courtesy of... somebody

Like most of America with an erect penis, I was dazzled by Megan Fox’s …wits when she debuted on the live action Transformers movie.  In retrospect, seeing her young, tender flesh splayed over a Camaro is about the only thing that made that piece of shit watchable.  But goddamn it, I own the DVD and thanks god for slow-mo remote settings.

And yeah, I saw Revenge of the Fallen.  I’m pretty sure I saw her uterus in the first scene.

But the more I see of her, the more I’m certain of one thing.  This is a woman who will end up in porn.

And she won’t be one of the classy ones like Jenna Jameson or Stormy Daniels… she’ll end up in movies like Dude Where’s My Penis? and Granny and the Trannie.   She’ll be in Dustin “screech” Diamond’s next porn film.

Sure, it’s a little mean to judge the tramp, but come on.. she was fucking David Silver when she 16!   I mean if you had to fuck one of the washed up actors from Beverly Hills 90210, why would you go for the gay rapper with the ear ring who was stuck waiting  years for Aaron Spelling’s daughter to give him a hand job?  Sorry, sweetheart, but it’s inevitable.  You should have fucked Brandon.   I mean, shit, the guy’s initals are  B-A- G.  And I’m pretty sure the moment Kelly Kapowski let his “little Silver” inside her is the exact moment America stopped giving a shit.   (Come back to us Kelly Kapowski… we forgive you for sucking his penis.)

Not only that, but she’s a mouthy little bitch.  These days, it seems like you can’t take a leak without running into her open mouth…  (nah, too easy).   Tonight I ran across some pictures of her on the Superficial.com, my new favorite celebrity gossip site. It delves deep into the heart of a story, and exposes it’s glorious, well-oiled, bulbous tits.

AHEM.  Sorry.

This is Megan at  Nickolodeon’s Teen Choice Awards.

courtesy of Universal and theSuperficial.com

This appears to be her openly fingering herself while her tits hang out like a couple of college kids trying to score some weed.

courtesy Universal and thesuperficial.com

Here she appears to be actually peeing on herself.

Universal and Superficial

Now she looks just batshit insane.  And her facial expression is reminiscent of that time Grandma hit the Schnapps and tried to fuck cousin Sal.

Holy Shit.

And here she is about to eat your fucking children.

Ah, who the fuck am I kidding?  If Madonna and Angelina Jolie are internationally respected artists, Megan Fox is going to get a goddamn Nobel Peace Prize for talking to whales or some shit.

For more fucked up shit, check out www.URNasshole.com coming soon to an interwebz near you!

Thanks to the wonder of the internet, that dream has come true.  The Examiner is a news website that hires locals to report on particular subjects of varying topics.  And you get to choose your topic.  One person might be a film examiner.  Another can be a Playstation 2 examiner.  I’m a little confused as to the specificity of some of the examiners.  Does the world really need semi-daily updates on hack ‘romance novels’ for vampire emo fetishists? Probably not.  But more power to you, whoever you are.  I’m sure you serve a purpose.

Currently I am the New Orleans Comic Book Examiner.  I’m still trying to find my voice on it.   We’re supposed to present our articles as Journalists would, rather than bloggers.  Which is fine, though I don’t really think it counts. To me, a blog is about your feelings and the things going on in your life.  When you’re speaking on a subject, even editorialized, it’s an article.   Then again, I’m no expert.  I have noticed some of the other writers don’t seem to adhere to this very well though.   And to some degree or another my ‘voice’ will have to come into play.  Particularly with reviews; 75% of it is opinion.

I’m looking forward to making this work.   I think it will be a lot of fun.

I was initially prejudiced against the Harry Potter phenomenon.  Muggles and snargaluffs and Hogwarts?  What about that doesn’t sound like a bad Dr. Seuss project?   On the one hand I was delighted to know that kids were actually reading again; on the other, it just didn’t seem to suit my tastes.

Also there was the fact that the series bared a striking similarity to the Books of Magic series published by Vertigo in the 90s.  I would have rather preferred the Vertigo series.

As it happened, my father rented the first two films directed by Chris Columbus.  I found them entertaining to some degree or another, but still not quite something to catch my interests.

Normally this might be the end of the story but not for some friends of mine who were going to see Prisoner of Azkaban and asked me along. Alphonso Cuaron’s darker, more majestic world seemed to seduce me.  This was not the fairytale world I expected.   Harry Potter was growing up, and the world was not so pretty.

