Thursday, September 30, 2010

Question: What are your opinions on the Planet of the Apes series?

I like the first one.  Who didn't?  But overall, I find the metaphor, taken as it is throughout the rest of the series, becomes a little heavy-handed, or maybe a better way to say it: on the nose.  This is in no way to knock the entertainment value of the films, but for me, the others I've seen (and I have not seen them all) seemed to pale in comparison to the first.

Remember that Tim Burton one?  That one sucked.  What was he thinking with the end of that shit?  "Now I'm gonna do something that makes absolutely no sense.  Take that, ticket buyers!"  I wish Tim Burton would be good again.  Anyway.

For the most part, Planet of the Apes just reminds me of Charlton Heston in Soylent Green, in my opinion a better film.  And it also reminds me of all the pop culture jokes surrounding the series.  Like on Family Guy when Peter tells the "How many dirty stinkin' apes" joke.  Good Stuff.

Short Answer: I like them, namely the first.  But I don't have a lot of opinions because I think the movies are so on the nose that the opinions have already come through, leaving little room for conversation.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Question: Why are you the rightful king?

Being a king isn't just about blood.  It's about honor, loyalty and nobility of a type most cannot understand.  It means courage in the face of fear, not despite it.  It means love in the face of death.  It means honesty in the face of aggressive reprisal.  It means hope when all all else is bleak.

Be you not confident, be you not realistic, be you not stoic, be you not full of joys and terrors, you are no man.

Be you unable to defend what is right and good, you are no king.

Short Answer:  'Cause I'm bringin' it.

Question: If evolution were merely a means to an end, what would you hope that end to be?

I don't think I've ever thought of evolution as a means to an end before.  Interesting perspective.  Evolution is merely adapting and the ultimate adaptation, I suppose, would be to no longer have to adapt.  That would take a stagnant and controlled environment, which we may create in the future, but as of now, does not exist.  By this logic, you could theorize that adaptation is unending, therefore, evolution could never be a means to an end.

Ever since Darwin applied the Malthusian method, we've had evolution; growth beyond means leading to survival of the fittest.  Perhaps, then, a means to an end for evolution is a complete and unbiased understanding of ourselves.  That evolution, the evolution through science and philosophy to comprehension could be an end to evolution as we know it.  It could also be an end to humanity as we know it, for again, where would we be without growth?  Some say we are already there, that the growth of technology has replaced old fashioned Darwinian evolution, and we are stagnant, relying on the machines we build.  If that's the case, I guess we won't know if we can still evolve until Skynet comes online.

To answer the question directly, I suppose I would have to say immortality.  It's the only true end of change that would require the coming together of both the ultimate evolution of technology, and the ultimate test for the psyche of humanity.  By the time we have immortality, we will have achieved the greatest of all miracles through our science and technology.  By the time we learn to deal with it, we will have achieved a mental evolution to match.  But then what?  Could we not evolve further, even when the greatest gifts of god and the universe have been improved upon?  Or will we be like the shark, so evolved that we need never evolve again.? Able to withstand even extinction events with barely a shrug?

Short Answer:  If evolution were a means to and end, would not the end be in sight?  And if it was, would we not change to alter that obvious path?  Is the human animal even capable of stopping its rampant evolution?  I think not.  But if it was a means to an end, I hope that end would be a complete comprehension of what it is to be human.  For now, we have but inklings.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Question: Could you write a brief though graphic tale featuring these three things: A domesticated cat, a barely functioning antique rifle, and a statue that comes to life?

I could.

Just kidding, can you imagine?

