Friday, February 7, 2014

Top Five Lamest Rock Song References


Aloha, Audio-Philes!

In order to effectively horrify authority figures and inspire feelings of genuine rebellion, good rock songs really need to reference some if not all of the following things:
  1. Sex.
  2. Mind-Altering Substances.
  3. Overt Weirdness.
  4. Justified or Unjustified Rage. 
  5. Crushing Despair / Loneliness / Unfulfilled Longing / Angst / Ennui. 
  6. Sex.
  7. Genghis Khan, Cthulhu, crazed robots, dragons, poems by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Satan or some other Cool, Deep, Dark Shit.
  8. Partying Like It's On Sale For $19.99.
  9. Sex.
  10. Sex.
In spite of these no-brainer pre-requisites, more then a few musicians have plumbed the depths of incongruous or decidedly-uncool subject matter, resulting in some of the lamest "rock" "songs" in music history.

So, I give to you:

The Top Five Lamest Rock Song References

(5) Name-Dropping Someone With More Talent Then You  Word to the wise: if your breathy, falsetto warbling and limited range showcases a complete and total absence of vocal power (which is then further whitewashed by hideous levels of overproduction), then you might not want to draw attention to your shortcomings by repeatedly reminding listeners that there's infinitely more talented vocalists out there that they should be listening to.


(4)  Mentioning Any God That Isn't Mythological  The phrase "Christian Rock" is an oxymoron. If you think that listening to music that sounds like a Nickelodeon show's theme song makes you some sort of rebel, then your halo's on too tight.

Remember kids: if your parents are cool with it, then there's a very high probability that your musical selection probably sucks.

The really funny thing about dudes like Scott Stapp from Creed or Russ Lee from NewSong is that they usually employ this ridiculous, "HA-RUM-DE-HEY", walking gonad vocal style which is clearly designed to tell every girl within earshot that he won't hesitate to put the blocks to her back at his hotel room at the Best Western next to the Wingy Manone Memorial Speedway.

Unless, of course, you're one of those pure-as-the-driven-snow members of Stryper.


Honestly, is there anything lamer and less rock n' roll then the willfully and active pursuit of virginity? Thanks, Stryper for giving us this ear-splitting, tone-deaf ode to a mid-life crisis.

Please note, Jesus is completely exempt from this rule because:
  1. He's an only child.
  2. He's got amazing mechanical aptitude.  
  3. He gave us some of our best rock-star poses. 
  4. He hates televangelists. 
  5. I mean, he really, really hates televangelists. 
  6. He's a pretty chill dude. 
  7. He's got no time for hypocrisy. 
  8. He's WAY COOL.
  9. He can bust out more awesome party tricks then David Blaine. 
  10. He's willing to spot a brotha when he's down. 
Speaking of being broke... 

(3) Personal Finances  We've all got bills to pay so the last thing I wanna hear when I turn on the radio is some band's lead singer whinging about his bank balance. Sorry, but references to "saving money", "market losses", "pension funds", "bad investments", "taxes" and "overdrawn accounts" is about as rock n' roll as an episode of The Lang and O'Leary Exchange.

Obviously you didn't get the memo, Passion Pit, so here goes: the primary duty of rock stars is to provide escapism for the average shmoe, not rub our nose in the bleak and boring drudgery of having to get by every day. Little wonder this video starts the way it does; you'll want to lie down in the street too after listening to this crap.

Get the off the stage, you morose motherf#@kers!  


(2) Sports  True rock stars derive exercise from only two sources: groupie shagging and/or on-stage scissor kicks. Sorry, but sports goes with rock n' roll about as well as Cheez Whiz and Lucky Charms.


In addition to providing incentive for meathead jocks to chest-bump one another, these boring, cliche-ridden anthemic pieces of shite also give failed-athlete parents a soundtrack to live vicariously through their put-upon kids, some of whom couldn't give a flying f#@k about sports.

Now, although I'm not the biggest fan of Tom Cochrane's "Big League", I have to respect the fact that he wrote the song about a real-life Canadian kid who was killed in a car accident just prior to starting what might have been an amazing NHL career. This grim, underlying subject matter still doesn't prevent hordes of slack-jawed troglodytes from using the song as warm-up music before minor league hockey games. F#@king idiots.

(1) Scholastic Achievement  Look, unless you're suggesting a radical, rock-based curriculum change,  admiring an educator's aesthetic value, reveling in a temporary, seasonal-based hiatus, or just advocating wanton cruelty, bands should never, ever talk about school. Especially not in a positive light. And this is coming from a former honor student.

Hey, I might be a geek, but I'm no nerd.

And bands should never, ever boast about "doing alright", "gettin' good grades" or destinies so luminescent that they require the use of ultra-violet ophthalmological protective devices.


This song has to be the dweebiest daily affirmation ever recorded. It's like the musical equivalent of that cocky, gel-haired Principal's son in High School who wore Hawaiian shirts and neon-framed sunglasses. Indeed, if a song can ever be characterized as "douchey", this is it. 

I swear, just as soon as I'm named Emperor, I'm gonna wipe this tinny, sickeningly-optimistic, drum-machine-driven audio abortion right out of existence. Then I'm gonna find out what decrepit trailer park the lead singer lives in and jam that f#@king harmonica right up his ass.  

Equally sinful is this mock-cock-rock piece of dreck from back in 1985 by even-aging-way-back-then southern songsters .38 Special. 


Since, from my own personal experience, only about 20% of educators are worth crooning about and the rest are dead-eyed, soulless, unimaginative basket cases, this song really, really pisses me off. Just check out some of these incredibly tripe lyrics:

Teacher, teacher can you teach me?
Can you tell me all I need to know?
Teacher, teacher can you reach me?
Or will I fall when you let me go? Oh, no!

Am I ready for the real world? Will I pass the test?
You know it's a jungle out there.
Ain't nothin' gonna stop me, I won't be second best!
But the joke's on those who believe the system's fair, oh yeah!

Sorry, but whatever "kid" is singing these lyrics really need to chill the f#@k out, go back behind the bleachers and smoke a doob with the bangers.

By crafting this battle-hymn for teacher's pets everywhere, I can't help but wonder if song-writers Jim Vallance and Bryan Adams ("Ah, I belief dat ve haff found zee source of zee suckage!") used to sit in the front row of math class, stick their arms up every five seconds and shout "Ooo, OoOOO!  Is this gonna to be on the test, Mr. Pommelhorse, sir?"

Every one of these references needs be placed in a permanent state of detention, post haste.  

EPIC MUSE:  "Jesus Is Just Alright" with me.

EPIC SUMMARY:  "I tell you whut..."


HOW TO MAKE AN EPIC FAIL FAIL-IER: Three-to-one odds says that she'll have a pay-to-watch webcam service by the time she hits her mid-twenties...