Afterwards, I attempted to read the next chapter, Goblet of Fire, but still found the book somewhat slow and impenetrable. Even so, I was now a fan and saw the midnight showing of the film on the first night it was out. By the time I saw Order of the Phoenix, I was hooked.  The next week I bought a soft cover copy of The Half-Blood Prince and devoured it within 4 days.   Overcome with a thirst for more, I bought the hardcover Deathly Hallows which had only recently come out at the time.  Hallows took me 5 days.  Like every other fan, the ending left me satisfied, yet saddened that it was over.

Since then I have been waiting, patiently for the arrival of the fourth film. It opened this past Tuesday at midnight.  Because of work, I begrudgingly waited until the next night to see it.  I’d spent the last two weeks re-reading the book to refresh my memory and ended up reading Hallows again as well because I couldn’t help myself.

So did it live up to the wait?

I’d have to say, NO… but with one caveat.   I believe that reading the book as a refresher was a mistake.   Adapting a 600 plus page book into a lean, tight script isn’t just difficult; it’s impossible.  Material has to be cut out.  As such, by its very nature, the films are their own animal and should be judged as such.  They’re good films, this one included.

There were two way in which the film shortened the material: by abridgement, in which the original material was simply edited, and by rewriting scenes.  Of the two, I much preferred the rewritten scenes.  The abridged scenes felt rushed and glossed over, like they were only left in by mandate as an afterthought.  This is especially true of the scene which introduces Professor Slughorn.  Dumbledore brings Harry to meet him in the hopes that Slughorn will agree to return to Hogwarts out of curiosity about the infamous Harry Potter.  Yet in the film, we see none of this.  Harry and Slughorn are scarcely in the room together for five minutes, and he doesn’t seem to care either way.  Nonetheless he agrees in a rather dramaticly uninspired change of heart.  Similarly, the abduction of the wandmaker Ollivander (which will become important in the next films- maybe) are quickly and quietly thrown by; blink and you missed the mention of it.

Here is where those like me who re-read the source material are hurt the most.  The rushed moments feel emphasized, and almost mechanical.  It as though things happen because they are pre-ordained rather than because they fall that way.

By contrast, the scenes where the writer rewrote or added material flow wonderfully.   What particularly impressed me was the handling of Harry and Ginny Weasley’s burgeoning romance.   My one complaint about the final two books is that for all of her discussion of Harry’s feelings, Rowling scarcely has Harry and Ginny together for more than a few days.  As a big fan of the coupling, I felt rather cheated by the lack of time with them.  When a writer introduces a romantic interest into a story, he/she is almost required to properly explore the relationship as it pertains to the plot.   Without it, the reader is left wanting.  In the film, we are given much more of them.  In particular, the kissing scene works very well.   In the book, the kiss –while wonderfully done–  seems at least partly a product of overactive hormones.   Here the kiss is much more expressive of the feelings between them.  It may have been the best moment in the film.

As mentioned, a large amount of material was edited out.  Missing of note are subplots involving Rufus Scrimegour, Mundungus Fletcher and Bill Weasley & Fleur De La Cour’s engagement, all of which play heavily in the last book.  I can only assume they will be eliminated from the next two films as well (The Deathly Hallows will be adapted into two movies).   But perhaps the oddest scene missing involves Harry and Snape.   (Spoilers!)  Following a duel where Harry has injured Draco Malfoy, he is found by Snape who saves Draco’s life.  In the book, Harry is duly punished.   In the film, however, nothing happens.  It seems curious that you could almost kill a fellow student– particularly one that you have a well-known grudge against– and get away scott free.   The lack of comment is a bit distracting to watch.

In the end, I think I enjoyed Half-Blood Prince, though not as much as Order of the Phoenix.   I was slightly disappointed with it, but that has as much to do with my own anticipation and expectations as with the execution.  I do think that the film would have worked better with an extra ten minutes; time enough for certain moments to breathe.  Of course, many would argue that it’s already long, and they would be right.  However, one must remember that this is the 6th in a line of dense genre films, and most of the audience are bound to be fans.  It is unlikely that they would begrudge a few extra minutes of screentime, even at the expense of their bladders.

I would advise anyone going to see it to ignore the books.  This is an adaptation, and a fair one at that.  It’s still a fun movie.  And even after 8 years of conflicting visions and voices, they’re still magical.

My best friend was a little confused by this concept.   “Would you really do that?”