Muffins the Musketeer by Keith

Muffins awoke with an itchy belly.  She crawl-walked to the chair, hopped up, and hopped again, landing perfectly, as cats do, on all fours atop the table.
The musket used to live in a glass case, but when the Red-Headed-Man-What-Kicks-With-His-Foots had died, the Lady-Who-Supplies-Tuna-And-Back-Fingies took all the glass cases down, along with all the plastic covers on the furniture, so Muffins could stretch out on the paisley chesterfield properly.
Muffins approached the old gun, still propped up in its wooden holder-jobby.  She planted her paws on either side and settled her belly over the cocking apparatus, and lowered herself softly.  With a gentle rocking motion, her belly was scratched and she purred.  It almost felt as good as Back-Fingies.
The Noise echoed down the hall.  Muffins felt her back raise, ending her alone time.  The Noise had started the first day she'd scuffed her brown belly across the musket, but at first she'd assumed the timing coincidence.  But this was too much.  The Noise was there, ever present.  When she scratched her belly, something down the hall creaked.  For days, she'd avoided the truth, but today, she felt a little braver than before, and decided to check it out.
As she pattered down the carpeted hallway, she kept her head cocked, waiting for the noise again.  But it didn't come.  She did hear the Lady-Who-Supplies-Tuna-And-Back-Fingies, though, moaning away in that strange way she always did.  It had increased now that her husband was gone, for she used to only do the moans when the Red-Headed-Man-What-Kicks-With-His-Foots was at work, or out with the Stinky-Boys.
Muffins trotted into the sewing room, where the Lady had placed the new statue.  Now, she knelt before it an hour a day, doing her moans, surrounded by her candles.  Muffins knew not to interrupt and turned to go.  As she began her retreat, one of the candles cast an idle, but potent flame against the far wall, and Muffins froze.  It was probably just the shadows, but she swore that the statue's right hand was in a different spot.  Had it always been that far away from its stone leg?  She shook like a dog and strode away, thinking no more of it.
That night, Muffins had trouble sleeping.  The Lady hadn't been in the mood for Back-Fingies, and no matter how she turned, she couldn't scratch her back itch with the musket.  Her cat brain raced as she lay on the paisley chesterfield, as cat brains are want to do when cats can't sleep.  Something was bugging her.
She flipped over and dove to the ground, trotting purposefully down the hall, for fear the dark would thicken and arrest her quest.  She turned into the sewing room and moved confidently to the statue.  It was dark, and her eyes were good, but somehow she managed to step on the statue's stone foot, stubbing her little cat toe.  That's weird, she thought.  The foot wasn't out this far before, was it?  She looked up, and the statue's eyes, though facing forward, seemed to lock on her own.  With a growl, she turned and fled the sewing room.
The next day, when the house was still quiet, she went back to the musket.  As she lowered her belly over the cocking part, she froze.  All of a sudden, the world came crashing down around her, and her cat brain skipped a synapse.  The Noise!  She had always thought it was a creaking, perhaps in the attic or the basement, but now, after her scare the night before, the Noise now seemed more like the cries of splitting stone, not wood.
She lowered her belly, ears cocked high for maximum sound.  As the skin touched the musket, the Noise came, louder than before.  Muffins raised her belly, and lowered again.  Once more, the Noise came, louder, but this time, followed by a thump.
It awoke the Lady-Who-Supplies-Tuna-And-Back-Fingies.  She came crashing down the stairs, fresh candles in hand, already doing her strange sing-song moan.  Muffins followed her into the sewing room.
When she arrived, she thought that maybe her little cat eyes were deceiving her.  Not only had the statue moved for sure, but some of the stone had cracked and fallen off, leaving a grey, chunky powder on the floor.  The Lady looked scared, and began saying no over and over.  She knelt in the dust and began lighting her candles.  The statue, beneath the parts that had fallen, showed black fabric and pink skin.
Muffins didn't mean to, but she meowed.  And the Noise came, the stone splitting as the head of the statue turned, its eyes alighting on Muffins.  The stone around the mouth fell away, and the lips said, "I hate that goddamn cat, Louise!  It's been touching my musket!"
The Lady screamed.  She began muttering, saying no, and don't come back, and you're dead, and other things that Muffins didn't really understand.  Muffins, though frightened, ran to the woman, rubbing up against her legs, trying to get her attention, get her to leave the sewing room and get away from the statue.
More of it was splitting and cracking now, and Muffins could see the red hair on its head.  Muffins tried harder to get in the Lady's way, but she was determined to light her candles and sing her spooky song.  She pushed Muffins aside and bit down on her finger, hard enough to draw blood.  "Sisters of the Devil," she sang.  "Keepers of the East and West, bind this man, bind him for all time."
And as soon as she asked the question of her little cat self, she knew the little cat answer.
Before long, the Red-Headed-Man was coming, stomping down the hallway, holding the Lady in his still stiff, but outstretched arms.  He bellowed, "Where's the cat, Louise?  I'm gonna kill your stupid cat!"
Muffins readied herself, paws planted on either side of the Musket, belly hovering.  The Man turned the corner, appearing from the hallway.  His neck creaked and turned, looking for his prey.
Muffins meowed.  The Man saw her and let go of the Lady, leaving her gasping for air in a heap on the floor.  He took only two steps, and Muffin knew he was in range.  She'd always listened to the Red-Headed-Man-What-Kicks-With-His-Foots, hoping to understand why he would kick her and hit the Lady.  Hoping to understand how she, a simple little cat, could ever put a stop to the Man's bullying.  She had listened to all the conversations about his precious musket.  What it was, how it worked, and of course, most importantly, that he kept the stupid old thing loaded.
Muffins lowered her belly, caught the cocking device, shifted her hips, and the apparatus clicked beneath her.  She hopped off, and snuck her little paw onto the trigger.  The man bellowed again, more stone falling to the floor.  He reached out, close to the antique gun, nearly pressing his chest against the muzzle.
With all her might, Muffins pulled on the trigger, and the world went boom! Muffins fell off the table, and because no one was watching, she landed on her back.  A piece of the musket fell beside are, just missing her tail.  The Man fell next, crashing hard to the ground, a weird red fountain erupting from his chest, splashing brightly on the remaining stones.  Muffins righted herself and ran to the woman, who had water coming out of her eyes.  She scooped Muffin up into her arms, and dug her nails into Muffins back, hugging her and giving her the best Back-Fingies she'd ever gotten.

