticks in my brain like a splinter. Back then I spent a considerable amount of time rocking back and forth and muttering that classic mantra 'It's only a movie, It's only a movie' until I could summon the fortitude to keep going. My greatest fear was knowing that the really sustained shocks were yet to come.
I watched with growing dread as Friedkin eliminated everything on the soundtrack save a terrible wheezing noise that got louder and louder as Karras ascends the steps to Regan's room. By this time, the voice of veteran actress Mercedes McCambridge is front and center, giving the demon an otherworldly realism that could never have been achieved through electronic sources. When Karras plays back his interview with the demon we can clearly hear multiple voices, foreign languages and more backward messages then an ELO album. The effect is completely jarring.
Added to this extraordinary vocal performance is Linda Blair's startling physical transformation, courtesy of make-up genius Dick Smith. Under Friedkin's guidance, Smith clearly went for realism, treating possession like a physical affliction. His designs suggested that Regan was scarring herself with her fingernails (or that poor, abused crucifix) and the resulting wounds looked both angry and enflamed. The notorious vomit sequence, rigged up by special effects technician Marcel Vercoutere, was supposed to hit Jason Miller square in the chest. Unfortunately, it ended up tagging him right in the mush, resulting in a genuinely surprised and pissed off actor as well as one of the most famous "out-takes" actually used in a final cut.
Another taboo broken, another pause. It was the first time I'd ever seen someone barf in a film, so I had to drink a glass of water to settle the roiling content of my stomach. Eventually the masochist in me hit the pause button again and I attempted yet another drive towards the summit of terror.
Now, all of this would normally add up to a surplus of pants-wettery for the average horror flick, but Friedkin wasn't done with me just yet. Accompanied by Jack Nitzsche's spine-jangling musical stings, the message "help me" is shown boiling up on Regan's abdomen. Then the demon apes the voice of the "old altar boy" who asked Karras for money earlier, bending both the priest's noodle and our own in one fell swoop.
This time I shut off the VCR and spent some time blissfully flipping through the mindlessly cheerful, gleefully vapid Christmas programming on T.V. at the time. After taking in a few reels of Frosty the Snowman and gaining some assurance that the world wasn't a completely awful place, I steeled myself once again and plunged back into my self-inflicted nightmare.
Fortunately, the cavalry arrived not long after in the form of unflappable Father Merrin. Before my unblinking eyes, Friedkin unspooled that famous image of a cab pulling up to the fog-shrouded MacNeil house. A lone figure stepped out, bathed in a shaft of ethereal light emanating from Regan's bedroom. As soon as he set foot inside that besieged house, Merrin was all-business, as evidenced by the following terse exchange with Karras:
Karras: I think it might be helpful if I gave you some background on the different personalities Regan has manifested. So far, I'd say there seem to be three. She's convinced... Merrin: There is only one.
No preamble, no briefing, Merrin's clearly a guy who just wants to get shit done. 'This guy is totally pimp!' I enthused to myself, 'Everything's gonna be fine now!' The character's appeal is thanks in large part to accomplished actor Max Von Sydow, who was only forty-four at the time, but plays eighty better then any actor who's come before or since. And then there's Dick Smith's incredibly subtle aging makeup which still no modern parallel.
Despite Merrin's serene confidence, the walk up to Regan's room is like a funeral procession. And little wonder, since our heroes are soon assailed from all sides with gouts of day-glo vomit, shaking beds, flying furniture, low level earthquakes, levitating hosts, gleefully obscene foul language and the re-appearance of our old pal Pazuzu. Even as Karras begins to crack, Merrin remains unflappable. His spirit is resolute, even as his body seems on the verge of failure.
'Yes!' I thought to myself. 'Merrin's got this! He's got this by the ass! He's go...oh wait...he's dead.'
Which bring me to the most potent and empowering scene in the film. Karras returns to the charnel room and is horrified to to discover Merrin's lifeless body. The still-possessed Regan is shown sitting off to the side, staring vacantly like an infant who's just drowned a hamster in an aquarium. But when Karras freaks out and attempts to resuscitate the old priest she actually starts giggling. Giggling, fer Chrissakes!
Naturally, Damien snaps, throws Regan to the floor and literally beats the demon out of her. He willingly admits the entity into his own body but quickly realizes that he has no way to control it. His final solution is shocking, noble and supremely tragic.
