Why is it so hard to make men's clothes?
I mean, I never think of myself as a Big & Tall kind of guy... until I need to buy a dress shirt. All the sudden I find myself mired in these tiny shirts, meant for boys who haven't hit puberty and probably never will. I'm not a big guy, 5'7", and I've never been over 230 pounds in my life. I know I have a gut, I have to buy 38" waist pants (down from 42 thankyouverymuch) because of it. And if ONLY that were the problem.
No, I have troubles because the fucking shirts won't fit my shoulders, pinch at my neck, constrain my chest... and even my arms have troubles sometimes. I haven't been able to close a dress shirt all the way to the collar for 20 years, and I wasn't always as fat as I am now. This leads me to suspect that it's a systemic problem.
I eventually bought the largest shirt they had, in the understanding that the shirt just one size smaller barely fit. It's one of those where there are more pins and brackets than cloth in the packaging, and I didn't have an hour to undo the whole damn thing a third time.
I get that women's clothes can be a problem. Women have way more parts that come in way more sizes and those sizes can fluctuate wildly from one day to the next.
What the hell is the deal for men's clothes? Why such a pain in the ass? Is the rest of mankind just a bunch of willowy nancy-boys and I've never noticed?
What, if I may posit the question, the ever lovin' fuck?
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Saturday, June 23, 2012
So I was watching Dare to Be Stupid, right?
How many of my rants could start this way?
Anyway, I was watching Dare to Be Stupid and I noticed that there is a square in the video. By square I mean a guy who is square. If you don’t know what square means in this context… I can’t help you right now. Maybe later.
What I found interesting was that the square is an early 1960s square. From the furniture and accoutrements of his room, he is in the late 50s and early 60s. But why should that be? When this video was made, 1963 was only 20 years back. It would be like us trying to use someone from 1992 as a square.
But we wouldn’t.
If we wanted to show someone who was a square, we’d still use someone from 1963. And for that I have an idea. 1963 was the last time that being a square was mainstream. After that, if you wanted to be cool, you had to rebel. The 20th century is interesting in that it seems to have given us the idea that the only way to be really cool, was to be an outsider. Maybe it just gave enough of us the opportunity to stop worry about starving to death to start worrying about whether or not we were cool.
Either way, the idea changed and being a hip person meant you had to be on the edges. The best way to be an insider was to be an outsider. As much as we talk about conformity, our society celebrates the individual to the point of worship. We’ve gone so far that all ideas of normal have been nominally cool in some fashion. There is no baggage free baseline… except for our 1960s square over there. Yes, even he has some baggage, but you can ignore it and just look at the fact that he’s sitting there in his barcalounger and watching TV. His version of domesticity is the enemy for all of us. He is the ultimate insider, the conformer, and even the conformtyiest of us doesn’t conform like he does.
The problem is, being the separate outsider is hard. Everyone says “Hey, he’s cool!” And tries to emulate that cool person, and then they become the insider. Being the insider is no good, so they move on to the next idea of cool. And so on and so on, until the only outsider is the geek, and in 2004 everyone decided that being a geek was cool. Now, nothing is cool, except actual coolness. But you have to be annoyingly aloof to pull that off and there is the danger that no one will notice you being so damn aloof, or even care.
Anyway, here’s the video…
Did you notice the interocitor?
Anyway, I was watching Dare to Be Stupid and I noticed that there is a square in the video. By square I mean a guy who is square. If you don’t know what square means in this context… I can’t help you right now. Maybe later.
What I found interesting was that the square is an early 1960s square. From the furniture and accoutrements of his room, he is in the late 50s and early 60s. But why should that be? When this video was made, 1963 was only 20 years back. It would be like us trying to use someone from 1992 as a square.
But we wouldn’t.
If we wanted to show someone who was a square, we’d still use someone from 1963. And for that I have an idea. 1963 was the last time that being a square was mainstream. After that, if you wanted to be cool, you had to rebel. The 20th century is interesting in that it seems to have given us the idea that the only way to be really cool, was to be an outsider. Maybe it just gave enough of us the opportunity to stop worry about starving to death to start worrying about whether or not we were cool.
Either way, the idea changed and being a hip person meant you had to be on the edges. The best way to be an insider was to be an outsider. As much as we talk about conformity, our society celebrates the individual to the point of worship. We’ve gone so far that all ideas of normal have been nominally cool in some fashion. There is no baggage free baseline… except for our 1960s square over there. Yes, even he has some baggage, but you can ignore it and just look at the fact that he’s sitting there in his barcalounger and watching TV. His version of domesticity is the enemy for all of us. He is the ultimate insider, the conformer, and even the conformtyiest of us doesn’t conform like he does.
The problem is, being the separate outsider is hard. Everyone says “Hey, he’s cool!” And tries to emulate that cool person, and then they become the insider. Being the insider is no good, so they move on to the next idea of cool. And so on and so on, until the only outsider is the geek, and in 2004 everyone decided that being a geek was cool. Now, nothing is cool, except actual coolness. But you have to be annoyingly aloof to pull that off and there is the danger that no one will notice you being so damn aloof, or even care.
Anyway, here’s the video…
Did you notice the interocitor?
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Twins in Death: Chapter Three - Part One
Twins in Death
A Tale of The Weirdo
By Brett N. Lashuay
Chapter Three: The End of Captain Scourge
December 5th, 1934
5:21 p.m.
Tommy and The Weirdo were standing near the newly erected Christmas tree and looking out the window. The house had a full compliment of staff in those days and the maids were walking from the storage rooms with boxes of decorations. The Weirdo had asked them to begin decorating, which Tommy had noticed was a full week earlier than he had done last year. The Weirdo had simply explained that he wanted the decorations up to cheer him up more. The last year had been successful but that had meant that they had killed a lot of people. It is hard to gather up Christmas spirit when your clothes are soaked in blood. Hence he thought that if the decorations went up, then he might be more cheerful.
Tommy was becoming less and less sure about that, every day he noticed. This radical war against the crime syndicates of New York was coming to an end as far as he saw it. The other costumed heroes were all coming up to a point where if the group left off, things would keep for a good long while. Things were coming to a close for them, and Tommy thought that this would be the last Christmas they’d spend together this century.
