Victory! (sorta!)

(Listening to: the Astros game. And weeping.)

You may or may not remember, but a few months ago I made a couple of posts concerning the lost Fiona Apple album, Extraordinary Machine. Now comes the news that the record will indeed finally be released to the general public on October 4.

Now, here's the weird part. The songs I heard back in March were recordings produced by musical genius Jon Brion, whose work as a composer you may know from Magnolia, Punch-Drunk Love, or I Heart Huckabees. Brion also produced Fiona's masterwork, When the Pawn.... But according to the press release -- which makes no reference to the leaked tracks or the "Free Fiona" campaign -- this album is produced by Mike Elizondo, who's worked mostly in hip-hop, with Dr. Dre and Eminem. (I recognized his name, though, primarily because he played bass and co-wrote a few tracks on Poe's spectacular album Haunted. As it turns out, he also played bass on When the Pawn....)

So, clearly, Madam Apple went back into the studio and rerecorded the whole album. And she clearly decided to do this very recently -- after all, if she was working on it when the big mess happened last winter, someone would have mentioned it to quell the protests, wouldn't they? And I wonder why the very good work with Brion was discarded, though I'm reading that everyone -- Sony, Epic, even Fiona -- was unhappy with the original production. I'll grant that it was certainly bizarre and non-commercial.

I don't know whether the new producer thing is good or bad, and can't know until I hear it. But there's apparently a new track, called "Parting Gift," and any Fiona is generally good Fiona.

Syntho-techno-compu-speak...of the FUTURE!

(Listening to: Dave Matthews Band, Crash)

(No list this week. I was too wiped out on either Saturday or Sunday to write anything coherent; believe me, I tried. I promise one for this week.)

So I've been watching a lot of Mystery Science Theater 3000 recently. More specifically, I've watched the episode Overdrawn at the Memory Bank a few times. If you haven't seen this one, you should -- it's easily one of the funniest. And the best part is how much Mike and the 'bots share my loathing for that idiotic "futuristic" dialogue that infects so many bad science fiction screenplays. You know what I mean: suddenly everything has a bizarre hyphenated prefix, like "compu-" or "syntho-", that kind of thing. (And one point in Overdrawn, Tom Servo gets fed up with it and starts angrily mocking it at every possible opportunity -- "Oh, they opened the syntho-flavo-door!" And a man and a woman are shown in bed together, he sings, "And then I sing you off to syntho-sleep after the techno-love....")

The worst part about this crap is how fake it is. Who the hell talks like this? I'll give you an example. If, in 1985, someone had written a screenplay which posited the future appearance of AOL's instant messenger program, allowing distant people to chat through their computers, everyone would have referred to the process as something stupid: "I'm going to compu-speak with Mike tonight." "We were micro-texting about that yesterday."

All this complaining about futuristic dialogue is actually a very roundabout way of plugging Simon of Space, the online novel I've been reading. It takes several thousand years from now, so characters don't speak like we do...but their dialogue still feels natural, not clumsy and stupid. (My favorite is the profanity. The euphemisms we have as curse words are scaled back to the actual words themselves: "shit" is now "faeces;" "fuck" is now "coitus" or "fornicate," depending on the context; and "sucks" is now "fellates." It's hilarious when someone roars, "What is this coital faeces?" in a completely serious context.)

If you're not reading Simon, you should be. Really. It's absolutely brilliant. Go forth and do so now. Though you should probably start at the beginning if you'd like to understand what's going on.

It reminds *me* of something

(Listening to: Rage Against the Machine, Evil Empire)

Have you guys heard the new Audioslave single, "Doesn't Remind Me"? It has to be considered a strong front runner for the 2005 Pants Around Your Feet Award for the hit song with the most idiotic lyrics. (Named, of course, in honor of "Figured You Out," that repugnant Nickelback piece of shit that was a huge hit last year.) Most frustrating is that "Doesn't Remind Me" is almost a really great song -- I like the melody and chord changes an' stuff, and Chris Cornell still has one of the best voices in rock. But...c'mon, the guy who wrote the complex, symbolically rich "The Day I Tried to Live," "Like Suicide," and "Limo Wreck" wrote this?

I like gypsy moths and radio talk
'Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
I like gospel music and canned applause
'Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
I like colorful clothing in the sun
'Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
I like hammering nails, and speaking in tongues
'Cause it doesn't remind me of anything

What the hell does any of that mean? Canned applause? Gypsy moths? Those lyrics are like cigarette smoke: thick, impenetrable, yet completely lacking in substance of any kind. And leaving a foul odor everywhere. They seem to want to mean something, but there's just nothing there. They're like shadow puppets.

My mom had a phrase for songs like this: she called them "toilet songs." The implication being that the singer wrote the lyrics in three minutes while sitting on the toilet, simply jotting down the first thing that came to mind, no matter how insipid. (The first time I remember my mom saying this was in reference to Warrant's "Cherry Pie," which is a toilet song for more than one reason.)

After their lackluster debut, and the first few singles from Out of Exile, I am prepared to hail Audioslave as the most disappointing band since...ever. I mean, Chris Cornell with Rage Against the Machine as his backing band? There was no way this could go wrong, so of course it has. Rage has lost their massive attack energy and turned into an only-slightly-nuanced post-grunge band, while Chris Cornell is either in the midst of a huge artistic decline or a some kind of deliberate pop commerical sellout phase.

Somewhere, Zack de la Rocha is laughing his fucking ass off.

The rest of us have to suffer.

(And hey, how's about this: "Doesn't Remind Me" is being nominated, by me, for an award named after a song by Nickelback. Nickelback, you may remember, achieved substantial success in the modern rock/post-grunge arena with their first hit, "Leader of Men," but became the ubiquitous crossover pop sludge factory they are today thanks to their follow-up album and its worldbusting first single, "How You Remind Me." I have no idea what this means.)

List of the week, 8/14: Music videos

(Listening to: System of a Down, Mezmerize)

Yeah, the original goal was do one of these every Saturday, but it seems that early Sunday morning is more convenient for me. So we'll go with that. We're also changing format a bit these week, as I couldn't think of five truly atrocious videos to make into a list -- we'll go with a top ten, instead.