At the end of the film, I was shaking worse then Father Dyer giving last rites. Although I'd survived the process I was put off of horror movies (not to mention a good night's sleep) for several weeks after. Despite the nasty assault on my wits, I knew that the film was something special. The casting was impeccable, the direction was excellent, the performances were great, the dialogue was solid, the effects were seamless and the script's tension built up to inconceivable heights.
Like all great films, The Exorcist has lingered with me over the past twenty five years. For a film that does unimaginably awful things to its characters and the audience, its production values are just as good (if not better) then most Oscar-winning films. Think about this for a moment: there's a helluva lot more people who care about The Exorcist then inert, passionless crap like The English Patient.
Just by documenting the reprehensible depravities of the central demon, the film asserts that raw, elemental evil is very, very real. Yet, in the same breath, the story is rife with nobility, self-sacrifice and redemption.
As such, I really don't see evil in the film anymore. I see renewed faith, the potential of man and the inevitable triumph of light over darkness.
EPIC DOC I love "warts and all" behind the scenes docs. I wanna be Mark Kermode when I grow up...
EPIC FOOTAGE If you have a hard time believing how impactful The Exorcist was upon first release, check out this vintage vid...
SEQUEL FAIL Avoid The Heretic at all cost. Unless you wanna have a MST3K nite.
I've talked at length before about hating this time of year. As soon as it starts getting dark around 7 pm and the temperatures drop below 20 degrees Celsius (that's 68 degrees Fahrenheit for all you non-Metric types), I feel as if I'm waiting for the winter boot to drop. Sorry, but I don't care that much about colored leaves. If it's color you want then just take a hit of acid and break out the Crayolas.
I already miss being outdoors. Hiking. Swimming. Soakin' up the rays. Between October and May (or September and June in a really bad year) I feel myself slowly becoming more and more pale and sedentary every day. Since I've got the circulatory system of a ninety-year-old shut-in and my significant other is deathly allergic to the cold, things like skiing, snowshoeing and sledding don't happen very often (read: at all). As a result, by the time Spring rolls around, I'm usually more out of shape then your average toll booth operator.
Ergo, I need one of these three things to happen this winter:
I need to purchase an alterna-home in either Florida, California or Costa Rica.
OR I need an extended vacation in Saint-Martin.
OR I need to begin construction on a giant indoor terrarium which accurately re-creates a pristine lakeside environment.
Now, I've since been informed that all of these plans require copious amounts of cash so the odds of any of these things happening soon is about as likely as Paul Ryan tearing up his nude wallet photos of Ayn Rand.
I wasn't always like this. During my early teens I'd think nothing of frittering away the hottest, sunniest days in July sitting indoors working on my latest D&D magnum opus. Usually my folks would have to root me out of my bedroom with a rake, which they'd then promptly hand to me with an express order to make the front lawn look presentable. Remember, this was back in the Mesozoic era when parents had kids expressly for the purpose of procuring cheap labor.
Besides raking, some of my other despised childhood outdoor chores included:
(1) Fence Construction. Immediately followed by fence painting and a routine schedule of fence maintenance. Putting this Skull-Island-sized gate together in the first place was traumatic enough, since the raw lumber attracted swarms of these charming critters:
"Oh, hai! Im a horntale wazp an eyed lik to sting youze repeetedlee now, pleez!"
(2) Roofing. This one was great since it combined my distaste for the outdoors with a stark fear of heights. As if being perched up on top of the garage wasn't bad enough, often I'd be on top of a ladder on top of the garage. Hooray for vertigo!
(3) Lawn Maintenance. When I was first assigned this task I tried the whole "Hey, if I do a really shitty job I'll never be asked to do it again" tactic! Yeah, that didn't work. After mowing the lawn like a spider whacked out on PCP, I was soundly chastised and then forced to go out and fix this "embarrassment to the neighborhood". Eventually I started to enjoy lawn mowing 'cuz at least it produced immediate and gratifying results. Which could explain my current adult fetish for vacuuming. Plus, what fifteen year old kid doesn't like to be armed with a weed whacker?