FAILED CONNECTION: "Funny thing is, Jesus told me that he only talked to you like once back in High School, so, y'know the whole 'friends' thing is probably a bit of a stretch."




Tuesday, January 21, 2014

Cold Turkey

 
Greetings, Persistent Perusers.

During my forty...um...three years I've never come remotely close to tobacco, alcohol or drug-related dependency. Hell, I've barely even touched the stuff. All told, I think I can safely declare that I don't have an addictive personality.   

Yet now I find myself in the throes of a compulsion that may be just as ruinous. It's hobbled my finances, distracted me from potentially lucrative opportunities and even impacted my health. What is this dire pursuit, you may ask? In one incongruous word it's:

WRITING

Now, I know you're thinking: "C'mon, Dave, dramatic much?" But I'll prove it to you. Just listen for a second...
 
January gives me a chance to look back and see what I managed to accomplish during the previous year. For example, back at the end of 2011, this was my admittedly-"impossible" Things To Do list for 2012:
  1. Try voice acting work.
  2. Make more board game videos.
  3. Attempt to find some sort of film crew gig.
  4. Make my first book available to Kobo readers.
  5. Keep promoting my first book.
  6. Start working in earnest on my second book.
  7. Produce four blog entries (!) and six reviews (!!!) per month.
  8. Sell some of my crap.
  9. Travel.
  10. Find a practical job that will somehow jibe with this irrational creative workload whilst not driving me insane in the process.
As sad as this underachieving checklist might be, the most depressing part about it is the ending:

"Even if I manage to check off a few of these, I'll be happy.   In my current situation, 2012 is virtually rife with limitless, unpredictable and downright giddy possibilities." 

Wow. You poor, deluded, naive bastard.

I say all of this because my single-minded obsession with número siete on this list caused everything else to fall by the wayside. In fact, instead of diversifying my efforts, I started up a third blog and then proceeded to write like a possessed maniac throughout the entire year. In fact, I only managed to accomplish seven through ten on this list.

Now granted, some of these goals were either goofy and/or pie-eyed anyway so a part of me is relieved that I didn't waste a lot of time on them. For example, with the rise of iPads and other tablets, I'm glad I spared myself the pain and misery of wrestling with super-frustrating formatting issues just to appease a couple of Kobo users. 

And even though I really enjoyed the time I've spent on movie sets (documented here, here, here and here for what it's worth), I no longer have a burning desire to be a mobile light stand or a human-shaped prop in the background. And although I had a lot of fun emoting in my one and only "acting" gig, I just don't posses the level of self-awareness (nor the wardrobe, apparently) to become a career actor. Or whatever passes for "career actor here in the impoverished Maritimes.

No, the two things I really regret not doing over the past two years is making more of my own short films and writing the sequel to my first book. My very first board game video was so wildly successful (over twenty-one thousand view as of this writing, holla!) that I really should have followed up on it immediately. Also when I think about how many chapters of a new book I could have written instead of blog posts, my mind reels. And, believe it or not, I still think I've got something to offer as a voice-actor.

Anyway, a year goes by and my next "things to do list" sounds a helluva lot more sober. Self-disappointment must have been getting me down, since I reduced my goals from ten the previous year to only two:
  • Break my ruinous addiction to writing
  • Stop my savings from swirling down the commode
See!? Even back then I was referring to writing as a "ruinous addiction"! Clearly feeling defeated, I bashed out the following weary resignation:

"It kills me to say this, but I'm either going to have to quit these blog posts cold turkey or, at the very least, scale back my usage."
 
Well, I'll have your know that I did scale back that year. I just couldn't bring myself to quit. When you're a closet extrovert who's desperately seeking creative validation, you begin to live for that steady stream of visitor hits, the rush of positive comments and the optimistic delusion that the right person will come along, read what you've written and magically offer you a paying job for something that you're clearly passionate about. Is there any wonder why the alluring l'il devil mounted on my shoulder kept reeling me in whenever he leaned into my ear and whispered: "C'mon, man, just one more post! You know you wanna!"

Sorry, but compared to chipping away at the third chapter of a full-length novel that may or may not ever see the light of day, the instant gratification offered up by a blog entry is just waaaaaay too tempting.    

Regardless, I now find myself in the same position again, looking back at the prior year and trying to see 2014 in a positive light. Even though my monthly balance sheet still keeps going in the wrong direction, at least my savings have stopped hemorrhaging. I really don't want to hit rock bottom. As such, I gotta start making some really tough decisions. I need some help.

To follow through on this goofy addiction analogy, I seriously considered going cold turkey at first. But then I found out that the odds of this working were actually pretty slim. In fact, according to one source, only "three to six cold turkey quitters out of every one-hundred will succeed during any given quit attempt. This makes cold turkey the least effective of all treatments."  Hmmmmm, not very promising.

Honestly, my vow to quit writing cold turkey is nothing but an unrealistic, overly-optimistic New Years resolution. Taking a break from breathing would be an easier for me. Just last week I tried to go as long as I could without writing something. Within a few short days I started to feel anxious, surly, unfulfilled and vaguely depressed. I felt like I was wasting my time. I even took my unconscious frustrations out on a poor, innocent sandwich press.

So, with the cold turkey approach out of the running, I had to find a more realistic strategy. Taking another hackneyed page from the simile book, I'm going to try a Gradual Reduction combined with a little dash of N.R.T., I.E. Notary Replacement Therapy. As such, here are my goals for the coming year:
  1. Keep this blog alive even if it means committing to a single new post a month and more if the  spirit really moves me.
  2. Reduce my reviews to a minimum of two per month instead of striving for one a week. If I need to do more then that I'll use "Pro" and "Con" bullet points if I have to.
  3. Maintain my board gaming blog at its current pace since it's clearly the most popular of the three.
  4. Finalize at least one chapter a month for my new book. 
  5. Start making those damned board game videos. Monthy, by rights.
  6. Put more focus on writing projects that may actually yield a bit of money one day down the road. The iPad ap I've been dabbling with now gets top priority!
  7. Keep looking for ways to snare the almighty dollar while keeping my mind and soul intact. At least cobble together enough scratch in order to travel someplace this year. Travel is the only luxury I really can't do without. 
Slowly but surely I'm coming to realization that writing has to be one of the worst pursuits to burden yourself with. In this age of fleeting attention spans, visual artists, pod-casters, musicians and film-makers have a huge advantage over writers, because the things they create can be experienced and enjoyed passively. Writers, on the other hand, need to engage people in the active endeavor of reading, which oftentimes ain't easy.

Even I'm guilty of literary sloth from time to time. Occasionally I'll click on a superficially-intriguing link, quickly appraise the resulting wall of text that's been magically conjured in front of me, dive in and then start to think 'Ugh, this is waaaaay too much effort. I wonder if there are any new talk show clips with Bill Burr on YouTube that I haven't seen yet?'

