Cattle Mutilations Are Up

One of the lost films of 1992, the brilliant and wonderful Sneakers.


Read or die.

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Listening to: The Clash - The Guns Of Brixton

We're All Criminals Here

So last week I'm ordering something on Amazon, and it tells me that I'm one cent shy of getting free shipping. So, of course, I immediately add Grand Theft Auto IV, because I'm a giant geek with too much spare time on my hands and a poor impulse control.

However, I firmly believe that Grand Theft Auto saves lives. At least, it does in my case. Just think about it - the ability to go on violent rampages, smash your car into buildings or drive it off of bridges - it just prevents me from cracking up and doing it in real life.

This is why I don't like public transportation - I always feel like I'm one jostled elbow or stepped-on foot away from one of those moments:

*snap!*

*eye twitch*

"... I'll kill you all"

You know what? I'm going to stop there. I... I may have said too much.

Regardless, it arrives today. Let the mayhem commence.

Also, the strip above comes from A Softer World. If you're not reading regularly, you are missing out on some the best dark humor on the internet.

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Listening to: Uncle Tupelo - Criminals

Down By the River, Wrapped in Plastic

Random crap:

1) Conversation I had, after a long, rough day at work last week, at Whole Foods. I am gazing helplessly at the 800 different kinds of bread. An employee walks up to me:

Whole Foods Girl: Can I help you find something?
TK: I can't figure out what kind of bread to get.
WFG: What kind are you looking for?
TK: [angry, dead-eyed stare]
WFG: Um... I meant... um...
TK: I just need a loaf of bread
WFG: Well, this one has some really good rosemary accents! If you like something more with more grain, this one-
TK: STOP. Just... stop. Please... right now, without thinking, just pick one.
[she picks one, hands it to me meekly]
TK: Thank you. Have a lovely evening.

Sometimes, I don't need a fucking dissertation. I just need a goddamn loaf of bread.

2) I'm slooooowly coming out of the blog closet. There are now officially two people, in addition to Mrs. TK, who know of my plan for world domination the existence of this site. Yikes. Yikes, I say.

3) In case you're interested, here is my review of Twin Peaks, Season One, for Pajiba's series, "The Best 15 Seasons of the Past 20 Years." Twin Peaks is one of my top five TV shows ever, so hope you enjoy the review. And if you don't, I hate you and hope you fall down a well.



4) My parents arrive on the 23rd. ON MAY 23RD, PEOPLE. I haven't seen them since March of 2006. They haven't been to the U.S. since 1998. To say that I'm excited is probably one of the great understatements of this century.

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Listening to: Brazilian Girls - Lazy Lover

Come Sweet Death, One Last Caress

Fuckin' A... this is the movie I was born to review.



Here.

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Listening to: The Misfits - Die, Die My Darling

Live Every Week Like It's Shark Week

I present to you:



The glory of Deep Blue Sea.

Click.

Please to enjoy.

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Listening to: Imogen Heap - Getting Scared

In This House Of Suffering

Rebirth in Suburbia

It's been a week of torment, a week of tears and pain, trapped in this house of suffering. Last weekend was fine, but Sunday night I started feeling a pain in my throat. Monday morning it had turned from pain to agony. Every time I swallowed, tears were forced to my eyes. I was febrile and lay twisting my bed, praying that I wouldn't have to cough, for coughing elevated the pain to even more hellish levels.

Tuesday I knew I was going to be out for a long count. I went to work early, before others were in, so I could organize things and transfer them around without afflicting others. I went to the doctor, let him poke and prod and give me many "hmm's" as he looked in my mouth speculatively. Clutching a bottle of antibiotics, I made my way home, wincing and cringing at every accidental dry swallow.

I had long since lost the ability to speak.

Wednesday, the first sip of water that morning brought me to my knees and to tears. I was subsisting on a diet of mush - soup, applesauce, overcooked pasta. On the plus side, the Red Sox were winning.

Thursday and Friday saw minor improvements. I began to eat soft breads and an occasional soft taco. I still had to brace myself for each swallow, as it felt like I had broken glass lodged in my Adam's apple.

Friday was particularly difficult. It was, without question, the most beautiful day of the year. The dogs burst outside like kids on the last day of school, prancing and rolling and barking at birds, wrestling and chasing and napping in ignorant bliss. I watched from inside and only wanted to crawl back into bed.

Saturday... I felt better. I could swallow without wincing. And I thought to myself, "ENOUGH!" I made the decision as soon as I stood upright that I would work this damn plague out of my body. I would sweat it into submission. At 8:30 AM I rose, and with purpose I put on my work clothes - cargo shorts, beat up t-shirt, Red Sox hat, and I attacked my long-neglected yard. A yard filled with the detritus of a long winter and an abundant fall.

I raked, I shoveled. I dug up dead trees with a viciousness and force I did not expect. I hauled, I pulled and pushed and sweated, until seven hours later, I stood, hands on hips, surveying my handiwork. A clean, beautiful yard, grassy and with the flowers and buds bravely showing their faces. I choked on dirt and dust, and looked at myself. I was a wreck. I was literally dark brown with earth and grime and mud. My hands were ingrained with dirt. It was everywhere - at the corners of my eyes, between my teeth, in my pockets, in my socks. I stripped down to my boxers, gasping for air, hands shaking from my labors, and walked into the house, cranked the shower to "Scald" and stepped in.

I stood in the shower, letting the searing water tear into me, and it felt like a baptism. as brown water sluiced off of me, I felt the sickness finally release it's grasp, and eventually, I emerged, damp, with skin red and flushed, feeling like a new man.