The Venture--wait, wait, I meant "Winchester!"--Bros.

We're all thinking this, right? My hope is that if I write it down, it will stop being funny to me.

*********
"No way, man, no way. This isn't what Brock would've wanted, man."

"I'm sorry to have to keep reminding you of this, but Brock's not here anymore. It's just us. Just us, alone in the cosmos."

"Pfft, don't be LAME, dude. Cosmos are a girl's drink. I learned that from a Playboy I found!"

"Soooo... What should we do now?"

"Anything we want!"

"Like drive to Brisbyland???"

"Yeah! Best idea ever! The car! We need to take Brock's car and treasure it, and, and take care of it... and... and... um..."

"And fight mummies! And ghost pirates! Like Giant Boy Detective would!"

"Golly! Now you're talking. But we're not boy detectives. Not anymore. If we have a car, then that makes us men."

"But people still might come looking for us. We need to change our names."

"Good one! Okay, I'm naming myself Brock Two."

"No, that's a terrible idea. We need normal-people names. You shouldn't name yourself like you're the replacement for a dead cat. How about... Rupert?"

"No!"

"Or... Henry?"

"Eew, no!"

"What about Eugene?"

"No! You're stupid at names. Why don't you name yourself if you're so good at naming, you big baby."

"I'll be... Sam. I'm naming myself Sam. How's that for a stupid name?"

"Yeah, whatever. Hey, if you're named Sam now, then can I just have your old first name?"

"No!!! That's inappropriate."

"Yeah, WHATEVER, man. You changed your name, no takesy-backsies. So I'm Dean now. Dean Venture. Hey, I feel wussier already!"

"Knock it off!!! Besides, we can't be the Ventures anymore. Not anymore."

"Hey! Hey! Hey! Our last name should be Sampson, in honor of Brock!"

"No, that might be too easy to trace. Maybe we should make ourselves Tesla, after dad's Tesla coil?"

"No, science stuff is lame. Hey, let's name ourselves after some of Brock's stuff. Like, our last name could be Led Zeppelin Two."

"No, let's keep digging through these boxes, though. We might find something good."

"Hey, here's one of Brock's Bowie knives. Don't we know a guy who named himself after one of these?"

"Yeah, that bird guy, but he's kinda scary. Hey look in this box! It's full of really old stuff. Wow, I didn't even know Brock even OWNED any guns, much less a fancy old antique like this one. Look at that engraving. I wonder if it's killed werewolves? Maybe we should name ourselves after it!"

"What, Dusty? 'Cause it's so DUSTY in here."

"Hey, quit being a goof and help me out here!"

"I'm not a goof, you're a CRUMB-BUMB and it's too dusty in here. I'm going to go wait in the car and listen to cassette tapes."

*********
And with THAT, ladies and gentlemen, I come one step closer to ruining television for everyone, everywhere, at all times. You're welcome.
*********
Captain's Log, Supplemental.

I just realized that a lot of my friends only watch one or the either of the two shows addressed in this "amusing myself because I'm bored" parody of television.

Checking Wikipedia or fan pages or the IMDB or whatever will give you more thorough information about whichever program you may not be familiar with, but instead helping you get started on your research in any sort of helpful or meaningful way, here's some David Bowie stuff from both The Venture Bros and Supernatural, to show that I like scanning YouTube for clips from television shows that include something about David Bowie:

That Faith No More cover of "Let's Lynch the Landlord"

Are you an Elvis Man? Are you looking for an ALL NEW way to listen to the Dead Kennedys? Does a lazy rockabilly polka sound like it might hit the spot right now? Have you been looking for That One Mike Patton Song To Like, to placate me when I start going "blah blah blah, his projects are so Twin Peaks, but with Danny DeVito just hanging out, blah blah blah."

Well! Problem SOLVED!!! And you're welcome.

*Tenant-on-landlord violence is not endorsed by this blog, or by any other blogs by this writer. In fact, this writer has an awesome landlord.

The Most Beautiful Cat Litter in the World

Pretty sure that I started this blog with an intention to review handy household commercial products, as much as anything else. So it's with great pride and pleasure that I take this special moment to honor a commercial product that's virtually become a member of my family.

I speak, of course, of Litter Purrfect's Multi-Cat Scoopable Cat Litter.

This product boasts "Odor Control," "Moisture Activated Lemongrass Essence," "Odor Eliminating Baking Soda," "Extra Hard Clumping Action," as well as purporting to weigh 35lbs, to be "Green 'n Clean," "All Natural," and "99% Dust Free."

