1 Canadian vs. 1,000 Asians (I love this video)

(Posted from: home)

This is the video for "In View," the first single from World Container, the new album by one of my very very favorite bands, the Tragically Hip. You gotta love the way the video completely disregards the song it's apparently for, cutting out to silence and occasionally another song altogether. But it's fun.



I would have the album already (it released yesterday), but I don't really have the money, and Amazon -- which is the only place I have access to that I think would have it -- wants $31.49 + shipping for it. Plus, they won't even have it for another week.

'Cause, see, it's an import. From way over on the other side of the globe: CANADA.

Gotta love internet commerce.

(And if you've never heard -- or heard of -- the Tragically Hip...well, obviously you're from the U.S., like me. I got lucky and saw the rerun of their SNL performance, and have been a huge fan ever since. You should be, too.)

It's about time

I want this so bad:

Here is the track listing:
One 7:41
Enter Sandman 5:28
The Unforgiven 6:21
Nothing Else Matters 6:24
Wherever I May Roam 6:05
Sad But True 5:26
Until It Sleeps 4:32
Hero Of The Day 4:30
Mama Said 4:51
King Nothing 5:26
The Memory Remains 4:37
The Unforgiven II 6:33
Fuel 4:35
Turn The Page 5:49
Whiskey In The Jar 4:43
No Leaf Clover 5:33
I Disappear 4:28
St. Anger 5:50
Frantic 4:55
The Unnamed Feeling 5:29
Some Kind Of Monster 4:28

Bonus
2 Of One - Introduction 5:43
One (Jammin' Version) 5:05
The Unforgiven (Theatrical Version) 11:29
Metallica: Some Kind Of Monster Film Trailer 2:27

December cannot come soon enough.

But hey, guys, while you're at it, coming up with great ideas and stuff, you know what else would be awesome? A new album.

That is all.

The first seven names I wanted were taken

Well, the internet connection I described as "kaput" last week is back today. I have no idea why, or for how long, but blessed it is indeed.

So, since I'm big on the whole counting-one's-chickens-before-they-hatch thing, I downloaded AIM again. But I've changed screen names, since I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to be using the other one. (I cancelled my AOL account in February, but they conveniently never got the memo and decided I still owe them for a couple months of service I didn't use. Yeah, good luck, turkeys.)

So, in case you gave a damn and wanted to talk to me on AIM for some bizarre reason, my new screen name is EvilGenius815.

I bought Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas last week, after eyeing it with envy every time I went to any store that sold video games, but I haven't played it yet -- I'm keeping myself away from it until I finish the next episode of Revolver, which could be done today. (Don't count on it.) And I might be able to find the time for a full recap of our last Hunter session, but you might end up with a quickly-written bad one instead. Say sorry.

And they are playing some ugly baseball in the NLCS, as the Cardinals and Mets battle to see who gets to become the third straight National League team to get swept in the World Series.

Good night, and good luck.

I don't have the express written consent of Major League Baseball

(Posted from: Helen Hall Library, League City, TX. The internet access I was stealing before has gone totally kaput, so I'm forced to roam around looking for it. There are three or four locations where I can do this. This is one of them.)

So, it's October. My favorite month of the year, by far. Why? 'Cause the weather is nice, Halloween is my favorite holiday (and one of my favorite Dave Matthews songs), and--most important--it's the baseball postseason. The official MLB slogan for the playoffs is "I Live For This!", and it's a sentiment I can empathize with.

Unfortunately for me, the Astros couldn't quite make it to the playoffs, finishing just behind the Cardinals in the oogliest division in baseball, the National League "Comedy" Central, and are out playing golf right now. Same with the Boston Red Sox, who choked early and never caught up with the Yankees. And my other team, my childhood favorite Los Angeles Dodgers, played like liquid fire in the last two months of the season, won the Wild Card, and were then unceremoniously swept by the New York Mets, who didn't have most of their top players: no Pedro Martinez, no El Duque, and Cliff Floyd hurt his Achilles tendon.

So, with my three favorite teams out of the running, watching the postseason becomes an exercise in cheering for whoever is playing one of the Enemies. As there are three teams I root for, there are also three teams I just as passionately root against--those teams being, of course, the New York Yankees, the St. Louis Cardinals, and the Atlanta Braves.

Luckily for me, though, the Braves didn't make the playoffs (the last time that happened, I was nine years old and living in Springfield, Missouri), and Joe Torre is a complete retard who thinks that Jaret "Chunk" Wright is a good guy to send to the mound when you're facing elimination on the road. It also doesn't help that the Yankees haven't been able to hit in the postseason since Game 3 of the 2004 ALCS, which they won 19-8. Since that game, the Yankees are 3-10 in the playoffs. Yeah!

So, now I'm left rooting for the Mets, A's or Tigers to beat the Cardinals. I don't really care which one does it, but I hope it's embarassing, like in 2004, when they made it to the World Series after that classic NLCS with the Astros, only to get swept by the goddamn Boston Red Sox, who had been cursed by the baseball gods for nearly a century. Or last year, when Albert Pujols pulled the baby out of the fire in game 5 of the NLCS with a ginormous homer off Brad Lidge that blew out of Minute Maid Park and achieved geosynchronous orbit seventeen minutes later, only to go to game 6 and have Roy "Cheerie" Oswalt shut them down completely, at home, in the last game ever at Busch Stadium. That was fun.

My money's on the Tigers. The Cardinals are playing too well right now, the Mets are banged up, and they have a chance to squeak by to the Series, where they'll probably play Detroit. Of course, once they get to the American League, either team is dead meat no matter who they're playing, so.

But I hope Albert Pujols comes up in the ninth inning of the deciding game -- the bottom of the ninth, 'cause they're in St. Louis. Cardinals down by three, bases loaded, two outs. The entire world watching this one at-bat. His entire career comes down to this. Three balls, two strikes. And the pitch...

And he takes it for strike three. The Mets/Tigers/A's rush the field and celebrate as the Cardinal fans watch in horror. Pujols slinks off the field and spends the entire offseason reliving that moment, knowing he ended the season with his bat on his shoulder.

Hey, once your teams are out of the running, you gotta find something to root for.

Demon Days: Season 1, Episode 3 - "Sunday"

Previously, on Demon Days…

• Dan Owens, van driver and stoner, was imbued during a zombie attack.


• The gang went looking for Dean’s quarry in Harper Park, where the trail lead them to a recently-murdered reporter named Kevin Shepherd. Unfortunately, it also lead them to Detective Weathers, who might have dragged them in for questioning if not for a fortuitous potted plant accident.


• In Shepherd’s apartment, they found a bizarre picture they can’t identify. Notes on the back are similarly inscrutable.


• They chased the vampire into the subway, where they destroyed him.


• And Dean saw large, burning red eyes in an unfinished subway tunnel.

