None Shall Pass

The greatest portraitures of all time can be found here.


Budding novelists, take note.

Rock Steady

The sixth reason for my enjoyment of Flashdance:

Robot dancing will never go out of style, and the film celebrates that truth without reservation.

Maniac Dawn -- The Surgeon

He only ever shows himself reflected on metal. Dwight Sanders reminds himself of this as he ignores the sweat trickling out from under his jade-colored cap and hesitantly reaches for the scalpel. His hands are shaking, and noticeably. Beside him, Ramirez -- that fuckprick of a doctor Wayne Ramirez, as Dwight thinks of him -- clears his throat and leans in, whispering, "I'm guessing you had a few too many glasses of scotch, a lot too many Winstons, and not nearly enough sleep last night, Dwight. You look like you've got DTs, and a surgeon with unsteady hands is like a male porn star without a cock. So cut it with the Parkinson's or I have to say something."

Dwight doesn't respond, but he agrees. He's even sure he's heard that crude axiom before, but he's not sure when or where. However much of an asshole Ramirez is (and in Dwight's opinion he's a big enough one to pilot the Nostromo into), he's right. Dwight knows he looks like a first year med school student and that all present in the OR are watching him, wondering how in Hell a cardiac surgeon of 11 years subtly but suddenly starts to lose his shit. Despite his utter terror, he picks up the scalpel from the tray, squeezing it tightly between his thumb and forefinger to lessen the trembling in his hand. This helps a little. Curling his toes inside his shoes does, too.

He looks at the blade and feels a cold tingle of relief in his abdomen. No face. No slicked-back black hair with a widow's peak and a pallid, sagging face beneath it. No black eyes with crimson pinprick pupil's in their centers. The scientific reality of reflection has again been restored to doctor Dwight Sanders's world.

"She's not going to give herself a double bypass, Quincy, so how's 'bout we start the show already?" Ramirez says, this time loud enough for those in the cheap seats to hear.

Again, Dwight doesn't respond; he gets down to business, both sides of his brain working in tandem. He cuts into the patient just above the navel. Like riding a bicycle. At the same time, he's trying to find an itch to scratch in the back of his brain. Something about what Ramirez said.

(A surgeon with unsteady hands)

She sucked his cock

(is like a male porn star)

She sucked his cock while your four-year-old son sat at the breakfast table

(without a cock)

She sucked his cock and swallowed his load in the living room while your son sat at the table and watched from the kitchen, tears from his cheeks dripping into his bowl of soggy Chex. Then she took the kid to daycare and came back home so she could taste in her pussy what was so decadent in her mouth. Twice.

This is truth to Dwight Sanders. This is reality explained from the corporeal. A demon reflected on a tin kettle or an aluminum baseball bat or a chrome bumper is madness, but this is Truth.

"Sew her up!" he screams, ripping off his mask, his cap, his scrubs, before storming out of the OR.

But not for long. His scalpel still in hand, he walks back in seconds before the rest of the operating unit have time to register what in damnation is going on and stabs Ramirez in that worthy's jugular. A sanguine geyser followed by a muted scream that maybe only dogs and Satan hears.

Now, my boy, I want you to steady those paws. We have further work to do.

But first I want you to plunge that scalpel in your hand into your brain. Trust me, it's easy work.

Just like riding a bicycle.

Maniac Dawn -- The Soldier

A cloud no larger than a seat cushion descends amongst the fog, smoke, and fire. It hovers over a young man, only twenty-two. His name is Benjamin, but everyone calls him Benji. Like the dog.

Benji had two legs five minutes ago. His small intestine and his dick, too. But Humpty Dumpty fell off the wall and had a great fall; and all the king's horses and all the king's men can't put Benji's favorite legs or his grenade shrapnel-strewn breadbasket back together again.

Alone. Left to die in this sweltering foreign land amongst a fell symphony of screams: mothers, children, and men; sorrow, horror, and hatred.

Death. Take me, Benji prays to no god in particular. Five minutes ago he was a Catholic, but the rosary wrapped around his wrist holds no more significance to him right now than the charred and acrid shoelaces of his combat boots that, five minutes ago, defined his feet. His pain is of a kind that mocks the very concept of existence, his internal scream unrelenting and abject.

The amorphous dark cloud hovering over poor Benji pulsates and breaks apart to reveal its composition like strands of hair seen with the naked eye after viewed through the microscope lens. Thousands of mosquitoes alight on Benji's face and envelop it in a writhing fury of bloodlust.

Then, a voice.

Benjamin, you hear me. You are not alone. This pain can end now. All I ask is one favor.

Anything.

In your present state, believe it or not, you will survive. The medics are running through the jungle right now. They're going to hoist you onto a stretcher. You will let them, because you haven't the will to protest. But let me look further into your future and tell you that if you make it to the base hospital via helicopter you're looking at a life of shit. No legs, no dick, pissing in a bag. You're twenty-two. That's a lot of fucking pain. And I know you want to survive, even if you think you don't. It's human nature. But in the long run the pain you're feeling now is crumbs on the table compared to what you're going to feel. Trust me, I know.