Question: Where do lost socks go? And on a more personal level, where do you hope they go?

There are people on the other side of the dryer, who's upper bodies are porcelain white, and males and females alike have huge, round boobs, with tiny pink nipples.  They are hairless and have wonderful skin, and their eyes are bright and wide.  Below the waist, they are made entirely of sock material.

Though you may think they are wonderful and sacred creatures, they are spawned by Satan himself in the bowels of hell.  He came up with the idea as he was being cast out.  As he fell, he thought, "Well, that's that.  I pushed the big man too far.  Who will I fuck with now?"  It took almost a thousand years for Satan to come up with a way to fuck with us good and proper, and I'm sorry to say it's the sock material people.  He spent some coin and took a trip topside, and fucked a baby unicorn.  Unicorns, as you may or may not know, can be knocked up by any species and at any age, so the baby unicorn had a litter of monsters.  They grew to become the gorgeous horrors I described above.

They are trained in the depths of the underworld to steal your socks, but disciplined so as to steal only one at a  time, to make you go fucking crazy.  They take these socks, and weave larger and larger dicks for themselves out of the sock material.  At night, when you're awoken by what you think is a bad dream, and you feel like you can't breathe, that's because a big, sock dong was just lodged in your throat.

Short Answer: All hail the sock people!  You are beautiful and deadly and your lower parts are made entirely from sock material, except your toenails, which are made solely from toenail material.

Question: Dr. Pepper: Great soda, or the greatest soda?

Wow.  This is serious.  I'm a man who loves his sody.

If this question had been about any other soda product, I may have had to delve pretty deep.  But this is a no-brainer.  Dr. Pepper is the greatest soda ever.

Soda exists for one reason.  To taste good.  To be sweet and dark and sweet.  Cola takes care of this almost always, which is why Pepsi is one of my favorite things on the planet.  But, Dr. Pepper has almost every flavor on the planet, making it even better.  In most things, overdoing it would be bad, but not here.  Sody was created to be overdone.  More sweet, more dark, more cherry, more citrus, more cinnamon, more everything.  Dr. Pepper has everything a person could want to achieve nirvana and total happiness.

Try this.  Open a can of Dr. Pepper and then think of a flavor.  Now taste the Dr. Pepper.  Did you taste that flavor?  Yea, you did.  Dr. Pepper is a tin can of magic.

Short Answer:  Sody is awesome and Dr. Pepper is king. 

Sunday, September 26, 2010

Question: Now that Zombies and Vampires have been thoroughly destroyed by popular culture, what is the next horror film monster to jump the already jumped shark?

