Tuesday, June 26, 2007

File under "Whiskey Tango Foxtrot"

Wrestler Benoit, Wife and Son Found Dead | World Latest | Guardian Unlimited

This is just weird enough to catch my attention. I'm not a wrestling fan by any stretch of the imagination, but I know enough people who sincerely enjoy watching it that I recognized this guy's name and was shocked when I read the story.

WWE wrestler Chris Benoit, his wife, and son were found dead Monday and police said they were investigating the deaths as a murder-suicide….

The station said that investigators believe the 40-year-old Benoit killed his wife, Nancy, and 7-year-old son, Daniel, over the weekend, then himself on Monday….

I know I'm a morbid type, but I can't stop imagining that situation: he killed his wife and child, then waited a day or so before offing himself. What could possibly be going through a man's mind?

Then again, what could possibly be going through the mind of a man paid to grope other men in public? While wearing tights?

I don't mean that to make light of this—three people are dead in what appears to be a fit of ghoulish and curiously domestic violence. Honestly, though, I don't even understand why the man did what he did while he was alive and in public and on the job; how could I possibly understand why he did what he did when shut off from the world in his private home?

For that matter, what hope do I—or any of us, I fear—have of understanding anything anybody does? Even celebrities, who by definition are people living their lives in the public eye, turn out to be enigmas; and murderous enigmas at that. Does that say something about all of us? All of humanity? What the fuck does it say?

In lighter, slightly less enigmatic, news, I've found a really horrible movie to love: DOA: Dead or Alive.

Now, for those of you who aren't total, utter dorks, "Dead or Alive" is a video-game. It's a 3-D fighter that's appeared, in various incarnations, on the Dreamcast, the Playstation 2, the XBOX and XBOX 360. It's not a particularly good fighter, honestly, but because it well lends itself to a rather random play-style (called "button-mashing" by those unenlightened purists who refuse to embrace a sense of randomness in life) I am pretty good at it.

No, "Dead or Alive" really has only two claims to fame:

  1. It's graphics are top notch―truly, even detractors have to admit that it's just gorgeous eye-candy;
  2. So are the female characters.

Just in case you have any doubts about that, here's Hitomi:


And this is Kasumi:


So, "Dead or Alive" is a game populated by animated women so curvaceous they make Lara Croft look like she's wearing a sports-bra and boasts a mediocre control scheme at which I excel.

Need I tell you that I love it? Need I explain why?

I know you're asking yourself "How well does this translate to a movie?" right? The long answer is that you've got a laughable plot interspersed by chop-socky action sequences and, no shit, a beach volleyball match…


…all of which features B- and C-list actresses in C- and D-cup bikinis.

The short answer is that the movie is hilarious. Best. B-movie. Ever.

Provided you like watching attractive women bloodlessly beat each other up, whilst bouncing.

Which I guess is something I like to do.

Who knew?

Sunday, June 24, 2007

Leave it to the Onion…

…to find the humor in an every-Friday occurrence at local bars across the country!

Bar Skanks Announce Plans To Kiss | The Onion - America's Finest News Source

Not everyone was as enthusiastic about the pair's announcement. A 28-year-old female bar patron rolled her eyes at the girls' predictable antics, and was immediately dismissed by Fletcher and Keneally as "jealous." The bartender reported that she'd seen similar scenes play out on countless other evenings.

"You mean the one that flashed her tits last week is gonna make out with the girl who was telling everyone she wasn't wearing any underwear?" Dorman asked while setting out newly washed glasses. "Whatever."

Makes me want to head out next Friday, just to take notes.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Intervention

So…I've been working late, lately, getting out around 6:30 or 7:00 in the evenings. Tonight I had to run by Wal-Mart to grab a prescription refill, so I didn't get home until after 7:30, almost 8:00. Chris and Kate are on vacation in Edisto this week, so I've been doing stuff I generally don't: keeping the cats fed, watered and let out; making sure the air-conditioner's not running all the time; checking phone messages—all the stuff that a family of three can take care of without any input from their lodger. I get in and see that there are two messages on the machine, so I grab a pad and a pen and get ready to do a quick transcription. Honestly, I don't expect it to be anything important because anyone of importance knows that Chris and Kate are on vacation, while anyone needing to get in touch with me knows my cell number.