He felt that the news of his decision would only go to further prove this theory. There was nothing inherently wrong with change, but change in one area probably meant change in another later. There were going to be a lot of changes, he could tell that. He didn’t know what all of them would be, but he could feel them coming. They were little things like the tree going up so early, and the news he was about to share.
“I’m going to get married.” Tommy said as he poured himself a drink.
“Are you?” The Weirdo asked looking into his glass.
“Well I’m thinking about it.” Tommy shrugged as he put a few ice cubes into the glass of whiskey.
“Amy then?”
“Amy.” Tommy agreed.
“When?”
“After I ask her of course.” Tommy said. “I would guess sometime in the New Year.”
“You think she’d consent to be your bride?” The Weirdo asked pulling open the small refrigerator and taking out a bottle of coca cola.
“Well why wouldn’t she?”
“Because you keep strange hours with strange company.” The Weirdo said popping the cap off and pouring the drink into his glass.
“Just you and Jack.” He said smiling. “James is alright most the time.”
“Possibly.” The Weirdo said, looking at the tree again.
“I think she’ll be my wife, yes I do.” Tommy said. “We’ll have two kids and grow old together.”
“That sounds nice.” The Weirdo said, knowing there was no place for him after the wedding. There would be no place for him for a long time.
March 29th, 2002
8:28 a.m.
Captain Scourge was feeling pretty good about himself; he was about to return triumphantly. The first foray had been too extreme, just too much going on all at once, that had been the problem. He was going to go for style this time. Besides, he nearly beat The Weirdo the last time they met. It was only by the merest chance that the gray-coated one had beat him. This time there would be no sudden and quick victory for those who stood in his way.
This time, well this time things would be different. He was going to make people see that he was really a good person, it was just that he’d been bullied. They had just pushed him too far, that was all. He just wanted to have a few friends like everyone else. He wanted to be liked, and have attention like most people. He didn’t have any real plans for world domination. Just a few people would do for him. The only reason for this explanation is to show that he had more than just the naked ambition of the James Bond villain.
He had changed his outfit a little, even though it was still mostly the same premise. It was a new shirt he was wearing, the gold lightning bolt had been replaced with a large silver one, with more sequins and baubles to catch the light. He wore a large cape now and had large steel cuffs around his wrists to help direct his lightning. What exactly he thought the hip high leather boots lent to the occasion is anyone’s guess. He also had a band of men, because every villain needs a band of men. They weren’t terribly bright, but he would trade up later. That’s what he told himself, that he could get better men later. This time they were just to back him up, to help hold hostages, to get in the way of bullets.
He sat with his maps and blueprints and looked at his men. He had a phrase all ready in his head. He had actually given one of the boys too much semtex so that when they exploded the vault he could scream that he was only supposed to blow the doors off. He didn’t know where it was from, but he liked the sound of the quote.
March 29th, 2002
1:25 p.m.
It was a large corporate bank, the sort that had a vault even though most the money was actually upstairs floating between computers. Captain Scourge hadn’t really picked the bank for the money, even though he wanted the bank to wire money to an account he had set up. He was going to hold the place hostage and then blow it up, which would cause a lot of stress. He was proud of his plan because he had been experimenting the last two days with his electromagnetic shield and had come to the conclusion that he could be in the bank when he blew it up and still live.
It was a pretty good plan and promised to make him rich enough to afford a scheme, which is what he really wanted. While he had been planning this he was thinking of schemes, the problem was a simple one though. Schemes all seemed to cost money to get started, you had to have a plan, then you could have a scheme. He would pull this off and then retreat somewhere and think about the scheme he had in mind and really work it out. The only thing he had to do was to keep this job together until they had the money, and then blow everyone up.
Questions like wouldn’t the other banks freeze his accounts, and wouldn’t his attempts to get his money revel his position hadn’t actually occurred to him. Many problems with his plan didn’t really occur to him. The biggest problem didn’t actually occur to anyone, since very few people knew about the random elements that would soon be added.
They entered the bank, like the sort of bandits he’d seen in the movies, guns drawn and shouting. He floated seven inches above the ground, moving slowly and watching everyone. One of the thugs he had hired shot a guard, and that more or less changed everything. The blood from the security guard was such a vivid color of red as it sprayed onto the floor. The man fell dead, allowing for the spray to spread at a more leisurely pace.
Another guard came around a corner, his gun in hand, and was cut down by two of the thugs at once. Captain Scourge extended his hand and let electricity dance from his fingers. There was a loud crack and a woman fell dead, her singed hair smoking, small flames dancing from her suit.
“Bring out the manager.” Captain Scourge said. “We’ve got some things to discuss.”
March 29th, 2002
2:09 p.m.
“Breaker, Breaker, this is Pig Pen.” Tommy’s voice came from the small pen like device on the table. “You got a copy on me Rubber Duck, c’mon?”
The Weirdo looked at the communicator and thought about just ignoring it. He was thinking about better times, and this was an interruption. He picked it up, considered it for a moment and decided that he would at least see what was going on.
“Ten four Pig Pen.”
“Rubber Duck, what’s your twenty?”
“I’m still at the cabin.” The Weirdo said.
“Would you mind high tailing it back home? We’ve got a bit of a situation here.”
“What sort of situation.”
“Captain Scourge came back.”
“I’m sure The Spook Patrol would be more than capable, Pig Pen. Or the Glams, get the Glams to do it.”
“Come again Rubber Duck?” Tommy asked.
“I’m tired of fighting, Tommy.” The Weirdo said. “We should just stop fighting, it’s not our problem anymore.”
This if nothing else should show The Weirdo’s mood. No matter how bad or desperate things had gotten, The Weirdo always used the handles over the communicator, it was part of the rules. He had never once before slipped up in the least.
© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Twins in Death: Chapter Two - Part Five
Twins in Death
A Tale of The Weirdo
By Brett N. Lashuay
Chapter Two: Love Lost
March 29th, 2002
5:41 p.m.