Sometimes basic outdoor chores just weren't enough of a system shock. So, whenever Dad got the impression that I'd been cooped up for too long or I was getting so pale that I was verging on transparency, he'd stick me on a bike and then force me to chase him all over town.
During one of these Premium Rush outtakes, I was barrelling down Minnesota Drive trying to keep up with him when he suddenly decided to hook an Automan-style, ninety-degree turn right up onto Maryland Drive. I only had a millisecond to react and by the time my brain told my body what to do, I ended up splitting the difference (as well as my cranium).
Maryland Drive had just gotten new sidewalks, so the curbs were about as high as the West Bank Barrier. The front wheel of my bike hit this concrete monolith and sent me pitching head over heels like that crazy mid-air pinwheel / cannonball stunt in The Road Warrior.
Just as soon as I was airborne I knew that I wasn't going to stick the landing, so I took great pains to come down on a non-vital body part: I.E. my face. Needless to say, it was a real treat digging pebbles out of my cheek and prying my mangled eyeglasses out of my forehead with a flathead screwdriver.
"How bad is it? It's really startin' to sting now..."
Fishing trips were my alternate punishment. Before I go any further, I need to establish that I was a really weenie kid. Even more of a weenie then I am as an adult, which is really saying something.
I was such a pathetically sheltered little dweeb that I'd often use a black felt tip pen to scratch out any "naughty" words that I came across in my sci-fi magazines and replace them with family-friendly alternatives. I didn't know it at the time, but I seemed to be preparing myself for a high-profile and lucrative career as a prime-time television network movie sensor.
Anyway, I distinctly remember one particular time when Dad asked me to go on a fishing trip with him. Actually if you replace the works "asked me to go on" with "auto-enrolled me in", that would probably be a helluva lot more accurate.
That day we peeled off the highway onto a dirt road and drove for what felt like two-hundred and forty-six kilometers. Then, with absolutely no discernible cue, he suddenly pulled over by the side of the road and declared with one-hundred percent certainty that "this was the place". After descending a precariously steep rocky bank we plunged into a thicket of woods that made the Black Forest in Germany look like the Montréal Botanical Garden.
As if navigating through this Amazonian underbrush wasn't bad enough I had to contend with ravenous clouds of miniature, winged, bloodsucking stirges. And let me tell you, Kind Reader, black flies and mosquitoes consider me to be nothing less then a "nummie treat". Although I was "lucky" enough to inherit my Dad's protuberant, bullet-deflecting knee caps I certainly wasn't born with his blood type, which appears to be lethal to insects. In fact, if I ever make the mistake of wandering too close to a copse of trees or a tiny puddle of still water I tend to get swarmed. To these marauding midges, I must smell like a bucket of KFC in a trailer park.
"OMMM...NOM...NOM...NOM..."
Arms flayed by thorny branches, boots half sucked off by boggy sinkholes, and marinated in enough DEET to poison the water supply of a half-dozen Vietnamese villages, I forged on, struggling to keep up with Dad, who was drifting through the woods like a wendigo. It was then when I realized, to my horror, that my fishing line had gotten caught up on a branch about a half-a-mile back along the non-existent trail. By the time we located the source of the snag we could almost see the car.
During this interlude all of those verboten and previously-excised magazine swear words all came back to me in a gloriously cathartic rush of unadulterated profanity. My Morman-like moratorium was over. Honestly, I probably would have made Louis C.K. blush.
So, yes, I didn't have a great track record with the Grating Outdoors, but being a Canadian (not to mention a Newfoundlander) I knew that, deep down, I must have some affinity for the wild. This hypothesis was eventually proven correct when a tentative series of successful camping excursions as an adult proved to be both relaxing and enjoyable.
But the thing that really turned me around was when a former co-worker asked me: 'Hey, did you ever check out all those lakes that are up around where you live?' At the time I had no idea what he was talking about but I never forgot the question. Then, a few years later, I did some Google map research and spent an entire day trying to find these mythical places.
The first site was rife with teenagers and broken glass. The second place was cleaner but still overpopulated. But then, just as soon as I crested the rocky apex of the third spot, I knew that I'd discovered a little slice of Paradise mere minutes away from home. Bonus points: there were barely any miniature flying vampires anywhere in sight!