I just want to end everything.

Oh, you will. When the medics arrive, ask them to huddle close. Despite your...injuries, your arms and voice are in tip-top shape. Pretend neither are. Ready your bayonet. Then stab them in their throats.

Then can I die?

Only if they do first.

Maniac Dawn -- The Samurai

[Translated from the Japanese.]

I am disgraced, seppuku my lone bastion of honor. What have I if not that? I know what I must do, what I am supposed to do...but still.

I have heard voices. A single voice, rather. It's always of a different timbre, but it speaks the same demon language, one that promises forgiveness. One that promises another realm of existence where man-made concepts of right, wrong, justice, sin, virtue, damnation, ethics, and life itself are alien and as trivial as sand blown between leaves of grass on an abandoned shore. Where chaos reigns, and chaos is holy.

I have seen a face, too. In sleep. This, a bovine skull the likes of which my eyes have never laid upon nor wish to while awake, bleached white and sat crookedly within the hood of a brown, dusty robe; the robe threadbare yet belying no man or beast underneath. A further illusion of my madness.

Madness or enlightenment? I am soothed in my conundrum, for cowardice and bravado are one and the same, my apparition assures. And what else do I have? What else?

All he asks for is a sacrifice. The decapitated head of my general.

I am told I can keep my swords in this otherworld. My attire, too.

Tomorrow I will cut off my master's head.

Weakened

Friday night. Ain't a damn thing funny. Home. Waiting. Beer, soju, squares and DS. Lather, rinse, repeat. Hongdae. Shooters. Asahi. Squid and nachos. Jagermeister and self-loathing. Home. Convenience store sandwich, garlic potato chips. Drunk girlfriend, drunker boyfriend. Sleep. Daylight. Kimchi fried rice. Lakers-Wizards (or Zephyrs). Comeback. Not enough mustard. [Censored]...Hiroshima. Kmartini. Roadkill porn. Sundae and takoyaki and draft beer and cigarettes. Ho Bar XXVI. Tsingtao, Jack Daniels, The Killers, nacho gratuity and spirit candles and KRS ONE synchronicity. Fan Bar (oddly, no fans, electric or paper). Butch waitress, more Jack, more free nachos, San Miguel. Shooters again. Guinness and it's fuzzy what else. The Burger King lounge. Honey potato burger heartbreak, double bacon cheeseburger redemption. A chance meeting with co-workers (not mine). More whisky? More air to breathe??? Yet too cold. Home. Ceylon tea and menthol cigarettes and music. Sleep. Late morning, awake. Sleep again, early afternoon awake again. Neon Maniacs. NEON FUCKING MANIACS. M&M's and Coca-Cola* for lunch. Mario Kart: Sparkles-Kmart. Banana peel barrage. Comeback (mine). Enough mustard...

Beer in a plastic bottle, soju in a green glass one. Cigarettes. Soon, a convenience store sandwich. Life is a wheel. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.


* It's because I wont ever get to drink another one, isnt it?

Ever's a long time.

Psychedelic Kimchi: Suppository of Rejuvenation

Let's enjoy a blast from the past, shall we?



_________________
Before going any further, I'd like to digress for a moment to comment upon the-supposedly- cheesy dialogue. It should be noted that Sparkles and I recently engaged in an eerily homologous discussion.

Kmart: The Mars Volta steals men's souls and makes them into slaves!

Sparkles: (sitting atop a throne of bootlegged VHS pornography, sipping spritzer from a crystal chalice) Perhaps the same could be said of all noodling...

Kmart: Their music is as empty as your soul. Mankind ill needs a band such as Mars Volta!

Sparkles: (throwing chalice down with delicate flick of wrist) What is a man? A miserable little pile of desire for melodious excellence. But enough talk... Have at you!

(That's not cheese. It's Velveeta.)
_________________

The preceding video may not have been terribly impressive (visually), especially if one uses modern standards of video game graphics to judge its merit, but it's important to note that Castlevania: Symphony of the Night was released a decade ago and, moreover, it signified a tremendous leap beyond the imagery depicted in the 8- and 16-bit generations of gaming. Sprites were big, colors were vibrant, and the attention to detail was far beyond what people had expected, and it was all in 2-D, which was something coming out of left field considering that the motif of the period was to take classic games and fuck them up in 3-D (Contra being the cruelest example possible).

That yearning to take advantage of the 'next-gen' systems' super-hyper-awesome-geometric-number-crunching CPU to construct polygonal paradise was inevitable, and perhaps even understandable, but more often than not, the initial 3-D entry of a popular series was gut-wrenching at best. (Seriously. Look up Contra: Legacy of War and tell me that doesn't look like your father's dick wrapped in a flour tortilla and topped with salsa verde.) In that sense, it was both refreshing and reassuring to see Konami hadn't abandoned that which had given it the adulation of the gaming community.*

But the gameplay was different! Waaaaah!

I stand corrected, somewhat. Konami had tinkered with the traditional formula for Symphony of the Night, and the game played unlike the majority of its predecessors. With the exception of the convoluted Simon's Quest (to which SotN owes, unquestionably, a debt of gratitude), the Castlevania series was, basically, a linear, level-by-level platformer with obligatory boss encounters, but you already knew that. How did the game actually play? A video is worth fourteen words of yours, and ten thousand of mine.