The Weirdo looked out at the lake, the place where he dared not go. He hadn't swum in that lake. In fact, he couldn’t remember an instance in which anyone had ever swam or even dipped a foot in that lake. It was an ultimately cold and forbidding place. It was deep and cold, like the resting place of an ancient thing. No one would ever go in that water again if he could help it. There was now something sacred and unbroken about it. It was in fact a place where mortals dared not tread or swim, or some such nonsense.
He was imagining the wedding he was never going to have now, the child he would never hold in his arms, never teach to walk, never tuck into bed at night. The child he would have told stories to, the child he would have taught how to ride a bike and how to swear properly. The tiny child he would have taught to hold a gun and to stay out of trouble, the child that was never going to come now. The nights where his wife and daughter would have been curled up with him on the bed watching cartoons and movies were gone like smoke on the wind.
He was thinking about the years of joy he would now not have, would never have. His path was now clear; the other sunnier path was closed to him. He had been ready to give up fighting, to quit with the killing. He was resentful that someone in the universe had made the decision for him. He didn't like his choices being dictated to him, he wanted to choose. He had fully had enough of his choices being dictated to him.
March 29th, 2002
5:41 p.m.
“For God sake, let us sit on the carpet and tell sad stories.” He whispered lightly to himself. He was quoting Elizabeth the First, but doing it badly.
He turned away from the lake and into the room, where a woman sat. He hadn't heard her enter, or even sit down but there she was. She was sitting as if she had been waiting for him to turn, but too polite to make a noise. She was clothed in gauze and her golden hair was so entwined with spring flowers one might think they were sprouting from her head. She smiled warmly, although slightly uncomfortably.
He was six feet away from a cabinet where a small handgun rested in a drawer, and eighteen feet from his coat, where the black gun rested. She was between him and the coat at any rate, and he wouldn’t make it if he had to. He worked his way towards the kitchen where the knives were on display. He didn’t exactly have a plan, but he wanted to be close to a weapon if he had to use one.
“Hello.” She said.
“Hi.” He said flatly. “You are?”
“I am Eoster.” She said, “The Goddess of spring and re-birth.”
His back stiffened at the word re-birth. Re-birth was a bit of a thorn at the moment, if some one was going to talk about dead coming back to life he had a perfect and deserving candidate in mind. It was a fine time to come when she was below the waters and unreachable forever. It would be a bad time for people to talk about resurrection and the kingdom of heaven to him.
“And you want what?”
“I have come to offer you comfort in this time of need.”
“Why didn’t you offer comfort while she was dying?” He asked. “Instead of letting her gasp out her last with a piece of glass in her throat?”
“I wasn't allowed.” She said looking slightly uncomfortable like a secret was sticking in her throat. “There are greater forces than you know at work here.”
This didn’t seem to her like the sort of thing a person should argue. She would have thought that some one who thought things out as much as he did should know this. However The Weirdo had stopped thinking, and was simply acting, he might think again later, but not now. He stalked forward and snatched a chair from the table and sat it down in front of her so that he would have to straddle it. It made a loud bang as he slammed it into the floor. The shock waves of energy seemed to move through the air with about half the speed of sound and appeared to move her dress every so slightly.
“Is that a fact?” He asked sitting down across from her. His voice wasn’t actually taking on a sarcastic tone, but an accusational one. “Oh do tell. Please! I want to know what force stops a God from doing what they like. Isn’t that the point of being a deity? What could possibly prevent you from saving the single most deserving person in the universe?”
He crossed his arms and looked to her like he was the single most aggressive late night talk show host on earth. His rage was boiling up and he thought he might pop, but he suppressed it down. After all, this rage wasn't for her. He had to fold it down and compress it into a small nugget. He might be annoyed at her but that was no reason to be overly rude. There was a certain amount of acceptable rudeness and he was too well bred to cross that line.
“It was not for me to choose.” She said again.
“Then who chose?” He growled the words.
“I'm not sure, but I was prevented from helping.”
“Were you? Well isn't that horrible, I must remember to go to Hallmark and get you a sympathy card.”
“I know how much of a loss this is for you.” She said, extending a thin and pale hand to him.
“No you don’t.” He said, unwilling to accept that or her hand. “My life’s mooring is lost. I am a wheel without an axle. My direction is gone.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way.” She set her hand on his.
There was warmth, and some feeling of joy, which crept up his arm from where she touched him. He pulled away from her and the feeling of warmth. His instincts might have been wrong, but he felt this would do him no good. He was also resentful that anyone would talk about healing his pain when he was just getting to grips with the fact that pain was in fact what he was feeling. It seemed rude to try and take something away from him when he was just beginning to understand it. Besides he wanted to have the pain right now. The pain of loss meant that he loved her and the more pain he felt the more he loved her.
“Why her?” He asked quietly. “Why not me?”
“You ask questions I cannot answer.” Eoster said, standing, coming closer to him “I was not sent to give answers, only comfort.”
She reached for his face, with the thought of laying his head against her ample breasts, but he pulled away from her. He didn’t want comfort at that moment he wanted answers. He would take comfort from answers. He would also take comfort from using the answers to make whoever had taken
“I am in mourning.” The Weirdo said gently pushing her away from him.
“I have been sent.”
“Well I'm sending you back.” He said. “I wish to be alone if you please.”
“I will go then.” She said. “I can tell you one thing before I go though.”
“Yes?”
“You were saved from being destroyed whether you believe it or not.”
“What do you mean?”
“You were built for something greater than this. If you had been there, you would have been destroyed and unable to help what is to come.”
“I would rather have her.” He said.
“I thought you would say that.” She said.
“I love her.”
“I know.” She said, “Just don't forget what's important.”
There was a golden glow that filled the room, and the Goddess was gone. All she left behind was the faint smell of roses in the air. The Weirdo looked at the space where the Goddess had stood and then his stare continued out into infinity.