I quickly made up for lost time. If the forecast was sunny and temperatures in excess of twenty degrees were predicted, I'd work feverishly all morning to electronically transcribe the previous day's longhand and then spend the rest of the day ensconced in my unconventional but tastefully decorated exterior office. No cubicle. No recycled air. No oppressively claustrophobic ceiling. No sickly florescent lighting. It was the perfect environment for inspiration.
Subsequently, I fell madly in love with Mother Earth. The only problem is that I'm completely addicted to this ritual and when I can't be with her I become sullen and depressed. Like Lancelot in Excalibur; I've come to rely upon Gaia to heal my spiritual ills. The long, dry, dull, monochromatic days of winter days do absolutely nothing to assuage me.
So, how's this for a deal? If I can get enough people to buy my book I'll funnel the profits directly into constructing an indoor, all-season pleasure dome which every one of my sponsors can visit!
Fine print: sufficient copies of the book must be sold in order to finance the construction of the preciously mentioned Xanadu. One visit per customer per proof of purchase. Offer void for douchebags.
EPIC STUNT Wanna see a re-creation of my infamous bike crash? Check it out at the 2:24 mark...
EDITED FOR T.V. FAIL Man, am I ever glad that I dodged that particular career path. Half of this is gloriously NSFW, the other half is spectacularly lame.
A large contingent of people on this planet are convinced that life on Earth will end as we know it on December 21'st, 2012. Some believe that our world will be devastated in some manner, either by a black hole, a chain reaction of natural disasters, a solar flare or a collision with an Armageddon-sized asteroid. Others believe that this sea change will take the form of a global revolution whereby the masses finally rise up, throw off the shackles of their oppressors and demand a paradigm shift.
Then there's another interesting theory which assumes that our planet was actually seeded with human life millions of years ago by a higher power. As such, we've unwittingly spent the past two-hundred thousand years moving towards this date; our progress keenly monitored by invisible overlords. Its believed that these entities adhere to a strict laissez-faire / "Prime Directive" sort of arrangement which prevents them from Etch-A-Sketching us into oblivion unless we completely bottom out as a race of sentient beings.
And let me tell ya, folks, given all of our miss-steps over the years we've come pretty damned close to bottoming out on several occasions. There was that whole "Dark Ages"/Spanish Inquisition thang. We've indulged in more wars then you can shake a skud missile at. We continue to deny basic civil rights to people just because of their skin color, gender, age or sexual orientation. A clinically diagnosed moron was in charge of the most powerful nation on the planet for no less then eight friggin' years.
Contrary to all of these setbacks, I still held out hope that we were all moving in the right general direction and making those hypothetical parent entities reasonably proud of us. Sure, every once and awhile our inter-dimensional supervisors probably looked down on us and thought: "Okay, granted they're a little f#@%ed up sometimes but, hey, they've still got their hearts in the right place!"
But recently I've seen something that's seriously compromised my faith, to the point in which I'm now totally convinced that we've hit the utter nadir of human behavior. As a result, I know that it's only a matter of time before our celestial taskmasters return to earth and reboot all of us with a song in their hearts (presumably this one, BTW).
And what morale-shredding spectacle did I witness recently that could so completely and utterly shatter my faith in humanity? Look, then, upon the face of madness and despair...
Before I proceed with the autopsy, let me just give you some context by telling you a little bit about the ethically bankrupt network that currently disseminates this televised abortion.
The Learning Channel was established in a joint effort by N.A.S.A. (!) and the Department of Health, Education and Welfare (!!!) in 1972. Its noble goal: to provide education though the widespread and all-pervasive medium of television. Despite being privatized in 1980, the station continued to feature practical programming on such diverse topics as medicine, science, nature, home improvement, history, technology, cooking and current events.
When The Learning Channel's sister station FNN (the Financial News Network) fell upon hard times in the early Nineties, it was sold off to The Discovery Channel. The new owners continued to foster educational content for quite some time but as their ratings began to dip a conscious shift was made towards the growing phenomenon of "info-tainment". *HUUURRRKKK!!!* Sorry, but that term always makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit.
The network's block of educational children's programming was the first to go. I remember the network starting to piss me off in the late 90's when they began to feature what I could only describe as a series of "cradle to grave" reality shows. Between A Wedding Story (1996-present) and A Baby Story (1998-present), the network began an extensive and rather insidious campaign to re-assure women that if they weren't married and/or pregnant (or preferably both) by the time they were thirty then they were pretty much failures at life.
