This Isn't About The Hangover, But Here's a Picture of the Movie Anyway to Make This Post More Readable

I was at Target last night, trying to find a fucking copy of The Hangover, which, by the way, is not a movie worth the effort of scouring an entire valley to find. The great thing (note: sarcasm) about living in a small valley is that many stores don't receive as many shipments as they would, say, in the city -- as such, you've got to put a little more "oomph" into your search than normal. We don't even have any normal movie-rental places. So, you're Indiana Jones, and you're traversing deadly, icy streets and dodging oncoming deer to finally discover a copy of a sacred film where four dudes get in some deep shit in Vegas.

But surprisingly, this worthless block of words isn't about The Hangover, no sir; instead, it's going to be a short analysis of how my mind functions in an otherwise normal situation. Here's the dealio: we're at Target, we've gotten our Sacred Cow of a Movie, and we're standing in line. Pretty normal. To point out that, hey, I'm pretty broke and I really shouldn't be buying anything, let alone a movie I probably am not going to like all that much, I make this comment about how I'm from Aspen and can afford every little item that may come into contact with my well-manicured fingertips. I try to say this with a posh-British accent, hoping to get some sort of reaction.

I get a reaction, but not the one I was expecting.

"Well, aren't you pretty snobby."

This comes from the cashier, who's currently checking out the people in front of us. I turn, looking deep into her eyes, trying to figure out whether she's serious or not. Oh, she's pretty fucking serious, you can tell by the look on her face. My friend, fortunately, says, "Oh, he's not really from Aspen."

No response from Miss Priss.

I'm pretty dumbfounded at this point, because a) who takes anything seriously these days when you've got the fucking Terminator in office and b) I could set fire to a pile of fresh dog shit in the middle of the store and nobody would notice, I'm that inconspicuous. Anything I say is dust in the wind.

Long story short, the cashier has someone take over for her before she can ring us up, she walks away, and we leave.

It's not that great of a story, really, especially not one to write about. Thing is, I wasn't really angry that this person whom I had never met was calling me out on something that actually wasn't true, no -- I felt guilty because my performance wasn't up to snuff. Normally, you can tell when I'm being sarcastic, but here was this person who did not know that some dumb comment I made was actually, truly falsified. I am not from Aspen! I do not have a Bently sitting in my garage! I don't speak in a posh-British accent! I don't need a monocle to see clearly through my left eye!

More than anything, I wanted to apologize to her because I hadn't given her my best. Otherwise, she would have been in hysterics about how funny the entire I-have-no-money-yet-I'm-buying-this-completely-overrated-movie situation was. It's pretty funny! It's not, but still. Why so serious?

P.S. -- I Wuv You, Target! Thank you for relieving me of such undignified greenery!

Gee-tar Siren Song

What exactly is the appeal of being able to play a guitar, anyway?

You get women. And...that's about it.

As I see it, the guitar not only seems like a tool to create music, but also the male version of a siren call to woo the fairer sex.

Way back when, I tried to play the guitar. I thought it would make me cooler -- that I would be able to enter the annual high school talent show and have all the girls hoot and holler and whistle as I strummed the chords required to play whatever song I scientifically decided would earn me the most, how you say, feminine street cred. Even if I wasn't handsome, even if I had a rotten personality, even if I consistently shot loogies from my mouth whenever I spoke; if I was able to play the guitar, none of that would have mattered. I would be a god. An ugly, disgusting, unlikeable, musical god. But the women would love me.

All right, so maybe that's a little exaggerated. Still, there's no denying that the guitar has some societal power here in the world. You can't say something to that effect of the french horn, for example.

Before I was physically and mentally conscious of myself, my instrument of choice was, of all things, the flute. I had probably chosen it because I was actually able to get some sound out of the damned thing. Thinking back on middle school band class now, it's strange how my classmates' chosen instruments perfectly complimented their categorical personality. All the loud people played the trumpets, the stoners and underachievers banged the drums, the shallow valley girls tooted and squeaked their clarinets, the tall people played the tubas, the didn't-quite-fit-in-a-specific-category people played the trombones, and the frickin' dainty-ass wafers were on the flutes. I was quiet and shy; thus, I played the flute.