I know what you must be thinking. That I made up the phrase "Extra Hard Clumping Action" for laughs. But you would be WRONG. It's a direct quote from the packaging. I only TYPED it for laughs.

Now, the title of this piece boasts that this cat litter is the most beautiful of it's kind. I wrote that because, at least for us, it genuinely, genuinely is.

My cats and I went through an extensive trial-and-error process, when searching for the correct litter for them. I asked friends, examined other cat boxes, and gave a number of different brands a shot at home.

The other grocery store brands didn't mask the "restroominess" of the poor cats' bathroom enough, and nobody was happy.

Specialty wooden pellet kinds--though biodegradable AND impressively antismell in a good friend's home--didn't have the right "paw feel," according to my cats. Leonard, in particular, just sat in front of his litter box, making various pleading facial expressions for three days straight before I finally caved and swapped the cool eco-pellets out for this stuff, his favorite stuff. Then he ran straight into the box and used the kitty toilet like he'd been trying really hard to avoid peeing for all three days. Secretly, I chided him. But I had to concede that my cats deserved to have a say in this particular arena.

It would probably be useful, at this part of this review, to name the brands that I'm comparing this cat litter to. I mean, even ONE brand would probably be helpful, right? Tough. Not today, guys.

Got that out of the way.

Okay. Well.

While the actual photograph of cat litter used below was taken in a glowing Viking afterlife, making the specifics a little hard to see, I'm happy to provide clarification.

The jug is springtime green. The jug also has a jaunty dark blue cap on. The jug has a handle on top, to help carry it. The jug is probably made out of plastic.

BONUS INFORMATION!!!! I buy this litter at Costco, which is good for... um... buying stuff. Not only does Costco's giantness, it's giantitude, it's ginormity, create a lovely hike from the first available parking spot to the front door, but even the hike from the cat litter to the checkout line provides a little bit of needed exercise. Just one of the perks of buying this cat litter! (It's also nice to shop somewhere famous for paying employees a decent wage and giving them good benefits. I'll vote with my dollar for that, because I can.)


So in sum:

1. Leonard the Cat will protest anything with a different texture.

2. I will protest anything else with the same texture, because my cats ruin the smell of 'em. Horrifically. This stuff's not a 100% sure thing. I mean, you can tell what went on a few minutes ago. But it effectively muffles what went on an hour or two ago, and that's a very good thing.

3. Hey, I almost forgot!!! Costco also has pizza by the slice, as long as you bring cash and you're in the mood for very general, American-style pizza. (Not to be confused with "specific" pizza. But in this case, "general" is perfectly fantastic enough for me, so no complaints here.)

4. The packaging says "Extra Hard Clumping Action." Huhuhuhuhuhuh.

5. Fuck, I'm bad and petty for going there right at the end of this piece, but what the Hell, right? I'll go ahead, get off-topic, and draw attention to this, too. (See the link below.) At least they quote Danzig's reaction which was, rightfully, that music's supposed to be the main topic of conversation when we're discussing musicians. Sorry, dude. Sorry, sorry, sorry for bringing it up:

http://stereogum.com/560502/danzig-defends-kitty-litter-pic/news/

There.

Stop! Kitten time.

Tired of reading? That's okay!

Here's the latest, breaking photojournalism documenting my cat, Leonard. As of this very moment, 11:29am PST, 4/6/2013, this is what he's doing:

Adoring. I adore adoring. Let's go with that.

Screw it, let's get meta. This blog is called "I Adore..." and I adore adoring. I adore getting to adore.

I have nothing but affection for affection. I feel friendly towards friendship. I feel enthusiastic about getting to feel enthusiastic. It's a treat to consider something a treat. I like liking, I love loving.

I love to... um... love... you, baby? Sorry, I got distracted. I found Donna Summer on Soul Train. (I didn't know that she spent eight years in Germany before hitting commercial success in the U.S.!)

But anyway.

I'm a fan of BEING a fan.

While it would be dangerously unscientific of me to claim that focusing on what cheers you up is EQUIVALENT to taking an antidepressant, I can comfortably claim that having a happy place to go to--cue that penguin cave from Fight Club--can help boost the efficacy of real antidepressants.

For that matter, even for those WITHOUT a neuroscientific doom cloud to outrun, having some blessings to count or favorite things to list can certainly keep your Julie Andrews feeling "Julie Andrews" enough to keep the Victor in your Victoria.