Don’t forget what's important. That was an absurd statement to make in his opinion. People always act like there is some greater good; that the sufferings of one person are to nothing in the grand scheme of things. As if by letting one person die you can save the lives of hundreds. People like this pissed him off fiercely. They were just lazy and unwilling to do what was necessary to save everyone. Any person who knew that someone could have been saved and chose not to for the greater good was either a coward or a liar. He had known what was important in life. There was only one thing important in the world.
He spoke softly, but loud enough for those who could hear to hear.
“She was important.”
© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Bambi seperates us
You know how I know I'm not like the rest of you?
This right here...
When I watched that for the first time, I was just a kid, maybe 4 or 5 or 6 or 7.
It took me about as long as it takes Bambi to work out what just happened in that scene. I'd actually had to read what his father says to him, because for some reason I could never understand the voice. He speaks so soft and so low, that I'd never actually understood what he said when I was a kid. I got a copy of the script, or someone transcribed it in a book or something. I got the point of what he was saying though, Bambi's momma had been got by those hunters. Hunters, incidentally, that would have been fucking HATED even by other hunters. You don't shoot at a doe with a fawn... you just don't.
ANYWAY!
When I worked out that the Corleone Family had taken a contract out on Bambi's Mom and got Joe Pecsi to do her it, I wasn't sad like everyone else. I'm serious, I've got the only dry eyes in house while an entire theater is crying like one big collective bitch.
I wasn't sad though, I was impressed. I was seriously sitting there going "They killed his mom, they actually killed his mom. She's not going to show up later with a limp and the remains of a plaid shirt in her teeth to show she got him in the end. She is just dead."
I would like, for a moment, to remind you about GI Joe. In GI Joe, when a plane was blown up, they showed a guy parachuting away. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.* I noticed it during the first mini-series and once unseen I couldn't unsee it. No one ever died in cartoons, not ever**. Then Bambi's mom got it and I was aware by that time that no one ever died in a cartoon and it sort of blew my world. Later, Optimus Prime died and I realized that there was no such thing as invulnerable. It was an amazing thing, to know someone died. We didn't see it, it's not immediately apparent, but it was a thing and she died.
Only later did I discover that this is considered one of the most traumatic things that ever happened to anyone in the history of ever. I'd never thought ot it as a particularly sad or traumatic moment, but I know that there are people reading this, snotting into tear soaked hankies, demanding I just shut up because they can't it anymore. This still sort of mystifies me, while I understand, I don't fully get the emotional weight people give this moment.
I'm more interested in the fire, or in the discovery of Flower, or the amazingly fantastic art used in the movie.
*Don't even get me started on the movie.
**The evil queen in Snow White not withstanding, but she was old and ugly when they whacked her, so it was okay.
This right here...
When I watched that for the first time, I was just a kid, maybe 4 or 5 or 6 or 7.
It took me about as long as it takes Bambi to work out what just happened in that scene. I'd actually had to read what his father says to him, because for some reason I could never understand the voice. He speaks so soft and so low, that I'd never actually understood what he said when I was a kid. I got a copy of the script, or someone transcribed it in a book or something. I got the point of what he was saying though, Bambi's momma had been got by those hunters. Hunters, incidentally, that would have been fucking HATED even by other hunters. You don't shoot at a doe with a fawn... you just don't.
ANYWAY!
When I worked out that the Corleone Family had taken a contract out on Bambi's Mom and got Joe Pecsi to do her it, I wasn't sad like everyone else. I'm serious, I've got the only dry eyes in house while an entire theater is crying like one big collective bitch.
I wasn't sad though, I was impressed. I was seriously sitting there going "They killed his mom, they actually killed his mom. She's not going to show up later with a limp and the remains of a plaid shirt in her teeth to show she got him in the end. She is just dead."
I would like, for a moment, to remind you about GI Joe. In GI Joe, when a plane was blown up, they showed a guy parachuting away. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.* I noticed it during the first mini-series and once unseen I couldn't unsee it. No one ever died in cartoons, not ever**. Then Bambi's mom got it and I was aware by that time that no one ever died in a cartoon and it sort of blew my world. Later, Optimus Prime died and I realized that there was no such thing as invulnerable. It was an amazing thing, to know someone died. We didn't see it, it's not immediately apparent, but it was a thing and she died.
Only later did I discover that this is considered one of the most traumatic things that ever happened to anyone in the history of ever. I'd never thought ot it as a particularly sad or traumatic moment, but I know that there are people reading this, snotting into tear soaked hankies, demanding I just shut up because they can't it anymore. This still sort of mystifies me, while I understand, I don't fully get the emotional weight people give this moment.
I'm more interested in the fire, or in the discovery of Flower, or the amazingly fantastic art used in the movie.
*Don't even get me started on the movie.
**The evil queen in Snow White not withstanding, but she was old and ugly when they whacked her, so it was okay.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
the hell?
I just saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand, I thought we were doing zombies today.
Do people not understand what is going on?
No, I mean it as a serious question. We’re not supposed to kill the children, because they’re just children. Yes, four of them got together and took down that lawyer from Pontiac, but we mustn’t hurt the little darlings. I mean, they only stalked, tumbled and killed a two hundred and eighty pound man and they’re just ripping his still steaming guts from his carcass and eating them raw as we speak. I’m sure if we give them a stern talking to they’ll cut all this Lord of the Flies bullshit and behave.
I’m thinking, and I might be crazy here, that those kids are unreachable and that perhaps whatever is motivating them is beyond our ken. Just a thought, one I had when the nine year old yanked his eye out of the socket ad popped it in her mouth. I can out run them, which is why we got away far enough to discuss the issue while still being close enough to hear the slippery sound of intestines being yanked from a body and scoffed into a mouth and swallowed whole. A sound, by the way, which it’s going to take a lot of booze to ever even come close to forgetting for even a few moments.
Yes, I am advocating putting the little monsters down. I don’t like the idea of them coming for us during the night, their little fingers working through whatever barricade we make and slowly pulling at the cracks until the larger ones can get in and help.
We are talking about the end of the world here. This isn’t a situation where we can skip off into the sunset, if for no other reason than because we are heading east.
No, what's wrong with YOU?
