Notes from Science Class at 1:00 A.M.

A proper testable question should be about this causal connection, and should clearly include a dependent and independent variable. 

The question should also be generally applicable, so that answering the question has some relevance to real world problems (the author wrote "real word problems." Also, the voice reading the author's words verbatim has that voice that sounds like a butchy Shelley Long. The kind of voice that always appears, or app-eyes, or whatever, as the voice of the ship's computer, kindly reminding the crew that they have 2 minutes to complete ship abandoning as the strangely un-turn-offable self-destruct routine was programmed by computer geeks driven to a life of murderous, jealousy-driven, and way passive-aggressive hate towards dick astronauts, having spent ten years writing code for lime-light stealing jocks. 

Not that Shelley Long Voice would read that, even if it were in the script. Because it's not 'proper,' which is really capital P Proper, as it's being used to refer to the code of behavior adopted by sheltered home-school girls finding themselves in public and needing to come across as worldly and hip. The voice of a lifetime evangelical appealing to the youth by wearing a backwards baseball cap of the local sports team's logo to compliment his hideous, homemade-looking suit and waxen, otherworldly visage. Only female. and homemade meaning badly-made, not tailor-made. The kind of suit a pair of serial killer pants would wear, a la Ed Gein and old women.

Not a 'science class' voice, in other words. The voice of a woman that will do her level best to raise her very own Icy and Asexual Housewife Barbie and ends up with a reality TV star releasing a sex tape three years after the last guy stopped caring in a desperate attempt to find a way to pay for her many bad decisions. 

This is a Voice of diet ice water, plastic-jug vodka and diet pills. A Voice that lives in a room with too much white porcelain and gold-colored plumbing, the blatant subconscious representation of the Voice's own self-image totally lost on the Voice. A room that puts visitors in mind of cats, although no cats are present, until the visitors realize that this is what rich women do instead of buying dozens of stray cats and collecting creepy dolls: This is a hopelessly broken person wanting the world to look at them and going about it all wrong. Only with sound, in this case.

A 'science voice' being, of course, an elderly transatlantic accent that wafts into the brain like single malt scotch and pipe smoke and high-maintenance leather and you briefly wonder if this is what Santa Claus smells like. In your ear. 

 Wait, that went from confusing to gross. If smell was sound, I mean. Santa Claus smells like this sounds. Only Santa Claus is the private library of a literature professor. And it's a voice. Fuck you, Language, I know what I mean.

(Note to self, when all this science shit pays off: Totally splice John Cleese and Morgan Freeman into a genetic patchwork man. Remember, genetically modified abominations against God and science only turn into monsters when they reach puberty in the movies. And the books. And the nightmares. And probably in reality. Don't remember this after all. Train him to be a voice actor from birth. Have him watch Kenneth Branagh movies and then play Resident Evil. Pimp him out to AAA game studios, pointing out that if this dude had done NIER that shit would have gone from sleeper cult hit to Instant Nobel Prize for Electronic Amusements. Americans will want to buy JRPGs and care about story and character again. Good video games will be saved.

Years later turn back to the bottle in a desperate attempt to escape the guilt of knowing your livelihood comes at the expense of the very people you sought to liberate in the form of on-disc dlc, monthly service fees, micro transactions and invasive, mandatory security software downloads that can track a fucking pipe bomb three blocks from your house and reports sub-code plumbing to the authorities, yet perversely and to the shock of nobody makes piracy more appealing. Realize Johnmorgan Freecleese is kinda your kid and kinda your boy kid and kinda you've been psychologically abusing him his entire life, and kinda you're prostituting him out to rich, white men that represent everything you hate about capitalism. Realize you've made the joke sad and gross. Get back to science class. 

End Note to Self).

Unrelated

I made a for real YouTube video. It is very ghetto, but I'm proud of it. Especially since I managed it with a budget of zero dollars.

It's basically a how-to on the order of operations.






Anyway, so that's a thing.

Retro Retro (Demon's Souls pt. 1)

It was just announced that Dark Souls will be released as a PC port this summer. Dark souls was the not-sequel to Demon's Souls, the 17th best game ever made according to the arbitrary list that lives in my brain and changes constantly depending on my mood and if it was a game I only played as a child and/or while drunk and may be way better or worser than I remember.

Yes, dragons and wizards and shit.

