Archive for July, 2008

…or watch the paint dry.

July 31, 2008

Welcome back, longtime Forklifts Unlimited fans! You really are the greatest followers in all the galaxy. For surely you are those who discover the subtle nuances of greatness that the casual browser misses. Surely you are not bored and randomly reading the sprawled musings of a genius welder (and also those of my partner Rod). You’re not eating a burrito half-reading while glancing at season two of McGyver playing on your television screen! I know it to be otherwise. I have greater faith in the Forklifts Unlimited Fanbase (FUnbase USA for our domestic fans, FUnternationalbase for the out-of-towners). And despite what statistics may tell us, I know you’re out there fair readers; secretly viewing our words through some highly-technical method of concealment that tricks WordPress into not registering a unique hit. It’s okay man: I respect your privacy.

But to return to my unstated point: the above profession of pride in our readership was all based on the in-depth mental analysis of boredom I conducted while driving home from work this evening. “What could possibly bore THINKER?” I thought to myself aimlessly in the silent darkness of the wide-open spaces through which I was traveling. My mind went blank; could I possibly take a substantial interest in every situation, happenstance and context imaginable?

I trained my thoughts. “Alright THINKER, on the count of three, its time for some serious boredom” I said out loud to myself like a lunatic. “Three! Two! One! Wait, that wouldn’t be the count of three then would it? Damn it, anyway BORED!”

There I sat, completely immersed in the uncomfortable feeling of lamenting disinterest. Unsatisfied, uninspired, and certainly not entertained. “Success!” I cried out in my mind. “Now, how do I remedy this wanton inkling for something other than this?” I sat for a moment. Then it hit me like one ton of self-realization bricks.

“OCTOPUS JUGGLING! What?” Amazingly, I’d found the one response able to confuse me within my own mind. And in a rare state of sobriety nonetheless! And that, even more so than juggling several octopus, was enough to entertain me. Why is everyone in a dissatisfied state of immobility?

Friends, learn to become amused by yourself. Find ways to break a bad cycle of day-in-day-out rigidity that will eventually leave you in a state of live rigor mortis. Weening down your dependence on Jon Stewart is probably a good first step. Weening down your dependence on your friends is an excellent second step. Of course step three is enjoying life, and regularly reading this blog.

They are all connected to each other. In a circle, in a hoop that never ends. Pocahontas, bitches.

Thinker St. James
Endocrinologist (License Pending)

Thanks for Ruining It, Asshole

July 16, 2008

I like to do a lot of things with my life. This is partially because there are so many things in life to do. The other part is that there are so many things in life I want to do. The other part is that, while being unemployed and just out of high school, waiting for college courses to start, I have all the time in the world to do nothing. This was an interesting notion at first, but it quickly faded, somewhere between the seventh all-nighter, and the twelfth day without a shower, all spent glued to a computer monitor, playing internet roullette with Firefox’s StumbleUpon plugin. So I began looking for some other things to do, and found enough to keep me occupied, at least when I want to be occupied, and one of these things was bound to be movies.

Now, I like movies. Comedy films particularly, but that’s not to say I don’t enjoy a good thriller, superhero movie, etc. Naturally, I like to approach a movie, maybe knowing a little bit of what it’s about, but basically in the dark in general as to the goings-on. So would somebody please tell me, for the love of God, why the hell does every movie trailer spoil the ENTIRE movie for me!?

Reading that last passage, you may not fully understand my gripe with the movie trailer industry. I’m not quite sure if there’s an industry in particular that deals with just trailers specifically, or if it’s all blanketed into the movie industry itself, but my point stands. And my point is this. I don’t mind the trailer telling me what’s going to happen. Hell, that even helps sometimes. What I do mind is movie trailers essentially breaking my favorite wall, the fourth wall, the best, albeit least sturdy wall of all, in order to tell me something I wasn’t supposed to know. Forget the fact that I am supposed to know some things for the progression of the movie, I don’t want to be told these things by the characters themselves. Now let me explain with example.

