First Impressions of Assassins Creed IV: Black Flag

By now it is no secret that I have little to no love for this game series so I apologize if my report appears to be less of a review and more of a diatribe contrived from the 6 year Ubisoft campaign to make a profit on the backs of historical figures and the senseless assassination of said figures. Keep in mind, however, that I am ill informed regarding the content of several of the Creed titles as I so affectionately refer to them because they remind me of that god awful band that formed back in the early 90s. That being said, my report will be specifically about Black Flag with little to no influence of previous titles so rest assured, any unbiased opinions will be left at the door. With that out of the way, let's crack on, shall we?

Assassins Creed IV(which is really more like Assassins Creed VI but why split hairs) starts off with both a literal and metaphorical bang, springing you into the fold of an all out aquatic battle that despite the many sailors standing right next to the helm puts you at the wheel of a great and lumbering vessel. The water fight, though visually stunning, seems to be a clunky, contrived bit of gameplay tacked on to make it seem like the developers are doing something new with the title. I can understand how the helmsman would be responsible for putting the ship into a good position to fire but having him be the one who decides the distance as well as precisely when to fire seems absurd to me, but then the gameplay wouldn't be at all riveting without that mechanic so I can see why they did it.

Despite the actions of the courageous nobody you control, who we later identify as the 22 year old scallywag for hire, Edward Kenway, the gunpowder ignites and sends the player overboard, diving us headlong into a flashback scene that establishes some semblance of a romantic plot point that will no doubt be used against the protagonist later on. After the flashback wraps up, we're told to swim to shore and it's at this point that I'm reminded of one of the reasons why I never particularly cared for these games. Linear gameplay. Follow this line. Go to this blinky dot. Make no attempt to discover anything yourself because we went to a lot of effort to point this path out for you. But I digress. Perhaps the story may be it's salvation.

Once you get to shore, which is for some reason a bright and balmy day, a far cry from the intense storm you were fighting in moments before, you encounter the man who assassinated your captain. He appears gravely injured and makes you an offer to get him safely to Havana, to which you for all intents and purposes say "You have the money on you? Yeah? Then fuck you!" and proceed to chase the bastard down and murder him. The developers did not waste time trying to make the pirate with a heart of a gold and that's one thing I can appreciate. I'm sick of this "pirates are cool" thing that's been going around over the last decade so it's nice to see a scumbag truly embrace his own foulness.

Rifling through the mans pockets afterward you come across a note that tells of great fortune, to which our anti-hero says "Home girls gonna get PAID!" and straps on our late friends gear that for whatever bullshit reason has no blood on it whatsoever despite the player having just skewered the last man wearing it. Conveniently, Mr. Kenway (now masquerading as Duncan) happens upon a fellow by the name of Stede who's being oppressed by the kings own royal navy, and guess where ol' Stedey is going? Yep, another convenient bit of storytelling. Havana is in this year though, right? You kill the navy men, hop aboard a new vessel and speed your clunky ass way to Havana and thank fuck they don't make you steer the entire way there. Wind Waker satisfied all our open sea needs ages ago.

Even with such a contrived storyline though, I can't deny it is a visually stunning piece of gaming. The water reflects just so, the trees wave in the wind etc. The game mechanics seem a little off but that could just be because the play tester in the video has replaced his thumbs with mushy grapes. One can never really be sure without playing it firsthand. From this little tutorial, I have come to the conclusion that it's all really just more of the same, but if you liked previous titles then that's a good indicator that you'll like this one. Because it is exactly the same. but y'know...with boats and whores and rum, which god forbid, had better not be gone.

If you're anything like me though, you'll steer your vessel clear of this one lads. (see what I did there? Nautical humour!)

This is the Derfender of Piece signing off. But keep a weather eye on the horizon for my next review! Take er easy.

Sincerely,
Frederick Mckay jr._________________________________________President, CEO, Janitor of the Derfender of Piece Game Reviewers

I'm Not That Guy.

Sometimes you just gotta admit that shit to yourself because it sure as hell isn't fooling anyone, least of all yourself, y'know? Try as we may, some of us seem destined to be the pebble in the shoe, the fly in the ointment, the fuck in the cluster fuck. Not out of any malicious intent or ulterior motive, there's nothing to gain from behaving as such, it is simply that we are, for better but usually for worse, incapable of being comfortable conducting ourselves in any other way. Some days it's a good day to lie, some days it's a good day to try. That is, try to be more, because we do. In vain perhaps, but doesn't that make the whole effort that much more meaningful? The battle goes ill deep down but fucked if us massive bastards and occasional gentlemen aren't gonna go down swinging.