Sadly, I think there are other casualties that deserve mention.  Namely, the ruination of the Egyptian undead, or mummy, by that crappy action movie, The Mummy.  That script went through the hands of Clive Barker and George Romero just to name a few, but because it ended up the way it did, the mummy is a laughable creature in pop culture.  It will be hard to unjump that shark.

Also, if it hasn't yet happened officially, I'm pretty sure some of the culprits of the ruination of Vampires are also managing to take apart Werewolves.  The lycanthropes are in the midst of their own twilight.  Get it?

The classic slasher was destroyed in the nineties by teen dramas turned horror movies with a girl from Noxzema commercials standing in a V on the cover alongside someone from something relatively Gothic on TV, like Angel. (That's a run on sentence, bitches.)

Who's next, you ask?  Who's left?  I guess until they come out with a bi-curious Creature from the Black Lagoon, that monster's fairly safe.  Ghosts will always be scary, as will their subsidiaries, ie The Boogeyman.  The Frankenstein monster, as his own entity, is probably untouchable, and the idea of stitching someone together and jamming in a brain will always be pretty scary.  Though I suppose wrapping someone up and digging out the brain was scary too.  See aforementioned mummy.

Basically, there's nothing that popular culture hasn't destroyed.  Vampires are now hot.  Dracula, if I have to remind you people, was basically a filthy old man, with dirty fingernails and bushy eyebrows.  How did we come to this?  I apologize for the digression, I'm finding it hard to stay focused.  There are so many talking points around this topic, I feel I could write an answer about the history and destruction of each monster.

And finally, the answer.  It may not be considered a horror film monster by some, but I'm going to go with the alien.  Someone or something from another planet that is invading, or abducting or smashing or murdering.  Mean, scary, Alien kinds of aliens.  With remakes being such a fad now, I can foresee a lot of those old cool sci-fi properties getting new and horrendous treatment.  Anyone see the remake of The Day the Earth Stood Still, for example?  A few more like that, and the alien as a scary entity is boned.  Be warned.  They're making a prequel to John Carpenter's The Thing.  How long before we have Jeremy Renner putting a torch to some triffids?

Short Answer: The monster from space is a classic and timeless idea, and a terrifying metaphor.  Won't be long now before they fuck that up too.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Question: What do you think of James Cameron's films?

Cameron's been involved in a bunch of stuff, so I'm going to assume the question relates to the films he has directed.  For those who don't know, those would be, Piranha 2 (which I think he got fired from), The Terminator, Aliens, The Abyss, Terminator 2, True Lies, Titanic and Avatar.  I think that's chronological as well.  He did direct some other crap, but nobody cares.  These are the ones that matter.

From what I can tell, he's directed five good to great films.  As much as he comes across as a pompous douche-nugget, that's a pretty impressive resume.  I think the most interesting thing about the self-proclaimed king of the world is that the films that are good, aren't necessarily the ones one might think are good.  First of all, both Terminators are good. The first is more like a horror movie, but it totally works, even though he's never been known to be a horror director.  Aliens is fantastic.  True Lies is fun.  The Abyss may be his greatest creation, though Aliens is pretty fuckin' fantastic.  Did I mention Aliens is fantastic?

Now I don't mean to be a negative nelly, but the reason I skipped quickly through all of that is because I think what's most interesting about Cameron is that he fools us all with his second-rate shit.  I'm talking Titanic and Avatar.  Personally, I think Titanic is a mess.  The main characters are simple, easily digestible archetypes, and the story is so straight forward there's almost no point in even sitting through it, because you know how everything is going to end after ten minutes (and I'm not talking about the ship stuff, just the main character romance plot).  As for the ship stuff, it's great.  Propeller guy, the couple lying in bed, tonnes of people drowning to death, all great.  But to take an infallible, inherently dramatic story like the tragedy of the Titanic, and use it to parade a dime-store love story about a spoiled rich brat and a scamp who's been down so long it looks like up?  That just sits in my craw a little.  I thought Billy Zane was good.