I’m watching the trailer for Spiderman (I’m not really, but let’s pretend), and after that cool “wooshing” noise you hear that intros the trailer, I hear Peter Parker come on. Peter isn’t talking to Mary Jane, or Doctor Octopus, or somebody from the Justice League, or anything like that. He’s not saving a fucking civilian and advising them with a smirk beneath his spidey mask, “you should be more careful next time,” before placing them back down on the railroad tracks and swinging away. He’s talking to me. Peter Parker is talking to me. And that pisses me off. Why? I dunno, maybe it’s the fourth wall break, maybe it’s the fact that I am not a character in the Spiderman movie, but it’s more than likely because, for some reason, Peter approaches me, sitting there in my recliner with my bag of Nacho Doritos, as though I were some kind of wise man or guru. He spills his guts to me. He tells me “I am Peter Parker…(more wooshing sounds and a few screams)…also known as….Spiderman…”

…WELL WHAT THE HELL?! Thanks a lot, asshole! You just obliterated the immersive experience I was expecting to have at the theatre…and I wasn’t even at the theatre yet! Parker then goes into telling me that “nobody can know about my secret….not even the ones I love most.” Well if you can’t tell your secret to the ones you love most, why in the fuck would you tell it to ME! I’m a fucking spectator. I’m an unemployed student who writes for a blog on wordpress that nobody reads! I have long, knotted hair, and a goatee! Do I look like your fucking Sensai or something?!

How do you expect me, Peter, to immerse myself within the movie, to “feel like I’m right there,” to be one with the fucking cinematic zen, if I know your untellable secret? If you couldn’t tell anybody, and you just fucking told me, you’re obviously perfectly aware that I am not in your stupid little radioactively enhanced dimension, and that it’s OK to tell me your secret because I’m not a threat, me being a real person, and you being the figment of another real person’s imagination. That pisses me off. I was all set to “feel like I’m there,” and then you, Peter Parker, the fucking HERO for Christ’s sake, had to go and spoil it all.

It’s not like we all don’t know superhero identities. It’s not like you don’t know that Bruce Wayne is Batman, Clark Kent is Superman, Peter Parker, obviously, is Spiderman. But that’s the thing. You didn’t need to tell me and go spoiling things – I ALREADY FUCKING KNEW! I would have been able to follow the film perfectly fine, without you having to directly tell me what your fucking identity is. Hell, I’d be more satisfied with Stan Lee opening the movie with the “Peter is Spiderman” monologue, than have Spiderman himself revealing his deepest, darkest, fucking secrets to the entire world! Fuck Stan Lee, you could go completely out of context and pull in Sam Elliot to narrate the opening as a cowboy who’s “been everywhere, man,” as the song goes. Sam Elliot could intro a movie about Space Robots in the year 3000, and it would still kick ass! You know what? Add that to my list of gripes with the movie industry: Gripe Number 759) Sam Elliot has not introduced the plot for every movie in existence.

“Well maybe Spidey is talking to his conscience, or to himself, and we’re just like flies on the wall, witnessing it all.” Well fucking hell man. Spidey’s gotta be more careful! I mean look at it. He was bitten by a radioactive spider, and turned into a superhuman. He fights half-humans based on every conceivable element, insect, and cephalopod, and yet it’s never occured to him that somewhere in that big radiocative mess of a city, there could be a FLY MAN?! If I was Spiderman and saw a fly on the wall while I was vocalizing my inner monologue, I would fucking smash that fly. I can’t risk the fly gliding back across the air to his fly buddies across the city to tell them that I am Spiderman. That would fucking blow. Granted, I guess flies’ natural enemy is the spider, and normal spiders that are barely the size of the fly in the first place do a pretty good job of owning them. Hell, flies are probably afraid of Spiderman. But they aren’t afraid of Peter Parker. And to my knowledge, Peter is the one talking, Spiderman is just a fucking suit.