“YES.”  The words ran from my mouth almost before he could finish his.   There isn’t a doubt in my mind that I would be willing to disrobe in front of others.

“Why do you want to?”

“An overwhelming desire to show the world my genitals?”

“WHAT?”

“–nothing.”  Admittedly, I’m not in it to spread awareness of bike riders like the hippies out there.   I’m just trying to spread awareness about my cock.

In essence, it is like climbing a mountain to me.  You do it “Because it’s there.”   Because you can.  I mean, why not??   I’m not ashamed of my body.  It’s just nudity.   Sexuality doesn’t have to be scary.   It’s natural.   It is a natural thing for a human being to want to feel the wind and the sun on their naked skin.   To deny it is to deny ourselves.  –okay I made that part up.   But it’s true.

Lets be honest.  It’s only a penis.  What’s so scary about that?  Its not as though I have the words “this machine kills pussy” tattooed on it.   It’s screwed up American Sexual Politics that govern our lives, spreading teen pregnancy and venereal diseases in it’s wake.    Maybe if we all got naked a little more often, we would be mentally, physically and emotionally better off.

“This machine kills sexual hang ups.”

“and fucks your mouth.”

I Kill Giants is the story of a precocious little girl named Barbara who spends her life preparing to hunt and kill Giants.  Her obsession is so singular that she blocks out everyone around her, from the mundanes that surround her in school to the family that loves her, despite their broken home.  But Barbara doesn’t care about people; Barabara just wants to kill Giants. Together with her legendary war hammer Covaleski, she plans to end the lives of Giants no matter how powerful.   And yet no one else seems concerned that the monster may come.  To them, she’s just a strange girl with a bizarre fascination with mythology.   Maybe she is.   And it seems that no one can get through the wall of calloused cynicism she’s built around her heart, until one day a new school psychologist and a new neighbor named Sophia walk into her life.  Combined with the arrival of a new school bully named Taylor, Barbara’s life is sent spiraling through a course of events that she may not survive, or even want to.

I won’t pretend I’m entirely certain what happended in the strictest sense of this story.   There is a stark contrast painted between the “real” world that Barbara is forced to tolerate and the magic world in which she lives.   In the end, it doesn’t matter.  The answer to that question is not nearly as important to Barbara’s story as you may first imagine.   On one level it appears to be the story of a child escaping into her imagination to avoid the harshness of her reality.  And yet at times it seems to be about her stuggle to slay the monsters which only she can see and defeat.   But it’s both… and it’s neither.

I won’t ruin the book by defining it.   But Barbara’s journey will enthrall you.  Her tortured, brilliant young mind will empathize with you.  Her fights with Giants will astound you.  And her plight will reduce you to tears.  And you will fear for Barbara, but don’t worry… she’s stronger than she thinks she is.

I Kill Giants is exemplary of the kind of complex writing that comics are capable of, and achieve more often than society believes.    It’s a story about life.  And a story about people.

The 1st birthday is more about the parents than the kids.  Generally they’re still happy to discover they have feet at that point.   Your 13th birthday is  proof that you’re growing up. You’re a teen now.  Woo. Hoo.   Sweet 16 is about freedom. You can drive now.  You can leave the nest, making it much easier to have sloppy, drunken teen sex.   18 is graduation and 21 is the official age of adulthood and drinking… even though you’ve probably been at it for about 8 years at that point.

But all of that pales in comparison to the dreaded, dirty 30.

The Dirty Thirty takes you from the wonderous state of adulthood of 21 having one foot in the grave.  Suddenly you’re 3-0.  You’re old!  You’re dying! And whereas in previous years people celebrated your birth, when it comes to 30 they spend an entire year laughing at you and asking stupid questions like

“Sooooo…   THIRTY, huh?  That’s rough.  How you feel about that?“

Really?  How do I feel about it?   I’ll tell you how I feel.   I don’t give a shit.   Yeah, in a month I’ll be 3 decades old.    But I’ll only be one day closer to death than I was the day before.

Besides, for all that age robs of you in time, the one thing it provides is burdgeoning fearlessness.   Youth is for the birds, you see.  But I am the finest of wines; I only get better with age.

Mine will be the dirtiest of thirties.  I plan to engage in a level of debauchery that can only be defined as a travesty.  30 shall be my year of recknoning and wreckage.    Villages, prepare to be raped!  Women, get ready to be plundered!  Boats will sink!   Cities will raze to the ground!  Children will shit their pants!

