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Evolution of reality....

Posted 7 April 2002, 6.12 pm by Jake

Remember when you were young? Let's just say between the ages of 4-10. Those action figures, stuffed animals, whatever you owned weren't just mere objects. They were your escape. You'd spend hours playing war with your G.I. Joes, the girl next door was drinking tea with her dolls, everything was cool. Five years old...and one day, you're out in the yard, slaying dragons as usual, brandishing your sword in the faces of your adversaries like a modern-day knight when about that time, your parents tell you it's getting dark, you need to come inside, etc. So you walk back towards your kingdom with your trusty sword. Upon entering the door, your mother quips, "Honey, don't bring that nasty stick inside the house. It's probably got bugs and fungus and god-knows-what on it. You look down at your hand, and clasped in your chivalrous grip is a moldy old stick. Not the shiny chrome sword you once wielded. The magic is gone. Part of your imagination is jolted.

Let's go a bit further. You're about 6-7 years old sitting in class. You look outside and the ground is coated in a fine, powdery foot of snow. Your teacher tells you to each get out a piece of paper, because you're all going to write letters to Santa Claus. You beam in excitement. You think, "Great!! I'll ask Santa for that new bike, or maybe a Nintendo or something." So you clap and holler along with a majority of the class while a young boy behind you mutters, "Santa's a load of crap." Horrified, you turn and face this disillusioned individual. He gives you a menacing grin. He's missing his front two teeth. He restates, "Santa's just something your parents told you to keep you amused. He's not real." You whisper back, "Really?" The kid replies, "Yeah. Come talk to me at recess." So you and him engage in a philosophical discussion about Santa Claus. You go home a little bit dejected and a little bit wiser, but your heart skips whenever your parents mention Santa to your little sister. Once again, the magic is gone.

These little experiences, these fleeting visions of enlightenment, become more common with age. You mature, begin to take interest in the opposite sex, hang out with your friends, and spend your parents' money. One day, they refuse to pay for you and tell you to get a job. You are angry at first, but then you begin to sympathize with them, as well as learn to budget and sometimes help out with the bills. Some of the innocence is gone, but you're all the wiser.

Once you hit the job market, you're set. You're making good money, you have a nice apartment, sporty car. You buy quirky, self-descriptive things to decorate your home. You have nice, brand-name clothes, and you come in every night to dinner, a few beers, and zone out on the TV or computer. You're on your own. One day at work, you walk in on a co-worker in the bathroom. He leaps as if terrified, and is snorting and sniffling furiously. He has a bit of white powder spilled on his dark-gray Polo tie, and his eyes are red and glazed. He offers you some..."Sure helps on these late hours." You accept, willingly. After about 15 minutes you become nervous and frantic. You scramble at everything you do and talk at an alarming speed. This drug is nothing like the joint you smoked before the senior prom, this stuff is like gasoline. You begin to hook up with your co-worker and coke buddy, "Brian". You now have something ELSE to spend your salary on. You have another vice. The innocence is gone, but you have new magic. You have nose-candy.

A year later, you find yourself in an uncontrollable downward spiral. You have a $5,000/mo. cocaine habit and are on the verge of losing your job. You can't keep a girlfriend. You quit your job, pack your things, trade in your sporty car for $15,000 cash and a $3,000 junker, and spend 10 of your $15,000 on coke. You rent a hotel room for a month.
All you need is just more...more....magic.

A month later, you're working for a shoddy remodeling company. You start drinking in the mornings with your alcoholic co-workers and get the jobs done slowly. You do shitty work and you retire to your hotel for a syringe full of heroin and a prostitute to shoot it up with you. And then you have unprotected sex with her, nightly. She's worried about the pus-filled sores that are beginning to form on her vagina. Your balls itch.
You go into a rage when you can't find a connection, and you're 2 weeks behind on paying the hotel bill. They're on the verge of kicking you out. But, you have the bottle.
The magic is fading.

A week after, you can't seem to make ends meet anymore. You lost your job, got kicked out of the hotel and wander around the streets babbling like a madman. It's been a week since you've shot up, but you can still follow a man down the alley and roll him for his wallet. However, not many rich people hang out in this area, and the most you've gotten is $20.00. No respectable drug dealer would sell 2 cc of his worst heroin for $20.00. So, you go buy a gallon of whiskey and a carton of cigarettes with your collective savings, and drown your sorrows. You vomit into a gutter, pass out and piss yourself on the sidewalk. The cops kick you out of the way under an awning. It'd be a waste of time for them to arrest you. You awake blurry-eyed, hocking up nasty, bloody wads of phlegm. You stink of the fermenting trash that you sleep in, and have developed a chronic, raspy cough. You start to talk to yourself more often and become unintelligible.
One day, you're following a black man down the alley. You run to tackle him and beat him senseless, but he is aware of you. He leaps forward as you sprawl to the ground in a half-drunken haze. He whips out a .357 Magnum from his jacket pocket and blows your brains onto the pavement.

