Oh joy! I get forced into the most wonderful things. This time it's a all-expenses paid trip to the heart of Monatana, which someone else was supposed to go on, but I get sent instead. Why? Because I am the World's designated bitch.

I intend to do certain things that will ensure no repeated occurences of this sort.

Bears. Montana's fucking full of them. They outnumber the people 5 to 1. I propose to piss off every single bear I can find through a combination of insults and pokes to the eye. If they feel like rumbling, I'll just kick 'em in the balls, and that'll be that. POW!


Moose. There's about as many moose in Montana as there are bear, and my approach for these overgrown deer will be much the same. Instead of poking though, I believe I'll attempt to ride each moose I find. Once again, if they feel like messing with me, they too will feel the full force of my unbridled wrath in the form of a swift kick to the balls (something no creature can withstand).

Mountain men. These are really the only people who live in Montana (which in Iroqouis means "Land of the morbidly obese mountain dwelling white man") and they will be my constant companions for 10 days of hiking, bear poking, moose riding, and moonshine binge drinking. Whoopdeefuckingdoo!

And I don't want to hear any comments from the peanut gallery (I'm looking at you, NMG). This is gonna suck. Big time suck. And there's nothing I can do about it. I refuse to enjoy my forced servitude; but I will, in response, piss off every life-form in Montana and add it to the growing list of states that categorically deny me entry.



---HK_Newbie

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Hi everyone! I know i've been throwing those words around alot lately--"worst movie ever"--but in this case (as in all the others), it is a well deserved moniker.

Fantastic 4, despite the inclusion of the angelic Jessica Alba (whose only good movie was "Idle Hands"), was the equivalent of crawling naked over an acre of broken glass and discarded medical waste. If that image didn't get through to you the intense dislike I have for this movie and everything associated with it, then read on, moron!

Roughly 90% of the movie is spent establishing the razor sharp sense of humor possessed by every single character (including the guys selling hotdogs on the street--everyone in New York is a comedic genius!) through a series of sophomoric jokes. A confused individual attempted to convince me that the endless string of so-called "jokes" was also known as "character development". Allow me to demostrate:

Human Torch: Hey! Dr. Doom, I hope you have FIRE INSURANCE, because you're about to get BURNED!!!

BAM! Check out that character development right there! The Human Torch just revealed aspects of his internal self through a witty and totally original joke; Shakespeare: eat your heart out, the playwrites of the new generation are here to put you in your place...WITH A VENGEANCE!!!!!


Jessica Alba. Jessica Alba. What can I say about her? She's hot, yes. Very hot, yes. But everytime she opens her mouth to spout whatever inane dialogue she's reading off a cue-screen, I want to throw a sandwhich down her mouth. If only to make her stop my hurting. She is so impossibly innapropriate for her role. They couldn't have done any worse if they picked some random chick from hooters. Just throw on some glasses and she's a brain surgeon! Right?

In addition to all this crap, nothing really happened to advance the plot until the last five minutes when Dr. Doom makes his semi-triumphant appearance, says some tear-jerkingly evil dialogue the likes of which hasn't been seen on celluloid since "Apocalyspe Now", defeats, and is defeated in turn by the mind-numbingly boring fantastic four. They Burn him to death. With fire. What a pathetic way for my favorite super-villian to bite the dust.

I tried my best to make the movie more tolerable for myself and my fellow patrons by commenting, as loudly as I could, on every bit of trite dialogue and vain attempts at humor. Or, pretending to choke myself into unconsciousness with the hope of waking up when something that might be considered interesting would occur. Each time I sought to take refuge in the power of TRUE humor, the loser sitting next to me (who also equated humor with character development) kept putting his hand on my thigh, whispering "naboo...naboooooo" and I was reminded of Star Wars: Episode Three. Almost immediately, those words sent me into a partial catatonic state where I relived all the most vile scenes (i.e. all of them) from that particular gem in a period of minutes. I soon learned of true horror. The sort which no man may gaze upon and retain his sanity for any period of time.

I rushed out of the theatre during the closing moments of this atrocity, my liquified brain leaking from my ears, shouting "Uncle Indy, Let's go home now!"


--HK_Newbie

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For many of us, the dorm life experience can come as quite a shock. Indeed, I remember my first couple of days of college quite well. I can vividly recall the initial feelings of dread and sorrow that washed over me. It was as if my emotions were bees and my body comprised of delicious honey producing nectar. Just like most of the people who attend fine institutions, I was not accustomed to this whole “roommate” thingy. And if you’re anything like me, you quickly learned to fucking hate it. I know that he/she makes you want to commit regicide in hopes that you will be given the death penalty for your crimes just to alleviate your pain, as did I. After several weeks though, it finally occurred to me, the antidote to my constant misery epidemic was upon me!!!

The key to a healthy dorm-room relationship is simple. Your roommate must learn to respect you. And what is the easiest way to earn respect? That’s right, by making them fear you. You must become the veritable John Gotti of your respective life cubicles. You must instill in all those around you an ever present trepidation of your being. Your roommate(s) should cower in your wake much like people cowering in a wake only without the whole funeral atmosphere thing going on. After all it’s YOUR room, not OUR room.

I have found after many months of trial and error that the easiest way for you to accomplish said fear is by making them believe that you’re crazy. Now, I’m not talking about any of that pansy rock-star crazy like those with Bi-Polar or anything. I’m talking about really crazy, like Post-Office massacre crazy. That’s what you’re shooting for (no pun intended). You want your roommate to believe that at any moment you could just snap and erase his existence like the genetic mistake he is. Outlined below are a few simple steps you can follow on your very own path to crazy.

Step 1: You must fit the profile of being crazy.

