The Hate Machine

The Reason Rally was held last weekend, and being a fanboy of argumentative science nerds I haven't had much to be angry about, the reason being I've been following that. It also dawned on me that I've been an openly godless savage for about six glorious months of gay orgies and goat sacrifices.

But along with that celebration of facts, of course, come the other facts. The other facts being the hostile, knee-jerk defense mechanism used by the stewards of ignorance and denialism in an attempt to force a false dichotomy between things that are real and things that are not real. These other facts are the easily made-up kind that come so easily to those that spend their entire lives being indoctrinated with a belief system based entirely on easily made-up information.

1. Those Potty-Mouthed Potty-Mouths!

Tim Minchin, for anyone that isn't aware, has fucking cheat codes on. Nobody can possibly be that good at that many different things. One of the things he's most goodest at is writing songs like this:

That song, for some reason, offended a fair amount of idiots. If you watched the video you may have noticed that there are a gangsta-rap amount of curse words in the song, which some people find offensive based solely on the fact that they happen to be human shaped shit-brained cunt-bag fuck-tunnel ass-chasms that totally missed the motherfucking point of the goddamn song.

It's not really surprising that the Christian Right claimed the moral high ground on this one, since that is one of their default settings in any situation, along with "I'm humble because the creator of the entire fucking everything listens to me and alters reality on my behalf," "I'm right because I'm right, therefore anyone that disagrees with me is wrong because if they were right then that would mean that I'm wrong, which is clearly impossible since I'm right," and "You're a god-hating, rebellious, close-minded ingrate if you don't believe my particular narrow interpretation of my particular book of clearly impossible fairy tales."

Of course, by claiming the moral high ground by way of disliking fucking profanity, those fucking Christians only proved the fucking point Minchin made 10 seconds into the goddamn video. If you claim to be offended by strong language being used in a song about a religious institution that places a higher priority on covering up endemic child rape and protecting their reputation as God's earthly mouthpiece than on protecting children from fucking being raped by the priests that are supposed to be protecting them, then you are an amoral piece of shit with fucked up ideas of right and wrong. Which ironically voids the claim to the moral high ground. Genius, right? Told you he had cheat codes on.

What surprised me were that other secularists were offended as well. I mean of all the possible demographics to not take offense at magic words I would have placed the freethinker/atheist/rationalist/humanist crowd way down at the bottom, just above 15-year-old pot smokers and contract killers.

Their argument? There are children in that crowd! 

You know what? Three things. One, if your child is too young to understand that song then it is not a big deal. My friend got a call from his 7-year-old's teachers the other day for saying 'rape.' Kids hear and mimic offensive shit all the time. If you live in some magic bubble where bad words never happen within earshot of your hopelessly sheltered bubble child then you weren't at the rally. Kids are like parrots. They mimic things that adults say. Especially if the adults are saying adult things, because kids want to feel mature. It's why they play soldier and house and ruthless investment banker. Just because a first grader says fuck or shit or cock doesn't mean they understand the concept of either the word, it's social connotations, or it's arbitrary classification as a 'bad' word. I mean I think 'fluid' is a disgusting sounding word, but I don't give a shit if you write a song called "Pounding This Pinko Lefty's Face into Fluid" and a kid hears it.

Second, if your child is old enough to understand the song, then I fucking guarantee you they hear just as bad on a daily basis. At least in this instance there's a point to the profanity. No matter how offensive someone finds the F word, they should be way more offended by authority figures protecting child rapists.

Third, if your child heard that song, then congratulations! Your child was not being raped by a priest while you were at that rally! Good job! You just won my Not A Shitty Parent Award for 2012!

2. That Atheist Religion!

If anyone is interested in some very obvious, yet very profound ways that atheism isn't religion, check out Nate Phelps, son of terrifying, immortal lunatic Fred Phelps:

Interestingly enough, Fred Phelps and the Westboro Baptist Church are one of the few Christian cults that not only routinely convince people like me of the absence of a loving an magnanimous personal God, but also get the Bible, as written, mostly right.

One not-very-protip for the religious: one way to minimalize atheism is to equate it to religion. Not that this kind of claim isn't retarded, but because it tends to infuriate atheists, which then opens the door to the "All atheists are angry and miserable" straw-man that can then be safely used to demonize the non-religious to other cult members that never seem to notice the cognitive dissonance required to assign personality traits to people like Nate Phelps that, in reality, seem abundant only in other members of his very religious family.

This type of self-projecting argument is typical of the religious because they tend to be so absolutely inundated with their superstitious beliefs, so enmeshed with their own in-group, and so unquestioningly arrogant and self-righteous about their unfounded and unnecessary dependence on ritual and pareidolia that they can't even begin to imagine that anyone, anywhere could ever possibly be different than them to any significant degree. It's the mentality that gives us arguments like "You believe in God, but are just angry at Him," "You have religious faith in science/man/evolutionism/yourself/the Big Bang/whatever," and "you never really believed/I used to be an atheist too."

Atheism is not a religion for the same reason that 'nothing' isn't a food group.It's the same reason 'healthy' isn't a disease, 'homeless' isn't an address, and 'clear' isn't a color. It's an absence of belief in god/s/ess/esses. Without God you don't have religion, with the possible arguable exceptions of Buddhism and Druidism. The fact that there is enough demand in this country to even have a rally for atheists is because of religion. Many, if not most, atheists in this country feel cut off and alone, like tiny islands of rational thought in vast oceans of superstition. And I, for one, hate that I only know like two people I can talk openly to about this without worrying that it will turn into an argument. So once, just once, people like me decided to do the impossible and have a huge meet up at our nation's capitol to celebrate this one thing that constantly divides, isolates, and alienates us from the people around them. And in that, the Reason Rally has more in common with Comi-Con or E3 than with tent revivals.

3. Atheists Are Just Lost Little Lambs

One of the problems with religious thinking is that it only allows for absolutes. There is not much room for moral grey areas in divine writ. Thou Shalt Not Kill is pretty clear cut. And while I'm not going to get into the history of that commandment, and it's original intent and meaning, here in 'Merica "Thou Shalt Not Kill" is held up as one of the 'proofs' for the wisdom of God.

Never mind that the Ten Commandments decorate the courthouse lawns all over the American South where men are routinely sentenced to state sanctioned murder, sometimes on circumstantial evidence.

No, my point here is that even when someone is relatively honest about religion's place in the world it still fails to answer anything. Leaving aside the lunatics promoting 'Intelligent Design' and touting 'proof' of a Biblical flood, there are still plenty of religious people that argue that religion, specifically their religion, is a superior prescription for a better moral life.

The rotten branch of religion vs. the wood-chipper of logic.

But that doesn't work either, not only because the Bible is so contradictory that it is literally impossible to apply to life on anything approaching a consistent basis, but because the few things that it's clear on are either considered to be unequivocally wrong in a civilized society (such as child murder, rape, and slavery,) patently obvious without magical help (like love thy neighbor, help the less fortunate, forgive people that cross you,) or extremist stances (like the voter-grab debates on contraception, abortion and gay marriage). 

Biblical morality is, and always will be, static. Its outdatedness is one of its main attractions, for some reason, as people are inclined to believe either really really new or really really old information. Any religion, by virtue of its claim of being the unalterable word of God, cannot change or evolve or adapt to an increasingly complex and diverse society. 

America, with few exceptions, is entirely  moral grey area. America is a fucking argument. Helping the poor is good. But it promotes laziness and entitlement. Universal health care is good. But it will bankrupt us. Small government is good. But it promotes inequality. Murder is unacceptable. Unless you're protecting your family. Theft is wrong. Unless they violated a contract. Child abuse is wrong. Unless it's called for in your religion.You may have noticed that only one of those 12 stances can't be defended with facts.