Demon's Souls, despite being a pain in the ass to enunciate, became a huge sleeper hit, largely because of it's difficulty. Words like 'punishing,' and 'brutal,' and 'fuck you, this game sucks,' were constantly paraded around in reviews, despite the game not being that hard.

Sure, it was a lot harder than most games from the last five years, but most modern games are way easy. So much so that most strategy guides are a single page that reads:

1. Turn power on.
2. Have eyeballs.
3. Have thumbs.
4. Be awake.
5. Congratulations!

And Demon's Souls was a nice break from that, even though it was not nearly as hard as it was made out to be, and certainly not Nintendo Hard. Play Friday the 13th or Ghosts 'n Goblins and you'll see what I mean. The only reason those games weren't half an hour long was because instead of padding the story out with bullshit, the developers chose the easy route of killing the player repeatedly and gleefully, then sending him to the beginning of the game until he stopped sniveling and memorized the exact sequence of 73 timed jumps and 94 attack patterns needed to finish the zone like a big boy.

Tiny naked man vs. giant armored punch monsters? That's balanced gameplay!

Demon's Souls wasn't that hard. But it did follow the same Bizzaro logic that asked players to learn how to push buttons effectively and remember where the bad guys are.

Just to prove what a not-hard game it was and how superior my opinion of myself is I decided to give it another playthrough. Here's what happened.

1.1 This Shit is SO Easy

After mowing through the first few zombie guards, and feeling very proud of myself for being so awesome at parrying after only playing the game for about 150 hours when it came out, I fell into a hole while performing a flawless roll to avoid an arrow.

Seeing as the hole clearly wasn't my fault as I didn't give it permission to be bottomless OR to even be there in the first place, I tested my prowess on an even field with a black knight guarding a mausoleum. Despite my peerless strategy of creeping forward, panicking and fleeing out of aggro range when he spotted me, almost damaging him, and fleeing again I somehow died.

Next, I was roasted by a dragon that I knew was there! Clearly the game must have auto-updated when I wasn't looking to patch 1.Harder.

Having finally come to the boss fight I proved to myself and the world just how easy this game is by not dying at the boss which, to be fair, is one of the easiest things in the level, if not the game. The boss, Phalanx, incorporates a strategy of being completely defenseless and unable to attack once his slow-moving, move-telegraphing goons are dispatched. The goons are also weak to fire, magic, all weapons, and being slowly walked away from.

Boss Strategy: Attack him. That's it, really.

2.1 In the Mines of Cheap Bitch Fireball Throwing Fat Guys

I decided to switch to the mine level since the game flows sorta horizontally. Plus you have to beat world 2.2 to unlock the good weapon upgrades. Not that I need good weapons, as I could no doubt beat the game on level 1, naked, armed with nothing but brass knuckles and throwing daggers if I wanted to. It just so happens that I don't want to.

After immediately falling off of a cliff that I swear moved towards me while failing to kill a cowardly lizard, I made my way into the mine where I activated the first elevator, which I rode up to meet the first bitch-ass, laughing-ass, pain-in-the-ass-ass Fat Official, who I bested readily despite nearly dying when I forgot that he could throw fireballs, and then almost dying again when I immediately forgot that he could throw fireballs.

I managed to not nearly perish again until yards later while trying to fight off the lungey, jumpy fucking zombie dog enemies that shouldn't be allowed to attack in packs like that.

After opening the gate, which is sort of the first check point in this level, I was snuck attacked by fire lizards that I could have sworn were supposed to flee from my towering femininity.

I should probably mention that I always try to play a female in these games, because if I'm going to be staring at cartoon ass for 70 hours, it had damn well better be girl cartoon ass. Plus girls have access to the cool looking armor.

After carefully retracing my steps, I made it marginally further into the corridor where, doubtless because of the mystery patch, I was ambushed by a group of deceptively fast slow-moving lizard men that were cunningly hiding in plain sight directly in front of me.

After carefully retracing my steps again, I managed to activate the second elevator, which shortcut back tot he beginning of the level and opens up the blacksmith's shop.

Side note: all of the merchants in this game are assholes.

Returning to the main path I fell in battle while valiantly slaughtering two of the 90 lizard folk that shouldn't have been able to be that quiet while hiding around a corner.

After carefully retracing my steps again again, I vanquished the horde of lizard men by using the tactic of sneaking across the building above them and running away. This soon led me to the Boss fight.