Ever read an article or see an interview of the people who knew someone who had just snapped and killed a bunch of people? What do they always say? “I didn’t really know him that well. He was real quiet and polite. Always kept to himself. Didn’t really talk all that much. He was really really neat too…always came to work on time…never had any problems with him. It’s really shocking that he would do something like this.” Shocking indeed!!! If you want people to think you’re crazy you’re going to have to fit the profile of being crazy. So go for that stereotypically anal retentive style that us crazy folk have. Become sickeningly conscious of time and make sure that you shun any sort of social contact. But if a situation arises and you’re forced to talk to other humans make sure that you’re extremely polite. Crazy people are always polite and everyone knows this.

Step 2: Develop a tic.

One of the side-effects of being one of the blessedly insane is what is referred to as “tics”. Whether they be nervous or one of the various other varieties, one thing is positive. They all scream crazy. There are many different types of tics that can be developed and it is up to you to decide which you prefer. As for myself, I employ the classic eye twitch. It’s an oldie but a goody and is quite effective when used in conjunction with a slight jerking of the head. I find that rabid dogs make good test subjects when determining what tic you should be using. Simply stare it in the eyes and tic away. When it starts biting your face off it’s safe to say that your tic is sufficient.

Step 3: Make outlandish statements.

Crazy people are infamous for their uncanny ability to say things that make absolutely no sense whatsoever. And you can be sure that normal people always notice this. Content and timing are critical when convincing others of your insanity. For instance, a good example of a ludicrous statement would be “I hate dental floss.” However, as I said before, timing is crucial. If this were stated in the middle of a dental hygiene conversation it would be completely relevant and thus useless. Ideally it should be said during a time when the other person feels vulnerable. When the two of you are in bed and are experiencing a period of awkward silence provides for a perfect opportunity to employ such a technique. You see, if you were to state “I hate dental floss” immediately proceeding a completely inane conversation that you were forced to partake in, your roommate will be thoroughly alarmed by the sheer randomness of your announcement. The usual response for such a declaration would be somewhere along the lines of your roommate giving out a long and bewildered “ok” and then curling up into a ball and softly crying himself to sleep. Who knows, he may even begin experiencing nightmares about dental floss in which case you’ve just scored some extra bonus points towards your crazy meter.

Step 4: Get a “Crazy Item”.

All crazy people keep something that is as equally devoid of sanity as themselves. So you too must accrue an item of choice. Popular devices include Bibles with underlined passages, tattered and worn stuffed animals, or a mystery box. I fancy the latter. It must be noted however, that if you’re going to utilize the services of such a vessel, certain measures must be taken. First, you should make sure it is a plain container void of all distractions. This is done to insure that the point is that what matters is not what the box is, but what is contained within. Second, you should never under any circumstance allow your roommate to peer within it. Preferably it should have a lock and you should constantly check the contents of the box while your roommate is present to feed his ever gnawing curiosity. Although as stated before, you should never allow him to see what is contained inside and you should continuously make it known that he is not to look. Every so often you should accuse him of breaking into your box just to keep him on his toes. Third, the contents of the box are vital to the workings of the mechanism. I have found that pictures of you roommate sleeping or severed human fingers work quite nicely. Last and most importantly, you must catch your roommate breaking into your box. This can be accomplished quite easily by installing a camera in your room and conveniently forgetting your key to the box on your desk. Watching him pick up your key and crazy box through the hidden camera, you should burst into the room the very moment his face becomes aghast with what he finds contained within. At this point your roommate will probably run screaming from your room leaving you to pick up the contents of your box and put it back in plain sight for your roommate’s easy viewing.

Step 5: The “Crazy Stare”.

The last step of walking into the world of the clinically insane is that of the “Crazy Stare”. Crazy people all have that certain look in their eyes. It’s very hard to pinpoint what exactly it is, but they all have it. It appears something like a mixture of being incredibly hungry and horribly constipated at the same time. Anyway, you can easily practice your crazy stare with the same rabid dog that you were practicing your tic on, waiting for the same results to ensue. The crazy stare can be employed at any time but I find it most effectively used when your roommate is just waking up from his dental floss inspired nightmares. Imagine the display of sheer terror on his face when he wakes to find you staring directly into his eyes with that look that says “I’m hungry…and I need to shit too.”

So there you have it folks. These are the keys to having a successful dorm room experience. It may take some time to perfect your art. But remember, eventually you too will persevere and your roommate will be in the corner of your room curled up in the fetal position crying for his "Mother", whatever that may be. Good luck and good crazying.

-RaiNny

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Alrighty, I borrowed a template design from here in adherence with the wishes of the almighty white dreadlocked lesser-god: Rainny. I think the application went over pretty well, everyone will just have to publish and adjust their posts accordingly.

In other news, I still live in this oversized sandbox and I hate it. Oh, remember to sign your posts from now on!!!

----HK_Newbie

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Finch were one of many bands to emerge amidst the explosion of emo-core music. However, they had several traits that were desperately lacking in the majority of the scene's reportoire. Mainly talent, relevance, and originality. Their full length debut "What It Is To Burn" was one of the few albums able to keep this quickly sinking genre from drowning altogether. Indeed, Finch's role was quickly cemented by featuring two guest appearances on the aforementioned album by none other than Daryl Palumbo of Glassjaw fame. This was even further solidified by attaining touring slots along side other heavyweights such as Thursday and the previously mentioned Glassjaw. Their new album "Say Hello To Sunshine" will have many daunting obstacles to overcome. It long ago became apparent that to become stagnant, especially as proponents of the ever oversaturated emo-core scene, is to fail. With this outing the band will have to prove, just as their brethren in Glassjaw and Thursday have done, that they have the ability to progress and craft a sound that is easily definable as their own.