Dave Matthews Band is going to debut their new video, for "Dreamgirl," on Monday. In honor of that, I give you my ten favorite music videos.

1. "Just," Radiohead.
A man lies on the sidewalk and won't move. Others ask why. He refuses to tell them. A crowd gathers. He still refuses. They yell and scream. Finally, he reluctantly gives them the answer. But not us: the subtitles that have displayed all the dialogue vanish. And when the man is done, his audience, stunned and horrified, lies beside him. The video is a brilliant little short film that shows how much you can do with the medium, even without big budgets and special celebrity guests.
2. "Everybody Hurts," R.E.M.
Profound and moving -- it lifts the song to another plateau. And the final images are truly haunting. To this day, whenever I'm stuck in traffic, I visualize Michael Stipe walking on top of the cars. "They just...they just got out and walked!"
3. "Criminal," Fiona Apple.
Director Mark Romanek has Fiona prance around in her underwear for the camera -- typical music video stuff -- but films it in such a greasy, voyeuristic fashion that one can't help but feel dirty for enjoying it. A wonderful way to toy with the cliches of music video.
4. "Billie Jean," Michael Jackson.
"Thriller" is the one that gets the press, but this is far better. Sure, it seems pretty dated now, and it's hard to feel sympathy for Michael Jackson, but the video captures his plight with flawless visual metaphors -- alone, dancing through a (fake) street, everything he touches glowing with light, hounded by a evil man taking pictures who just won't leave him alone.
5. "In Bloom," Nirvana.
Speaking of flawless visual metaphors. Contrasting their image as heroin-using, instrument-smashing hooligans who made angry noise, this clip features Kurt and crew in perfect white suits and performing on what looks like the Ed Sullivan Show, confronted by an adoring, shrieking fanbase they can't understand. And by the end, they're wearing dresses and smashing the stage, but the cheers only grow louder.
6. "Closer," Nine Inch Nails.
Probably the most disturbing video ever created...and again by director Mark Romanek. A lot of stuff was cut from his one for air; to preserve continuity, Romanek replaced it with silent film-style "scene missing" cards. I've seen both versions, and I actually think it's creepier in the edited version.
7. "Hurt," Johnny Cash.
Romanek again. An emotionally devasting trip through Cash's psyche as he looked back on his life. Again, a triumph of the artform. (Romanek, by the way, is probably my favorite video director. I don't know if you can tell.)
8. "Enid," Barenaked Ladies
The early BNL videos, as the band puts it, basically consisted of them "running around and mugging for the camera." Too true, but "Enid" manages to capture the band's manic energy in a way that I love. There's also some creative editing. Okay, I really don't know why I like this one so much.
9. "I Want Love," Elton John.
So sometimes celebrity guests work out: this one features Robert Downey, Jr., wandering alone in an empty mansion singing along with the song. And that's it -- just one long shot that follows him all throughout the house. The terribly lonely image adds greatly to the song.
10. "Short Skirt/Long Jacket," Cake
One of the funniest videos I've seen -- it's almost a MST3K-style riffing on the song, as we see a number of random pedestrians listening to the track on headphones and offering their opinions. Some of them like it, some of them don't -- but it's all hilarious.

St. Anger

(Listening to: Barenaked Ladies, Born on a Pirate Ship)

There was a time in my life -- around 1999, to be specific -- where I would have described myself as "full of rage." I was angry all the time, about everything. School, my friends, my family: all kept a steady stream of fury flowing around my house. Anything and everything pissed me off, and it took great effort not to show that anger to those around me.

There have been other times since then where I've felt that kind of white-hot emotion for sustained periods. (During one of them, I wrote the extremely angry "The Outlet," a rewrite of which is next on my to-do list, after the next episode of Revolver.) And I used that same phrase -- "full of rage" -- to describe my mental condition. I thought it an apt description.

But I had nothing on the Neighbors Downstairs.

Yes, the same ones who were (possibly) behind the theft of my wallet. I said earlier that they fought "all the time," but I'm not sure if you understood me. I mean all the time. They fought yesterday. They fought the night before that. And they're fighting right now.

And calling the police to stop them won't work. It's been tried. They're still here.

What the hell can a small group of people possibly disagree on so fervently -- and so often -- that they argue and scream about it once or twice a day? I mean, my friends and I have our conflicts, too -- some of which are genuine, some of which are created simply to annoy me, and some of which exist only in the paranoid, insecure recesses of my own mind (those are fun) -- but we only rarely have what I would term a fight. And we certainly don't fight every day. I dare say that if we did, we wouldn't be friends. And we certainly wouldn't be living together.

I can only assume alcohol and/or drugs are involved in this mess. It would explain a great many things. But here's the kicker -- the truly weird part of the story, the one I don't understand.

An old man lives in that apartment. He's confined to a wheelchair. If I'm up early enough in the day, I can see him leaving sometimes. We have to make sure not to park in the narrow strip of asphalt he needs to wheel out of his door into the parking lot.

Where is he during all of this COPS-episode-waiting-to-happen stuff? Is he sleeping? Is he hiding? Or does he open those vocal throttles and rage with the rest of them? Perhaps he acts as a referee?

I'd go to bed and forget about it, but I'm too experienced with the pattern for that: the second that happens, somebody go out their back door and the fight continues outside. Directly underneath my window.

Perhaps they need Dr. Phil Towle. Hey, it worked for Metallica.

All within your hands, baby.

Kill kill kill kill kill.

There are no innocent victims

(Listening to: Dave Matthews Band, Live in Chicago 12-19-98)

So I had an odd experience yesterday.

For those who don't already know, my wallet was stolen out of my car on Monday. It was totally my fault -- not only did I leave my wallet in my car (already a stupid thing to do) but I left the door unlocked. These were accidents -- it was gushing rain when I got out of the car, I was carrying food that had to be protected against the harsh elements, and my shoes have huge holes on the bottom, so running in water is bad bad bad -- but I screwed up and paid the price. Frankly, I'm lucky they only took my wallet and not all of my CDs. Or my stereo.

So my wallet was nicked. I lost thirty bucks, a Horizon Games discount card that I'm pretty sure they no longer accept, and my driver's license. This, of course, was the motherfucker -- I went to DPS on Wednesday and replaced it for ten bucks.