It should be quite a decade.

Just, just stop.

Every word you speak. Every time you look in my direction. Even just hearing you say my name… I want you more.

I don’t know if its infatuation or crush or unmitigated passion and desire, but a part of me needs you. Foolishly, I don’t believe its the getting with you as much as the being with you that concerns me.

Proximity is the villain here. It’s not just that fucking intoxicating scent that you have. I can literally feel when you’re in the room. And just like that, BAM, I’m on edge. My nerves are on fire in all the best ways for all the wrong reasons. Madness. This is madness.

You know don’t you? Are you that devious, or that naive?

Stolen glances across a room. My devoted attention, hanging on your every word as I stare into those gorgeous brown eyes. I focus on your lips, thinking about what it would be like to kiss them. Imagine taking you in my arms. Kissing you. Kissing you all over. And then you smile. YOU SMILE! And it’s everything I can do to keep from tearing every. last. stitch. from your skin and taking you there on the floor. I try to focus as you go on about your day, but in between each word, in the spaces between every breath, every heartbeat– I get these flashes of us. Of you whisperin my name in my ear. Of sweat and fingers and limbs and touching. Breaths of you and I in intense heat. Trysts. Sex. Love making. FUCK.  That’s what this is.  Lust.

And there you go looking beautiful. Reminding me you’re taken when I just want to take you. Running circles in my mind. And I can’t breathe. It’s too warm in this room. This collar is too tight. I feel like I want to claw my own skin off.

Just stop it.

Stop.

Enough of this.

It is not enough to say “this is truth because I say it is so.”   It is unacceptable to allow wrongs because the rights do not come easy.

The reality is that the world will make you bend.  Compromise is inevitabile.  What matters is that you never compromise who you are, or what you believe.  For when  you do, you are lost.

They’ll come at you hard and fast from directions you cannot fathom.  But you must not break.  At times you may waver and falter, but you do not fall, you do not break.

Never accept easy answers.

Never allow others to determine who you are.

Never shirk personal responsibility.

Never allow fear to control you.

No compromise.

No surrender.

Less than a year ago, a girl I know from Oregon informed me that she would be getting naked this June for the World Naked Bike Ride.   I was intrigued… at first because she was talking about herself naked, but later at the thought of the event.

Apparently the WNBR is this event that occurs in 70 locations throughout the globe.   It’s a bunch of hippies who shed their clothes and don bicycles to spread awarness about cyclist safety, energy consumption and  the size of their genitals.

I’m not reallydown with the message.  I don’t have a problem with hippies as long as they keep their political and –marajuanical– opinions to themselves. And yet I am bemused at the thought.  Naked fleshy apendages are bemusing.

I really wanted to do it this year, but circumstances would not permit.  But after hearing a first person account of the event, I am more driven than every to pop wheelies and woodies in Oregon next year.

“Do you really think you could get naked in front of all those people?”  a friend asked.   Absolutely.  It’s scary, but doable.   That said, I may try to get hold of some viagra or cialis beforehand.  Mine is not a “show-penis”.

It has, however, some of the qualities of a stunt penis.

You may ask why someone like me would do something like this.  It’s like sky diving without the whole “falling to your death” part.  It’s about facing your fears.   Once you’ve waved your penis (or flashed your ‘gyna) around a major American city going ten miles an hour, you’ve got bragging rights.

You get to say “I did this.”  Something only a handful of people have ever done.  Something very few people would ever do.

At the very least, I figure my odds of scoring with some drunk hippie chick are increased when we’re both naked and pulsing with adrenaline.

I spent a semester at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff.

In the center of NAU sits the bookstore and the post office.   And in that bookstore works a woman.  I don’t know her name or where she’s from.  Truth be told I don’t even remember her face.   But everyday at 11:00, she plays the bagpipes.

It’s not something you ever expect to hear.  And it may be something you never hear.  But I was in the right place at the right time one day.   And there she was, in plain clothes on her lunch break with only her bagpipes and a turkey sandwich, seated on the side of the bookstore.   Most people walked right past her.   Some gave her bizarre looks as they went.  But still she played.

Not me though.  Along with a few others, I listened as she played the slow, soulful music of the Scots.   There’s a story there, I’m sure.   Something brilliant.  Maybe tragic.  But I never asked.  Every day, or as often as possible, I would sit for a minute and listen to her song.

She’s probably still out there, next to a brown brick building, playing her song.