Upon first listen of the new record it is immediately clear that Finch are attempting something different with their sound. While their first album was top notch emo-core fused with sparse elements of elecontric programming their new album is straight forward with its hardcore delivery. Gone are the sugar coated sounds such as cuts like "Letters To You" or "Stay With Me" from their debut opus. Instead, the majority of the album produces reports closer to the track "Worms Of The Earth" that they completed for the Underworld motion picture soundtrack. Songs are generally discordant, heavy, and fairly quickly paced, while still offering sing along choruses thanks to singer Nate Barcalow's cutting croons. However, there are times when this overly frenetic pace can become tiring. It would have been better to break up the monotony of adrenaline by removing two or three of the less potent melodies and replacing them with a few experimental electronically tinged songs or a slower paced ballad reminiscent of some of their earlier works. However, the newly found aggression the band has channeled does shine quite often. Especially on the opening display "Insomniac Meat" and the next to last song "The Casket Of Roderick Usher" which brings to mind "Project Mayhem" from "What It Is To Burn" or Glassjaw's "Babe" in its ferocity and swift delivery.

The band definately had their work cut out for them when crafting this composition. They had the trying decision to make of staying comfortably in a method that has become formulaic in both its numbing execution and nearly guaranteed results or to strike off in a path of their own. Thankfully, Finch have chosen the road less traveled by those in the music industry. And while "Say Hello To Sunshine" nearly gets out of control from a steroid induced adrenaline binge, it does showcase fearless composure as well. If the members can further rein in their talents on future endeavors they will have a career brighter than sunshine itself.

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1. Dance (something I cannot and should not, ever do)

2. Enter Full Ninja Attack Mode (FNAM) (Just ask Eric, I punched the poor guy after he broke his ribs, what kind of asshole does that? A drunken ninja, my friends, a drunken ninja.)

3. Pretend to be someone famous, though no one can ever guess exactly who the hell I'm pretending to be. Probably someone awesome, rest assured.

4. I strip down to my boxers (sex-ay), wrap my blankets around me in a toga-esque outfit, and tell everyone that "you can't see me! you can't see me! I'm invisible!"
Then I crawl around army-style outside, looking for groundhogs with my shark knife. (unfortunately, I do have a vague recollection of this...and brush burns).

5. I break things. Like hearts; cause that's how I roll, yo! The honeys, they just can't stay away from Tipsy Doc, which is similar to regular Doc, except filled with precious precious alcohol and urine.

6. I write stories, in cursive, in a manner not dissimilar from Jack Kerouac's drug fueled typing session of "On The Road". Except I write in a torn-up notebook, and my stories don't even make sense to me after I interprete the shoddy cursive. When the notebook isn't available to me, I make use of any reflective surfaces and soap--- much to the cleaning lady's chagrin.


7. I sit on my bed, in the lotus position, with Tool playing, and imagine everything is on fire (or frozen, that's cool too) except me. Does that sound bad to you?

8. I sing. (Once again, like dancing, this is something I should never do, because I do it so very poorly)

9. I attempt to balance rolls of toilet paper on my oddly-shaped head. I may just post pictures of successful roll balancers of New Mexico (we may form our own organization). Trust me, everything is fun when regular Doc becomes Tipsy Doc. Even this.

10. I determine that drinking sucks, and I'm never, ever doing it again. Like dancing and singing, drinking is something that I cannot successfully perform in, so it must be eliminated entirely. Or mostly. I still like cocunut Margaritas.

Afterthought: I seem to remember attempting to summon Cthulu from his eternal slumber in the watery depths of R'lyeh, Cthulhu Fhtagn! (I failed, obviously)


---HK_Newbie

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ohkay, i'm leaving the states for awhile but i'm counting on you guys to keep this alive. here's a taste of what'll happen if there's nothing new posted on this when i check again.

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I've noticed a few things during my sojourn in this sandbox known as New Mexico (the slightly cleaner version of old mexico). People can't fucking drive. It's even worse than New Jersey, for God's sake. I didn't think anyone could be so mechanically dis-inclined as the denziens of NJ, but with the awesome power of my magnetic personality, I attract these people like flypaper for freaks no matter WHAT state I'm in. I should really just snap my own neck and get it over with.

Case number 1: The idiot who thought she could drive up a light pole.
Honestly, I watched as she sped up, passing traffic on the right, riding half on the road and half on the sidewalk, when she finally noticed the light pole. At this point, she had four possible options:
Swerve left.
Swerve right.
Stop the damn car.
Attempt to drive up the light pole.

Obviously, she thought the fourth option was the best of all possible choices, and she went for it. Bravo, bitch.








Case number 2: Without the right equipment? Improvise!

Okay, this particular mental giant was on a navy base in Albuquerque, on the side of the road, when his tire fell off his truck.
Allow me to explain that to you; his tire, the left rear tire, just kind of went rolling on its own way down the street, while his truck went a block or so on the rim. It was quite amusing at first. That is, until I watched him retrieve the tire, grabbing stones and other flat objects on the way back. "My god" I said aloud, "he's going to build a car jack out of RANDOM SHIT!!!!!" I went totally bugfuck, foaming at the mouth, bitting my tongue off, river dancing. I only river dance when really pissed, and man was I pissed. But you know what? He somehow managed to fix the truck without earning a well-deserved Darwin award. Let's hope he actually tightened the nuts this time.

I'm getting livid just thinking about it now. I should take a break and post the other pictures later. Why me, God? Why me?

---HK_Newbie

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So I was walking around the neighborhood yesterday and people just couldn't keep their lips off me! Not since the days of yore, nay, pre-yore!, have I had such an incredible experience. It was as if my cheeks were comprised entirely of malnourished 3rd world children and other peoples' lips were hungry fruit flies. Luckily I had my personal photographer, Muhammed "Power Word: Stun" Smith, with me to document the truly monumentous event.