And the religious have the audacity to claim that secularists have no morals. We have the best morals, because they're ours. They aren't contingent on a supernatural father figure, emotional serfdom, eternal reward or punishment, or the dictates of self-proclaimed authority figures. 

I believe in some of the teachings of the Bible, like the love thy neighbor thing, but I disagree with the majority of it. And the best thing, the best thing, is that I no longer have to feel guilty about it, or play fucking mental gymnastics to convince myself that it means something other than what it says. I can, in good conscience, say that God sending bears to kill children for making fun of a bald man is barbaric, and no longer have to wonder what's wrong with me.

And honestly, that's how I came to be an atheist. I had looked at and cherry picked so many different religious beliefs and philosophy texts that one day I realized that my personal religious new-agey Frankenstein had turned into this giant conch shell with no real, definable conch. And then, after further mixing the metaphor, I wondered if the structure would remain standing if I had the sheer, bloody-minded willfulness to kick out the support beam that I was told held the entire structure together. And, lo and behold, it stood. All I had removed from the equation was, literally, nothing. 

And in so doing I added more peace of mind, happiness, self-esteem, and true open-mindedness. Sure, I have fewer friends now, and frequently exhaust myself going through the same eight or nine arguments over and over, but it's a small price to pay to truly own myself. 

Morals? I have to be at least as moral as my religious counterpart. Not only because I genuinely enjoy being a 'good' person, but because I'm no longer representing myself. I'm representing humanity, unadorned and unaffected. I can't blame my behavior on mystical concepts like sin or devils. I'm not accountable to a sky Santa. I'm accountable to myself and the people and the world around me. I can't absolve myself of personal responsibility through ritual, nor can I justify my actions by claiming it's what God wanted.

And that is lost. And you know what? Lost is exactly where I should be. Lost in the endless sky. Lost in the beauty of a seed turning into a plant. Lost, awestruck, marveling at all these humans, all these clever apes, with their hammers and their hugs, being fucking amazing without magic. Lost in the dizzying prospect that I have so much left to learn. It's a goddamned big world, and for the first time I'm truly open to just how big, and it's exhilarating. I'm lost in the cold and the wild and the wind. And it is SO much better than the certainty of a dark, unchanging cell.

So that's my take on why I do it. Why I don't just shut up, fall in line, make nice, and just pretend for the sake of getting along. Because people like me shouldn't feel like we have to. And also, I'm doing it for the guy still in the herd, because if there hadn't been people that very obviously weren't, then I never would have been able to say "Hey! He doesn't believe, AND is a pretty nice person, despite all the cuss words!" 

That, and there would be, ahem, hell to pay if one of my more religious friends discover my secret plot to turn public schools into gay, socialist orgy centers with a combination abortion clinic/angry feminist indoctrination center in the basement. Because while that is something I'm plotting to do, it's totally unrelated to my stance as an atheist.

A Conspiracy of Conspiracies

It's so much easier to make up insane, sensationalist stories based on vague correlation and misunderstanding really fucking simple words and concepts that jounalism is expected to go extinct by 2016. According to recent studies, between most and all television news stations, politicians, and religious figures engage in this practice on a daily basis.

Having said that, here are five insane, made up, and provably stupid secrets about President Barack Satan Obama that the liberal media mysteriously isn't reporting.

1. Yeah, His Middle Name is Totally Satan

It turns out that the laughable 'Birther' conspiracy was merely a diversion to distract easily misled and sorta racist idiots from the real real truth: Obama was born in H-E-L-L!!! I know, right?

According to ancient writings that modern science claims to be unable to translate, the 44th President of the United States of America will be the Devil! And to any doubters that may wonder how people from 7,000 years ago knew enough about Christian Mythology from 1,500 years ago to apply it to the world leaders of today, I tell you this: You can't prove it's not true!

Lo, the BEAST shall be kinda good at basketball. And have large ears. Verily.

As if that weren't enough: If you rearrange the letters 'Barack Obama' you get 'Abbmrkc Oaaa,' which looks like something a demon would type!

2. He Feeds on Oil!

While the liberal media conspiracy liberal socialist liberal evil liberal agenda may try to feed you 'facts' about oil and gas production being on the increase and America becoming a net exporter of fossil fuels for the first time in 60 years, the TRUTH is that gas prices are going up. This is clearly Obama's fault for either meddling too much or meddling not enough in oil speculation and Wall Street, and also for stopping the hardworking REAL Americans working hard at TransCanada from building an exploding pipeline full of toxic chemicals across hundreds of miles of farmland until they can prove the pipe won't explode.

Like this. But with cows and cotton and...uh... wheat and shit.

And while all of that may be debatable, the REAL real truth is much, much more shocking: Obama feeds on crude oil. Not in a poetic, Road Warrior sense like he's stockpiling it for the coming apocalypse, he drinks oil. How else could you possibly explain the price of unleaded going up like 50 cents? Is Obama secretly a giant fire monster from beyond the stars? I don't know. I'm just asking. But he totally is.

3. Obama Has NUCLEAR POWERS!

On March 11, 2011, exactly 25 years and one month and 15 days exactly after the Chernobyl disaster the Fukushima Nuclear Reactor had a meltdown following a giant-ass earthquake and tsunami. Or did it?

Let's check some facts. While many, many fat, white, rich barking heads have been trying to invent the truth of Obama's religious affiliation, the wool was pulled over the eyes of America. He is not, as the average informed conservative believes, a Muslim Atheist. No, oddly enough his affiliation with Chicago's Trinity United Church of Christ is the real deal. But dig a little deeper.

Look at the word Trinity. You know what else was named Trinity? That's right. The code name for the first detonation of a nuclear device at the White Sands Proving Ground in New Mexico!

"Gasp!" I hear you say? That's nothing. Look closer: White Sands? Is anyone shocked by this word choice after white people made such a huge deal about having a President that isn't totally white? And NEW Mexico? Why, that's only one short word away from regular Mexico! And America hates Mexico! Finally, you know what comes from Japan? Godzilla movies! We were warned!

All of these "coincidences" can mean only one thing: Obama is a nuclear weapon capable of vaporizing the planet if his socialist plot to give people healthcare and not let poor people starve to death is thwarted! Behold, the picture They don't want you to see!

1. Bowing his head in 'prayer.' 2. Fucking Kaboom!

4. Obama is Really Bin Laden!

Obama's favorite movie is Casablanca. Casablanca is in Morocco, which is in North Africa. Osama bin Laden was 'killed' in Pakistan, which has a similar latitude as Morocco and is therefore the same place since there isn't a big ocean separating them.

Stay with me, this Rabbit Hole goes all the way down. Casablanca was set during World War II, which means Nazi's. The film, starring also-liberal Democrat Humphrey Bogart, followed a narrative of a man choosing between love and honor. You know what another tough choice is? Freedom and Security.

That's right. Osama bin Laden and Barack Obama are one and the same! Ask yourself: Have you ever seen them in the same room at the same time? And I'm not talking about any easily manipulated videos or photos that may exist, I mean in the same room as you with your own two eyes? A-ha! Just like Superman and Clark Kent only really evil! So more more like The Green Goblin and Norman Osborn, then.

Realizing his original identity as the most hated and feared man in the world by reactionary, semi-literate white Americans had a short shelf life, he simply allowed his original identity to be 'assassinated' and stepped full time into the role of the second most hated and feared man in the world by reactionary, semi-literate white Americans!

Finally, the most damning piece of the puzzle: Osama and Obama sound similar! The bastard thought we wouldn't notice his arrogant intellectual snobbery! Bonus also: you know what else has letters in common with Obama? OMAHA! The song released by the band Counting Crows, formed in, get this, Berkley! The third most liberal city in America! The connections just keep coming!