You know, I really resent the phrase “What the hell is wrong with you?” particularly coming form someone who’s life I saved twice in two minutes. First, I save them from that second walker who came along while they were watching the lunatic. Then, after the lunatic had smashed the skull open, and started talking about how awesome the brains looked on the ground and wondered aloud about how fresh meat might look before swinging his rifle butt. When you decide to go all Platoon and try and see if you can get brains to splatter “more pretty” than you already have achieved, and you decide to kill a person to do it, then you’ve crossed the line.
Yes, I cut his legs off at the knees. Yes, I then cut his arms off at the elbows when he started picking himself up. I didn’t want him changing and being able to chase anyone. And I let him bleed out because he needed to understand that there are rules and there are limits. Also, I’m not going to directly kill anyone today. At least, not anyone who still is a person. Even that lunatic was a person. If he bled out from his wounds, that’s his problem. I didn’t try to kill him, I was just trying to defend people.
And what thanks do I get?
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
What’s wrong with me? I’m alive and intend to remain so? That seems to put me in a distinct minority, and one that everyone seems to be dead set against.
Yes, I cut his legs off at the knees. Yes, I then cut his arms off at the elbows when he started picking himself up. I didn’t want him changing and being able to chase anyone. And I let him bleed out because he needed to understand that there are rules and there are limits. Also, I’m not going to directly kill anyone today. At least, not anyone who still is a person. Even that lunatic was a person. If he bled out from his wounds, that’s his problem. I didn’t try to kill him, I was just trying to defend people.
And what thanks do I get?
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
What’s wrong with me? I’m alive and intend to remain so? That seems to put me in a distinct minority, and one that everyone seems to be dead set against.
Bad Romance
I turned my head for two seconds, when I look back, BOOM! World is over. This is what insanity feels like, you don’t even feel anything when the world ends besides a sense that another damn thing has happened.
Next thing you know, some bath salt smoker is chewing on the face of their neighbor. Everyone laughs about that for a moment, then their grandmother is doing it, then some little kid is dragging a useless leg behind them and reaching out with a three fingered hand so they can gnaw with their remaining milk teeth. All the sudden, it’s not funny anymore. At the point that they’re having to choose between what they’ve always thought of as their humanity, and smashing a six-year-old’s skull on the pavement, most people choose wrong.
I can handle this, I know how to deal with them. You play some Michael Jackson, or some Billy Ray Cyrus. They’ll dance to Achy Breaky Heart, which should have been an early warning sign in my opinion. Anything with a danceable beat, it gets into their hind brain, past the hunger. Bad Romance will also do the trick too, but that’s just too sick for me. Even I have some standards. Bad Leroy Brown just makes them stand there and look at you quizzically as you slice them to pieces. It’s not that I find this fun, but I do find it interesting and in some cases nessicary to save people not smart enough to run away.
The problem is, splattering blood of some face eater on another person’s face makes the second person loose their shit. You save someone, and they demand to know why you just did what you did. So I left the idiot to the people he seemed to prefer, and they ate him. I’m having a serious sympathy deficiency right now. People that stupid don’t deserve to live.
Next thing you know, some bath salt smoker is chewing on the face of their neighbor. Everyone laughs about that for a moment, then their grandmother is doing it, then some little kid is dragging a useless leg behind them and reaching out with a three fingered hand so they can gnaw with their remaining milk teeth. All the sudden, it’s not funny anymore. At the point that they’re having to choose between what they’ve always thought of as their humanity, and smashing a six-year-old’s skull on the pavement, most people choose wrong.
I can handle this, I know how to deal with them. You play some Michael Jackson, or some Billy Ray Cyrus. They’ll dance to Achy Breaky Heart, which should have been an early warning sign in my opinion. Anything with a danceable beat, it gets into their hind brain, past the hunger. Bad Romance will also do the trick too, but that’s just too sick for me. Even I have some standards. Bad Leroy Brown just makes them stand there and look at you quizzically as you slice them to pieces. It’s not that I find this fun, but I do find it interesting and in some cases nessicary to save people not smart enough to run away.
The problem is, splattering blood of some face eater on another person’s face makes the second person loose their shit. You save someone, and they demand to know why you just did what you did. So I left the idiot to the people he seemed to prefer, and they ate him. I’m having a serious sympathy deficiency right now. People that stupid don’t deserve to live.
We’ve been here before.
Again.
Again?
Again.
People think it’ll be fun. They think, “Hey, I’ve played Resident Evil and Left 4 Dead. I totally know how to deal with this.” They think they can handle it, they think they understand. People, as I have mentioned in the past, are fucking stupid.
I know how it started this time. I was warned, I knew ahead of a time. I saw it in the stars, that’s how. It doesn’t matter, you wouldn’t believe me and you refuse to understand that IT. IS. OUT. THERE!
When I tell you that The Pillar of Cheese in the shape of Jane Austen is out there, and that The Pillar of Cheese in the shape of Jane Austen is consolidating again, I don’t do it for my own health. I inform you of these things so maybe the idea of your dead grandmother climbing up your leg is as best a hallucination brought on by too much coffee. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m crazy, that I’ve gone round the bend for the fifth or sixth time.
Have you looked out the window?
Does that look sane?
I told you so.
On The Twin Subjects of Depression and Knives
Hunter S. Thompson once said "I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me."
I would like you to keep that quote in mind as I talk for the next few minutes. In as much as I don’t advocate this, but it’s always worked for me.
There are people who ask me, “Weirdo, why do you own 97 knives and 36 swords.” And I tell them the same thing, over and over again. That it’s only 56 knives and 27 swords. As with many things, there are multiple answers, and all of them are true to an extent. I like the look of blades as pieces of functional art. I enjoy swinging swords and knives around as aerobic weights. The knives are often useful, and many of them have been used for perfectly practical things like opening boxes or cutting down trees. I cut down a sapling with my kukri once, which is what the damn thing is for. The fact that I sometimes use a two foot long short sword to open envelopes is my own damn business and I don’t see what it has to do with you.