In spite of this, I'm glad that I gave myself so much time and opportunity to practice and hone this wonderful craft. When I first started, I really wasn't a writer. I was just some dude who could kinda string a sentence together and occasionally come up with something vaguely funny, witty and/or crude. At least I can do a reasonable impersonation of a writer now. And as such, I'm really looking forward to turning my attention to producing a vastly superior second novel.

Wish me luck, Gentle Readers, as I try to stay on the straight-and-narrow path and not backslide into temptation. If you could just feel the same gloriously-wonderful sensation of creative endorphins happily frolicking around in my head as I'm about to finish up this sad, navel-gazing exercise in self-therapy, you'd know why I'm so strung out on the written word.      

I appreciate your continued support just not, y'know, too much support. Whatever you do, don't be an enabler. If I get too much encouragement then, who knows, I might fall off the wagon and go on some crazed, five-post-a-week binge like back in the good old days.

*sigh*

EPIC POEMS   The photo that appears at the top of this post comes from this site, which features some heartfelt poems produced by real people in the throes of real addiction. Pretty harrowing stuff.

EPIC SHMALTZ:   Corn-ball but true...


EPIC SENTIMENT  Yeak, I know, I know...another Patton Oswalt clip. But, hey, the dude keeps encapsulating my exact thoughts on the overwhelming drive to practice your true calling, regardless of how financially daunting that can be. Just listen to what he says here at the 30 second mark:


FAILED ANALOGY   'Don't bury your lead...don't bury your lead...don't bury your lead...'

Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Them's Fightin' Words


Greeting, Pickers and/or Grinners!

In my humble opinion, one of the worst things you can call someone is a "redneck". Which is kind of a pity because the term began innocently enough as a literal descriptor for poor, hard-working farmers who could easily be identified by their sun-charred necks.

Eventually "redneck" began to take on another, darker meaning. Since many of the people described in this manner weren't exactly the most educated, urbane or open-minded folks, the word soon became synonymous with bigotry, ignorance and rigidity. In turn, it's a label that every single Southerner has been unfairly tarred with; a prejudice that's as myopic and intolerant as any other.

Even though I personally don't understand the appeal of NASCAR, buck hunting, Will Hoge, camouflage bed-sheets and half-ton trucks (especially as a Canadian), I do know that just because people like these things it doesn't automatically make them inbred, Bible-thumping racists. As you might expect, folks get a tad prickly when you call them "redneck" just because they have a fetish for watching cars drive around in a semi-circle.

Which is why you've seen a redneck reclamation effort recently. Hell, Sarah Palin nearly got to within one step of the Presidency on the back of her oblivious, corn-pone "charm". Both Jeff Foxworthy and Larry The Cable Guy have inexplicably managed to parlay the concept into nominal, one-note comedy careers. Tyler Farr had a tryin'-too-hard hit this year called "Redneck Crazy". Daryl Dixon is justifiably the most popular character on The Walking Dead. And although Honey Boo-Boo and her clan aren't exactly rocket scientists, they aren't a bunch of intolerant assholes either.

And then there's the high water mark for redneck chic:


Having never watched a single episode of Duck Dynasty, I can only guess as to why it's so ludicrously popular right now. Here then are my theories:
  • "It's got jen-you-wine FAMILY VALUES which is in short supply on the TEE VEE nowadays."
  • "If'n you get the right idea and you work hard you can go from RAGS TO RICHES."
  • "It's great to see real people on the TEE VEE that'r jus' like us and not like them uppity Kardashians."
  • "Even though some members of your family are COLORFUL CHARACTERS that GET ON YER NERVES, you still love 'em anyways."
  • "It's also nice to see someone on the TEE VEE openly express their FAITH IN GOD."
  • "I jus' love it when Phil, Miss Kay, Si, Willie and the rest of 'em get into all them hi-jinx. IT'S JUS' LIKE MY OWN PACK O' NUTS!"
  • "It's nice to see good, honest, God-fearin' people win out for a change instead of all them over-edumacated snobs that Rick Santorum is always talkin' about."  
If you insist on frittering away chunks of your life watching the empty mental calories of reality T.V., you could actually do a lot worse. At face value, Duck Dynasty is just a modern-day, real-life spin on The Beverly Hillbillies: with innocent, well-intentioned, "new money" hayseeds who rock the rich establishment with their own home-spun brand of down-to-earth charm. We root for them for the same reason we cheer on Kathy Bates as the "Unsinkable", and refreshingly sassy, Molly Brown in Titanic.   

But ever since Duck Dynasty became a cultural phenomenon, I've wondered just how legitimately "rednecky" these guys really are. After all, it doesn't matter how back-woodsy these guys claim to be, if they're multi-millionaires, then they have to posses some gar-run-teed, lee-jit-uh-mit smarts. And sure enough, after a cursory bit of research, you can quickly suss out the real reality behind these counterfeit clodhoppers:

Jase Robertson B.C. (Before Camouflage). Is this an errant page from the J. Crew catalog?  

While he attended Louisiana Tech University, Phil had the sort of haircut you could calibrate scientific instruments with.

Willie has a Bachelor's degree in Health and Human Performance with a minor in Business from the University of Louisiana.  Hmm, I wonder if Rick Santorum would call these guys snobs?

Sy was once a clean-cut military man.

But just as I was about to write them all off as a bunch of closeted New England Blue Bloods, Robertson family patriarch Phil recently uttered the following eye-opening quote:

“Start with homosexual behavior and just morph out from there. Bestiality, sleeping around with this woman and that woman and that woman and those men. Don’t be deceived. Neither the adulterers, the idolaters, the male prostitutes, the homosexual offenders, the greedy, the drunkards, the slanderers, the swindlers—they won’t inherit the kingdom of God. Don’t deceive yourself. It’s not right.”  

As soon as I read that I was like: "Okay, theeeeere's the pompous, know-it-all certainty disguised as intolerance and hatred that I usually associate with rednecks. Maybe these guys are legit after all."

Confession time: I'm forty-three years old and hopefully part of the last generation to grow up during a climate of open hostility towards homosexuals. When I was a kid, people actually thought that being gay was a lifestyle choice, presumably due to some sort of sexual fetish or psychological deficiency. 

But this never made sense to me. Why would someone consciously pick a sexual orientation that threatened to alienate them from their family and friends? Why would you chose a predilection that would open you up to a lifetime of societal scorn? I know for a fact that there were gay kids in our High School who spent years wrestling with self-esteem issues and depression brought on by open hostility and alienation.    

In the 70's and 80's, broad, stereotypical depictions of gays and lesbians in the media were a constant source of ridicule. Eddie Murphy openly expressed a particularly vile form of homophobia that makes both Delirious and Raw nearly unwatchable today. Gay and lesbian actors and musicians, harshly "outed" by the press, were immediately branded with harsh epithets like "lezzie", "faggot" and "queer" in private circles.