The Armor Spider is, as the name would suggest, a spider that is armored. He also attacks by shooting webs and flaming somethings in a pattern that can best be summed up as fucking haywire. Calling on my inner knighthood-dom-ness I bravely charged halfway up the corridor leading to his chamber, hid nobly hid behind a corpse, and threw shit at him until he stopped moving. Told you I was good at this game.

See how this fellow is bravely challenging the spider to a fair fight? That's not what I did at all.

2.2 The Bad Guys are Now Much More Stronger Than Me

After soldiering onward and promptly being exploded by a mine cart, I realized that my current weaponry would be no match for the powered-up fatasses, lizard miners, rock tentacles, exploding lava cockroaches, and on-fire everything in the upcoming level.

At this point I went back to 1.1 to farm upgrade stones and grab an anti-fire spell..

Returning to 2.2 I was, in quick succession, almost pickaxed to death by a miner, exploded by a second cart, and almost fireballed to death by another Fat Official. After weighing my options and deciding 'fuck this,' I decided to backtrack and take the short cut.

The short cut involves dropping down a succession of inexplicably placed bridges in a shaft to bypass the level. After only plummeting to my death a dozen times I decided to cheat and watch a YouTube video to help jog my memory of the correct sequence.

The correct sequence, it turns out, is one I could have sworn I had tried, only it worked somehow this time. Which only proves that the game was cheating, so that made things even between us.

I realized that I was probably no match for the Flamelurker Boss. Not because I wasn't a total badass at this game but because I had, objectively, shit gear, low levels, and a habit of panicking when things that are on fire punch at me.

The Flamelurker, by the way, is a giant fire monster that attacks using fire, punches, lunges and fucking lunacy. Then he aggros further when his health hits a certain point, upping his overall dangerousness to offshore oil refinery levels.

Still, after casting water veil, entering the chamber, and praying to Richard Dawkins, I some-fucking-how managed to win out in melee combat on the first attempt.

Not pictured: Me, crying in the next room.

At this point, gloating to my pet plastic cacti (that I named God, Jesus, and Holy Spirit to avoid arguments with mouthbreathing rednecks,) about how fucking great I am and how kinda easy this game is, I turned the Boss soul into the blacksmith to unlock better weapon upgrades and decided to take a break.

Next Time: I'm Still Awesome and All Deaths Are Well Within The Margin of Error

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. 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

The Ghost of John Carpenter

Wow, this thing's still here.

John Carpenter's The Ghosts of Mars

Horror movie legend John Carpenter first made a name for himself by being responsible for the slasher movie explosion of the 80's. He did this by making Halloween, an over-rated slasher movie that tends to get a pass from critics because nerds are crybabies about it and no one wants to see three hundred misspelled comments screaming about how much better Michael Myers is than Jason Voorhies. Plus it was, somehow, marginally better than the remake and most of the sequels.

After making two good movies with The Thing and They Live and one okay movie with In the Mouth of Madness, Carpenter did not much else noteworthy. This was largely in part to Carpenter's inability to grasp the concept that self-insert action porn and creeping, otherworldly horror are not complimentary film elements. One of those things he might as well have not done was 2001's Ghosts of Mars, starring legendary N-word With Attitude Ice Cube and famous attractive person Natasha Henstridge.

The Face of Horror. No, not Clea Duvall,
the muppet-looking thing behind her.

The film opens with a slow pan on a REALLY red planet. I mean, when people call Mars the Red Planet they're usually just being poetic. This thing looks like an entire galaxies blood-clot collection was made into a giant yuck ball. The obligatory voice-over explains that rumors are spreading on Mars that something has been uncovered. The also obligatory text scroll gives us some interesting facts about Future Mars. The most prominent of these is that somehow 640,000 colonists have managed to travel from Earth to set up a society on a terraformed planet, yet still rely on rumor to convey critical information. Of course, since the rumor leaves only silence and death behind, rumors are bound to crop up.

"Space Captain! What happened to that expedition we sent to the Valley of Howling Souls?"

"Well, Space Colonel, we lost radio contact with them several weeks ago."

"Has anyone been to investigate?"

"Yessir!"

"Annnnnnd...?"

"Silence and death, sir! In that order! It appears the men lose radio contact, discover the bodies of the previous expedition, and then die themselves! We assume it is from something they found!"

"Good God, Space Captain! We can't have a rumor like this getting out!"