“Sunday”

The group gave Dan a week off to think things over, but that week does not pass without incident. Dean’s car is struck by a drunk driver (a big redneck named Steve), and he’s seriously injured. The worst of it is a broken jaw, which has to be wired shut while it heals. In the interim, since he can’t talk, Lucy loans him her laptop computer, so he can type his messages to the group. Meanwhile, for reasons he can’t explain, Willem has a song stuck in his head: Jay-Z’s “Dirt off Your Shoulder.” Not only that, but he’s been hearing it everywhere—in the car, at the bar, people drive past him on the street playing on their stereos. It’s weird.

Dean has told everyone about the strange eyes, but no one is quite sure what to do about it. Marching off into the darkness with shovels doesn’t seem to be the best of ideas, and they’ve been sidetracked with Dean’s injuries.

On Saturday (a week after the zombie incident), Lucy calls Dan, as promised, and after confirming that the group is dedicated to simple mass slaughter of innocent people, he agrees to join them. Around that time, Edgar is treating the group to some Chinese food (well, everyone but Dean, who can’t eat). The fortune cookies are passed around, and Willem opens his and reads the fortune: “Wait until Sunday.” He, of course, adds “in bed,” but doesn’t think anything else of it.

Edgar asks Willem for a light for his cigarette, and when he can’t find one anywhere in the bar (despite usually having many lighters and matches on hand), he heads out to his car…where he runs into Detective Weathers. He’s fine, save for a serious concussion and a bandage on the back of his head. But he’s pissed, and wants to know why they left him unconscious in the rain. Willem bluffs—badly—through the conversation, and Weathers tells him that their story (“We were looking for a…friend”) checked out. The “old lady” he spoke to confirmed that they were visiting her, and that the potted plant was hers, knocked over by a cat. “She was very apologetic,” Weathers says.

Dan pulls up during this conversation, but stays out of sight while Willem continues to drown. Finally, as Weathers is again announcing his intention to take them all in, gunshots ring out down the block. The police detective is forced to investigate, and orders Willem to stay put. So, of course, as soon as Weathers’s back is turned, he flees. Dan pulls the van around to the back of the bar.

Inside, Edgar starts to get worried (either about Willem or the light for his cigarette, it’s not clear) and looks outside, sees the cop and quickly turns back in. Moments later, Willem enters and announces that they have to leave. Quickly. Now.

Dean, on the other hand, says—err, types that leaving will only anger the cop more, and he decides to stay alone. Lucy, however, doesn’t want to split the group up, and certainly doesn’t want to leave any one of them alone. (This will become a recurring theme.) So Willem, Dan and Edgar race to the van and leave Lucy and Dean behind. At least trying, Willem leaves a note on the front door of the bar: “Had to go. Family emergency.”

A few minutes later, Weathers enters the bar, even more pissed than before. Lucy tries to do the talking, but she’s even worse at bluffing than Willem, to the point where Dean finally types in desperation, “Stop talking.” Dean also takes his hand at talking the police officer, oddly by being more honest (that he was there looking for an acquaintance to continue a fight they started in a bar…all of which is actually true), but Weathers still isn’t buying anything they say. The problem is that they haven’t actually done anything, and when Weathers receives a call, he has to leave. But he’s still pissed.

Lucy calls Willem to come back to the bar, but as it turns out, they’re still sitting in the van in the alley behind the bar—they started a discussion on where to go, and never quite left. So everyone comes back to debate their next move.

Edgar reveals that he’s spotted an odd-looking man in his hotel—stringy black hair, really pale, and he only seems to be around at night, wandering the third floor. The group decides to go investigate.

(It isn’t known, exactly, why Edgar never bothered to turn his Second Sight on the weird guy to know for sure, but it’s strongly implied that he only sees him on his way back from the hotel bar, so he’d be too drunk to think of it.)

At the hotel, the gang waits for sunset and then walks the third floor hoping to run into the guy. (Really, it’s the best idea they have.) While strolling the hall, they hear loud music playing from one of the room—“Dirt off Your Shoulder,” by Jay-Z. Willem knocks at the door, and the occupant appears: a really pale guy with stringy black hair. Various Hunter powers are used to first identify the man as a vampire (which he is) and then to summarily slaughter him, including one savage Cleave-assisted punch from Dean (five successes will do it pretty much every time). An attempt is made to question the guy about the items they found in Shepherd’s apartment, but he knows nothing, and soon he’s ash.

But as they loot his body, Willem glances out the window and sees, on the balcony of another room in the hotel, the old lady in the purple raincoat. She waves frantically to get their attention, then beckons them over to her room. They race over to find the room unlocked and empty and a note waiting for them:

!!LET’S TRY A PROBLEM-SOLVING EXERCISE!!

Planets in this solar system

  (then)

The number of times people say “Beam me up, Scotty!” in the original Star Trek series

  (then)

(The number of words on this paper minus the number of people in this room)

(then)

The best closer in the American League.


!!LET’S SEE HOW YOU DO!!

(This isn’t too hard, is it? I worry about that kind of thing.
But you’re a bunch of smart people, aren’t you?
I hope so. Otherwise, I’m gonna be waiting a while.

See you!)
___


The group immediately sets about solving the puzzle, which doesn’t take very long at all. (It isn’t that hard, and the only part that tripped them up was figuring out who exactly the best closer in the American League is. Gut instinct is Mariano Rivera or Joe Nathan, but the answer the puzzle is looking for is Huston Street.)

The puzzle’s answer takes them to a small house in Harper Park, where they are greeted by the smell of chocolate-chip peanut butter cookies and the old lady in the purple raincoat, whose name they soon learn is Sunday.

After going to great pains to insist that she means them no harm (and offering them delicious cookies and milk, which Willem takes to with gusto), she wants to know all about them. As she puts it, they’re “interesting”—she says that the universe “hums” around them, and she can’t figure out why. They’re just as interested in her, and refuse to answer her questions until she answers theirs, though that plan is upset a little by Willem’s constant talking.

But she agrees to tell them some things. She says she’s a “magic person,” with the ability to use magic (as result of a sarcastic request from Dan, she pulls a rabbit from a hat, but later claims it was a trick hat). She glosses over her own personal history, though she does say she grew up in California, which might explain her preference for Huston Street. She says she doesn’t like vampires (“They eat people. Well, I mean, not really. But I wouldn’t put it past some of them.”) When asked, she says she doesn’t know how many “magic people” there are, but that they can do “just about anything” with their abilities.

As a further token of good faith, she gives up the location of a common meeting place for vampires: an abandoned fire station in Glenville, out of service for years. Fifteen or twenty vampires meet there three times a week, including tonight. (Interestingly, no one asks how she knows this, but they do ask about the symbol and initials—she knows nothing about them.) She even offers several canisters of propane for use as an explosive.

The Hunters take the propane (and Willem takes several pounds of cookies) and set off to destroy the meeting place. Sunday leaves them with a word of caution, to pay attention to everything around them, because even the smallest things can have huge consequences. To illustrate, she tells a story about an accused murderer who was acquitted largely because the investigating police officer didn’t get enough sleep the night before he began investigating and botched the evidence due to exhaustion. She’s clearly talking about Edgar, who doesn’t take the sentiment well.

They leave, but as soon as they reach the van they start to have second thoughts. Blowing up a whole building is highly illegal, highly visible and highly dangerous. Not to mention the group’s lack of experience with explosives in general and the potential for great collateral damage. After much debate, the group decides to take Willem’s car to the place and simply scout the place.