This all brings me to the most important topic, especially these days, in relation to James Cameron: Avatar.  Avatar has all the flaws of Titanic, but none of the sour taste.  Everybody loved the damn thing.  Here's why.  Almost every character in that film is an archetype, or a caricature of an archetype.  That's why it works.  Even though you've seen the same story a billion times, you want the hero to win.  You want the bad guy to suck it.  So the question becomes, is James Cameron really making anything at all, if it's just the same tired devices being slung around for the same old tired effects?  Sure, the thing looks great; there's no denying that achievement.  But isn't film about story?  Isn't it, at its core, still supposed to be an art form?  I understand if it isn't to any individual person.  I respect if movies to you are simply entertainment.  I would respect Cameron if he admitted that's what he was creating. But he gives off such a "my-shit-doesn't stink" vibe, I think he still thinks he's an artist.

Here's the rub.  I watched Avatar.  I actually cried near the end.  It was a fun, good-looking, day at the movies.  I liked it.  But did I say a word about it after I left the theatre?  No.  After setting up all the archetypes - the fish out of water hero, the military guy who'll do anything to get the job done, the scientist in it for science, the evil boss in it for money - the rest of that movie could've been one of those space puma's doing a Rubik's cube as long as at the end, in bold white letters on a black screen it said: The Good Guys Won. I would've been just as happy.

Short Answer: Overall, I like his movies.  His percentage of good films is high.  But like a lot of other big name directors (I'm lookin' at you, Shyamalan) he needs to get out of his own way, and focus on continuing to improve.

Question: Why is it that Bart, Lisa and Maggie are the only Simpsons characters without an animated hair colour?

Marge dyes her hair.  The skin-tone yellow that you see as the kid's hair colour is simply Marge's natural hair colour.  You'll notice in Marge's Playboy spread, that they made an effort to keep this a secret.  If she was blue down there, do you think they wouldn't have shown that?  Of course they would have!  Therefore, blue is not her natural hair color.  There-therefore, because we know Homer's hair color is black, the kids must have gotten their hair from mom.

Short Answer:   Though it looks the same as their skin to the naked eye, they do have an animated hair color.  Yellow, which is Marge's natural hue.

Question: Who would win in a footrace between Batman, Jack Bauer and Jesus? Why?

This is a simpler answer than you may think.  First of all, because it's very hard to judge flat out land speed, I'm going to assume that this footrace will not be a short sprint.  There has to be some element of distance, even if only a four hundred meter.  I'm sorry to have to do this, but each of these guys is undoubtedly quick, and I can't answer thoroughly based solely on speed.

So, assuming there's a distance element, the answer begins to form.

Fact 1)  At some point, Jesus will try to carry someone.
It's what he does.  This will instantly rule Jesus out of the race, unless he and the competitor he carries manage to come in first together.  Based on mass, I think this will be impossible.  Therefore, the winner of this foot race will be the man least likely to require the son of god's help. (Also, there will be no ties.  I'm not a little girl.)

Fact 2)  Both Batman and Jack Bauer are emotional cripples.
They could probably use the guidance, freedom and lack of responsibility turning your life over to a god would give them.  But they're too smart and too bad-ass to do that.  And they thrive on responsibility, so they aren't going to be born-again anytime soon.  So they struggle on, ripe for the picking, but leaving huge boot-holes in all surrounding asses.

Fact 3)  Both Batman and Jack Bauer, during the course of the race, will be called or contacted, and asked to deal with a problem.
The problem will undoubtedly be something someone else screwed up, leaving them to pick up the pieces.  This will piss them off, and they'll both make deeply-lined, handsome facial expressions full of consternation and the aforementioned responsibility.