As you might expect, if you spend years growing up immersed in this warped prevailing attitude there's a pretty good chance that you'll buy into it as well. I'm not proud to admit it, but back then when I was a stupid, impressionable kid, I found myself entertaining these idiotic thoughts from time to time. 

But even during my most ignorant and callow days I never, ever openly expressed the sort of vitriol embodied in Phil's quote to anyone. Even when people were being openly hurtful and verbally cruel I just couldn't bring myself to join in. Probably because, as a scrawny, geeky kid I'd been on the receiving end of enough ridicule to know how it felt to be ostracized just for being different. 

In most cases, university becomes the place in which we leave our narrow view of the world behind and expand our minds. Unfortunately, these moronic thoughts were actually re-enforced somewhat during my first few years living in residence. It wasn't until I got out into the workforce and met and befriended some truly fantastic people before my embryonic but omnipresent positive stance on gay rights finally pushed its way to the vanguard. 

During this time I swiftly came to recognize my borderline-redneckian leanings for what they truly were: a symptom of my own ignorance and personal failing. With this firmly established I went out, got myself informed, divorced myself from these infantile thoughts and now I'm a much better person for it. 

So I beseech everyone reading this: please, please stop referring to yourself in such oxymoronical terms as a "proud redneck". Now I'm not saying that you can't sport a mullet, attend Monster Truck rallies and watch CMT, just don't characterize yourself in such limited way.   

To me, a redneck is someone who's given up on trying to make themselves a better person, someone who is 100% convinced that they're right about everything and everyone else is wrong. They cling stubbornly to their own narrow point of view, even when their woefully under-informed opinions are filled with bitterness, insecurity and hate.

So if anyone ever calls you a redneck to your face, you have my permission to punch them right square in the larynx.     
       
EPIC RANT  This is what happens when one particularly awesome Southerner gets tired of being depicted as a bigoted asshole:


EPIC FUNNY   Comedian Patton Oswalt perfectly sums up my own thoughts on gay marriage right here. Not suitable for work, even though it should be.


HUMANITY FAIL   If you recognize any portion of yourself in the following GQ Magazine interview then you got some work to do on yourself, son. Phil's insistence that poor, segregated blacks were "Godly...and happy" and no-one was "singing the blues" back then is equally baffling, but that's a blog entry for another time.       

Sunday, December 22, 2013

In Transit


Here's how my flight home last year played out in a series of desperate and pathetic Tweets:

12:27 PM 
Sorry that the weather's completely shite today, guys, but I'm flying today.
#alanismorissetteironic
 
12:28 PM
The airport: the only place on the planet where a bottle of water is more expensive then a tall Starbuck's dark roast.
#hydrationpaymentplan?
 
12:30 PM
The airport: where young people bliss-out with digital distractions and old people cling doggedly to boredom.
#generationgapchasm
 
12:34 PM
The airport: where an elderly black woman can dress like Diahann Carroll in the "Star Wars Holiday Special" and no-one bats an eye.
#pssstdiscoisdead
 
12:39 PM
Hey, moron, if the airport waiting area is totally silent then everyone can hear your "private" phone conversation.
#useyourindoorvoice
 
12:50 PM
A hyperventilating older woman continues to linger just outside the still-open plane door.
#Ivedecidedtorethinkthiswholeflyingthing
 
12:51 PM
The stewardess has now linked arms with her in case the old woman passes out and rolls down the steps.
#whatevershesgettingpaiditisntnearlyenough
 
12:56 PM
Dude to panicked lady: "You'll be alright, maid! In a few minutes you'll be back there playin' cards and havin' a smoke!"
#screwsafetyregulationsletlighterup
 
12:58 PM
Stewardess seems to have pacified the panicked lady with a premature offering of pretzels and O.J.
#prozaclacedjuicebox
 
1:00 PM
Pretty sure the dude seated in front of me has been marinating in Captain Morgan and Aqua Velva. 
#youcanwearORdrinkeitherofthem
 
1:00 PM
God, I sure hope the pilot flies better then he drives.
#checkhispapers 
 
1:03 PM
Oh...my...God, I just heard the stewardess refer to our pilot as a "new hire". #thingsyoudontwannahearonaplane
 
1:06 PM
So, apparently the chemical used to de-ice planes first turns ice brown, then it turns ice green and then and only then does it melt it. 
#seemslegit
 
2:31 PM
Plastic cup just popped out of the seat flap in front of me, spilling ice and O.J. into my open backpack.
#urgetokillrisingrisingrising
 
2:36 PM
The two things that have caused me the most hearing loss in my lifetime are rock concerts and Dash-8 airplane cabin noise.
#wha?
 
2:46 PM
Dash-8 planes: slightly less leg room then a go-cart. Inadvertently molested my seat-mate while fishing my iPod outta my backpack.
#thosenutsarentcomplimentary
 
2:47 PM
DEER LAKE: I AM IN YOU!!!
#notdirtytechnicallycorrect
 
2:51 PM
Feet pinned under backpack and not enough room to pull bag up between shins and seat in front of me. "HALP!  I IS TRAPT!"  
#santaclaustrophobia
 
2:52 PM
LEMME OFF!!! LEMME OFF!!! LEMME OFF!!! LEMME OFF!!! LEMME OFF!!! LEMME OFF!!! LEMME OFF!!! LEMME OFF!!! LEMME OFF!!!
#margesimpson
 
3:12 PM
Seeing the smiling faces of the 'rents in the terminal widow = priceless.
#worththeeffort
 
 
EPIC LOOP    See how far you can get through this before you end up joining her in the chorus... 

 
HOLIDAY SPECIAL FAIL     "OoooOooo...OOOO! We are excited, aren't we?"
  
 
 


Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Perfectly CON-Tent: HAL-CON 2013

 
Greetings, Fellow CON-Testants!

I had a couple of minor hiccups at HAL-CON last year, mainly centered around entitled dweebs armed with Warp Passes and well-meaning but militant volunteers trying to annex our free-play game tables. Neither of these niggling issues were enough to deter me from procuring a three-day weekend pass for this year.

In fact, these tiny glitches were nothing compared to the irritants which plagued some attendees at this year's event. If ticket-holders made the mistake of pressing "SNOOZE" on their alarm clock Saturday morning or if you kept tabs on HAL-CON 2013 in the media as a spectator, you probably already know what I'm on about. Personally, I can only comment on my own individual experience.

And I have to say, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this was my favoritest HAL-CON evar!

"Stay awhile and listen and I shall regale thee of my tale of high adventure..."


FRIDAY

Andrew picked me up at my place just smidge after noon. I had to get him to back-track up into Bayers Lake so that I could pick up a few new digital video tapes.

To future-quote Jewel Staite: "Tapes. Remember tapes, guys?"

Yep, I bought my video camera back in 2008, which might as well be the Mesozoic Era in technology terms. At that time, on-board digital storage and memory cards were still in their infancy. Ergo, I had to snag some extra tapes for my camcorder before heading down to the World Trade and Convention Center. Given the scarcity of the damned things this is becoming an increasingly-difficult prospect.

