A Small Victory

Posted by me at 05:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (16)

So, I've figured out how to put the trick in trick or treat. When those punk ass teens come to my door without a costume, just looking for a sugar handout, they'll be in for a big surprise. No costume, no candy. Unless you do a trick for me. Like, sit up and beg. Roll over. Dance the macarena. Something that will embarrass them into remembering that Halloween is not an excuse to shake your neighbors down for treats. If you're not going to play the game right, you're going to be on the losing end of the trick or treat proposition. At least at my house. Maybe I'll just sic my fetus on them. And the first adult who negatively comments about the plethora of Bush/Cheney paraphenelia around/on the house gets the Charlie Brown special. Down their throat. I kid, I kid! I also put a sign up on my door. It may be Halloween, but it's Sunday. Relax a bit. Read the paper. Give me a few hours of peace before you and the rest of the breed happy families in this neighborhood descend on us. Thank you. Anyhow, to keep me from going crazy today, I'll be doing Halloween-themed polls. Here's one to start you off: If you were, today, a seven year old kid headed out to fill your loot bag instead, what would your costume be (taking into consideration what's popular in the realm of mass commercialism in 2004)? I'm going to assume you understand the question.

Posted by me at 10:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (39) | TrackBacks (2)

Per the post below, I discovered that the person responsible for the lounge version of Disturbed's Down with the Sickness (from the Dawn of the Dead soundtrack) is Richard Cheese and Lounge against the Machine who, predictably, cover hard rock songs with a lounge vibe. You really have to know the original version of the Disturbed song to appreciate the sheer beauty of the Cheese cover, so I included both over in the radio. I've also included the LAtM cover of Dead Kennedy's Holiday in Cambodia, which should really become a Christmas classic, something to play as the family gathers together to celebrate the season. Radio in extended entry. -radio expired-

Posted by me at 06:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (2)

Here's a word of advice to anyone thinking of letting a bunch of teenagers have the run of your house for the evening:

Don't.

I'm not going to elaborate. Let's just say that I woke up with a hangover today and I haven't had a drink in weeks.

Did we scare them? Hell yes. And it was more out of a desire to wipe the punkass smile off of the faces of a few of the more obnoxious girls than a desire to make the party fun.

In the end, it was simplicity that did them in. We had no elaborate plan in place, we just winged it. While they were watching Texas Chainsaw Massacre in the living room, my hubsand revved up the chainsaw sounds on the computer in the adjacent office. While they were freaking out about that, my brother-in-law crept down the hallway in a hideous mask and wig outfit, holding a fake machete. He burst into the living room screaming like a maniac just as my sister and I started banging at the living room window, while wearing equally hideous masks.

It sounds lame, I know. But wow, did they crap their pants. Some of them refused to finish watching the movie because they were so freaked out by the scare that they went in Nat's room to watch the Friends DVD. Babies. DJ's friends - the 11 year olds - were the least scared out of the whole group. The 14 year old girls who swore all week that nothing scares them probably got very little sleep last night as my brother-in-law's masked visage haunted their minds.

And I'm happy about this because, let me tell you, the obnoxious level of 14 year old girls is always turned up to 11. I spent most of the night staring at the clock and willing it to move to the time when the parents would arrive to take their beasts home. When I finally got to bed, I dreamed that I was being attacked by a horde of teenage zombies who all had PMS. Worst. Dream. Ever.

I did invite them all back here today to clean up the yard, though.

Happy Halloween, everyone. Hope you get more treats than tricks. Unless, of course, you prefer the tricks. Getting them. Not turning them. Because that's a whole different meaning of getting candy in your bag.

[Side note: The lounge version of Disturbed's Down with the Sickness heard during Dawn of the Dead is inspired genius. If I can scare up an mp3 today, I'll post it.]

Posted by me at 06:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (2)

I adopted a cute lil' emo fetus from Fetusmart! Hooray fetus! Why not? I'm just killing time here. The kids have started watching Dawn of the Dead. We're waiting for the second movie until we go into full scare mode. Besides, no one comes here on a Saturday night. I could put up pictures of me swinging naked from the chandelier and no one would be the wiser.

Posted by me at 06:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (20) | TrackBacks (1)

I really do appreciate all the emails asking me to join in various projects/rallies/email blitzes, etc., that are designed to bring Kerry down or to pass along some dubious, not yet proven as fact shocking news about the man , but at this juncture I choose to campaign for my candidate and not against his opponent. And: If your email is coming from an obvious psuedonymn, I'm just going to delete it unread. If you can't be honest about who you are, I won't trust the information you are passing on. Also, if you want me to link to a "big" or "breaking" story, please have a source ready other than World Net Daily. Thank you and have a happy Saturday evening.

Posted by me at 06:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (3)

The Bedfellow Awards

Posted by me at 01:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

It's worth repeating every year. In fact, I'm going to print them out on flyers and deposit them in the mailbox of every home in the surrounding area that houses a child between the ages of 11-18. Oh, don't doubt that my kids will get one.

Dear local teenagers, As we approach the dawn of another Halloween, I would like to take this moment to have a word with you. I will say this once, and only once, and there will be no second chances. Not this year. If any one of you so much as looks at my pumpkins in a way other than admiration, I will pick your eyes out with a spork. If any of you dare approach those pumpkins, or my scarecrow, with theft and/or smashing in mind, I will chase you down the street and slice your hands off with a butter knife. If you have the balls to actually cross my property and touch my festive lawn decorations, I will slice your dick off with a razor blade and feed it to the rather large dog next door. If I find one ounce of shaving cream, whipped cream, or other cream-like substance on my car in the morning, I will hunt you down and make you lick it off until the car looks like new. Do not doubt me. Do not make me act upon my words. Just walk on by the house and don't even look. Thank you.