Conclusion)  Jesus will see the pain on Jack's face as he bows under the weight of responsibility.  He will see the held back tears, the barely still upper lip, and the hint of surrender to his plight.  In contrast, half of Batman's face will be concealed, and though the pain in his eyes will be glaring, it will not be enough.  Jesus will be drawn to Jack.  Batman will take the lead as Jesus attempts to carry Jack the rest of the way.  And Batman is a front runner, no doubt about it.  Problem is, Jack didn't start the race to lose, and though Jesus's affections will not be lost on him, they keep him from achieving his goal.  Without much hesitation, Jack will pull his gun, and threaten to shoot Jesus Christ.  Though turning the other cheek with every sandaled step, Jesus will get the hint, and veer away from the crazed, yet stoic Jack.  Now closer to the bat, he will see the true depths of Bruce Wayne's agony, and attempt to carry the Batman.  Bats won't be having any of it either, but it's the opening Jack needs.  Batman's hesitation, due to his morale code, is not unlike Bauer's.  The difference is simply that Jesus went to Bauer first, so that when the son of god tries his hand at helping Batman, Bauer realizes that this Jesus guy could be trouble if he comes back to help a second time.  He needs to act fast and do what must be done.  Jack Bauer, with two well placed thigh shots, will take out the trailing leg of both other competitors.  Though Batman will want to attempt a few tricks of his own after this, the race is all but won, and the Batman, knowing when he's bested, veers off to help people in need.  Jack Bauer does the same, but not before crossing the tape as the winner.

Short Answer: The slight difference in the moral codes of Batman and Jack Bauer will allow Jack to use the diversion Jesus Christ represents more effectively.  The winner is Jack Bauer.

Friday, September 24, 2010

Poll Results: What do you think of this simple format?

'Bout time you wrote on the internets won the inaugural poll with 37%.  Thanks for the support, people, now get off your asses and Ask Keith Anything!

Question: What's a good thing to do on a rainy day off?

I love rainy days.  They have no expectations.  So what I like to do is nothing, and get the fuck away with it.  But I suppose nothing is not much of a suggestion.  Here, instead is my answer to the question, What's a good thing to do on a rainy day off, when for some reason, you can't just sit on your couch in your footy pajamas eating ding-hos?

1) Have a cold.  Nothing better than blowing your snoz all day while the sky drips its own mucus down on your window panes.  It makes you feel closer to nature and god.  Sorry if this is too deep.  Boogers.

2) Write your "novel".  Yea right.  Good luck with that, losers.  Here's to two paragraphs and the hard realization that you totally suck and your dreams, though stolen from others, will remain unfulfilled.

3) Masturbate twice.

4) Wash your car.  People will pay attention.

5) Scrapbooking.  Just kidding.  You should masturbate again.

Alright, enough with the list.  This is a bullshit answer.  Here's the real answer.  If you change what you're going to do on any given day because of the weather, you better fucking live in Alaska or some shit.  Otherwise, buck up you fickle idiot.  It's go time.  The day isn't going to own itself.

Short Answer: Masturbation.  Most days, you'd only do it once.  But come on, it's all grody outside.  Maybe you should go another round.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Question: Should I get a tattoo? If so, what should it be of?

I would very much like to personalize this answer, but I know a few Adams, and there are a few more out in the world, so the Adam that asked this question could get boned by specific advice.  So I'll be broad.  If you are thinking about getting a tattoo, then the answer is simply, yes, you should get one.  Stop being a lady and get inked.  Do you want to be one of those guys who just thinks about doing stuff?  Of course not, you'd have to buy billowy skirts and tampons, and you already embarrass yourself enough, wouldn't you say?

As for what to get, that's pretty simple too.  Don't get something funny!  Other people won't get it, and your tastes will change, and then you won't get it, and then you'll be pissed.  A clown pissing into the wind seemed like a good idea, I know, but trust me.  You won't always find pee that funny.  (Farts, however, you will continue to find that funny, but I don't know of a single tattoo artist that can do the fart justice.)  Also, make sure it's symmetrical, and don't let them tell you the way they stencilled it on will "look better".  They don't know shit.  Their opinion of what your body looks like is probably based on a five minute meet-and-great at best.  If you want it three inches to the left, speak up, and don't take any shit; it's your body the damn thing's going to be on for the rest of your life.  Another important thing is where.  So use your brain, and don't get a tattoo - unless your whole body is mostly covered, then it won't seem all that gross - where you're going to get all fuckin' wrinkly.  Then your Popeye turns into Wimpy.  Is that what you want?  To owe me tomorrow for burgers today?  Does anybody have any idea what you'd even be talking about?