The messages are from an old friend of Chris's, whom I've only just met (he's played D&D with us, once). From here on out, I'll just refer to him as "Dude." The first message begs Chris to come pick Dude up because Dude's father has "gone insane." Dude assures Chris that this is "no joke." The second message is time-stamped just a few minutes later. In this message, Dude calls not only on Chris, but on me as well, saying that he really needs somebody, anybody's help. I do what any responsible person in my position would do when faced by a call for help from the friend of a friend who is, to me, also a complete stranger: I call Chris and Kate to get a read on this guy. When I'm unable to get in touch with them (phones around Edisto are, apparently, not very good) I call Dude back. He tells me that he's had to leave his parents' house and is wandering down a nearby road. I agree to go get him and head in that direction.

When I get to him, it turns out that Dude is about as drunk as any person I've ever seen. His parents have kicked him out of the house because he is so drunk and is, seemingly, unwilling to listen to reason. He asks me to take him back to his parents' house so he can pick up some clothes. At this point I'm pretty damn wary. As I said, I don't know Dude very well. As would follow, I don't know his parents at all. My impression when I hopped in the car had been that something terribly bad had happened. This impression had, by the time I'd picked him up, changed considerably: nothing especially bad has happened, I'm just caught up in teen-angst drama. Unfortunately, the "teen" in question is in his early 30s.

Reluctantly, I agree to take him back to his parents house; I'm honestly hoping that he'll end up staying there. On the way back, he asks me if he can crash at Chris and Kate's house for a bit. I tell him, honestly, that it isn't my house and I'll have to check with them. He says he understands and that, no matter what, he's going to need to stop and get some cigarettes, liquor and beer. I tell him that, all things considered, he may want to lay off for a bit. He snorts as if I'd just suggested that he nail his scrotum to a board. We pull up in front of his house, where his parents are standing in the front yard. He hops out of the car and goes to get his stuff.

God help me, I should've spun the car around and taken off. I didn't, however. So, when his father comes up to the car, I get this wonderful bit of dialog:

DUDE'S DAD: You know what you're getting yourself into?

ME: Honestly, sir, I don't. He's a friend of a friend who called to say he needs help.

DUDE'S DAD: Well, if you take him, don't bring his ass back here.

ME: ….

DUDE'S DAD: You're going to have to call 9-1-1 for that boy, the way he is….

At which point Dude's Dad gives me a pointed look and wanders away. Shortly thereafter, Dude reappears, gets in the car, and we're off.

On the way home, I'm regaled as a hero for a bit, until we get close to a convenience store; then it is key that I stop for beer. "Dude," I counter "you're shit-faced now, the last thing you need is beer. If you feel like you really want some later, there's a convenience store about a mile from the house. You'll have to walk." Dude says he can see what I'm saying and he respects my decision. Hopefully, that's it.

Once we get back to the house, I manage to get in touch with Chris and explain the situation to him. I tell him that I'm really not comfortable with Dude staying here, because I don't know him and he's self-destructively wasted. However, he's not my friend, so I'm willing to do whatever Chris feels best. Chris tells me that Dude needs to grow up and get his shit together, because he's not in high school anymore. I agree and we decide that Dude can stay one night but that when I go to work, he's on his own. Phone conversation ends, and I go back in the house to deal with a drunken, thirty-something adolescent.

We converse for a bit. I really can't get a decent read on Dude: he's drunk, he's depressed, he's talking to his uncle on the phone, he doesn't know me very well to tell me what's going on. Basically, it's a total mess. We go outside so Dude can smoke. Dude produces a flask of rum he's brought with him from home. I sigh deeply and settle in. We talk and it's more of the same drunken gibberish. Dude runs out of cigarettes. "Let's go to the store and get more smokes," Dude says. I agree, as one of my tires has been running chronically low on air and I'm getting the feeling I won't have time to stop and fill it up in the morning.