While I was waiting for my first mandatory event of the day, I spent some time roving around the convention floor. With my happily-fed video camera cranking away, I captured the panoply of sights, sounds and yes, smells of HAL-CON whilst casing the expansive vendor section for some choice acquisitions. As you can well imagine, the time just flew by and the next thing I knew it was time to meet up with a childhood hero.

Now, I've already ranted at length about how impactful Star Wars was to me as a kid, but let's face it, the adventures of Luke, Han and Leia were few and far between. The wait between 1977 and 1980 was a long and protracted one but mitigated considerably by the appearance of Battlestar Galactica in theaters here in Canada.

The brainchild of producer Glen Larson, Battlestar Galactica posited that the race of man first originated "amongst the stars". In some distant past, the human race has been engaged in a protracted struggle against the Cylons, a population of murderous automatons who've been trying to wipe out all organic life in the galaxy. When the Cylons extend an unexpected offer of peace, the twelve human colonies jump at the offer, anxious to bring an end to a thousand years of constant warfare.

The most vocal olive-branch skeptic is Adama (Lorne Greene), a decorated war-hero and the Commnader of the titular Battlestar. True to Adama's predictions, the Cylons shatter the temporary truce and during the resulting Pearl Harbor job the human race is all but extirpated. All that remains is a "rag-tag, fugitive fleet" led by the Galactica. Their goal: to find a planetary promised land known only as "Earth".

Lured in by the spectacular trailers on television I was one of the few kids lucky enough to see Battlestar Galactica in theaters in 1978 at the tender age of eight. I was completely blown away by the Viper ships, the Raiders, the Galactica, the Basestars, the insect-like Ovions and the creepy, mechanical Cylons. As amazing as all of this visual spectacle was, I was also engaged by the movie's human element.  

Richard Hatch's Captain Apollo was at the core of the film's emotional heart. Despite losing his brother, his mom and his wife to the Cylons, Apollo's resolve never wavered and his moral compass was always set to "Paragon". As an idealistic young kid, he was definitely the character I identified with the most.

Needless to say, it was pretty cool meeting Richard Hatch. In addition to getting his autograph, Richard subjected himself to a guerilla-style interview, the results of which can be peeped right hur.



Well-spoken, affable, and relentlessly enthusiastic about his past and future endeavors, Richard was a delight to talk to. His infectious positive aura virtually assured that I'd be attending his Acting Workshop later that evening. Leaving Andrew to engage in a four-player game of Firefly, I stole away to the "Clockwork Room" and grabbed a seat in anticipation of Richard's arrival.

Immediately I was thankful that many of my fellow conventioneers decided to show up and there was a respectable amount of butts in seats. There's nothing more awkward then going to one of these workshops only to find yourself in what amount to a midnight screening of After Earth. That's just sad.

Then, from out of nowhere, local Hali-famous actor Rhys Bevan-John, plunked down into the seat next to me. I absolutely love this guy. Earlier that day, in a move perfectly in step with the rest of the costumed masses, Rhys was strutting around the convention hall in his "Best Of" cape and crown.

I don't blame him for being proud. Just a few days earlier Rhys was named "Best Male Theater Actor" in The Coast's annual "Best of Halifax" survey. I saw him play the lead in Shakespeare By The Sea's performance of Hamlet that past summer and he (along with the rest of the cast) were uniformly awesome.

When Richard arrived it looked as if he was dressed for winter, bundled up in no less then four different shirts and/or jackets. Can't say that I was surprised; during our interview he'd scoffed at my casual reference to the weather as "mild". In fact, I think he characterized the temps that day in Halifax as "Arctic-like".

It wasn't long before Richard started shedding some of those heavy layers of fabric. Dude's a very dynamic orator and if you ever get a chance to see him speak in any capacity I highly suggest you do so. Over the course of the next hour-and-a-half Richard offered up some tremendous insights into the business of acting, auditions, self-motivation, encouraging the creative spark, avoiding career pitfalls and parlaying personal experiences into effective performances.

The workshop concluded with a gloriously loopy improv session featuring a pair of brave aspiring actresses, one playing a put-upon hospital supervisor and the other posing as a drug-addled janitor (!). Things got even weirder when Rhys was thrown into the mix as a stern-but-inexplicably-merciful manager. Just as the scene started to come together we had to stop.

Honestly, I could have stayed there for another two or three hours but the room was booked for "Adventures with Vampires and Publishing". *Pffffttt*, as if there isn't already enough of that crap around!

On the way out I congratulated Rhys on his terrific showing in Hamlet and asked about his recent starring role in The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. When Rhys gave me a quick demonstration of his transformation scene I promptly kicked myself for missing out on what was surely another bravura SBTS production. Go see more live theater, kids! It's a blast!

By the time I got back to the games room, Andrew had pulled out a win in Firefly and also played a few games of Mr. Jack Pocket with a friend from work named Fraser. The three of us then broke out the awesome co-operative game Hanabi and by the time that game was over it was definitely time to pack it in for the evening.

All told, it was a great first day. We'd gotten the lay of the land, Andrew had played a bunch of games, I'd met and then hung out with a childhood hero and the crowds were pretty sedate. Not too shabby.

But then there came:

SATURDAY 

I faced another early rise the next day but I really didn't care. I knew that it was going to be a crazy day and I wanted to get down there early. I pitched at the Starbucks on Barrington Street around 9 am and waited for Andrew and Mike to turn up like a pair or bad pennies. In a stroke of synchronicity, my friend Chad, his wife Jeanette and the rest of their enthusiastic clan stumbled in to get their caffeine fix. We discussed strategies for the day and then prepared to wade into the fray.

With Andrew and Mike delayed, I decided to hike up to the convention center in order to establish a beach-head in the games room. In retrospect, this was probably a good move since the place was already starting to fill up. One major reason for this was the fact that the vendor section was open to the public, which I think inspired a lot of people to buy day passes right there on the spot.

In fact, my own significant other, who is usually leery about attending crowded and sometimes, shall we say, aromatic events like this, even trolled through the merch section with me for awhile. She picked up a gorgeous, elaborate-looking, Steam-punky watch while I got a fabulous deal on two awesome board games.

That's when we ran into two more friends, Sabina and Mark. Although Sabina's HAL-CON attendance was never in doubt, Mark had declared days ago that he wasn't going because of the crowds. He changed his mind at the last second when Sabina managed to procure a free weekend pass through work. Although this awesome spate of good fortune proved to be irresistible to Mark, the shoulder-to-shoulder throngs of colorful humanity probably did nothing to cure his agoraphobia.

