What Pissed Me Off Today, May 31, 2007

I was reading reviews by the ever-so-snarky AV Club section of The Onion today, and realized, at some point, I finally lost some of my own snarkiness and pretension. But by doing so, it allowed self-righteous rage to creep into my personality, especially when it comes to others who exhibit pretension and snarkiness. The hipsters at the AV Club, and the comment trolls who add to the gooey coating of poseurity (yeah, I made it up, so what), are surely the target of my rage.

Take a film like Shrek the Third, which I saw this weekend with my five-year old son. Pap. Pure Pap. Pure, pathetic, pap and pablum to be sure. But I watched it. I laughed at the jokes. I snickered at the entendres. I was entertained. My son was entertained. My wife was entertained. It wasn't as clever as the first, but I go into any sequel with lower expectations.

The film doesn't soar to new heights, it just delivers what I expect from a Shrek film - a goofy storyline based on legends and fairy tales that have been skewed or warped. It doesn't explore new ground or give out a heartfelt message, but who says it has to? The hipsters, that's who. The hipsters decry that it halfheartedly blurts out a message. The hipsters whine that adults recognize the voices and the kids don't - so therefore it's marketed to adults. The hipsters sit in front of their keyboards, sipping an overpriced latte (I'm not condemning overpriced latte's, I have a soft spot for anything caffeinated, even if it comes from a chain with the name of Ahab's CO), and are shocked that anyone would want to spend money seeing this schlock fest of bodily humor inspired jokes and animated silliness.

It's not a high-minded masterpiece, it won't change the world, nor will it send you away from the theatre reflecting on how we shouldn't mistreat Ogres. I don't believe it's meant to do that. I believe it's meant to entertain and help shill merchandise. I get tired, right along with the hipsters, of seeing the big green face hawking wares, food, or services unrelated to the movie, or even the made up kingdom. It is a piece of pap, and that's how I approached it.

Okay, okay, you may have read my reviews of community theatre and are prepared to shout "hypocrite" or something at me. You might be right. But I doubt it. The hipsters that sign on and try to out snark each other need to go outside and get some fresh air. It might be hard, though, as they out hip each other with obscure brands of cigarettes, cloves, or even bidis. Take a deep breath and relax, your opinion doesn't matter, so shut the fuck up.

Nothing to see here

My first post on Recreant/Miscreant. I should say (or write, rather) something profound, or earth-shaking, or profoundly earthshaking.

I got nothin'.

Instead, here's an old story I've posted before, elsewhere. . .

(Fire me for being a hack - it's from March 22nd, 2005 - a series of emails I sent myself when I was working at a sword store, bored out of my fucking mind. It's also a raw dump from brain to keyboard - a gushing of grey matter. I did some slight edits tonight because of the POV changes)

It is night. Amanda locks up the store - Bombay Fashions - a small clothing store in a yuppie-like town - a lot like New Hope.

She walks down the street, lights a cigarette. It's chilly but not horribly cold outside. She walks quickly down the street, her boots clicking against the pavement in the dark, walking through the miserable night, under the streetlights. She is being watched. There is nobody else on the street, though.

She crosses the street to the lot where her car is parked. She puts the key in the lock, it doesn't work on any door or the trunk. She goes back to the door and it unlocks but doesn't open. She bangs her top and drops her keys. She bends down to get them then gets back up and is face to face with a man. She looks up at
him.

Hello, princess.

Before she can do anything, he sprays her in the face with pepper spray. He covers her mouth with a rag, tapes it, then puts a bag over her head. She feels like she is stumbling forward, she hears the sound of doors opening, the bag is lifted just as she drops into the back of a van. She sees his face.

'Nighty, 'night.

He chloroforms her. She fades away.

She fades back to the sound of tires on a highway, streetlights coming in the window. She fades away. She fades back. Tires on pavement, occasional light, talk radio playing talking about gun control. The man's voice is arguing with the radio. He is obviously for gun control, while the bloated warthog on the radio is against it as impugning civil liberties.

Music is playing. No light. Tires on gravel. She tries to look around. She sees a sledgehammer, some assorted things in a crate. A folding chair. An empty box of cereal. Some wrappers. Her hands are cuffed behind her. Her feet are tied. She wriggles from the bonds on her feet a bit. The van finally lurches to a stop, tires on gravel.

The ignition is left on. The music still plays. The door opens and a boot crunches the gravel. The back door opens.

Sorry about the bumpy ride, princess.

She kicks him in the face. He goes down. She scrambles out the back of the van, sees a tree, sees the dirt road, with the sound of a chain being strung across the van's floor and the ground following her. Sees the man trying to get up, and holding a bloodied nose. She starts running.

Blam. Crunch. She falls flat on her face as the chain that attaches her to the van goes taut. Blood splurts from her nose and streams across the duct tape over her mouth.

She hears crunching footsteps and a bit of laughter.

My spunky little princess. That's why I love you so much.

She hears something unlatching the chain from the van. She is jerked to her feet and stumbles along to the tree, led by the man. He pushes her to the tree.

We can do this my way or the devil's way. Which way, princess?

My way is simple. You let me chain you to this tree. The devil's way is that I break your legs and arms and crucify you to this tree. Just like the Christ. Want to feel what he felt, love? Do you?"

She shakes her head, dazed.

He throws the chain over the top of the tree, over some branches, and pulls, yanking her arms above her head. He whistles as he works, going around the tree with the chain, tying it off on a spike at the base on the other side and working his way around her, eventually chaining her legs apart and off the ground.

I'm so glad you wore that skirt for me, princess. You know I love that skirt. You still smell so fresh.

He rips the duct tape off. She stares at him. He smiles.

I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere.

He walks to the van. He counts down, wordlessly from four, then mouths the piercing scream from behind him. He smiles, and mouths each scream as he gets out a sledgehammer and a crate. He carries it over to where his prisoner is kept.

He goes back to the van and gets a small chair. He sets it up in front of the prisoner.

She is getting hoarse. He gets in the driver seat and pulls around so the headlights shine right on her. He puts the car in park, changes the radio station, turns up the radio, then grabs a half-eaten burger and a drink.

He walks over to her and watches her as she screams, shouts at him, then begins pleading for her life. He is pretty detached, simply eating the burger and drinking his drink.

You want a burger? It will help you conserve your energy. No? I bought one for you. Maybe later. You want some drink? You're getting hoarse, princess. I wouldn't want you to lose your voice. It's what I love about you. That and your pretty legs. No? Okay.

You should be more careful walking in the dark to your car, you know. There are a lot of wackos.

She begins bantering but it's nothing that he wants to listen to.

Oooh, I love this song? Do you like this song? Maybe we can dance to it one day, princess.

The police will come, the boyfriend will come, someone always comes, she thinks.

You are right, Princess. Someone always comes. Problem is, they always come too late.

The reality of this sets in.

Listen. Do you hear anything? Wait. Wait. I'll turn the song down. Now, do you hear anything? anything at all?

Nothing but crickets rubbing legs together in their sensous, maddening way.

No, I didn't think so, Princess.

She sobs into the gravel as his boots kick up small pebbles. He looks at her, his face without emotion.

It's just you, me, and the light of the blue moon. And the crickets. You're safe. . . as long as you don't struggle. . . too much.