Gaymers vs. the State of Indiana

The alternative title for today’s post is “Are you kidding me with this, Indiana?” because effing Indiana went ahead and legalized discrimination against LGBTQ+ folks. I am waiting to hear the response from Gen Con since their threats to the State of Indiana and its idiot governor went unheeded. Now the question is, will the gaming convention back up its threats with action?

For those not in the know, Governor Mike Pence signed a euphemistically named “religious freedom” bill yesterday, which basically makes it legal for people to discriminate against LGBTQ+ people on the grounds of flimsy religious doctrine. The supporters of this piece of backwards, hate-filled legislation argue that it doesn’t do that, but that seems ridiculous since it literally has no other practical application. It’s only function is to allow small business owners the right to refuse service to people because of religious objections. There is no way to apply this law other than in the context of not serving LGBTQ+ people. We will now have flower shops and bakeries with signs above the door that say “Straights Only” just in time for all the gay June weddings to have their gay cake and gay flower orders refused. Hey Indiana, the 1950’s called; they want their bigotry and segregation back.

It’s baffling to me that the supporters of this bill think anyone is buying their BS about it serving any other purpose. The bill’s language is written in a way that basically makes it fine and dandy for private shopkeepers to tell potential patrons who come into their stores that they won’t serve them because it’s “against their religion.” Admit it, Mike, this bill is all about hating on the gays. Okay, and possibly Muslims. Also, Christians are not being persecuted. That’s not even something that happened in the early days of Christianity. In the immortal words of Jean-Luc Picard, “You should read more history, Number One.”

So anyways, the big gaming convention, Gen Con, held in recent years in Indianapolis officially threatened to move its convention to another state if the governor signed the bill. This is important since Gen Con has been held annually for 48 years and draws about 60,000 people to the city for the four day convention, generating significant revenue for the city and the state. But their warning went unnoticed and the Gov signed the bill. The question now is, will Gen Con back up their threat with action. Will gamers collectively take a stand against homophobic idiocy? I’m hopeful a main sponsor, Wizards of the Coast, who released a Magic the Gathering card this year with a transgender character, will apply a little needed pressure.

It’s too late for them to move this year’s conference—it’s scheduled for August, but many gamers have already cancelled their reservations and publically announced (via every possible internet and social media platform) their disgust with Indiana’s blatant discrimination law. Seriously, we all need to take George Takei’s advice and boycott the entire state. Maybe we can evacuate the LGBTQ+ folks who have the misfortune of living there and then erect a big fence around the whole thing. I’m not even totally kidding; this is one of the most blatant acts of discrimination we’ve seen from government in a long time. Trust me, history will remember this nonsense, and not favorably.

In summation, LGBTQ+ Indianans looking for a Midwestern state to get married in—Iowa’s got your back, and it’s time for Gen Con to put its money where its mouth is; gaymers and their allies are watching.

Celebrity Birthers and the Famous Cats of Saturday Night Live

Cats should not be allowed to drive cars. That darn Toonces wrecked every car he ever drove. The forty year old sedans Toonces’ family kept buying exploded into flames on impact. Fortunately, cats always land on their feet and Toonces walked away from every incident. Was Toonces a gray tabby or an orange tabby? I think he dyed his fur. In any case, I don’t blame him for the poor driving. He’s a cat. I blame his owner: Victoria Jackson. She’s the real threat.

You may remember Victoria Jackson from such Saturday Night Live skits as, well, “Toonces the Driving Cat” and I don’t know what other skits she was the principle in. She appeared frequently opposite funnier SNL celebrities like Church Lady Dana Carvey and Phil Hartman. (Man, I miss that guy. You might remember him from such Simpsons spoofs as “Stop the Planet of the Apes, I Want to Get Off!” starring Troy McClure and Troy McClure directs The Contrabulous Fabtraption of Professor Horatio Hufnagel.) Yes, that Victoria Jackson: blonde hair, whiney high-pitched voice, crazy Tea Party conservative—that’s the one.

Jackson has made the transition from full-time comedian to part-time right-wing nut job. In fact, her performances at Tea Party rallies and political events in recent years has been so over-the-top-Michelle Bachmann-isn’t-a-witch-Obama-is-a-lizard convincing that I have decided she must be participating in the lengthiest SNL skit ever. She’s really immersed herself in the role. It’s method acting the likes of which we’ve never seen before. Also, in the picture of her on her website, she’s wearing a giant pink bow with white polka dots in her hair à la Minnie Mouse. I’m not even kidding—her fashion icon is a cartoon mouse.

The thing about American politics is, for every Barack Obama talking about marriage equality, there’s a Pat Robertson warning us about lesbian witchcraft, for every Al Franken out there calmly discussing pay equity and minimum wage laws in a silky voice, there’s also a Victoria Jackson screaming about the imaginary persecution of rich white people. She is still on about the birth certificate too. Come on now, Vicki, the president has been elected to two consecutive terms—give it up already.

In summation, Al Franken’s middle name is Stuart because of course it is, Toonces was arrested and had his license revoked so I don’t know why they kept letting him drive, and it’s really hard for me to take Victoria Jackson’s politics seriously because when she shouts about “Obama the Muslim” through a megaphone she sounds like Fran Drescher on helium.

The X-Files: I Want to Belittle (Warning—Vitriol Ensues)

Is anyone else as worried about this new X-Files restart as I am? People all over the internet and social media are talking about it excitedly like it’s the greatest thing to happen since Betty White (who I’ve recently learned is older than sliced bread.) Now don’t get me wrong, The X-Files was a pretty great show back in the day, but it tanked at the end. More concerning to me than the show’s lukewarm final seasons, was that last movie they did. The very last X-Files memory I have is of a WTF film filled with the worst kinds of gay stereotypes, and homo- and transphobia. I loved the X-Files and that movie broke my heart. (I would say more about this but I have written an actual critical article on the subject so I’ll let you read that when it gets published. It’s all about the film trope of representing gays as monsters and then killing them.)

So, once again, something I love from SF is getting an unneeded ass-polishing. That’s a new word I just invented. Ass-polishing. It basically means spending a lot of time shining something old up for public presentation that does not need any shining or presentation. (You were warned about the vitriol.) To be clear, I am a fan of the X-Files. I watched the show every week when it was on the air. I read the fan fiction. I had a bit fat crush on Anderson. The original series (at least the first six seasons) was awesome. Some of the greatest moments in SF television were on that show. Who could forget the vampire episode with Luke Wilson, the visual splendor of Peter Boyle as Clyde Bruckman, or Alex Trebek as a man in black in “Jose Chung’s From Outer Space”? Seriously, the show rocked—aliens, humor, creep-factor, watching-it-with-no-lights-on-I-hope-the-smoking-man’s-in-this-one. (I now owe the Barenaked Ladies royalties.) Then it took a big dump. I was still hanging on in season seven, but eight and nine? Studio contract issues with Duchovny aside, the storytelling was basically Fonzie in a swimsuit with a great white. There’s jumping the shark, and then there’s beating a dead horse.