Seeing the crowds rise like the water line over the bow of the Titanic, Sabina, Mark and I decided to retreat to the gaming room on the third floor. We waited there until Mike and Andrew showed up and then promptly left them behind. I'd been so busy with writey-type stuff leading up to HAL-CON that I didn't even have a chance to look at the schedule. Having Sabina there was great because she knew exactly what, when and where things were transpiring.

As such, she urged us to get down to the Main Stage about an hour early to score a good vantage point for the Billy Dee Williams Q&A. This worked out great because I arrived at the perfect time to capture Richard Hatch's presentation which I wasn't even aware has going on at the time!

During the subsequent half hour and change, Richard shared his views on narrow-minded studio execs, the dearth of speculative fiction on television, and how current technology provides creative freedom. Oh, and he also gave the attentive crowd plenty of insight into both incarnations of Battlestar Galactica as well as his forthcoming web-series The Great War of Magellan.

  

After watching this it's not hard to see why Richard is one of the most sought-after acting coaches and public speakers on the convention / lecture circuit right now.

With the imminent arrival of Billy Dee Williams, the Main Hall became as jam-packed as a Hyundai crammed with drunken university pledges. In fact, it got so crowded that it prompted a funny exchange with a couple that was standing next to me. 

"Wow, can you imagine what would happen if the fire alarm went off right now?" they observed.

"Oh, God, it'd be total anarchy," I replied. "The average Dexterity score for most people in this room is probably only around five or six so just picture a thousand of Hans Moleman's kids trying to get out of here all at once."

The wait, and the encroaching tide of humanity, was quickly forgotten when the Coolest Dude in the Galaxy™ walked out on stage. Over the course of the next forty-five minutes, Billy Dee Williams charmed young and old, male and female alike, regaling us with stories about The Empire Strikes Back, Return of the Jedi, Tim Burton's Batman and Robot Chicken. 

For pop culture nuts such as myself it was also great to hear him reflect on his celebrated artwork, his challenging appearance in Brian's Song and his debut on stage in The Firebrand of Florence at the tender age of seven. By the time he called a fan a "double-crossing, no-good swindler" at their request, we were all collectively wrapped around his finger:

    
The thing that resonated with me the most was when he likened himself to Holden Caulfield in J.D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye, a character who naively floats through life, having random adventures and innocently getting into and out of trouble. You can see this yourself at the fifteen minute mark of the video.

"Even at my age at this stage in my life I'm pretty naive about a lot of things," he told the enthralled masses. "I was so protected as a kid growing up that I kind of found myself bumbling through life." 

Amen, brother.

When the Q&A was over, I lost Sabina and Mark in the resulting tsunami of bodies. While inching my way through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowds I first began to hear fleeting references to "over capacity", "fire marshal" and "clearing the building". About around that same time I bumped into Chad who told me that his kids had left the convention center to get lunch and couldn't get back in. Although it pained them to do so, Chad and Jeanette left to collect them knowing that they weren't going to get back in. Needless to say, a day pass refund would be in their future!

I finally managed to claw my way to the escalator and get back to the Games Room on Level Three. I briefly re-united with Andrew and even managed to get in a fleeting game of Mr. Jack Pocket before I had to take flight. 

I'm glad that I had the foresight to bring my own lunch with me. After our game was over I bypassed the concession stand on the same floor and then eked out a spot in the impromptu dining area where I wolfed down my home-made ham sammich, pausing occasionally to capture a few incredible costumes on video.

Oh, by the way, I despise the word "cosplay" with the fire of a million suns. Dressing up like an elf is goofy enough without giving it an infantile handle like "cosplay". Sounds like some sort of weird sexual fetish involving Cliff Huxtable and a Jello Pudding Pop. I actually had a great costume that I could have worn but if someone asked me what I was "cosplaying" as I probably would have beaten them to death with a plastic tricorder.

After scarfing down my lunch like a gluttonous anaconda, I scrambed down to the second floor, knowing that my window of opportunity to meet Billy Dee was drawing to a close. I jumped into the lineup and ended up having an extended yarn with the dude standing behind me who, in addition to being a Star Wars fan, was also a big horror nut. We both expressed our desire for a dedicated horror convention here in Halifax. 

"Yeah, wouldn't that be great? Especially if they got someone like Bruce Campbell as a guest? God, I'd freak right the f#@k out!" he confessed.

"Oh my God, that would be so friggin' awesome," I gushed. "I'd be a complete mess if I ever met Bruce."

Like a couple of 'tween girls talking about One Direction, we spent some time affirming our mutual love for The Chin. Then, when he told me that he'd met Texas Chainsaw Massacre star Gunnar Hansen at "Summer Fear" in Tatamagouche a few years back I was nearly overcome with jealousy.

"Dude, there's only one Leatherface, and that's Gunnar Hansen!" I maintained, having just re-watched his performance for a recent blog entry.

Also in the lineup was an uber-dedicated Mom who was looking to get her son's Lando Calrissian action figure signed.

"So your son couldn't be here? Is he studying for exams or something?" I asked.

"Oh, no," she replied. "He's a software developer for Valve in Washington. But when he heard that Billy Dee Williams was going to be here in Halifax he wanted me to meet him and get his action figure signed!"

And the "Mom of the Year" award goes to...

That's the great thing about coming to events like this. Even if you find yourself waiting in a barely-moving lineup, you'll find no shortage of awesome people to talk to, the lion's share of whom have built-in interests in common with you.

Meeting Billy Dee Williams was a real treat. I swear, if I could hop into a time machine and go back to around 1981 and tell L'il Dave that I'd be meeting one of my cinematic idols I'd probably plotz.

I do have one minor gripe about the way his autograph booth was set up, however. I've been to enough of these signings by now to know the drill off by heart:
  1. You wait in a big-ass line-up. 
  2. You eventually get to meet the person at the end of said lineup.
  3. You get to exchange some brief pleasantries with the person at the end of the lineup or heap some barely-comprehensible gushing praise on them.
  4. You hand over the crap your brought along so they can notarize it or get them to sign one of their free 8"x10" glossy photos laid out on the table in front of you.
  5. You get the f#@k out of the way post-haste for the other hojillion people nervously tapping their feet behind you.
But Billy Dee's set up was kinda odd. As you slowly began to approach the goal line, there was a large table set off to the right which bore all the available signature swag. When I tried (and failed) to pick up my chosen 8"x10" my weary brain eventually told me that the damned thing was taped securely to the table. Noting my confusion one of my line-mates leaned over and said:

"I think they're all up at the signing booth," she said, indicating a large wooden box set off to the side which resembled a low-fi filing cabinet.           

So, naturally, when I got up to the table I started to flip through the box to find the photo I wanted to get signed. Suddenly Billy Dee's assistant turned towards me and offered the following admonishment:

"Okay, you don't touch that," he said sternly. "I can find it for you. Which one do you want?"