While everybody tends to inherit some stress coping techniques from their cultural background--some wanted and some unwanted--one of the best things that I picked up from my folks has been audience participation.

My mother is a fan's fan. She wrote Star Trek fan fiction in the 1960s. (I like to imagine that she was the original Mary Sue, being named Sue Mary, but I haven't had the guts to ask her for fear of having the dream ashed.) She is now a devoted participant in Heart's fan club, and a damn liberating sort of mother to have. (Did I misspell my mother's name to protect her privacy? Did you?)

My father, on the other hand, is less of a proper fan-fan, and more of a performer/audience amalgam. He lives every second of every day in the persona of a rebel adventurer, winning sailboat races around the globe and telling larger-than-life stories about hitchhiking in the late 1960s. But what this means to ME, is that being a daughter is a form of audience participation by default. I grew up being a great, participatory performer/audience THING, feeling loved and feeling loving.

As a result of this gift of an upbringing, I naturally and firmly believe that being a good audience is actually a fine and important responsibility, and a delicate performance art of it's own.

If you see live music, dance for fuck's sake!

If you see live theater, stay awake and react as actively as proper etiquette allows.

If someone's telling you a story, be present for it, and fucking react like a good audience.

Liked a joke? Laugh!

Be an active, active, ACTIVE listener!

Art is social. The audience is an absolutely essential component to completing the circuit.

So.

I am a natural-born audience participant. I can be a whole mosh pit. I can be a whole cult following. I can be a whole fan culture. I can be positively RIVETED.

And all because I genuinely LIKE saying thanks, particularly to whatever sincerely cheers me up, and helps divert attention away from emotional exhaustion.

I have the privilege of getting to help people with terminal illnesses for a living. I've even earned the special right, in my personal life, to get to help distract friends who are looking down the barrel of medical terror and death.

So you'd BEST believe that any booster shot of "I LOVE THIS STORY" or "FUCK, I LOVE THIS SONG" or "I really feel like that performance really 'got' me," helps make self-pity and despair seem petty.

...

Fuck, well NOW I just sound like Kevin Spacey in American Beauty. Wasn't really GOING for that.

Fuck it, though.

I actually, if memory serves, really loved that movie when it came out.

And I'm okay with that... Because?

I REALLY LIKE GETTING TO LIKE THINGS!!!!!!!!!!!

There.

To quote Maude from Harold and Maude, "Good! Now go out and love some more!"

(Classy. Always classy to end on a good quote.)

A Fan's Tribute to Transmetropolitan's Fan Tribute to Hunter S. Thompson

Hey! Hey you! Hey, Transmet! I love you.

I LOVE YOU, COMIC BOOOOOKS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

At the Emerald City Comic Con a few years ago a buddy introduced me to Transmet's illustrator Darick Robertson (who is awesome) who totally knew what I meant when I said that Spider Jerusalem is arguably the best "Hunter Figure" in modern art/literature/whatever, and he saw where I was coming from, and we shot the breeze about Hunter S. Thompson for a while and it was cool.

So to me, Transmetropolitan is the best Hunter S. Thompson fan tribute of all time.

Let's fetch the old man off of the Owl Ranch, give him wiry good health, make his series of world-weary foxy assistants into proper superheroes, and make Gonzo journalism less about being too inebriated and fucked up on drugs to write about much more than a savvy person's political feelings and social anxiety, and more about punching injustice in the face repeatedly until real, concrete facts get journalistically recorded accurately, and broadcast to a public who all respond to the words-on-fire with passionate, political action. And then at the end? Nah. Not like what really happened in real life. Let's rewrite that, too.

So, Hunter Thompson terrorized cats more viciously than he terrorized his assistants? Fuck that! Let's give him a cat sidekick. An indestructible cat with two heads that don't give a fuck. Right? Right.

We'll keep the "trademark sunglasses" angle, but instead of mirrored aviators, let's go with something more sci-fi, a little more early-punk-rock. Good deal. While we're at it, why not tattoos? Seems like a good idea.

Alright, we set? Good!

Let's fight corruption with the humor-tempered anti-riot politics of the Dead Kennedys, promote cross-cultural inclusiveness, and really just do our best to live up to those inspirational speeches about civic decency that Henry Rollins has been doing lately.

What do we want?!? Punk rock!!! When do we want it?!? Constantly!!! When do we really want it? When we want our gonzo-feminist-cat-lover-fan-of-Hunter-S-Thompson-guilt softened enough to go as Raoul Duke for Halloween! Or "Halloween!" Also known as "Wednesday!" Or right now! Or whenever. What's a calendar even mean, outside of work hours?