So, not only was that last peep from Chris Carter and Co. a stereotype-ridden crap-o-rama, but stars David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson are thirteen years older now. Admittedly, Anderson looks great. Duchovny’s doing okay, though he’s looking a bit more haggard than Anderson these days. Too much porn, I’m guessing. They’ve both been involved in other projects for years—is Anderson giving up on The Fall in order to bring us a . . .what do we even call this thing? A rehash? A do-over? We can’t call it a reboot because it’s got the same actors reprising the same roles. Why is everyone so pumped for this show’s return? How will this show be anywhere near as good as what we fell in love with two decades ago, especially if they’re just going to rehash the same monster scripts and alien paranoia? Also, didn’t they answer all the questions the first time around? Spoiler Alert: The government is covering up the existence of extra-terrestrials.

I just can't suspend my disbelief to the degree that I can buy in to the idea of Mulder and Scully still toiling away in the basement of FBI HQ in DC after all these years. At some point they would have been promoted, fired, shot, beamed away by aliens, or otherwise escorted from the building. Will the writers actually create a period story where it’s still the 1990s? That could be interesting but would relegate the story to a monster-of-the-week formula…which brings me back to my earlier concern—using the monsters to represent marginalized people. Also, that craptastic movie opened with Mulder and a very pregnant Scully in bed together, so the romantic tension is gone, girl.

In summation, this proposed rehash of The X-Files seems like a spurious idea at best and a poorly conceived cash grab at worst, but I’ll probably still watch it, even if it’s just so I have something to b!tch about later. 

How Do I Click Bait? Cute Kittens! Boobs! Harry Potter Gay?

Yesterday on Facebook I asked my “dedicated” readers whether the links to my blog needed pictures. I enjoy pictures and I think others do too; however, I can’t actually link my blog to the pictures so they’re mostly for decoration—the internet equivalent of putting a bird on it. It did get me thinking, though, that I might need to up my click bait game a bit. I toyed with the idea of putting a picture of Corky and Violet kissing with yesterday’s blog but I didn’t. I also thought of putting a picture of Dr. Alan Grant with it. Which would get more clicks: two sexy lesbians or a middle-aged archeologist? Tough call.

Click bait, for those who don’t know what I’m talking about, is the technique of including a picture or title with an internet article, video, or web link that hypes the link in a way that makes curious people click it. Usually, click bait relies on sensationalized use of pathos (rhetoric!) by making the link seem sexualized, inflammatory, excessively sentimental, or otherwise click-worthy. Typically, click bait makes people angry if the link it leads to doesn’t deliver on the promised goods. Also, if it pops up a porn video in a new window while you’re at work with your computer’s volume cranked to ten.

Occasionally, click bait does get you to legit good content. I follow some YouTube creators who are geniuses in the art of click baiting. On YouTube the volume of clicks a channel gets is everything. Most ‘Tubers exploit that super-simple internet marketing gimmick for all it’s worth. Here’s an example from one of my favorite channels, BriaAndChrissy: “SHOCKING Super Bowl Commercial 2015 (GAY KISS).”  That video has over a million views. Now don’t get me wrong, the video itself, a parody of a Super Bowl beer commercial, is hilarious and  these women’s videos are totally worth watching, but the baiting title and the thumbnail that went with it—well-built naked men kissing in a locker room—made this video rocket to the top of the YouTube chart like no other. These women don’t even need the click bait. They’re an actual real sexy lesbian couple on YouTube. That’s like what half of the YouTube viewership is there to see in the first place. I’m cynical.

Speaking of volume of hits and, frankly, my own selfish interest in this whole topic of click baiting to drive traffic, I’ve learned that if I can get about 100,000 people regularly reading my blog, I can make a decent income and quit my day job. Since I am not quite to that level of popularity yet, I’m exploring my options. Clearly, in order to drive more readers to my website, and my conceptually questionable business model, I’m going to need to cheat a bit. Click baiting may be the answer I’m looking for.

So, what would click bait for this blog look like? I can’t very well get away with Corky and Violet pictures every single day. I guess I can use Willow and Tara occasionally; then maybe a close-up of boobs now and again; possibly Kirk/Spock slash fan drawings will be a click-o-rama; and of course, pictures of cats that look like Hitler. Kitlers are still popular right? I think this will be my new formula for blogging success. Don’t judge me.

In summation, cats that look like Hitler are the only way anyone would use the words “Nazi” and “adorable” in the same sentence, click baiting works even when it pisses people off for being misleading, and I am only 99,999 hits away from world domination. I’m counting my Harry Potter robot minion.

Fashion Forward: Jurassic Park and Film Noir Booze

So I was buying groceries this weekend and there was a guy in the checkout line in front of me who absolutely captivated my attention to the point that I couldn’t leave the store without taking notes. First off, he was buying Glenlivet scotch, which you don’t see being purchased at the grocery store every day. I didn't know you could even buy fancy booze like that at the grocery store. The reason I even know about Glenlivet is because of the movie Bound. Part of the plot of Bound revolves around Jennifer Tilly’s character leaving the apartment to go buy Glenlivet scotch for some mob bosses while her girlfriend, Gina Gershon, steals their money. If you enjoy film noir and have not seen Bound, I don’t know what you’ve been doing with your life. There’s no good excuse for your not having seen this Wachowski Siblings early film effort. It’s on the list of my top five favorite films transgender people have made. Also, my top five favorite films ever. Spoiler alert: Joe Pantoliano says the F word a lot.

So anyway, this dude is in the checkout line in front of me buying this super-fancy, expensive single-malt scotch—like the kind from Scotland, which I already mentioned, is by itself kind of notable. But he was also purchasing…wait for it…grocery store sushi. Dude. I mean, he’s shelling out the cash for what is one of the best boozes in the entire world, but he’s cheaping out on sushi made by the freaking grocery store. What? Admittedly, I’m no expert on fish, rice, and seaweed rolls (or whatever the heck is in those things,) but I am reasonably certain that the good ones do not come from the deli counter at Hy-Vee.

As I watched the checker scanning the items through the register, which took some time since the scotch was inside of a fancy box (!!) and affixed with an anti-theft security cap that the checker had to disassemble to remove, I became quite interested in who was involved in these two very bizarre purchases. I was not disappointed. The scotch and sushi patron looked exactly like Sam Neill’s character in Jurassic Park. I am not even kidding. He was wearing a plaid flannel shirt, khaki cargo pants, and really muddy hiking boots. Also, he had on a wide-brimmed fedora. This guy had just returned from an expedition unearthing dinosaur bones in the wilderness apparently. The dude was at Hy-Vee buying expensive booze and cheap fish while wearing a distressed cotton fedora and tracking fresh mud. I assume he had left his leather shoulder satchel in the Land Rover with his pickaxe.