I remember a call my band teacher made to my parents before I had made the flute my permanent instrument of choice: he wanted to make sure that it was all right if I, a certified teenage dude, played such a homosexual instrument.

"Why the hell not?" I think was my response at the time. "I can get sound out of it, so I'd like to play it."

Some years later, I quit. I wasn't getting any better, and most of the material we were playing just didn't interest me anymore. I was tired of music -- at least, tired of playing music. So, despite all of that, I decided to pick up the guitar instead, though not because I thought I would enjoy it, but because it would get me somewhere. Playing the guitar meant I was moving up in the world. All I needed to know was the three chords required to play Hey Jude, and my course for success was set. Money would start rolling in by the millions, I would have to hire a couple bodyguards to help stave off the tons upon tons of women from lovingly suffocating me, and best of all, I would be happy just knowing that it took little to no skill to get on that gleaming, shiny pedestal of Gee-tar Awesome.

Okay, so I don't really think like that, but it still stumps me as to why the guitar is such a nationally-lauded instrument. I've boiled it down to a couple reasons:

1) The Rock-Star Lifestyle

Seriously, if you're a rock-star, you're a god. Being able to shred some sort of quick melody, your fingers jumping up and down the frets, is more heroically viable than conducting heart surgery on a dying patient. Add in some head-banging and long hair, and to the guitar-loving world, you can do no wrong. You could insult somebody's mom and get away with it -- that's how loved you are. I guess the rock-star lifestyle isn't what it used to be, though, but that's probably because now anyone can get in on a taste of the action. How, you ask? Well:

2) It's Because of Guitar Hero and Rock Band, Bra!

A lot of musicians have been complaining in the past couple years about the fictional reality that these artificial music games create for the millions upon millions of dorm-room kids who have played them. These musicians claim that pressing buttons on a plastic guitar does not, in any way, compare to actually strumming a bona fide guitar -- instead, these dorm room kids should get out and actually pick up a piece of the real action. While these sentiments are entirely true -- bragging about how you can conquer some Dragonforce riff in Guitar Hero is kind of sad, really, when you think about whether or not you could actually play the song on something not made entirely of plastic -- I think the main problem musicians have with these games is that they give everybody a glimpse of what only a select few musicians could hope to experience. It's like finally joining an exclusive club where you're able to eat genuine crab and lobster all day, gorging in some succulent deliciousness; then you find out that they make fake crab and lobster and sell them at the local supermarket, a place where the Average Joe goes. Oh, and the fake stuff tastes just as good.

3) The Guitar Has Nothing to do with the Mouth

If you've played some sort of instrument that requires a certain amount of lung capacity, then you certainly know about the amount of saliva that accumulates every time you blow into the thing. Spit valves, for example, are kind of nasty. And so is the human mouth, a place where bad breath could run rampant, or where teeth could be the most delicious shade of yellow. Or brown, even! So all the women out there will be delighted to know that the guitar has nothing to do with that orifice. They can rest easy. That's why all of the most "romantic" instruments (I'm thinking Lady and the Tramp here, with the accordion), don't need any wind power to use. The same goes for the guitar, which is the number-one pick for people who want to get women, but don't want to look like a nerd plucking the violin or bash their social lives against the wall solely by playing the accordion.

(I like the accordion, though! It's just, most people don't.)

And that's the success story of the guitar. I can appreciate those small number of people that can actually play it, and play it well, but for everyone else, I don't want to hear you strangling a dead cat. I know you're trying to get ahead in life. Believe me, I've been there. But you just sound...terrible. Put your time instead to becoming a doctor or a veterinarian. Animals need saving, too, and the ladies will love you for it.