The magic is gone.

Surviving on contests!

Posted 6 April 2002, 10.48 pm by Waldo

Anyone in the know (or Japan) has heard of those outrageous Japanese game shows. They put poisonous insects on people and the last one to chicken out wins, they sit in various uncomfortable substances and endure humiliating dares and circumstances. Well, all of that gets old. There’s no real human drama about it, now is there? It’s main prospect is that it represents the everyman put into strange circumstances.

Well, this tops all of them. This guy was put through what equates to a modern survival class. No clothes, no food, no ANYTHING. Plopped naked into a room with magazines, a huge pile of postcards, a table, a small radio, a telephone, some notebooks, and some pens. And it’s televised. Much more interesting than any reality based show I’ve ever seen (and it last more than a few weeks). If it weren’t such a repressive, mono-cultural, racist country I would love to live there. Instead I’m left with their scraps of TV and movies.

Too Much Freakin Time on my Hands

Posted 5 April 2002, 5.53 am by Berly

How much of a freak are you? I didn't take the test, because I'm fairly certain that my rating would shame both myself and anyone else who takes the test. Actually, it's entirely too damn long for my patience. If you have a lot of time on your hands, go take the 500 Question Freak Test .

Are you feeling all together ookie and don't need no stinkin' test to tell you what your freak factor is? Then maybe you will like Horrorfind .
" the directory and search engine dedicated to Horror, Halloween and Spooky subjects."

Sheesh, I hope there are no naked pictures of Mr./Dr. Spooky in there.


Posted 4 April 2002, 10.14 pm by Jake

He screamed in fury as he kicked the television set. The large-screen Sony tipped over and exploded in a supernova of light. Breaking the silence. "You idiots!" he fumed. "Can you not see what this thing is DOING to us?" Blank stares, dumb, vacant gazes. "You broke it." one man grunted in monotone. The angry man screamed "What in the fuck? Did you not hear what I just said? This shit is rotting our brains! We gotta get outta here while we still can!" In a panic, his eyes darted around the room. White walls, white floors, white ceilings. Even ths lamps buzzed with a fluorescent white light. The other faces, pale and emaciated, looked at him with sunken, hollow eyes. The only contrast was the colors of their uniforms. Each person was dressed in a different shade of neon. Green, yellow, blue, pink, orange...all stood out from the bleached background, like stains on a canvas. "You broke it," a woman chimed in, with the same dull voice as the other. "SHUT UP!" screamed the angry man. "You stupid cunt!! You're all stupid!!" One fellow glanced upward with bright eyes. "I'm not...." while glancing at the angry man's name tag "...Moore." Moore took the guy by the hand and lifted him to his feet. "That's more like it!" Moore whooped. "Now let's rouse the rest of these listless losers and get the hell outta here!"
"YOU BROKE IT!" growled another man. They all began to rise.
"Holy shit! Moore, what're we gonna do?"
"I don't know. Go for the door."
They all began to chant "You broke it. You BROKE it! YOU broke IT! YOU BROKE IT!" Their tones became angry and menacing. Moore and the boy scrambled at the door. Locked from the outside. They looked at the windows, which were bars welded to the building's metal facade. "There's no way out!" screamed the young man. "Shut UP!" Moore retorted. He began to beat on the door. When that proved useless, he began flailing his limbs against the triple-paned Plexiglas. "FUCK!" he yelled. He began to smash his massive body against the door. It didn't budge, and the group was advancing toward them. One fellow brandished a knife and roared, "YOU BROKE IT!"
Sharp pains, hands grabbing, tearing hair and skin, beating of fists. The white-hot feeling of a blade tore into their bodies. At the sight of blood, the crowd grew angrier. They began tearing and beating on each other. Within an hour, everyone was in a bloody, screaming heap on the floor.
The doctors looked on through the glass, unimpressed. "Happens every time," one doctor said to the group. They all laughed heartily as one of them went over and picked up the telephone on the desk. "Yes, nurses' station? Send in the janitors to room 12 A."