It worked last year. Let's see what happens on the new block. I don't trust those kids next door. Now, go look at these famous monsters. Good stuff.

Posted by me at 09:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBacks (1)

My take on the OBL tape. Let's just get this all out of the way right now: Karl Rove, fake terror alerts, playing on fears, black ops, you can see Bush's hand up OBL's dress, this was filmed in the basement of the White House, etc., etc., etc. Honestly, I have no idea which side this "works out" for. Both sides will spin it until it's dizzy. I'll just go right on preparing for Halloween and thinking that K-Rock's Monster Metal weekend is far scarier than this possibly real bin Laden offering. I mean, they just played Extreme, people. That's a hell of a lot more frightening than some guy in a turban reciting Michael Moore talking points. My Pet Goat? Please. Unrelated: You want to know how to really affect an election? Say things like, Shake your titties when you vote, bitch! Man, that was good stuff. Update: K-Rock is playing Spinal Tap right now, at the same time I'm looking at the updates to the "OBL" story. Coincidence? I think not. (I'm not claiming the tape itself is fake, but I question AJ's translation)

Posted by me at 05:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (21) | TrackBacks (9)

I need your help. If you recall, my kids are having a Halloween party Saturday night. They've already decided on the movies - Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Dawn of the Dead, remakes both - so the rest is up to me. I need to feed/water and entertain about 12 kids between the ages of 11-14. The movies will do most of the entertaining, but I thought I would add to the night by scaring the living shit out of them. Hey, the deserve it. These kids think there's nothing in the world - no movie, no book, no horrible mask - that could make them lose sleep or, at least, give them the screams for a few minutes. One idea I had was this: during the height of the best part of TCM, I have my husband stand outside the living room window, wearing a leatherface mask and sporting a real, plugged in chainsaw. I'll pull back the curtains and say something like, check this out! and Justin will rev up the chainsaw. I've been warned that social services will be at my door just a few minutes after one of the kids drops dead of a heart attack. So, maybe not. I need your help. I'd love to pull some good pranks on them or find a way to give them just the right amount of scare. Without killing any of them, of course. Well, maybe that one whiny kid. DJ asked that I try to not make the party cheesy. I take it that he won't want to bob for apples, then. Unless, of course, I put razor blades in the apples to make it exciting! Kidding. So, is telling ghost stories considered cheesy? What if I played Danzig in the background? You know, I just had the sinister notion that I should make DJ pay for his doubt that I can throw a non-cheesy party and go all out fromage on him..... Anyhow, I know you people are devious and I know a lot of you just outright hate children, so I should be able to get at least one good scare tactic out of you. Difficulty: rain, no basement. [Speaking of ghost stories, I hope you've been keeping up with Jen's tales this week]

Posted by me at 01:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (38) | TrackBacks (2)

Just when I gave up hope on hearing from him again. [click for bigger]

Posted by me at 11:17 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (1)

I've written before about the utter hypocrisy of the left, but never have I seen that hypocrisy displayed before me so blatantly as I have today. And yet, they are so wrapped up in their vile righteousness that they remain absurdly unaware of how they are letting their contradictions slip. Yesterday, it was reported that Boston Red Sox pitcher Curt Schilling would be appearing with George Bush in New Hampshire today. Schilling - who had been praised on DU recently by the leftie Sox fans who inhabit that sewer for his heroics against the Yankees - was ripped apart by the DU crowd, as was Bush for using Schilling (and it's not just at DU I read these things - I've seen it on leftie blogs, message boards and heard while in the grocery store, among other places). Typical responses included the fact that Schilling is just another rich white guy, so who cares what he has to say; nobody cares what overpaid jocks think; Bush is pathetic for having to use athletes to shore up his fan base; he's just an entertainer whoring himself out for your dollar. One guy mentions that the Sox owner is a Kerry supporter and he hopes that the owner gets rid of Schilling for this. Yay for free speech! And, of course, there is the usual beating of the "he doesn't matter because he's a religious fundie" drum. Which is all typical of the left and uninteresting if taken on its own. However, when taken with the lengthy posts on Eminem and Bruce Springsteen in the same venue, it makes you scratch your head in puzzlement. I suppose when the rich white guy is supporting your candidate, his words suddenly matter. And I suppose that while using athletes to shore up your fan base is pathetic, using musicians is somehow better. So Springsteen and Bon Jovi and the like are heroes for speaking up for their candidate and spending time on the campaign trail, but Schilling stumping for Bush is somehow an affront to humanity. Go figure. And now, in a complete reversal of fortune, Eminem has become the poster boy for the left. The man who was once hailed as a racist, homophobic supporter of spousal abuse is now the king of the leftie world because he made an anti-Bush video. All is forgiven, Eminem! Bash those gays, make more videos about beating up women because you are golden, baby. As long as you come out against Bush, you could come out in favor of eating babies and no one would blink an eye. Eminem, a rich white entertainer, is suddenly the hottest commodity in the Kerry campaign. No matter that when Schilling speaks, the left says that the opinions of media whore opportunists don't matter. When Eminem speaks, the left listens. See, it's not whether you speak out that matters, it's who you speak out for. I just wish they would be honest about that. So now they want you to take a cue from Eninem and wear black hoodies on Election Day to stand in solidarity with the intimidated. Does it seem ridiculous to anyone else that the left is now taking their cues from a white rapper who was once their whipping boy? I keep getting this image of the left as horny teenage kid who makes fun of the fat chick in the class but slips behind the garage with her when she offers him a hand job. I do think the video is a powerful one, and it's well done. The song, eh. A lot of DU talking points over some beats. But it's the fact that the left are jumping on the the voice of Eminem as a powerful tool for this election while dismissing any celebrity that stumps for Bush that's making me bristle. Not the video itself, and not Eminem's motives or ideas, which I am not calling into question here. It's just the whole hypocritical thinking of a) jumping on the bandwagon of an artist previously hated for his lyrics and b) calling people who listen to celebrities (i.e., Schilling) idiots while in the same breat slobbering all over Springsteen and Eminem for supporting your guy. Congratulations, lefties. You're taking marching orders from an entertainer formerly best known for penning lyrics like "Bitch I'ma kill you! Like a murder weapon, I'ma conceal you in a closet with mildew, sheets, pillows and film you" But now that he's speaking your language, I guess all is forgiven, eh? So go out and buy your black hoodies. Wear them with pride. As I head to the polls on Tuesday, I'll be able to spot which of you are the biggest sheep of all.