Vicinity of Obscenity

2010 is going to be an interesting year, I can already tell. It began with the usual fireworks show up in Aspen, Colorado, which was pretty usual as far as usual fireworks shows go. There was this guy being hauled from a nearby outhouse into a cop car, which we all assumed was due to some Indecent Exposure; because, dude, it was wickedly cold out and shrinkage is embarrassing and should be lawfully punished if revealed to the public. We all know the effects of shrinkage -- relationship breakups, crying children, and yes, the extreme plummeting of self-esteem. Knowing this country and its laws, the poor bastard in the cop car probably is gonna get five, maybe ten years.

It was cold out. He should have known better.

Once Aspen became boring (which was pretty quickly), we went back home and decided to scream obscenities at the local deer crossing the road. These deer...they think they can just walk out in front of an oncoming vehicle and hope to get away with it! I mean, it's almost like those pedestrians who decide to take their sweet everloving time crossing the road when I'm obviously in a hurry -- you can tell by the loud revving of the engine and the easily-visible vein in my forehead. So, just like these pedestrians, these deer get the old obscenities treatment.

Thing is, this isn't any old obscenities treatment. No, ours is special.

FECKIN A.

That's what it is. Not exactly your standard "Fuckin' A", no. "Feckin A" is a verb and a noun all at once. It's technically not quite an obscenity, yet it sounds close enough to be mistaken as one.

How did it originate, you ask? You didn't ask? Well, Feckin A, I'm gonna tell you anyway.

His name was Kurt. He worked at the local pizza joint. He was in my journalism class back in high school, and as his editor, I told him that his article needed a complete overhaul. Kurt didn't take too kindly to that. A year later, once I had graduated, Kurt and I reminisced about that specific journalism class, and Kurt, in all his brilliance, coined the phrase "Feckin A".

It appears to be two words, but actually only consists of a single word. Really, you kind of pronounce it, "F-eh-kin-uh". Pretend you're a stoner. Pretend you've just gone to the dentist and just gotten your entire mouth numbed up. Now say "Fuckin' A".

Yeah. That's it. You've got it. It's absolute genius.

I salute you, Kurt.

Oh yeah, that's right -- 2010. I have a feeling it's going to be a good year.

Resident Evil: The Remake

Resident Evil, initially, was all about the scares. When mentioning the game, every publication seems to talk about the infamous "dogs jumping through the window" scene -- which is all well and good because the monster-closet scares are what helped to make the game so popular. After you've beaten the game, though, you essentially know what's going to happen in each room, and those frights no longer exist. Instead, those dogs become minor annoyances; hindrances to your progression.

Yet, people still love the old-style Resident Evil, even as we have already entered this age of fantastical boulder-punching. Running through static-camera rooms is still as fun as it was way back in 1996, or even, say, in 2002 when the game was remade for the Gamecube.

And that's because, despite what people will tell you, Resident Evil always has been a strategy game.

Maybe that sounds absurd. Maybe it doesn't! In any case, trying to get from Point A to Point B with a limited inventory and little ammo, knowing what items to leave and what to pick up, and avoiding certain monster-filled hallways because you didn't waste said precious ammo on those couple zombies gives your brain a specific workout that most action games can't even come close to. Granted, the brain power required to manage an inventory is much, much smaller than figuring out a difficult math problem, but there definitely is a level of strategy in Resident Evil that you don't get out of many games nowadays, much less recent entries in the series.

I've played the remake a couple times now, and it still hasn't gotten old. Maybe this is because, much like the Metroid series, the game rewards you for getting through the mansion (and later, the laboratory) as quickly as possible. If you beat the game under three hours, the game gives you a rocket launcher, which -- again, much like Metroid's reward of bikini Samus -- is somewhat superficial. But there's something incredibly satisfying about beating a game under a certain amount of time, and the rocket launcher allows you to do this even faster.