We're on to you, Omaha Satan Barackistan!

5. Obama Has Mind Control Powers!

Riddle me this: with Americans currently whipped into a frenzy of religious, political, and xenophobic terror by the hard-working news media, how is it that the current GOP primary could only muster the most divisive, unlikable, corrupt, hypocritical, and morally bankrupt piles of ambulatory vomit in the history of voting to challenge Obama? The only way that equation makes sense is if you include the well-documented fact of brain wizardry!

Obama is not merely an excellent public speaker with a well developed sense of humor and the unique ability to be smarter than fuck but not come across as condescending: Obama can control the minds of the majority of the opposition. Why else would full-grown humans competing for approval commit public suicide by saying the worst possible thing at the worst possible time?

Look at the list:

• Gingrich discussing the sanctity of marriage, having himself abandoned his dying wife for his mistress, who he also left when she wasn't okay with him cheating on her,  in the past.
• Romney's complete inability to say one thing that doesn't sound like a bad comedian's impression of a rich snob?
• Ron Paul's persistent use of big words and facts in the face of the most virulently religious science deniers on the planet?
• Santorum's constant, unending stream of superstitious, alienating, theocratic extremism?

That's right. These candidates were chosen by Obama himself! He knew the only possible way he could win reelection would involve having the most un-vote-forable opponent in the modern age. And the only way this could be accomplished was by his innate psychic abilities amplified by the power of the internet! He has masterminded everything!

Obama 2012: Because face it, he's less bad than the alternative.

Boys in the Hoodies

Recently, Geraldo Rivera inadvertently drew attention to a personal passion of mine. While desperately trying to defend a crazy white person with a gun who had recently killed a skinny, unarmed teenager for the crime of having a different skin color, he broached the subject of hoodies.

Now, I'm not a lawyer or a police officer or even what one would call well-informed, so I really can't comment on the legality of letting a murderer walk free from a blatant hate crime based on the murder's good word and the witnesses' story that was told to them by the police, but I can comment on the dangers of hooded sweatshirts. Here are ten facts they don't want you to know:

10. Hoodies are Fucking Parasites

I bet you didn't know that did you? That's because any real scientist that tries to report the facts is hushed up. But hoodies are indeed a parasitical life-form that may possibly be alien in origin. I say 'possibly,' but they are fucking aliens, and I can prove it.

Being infected by a hoodie causes the following symptoms:

• Furtiveness.
• Increased slang usage designed to infuriate other English speakers.
• White people saying the N-word in a non-derogatory, but still fucking unacceptable way.
• Constant references to their "hood" (coincidence?)
• Fucking tentacle monsters.

 9. Seriously: Fucking Aliens

A hoodie fully integrated with its host. The man that took this picture VANISHED.

8. They Hide in Plain Sight

Hoodies are perfectly camouflaged. They have been engineered to be unnoticeable. They also feed on cotton in the absence of a human host. That is where your socks go.

Do yourself a favor: The next time you check do your laundry, or see a pile of clothes, check it for hoodies. If you find one, ask yourself, "do I know where this came from?" If the answer is yes you are already infected!

Once you're aware of these facts, hoodies can be easily spotted for the monsters they are. It takes a keen eye and a willingness to disregard everything you think you know about reality, but the awareness you'll gain will be so worth it.

I caught this one trying to build a hoodie-web. LIKE A SPIDER!

7. Hoodies Are Immortal

Unlike the socks they eat, hoodies will always, always return to their chosen host. If you've ever noticed a hoodie missing, then it has probably only left temporarily to breed, shed it's coat, and report to the hoodie hive-mind. It will return in a period of one week to nine months, although it may look like a different hoodie.

While a hoodie's physical body can be destroyed by fire, this is only a small portion of the true hoodie projected into our reality. The true hoodie is immortal, existing on a plane of absolute madness beyond time or space. Attempting to fight it by killing its cotton shell is no different than trying to win a bar fight by cutting your opponent's fingernails.

6. There Is Only One Way To Stop Them

Just fucking with you. You're doomed if you get infected.

4. They Are Fucking PSYCHIC

While mainstream science is currently hard at work burying the evidence for telekinetic Russian spies, disappearing mind-readers, and covering up the evidence for astral projection, hoodies have so far eluded their net.

Hoodies can, and do, create false memories in their hosts brains in the, uh, hypotenuse gland[1]. As soon as a hoodie chooses a victim, it will instantly create a backstory to implant in its host's mind. You may remember buying it at Wal-Mart or Target or whatever, but in reality WAL-MART DOESN'T SELL HOODIES!

The notion that hoodies can be purchased cheaply at any department store is the Hoodie Brain God's greatest achievement. It has invaded the collective psyche of man so completely that everyone, even Wal-Mart employees, are convinced that this is where they come from.

5. What To Do If Infected

First of all, break off all contact with your friends and loved ones while there is still time. After attaching to its host, the hoodie will be in a weakened state for a period of two days to 16 years. After this gestation period it will begin to lay eggs, cunningly disguised as t-shirts that no one remembers buying but can't seem to justify throwing away.

Additionally, if you come across other infecteds, do not draw attention to the hoodies. The hoodies will be in communication with each other as soon as line-of-site is established, and if they realize that their host is attempting to betray them, then they will rip control of both hosts minds away from them and destroy the hosts in a bout of 'gang violence.'

Finally, while fleeing from the Holistic Anti-Hoodie Armada, do not, I repeat, DO NOT attempt to hide in a gated community. While the residents of such places tend to be more closed-minded and unreasonable when it comes to the facts of sentient hoodies, they are also well-armed, psychotic, drunk on fear from watching Fox News too often, and associate hoodies with Islamic terrorists, welfare fraud, and sex slavery, somehow.  Talk about crazies, right?

Watching me watching it. You Bastard.

4. What To Do If A Loved One Is Infected

Try to separate the hoodie from the host without alerting the host. "Accidentally" put it in the dumpster or donate it to charity. While this is, of course, only a temporary solution, it will slow the grafting process and possibly fend off tentacle monster-hood long enough for the Holistic Armada to manufacture a vaccine.

Additionally, do not confront the infected about their increased furtiveness or use of slang. This will cause the hoodie to react defensively, which will only lead to more furtiveness, slang, and even slouching.

If the hoodie is accompanied by sunglasses, a bandana, facial hair, or a terrible haircut, then flee. The infection is too far gone to be worth the risk.

3. How To Prevent Exposure

While there is no foolproof method for preventing hoodie infection, there are certain behaviors that hoodies find undesirable in hosts.

• Wear a scarf. While you may look like a pretentious tool, the scarf will prevent hoodies from accessing your throat, which they don't seem to like.
• Develop a Trans-Atlantic accent. Can you imagine Patrick Stewart or Anthony Hopkins wearing a hoodie? Neither can hoodies!
• Wear large hats. Cowboy hats, fedoras, scally caps, and bowlers will prevent the hoodie from directly accessing your brain. I don't know if this works, but it totally makes sense.
• Go nude whenever possible. Hoodies rely on their ability to blend in with other clothing. Oddly enough they seem to realize that a person wearing just a hoodie is more odder than someone wearing nothing at all.

3. How To Spread Awareness

First of all, arm yourself with the facts. Some people, delusional, close-minded, and irrational people, will laugh at you. Leave them to their fate. Focus on those willing to listen.

Contact your nearest Holistic Anti-Hoodie Brigade. While locating our cells may not be easy, our members can usually be easily identified.

A face you can trust.

Finally, refer people to this webpage for further information. Totally just for that and not because I just set up advertising. Also visit the ads. For information.

2. Protecting Tomorrow

Someday we as a species may be free of the Hoodie menace. But that day will not be today. Until then we must mobilize! We must fight!