They do so, each Hunter hiding in a separate darkened place near the station. After a while of waiting, a blond woman exits the building and walks down the street. Dean sneaks after her, hoping she isn’t walking to a car (the group only has the one car with them, after all).

Unfortunately, she is. She gets into her car, and Dean walks away in disappointment…and the car explodes behind him.

Next week’s episode: “You’re No Fun Anymore.”

Toldja

The new episode is here.

And there was much rejoicing.

Demon Days: Season 1, Episode 2 - "Corpses"

So, since I just loves ya so much, I’ve decided to post recaps of Demon Days, the Hunter: The Reckoning game I’m running each Wednesday. I’m sure you’re interested in that kinda thing, yeah? Of course you are.

(Actually, while I am going to the trouble of posting this for your edification, the act of writing the recap serves another purpose entirely: to make sure I don’t forget things. Like the events of previous episodes, whole subplots, and character names. Which, as you’ll soon see, I forget easily.)

If you aren’t familiar with Hunter: The Reckoning, a good primer can be found from the usual source, but I can sum it up pretty quickly right here. There are monsters everywhere—vampires, werewolves, ghosts, zombies, wizards, and some even stranger creatures stalk the night and prey on innocent, unsuspecting humans. But random, ordinary people are exposed to the truth by some unknown higher power—they see through the lies and masquerade put up by the supernatural, and, what’s more, they find themselves “imbued” with extraordinary powers of their own. In their hands, baseball bats can turn to flaming instruments of vengeance, a deadly attack can be turned back with a single word, and victims can be brought back from the brink of death with a healing touch. Who has given them this power? Why? And why these people, who are almost all so very, very ordinary, and not at all any sort of “holy warrior”? No one is sure. But they are all that stand between humanity and evil.

(It was originally a game published by White Wolf, then turned into a video game; the game has been licensed for a film adaptation that was to be directed by Uwe Boll, who is something of an evil monster himself. Mercifully, he’s backed out. Also, the game is out of print, White Wolf having ended the line with all the rest of the Old World of Darkness two years ago. This means I’m free to disregard canon and make shit up to my heart’s content. Yay for me.)

Anyway, this game takes place in the fictional Texas city of Bazemore. You don’t need to know that much about the city to follow the story, but it would help to know that the city is separated in four “districts”: Westwood (upper-class, high culture, rich people), Staunton (commercial district, some industry by the water), Harper Park (middle-class), and Glenville (rampant shithole).

And now, the cast of Hunters. The player characters are:

• Dean, a washed-up college baseball player from St. Louis. Whereas the others were imbued very recently (and all but one of them together), Dean was exposed about six months ago, and has spent that time chasing one vampire from Missouri. That trail has lead him to Bazemore, where it has, unfortunately, gone cold. He’s an Avenger, a Hunter who seeks to destroy all the monsters unequivocally.


• Willem, a washed-up musician who tends bar. He drives a Lexus despite a not-so-wonderful economic situation. He’s a Judge, one who seeks to punish the creatures based on the severity of their crimes.


• Dan, introduced in this episode. He’s a stoner beach bum who drives a City Tours van to pay the bills. He’s a Defender—his focus is protecting humanity rather than attacking the supernatural.

Rounding out the group are a pair of NPCs:

• Lucy, a 20ish copy editor from Staunton. She’s an Avenger, as well.


• Edgar, a 40ish disgraced businessman from Westwood. About three years ago, he was arrested for murdering his mistress. Though he was eventually acquitted, it was largely due to incompetence on the part of the police and mistakes by the prosecution, and most believe him to be guilty. He’s now a self-loathing alcoholic in the midst of a very expensive divorce. He’s a Martyr, one who looks to sacrifice himself for the cause.

There was originally one more player character, but Brandon, the player, left the game after the first episode. So I’ve artfully written him out of the game, but you’ll notice that (as I mentioned above) I can’t remember his character’s name. So I’m forced to refer to him as “Brandon.” Say sorry.

That’s about all you need to know. I’m not recapping the first episode, “The End,” because I can do that in about a sentence: Willem, Lucy, Brandon and Edgar are imbued in a subway car and destroy a vampire. Unfortunately, Dean was tracking that vampire in the hopes he would lead to Dean’s target. With nothing else to go on, Dean has to rely on them for help.

(You’ll notice it says “Season 1” up there. That’s because my plan for the game is split into five parts, like seasons of a television show. Each season will have 13 episodes.)

So: here we go…

“Corpses”

A week has passed since their imbuing, and the Hunters have achieved little to nothing. Brandon (?) has disappeared, there are no new leads as far as Dean’s vampiric quarry, and Lucy has taken to simply scanning the newspaper for possible monster-related crimes (“Hey, there’s a priest in Glenville who was beaten to death and found in four pieces behind a dumpster!” “Only four?”). Things aren’t going well. Willem is drinking fairly heavily, Edgar is drinking heavier, Dean can’t stop playing Sudoku, and the situation appears bleak.

That night, they pick up exactly where they left off the previous evening: hopping from club to club, hoping to accidentally run into the guy they’re looking for. Starting at topless bars in Glenville turns out to not be a wise choice, and soon they’re back in Staunton.

It’s outside one of those Staunton clubs that Dean spots a white van with DAN’S CITY TOURS on the side, and behind the wheel one Dan Owens, a beach bum who offers both tours of the city’s stranger points of interest and club shuttle service. While obtaining a map from Dan, Dean spots a trio of shambling zombies in the alley behind the van. He races off to get the others.

Dan, meanwhile, turns to the alley and sees the zombies—a voice thunders in his head: They feed on the innocent. Dumbstruck, he exits his van and walks toward the zombies. When they move to approach him, he unconsciously uses Ward, and they back off. He’s dumbstruck further.

At that moment, the Hunters arrive with weapons and righteous fury, and it doesn’t take long before the walking corpses are just corpses again, and soon after they’re turning to ash when Dean sets them aflame. But Willem took one out with a mighty blast from his Glock, meaning a gunshot rang out outside a club, meaning the police are sure to be on their way. Literally dragging Dan along, the five of them hop into the City Tours Van (hereafter referred to as “The Mystery Machine”) and drive away.

A few blocks later, they stop outside a Dunkin Donuts for a breather and, well, some donuts. Lucy tries her best to explain what just happened to Dan, but she only barely knows more than he does. She tells about the vampire they’re chasing, and Dan reveals that he’d actually seen him—just last week, he’d given him a ride home from a club to a house in Glenville. He agrees to take them there, but first takes several generous hits from his bong.

Dan recognizes Edgar, as everyone does. Dean floats the theory that Edgar was supernaturally set up somehow for the murder. Edgar doesn’t seem eager to accept that as a possibility.

They reach the house in Glenville, but it appears abandoned: the lights are off, no one is inside, and the only pieces of furniture are a couple of chairs and a desk. On the desk, however, Willem finds a pad of paper. Sophisticated, CSI-like investigative techniques (rubbing a pencil across the page to look for indentations) reveal a name, Shepherd, and an address of an apartment in Harper Park. Back into the Mystery Machine they go, and onward to Harper Park. It starts to rain.