All the way to the store, the conversation takes a darker turn, with Dude telling me that there's no point to living and he'd really like to die. I'm not really able to get into a conversation about this, because the store's only a mile away and the drive there is pretty short. As we pull up, Dude tells me he's going to pick up some beer. I tell Dude that if he buys beer, he's walking home. Dude buys beer. I leave him there.

When I get home, I put in another call and talk to Kate. After apologizing, again, for interrupting their vacation, I explain my major concern: I've just abandoned a thoroughly trashed Dude one mile from the house. He's toting a case of beer, is apparently suicidal and is definitely wandering through a quiet residential neighborhood after dark. Is there anything to this suicide thing? Because if there is, I'm going to call the cops and have him picked up. After all, he should be pretty easy to spot. Kate tells me she doesn't know but she will pose the question to Chris when he gets back from a much-needed, stress-relieving walk. I tell her that if Chris isn't worried about Dude going through with this suicide stuff, not to bother calling me. She agrees and I close up my phone.

An hour-and-a-half of worry later, after two phone calls for directions and untold irritated neighbors, Dude staggers up the walk. We hang outside for a bit (I'd rather not have the beer in the house) while Dude drinks and smokes and talks. I bite my tongue and make a conscious decision not to say anything about how I'd told him he'd be walking home if he bought beer. I succeed. Dude tells me about his life in the non-sequential and tangential way that only drunk, depressed people can. I listen. I try to give honest, non-cliche advice when it seems appropriate. Eventually, Dude decides he wants to go in and watch the DVD he brought from home. We pop it in. He passes out.

That brings us up to present time, more or less. Dude's crashed. I think his phone is going off regularly, because I keep hearing a low buzz I associate with a phone set to "vibrate." The varmints are still exploding on the TV (rockchucks, at this point; the guy with the gun claims they "explode like watermelons") but I'm not watching them because, frankly, it's fucking appalling. I've had the weirdest god-damned night of my life in at least 10 years. Dude looks like he probably won't puke, so I'm about to crash out.

Oh…I have just one more thing to say: I've been sensitive, yet masculine, and patient and understanding all night, but I only quit drinking two weeks ago and I really, honestly and, most importantly, selfishly believe that's too fucking soon to be "facilitating" a god-damned "intervention," or however the psychobabble goes!

That is all. John out.

Saturday, June 16, 2007

yes I said yes I will Yes

Happy Bloomsday!

Y'all don't have to write nigh-unreadable stream-of-consciousness novels about it, but do try to pay attention to the world and people around you today. Look for the strange details and, if you want to get really heavy, ruminate a bit on how little human sentience seems to have changed since we first achieved it, making it possible to liken a day spent walking around a familiar town to Odysseus's trip home from Troy, and to do it brilliantly and beautifully and without a trace of irony. In short, pay attention today: life is wondrous and mythical and it's going on all around and inside you.

That's what I'm going to do….

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Oh! Em! GEE!

Bioware's MMO to Launch in 2009 - Wired Blogs
It might be Knights of the Old Republic Online, or it might be something else entirely.
Bioware is doing an MMORPG. And it might be based on KOTOR!

I think I might swoon again!

Friday, June 08, 2007

Strange week

This week has been on the quiet side, but also a little bit weird. In general, nothing's very different: I start my new job as a graphic designer in the advertising department of the local paper on Monday, June 11. It's looking pretty damn good: 40 hours a week, 8:30 to 5:30 (with an hour lunch) Monday through Friday, decent hourly rate plus monthly bonuses (it is advertising, so profit is an issue) and a dress code that basically reads "clothes must be clean, not distressed, cover a significant portion of your body and not prominently display T-shirts of the 'Ass, Gas or Grass―No-One Rides for Free' variety." For the time being, I'm keeping my crappy retail job on a very limited, extremely part-time basis; primarily because I do actually buy stuff from the store where I work—which makes the employee discount pretty attractive—and because the $20 a month cell-phone plan simply can't be beat. Hopefully, this will include shifts at the location here in Aiken, not the location in Martinez where I'm currently driving 80 miles round-trip to make not a whole lot of dough. In any case, if the job gets to be too much of a pain in the ass, I'll quit. Easy.