I had pretty much written the wallet off, you know? I mean, it's gone.

But yesterday, as I'm leaving for work, I pass the Neighbors Downstairs in the parking lot. The Neighbors Downstairs, for those who don't know, are my sworn enemy here in the land of Southern Pine Forest. They're loud, they're obnoxious, they get into fights constantly, and they always seem to want to do this crap outside in the parking lot so everyone can hear. (And when they're keeping it inside, I can still hear their voices echoing up through the pipes in the bathroom. It's fucked up.)

One of them asks me if I've "lost" my wallet.

I'm unsure of how to respond.

I go with "...Yyyyes...."

He tells me his girlfriend found it. I ask where. He doesn't know. He tells me that she isn't home right now, but he'll get it and get it to me.

When I get home from work last night, he's in the parking lot. He says, "Hey, let's go get your wallet."

But, alas, his girlfriend isn't there -- or she's in the shower, or something. She doesn't answer. He says we'll try again later.

And so it's today. And I'm puzzled.

As I see it, there are three possiblities.

1. My wallet wasn't stolen, I actually dropped it. I know this to be false, but it is still, technically, possible.
2. This jackasses stole my wallet, took my money, but have no use for my license (and Horizon Games card) and want to get on my good side by being nice and "finding" it for me.
3. Someone else stole it, threw it away, and the Neighbors downstairs actually did find it.

Which do you think?

Missing the point entirely

(Listening to: Soundgarden, Badmotorfinger)

"Why is everything here completely pointless?" -- Mike Teavee to Willy Wonka

It's a question I'd like answered.

I saw the new Charlie and the Chocolate Factory on Monday, and holy god what a horrible disaster. The buzz was that the film would be more faithful to the book than the previous adaptation, and it several ways it is -- the squirrels were back as the cause of Veruca's demise, for example, rather than the golden egg machine.

But apparently the copies of the novel Tim Burton and screenwriter John August have are missing the final chapter or two, because they swerve from the original and tack on their own cheesy ending. And believe me when I say this stuff is pulled directly out their ass: Wonka suddenly has big issues with his father, a subplot left unexplored (and unmentioned) in the book. So the entire point of the story -- the bad children being punished for their vices and Charlie getting rewarded for his kind and humble nature -- is thrown into the chocolate river, and instead becomes a lecture about the importance of family, a message which is delivered with surprisingly hamfisted clumsiness.

Now, the story has never been subtle -- even as a kid, I understood the point Dahl was trying to make with his book. But at least his original message was supported by the rest of the story. In the new version, though, the other children who accompany Charlie into serve no purpose other than to fill screen time. Really, you could have deleted those four kids, skipped from Charlie entering the factory right to the last twenty minutes, and the only thing you'd miss would be a lot of awful songs by the Oompa Loompas (Danny Elfman wrote the songs, taking lyrics from the book, but that didn't matter because you couldn't understand a word they said anyway). We also would have missed Depp's odd, awkward performance as Wonka -- certainly not one of the miracles we've come to expect from Cap'n Sparrow. His Wonka -- and the whole movie -- just aren't any fun. At all.

I guess there's another question we need answered: "Why is the rum gone?"

List of the Week, 8/6: World of Darkness NPCs

(Listening to: The Essential Bob Dylan)

So, I play role-playing games. The table-top RPGs, I mean: you know -- sit around a table, roll some dice, act out imaginary characters. Such behavior is generally shunned by popular society, of course, and you can just imagine how much I care about that.

Even though I play these games, I don't swing with that Dungeons & Dragons crowd -- too much math, not enough fun in my experience. (Yes: not only do I play the games, I'm a snob about them, too. Discuss.) I've played a lot of games, but the finest, without question, have been those published by White Wolf in their World of Darkness series. Vampire: The Masquerade, Hunter: The Reckoning, Mage: The Ascension. Last year, they ended that series and started anew with Vampire: The Requiem, which has been just has fun as the old stuff.

And since Mage: The Awakening comes out this month, we celebrate my RPG experiences with our list of the week: My Favorite (and Least-Favorite) Non-Player Characters. See, when I've played, I've been the Storyteller almost exclusively -- no player characters for me. And while I know my players have their own personal favorites, I don't think I've ever shared mine. Not to mention those NPCs I've dreaded playing.

So let's get started.

(But before we do, I should point out that several of these characters came in groups and pairs, so they're obviously listed together. You may see this as cheating, to stick more than five characters into a top-five list. I can't disagree. And while I'm in this parenthetical, thanks to Rene for helping me come up with an idea for this week's list.)

The Best

1. Duncan Forrest. (Vampire: The Masquerade; Vampire: The Requiem) Never has one of my characters displayed quite the frantic arc as this poor Ventrue did in En Prise, my final V:tM chronicle. From smug businessman, to ostracized villain, to avenging angel behind a shotgun, to caretaker for a sire-less young vampire, Duncan remained a blast for me. (Hehe: shotgun. Blast. Ha! ...Ahem.) Of course, the arc wasn't just all over the place for no reason: the unlucky bastard had ghosts haunting him and screwing with this mind. And the guilt he carried around with him for his evil deeds -- both those at the urging of the spirits and those he committed of his own volition -- rounded him out and prevented from being just an unpredictable wacko. (Though he was that, at times.) But the most gratifying moment came when I tried to finish him off: I set up the events that would lead to his demise, only to watch as the players ruined everything with a desperate (and successful) attempt to save his life. "There's no way we were going to let Duncan die," I was told. I can't believe I tried it, either.

And surprisingly enough, Duncan didn't lose much in his transition to the world of Vampire: The Requiem -- a sometimes frustrating mix of the political schemer and the guilt-ridden saint, Duncan led the charge against the corrupt vampiric government of Bazemore. Of course, his methods of leadership put him at odds with almost everyone he attempted to lead, but he stayed the course and kept up the fight until the most unlikely possible thing happened: he won. (And they say I don't know the meaning of the word "hope.") But the ghosts still won't leave him alone.

Speaking of ghosts....