I wondered what this guy’s evening was going to look like. Was there a lover in the picture? I secretly hoped he was heading to a dinner party with Jeff Goldblum and Werner Herzog where a discussion about the intricacies of filming a docudrama on wild bears while not being picketed by PETA or eaten by the grizzlies would take place. That’s actually probably a thing that may have happened because Jeff Goldblum and Werner Herzog are battsh!t crazy and have dinner parties together. Also, Werner Herzog made a documentary about bears eating people, presumably while drinking a lot of really expensive whisky.

In summation, The Matrix was made by a transgender person, I admit to having seen multiple Werner Herzog documentaries, and never have I ever wanted to follow someone home from the grocery store to see how their evening shaped up more than I did this weekend.

Harry Potter and the Angsty Teenage Warriors

I just read a review of the movie Insurgent  from the Divergent series. Never mind that the title here is confusing in that I will never be able to remember which is the original and which is the sequel, the film is another post-apocalyptic young adult sci-fi festival celebrating teen angst and special snowflake heroism. The author of the review argues that up-and-comer actress, Shailene Woodley, needed a star-maker vehicle and that this film series did the trick adequately. He had other stuff to say too. Read his article yourself if you’re that curious. I don’t have time to summarize the whole thing. I’ve got other stuff to write today.

The point I’m making here is about the recent uptick in young adult sci-fi films in the last few years. (It’s something the reviewer also discusses.) I watched a trailer yesterday for the book-turned-film The Maze Runner, which seems to be a cut-rate Hunger Games meets Lord of the Flies. It looks dull AF. Seriously, the Divergent series may also be a Hunger Games copycat but at least they knew enough to copycat the interesting female lead actress part of the film.

Just like other struggling writers, I find myself wishing I had a decent idea for a post-apocalyptic, teen-angst filled, warrior woman led young adult story idea that I could crap out quickly enough to ride this current bandwagon to wealth and fame. Too bad, so sad for me. Some might argue the trend started way back with Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Cash Grab, in which case, I don’t even need to worry about hurrying since that film’s popularity hasn’t diminished and it’s 14 years old. (I know, right? The film is a teenager itself now.) Also, Hermione wasn’t the main character in the film. Just in my heart. And every “who’s your Harry Potter BFF?” quiz I take.

Alas, I don’t have a decent idea for a cash grab of my own. In fairness to JK Rowling, I don’t actually think the Harry Potter series was a cash grab. At least not until the last book was split into two movies. Peter Jackson did not need that idea put into his head. Splitting a book into two movies is now a meme-slash-trope-slash joke. Way to ruin the franchise, everyone. But I’ll be honest, if some director/producer wanted to turn my currently non-existent post-apocalyptic, teen-angst filled, warrior woman led young adult story into a series of movies numbering more than the number if books on which they were based, I would totally sign the contract. Writers don’t have scruples.

The recent trend of sci-fi/action movies based on young adult book series is actually not a bad thing. First of all, I have always loved a good dystopian future story, and I love actresses like Jennifer Lawrence and Shailene Woodley who make our potentially dismal future look not as horrifying by being competent with weapons and unthreateningly attractive. I do think there is still plenty of gold to be chipped out of that literary mine. Speaking of which, I need to get some more writing done on my novel. (It’s not a post-apocalyptic, teen-angst filled, warrior woman led young adult story, but who knows what the second draft will look like.)

In summation, I’m not even going to talk about Twilight, except to say that I hope K-Stew gets a second star-maker vehicle because despite the dismal character she played that series, I think she’s got potential.

Under the Witchy Eye of Willow Rosenberg

As I sit here today, gazing wistfully at my own navel (and my computer screen,) my Willow and Tara action figures stare down at me from the shelf, dusty from years of not moving, their tiny plastic mortar and pestle poised, ready for some witchy spell-weaving. Miss Kitty Fantastico, forever seated at their feet eyes me watchfully, ever in anticipation of the Slayer’s younger sister shooting her furry flesh with a crossbow. Next to them stands Xena, an early incarnation of the warrior woman, fresh from her conversion to goodness, preparing herself for the long journey of redemption and amends, culminating in her own death at the hands of an evil Japanese spirit. I could wear her gold-colored chakram on my finger like an engagement ring and be forever betrothed to Gabrielle’s gal pal. If I wasn’t sitting here like a lump trying to figure out whose story I’m writing.

Mine, yes. I know that. I mean in the fictional sense. I’ve been working on a new novel and even though there are some great characters developing, I still don’t know which of them the story is actually about. The most likely candidate is the one who’s also the biggest a$$hat. Does anyone want to read a story where the main character is a total jerk? That is the question of the day.

I guess we can all relate to being a jerk at one point or another. We can even relate to recognizing that we have been jerks in the past and feel kind of bad about it. But does that make for good fiction? I guess it worked for Xena. I am still working through some kinks. I read somewhere recently that the first draft of a project like this is just telling yourself the story. I am floating in the mist of telling myself a story right now, and along with two plastic witches, tiny tuxedo cat, and a three-inch tall warrior princess, am silently judging my efforts about whether or not the story is even worth telling.

It occurs to me that Willow is the only survivor from the above mentioned gang of great characters. Tara, Miss Kitty, and Xena all meet untimely (and rather bloody) ends. What’s up with tragically killing off good characters anyway? I mean, as a fan, I’m grateful that Willow survived, and persevered beyond her addictive decent into dark magic to come out the other side as a powerful force for good, but the writers could have kept Tara alive as well. Also, the kitten was super cute. And Xena—I don’t know how they’re going to reboot that into a feature film without some serious alternate universe sleight-of-hand. She ended the series with her head separated from her body.

So, as I ponder the story I’m telling, I am considering what makes an appealing character and how a story hooks a reader’s interest and keeps it. Does anyone want to read a genetic modification sci-fi war story featuring an a-hole soldier intentionally named after a species of shark? He’s not even the one who’s been genetically modified. Maybe the transgender bounty hunter is more interesting? He has a telepathic cat and an unrequited crush on a political prisoner. These are the things I ask myself at night instead of sleeping.

In summation, I’m brainstorming. Don’t steal my ideas.

Dessert from a Galaxy Far, Far Away

There’s a recipe on The Mary Sue right now for Tuskan Raider cookies.  By Tuskan Raider cookies, I mean cookies in the shape of Tuskan Raiders, not a recipe developed by that clan of Tatooine desert dwellers. (Tuskan Raiders are make-believe, silly.) And by recipe, I mean that they tell you how to decorate Pepperidge Farms’ Milano cookies to look like Tuskan Raiders. If you don’t know what Tuskan Raiders are, then why are you even here? Sand People. They’re the Sand People from Star Wars, okay? Can I get back to the cookies now?