These are true answers, there is nothing wrong with those answers. However, there is a secret answer that you must unlock like a playable character in a video game after scoring 10,000 points. Do video games still have points? Fuck, it’s been a long time since I played a video game.
The secret answer is that I keep the knives around because they prevent me from self harming or killing myself. Does that sound counter productive? Does that sound like leaving a loaded handgun, a couple of cyanide capsules and a noose around just in case? Maybe. I can’t say about the other things, they don’t hold the power or the allure of the blades for me, which is probably why I don’t keep them around.
See, I know about blades. I know how to fight with them, how to use them peacefully, how to store them and how to keep them in good condition. I also know how they can hurt, and being someone who learned how to fight I know that cutting oneself is against the rules of the game. In fact, the entire point of that game is that you remain uncut. It got into my head, makes me do things to avoid being cut, makes me feel I’ve lost the game when I do get cut. Kitchen accidents are more about me swearing in frustration than in pain.
And I know what blood does to a knife. It corrodes the steel, it dulls the edge, it can really screw up a good knife if you do it properly. I have too much respect for my knives to want them damaged. These are works of art after all. Like books and paintings, it would go against something inside me to deliberately damage one, or leave it in a state where it could get damaged. Some things, a person simply does not do.
However, if I were going to do it… if I were going to engage on an escapade of self destruction, I would have to use a blade to do it. Where did this rule come from? I don’t know. Perhaps ego, that I would only take that sort of thing from an object I respect and admire. Maybe I’ve got some old warrior idea in my head that it can only be done right with a blade. I don’t know, but I try not to poke too many holes in a rule that’s saved my life more than a few times. All I know is that with the knives around, they present a dare that I don’t take. It’s almost as if the knife is saying “Yeah, you wanna do it? Well, you’ve gotta use me. Only you won’t, because you don’t want to cut yourself and you don’t want to damage the blade.” and I know the knife is right and it’s okay that it talks in a Bronx accent because that’s what it’s like in my head.
Example
When we were on vacation recently, I crashed hard and bad. Probably the worst dip into depression I’ve had in years. One of the problems, at least from my standpoint, was that I didn’t have a pocket knife with me. I didn’t want the hassle on the flight, it would get confiscated even in checked baggage, blah blah blah. But not having it made me edgy and miserable. Now, this isn’t a self defense thing. I don’t need a knife in case thugs decide to attack. I don’t see thugs around every corner, and even when walking in downtown Detroit, the thugs tend to keep a respectful distance and look for an easier mark than me. When deprived of a knife, I can fuck someone up with my keys, or my belt, or a Bic pen, or a magazine, or a chopstick, or even my hands if the situation goes that way. No, the person I needed to defend from was myself, and for than I needed a knife. I realized how dire the situation was when I found myself wondering if the fall from the balcony to the street would be sufficient. See without a knife there, to insist that it had first refusal on any self-destructive behavior, other options began to crop up.
It was so bad that on the second or third day, on the first shopping excursion I took, the first thing I did was look for a knife. I didn’t even get a particularly good knife. It was $10, and probably worth half that. It’s a tanto point, which I hate and it’s a widish tactical blade, which I’ve never liked. I like a nice thin stiletto like blade, something that can fit into the gap of an envelope and slit it open neatly. Hence why I love the Laguiole style so much. None of that is the point though, what is the point is that it was a knife and I felt better for having the knife The ledge stopped looking inviting and I was able to relax… for a given value of relaxation. I was able to not become so argumentative that I made Syd cry, and that was something.
The rest of the trip wasn’t exactly enjoyable, but it was at least tolerable. Going into a funk when you board the plane and only starting to shake things after you’ve been back at work for a couple of days makes me feel like we’ve missed the point of our vacation. It was hard to enjoy anything while that weight was on my shoulders and colored everything that happened that week. However, the victory so tiny you need an electron microscope to see it is that I did come back.
And that’s REALLY why all the knives and all the swords. I need talismans, and these are mine. Well, that and a steady influx of sugar and caffeine. They seem to steady my mood a bit and keep me from wanting to enter into danger. The knives really do help though. They focus my attention, and keep me thinking about being careful and not cutting myself rather than the opposite.
I can’t recommend these things to you, because blades and Red Bull might be just the thing that sets you off. However, there is some power in having some kind of talisman, for whatever reason you have it. Granted, most the people I’ve talked to carry worry stones, or religious icons, or pictures of a loved one. I don’t know of anyone else who carries a dangerous weapon so that if they feel suicidal that weapon will keep them from doing it.
I would like you to keep that quote in mind as I talk for the next few minutes. In as much as I don’t advocate this, but it’s always worked for me.
There are people who ask me, “Weirdo, why do you own 97 knives and 36 swords.” And I tell them the same thing, over and over again. That it’s only 56 knives and 27 swords. As with many things, there are multiple answers, and all of them are true to an extent. I like the look of blades as pieces of functional art. I enjoy swinging swords and knives around as aerobic weights. The knives are often useful, and many of them have been used for perfectly practical things like opening boxes or cutting down trees. I cut down a sapling with my kukri once, which is what the damn thing is for. The fact that I sometimes use a two foot long short sword to open envelopes is my own damn business and I don’t see what it has to do with you.
These are true answers, there is nothing wrong with those answers. However, there is a secret answer that you must unlock like a playable character in a video game after scoring 10,000 points. Do video games still have points? Fuck, it’s been a long time since I played a video game.
The secret answer is that I keep the knives around because they prevent me from self harming or killing myself. Does that sound counter productive? Does that sound like leaving a loaded handgun, a couple of cyanide capsules and a noose around just in case? Maybe. I can’t say about the other things, they don’t hold the power or the allure of the blades for me, which is probably why I don’t keep them around.
See, I know about blades. I know how to fight with them, how to use them peacefully, how to store them and how to keep them in good condition. I also know how they can hurt, and being someone who learned how to fight I know that cutting oneself is against the rules of the game. In fact, the entire point of that game is that you remain uncut. It got into my head, makes me do things to avoid being cut, makes me feel I’ve lost the game when I do get cut. Kitchen accidents are more about me swearing in frustration than in pain.