2. Alice Johnson. (V:tR) Talk about having it bad. At age eighteen, Alice was brutally murdered in her sleep by a crazed vampire (for reasons too complex to get into here). But instead of passing on, she found herself stuck in our world as a ghost...and unable to leave her apartment. She remained there for nearly two decades -- she was eventually discovered by another vampire, Natasha, but this Kindred was unable (or unwilling) to help her escape. Instead, Alice became a weapon in Natasha's schemes: the ghost somehow caught occasional brief glimpses of the future. Still stuck, Alice contented herself with flexing her supernatural muscles, learning other "powers" and such over the years; she became fascinated with her limited ability to alter the temperature in her apartment (a habit which resulted in the space staying vacant for all those years). But Alice wasn't without hope: help came in the form of Natasha's childe, Benjamin. Unlike Natasha, who saw her as a tool, Ben helped her not only to develop those powers of hers, but eventually found a way to get her out of her apartment and allow her to roam the world as a free spirit.

Man, Alice is just plain fun to play -- she's been eighteen for about forty years now, and even as her power increases, she still straddles that teenaged line between invulnerable cockiness and tormented insecurity. Stubbornly sticking by Benjamin through his own personal travesties, she alternately assists him on his quests and prods him with shiny verbal spears. (Ben once described their feuding relationship as "hate-hate." Alice's response: "Hey, fuck you!") She generally carries herself with a "Who, me?" kind of laid-back attitude...until the shit hits the fan. And what's not to like about a character who is blasting zombies with telekinesis one minute and practically blushing at the clumsy advances of a naive college boy the next? (Another fun aspect to Alice: putting on cleats and stomping all over White Wolf's canon as regards ghosts. I've never taken their it's-your-game-do-what-you-want ethos as far as I have with her.) Add in her fascination/loathing with modern society, her big-sister relationship with Ben's son, her snobbish appreciation/disdain for popular music, and the vast expanse of unspoken emotional territory between Ben and herself, and I could practically write a book about her.

Speaking of practically writing books...

3. Mr. Clarke and Jenkins. (Hunter: the Reckoning) Sure, most mages would want to keep as far away as possible from supernaturally-imbued demon-slayers, especially those as well-armed as the ones in this game. But Mr. Clarke and his vigilant assistant, Jenkins, were not most mages. These two fit into a pretty typical NPC mold -- the questgiver -- but it was their priceless interaction with each other and with the hunters that made them memorable. Mr. Clarke's habit of falling in love with the sound of his voice (talking forever without seeming to say anything) went perfectly with Jenkins, whose main job seemed to be taking notes -- of everything. Jenkins was never armed without his handy notepad, and his pen never stopped moving. It wasn't quite sure what these notes would ever be used for, but that didn't stop Jenkins from writing, nor did it stop Clarke from frequently imploring Jenkins: "Write this down!" I've never enjoyed the obligatory here-is-your-mission scenes as much as I did with these two clowns. Our Hunter game went to shit (literally, and you do not want to hear that story, trust me), but I loved these two guys.

Speaking of...um...oh, fuck it:

4. Harry and Tom. (Mage: The Ascension) Man oh man: the fucking cats.

Harry -- the black one -- was the familiar for adolescent mage Jack Flagg; his nemesis, Tom -- the white one -- hounded Jack as a pesky gremlin. Jack was a good guy, though, so he took care of both cats. Even when Tom was displaying his evil side by...breaking his potted plants?

Credit where credit is due: these guys weren't my idea. But they were some kind of awesome when they got going. The best part, really, was that despite being ancient spirits with a eternal grudge against one another, they were still cats -- talking cats, mystical cats, but cats nevertheless. It's hard to torment your mortal enemy when there's so much napping to do, after all. And I can't forget the hilarious image of Harry, tucked in Jack's pocket, getting a buzz at the local Node. And the good news: they're coming back for our next Mage game. Yeah!

5. Steve, the Drunken Redneck. (Everywhere) Sometimes, you can't plan what will work. And Steve-o started life as nothing more than a random victim: a vampire needed a car, and fast, so Steve got carjacked. But something about him was somehow intriguing, and so Steve showed up again. And again. Traumatized by his experiences, Steve has popped up in every game I've run since, getting more and more wigged out (and more and more drunk) with each appearance. His best moments were probably those in V:tM, with his paranoid ramblings about the secret war between vampires and aliens from outer space. But he never stops being funny. And Steve will never go away.

Tied for sixth: every single other NPC I've used in Vampire: The Requiem. Every single one. Even Malice the dog. Especially Malice the dog. I love that city.

The Worst

1. Jan Pieterzoon. (V:tM) I've never been good at working with other people's creations (the cats notwithstanding). And it was probably a bad idea to trot out this White Wolf signature character for little reason other than, "Hey, he's cool." (Really, his presence was ridiculous.) I'm pretty sure he didn't show up more than once or twice...but someone like Pieterzoon should emanate dignity, should ooze it from the very bottom of his silk suit, and he was nothing more than empty space in my hands. Easily the most disappointing NPC I've ever used. (I later used him again when I ran a Gehenna chronicle, and while it was an improvement, I still never quite got a handle on him. Oh, well. Live and learn.)

2. Fortunado. (V:tM) Dammit: he was made to be interesting. One of the aforementioned ghosts that was mucking with Duncan's brain, Fortunado was a brash, joyous guy that was dead and loved every second of it...at least, when he was in my head. In the game, though, he never seemed to take off. He was supposed to be used for a Wraith chronicle, but when that game went nowhere, I brought him into Vampire with lackluster results. And it didn't help that his arc by that point was as a pretty obvious shock villain -- his "surprise" evil turn was greeted with no reaction at all by the players, and they later selected this as the worst plot twist in the otherwise magnificent En Prise. I'm much better at ghosts nowadays, but this one haunts me. (Hehe: haunts. Ghost. Ha! ...Ahem.)

3. Augustus Giovanni. (V:tM) See entry 1 as far as using White Wolf signature characters. I've had my share of anticlimactic moments in my games, but none can rival this dramatic battle from my Gehenna chronicle. Augustus Giovanni, third-generation progenitor of the Giovanni clan, super-powerful master of Necromancy, slain in a matter of moments by a handful of Kindred far, far weaker than he. That was embarrassing.