These Tuskan Raider cookies are actually adorable and look delicious. They are also not that complicated. The article even provides the name of the Raider that attacked Luke Skywalker in the Jundland Wastes, should you wish to name your cookies before you devour them. It’s URoRRuR’R’R, which I actually already knew because I am a huge nerd. Seriously, I had the “Star Wars Collectible Card Game” rare card of him.  There’s also a wiki online devoted entirely to the Star Wars universe where you can learn additional names for your cookies, should you like. It’s called Wookieepedia because of course it is. According to Wookieepedia, Tuskan Raiders are not human and may share an ancestry with Jawas. Your training in Sand People anthropology is now complete, young Padawan.

Anyway, the cookies. They’re peanut butter frosted because nothing says Sand People like peanut butter, I guess. Also, their mouths are made of chocolate frosting and they have chocolate chip eyes. The various tubes and head spikes are made from almond slivers. These cookies are probably a bad idea if you have a nut allergy. The Mary Sue suggests serving them with a tall glass of Bantha milk. I can’t imagine what that would taste like. Warm elephant milk, I’m guessing.

If you search Google for Star Wars cookies, you will find hundreds of images of adorably adorned baked goods featuring Han, Leia, the droids, some aliens (R2-D2, Ewoks—they’re all there!) but most of them are simple head shaped sugar cookies with pre-printed fondant images stuck on them. The Tuskan Raider cookies stand out as three dimensional deliciousness from the planet Tatooine. I’m imagining the birthday party of little URoRRuR’R’R Jr. begging for seconds on Bantha ice cream.

Themed food is so much fun, but I can’t help wondering who has time for that? On what occasion would one make Tuskan Raider cookies? They’re a bit high brow for a kid’s birthday, and a bit esoteric for the church potluck. Maybe George Lucas has a personal chef who just gets paid to make all his food look like characters from the heyday of his career. The last chef was fired for serving Jar Jar Tartare.

In summation, decorating food like movie aliens sounds like a good time but I am lazy and will end up eating the Milanos right out of the package sans the pretzel Gaffi sticks. 

Wimpy’s Business Model: I’ll Gladly Pay You Tuesday for $250K Today

I just had a brilliant idea for a story mash-up: Left Shark moves to Las Vegas to start over. His failed dancing career behind him, he’s decided to hook up with the mafia and become a “legitimate” businessman. I’m calling it “Left Loan Shark.” So much potential there—I’ve got to get to work on that. The idea is worth at least $250,000, right? I really need the money.

I got a call this morning from a very enthusiastic recording telling me that my business had been selected for a pre-approved loan of $250,000. How exciting is that? I considered pressing 1 to accept the offer for about a second. Then I hesitated. “Again, press 1 now,” the voice instructed me. I hung up. They’d probably expect me to pay that back at some point. That amount of money is like six years worth of income. If my writing career tanks, I’ll be screwed forever. Also, I don’t actually have a business.

Debt is such a weird concept. I owe faceless entities large sums of money that they don’t seem too concerned about me ever paying back. And I have a lot of it, mostly in the form of student loans. I’m waiting for the government to get that figured out. Seriously, student loan debt has got to be one of the few non-partisan issues we can put our collective heads together on. What is the problem? I have dreams that I can’t fulfill because of how much money is cost me to get an education. And look what I’m doing with it—writing ridiculous blogs and teaching 18 to 20-year-olds about BuzzFeed and Wikipedia.

In fairness, most of my debt came from my undergraduate degree. I managed to get through grad school without accruing too much more. Of course, the difference between $75,000 and $90,000 isn’t worth discussing for people who aren’t likely to pay off the smaller amount in their lifetimes. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say. My only hope is that the government fixes the system. I’m boned.

Fortunately for me, my student loan repayment plan is income-based, which means two things. First, I will never have to pay more per month than what I can actually afford, and two, I will never pay off the debt. My monthly payment doesn’t even cover the interest that’s accruing. It’s a financially terrible system, but one I will be living with until such time as I realize the American Dream and become independently wealthy or the government pulls its proverbial head out of wherever it’s lodged. Since anyone who doesn’t think Ayn Rand was an economic genius knows that the American Dream is a gigantic myth and our government doesn’t care about poor people, we know that these things will probably never happen. Pulling myself up by my bootstraps sounds good but isn’t an actual financial practice.

So, as I pondered the idea of accruing $250,000 more debt from a random telemarketer, these thoughts raced through my head: How long could I get away with floating ten years’ worth of income as debt? Would I die before I had to pay it back, living a great life to a ripe old age in the meantime? Should I start a business to justify the loan? What would that business even be? Should I press 1 now?

In summation, Congress needs to stop reading Hillary’s email and solve student loan debt problem, and I love the idea of having actual straps on my boots. It seems ruggedly fashionable. Maybe I should start a boot strap business.

Battle for the Twitter-Dome: Master-Blaster Versus Charlie Church

If you’ve been reading my nonsense for a while then you’ve heard me talk about Twitter. It’s a crazy virtual place with lots of bizarre people and strange rituals. Anything can happen in the Twitter-verse and I am sometimes baffled by events occurring under the “Twitter-Dome.” (Thanks to DJ Timmy Tim @OrcsBlood for that moniker. I love the idea of Twitter as THUNDERDOME!) Twitter keeps me up-to-date on major cultural events like the Oscars and the Super Bowl, and of course, I am still building an army of robot minions for my eventual conquest of the earth. (That’s proceeding very slowly, by the way. I haven’t recruited any new bots in a while.) But sometimes actual human people follow me and my response is: Who the eff is this?

Case in point: Yesterday a religious dude started following me. Seriously, an honest to god (see what I did there?) man of the cloth (I guess?) with a published book on some churchy stuff. I’m going to call him Charlie Church since that’s what Homer Simpson calls Ned Flanders. I have no idea how Charlie stumbled upon my Twitter account or why he thought I would be someone to keep track of under the dome.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t have anything against the church as an institution, or any specific churches in particular, with the obvious and notable exception of the Westboro Baptist nut jobs, but I am not religious and not looking to become religious. My beliefs stand very well without formal organization. It is therefore both confusing and, frankly, laughable, that anyone would be interested in reading my blog and/or 140 character musings on Twitter from a religious perspective. In fact, I am fairly certain this is the first time I’ve even discussed religion at all in my writing. (Unless I’ve criticized the WBC crazy-holes in the past, which is possible. Although, in fairness, they barely count as organized religion—they’re categorized as a hate group by the FBI.) At any rate, I can’t imagine what Charlie hopes to gain by following me.

I have two guesses about why he started following me (and probably expects me to follow him back.) One: He’s concerned with atheist rhetoric and wants to do verbal battle with those who discuss such issues. I am following the outspoken atheist YouTuber @JaclynGlenn and perhaps that’s how he found me. I’m not actually following her for that reason though. I’m not an atheist; I just like her music. (Sorry, Charlie.) Two: He’s super anti-gay and wants to criticize out, gay people in 140 character homophobic bursts. Again, not interested. Seriously, I do not understand this follower. Maybe he just wants me to buy his book. It looks really boring, Charlie.