Burn every hoodie you can! Force your infected friends to separate from their comfortable, affordable leech-masters! We may not be able to kill them, but we can certainly make ourselves more trouble than we're worth!

Raise awareness! Print flyers, organize meetings, confront anyone that will listen and inform them of our peril! Go door-to-door, preach it at the park, Scream it in the clothing department of your local retail store! We Can Win!

Take the planet back!

1. Moving Forward

For anyone unfamiliar with the Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman case, please look into it. Show Seminole County and bigoted, fuckhole cops everywhere that in America we do not give racist, chickenshit child murderers a pass for claiming self defense against an unarmed teenager. Crazed, vigilante justice may work in movies, but in real life children get killed. Trayvon Martin was a kid. And he was killed for being black in a white neighborhood. Not because he was wearing a motherfucking hoodie.

Chronicles of Riddickulous (pt. 2)

 I realized that after some of my more recent posts that I may have come across as an Islamophobe or Muslim hater. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I think Islam is a retarded, dangerous, and socially destructive institution that promotes ignorance, blind faith, xenophobia, and unquestioning obedience to self-asserted authority: I think all religions are retarded, dangerous, and socially destructive institutions that promote ignorance, xenophobia, blind faith, and unquestioning obedience to self-asserted authority.

And to be fair, the Imam in this film is the only character that's acted like a halfway decent human being thus far, apart from giving away the survivors' location to the escaped homicidal madman by screaming praise at an invisible man that lives in the sky.

We left off with giant space bats attacking our team of survivors who have locked themselves in part of the crashed ship while pitch blackness happens outside. Toolbox dies because she mistook "Stay down!" for "Run around drawing attention to yourself!"

One member makes the seemingly impossible deduction that the giant space bats may just be what killed fucking everything. Even though 'everything' seems to be 'giant space elephants that survive by eating dirt, since there are the remains of exactly one form of native, not-cave-dwelling life in this particular ecosystem. They then hush each other to listen to the bats make woop woop noises. Imam Al-Genius realizes that this is how they 'see'. Just like earth bats, only embarrassingly over-simplified!

The Archeologist then has another anxiety attack while random Muslims break into and lock themselves inside of a smaller room of the ship that promises to be harder to both defend and escape from. The aliens immediately begin punching holes in the walls with their hole punch appendages while one of the survivors cuts their way deeper into the ship.

Diesel wanders off and finds an alien (which looks like a cross between a bat, a hammerhead shark, and an alien from Alien, just to establish the level of originality on display,) and is soon joined by idiot Muslim child #8. They seem to be safe as long as they remain perfectly still, so the child panics, runs off and is inhalfitated after making it almost ten feet. Diesel uses this opportunity to flee back to the others who blind him and the pursuing alien with their flashlights. They manage somehow to bring one of them down by firing wildly in every direction.

Regrouping, they begin hatching a plot to find a way to drag the remaining batteries back to the ship with enough light to not be viciously and instantly destroyed by cartoon monsters.

John and Carolyn argue at length about whether to lock themselves in or make a run for it. Y'know, the exact same conundrum that was used in Night of the Living Dead and reused in every stoner circle since.

They decide to make a break for it, with Diesel and his magic implants scouting ahead. This works exactly zero times over the course of ten feet. After killing another sharkbat, they regroup and mill around. Fucking again.

While gathering more batteries, Diesel barks orders about formation. They FINALLY make a run for it.

This movie has an uncanny ability to be frenetically paced and tediously dull at the same time. That combination should only be possible on the inside of the kitchen in a fast food restaurant.

Outside, we find the survivors running (well, creeping unhurriedly,) forward, with aliens circling just outside of the light. The Archeologist, realizing he hasn't done something suicidally dumb to endanger the entire group in almost ten minutes, stops moving to better focus on the cutting torch running out of fuel and drop one of the flares he was carrying. Murder Child tosses aside his own light to run after it, which is exactly what I would do if I'd rather film child brutality than build tension.

Shit breaks out and the Archeologist unplugs the running lights. Obvious suicide.

After making torches from the remaining booze they debate their course. We discover that Murder Child is a girl. I'm not sure what bearing this has on the plot, as Diesel's explanation was delivered in his usual unintelligible whisper, but I think she's doing that thing where women bleed from their peehole, which is attracting the monsters via their naturally evolved ability to smell non-terrestrial blood and know what it is.

Carolyn decides to turn back, playing the Democrat by never thinking beyond the immediate future and constantly changing her mind. John now wants to push on, adopting the Republican stance of ad hominem attacks and stonewalling whatever the opposing team wants to do regardless of whether it's what he wanted to do as well.

John reveals that Carolyn attempted to kill the entire ship, which might have been an interesting bit of storytelling if it hadn't happened while they were stranded on a plain with monsters closing in. As is, no one worries overmuch about this, having far bigger problems at this point.

Pressing on, John and Diesel separate themselves from the rest of the group and plot the death of Murder Child to use as bait. Eyeballs eyeballs eyeballs. Diesel decides John would make better bait. John doesn't immediately understand because he's an idiot.

John SHOULD HAVE won this fight as well, given that he breaks Diesel's arm two seconds into the scuffle, but since one of Vin's superpowers  is magically having whatever exact superpower he needs at any given moment, he instantly recovers. John ends up losing the fight and being eaten by aliens.

The Imam suggests a nice prayer. Vin points out that that's a stupid idea. Nobody points out that sitting around in an open space while the light runs out is also a stupid idea.

Making it to the canyon, which is infested with aliens, they make a dash for it. Or they would if they didn't stop every three feet to look around. It's fucking aliens. Aliens are what there is to look at. Or would be if there was any light beyond the torch range. Mostly they're stopping to look at the film's run time and make sure it drags past the 90 minute mark.

One of the aliens, playing possum, trips up one of the interchangeable Muslims while Diesel, sick of these people's inability to run at any speed that isn't stop, forges ahead. He then turns back when Murder Child is attacked by an alien.

He then, somehow, despite repeatedly losing fights that involved sneak attacks against a dopesick heroin junkie, kills the alien single-handedly.

Most worstly delivered, wooden line thus far in the movie: "Did not know who he was fuckin' with."

FINALLY they start moving again. For about five feet. Again. This time the wounded Muslim has to be carried by the Imam while it starts raining. Just like on Earth! Water in the desert! Praise Allah!

The wounded Muslim is killed and the remaining survivors crawl into a cave. Diesel remains outside to drag the 300 pounds of batteries through the mud to the ship alone.

Back in the cave the last torch slowly burns out while aliens gather outside in the only scene in the entire movie that could possibly be considered tense. This doesn't last long as they happen to be in a cave with glow-in-the-dark slugs, which become new torch fuel.

Carolyn takes the first bug torch and follows Diesel while Murder Child and Imam gather enough slugs to make another torch. 

Carolyn makes it to the ship just before Diesel takes off and demands they return for the others. Diesel throws her some lights and tells her to make up her mind.

They scrabble around in the mud for a bit before returning for the others. The Imam gives the credit to his God, not Carolyn or Diesel, who were the ones who did all the work.

They dash back towards the ship armed only with the bug torches and not the lights from the ship that Diesel very pointedly threw to Carolyn, for some reason, and we're treated to the one line that is required by the US Army to be in every action movie from 1998 on: "Move move move!"

Diesel gets separated and decides to hide in the creatures blind spot directly in front of it, since knowing that the creatures had a blind spot and where it is wouldn't be an impossibly lucky guess. This works well until another creature happens along. He eventually makes it to the ship with the help of Carolyn's talents as a meat shield. Carolyn dies.

Onboard, Diesel kills the engine and lights and waits for the swarm of aliens to cover the ship for easy vaporization when they take off, reducing their numbers from infinity to infinity minus a couple.