("Why not every day? Are you so afraid? What would people say?")

So thank you, Transmetropolitan. Thank you for telling me exactly what I want to hear.

Well, except for the eating of cute puppy dogs. That's an aesthetically understandable creative choice on Warren Ellis's part. Gotta make it edgy and brutal, but still keep the violence surreal enough to emotionally compartmentalize it enough. But it's still not PERFECTLY my own personal taste, as I am the reluctant babysitter of a revolving series of border collies, and therefore an obligatory--though resentful--Protector Of Dogs.

But it's still a good start.

I'll take what I can get.

Love Letter to Borderlands 1

Dear Borderlands 1 for the Xbox 360,

I love you.

I do.

You were a Valentine's Day gift from my sweetheart this year, because my novelty budget has been impressively small in years past, so I'm a little behind on my gaming.

Now, everybody knows that I only feel whole when I have something to be engrossed in. This was easy as a student, because everything that I had to pay attention to was intellectually challenging, and fascinating.

As a recession-era breadwinner trying to support a family using nothing but a near-useless BA in psychology and my own monumental pluck... Well... The fun's almost over.

Except for You, Stuff I Like. Except for you.

I've recently given myself permission to get involved with fiction. In school, I mostly had a "NON-FICTION OR DIE!!!!!" approach to the world. But it worked, because every day was fun. Every day was jam-packed with learning and friendship, and on Wednesdays I'd pop over to my friend Jeff's house for aerobic living room mosh pit dance parties, typically set to Devo. If the crest of the wave of the song "Gut Feeling" doesn't make you want to jump around and shout at the top of your lungs, then I just don't know, man.

But, back to Borderlands 1 for the 360.

I want to change my hair color a few times a day, and I want to run over dudes with my tank, and just generally fuck shit up. I have wanted this for decades. Boy, have I ever!

Growing up, my dad used to call me his "little Lori Petty" after the Tank Girl movie, and I keep a small library of the comic books.

In real life, I'm so delightfully pacifist that I've actually crossed over into "nurturing" territory. When digging holes in the yard (another great pastime), I not only make a point to transfer worms into a special dirt bucket for their safety, but I will apologize to them verbally as I do so. All evidence suggests that earthworms cannot understand the English language, but I have integrity, and I apologize when I pose an inconvenience, goddammit!!!

But my sweet, dear little "make love, not war" heart is nevertheless full of affection for the bloody violence in this video game.

Yeah, sure, killing Mothrakk kind of broke my heart in a Shadow of the Colossus way. (I cannot stress this enough: FUCK THAT GAME.)

And worse, Borderlands 1 keeps using the word "midget," in a way that--and I plan to recycle this simile in a higher-end piece of writing later on--gives me certain nauseating "racist language in Breakfast of Champions" flashbacks.

I want to love this video game without guilt. But, fuck it, I want to love Kurt Vonnegut without guilt. I want to love the Ramones without guilt. Everything I love induces pangs of political guilt. That's simply part of being human in a society where inequality is typically either shushed up, real hush-hush like, or handled artlessly.

So, the violence just gives me a triumphant case of "I melted your face, motherfucker, and that's what you get for trying to defend your stuff from me!" giggles, but the "midget" jokes make me want to squeeze my eyes shut and say "Help me, Peter Dinklage, you 'Hugh Laurie with a full head of lush hair,' you. Help, help, help!"

Now, I'm not normally one for the damsel in distress trope, because they never rescue the damsel from real-world issues that I care about. But in this case? Fuck yes, this damsel feels passive, and wants a rescue. And by "rescue," I mean cultural permission from somebody good-looking, who seems to have good taste in projects, to assuage my guilt, so that I don't have to stop playing a video game that I otherwise really, really, really like. I mean, I have A SNIPER RIFLE THAT DEALS CORROSIVE DAMAGE. Fuck, that's cool.

...

And while I may have run out of points to make, and run out of the Ritalin needed to stay focused, I do want to end this mess of a stream-of-consciousness essay on a very, very good and very, very politically relevant subject.

When I said that nobody bothers to rescue damsels from the real-world issues I care about, well, here's a list:

1. Rescue me from not having a pizza.
2. Rescue me from having to leave the couch when I don't want to.
3. Rescue me from boredom.
4. Rescue me from my cat Greg, because he's way too cute to ask to move, but my leg's getting numb from holding still.
5. Rescue me from not having any fresh bread left. Bake some bread, why don't you?!?
6. Rescue me from not knowing where my eyelash curler went.
7. Rescue me from not owning the 4th season of the revamped Battlestar Galactica on DVD. I have the 3rd season, and the bonus podcasts were definitely worth the price, but now I want to know what everybody says about making the 4th season.