Posted by me at 06:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (81) | TrackBacks (11)

See camera challenge here. I decided to post them in pop-up images instead. Mbruce wanted Halloween decorations. This is one of the many lighted skulls lining the front yard shrubbery. (Shrubbery!) View image Trish wanted the contents of my fridge. I'm giving her the top shelf. See the mayonaise jar? It says "KEEP AWAY NATALIE. NO TUNA!" I'm sure you can figure out what led to that. View image Mike asked for my favorite CD, but I give you a whole row of them instead (though I will do that specifically for you, Mike, eventually). Not a very artistic shot, just showing you what's there. View image

Posted by me at 08:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (12)

On November 2nd, will you vote steak or will you vote tofu?

Posted by me at 04:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (24) | TrackBacks (2)

Below, please.
You are an Evil Dead Zombie. The spirits of the
dead took over your body in a lonely cabin, and
now it's your job to kick some Ash ass. Sadly,
while you'll succeed in beating the bejeezus
out of Ash repeatedly, he will ultimately wipe
you from existence. You can only be killed by
bodily dismemberment.

What kind of Zombie are you?
brought to you by Quizilla Yes, I answered the questions in a way so I was sure to get this particular zombie. Stolen from here, vial Meryl. Speaking of zombies, I got a lot of good email feedback on this post, so I've added it to my best of. Thanks, everyone. Positive feedback is like crack to an attention whore (read, blogger).

Posted by me at 01:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (8)

My revelations from this morning have been proved true!! Torches blazed and sacred chants were praised As they start to cry hands held to the sky In the night the fires burning bright The ritual has begun satan’s work is done 666 the number of the beast Sacrifice is going on tonight I want whatever the people at WND are smoking

Posted by me at 11:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (13) | TrackBacks (3)

Blood sucking, profiteering, exploitive, greedy leeches. I may elaborate later.

Posted by me at 11:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (19) | TrackBacks (4)

[personal ramblings with no real point follow] I need a calming influence. The sound of waves crashing against the shore, perhaps, backed with the soothing melody of Zamfir's flute or whatever that is he plays. Maybe a field of clovers and daisies in which to lay down and stare at the sky, looking for ice cream cones in the clouds while James Earl Jones reads aloud from a book of sonnets as Stephen Green slowly... Did I say that out loud? Sorry. It's not been a great day here at chez ASV. I experienced my first panic attack in over two years and my skin is warm and tingling, signifying another one in the works. Ah, yes. The first thing you will say is: this election is to blame! Well, no. Not so much. It's more like a amalgamation of not enough hours in the day, not enough sleep in the night, not enough money in the checking account, not enough patience to deal with certain people; too many things on my plate, too many things left undone around the house, too many afternoons and evenings being the sole parent in the car pool; worrying about my kids worrying about friends, relationships, college applications and basic algebra; worrying about my husband worrying about money, the lawn, his mother, his career, and fretting about everything I can't control but wish I could, including the stupidity of mankind and bad drivers - who probably can be controlled with a gun, but that really wouldn't make life any better for me in the long run, would it? I haven't had a day like this since I went off the meds and if I only get one of these every couple of months, I'll live with the trade off of not choking down brain altering chemicals every day. I bet that's the last time you ask "how are you doing?" and really mean it. Anyone have James Earl Jones's phone number? So, as I'm looking for some kind of calm to keep the shortness of breaths to a minimum, Smashing Pumpkins' Mayonaise comes on the Launchcast radio and all is right with the world. Deep breaths. None of the above things are insurmountable.

Posted by me at 10:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | TrackBacks (2)