Fin.

Oh, except for the fact that now they're now lost in space 22 weeks from where they were originally going with no food or water for the journey and no evident means of sending a distress signal or making contact with other humans. But still, small victories.

Final Thoughts

Overall, this movie could have been worse. The acting was mostly competent, except for Diesel's goddamn muttering, which resulted in having to turn the volume up whenever he spoke, then immediately back down when something boomed as soon as he finished.

The main problem I had was that, like Ghosts of Mars, this movie seemed to have no idea what kind of movie it was supposed to be. Of course, it was made in that terrible window of the late 90s/early 00s when any new intellectual property was required to span several genres to increase demographics.

As an action movie it didn't really work, since nothing really seemed to be a threat to Riddick, as he seemed to be treated like Superman when it came to superpowers, only without Superman's weakness to kryptonite and magic. In order for sci-fi/action movies to work the good guys really need to be hopelessly underpowered. Take Predator, where we had an invisible alien armed with 400 different space weapons and could jump over trees fighting a commando armed with mud, spears and crude booby traps. Or Aliens, where the good guys were placed in a claustrophobic maze surrounded by hordes of stronger, faster, and stealthier enemies that were well-camouflaged and had a knack for ambushing the humans in ways that humans aren't equipped to plan for. Not to mention that even killing one meant death by acid.

It failed as a horror movie because the entire premise was barely explored. Which is a shame, since darkness is such an easy fear to play to. I mean every store in America sells nightlights because of it. Strange noises in the night, wondering if that shadow just moved, creeping forward and freezing, knowing that something awful is right behind you. If the filmmakers had abandoned the action movie bullshit and focused more on atmosphere and tension than child murder and cheap boo moments it probably would have been a much better film.

The pacing was atrocious. I can't remember any movie that managed to be this busy and still have almost nothing happen. It's like someone started out with six plot points, filmed those, and then filmed another hour of footage around those. Then took that hour, cut it into 15 second long bites and rearranged them until it looked like a 100 minute long film trailer. For a perfect example: revealing halfway into the film that John wasn't a police officer, but a heroin addict bounty hunter. That entire subplot could have been cut and it would have had absolutely no effect on the rest of the film.

The message of the film seems to be 'shit happens.' Or more accurately, 'sometimes shit will go way out of its way to happen to you specifically.' Other than Carolyn's heavy-handed sacrifice to save Riddick to atone for attempting to kill the entire ship, and Riddick turning back to help Murder Child despite being a stereotypically ruthless and self-serving criminal, there was no real exploration of theme or morals or beliefs. Which seems weird, since they went out of their way to mix a group of very religious people in with a group of very secular people, and very religious children, at that. And if there's anything religion is good for, it's invoking emotions and teaching lessons via the interplay of light and darkness and childlike innocence. The Imam would occasionally make a wise-sounding comment, but those never had any bearing on anything else and wound up just making the Imam look dense.

Chronicles of Riddickulous (pt. 1)

Pitch Black was an action/horror/science-fiction train-wreck from 2000, brought to us by the writer responsible for such gems as Critters 2: The New Batch and Waterworld. Despite being a terrible encocklement of the worst parts of knuckle-dragger action porn and self-indulgent art film it managed to spawn two indirect sequels starring Vin Diesel's character Dick B. Riddick, the character every 13-year-old Shadowrun fan wishes they could be.

We open on a slow pan of a space ship that is totally not like star wars.

Vin Diesel's voiceover informs the audience that cryosleep causes most of the brain to shut down, except for the primitive side. I'm not sure what side of the brain he's talking about, but he says that's why he's still awake. I'm not sure if this means that Vin Diesel's skull only contains enough brain to keep his vital signs on, or if he's mistaking cryosleep with something that isn't "freezing someone for transport over long distances." Of course, it could be both.

Diesel is currently in transit with 40+ civilians, one of whom is "some Arab hoodoo holy man probably on his way to New Mecca." Which is a mean way to say “Islamic fellow.”

There is also a woman that Diesel can smell, despite them both being in cryosleep, in separate sealed chambers. She smells like sweat and leather and tool-belts. So, ladies, if you really want to know how to turn your man on then definitely spend more time hanging out at a tannery.

Diesel's real problem, he informs us, is a blue-eyed devil named Mr. John who is taking Diesel back to mumble mumble by way of mumble mumble but has made the mistake of mumble mumble mumble. Diesel is plotting a cunning escape. Don't know if you picked up on that.

Just then several somethings shoot through the ship, breach the hull, and trigger the alarm. A futury computer screen informs us that the hull breach has caused the gravity to fluctuate wildly and that Capt. Mitchell, Nav Officer Greg Owens and Docking Pilot Carolyn Fry are being un-cryoed. More somethings shoot through the ship, killing the Captain.

The Nav Officer and Docking Pilot fall out of their cryopods into a comical heap, where they both immediately panic.

After some sciency sounding nonsense the docking pilot informs us that they're losing air, in case anyone watching along at home doesn't know what 'hull breach' means, or what happens when you poke a hole in a space ship while it's in outer space.

The still-panicking Nav Officer manages to get the windows open just in time to crash into a planet. Which is convenient, considering space contains mostly nothing and lots and lots and lots of things that aren't planets with what I imagine is going to be a breathable atmosphere.

After some more technobabble, Carolyn decides the best course of action is to dump the passengers in order to make a safer landing, proving that in the future everyone is an asshole. This upsets Owens. As it should. 

While Owens does things to stuff to try to save everyone's ass Carolyn pulls the "Eject Humans" lever, which doesn't work. Something then breaks off of the side of the ship and smashes the front window, hopefully killing Carolyn in the rain of shattered space glass, metal, and space ship destroying heat and pressure.

It doesn't, and at this point the director decides to go 'art movie' for a minute with flash cuts to eyeballs and sepia filters and countdowns.

They crash like a motherfucker. But luckily they land on some relatively soft sand dunes and the atmosphere is indeed breathable. People begin milling around.

John, realizing his gun is missing, goes to look for it. He is then attacked by Diesel and saved by luck. He brags about this while walloping the helpless Diesel with a baton.

After a very busy sequence of finding survivors, they stumble across...someone...with a pole through his chest. He dies very noisily while dramatic music plays. I think it may be Owens. Still, it's WAAAAY too early to begin demanding sympathy for your throw-away characters, movie.

Outside, our Muslim friends wash themselves in the probably not dangerous dirt and pray to  probably New Mecca, but is really just 'up.'

The toolbox-smelling lady congratulates Carolyn for saving their lives. This is obviously being done to set up some "she tried to kill you" twist later. Everyone agrees about how wonderful Carolyn is, with an almost pathetic display of gratitude.

Back in the wreck, Vin Diesel is handcuffed to a thing with a blindfold and gag. We're informed that Diesel is only dangerous to humans.

Opening an Egyptian sarcophagus(?) the survivors find that the liquor survived intact. Since bottles are known to be far more sturdy than two foot thick steel crossbeams. Hooray.

The Imam, who won't be partaking of the miracle hooch, is convinced that there is water somewhere in the desert if they can find it. Which is usually true on Earth, provided you don't die before finding it. Other planets may be different, and I'm sure this won't occur to the filmmakers.

Vin Diesel, who seems to be able to see through his blindfold and hear solid, unmoving objects behind him, dislocates his shoulders and rotates his arms in an arc of about 290 degrees to get his bonds through the conveniently cut pillar he's been chained too, he then picks up the cutting torch he magically sensed earlier. Seems like that might tear a muscle.

Outside, John finds Diesel's handcuffs.

Inside, the survivors Rambo-up with the ships supply of guns and the sarcophagus-liquor-cabinet guy's collection of priceless antique spears and tomahawks. This is to defend themselves against skull fucking on the part of Diesel.