And I know what blood does to a knife. It corrodes the steel, it dulls the edge, it can really screw up a good knife if you do it properly. I have too much respect for my knives to want them damaged. These are works of art after all. Like books and paintings, it would go against something inside me to deliberately damage one, or leave it in a state where it could get damaged. Some things, a person simply does not do.
However, if I were going to do it… if I were going to engage on an escapade of self destruction, I would have to use a blade to do it. Where did this rule come from? I don’t know. Perhaps ego, that I would only take that sort of thing from an object I respect and admire. Maybe I’ve got some old warrior idea in my head that it can only be done right with a blade. I don’t know, but I try not to poke too many holes in a rule that’s saved my life more than a few times. All I know is that with the knives around, they present a dare that I don’t take. It’s almost as if the knife is saying “Yeah, you wanna do it? Well, you’ve gotta use me. Only you won’t, because you don’t want to cut yourself and you don’t want to damage the blade.” and I know the knife is right and it’s okay that it talks in a Bronx accent because that’s what it’s like in my head.
Example
When we were on vacation recently, I crashed hard and bad. Probably the worst dip into depression I’ve had in years. One of the problems, at least from my standpoint, was that I didn’t have a pocket knife with me. I didn’t want the hassle on the flight, it would get confiscated even in checked baggage, blah blah blah. But not having it made me edgy and miserable. Now, this isn’t a self defense thing. I don’t need a knife in case thugs decide to attack. I don’t see thugs around every corner, and even when walking in downtown Detroit, the thugs tend to keep a respectful distance and look for an easier mark than me. When deprived of a knife, I can fuck someone up with my keys, or my belt, or a Bic pen, or a magazine, or a chopstick, or even my hands if the situation goes that way. No, the person I needed to defend from was myself, and for than I needed a knife. I realized how dire the situation was when I found myself wondering if the fall from the balcony to the street would be sufficient. See without a knife there, to insist that it had first refusal on any self-destructive behavior, other options began to crop up.
It was so bad that on the second or third day, on the first shopping excursion I took, the first thing I did was look for a knife. I didn’t even get a particularly good knife. It was $10, and probably worth half that. It’s a tanto point, which I hate and it’s a widish tactical blade, which I’ve never liked. I like a nice thin stiletto like blade, something that can fit into the gap of an envelope and slit it open neatly. Hence why I love the Laguiole style so much. None of that is the point though, what is the point is that it was a knife and I felt better for having the knife The ledge stopped looking inviting and I was able to relax… for a given value of relaxation. I was able to not become so argumentative that I made Syd cry, and that was something.
The rest of the trip wasn’t exactly enjoyable, but it was at least tolerable. Going into a funk when you board the plane and only starting to shake things after you’ve been back at work for a couple of days makes me feel like we’ve missed the point of our vacation. It was hard to enjoy anything while that weight was on my shoulders and colored everything that happened that week. However, the victory so tiny you need an electron microscope to see it is that I did come back.
And that’s REALLY why all the knives and all the swords. I need talismans, and these are mine. Well, that and a steady influx of sugar and caffeine. They seem to steady my mood a bit and keep me from wanting to enter into danger. The knives really do help though. They focus my attention, and keep me thinking about being careful and not cutting myself rather than the opposite.
I can’t recommend these things to you, because blades and Red Bull might be just the thing that sets you off. However, there is some power in having some kind of talisman, for whatever reason you have it. Granted, most the people I’ve talked to carry worry stones, or religious icons, or pictures of a loved one. I don’t know of anyone else who carries a dangerous weapon so that if they feel suicidal that weapon will keep them from doing it.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
The Route (a poem)
I can talk about cars or listen to guys talk about sports
And I can smile politely when a horse race subject
Like politics or reality TV is brought up
I can even make comments when the subject of hot celebrities comes up
However!
Whenever someone asks
"What route did you take to get here."
I am immediately forced to announce.
"I’m sorry, I'm not middle aged, nor middle class enough to have this conversation!"
And I must leave.
And I can smile politely when a horse race subject
Like politics or reality TV is brought up
I can even make comments when the subject of hot celebrities comes up
However!
Whenever someone asks
"What route did you take to get here."
I am immediately forced to announce.
"I’m sorry, I'm not middle aged, nor middle class enough to have this conversation!"
And I must leave.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Twins in Death: Chapter Two - Part Four
Twins in Death
A Tale of The Weirdo
By Brett N. Lashuay
Chapter Two: Love Lost
March 29th, 2002
2:45 p.m.
The boat had finally been consumed and lost seaworthiness around noon. It sunk below the waveless lake and only a few charred splinters and planks remained on the lake, but they were slowly loosing their buoyancy and sinking into the odd lake as well. The lake would not tolerate anything breaking up its dark surface. It wanted to look like a scryer’s mirror, and would truck no interference in that goal. He had watched as the fire had leapt up, while the boat sank. It had tried to get away from the lake, but had been consumed and quenched. No doubt the pieces of flame that hadn’t escaped the cold grasp were still under the water, being kept alive somehow.
Max and Mrs. Pendleton had driven away together; Marla, Judy and Sheila had gone with them, leaving the three fellows together. Jack, Tommy and The Weirdo sat together in the cabin. There was a silence about them, none of them wanting to be the first to speak. For men who had known each other for as long as these friends had, there was little to say. They had told each other everything as soon as it happened. There was almost nothing that any of them kept secret from the others. These men knew what the other was thinking already. Never mind the telepathy that they each shared, they could block that for the sake of privacy. Each of them had, and this was the more important art, a profound understanding of how the other two’s minds worked.
The Weirdo got up and walked to the kitchen. It was such an ordinary kitchen filled with ordinary appliances, a stove, a refrigerator, a toaster oven and all the other little things. He touched the handle of the refrigerator and tugged it open. Almost without looking he reached and pulled a two-liter bottle of cola from the door. He set the bottle down on the central island of the kitchen and withdrew a large glass tumbler from the cupboard. He opened the bottle and began to fill a tall glass tumbler with cola. It was Tommy, unable to take it any longer, who broke the silence.