So…there's the quiet part. Here's the strange part: last Sunday, while attempting to pay for an unsweet iced tea at a local Waffle House, I suddenly lost consciousness, collapsing and conking my head a good one on those patented "we can hose any substance off this surface at any time" Waffle House floors.

Now, this didn't come out of the absolute blue: I'd played D&D in the garage all day with my friends and, over the course of five-or-so hours, consumed about a six-pack of beer. I'd also eaten, all told, possibly three mini-crullers along with one cup of regular coffee and half-a-pot of decaf. Obviously, this is not the most healthy diet available. In my defense, I'd stopped drinking at least two hours before I set foot in the Waffle House and, ironically, was there specifically because I knew I had to eat something soon. I was feeling fine right up until the moment I sat down in the Waffle House booth, when I suddenly felt like my ears were being stuffed with cotton while my fairly ravenous appetite fled in a rush of queasiness and cold sweat. I ordered the iced tea, took two sips off it and felt my vision begin to dim as if the Waffle House had, suddenly and incongruously, installed mood lighting. At that point I told Jason (who was driving) that I wasn't feeling well and needed to leave immediately. I went up to the register, apologized to the server for cutting out without buying anything remotely tip-worthy and handed her my card. Next thing I knew, I was sprawled out on the floor looking at the ceiling while an incredibly intense and competent gentleman took my pulse and asked me if I knew where and who I was.

Needless to say—and against my wishes, if not my good judgment—EMTs were called and—after determining that I was slightly dehydrated but had normal blood sugar, slightly low blood pressure and an elevated heart rate ("Your pulse is very high," they kept saying; "Well, I'm a little bit freaked out!" I kept replying)—I was, reluctantly, transported to the local hospital where, accompanied by my battle-cry of "I have absolutely no medical insurance and am entirely unable to pay for any of this!" I was x-rayed and CT-scanned and, after being told by a competent and breezy M.D. that I had "swooned," finally released. After I lurched out to his car and made a few jokes about feeling like some heroine from a Victorian melodrama ("Oh! Ralston! I feel faint! Whatever shall I do?"), Jason kindly took me home, where Kate kindly made me some soup. Both of them mentioned, kindly but sternly, that perhaps multiple beers on an empty stomach in an un―air-conditioned garage was a bad idea. I sheepishly concurred.

Now, just to reassure everyone out there in Internet-land, everything is perfectly and absolutely okay. With the exception of the approximately 15 seconds that I was supine and wall-eyed on the Waffle House floor, I was completely cogent, responsive and articulate. I maintain a clear memory of everything that happened up to and following my "swoon." In fact, my favorite two memories take the form of dialogue:
  1. EMT 1 (a very determined woman, disinclined to suffer fools gladly): Listen, John, we're not doctors; we can't say whether you're okay or not. But you have to make a decision now: are we taking you in or not?

    Me: But…if I'm okay then I can go home, get some rest and have someone drive me to a clinic in the morning. That way I don't have to pay $600 for a glorified taxi ride!

    EMT 1 (looking over and grinning at her partner before looking down at me, stone-faced): But if you're not okay….

    (ominous silence; bystanders begin to mutter, both to me and amongst themselves)

    Me (practically under my breath, utterly defeated): Shit…. Okay, take me in. Let's take a ride.

  2. EMT 2 (a quiet, gently chastising guy): Did his head bounce when he hit the floor?

    Random Bystander: Oh, hell yes!
Seriously, I not only knew my name, but I managed to provide my brother's address; my brand new, barely memorized phone number and could, when pressed by a doctor, assume that I had been taken to Aiken Regional Medical Centers. That last may seem like a given to you but, trust me, when you're strapped to a board and trussed into a neck-brace that is specifically designed so you can't turn your head, while being transported in a windowless ambulance at night, you don't have a lot of details available to allow you to know precisely where you are.