When they get to the apartment building they find a few police cars outside. Undaunted, they approach the front door only to find they need an access code to get inside. They’re briefly stumped until a helpful—yet vaguely creepy—old lady in a purple raincoat approaches. She assumes they’ve forgotten their code, which she assures them she does all the time, and lets them inside with hers. Finding her assistance just a little too creepy, the Hunters turn their Sight on her and discover that she is, in fact, not human. But she’s not a vampire, either, and certainly not a zombie. Discern reveals a bright, purple-white sheen surrounding her, like an aura. When questioned, she makes a few disarming non-answers, ducks into a maintenance closet, and promptly vanishes into thin air. “Nice trick,” Dean tells the empty closet.

With the old lady gone, they return to the business that brought them here: the address from the vampire’s house. It’s apartment 3-G, so they head up to the third floor to find, unsurprisingly, that that’s where the police are. The tenants of the other apartments are standing outside, watching, and one of them tells the Hunters that the “reporter” who lives there is dead—“Prob’ly killed himself.”

They’re on the verge of deciding to head back to the elevator when they’re spotted by Detective Weathers, who approaches them and asks their business. The group, not too convincingly, tells him that they’re on the wrong floor, and that they meant to get off on the fourth, where they’re meeting a friend. Weathers, though suspicious, lets them go.

To maintain the illusion, just in case, the five head up to the fourth floor to plan their next move. A fire escape on the outside of the building can take them directly to the window of 3-G, so they decide to wait for the cops to leave, sneak up the fire escape into the apartment, and see what they can find.

So they wait in the alley for a few hours. Willem and Dean kill time by playing Othello on a cell phone. A chubby hick on the second floor sees them and strikes up a brief conversation. They discuss what happened in 3-G, and the hick confides that it certainly wasn’t a suicide: “He didn’t have no blood left in ‘im.”

Once they spot the cops leaving the scene, corpse in tow, the Hunters run up the fire escape and enter apartment 3-G. The place is littered with papers, books and magazines—but the only sign of a possible struggle is a single tipped-over chair, and there is not a single drop of blood to be found. Lucy finds a copy of an independent magazine called The Ledge, with the cover story (“How the Government Plotted, Conceived & Executed the 9/11 Massacre”) credited to Kevin Shepherd.

Willem, Dean and Edgar search the living room, and amongst the papers and junk on the desk find a piece of paper onto which is photocopied a bizarre image—it looks like a logo or crest of some sort, but it isn’t one they recognize:



And there’s more, handwritten on the back, but it proves just as inscrutable:



(If you have trouble reading the words on the side, they are, from top to bottom, "Westwood," "Glenville," "Harper," and "Stuanton" [sic].)

Meanwhile, in the bedroom, Lucy and Dan find a small wall safe hidden behind a photograph of (of all people) Richard Nixon—the safe is unlocked, but it’s empty.

Dean hypothesizes that this reporter, Shepherd, either learned something or guessed something about either the government or vampires, and turned himself into a target for assassination. It isn’t much, but it’s all they have, and the apartment gives up no more clues. They head back to the fire escape and down into the alley…

…where they run into Det. Weathers. Now truly suspicious, Weathers stops them for questioning, but drops his pen a few times, and when he bends down to pick it up (would ya believe this) a potted plant from a windowsill above falls, of its own accord, and smashes into his head. With the detective momentarily incapacitated, the Hunters run for the Mystery Machine. But on their way through the parking lot, Dean spots the vampire they’ve been looking for standing in a crowd. He tries to play it cool, but the vampire spots him, too, and jumps in a car and flees. The Hunters have no choice but to pile into the van and follow.

The chase leads them to Staunton. It’s impossible to know where the vampire was going, but he’s stopped when Willem manages to shoot out one of his tires. The vampire swerves through traffic to create a makeshift roadblock, ditches the car, and sprints into a subway station. The Hunters follow as fast as they can, even after the vampire leaps onto the subway track and runs into an unfinished tunnel.

Why does he choose this tunnel? The Hunters will probably never know, because when it becomes a dead end, the vampire is trapped, and quickly overcome by the five hunters, especially the two wielding flaming weapons of death. Within minutes, the vampire is turning to ash and the five are sitting around the remains eating sandwiches.

In the aftermath, they plan the next step. Dan is still a little shell-shocked, so they decide to give him a week to things through. Edgar walks back to his hotel, Dan gives Willem a ride back to his car, and Lucy offers the homeless Dean the spare room at her apartment until her roommate returns.

Alone on the subway home, Dean and Lucy strike up a friendly conversation (“Is your roommate more or less attractive than you?” “…What?”), and she confides that her roommate is off sleeping with Lucy’s own boyfriend—hence, the empty room. Dean asks why she hasn’t broken up with him, and she says she planned to, but the whole monster-hunting thing kind of took up her time.

Dean offers Lucy a bottle of water, which she accepts, but drops. When she bends to pick it up, Dean spots another of the subway system’s unfinished tunnels in the window behind her…and in that tunnel, a pair of glowing red eyes hanging in the darkness.

Comments, corrections, and suggestions can be posted in the comments box below.

Thank the Prophets

Apparently, I can publish posts through Microsoft Word now. This is, as we say in the business, awesome.

That is all.

Maybe the car has vasculitis

Hey there.

So, it's been five months since last I posted here, and something tells me I wasn't much missed. (The biggest clue: not one person has asked when I was going to update again. Not even me.) But, lack of interest has never stopped me from opening my mouth before (a grumble of agreement from everyone who's ever spoken to me in my life), so I'm back. We'll see how long it sticks.

Lot's changed since last we spoke. Well, actually, that isn't true. I still ramble incoherently about things no one cares about, I still hate the President, I still want all members of Nickelback to die in a hideous conflagration that, tragically, also leaves Scott Stapp and Fred Durst critically injured. I'm still broke. And I still deliver pizza.

But some things have changed. For example, the Former Roommate I'm Not Allowed to Name (FRINAN) no longer lives here. Stephen -- who, to my knowledge, has no objection to his name appearing here -- is now my roommate.

I cut my hair a few months ago. I did this willingly, gladly, and without any outside pressure. And if I could take it back, I'd do it in a heartbeat. Not because I miss it -- hell no, I love having short hair again, and I don't know what the hell I was thinking before. (It bothers me to think I let my hair grow for three years just because I didn't feel like getting a haircut.) No, I wish I'd left it long because it would have saved me three months of having this conversation over and over and over:

THEM: Wow, you cut your hair!
ME: Yeah.
THEM: It looks good!
ME: Thanks.
THEM: Why'd you get it cut?
ME: I don't know. [insert placeholder non-answer here. Usually, "It's too hot for long hair."
THEM: Yeah. You gonna let it grow out again?
ME: I don't know. [think but do not say, "I haven't really put a lot of long-term planning into my hair."]
THEM: [stupid, boring story about when they had long hair]
ME: [pray for death]

I've gone through that about two thousand times since July. Kill me now.