... Does anybody else think that the weird "cynical pop star that everybody pretends is Jesus even though he's incredibly rude and has vapid--though friendly--sex with anything" is soooooo 1970s THAT YOU COULD JUST DIE?!?!?! Can I get a "John Lennon was actually a sassy, rude bastard" from the cheap seats? Hell yeah.

Plus, a dog is not an appropriate surprise gift. Neither is the presidency. Neither is [awesome spoiler deleted, motherfucker!].

But I LOVE THAT PLOT LINE THE BEST!!!!!!!

Who inherits the hung over aftermath of the 1970s? Disenfranchised weirdos with a certain Henry Rollinsesque, Jello Biafraity counterculture pragmatism, forced to adopt a leadership role by nasty default, as punishment for lacking the delusional optimism of the royal family, and lacking enough sociopathy to just let us die.

What do we want?!? Punk rock! When do we want it?!? Constantly!!! When do we actually want it?!? After the wave of 1960s optimism breaks and starts to roll back, leaving us with a huge mess to clean up!!!

... I've seriously digressed, haven't I?

My spaceship dreams keep getting invaded with images of a young Patti Smith, narrated by a young Hunter S. Thompson. Nothing can be done to prevent this, really.

Wow.
Wow.
Wowie-wow-wow. (Please hear Christopher Walken's voice when you read that one.)

8. Rescue me from being too afraid of pain to let my sister practice tattooing on me.
9. Rescue me from having a bad refrigerator.
10. Rescue me from my medical debt.
11. Rescue me from having to pay for my own car repair.
12. Rescue me from having ADHD when it's not fun.
13. Rescue me from having to remember to stay hydrated. (I just drank you, water!!! What do you mean I have to do that again?!? Huuuuuh.)
14. Rescue me from running out of hot water sometimes.
15. Rescue me from ever encountering weather that I dislike.

Okay, got it?

So,I'm going to go back to running dudes over with my tank, while switching my hair color every few minutes, as I endure life as an apparently-not-damsel-enough-to-inspire-a-heroic-protagonist-to-go-on-an-epic-quest-to-find-my-missing-library-book-that's-probably-not-in-my-backpack person.

Yep.

Video games.

I love you, video games.

I love you, Borderlands 1 for the Xbox 360.

Love,
Your Friend,
Sincerely,
Forever Your Darling,

Me.

Another "Still Life With Woodpecker" Interlude

Tom Robbins, like Warren Ellis, is the sort of author to brag about the intersection of wonderful drugs and wonderful writing equipment.

And it's true that even those born outside of synesthesia's natural borders will be struck in the senses by a temporary case of it when dabbling in certain hallucinogens.

So, I cannot honestly say whether this excerpt is a measurement of a natural synesthete showing what's what, or a psychedelic author enjoying some medical side-effects.

But either way, a girl can dream.

(For me, Sunday is red-purple, same as a lot of things. And I say this organically, being a proper mutant from birth, and as sober as anything at the moment.)

Here is the book excerpt that I had wanted to share, lifted from its 22nd chapter:

"Sunday is Sunday, even in Hawaii. No volume of orchid nectar, no wardrobe of o-o plumage could change the color of Sunday from that of... buttermilk, toothpaste, Camembert cheese."

Nice, eh?

Excessive Analysis, and the Devolution of a Synesthete Fangirl's Head, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love that Weird Attorney from the Last Bits of Battlestar Galactica

How's THAT for a title, eh?

"Excessive Analysis, and the Devolution of a Synesthete Fangirl's Head, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love that Weird Attorney from the Last Bits of Battlestar Galactica"

Devolution, because you know I love DEVO. A quick nod to synesthesia, because you just know that sooner or later I'm going to start talking about what words taste like, or some tangent like that, so I might as well open with it.

Everybody who knows me well knows that this summer, I ran out of Mass Effect to play AND ran out of new Doctor Who to watch. It was a dark time. In desperation, as I really quite needed get that whole "spaceship fix" taken care of, I decided to try to use the reimagined Battlestar Galactica as a form of... Let's say "methadone."

It took some getting into, because stories about career military persons and well-dressed dream girls aren't as immediately relatable or intuitive as the predominantly 1970s psychedelic novels that I cut my teeth on.