I can't write about the game without mentioning how it looks. With all the topics of conversation about graphical fidelity on high-definition TV sets today, it's still pretty amazing that the remake still looks unbelievable. The character models aren't anything fancy in comparison to many of the current games, but they still are detailed and well-animated. No, what shines here are all the environments -- everything, from the mansion to the surrounding forest to the dank laboratory, looks amazingly realistic and gorgeous. Wind blows through the grass and trees on the path leading up to the old cabin on the edge of the woods. Water shimmers in the moonlight of the old swimming pool, even showing your character's reflection in the small ripples. Much of this game is about atmosphere, and Resident Evil really sucks you in to the whole experience.

And as much as I love Resident Evil 4, it doesn't really capture that Resident Evil "feel". Then again, I don't think it ever was trying to, but I certainly do miss the fact that we probably won't ever get another game where you know that slowly opening that next door might just spell your ultimate demise. I certainly didn't feel terrified in Resident Evil 5, and the light-gun games of the Chronicles series don't provide any of that inventory-management of yesteryear, so I guess I should just appreciate the experience that those games provide.

Still, nothing beats the feeling you get knowing that you made it to the end, conserved all your magnum bullets, and then shot the crap out of Tyrant, watching him explode into a million tiny pieces. He certainly had it coming.

What Would Kratos Do (WWKD)? Part 4

The gods were gunning for him, and by "him", I mean the friend of a friend.

He had taken it upon himself to follow in the immortal steps of Kratos and punish the gods himself, inescapable brutality and all. To curse such a delicious drink was a crime against humanity. The gods needed to pay.

And not in dollars, my friend.

In blood.

However, the beings upon Mount Olympus were very much aware of his intentions and were tracking his every move. Kratos, the once-powerful warrior and God of War, had tried and failed this dangerous mission before, sent to the depths of Hades for all eternity to burn for his disobedience -- but apparently, Ol' Whitey had mustered enough mental power to send a motivational message to Mankind. Now, humanity's fate was in its own hands.

The friend of a friend was struggling through thickets in the misty forest, slowly making his way toward Mount Olympus, broadsword strapped to his back. No jet or airplane could penetrate the forcefield around the mystical mountain, unfortunately; no, the only epic way was on foot, and as such, an adventure could occur so as people could write stories about it. (It would be boring if someone could just fly up to their destination, in other words.) Also, he had a broadsword on his back. Either this meant he was deadly serious about his intentions, or he was compensating for something.

Slowly, very slowly, the friend of a friend was delving deeper into the forest -- so deep, in fact, that he equipped his massive, phallic weapon and began to hack away at all the vegetation and greenery that dared to stand in his way. Pine needles SWOOSHED! Vines went WAHPPAH! Canadian maple leaves went HUZZAH and were soon shredded to pieces.

"What kind of sorcery is this," he wondered, "where all the greenery in the world gathers in droves to impede my progress?"

He didn't have much time to ponder after that, for the pine needles and vines and Canadian maple leaves were upon him again, this time in a swarm that was thicker and fuller and even more deadly. A shrill scream escaped from the poor man's mouth as he tried to combat the furious vegetation, hacking and slashing as quickly as he could. But the maple leaves blinded him, and the pine needles pierced his skin, and the vines were wrapping themselves around both his body and his gigantic, pulsating broadsword. With his last breath, the friend of a friend was only able to manage one final phrase:

"What would Kratos do?"

He then promptly laid down and died.

What Would Kratos Do (WWKD)? Part 3

"WHAT WOULD KRATOS DO?"

Those were the words that had emerged from the mouth of the friend of my friend while he was stricken with the horrible Stone of the Kidneys disease. Thoughts of Kratos had burst into his head, and thus, the pestilence was eradicated from his body. That's all it took; for the legendary Kratos had slaughtered hundreds upon thousands of harpies, minotaurs, and hydras -- how could something so weak as a couple of stones formed by swallowing the delicious beverage of soda compare to these foul beasts of yore?