Congratulations, Red Sox fans. Yes, I mean that. Contrary to popular belief, I am not a smug, righteous Yankee-only fan who has never cheered on a losing team. Think pre-Stanely Cup era Islanders. The word hapless comes to mind. Enjoy your revelry, Red Sox nation. I truly am happy for you. After the Yankees lost to the Sox and I wrote this post, I received this email: bq. Will you be so gracious in defeat when your chosen candidate goes down in flames on November 2nd? Gracious in defeat is one thing when your sports team loses. It's a whole other ball game (bad pun intended) when it comes down to the future of mankind. Hyperbole? I think not. For something happened last night that signaled the beginning of the end of the world. Well, a few things happened. And I can't believe I'm the only one to see the pattern. On an October night less than a week before the presidential election, a full lunar eclipse takes place as a decades long curse is broken, as a man who looks like Skeletor in a latex mask is poised to become the leader of the most powerful nation in the world. And thousands of miles away, an evil man lingers close to death, his dying soul beckoning Satan to his bedside. Ok, why do I feel like Demi Moore in the Seventh Sign? Am I the only one who can add these things up? Did you not see The Omen? Read any Nostradamus? Something is in the air, my friends, and whatever it is has a bony, clawing hand just waiting to snatch our oblivious heads off our shoulders. Oh, it's not something completely obvious like, say, a witch flying across the sky etching the words "Surrender, Dorothy!" in the clouds. Ah, if only all it took were ruby slippers and a height-challenged barbershop quartet to get us out of this one. I'll just assume the subtlety of the clues is eluding you. Allow me to hit you over the head with a rock, then. See, I remember a passage in Nostradamus that referenced a curse being lifted at the same time the moon goes dark on a night when an evil man who looks like a fish begins his surrender to his dark lord. I swear, look it up. I would, but I'm afraid to Google something like that. Superstitions and all. Anyhow, the clues to the end of the world come out in a slow leak, like gas escaping from a pinhole. Speaking of which, I just saw something that looks like steam rising out of my lawn. Hang on while I go check this out. [....] Just as I thought! There is a newly formed crack in my property, right in the place where the former owners of this house ripped a tree out of the ground. I can smell the sulphuric heat emitting from the hole as soon as I open my front door. You know what this means, right? It means that Stephen Dorf is going to knock on my door and tell the me the gates of hell have been opened once again! On my property! Look at this picture. Don't be fooled. His hands are raised in praise of Satan as he harnesses the evil powers that lurk in this world to help him bring on Armageddon. The signs are all around us that his powers are working. The unraveling of the Curse of Bambino is symbolism at its darkest. The near death of Arafat, the moon covered in blood, a new Herbie movie - on their own these all seem like benign, normal occurrences of life (except the Herbie movie, that in itself is frightening), but when put together, they are links in chain that only the really aware among us can see. And yes, I am one of the aware. I studied every coming of the anti-Christ movie ever made. I know a slowly creeping Armageddon when I see it. The seals have been broken! Ok, so I'm not sure exactly how many seals there are, because Satan could really fuck with us and say there are seven but in reality, there's only four or five. What if the election of John Kerry as our next president is the final seal?? See, here's how you can help stave off the handing over of our lives to satanic forces. Make your vote count. A vote for George Bush is a vote for keeping those seals...err...sealed! I laugh at you, Satan! You may have given the Red Sox the World Series ring they have sold their own souls for (come on, a sweep? There's definitely some soul selling involved here), and yea, maybe I enjoyed that eclipse and I'm not so sorry about the dying terrorist supporter, but we will not let you make your final move toward supremacy. We must elect George Bush, everyone! So, who's with me?

Posted by me at 07:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (45) | TrackBacks (18)

Observe what happens when you try to take pictures of a lunar eclipse but a) you can't find your tripod and b) a combination of too much coffee and a shivering temperatures force your hands into a steady shake. The moon becomes [images in extended entry for you dial up users]: [click all for bigger] A ghost a half eaten almond cookie a flying great pumpkin a fetus, sucking its thumb Oh, there were about 50 pictures like this. Looking at them was more fun than imagining castles in clouds. I even got the moon to look like J-Lo's ass with stick protruding from it. Update: Ok, so that pumpkin picture is pretty phallic if viewed in the right way.

Posted by me at 06:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (9)

Faster, please. [How long before someone yells October Surprise! and mutters something about Karl Rove?] Update: When he buys the farm, I'll be celebrating by contributing to the Magen David Adom Matching Fund. From the comments, best use of (or paraphrase of) a quote this week: Smithers, dismember the corpse and send a ham to his widow.

Posted by me at 06:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (33) | TrackBacks (3)

[click images for larger size]. See here for reference. Cooper asked for photos of what makes where I live home. I took this photo (I'll take more on this subject, as it's open to a lot of interpretation) with that in mind. This is the small Episcopal church a few blocks from my house. When I'm driving home from work, I eventually hit that place on Hempstead Turnpike where I can turn off and soar down the side streets all the way home, avoiding more than a few traffic lights and a lot of bad drivers. When I turn down Fifth Street, I always look for the steeple in the sky. It's a marker of sorts, one that at the same time signals I'm almost home and reminds me of a long ago life in which I lived on Fifth Street.


This next one is for Keiran, who asked for someone or something hopelessly out of place. I think this pirate (my nephew) certainly fits the bill. He's in the yard of the church pictured above. Do pirates go to church? I doubt it. Check out the seriousness on his face. When he's Jack Sparrow, he's really Jack Sparrow.


Ask him what his name is and he'll point his finger at you and say "Jack. Jack Sparrow. Savvy?"

