No Apologia: Net Neutrality

I want to try something new with this entry: instead of just rambling and ranting about my political and worldly views with barely any context and no reference, no bibliography or Works Cited Page, as it were, I want to actually dissect an issue based on outside resources, official and unofficial remarks made by people who aren't me and are potentially more or less qualified to speak on the matter at hand. Depending on how I feel about the result, I will do this each month.

The first issue I want to address is the Network Neutrality Act. The full body of this entry will be posted later, when I finish it. I apologise for the delay due to the scope and scale of the undertaking. I hope one or two days wait is not too much of a wait for something that's not just bullshit filler.

CHECK BACK MONDAY!

The Plebian Speaks of Newness, Again

Here's the deal. I want to try and maintain this Blog with regularly updated content, in a progressively more frequent manner. As of right now, I have worked out a simple schedule, with room for additions later. My aim to create a sort of "monthly magazine" feel, with a number of features that appear once a month, for now. I have some plans for things in the future, as I always do, but here is what my schedule is as it stands:

Week #1: Tuesday—Random, Thursday—Ramble/Rant
Week #2: Tuesday—Five Brief Reviews, Thursday—A Full Review
Week #3: Tuesday—Poetry; Thursday—Story Installment
Week #4: Tuesday—Random, Thursday—Ramble/Rant

To explain what some of this means, in detail:

Random: This is an entry to give me room to basically do something according to my whim, by my fancy. I intend to use this for short or lengthy comedic pieces or bits, parody or satire, absurd or whatnot; it may not always be funny, but I basically intend to have two entries a month that are atypical of the rest of the other features, to serve as my licensed space for arbitrary nonsense.

Ramble/Rant: A ramble is where I discuss whatever topic or topics strikes me as interesting at the time, in a sort of low-key or civil manner. A rant is basically the same thing, except angrier, more sarcastic and usually profane. Sometimes, an entry can fall between those, but this is usually just me putting a Soap Box down and stepping up onto it.

Reviews: Where I tackle movies, music, books, websites or whatever is in need of my personal appraisal. Not much explanation should be needed, here.

Poetry and Story Installment: I like to pretend I'm an artist slash writer, so this is the week where I put up things I do creatively within the realm of literature. Poetry can include one long poem or several shorter ones, and most people will still not care. I have several ideas for serialized short stories, including the one I started last week. Prose is usually more appealling to most, so I hope to weave interesting stories and practice my writing style.

This Blog has always, essentially, functioned as a form of my own personal practice space for writing, but I have plans to transform it into something more than just that. If nothing else, I hope to turn it into an outlet for something more than just writing, soon, and include some art. I don't know exactly what direction I'd like to see this go in, but I am thinking of bringing in some collaborative efforts with creative people I know. Something in the form of this Blog or a tangentially related, new thing may be born… I hope.

Oh, as a note, within the rotation above, this is currently a Tuesday of Week #4, if it's not apparent. Thursday will be a Ramble/Rant, then the monthly cycle will begin anew.

[Adios]

From the Diary of James D. Fitzherald (Part 1 of 3)

[Foreword: This is a… short story of sorts, I think? Something like that, anyway, that will be three parts, posted once a month, and, ideally, interesting reading for people who aren't me. If you, dear reader, remember my old series of stories I was posting a year and more ago… well, this is mostly unrelated. But I do have intent to revisit those stories, soon-ish.]

September 1st, 1997

"Life could be worse."
           I'm hungry.
                     It seems a silly thing to say.

      The walls of the small room, off-white plaster, surrounded the loft bed and its occupant, a young-looking boy laying on his back and scribbling in a spiral-bound diary. The blankets on the bed were plaid, green and white, with a matching pillowcase for the single pillow he laid against. He held his head with one hand and wrote with the other, a bored look on his face—a clock sat on the desk in the room and measured the time in glowing digital numbers. Outside the window, through the closed, burnt sienna-coloured Venetian blinds, crickets chirped beneath the sounds of traffic and a city.

"Tomorrow, I am going to begin high school, and it scares the Hell out of me."
           I'd really like a grilled cheese sandwich.
                      Coward, cowardly little Boy,
                      To be a Man, lie yourself unafraid.

      The boy had dark, ruffled hair, bushy and wild, and a pale, unsunned complexion, very soft, rounded facial features and a spindly build—not more than five foot eleven inches in height, standing. The digital alarm clock radio read '1:33' in red on black, a small, bright dot indicating it was the A.M.-designated hours of the day. He wore a long, baggy, green shirt with a white stripe down the side, over brown, red and white flannel pajama bottoms that were too short, reaching to above his nubby ankles. Over the bed, on the ceiling, posters with frayed edges for bands both current and old were taped haphazardly in place, a few peeling off—a small, stainless steel lamp was clamped to a bedpost, illuminating his writing with its artificial, yellow glow. The lamp's dull electrical humming faded behind the noise of the spinning, green blades of the fan on the ceiling—air from outside came through the one window ajar, rustling the orange, floor-length curtains.

"Miles and Good Boy will be there, though. We've decided to form a band this year."
           I'm thirsty, too… We're still out of soda, aren't we?
                      Rocks in rushing water, eversinking,
                     Stepping stones to becoming all alone.

      His large, green eyes, from beneath half-closed lids, followed his white ball-point pen as it marked lines and joined them together into letters along the light blue lines of the diary's pages, with one leg dangling over the edge of the bed—an acoustic, six-string guitar with a cherry-stain finish was laying beneath the bottom of the boxspring, next to its unzipped, black canvas case—a black canvas shoulder-bag was stuffed full of notebooks, binders and papers, hanging off the end of the bed on the loft's four-rung ladder. He licked his large lips and flipped a page, the faint crinkling of paper drowning out his light breathing and the creaking of the bed's springs as he shifted his weight and stretched out his leg not dangling from the edge. A foghorn blared in the far distance, over the horizon, signifying the time for some unseen activity in the town's shipyard.

"Sister's fine. Still smokes. A lot."
           Damn, I could seriously go for, like, some MacDougal's or Colonel's Fried Chicken.
                     All people, plants in the Garden,
                     Watered regularly, to bloom and wither,
                     The Gardener last in line.

      In a room across the hall from the one the boy quietly wrote inside, dissonant and chaotic music vibrated the thin walls of the small house, originating from the twin speakers of an older model, silver stereo perched on a chipped, brown dresser. The walls, sky blue plaster, enclosed the small, pine desk where a teenaged-looking girl sat resting her face on the palm of one hand, an elbow leant on the rough, stained surface of the desk, while tapping the ash of a smoking cigarette into a red-glazed, ceramic tray full of similar, smoldering, grey and black ashes. Behind the wooden, splat-backed chair the girl sat in rested an unmade, twin-sized bed with rose-red sheets tossled. Lifting a thick, black eyebrow, the girl continued to stare at the wall with an expression of malcontent and worry, sucking on the butt of the cigarette and letting the smoke roll out of her nostrils. Suddenly widening her bloodshot, hazel eyes before slightly shaking her head as though waking from a daydream, she noted the time on a dusty, antique clock with fine etchings of figures on its mahogany body, the longer hand at the 'I' and the shorter halfway between 'VI' and 'VII.' She exhaled a breath and a puff of grey and white smoke followed by grey, smoky trails.