“Did you speak with Doc?” Tommy asked.
“Not yet.” The Weirdo said. “Why?”
“Shannon was…” Tommy halted, and it looked like he was trying to hold back tears.
“
“She was…” Tommy halted again.
“She was pregnant.” Jack said. “About five weeks.”
The Weirdo's face twisted, the glass and bottle shuddered in his hand for a moment. It wasn’t a large, exaggerated shake like one might make in a movie or if they were trying to gain attention. It was in fact barely visible to someone who wasn’t looking for a reaction. If you didn’t know him, you might have thought he was reactionless. The Weirdo set the bottle and glass down on the counter before he did something stupid that he'd regret later. He didn't want to destroy these things, it wasn't their fault, and he understood that.
Just suppress, push it down, not now. Don’t explode, don’t smash things that had nothing to do with it. Just hang on, find an anchor line, hold on to something. Find that nugget of rage and hold it in, it could be all you have soon. Just clamp it down and compress it into a tiny little atom bomb of emotion. Hold on to it, and don’t let it go. You may need that later. Don’t blow it now.
He turned back towards them, holding none of the rage on his face. He looked supernaturally calm and his barely concealed rage was kept in check by his look of interest in this topic. Tommy and Jack both knew him well enough to know that they should keep telling him before he asked in a very loud voice what was going on. This way they wouldn’t fall into reading each other’s minds and loose shape of their world. It was, again, Tommy who began.
“She only told me the day before.” Tommy said. “She said she wanted to be sure before she told you, she was going to tell you that morning.”
“I see.” The Weirdo said, walking to a wooden chair and sat down. “That’s what she was going to tell me. Her surprise that would trump my surprise.”
He took in every sensation, noticed every detail. The solid wood that he could carve ever so gently with his fingernail. That he did carve into it in fact, not very deep, but a small visible line in the pine furniture from with his nail. The way the backing of the chair pressed against his back, the exact temperature of the room, the way that Tommy’s shirt had bits of lint that glowed in the light. He always seemed to be doing this, recording everything for later record.
“Doc said that one of the bullets struck her womb, killed the baby.” Jack said. “Would have been a girl I understand.”
“My daughter.” The Weirdo said. “My wife and my other both killed.”
There was silence in the room, Jack looked from The Weirdo to Tommy, who for a change of pace was looking from The Weirdo to Jack. They all sat in silence as the two men tried to find things to occupy their eyes so they didn’t have to look at the terrible face of their friend. The Weirdo sat in the chair, his face twisting from one emotion to another.
Jack and Tommy stood like helpless children, watching him sit in the chair, unmoving. He would look at them, his face would twist, his eyes would squeeze shut and then he'd open them again looking around the room. His hands tightened into fists and untightened again. Every time his left hand tightened into a fist, the tendons would snap across the bones and the sound would twang from his hand. He sat in the chair, unable to move, not wanting to move for fear of himself. He wasn't angry with them, but he was angry, of that there could be no doubt.
“I think I would like to be alone for a little while.” The Weirdo said after what seemed like hours.
“Yeah,” Tommy said, “But make sure you come home.”
“I will.” The Weirdo said. “Why wouldn't I?”
“Well.” Tommy said, leaving the unfinished remark to hold out its obvious ending.
“No.” The Weirdo said. “I wouldn't do that.”
“Alright.” Jack said standing. “We'll go home then.”
“Okay.” The Weirdo nodded.
© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions
Friday, June 8, 2012
Thursday, June 7, 2012
We need a new name for Depression
There is a problem with the public perception of depression. It’s the same problem as theory or murder, in that the technical term means something different than the colloquial term. Depression in the colloquial sense means to be a bit sad for a bit. I’ll give an example… “I haz a sad *teh sigh* is sad” There, that’s colloquial depression. After the sigh, I’m right back to babbling and being smarter than the rest of you put together. No problem there, that’s actually not a bad definition of depression. It’s a period of sadness and the things that go along with being sad for a while.
But then, we get the problem. That’s not really what depression means. Clinical depression is less about the surface state, or even your actual emotions, and more about having a depressed system. Being depressed in that sense is “Working at less than optimal levels.” Even when a manic depressive is in their manic stage, they are still operating below their optimum. Only at those times, their system is trying desperately to compensate, often over compensating as a result. Those manic periods can result in an even more powerful lapse into depression, creating a dangerous cycle.
However, there are many other manifestations that depression can take. Being tired is often a complaint, and that’s got little to do with the emotional state of the person. This is why people who try to describe depression often have a problem explaining the problem to other people. Yes, often there is an emotional state you might call sadness. However, mental and physical exhaustion cannot be ignored when discussing the problem. You can’t simply be “Snapped out of” as the glib so often enjoy saying. One cannot “snap out of” a need to sleep thirteen hours a day. If one is fully and completely exhausted, but otherwise fairly cheerful, then that doesn’t fit into the colloquial definition of depression.
It is here that the problem can take confusing twists and turns. Your clinical depression doesn’t even necessarily have actual sadness. Sometimes you have a situation where sadness would be preferable because that would at least be an emotion. There are plenty of depressives who suffer what can only be described as a cessation of emotion. There is no sadness, no excitement, no reaction at all to any stimuli. The closest they can come is an occasional explosion of emotion, after allowing it to build up for a considerable amount of time. This usually manifests itself in some form of unacceptable behavior. That’s not being sad, that’s being nothing much of anything. An outside observer might attempt to interpret that state as being sad, but it’s really REALLY not. As far as feeling goes, it’s a step down from sad, it’s nothing.
This is the main problem, most religious people tend not to understand that atheism is having no religion at all. The phrase “atheism is your religion” gets tossed around to underline the lack of understanding. Equally, people think depression is just feeling sad, or feeling anything at all. As I said, in some cases it’s not even a manifestation of emotion. It’s purely a physical manifestation of being too bloody tired to focus on more complicated and involved than twitter, which is great because you can just read the little lines and even people who you want to read can’t go on for pages and pages.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Sunday, June 3, 2012
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