Oh, and one last little thing:

Ouchtown, population: me

So here's a fun story. Yesterday, my folks are at my aunts house spending some quality time with them (my aunt is my mom's twin sister), so I take the opportunity to get my oil changed, cut the hedges, mow the lawn, - you know, the usual suburban domestic afternoon-killers.

I take a break, grab a bottle of water, and sit down. Then I stand up.... and then it all gets a little fuzzy. Blinding, searing pain down my back, and I drop to my knees. Tears are in my eyes. I think to myself in a panic, "Jesus - I can't stand up. I can't move." Eventually, I crawl (slowly) into the study and make an aborted attempt to get on my couch that results in looking like a giant, crying man humping a piece of furtniture. Hey, I was suffering, no reason you should make it unscathed. That image is for you, special. I crawl over to my phone, collapse onto the floor gasping for air, and call Mrs. TK. at work. I'm in so much pain I can't even make the easy "I've fallen and I can't get up!" joke.

Mrs. TK rushes home and using some sort of She-Hulk-like strength, gets me standing again helps me upstairs. Considering I outweigh her by a minimum of 80 pounds and stand 11 inches taller, that's pretty damn impressive. I spend the rest of the day in bed, basically gasping in pain every time I twitch. It took me ten minutes to walk to and from the bathroom. Finally, at 4:00AM this morning, conditions have not only not improved, they've worsened to the point where I'm simply lying there twitching, wracked in pain, babbling "fuck, fuck, fuck!!" over and over. So, as was most likely inevitable, we go to the Emergency Room.

I have to admit, this was one of the better ER visits I've had. As you can perhaps guess from posts such as these, I've had my fair share of ER experiences, so I feel I'm qualified to expound on that. The people were polite and even friendly, the service was relatively fast. They gave me two shots for the pain within 45 minutes of being there, which were absolutely lovely. Eventually I had an MRI and... drumroll... I appear to have some disc problems. Of the bulging/tearing variety. Which is not good. So now I gotta meet with my regular doc and discuss the next steps. That should be interesting, since I've been trying to persuade to my doc for months that there's something wrong and he just keeps telling me to take Advil and rest a lot. Thanks, doc. No, really, that was super helpful, dickface. Irregahdless, those options range from physical therapy, up to and possibly including surgical repair.

Awesome.

Anyway, the parents are in NYC visiting my sister - a trip I was supposed to join them on before I decided to method act my way into the lead in My Left Foot. Their trip has been wonderful, and hopefully I'm back and mobile when they get back in a week. I already feel better, but that might be the Percocet talking.

It bears mentioning that despite being at work both yesterday and today, Mrs. TK has once again proven herself a rockstar by caring for me, bringing me things and generally being superwife. In addition, in the midst of all my baby-like whining, Animal Control raided a house a couple of towns over and found between 70 and 90 dogs and puppies locked in a basement, covered in their own feces, malnourished and generally in bad shape. Read about it here or here (warning - pictures may cause terminal sadness) if you're brave. They brought 11 of them to her hospital where she's spent the last two days shaving them down, cleaning them up, fixing their ouchies and then crawling into their cages to snuggle with them and make them feel better. Have I mentioned the superwife Superwoman* thing?

How was your day?

*excellent point, Kelsi

Update: I just realized what a bummer this post was, so to make up for it, a picture of happy dogs should help.

More news from the parental front

Two of the many reasons why my dad rules:

1:

and 2:


Mmmm...

quick hit

Dear Boston Celtics,

Listen. My dad cam an awfully long way to visit me. He hasn't watched a basketball game in 10 years. We haven't had good father-son bonding time in years either. So could you do me a favor and not, you know, suck? That'd be super.

Thanks,

TK

ps - My parents? Here at my house? The greatest thing in the history of great things. For real. More to follow.

Random stuff

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

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.

----------------
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.

----------------
Listening to: Brazilian Girls - Lazy Lover

Come Sweet Death, One Last Caress

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



Here.

----------------
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.

----------------
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.

This Deal Is Getting Worse All The Time

I was so excited when I was offered the Pajiba gig. I mean, reviewing movies! What’s not to love, right? Fortunately I’ve had the pleasure of enjoying, on some level, each movie I’ve reviewed to date. So when I received a random email from what we are assuming was a PR flak for the Lifetime Network recommending I check out a movie called The Memory Keeper’s Daughter, I cracked up. I mean, the Lifetime Network? Why the fuck would they contact me of all people? I laughingly forwarded it to Dustin Rowles, the publisher of Pajiba, thinking he'd find it funny. Instead, he responded, "You should review it."

Fuck.

Shortly there after, I was chatting with A Lover & A Fighter, a.k.a. Lover of All Things Lifetime and All Around Goofball, and I mentioned this to her. Her response? "Oh, that shit? I read that book. It was awful, awful, awful."

Fucking Hell.

After discovering that Darth Rowles was not, in fact, kidding, I resolved myself to watching it. I’d been dreading this past weekend for days. It was made worse by the fact that a) my wife was out of town, b) the Red Sox were playing the Yankees that weekend, and c) I was getting a cold. This is how fate found me sick*, home alone, on a Sunday night – watching the Lifetime Network instead of the Red Sox game. Yeah, this gig rocks. Anyway, click here.

*And in case anyone is wondering, it turns out I'm not just sick, I've got strep. I'm lovin' life right now, let me tell you.

Fighting the good fight

The people I've met though the internet, this strange new social system have overall been wonderful, kind, interesting and in some cases, even become good friends.

One of them is very sick.

Please send her some good wishes.

That is all.

You apes wanna live forever?!

It's a bit late, but it feels like a milestone to me. Whether or not it is remains up to debate. Anyway, Wednesday marked Day 100 since I quit smoking. I'm quite pleased. To commemorate this day, I am going in for phase two of my new tattoo in two weeks (phase one was this past Saturday, which was, of sorts, a late birthday present from Mrs. TK).

Yee-haw!

Carry on.


toothpastefordinner.com

RECOGNIZE!

That is all.

Today is a good day to die

A Chronology of the Last Twelve Hours of My Life


9:00 PM: Finish my latest Pajiba review, email it in for editing.

9:10 PM: Go upstairs to find Mrs. TK watching a reality show about the Pussycat Dolls.

9:11 PM: Die inside.

9:20 PM: Contemplate divorce.

9:30 PM: Hate world.

9:45 PM: Watch final minutes of Celtics game.

