getting drunk

the first time i got drunk was not intentional. i was in grade six or seven and my parents had gone away on a trip to mexico. my sister and i had the house to ourselves but my grandma had us over for supper almost every day. my grandma is some eccentric to say the least. anyways, we had supper and she offered us dessert. i ended up having ice cream and being the spoiled brat that i am, i asked if she had any chocolate syrup to put on top. after a while she came back and dumped half a bottle of some creamy stuff on it. after having it i started to feel a way didn't before. i didn't know it until the next day but i guess she ended up dumping the rest of her bailey's on top of my ice cream.

i blame her today when i do stupid shit when i'm drunk. she should have just molested me instead.

The Great Beer Run

Oh demon alcohol.  The first time ever I kissed your lips ‘twas at the tender age of sixteen on the night of The Great Beer Run.  It began when Ed’s parents went out of town for the weekend and left Ed all alone and in charge of the house for the first time ever.  Patrick and I both told our parents that we were staying over at Ed’s house for the night.  It was nothing unusual as far as they knew.  But we had a plan.  Up to this point, what would usually mean a night of pizza, comic books and channel-surfing for tits on cable now took a whole new direction.  We were men now and that meant it was time to get drunk. 

The first order of business was the procurement of beverages.  Easy enough we thought.  The legal drinking age in Georgia was still eighteen in the early 80’s and so we set about finding someone with an older brother who would buy us some beer.  We piled into my sky-blue ’77 Plymouth Volaré two-door coupe, recently acquired with my license along with an after-school job at McDonald’s to pay for my own gas and insurance.  We then went cruising on the streets of our tiny town, asking everyone we knew if they could get us some beer.  But fate was not kind.  By the time we found said older brother, the local ordinance against selling alcohol after 11:30 pm was in effect.  We tried store after store, but there was no joy.  We were crushed.  It was though we had failed our first test of manhood and would have to remain in the boy’s club.

I believe it was Patrick who came up with the bright idea.  For many years, rural rednecks skirted the rules against taverns by having private clubs around the county.  Besides allowing them to operate a bar, being private meant they could exclude anyone they didn’t like.   You can draw your own conclusion as to who that might be.  So we set off for the Pecan Lounge where we hoped to badger someone in the parking lot into going inside and bringing us back some cold ones.  The Pecan Lounge was down a long dirt road and set back into a pecan orchard where, under privacy of darkness, these country clubbers could fuck and/or knife each other without attracting attention.  Halfway down the road to the lounge, we spied a guy stumbling along in and out of the roadway.  I pulled along beside him and rolled down my window.  He thought we were going to rob him until he saw that it was a car full of kids.  “Hey man, can you go back in there and get us a case of beer?” we asked.  A case of beer was way more than we could use, but what did we know?  He looked back down the road at the neon beer signs from which he had just emerged and said, “Naw boys, they ain’t gonna let me back in there tonight.  But I need me a ride home.  You get me back to my trailer and I’ll give you the twelve-pack in my fridge.”  Before I could object, Ed had opened the passenger door and jumped in the back with Pat.  The drunk slid in beside me on the front bench seat and slammed the door.  Well fuck.  He was in the car now, reeking of unwashed redneck and stale beer.  I followed his directions back to a decrepit trailer park just knowing that he was lying and that there would be no beer tonight.  We parked in front of his trailer and I could hear dogs barking and someone yelling.  Ed and Pat followed him inside his aged single-wide while I sat with the engine running, nervous as hell that I would either be attacked or propositioned and not knowing which one I feared worse.  After what seemed like an hour, they emerged with our treasure, a twelve-pack of Bud in the can.  The guys said that the only thing in his fridge other than the beer was a head of lettuce.  Tough shit for him, it was time to enjoy our hard-earned brewskis.