Back outside on Planet Sepia Filter, the archeologist draws attention to the fact that there are three suns, which as every one knows requires at least a masters degree to spot. There is a short theological debate on whether this is a blessing from Allah or not. After more pointless bantering the group sets off to either find Diesel or water or both or neither.

Shifting to the part of the planet covered in a blue lens we find Diesel has picked up the survivors trail and is stalking them by the cunning strategy of following the large group of people yelling “Shut up!” at a man chanting in Arabic at the top of his lungs and throwing rocks to drive out devils.

John almost shoots Carolyn for sneaking up on him. A random child almost murders the archeologist with an attack boomerang. The point of these scenes is to establish that in the future all humans will be murderous, unlikeable psychopaths, as evidenced here.

Carolyn, John, and the comically out of place Muslims (Which consist of the Imam and about a dozen children,) approach what look to be trees but turn out to be an elephant-alien graveyard. The Imam points out that this is yet another thing that happens on Earth, since if half a dozen impossible things have happened in the last fifteen minutes, anyone left watching won't mind a dozen more.

Owen investigates by pointing his gun at everything except the not-well-hidden Diesel, and then getting sloshed with Carolyn on space hooch. Diesel watches from five feet away. Not even around a corner or anything. He's just standing immediately to their left like a waiter waiting for them to decide what to order. Assuming they order SKULL FUCK!

Diesel then, I swear to God, cuts Carolyn's hair with a jagged rock while she confesses to John that she tried to kill everyone on the ship and Owens died stopping her. Somehow Carolyn doesn't notice the large convict standing directly behind her smelling her hair, adding situational invisibility to Diesel's list of ill-defined superpowers.

One of the children find a toy robot from the 1950s, implying that either the aliens had Buck Rogers as well, or they're not the first humans to pass this way. They soon come upon a presumably human settlement, conveniently in the one random direction they decided to explore. The Imam proudly proclaims that there was water here, utilizing the absolute upper limit of his reasoning skills: Someone built these buildings. Those someones must have needed water. Therefore there was water here. Praise Allah!

Carolyn then yells at a dark room for a while before opening a window, while outside the Imam magically finds water in the desert by pointing at a man-made well that God obviously put there just for him.

Carolyn, after finding a model of the solar system, stumbles upon an abandoned space ship. Allahu akbar!

Back at the wreck, Archeologist, Murder Child and the lady that smells like a toolbox panic, and amid many goofy camera tricks almost kill another survivor with a pickaxe. The survivor is then immediately shot repeatedly by a different survivor mistaking the first survivor for Diesel, who watches the proceedings from the top of the ship 50 feet away, again, somehow invisible.

Back at the encampment (I'm not skipping around or anything. Every scene in the movie is about 8 seconds long,) Carolyn begins explaining how they can get the space ship working and is silenced by John, who hears gunshots.

Switching back to the wreck again, we find Shooter returning to the hole he was digging before wandering off and shooting a survivor. The hole now has a small, triangular shaft running into it from the side. This is clearly the work of burrowing space gnomes, which are just like burrowing regular gnomes only evolved on another planet. The survivor wisely crawls halfway inside the shaft and is promptly eaten.

Toolbox, Archeologist and Murder Child hear his gunshots and immediately run, assuming the shooter has 'mistaken' one of them for Diesel again.

At this point the cuts are coming so fast that Toolbox, while running in a straight line for about 50 yards, looks like a skipping CD sounds. It's like an epileptic is trying to film what a seizure feels like.

Toolbox finds Shooter's bloodstain right next to Diesel, who runs away and directly into John. Diesel is beaten badly up, again, and during the one-sided ass-stomping his welding goggles come off and we learn that Diesel is extremely photosensitive. Which is nice that they explained, since welding goggles were even more impractical than ski goggles.

Inside the wreck Carolyn interrogates Diesel by informing him that she will be playing Good Cop in this feature. Diesel mutters something that sounds like an anatomy lesson and beckons Carolyn closer.

Carolyn then comes much closer, since even though she's the smartest person here she's still an idiot, and is almost attacked by Diesel and we finally see Diesel's eyes, which appear to have cataracts that were installed by a doctor in prison.

This. Just two goddamn hours of this.

Back at the hole Carolyn begins poking around in the shaft covered in the blood of the missing Shooter. She eventually comes to a larger chamber with many shafts running out that should be familiar to anyone that's ever played a video game with a dungeon. Aliens pop in and out of frame in the background and dash in front of the camera just like in every alien movie since Alien.  Carolyn finds Shooter's foot and loses her flashlight, rendering her blind in the moderately well lit cave. She climbs up a shaft in an attempt to escape but, lacking the kind of higher brain functions that link cause to effect, forgets to unclip her tether and can't make it out.

Back at the shaft entrance the men bravely do nothing. After an extended flurry of flashcuts where nothing happens the survivors hack a hole into the shaft Carolyn is stuck in and pull her out.

Carolyn is almost pulled back into the cave, having still not unclipped herself. One of the survivors does it for her.

Back in the wreck John takes a stab at interrogating Diesel. John offers to let Diesel go in exchange for his help, and then shoots Diesel's chains off.  Tough guy banter.

The survivors walk...somewhere. The only way to distinguish the sets is by the color of the lens filter which is now sepia in what I believe is supposed to be the blue or normal colored areas. More flash cuts of eyeballs.

Carolyn gets power back on the ship but informs the crew that they'll need to haul a lot of batteries to get enough power for take off. Outside, the anachronistic Muslim children begin emulating Diesel by wearing cargo cult welding glasses. Still, more practical and less crazy than religion, amirite? Diesel finds a pair of glasses trampled in the dirt in another blatant example of heavy-handed symbolism.

    PRODUCER: "You do realize that 15% of this movie is close ups of eyeballs right?"

    DIRECTOR: "Seeing things is important!"

    PRODUCER: "Yeeeeeeaaaah, I think we've established that. Repeatedly."

    DIRECTOR: "When you can't see things it is hard to see!"

    PRODUCER: "Look, the name of the film is Pitch Black and your main gimmick is having a character with robot eyes. I think we've established that darkness will play a role in this film."

    DIRECTOR: Eyeballs are what we see with!"

One of the Muslim youths sneaks into a locked building with a person-sized hole next to the door.

In another building the survivors establish that the encampment appears to have been used for geology. The survivors wonder where the original team is.

Something is not right in the locked building.

Whatever killed Shooter must have killed the geologists, points out Diesel. Everyone says fuck a lot, to remind the audience that this is all very grown up and mature. They notice that one of the children is missing.

In the locked building nameless child #3 manages to get the shutters open and is immediately swarmed by space bats. Which are like regular bats but in space. #3 panics and locks himself in a dark room where I'm sure he'll be safe.

The crew, shooting the lock and the area where #3 was standing moments ago enter the room and are swarmed by space bats that eventually leave via a pipe in the middle of the room. #3's body is found with an extreme lack of skin and eyeballs.

While the Muslims bury #3, John, Carolyn and Toolbox throw a flare down the pipe and discover a fuckton of human bones. They find the last core sample from two years ago.

Carolyn, back at the solar system model discovers that a total eclipse does occasionally happen, and given how the film has treated probability so far it will surprisingly be any minute.

In the ship, Carolyn questions the wisdom of John's plan to fuck Diesel over at the last minute. Considering Diesel has already displayed superhuman hearing, the ability to see through solid objects, turn invisible, and smell perspiration through two hermetic seals, the wisdom of even having this discussion seems questionable.

Outside of the ship, Diesel is shaving his head with engine grease and a jagged piece of metal. John exits the ship and almost throws up for some mumbled reason and admonished Diesel for having a knife.