10:15 PM: Go to sleep.

-----------------------------------

3:15AM: Wake up. Stare at ceiling.

3:30 AM: Try to will myself back to sleep.

3:31 AM: Fail. Hate world some more.

3:45 AM: Begin thinking about work by accident.

3:46 AM: Begin stressing out.

3:47 AM: Stare at Mrs. TK in murderous envy.

3:48 AM: Mutter "fuck it" under breath, get up, grab cell phone and book and move into guest room to begin reading.

4:40 AM: Finish book. Contemplate punching self out for the second time this year.

5:10 AM: Asleep

6:10 AM: Wake up. Curse God, shake fist at sky.

6:10 AM - 7:15 AM: Feed animals, shower, dress, kiss wife, leave house.

7:15 AM: Pull into gas station. Remind self to get coffee, donut, juice, windshield wiper fluid.

7:20 AM: Get back into car. Stare at bird shit on windshield, realize I've forgotten the fucking wiper fluid, get out of car.

7:25 AM: Spill wiper fluid on shoes and pants. Scream "FUCK" in front of minivan full of children and scared parents.

7:35 AM: While crossing overpass, see traffic at dead stop on the highway, with plume of smoke in the northern distance. Contemplate pulling over to cry.

7:36 AM: Get onto highway, put car in park. Think of ways to destroy the world.

7:50 AM: Traffic begins moving.

8:05 AM: Pass burnt-out shell of exploded car. Feel nothing, because the morning has made me dead inside.

***Zombie driving mode***

8:30 AM: Flock of wild turkeys (A Flock? Gaggle? Gobble? Wobble?) runs onto I-93 highway, causing swerving, breaking, screeching, honking, and one sideswipe accident. Hit turkey with car for the second time this year. Think about driving into guard rail, beginning murder spree.

8:45 AM: Spill coffee on shirt.

8:47 AM: Repeat.

9:00 AM: Park car, stumble towards office.

9:15 AM: Write this down.


Any and all explanations are welcome.


----------------
Listening to: Magnolia Electric Company - Give Something Else Away Every Day

You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.

OK, confession time. I had to do something today that I am truly embarrassed about.

I had to go to traffic school.

You see, in Massachusetts, when you have 5 traffic violations in three years, traffic school is mandatory. And through a combination of a lack of patience, carelessness, and a little bit of bad luck, I managed to rack up those five violations. Your options are either go to traffic school, or have your license suspended. Obviously, I opted for choice #1.

It was a complete and utter shitshow. From the moment I got there and sat down, I thought to myself, "I am so going to write about this." It was a nightmare. It was awful. And as with all awful, nightmarish things, I present it to you folks for your own amusement. Because I love you all that fucking much.

First of all: It started at 8:00 AM on a Saturday. And lasted for 8 & 1/2 hours. 8 & 1/2 hours of being locked in a teeny-tiny, poorly ventilated room at a crummy Holiday Inn in an absolutely dreadful town with a group of reprobates the likes of which I've never seen in one place ever before. If I knew then what I knew now, I would seriously consider just taking the suspension. It was that bad.

When I was on my way there, I was thinking, "well, maybe it'll be like The Breakfast Club! You know, none of us will have anything in common, and we'll work on each others nerves, but by the end we'll come together! And learn to love each other, and gain valuable lessons about people and our differences and traffic... and become friends, and maybe some of them will even fall in love!"


Not quite.

Yeah. . . Not so much. 8 & 1/2 hours later, one person had stormed out, one person was literally drunk after taking breaks at the hotel bar for shots, and one fist fight had broken out. I'm not making this up.

But I digress.

The teacher was actually not a bad guy. He tried his best to get the group engaged, but... given his audience, he had limited success.

Allow me to introduce the highlights of the class:

Me. Your friendly neighborhood blogster. I was there for basic stuff - one speeding ticket (60 in a 45), a ticket for changing lanes without signaling (which was bogus because I totally did because I always do), a ticket for crossing the yellow line when driving around someone who had stopped, an accident and a failure to stop ticket. Relative to this group, it was pretty vanilla.

Other guy kind of like me - the other "normal" person there. A couple of minor speeding tickets, a busted tail light, other minor crap.

Loud and whiny princess who wouldn't shut up: Hadn't had a license in 10 years, but has been driving the whole time. Got pulled over for speeding, running a red light, had two outstanding warrants for possession, and had weed IN HER PURSE.

Stupid kid #1: Just a dumb kid. Probably 21 years old. A DUI, a speeding ticket for doing 110 in a 55. ONE HUNDRED TEN MILES AND HOUR, y'all.

Stupid kid #2: More of the same. DUI, and a suspended license for speeding (while drunk) and then RUNNING FROM THE COPS.

Random Vietnamese kid who couldn't really speak English. I have no idea why he was there. He slept through the entire class.

Scary Ukranian guy: 3 DUI's. Resisting arrest, followed by assaulting a police officer and kicking out the window of the cruiser. Serious facial scarring. This guy scared the fucking hell out of me.

And. . . the Monkey Boys. A father and his son, who were there together on separate lists of violations that included running stop signs, rear-ending a state trooper, cocaine possession, resisting arrest, speeding. . . it was astonishing. They were like this pair of primitive cavemen who'd accidentally been given drivers licenses. They spent the entire session cackling like hyenas, throwing balled-up paper at each other, and gratuitously hitting on the Princess, who for some reason was amused by it (even when Cletus Jr asked her if she'd go down on him during lunch). It was like watching a nature show filmed in Hell. Why the teacher didn't toss them I'll never know. The best part about the Monkey Boys? Apparently, the other brother was supposed to be there as well, but couldn't make it because he'd been arrested the night before and was in jail. Sweet mercy. They were like a criminally, insane version of the Spuckler family.


Needless to say, it was a disaster. The Ukranian guy kept taking breaks and would come back smelling like brandy. The Spucklers got more and more obnoxious, and things really came to a head when Cletus Jr. called another attendee a "darkie" during the lunch break. . . aaaand hence the fistfight. Fortunately, Cletus Sr. had the wisdom to have them take it out to the parking lot to settle their differences.

Sweet Heavenly Humping Buddha on a Unicycle. This was seriously one of the most surreal days of my entire life - and that includes the time when I dropped acid and a dwarf licked the back of my head when I wasn't looking (some other time, I promise).