Those fourteen words of yours would, most likely, be something like "I can't believe I just watched that stupid, boring, asinine, pointless bullshit you posted" and, honestly, I can see how the video would give you such an unfortunate impression of the game, but you'll just have to trust me (unless you'd like to trudge through another thousand words) when I say that actually playing the game is quite engaging. You take on the role of Dracula's bastard son, Alucard, as he travels around the big, bad vampire lord's castle, searching for a way to destroy his own father. Along the way, you'll collect hundreds of items (weapons, armor, heroin, etc.) to assist in the mission, explore several decadent locales, and tackle numerous beastly entities.

The music, composed by Michiru Yamane,** enhanced the gaming experience considerably. Sure, you were treated to orthodox concepts (and I'd like to stress that I'm not adverse to sticking to what works), but there were also tunes that strayed far from what was expected of an entry to the series. To this day, I'll stand behind the SotN soundtrack, and it contains the best rendition the Dance of Illusions (aka battle with Dracula theme) available.

Is Symphony of the Night the best Castlevania game to date? I'm not saying that, but it tells you something when every subsequent 2-D game in the series has followed a similar path.

Eric Lecarde


* We love the Power Glove.











** Or Yamane Michiru (山根 ミチル), if you want to be dumb about it.

The Long John

Time for you to crawl up my legs, old friend, and save what's left of these crippled genitals.

Psychedelic Kimochi

Meet Jarah Mariano, a Chinese-Korean model via Hawaii (she must love SPAM and hate the Japanese) with an Arabic-Spanish name and few articles of clothing.

Embrace multiculturalism on your own terms, or embrace it on mine.

Mine's better.

Expiration Date

Charles Barkley was half right when he said Lebron should "shut up." Because James really hasn't said much about his free agency in 2010 apart from dropping hints. Instead, he's allowed the media to speak for him, and when questioned about it has done very little (read: nothing) to assure the fans in Cleveland -- and we few sports fans who still value franchise fidelity -- that he has any intention of remaining a Cavalier.

Sure, he's mentioned that his No. 1 priority is to win rings, but is it? If so, why allow the media frenzy that took place last week? Why the "big apple" Nike sneaks he
wore to the Garden -- shoes which one Spike Lee was also sporting? Why the free hot dogs? For Team James, that game, that event, was the biggest basketball cock tease you'll probably ever witness. To say that it eclipsed the actual game would be an understatement. It was more like a hybrid campaign stop-fashion show; James's telling New Yorkers to mark his impending free agency on their calendars the ultimate act of disloyalty to his team and the city he plays for.

Let's not fool ourselves here, kids; This isn't KG in Minnesota. The Cavs currently have the third-best record in the NBA. Are they Championship contenders? Not this year, in my opinion, but they're well on their way. Let's say they make the Conference Finals this year, get bumped by the Celtics and make it to the Finals next season, championship or no championship. Isn't that enough reason to stay? After all, MJ had to get bounced out of the 'offs time after time until finally making it to -- and winning in -- the Finals in his seventh year in the league. James is in his sixth NBA season. He's already been to the Finals, and the Cavs are the East's heir apparent. Isn't that more reassurance of the possibility of winning a title than James signing with the Knicks (or the Nets, or the Pistons...) in 2010?

Mark my words, Lebron James will not be a Cleveland Cavalier two seasons from now. Like Jack Woltz told Johnny Fontane, no chance. Put it this way: if your girlfriend/employee/favorite comic book artist kept silent while everyone else entertained the notion that he/she would jump ship, and he/she actually entertained the idea herself/himself, how confident would you be? Not very.

And that's how Cavs fans feel right now. Denial of what's to come has already manifested itself in Ohio. Hell, it's pretty much been around since Lebron's rookie season; but after this dog-and-pony show in New York, the resent will start festering. More.

It's been evident for a long time. Why did Cavs fans boo James a few years ago when he had a bad shooting night? Why did they boo him last month when he ran out the shot clock instead of possibly helping his team score over 100 points, thus ensuring fans at the game free Taco Bell chalupas (the ultimate analogy of James's career as a Cav and his looming free agency)?

Lebron is the hot girlfriend, Cleveland her high school years. Never was this more blatantly clear than when, in 2007, LBJ showed up to an Indians-Yankees game wearing a fitted Yankees cap. Or (to a lesser extent) schmoozing with Dallas Cowboys players before a Browns game.

Lebron James is a bandwagon athlete. He wants to align himself with championship-rich, big market cities instead of building his own dynasty, something he's in the process of doing right now.

Too bad Mike Brown is his coach.



Still, like Butters shouldn't shoot people in the dick and Roger Ebert should admit that A Clockwork Orange is a great film, sometimes you have to own up to being a jerk; and, for James, a lesson in the fine eastern art of tact is requisite.

Stop being an asshole, Lebron. Yesterday.

(New York, you say? C'est impossible!)