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I thought it was pretty cool! I especially liked the parts where people died and things exploded and aliens died and stuff. I give it 4 PWNEDs out of 5.

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Christ, how can something with so many explosions and so much death be so very very boring? Sniper and I went to see WOTW last night and my dissapointment is almost palpable.

First off, the movie begins with a narrator setting the stage. Talking about germs and the earth and modern man---you know, all the shit we already knew about. Listening to Morgan Freeman drone on as if he were James Earl Jones (which he IS NOT. I could listen to Jones' voice read the phonebook outloud and i'd be entertained; Freeman is like the diet coke of kickass voices, just one unfulfilling calorie of boring) for 5 minutes only foreshadows the weighty, plodding movie that was about to unfold before our very tired eyes.

Yes, Sniper is correct. Action according to Speilberg, consists of running. Lots of running. Accompanied by a musical score that has permeated all movies made in the last 10 years. You know what I'm talking about: the "dun dun dun dun, DUN DUN DUN DUN, DDDUUUN DDDUUUN DDDUUUN" of stringed and percussive instruments all at once, rising in tempo and intensity with each passing dramatic moment. Please, please, please for the love of god. Have some fucking originality directors and composers. Figure out a way of conveying tension and fear and all those other emotions without the "dun dun dun dun dun, DUN DUN DUN DUN, DDDDUUUN DUUUNNN DDDUUUUN" bullshit. National Treasure is the worst offender in recent memory, but WOTW falls prey to it as well.

But back to the running. About 99 percent of the movie is spent watching Tom Cruise and his stupid family running from a towering alien robot shooting death rays out of articulating tentacles. I liked the tentacles. I also liked the alien robots and the death rays. I did not like Tom cruise and his annoyingly neurotic family (i realize tom cruise is the actor, and not the character, but i don't care enough to learn the character's name. I also don't care enough to capitalize my "i's" either, so bite me!).

Is that little brat Dakota Fanning capable of playing anything other than a scared, neurotic psycho-bitch with huge freaking eyes? Or are all little girls neurotic psychos with big eyes? hmmm....that's something to ponder. Tom cruise's son, I know neither the character or actor name, so lets call him "scooter," is also equally as annoying as Fanning. Scooter runs, and runs some more, he looks at things as they explode, and he attempts to run to his death on a battle field where the army was ineffectually battling the alien's super gundam death robots. I was so freaking HAPPY when scooter ran into a napalm burning death beam; the whole movie had redeemed itself for me. The annoying shit was dead! Then Speilberg ruined it at the end of the movie by having him magically appear to reunite with his family for no plausible reason. That jacket he was wearing must have been made of asbestos.

Redemption denied, BITCH!

Tim Robbins was good. Appropriately paranoid and insane. The whole movie should have been based on his character kicking alien ass with a pump-shotty and hatchet. But somehow Tom Cruise turns into the Hulk when behind a shut door, and kills Robbins with his bare hands in a matter of seconds. Let me tell you from personal experience people, its hard to kill someone with your bare hands. You have to really WANT it. And it doesn't take a minute and some grunting noises as Speilberg would have you believe. Oh well, I guess that's what they call "suspension of disbelief."

Oh, and the aliens looked like shit. They were not frightening in the slightest. Here, take a look: BOO! MOTHERFUCKER! BOO! I'm an alien, are you not terrified?

---HK_Newbie

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Almost immediately after forcing the grating up and over, the front bumper of a minivan smacked into the side of my head, briefly knocking me unconscious, and back into the rising rain water. I heard the squeal of brakes in dire need of replacement as the van stopped directly above me. “Ouch.” Doors opened and a group exited the van, talking excitedly amongst themselves. They reeked of cordite.

“Did you hear something?” one of the men asked. He received no reply. I was about to crawl back through the tunnels to my hole under the bridge and nurse my split skull when I heard that same voice wonder: “where did that burned bitch go?”

My head is fine. I did not just suffer a massive concussion, likely followed by cerebral swelling, edema, multiple hemotomas, and death. Besides, head trauma builds character. Once I finish here, I imagine I’ll need all the character building I can get. I chambered a few guns and climbed out.

I crawled out of the space between the van and curbside, leaving behind about a pound of flesh, and quickly caught up to the group as they approached the front door of the brownstone that was my target. I did my best to act like I belonged with them and for a second it seemed to work. As one of them unlocked the door, I sized up the edifice.

Once upon a time, it might have been an office or public works center. It was huge. Especially in comparison with the slums that surrounded it. Now it was the center of a vast and ever-expanding cancer— it was the home of the local heroin kingpin. All of which normally wouldn’t mean a thing to me; I could relate to drug users better than most because they too sometimes shared the same voices and perspectives on reality which I held. But she was involved with them. Deeply.

She just stared at me for at least a minute. It felt like an eternity. I had landed softly on the gravel behind her and lifted her out of the water by the scruff of her neck like a puppy. Neither of us knew how to begin. So she punched me. Twice. A practiced and unexpected right to the jaw, quickly followed by a left to my gut that left me doubled over and retching. I stumbled to the ground and started giggling between gasps for air. I liked her a lot already.

“Wha-what the fuck! Who the hell are you?!” one of the dealers asked, finally taking notice of me as his buddy opened the front door. I smiled in an attempt to be reassuring and gave him the thumbs up. “Damn, that was stupid.” Jerkoff kindly informed me. The rest of the crew finally noticed me and reached for their weapons. It appeared that they were of the shoot-first-ask-questions-never school of thought.