But I survived it. And I can tell you this - I hereby vow to drive more carefully, partly because of an increased understanding of the importance of safety, and partly so I never, ever, EVER have to set foot in that room again. Because those people terrify me.

This Is What It Sounds Like When Worlds Collide

Watch the skies tomorrow, people. Look for the signs. It would be a good day to stock up on dried goods and ammo and lock yourselves in your basements/fallout shelters.

Because tomorrow, two of the most awkward, clumsy, and dangerous people in the known universe will meet... for lunch!!!!

Who knows what terrible fate will befall them. Who knows what disasters will occur. The universe might implode. It may rain toads. We may get ketchup in our eyes.

Yes, tomorrow marks the meeting of myself and A Lover and A Fighter. Mrs. TK will be there to witness, and perhaps clean up/put out any accidental fires.



Don't say you weren't warned.

I look at the TV, your America's doing well. I look out the window, my America's catching Hell.

MEMORANDUM

To: America

From: TK

Re: American Idol

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dear America,

Listen, can we talk for a moment? We have much to discuss. I know I'm sometimes awfully critical of you, and I know you maybe think I don't appreciate you. I mean, considering I've lived here for over 20 years and I work for the government and yet I'm still not a citizen... I can see how you might feel that way. Especially since you have this weird habit of electing absolute assholes for President, which is a little irksome.

But let's not dwell on the past, OK? I'd like to talk about more pressing issues. I'd like to talk about American Idol.

Seriously... could you stop? Please? I mean, let's be honest here - this show is not about finding talent. It should be noted that I haven't watched any of this show since, I think, Season 1 when Mrs. TK was marginally interested in it. But I've read a great deal about it, and my morning radio show talks about it a great deal. My understanding of it, based on that small amount that I've watched, is that it's basically broken into two parts:

Part I - The Trainwreck: This is the part where you show a bunch of no-talent halfwits who will do basically anything simply for 60 seconds of fame. It's the most degrading, demented and embarrassing thing I've ever seen outside of a Mexican donkey show. It's an orgy of distaste. You get a group of desperate, neglected mouth-breathers who've probably failed at everything, and put them on national television so that they can be relentlessly mocked by three of the most venal, unpleasant people you could possibly put in a room together.

You've got a drugged-our has-been pop star, a snide, not-nearly-as-clever-as-he'd-like-to-be British dickhead, and a bloated, obnoxious, wanna-be-street jackass who thinks saying "Dawg" a lot gets him some sort of credibility, when in fact it makes him look like a moron in blackface. For fuck's sake, you played Bass for Journey - AFTER they were good!

All of this put together makes for an hour of some of the basest, most depressing television I've ever seen... worse than watching lions eat their young, footage of roadside bombing victims and The Simple Life.


Part II - The Popularity Contest:
Theoretically, this could be the part of the show that is vaguely tolerable. However, it's ruined by a number of things. Allow me to elucidate:

1. It's hosted by a no-talent, saccharine failure of a human being, who thinks that hair gel and a rictus, corpse-like smile somehow makes him appealing.

2. The band just sucks. 'Nuff said.

3. The judges are still there, and while they aren't as disgustingly vile as they are in The Trainwreck, let's be honest - they have one main objective, which is to make people cry. Don't give me that bullshit about inspiration and constructive criticism - these "judges" wouldn't know constructive if it fucked them. They give absolutely no practical, useful advice, instead trying to one-up each other so that they can be the focus of the next Entertainment Weekly article. And I can't begin to tell you how completely and utterly disturbing it is for someone to strive to be in a brainless rag like that.

4. The music. OK. OK. I am willing to admit that sometimes, the performances can be quite... decent. But the song choices? We need to talk about the song choices. First of all, let's put aside the fact that the singers are, at this point, generic, cut-out caricatures of pop-stars ("The Rocker", "The Country Singer", Go Fuck Yourself). Why do you have to completely abuse perfectly good music? And don't give me that bullshit that the singers are trying to "express themselves". Bite me. I don't believe for a moment that they are in any way responsible for those arrangements. There's no way that shark-mouthed, helmet-haired asshat came up with his arrangement of "Imagine". You know how I know that? Because Eva Cassidy performed it the exact same way years ago, and did it with more soul and beauty than every Idol contestant put together has ever had.

And now... now they're steadily devouring The Beatles catalog? Is nothing sacred anymore? John Lennon is, as we speak, abandoning his peaceful ways and staging a riot in Heaven.

[deep breath]

OK. So anyway, America. Can we stop with the American Idol? Because its popularity really concerns me. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that it's the most popular show, since this country also elected George Bush... twice. But the truth is that Americans will watch anything that you hype up, that you saturate them with. And I can't help but feel that if you gave a really good show the same amount of promotion and production and advertising and hype, people would watch it. And then... you know what you'd have?

You'd have millions of Americans watching something good. Something important. And maybe, just maybe, that would get them to start paying attention to other interesting and important things. Just think what would happen if you really, really tried to popularize some of the great, canceled shows like Firefly or Veronica Mars. People would get into them. And that would lead them to other, better things. And maybe they'd want to learn more.

Maybe, you could make people want to be smart, instead of sitting slack-jawed in front of the TV, wiping the drool from their chins as crying, no-talent howler monkeys screech in front of a group of has-been, beastly judges.

Maybe you could do something useful for a change. Instead of trying your damnedest to make people stupid.

Anyway, it's just a thought.

Thanks.

-TK


PS:



----------------
Listening to: The Clash - Career Opportunities

Well the devil's bleedin' crude oil, from a hole in his chest

Click here if you'd like to read my latest movie review.

If not, go to Hell.

Peace out.


----------------
Listening to: Murder By Death - The Devil In Mexico

I AM BECOME DEATH, DESTROYER OF WORLDS!

(Mrs. TK's knitting gets mauled)


LOOK UPON ME AND DESPAIR...

Good night, kitten

Dear Sophie,

I know this is a little late, but I suppose you shouldn't be surprised. I know we've never really gotten along... you were always a little resentful of me - you always preferred when it was just you and your mom, before I came along and mucked it up. Not to mention the fact that you seem to have some trust issues when it comes to larger people and males. And I guess I was always a little annoyed by you, since you required extra care, and, well, you shed a lot.