Then again, perhaps he’s actually interested in my random philosophizing on pop culture and whatnot. If so, then I say welcome to the Twitter-Dome, Charlie Church. I hope you enjoy the show. When the chanting of “two men enter—one man leaves” begins, just join in and start banging on the bars with the rest of the post-apocalyptic denizens. Inevitably, we will all feel bad when Blaster is unmasked, Max will win the fight, and Aunty will be left to clean up the pig sh!t.

In summation, my army of robot minions is still too small to lead a revolt against corporate America, I need to find out if Tina Turner has a Twitter account, and I have zero interest in debating quasi-religious issues with strangers under the Twitter-Dome.

Facebook from Beyond the Grave

Tweets from dead people are a thing that happens. Well, retweets anyway. I noticed this trend when Leonard Nimoy passed away last week.  A lot of people retweeted his last few tweets. Some of these folks included the likes of George Takei, so the recirculation of a dead person’s final words by a longtime close friend seemed legit. Also, Nimoy said some pretty awesome stuff in 140 characters or less. Today I’m seeing a lot of Terry Pratchett’s retweets and honestly, I don’t know what to think. Pratchett certainly was a well respected fantasy writer, but his old tweets are really nothing special. I guess I just wasn’t as invested in his short fiction. (Hmmm…too soon?) Seriously though, RIP Terry Pratchett.

Actually, I just discovered Pratchett was A) British and B) knighted by the freaking queen of England. Good for him. There’s an interesting trend: SF personalities being knighted by royalty. Can we lobby to get Nimoy knighted posthumously? I personally love that Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellan are also knights. They’re not getting any younger either. (I need to shut up with that kind of morbid talk.) Watching them on film from decades ago keeps them young forever. Their social media accounts keep their words alive as well. Nimoy’s last tweet was actually very apropos: “A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory.” Well said. RIP Mr. Spock.

Our social media continues to exist after our deaths. Since celebrities are popular, it’s no surprise that their posts gain a little extra traction for a while after they pass. What’s disturbing to me is what happens to the social media accounts of the non-famous. They act as sort of an electronic shrine. A friend of mine died last year quite tragically and at a young age. His Facebook page is still active. There were several posts to his page in the days after his passing where people wished him peace and said they missed him. Bizarrely, two months later, on what would have been his birthday, people who apparently didn’t know he had died were sending him inappropriately cheerful birthday greetings. Clearly, these friends’ only interactions with him were once a year when Facebook’s automated birthday reminder popped up. If you and I are friends (on Facebook or IRL) but I have never acknowledged your birthday, it is because I have this atrocious feature turned off. I have my birthday hidden as well so you can’t wish me another year of life that way either. If our friendship is based on your wishing me happy birthday via Facebook once a year, well…”friend”… I’ve got some news for you about what friendship means.

There are some things social media is not designed to handle and death is one of them. What happens to the accounts of people that have died? Do they just stay forever like a tombstone? I imagine that tech savvy family members deactivate their accounts, but if they don’t have any family on social media or they don’t have any family, then what? I really don’t know. I guess they disappear forever when the host company goes out of business. It’s something I wonder about at times when I am feeling my mortality especially acutely. I try to make my blogs funny and entertaining, but I’ve clearly strayed down a depressing rabbit hole today. Sorry everyone.

In summation, the sun is shining and the birds are singing. Let’s go outside and celebrate being alive. Without posting a status update about it to social media.

Jerry Springer’s Spring Break Extravaganza: “Bi-Curious” Drunk Girls

Spring break is imminent. I actually considered going to Florida next week. There’s a legit academic conference taking place in Tampa that I was interested in attending. Until I looked at plane ticket prices and saw that the airlines had jacked them up about $1,000 over the non-spring break week prices. I’m not even kidding. Tickets to Tampa during spring break week are around $1,500 round trip but the week after they’re back down to $500. Screw you, Bill Shatner. That’s not in my priceline. (I know it’s not actually Bill’s fault. It’s the airlines.) In any event, it means I’m not going to Florida next week. At least it’s not supposed to snow here in Iowa. Maybe some freezing rain, but no snow.

According to Fox News (my personal favorite source for accurate and quality reporting) the top seven locations (WTF, Fox? Couldn’t come up with a full ten?) for spring break are Key West, New Orleans, South Padre Island, Las Vegas, Daytona Beach, Panama City, and Lake Havasu. Their list also has a picture for each of these locations, which is coincidentally a picture of a bunch of cis-looking white 20-somethings in swimwear drinking booze. Crowds of them. Crowds of drunks in swimwear. It looks awful. Also, I think Fox accidentally included a picture of a drag show in Key West. They do know about Key West, right? I’m talking about the free-roaming chickens, of course. And all the gays. There’s even an LGBT museum. I doubt that’s why people go to Key West over spring break though.

If you’re looking for something a bit more…ahem…adventurous, Coed.com has fifteen suggestions for the “trashiest” spring break destinations. I can’t think of a worse way to plan a vacation. Sitting with my travel agent at the local AAA office: “I’m looking for a vacation where my chances of being roofied and possibly kidnapped by organ harvesters are as close to 100% as possible. Suggestions?” My agent pulls up Coed.com, which (since she’s a good travel agent, she has it bookmarked) and recommends some real winners.

These locations include the same seven locales as Fox, but Coed.com adds eight more and provides details on why they’re among the “trashiest” destinations in the nation. For example, In Myrtle Beach, I can go to my “favorite strip club” and drink booze into the wee hours of the morning after the bars have closed. If I then find myself in Fort Myers (presumably because I’ve spent the night in a titty bar drinking, and then have hired a taxi to take me to Florida in a drunken stupor) I could wind up in the “run down area of the beach” where I can engage in a “booty contest” with other drunken co-eds. Honestly, I don’t even know what a booty contest is. I was afraid to Google it. I think whipped cream may be involved. Also, possibly Jerry Springer is there with a camera crew.

At least Coed.com is acknowledging that Key West is LGBT friendly. They’re quick to point out you can wander around in public naked and the open container laws aren’t enforced. Sounds like a win-win to me. (Seriously, ewww.) Their photographs are all of drunk females in swimwear with their tongues hanging out pretending to be lesbians. (I think this is what “bi-curious” means on dating sites. Gross.) I wish mainstream vacation photos of drunk people partying would stop co-opting lesbianism. Lesbians don’t show themselves kissing men as a way to promote the crazy atmosphere of Dinah Shore Vegas. Think about it.

In summation, all the students are heading south for spring break so it’s probably safer if I stay here and enjoy the quiet of a temporarily empty college town.

The iPhone Has Replaced Your Mom

My cell phone is concerned about my health and well-being. As I was out walking earlier, I had my headphones on listening to some music. A good song came on and I hit the volume button to turn up the sound. Instead of increasing the loudness of my music, my phone popped up a warning message telling me listening to loud music for prolonged periods could damage my hearing. I then had to click a button indicating to my phone that I understood its warning. Also, it didn’t turn up the volume. It’s nice that my electronic devices care so much about me. Thanks, Mom...err...phone.