"Today was dull, like most days here in the middle of Nowhere."
           Everything's closed, now, of course… Damn. Is there still leftover Chinese?
                     The clouds grow heavy, saddened,
                     By tears of the lonely, the broken toys,
                     Paradise Nowhere in God's domain.

      "Need to take the trash out," commanded a coarse, weary-sounding voice coming from around the corner of the cramped, messy kitchen where the dark-haired boy was waiting for a slice of toast to finish toasting. The white, four-slice toaster lazily ticked away the moments, as a wooden cuckoo bird on a pole sprang out from a wall-clock in another room and sang seven times. He grunted his compliance and looked over at the full, plastic trash can against the wall, a stained paper towel hanging over the beige top. The toaster dinged and sprang the golden brown toast free at the end of the seventh cuckoo, startling the boy and causing him to jolt out of his half-awake state. The same voice as before returned: "And the dishes." A radio from outside the kitchen was emitting the voices of a pair of self-promoting morning show hosts on a rock station, interrupted by the well-timed use of goofy sound effects. Turning toward the nearly overflowing sink, where plates with bits of food stuck to them and a greasy pan awaited, the boy took a dry saucer from the drain next to it and opened a drawer for a butter-knife. "Woowee, sure is hot today, eh, Tommy?" one of the radio hosts said with a laugh, followed by a soundbyte from a popular TV show with one of its main character qupping something quite witty about heat and underground places.

"Was the last day on the job, today."
           After three months, I'm really sick of fucking french fries…
                     The mountains grow higher, unreachable,
                     The House of God, high atop, vanishing,
                     Lost in the foggy mists, the plants weep.

      A bald-headed, tall, fat, brown-skinned man wearing a visor with a colourful, architecture-based logo and managerial nametag glanced up at the yellow-faced, red-handed clock on the green tile wall of the loud, industrialised kitchen behind the greasy, yellow counter of a fast food hamburger restaurant. "Kid, you're off, get out of here," he shouted, his bass voice dry and scratchy, while heading back toward the drive-through window, holding a massive, sweating cup full of cola, facing away from the dark-haired boy, that he was addressing, standing at one of the cash registers in the front, in the middle of rapidly punching in a customer's order.
      "What would you like to drink, sir?" he inquired poiltely, squinting his eyes and staring down at the colourful, happy images on the register's square buttons, waiting for the big-nosed, bearded man wearing dark, red-tinted sunglasses across from him to give his response and a payment of some form.
      "Diet," the customer answered, smirking and scratching his nose at the same time. The boy nodded and gave him the order's total cost, taking the man's plastic credit card when he offered it and promptly ran it through the slot of a credit machine. "Aren't you going to I.D. me, kid?"
      The boy blinked, embarassed, and grimaced in discomfort. "Er, sorry, yes, can I see an I.D., please?"
      "You don't recognize me?" the man asked, chuckling and pausing for a reaction. The boy looked up from the buttons of the register at the man: he wore a simple, grey suit, no tie, with the top, black button of his black, wrinkled shirt undone. Shaking his head after searching his memory, the boy wiped his sweaty hand over his mouth, rubbed his chin and blinked rapidly several times in the harsh, flourescent lighting of the restaurant.
      "…No?"
      The man smirked, once more, and held a picture I.D. up for the boy to see. The credit transaction authorised finally, spitting out a receipt, and a bored-looking, black-haired, teenaged girl with braids stepped up to relieve the boy of his duty, appearing next to him on his left suddenly holding one of the restaurant's canary yellow cardboard cups full of Diet soda. The man signed the receipt and waved a hand dismissively, taking his credit card back from the extended hand of the boy. "You will."
      "…All…right, sir? Have a nice day."
      The smirking man in the red sunglasses picked up the drink the girl had sat on the counter in front of him and stepped to the side to wait for the rest of his order, while the boy repeated it, in shorthand, into the microphone by the register, before letting the girl take his place. In line after the bearded man, a balding, blonde man in thick glasses walked forward to the counter, his mouth downturned into a frown, prepared to give his order.

"Hung out in Miles' basement, also."
           How long ago was dinner, five, six hours? Shit… I forgot to take the trash out.
                     Down below, the villagers pray,
                     The Obelisk looms, the Moon empties,
                     Trees, eldest of the plants, cut away,
                     The River is rising, but nobody's the wiser.