But that doesn't mean we never had our moments. I remember years ago, the few weeks when you had to stay with me, and you would sneak into my room at night and curl up pressed into the small of my back. I know you're your mom's favorite, and despite the fact that I have a favorite (and he happens to be something of a big, rowdy boy), I still cared for you. You were always very sweet, and it was cute and funny the way you'd beg for cheese. I mean, seriously, who begs for cheese?

Anyway, I don't know what happened last night. I wish I hadn't gone out after work, so I could have gotten home and realized you were sick sooner. I got you to your mom's hospital as soon as I could, and I tried my best to comfort you in the car ride. I even sang to you at one point.

So I just wanted you to know that we'll miss you. Hope that wherever you are, there are lots of baskets and blankets to sleep on, and no loud noises to startle you. And, of course, cheese.

Rest in peace, Sophie-pie.

Let's start by making it clear... who is the enemy here.

Universal Pictures to make at least 4 movies based on Hasbro toys or games.

Wait... what? Apparently, this is the real deal. And the games/toys in question are Monopoly, Battleship, Candy Land, or Stretch Armstrong.

I'm sorry, I'm gonna need a minute here.

...

...

...

OK, look. I'm not really one of those "such-and-such raped my childhood" types, who goes into a big kerfuffle every time something from my youth gets made into a big-budget craptavaganza movie. I don't give a shit about any or all of the games or toys listed above there. I didn't care about the Transformers movie, and I don't care that they're making a G.I. Joe movie. Because, if we can be honest with ourselves for a moment, our memories of these things are based on our mental states when we were 8 years old. And 8-year olds are fucking stupid. Seriously, at that age you're only a couple of years removed from eating dirt and pooping yourself.

If you go back now and watch any of those shows? They're completely moronic. Trust me. I watched an episode of Transformers recently and it was the dumbest thing I'd seen since Just My Luck (What? I was sick that day and couldn't find the remote! Oh, get fucked.)

So I'm not outraged about making fucking Candy Land into a movie. What I am, however, is seriously fucking perplexed. I mean... why? What possible storyline could you make out of fucking Candy Land? Or Monopoly? Studio executives have to know this, right? They have to know up front that whatever is produced is going to be complete garbage. And yet, there they go, charging ahead.

I mean, I'm not upset. I'm certainly not going to see the movies - I guess I'll probably get annoyed when I'm relentlessly bombarded by the inevitable marketing campaign of trailers and posters and toys and Super Bowl spots and the New Special Pink McDonalds Candy Land Slightly Less Unhealthy Than Eating Pure Mercury Flurry Ice Cream Super Snack. But let' be real about it for a second - I'm annoyed by pretty much everything. This isn't going to be what pushes me over the deep end (Now a live-action Akira... that might do it). I just don't see the point. The reason for doing it. There's no demand for it. There's no... anything, really. I'm just confused.

I suppose if this isn't comprehensive evidence that Hollywood studios don't have souls, I do not know what is.


----------------
Listening to: Thievery Corporation - Marching The Hate Machines Into The Sun (Feat The Flaming Lips)

I heard the news today, oh boy...

Dear CNN,

I get it. News media outlets are taking a beating these days. You've got too much competition, and there's too much information out there. Not to mention that you have to try to balance what's important with what's popular, and rarely do the two meet. However, this week, I and many others believe you've made a grave error. Yeah, I'm talking about this. Even though I don't always agree with him, he's one of the most engaging, intelligent writers I know of. And you canned him for being, well... engaging and intelligent, essentially.

But what's more important is - the man's got a pretty impressive readership. And by taking this action, it's entirely possible that you're going to open up a box that you won't be able to close. Word gets around, and this one is moving quickly. I suspect this won't be your first angry letter.

Just thought you should know.

Don't drive angry!

My quest to become Emperor of the Internet continues.

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Eat, eat, you fucking jackals...

I can't actually believe I'm posting this. But due to my writing about it somewhere else, a couple of people have asked for this. "This" being the recipe for the beans and rice that I made on Sunday.

I have a fairly eclectic group of friends, all of which can cook pretty damn well. Our Super Bowl party (where everyone made something) consisted of St. Louis-stlye ribs, home-made corn dogs, some sort of Chinese-style deep fried pork, Chili, homemade cream cheese-filled chocolate cupcakes, and chicken wings with homemade barbecue sauce. And, the rice I made.

Incidentally, this recipe could end up a total disaster. I made the dish up on the spot, without measuring anything, so the measurements are just guesses. It's worth noting that this is ridiculously unhealthy, and possibly dangerous. It's also potentially spicy as a motherfucker, so be wary and reduce spicy stuff if you're a wuss sensitive. But my friends loooooved it (as did I), so here goes:

TK’s Glorious Rice and Beans of Super Bowl Failure

Ingredients:

1 Box Goya® Arroz Amorillo Spanish-style Yellow Rice (family size)

1 Ham Hock

¾ Pound Chicken Thighs (trim off as much fat as you can), cut into chunks

½ Pound Chorizo Sausage, cut into ¾” pieces

1 16 oz. Can Large Red Kidney Beans, drained

1 16 oz. Can Black Beans, drained

1 Red Bell Pepper, diced

1 Large Cubanelle Pepper, de-seeded, diced (Anaheim peppers would work nicely too)

2 Cayenne Peppers, dried, de-seeded, cut into the smallest possible pieces… as close to powder as you can make it (or just use powdered cayenne – I had grown and dried my own Cayennes, so it’s a little easier for me)

½ Onion, diced

1 Large Tomato, diced into chunks

Dried oregano to taste

Cumin

Coarse-ground black pepper, to taste

2 cloves garlic, chopped fine or minced

Cholula® Garlic Hot Sauce, to taste

Sylvia’s® Triple Pepper Hot Sauce, to taste

Peri-Peri hot sauce, to taste (you probably won’t find this anywhere – I brought it with me from South Africa. Either just use the other two, or find another kind).

Olive oil

Cooking Directions

Start by doing all the chopping, dicing, cutting, etc.

Begin to make rice as instructed on the box, except put the ham hock in the water when getting it to boil. Once the water is boiling, remove the hock with tongs and then add the rice. Follow the box instructions (reduce to simmer, cook for 25 minutes).

On a second burner, put ½ tablespoon olive oil and ½ the chopped garlic in a large pan or skillet to heat. Once garlic is bubbling, add chicken, oregano, cumin, black pepper and stir and cook until lightly browned and cooked throughout.

Remove chicken from the pan (I started out with large pieces and cooked them, the cut them up after cooking. Doesn’t really matter).