Little surprise then that the network began to refer to itself as TLC versus The Learning Channel. Hmmmmm, quick show of hands, how many people out there think that TLC stands for Tender Loving Care?
The network continued to excise educational content in lieu of sensationalistic crap featuring high-speed car chases, emergency ward trauma, killer tornadoes, and medical oddities. When they weren't titillating audiences with exploitational garbage they were teaching them to be vapid, materialistic, superficial douchebags with a series of shows about such hot-button topics as home decor (like Trading Spaces from 2001 to 2008) and dating (the wittily titled A Dating Story from 2000-2002).
In the mid-2000's the TLC powers-that-be started seem to have second thoughts about the direction of the network. They briefly adopted the catch phrase "Live And Learn" and for one last glorious shining moment they began referring to themselves as The Learning Channel again. But since responsible programming doesn't always translate into ratings, the network was soon completely awash with brain- dead reality shows and completely useless decorating programs.
The station really began its concentrated power dive into the dumper back in 2008 when it kicked off its "Life Surprises" schedule of programming. Pretty soon every show seemed to fall into one of the following categories:
Midgets on VacationLittle People, Big World. Little Chocolatiers. The Little Couple. Hey, look, small folks do the same things that average-sized people do, just with more steps and ladders. What a f#@king revelation!
She's More Uterus Then Woman! Hey, gals! You too can be on television if you're willing to turn yer vag into an echo chamber. No show brainwashed more girls into going "Octomom" then Kids By The Dozen and John & Kate + Eight. That is until 17...er...18...um...19 Kids and Counting came along. This last reprehensible piece of dreck came complete with a heaping side-order of Jesus Camp-style propaganda! Hey, Jim Bob and Michelle...you can only keep your kids in an ignorance bubble for so long! As soon as they catch so much as a sidelong glance at the internet they're gonna go completely Mickey and Mallory on you.
Can I Have Another Piece Of Chocolate Cake?DC Cupcakes. Fabulous Cakes. Ultimate Cake Off. Seriously, I like Cake Boss as much as the next guy, but TLC needs to be cited for single-handedly contributing to the North American obesity epidemic. Fondant isn't a food group, people!
Although you'd be hard-pressed to learn anything from the gems listed above, the next wave of TLC shows made 19 Kids and Counting look like Bill Nye The Science Guy. Any pretensions to respectability were flushed right down the loo with the following electronic freak shows:
Addicted A.K.A. "Sure I like to do whippets on the weekend by at least I'm not whacked out on crystal meth!"
My Strange Addiction A.K.A. "Sure I'm addicted to crystal meth but at least I don't drink my own urine!"
One Big Happy Family / My 600 Pound Life A.K.A. "Sure I'm big-boned but at least they won't need to cut a hole in my bedroom wall to crane-lift my beluga-sized corpse out when I die of heart failure at age forty!"
Hoarding: Buried Alive A.K.A "Sure I've got some clutter in my apartment but at least I don't have dead cats stacked up like cordwood the corner of my bathroom!"
Abby & Brittany AK.A. "Sure my life sucks but at least I'm not congenitally joined to my own sister!"
Honestly, the last thing these people need is a dead-eyed camera lens stuck in their face, drawing knee-jerk "holier then thou" scorn from a nation of slack-jawed yokels.
Which invariably bring me to my final category:
Toddlers & Tiaras A.K.A. Bitter Harpies Living Vicariously Through Their Creepily Pan-Sexualized Afterthought Daughters.
Sister Wives A.K.A. I Got 99 Problems And My Four Wives Contribute Exponentially To This.
Outrageous Kid Parties "Now, we know how hard it is for some people to pay their cable bills in this tough economy but we're just gonna add insult to injury by showing you how little of a f#@k rich assholes care about that."
My Big Fat (Fill In The Blank) Wedding Condoning racism and feelings of superiority in the viewer by emphasizing the worst aspects of a barely-understood culture since 2010!
The aforementioned Here Comes Honey Boo Boo A.K.A. TLC Tricks Oblivious Uber- Rednecks Into Providing Weekly Visual Evidence Of Chronic And Ritualized Child Abuse.