What's Your Fetish

Posted 4 April 2002, 5.37 pm by Craig

Konichiwa! I like tiny little asians!What's Your Fetish? Take the test at Nollykin's World.
Tell me What your Fetish is in the Comments!!

Blade 2

Posted 2 April 2002, 9.29 pm by Alexander

Those of you familiar with the original Blade will know of Wesley Snipe's 'Daywalker'. Half Vampire, half human, all the strengths and abilities of Vampires, but with a special serum that appeases his need for blood, he's a vampire hunter. And he has a fucking cool car.

The original was an extremely stylish, very silly, very violent action movie. It was extremely good in this respect. For the sequel, it seems director Guillermo del Toro (Kronos, Mimic) has said "Right, the first one was good, but there was too much acting, plot, and characterisation. The result is one of the most visually exciting, consistently violent and stylish action movies of recent times.

And when I say consistently violent, I mean the film is pretty much one big fight sequence. It's magnificent. The plot, such that it is, concerns a new breed of undead (called 'Reapers] lead by none other than Matt Goss (from Bros), who actually does admirably. Not surprising, considering all he really has to do is hiss and wear about 7 tons of latex. These 'Reapers' are feeding on Vampires, and our man Blade is sequestered by the Vampire elite to lead a 'crack' team of vampires in battle against these nasty little fucks.

Lots of things get beaten, shot, blown up and eaten. Some of the completely unnecessary fight scenes (ex: two messengers from the vampires infiltrate Blade's stronghold to deliver a message, the fight scene lasts about 10 minutes - they could have knocked) are so over the top, Snipes and his human opponent are given a cup of tea and a comfy seat while CGI wizards take care of it. The CGI is sometimes a little ropey, but your disbelief is by this point suspended somewhere above the auditorium, so you don't really give a fuck. The reaper's are the foulest thing seen on screen since Predators (to which they owe a debt) and the love interest vampire chick is dull enough to not interfere with the ass kicking. Which is good.

For gods sake, Blade WWF-style suplexes people, Matt Goss does a flying elbow drop on Blade by jumping crouching-tiger style to the top of a room and plunging about 600ft onto his chest, elbow first. What's not to like?

Absolutely insane. A new dawn in completely brainless cinema. A fucking masterpiece. Really really stupid. Just see it for god's sake.

What would Jesus Drive?

Posted 2 April 2002, 7.58 pm by Craig

I've been looking to purchase a new car recently. Unfortunately, there are so many makes and models to choose from. So, like any other time I have a choice, I ask myself "What Would Jesus Do?"

Visit Site.


Posted 2 April 2002, 8.16 am by Berly

So I made myself sit down and watch this movie. I promised myself I’d write a review of it – no matter how I felt about it afterwards.

By the way, the only reason I’m even trying to write a review is because this section gets the least action…somewhat like my real life, actually.

This is a “Toronto Independent Film Festival” winner. Problem is, they do not tell you what award it won. I’m guessing it won the “ugly truth about Hollywood” award.

The film documents (although I would not call this a full fledged documentary) the extraordinary efforts of two pals attempting to sell a screenplay they’ve written. While the film has some interesting qualities, it is mostly an insincere, translucent attempt to draw attention to the authors. In fact, Spencer Rice and Kenny Hotz remind me of two girls going after the same boy at a sixth grade pool party. A lot of whining and hostility. The only thing missing is some hair pulling.

In the beginning, the pair achieve some grins by making telephone calls to big name actors and basically get their asses handed to them on a paper plate. Later they move to the Toronto Independent Film Festival (1996), where people start to take notice of them, simply because they have a camera and “are making a movie”. More ugly truths about the movie business are revealed. They take their craziness to California. More hilarity insues – the end.

It’s not a horrible film, but if you have something better to do – like pulling weeds or something – I’d go do that instead of watching this. To be fair, there was one review on, and it was favorable. If you are interested in selling scripts or the movie business in general – maybe you will enjoy this film. I don’t know. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve disliked something that many other people adore.

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This was an illustration for a poem called 'Edmonton, thy cemetary' by Stevie Smith. It's ink and pen on wet paper, a technique I was using quite extensively at the time.

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Props to Green Mamba for bringing the weirdness


80s candy bars were pretty good

only because i traded it for a candy bar in the 80's.

lol we all know you don't have a soul ghoti

my soul for some carbs...

But of course!


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