Inside the ship, Diesel teleports in to inform Carolyn that yes, the guy with all of the cybernetic implants DID hear their conversation. He then makes some raperish comments before suggesting Carolyn ask why John is sick and leaving by opening the only door, confirming that he can, indeed,  also teleport.

Cut to John shooting drugs into, yes, his eyeball. Carolyn is upset by this, as he's using the ships medical supplies, which seem to be morphine and nothing else. Turns out John isn't a cop but a bounty hunter, although why this seems to make such a huge difference at this point is unclear. Muslim children then burst in yammering in Arabic.

Stepping outside the survivors realize that the total eclipse is conveniently about to happen.

The survivors drive back to the wreck, which is either 10 yards or 10 miles away, depending on what the plot calls for, and begin grabbing things while dark begins to fall.

After nightfall the jeep they were driving dies, being solar powered. Obviously an intergalactic civilization would never have thought to install batteries or some kind of back up system in case they ever had to drive somewhere at night.

Aliens begin spewing out of the caverns by the thousands. Toolbox gets eaten for not listening to directions. Everyone else lives. Praise Allah!

Diesel takes his goggles off and we get to see the world through his eyes,  which looks like too many Photoshop filters.

At this point, 15 minutes of movie and 45 minutes of padding into the film, the eclipse becomes complete, rendering the surface of the planet...PITCH BLACK. Except that we can still see things.

Next time: HORROR MIGHT HAPPEN!

How Not to be in a Band (Pt. 2)

Alright, so I went to the trouble of adding, uh, ads to this thing, so I guess that means I should try to finish something on occasion.

Here are some more things that don't work.

Practice

Don't ever practice your instrument. That's a sure way to fail.

Is what I'm not saying. Practice is critical. What I mean is don't let practice put you in a box. I've been in and known a few excellent bands that never played a single show because they didn't think they were ready. And I've known exactly a million guitarists that never even joined a band despite being better than other local guitarists by several orders of magnitude.

For whatever reason, some bands develop a "we're not ready yet" mentality. And the 'yet' in that statement will never, ever be now. "We need more practice." "We need more material." "We need to fine tune the original songs." "We need better gear." After a while they start becoming excuses. And shortly after that members of the band lose interest.

Every musician has had a show that sucked complete balls. It doesn't matter how much you prepare. Not all of those angles can be covered. A string will break in the middle of a solo. A drunk will  trip over a power cord. A bandmate will blank out on a part. And the absolute best way to learn these things is in front of an audience. Think back to the last time you did something right, like you were really proud of yourself for doing it. Now, think back to something you completely fucked up, something pants-wettingly embarrassing. Now, which one of those did you learn more from?

The "we're not ready" mentality usually arises from somehow having one or more Eddie van Bedrooms in the band. These are the guitar nerds. The fellows that practice eight hours a day, have no deep relationships, no social life outside of work and the three guys they've known since elementary school, but if given the chance could re-write the book on shred guitar. Except it's not that they aren't given the chance, they just aren't ever in a position for a chance to be given to them because they never take chances.

If this is you then please, please, please go down to the local guitar store with a 'musician's wanted' board and join a band. Any band. Because no matter how good you may be you will only sound as good as your worst bandmate. That lesson isn't in the "Giant Book of Ear Fucking Guitar Scales."

Don't be this guy.

The first time you picked up your instrument you sucked. You had to practice to get better. Here's the thing: once you get better, move on. I'm not saying don't spend an hour or two a day keeping your chops up and I'm definitely not saying don't rehearse adequately. But once you get to a point where it's good enough, then move on to the next thing that needs practicing, whether that's playing with other musicians, playing in front of a crowd at your cousins Halloween party, or recording a demo tape. The worst thing that can happen is you get laughed at or booed off stage. And you know what? That isn't fatal.

Most of the people in the audience won't care because they don't know shit about music. A few of them will talk shit for a while and then forget about it. The only people likely to give you grief are other musicians. And you know also what? The ones giving you the most shit are the ones that aren't on stage, because their band is too chickenshit to learn by experience.

Planning

For someone just starting out, here are a few things that may come in handy later. Especially if you're crazy poor and not very good at manipulating people.

Playing an instrument is not the job. The first time you play the main riff to your favorite song? That's not the job. That's the fun part of the job. The job is to trick someone into paying you to do it. I can play every song on the radio with my fucking elbows and you know what? No one has ever once ever given me a check ever for that skill alone.

So when you plan for something, remember: the plan should be adaptable to reality, not the other way around. Reality gives not one fuck about what you want to do.

Here's an example: I'm a metal guitarist/vocalist. Djent, death metal, grindcore, those are the types of music I want to play. But reality has yet to shower me with dollars for being able to play harmonic minor scales really fucking fast while yelling really fucking loud. Add to this the fact that I live in a small town where most metal musicians are either already in a band, or have very fucking different ideas about what metal is than me.

So what do I do? I find work. Hit the open mics and the wanted board. Eventually you'll find someone playing music that people want to hear. Sure, it's selling out, but you know what? I haven't met a single motherfucker in my life that hasn't sold out. Principles and standards and a part-time job delivering pizza only buy so much store brand lunch meat.

So when you find your American Idol wannabe, hook up with them. Assuming they don't have a band, go out and find one. Eventually you may even get to the point where people are giving you money for doing what you're good at, even if you don't like the music. And here's the thing: Other musicians need musicians.And when it's audition time they're way more likely to call a guy they've seen perform than a name off of a tack board.

And always remember: while talent and skill may open doors, personality and attitude will walk through them. For example, I'm jobbing for a band right now that covers Sublime. I fucking hate Sublime on an almost supernatural level. But it's a job. I get up there and I smile and I dance like the fucking monkey I am, I take my cut, and I go home and work on the music I want to play with a full belly.

Normal Shit

Making a living as a musician is one of the hardest, most frustratingest things you could ever do. And one of the big reasons for this is that normal shit will always get in the way. You work a night job? Will they give you Saturday night off to play a show? If it came to it are you gonna choose tapping on the show and fucking your band over or quitting your job and starving for a few weeks? What about your kids? Your wife? They probably think this is a hobby, and maybe it is a hobby, but do the other guys in the band think the same way? If a big opportunity presents itself are you willing to leave your family to fend for themselves while you spend the next two weeks hanging out in bars for barely-livable wages?

These are the things people don't think about when they join a band. And they're the things that never seem like a big problem until they are, and then it's too late to deal with and someone is gonna get hurt.

Figure out what your priorities are. There's nothing worse than sinking years into a project only to have it fall apart because one asshole would rather hang out with his nagging bitch of a girlfriend. Make sure everyone in the band is on the same page. The worst kind of communication is no communication.

How Not to Be in a Band

Everyone, without fail, has at some point said "Ooh! I wanna learn how to play guitar!" or "Yeah, we're starting a band." And those are both admirable goals. They are not admirable pipe-dreams. The distance between posing in front of a mirror with a guitar and anything beyond that takes work. A lot of work. Only it's worse than work because you don't get paid for it. And you don't get days off. And you have to work with shitheads. Even if your coworkers are your best friends, they will become shitheads at some point. You will also become a shithead. Musicians are shitheads.

After 15 years and almost as many bands that either didn't make it anywhere or didn't make it anywhere with delusions of grandeur, I've learned quite a few things that do not work.

1. Drugs 

 First of all, they don't make you more creative. They just make you less aware of how spectacularly you suck.

Here is how the formula is supposed to go: 1. Platinum record. 2. Crippling chemical dependency. 3. Rehab followed by glorious reunion tour to bilk aging fans and their aging mullets and desperate need to cling to their faded youth and distract themselves from the encroaching embrace of death.