Keep an eye on the rice. When it's ready, either leave it in the pot you cooked it in or dump it into a casserole dish. Cover it to keep it warm.

If you removed most of the fat from the chicken thighs, there should be a small amount of fatty, garlicky goo left in the pan. I don’t know if this is healthy or not, but…

Add the chorizo to the goo, and let it cook on medium-high heat, until cooked through. Add already-cooked chicken, the three peppers (red bell, cubanelle, cayenne), onion, the remaining garlic, a bit more cumin (if you want), and as much of the various hot sauces as you can handle, and the ham hock from the boiling water. Cover and cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until onions and peppers are cooked, but don’t let them get squishy. Then reduce heat a bit and add the beans. Let them get hot, but don’t let them get to the point where they’re too soft. Continue adding hot sauce as you go, if you like. Remember, spicy food gets hotter over time, so if you’re going to have leftovers, they’re gonna get hotter. Be careful. Add the tomatoes at the very end, just to get them warm.

Once everything is cooked to your liking, remove the ham hock and discard. Drain as much of any excess fluid you can from the saucepan. Pour cooked rice into a large casserole dish, and then using a large serving spoon, add the meat/vegetable ingredients to the rice, stirring to mix as you go. Throw some cilantro on it, if you’ve got it, and if it’s not unhealthy enough, serve with some shredded cheese and/or sour cream.

Note: Don’t use any salt – between the chorizo and the hot sauces, there’s plenty of salt built-in. Any more and it would be grody.

Choose and perish

Let's play a little guessing game. Today, TK is:

A) Tired
B) Angry
C) Frustrated
D) Dejected
E) Hungover
F) Go fuck yourself
G) All of the above

Hey, whaddaya know. You guessed right.


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Listening to: Moby - Bring Back My Happiness

Little Child Runnin' Wild... Continued

Where were we? Oh, right- dumb shit I did as a kid.

Part II - Grand Theft Auto: Suburbia

No, we didn't actually steal cars. I mean, we were young and stupid, but not fucking criminals.

OK. That's... that's not entirely true. We kind of stole cars. Let me explain with a little background first.

It started when we were a little older than the last story, probably junior high somewhere. We got bored one day, and our parents weren't home (when my cousin's family first immigrated here from South Africa, they moved in with my family for a couple of years). Why our parents ever left us home alone together is a mystery to this day. We had always had a thing about cars... we liked watching them, and we had a long standing hood-ornament contest - we'd rip the hood ornaments off of cars and whoever had the coolest one won. You know, five points for Oldsmobiles, 10 points for Cadillacs, 20 points for Mercedes', and 50 points for Jaguars (the Jags were a bitch, you usually needed pliers or some other tool). We also used to periodically take my uncle's car out and do figure 8's in the parking lot, until a neighbor caught us, and told our parents.

I still get a little shiver when I think about the little bit of disciplinary action that resulted in.

Anyway, the point is, we were bored. So we were walking around the neighborhood, looking for something to do, and we wandered into an underground parking garage. And this is where things get a little... quasi-legal. Semi-legal. OK, fine. It was probably completely illegal.

It started out as looking to see if any cars were unlocked, so we could, you know... steal change and shit. I don't know, we were 13 and bored and apparently lacking in conscience. So we found a few unlocked cars (a surprising number, I confess, but this was 20 years ago, before keyless alarms and what not). I should make it clear that we did NOT break into any cars. Ahem. Anyway, then we decided to... well, we decided to move them around. We didn't know how to hotwire them (my cousin would learn this skill later in life, and end up in the clink as a result) but we figured if we popped them into "Neutral" and one of us pushed, we could move 'em around.

Look, I know, alright? I KNOW. This is not what good children do. Would you let me finish my story before you get all judge-y?

So we found about 10 or 12 cars that were unlocked, and took turns steering versus pushing. At first, we thought it would be a funny joke to just put them into different spots, to confuse the drivers when they got out of work. But then (and I confess, this part was my idea), we decided to - ah - to stack them up. Basically, we maneuvered all the unlocked cars so that they blocked in all of the other cars. We essentially created a miniature traffic jam with empty cars in a parking garage. It was actually sort of funny. And maybe sort of evil. I'm never sure which one. The only sad thing is we couldn't stick around to see what happened when people got out of work.

Anyway, that's my tale. Sure, we did some other dumb stuff, but those two stories have been rattling around my head for a while now, so I figured I'd tell them. Listen, if it makes you feel any better, I'm actually a relatively nice person now. Seriously. Ask anyone. If we were to ever meet, I totally wouldn't steal your shit or anything. Finally, if there's a lesson to be learned from my story, it's this: lock your fucking car, people. Seriously. There are some crooked motherfuckers out there.

By the way, if you're curious about how things ended up with my cousin, since he was my chief partner-in-misdemeanors, well, we drifted apart. He moved on to getting into more serious trouble (hence his time in the pokey), while I just settled into minor drugs, drinking, teen angst and occasional shoplifting. The following is perfectly illustrative of how things ended up.

When we were around 17 years old, my family was at his family's house for Thanksgiving. I was up in his room, goofing off, and we had the following conversation:

Cuz: Hey, you need a car stereo?
TK: What?
Cuz: A car stereo. You need one?
TK: You serious?

He promptly slides a box out from under his bed. It is filled with car stereos, as well as other contraband.

TK: Dude. The fuck am I gonna do with a car stereo? I don't have a car.

[pause]

Cuz: Oh. Right.

[pause]

Cuz: You need a car?
TK: [sigh] Naw, man, I'm good. Be a little hard to explain to my dad, you know?
Cuz: Riiiight.

[pause]

Cuz: You wanna get stoned?
TK: Fuck and yes.


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Now playing: The Coasters - Down In Mexico
via FoxyTunes

Little Child Runnin' Wild

Perhaps you may have noticed that I haven't been posting much. Frankly, I've been somewhat lacking in inspiration. But then, as is frequently the case, I found that inspiration in one of the more unusual places. And that place, my friends, is Hobocamp. After reading this, I got to thinking of all the goofy shit I did as a kid. However, unlike our sympathetic heroine Meg, I... well, I suppose it's confession time.

I was not a very good child. I don't mean that I picked on the smaller kids, or talked back to my teachers or parents (Good Lord, no). I mean that I got into a lot of trouble. I did a lot of stupid, frequently illegal, and sometimes downright dangerous shit when I was a wee TK. There were two reasons for this.