For a second there I almost expected him to produce a ruler and whack me on the knuckles. After making a concerted effort to wipe the glare off of my face I indicated which 8"x10" I wanted Billy Dee to sign. Even though I'd deliberately held off until the tail end of the signing in a vain effort to avoid the initial rush, it was still pretty damned busy. As a result I didn't a chance to talk to Billy Dee very much.

I started by giving him a gift. Knowing that he was still catching heat from Star Wars "fans" for Lando's "betrayal" of Han Solo, I'd made up some joke flash cards that he could just hand out to people instead of wasting his breath:

This quote is actually taken from an interview that Billy Dee did with Wired in which he explained, in his own words, what Lando was up against. Cripes, even at the time as a ten year old kid I completely understood why Lando did what he did. After all this is Darth freakin' Vader we're talkin' about here!

The flash cards seemed to amuse him and I even got a chuckle out of his assistant. While Billy Dee signed the 8"x10" we had a chance to talk shop about art. I told him that my dad is a visual artist and how awesome it was to come home from school every day to see how his paintings had progressed. We also talked about his own formative arts-based education, a stark contrast to my crappy High School which cherished math and science above everything else.

But alas, a signature line-up waits for no one so I quickly thanked him, bid him farewell and then stumbled away with my newly-acquired treasure.   



As I slowly beetled my way out of "The Cave of Wonder" (more like "The Cave of I Wonder How I Get The F#@k Outta Here?!?") I was lucky enough to bump into Sabina and Mark, who'd found another mutual pal Angela. After "Ooooo"-ing and "Awwww"-ing over our new acquisitions, Sabina jumped into the autograph line-up for J. August Richards. When she returned from that encounter she was positively beaming. By all accounts, he was one of the most approachable and genial guests of HAL-CON, something I came to realize myself later on that same evening.

"Much love?" What the hell were they talking about over there?!?!

I briefly returned to the Games Room where Andrew had gotten himself immersed in the Pathfinder Adventure Card Game and Mike was embroiled in a heated match of Battlestar Galactica. At an event as jam-packed as this year's HAL-CON there was certainly no rest for the nerdy. Up next was Jewel Staite's Q&A which was set to begin at 2:30 pm sharp. Again, to make sure that we got a decent seat, we went down about forty minutes prior to the big event.

And its a damned good thing we did. The halls were still completely choked with bodies and the air was rife with rumors about people being turned away in droves at the door. When Angela's boyfriend Matt left the premises to get his equipment for a demo with the Society for Creative Anachronism, his re-entry was in doubt for the longest time. It was really scary when scuttlebutt seemed to indicate that we'd all be evicted from the premises and the entire event might get shut down.

But there was no confirmation of this as I staked out some standing room in the Main Hall. Regardless of how many people were packed into that place, the audience became downright reverential as soon as Jewel Staite took to the stage. Winsome, smart, funny, candid and more then a tad cheeky, Jewel immediately captured the hearts of everyone within earshot.

She covered all the bases and then some, dishing about her work on Higher Ground, Firefly, The X-Files, The Killing, Stargate: Atlantis, The L.A. Complex and even talked about her preferred super-power, the rewarding world of food bloggery, the insane world of Nathan Fillion and the joys of cooking bacon in an oven.


It's a darned good thing that I'd left my bags with Sabina and Mark. Wisely, they'd ducked out just prior to the end of the Q&A, beating the resulting crush of humanity that followed. Since I was videotaping fairly close to the stage, extricating myself from the room proved to be a Herculean effort. 

Mercifully, I found Sabina and Mark right off the bat. They'd expertly located the proper place to queue up for Jewel's autograph and I quickly joined them at the back of the budding line-up. During the subsequent wait, we had plenty of time to recant the many highlights from Jewel's entertaining Q&A and concluded that she'd be an absolute blast to have a drink and shoot the shit with.

And let me tell ya, folks, if you think that Jewel exudes scads of charisma on screen as Kaylee in Firefly or as Jennifer Keller in Stargate: Atlantis, well that ain't nothin' compared to meeting her in person. Knowing that she maintained an excellent food-related blog and had already patronized a few local eateries I opted to steer clear of any typical questions and go the foodie route.

As she signed an 8"x10" for me I couldn't help but needle her a little bit on the subject of haute cuisine.
   
"So, Jewel, y'know...there are people in this world who think that food is nothing more then something you stuff in your face to make hunger go away."

Upon hearing this she stopped what she was doing, lowered her pen and then fixed me with a steely glance.

"Those people are idiots," she said, half-joking and half dead-serious. 

"Whoa, whoa!" I protested, holding my hands up to ward off her mock ire. "I totally agree with you! In fact, since you already mentioned The Bicycle Thief I have a few more suggestions for you!"

"Oooo! Wait! Hold up!" she said excitedly, reaching for a conveniently-located pad of paper. "Okay, shoot!"

"Alright, so right across from The Bicycle Thief in Bishop's Landing is Ristorante a Mano, another great place for Italian food."

"Ristorante a Mano. Okay, check, I got it."

"Now, I also know that you're a huge burger fan."

"Oh, yeah! Now we're talkin'...whattaya got?"

"You need to check out Ace Burger."

"Ooo! OooOooo! Where's that?"

"It's down on Agricola Street. Now, be warned, at face value the place can look a tad...divey."

"I don't mind," came her plaintiff and emphatic reply.

"It's in Gus's Pub. And let me tell you, it's to die for."

Jewel stopped scribbling for a moment.

"Can I walk there from here?" she asked. When I made the mistake of hesitating for a beat she promptly turned to her assistant asked the exact same question. 

After assuring her that a cab ride would be well worth it, I thanked her and told her to enjoy the rest of the Con. She replied in kind and I strode away with yet another unique story and one shiny autograph.



I quickly located Sabina, Mark, Angela and Matt and collectively we all tried to puzzle out our next move. 

Even though it was just shy of 5 pm we were all getting pretty pooped. I'd been on the go since 7 am so I almost packed it in when Sabina and Mark said that they were getting out of Dodge. But since Angela and Matt were sticking around, I decided to stay for the J. August Richard's Q&A at 6 pm. And, man, am I ever glad that I did.

As Richard Hatch mentioned during his talk, Cons can be pricey affairs where your wallet starts to hemorrhage money as soon as you pass over the threshold. You really need to pick and choose who you get autographs from and photos with and what to buy in the vendor section. It's a constant struggle.

I'm saying this as a prelude to the following statement: I gotta meet J. August Richards one of these days. During his stellar Q&A he answered a slew of audience questions about Angel, Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., Arrow, Gray's Anatomy and, hell, even Goodburger fer cryin' out loud. Somehow karaoke, Star Wars, board games and superhero stuff also crept into the mix. As you watch this video just take stock of how genuine, enthusiastic, warm and friendly this guy is.        