      The dark-haired boy stood before a white, screen door still holding his finger out, having just completed depressing the house's doorbell. A finch was perched on the edge of the gutter above the porch, and nervously shifted from side-to-side, occasionally screeching, as a fat, black and white tabby cat sat on his haunches, in the front yard, and gazed longingly upward. The boy turned away from the door, glancing down at the overgrown grass of the lawn and the intermittent patches of grey dirt that broke it up, over at the older model, rusted, silver, four-door car desperately in need fo washing parked across the sidewalk, before the front door opened and a tired-looking, muscular man in a white tank-top, stained with red and yellow spots, and tattered blue jeans glowered at him through the screen. "You Guy's friend?" he asked, hardly annuciating the words or seperating them from each other much, tilting his chin up and looking down his nose at the boy after a moment of no reply. The finch took off flying and shat on the silver car's windshield—the cat appeared to be downcast momentarily, and mozied to his half-full water bowl beside the bottom step of the porch, where dead insects and dirt floated in circles.
      "Ye–Yes, sir," the boy stuttered, opened the screen door, and, then, shuffled over the threshold into the house as the man stepped aside and motioned for him to enter, letting him come in before slamming shut the front door, locking and bolting it with a flick of his fatty, hairy wrist. The young bow nodded to the older man, proceeded to not avoid eye contact, and stepped over a pile of clothes in his path, toward the archway that lead out of the littered, smelly living room. Dim light filtered in through the three windows in the room, through the closed, tan Venetian blinds, each somewhat bent and broken in places, spilling onto the brown carpeted floor in a barred, golden pattern. An upset, auburn, red and white cat darted through the boy's legs, meowing and diving underneath a pile of old boxes, toppling over an empty, damp cardboard box that had been precariously balanced on top. Looking down reluctantly, the boy saw—and smelt—a pile of fresh cat feces and quickly scuttled through the archway, coughing.
      "Miles?" he called into the house, making his way through a dining room that had an oak, square table surrounded by stacks of boxes, bags and clothes, no chairs, and no working light, into a kitchen with old food dropped on the yellow and orange linoleum floor and more stacks of various sizes and types of boxes. The kitchen was lit by a flicking, flourescent light fixture hanging from the cracked, white ceiling. "Miles?" A television set somewhere else in the house was blaring the noise of a sports show, a pair of sportcasters bantering with some semi-famous sports personality, while a cat kept crying, over and over. The dark-haired boy swatted at a fly buzzying by his ear and turned around in a circle, noting the crock pot half-full of used grease on the uncleaned stovetop, and the broken plate in the bottom of the otherwise empty sink—the black, splotched microwave, easily older than the boy himself, blinked yellow digits reading '12:00', indicating the time was unset. "Miles?"
      "Yo."
      The boy turned to the sound of the disembodied voice and saw another boy with short, closely trimmed, blonde hair, wearing a torn, desert fatigue-patterned t-shirt missing its sleeves and green, army pants, cuffed at the bottom as they were too long, with polished, black, SWAT boots that had straps on the inside and zippers on the outside—the other boy held a hand up in greeting and was walking around the corner, through the archway from where the dark-haired boy had not entered. "C'mon," the blonde boy prompted and gestured for the dark-haired boy to follow him back to where he had appeared, descending two steps and going through a door with flaking, ochre paint, into a stone-walled basement, down a flight of unstable, wooden stairs coming onto a dusty, cracked, concrete floor. In the middle of the room a threadbare, cream-coloured carpet was laid down with a gaudy, secondhand, striped couch, orange and brown, sitting on it, along with a wooden coffee table and a plastic, white end table. Junk was sprawled everywhere, on the surface of the tables and on the couch cushions, on the floor and piled on shelves against the walls—magazines, old toys, malfunctioning electronics, borken appliances, red toolboxes, exercise equipment, free weights, bundled newspapers, aluminum cans, half of a stereo, a car door, boxes and boxes. Sunlight streamed in through long, narrow rectangles for windows high up on two of the four walls, illuminating the clouds of dust circulating in the basement air like ancient, dying cyclones. The cat was still crying over the muffled, barely audible noise of the sportcasters comparing statistics on television.
      The blonde boy picked up a bucket of yellow, blue and red building block-like toys from the couch and sat it on top of issues of ripped music and electronics magazines on the end table, clearing a set for his guest. The dark-haired boy kicked a yellow, toy van based on an animated show about anthropomorphic reptiles that fought crime accidently as he moved toward the couch, grimacing as he heard something snap. The blonde shrugged and scooped up a tennis ball that looked to have been chewed on and shot it against a wall, sending it angling off into a small mountain of plush toys—orange cats and tigers, fake babies and children.

"Good Boy came by, too."
           I think I'm going to grow my hair out, not get it cut for awhile…
                     The Gardener works, unassisted,
                     As God abandons the Village, unbidden,
                     The River is teeming, can't You see it,
                     The Rocks are sinking, sinking, sinking.

      Three boys now sat on the creaky couch with sagging springs in the dank basement, the dark-haired and blonde ones joined by a light brown-skinned, long-haired newcomer who wore a humongous, pastel, tie-dyed t-shirt and red trackpants, barefoot. They were listening intently to music from a sizeable boombox that had been set amidst the junk on the coffee table, on top of notebooks and used books, the chords of an electric guitar backed by a rumbling bassline and the fast beating of drums, a nasally-voiced singer cutting in occasionally to talk about listlessness, apathy and paradise. Together, they silently communed in reverence to the song for a number of minutes, until the blonde boy leant forward and picked up a clean, black, electric bass guitar where it had been nestled at his boots. Unplugged, it made soft, echoing sounds as he began running through simple scales, plucking the strings with one hand and fingering the notes, down then back up the fingerboard, nodding his head in time to the poppy, rock-influenced music from the radio.
      The song ended and a radio D.J. spoke up, so the long-haired boy turned the volume knob to the left to drown out the inevitable, inane prattling about sponsors, concerts and product endorsement. "Summer has come to a most pleasant close," he commented, while watching the blonde boy's fingers run over the bass's strings. The sunlight in the basement was beginning to turn darker shades of orange and gold, but an overhead lamp was now humming softly and emitting artificial light for the boys. The dark-haired boy unzipped his guitar case and produced his acoustic instrument, humming a bit to himself for a minute.
      "Could've been worse," the guitarist said, plucking at a string and tuning it by ear carefully. The long-haired boy, sitting in the middle of the couch to the right of him, smiled broadly and absently rubbed a silver cross that hung around his neck by a string. A filthy-looking, white cat, out of nowhere, leapt on top of a pile of boxes in the corner of the basement and curled up.
      "Could've been better," the bassist retorted, still making the soft notes with his unpowered instrument. He sat to the right of the long-haired boy, who nodded his head, running his hands through his hair and sighing. The cat in the corner yawned expansively, an impressive display of the pink throat and yellow feline teeth.
      "We should start a band," the instrument-less boy proposed, standing up from the couch and stretching his arms and legs out. The couch creaked loudly, startling the cat and causing her to dig into the cardboard, refridgerator-sized box with her claws, standing bolt-upright in an instant. Heavy footsteps resounded upon the floor above the basement, followed by the sound of a door openning and shutting. A television set was still blaring a sports broadcast elsewhere in the house.
      "Right," the guitarist sighed. The long-haired boy frowned slightly and tilted his head in a gesture of curiosity, looking down at the two still-sitting boys. The radio station the boombox was quietly playing featured a commercial for another action movie starring a foreign bodybuilder—imperceptively beneath that, the breathing of the cat on the refridgerator box slowed, coming in long nasal inhalations and exhalations.
      "We've been saying that all summer, G.B.," the bassist smirked. Shrugigng his shoulders and chuckling, the long-haired boy hopped over a toy firetruck and walked over to a long, rectangular, dark blue bag that was shoved underneath the basement steps. Unzipping it, from inside he produced an electronic keyboard and accompanying power adapter, laying it on the edge of the coffee table after sitting down, cross-legged, and fitting the plug into an power strip ran from an outlet in the nearest wall, meant for just such uses. Flipping the keyboard on, he adjusted the volume, balance and pitch settings, tested a few notes and proceeded to tap the 'C' key over and over with a medium temp to grating effect. The white cat meowed and rolled onto her other side, her ears twitching in annoyance.
      "Stop that," the bassist eventually snapped, stopping his own plucking. The keyboardist grinned mischeviously and tapped the key twice more before stopping and beginning to perform a very slow rendition of Chopin's "Chopsticks."
      "What would we call ourselves?" the guitarist asked, strumming a random few chords to the same tune of "Chopsticks." The song was interrupted by the incredibly close sound of a dog barking at the top of the basement stairs, shortly preceding the yowl of the cat as she exploded from her perch and tore around the room in a panic—a second later, the dog yelped and a man's gruff voice could be heard scolding, presumably, the animal. Calming down, the cat urinated against a wall and proudly strutted up the stairs. The disc jockey on the radio announced the start of a program entitled "7 'o Clock Rock."
      The three boys simultaneously shrugged. "Dunno…?"