4. The other Antediluvians in that same Gehenna game. (V:tM) See entry 3, only multiply by six and replace the embarrassing fighting with lots of talking. Lots of talking. The most dreadful ending to any game I've ever run. Ever. (Of course, it wasn't entirely my fault -- I as running that game right out of the book. But I should have at least tried to make those bastards interesting. I failed to do so.)

5. The entire cast of the infamous "Green Goo" game. (V:tM) Honestly, I can't remember a single character from this mess, the worst chronicle I've ever run. But I can remember how awkward they felt, how they felt like crude cut-outs or imitations of earlier, more successful characters. Actually, I take that back: I remember the idiotic Tremere interrogator with his syringe full of that awful green goo. I was watching way too much X-Files back then, and didn't use any of that influence in a good way. Though I've tried to put this horrible game behind me (thankfully, it ground itself to a shuddering, screeching halt after only three or four sessions), my friends will never let me forget it. Ever.

That's that. You may comment below -- suggestions for next week's list are welcome.

"I'm only interested in playing Pazaak!"

(Listening to: The White Stripes, Get Behind Me Satan)

Man, I feel like a lazy bastard -- it takes me weeks to write anything at all, but my friend Rene shows me up by writing a computer program to accompany the seventh chapter of his in-progress Star Wars story: it's Pazaak, the covenient take-home version. It's a well-done little program -- it's exactly like the Pazaak you'd find in Knights of the Old Republic. Only with no graphics, or sound, and no customizable sidedeck. And is all that stuff really necessary?

(A voice rises from the back: "Yes!" Thank you, sir. Security!)

I was volunteered to host the file Because I'm a nice guy, I decided to host Rene's file for others to download. Aren't I swell?

Anyway, if you'd like to download the program, you can do so right here. And if you'd like to know how to play Pazaak, you can learn right over here in a how-to written by yours truly.

Enjoy yourselves.

Cool!

(Listening to: Dave Matthews Band, Under the Table and Dreaming)

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a tenth planet:

http://www.nasa.gov/vision/universe/solarsystem/newplanet-072905.html

Name suggestions? I nominate Minerva. (Of course, there's also Vulcan. Or Romulus. Or Qo'noS. Ferenginar?)

I have also finished the new episode of That's When I Reach for My Revolver. An early review declared that it was "good." How about that. Enjoy yourself.

List of the week, 7/30: Band names

(Listening to: Radiohead, OK Computer)

A new feature here: I take my obsession with lists to the next level and provide you with a new one every Saturday. How 'bout that. Not like my big mammoth lists, of course -- these will be just top fives or tens, depending on my mood.

I'm sure you'll disagree with my choices, but hey -- that's the point. To inspire discussion. Plus, you're wrong.

This week: the best and worst band names of all time. I'll try to divorce my opinion of the music of each of these acts to focus just on their names -- just because someone is on the best list here doesn't mean I don't hate them.

The best:

1. The Who. ("Who's playing tonight?" "Yeah!" "Who?" "Yeah!" "No, what band is playing tonight?" "Who!" "That's what I'm asking you!")
2. Soundgarden. (Apparently taken from an outdoor art installation in Seattle that makes noise when the wind blows through it. A perfect name -- dark, mysterious, and instantly memorable. Just like their music.)
3. Megadeth. (Fueled by alcohol and anger over his expulsion from Metallica, Dave Mustaine managed to come up with a name even more perfect for metal than his former mates [and Lars even stole theirs from someone else]. Unfortunately, the other guys blew him away musically, but hey: at least he got the cooler name.)
4. Public Enemy. (Chuck D couldn't have put his group's militant hip-hop anymore succinctly than that. Bonus points for the logo, depicting a black man trapped in a sniper's crosshairs. And honorable mention to Rage Against the Machine, who also chose a great political name.)
5. Ben Folds Five. (Sure, there's nothing original about a lead singer naming a band after himself. But the genius of the name lies in the fact that the Five only featured three members -- Folds had a knack for smirking, sarcastic songwriting, and the great name spelled that out flawlessly.)

And the worst:

1. Limp Bizkit. (Just about everything Fred Durst does pisses me off, and the idiotic band name is no exception. Dig the totally hip misspelling! And putting the word "limp" in your name is asking for your music to be described that way, isn't it? And a million extra bonus points for what a "limp biscuit" supposedly is. If you don't know, don't ask. It's gross.)
2. Hoobastank. (Yeah, a band name is supposed to be easy to remember, but not like this. "Hoobastank" -- which doesn't mean anything, if you were curious -- is like a rotted watermelon thrown against the wall, splattering out in all directions, creating a giant, disgusting mess that you will never get rid of no matter how hard you try. Just like their music.)
3. Jethro Tull. (The story is that Ian Anderson would come up with a new name every time his band got booed out of a club. The one time they happened to play well and get asked back, they'd called themselves "Jethro Tull," and so were stuck with it. Poor bastards.)
4. Jefferson Starship. (Jefferson Airplane wasn't so bad, I guess. But Jefferson Starship? Thanks, but no thanks.)
5. Yes. (No. No no no.)

My 100 Favorite Songs

1. "The Unforgiven," Metallica (1991)
   
2. "Warehouse," Dave Matthews Band (1994)
   
3. "Lounge Act," Nirvana (1991)
   
4. "Eulogy," Tool (1996)
   
5. "Stairway to Heaven," Led Zeppelin (1971)
   
6. "Hey Jude," The Beatles (1968)
   
7. "Kill You," Eminem (2000)
   
8. "Estranged," Guns N' Roses (1991)
   
9. "My Friend of Misery," Metallica (1991)
   
10. "Shock the Monkey," Peter Gabriel (1982)
    
    
11. "No Surprises," Radiohead (1997)
    
12. "Comfortably Numb," Pink Floyd (1979)
    
13. "Like a Rolling Stone," Bob Dylan (1965)
    
14. "A," Barenaked Ladies (1994)
    
15. "Criminal," Fiona Apple (1996)
    
16. "Granny," Dave Matthews Band (1994)
    
17. "Serve the Servants," Nirvana (1993)
    
18. "Free Bird," Lynyrd Skynyrd (1973)
    
19. "Rain King," Counting Crows (1993)
    