Here is how the formula really goes. 1. Crippling chemical dependency. 2. Break-up. 3. Remaining non-junkie members either move on to new projects or throw in the towel.

I'm not saying every musician will experience this first- or second-hand in their career. But I can say that every musician I've ever worked with or met has had this happen to them to some extent. It may not always mean the death of the project, but it at least becomes a nightmare for the band members that aren't out pawning the PA to buy bathtub speed from the local meth nazis.

Which is all tragic and sad and you know what? Fuck him. Fuck that guy forever. I've been that guy. After getting clean I've been around that guy several times. That guy deserves no sympathy. Not because addiction isn't a horrible, misunderstood disease, but because the guys that AREN'T wasting their lives and talents have to suffer for it. When the star guitarist decides to blow off a show to continue his coke bender with his stripper friend, guess who gets yelled at? When the singer can't make it to the studio that the band spent the last of their savings reserving, because he was arrested for urinating on a police car, guess who gets to scrounge money for a new session?

A band can only function by consensus. Sure, some members will contribute more than others, and some members will get more recognition and opportunities than others. And those things will not always happen in a fair way. But that's life. It sucks that while everyone may scream for the guitarist and ignore the bassist that hauled all the gear, booked the show, set up the amps and wrote the songs, but there is only so much to be done about that.

However. When one member's actions have a negative impact on everyone in the band except for that member, then it's time to get him away from the equipment and toward a 12-step meeting.

Musical Illiteracy

Learning theory will not strangle your creativity, you lazy bitch. It will make every real musician that has the misfortune of working with you want to strangle you on a daily basis, though.

If there is any justice in this world, then the fuckwit that first uttered the words "I don't need to learn theory. Rules inhibit my creativity." was crushed to death by a crate of Mel Bay primers. That approach to music has been responsible for more wasted time and more stifled creativity than the Catholic church and bad parenting combined.

And theory is not hard! That's the frustrating thing. If you graduated fucking third grade then you have the capacity to learn enough theory to get by in 99.9% of the bands out there. And because of your refusal to do so some guitarist somewhere, right now, is fantasizing about shoving his headstock up your butthole after you made him explain what a C chord is for the third time this month.

This kind of mentality turns band practice, which should be a fun activity, into a tedious timesink where every single song, no matter how simple, has to be explained measure by measure and note by note to the one stubborn idiot that refuses to learn what a scale is because of his bullshit justification that it will somehow inhibit him in writing his terrible songs.

And his terrible-ass, 'creative'-ass, repetitive-ass songs? They're all in A or E minor. Every goddamn time.

Folk Music

This may be more of a regional phenomenon, but I'm including it because I want to.

Quick, name your five favorite folk musicians! If you stopped and said, 'uh,' after Bob Dylan, then congratulations! You are not cancer!

Nobody gives a shit about folk music except other folk musicians and old hippies. This is a fact.

So, unless you want to spend your entire career wondering why your backing band hates you, then do not aspire to be a 'singer-songwriter.' Calling yourself a 'singer-songwriter' is like calling yourself the Virtual Boy of music.

I have never, NEVER seen a performer in any other genre of music tune their instrument down, CAPO it the entire time, and then tell the band standing behind you that you're in C regardless of what key the song is really in! Learn to play your goddamn instrument, you fucking patchouli-funk tumor!

Again, the following doesn't apply to EVERY folk musician, just the vast, overwhelming majority.. So much so that you'd have a better chance at a music career by opening a shop that specializes in cassette tapes. Folk musicians can't keep count. Universal law. The chorus WILL speed up. They WILL drop or skip a 16th note when changing chords. They WILL lie about what key they're playing in. They WILL rearrange the song structure in the middle of a performance without telling anyone else. And they WILL refuse to take advice or pointers on how to improve. Which leads me to my next point...

Self-Importance

As I said earlier, a band can only function by consensus. To make that happen there are three things that will always always be more valuable than skill, talent or aptitude: humility, integrity, and an ability to take criticism.

Humility is difficult for artists. It seems like the same drive to create, to paint reality's reflection in the language of emotions, to hear in color and think in poetry, are part and parcel with towering insecurity, self-righteousness, and an unreasonable sense of self importance.

Integrity is another hard one to come by. And not just in the sense that 'I'll have a song written by Friday' is an iffy wager if the creativity just isn't there. A musician's natural enemy, 9 times out of ten, is other musicians. This leads to a nonsensical competition for dominance and credibility, which leads to all kinds or erroneous, misleading and untrue things being said. Things like "Yeah, we were second stage at Ozzfest a few years ago (In the crowd) " or "Yeah, you guys open for us and we'll split the money down the middle (of one band member share)."

Criticism strikes at the very heart of a musician. Too often he is unable to distinguish between someone saying "I think it goes to G in the chorus," and someone saying "You're a worthless guitarist and a filthy, herpes riddled drunk!"

So these skills need to be developed. Which is possible. If you find yourself disagreeing with the three or four other people in your band, then just go along with it. Screaming, making demands, setting rules or arguing from authority may win the argument in the short term, but the bad blood and ill-will that will build up will never be worth it in the long run. Especially when one of them, seemingly out of the blue, says "Hey, I'm joining that other band that isn't nearly as good as us because the singer isn't a towering bag of rancid assholes that vetoes all of my ideas."

It can be very easy to feel threatened. If some guys you meet locally start talking about all of the great breaks they've been having recently, don't see that as a personal attack. The fact is that they're probably not intending to lord their success over you, they're just really excited about it. It would be in both of your interests to support each other, instead of seeing each other as competition. Simple division of labor. You can accomplish more by pooling your resources and working together than by pretending to work together while constantly trying to rip off or one-up each other. In the end you'll only be hurting your own reputation, which can mean future problems will be even harder to get out of since no one trusts you.

When someone criticizes your playing, please remember that they're not criticizing YOU. If someone points something out, at least have the decency to take an honest look at what you're doing. If you can't figure out what you're doing wrong, ask for an explanation. Maybe they're saying G, but meaning Gm. Maybe you really are hitting the change early. Maybe you are speeding the verse up. Someone reacting to these situations like they're being attacked will be way more less likely to examine their part, and way more likely to blame the person offering the criticism.

Of course, none of this means to be a doormat, or to silently agree to bad decisions, or to accept unfair criticism. The line between confidence and arrogance, and the line between assertive and aggressive, are not fine lines. They're big and bold and wide. The best method I've found is to take a step back, calm down, and look as objectively as I can at the situation and see if my actions and behavior is justified, if it's possible I'm trying to force my will on the group, or if I'm making an axiomatic argument to avoid looking at what I'm doing.

Next: Why practice is bad, how to win friends and influence people, and when to dump your girlfriend

Darwin's Pipe

A friend of mine yesterday pointed out that that "Darwin stuff in the text books is a hoax." Remaining, by my standards, civil, I asked if he had any sources for this claim. The one that wasn't hundreds of pages of ancient alien insanity trying to prove that humans existed in the Archeon Period by Vedic Creationist Michael Cremo, the man that brought us such intellectual wonders as Forbidden Archeology and Ancient Aliens, was a lovely debunking of evolutionary theory by a conservative Islamic criminal madman Harun Yahya. My friend then encouraged me to 'put that in my Darwin pipe and smoke it.' Yahya's article is here. I'd encourage you to read that because the images here may be hard to read, and also it cures low blood pressure. His original text is in the middle. You may need to download or open the images in a new tab to read everything. I suck at websiting.

 

 

The short biography of Yahya in part two was sourced from his Wikipedia page. Google it if you care. The green text with sources was itself sourced from www.talkorigins.org, the go-to site for debunking this kind of ludicrousness. The green text on Part 3 was supposed to include the word 'censorship' in it somewhere. Source: Most YouTube science denier videos have disabled or approval-only comment moderation.