"We still don't have a name for our band, as usual."
           I am so fucking hungry…
                     Listen, Boy, to this tale,
                     It tells of daring feats of bravery,
                     Lies constructed for moral teaching,
                     And the moving woe of those left alone.

                     We swim in fire,
                     Baited in by liars,
                     A silly thing to say,
                     But perfect to pray.

Latest Scuttlebutt Says: Two Poems Ahoy

I continue to propogate this silly idea that I am a poet, for whatever reason. On two unrelated notes, vanilla caramel is a delicious flavour for coffee creamer, and Blogger's post update continues to strive to foil me at every turn.

Love Song No. 9

"Hey, hey," sang the popstar, "Baby, baby,"
The teenagers cry out, the lights raise,
This is the gig of a lifetime, the critics rave,
"Love, love, love," the lyrics speak of hearts of gold.

       Is this the triumph of love?
       Electronic drums, synthesized notes,
       Moved by the crescendo, dip an' go.

Drinks after the show, down we plow,
The fertile fields of our minds, seeds a'burstin',
Seeds a'plenty, of doubt, of shame,
"I love you," she slurs, eyes aglaze with passion.

       Is this the triumph of love?
       Two guitars and a bassline, reel 'em in,
       Chorus, bridge, chorus, variation, the end?

"You alright?" he asks over her moans, hair in hand,
She nods, grimaces and gags, "You sure?"
His answer of splashing as she shakes, so pained,
And looses more vomit upon an open toilette.

       Is this the triumph of love?
       Five men prance 'n synch on stage,
       Lights afire as the amplifiers rage.

"This alright?" he asks over her moans, hand in hand,
She nods, grimaces and prepares, "You sure?"
His answer of silence as she shakes, so afraid,
And loses herself whilst he comes à l'intérieur.

       Is this the triumph of love?
       Fifty thousand screamin' fans adore it,
       Fifty million dollars reimburse it.

Drinks in the morning, reap the fields,
The crops of pleasure sown, seeds a'plant'd,
Seeds a'plant'd, of doubt, of shame,
"I love you," he murmurs, eyes aglaze with passion.

       Is this the triumph of love?
       The gig is over, the curtain falls,
       Then, darkness swept o'er them all.

"Hey, hey," sang the doctor, "Baby, baby,"
The teenagers cry out, the questions raise,
This is the gig of a lifetime, the parents rave,
"Love, love, love," the vows speak of hearts of gold.

* * * * * * * *

Words #3: Dismay

When the apple falls to pieces,
The capitalists dance in discos,
The church will march in line,
The army pray, the rod divine,
Where the tree stood once.

"Holiest of Holies, holy moley,"
Children whisper under covers,
Flashlights held to lil' golden books,
Crucifix on the wall watching with dead, darkened eyes.

"Gee golly Gosh, darn the luck,"
Women clutching coffee mugs,
Baristas wiping, demons flying,
"Where'd the time go, the time go?"

Worlds of words bound in empty heads,
Hands heavy with mops and buckets,
The blood ran red, unsurprisingly,
"What other colour is there for it to be?"

Prayers on mats in Eastern camps,
Lives locked in lucid dreaming, forever,
Philosophers write their revolutionary essays,
Published in quarterly releases, serialised,
"The Deific Humanisation of Localised Ostentation."

Oranges shaped like planets, floating free,
Orbitting forests of brown and yellow,
Spring is the season of choice, critics say,
Two thumbs up, this is our loveless waste,
Embrace it, as the waters rise.

"Hallelujah," the chorus screams, afire,
The flowers wilt in salty waters,
The arsonist smiles and keeps runnin',
The lilies drift on fresh swamps,
The bodies pile up on Heaven's doorstep.

God doesn't wear a hat, you see,
Neither do I, but that's beside,
Come, sit, stand, salute, sit, sob,
Rust, flakes forming rivers golden brown.

The extra crispy Christ figure, Colonel,
Delicious holy herbs, sacred spices,
Seven-hundred seventy-seven ingredients,
Complete with a side order of manna.

"Where's your God now, Hero?"

"I hear he vacations in Burbank…"

"Really? I've got family there."

"Huh, me, too. Small world."

It's a small world, after all,
It's a small world, after all,
It's a small world, after all.

A survey of a select sample of Southern belles,
Decisively says that Tennessee Williams got it wrong,
And there is hope for family values in the long haul,
That William Faulkner, too, was just a drunken fool.

Red Rover, red Rover, quick, pull over,
Me and my Buddy, my good pal, Frankenstein,
Mary Shelley and Adderal, Lucy Lui to Pearl S. Buck,
(Not to be confused with Rita Pearlman).

"Hasn't this gone on long enough,
All this strife, all this pain,
So many tears,
All alone,
Again."

End?
No.
…
O.

[Adios]

Five Florid Brief Reviews

I have been to the movie theatre on a number of occasions in the recent past. Inside of these mysterious halls of stained and frayed carpets and glassy-eyed, zombie-like servants, magic glowing machines show me things, terrible secrets of arcane and ancient natures. Lord, I have seen the End, and it is more terrible than the prophets have written! Yea, I say unto thee, the faithful and pure believers, hold thyselves from sin, for the consequence that awaits thee is nigh unfathomable in its sinister torments! Worse yet, it may very well be starring Halle Berry—I shall pray for thy soul's salvation, o ye lamb!