20. "Master of Puppets," Metallica (1985)
    
    
21. "Alice's Restaurant," Arlo Guthrie (1967)
    
22. "Father of Mine," Everclear (1997)
    
23. "Down in a Hole," Alice in Chains (1992)
    
24. "Let Me Drown," Soundgarden (1994)
    
25. "Taxman," The Beatles (1966)
    
26. "Jesus of Suburbia," Green Day (2004)
    
27. "Scenes From an Italian Restaurant," Billy Joel (1977)
    
28. "Turn the Page," Bob Seger (1973)
    
29. "The Wretched," Nine Inch Nails (1999)
    
30. "Vietnow," Rage Against the Machine (1996)
    
    
31. "One," U2 (1991)
    
32. "Welcome to the Jungle," Guns N' Roses (1987)
    
33. "Hook," Blues Traveler (1994)
    
34. "Alcohol," Barenaked Ladies (1998)
    
35. "Sympathy for the Devil," The Rolling Stones (1968)
    
36. "Best Imitation of Myself," Ben Folds Five (1995)
    
37. "Let Down," Radiohead (1997)
    
38. "While My Guitar Gently Weeps," The Beatles (1968)
    
39. "Mosh," Eminem (2004)
    
40. "The Call of Ktulu," Metallica (1984)
    
    
41. "I Grieve," Peter Gabriel (1997)
    
42. "(Don't Fear) The Reaper," Blue Oyster Cult (1976)
    
43. "Find the River," R.E.M. (1992)
    
44. "Albuquerque," Weird Al Yankovic (1999)
    
45. "I Heard It Through the Grapevine," Marvin Gaye (1968)
    
46. "Breed," Nirvana (1991)
    
47. "Since I've Been Loving You," Led Zeppelin (1970)
    
48. "Bartender," Dave Matthews Band (2000)
    
49. "Anna Begins," Counting Crows (1993)
    
50. "Time," Pink Floyd (1973)
    
    
51. "(Sittin' On) The Dock of the Bay," Otis Redding (1968)
    
52. "Baba O'Riley," The Who (1971)
    
53. "Just Like You Imagined," Nine Inch Nails (1999)
    
54. "Exit Music (For a Film)," Radiohead (1997)
    
55. "Nautical Disaster," The Tragically Hip (1995)
    
56. "War Pigs," Black Sabbath (1971)
    
57. "Box Set," Barenaked Ladies (1992)
    
58. "Pushit," Tool (1996)
    
59. "Drive You Mild," The Verve Pipe (1996)
    
60. "Reach Out I'll Be There," The Four Tops (1966)
    
    
61. "Save Me," Aimee Mann (1999)
    
62. "The Voice," The Moody Blues (1981)
    
63. "The Unnamed Feeling," Metallica (2003)
    
64. "Dancing Nancies," Dave Matthews Band (1994)
    
65. "Prison Sex," Tool (1994)
    
66. "On the Bound," Fiona Apple (1999)
    
67. "A Long December," Counting Crows (1996)
    
68. "In Bloom," Nirvana (1991)
    
69. "Locomotive Breath," Jethro Tull (1971)
    
70. "Short Skirt/Long Jacket," Cake (2001)
    
    
71. "Haunted," Poe (2000)
    
72. "Across the Universe," The Beatles (1970)
    
73. "House of the Rising Sun," The Animals (1964)
    
74. "One Angry Dwarf and 200 Solemn Faces," Ben Folds Five (1997)
    
75. "Jumpin' Jack Flash," The Rolling Stones (1968)
    
76. "You Oughta Know," Alanis Morissette (1996)
    
77. "The Stone," Dave Matthews Band (1998)
    
78. "Pyramid Song," Radiohead (2001)
    
79. "El Scorcho," Weezer (1996)
    
80. "Harvester of Sorrow," Metallica (1987)
    
    
81. "Kashmir," Led Zeppelin (1972)
    
82. "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap," AC/DC (1976)
    
83. "Don't Damn Me," Guns N' Roses (1991)
    
84. "Strawberry Fields Forever," The Beatles (1967)
    
85. "Lie in Our Graves," Dave Matthews Band (1996)
    
86. "Would?" Alice in Chains (1992)
    
87. "Digging in the Dirt," Peter Gabriel (1992)
    
88. "Bukowski," Modest Mouse (2004)
    
89. "Wake Up," Rage Against the Machine (1992)
    
90. "Rape Me," Nirvana (1993)
    
    
91. "Won't Get Fooled Again," The Who (1971)
    
92. "What's the Frequency, Kenneth?" R.E.M. (1994)
    
93. "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For," U2 (1987)
    
94. "The Best of What's Around," Dave Matthews Band (1994)
    
95. "Mad Season," Matchbox Twenty (2000)
    
96. "Limo Wreck," Soundgarden (1994)
    
97. "The Outlaw Torn," Metallica (1996)
    
98. "Hurt," Nine Inch Nails (1994)
    
99. "Rock and Roll Ain't Noise Pollution," AC/DC (1980)
    
100. "Holiday," Green Day (2004)

You have got to be kidding me

(Listening to: Green Day, American Idiot)

Terrorist attacks around the globe. High-ranking White House officials revealing classified information to reporters. We're at war in Iraq. And what is our Congress spending their time (and money) worrying about? People having imaginary sex, obviously:

Just after 7 pm on Capitol Hill today, the House of Representatives voted 355 to 21 to support a Federal Trade Commission inquiry into Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas. The purpose of the probe will be to determine if take-Two Interactive and its publishing subsidiary Rockstar Games deceived the voluntary Entertainment Software Ratings Board when it submitted Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas.

Today's vote advanced House Resolution 376, introduced by Congressman Fred Upton (R-MI). In Upton's words, he is "leading the Congressional effort to determine if a best selling video game maker intentionally deceived the industry’s ratings board to avoid an 'Adults-Only' rating."

In a statement, Upton recently said he was "outraged by the brazenness of Rockstar Games in their effort to do an end-run around the ratings system.... Rockstar Games’ deceit has severely undermined the integrity of the ratings system."