Posted by me at 04:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

I hate blogs. I hate bloggers. Bloggers are mostly retarded idiots. Bloggers ruined the internet. We get it, John. We got it a long time ago. You hate blogs. There's really no need for you to go on endlessly writing columns about it, all with the same words shaken, stirred and spit out again in a different order. I'm really sorry your vision of the internet (with you as king, I imagine) didn't pan out. But I do find it quite amusing that you, the internet guru, always forgets about that little X button up in your right hand corner. See, nobody is forcing you to read the blogs that you hate so much, John. In fact, nobody at all is being forced to read them. So for you to conclude that the world wide web will asplode because bloggers are reaching a fever pitch of bitter seething is just so much empty anger. The internet, as you may know, is vast, wide place filled with much more than blogs. I don't know the exact percentage of people who log on to the web each day and read blogs, but I would think that percentage is minuscule when you take into account just how much information is stacked in those ones and zeros you talk about. So no, blogs will not be the downfall of the internet. Your www.sky is not falling. When you say " the public is subjected" to the ranting of us "seriously disturbed or feebleminded" wacko bloggers, you assume that the people reading our drivel don't know how to not read it. Nobody is being subjected to it, just as no one is really being subjected to your whiny, pouty columns. Free will is a great thing, John. Most people use it when surfing the net. Click, click, click, back button, X. See? Easy as turning off the radio when you realize that it sucks. Also, you go on the assumption that most bloggers are anonymous drones, hiding behind false identities. Au contraire, Mr. Dvorak (if that's really your name). Most bloggers are pretty up front about who they are, what they do and where they come from. We're not basement dwelling dweebs trying to play the romantic millionaire in a chatroom for the lovelorn. We stand behind our opinions, not behind masks. Sure, we are intolerant of each other, to a point. So are Red Sox and Yankee fans. So are Crips and Bloods. We all have our battles with each other, but we're not forcing anyone to watch. The rest of the internet - stores, games, mass media, films, comics, search engines, ect. - will all exist and thrive whether or not the blogosphere grows or shrivels up and dies. There will still be porn and chat rooms and MUDs even if the left bloggers and the right bloggers meet in the middle of the internet in some virtual remake of West Side Story and Atrios and Glenn Reynolds lay dead and dripping blood through cyberspace. And you, my friend, will still be writing pissant commentary on it all. How many columns have you gotten out of your hatred of blogs, Dvorak? Don't bite the hand that feeds you the small scraps you cook your whine stew with. Yea, yea. And how many blog posts have I gotten out of Dvorak's shitty column? I can smell those future comments a mile away.

Posted by me at 11:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (46) | TrackBacks (7)

At some point, every child learns the valuable lesson of patience. Patience is a virtue, we tell them. Good things come to those who wait. Patience and fortitude conquer all things. (use of which always hammers home the point that Emerson is not quotable to the under 14 set).

Most kids learn the value of having patience through the anticipation the arrival of Santa Claus or the countdown to a long awaited family vacation. Not my son. He met his patience challenge with zombies.

The Dawn of the Dead DVD finally arrived on the shelves of our local Best Buy yesterday. I, like any good mother would, used my lunch hour yesterday to go buy my eleven year old son the unedited, unrated version of a zombie movie.

But oh, the look on his face when I got home. It looked something like this. As I pulled up in front of the house, he came lumbering out of the front door, approaching the car with arms extended, legs all awkward and moaning like he hadn't had a good brain to eat in days. He grabbed the DVD from my hand, mumbled something about brains and sped off to his room.

Hours later (those hours interrupted by a bout of homework and a trip to religious ed) he emerged from his room, wild-eyed and grinning.

So, was it worth the wait?
Well, you know how sometimes you think something is the greatest thing ever, that nothing can ever beat it?
Yea...
So, I though all this time that Dawn of the Dead was the greatest movie ever, but now that I'm watching it again, it's not. But that's good.
Good, how?
'Cause if I saw the best movie ever when I'm 11, then there would be nothing to look forward to.

Ah, the mind of a young boy.

It was interesting to watch him wait for the arrival of this DVD. He had a countdown going on his computer. Every day, he would announce how many days left until the release. Every Friday, he would go to the movie site, where they would show a different clip each week. While he was waiting, he took the time to become an expert on all things zombie. He read through my copy of The Zombie Survival Guide. He watched other zombie movies like the original Night of the Living Dead (review: awesome for an old flick!) and 28 Days Later (review: that wasn't a zombie movie! HUGE rip-off!) and then we went to see Shaun of the Dead (review: can we sit through it again? Please?!). (I tell you, it was a very proud moment for this mother when he got the "We're coming to get you Barbara" reference in Shaun.) He scoured the internet for stories about zombies, learned how to kill them, how to summon them and how to dress like one for Halloween.

To say he obsesses about things is an understatement. Once DJ takes a liking to something, he goes all out with it. Not content to just watch a zombie movie, he has to completely submerge himself in the zombie lore and culture. His world becomes a focused, intent place in which he will take his given obsession of the moment and relate it to anything that is happening around him.

This obsessive sort of behavior started very early. When he was about two years old, he had a collection of little Disney movie figures that he kept in a plastic bin. These figures were collected via many trips to McDonald's or Toys R Us and, let me tell you, it was a very complete collection. Because you couldn't have just one Little Mermaid figure. You had to have them all. Once I bought Ariel, it was a slippery slope right down to Eric, King Trident and that sea hag that looked like a fat, wet Malificent. Yes, I was enabling his addiction. Make no mistake about where DJ got his obsessive compulsive trait from.

Anyhow, one day we were putting his toys away for the evening. As usual, he had them all lined up around the living room in the straightest line possible, one little Disney character after another. I'd say there was about 80 figures in his collection at that time. I gathered them all up and threw them in the bin, which I then placed in his room, right next to his bed, per the usual routine. Five minutes after I left him in his room I heard a scream. I went running back in and found DJ staring in horror at the jumble of plastic figures in the bin.

Ho-hant-as? Ho-hant-as? He was pointing at the figures. I looked at my son, looked at the bin and though, no way. Sure enough, I went into the living room, got on my hands and knees, and found Pocohantas under the radiator. That, my friends, is what you call obsessive. A two year old looking into a tub filled to the brim with little plastic princes and animals and widowers knew immediately that his Ho-hant-as was missing.

And that was just the first of all the obsessive phases DJ went through. Power Rangers. Star Wars. Oh god, the Star Wars phase. He was three and knew every single character, vehicle and weapon. And the sports. He didn't just watch baseball or hockey or football. He lived, ate and breathed those sports. He knew Don Mattingly's batting average on days when it was below 75 degrees. He knew the number of every player on every NHL team. He picked my football teams for the office pool every week when he was five. With point spreads. I came in first place that year.