“Oh well, it looks like I will be going through the front door after all.” I was only a couple of steps away anyhow. I pulled the pin on the flashbang, dropped it at their feet, and rolled away with my eyes shut and my fingers jammed in my ears. For some inexplicable reason, the explosion sounded like rubber on steel. A supernovae proceeded to do its thing inside my poor mangled, disassociative brain.

The next lucid thing I know, my perspective goes haywire and I’m watching myself rise into a crouch shooting from my hip. Four shots in rapid succession. I still had plenty of bullets left, but that was all I needed. The four men went down, probably not even knowing they were dead yet. I walked past their corpses and opened the reinforced security door the rest of the way and stepped inside.

---HK_Newbie

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I lay there, in the storm runoff inlet just outside “that house” on 5th and Cambria. A couple of inches of cold water, flowing by, soaking my balls, chest, and the tips of my toes through my New Balance—the last thing I bought before going over the edge, actually.

“You wanna do something for me?” She sputtered out. I think I nodded, too scared to respond vocally.

I was in no danger of drowning. Yet. The rain was still mostly a pitter-patter on the still hot summer asphalt. I could smell it evaporating on contact even down here. I’d played in these sorts of places as a kid enough to know that all it would take is a sudden surge in the storm and I, all my weapons, about 2 liters of booze, and my slightly used New Balance would be violently whisked away to the closest outlet to the river. The Schuylkill. Under the bridge, where I first saw her—without her seeing me, of course.

She ran down the trail madly. Almost losing her footing halfway down and taking the plunge head-first. My small campfire was still smoldering but she was too drugged out or worn out to notice or care. She kept going, right to the edge of the river. Slowing down finally. For a second there, I thought she was going to keep running. Skipping like a blonde stone over the river to the other side. Overhead a tractor trailer passed; the tires on the poured concrete sounded like a freight train in a tunnel. The reverberations lingered as I watched her plunge her face into the oily water and breathe out. In.

My internal monologue, the Jerkoff, was telling me I should rush the front door guns blazing lead death. “Take ‘em by surprise.” A car ran over the grating above me, thankfully drowning him out. The rubber made a strange noise on the rusting steel. The dissonant note it struck sounded nice—no, appropriate to my ears. That would be my theme song, I decided, when I made my move. I removed the bullets one by one from their plastic baggies. Rubber on Steel.

I was the knight-errant now. About to storm the Garden from the story. There were two gates in the wall I could choose. I’d hesitate before the one labeled Love in a gaudy, neon sign. The demande d’amore does not appeal to a tough guy though; especially a slightly buzzed tough guy; most especially a slightly buzzed tough guy who lost touch with reality a few months ago and holds near constant conversations with himself. I would be kicking down or blowing in the other door. Death, it read, in the stone above after tearing away the years of ivy. Love’s door was well-oiled and the path was beaten flat. It was even paved. Death’s door hadn’t been opened in a long time. Trees bear no fruit there, the signs warned, Disdain and Despair will be your only guides. Good.

That didn’t mean I had to die right away. There were good ways to die, and there were bad ways. My present approach seemed to fit in better with the role I chose. The one I placed myself in on her behalf. All my movements were made as if in a dream. My body didn’t feel like my own. My mind moved me— at least the parts of my mind that were still mine. “Slowly, now.” Inexorably, I loaded my miniature armory. Enough to outfit a small country; albeit a very small and very poor one. Jesus! When did I acquire all this stuff?

Some glocks, sigs, even a usp. A few snub-nosed revolvers I stuffed into my socks and belt. Harnesses. A black leather doo-dad that wrapped around my chest like a girdle for the set of nicely balanced throwing knives that never, ever hit where I wanted to throw them (which made for some interesting situations in the past).

A grenade? No, a concussion device. A flash-bang which, if you stood to close when it went off, could really burn you quite bad.

“That’s nice of you, but I still don’t believe it.” She could’ve been a fucking movie star, easy. She was beyond gorgeous. The burn mark, now just scar tissue covering the right side of her face, reaching over her eye a bit and touching parts of her lips, only served to amplify her uniqueness. Her quintessential beauty. “There’s a cause if I ever saw one. Finally.” Jerkoff was heard to remark.

The water had slowly started to rise. It enveloped my chest like a lover and squeezed my lungs with a clenched, icy hand. Time to go. “Know thyself to be immortal,” Jerkoff told me.

“Shut your mouth” I muttered aloud. Even my voice sounded foreign to me. I stood and pushed up with all the force I could muster on the underside of the grating, not bothering to listen for oncoming cars.

---HK_Newbie

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Here we go again, I wrote this in a semi-drunken daze. It helps me get the old imagination juices flowing.
When I reached the relative safety of Pennhurst, I walked aimlessly for hours until I found myself standing before the town graveyard. I noticed, for the first time, the odd angle of most of the headstones, and the strange, sunken depressions in the earth, as if a hundred small sink holes were slowly swallowing the entire cemetery whole. I quickly walked away from the graveyard, my mind reeling at the possibilities...

Roughly three years have past since that day. I hear the noises with growing intensity and, once or twice a day, I catch a glimpse of them out of the corners of my eyes, before they dart out of my vision. The town is frightened. Animals and children keep disappearing, people comment on the irrepressible feeling of being watched by an invisible predator. Sometimes, when I’m sleeping outside with my rifle cradled in my arms, thinking about firing one final shot, I find myself muttering that same strange, soothing mantra of Harold’s and I am made calm— but I am also hungry. Venison cannot satiate me. I find myself watching the movements of the townspeople from the treetops, ravenous for something I dare not name.