Remember that movie Teen Wolf? Sure you do. At the end, after the basketball game, if you look to the stands during the big celebration, you can see one of the extras expose himself to the camera. That's right: he pulls his wang out for the world to see. It's there, but you probably never noticed. The MPAA never noticed, either: Teen Wolf is rated PG.

Where's the Congressionally-backed FTC investigation of the producers of Teen Wolf? Where's the outrage at their brazenness in doing an end-run around the MPAA?

There isn't any, because it would be ridiculous. And so is this.

But Teen Wolf is rated PG -- it's suitable for kids. It a harmless teen comedy about a kid who turns into a werewolf and plays basketball. Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas, on the other hand, is a game about carjacking, organized crime, mowing down pedestrians in your stolen car, and shooting police officers. And it's the sex that's a problem?

And as for destroying the integrity of the ratings system -- too late. Much like the idiotic MPAA, the ESRB finds nudity and sex far more offensive than graphic violence, which is why a Hot Coffee-less GTA will get an M. The message: having sex is worse than killing a cop.

I cannot understand where these people are coming from with this controversy. And don't give me that "But the children!" crap either, because if a parent is allowing his/her child to play GTA games, they have no one to blame but themselves. There was a great big M rating on the box. Fuck, the game is called Grand Theft Auto, what did you think?

Did Rockstar deceive the ESRB? It's possible. But considering that the ESRB's job -- in fact, their reason for existence -- is to determine the content of these games, how they can they really be claiming they were misled? If they did their jobs properly, they would have found this stuff. After all, players found it. Why couldn't they?

Also: the game God of War features a sex mini-game. Along with gratuitous nudity everywhere. It was given an M. I've heard nothing from anyone.

And finally: I would like someone to explain to me the difference between the Mature rating and the Adults Only rating. Well, more specifically: explain the need for two different ratings at all. One is for 17 and up; the other is for 18 and up. Huh?

Heh

You're Watership Down!

by Richard Adams

Though many think of you as a bit young, even childish, you're actually incredibly deep and complex. You show people the need to rethink their assumptions, and confront them on everything from how they think to where they build their houses. You might be one of the greatest people of all time. You'd be recognized as such if you weren't always talking about talking rabbits.


Take the Book Quiz at the Blue Pyramid.

Sounds good to me.

Remember Tim? My Pizza Inn Padawan? Misread that prophecy was -- he's likely to be fired by the time I get to work on Tuesday.

I am chugging through an episode of Revolver at the moment. I'm the middle of scene two. I know it's been a while, but I'm making up for it -- this episode feels hugely long. (Probably because it is: the first scene is 11 pages; the first episode was only 14.)

I have written my 100 Favorite Songs list, as I promised I would. I'll post it in a few days.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince is fucking dark, yeah? Very Empire Strikes Back there at the end.

After finishing Revolver and posting my list, I'll get to the task of revising "The Outlet," something I should have done long ago.

And it turns out the Astros were only mostly dead back in April and May. Very cool.

That is all.

...Hmm? What was that?

"Take Two"?

Um...

*waves hand*

These are not the droids you're looking for.

A parable

(Listening to: Poe, Haunted)

(The second half of "Take Two" is coming tomorrow.)

While driving through town, a man happens to glance at a restaurant. Through the window, he sees one of the employees -- a waitress. He's taken aback, because -- from a distance -- she looks like a girl he used to know, a long time ago.

Over the course of several months, he often drives past this place, and usually spots the same waitress. He thinks about that Girl From the Old Days -- he feels sad. That situation ended badly for the man.

But he sees this waitress, who looks like her. He wonders what she's like. If she's like the Old Girl.

He keeps driving by. He sees the New Girl. He thinks about stopping by the restaurant. To talk to her. He knows it's a shitty way to start a conversation -- "Hey, you know, you look just like someone I used to know..." -- but it could work.

Then, one day, he decides -- "To hell with it." During the afternoon, when he's often seen the waitress working, he arrives at the restaurant, ready to find out everything he can about this New Girl, who looks like the Old Girl from a distance.

But when he walks inside, he sees that there's a very good reason that the New Girl looks -- from a distance -- like the Old Girl.

She is the Old Girl.

The resulting conversation is awkward.

Moral: The world is too fucking small.

And your past clings to you like your shadow. Good luck getting it off.

Take Two

Part 1 of 2.

"You get one shot at this, junior," the old man said. He shook a crooked finger at my nose. "One."

I crossed my arms and angled an eyebrow, fixing him with an indignant glare. "Why? I mean, technically, you could give me as many as I needed, couldn't you?"

His shoulders sank a little then, and he brought his fingers up to massage the bridge of his nose. "Always with this. Yeah, I could, but I'm not going to. I'll give you one. More than most people get."

"I'm not most people," I said. "You do remember that I'm paying you quite a lot of money?"

He laughed. "Oh, yeah. Your money. Yeah, sonny, I remember."

"That doesn't change anything, I take it."

"Not a damn thing." He reached over and picked up his cane -- it was a thin little stick, dark wood finish, a simple black ball on the top. "Let's get this over with. It's close to supper time."

"Um...okay." I uncrossed my arms. My hands twitched nervously. "So...should I sit down, or what? What do you need me to do?"

"Just shut up and don't move." He closed his eyes and took several long, deep breaths. His lungs rattled like they were filled with lead pellets. I heard him suppress a cough. He just kept breathing, though -- in, out. In, out.

This went on for about fifteen minutes.

"Is something supposed to be happening?" I said, and the old man's eyes snapped open.

"Goddammit. What did I tell you to do? I said shut up. Really shouldn't be that hard, 'specially for a smart guy like you."

"Hey, look, old man--"

"Yeah yeah yeah." He waved a hand at me. "You ready?"

"Of course I'm ready, I've been standing here for--"

"You remember it?"

My eyebrow arched again. "Remember what?"

He sighed. "That day. Jeez."

"Oh. Yeah. Course I do." I could recall it perfectly in every detail. I remembered the weather. I remembered the clothes I wore. I remembered the smell of fresh paint wafting down the hallway from the new kitchen. And I remembered the look on the kid's face. That I remembered especially.

"You thinking about it?" He had his eyes closed again, and his left hand was working on the black ball on his cane.

"Yeah." Honestly, I hadn't thought of much else over the last few weeks.