"...SO...I...Probably shouldn't have posted "Worried about mysterious silent deaths surrounding new discovery. Stroganoff for dinner! NOM NOM NOM!!!" as my Spacebook status?"

One other thing probably worth noting: the society is a Matriarchy. So at least it will be a welcome break from the swagger, violence, machismo, and hostility of all the male societies. That should be worth the price of admission: A progressive utopia founded on the ideals of maternal love and compassion, with the rule of law dictated by the creators of life, and not the destroyers of same. Won't that be nice when it has no fucking relevance on anything else in the movie?

Roll credits to techno music that must be some kind of retro fad in the future, as this garbage sounded dated when the movie was new. In addition to this: RED. Red clouds over red scenery containing red train tracks and the oncoming red lights of a red train. Ah! Mr. Carpenter is responsible for the music. I would bet almost a nickel that he's using the same synthesizer he wrote the Halloween theme on.

The Space Train FINALLY approaches a city of some sort and the movie proper begins with a meeting of very serious people in serious gray onesies seriously discussing rumor control after a ghost train returned on auto pilot carrying a single survivor and presumably several ghosts.

The survivor, despite being unconscious and handcuffed to her bunk on a prison transport, presumably for the entire journey, has perfect makeup and hair, clean clothes, and looks, not to put too fine a point on it, like Natasha Henstridge after three hours in makeup. In other words, not like someone that belongs anywhere near a prison transport in a sane and well-ordered society. She was also covered in an illegal chemical. Presumably not the kind that melts skin.

After being brought before the...Council? Board of Directors? Anyway, Lieutenant Tough Girl immediately asks for a lawyer and if she's being charged with a crime. Which would be totally a normal thing to ask if she was a law abiding citizen, and wasn't there in her official capacity as Space Police, the only surviving member of her team, and was discovered in a drug coma, alone, with no record of what happened, on an empty train, with no prisoner on fucking Mars. Given the situation, I would probably demand she be handcuffed, sedated and on the other side of bulletproof glass.

Apparently, while gambling, sleeping, and taking drugs that cause goofy sound effects and bad CGI, the crew ran into a storm. At this point Lieutenant Tough Girl is almost reprimanded for her blatant being-high-ness by Captain Pam Grier until she explains that it's cool, it'll wear off before we get there, I'm not even that high, chill out, I got this, man.

The prisoner they're on their way to transport is an alleged murderer and corpse-mutilator. Capt. Grier then sexually harrasses Lieutenant TG who is, as already established, on drugs. She then explains to Sergeant Jason Statham that the only way to be promoted in This Girl's Army is by fucking your superior. Sergeant Statham, being quick on the uptake, immediately flirts with his superior, who doesn't fall for it, her being the only person on any planet that can manage to be confrontationally unpleasant to be around while slightly high on drugs.

After arriving at their destination, we learn that there is no radio contact with the...I guess it's a combination prison and mining town, given that the official Space Police had to hitchhike on an ore train to get there. I mean, I'm no expert on women or government, but if I was sending a team to transport an extremely dangerous criminal, telling them to hitch a ride on a freight train like a bunch of hobos would be pretty low on my "How To Accomplish This Task" list. Also: Capt. Grier has to remind her squad to wear their breathing apparatus because it's fucking MARS out there. Capt. Grier, by the way, is wearing a leather, ankle length trench coat. If that doesn't strike you as a suicidally stupid thing to do: tie a blanket around your waist, attach several weapons to your body, put on a gas mask, go somewhere rocky, and run away from something. Also, get someone to film it so you can have a gag reel at your funeral.

The breathing apparatus, by the way, are ski goggles. I am not making that up. They convert the atmosphere to breathable air via the...uh...fuck...I don't know how they think it works. Maybe the air is only poisonous to eyeballs.

If I'm ever a prisoner being extradited via train this is exactly the team I would want to have to outwit.

The crew then remarks that there are no people outside drinking, fucking whores and spending money, which, I don't know, seem like they'd be indoor activities on a planet without a breathable atmosphere. Instead of a bustling slum, they find (dun dun DUN,) a ghost town.

Statham and Tough Girl engage in more unidirectional flirting while they make their way through every science fiction set ever: space age living habitats that look like abandoned power stations with lots and lots of exposed wiring.