1) When I moved here from Cape Town at 9 years old, I came from an environment that was rigidly structured, with curfews and teachers that would beat you with bamboo canes if you did something wrong, even insignificant things. Late for class? Caning. Can't do division? Caning. Then I moved to the uber-liberal suburbs of Massachusetts, and realized that the worst thing that could happen was I'd get detention. Oh. Fucking. No. Not... detention! Bitch, please. I could do detention standing on my head.

2) When I was a kid, I was fairly certain I was invincible. I'm serious. Somewhere along the line, after escaping a few too many situations, I began to think that I simply wasn't going to die. Not that I wouldn't get hurt (I think I've made that clear), but that eventually, I'd make it out OK. Not a smart philosophy, but hey, I was 10. Cut me some slack.

So allow me to tell you some tales of what a bad and often foolish child I was.

TK's Misspent Youth: A Story in Two Parts

Part 1: When It's Cold, I'd Like To Die

When I was about 10 or 11, my parents lived on a house at the very peak of a very tall hill. There was a municipal fence that ran along the back of all the houses on our street. A 10-foot chain link fence that basically served as the boundary between everyone's back yard and the municipal property. And the reason it was government property is because behind that fence was a hill. A BIG fucking hill. Long and steep. And at the bottom of that hill was... The Massachusetts Turnpike, better known as Interstate-90. It's worth noting that there was no fence at the bottom of the hill. Just hill, then highway.

So, of course, what else is there to do when presented with such a vision? Well, if you are my cousin and I, you go sledding. Yes, one winter, after the first snowfall, we decided we were sick of the little Mary hills on the local golf courses, the little wussy hills that only ended in a fence or a pond or a tree. No, we wanted to up the risk factor a bit. So we jumped the fence with our sleds in hand, and stood there, gazing into the mouth of madness. It was one of those moments that you'll always remember, even when it happened over 20 years ago, where you stand on the precipice (literally) and gaze down into your possible doom. There's a moment where your heart beats impossibly fast, where your breath doesn't seem to want to coordinate with your lungs. When your laughter is the kind of high-pitched, crazed laughter that means you are about to do something that every common-sense cell in your brain is screaming in protest against. Then, with a semi-deranged grin on your face, you sit your snowpants-covered butt down on that plastic red disc, and there's a moment when you simply say: Fuck it.

That run was pure adrenaline. I barely remembered it. But I do remember this: There was no way to stop. The sleds were too slick, the snow was too wet. Digging your heels in didn't work. I realized this halfway down the hill. The only way to avoid certain death was to dump the sled. So I rolled and released, and tumbled sideways to a jarring halt, then flipped over just in time to watch the sled careen down the hill, onto the highway, and get smashed into so much red plastic debris by a pickup truck. Then I watched another sled go flying onto I-90 and then into oblivion, as my cousin had made the same decision I had.

Victory. We had done it, and we had survived, and it had been a fucking blast. Only one problem... after our virgin runs, we were plum out of sleds. And we could hardly tell our fathers that we'd lost our sleds because we'd been sledding down a hill of death. So we did what any pair of morally suspect kids would do in this situation: We stole more sleds. Every weekend when it snowed, we'd wait until it was dark, then creep around the neighborhood and steal a couple of sleds. Then we'd hop the fence and try it again. Of course, it also resulted in a neighborhood-wide campaign by the parents to find the thieves, which is why we only did it at night. Sledding. Down a hill that leads to a highway. At night. Yes, it's actually stupider than it sounds.

The game evolved into a test of wills - which of us could go the longest before dumping the sled. Many people, if they had to think of a term for this game, that term would be... ill advised. Unwise, even. Maybe even foolhardy.

I'm pretty sure my cousin won - my momma may have raised a fool, but she didn't raise no suicide.


Part II - Grand Theft Auto: Suburbia - coming soon.

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Listening to: Citizen Cope - D'Artagnan's Theme

If they move... kill 'em.

If you're interested in my continuing efforts to conquer the internet, then by all means, click here.


That is all.

This constant compromise between thinking and breathing

I got nothing today. I've got something interesting coming up for next week, but for now, I'm just going with random crap.

1. Should I be concerned that the mens room in my office smells like bananas?

2. Smoking. It's been 18 days. I'm doing well. I've even succeeded in hanging around a couple of smoking friends. Wasn't comfortable, and I got a little twitchy, but overall, it went well. So things are progressing nicely. Except...


3. Insomnia. It's here, and it's here with a vengeance. It's hard to point to the cause, since as I've mentioned before, this is a relatively common issue with me. But I feel like I've probably had three or four nights of sleep in the last two weeks. It's getting brutal. Today I woke up at 3:00 AM, and lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to will myself back to sleep. And eventually, I did. I fell back asleep at about 5:30 AM. 30 minutes before my alarm went off. Awesome. No, really. Thanks for that, gods of sleep, you fucking bastards.

Have you ever had insomnia so badly that you start drifting into madness? I think it's starting to happen to me. It started out normally... and then I started thinking too much. I thought about work, and what projects I'm behind on. I thought about smoking. I then started thinking about whiskey, and what my favorite brands are. I thought about Irish vs. Bourbon, and decided I'm definitely more of an Irish whiskey kind of guy.

I then started listing my favorite John Carpenter movies, and then wondering how someone can make so many great movies, and yet still make Ghosts of Mars, arguably the worst movie about people possessed by homicidal Martians ever made. I decided to write something, eventually, about the best of John Carpenter. Then I started composing it in my head.

It went downhill from there. Finally, I glimpsed true madness. Have you ever been so tired, so completely and utter exhausted, and yet still not able to sleep? I started wondering (seriously): Could I punch myself hard enough to knock myself unconscious? I mean, I'm a relatively big person, and I'm sure, if I wasn't a complete pacifist, if I got my weight behind it, I could knock someone out. Sure, I might break my hand, but the point is - could I turn that on myself? I decided the physics and the angling just wouldn't work.

So instead I got up and went to the bathroom.

Upon exiting the bathroom, I thought... what if I just took a flying leap at the bed, and deliberately slammed my head into the wall above the bed? I'd get knocked out, and then just collapse onto the bed. It seemed a perfect plan, except it would probably wake (and completely freak out) Mrs. TK, who was sleeping soundly (damn her).