Yet I cannot bring myself to enter the town, or to leave the dying area entirely. Today, I swear I saw the face of one of the ghouls; it bore a strong resemblance to my poor deceased friend. That brief glimpse reminded me of a time long ago, when both our families were alive and Harold and I were normal kids. I found an injured doe with its foreleg caught in the rusted jaws a wolf’s snare. Harold walked up to the animal, calmly touched its forehead, whispered some soothing words, and cut its throat without malice. He told me that it was a “mercy killing.” Such words for a boy! He then made me promise to do the same for him if he was ever in such a situation.

There are many of them now, and they are surely growing hungry.

Soon the cemetery will be empty and I will go to the mines to find Harold, to try and release him as I promised I would. I doubt I can though; I was never the killer he was. But I must try. And if I find that I cannot release him from his prison, I’m sure he’ll be more than capable of freeing me from mine.


Eh, what can I say, short but sweet. And I do see things crouching and gibbering out of the corners of my eyes--in case you were wondering. And yes, I do feel hungry.

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I’ll just cut to the end right here and simply state the obvious: Philly is way better than Brooklyn. There's no reason to argue that. I'll just tell you a real life, this really happened story, just like hk_newbie's entries.

First of all, to get to my destination- Tommy’s Tavern- I went on an Alicein Wonderlandesque journey into the subway while following an odd character with funny hair. He came straight out of a car crash between KISS and a few pirates. Actually I had no idea we were going to the same place. When I realized that I really was following this kid, I almost turned around and went home. This was not a good sign.

Tommy’s Tavern is just like any other bar- offering its patrons a pool table, two juke boxes and Budweiser on tap. PBRs were two dollars a can. Go figure. The bartender did however make jack and cokes fit for an Irishman. As a bar, it was average, I guess. As a venue, it was horrible. The room the bands were in was no bigger than a double room in Stony Brook’s residence halls. That’s really fucking small. To top it off, the bands were making up in volume what they lacked in talent. That’s when I decided that I should probably just get drunk as quickly as possible and stay outside as much as I can.

After the first band's set (which by the way included such antics as throwing carrots and broccoli at the audience and having the whole band dress in private school uniforms), I was well into my 40 oz. of social skills and very happy to have found the one person in the whole place that held no pretenses: Shono.

This kid was IN the Last Samurai. He told me that Tom Cruise was “gorgeous” and that he came to work every day in a helicopter. He also told me about being able to shoot the “very old guns.” I believe Shono was also the only one in the whole crowd who admitted to me that he thought the bands were shitty. He did however like the Schemps…and I agreed with him.

The Schemps were definitely the crowd favorite. By then I was deaf in one ear and finally getting over being so nervous. Addrianna placed me right in front of the band and told me to watch the frontman. Well, not only did I get to watch the frontman, I was literally swept up and away by him at the start of the set, making everyone oh-so-jealous of me. I was taken by surprise and all I could do to keep from just tripping over everyone was hold on. I think he expected me to sing into the mic as well but fuck if I knew the words. This pretty much set the tone for the rest of the night- the room was just a writhing mass of humanity- pushing, pulling, grabbing, shaking, throbbing.

Now I don’t know what’s worse- getting to a show and realizing that you’re older than everyone else by at least 2 years or realizing that you’re younger than everyone else by at least 5 years. This show was definitely the latter. Well, now I don't feel so bad that I have no idea what the hell I'm going to do with my life. Somehow I know that I probably won't be where they are when I'm their age. Whew.

At the end of the night, I boarded a local A train with my friend Addrianna and her man of the night, an innocent, effeminate little Wisconsin boy, both were drunk, ready to rip each other’s clothes and kind of loud. I was half-asleep, disappointed and mentally preparing for whatever could come up on my way home.

Well...I'm not very good at telling stories. Not much of a story to tell but here's some pictures...They're supposed to be worth a thousand words.

I found G-unit sitting on the sidewalk. These guys are drug dealers. At one point, they threw a bottle at us. I went over there with Scott and straightened them out. If you’re 30 feet away, they’re jerks but if you walk up to them, they’re just a bunch of pussies. I made sure they knew who had the real cojones (me). See the guy at the end, yeah, he’s wiping his mouth after choking on my chojin penii.

Muay Thai kickboxing has nothing on moshing.

But the whole night could really have been summed up by this one picture...my money shot:
Moral of the story: I’m never staying up until 4AM ever again unless I’m playing D&D (I’m under the impression that role-playing til the sunrises is the norm though I’ve never experienced that.) or I’m having sex or studying. And I’m not even sure if having sex is really a good reason to be up that late anyway.

Best/Worst moment of the night: The bar closed and Addy really needed to take a piss…So I stood watch as she peed behind a car. I meant to take a picture but I didn’t. She’s really good at peeing while standing!! However, she did splash urine onto my shoes. I gave her my best frown.

Final Assessment: When the time comes for the 4MR to rise up and carry out its mission, Brooklyn can provide us with the pawns that we might need. But other than that, it’s pretty expendable.

Point: I’m never leaving my house again.

Counter-Point: I’m probably never posting again. This is a disaster.

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well, i'm really just posting right now because i'm leeching off of someone else's wireless internet and that makes me...happy. also, it's goddamn time for me to establish my presence here. so for my first piece, i will be presenting to you "philly vs. brooklyn." but probably tomorrow. consider this a preface-

why was i in brooklyn? honestly, it's because i always choose the worst times to not be flaky. on this particular day i decided that i would hang out with my friend addrianna finally. and on this particular day she decided that she was going to a punk rock show in brooklyn. i decided to turn an inevitably wasted night into a scientific journey to the depths (or shallows) of the nyc punk scene. using my ultimate power ninja disguise skills, i infiltrated brooklyn and the nyc punk scene. look: BROOKLYN LOVES ME-


more pictures and comparisons to come. first sleep.