My last thought on this subject is another “what if” scenario. Think about it Spiderman. If Stan Lee could create you, create your big, fucked up world, and create all those villains, couldn’t he, or anyone else, just as easily come and kill Peter Parker when he isn’t looking? Are you sure you’re safe telling the audience who you are? I mean, what if I, knowing that Peter Parker is Spiderman, decided to sneak into the comic printing room, and just draw a big fat sucker punch right around the corner as Peter is walking down the sidewalk. He TOTALLY would not expect that! Because he’s dressed as Peter Parker. Nobody knows who the hell he is. Except me. You know why? I’ll tell you why. It was your own fault Spidey. You’re the one who blabbed on that commercial. You’re the one who blabbed at the opening of the movie. You’re the one who spoiled it for me. And because you spoiled it for me, I decided to use the information you gave me to spoil you back. Thanks for ruining it, asshole.

This! Is! Alaska!

July 8, 2008

Fishing for crabs in the Bering Sea, under the craziest conditions possible by nature. Are you fucking kidding me? This Deadliest Catch show clearly exhibits the indomitable norseman in the hearts of all Alaskans. And its even got Bon Jovi’s “Dead or Alive” as its theme song; how clever is that!

I appreciate the shows display of honest heroism. The call of the wild beckons, but these days, who answers? These crazy bearded decedents of Thor, that’s who. While the other 49 states wait in line for Taco Bell, these warriors endure nearly freezing to death for 13 hours a day. While getting pelted with ice cold seawater. And nearly falling overboard every five minutes with the rough waves pushing their ship towards capsizing. These guys should have iron helmets and shields with dragons on them.

How many people do you know in your life that could possibly be an Alaskan King Crab fisherman? I myself only know a select handful of people who could rise to the epic call of the Flokennhorne (which may or may not be an actual instrument used to signify bravery). I don’t even believe that I, the most grandiose, most promixa centauri of all living humanity could answer the awe-inspiring Flokennhorne summons (as I believe DWC [Drinking While Crabfishing] is a misdemeanor in waters governed by Alaska). Think about that next time you’re snuggling up with your douchenozzle boyfriend Johnny after a rollicking six minutes of boisterously unpleasant sexual intercourse, sister. Would Johnny be scraping ice off his ballsack in the middle of the perfect storm, laughing in death’s face like a swashbuckling maverick with nothing to lose?! The answer is no, Claire. That’s also the answer to “is he special?”, “should a give my heart to this man?”, and “if we decided to get married, do you think he’d stop selling ecstasy?”

As Thinker St. James, a man who thinks more highly of himself than he does of most major world leaders, I tip my feathered bowler cap to the men, men and younger men of the USS Kickass: The Alaskan King Crab fishermen.

Alaska. I wonder what it’s like in Alaska. All I know of Alaska is The Iditarod (tracked that bitch in 5th grade; big ups to Ms. Johnson’s class). Oh, and hockey. And those crazy remote research facilities that serve some sort of geological purpose. It’d be nice to be in one of those little bases, but have it be a totally sweet pad with a fireplace and a polar bearskin rug. You’d have to have a hot research assistant though; the Alaskan tundra is a hard place to pick up chicks, I’ve heard.

Alaska also has periods of time where it is complete darkness for months at a time (something I learned from Steve Niles). I wonder if there are seasonal nightclubs that are open 24-hours during those times. People could be dancing to disco music at four o’clock in the afternoon! Isn’t that a world we’ve all dreamed about?

Mystery, Alaska: that’s like a movie, right?

And I’ve also heard that there is a lot of marijuana in Alaska, yet they still voted against the framework of legalization. Being a stoner in Alaska must be terrible: leaving a lighter in your car results in a 10-layer suit of freeze-resistant clothing. And no pot dealer is taking out the snowmobile at two in morning to go deliver an eighth of kush to you across a twelve-mile frozen lake. Though they are neighbors with those crazy Canadians and their scientifically modified hyperweed, so who knows! That’s Alaska for ya, baby.

I’d like to end this post by saying Alaska. Fuck Yeah. Today!