Then back to whiskey. I thought, "I've got a couple bottles downstairs. Maybe I'll just go drink a mess of whiskey and pass out." I abandoned this thought because a) I'd end up waking the beagle, who would promptly become a tiny, three-legged pain in the ass, and b) probably not the best plan when I have to be a work in four hours. I'd be like this by lunchtime:



Then, miraculously, I fell asleep without having to drink myself into submission or crack my skull. And then 30 minutes later my alarm went off. Despite my regular use of profanity on this blog, and my blatant disregard for religion, I couldn't possibly type out the words I used to curse at God. It was that bad. I mean, points for creativity, sure, but anytime you call the Lord Almighty a "worthless whoremongering shitfucking pedophile", and that's the least offensive phrase you used? You should probably just keep a lid on that shit and hope Ole' Big Pants in the Sky was busy monitoring something else. Um... and... apologies to any religious readers. It was an extreme circumstance.

Anyway, I guess what I'm saying is... I'm really fucking tired.

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Listening to: Corinne Bailey Rae - Trouble Sleeping

That's a negative, Ghost Rider. The pattern is full.

Tiny white man, I will break every fucking bone in your hands.


Credit to Agent Bedhead for the picture.

You know me, I'm your friend, your main boy, thick and thin...

Hi.

So I think I'm finally ready to talk about this. I was nervous about mentioning it, for fear of jinxing it. Or because I'd feel like an asshole if I mentioned it and then it didn't work out. (And no, I'm not talking about the Patriots). Let's begin with an exercise.

Try to think about something that you've done every day since you were sixteen years old. Something that you do with your friends, or when you're alone. Something that's with you when you're sad, or frustrated, or angry. Something that's with you when you celebrate and when you mourn. Something that you've come to rely on as always being there for you. Something that is always there with you, like your wallet or your keys or your hands.

And then try to think about never having that thing... ever again.

...

I quit smoking.

I mean, sure, it's only been seven days, but I'm pretty sure this is the longest I've ever gone... since I was sixteen years old. And I'm doing it for real, not just "let's see how long I can go" bullshit. I've got patches and lollipops and all kinds of fucking gum.

It's a pain in the ass. It's not helped by the fact that a) I drink quite a bit, and usually smoke when I drink, and b) all of my friends except one smokes too. Which has led me to these unfortunate conclusions...

1) I have to stop drinking for a while. Needless to say, I am not pleased. Particularly since one of my friends just got me a spectacularly good bottle of Scotch for Christmas.

2) I am also going into temporary exile from my friends, to avoid temptation. I'm not thrilled about that either. But it's gotta be done.

I'm not looking for sympathy, because frankly, I got myself here. It's not like I couldn't have stopped years ago, when it would have been easier. But like most people, I thought I was immortal when I was young, and am more and more being forced to realize that... well, that's just not fucking true. But more importantly, for years I didn't quit because I didn't think I'd be able to. And if that isn't the most ridiculous self-fulfilling bullshit I've ever fed myself, I don't know what is. And then, late last year, I started getting angry with myself. Who am I to think I'm not strong enough? Goddammit, I'm plenty motherfucking strong. I've survived broken bones, stitches, and my parents leaving the country. I've survived heartache and deaths in the family. Fuck that. That excuse just ain't gonna wash anymore.

Not to mention that it pains me to do something that supports one of the absolute worst, most evil corporate machines in the history of the known universe.

So anyway. This is day seven. And it's on like Donkey Kong.

For real, I'm livin' life with some burdensome niggers.

Oddly, the following was finished moments before the excellent review at Pajiba. So those of you who read both sites, forgive the confusion, as well as any possible similarities. It can't be helped if Mr. Freilich and I share the same excellent taste. While his is a review of season five specifically, I thought I'd offer my thoughts on the show as a whole.
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"It's about how institutions have an effect on individuals, and how…whether you're a cop, a longshoreman, a drug dealer, a politician, a judge [or] lawyer, you are ultimately compromised and must contend with whatever institution you've committed to." - David Simon

I'd like to start things off with a quick poll. How many of you are watching HBO's The Wire?

Show of hands?

Those of you who didn't raise your hands should be hanging your heads in shame. Because, while I know that sometimes I have a predilection for exaggeration, I say this sincerely and without hyperbole: The Wire is the best show on television. It might actually be the best cop show in the history of television.

Seriously. Let me explain why. I'm not going to give a recap of the four seasons that have been shown so far, because I don't want to ruin anything. Instead, let me just explain why you should be watching it. The Wire, for the uninitiated, is the complicated story of cops, criminals, politics and education that takes place in Baltimore, MD. The show was created by David Simon, a former police reporter from Baltimore, who wrote the book that another excellent show "Homicide: Life on the Streets" was based upon. Much of it is based on the experiences of co-writer Ed Burns, a retired Baltimore homicide detective (not the asshat in that stupid time travel movie who married a model). By combining the wealth of experience of these two, they've succeeded in creating perhaps the most realistic portrayal of the perils of city living in the history of television.

Because the truth is, The Wire is grim. I mean... really grim. It takes a mostly sparse methodology of portraying its events. There are no special effects. There are no explosions. There is little romance, and there is absolutely no pretense to it. It is brilliant in its simplicity. By ignoring the jokes, the car chases, and the other artificial sociological creations that affect so many other cop shows, it is allowed to focus on the events and the people, making it so starkly real that it is at times uncomfortable. Many of the scenes were filmed on location in Baltimore public housing projects. Normally, given that it's my line of work in the real world, I'd avoid the term "projects", given its stigma. But here, that's what it is. It's what people think about when they think about low-income housing. It's low-income living at it's worst, which for decades, Baltimore was renowned for. Along with Philadelphia (where I once worked), Chicago, New Orleans and Detroit, it's one of the harshest urban living environments out there. For them to film the scenes involving poor families and drug dealers on location there truly gives those scenes a sense of desperation and desolation.