Give me the Marines or the Navy and I'll worry about my mother's childhood. (Lots of military on that side of the family. Complicated, dark, emotionally unsettling stuff.)

But give me Sissy Hankshaw and I'll think of Dr. Jacoby, and then I'll think of Spider Jerusalem's peculiar glasses, and then I'll think of Raoul Duke's bitterest regrets, and then I'll relax and think of myself.

In case you're young, I'll give some clarification. Sissy Hankshaw was the protagonist from Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, which you MAY want to skip if you majored in feminist literary criticism. But if you're willing to forgive some imperfections, the novel is as great and lovely a fever dream as has ever been concocted about hitchhikers, cowgirls, hallucinogens, and the politics of pubic hair.

Dr. Jacoby was the therapist from Twin Peaks, who as far as I can tell, was a straight-up analog of the author-analog-therapist whom Sissy Hankshaw converted to Bohemianism IN that dear Cowgirls book. (Quite a dogpile of Pacific Northwest iconography, if I'm to be believed. Though both are allegedly drawn originally, not purely from the ghosts of our local pine trees and madness, but from Californian Terence McKenna. And that's okay.) Dr. Jacoby also wore sunglasses converted into roughly the old 3D-theater-style, in one-red-and-one-green fashion. Just like Spider Jerusalem of Transmetropolitan wore, more or less.

Spider Jerusalem is why girls like me have a crush on Warren Ellis. Any man that can produce so many poetic words, with such foul bounce, deserves to have copies of his whole back catalog ground into a fine dust, so that it can be snorfed up we fans' noses, and be allowed to grow out of our scalps, changing the color of our hair. (See, I told you I've stuffed my head a bit too much with Tom Robbins! What kind of a sentence is that, anyway!?! "Snorfed" is no word to use. Should I have said "wee fans," and changed the tone? What would happen if I had?)

Spider Jerusalem is also the sort of Hunter S. Thompson analog that people in my position need. A man who'd never dissolved into the 1980s like Alka Seltzer in water. A man who never shot cats for sport. (Even if he fictionally ate a fiction puppy in fiction, for fiction, by fiction.) A man who used gonzo-like journalism to cover more than just hangover emotions, who toppled despots and changed cities even more dramatically than a doomed run for sherif ever could.

And Raoul Duke, of course, is the sunshine and disappointment and terror and humanity right in the middle of it. The classic Gonzo Figure Himself. The protagonist in the painstakingly fictionalized, nearly autobiographical romp through mental illness known as the Rolling Stone article series-turned-novel Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. The reason why aviator glasses, great red sharks, and foul, filthy, political poetry can make panic attacks, dissociative symptoms, and psychotic disorders alike look like the natural, fashionable evolution of themes first breached by Bogart and the Rat Pack. I can't have a belief system that I truly believe in, but this is as close as I get.

... Actually? You know what? Fuck it. I'll finish this thought later. This is plenty of writing for one blog post.

But to recap:

By golly, I was able to really pacify myself, aesthetically speaking, on the reimagined Battlestar Galactica, even though military themes do always remind me of (barely hinted at here) terrrrrrrrreribbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbble family secrets. Seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeecrets.

And EVEN THOUGH my soul is ACTUALLY stuffed to the bursting point with Tom Robbins and David Lynch and the best, tastiest bits of the poetry and politics of the gonzo movement. (I may not shuffle easily into the rank and file--my dear dad was a larger-than-life young Nicholson and Hopper before my time, who's since mellowed into a proper meta-Murray--but I have the good sense of home and country needed to believe in Bob Dylan, even though Dylan was always a notorious liar.)

And NOT JUST BECAUSE I'm a dedicated fan of the Mass Effect games...

Although, to get tangential, Tricia Helfer thoroughly won me over in both properties, and now I hope that she'll get some juicy, Oscar-courting Tarantino roles someday. I mean, TELL me you wouldn't want to see her and Zoë Bell and Rosario Dawson in another itch-scratching homage to the dusty boxes in the corner of fabled video stores--the video stores of my early adulthood, of which only a few of these unicorn-precious anachronisms remain--and I will slap you in the teeth.

And... Yeah. Okay. At least I called "tangential" early, on that one.

Third attempt at a recap:

Spaceships are good.
Military themes unsettle me.
Gonzo and the freak power movement comforts me.

We good? Okay, good.

Sooner or later I'll try again and actually write about whatever point I'd planned to make.