The phases would go as fast as they would arrive, and I'd be left with boxes of paraphenelia associated with the various obsessions. This is what happens when a woman with an addictive personality has a son with obsessive traits. I fed his action figure/trading card/video game hunger with reckless abandon. Pokemon? We caught them all.

At some point, I learned to stop feeding his obsessive needs. Probably when I sat down and figured out how much money I spent on all that Pokemon crap. But something went wrong when DJ started his horror movie phase. I couldn't help it. All those years of restraint had built up against the wall I created and the dam burst. Can you blame me? What better way for mother and son to bond than over a love of horror movies? What says quality time more than a shared viewing of George Romero classics? What better dinner conversation starter is there than:

Mom, if I got bit by a zombie would you kill me before or after I turned into one?

I gave him a blank stare. He turned to his stepfather.

Ok, Justin. What about you?

Justin didn't even blink. "I'd shoot you as soon as you got bit. Right between the eyes."

I blanched in horror. "You would not do any such thing. How could you kill my son while he was still....him?" I imagined the scenario in my mind. DJ writhing on the floor, blood pouring from his zombie infected wound, the undead hovering around him, waiting for dinner. My motherly instincts kicked in. "I would wait. I would wait until I saw that you were no longer my son, but some hideous creature. Then I would kill you. Maybe."

I looked expectantly at him. He stared hard at me.

"Bzzzz. Wrong answer! Justin is right!" DJ shook his head disapprovingly and Justin sat there all smug, laughing.

"I would expect you to kill me, mom. You don't take chances with the undead. Duh."

Duh. Well, at least we were actually conversing over dinner instead of watching the Simpsons and that's always something to be happy about. Even if the conversation did revolve around zombies.

And so, everything is zombies today and will be until this new DVD wears out its welcome, which probably won't be anytime soon given all the extras on it*. DJ will pop out from under the couch at odd times pretending to bite us and he'll quiz us on various aspects of zombie survival. And he'll critique the movie to no end.

Modern zombies suck, he says. They're too fast and they think too much. He thinks the movie would have been better if the zombies were more like those in Night of the Living Dead.

Of course, he still thinks it was worth the wait and all the countdowns. I'm just glad that part of it is over, as he can now concentrate on things like, oh, how many days until his book report ('Salem's Lot) is due.

I was about to mention this to him last night when he said "How many days until Land of the Dead?"

Well, at least this particular obsession doesn't cost me much money. And I'm really glad he's keeping his obsession with Lindsay Lohan's boobs mostly to himself.

* One part of the extras is the anatomy of exploding heads.

Posted by me at 09:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (23) | TrackBacks (1)

I haven't yet looked to see if this photo I took as I was driving last night would fit any of the camera challenge suggestions, but I thought that it seemed, in some way, an appropriate way to start the day. [click for bigger]

Posted by me at 07:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (1)

I am suffering from Hyper-Cerebral Blogosis. Explains the recent feistiness, eh? Look for this some time in the next six days: Laurence, that's a mighty big cleanup in aisle F7 you'll be doing when I go all asplodey. Sure, I could have gone with the cheap Scanners reference, but I liked this one better.

Posted by me at 09:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (4)

Am I going to have to do this every night? Ok, here's tonight's blogging lesson: Just because I post about A doesn't mean I don't care about B. Here's a revelation: You are not the only people in my life. I did in fact discuss the whole missing explosives situation today, but just not with you. My boss, my neighbor and my husband all heard exactly how I feel about the situation. Too bad you couldn't be there. Now, to recap: * You only get to read about .000004 of my thoughts during the course of the day. * The rest of my thoughts are none of your damn business unless I make them your business. Class dismissed. (see also, It Takes Balls)

Posted by me at 07:59 PM | Permalink | Comments (24) | TrackBacks (2)

Dear CBS: Shut the fuck up, Donny.* Same to you, NYT. JesusHChristonapogostick, do these people have no shame? Never in my life have I seen a news outlet so hungrily campaigning against a candidate. They're not even trying to be subtle about it. When they finally replace the CBS logo with a BushHitler sign, I won't even feign surprise. You know, I really want to be there when it's announced that Bush has won re-election and Dan Rather goes all bathtub/toaster. And while I'm briefly talking election, I'd like to ask a favor of my "favorite" lefty bloggers and pundits: can you please stop screeching like a wounded seagull? You're keeping me up at night. Thanks* *more, more, more *speaking of screeching.

Posted by me at 02:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (25) | TrackBacks (2)

Now that the end of the year is barreling down on us, ger ready for hundreds of pretentious music snobs, writing for pretentious magazines, giving you lists with titles like Albums from 2004 You Better Own If You Want to Be Cool and it’s stupid brother If You Own These Recent Albums You’re a Dork or an Asshole or Both.

Yea, so I write a lot of lists myself. But I don’t phrase the titles in such a way that I’m pointing my finger at you and calling you an idiot for not liking my music, nor do I word my accompanying article in a fashion that says I am superior to you in taste and intellect because my record collection can beat up your record collection.

I’m not much for year end lists, anyhow. If you narrow yourself down to one particular year, sometimes you’ll get stuck with 365 days of sucky music and, then what? Instead of a top ten, you have a top five? Or a top negative ten? Yea, there are a lot of Worst Albums of the Year lists, but they read more like the author’s middle finger salute to music he hates, rather than a critical look at albums that were supposed to be the Next Big Thing and turned into the Next Big Drink Coaster.