A lot of people think that tattoos should be personal and that they should mean something.  Personally, I agree, but it doesn't have to be justified with an essay.  Meaning something could be as simple as something representing a phase of your life, or something that makes you happy.  You think when someone gets water lilies, its always because they used to bathe in a golden, sun lit pond with their sister who died of cancer and aids but loved lilies?  It's probably just because they like lilies, and want to look at them more.  Other than that, my last bit of advice, if you really don't know what to get, is to look no further than mythology.  Specifically Greek/Roman stuff, but feel free to go elsewhere.  Pretty much anything that Hercules or Perseus had a huge brawl with is right on the money.  Gryphons, Manticores, Basilisks, Hydras, Giants, Trolls, Gorgons.  You get the idea.  And for the love of all that's holy, don't let your buddies convince you to do that thing where you get legs on either side of your armpit so it looks like, well, you know.

Short Answer: Yes.  A Dragon.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

Question: Since the "War on Drugs" is a failure, should all drugs be made legal?

Such an incredible double standard, here.  Nicotine and alcohol are the first things that come to mind.  "Drugs" that are so socially acceptable that we don't even think of them in terms of legalization.  The only time that drugs ever fall under "legal" terms, is when a politician (usually a right wing, god-fearing type) decides to muddle them up with morality for their election platform.  It's gotten so that if you ask people, they think the use of mind-altering substances are a symptom of moral fragility.  Which, as anyone who's ever been a fan of popular art, music or literature, knows is a complete crock.  Sure, there are morally bankrupt people who'll do meth and fuck your dog, but the two are really unrelated from any social or philosophical perspective.  Tangibly, in poorer places, you will have more illegal drug use.  But that's the veritable chicken and the egg. And even if you disagree, are there moral choices going on here, or difficult-to-process-for-middle-america survival instincts?  In other words, if you felt you had no way out, is smoking crack or pot a moral choice, or a means to an end, an escape from life?  And what does that have to do with morality?

Okay, morality aside, I think this may be a question, primarily, of freedom.  A how much do we really have, tough kind of question.  If the government said, "No more cigarettes," people would lose their shit.  But if we say, "Legalize marijuana," people lose their shit.  Is it really beyond society to notice the hypocrisy here?  Or are we so inundated with political rhetoric and platformed jargon that we genuinely think freedom only applies when it falls under the heading of a political party's talking points?

Southpark.  Trey Parker and Matt Stone, the creators of the show, have a theory.  It's not theirs alone, but they adhere to it so powerfully that they are the modern, if not historical standard.  Their theory?  If you make fun of everything, you can make fun of anything.  If you don't make choices, don't censor, don't worry about one group's sensitivity over another's and just make fun of everyone and everything, you are untouchable, because it's all in the name of funny.  As soon as you put your own bullshit on top of freedom of speech, every choice you make becomes suspect.  Why can we make fun of racism, but not terrorism?  The analogy, if not clear, goes thusly.  Freedom of choice, is freedom to chose.  If you take away one freedom, how are we free at all?  So, philosophically, my answer is yes, all drugs should be legal.  But of course, the government exists for a reason.  We rely heavily on their infrastructure.  If we were to "make drugs legal" as the question asks, it would be the burden of the state to conceive of an infrastructure to handle that.  Would their be vendors?  Would their be legalization with a side of tiny, interpretable rules?  For example, sure smoke crack, but not within a certain distance of an elementary school.  We don't want our kids smoking crack, just because adults can.  We don't sell beer at the High School cafeteria.  But the discussion of whether the government could create an infrastructure that the people will support, is another question to be answered, and I've already gone far enough.

Short Answer: People should be able to chose.  But people have become so reliant on government, that we no longer have the capacity to chose properly.  The government does not educate us sufficiently, nor does it value our opinion in larger matters unless it helps someone stay in office.  Only then do we get a taste.  If we don't know the whole picture, the whole problem, because governments don't care to tell us, and media is skewed by money, how can we truly make informed decisions about such important topics?  Our opinions are those of mice in a maze.  Thank fuck for cheese.

Friday, September 17, 2010

Question: Geddy Lee. What do you think?