So, in short, I'm fine; this isn't a hospital visit of the same caliber as my lung collapse last August, it's a fluke. In engineering parlance, I had a bad day.

Okay, that said, I want to let you know that the following changes to my life are in effect as of Sunday, June 3, 2007:
  • I won't be going to the Whiskey Road Waffle House on Aiken's Southside for a very long time. No, not because they did anything wrong or had anything to do with me passing out; hell, they didn't even make me pay for my iced tea. Just suffice it to say that I'd feel awkward as hell going back in there. Can you blame me? So, yeah, if anybody wants to go with me to Waffle House, it has to be the one over on Richland Avenue.

  • I don't drink any more. Yeah, I know: I've voiced concerns, both drunk and sober, about my drinking in the past. And I've even stated that I've stopped drinking before, as well. Those times were temporary stopgaps, brought on by financial or psychological needs. Once I felt safe and secure again, I felt safe enough to start up again. This time my motivations are different. This time I have quit drinking for good, for the exact same reason that, two-and-a-half years ago, I consciously quit flirting and dating: I am surprisingly bad at it; it wrecks my judgment; it ultimately makes me feel worse about myself; and I'm tired of all the head-games and bullshit that accompany it. Now, whereas I do believe that dating is a positive activity which I will again pursue, I cannot say the same thing about drinking. So, with the possible exception of a toast at my own wedding (yeah, right), I'm done with it. That's not to say that I've become a self-righteous prick, so don't walk on eggshells around me. Anybody reading this is more than welcome to do whatever they like, I honestly don't care. Hell, I'll drive y'all wherever you need to be. And I've got a sense of humor about my own teetotaling as well: call me a pussy, a light-weight, what have you—it's all in good fun. But, if you've got a serious problem with my decision to stop drinking—if you think I'm doing the wrong thing or that my own long-term sobriety is a bad idea or that you won't be able to have fun with me if I stay sober or that it would be funny to try to pressure me to start drinking again—you can fuck right off and out of my life. I've got too much self-respect to put up with that kind of Charlie Brown bullshit, 'kay?

  • When I feel the slightest bit hungry, I'm going to fucking eat something. Just so you know. Who knows, maybe I'll hit my target weight.

  • As of this post, I'm still having dizzy spells. Leave it to me to save the weirdest bit for last, eh? But…yeah, five days after I hit that floor I still get dizzy when I turn my head quickly or stand up. Sometimes I lurch to the left a bit. Now, while I have it on good authority that this sort of thing is not unusual following minor head injuries, I also know that, should this stuff continue, I need to get myself checked by a doctor. Let me start this new job and see when my benefits kick in. If they start within the first month or so, I'm going to play "wait and see" until they do. If they don't, I'll take the afternoon off and head to a clinic. I'm poor and in debt for medical problems already, but I'm also not a fool: I'll do what needs to be done.
So, fun, huh? Sort of a vaguely wacky, somewhat stand-offish self-intervention, all typed out and bullet-pointed for easy reading. Ain't the Internet grand?

Seriously, though, everybody who reads this regularly (all, like, four of you), I appreciate you bothering to get this far down the page, and I'd be interested to know your thoughts. If you don't feel like putting them in a public forum like the "Comments" section, feel free to e-mail me. If you don't really have any thoughts, that's cool, too.

And, if you're my family members, especially those I've spoken to since last Sunday and haven't told this story (which is all of you I've spoken to), please don't be upset with me withholding this information from you. There's a reason I didn't immediately call everybody and tell them what happened and that reason is that this is no big deal. Too much good stuff is happening in my life for me to call y'all up and make you worry about something as minor as this. If this had happened at home, I'd've simply lain down in bed and it wouldn't've been an issue, okay? I'm doing great here. I am surrounded by wonderful friends. I am pursuing my true interests both professionally and casually. I feel better about myself than I have in years. Rest assured, if this had been serious, I would've called all of you immediately, the way I did last August.

In short, I love you, and if there's no real, compelling reason for me to call y'all up and cause you unnecessary concern, then I'm not going to. I hope you guys understand, and know that I'm doing well.