One of these days I hope to meet the guy, if only to tell him that he delivered my all-time favorite line in all five seasons of Angel. It came during the second-season closer "There's No Place Like Plrtz Glrb" when Wesley and Gunn were facing certain death at the executioner's block:

Gunn: I got a plan.
Wesley: Oh, thank God! What is it?
Gunn: We die horribly and painfully, you go to Hell and I spend eternity in the arms of Baby Jesus!

This took us up to 7 pm; way past my anticipated check-out time. Even Andrew and Mike had retreated to play games in relative peace back at Chad's place. Although periodically I'd been forced to battle against the tide of humanity, I left that night feeling perfectly content about how things had gone down. In fact, it wasn't until I got home and popped onto Facebook when I realized just how bad things had gone for some people that afternoon.

Regardless, I got myself prepped for Day Three, hoping that it would be a much more casual affair that was chock-a-block with board gamey-goodness. 

SUNDAY    

To paraphrase Emperor Palpatine: "everything transpired according to my desires" on Sunday. This time there was no mustering at Starbucks; I just made a bee-line for the first open gaming table I could find and pledged to sit there on my ass all day and play games. When Mike and Andrew joined me not long after I proceeded to fulfill the crap out of that humble goal.

As such, I played Jaipur, Forbidden Desert and something vaguely resembling Lost Legends. I also had a football-sized roast beef sandwich that I'm probably still digesting Sarlaac-style. I also took fleeting video of some awesome people in some very cool costumes.

And then I went home and I was sad.

EPIC EXPERIENCE  My video love letter to this year's HAL-CON.


EPIC GUEST Going back to my point about J. August Richards, you really have to pick and choose who you want to meet at these things. Given a second chance I would have gone out of my way to meet the incredibly classy and selfless Peter Davison. I started to pick up on the man's indelible qualities when I was waiting in the lineup to see Billy Dee Williams. Even then Peter was going well-above and beyond the call of duty with everyone he encountered.

As a neophyte Dr. Who fan, my experience with the character is woefully limited to the current modern iteration of the show which kicked off in 2005. Well, no more. I'm going rectify this personal deficit and seek out every single episode featuring the fifth Doctor, Peter Davison.

When he heard that scores of cold and frustrated fans were unable to get inside, Peter took it upon himself to go out, mingle with them and take a bunch of photos. With so much money flying around at these sort of events it's pretty easy to get jaded but with amazing guests like Peter in attendance, you really can't go wrong.

The Seward Clan were delighted to meet legendary Time Lord *slash* class act Peter Davison.

P.S. Who fans old and new owe it to themselves to watch Peter's fantastic short film The Five(ish) Doctors Reboot. It's rife with awesome cameos, self-effacing humor and plenty of great in-jokes.

NERD RAGE FAIL  Now, I know that a lot of folks had a very trying time of it this year, but I can only judge HAL-CON 2013 by my own experience and my own experience was nothing short of spectacular.

Having said that I can also sympathize with fans who were barred from entry on Saturday. I can only imagine how frustrating it would have been if I'd made the pilgrimage to Halifax from some remote corner of the Maritimes, rented a hotel, and got down to the convention center around noon after wrangling the kids only find out that my entry was barred. 

Let's face it, selling day passes without a specific date on them wasn't very swift. Having said that, throwing the vendor section open to the public was actually a pretty smart move in theory if not in practice. I have a sneaking suspicion that when hordes of curious shoppers swarmed the first floor they probably thought: "Wow, this is awesome! Let's get a day pass and check out the costume contest!" The result: "Stern-Faced, Lantern-Jawed Fireman" quickly became the most popular costume at HAL-CON that day.

Having said that, I can only accompany people down Frustration Avenue only so far. When apoplectic displays of internet rage in the form of "legal action" or verbal and physical threats get bandied about, then I'm afraid you and I have to part ways. If you think that the organizers of HAL-CON deliberately wanted to over-sell the venue, incur the wrath of the Fire Marshall, piss off a bunch of fans and issue a metric shit-ton of refunds, then your Stormtrooper helmet's on waaaaay too tight.

By the contrary, the HAL-CON gurus have always seemed like a reasonable and well-intentioned bunch of dedicated volunteers. In fact, they've always taken the time to personally address and rectify every single issue I've ever publicly voiced via this blog over the past few years. I'm willing to wager dollars to 'droids that next year a finite amount of day passes will be earmarked for each day of the Con.

We need to view this for what it is: growing pains for an event that continues to expand by leaps and bounds every year. If attendance was dwindling, HAL-CON was on life support and the chances of it coming back next year were looking bleak, then I'd be worried.

PERSONAL FAIL Man, I really wanted to meet Monte Cook but there was JUST...TOO...MUCH...TO...DOOOO!!! Please come back, Monte!!!  PLEASE!!!    

Friday, November 22, 2013

Ten Weird Things About The Assassination Of JFK

 
Hello, Healthy Skeptics!

Fifty years ago on this very same day, the last fully independent and autonomous President of the United States was callously shot down in Dallas, Texas. In my opinion, every man who's held this office since has been little more then a convenient and transparent shill for corporate interests and the insane demands of the military-industrial complex.

To mark the occasion I've assembled ten things that still baffle me about the Kennedy assassination. As someone who's actually stood in Dealy Plaza in Dallas and visited the sixth floor of the Texas Book Depository, I still have plenty of questions about that fateful day. In fact, this entry could just as easily have been titled "Forty Weird Things About The Assassination Of JFK".

Okay, ready?  Here goes...

(10) On the occasion of the fiftieth anniversary, a lot of people are asking themselves "Where were you when you heard the news?" Naturally, this simple question tends to evoke a veritable flood of painful and vivid memories. That is, unless you happen to be George Herbert Walker Bush.


(9) Kennedy's bodyguards were deliberately pulled from his motorcade:


(8) JFK: conspiracy nut: 


(7) Jack Ruby and Lee Harvey Oswald actually knew one another:


(6) This creepy, like-it-or-lump-it memo, released just three-days after Kennedy was killed:

 (5) The limo was cleaned up and refurbished just hours after the assassination, destroying valuable evidence in the process:


(4) A slew of expert marksmen, including former Navy SEAL Jesse Ventura, have tried and failed to re-create Oswald's miraculous firing sequence on several occasions:


(3) Bill Newman, who was standing within ten to fifteen feet of the President when he was shot, was never interviewed by the Warren Commission:

    

(2) This former FBI Agent's powerful testimony:


(1) Jackie Kennedy was actually suspicious about the Vice President's motivations and Jack was terrified by the prospect of an LBJ Presidency:



Sorry, folks. I'm not one to indulge in overt wing-nuttery, but there's more weird per capita in this lingering story then any other historic event I've ever studied. Apparently I'm not alone since 61% of Americans still believe that Lee Harvey Oswald didn't act alone.

Or at all.

EPIC DOC  A tad alarmist but there's actually some really intriguing elements here:


A FAIL-URE TO INVESTIGATE   "'We’ll never know' has become a self-fulfilling prophecy for the American press."