Besides, half of these year end lists consists of bands you and I have never heard of. They’re bands that you only know of if your indie cred is up to date, bands that no one in your circle of friends has ever heard of but every High Fidelity-type record store employee raves about, and you wonder if indie music is like a dog whistle and you can only hear it if you’re wearing an oversized sweater, black rimmed glasses and a permanent ironic smile.

My biggest rock critic/music list pet peeve is the use of the word IMPORTANT in any list title. Just because you think it’s important doesn’t make it so. Maybe you believe that Nevermind was the Most Important Record Ever because it paved the way for all the grunge bands that followed, but there are millions of us who hate if for that very reason.

You know what I want in a critic’s list? Honesty. Don’t give me some standard pretentious claptrap as to why Rolling Stone’s Exile on Main Street ranks right up there with the discovery of penicillin. Be honest. You love the album because it’s what was playing on the stereo when you finally got that goofy looking chick from the record store to make out with you. I can get behind that. That’s important. Setting industry standards and enlightening legions of 12 year olds with guitars takes a back seat to flashbacks of banging MaryAnne Brady every time you hear Tumbling Dice.

Just once I would love to see a smug critic put something totally mainstream on his list amidst all the earnest, self-aware bands. Like, right in between Songs Written on a Bleak Afternoon in Prague and This Album Title is Really an Obscure Reference to a 13th Century Philosopher, there would be the latest offering from Papa Roach, with the explanation that it makes the critic feel like a pre pubescent boy just discovering his dick, and he likes that.

Why, yes. I am going to put up or shut up.

Some of my most important albums ever and why they are important to me:

Stabbing Westward, Darkest Days
Because there is nothing like listening to the pathetic whining of someone with a stalkerish obsession with a girl that dumped him to remind you of just how pathetic and whiny and stalkerish you were when you were dumped. There’s nothing like reliving past bouts of self-hatred to make you appreciate the fact that you don’t hate yourself quite so much anymore.

Little Feat - Dixie Chicken
Because it reminds me of that summer we spent eating mescaline and sometimes, flashbacks rock.

Type O Negative - October Rust
Because it makes me horny. Hey, I said I’d give you honesty.

Tool - Undertow
This album was in constant rotation on my stereo in October of 1996, which just so happens to be around the time that I kicked my then husband out of the house. Good times, good times.

Pantera - Vulgar Display of Power
Because it stokes my hatred for you. And I live off of deep, black hatred for humanity. It’s what keeps my soul from shriveling up and dying.

Bloodhound Gang - One Fierce Beer Coaster
Because I have the sense of humor of a twelve year old and I’m not afraid to admit it or revel in it.

Nine Inch Nails - The Downward Spiral
Because wallowing in angry misery is a favorite hobby of mine, right up there with opening old wounds and stabbing myself in the heart repeatedly.

Oasis - (What’s the Story) Morning Glory
Because listening to this reminds me that deep inside, I am not as hardcore as you think I am. We should all face our internal wimpiness every so often. Champagne Supernova, baby.

Faith No More - Album of the Year
Because, despite all of the wallowing and hating I do, despite all my idiosyncrasies and neurotic behavior, my husband loves me.

I'm sure I could do this all day, but lunch is waiting. And if you're going to tell me yours, be honest.

Update: You people are LAME. I said honest. I don't care if an album has good guitar riffs or sparkling vocals. I can read that shit in Spin magazine, for the love of jeebus. I don't want to hear what you think of the bass lines, I want to hear that you like an album because you masturbated to it every night during tenth grade. Balls, people! Grow some!

Posted by me at 11:59 AM | Permalink | Comments (62) | TrackBacks (4)

Matt has done a stupendous job with the 69th version of the Carninval of the Vanities. And he didn't even go for the cheap and easy 69 jokes. 42. Update: By the way, continuing with my pissy attitude of last night, I hate when people use the comments to snarkily point out typographical/spelling errors in a post. An email would be much more appreciated. I mean, would you want someone to quietly approach you and whisper in your ear that you have spinach in your teeth or would you prefer they stand up on the table and scream it out to the whole room? Yea, I'm talking to you, Mr. SharpMarble. You're lucky I like you.

Posted by me at 09:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (13) | TrackBacks (2)

My first few shots for the camera challenge. I'll try to get to them all by the end of the week and then I'll stuff them all in the gallery. Still taking suggestion. For those who wanted fall foliage (I'll probably do more of these, I can't resist taking pictures of foliage). These were all taken through my car window as I was driving (or stopped at a traffic light), so they're not great shots, technical-wise, but they serve the purpose. And for John, who wanted a picture depicting the fragility of life: Click for larger images.

Posted by me at 07:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (9)

I've had it. The next person to use my comments to pimp their own off-topic bullshit will be banned forever from this site. And if I have any luck with summoning the gods of karma, your computer will blow up. I've also reached my limit with people pinging me with trackbacks and when I go look at the post they wrote, it has nothing whatsoever to do with the post they trackbacked me on. You want my attention? Send an email. Don't insert your URL on my site as if I'm your freaking pimp. And please don't cry to me if you send me an email with a link and I don't use it. If I posted every link that someone sent my way in a day, this place would look like a blogosphere version of Fark. And you know what? Sometimes the link you send sucks. Get over it. ASV is not a freaking yard sale for links. I'm sure when Glenn doesn't respond to your email or doesn't post your link, you don't send him emails in which you play the part of a whiny little kid who didn't get the pony he wanted for his birthday I think I've been pretty good about spreading my traffic around. I do what I can, when I can. My traffic is not stratospheric, but it's good and I make it a point to share the wealth. But apparently that's not enough for some people, who think that if I don't post the tenth link they sent me in a week, I'm the grinch who stole their fucking Christmas. When did it come into being that I owe you something, that I am obligated to do whatever you tell me to? Sorry for the bluntness, but a few people got on my last nerve tonight. I'm not talking to all of you, of course. Most of you send me fine links and do it in a fashion that tells me you have manners. Not everyone is like that and those people that are go on my SUCK list for today. Somebody get me a beer, please so I can at least be drinking while I watch the flaming ensue. Honestly, I don't care. Blogging status means less and less to me as the days go on. It's all turned into a contest between pirahnas and sharks and I'd rather be an observer in that fight than a participant because it's just not worth it to have my head bitten off, chewed up and spit out in the fight for king of the fishtank. I probably just bit my own head off with this post, anyhow. [Oh, and you can bet this entry will be deleted later. And you will NOT send me an email asking why. Shut the fuck up, Donny.]