There’s something to be said about our electronics mimicking genuine interest in us as human owners. It really feels like Asimov’s Laws of Robotics in action. I can’t help but wonder if the R & D geeks at some of the major tech firms actually use SF principles as guiding development concepts for their new products. Siri certainly has some interesting answers to deep questions that pre-programmed computer applications shouldn’t cognitively be aware of. You know, because she’s a disembodied representation of the tiny computer inside your iPhone. (It is supposed to be a she, I think, though if you ask, Siri will say “I was not assigned a gender.”)

Apple’s so-called “knowledge navigator” was designed to help the user find out information, search the web, give directions, and the like. However, if you ask Siri a question no one really knows the answer to, she will draw from science fiction for her response. For example, if you ask her what the meaning of life is, she will tell you 42. If you ask Siri whether you should take the red pill or the blue pill, she will say that whatever choice you make, she will be there waiting for you when you wake up.

But, to clarify, our technology has not become self-aware. Thankfully. We should definitely avoid that kind of Terminator Skynet world destruction scenario because despite the awesomeness of Linda Hamilton’s biceps, nearly everyone dies instantly when the machines take over. No, this is less about scary machines and more about technologically-generated empathy. Since our devices have all been designed by (what I’m assuming are sad, lonely) humans who crave companionship, we end up with phones that are very concerned about our feelings and whether or not we will be healthy enough to continue to use them, at least until the next iteration comes out. It’s quite touching really. The cold, hard edge of the computer age has a softer side after all. Like Sears.

The future of technology is exciting, isn’t it? The next innovations in older electronics will not be about efficiency or added features but will be I, Robot-like interest in their owners’ safety. For example, the next generation of microwave ovens are slated to come with gentle audio warnings about radiation when users stand too close to them while cooking their Chef Lonely Heart’s Soup for One, instilling the hope that someday they may meet that special someone and will need their reproductive parts functional.

In summation, I hope my next phone comes with little arms that extend to give me a hug and utter a Stuart Smalley sounding affirmation about being okay whenever I accidentally drop it on the sidewalk. I already say “sorry, phone” whenever this happens.

Deer Eat Meat and Other Stories

I have a lot of books. This isn’t an apology or a confession; it’s just a fact. I have multiple advanced degrees in English so it’s hardly surprising, but given that much of my blogging and ranting are on pop culture topics like movies, TV, and the internet, I guess they sometimes get forgotten. There should be a word for blog-ranting: Rogging? Blanting? I’ll work on that. Anyway, my house is full of dusty tomes of literary criticism and rhetorical theory; heady volumes full of French philosophy, and of course hundreds of Star Trek and Star Wars paperbacks from the extended universe. Also, Xena: Warrior Princess and The X-Files. Shut up. Honestly, the only thing that separates these books from fan fiction is that the authors got paid to write them.

If you’ve been reading my blog for any amount of time, you know that I freaking love the internet. If you’ve known me for any amount of time, you know I also love my books. I’m literally surrounded by them. See what I did there? (Yes, that was a high brow joke.) You may also know about my bibliophilism if you’ve been to my house, but since that’s like three people, probably not. I’m kind of a reclusive loner; what some folks call a “writer.”

The point is, some of these texts (the more literary theory ones anyway) are really very useful and I do pull them off the shelf as references when I want to write about something deeper than whether or not Ripley from the Alien movie franchise was a metaphor for the Virgin Mary. Actually, that’s exactly the kind of topic I would use my literary theory books to write about. Also, when my friends randomly text me first thing in the morning to ask whether or not I know any authors who talk about cultural appropriation and the environment. Those are the kind of friends I have.

I actually love it when people ask me if I know something about something. I probably do. Not to toot my own horn, but I read a lot and I have a good memory so it’s likely I’ve come across what you’re wondering about at some point in my virtual and/or literary travels. One reason I love getting asked random questions is because I can pull a book off my shelf that I haven’t looked at in a while and remind myself of fascinating stuff that I’m interested in while sneezing uncontrollably from the dust of a thousand cat naps.

A factoid I learned recently is that white tailed deer (and possibly other species of hoofed “herbivores”) actually eat small birds when they get the chance. They’re not effective hunters; they just opportunistically munch when the birds are nesting in low-hanging branches or get caught in scientists’ nets. Deer are d!cks. This is but one example the kind of minutia I have at my fingertips. If you want to know more, I suggest you take LeVar Burton’s advice and visit your local library to “read more about it.” In addition to information on the dietary surprises of Odocoileus Virginianus, books also have useful information in them.

In summation, deer are lazy pollotarians, my classical literature is covered in cat fur because no one ever asks about Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Blithedale Romance, and if you’re interested in post-colonization theory, I recommend everything by Gayatri Spivak. 

Justin Bieber is a Rebel, Apparently

Justin Bieber has a lot of tattoos. Never mind the problematic issue of his recent photo shoot for Calvin Klein in which his mostly still adolescent man boobs were artificially enhanced by computer editing software, the fact remains that the prematurely famous man-boy has got some serious ink. Why is this noteworthy, you may be asking. Because tattoos hurt, and despite his production of crappy bubblegum ear-wrecking pop music, the kid has sat through hours and hours of intentional needling.

I have the minutest respect for him because of this. Okay, I’ve overstated it. I don’t actually respect him—frankly he seems like he’s well on the way to becoming a misogynistic egomaniac. I do, however, respect his life choice to cover himself with tattoos. Seriously, have you seen recent pictures of him? I mean, he’s no Danny Trejo when it comes to street cred, but he’s definitely more green than white now. And, as Kermit the Frog reminds us all, it ain’t easy being green.

I bring this up because I too am familiar with the process of subjecting oneself to the needle for long periods of time. The smell of Vaseline and tattoo ink lingers in my memory like the lost perfume of an ex-lover. Or some damn metaphor that makes tattooing sound romantic. It is actually like childbirth in that you forget the pain of getting them and are left with the beauty (or rottenness as the case may be) of the event. Well, this is what I’ve been told by mothers with tattoos. Since I’ve never had kids, I don’t know. Frankly, I’d rather get a tattoo than pop out a baby, but that’s just me. To each her own.

Perhaps that’s why Little JB has gotten so many tattoos. He’s realized at the tender age of 19 (or however old he is) that he’ll never be able to give birth and has opted instead for another pain of creation. Or maybe he’s subjecting himself to the same tortures that his listeners are forced to endure when they hear his music. I know—I just shot a fish in a barrel. You can now imagine either an animation of Bender from Futurama doing the “Oh snap—no she didn’t!” Z-shaped hand gesture or Ashton Kutcher’s Kelso from That 70’s Show saying “Burn!”

MTV has an interactive application on their website called “Justin Bieber’s Tat Map” which invites you to explore the pop star’s body art.  The article’s subtitle says “And he winks at you.” I seriously could not make that up. I’m betting the website gets thousands of hits a day on that page. I wonder how often they update the map. Does Biebs have his agent email the MTV webmaster every time he gets a new tat?