After locating Ice Cube via security camera, Sgt. Statham explains that he can open the security door by magically making it fall in love with him. We don't get to see this, as they then go outside, where they notice one of the hut's lights are flickering. TG doesn't see anything wrong with this, but Statham points out that yes, there is. The hut, of course, is full of gore, shitty electronic music and sculptures made out of all the extra barbed wire the colonists had on hand after realizing what a stupid fucking thing to have on Mars barbed wire is after the 18th shipment of cattle immediately asphyxiated on arrival.

Cut to Capt. Grier, Science Officer Clea Duvall and Corporal Body Count, who find another abandoned factory full of bodies and parts of bodies. Clea Duvall immediately goes into catatonic shock with an expression of vacant, uncomprehending disappointment, although this is the same expression Clea Duvall has in every scene of every single thing Clea Duvall has ever been in.

After regrouping, Officer Duvall informs the crew that they have no radio contact with the train, which must be dozens of yards away. Sgt. Statham, meanwhile, strikes out with a security door just as badly as he has been with his CO.

Ice Cube, it turns out, was arrested for allegedly killing and mutilating many people in the fashion of the bodies they've just discovered. Oh, and his totally not ridiculous nickname is Desolation.

I don't know, if I was going to try my hand at career criminalling, I think I might pick a less conspicuous nickname than Desolation Williams. Like 'Honest Citizen' or 'Inoffensive Passerby' or 'Pleasantly Agreeable.' Desolation is just a dead giveaway. May as well name yourself Coke Mule or Murder Suspect or Unprovoked Knife Attack.

After finding a log that informed the crew of mysterious wind gusts of 60 knots, Statham manages to woo the door into spreading it's hinges for him, revealing what appears to be the same generic sci-fi set as every other set in this movie.

The prisoners, motley, lovable misfits, all, are immediately let out of their cages by the crew, since, as the only survivors of a massacre Biblical in scale, they could not possibly pose a danger to the crew.

One of the villagers, named Witlock, put herself in Space Jail voluntarily. When questioned she helpfully informed the crew that jail is the only safe place left and asked to be allowed to go back to sleep. Witlock, it seems, escaped from the neighboring village when it went apeshit by homemade weather balloon, and then immediately crash-landed in the mining town after flying directly into a windmill. FUN SCIENCE FACT: Weather balloons explode like a motherfucker when they make contact with dirt.

At 22 minutes in we FINALLY meet the lead actor, Mr. Desolation Cube. Lt. TG calls him an asshole, then tells Sgt. Statham he has a tiny dick and that he lies about it for some reason. Girl Power!

If you've ever seen Ice Cube in a movie before then you already know what character he's playing. I mean, he really only seems to have the one gear, which is basically his rap persona without the rap.

TG and Statham come across Clea Duvall, who appears to be about to kill the shit out of a door for making strange noises. She doesn't say anything, but, look, I'm sure she's a wonderful person in real life. Probably gives to charity, teaches inner city youths the importance of trust and literacy, has an great sex life, is really fucking interesting to talk to, and gives just amazing hugs. But she fucking looks and acts like she evolved from some kind of amphibian in EVERY SINGLE THING SHE'S DONE.

Statham, as the official Sergeant in charge of magical door seduction, opens the door to reveal a totally-not-an-alien-wearing-a-skin-suit, who they place in a storage unit and leave unattended, as they have to find whoever murdered all of the colonists, and they can't be expected to do that AND babysit the mute, autistic, glowing woman that hides in closets making scary noises and is also the only survivor that hasn't been locked in a cage the entire time.

Grier and TG stumble upon a Space Jeep containing a rabid colonist that's obviously infected with whatever Closet Girl has. This is made apparent when the camera shifts to first-person, as everything they see is red. Because it's Mars. Like how on Earth crazy people can only see blue or green.

The rabid jeep pilot then slits his own throat while Capt. Grier chases after another possible survivor. TG informs Statham that, before suiciding, the jeep pilot shouted out something like "Stay away! Don't open the door!" She then orders Statham to open the door, because whatever's wrong with these people couldn't possibly be communicable. Statham points out that, wait a fucking minute, maybe it is. TG reluctantly agrees.

Upon returning to the jail, they find Desolation Cube holding a knife to Clea Duvall's throat, as Corporal Unnamed decided to let Cube, the most dangerous man on the planet, out of his cage and shackles. TG nobly trades herself for Duvall, then attempts to kung fu a man named fucking Desolation fucking Williams and immediately learns why that is a dumb attempt to make.