Superman Returns

     The wizard's tower I ascended for the viewing of this moving, entrancing picture was obelisk in nature, monstrous in scope, marked with the appellation, "IMAX," for truly it's treatment to the eyeball and things related was in a maximised portion… I'm going to stop writing like a bad 70's fantasy dime-novel, Were the cheap novels even a low as ten cent, then? Fuck it, who cares. Superman was what we got in exchange for the filth that was Ratner's X3, as Bryan Singer jumped ship from that franchise after X's 1 & 2 to do this project, which is something, as my ex-roommate estimated, that should be weighed upon when speaking of this film. The question must be asked, "Was this movie worth the travesty of X3? Would a good X-Men movie have been preferable to a good Superman one?" In other words, Superman Returns had to be awesome enough for two.
     Now, in my opinion, there are very few films that aren't benefitted by being on a gigantic IMAX screen, at least in the action-based genres, so that's an instant plus. Oh, man, do I love the IMAX; seriously, when you have to turn your head because something is going on to the right or left, there's something nearly "virtual reality" about the whole thing. Unlike Matrix: Reloaded, which on IMAX mostly revealed that the movie was both unsatisfying and included more nipples than I needed to see outside of pornography, Superman Returns was pretty great and didn't challenge my sexuality. The 3D parts were kinda nifty, arguably just by the merit of "Hey, it's not 2D," but it wasn't the most outstanding three dimensional effects ever manufactured. I'm maybe a bit desensitised to the entire idea by Busch Gardens Williamsburg and the onslaught of 3D Theatre that was always offered there—which, additionally, involved getting remotely damp for some reason—but I'd say go see it at IMAX 3D if you can, over plain ol' traditional cinemas with their non-wrapping silver screens o' doom.
     As for the movie itself, it was Singer-licious, very evident of being envisioned and created by a man with an eye for good writing, good scenery, and good fun, clearly able to rally a team of able writers, actors and a production staff worth their salt. Everything in the movie was pretty much spot-on with no major complaints, except for one thing I'll get to later. Like X's 1 & 2, the humour is cute, sometimes tongue-in-cheek, and worthy of chuckles, the action was expertly executed it such a way not so overdone that it reeked of budget-squandering or effects-masturbation (see Pirates 2), and the plot was adequately true to a comic-superhero flick while not being out-and-out stupid (see X3). My ex-roommate commented that it felt like "an episode of the old 50's TV show," but he said that with a negative implication, and I can't say I found that so bad—after all, X-Men 1 & 2 were like the old X-Men cartoon, Spiderman was like an episode of the old show if one existed—sure, there's a formula of "exposition, villian attemplts plot, hero foils plot while overcoming obstacles, dénouement, all with underlying romance subplot" but that's kinda to be expected.
     The dénouement would actually be about what I had anything resembling a "big" complaint, speaking of. Superman had trouble finding an ending, and after things basically settled down post-climax, there was just too much time spent dwelling on the winding-down process. I was a bit tired of sentimental, slow cuts of emotional displays with moving violins by the time the credits appeared. The Lois Lane slash Clark Kent slash Superman drama is interesting enough, is definitely a staple of the universe, but I was not quite invested enough in the ordeal to want that much lingering on it—even with the kid, now. Honestly, I found the whole "love triangle" subplot to be… not trite or anything like that, well-written and acted, but… eh, sorta unneeded. Could've done without it, but it wasn't a huge detriment. The best comparison would be to the Bruce Wayne slash Rachel Dawes affair in Batman Begins: it reeked of being there solely because it's expected there's to be love interest and romantic drama, not because it built on or supported the actual story. Sometimes, I'd just like something not telling me that love makes everything complete—fuck that noise, as the kids say.
     Brent Routh deserves a nod of approval for his performance as Kent and Superman—wherever one gets a chin like that from, it's good to see it made good use of. Kate Bosworth was an iteration of Lois Lane to be ranked with the best. Sam Huntington made a darling lil' Jimmy, perfectly too-eager and willing. But, let's face it, it's all about Kevin Spacey as Lex Luther, here. It's hard to stand beside such a performance and not be overshadowed, what with how much it shined. Everybody loved—even the people of the future who've yet to see it—the "C'mon, let me hear you say it, just once… No, not that… WRONG!" scene, but I do not know about you, but the scene with Lex Luther standing there in a robe with a toothbrush in his mouth asking, surprisedly, "Loith Lane?": gold, pure gold, hands-down. It's good to see a change-up from the "Aww, his daddy didn't hug him" Luther from Smallville, back to the roots of the "Aww, he's criminally insane" character; thank you for that, alone, Singer.
     I'm not sure if I'd say Superman Returns was awesome enough for two movies, and I still wish Singer had kept with X3, but this film will be a solid classic superhero flick. Failure Rating: 15%

Silent Hill

     I have a friend who veritably worships the Silent Hill franchise, and my ex-roommate really likes the games a lot but not quite as much, and I, myself, have never owned a PlayStation 1 or 2, so I've never indulged in the games more than occasionally viewing others doing so. The overall (dis)agreement between the three parties, respectively, is: 1) "OMFG SO MUCH H8!!!!!!11!1ELEVEN!!1!," 2) "It wasn't at all like the games, but it was a right good horror, indeed," then, 3) "I found the atmospheric overtones, the visuals, the setting and the style of cinematography to be very creative and interesting, the plot to be… very faithful to Japanese Horror—which it to say, ignore it or regret it—the acting to be par for the B-Horror course, and the obligatory twist ending to be satisfying, making for a very solid modern Horror experience that was decidedly not the bullshit that was, say, Hide & Seek or Jason X (read: garbage)." Failure Rating: 32%.

Thank You for Smoking

     Satiric comedy is something I take probably more seriously than is good for my enjoyment, most of the time. When something is clearly vying to be a satire, I, thus, expect it to say something I consider poignant and slash or pointed, not just abuse the label of "Satire" to masquerade as bad comedy with a so-called message. This movie was great. It was that brand of tongue-in-cheek comedy that is so rarely executed elegantly without being nothing more than "Ha-ha, people are dumb, isn't that funny!" Aaron Eckart is now a name I may actually recognise from henceforth, it was nice to see Larry Miller in something again, and William H. Macy gave a solid performance as a douchebag: very fitting for a role as a Senator. It was worth the gamble it was to go catch in theatres, I'd say. Failure Rating: 20%.

One thing I do outside of watch things with my eyes is listen to things with my ears.

Mindless Self Indulgence's You'll Rebel To Anything (As Long As It's Not Challenging) LP

     I adore this band, a lot, because it's something unique in a sea of mediocrity, something catchy and fun without being shallow and recycled, poppy without being predictable; reminding me that to be "pop punk" isn't necessarily to be yet another incarnation of the same-old NoFX, Green Day or Blink 182 formulae. I saw them live when they came through Norfolk, and that was one great fucking set. After that, I actually bothered to seek out their newest album, for which they were touring, and listened to it… over and over and over, for days. Apparently, when they sit down and make songs about something more than masturbation and dick jokes, the result is very cynical and sarcastic; this is an entire album of songs like "Thank God" (lyrics quoted in LJ entry linked earlier). At the concert, Jimmy Urine (the lead singer & programmer) came out in a jacket with the phrase "Shit Eats Pee" printed on the back, and proceeded to rouse the audience into chanting said phrase; why? We believe because he could. To quote Urine later in the show, "C'mon, say what I say, dress how I dress, do what I do, and we can all be non-conformists TOGETHER!" That is reflective of precisely the attitude on this album, the mockery of their own fans they indulge in, with lines like the following one from the song for which the album is named (or vice verse, who knows): "You're telling me that fifty million screaming fans are wrong? I'm telling you that fifty million screaming fans are fucking morons!" Their style has matured and developed since earlier work, they've become a tighter unit with more sophisticated techique, and the writing is golden, accompanying Jimmy's oddball, high-pitched vocals. Here is a band that has been doing it's own thing for years and has become a force to be reckoned with in the pop-punk scene. Failure Rating: 5%

And, sometimes, I watch things with my eyes that aren't out of Hollywood, too.