Posted by me at 08:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (39) | TrackBacks (2)

Remember the thread the other day where we talked about movie catch phrases? See, what I meant by catch phrase was not just a good movie quote, but one that can be used in various situations to get a point across. Quotable is good. Quotable and useable is what catch phrase is all about. On that note, I've decided that I am just going to respond to idiot commenters and annoying people as such from now on: Shut the fuck up, Donny. Now that is a useable quote.

Posted by me at 02:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (115) | TrackBacks (3)

While a good ghost story goes a long way all year round, there's no time like the season of autumn to hear tales of terror. It's not just the particular holiday of Halloween that makes it so; there's more to the spookiness of autumn than that.

Perhaps it's the way the branches of trees start to poke out from where they hid all summer under the leaves. They claw at the sky like bony fingers, making the baring trees look like skeletons rising from the ground.

Perhaps it's the way it gets dark so early and long shadows creep up on you in late afternoon, scaring the sunlight away.

Perhaps it's the crunching of the dead leaves underfoot, the crisp sound echoing in the open space of autumn like the cracking of bones.

Perhaps it's the bright harvest moon, whose eerie face seems to mock you as you walk alone down a dark street, or the sudden onslaught of flocks of sinister looking birds that swoop down by the hundreds with their cacophony of screaming caws and shrieks.

Or perhaps it's just the aura of death around you, as the grass turns a sickly brown and the summer's last hold on the once thriving flowers loses its battle against the cold, turning the flowers into dried out corpses.

I always loved a ghost story, especially if it was being told by a person who knew the art of storytelling; the pitch, the voice, the dramatic pauses all have to be done to perfection in order to make the story come to life. The right storyteller can make even a mundane tale seem frightening. Both my parents had this gift; to this day I get shivers whenever I think of my father's story about the evil Rigatoni. Sounds stupid, doesn't it? But it was told in early fall on a dark night in upstate New York, with bats flying into the window and trees rustling against the house. My father, by adding the right tone of creepy to what was some nonsense he had been ad-libbing, managed to freak us all out with the story of a renegade piece of pasta. That is a gift.

Of course, the way to ensure that any ghost story you are listening to will give you a good scare is to believe. Listening to my mom or dad share their tales of terror was even better when I was fully, 100%, unequivocally sure that the stories were either true or could really happen. As they recited the stories, I would mumble to myself I do believe in ghosts, I do believe in ghosts, like an incantation that would make sure the necessary goose bumps raised up on my arms. But believing in things that live in the dark has its downfalls, as once you actually got into the dark when the storytelling was done - in your bedroom, by yourself - you suddenly did not want to believe in ghosts. You wanted to believe in anything but. Scary stories are a lot of fun when you're huddled around with your favorite cousins and few adults and the smell of popcorn and hot chocolate wafts out from the kitchen. Alone in the night with no one but a stuffed kitten for company and the ominous smell of autumn coming in the window, the stories take on a life of their own. Your bed is an oasis and your feet must not touch the floor or even peek out from under the covers or the dusty corpse of a long-ago buried witch would surely grab you by your toes and proceed to eat you alive, not stopping until she swallows your soul. And when the bed creaks or a branch scrapes against the window, you wish, wish, wish with all your might and your eyes squeezed shut tight that never said you believe in monsters and spirits and evil that walks the night because if you don't believe they can't hurt you. When daylight finally arrives, after a night of horrific dreams, you do it all over again because daytime has a way of making you naively brave.

And so it is time for ghost stories again. Ghost story, in this case, is all encompassing. It's a catch-all for tales that scare, creep, frighten or chill. There could be ghosts or goblins, witches or zombies, spirits looking for revenge or bloody limbs strewn across a graveyard. They could be tales that people swear to be true or tales that are too bizarre to believe, yet scare you nonetheless. They are stories read from books or orally passed down from generation to generation; stories that take place in locations we know or far away lands we hope to never go. Sure, they are all scary enough on any day of the year but, told in the thick of autumn, they take on a more sinister, terrifying tone. Just the way it should be.

Todays's featured ghost stories:
Jen at cupandsaucer will be telling a different story each day this week. Today she recants some ghostly tales from when she lived in Hawaii.

Thomas Hardy's The Withered Arm
I'll be posting one of my favorite ghost stories later. Hopefully you'll print it out and share it with any easily-frightened friends or family you have. If you've got a ghost story to share, let me know. I can always use some new material.

Posted by me at 12:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (4)

You know what I hate about RSS feeds? When I post something and then decide to either delete it for my own reasons or put it on draft to fix it up and save it for later, it still shows up in some feeds and then I get emails asking where the post is and what did I do with it, as if I just kidnapped their little brother.

Posted by me at 10:26 AM