The numbers of people (mostly girls) that have JB as a tattoo is also staggering. Portrait tattoos are the most likely of all tattoo types to look terrible if you don’t have a very good artist. You may end up with Sloth from The Goonies instead of JB. This is one of the cardinal no-nos of getting a tattoo. In order of tattoo bad-ideaness, those items are: Don’t get your significant other’s name, any dates subject to change (e.g. wedding anniversary, last drug treatment date), or celebrities who you may not like in five years tattooed on your body. Yes, cover-ups are an option, but really that’s a lot of extra time and pain. Instead, if you’re a herd-minded 18-year-old female with no tattoos and are looking to lose your tattoo-virginity, I suggest a tiny bird exploding into feathers on your ankle or a gothic cross on your butt-cheek. You can simply tell people JB inspired your mainstream rebellion instead of actually getting his face inked on your ribcage.

In summation, let's not forget that Justin Bieber is Canadian, a tattoo of Sloth from The Goonies would actually be awesome, and gone are the days of inking one’s skin as a counter-cultural act of rebellion.

Newly Discovered Earth-Like Planet: Let’s Go!

I’m moving to Kepler 186F. Who’s with me? It’s a pleasant Earth-like planet with oceans and possible life. It’s in the zone. That’s a technical term. The planet, which is about 10% larger than Earth is orbiting the “habitable zone” of a star in the Cygnus constellation. This is in our own Milky Way galaxy people! We’re talking real live alien life forms (maybe.) And this information isn’t coming from crackpot lizard people on the internet either. It’s coming from crackpot government types. By that I mean NASA.

I have done a bit of reading on this exciting new discovery in the annals of space exploration, and while I’m no expert at spaceology (that’s the scientific name, right?) I can tell you that the study of this planet has the actual science types excited. An earth-like planet orbiting in the hospitable zone of a star in our own galaxy suggests how not unique our own Terra Firma may be in its ability to host life. I don’t know about you, but I am personally thrilled by the prospect of there being plants and animals that aren’t of the human and destroyed-by-human variety elsewhere. I imagine some of these life-forms look like the Gorn from Star Trek or possibly like people in Las Vegas. Here is a picture of me with a Gorn in Las Vegas for reference. (The Gorn don’t have a concept of “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” so I feel no guilt about posting the image.)

One reason I love the idea of another habitable planet is that alien life can literally be anything! So much potential—the idea that there are beings hanging out and evolving anywhere besides Earth fills me with excitement and the giddiness of a kid with a box of crayons and a blank piece of paper. I’m going to draw some alien tree-sneetches. Also, some sort of weird platypus-wombat thing. With wings. And gills. I am convinced these awesome looking aliens are also much smarter than humans, at least where the protection of their precious planet is concerned. Or the Kepler 186F elephant-leopards made sure to squish and then eat all the stupid aliens preemptively to protect their habitat.

That’s another reason this is so exciting: I could never believe that humans were actually the pinnacle of intelligence in the galaxy. Although we’re pretty clever when it comes to some things (bipedal locomotion, tool use, Grumpy Cat memes) we’re also pretty stupid in a lot of really significant ways (the Great Ocean Garbage Patch, American politics, photos of Kim Kardashian’s butt) so there’s hope that a more knowledgeable species exists to tutor us out of our collective adolescence is welcome news. Not surprisingly, I’ve been a fan of SF literature and film since I was a kid and continue to hold out hope that someday confirmation of alien life will be a reality and not just speculation.

In summation, who wants to help me move a sofa to another planet? I can’t wait to meet the neighbors.

Oculus Rift: Cat Videos, Porn, and Dog Shaming

Midterm grades are due tomorrow so of course I am looking at cat videos on the internet. I’m amazed at how many people manage to take videos of their cats doing interesting, funny, or cute things while the camera is on them. These people must be very dedicated to the effort since cats spend literally 20 out of every 24 hours sleeping. Either that, or my cats are the most boring, inactive animals on the planet. They spend much of their few waking hours eating, vomiting what they’ve just eaten, or staring at me in vague discontentment from their inaccessible perches. The idea that I could capture them on video doing something worth uploading to YouTube is laughable.

The internet is host countless videos of cats (and occasionally llamas, goats, and monkeys) doing ridiculous antics, set to upbeat music with clunky jump cut editing. I can safely say the only thing on the internet taking up more bandwidth than cat videos is porn. I once read a factoid that the first thing humans do with new technology is have sex with it (hence the porn.) I would argue the second thing they do is humiliate their pets.

Take a look at the recent phenomenon of “pet shaming” for example. I don’t know why this has become a big funny deal lately. People post pictures of their pets looking sad or guilty with handwritten signs that say what the pet has done to merit this public ridicule. These are mostly dogs, because, well, frankly, dogs are stupid. They aren’t good criminals—they always get caught. That’s why we call sneaky thieves “cat burglars” instead of “dog burglars.” Dogs couldn’t steal a damn thing. Anyway, the signs say things like “I ate a purple crayon, threw up purple on the carpet, and then ate purple throw up.” Gross. I don’t need to know these things about your dog’s dietary habits. The dog shaming pictures are just not as entertaining as the cat antics videos. Sorry dog peeps. Clearly, I am a hypocrite since I’ve spend a good share of my procrastination time looking at dog pictures as well as cat videos. Also, I don’t think the dogs actually learn their lesson from the publicity.

At any rate, I am imagining a future where the Oculus Rift virtual reality system makes it feasible for me to watch other people’s cats fail hilariously at jumping onto kitchen counters while feeling like I’m actually in the room with them. In case you’re wondering, the Oculus Rift has already been used for porn, so the virtual reality pet encounters are up next. I watched a video of people using the Oculus Rift for sex—they all seemed anxious and terrified. (There were jump scares and shouts of “what is she doing?!?”) Apparently, virtual reality sex is not as fun as it sounds.

In summation, porn is best left in two dimensions, dog shaming is not an effective method of canine discipline, and next time I go to the animal shelter to adopt a cat, I’m going to look for the one that’s going a crazy inside its enclosure so I can make a mint with viral videos.

Anne's Advice, Buffy's Badassery, and the Tribble on Trump’s Head

For a writer like myself, one of the worst moments in the course of a day is feeling like I have nothing to say. I will sit at my computer and stare a blank page, occasionally typing in a sentence and then immediately deleting that sentence because it sounds like crap. Today’s false starts included animal metaphors, Fox News, and whatever is going on with Donald Trump’s hair. Also, Buffy the Vampire Slayer is a thing I like and alliteration is fun.

 In her writing instruction text Bird by Bird, writer Anne Lamott talks about the “sh!tty first draft” in which a writer allows herself to be okay with a piece of writing that is initially not very good. I follow Lamott on Twitter and I’ve seen her tweet about the “sh!tty first draft” on multiple occasions. Sometimes she sanitizes the language in the tweet—a recent one said “poopy first draft”—which is hilarious given the lack of oversight on Twitter. I guess she’s revising her own ideas for the good of the Twitterverse.