They couldn't. And now people were becoming healthy, imbued with an extraordinary strength brought on by the thoughts of Kratos.

"W-what shall we do now?" worried the gods. Kratos had defied them before, and now that he had taken the side of the humans, it seemed as if there was nothing to do to counter mankind's sudden wellness.

"We're powerless!" they wailed.

"We're doomed!" they cried.

"This Mountain Dew: Code Red stuff turns my stools into bright red lozenges of fecal matter!" yelped a lowly god who had, out of sheer curiosity, tasted said delicious human beverage.

Suddenly, Zeus emerged, lightning bolt in hand. His face was calm, though tiny beads of sweat were evident upon his forehead.

"Fear not!" he uttered. "I have an answer to our dilemma..."

Wide eyed, the gods all at once realized their folly. They knew what he spoke of.

"Falbi..." they whispered in unison.
Falbi was different from Kratos in the sense that he ran a chicken-flying mini-game on the cliffs of Lake Hylia; he had never, I am told, torn the wings from a harpy or stabbed a minotaur in the throat. No, Falbi was just a simple, flamboyant, extremely well-dressed man who managed a successful business that may or may not have given customers the chance to earn a piece of heart or an orange 100-rupee prize.

So why did the gods fear him? Why did they utter his name with such reverence?

It was Falbi's enchanting, melodic voice!

That voice ("Hiiiiii!") had the ability to waft through the heavens and mend any complex argument that people might have against the gods. Mankind could be angry at the beings on Mount Olympus for causing a gigantic tornado to pick up and toss all their cows, easily mincing the poor animals into hamburger stew -- but with one word from Falbi, these once-furious people would just shrug and say, "Yeah, maybe all that hamburger would have clogged my arteries. Thanks Falbi!"

Hades, Falbi could even convince a grown man to grab a chicken, hang on for dear life, and jump from a cliff into the shivering waters of the lake below. Chickens don't actually fly, mind you. And they don't support a human's body weight. But such was the power of Falbi!

What Would Kratos Do (WWKD)? Part 2

"And so it was..."

No, no it wasn't. Not exactly.

This friend of a friend of mine would not give in to the pain so easily. His insides on fire, he thought that he would just succumb to the torture, that the easiest way out of this excruciating dilemma would be to simply lay down and die.

"No, you're right, Kratos," he muttered. "This can't be the way it ends...no one should die this way. I'm not going to die this way."

Arms shaking, legs quaking, kidney stones rumbling, he vaulted from his hospital bed, shouted to the gods above, "WHAT WOULD KRATOS DO?", and emerged from that villainous room unscathed. The doctors and nurses couldn't explain what had just occurred before their very eyes; a mere boy -- nay! A MAN! -- had just survived the worst of curses that those blasphemous beings from Mount Olympus could have conjured up from the depths of Hades and placed upon the finest beverages of mankind.

How had he done it? Was it some sort of witchcraft? Some kind of Harry Potter voodoo?

"Nay, doctors and nurses! Be not startled! For Kratos, enemy of the gods and friend to Man, came to me in a feverish dream and told me not to worry. He gave me the strength to survive, and will, too, soon give strength to those stricken by these wicked kidney stones! Hurrah!"

"Hurrah!" the medical staff echoed. The entire hospital erupted into a melodious harmony of cheers. Up on Mount Olympus, the gods heard these sounds of joy and happiness, and their bushy brows furrowed.

"What is going on?" they pondered, readjusting their La-Z-Boy recliners to get a better view of what was happening down below. "Didn't we make these 'sodas' undrinkable? Aren't humans stricken with the horrible Stones of the Kidney? Why are these shouts down yonder so joyous?"

The friend of a friend of mine heard the gods' query and let out a bloodthirsty scream.

And the beings upon Mount Olympus recoiled in terror, for they knew that this could only mean one thing:

The gods were going down.

Edit: a video appears!