Upon regaining consciousness, TG finds out that Desolation escaped to the clinic with Corporal Useless's shotgun.

In another rusty set of barbed wire and techno, TG finds more space cadet survivors in the middle of what appears to be the most ill-advised body modification party in the history of Mars. One of them attacks TG, who, in keeping with the strong, empowered female ethos of the film, is saved by the large male convict that just broke her nose ten minutes ago. Girl Power!

Desolation is then attacked by another space cadet, and saved by TG discharging her shotgun in their general vicinity, which would probably work, as they are known as precision weapons, who takes him into custody. The whatever that was controlling the survivors floats out of the dead host as TG and Desolation leave. Like a ghost! Get it? Like the title! You're half an hour in and already got everything you paid for! Aren't you glad you watched this movie? Everything after this will be a bonus!

TG and Desolation then have a talk where Desolation has to explain to the military police officer that while all murderers are criminals, not all criminals are murderers. It seems Desolation was attempting to rob the station only to find that everyone in the station had already been killed. Cube then points out that TG is on drugs and probably not the person to be giving lectures on the morality of corpse plunder.

Meanwhile, Statham, while searching for Capt. Probably-Tripped-Over-Her-Wildly-Impractical-Coat, stumbles upon an avant garde stage show. In a welcome break from the shitty, dated techno, we are serenaded with shitty, dated metal. Also: the mutilated girl Statham is watching is mutilating some corpses. I don't know how one grades corpse mutilation, but 'fervent abandon,' and 'obsessive dedication' spring to mind. Also 'liquify,' and 'mechanically separated.'

Statham finds Grier's head, seriously hindering the movies chances for the girl-on-girl sex scene it is in dire need of, and also a tribe of what can only be described as Dimmu Borgirs in the middle of a corpse mutilation festival.

Okay, corpse mutilation is a horrible, repulsive idea. It would not take much to make a bowel-clenchingly horrific scene with that. Think of the last funeral you went to. Now, imagine hitting that body with a hatchet for fun or whatever. See? But this movie fails to do this on an almost superhuman level. I've popped zits that were more disturbing than this scene. It's not that the possessed colonists look like LARP enthusiasts on their way to a Cradle of Filth concert. It's not that all of the gore and violence are kept at a PG-13 level. It's not that the flat, emotionless, cookie-cutter soundtrack is something you'd expect from a group of college students with too much pot and no grasp of film theory. It's not that the scene is brightly lit and very obviously not on Mars. It's not that all of the mutilation is happening to nameless figurants instead of any of the name characters we might possibly have some connection with. It's not that the entire damn film is completely devoid of anything even remotely related to horror, such as a creeping sense of dread, isolation or helplessness, inhuman evil, things coated in KY jelly, dark corridors, sinister intelligence, or limited resources. It's all of these things combined with this: The delivery. There's no build-up. No sense of dread or evil or ominousness. It's just like, hey, here is a thing made out of barbed wire. Here is a door. Here is an arm. Here is a jeep. Here is a head on a pike. here are black metal fans hitting fake bodies with machetes and yelling. Here's Jason Statham running. It's exactly as scary as a guided museum tour, and for the same reasons.

Like Ghosts of Mars, only less boring and
with better music.

If Carpenter wanted this scene to have the impact he so obviously thinks it does, then it should have been set indoors, preferably in a damp, darkly lit cave for the Yonic imagery. I mean, it's fucking Mars. It's a mining colony on fucking Mars. Mars is a frozen dustbowl. Underground would be the place to be anyway. The music should have been mournful and subdued, or at least a little creepy, not the entrance theme for the WWF wrestler that looks like your uncle. I mean, fuck, you have a platinum selling musician in the damn movie and you still chose to stick with your trusty Casio keyboard and musical tastes that are very obviously stuck in the mid-80s. The colonists, given their silly-ass get ups, should have at least been kept in the shadows, not under flood lights. It should have happened in the last half hour of the film. In fact, the whole “this is a ghost town, where the fuck are all the people” aspect should have been the entire focus for at least half of the film, not abandoned five minutes after being introduced. C'mon, you're using ski goggles for oxygen converters because you blew your budget on big name stars. You could have saved a ton of money by having just them trying to figure out what the hell happened instead of just walking to the next plot point.

Next: Will Anything Exciting Not Be Rendered Boring?