Samurai Champloo

     It's probably fruitless to review something shown on Cartoon Network's Adult Swim line-up, but, nonetheless, I want to say a few things about this anime. From the creative talent of those who brought us the genius that was Cowboy Bebop, comes an entry in historic, fuedal-era, Edo-period Japan genre of anime that's not another rehashing of Rurouni Kenshin. The first lines seen of this show, after the opening sequence, are: "Although this story is largely fiction and some parts do not line up with history, stop BITCHING and just shut up and WATCH." What follows is a stylistic exploration of the journey of three characters, their pasts, and the state of a civilisation in transition, with a sufficient amount of action, comedy, and drama; actually, to clarify, the action in this series? Hands-down, some of the best fight scenes in the history of animation are included in Champloo, with sharp, delicious animation. The top-quality animation work that was seen in the Bebop movie is what you get through all twenty-six episodes, as well, leaving little about which to complain. Calling this "Cowboy Bebop in Fuedal Japan" would not be wholly inaccurate, and I have no issue with that, because seeing more material in that same style of art and writing is quite invigorating. The musical focus here is, oddly, hip-hop and rap, as opposed to Bebop's focus on Jazz and Blues, still done with utmost precision and love. Good animation, good writing, good music: good show. Where's the movie? Failure Rating: 2%

[TIA;TY]

The Mounteback May Say, "Pirates Beat Ninjas!": I Say Nay

"Pirates of the Carribean: Dead Man's Chest was a successful sequel to the original, packed with all the same, original entertainment and fun."

     I would write the above line if I were a liar. I desperately want to write that above line—or, I did, before I saw the movie, at least—but I am prevented from doing so, mostly by how I actually felt about the flick. Pirates 2 was a two and a half hour effects festival that fell short in ways I wasn't even expecting; Disney thought they could cash in on a second success big-time, and they did: the highest grossing opening weekend in history (bumping Spiderman). I wish that were deserved.

     The beginning of this film, to me, felt like the writers desperately trying to tie the second film to the first while explaining what the characters had been up to since then, and it rushed the audience through a jarring and very confusing series of scenes which ultimately served little purpose in terms of plot or story development. The actors, for the most part, sleepwalked through their performances for the duration of the first twenty to thirty minutes—a long time to get to the real plot—and mouthed the words they were told to say. The legendary performance of Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow even felt half-hearted.

     Once the movie got going into the plot, with two full hours remaining, it proceeded to be sidetracked time and time again by long, drawn-out special effects sequences that were supposed to be engaging, but came off more like budget being squandered on insignificant sequences of fluff. I could've done without so many scenes revolved around "Holy shit! The Kraken is totally fucking shit up, ya'll!" I got it, guys: there are tentacles, they are big, they are breaking things. No need to show us that for five straight minutes. The entire "Swordfight on a Moving Mill Wheel" scene could've been thrown out; for that matter, the swordfight between Sparrow, Turner and Norrington just felt forced, like the producers raised a hand and yelled, "Time for the obligatory swordfight!" It wasn't choreographed in any way that felt new or interesting, more like they just instructed the actors to swing their prop cutlasses around wildly and smack 'em together once in awhile. And that was a lot of what took me, as a viewer, out of the effects-driven scenes: they mostly seemed forced and clumsy; moreover, all in all, I think the movie easily wasted twenty minutes on footage entirely consisting of special effects.

     The story itself really seemed… poorly constructed. As was pointed out by a friend after the movie, there were a lot of MacGuffins throughout the plot. There was one, after the other, after the other, totalling approximately seven (compass, drawing of key, key, chest, heart, jar of dirt, Turner's father); ultimately, this lead to very little audience investment in what was going on, the producers clearly wanting viewers to pay more attention to the shiny effects. It added up to a very boring and contrived type of plot that had so much more potential: I mean, they could've done a lot more with Davy Jones and the mythos surrounding him, but they didn't. It boiled down to a lot of simple "go fetch the plot device!" Yawn.

     Speaking of Davy Jones, of all the performances in the film I found the one by Bill Nighy as Captain Jones the best. The character was full of subtle nuance, much like how Captain Sparrow had once been in Pirates 1, and surprised me by being more than just a menacing archvillian stereotype. My ex-roommate noted that he seemed "unable to decide on an accent," but I thought that more intentional than a mistake, somehow representing the diversity of pirates and sailors on the seas: British, Welsh, French, Spanish, so on. The fact that there was a spark of sentiment for the villian was refreshing, and I found myself asking the question: "Why am I supposed to hate this guy, precisely?" In the end, Jack Sparrow is a more vile human being than Davy Jones, who is really just collecting on a promised payment, whereas Sparrow repeatedly proves throughout the film that he's a selfish coward.

     Then, oh dear, there's the end. Heh. After two and a half hours we're outright denied an ending. Instead, we get an abrupt cut in the plot, setting up for the sequel, At World's End, inevitably to be released as a blockbuster smash hit next summer. Oh, boy. After two and a half hours of a dull, uninteresting plot interrupted by long sessions of effects masturbation, thanks for that, guys. Thanks for the complete and utter non-ending. I needed that, to feel satisfied after waiting for two and a half hours for something of interest to happen, and to be smacked in the face and laughed at for my effort. "I'm sorry," the producers explain, "Were you thinking this movie would give you anything to leave with? Oh, hah, we don't know why you thought that, really."

     Johnny Depp has acted to much better effect before, I've seen it—hell, I saw it in Pirates of the Carribean: Curse of the Black Pearl. Orlando Bloom actually grew into the role of Turner more in this film, but it's a shame his character was basically manhandled by the writers and put on the back burner, behind Sparrow's "delightful" antics and pretty, shiny objects. I also found myself more enamored with Miss Knightley as Elizabeth in this iteration, as well, but she, like Bloom, just got shoved in the background as pretty backdrop. The scenes surrounding Elizabeth's adventures as a random pirate in some random, other crew on some insignificant ship were probably the only times in the film I found myself chortling. Jack Davenport danced his steps as the one-trick pony-character of Norrington, namely a lot of "Grr, revenge!" Jonathan Pryce was entirely unconvincing as a despicable villian, and more came off as a bad attempt at a rehash of Grand Moff Tarkin. Oh, gee, who else was there in the movie that wasn't merely killed…?

     On the matter of death, by the by, Dead Man's Chest delivers in spades, in literally boatloads. If you thought Black Pearl was a bit objectionable for a Disney film… well, there's little denying that Dead Man's Chest shed any pretense of being a family-friendly flick. From start to finish, there were more deaths than in the first movie five hundred times over: people just died left and right. The film abruptly introduced the crew of Jack Sparrow's ship mainly to slaughter them wholesale, like fattened cattle. Maybe Disney wants us to think that they're "bad people" so them dying horribly isn't bad, but, uh, a little kid would probably be asking questions after about the second dozen bunch of characters were finished being drowned or crushed or burnt or ripped to shreds. I don't know what the producers were getting at outside of trying to heighten sales with gratuitous violence, but there was death, believe you me, sir.

     Yeah, and, uh, "spoiler alert" or whatever—not really—don't sit through the fifteen minute credit reel for any bonus content: there's a ten-second cut there, sure, but it's hardly worth sitting through the epic adventure of those credits. A lot of people were apparently involved in piecing together this immense disappointment.