I also have a new car. The piece-of-shit white Contour was repossessed just not for me, ya know? So I know have a green...something or other. Uh, Nissan...Sentry? Sentra? Sentro? Something like that.

Steve and I, fresh off recent House marathons, performed a differential diagnosis tonight on that very car, in fact. The patient presented with an involuntary twitch to the left, which progressed to rapid and uncontrollable convulsions when stressed. Dr. Steve quickly surmised that it was probably a flat spot on one tire -- and, indeed, an examination revealed a rather pronounced such spot on the right front tire. (I was able to diagnose the car's other problem on my own: a headlight is out. Prescription: a new light. Yay for me.)

Also, I spent the three hundred dollars hindsight tells me I should have used for a car payment on a shiny black 5G iPod. Oooh, yes. It's a rather nice piece of technology -- it makes work so much easier to get through when I have 11 days of music available to me at all times, without fumbling through hundreds of CDs, as before. (Which of arguable value when I listen to Evanesence's "Call Me When You're Sober" 38 times -- literally! -- in two days. But.)

That is all for now, my children. I will return soon with a few things I've been working on. The first is a piece called "Don't Tell Me What Damon Lindelof Can't Do," a passionate defense of Lost, the best show on television. I say "defense" because FRINAN is always eager to remind how much the show sucks. But it doesn't. No no no.

The other is, at long last, episode 8 of That's When I Reach for My Revolver. And I'm really working on it -- and it's a big one. Here's a side-by-side comparison between this ep and the only other one I have on my hard drive.

Episode 6: "Sitting, Waiting, Wishing":
Pages: 28
Words: 5,234

Episode 8: "What Do You Want From Me?" (unfinished):
Pages: 41
Words: 7,567

So there.

You'll hear from me when one or the other is finished.

(Oh, and maybe I'm a little late jumping on the bandwagon here, but Sudoku is probably the most relaxing intellectual activity known to man. Where has this been all my life?)

(Answer: Japan. And Indiana, apparently.)

Sirent Hirl (and stuff)

So, if you're wondering why I haven't updated more often, the reasons are twofold:

1. I hate you.
2. I hate you. Bitch.

Actually, the reasons are more along the lines of:

1. I've been working every day.
2. The...ahem...free internet connection (which is totally above-board and completely legal, shhh) has been rather sporadic in the last few weeks.

And not a whole lot has been going on. Trebor and I have been working every bloody day for the last few months (since we've moved here, I've had two days off; he's had three). Really, there hasn't been anything to talk about. "Today, I had Beef Top Ramen noodles. I enjoyed them more than yesterday's Chicken Top Ramen noodles...though I'm not sure why, since the only difference seems to be that the beef broth is brown and the chicken broth leaves this thick yellow residue on the bowl that is difficult to clean. Tomorrow, I hope to mix it up a little bit and having a couple of frozen burriots. Go 'Stros."

Captivating reading, that is.

I should change the countdown over there, since Silent Hill has already arrived and stuff, but the internet connection is rarely stable enough to let me search for pictures.

Silent Hill: It's the best video game movie ever made. But since the rest of the competition is Resident Evil, Tomb Raider, Doom, Alone in the Dark, and fucking Super Mario Bros., this isn't exactly orgasmic praise. The writer and director do an absolutely awesome job capturing the look, feel, and emotion of the series, right down to the ever-present air of dread that never goes away -- and I think they should be given a medal for having the respect for the source material to take it seriously. (Which they do -- this movie looks exactly like the first game, even a few sequences ripped shot-for-shot. They even spend some time focusing on maps and street names just to show off for the fans: "See! The Brookhaven Hospital map! We totally played this game!" Lisa, the tragic nurse, has a cameo, though in a much different role than than she had in the game. And hell, the end credits run under the same song that was used for the credits of Silent Hill 3. The effort is greatly appreciated.)

Here's the problem: whenever the air raid siren goes off and the walls start peeling, Silent Hill is a masterpiece of terror and sickening horror. It's rare that a horror movie actually scares me, but there were at least two moments in the film that did it. Much like the games, the trips into Evil Silent Hill given the filmmakers completely free reign to dip deep into surrealism and throw whatever sick shit they can think of at the characters. (Some of it is taken from the games, like -- hell yeah -- Pyramid Head, who needed a much bigger role; some of it is original to the film, and truly disturbing stuff.) And when in White Silent Hill, the film does remain mildly entertaining, and we get a much-needed breather from the intense stuff. (Though the film does stop dead in its tracks for about ten minutes, toward the end, to try to explain the plot with a long, long, long grainy flashback. It wasn't necessary, guys.)

But whenever we cut away from Silent Hill and the camera focuses on Sean Bean, it's death on celluloid. His role is completely original to the movie, and in fact was only added as an afterthought when the filmmakers realized there were no men in the movie. (No, really.) His plot is boring, goes absolutely nowhere, and saps the tension from the actual story. Not to mention that it feels added on -- he has no scenes with any of the main characters, and bears no influence at all to the plot. You can practically see where his character has been stapled and duct-taped on top of the good parts.

Call it ***. Is it possible I'm scoring it higher than it deserves because I'm a huge Silent Hill mark and I'm just glad they didn't completely fuck it up? Fer sure. But who cares?

That's all for now. In the meantime, should you care, I've finally managed to start working to the next episode of Revolver, so my next post should be announcing its arrival.

War Beef Top Ramen noodles. And go 'Stros.

(Oh, my new e-mail address is rocktmbstn@hotmail.com. If you need to e-mail me. No promises when I be able to read it, though.)

I'm not dead...

...despite all outward appearances.

So, yeah. I have moved. Out of the den of hell, into a much nicer place. The downside, though, is that Verizon doesn't offer DSL service out here. And I cancelled my AOL. So I've been without internet access for a little over month now. Hence, the lack of updates to...well, anything.

(In case you're wondering how I'm online right now: someone near me has wireless internet access. So I'm hacking in and stealing it. Shhh.)

I'll be back with more tomorrow, assuming I can sign on. If not, it'll be later.

Peace on you.

Well, yeah

You scored as Serenity (Firefly). You like to live your own way and don't enjoy when anyone but a friend tries to tell you should do different. Now if only the Reavers would quit trying to skin you.

Your Ultimate Sci-Fi Profile II: which sci-fi crew would you best fit in? (pics)
created with QuizFarm.com

I don't know whether to be relieved or concerned

Was it Groucho Marx who talked about not wanting to belong to any club that would have him as a member? Yeah, that's how I feel right now.

As I mentioned a while back, my roommate Tommy is getting married in July. He's now all but moved out of our apartment, since the lease ends this month, and I shall be going as well -- I don't want to stay here, and our landlords don't want us to stay here. So I'm heading off.

Trebor and I found an apartment that would well suit the two of us -- it's about eighty dollars cheaper than this place, it looks nicer, the landlord doesn't appear to be flagrantly incompetent, and, praise Hetfield, it's downstairs. You really have no idea what that means to me. I've been living on the second floor my entire damn life. I am in love with the thought of not having to walk up and down stairs four or five times a day.