"Good -- close your eyes." I did so. "Keep your mind focused. Remember. Just remember..."

Feeling somewhat silly, I kept my eyes shut. He was sucking back long pulls of air again; his phlegmy exhales sounded like helicopter blades underwater.

I tried to keep my mind focused, like he said. It wasn't hard to do -- I could see that old house with eidetic recollection. Every inch. Every piece of furniture.

And every person.

"You'll have about forty-five minutes to do your thing," he said. "If you don't pull it off, you'll come back here."

"What if I do?"

I heard the rustle of his clothes, and even my eyes closed, I knew he'd shrugged. "Beats me. Nobody's ever succeeded before."

"What?" I snapped, and my eyelids flew open.

But he wasn't there.

Neither was I.

I was back then.

"Holy shit."

It was my parents' old house -- the one they bought after my brothers and I left home. A cozy little place for just the two of them, rather than the cavernous barn we needed to house our rambunctious family.

I was standing in the living room. My bare feet sank into the white carpet -- a deep, soft plush carpet, kept pure as snow by my mother's fanatical care. It stretched out across the room, the coffee table and sofa mere islands in its ivory sea.

Of course, none of this was here anymore -- it was all swallowed up in flames four years ago; an electrical fire swept through the house and turned it all to cinders while firemen uselessly slashed it with water. My mother got lost in the smoke and never found her way out. The wreckage was torn down and a playground for the neighborhood children erected in its place.

And yet there I stood. Not in a sandbox, but in my parents' living room, and my mother's perfect carpet.

"Holy shit."

I heard the sound of gravel under tires, and I turned to the window in time to see my father's car pulling into the driveway.

The movies -- my mother had taken my sons to the movies. I had been sick that morning, and she volunteered to keep the kids out of my hair while I recovered. Now they'd come back.

The old clock on the wall -- the one next to the soft-focus photo of my father, who had passed a few years earlier -- chimed its musical number. Six o'clock. I had until six forty-five.

And all I had to do was not screw up.

My family was stomping up to the front door.

"This time," I whispered, "no mistakes. Not again."

The door opened.

Here we go.


To be continued...

Meat and potatoes

(Listening to: The Beatles, With the Beatles)

My mother told me a story once, about my father. When the incident took place I can't recall, but I'm pretty certain it was prior to my birth.

Mom made dinner -- a roast. She marinated this hunk of meat for days in various spices and such. It cooked for hours while she watched over it, adding more spices and flavorings as they occurred to her. (While she had plenty of cookbooks, she shunned them for this exercise -- she was flying solely on intuition.) For most of the day she did this, lovingly turning a lopsided hunk of cow flesh into a fine meal, fit for a king. As she described to me, in such glowing terms, it must have been the greatest roast ever seen on this planet, if not the Milky Way galaxy.

Ten minutes before it finished cooking, Mom tossed some chunks of potatoes into the pan with the roast, giving them enough time to soak up the flavor but not enough to turn them into mush. She tossed some salt on them, I think.

Proud of her accomplishment, she served the meal: her gorgeous roast, sliced into single-serving pieces, covering most of the plate she placed before my father. Appropriately, the afterthought potatoes were clumped on the side.

My parents-to-be began eating. A few minutes into the meal, my mother -- anxious for feedback, like any artist -- asked, "How's the roast?"

My father looked up from his plate and, his face the picture of innocence, said, "Oh, it's fine -- but are there any more potatoes?"

Writing is like that.

When I write something, there's always one part in particular that's special to me. The place where the personal things are hidden. Where the soul is, if that doesn't sound too cheesy. And after I let the story simmer in itself, slowly building in flavor until it's ready, I place it before my audience (whoever will read the damn thing) with expectant eyes. And though I'm looking for any response at all, I'm always hoping that it's the personal stuff they'll comment on. That the hard work -- and that stuff is almost always the hardest part -- will be rewarded. When I ask them, "What did you like best about it?" I'm always hoping the special part will be the answer.

It almost never is.

I wrote "Jack Renfield Opens His Eyes" about three years ago. Now, for those who've read that story, don't panic -- there's not a lot of really personal stuff in there. (No need to call the police.) I wrote it for the writer's group I was part of at College of the Mainland, and I did it largely for shock value -- I was always the quiet guy who sat in class and kept to himself, his nose in a book, and (after being given the assignment of writing something supernatural) I dumped this on them in an attempt to be memorable. But there were still little touches that meant a lot to me: the events in the story are certainly horrifying, but was my depiction of them horrifying? If you read the story, you'll notice (hopefully) the detached, unsympathetic way in which it's told -- this was highly intentional. I was hoping a flat, dry, almost clinical discussion of such disturbing actions, people, and situations would add to the horror. I was eager to know if I'd succeeded.

The writer's group liked the story. But all their comments -- aside from one person noting that it was "chilling" -- seemed focused on the story's structure. See, I started in present tense, then flipped to past tense for a flashback, then came back to present tense for the conclusion. This was the only way I could think of to tell the story, really -- it was plainly obvious and not at all impressive to me. So I was praised for the part that required zero thought, and the rest of it -- the personal stuff -- was left to starve with, "Oh, yeah, I liked that, too."

Is this a bad thing? I really don't know. After all, the writer's group liked my story, just as my not-yet-father certainly enjoyed the dinner my mother prepared. But it's a confusing mix of disappointment and elation that arises when I get these responses.

You're probably wondering what brought this on. This afternoon I started editing and revising "The Outlet," a short story I wrote last year but was never entirely satisfied with. And when I passed it around to friends and acquaintances, I certainly got "I liked it!" in return from most people...but nobody said anything about what it was I really want them to like. (And no, I won't tell you what it is.)

Perhaps I'm just whining. I recall another anecdote, this one from Stephen King. He was driving with his wife -- he behind the wheel, she in the passenger seat looking over a fresh-from-the-printer copy of his novella Hearts in Atlantis. He thought the story was hilarious, and waited for her gales of laughter...but they never came. He kept glancing at her during the drive, hoping for her smile to crack and the giggling to start, until she turned to him and said, "Will you keep your eyes on the road before you get us all killed! Stop being so damn needy!"

'Cause after all, as my mom told me -- he really loved those potatoes.