Thus armed for a night of camaraderie, we returned to Ed’s house to celebrate our manhood.  Although today four cans of beer each seems like only an appetizer, for a 135-pound sixteen-year-old virgin, it was a gracious plenty.  I had taken a sip or two from Grandpa’s Miller High Life in the past, but now I was drinking like a man.  It really tasted awful, but quitting after all that would have been tantamount to admitting homosexuality.  I forced myself to gulp it down and rip into another can.  I remember each one tasting better than the last.  After the third one, I don’t think I even noticed the taste at all.  Exact details of the rest of the evening are all rather fuzzy.  I do recall repeated listening to Van Halen’s first album.  My name is Dave and we had an Eddie with a guitar, so it was a natural.  Patrick was flailing away, an ersatz Alex as we did “Ice Cream Man” over and over.  The only other distinct memory involved Patrick shoving his head into a bowl of tuna salad and coming up with the classic, stereotypical pie-in-the-face mask.  Like most things, the anticipation was better than the reward itself.  But what a night it was.  Three teenage lightweights take that first step toward adult debauchery.  Other cultures may have tougher rites of passage, but on that night we were the kings of beers and my love affair with alcohol began with that first hard to get kiss.  

movie scenes

I despise people who say how a certain fictional movie relates to their life. Examples of this are the douches at halloween who dress up either as The Crow or some character from The Matrix. If i was able to go back in time, I would go back to a week before halloween the year these movies came out. You know that at the time the prick thought they were going to have an awesome Halloween costume this year and thought to themself that no one else was going to have the same costume. I would then travel into the future to the Halloween where they wore this douchey costume and realized that everyone else had the same idea. The disappointment on their face would be legendary. As you can tell, I'm an optimist.

I can see how some movies "based on true stories" can be inspirational. The Heather Mills' movie on how she was unable to use the stairclimber at the gym had me in tears. Equally heart wrenching was in the movie "Mask" (not the Jim Carrey one but the one with Rocky Dennison and Cher as a biker bitch). The scene in the movie where he thinks that the movie "The Elephant Man" is ripped off about his life is not only hilarious but sad at the same time.

George Lucas Raped My Childhood

Lately I’ve taken to reading a little blog site called “Overthinking It” (http://www.overthinkingit.com). Which subjects the popular culture to a level of scrutiny it probably doesn't deserve. So I thought perhaps it may be time for me to “overthink” my hatred of George Lucas and his faustian decline into vapidness and infamy.

The crimes of George Lucas are manifest and myriad.

I’ve written about this before (you can check it out here - http://sarielthrawn.blogspot.com/2005_11_01_archive.html).

In that short piece I lamented what George had done to my beloved Star Wars saga.

How he had not only created an absolutely atrocious and unworthy set of prequels to the original trilogy, but also that he had “remixed” the original movies. I use the term remix, because every remix I’ve ever heard was always worse than the song it was mixed from and only served to profit from the success of the original. Keep the word profit in mind, we’ll be returning to it later.

Allow me to quote from that earlier piece:

First of all the digital remastering of the originals. Good idea, in theory. But George Lucas had to 'tweak' the movies didn't he? I mean who the fuck wanted to see Greedo shoot first. How the fuck do you miss a guy sitting across from you at a table when your gun is pointed directly at his chest? The whole point of that fucking scene George was to show that Han Solo is a bad-ass mother-fucker who you don't fuck with. A smuggler and a criminal who ultimately finds redemption.

As you can probably imagine, I was a tad upset at the time.

I’ve calmed down a little since. But my hatred is still there, simmering.

So is there anything left to be said about George Lucas and his complete and utter disregard for genuine story telling?

Perhaps.

Or perhaps it is more that he has completely prostituted himself and his creation? Or that he’s surrounded himself with sycophantic puppets who do nothing but praise him?

“Jar Jar Binks is a great character George. He’s really funny.”
“Of course Greedo should shoot first. He’s the bad alien guy, after all.”
“You totally read my mind George, I was just thinking how the one thing missing from this movie is an all-alien rock n’ roll show!”
“No way! No-one will care if the character’s actions and motivations from the first three don’t line up with the new three. What with all the ammaaazing digital effects we’ll be using, I’m sure no-one will even notice.”


I could go on and on.

I could tell you how the new Indiana Jones movie is utter shyte. Jesus Christ! It’s like all he’s good at now is turning previously decent movie franchises into mush.

I could tell you that having Yoda, Vader and Vader’s new apprentice make an appearance in Soul Caliber IV just weeks before the new Star Wars game is due for release is both opportunistic and cynical (and from all reports the characters are nothing special)

I could tell you that prior to the release of The Phantom Menace Lucas had only directed three movies. Total.

I could tell you that even though he is friends with some of the greatest and most creative directors, writers and producers on the planet, he chose to fill a role he had very little experience in.

I mean, you don’t get the job of constructing the Pyramids, when all you’ve ever built before was a granary, a barn and your best friend’s outhouse.

But he sure knows how to make a buck, does our George.

Item one - the digitally remastered re-release of the original movies. All released in cinemas and then all released on DVD (and making bucketloads at every turn).

But he wasn’t happy just re-releasing the movie. He had to change them. Because there were some things he just didn’t have the technology for back in the day. Some things that just didn’t sit right with him. Like a bounty hunter shooting a guy, or a town in the middle of a desert being only sparsely populated (whowouldathunkit?).

Can someone say revisionist history?

And he has the fucking audacity to be pictured wearing a “Han shot first” t-shirt! (http://www.overthinkingit.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/07/hanshotfirst.jpg)

So I purchased the re-released movies (on VHS) and find that everything that George has added to the movies has, in fact, not made my viewing experience any more pleasurable.

Some months later I purchase the DVDs (yeah, I know).

Then, finally, the NEW STAR WARS MOVIE is about to come out. I was walking around with a hard on for months prior to its release (Every Saga Has a Beginning. I mean come on? How cool is that?).

I tried to like it. Really, I did. The podrace was fast and cool, kinda. Yoda was in it. Liam Neeson was nice. Natalie Portman was cute. Ewan McGregor was a young Obi-Wan Kenobi. (I just notice as I typed “Obi-Wan Kenobi” that the spell checker on MS-Word didn’t pick it up as an error. Talk about being totally absorbed into the culture).

But the movie itself was garbage. The kid was fucking annoying. And Jar Jar Binks? I mean seriously? WTF??!?

It’s like Pepsi and McDonalds and Pizza Hut all came up to him and said, “Hey George, you reckon you can put in some sort of ‘crazy’ character for the kids? You know, so we can sell more products and cut you a bigger cheque? You know, make him talk funny and maybe give him a funny walk. But he has to have a heart of gold. Little kids really love that stuff, just look at the numbers from these focus groups.”

There is so much wrong with that movie that I could probably write an entire book about it.

The second one was a bit better. But still. Hayden Skywalker was fucking useless. And the plot George? Really? Anakin Skywalker becomes Darth Vader, the meanest man in the galaxy, because he misses his mommy? And the way you got so much out of young Hayden. It had flashes of Keanu’s woodeny brilliance.

The third one was a bit better again (but really only because of the lava pit battle). But General Grievous turned out to be the biggest disappointment in the galaxy. Intended to be a superb combination of biology and mechanics and he sounds like a cancer victim. And who the fuck is making up these names George? Really? Your bad guys name is Grievous?? You fucking hack.

And Samuel “Mother Fucking” Jackson as a leader of the Jedi Council? It didn’t feel unnatural at all.

There’s more obviously. And I’ve probably mixed around some points there. But you get the idea.

Just the fact that Lucas has no idea how to work with actors should be sufficient. Not a single performance in any of those three movies approached anything close to an extra from the Lord of the Rings. And you have to blame the director there, because on paper the cast is fantastic. It’s you George. It’s fucking you.

But I still bought all three on DVD. (Yeah, I know).

And then, after saying (when the originals were re-released) that the original cuts were not going to be released as they were originally screened in the 70s and 80s, he released DVD versions of the original cuts. (Yay!)

And yes, I bought all three DVDs. (Yeah, I know).

So I’m a whore. I know this. But goddamn it, how many beatings do I have to take?

My opinion (such as it is) is that George Lucas, a) is not a director and never has been (at least not a good one); b) was/is more concerned with ILM and his fucking special effects units than he is in actually making a good “movie” (that’s right George, a movie consists of more than just special effects); c) has sold his creative soul to make mountains and mountains of cash through merchandise; and d) has surrounded himself with nothing but sycophants and yes-men who do his bidding and carry out his every whim.


But (and here it is really), I am still a Star Wars fan. Even a George Lucas fan. Sure, I may hate him and wish that he died a horrible death in front of his children. But I’m still a fan. I love Star Wars and I always will. Same goes for Indy.

Even though I feel like a battered bride at times, I shall continue to return. Until my back is broke and nose is crimson.

The Force is my ally. It surrounds us and penetrates us and binds the universe together.


The Force will be with you… always.

my conception: an unerotic love story

it was a late night. my father was intoxicated with the fine taste of a 40 oz beer. he was poor as his first child, a daughter, wasn't planned and he was either too kind or stupid to kick his wife down the stairs. as he stumbled into bed, his wife had on a tattered negligee. their daughter was sleeping or passed out from the nyquil that she was given to her so she would shut the fuck up.

as he crawled into bed, he looked over at the thing in his bed. something was uttered to him by the thing that may have been sexual but thankfully he was too drunk to understand. darkness soon came over him thanks to the 8% beer.

he woke up later and felt his ribs getting crushed... what's happening?! he woke up to see thing on top of him, raping him. he was paralyzed (or too lazy) to push it off of him. being a lazy fuck, he was also too lazy to pull out. "whoops," he thought, "it's her problem anyways". drunk logic isn't good.

a few months later he can't understand why this bitch is puking every morning and getting fat. he thinks that she's eating too much. when 7-8 months comes around and it's too late to vacuum the fucker out, he realizes that she's pregnant.

maybe this is why my dad and i have so much animousity towards one another...

The Conception of Sariel Thrawn

How was Sariel Thrawn conceived?

How indeed!

Some say that men such as he are not conceived, but spring up, full grown from the Earth. Others would tell you that his very existence defied all the laws of God and Man and Nature.

I tell you now, they are all wrong.

The conception of Master Sariel Thrawn is a tale that defies all explanation. It is exultant in its mediocrity. Luminous in its monotony. Ubiquitous in its sterility.

You will not laugh. You will not cry.

You may, however, yawn.

I realise that it is difficult to image that such magnificence could have be spawned by such utter vacuity, but nonetheless, it is so.

So how was he conceived? What were the circumstances under which he came to be?

Well the simple truth is that he was conceived in a rather non-descript and ugly shack on the outskirts of a rather non-descript and ugly town.

His mother was a frigid, cold-hearted, victim. Raped and beaten until she was nothing but a corpse that still managed to walk and talk, but had just forgotten to die.

His father? He was a pestilence on humanity and a broken human being.

One met the other on a dark street. There was a transaction. There was conception.

Here ends the tale of the Conception of Sariel Thrawn.

As bleak and lifeless a tale as one could hope for. His conception was rather a non-event.

His birth, however, now that’s a different story.

The Joyous Cruelty of Children

I learned to read at an early age, cementing within my skull a feeling of superiority over my fellow human beings. For Christmas during my fourth year of life my mother (or Santa, the thin lie she spooned into my head that I never could swallow) gifted me with a read-a-long Disney tape set. I devoured them. Phonics had not seen a resurgence yet, Sesame Street only offended my young sensibilities with its trashy production values and pedantic overacting, while the Letter People held only a slight and bizarre allure for me, but in general, I had no outside help when it came to learning the alphabet. My mother did not read to me, that is why she bought the tapes.

Somehow, I managed to use those books to teach myself literacy. Reading felt easy and natural. One day a red stop sign looked like gibberish, the next it made sense. I finished the tapes, and went on to hard science fiction. The first two novels I ever read were Fred Saberhagen's Bezerker Wars and then Colleen McCullough's Thorn Birds. I was only five.

See, I have always had this psychotic theory that I have lived my life before, everything I have learned only a remembrance of the past, and déjà vu was but a symptom. Somehow I don't think I'm doing any better than the previous run through.

Regardless, I was a sharp youngster that would develop into a brilliant child that would blossom into a mentally retarded adult…but still, I will always cling to my superiority over all humanity. If I am full of shit, I am full of the most valuable and precious shit imaginable.

On the surface I was a good kid. I never needed a spanking, and even though my mother was a definitive authoritarian of the draconian camp—as she was quick to discipline my siblings, I was quick to conform to what she wanted, or make it appear that I did.

There was always an undercurrent of subversion boiling in my brain. It washed through my veins and manifested itself in how I treated my young playmates.

We had a black and white cat named Toby; I named him that, possibly after the fox or hound from that Disney movie about the fox and the hound, or perhaps after the protagonist from Roots. Both names would be fitting. And while I loved that cat, I couldn't help but to torture that poor thing. Not physically, mind you, but mentally. Well, sometimes physically. For example, I knew that he could swim, and I had to prove it to Jerome, the neighbor child a year younger than myself. When the poor cat begged to come inside and shook slimy green kiddy pool water all over my mother’s clean towels, I blamed Toby’s condition on Jerome. It was an easy sell.

Jerome was not a smart child, although he was probably a normal child. I could feel the banality and mediocrity that dripped off his psyche and could already envision his possible futures, which involved either manual labor or prison. He was my plaything.

I often lied to him. With my lies, I generated falsehoods within his mind with the sole intent of humilating him. It wasn't difficult, Jerome wanted to impress me so badly.

“Have you seen the new GI Joe?” I would say.

“Yes,” he would lie.

“He’s dressed like clown.”

“I know! My mom got him for me yesterday. And a Babe Ruth rookie card.”

I always wondered why he took the bait. He probably wanted me to like him, for me to accept him--to impress me. It could never be, for I was a mean child.

“Show me.”

“I can’t, I’m grounded from it.”

That was the extent of his ability to think on his feet. He was the only child my age that lived close enough to play with, so it was either his company or soul crushing loneliness. I always felt superior to him, though, in every way.

Take for example the time when we were in the back yard playing He-Man; I was Skeletor, and he was that lame battering ram guy. I had him by the shirt, just about to banish him to the netherworld (the small space between the duplex and the garage) when two Rottweilers trotted around the corner. I suppose they were menacing enough—one of them had more mass than both of us put together, they were not friendly. When they started growling Jerome fell to pieces. It might be a lie to say that I was not scared, but I certainly held my composure. While Jerome devolved into a blubbering mess I calmly led him inside, and neither of us were torn to little bits.

My self-esteem is probably so high today because I had someone like him to compare myself to when I was so young.

Toby, the poor cat that I both adored and punished for next to no reason had been missing or several days. Jerome’s single mother, my own mother, my brother Matt and I ventured out to look for him. My job, as well as my mom’s and Jerome’s mother was to call out his name from the backyard as loud as possible. My brother had reconnaissance duty, and explored the local neighborhood. He found Toby behind the house in an empty parking lot. The poor thing looked as if it had just curled up and bled hideously to death in its sleep. My little brain, though advanced for its age couldn't handle that trauma, so I began to cry, which is of course a perfectly natural reaction to such a loss. Toby was my true best friend, while Jerome was the human meat bag that would do what I say and respond when I spoke to him. Mathew was too old and too cool to play with someone so young.

Jerome had an entirely different reaction to my loss. In a glorious show of callousness, he had the nerve to ask his mother why I was crying. At his age, which was about five, he should have been able to empathize. I boiled with hate. While I was developing out of the concrete operational stage, he would probably never work his way out of the pre-operational. I wanted to teach him a lesson. I HAD to teach him a lesson.

Now, rational thinking might lead you to think that I would talk to him and explain why I was hurting inside, and how he would feel the same pain were he in my shoes. However, if you can piece together the clues from my early childhood nature you might conclude that I would do something nasty instead. And you would be right.

I talked him into shitting his pants. When I tell people this story, I am always asked, “How can you talk someone into shitting their pants?” And the answer is simple: kids are stupid. That is the objective truth.

All I did was talk it up a bit. I told him how I did it all the time, and how great it felt. It was so warm and soft, just carrying it around like that. He always believed everything I said, for the most part, and swallowed this as well.

After a week of prompting he came to me stinking and proud, boasting that he had finally done it. I told him that I did not believe his story and went inside to watch Transformers.

He was spanked, and grounded, and forced to wear a diaper for a time, probably turning him into a future criminal or sex pervert, but I felt vindicated. He blamed me, for what little good that did him, but I had my revenge, and a growing hunger for malice and deviance. Thus an evil genius was born.