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Originally comprised of former members of Human Waste Project, Snot, and 30 Seconds To Mars, theSTART weave as enigmatic a sound as one could imagine. Amazingly enough, their individual talents blended perfectly as their debut produced one of the most original and refreshing sounds heard in years. Fusing elements of punk, 80’s synth-pop, and gothic textures, “Shakedown!” went into areas that no one suspected would arise from these prog-rock and hardcore punk alumni. Quite expectantly though, theSTART remained under the radar of most of the public’s ears. Following some label shifting, they would release the “Death Via Satellite” EP on Nitro Records. The short preview of new material saw them moving away from their dance-rock tendencies. Instead, the punk and goth flavors moved to the forefront of the palette. This is not to say that the material faltered, on the contrary, the product portrayed new maturity as the group delved deeper into their more caustic musical roots and added topical relevance with anthemic lyrical composure. With “Initiation” then, theSTART must prove that they have what it takes to maintain longevity within the capricious music scene.

The opening track and subsequent first single, “Like Days”, is a wonderfully crafted example of theSTART’s talents. Ripe with sharp guitar riffs, thick bass lines, diligent drumming, and expert vocal control, the cut is an atmospheric beauty. However, it turns out to be quite an anomaly when compared to much of the music found here. Several of the album’s cuts are passable, and few songs really stand out in your head. Jamie Miller’s guitar work seems to have strayed even farther from the poppy, punk days of yore. Instead, it appears he is attempting to craft more of a space rock feel ala Failure, or a much more densely sounding The Cure that rarely comes off nearly as charming. Aimee Echo always has and always will be the main focal point of the band however. Her raspy yet sweet vocals are still quite in fine form. The only problem being that with the sub-par song construction, often times her performance comes off more saccharin than sugar tasting. Bass on the album is actually somewhat impressive as it turns out to be an important backbone to many of the tracks instead of just following along understated. Being fairly dull in comparison though, the percussion displays itself as little more than a steady backbeat. Likewise, production value on the album seems fairly low. For a band with so much energy attempted in their compositions it’s odd that listening to them on this outing makes you feel more like you’re hearing indie or garage rock hipsters than existential art-pop punks.

“Initiation” as a whole is a rather disappointing affair. Almost completely void of the original kinetics, it makes you wonder if Miss Echo and Co. really wants you to know that “You can dance if you want to!” as their old mantra used to proclaim. Indeed, even when compared to the “Death Via Satellite” EP, the album feels more like a collection of B-sides than it does as a completed piece of work that the band should be proud of. With the exception of the first track and maybe two or three others, none of the other songs really live up to the legacy of theSTART. And while the band still produces music that is far more interesting than nearly everything else out right now, “Initiation” really makes you ponder if you’re witnessing the start of something different or the end of something good.

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Enjoy you buggers!

My friend Harold is, or should I say was—I'm not entirely certain anymore— a strange and preoccupied fellow. That’s not to say that he wasn’t an inherently “good” person—he was kind to those who deserved kindness, apathetic to those who didn’t, and more importantly he was a fair hunter: not given to torturing his prey or killing more than absolutely necessary to our survival. No one however, not even Harold, could pinpoint the source of his persistent distress. During our hunts for the white-tail deer that roam like specters in the wooded areas around his home, something would always draw his attention to a dark corner of the forest; he would lower the muzzle of his rifle and mutter strange words under his breath as he searched for the source of an inexplicable and evidently threatening noise. “Rustlings in the dark” he called them, and while I would notice his sudden shift in posture and excited state of mind, I could never hear the noises that, to him, grew more and more discernable as the years went by.

We were the only two children of comparable age in our bucolic town of Pennhurst in north-eastern Pennsylvania, so it was natural and somewhat essential that we became good friends; more like brothers, some said— virtually indistinguishable from each other in both our mutual distaste for the social adventures of the common youth and inexplicable desire for solitude. He taught me how to hunt and live off the meager bounty of his desiccated strip of property. In return, I showed him the false yet enticing beauty of poetry and the addictive escape from reality in literature. We lived in a dream for our entire youth. I counted it a gift.

Our parents had either abandoned us or died in the ever-expanding rot that infected every miner’s lungs, leaving us free from the constraints and limitations of imagination adults normally place on children. Neither of us imagined that such a reality would ever intrude on our utopia.
Pennhurst was once well known for its rich coal-mining facilities that provided the major if not sole source of work for the local population. About a decade ago, the mines went completely dry and those that didn’t abandon the town to its slow decay tried their best to eke out a living from the poisoned land. The past was still writ large upon the land which surrounded the strip-mined hills: most of the streams were so acidic that only a brown layer of malodorous algae could thrive and choke the waterways; acres of forest lay decimated from the searing and frequent acid rain.

Still, there were wide swaths of land yet untouched by the virulence and it was in these forests where Harold and I spend most of our days and nights hunting far from the rusting frame of civilization.

By the time we’d both reached our twenties, there was a noticeable alteration in Harold’s demeanor. He would suffer from intense moods of melancholy and paranoia for no apparent reason; it was as if a great black-winged bird had settled on his shoulder to cast an almost tangible pall of darkness on the very earth around him. During these moods, he’d scowl maliciously at any of the townspeople who dared to cross his path on the rare occasions when we ventured into the community for supplies. Thankfully, I seemed exempt from his hatred. Instead, he paid me no more mind than he might an insect, only speaking to me when it was time to head back to the woods or short tactical orders when we were on the hunt.

Of course, the “rustlings” were always more pronounced during such times. I considered it a small wonder that he managed to keep from howling like a madman since I could plainly see his profound dread and terror that the unknown noise-maker might reveal itself at any moment. It was like a sickness, gnawing at his bones, until they became brittle ivory sticks on the verge of snapping.