So we went in yesterday, saw the place, liked it, and filled out our applications. Which then has to be put through the acceptance process.

Hoo boy.

The background check involves calling one's place of employment, verifying that one does indeed have a job. No problem there, yeah? But then comes the credit check. Yeouch. And then calling one's currently landlord -- double yeouch. The landlords here could tell blood-chilling horror stories about this place -- lack of upkeep, late rent payments, and so on and so forth. I was extremely worried we'd get turned down. Which, of course, would leave me homeless.

But I called back today...and we're approved.

Huh.

What kind of low-ass standards does this place have? Jeez. I mean, if they'll let me in, who else might living there? And, even more frightening, who got rejected? I know it happens -- the downstairs apartment is available because the women who was going to take it didn't pass. What terrors has she perpetrated?

But, on the bright side, I won't be living under the overpass. Which means I should be able to finish both the new Revolver and Metallica's Musical Snapshot sometime next week, after the move is done. (Mercifully, every piece of furniture in this place, with the exception of the bed I'm throwing away, is Tommy's. Makes my move much easier.)

When we move, I'm dumping AOL -- Trebor's got DSL through Verizon, so we're going with that. This means a new e-mail address and probably a new AIM handle. Obviously, you'll hear about it when it happens.

Cheney's got a gun

So, the Vice President accidentally shot some guy this weekend.

There is nothing I can add to that that wouldn't be tasteless, so I will add nothing.

Except to laugh at the horrible luck the Administration has been having lately. And to once again reconsider the existence of karma.

What goes around comes around, fuckers.

(And I think this makes Cheney the first VP since Aaron Burr to shoot someone while in office. Congrats, Dick!)

The Grammys

I didn't watch the show, but I dutifully found a list of the winners soon afterward. Here's the good and the bad:

The Good

• Green Day winning Record of the Year. (Even if "Holiday" was a better song, "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" completely dominated the airwaves.)
• Each Grammy Kanye West won.
• System of a Down winning Hard Rock performance over Nine Inch Nails and that awful Audioslave song I won't shut up about.
• The White Stripes won Alternative Music performance, which doesn't make up for not being nominated for Album of the Year, but at least it's something.
• Linkin Park and Jay-Z winning Best Rap/Sung Collaboration for "Numb/Encore." (Even though several tracks on that disc are better than that.) (And yeah, that's what the category is called. Rap/Sung Collaboration. Don't ask me, I just work here.)
• Steve Lillywhite winning Producer of the Year. He's a groovy guy.
• Each Grammy Mariah Carey didn't win. Including Album of the Year, Record of the Year, and Song of the Year. Ha ha. I love it when I'm wrong.

The Bad

• Everything else.

Seriously. U2 for Album of the Year? And Song of the Year? I mean, don't get me wrong, How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb was a fine record (and I'll even ignore that it was released in 2004, because I understand the Grammys have a weird October-September eligibility window), but...come on. Kanye West was right there. Once again, the Grammy voters' apalling fondness for long-established artists and old fogeys has cost someone a trophy they deserve. They did it to Eminem and Radiohead in 2001, when Steely Dan was given Album of the Year over two of the very best albums I've ever heard in my life; they did it last year, when Ray Charles (who managed to be long-established, old, and dead, so there was no beating him) was awarded for his moderately received Genius Loves Company while Green Day and (hey!) Kanye West were left standing on the sidelines.

But hey -- at least U2 are cool guys, and the album was pretty good. It could have been worse...like handing Kelly fucking Clarkson a bunch of awards. At least they're not that stupid.

Oh...wait....

Best Pop Vocal Album. Fiona Apple somehow manages to wrangle a nomination, despite all odds. And who wins? Kelly Clarkson, an continuing trademark of the FOX network, the very nadir of soulless, empty pop garbage. Blah! What's next? Nickelback winning Album of the Year? Creed sweeps the Grammys?

(Creed will sweep the Grammys, actually. Twenty years from now, their reunion album -- titled Resurrection, obviously -- will take home nine awards, including Album, Song and Record of the Year. Scott Stapp will be so filled with hope and the love of the Lord that he'll overdose on heroin immediately after the show and die.)

(Can't wait for that, huh?)

I'll have a dissection of the Oscars -- who should win, who will win, and who was snubbed -- once I finished seeing the appopriate films. Actually, once I see Brokeback Mountain, which is the only Best Picture nominee I've yet to see.

Movie stuff

Trebor and I caught Capote last night. It wasn't bad -- it felt a hell of a lot longer than its 1:38 running time, but the cast was excellent and it had some truly great moments. Not sure if I'm down with a Best Picture nomination, but it was certainly better than the year's other critical darling, A History of Violence.

And it might just do the impossible: make Phillip Seymour Hoffman a movie star. Stranger things have happened. (Though not often.)

The Da Vinci Code looks fucking awful. Now, this may come as a shock, 'cause you know I like to stay on the cutting edge of pop culture, but I still haven't read the book. I read another Dan Brown novel, Angels & Demons, though. It was an entertaining enough diversion, but it didn't seem exactly stuffed with actual substance. It was like a Lifesaver -- sweet, easy to eat, quickly ingested, but there's a big hole in the middle. I think once I actually sat down and read it I finished it in a few hours. Brown's action sequences are pretty effective, and he knows how to string together some cinematic set pieces...but the last twenty pages were pretty retarded.

But this trailer is painfully bad. Tom Hanks looks like a mutant. And ninety percent of the thing is just closeups of him looking in awe at something off-camera. Maybe he's staring at Ron Howard's own rapidly disintegrating hairline.

The movie doesn't come out for a few months, which means I'm going to have to watch the same damn teaser over and over again until release. And most offensive, to me anyway, is that the trailer doesn't even say anything -- I still have no idea what the damn thing's about. Something about Jesus, and pissing the Catholics off. And I wouldn't even know that from the trailer. But, according to Trebor, it gives away the plot's "big twist"...but that I would've had to read the book to spot it. Which isn't really a spoiler, then.

The point I'm trying to make here, Opie, is that your trailer -- much like most of your filmography -- sucks. You can't just pile up spooky images with no context like you're M. Night Shyamalan and make me excited.

Speaking of M. Night Shyamalan: Lady in the Water. Yyyyyyeah. I can't say I'm wild about this trailer, either. I know I'll see it, because it's Shyamalan, and I have an unhealthy love for his films. (I even adored The Village, remember?) But the whole "bedtime story" thing ain't doing it for me.

And what's with the name Cleveland Heep?

Anyway. One last thing. Before the movie started, there was a commercial for the Oympics. It was this weird short movie, about these three idiotic man-children who go to Italy for the Winter Games. Two of them show up barechested, one painted with the letter U, the other with A. They look around in vain for S for a few seconds...and then they spot him. He's wearing this red-white-and-blue afro wig, and he has his entire body pained blue. He runs up to them like a spaz, grabs them by the shoulders, and soon they're all jumping up and down screaming "USA! USA! USA!"

I leaned over to Trebor and said, "This is what we look like to the rest of the world, isn't?" Gleefully stomping around a foreign country, bleating our greatness to everyone around us, the thin line between patriotism and jingoism obscured and slathered over with grease paint.