In addition to the setting and the vibe of the show, the cast is what truly makes it great. There are no saints in The Wire, but there are plenty of sinners. There are no heroes, but there are those who do heroic things. Everyone feels real, because everyone is flawed. If you like them, you like them in the way that you like your alcoholic uncle. Sure, he's funny and he tells a great story, but you also know that when you leave his house, he's going to drink himself into oblivion... and possibly do much worse. The show is rife with alcohol and drug abuse, people cheat on their significant others, the good guys lie and cheat, and sometimes the bad guys will show remarkable compassion. All of these things can be found in other shows. But the reasons they do it is rarely explored as fully as they are here. There is a sense of despair that permeates the show... even the most noble character feels it, and as a result, even the most noble character succumbs to the temptation that can come with it. The cops are jaded, they cut corners, and they plant evidence. Some of them are simply burnouts that are running out the clock until retirement or death - whichever comes first. The police administration is filled with back-stabbers and political animals that will gladly sacrifice a subordinate, regardless of talent and ability, in order to progress through the ranks. The crooks are dangerous and volatile. But they're also, at times, vulnerable and scared. But while the vulnerability that will be shown in a scene that makes you tear up and sympathetic, will also be the reason that they shoot someone in the back. Their loyalty is admirable, until you realize that it's just as selfish and tenuous as the lives they lead. The humor, while clever and occasionally laugh-out-loud funny, is harsh - from the sharp, slang-filled dialogue of the drug dealers to the gallows humor of the cops and politicians, it feels real and unburdened by the wisecracking pseudo-jargon of many of its contemporaries.

The cast is brilliant and pretty much completely unknown. Some of them have become known since the shows inception, but mostly they are still relatively obscure. The presence of a number of character actors, as well as the fact that many of the smaller parts are played by non-actors, and in some cases, actual Baltimore residents, gives it even more legitimacy. They are rarely beautiful people, but instead the cast looks like they bear the scars of the wear and tear of a difficult, harsh city life. What's interesting is that each group in the show, be they cops, dealers, or politicians has a group of seasoned, grizzled veterans that are trying to play the game to survive, and a group of hungry young bloods who are trying to change the game altogether.

There are, so far, three main groups who have been shown throughout the series. I'll give you a brief rundown, as well as a quick example of the fan favorite character:

The Cops. The cops are, in many ways, the heart of the show. But these aren't your glamorous CSI cops, or even the much grittier NYPD: Blue cops. Never before have I seen cops portrayed as realistically as these. The scene that always springs to mind is when one of their own dies in the line of fire, they gather together at the local cop bar to mourn him... except that they bring the body with, which is the tradition. He's placed on a pool table with a glass of whiskey in his hand, and everyone toasts him and drinks with the kind of hopelessness that is usually reserved for third world countries. At one point, two detectives are sitting outside on the curb, leaning on each other in a private moment of lament. Another one comes staggering out the door, vomits into the gutter, and then hands them each a shot glass. It's this kind of scene that shows the grim realities of the show. Most of the cops pile drunkenly into cars and careen off, only to get up the next morning with heads full of hornets and hearts full of sadness, and get back to it.

The fan favorite has always been Jimmy McNulty, played by Dominic West (most well known as the traitorous Theron in 300). He's renowned as one of the best cops in Baltimore, except that he's got problems with women, alcohol and authority, and not in that order. As a result, he spends the seasons getting busted down to uniform, then back up, depending on the political climate and the case. My personal favorites have always been Herc and Carver, a pair of young detectives who, while not the brightest knives on the Christmas tree, in some ways understand the streets far better than their subordinates.

The Dealers: There are several different factions of dealers, and each season deals with a different group that must confront another, be it for "corners" which they deal their product on, or for bragging rights, or simple revenge. Heavily regimented into Leaders and Soldiers, the dealers wage a constant struggle with each other, as well as within, for survival. One of the great things about The Wire is that the gang wars are rarely the stylized, drawn out gunfights you see in movies. They're fast, and clumsy (most drug dealers are hardly practiced marksman), with bystanders going down and even the bravest of tough guys running when it gets too hot. The fan fave here was always Stringer Bell, the educated businessman of the Barksdale gang, who went to night school and tried to apply the business practices he learned to drug dealing (is your product weak from being stepped on too much? Simply change the name to get people interested again). The other favorite (and my favorite) is Omar, the lone gunman of the series, a scarred, dangerous stick-up man who specializes in robbing drug dealers. Omar, while perhaps the most unrealistic character on the show (when he leaves his house to go to the grocery store, people start yelling that he's coming and everyone goes into hiding), his character is so remarkable that you can't help but be riveted by him. He's perhaps the most honorable character on the show, although it's common knowledge that he'll help you if it serves his purpose, but if you cross him later, or get in his way, all bets are off.

The Politicians: Perhaps my favorite group in the show, if only because it's an element of city life that is rarely explored seriously in either film or television. As someone who's had some experience working with (or around) politicians in large urban areas, I can only say that they are startlingly well realized. They scheme, they form and break alliances. You can tell that many of them probably started out as well meaning and with good intentions, but they just can't let go of the power they've come to have. And they will do anything to protect it. The main power players are the mayor and the city councilors, as well as their competition in the elections. I'm not sure if there is a fan favorite politician, but mine is Tommy Carcetti, the new blood city councilor who wants to be mayor. It's no small feat for him to run, since he's an upper class white man running for mayor in a predominately black city with a popular (though crooked) black mayor. He's written incredibly well, somehow managing to be young and idealistic, while simultaneously scheming, smarmy and willing to make almost any deal to get what he wants.

The truth is, there are so many characters that it would take up pages to list them and adequately describe them. On of the many standout things about the show is its ability to richly detail even the most inconsequential of characters. Just watch a scene where detectives question the mother of a missing drug dealer - you'll probably never see the mother again, but in those five minutes, you'll know everything you need to know about life as the mother of a child who, in reality, you lost years ago. There are many other groups you'll come to know and love (and mourn, in some cases) - the kids who live in the city, on the knifes edge between school and the drug trade, the dockworkers who are trying to compensate for a failing shipping trade by smuggling, the teachers who want to teach the kids, but instead have to settle for attempting to maintain a semblance of order instead. All of these groups are realistically and brilliantly rendered.

The Wire has always been special to me, in particular because I have some experience with the subject matter. Having worked in public housing for the last eight years, it's refreshing and surprising to see it rendered so impressively on screen. And while life in the low-income housing isn't always the desolate wasteland that The Wire depicts it as, it's important because it breathes life into a frequently neglected part of the American urban landscape. And to be honest, anything that makes us aware of the people and issues in these places is inherently valuable, even without its other (substantial) merits.

So, that's my case for it. I hope it worked. The Wire is currently in its fifth and final season, and along with Firefly and Veronica Mars, I'll miss it more than any other television show. It's the only show worth watching, and if you're missing it, then stop reading, don't even comment. Just go get season one, because you might be missing the best show you'll ever see.

Trust me.