     The longer I dwell on this film, the worse it grows in my mind. My ex-roommate liked it well enough, but I… can't. In the first Pirates, Johnny Depp displayed a character of interest and depth; in this one, Depp re-used all of the same tricks from the original movie and added little to nothing new to the mix—Hell, not even "little to nothing": simply "nothing" is accurate. I wasn't compelled to say that "It was more of Jack Sparrow acting like Jack Sparrow." It was just the same lines in a very slightly new context. Old hat, if you will.

     What Dead Man's Chest did offer was some brilliant costuming. Davy Jones' crew was an innovatively designed array of terrifying fish people, and there's nothing bad I can about that. The costumes of everyone else were pretty much standard fare, but let's pay more attention to the crazy fish people: seriously, Davy Jones was like some sort of Lovecraftean image of a pirate, and that's awesome. If the movie had spent more of its time focusing on Davy Jones and his crew, I would've been so much happier, because if you're going to have uninteresting character interaction and dialogue, it may as well be done from the confines of an insanely cool costume. If they could've just had more of that, I would've been pleased. It wasn't even about special effects, it was just very creative costume design.

     I can't say the soundtrack stood out to me, except for that the end credits were very dramatic. My ex-roommate and I actually wrote a little adventure about the End Credits, that they were a marching army of Credits going to fight the Evil Forces of an encroaching, opposing force of Credits, that right off-camera to the north, there was an epic battle ensuing, words fighting words, names against names. The music swelled as a drastic turn of events took place, the unseen flanking manuever of the enemy Credits general causing a big jump in casualities to the Good Credits, a heroic build-up as the Good Credits continue to endeavour and push forward, slowly making a dent in the enemy forces, their numbers winning over the possibly more skilled strategy of the other General. Things finally turned out well in the end, and the Good Credits won, thankfully, striking another victory for the good guys, a victory like one I had greatly wished Pirates of the Carribean: Dead Man's Chest had been itself, a film I had anticipated with child-like glee and soon found myself regretting seeing.

Sorry, pirates didn't win this one, folks. Failure Rating: 46% (Upped from previous Rating of 27% on second thought).

[TIA;TY]

The Apotheoses of Moneyed Geezers: Election Year 2006 Issues, pt. 1

It's an election year, albeit not a Presidential one, mind you (so an even smaller fraction of the American public cares than would otherwise—no need to worry or fret when we've got McDonald's and American Idol!), which means there's a deluge of issues brought to the table by the bobble-heads in office to stir up vague approval from constinuents and earn cheap votes.

The Homosexual Agenda: Available in Hot Pink, Bright Green, Canary Yellow…

      Once more, gay marriage is a hot issue. Do these arguments sound new to anyone? "If we let the gays marry, what's going to stop polygamists? What's gonna stop a man from marrying a sheep?!" For one, if you've reached a point in your life where another fellow man is indistinguishable from a four-legged animal, then I suggest a heavy dosage of medication from your friendly doctor (he'll smile for you while he writes the prescription for five bucks, too). I don't see how hard and silly it would be to just, say, make marriage between humans… you know, sentient beings that have the capacity to communicate consent to an activity? If it can't say "Yes" in such a way where the answer is inseperable from either agreeing to get married or, say, getting fed some delicious corn, then I don't think there's a big issue with disallowing marriage in that case. It's kind of the same means by which we deal with rape.
      Polygamy, huh? Big, pressing issue, eh? That's not clearly a diversionary technique, hmm. Why's it hard to delineate marriage as between two human beings, then, if it's so "dangerous" to let the polygamists get married to multiple spouses? What do you tell the polygamists once the gays can marry? I don't know, because I can't fathom a reason why you would deny them marriage rights, in the first place. Basically, you'd be using all of the same arguments against gay marriage that fall apart upon inspection.
      CONSERVATIVE SENATOR: Well, you see, marriage is meant to propogate family values.
      A GAY: Aren't you just placing your own personal, traditional views on family values upon society in lieu of an open, honest discussion about what that phrase, "family values," even really means, because the masses won't think and will just nod along because that's the same beat we've been drumming for centuries?
      A POLYGAMIST: Yeah, what he said, plus, we can have kids biologically, anyway. And why has that ever been an issue, anyway? Having kids? For one, do we deny sterile heterosexual couples marriage rights? No. Aren't there hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, of children already born out there who need to be adopted, as well? We're polygamists, we love huge families, too; we could adopt, like, twelve.
      CONSERVATIVE SENATOR: Well, you see, what I really mean to say is that most people don't realise how muddled and mixed-up marriage rights are, to start, and just think about how it'll look to have gays and polygamists marry, not about how unnecessarily difficult it is to receive joint property rights or the ability to file taxes jointly as an unmarried couple. The clear compromise of distinguishing between religious marriage ceremony and governmental, bureaucratic aspects of civil union isn't an option because that doesn't sway voters and is more condusive to a civilised debate. Instead, I'm going to continue screaming about how outrageous it is, hoping nobody actually has a handle on compassion, even though according to the very religion I'm parading around as my own, Christianity, we are supposed to have compassion for all people, not just selective demographics and socioeconomic classes.
      Right, we continue to live in a society where a 90-year-old millionaire can marry a 20-year-old supermodel without quarrel, and two decent, average men who happen to desire each other's company for life can't walk down the street without strange looks. This makes sense.

Mario Killed the Video Star

      Violent video games have also come up in the news, what with pushes for government regulation on the rating of video games, despite how moot this point truly is. Hey, parents, here's a clue: if you take the thirty seconds out of your day it may occupy to read the back of the boxes on video games before letting your children play them, you can probably guess which ones are good or bad. Video game companies are not out to trick the general public about what their game is all about. Hitman does not describe itself as "a colourful frollick through grassy meadows and knolls with unicorns and rainbows."
      "But, wa-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah, there was a hidden sex scene in a video game rated 'M'!" Yeah, hidden insofar that you had to patch the programming of the game itself to see it. And, hey, hate to break this to you, but the sex scene? "Hot Coffee"? That scene didn't rate any raunchier than the three minute long droolfest that passed as a sex scene in Matrix: Reloaded. What was that rated? 'R', correct? The equivalent rating to the ESRB's 'M'? Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas is a game centred on violent gang activity, drug trafficking, and keeping in shape by lifting weights on a regular basis between drive-bys, if a highly pixelated, naked breast on the screen is the deciding factor against your 17-year-old playing it, then you are a poor excuse for a parent.

America's Virtual Army: It's Virtually There!