It gets worse. After something happens, S decides to celebrate by prancing across a frozen lake. But the ice gives way, and the poor jackass falls in and freezes solid. Thinking they'll look stupid without their S (riiiight), U and A drag him around to other events and prop him up between them. A few girls think the frozen guy's "cute," so U and A continue to haul him everywhere, strapping him to the roof of their SUV, to impress these women.

There's a metaphor in there. The center of the USA -- the core, if you will -- cynically used to gain favor, by people who obviously don't care about the USA at all...at least, outside of how it concerns them directly.

Yeah, okay, so it's not as delicious with meaning and irony as when a woman is prevented by police from hearing a speech promoting political freedom around the world because she was wearing a protest t-shirt, but I'm trying. The commercial certainly didn't make me want to watch the Olympics.

Musical Snapshots, Part 1: Everything was roses when we held onto the guns

(Yes, I know I said I'd have it before now. But as you'll see, my tardiness was actually some brilliant meta-textual commentary on my part. See, 'cause the artist I'm focusing on here is infamous for promising and never delivering. Or delivering long after everyone has stopped caring.

And if you'll buy that, I have some very interesting real estate opportunities to discuss with you...)

This is the first part in the Musical Snapshots series. For the introduction/exposition, read this.

Musical Snapshots, Part 1.

But now the damage's done
And we're back out on the run
Funny how everything was roses
When we held onto the guns
But just because you're winning
Don't mean you're the lucky ones

For reasons known only to its designer, our apartment in Canoga Park, California, was two-leveled. The matchboxy kitchen, the tiny dining area, the one shoebox-sized bedroom -- that was all on the main level. But, in what I guess was supposed to seem whiz-bang-neato-sexy-cool, the living room was lower by about four feet. A few stairs on one end let you down; this left a long ledge, not unlike a stage, running directly through the middle of the apartment. The designers must have realized that such a large drop was inherently dangerous -- though again I'm guessing here -- so they decided to install safety precautions. Namely, a black wrought-iron railing, exactly like the ones outside. I think it was much more likely my sister or I would get our head caught in the gaps between bars, but the rail was there to stay, no matter how stupendously ugly it looked.

When I was seven, I use to jump on that railing and pretend I was Axl Rose.

To me, there was no one in the world cooler than Axl Rose. (Except maybe Mario. And it was hard to pretend I was Mario. I don't like mushrooms. But I digress.) "Welcome to the Jungle" was one of the first music videos I remember watching -- Axl's got his hair completely puffed out and horrible-looking, and he does this dance around the microphone stand. Except it's not a dance, really; it's more like he...writhes around it, this totally strange and yet completely awesome wriggle thing.

My seven-year-old mind was blown.

My mom bought Appetite for Destruction at some point. I'm actually old enough to remember records, but my mom was ahead of the technological curve -- we already had a CD player. It was bigger than our VCR, of course, and had to be hooked up to the stereo seperately from everything else. But she bought the Appetite for Destruction CD, and I use to listen to it every single day when I got home from school. My mom worked until after five, and my sister was safely tucked away at day care, so I was free for a couple of hours to turn the volume up loud, run up the stairs to our little stage, and make pathetic attempts to duplicate that dance. I never quite pulled it off.

The opening lyrics to "Welcome to the Jungle" were the only ones I really knew. I still have them etched on my brain to this day.

Welcome to the jungle
We got fun and games
We got everything you want
Honey, we know the names
We are the people that can find
Whatever you may need
If you got the money, honey
We got your disease

It was the seventh line there that got me hooked, I think -- the rancid way Axl spits out "money, honey" hit a nerve in my head. And before I could get over how cool that was, he gets to the chorus, with that "bring it to your shananananananananana-knees, knees!" part. Was this even singing? It sure as hell didn't sound like anything else they played on MTV.

The first electronic device I learned to program was our CD player. Play tracks 1, 6, 9. Repeat. Volume up. Over and over, until Mom came home.

And just before 5:00, when I knew it was getting close to her arrival, I'd turn off the stereo, put the disc in its case, and return it to the exact spot where I found it. I don't know why I tried to hide the fact I was listening to it. Maybe I was afraid Mom wouldn't like me using her CD without asking first. Maybe I didn't think she wanted me messing with the stereo. But most of all, I think I realized it wasn't something I should be listening to at all. Even without the skulls on the cover or the disturbing painting with the half-naked woman on the inside, the music didn't sound like it was meant for seven-year-olds. This wasn't like Def Leppard (which I also listened to a lot in those days) or Bon Jovi, which was loud and somewhat heavy but totally harmless -- Guns N' Roses, "Sweet Child O' Mine" aside, were dirty. Ugly. Dangerous, even. Only someone who truly didn't give a fuck about anybody, after all, would have gone on TV with that stupid hair.

And how did Slash keep that big hat on all the time?

****

Oddly enough, I played that album virtually every day for almost a solid year, but I only listened to the three big radio hits: "Jungle," "Sweet Child," and "Paradise City." Never once did I listen to the other nine songs, which strikes me as rather odd. But it's just as well -- I'm pretty sure my mom would have had a pretty big problem with me listening to some of those other tracks, what with such charming lyrics as:

Ya get nothin' for nothin', if that's what you do
Turn around, bitch, I got a use for you
Besides, you ain't got nothin' better to do
And I'm bored

That's from "It's So Easy." Though I guess it's worth noting that, at seven years of age, I would have had absolutely no clue what he was talking about anyway.

****

Eventually, of course, I did sit down and listen to those other songs, but not until after we'd left California and wound up in Hagerstown, Maryland. I remember very clearly the first time I ventured out of the safe waters of the three big hits into uncharted territory. Selecting it solely because I liked the title, I clicked over to "Mr. Brownstone." Of course, it's common knowledge that the song is about heroin use. But I didn't know that -- I was ten by this point. And I s'pose I'd been remarkably sheltered in some ways: at the time I didn't have any tapes or CDs of my own, and most of my mom's collection was comprised of stuff like Peter Gabriel and Toto. (Not that there's anything wrong at all with the former, who we'll get to someday.)

So there I was, sitting in a big green beanbag chair, oversized headphones on, listening to "Mr. Brownstone" for the first time. It's a pretty awesome song, and I was just starting to kick myself for never listening to it before when Axl stumbled into the last verse...

Now I get up around whenever
I used to get up on time
But that old man, he's a real motherfucker
Gonna kick him on down the line

I let out a strangled gasp and sat up straight. I backed the song up and listened to that verse again. Yeah...that's what I thought he said. I was in awe.

See, get this: I had never, before that moment, heard anyone use profanity in a song before. In movies, sure. On TV, yeah -- on HBO, at least. And in person, definitely -- my mom was not shy about letting the four-letter words fly. But in songs? I thought you, like, couldn't do that or something.

Yeah, I was kinda naive, I suppose. But "Mr. Brownstone" cleared that right up.

On an unrelated note, I think I've said "motherfucker" at least once a day since then.