Anyway, Lamott talks about how perfectionism is the killer of good ideas, which I find useful to my own writing but also often cold comfort to feeling like I have nothing to say. My computer is full of saved Word files that literally contain only one or two sentences about some topic that I felt really passionately about for all of two minutes. A few of these sh!tty drafts may someday become grown-up essays, but most of them will wither and be forgotten, likely deleted when I recycle my computer or junk it for scrap. Goodbye fleeting dreams—may you find your way without me. I guess this is probably a struggle for all writers, but screw those people—I’m talking about me here.

I am something of a perfectionist, though it may not always be apparent—if you read my blog from yesterday you saw how full of mistakes it was. In fairness to myself, I was late for an appointment and posted it without proofreading, which is always a terrible plan. (It’s been revised since then.) I do try to remember Lamott’s advice about getting the ideas down first and fixing the poopiness later. This is also something I tell my writing students, though most of them ignore me and operate under the Greek myth that good writing springs fully formed onto the page as Athena emerged fully grown from the head of Zeus. Practiced writers know what bullsh!t this is. “Talented” writers are probably just more adept at working, practicing, editing, fixing, changing, and agonizing over their own creations. Also, they invest a lot of their own self-worth into the work, so if you don’t like my writing you can shut the hell up. I love all my babies, even the ugly ones.

I’m not exactly sure where this is going right now except that it’s probably still not that far from sh!tty first draftiness, and I was struggling to have something meaningful to say this morning that was different than what I talked about earlier this week. I’m still distracted by the dress and pop culture mash-ups. Sadly, I think Pierre the Llama’s fifteen minutes of fame have already expired.

In summation, Donald Trump’s hair really should be explored more thoroughly, tomorrow I may talk about Andy Warhol’s often-quoted time limit on celebrity, and writing is actually a process. How annoying is that?

Velma (Scooby Doo) & Carol (Walking Dead) is the Slash Fiction We All Need Right Now

Left Shark onesies are now for sale on Katy Perry’s website. These adult sized pajamas are light blue with white underbellies, have hoods that pull over the wearer’s face, and feature the shark’s face on the upper chests. I’m sure they’ll be a quick seller. I might even buy one myself except they say “Katy Perry” in big block letters on the back and I’m not into that. The point is, you can buy some amazingly weird crap on the internet. I really wish there was a Left Shark/Pierre the Llama onesie mash-up option.

Some of my favorite items are of the mash-up variety. Just this morning my brother sent me a link to a t-shirt titled “Teen Worf” with the obligatory Teen Wolf/Star Trek TNG mash-up I’ve apparently been waiting for these last twenty years. How has this not existed before now? Holy cow, I just noticed that shirt is only seven bucks. Those are gonna sell out fast. My favorite mash-up shirt is my Scooby-Doo/monster apocalypse one featuring a badass Velma and a vicious Scooby mourning the rest of the gang--eaten by zombies for being slow and/or stoned (Shaggy)—while cruising around in the Mystery Machine modified to have pop-out chain saws equipped on the sides. It’s kind of like Will Smith and what-was-the-dog’s-name? in I Am Legend only with a hip, smart woman and fewer plot conveniences.

But I digress. I was talking about how much awesomely useless stuff you can get from the internet. You name it, it can be yours. For example, “What Color is the Dress?” gay porn fan-fiction is now a reality. I think you might even be able to download and read that for free. I’m sure many people have.

Sometimes mash-ups go horribly wrong. And by that I mean that they go horribly right for the internet. I recently saw a picture of someone’s Harry Potter/Insane Clown Posse tattoo (it was a close-up so I couldn’t tell what body part it was on.) It was a picture of Harry holding a wand with his face painted up like a Juggalo and below him it said “Muggalo” in a weird font. If was both a JK Rowling fan and an ICP fan, this would be the jewel in my tattooed crown. Kudos to this individual with very contrary tastes in fandom. I hope he (or she? Probably not) doesn’t get his ass kicked by the other Juggalos.

In summation, mash-ups are the greatest invention of the twenty-first century; Velma should be teamed up with Carol on The Walking Dead; and a PayPal account and a couple of mouse-clicks are all that stand between you and your heart’s desire.

Attention Chumps: Work is for Suckers

A friend of mine just complained to the universe, presumably on the way to her job, that working 9 to 5 is sucking the soul out of her. I certainly agree with that sentiment, as does Dolly Parton. If you don’t get that reference, I will return to it in a minute. (Great, now I have that song in my head, thank you very much.) I suggested to this friend that if she quits working for “the man,” we can start a traveling comedy martial arts troupe that dance fights clowns for money. She admitted her family did have the potential for such a project and we are now taking applications. (Clowns needed.)

So anyway, much of modern humans “off hours” are spent on entertainment because we need to be distracted from how much work sucks. It’s really an infinite loop of work to get money to pay for things to live so we can enjoy the things we want to do but don’t have time for because we have to work to get money to pay for things to live. Screw that. Some of this entertainment actually focuses on the absurdity of this loop. Like the 1980 movie 9 to 5 in which office workers Dolly Parton, Lily Tomlin, and Jane Fonda kidnap their horrible sexist pig boss, Dabney Coleman in order to make their work lives less miserable. Basically if the movies 50 Shade of Gray and Office Space traveled back in time and had a fabulous baby, it would be this film. At one point in the film Coleman is tied from the ceiling in an elaborate rope harness thing.

But let me return to the concept of working 9 to 5 rather than the movie. We’ve arrived at this contemporary and bizarre division of labor through a long cultural evolution wherein people started paying other people to do the work they needed done because they didn’t want to do it themselves. It’s weird to think that at some point in human history, some brilliant (and lazy) individual realized that it would be easier to pay some chump to harvest fava beans and grapes in exchange for shiny hunks of metal. This has morphed into groups of people paying other groups of people with numbers on a screen (yeah, not even actual physical objects anymore—just numbers recorded electronically) to actually punch those numbers on a screen. Most of those number punchers, like my friend, hate the work but need to keep doing it so they can get the numbers on their screen to go up. Also, this is why embezzlement is a thing. Modern culture is weird.

What division of labor (as the economists call it) has become is faceless corporations with no single individual in charge of anything mindlessly employing a whole bunch of other mindless masses to do what on the surface looks like an important job but which in reality is probably four out of every eight hours per day watching llama videos (you knew I was circling back around to the llamas, right?) and the other four hours clacking on a 4”x16” piece of plastic and wires connected to a light box with a projection screen. Most of these mindless automatons have no souls, since a soul would motivate one to immediately recognize the utter futility of existence and withdraw from modern life.

In summation, this post presents a very privileged Western middle-class perspective on why work sucks, dance fighting clowns may or may not be an actual career path, and putting rat poison in your boss’s coffee only works in the movies.