The worst thing about Here Comes Honey Boo Boo is that our bar of self-respect has slipped so low that we're actually willing to legitimize their behavior. For the first time ever, people are proudly "coming out" as rednecks. This is even happening here in Canada, which is hilarious since our brief summers barely give our necks a chance to get singed.
It's like the word "diva", which was once used to describe stuck-up, prima-donna attention whores who were willing to do anything to make themselves look better. Now it's used to describe a host of female singers like Celine Dion, Mariah Carey and Jennifer Lopez.
Wait, bad example. Lemme try that again...
Lately the term "redneck" has come to describe lovable shlubs who enjoy life's simple pleasures. They cling stubbornly to their own myopic opinions, they're completely oblivious to the concept of self-assessment and they're perfectly content to exist in a world that extends no further then the reach of their own bloated appendages. They like self-assertive music, wildlife-related fashions, non-threatening comedy, water-flavored beer and cars that are so awesome they only need to make left turns. Sounds pretty straightforward, huh?
Sorry, but calling someone else a "redneck" is just about the worst thing that you can possibly say to another human being. Especially if you believe, as I do, that the meaning of life is to learn new things, travel to different places, absorb disparate points of view and use these experiences to improve yourself as a human being. As opposed to wallowing in sloth and ignorance.
Couple this with a strident-yet-mindless misinterpretation of the genuine societal ill of "bullying" and we've got a potential disaster on our hands. As part of the show's promotional material, TLC routinely releases troll-baiting photos like this:
So, naturally, media outlets like radio stations pick up these photo and then plaster them over their Facebook pages and websites, inviting listeners to comment. As such, is anyone really surprised when people start sharpening their knives and throw out painfully accurate appraisals like "Pathetic", "Abusive", "Shameful", "Exploitative", "Sick" and my own personal favorite:
KRANG
Since the act of posting this photo is akin to throwing an entire flat of Beggin' Strips into a pack of starving labrador retrievers, I really can't blame people for responding with such vitriol. What I can't fathom is how some morons have come to interpret this as "cyber-bullying".
"Cyber-bullying"? Seriously!? The whole point of Here Comes Honey Boo Boo is that these slack-jawed troglodytes are willing to globally humiliate themselves at a discount rate. Frankly I'd be disappointed in my fellow human beings if they didn't call them out. It's the whole point of the friggin' show, fer Crissakes! If you're stupid enough to hang out on a street corner holding a 'Kick Me' sign then you shouldn't be surprised when your breath ends up smelling like shoe polish.
In spite of this truism, a deluded posse of young, idealistic, self-righteous parents (who are apparently more naive then their own brainwashed larvae) are shouting charges of cyber-bullying at anyone who dares to accurately refer to June Shannon as "a human thumb". Really?Seriously?!?!
Hmmmm, dontcha think that there's a slight difference between these masochistic yahoos and some poor gay kid in Junior High who's had his Twitter account routinely bombed with homophobic epithets? Jesus, people, stop swilling the Kool-Aid and come back to earth!
One final thing. As much as I'd like to blame all of this on the conscienceless, greedy, corporate weasels in charge of TLC's programming, most of the blame should fall squarely upon us, the undiscriminating viewer. The network pinheads succumbed to weakness and dumbed down its programming mainly because there weren't enough viewers genuinely interested in enriching, intelligent and informative programming. They started to pander to the lowest common denominator because, ultimately, we vote with our remote controls and currently we're voting more Hee Haw then Reading Rainbow.
Please, I implore you: stop slowing down to gawk at these car crashes. Don't even watch this shit ironically.
We have to prove that we're better then this. The very future of the human race depends upon it. EPIC ADVICE ♫♪"Just don't look...just don't look..."♫♪
Umbrella, Cyberdyne, Tyrell Corporation, Weyland-Yutani, Omni Consumer Products: sci-fi is rife with irrationally evil business entities who's sole function is to put the blocks to the humanity for the sake of a few additional profit points.
But what if I were to tell you that there are some very real companies out there who's business practices are so vile, so reprehensible and so underhanded that they make these fictional corporate villains seem uninspired by comparison.