****

The first tapes I ever owned for my own self were Use Your Illusion I and Use Your Illusion II. I begged for them for Christmas. Whenever we'd go to the local wannabe-Wal-Mart down the road, I'd always wander into the music section and gaze at the packaging for all the stuff I couldn't afford. And top of that list were the two Use Your Illusion albums. Though for the life of me, I couldn't figure out why they released two albums at the same time. (And for that matter, I still haven't figured it out.)

I was willing to settle for the first one -- I simply had to have "November Rain" -- but, lo and behold, I was lucky enough to get them both. They were gifts from my mom's boyfriend at the time, Rick, who was trying to win my admiration and respect the same way my father did: by buying me shit. I guess he wanted to shore up his status as Mom's Cool Boyfriend. (It worked, kinda-sorta, but he lost all his Cool Points and was disqualified from competition the night he woke me up by beating up my mom and trying to strangle her. Which we kinda frown on. And remind me to never tell you that story. But I digress.)

Unfortunately, his generosity was unnecessary: my mom had already bought the first Illusion for me, along with another tape and my very own stereo, and was just saving them for Christmas. She was heartbroken -- frankly, in those days, every present had to count at Christmastime, and she didn't need to be upstaged by her goofy-looking new boyfriend. And to make it worse, she'd already wrapped all my gifts, so she didn't know which of the two tape-shaped packages it was, and was forced to allow me to open it on Christmas morning before sheepishly taking it back.

It all worked out in the end, though: I listened to Use Your Illusion I so much that I eventually wore the tape out completely and it shredded itself in my tape deck. Good thing we had the backup, huh?

(The other tape she bought me that Christmas was We Can't Dance, the Genesis album. I mention this only because it factors in another of these Musical Snapshots deals. The next one, in fact.)

At the time, the first one was my favorite, because it was louder and heavier (I was starting to get into that Metallica phase around then), and it didn't have the stupid excesses the second one did -- like the awful electronic track "My World," one of the worst songs I've ever heard in my life, or the redundant "alternate version" of "Don't Cry." But as I've grown older, it's Use Your Illusion II that has stayed with me the most. It may be because of Axl's wannabe Elton John aspirations (doubters turn to "You Could Be Mine," which quotes Elton's "I've Seen That Movie Too")...but it's probably because of "Estranged."

"Estranged" is (was?) the best thing Guns N' Roses -- and by that I mean any of them, under any name -- ever recorded. The majestic "November Rain" was merely a warmup for this. Axl once referred to the song as his "baby," and it's easy to see why: armed with fantastic piano melodies and the most heartfelt lyrics he's ever written, "Estranged" is GN'R's "Stairway to Heaven." And Axl even has the good sense to step out of the way and let Slash burn everything down again between verses -- in what is possibly the only humble act Axl's ever committed, he thanks Slash for his work on this song in the album's liner notes. Cool, huh?

I didn't really discover "Estranged" until we'd moved down here to Dickinson, TX. But once I did, it was Appetite for Destruction all over again. I actually had to force myself to not listen to it, for fear I'd ruin another cassette -- we didn't have a backup of this one.

And I watched the video over and over again, too. While the "November Rain" clip managed to suit the epic nature of its song without going overboard, this one was just a tad too bloated. I mean, really, I don't think all that stuff necessary -- you know, the flying dolphins, or Axl jumping off what looked like an oil tanker, or the helicopter, or Sunset Boulevard turning into a river. You know? (Funny story, though: MTV ran a list of the 500 Greatest Videos of All Time in the late '90s, and "Estranged" weighed in at number 493. Five years later, it was featured prominently and mocked on the same channel during their When Bad Videos Happen to Good Artists special. What a difference time can make.)

The first night I spent living alone -- after vacating my old apartment, where I'd lived my mom and my sister -- I was going through some of my big boxes of stuff, and I came across my old tape of Use Your Illusion II. I was in a depressed, nostalgic mood -- my mom in the hospital, my sister living with our aunt and uncle, and me all by myself -- so I put it in the stereo and sought out "Estranged."

Well, I jumped into the river
Too many times to make it home
I'm out here all alone
And if it doesn't show, give it time
To read between the lines
'Cause I see the storm is getting closer
And the waves, they get so high
Seems everything we've ever known is here
Why must it drift away and die?

The silence after the track was deafening.

****

The first CD I ever owned? GN'R's followup to the Use Your Illusions -- The Spaghetti Incident?, a third-rate collection of covers. Once again, it was a gift (along with a Sony Discman to play it with) from a goofball trying to get on my good side -- this time, though, it actually was my father.

And maybe that was a bad omen of some kind, because Guns N' Roses flamed out in spectacular fashion. The band shattered, the core farted around for years before forming Velvet Revolver and somehow becoming popular again, and Axl began working on Chinese Democracy, the imaginary new GN'R album, which will be released just any day now, we mean it this time, for serious. As I understand it, he's gone through about twenty-five "members" of Guns N' Roses during these apparently endless sessions. The one tour he tried was a joke, with Axl's ego ruining the whole enterprise, just like always. It's kind of a shame, really, but there is something gratifying in knowing that, in the last ten years, I have released exactly the same number of new songs as Guns N' Roses.*

And maybe it's better that way. Axl's voice is a calling card from my childhood and adolescence -- a jerky, shrieking reminder of days when I outgrew my shoes every two months and my biggest concerns in life were doing my math homework, following baseball like a religion, and trying to get the girl in front of me in English class to notice me.

I guess Axl needs to accept that it might just be time to move on.

'Cause I'm pretty sure he won't be able to do that dance anymore.

****

To close us out, I present what the GN'R best-of album should have featured -- this is the best bunch of Guns N' Roses songs I could fit onto one CD. If you don't have any of them, you should remedy that immediately. (And no, there's no "Sweet Child O' Mine." It wouldn't fit. Consider it a B-side or something.)

1. "Estranged" (Use Your Illusion II)
2. "Welcome to the Jungle" (Appetite for Destruction)
3. "Don't Damn Me" (Use Your Illusion I)
4. "November Rain" (Use Your Illusion I)
5. "Bad Apples" (Use Your Illusion I)
6. "It's So Easy" (Appetite for Destruction)
7. "Breakdown" (Use Your Illusion II)
8. "Paradise City" (Appetite for Destruction)
9. "Patience" (GN'R Lies)
10. "Civil War" (Use Your Illusion II)
11. "Mr. Brownstone" (Appetite for Destruction)
12. "Coma" (Use Your Illusion I)

That does it for this installment. Next week: the four horsemen draw nearer, to frantically seek and destroy the unforgiven, wherever they may roam. With liberty and justice for all.

*That number, by the way, is one. Axl contributed the monstrously awful "Oh My God" to the soundtrack for the equally bad End of Days; my band, the Disposable Heroes, recorded one single: "Perky New Wave Number" (a title swiped, by me, from Kurt Cobain's working title for "Very Ape"), a track considered by some to be just as bad. But at least it wasn't in fucking End of Days. I declare myself the winner, because I least I didn't make anyone pay to hear my song, and all known copies of it have since been lost or destroyed. The sacrifices we make, huh?