      I have a personal theory about violence in video games, on a related note. Why have the conservatives, especially the warhawks, been against violence in video games for so long, when the attack on Hollywood and music has subsided and is meek—or, at least, hidden from view—in comparison? This isn't an issue of morality, we all know it. Just like with movies and music, it's about control. Controlling society in such a way where it produces the type of people who please the Powers that Be. Anything that promotes rebelling against the standards of society or deviating from tradition is a big No-No. How do violent video games do this, though?
      Let's face it: the fact is, violence in video games does not produce the frothing, raging people the corporate media and conservatives will have you believe. It, in actuality, produces something quite the opposite. Violent video games sate those violent urges we all have as humans, that deep-down thirst to fight for something. Writers, poets, and musicians have been speaking on ths for ages, about how there's this something inside all of us that yearns to fight for life, for blood, for pain. Amos Oz's novel, A Perfect Peace, is a wonderful exploration of this idea, amongst many others. You may ask, "What am I getting at here?"
      Why join the military when you can kill something in the comfort of your own home? Where's the big need to feel "manly" and brandish a big gun in real-life when you can do it in an imaginary, graphical world where there are no consequences, no risk of getting hurt or killed yourself? Why do you think gamers are such a generally peaceful, non-competitive—outside of gaming—stock? Because our flabby asses are getting all the violence we need on our couches; we're fighting our wars against the likes of King Koopa or hordes of aliens. We don't need to shoot Arabs because of political aims in the Middle East.
Don't you think this prospect makes conservative warhawks tremble? That there can be such an easy, affordable means to quench the human thirst for blood without being their pawns? Look at how the marketting for the military has changed: "Join the Army, we'll pay for your college… kind of, sort of, not really! Uh, er, uhm, er, yeah, uh… you can work with computers in the Air Force! Doesn't that excite you?! Please?"
      The moral? Don't waste your time in the military when you can shoot fake people on the TV screen without losing years of your life to government indoctrination!

      It's 2006, let the muck-raking and the mud-slinging, the Christian flag-waving and the feigned attempts to care about the troops, the half-assed calls against the Republican's corporate masters and the mean-spirited and immature name-calling against the Democrats, and the usual bout of suppressing the Greens and keeping them out of sight begin.

[EOF]

Detective Stories: "Laisser Faire"

The night was . . . somewhat dim. It was kind of drizzling, just a little overcast. On this fateful night, everything would change . . . for a very short while, then inevitably revert back to the status quo, probably . . .

     My day could have gone better, but I've had worse. I sat at my semi-tidy desk in my well-lit office, the fan was working better than it had been, no longer did it squeak or shake as it spun. That was actually a nice change, the repairman came by the night before and worked on it, was a real cheery fellow. We're gonna get together and play some Scrabble™ next week. It ought to be real fun. The kind of fun that ought to be illegal.
     I smoked a cigarette, it was a slim menthol brand, filtered for minimal health risk. I only smoked maybe two cigs a day, been trying to cut back and, eventually, quit, but the goin's been tough. I tried the patches, you know, but they just didn't help. My brother-in-law—that amazing bastard whom I love dearly—suggested those pills that I see advertised for sometimes. Said they worked for him . . . just fine. I noticed the ashes were piling up in the tray on my desk, so I dumped it into the dustbin by my feet—wouldn't want it to get too dirty, ya know?

Then, she walked in, at a casual stride, not in any particularly remarkable fashion . . .

     She was the most absolutely average dame I had ever laid eyes on, her fair-to-middling curves did not really illicit much of any interest whatsoever. I instantaneously felt drop-dead apathetic about her, with her medium-length, brown, unspectacular hair reaching down to her straight, covered-up shoulders, her basic, brown eyes came to meet mine and I knew, just then, that I would forever be destined to forget I ever met her.
     She wore a green t-shirt and some blue jeans, with a pair of Nike brand tennis shoes—white, like . . . a napkin that was partially-used, dirty with grease. Her t-shirt read across the front, over her very typically sized and unamazing bosom, in plain-face text: "Myrtle Beach Surfing." She had a simple, golden wedding band on her finger, which I had no real intention of ever undermining or challenging the meaning of its presence. She had a cheap, black umbrella, which she compacted and wrapped, then put into her moderately sized purse, made of denim with a considerable number of zippers and pockets.
     I noticed she had a faux gold watch on, which ticked away the time like a ticking time-keeping mechanism designed in a . . . factory by a factory worker on an assembly line somewhere in China—or maybe Korea. Those darn Asians and their cheap labour force and their complete lack of government regulation on industry.

     "My husband . . . he's trying to . . .," she spoke in a mildly accented voice, in a matter-of-fact and straightforward tone, "He's trying to . . . irritate me to death."
     "What, ma'am?" I inquired, leaning forward and chewing on the end of my cigarette, thinking that maybe I should really try those pills (almost six bucks a pack, now, geez Louise). "How do you . . . . me-e-e-ean?"
     "He never does the dishes and he always comes home drunk, throwing his dirty laundry on the floor and expects me to clean it!" she ejaculated, gesturing wildly with her rough, worn, sort of man-like hands. "Like I'm his maid or something!"
     Perhaps I ought to hire a maid service to clean my office every once in awhile, I thought to myself, then I wouldn't have to do it myself anymore.
     "And he's always talking about his job! Work, work, work, is all he ever goes on about! Am I supposed to care?!"
     I wonder how much a reasonably cheap but good maid company charges for a monthly clean-up? Ten, maybe twelve an hour? I'll have to call around, get some quotes.
     "And I bet he's sleeping with his secretary, 'cause I found some lipstick on his shirt collar once, and he sometimes smells like a woman's perfume! I bet he's messing around with her and thinks I'm just too dumb to notice! Just his dumb, stupid, ugly maid, there to cook and clean for him all day long, and do his stinky laundry!"
     Maybe my secretary knows someone good, get a discount or something. I could keep the glass on my door cleaner, don't like it when it gets all smudged, harder for people to read my name.
     "So, I want you to follow him and find out if what he's doing all these nights he's out so late!" She huffed and rested her hands on her hips, indignantly staring at me. I scratched at the inside of my ear, as the ash on my cigarette grew longer. A fly started buzzing around my head, so I swatted at it absently.
     Darn bugs, maybe I need an exterminator, or just a good fumigation. Wouldn't hurt none, don't want insects deterring from business, and—
     "HEY, ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?!"
     "What? No? I mean—er, yes, I am, ma'am, yes," I stuttered and flicked the ash of my cigarette into the tray on my desk. Reaching for a pad of paper and a freshly-sharpened pencil (I kept about ten or so sharp and ready for any occasion) from my top desk drawer, I began to scratch down details. "Right, right, husband, secretary, drinking, dissatisfaction in bed—"
     "WHAT?!"
     "Er, I, uh—er, no, I meant . . . . Possible affair, of course," I corrected myself, then began asking her for her name and information. Could maybe squeeze twenty-five an hour from this broad.

And that was the story of the case that would prove to be the one which occupied next Wednesday, for, like, six hours.
SPOILER ALERT: The husband was cheating on the wife with the secretary, so they got a divorce and she took the house and half his stuff in the settlement that ensued. As usual, the only ones who truly suffered were the children.