Another music question.  I'm a little surprised, but I suppose people do like to avoid the daily humdrum by blasting inane and retarded crap into their heads.  For those who don't know, Geddy Lee is the front man and bass player for the band Rush.  The reason this question is great is because Geddy Lee, though part of maybe the most influential progressive rock band ever, kinda sounds like a little she-male getting its nuts twisted when he/she/it sings.  This is a toughy.  I remember one time, in my youth, I told my friend Dan that I hadn't listened to a lot of Rush because based on what I'd heard, I didn't think they'd ever done anything original.  He said something along the lines of "I can't even talk to you," and walked out of the room.  Rightfully so, I must now admit.  It was a stupid thing to say, and I've learned over the years how very wrong I was, not just through various respected sources quoting that Rush influenced them mightily, but also through sonic interaction of my own.  It took me more than ten years, but just a couple of months ago, I turned Tom Sawyer up in the car.  Now I used to plead the Neil Peart Fifth on all this stuff, claiming that his drumming was the reason that Rush was great, or good at all.  Again, I was wrong.  Not about Neil Peart, he is amazing.  But the band itself makes Rush what it is, not just one person.

This brings to mind my youthful experience with Black Sabbath as well.  I didn't like Ozzy's voice.  It took my awhile to get over myself and appreciate the music.  Eventually I did, and retroactively, Ozzy's voice doesn't bother me any more.  Similar thing with Rush.  And if you feel the same, get over it.  Rush is pretty outstanding. 

Short Answer: I've grown to respect and appreciate Rush and Geddy is a part of that as much as the other boys (Neil and guitarist Alex Lifeson).  But they ain't Primus!

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Question: What are your thoughts on the Victoria music scene?

A strange one to start on, but I said I'd answer, so now I've got my feet way in the pigshit.  Here's what I think of the Victoria music scene.  It's insular, like most things in a small city.  How do I know this, you might ask?  Because for one, I don't fucking live in Victoria.  And two, I don't know of any bands in or coming out of Victoria.  Therefore, by definition, it is insular.  I assume, like all places, there is some good music and some bad.  In Victoria I'd expect a little more self-serving crap because everyone in that city is raised to think they're special by their pseudo-brit parents.  As for the notable bands, who am I to judge?  My advice on this front is to go to Victoria and find out for yourselves, kiddies.  And the only enticement I can add to visit that city is that in Victoria, you can find parking downtown on the weekend.  Unlike any other city on the planet. 

Short Answer: Victoria is a great city to raise your kids, or to go to die.  As for tunes?  Maybe go to a city with some balls for that.

Day One: Genesis (not the su-su-sudio kind or the kind from Wrath of Khan)

People told me I should blog.  As a verb? I asked.  They ignored my joke.  Assholes.  So I said, fine everyone, what should I blorg about?  They corrected me, and explained that because blog was an invented, made-up, bullshit word, you could use blog in any context as any part of speech.  It did not need to be conjugated.  I was also told that adding an R into a word is not conjugation.  Barllsacs, I said to that.  But here we are.  Bloggering.  I asked myself (that part's the rub) What will I blog about?  I'm like all of you, I have various interests and opinions, some strong, some stronger.  I'm a full, textured individual, a veritable shag carpet of our society.  So what then?  I could rant long and hard about the things I know the most about, but why bother?  When you know a lot about something, it's harder to exchange ideas; I end up preaching by mistake.  So what about things I know nothing about.  Well, who wants to read a guy go on about things he doesn't get?  That bird's beak is long.  Do other birds have long-ass beaks like that?  Shit, I don't know.  Yea, worst bloggerage ever.  Then, it came to me.  Instead of me having to make a decision for and by myself, which is hard to do on your couch and on your ass, I thought, why not get other people to make that decision for me?  Anyone who knows me knows I can riff.  Maybe I should leave it up to you, people of the known world, to inspire my horse shit.  Yea, horse shit.  I'm bringing it back.  So step up, friends and neighbors.  Come to my door and "let me know you're on the registered sex offender list".  And while you're here, ask me a question.  I'll answer.  It will be like getting advice, but less pretentious and shittier.  And hopefully - cross your fingers - way more entertaining.

So, post your comments and include questions.  They can be advice type questions, or questions about pop culture.  Hell, they can be anything.  If you already know me, ask me about something you know I'll dig my teeth into.  If you don't know me, even better, ask me about your dog and whether I like him.  You'd be surprised how thorough an answer I can give.  You can even ask me about the word thorough.  Don't be shy.  Ask Keith Anything!