Enter Monsanto, a one-hundred and ten year old company that began to amass its fortune by selling the artificial sweetener saccharin to the Coca-Cola company. In the 1920's, Monsanto began to produce various drugs, chemicals and plastics. Not long after they started manufacturing PCB (polychlorinated biphenyl) which was widely used as a coolant in motors and transformers. That is until 1979 when the U.S. Congress banned the stuff after scientists linked it to various types of cancers including non-Hodgekin Lymphoma. Before the ban, Monsanto was responsible for producing 99% of all PCB's used in various industries.
In the 1940's Monsanto began produce the pesticide DDT or dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane for those of you out there who aren't into brevity. In her book Silent Spring published in 1962 biologist Rachel Carson made a compelling case that thirty years worth of indiscriminate spraying of the chemical was having a highly detrimental effect on wildlife, the environment and human health. The book created such a stir that John F. Kennedy (a.k.a. the last real President of the United States) set up a committee to verify the validity of her claims. When Carson's theories were largely validated, the EPA was ordered to de-register DDT and it was eventually banned in 1972.
Nonplussed by these minor setbacks, Monsanto concentrated on finding a new revenue stream. In the 60's and 70's this came in the form of a fat military contract for the notorious herbicide / defoliant called Agent Orange. The U.S. Army sprayed twenty million gallons of this crap over Vietnam in order to deprive enemy troops of food and cover. In the end, it destroyed over five million acres of forest and farmland, killed or maimed approximately four hundred thousand Vietnamese and ushered in about five hundred thousand birth defects.
And for all those poor naive idiots out there who still believe that the American government would never harm its own citizens: as of April 1993, almost forty thousand U.S. Army vets had applied for disability claims after being exposed to Agent Orange during active duty.
In 1973, Monsanto began flogging a glyphosate-based herbicide called Roundup. Over the course of the next forty years, it became the dominant weed-killer used in the United States, with over eighty-two tons applied to crops. Although the EPA still considers Roundup to be harmless to humans, debate continues to rage about its possible effects on plants, animals and the environment.
Perhaps because they were growing weary of losing lawsuits, Monsanto began to scale back its chemical production in lieu of exploring the brave new frontier of biotechnology. In 1983 it produced some of the first genetically-modified plant cells. Introductory crops followed just four years later, including a soybean resistant to the herbicidal effects of the company's very own Roundup. In a move that was either inspired by standard practice or brilliant foresight, Monsanto put a patent out on a slew of their Frankensteinian creations.
Not only did this help them recoup any initial investment sunk into research and development, it also allowed them to sue independent farmers into oblivion. This is brilliantly illustrated in the following clip from the awesome documentary Food Inc.
The really scary thing is that Monsonto's corporate lobbyists are so powerful that the friggin' U.S. State Department acts like their personal attack dog, going after nations that attempt to block the sale of the company's genetically modified, Borg-like crops!
After making a mint screwing around with the genetic makeup of plants, Monsonto then turned its attentions to the animal kingdom. In 1993, the FDA approved Monsanto's bid to sell bovine growth hormones which artificially inflate milk production in cattle. Dubbed Posilac, the product has been sold relentlessly in all fifty of the United States for the past eighteen years. Mercifully, Canada and over thirty other nations across the world had more common sense, refusing to approved it on the basis of animal health.
And then there's the company's shameful environmental record. For forty years, while they cranked out PCB's from their factory in Alliston, Alabama, Monsanto knowingly dumped hazardous by products into open landfills and nearby rivers. The end result: in 2003 Monsanto paid $300 million dollars in damages to local folks who's lives were destroyed by this naked act of gross negligence.
Conservatives love to argue that regulations are killing free enterprise and government needs to take a "hand's off" approach to big business. But until companies like Monsanto learn to ethically self-govern themselves, their point is completely moot.
Maybe the only way to get crooked outfits like Monsanto to clean up and fly straight is to sic Sarah Connor, Rick Deckard, Ellen Ripley, Robocop and Chris Redfield on them.
Oh, wait a minute. Those people aren't real.
EPIC DOC: This awesome little doc dishes up the full scoop on Monsanto in the same time it takes to watch an episode of The X-Factor.
EPIC EVIL: Got yer very own evil corporation at home? Here are a few more nefarious mission statements to give you inspiration!
FREE "INVENTORY THE FAIL IN YOUR CUPBOARD" DIAGRAM:
