yay no school tommoorow!!! oh wait im off till april anyways!!

Capitalization errors: 4 or 5

Punctuation errors: 4

Spelling errors: 4

Use of a word that does not exist: 1

Since no one can rematriculate high school, I can only guess that she’s attending some form of higher education.

“Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I’m not sure about the universe.”

-Albert Einstein

I am going to be ABSOLUTELY forthright in admitting that I am behind the times on this bandwagon.  I’m sure that five years ago it was fun to rag on “CSI Miami,” but like any other self-respecting, elitist ne’er-do-well, I haven’t watched network TV in years.

Until this Thanksgiving.  My friend Shane and I have begun putting together a TV crime-procedural pilot, and while I was home in Pittsburgh, I watched an episode of “CSI: Miami.”  A little research was in order.

I figured that “CSI Miami” was an excellent place to start, to see “what the American public wants in today’s modern cop show.”  (The last procedural I remember watching was “Columbo.”)  To its credit, it did not disappoint.  “CSI Miami” is the shittiest shit that ever shat.  It’s campier than a John Waters movie on poppers who’s (the movie) wearing pink pool floaties.  Do the people who make this show actually take it seriously?  I would have the greatest time being in the cast.  I would just laugh at everything David Caruso did.  The guy is a genius.  He’s the Buster Keaton of the 21st century.  The French must LOVE him.

The video above is so fun to watch; I can’t stop myself.

I’m debating whether to become a regular viewer.  Thoughts?

Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!

During my sophomore year in college I was in a production of “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”  It was a great, rollicking trip (just as Ken Kesey would’ve wanted) including such high points as Anne Bogart’s “Viewpoints,” crying at the 1980 Academy Award-winning doc “Best Boy,” intense Method acting, and even my getting bitten in the head (which had nothing to do with the Method acting and everything to do with Native American dancing in a black-box theatre filled with stage fog).

The event that really stuck with my friends and me (even to this day) was our director’s “game” in which the entire cast would break up into two teams and do push-ups in accordance with a pack of playing cards.  One team was red, the other black, and at the flip of a card the respective team would do the appropriate number of push-ups.  I honestly have no idea why we did this, but hey, that’s college for you.

During this time our friend Mike had somehow secured a pirated audio cassette (remember those?) of the titular “8 Minute Abs.”  Word quickly spread that the best way to really get into shape was to use the resistance of one’s own body.  The hell with weights!  Who wants to be a walking tank?  That’s not what Tyler Durden would do-

Oh, wait.  I’ve gone too far.  Let’s rewind: back to freshman year.

I remember my friend Chad (a true film connoisseur) told me about this upcoming David Fincher (who the fuck is that?) film, and it was all about underground boxing (what like “Far and Away?”  fuck that…).

Fast forward to midterms when my roommate had secured a pirated VHS (remember those?) copy of “Fight Club.”  The rest is history.

Now let’s jump to present day.

Of all the film’s details that have stuck with us white, suburban males in our late twenties/early thirties, the one that has remained the most ingrained is Brad Pitt’s abs… specifically the notion that “I need to get into shape, so I can look like Brad Pitt in ‘Fight Club.’”  Over the years I’ve had/heard multiple conversations with friends about “how to get those little line-things on your hips.” When my friend Nik told me about Zach Braff’s run-in with the Governator, I knew that Brad Pitt’s abs had been “taken out of the basement.”  The fuckers were setting up a franchise.

Ten years have gone since the advent of “Fight Club,” and as our metabolisms slow, the Platonic ideal remains.  It taunts us with that high nasal cackle as we impotently swing at it with our car antenna.  We spend extra hours at the office gym, eat veggie, waste money on diets all for the sake of trying to look like a multimillionaire (with unlimited access to the best trainers, equipment, etc.) who played a fictional, imaginary squatter/demagogue.  How do you spell irony?  The end is the beginning is the end.

Once one has identified the obvious downward trend in the usage of film as an artistic medium – which, in and of itself, is already an highly questionable label for film – with its paper-thin narratives, reactionary social messaging, testosterone-dripping tone/style, and, last but not least, editing that would lead even the most hyperactive ADHD sufferer to convulse like Dostoyevsky’s Idiot, one is left to surmise firstly that there is truly nothing new under the sun, and secondly that everything that remains has been burnt to a crisp eons ago.

Therefore, YHC feels that it is within his realm to pass judgment on any film regardless of the fact that he has not had the “pleasure” of witnessing it since he has (for all intents and purposes) already seen it.

This leads us to the posit itself.  What is YHC’s review of “Boondock Saints: All Saints’ Day?”

It fucking sucks.

Throughout America’s long, illustrious history Halloween was “just for kids.”  By the age of thirteen no one (except for the geeks I hung out with) wanted to dress-up or, God forbid, go trick-or-treating.  On Halloween grown-ups either handed out candy, took their children trick-or-treating, or turned out all the lights and pretended to not be home (while they had sex – I’m assuming).

Then, in the ’90s, things changed.  Thanks to America’s growing vapidity and desperate and pathetic quest for eternal youth, Halloween became a chance for young adults to dress up and PARRRRRRTAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYY!!!  Thanks to Halloween’s endemic celebration of “otherness,” adults who felt overwhelmed by their soul-crushing careers (or lack thereof), were now free to express their hopes, dreams and longings through “dress-up.”

The question then falls upon us: What do young Americans want?

Well, first let me strip away half of the population (i.e. Men).  After all, don’t we all know what men want?  (I think we can all agree on that answer)

This leaves us with the question: What do young, American women want?

To turn men gay.

Since the onset of Neo-Halloween© women have used Halloween as a chance to advance the gay agenda.  Just look:

Referees aren’t sexy!  They’re fat and old…and GUYS!  Look!

See?  That’s the kind of ref you want standing there while the football players pat each others’ asses.

Now let’s move on to something near and dear to my heart: Star Wars:

WHAT?!!!  Stormtroopers aren’t sexy!  They’re CLONES!  Hasn’t this girl heard of Princess Leia in the gold bikini?  Know your place in society, dammit!

Let’s move on to politics:

Why would any guy want to fuck Uncle Sam?!  If nothing else, he’s our UNCLE!!!

Moving on.  In the superhero realm, there’s a duo who have always had a bit of a thing going on- if you catch my drift…

Holy gloryhole, Batman!

This one is trying to sell, not just homosexuality, but necrophilia, S & M, and sex with the horribly burned:

And finally, the most terrifying of all.  If you’ve made it this far, I have a little quiz for you.  If you can pick out the girl from the following pictures, then all hope is not lost.  Here we go:

I didn’t get it right either.

Happy Halloween!

Just watch this video.  It’s a fascinating explanation of how to understand the ten dimensions of existence (since we live in the third).

See you at dimension eight!  I’ll have brought guacamole…for some time.

Nothing outweighed my true love for you,
But you ran away- e’en my balls became blue.
One day, I may find, I can love once again,
But ’til that day comes, I’ll make love to this hen.

I’m AWESOME!  Suck it, that-street-poet in Before Sunrise!!!

P.S. You have to be signed in to Facebook.

His reason: Because he never won a Nobel Peace Prize.

And what was John Bolton’s opinion of the UN and the cause of peace?

“There is no United Nations. There is an international community that occasionally can be led by the only real power left in the world, and that’s the United States, when it suits our interests, and when we can get others to go along. I think it would be a real mistake to count on the U.N. as if it’s some disembodied entity out there that can function.”

Don’t count on people to give you an award when you tell them, “Go fuck yourself.”

As I stood, waiting for my train, I was reading (the late) David Foster Wallace’s “Consider the Lobster: and Other Essays.”  Walking toward me was a girl with two-tone hair.  As she approached me, she looked inquisitively at my book, and when she discovered what I was reading, quickly gave me a beaming smile.  Now, let it be known that this was in no way a flirty smile.  This was a smile of recognition.  Of discovery.  Of camaraderie.  This was a smile that embodied all the capacity of human joy: like when Dith Pran finally escaped The Killing Fields or the end of “It’s a Wonderful Life.”  So, of course, I smiled back.

Our smiles spoke of loneliness; spoke of rejection; spoke of despair.  Finally, our smiles said, “Thank you.  Thank you for letting me know that I am not alone; that there are some of us striving to find something better in this world and in ourselves.  Our quest for truth may make others uneasy, may push them away, but there is hope in so much as there are WE.”

And just like that she was gone, and I returned to my book.  It’s a pretty great book.  You should check it out.