His 24th birthday was once such of these days. “The sounds are still there,” he told me as we drank tepid beer around a smoldering fire “but there’s something else. I can almost see them!” His eyes were wild, bloodshot orbs— windows into his diseased and febrile mind. What worried me more, though, was the Colt Python .357 magnum he bought a year ago; “for hunting” he said, but I could tell it was more to assuage his paranoia than anything else. I wasn’t sure where he kept it on his body, but it was certainly close. I hoped that no one was foolish enough to stumble into our campsite on this night.

When the last embers finally burned away, Harold fell into a fitful sleep. What happened next might have been a dream, though I doubt it. I was half awake, half asleep watching Harold toss and mumble in his nightmares when I heard something running along the periphery of the campsite. I rose and hesitantly walked in the direction of the noise. It was no four-legged animal, I could tell that much; no, it sounded like a man running impossibly fast through the woods, approaching Harold and I as if he were being pursued, or pursuing something. The sound halted just a few feet ahead of me where the tree line began. Even though the moon was full, and I had fairly good night vision, my sight still could not pierce the utter blackness of the dense fir canopy that, even on the brightest of days, made it seem like eternal dusk. It had stopped moving, whatever it was, but there was another noise in its place. It reminded me of when I was young and my father’s lungs were irrevocably ruined by the coal dust that hung like a mist in the mines.

What I heard directly in front of me, hidden by the forest, sounded like my father’s breathing on a particularly cold night: a labored, gasping breath that seemed to fight for every molecule of oxygen. I remembered lying awake at night, wishing he would just give up, just stop breathing. I could barely sleep it was so loud. Then, as unreal as it was, the noise just disappeared. I listened for a few minutes, and there was nothing. Not even the sound of the crickets or the wind moving through the trees. I slowly backed up, and retreated into the fragile safety of my sleeping bag where I listened to Harold murmur and cry out—dreaming, no doubt, of rustlings in the dark and pale shapes caught in the corner of his eye.

Months past and I never heard the rustling or that horrid breathing since, even Harold appeared in better spirits than he had been in years. Until that morning, on a cold December weekend, when we were returning after an unsuccessful hunt in one of our favorite spots, Harold and I both spotted a trail that we hadn’t noticed before. Even more unusual, the path seemed well-traveled, though I was sure that it wasn’t there a day ago on our venture out. Harold was seized on the spot by one of his dark moods, and without a word to me, he went off down the forbidding pathway. With a sigh, I followed behind him.

With each step the trail became more rugged and the towering firs I was used to transformed into shriveled, hunched over shells—at times, they looked like caricatures of the human form, with a pair of bent limbs extending from the main trunk that appeared startlingly similar to human arms. If I allowed my imagination to color the surroundings even further, I could detect grotesquely distorted facial features near the midsection of their wrinkled trunks.
Harold stopped abruptly, and pointed ahead. The trail had brought us to one of the many entrances to a long abandoned central mine shaft where both our fathers had worked to their ends. Such entrances dotted the landscape, and were nothing new to Harold and I. Nonetheless, finding one we never knew existed was something of a surprise. More surprising was finding the heavy oaken door slightly ajar, as if it someone forced the lock open to gain entrance.

“Here,” Harold told me as he handed me one of a pair of walkie-talkies he had bought on a whim some time back. “They probably won’t work too far in, so when I start losing you, I’ll come back” and with those words he walked through the gate. It was opened wide enough, I noticed, for a single man of average size to enter so long as he turned sideways and shuffled in. I didn’t argue with Harold. The madness in his eyes told me quite clearly that to do so would be futile and possibly dangerous.

He left his finger depressed on the walkie-talkie, so I could hear his footsteps echo loudly among the shadows along with the same nonsensical phrases he unconsciously mutters under his breath as a sort of mantra to control his tenuous grip on reality. I had a sudden, terrifying thought. What if the door was not forced open from the outside to gain entrance, but was instead broken open from the inside? Yes! Judging from the way the wood bulged outward from the center, it looked like some desperate creature rammed the door until it opened barely wide enough for a single man to pass through. As I contemplated this startling revelation, I realized that I hadn’t been paying attention to Harold. He was trying to relate his experience inside the caverns, but the depths to which he descended distorted all but a few phrases. “It’s…filled” I heard him say quite clearly, until a burst of static filled the airwaves, then “caskets, hundreds of them…piled on top of each other… my God…the cemetery!” Finally, the static became so pervasive that all I could hear was enough of his voice to know that he was still alive, not enough to understand his words though. I shouted into the damn device for him to come back, but he still had his finger depressed on the speaker button, so my words couldn’t reach him no matter how loudly I screamed.

Without thinking of the possible consequences, or what slumbering evil my shouts might wake, I ran to the mine’s entrance and yelled for Harold in the kind of desperation where one knows, no matter how loudly one screams, the outcome is inevitable. I heard Harold’s reply a moment later: six successive shots from his magnum followed by a scream of sheer trepidation and, perhaps more terrifyingly, recognition; as if all the sounds and glimpses pieced together over the years had coalesced into whatever abomination stood before him now. His scream lasted for seconds, until it was cut short.

I stood there, paralyzed and numb, my mind reeling as the rustling I heard that night months ago returned. I refused to believe it at first and called out like a fool to Harold. The paralysis left my body when I heard the noise again, closer than before and I caught a glimpse of cadaverous flesh. Again, I heard my father’s emphysemic breath just inches from my face. I turned, dropped the walkie-talkie to the ground, and ran blindly through the woods, for the trail we followed earlier had once again been swallowed up by the shrunken firs that made mockeries of men’s bodies...

I'll post the rest tommorrow.

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