I'm not the good guy, but god dammit I'm trying...and at best I'm getting pretty good at not being the bad guy. In the end, can any of us really ask for more than that? Probably. Very probably but that shit isn't too realistic now is it.

Keep it real, non-existent listeners.

The Unblinking Stare

Please. Sit. Let us wax intellectual, dark, and deep, and fuck the promises to keep because feigning cavalier about the whole thing will saunter this shit right into whatever played out yet praiseworthy quote I end up pretentiously tacking on to the end of this post. No doubt it will be something from the Oscar Wilde catalog, but why waste time on absolutes, right? The chips doth fall etc.

I haven't been sleeping well for a while now. I don't know if it's the weather change or the fixed point in space that no longer affords me a glance back from the spheres of nothing and nowhere that in years long past called out to me. Daring me to walk that thin line between the twin chasms of comforting chaos in an attempt to glean some semblance of a place where I belong. Never once recognizing the obviousness of the whole endeavour because once you convince yourself there's gold in the water, it seems nothing short of drowning will pull your fists out of the riverbed.

For years I've been taking that walk but it's only now that I start to wonder if it's the delusion of finding something in nothing that draws me down that thin line, or is it that I'm afraid to turn away and find that there never was a line in the first place, or even perhaps that it's been so long that this colourless sound is all I can ever know. As you can imagine, none of these are the least bit comforting.

If it's the first thing, I suppose there is a quiet hopefulness to it, but ultimately it leaves one with the image of a broke drunk tilting an empty bottle those innumerable "one more time"s at 2 am, desperately clinging to the possibility of just one drop that got lost somewhere deep inside.

If it's the second, all those thoughts and feelings were pure fiction, a sad attempt to translate the absence of data. It means starting the research from scratch, assuming you can ever find your way back to ground zero. A tough pill to swallow, but possible none the less.

I don't want to even think about the third thing.

That said, I've opted for the second. I do not think I shall forget what I've felt up to now because as far as I'm concerned it's a fucked up sort of Schrodinger's Line, both existent and non-existent until I open the box. Maybe someday I'll have the courage but for now, I've decided take down the unblinking stare and begin drawing my own lines through life. Fuck knows what they will be, but at least they'll be something tangible.

Goodness, that's a lot of dull nonsense, isn't it? I did promise something though, so without further ado, goodnight and enjoy:

"All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling." ~ Oscar Wilde

Most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/o/oscar_wilde_3.html#iQJEYhFxB6Ko7b4q.99

Most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes.
Read more at http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/o/oscar_wilde_3.html#iQJEYhFxB6Ko7b4q.99

Sentence parkour (cuz I'm gonna run on this bitch)

     I woke up early this morning, which incidentally is something that happened yesterday but yeah it happened today of all days, and I tell you what, it's kind of a fantastic thing that affords me a little more time to do whatever it is I feel like doing before diving into the daily foot slog through life and what that thing is for today is to paint like wildfire, if wildfire were more than just orange, red, and yellow hues and it can be if you throw certain chemicals into it but that's neither here nor there so yeah be happy today, little children of the world, for you are a part of something that simultaneously spirals out of control while following some sort of structure through the universe and hey, why not just spin right along with it and if you get dizzy, that's okay, that's totally a natural and understandable reaction to the whole thing and don't worry, you'll totally stop vomiting eventually, you just gotta, you gotta hang on as tight as you can and never let go, duct tape your hands to it if need be but just never let go because someday soon, you'll find that you're actually enjoying the ride and hey, if anyone deserves to enjoy it, it might as well be you and maybe me, but mostly you but yeah, so I went ahead and enjoyed it already but that doesn't mean you can't enjoy it after me still, or that I'm better for having enjoyed it first and GOD, it is physically paining me to not end this sentence but sometimes you just gotta run on, run on until you can't run anymore and have to heave yourself along by arm BECAUSE THAT'S WHERE I AM RIGHT NOW AND YOU SHOULD COME VISIT ME HERE, but maybe bring some grammar with you because I've plum run on and out of it belt buckle.

I need one of those. SMILE EVERYONE!

Needless complications and the very real need some seem to have of them.

WARNING. TOTALLY OPINIONATED AND MORONIC BRAIN GOO TO FOLLOW, BASED ON MY INCREDIBLY BIASED, FUCKED UP EXPERIENCES AND INTERACTIONS. I TOTALLY ENCOURAGE ANY AND ALL TO CALL BULLSHIT AND DETAIL THEIR OWN EXPERIENCES.

Now then.

Somewhat contradictory to every person who has ever said "I would love a life without the bullshit drama/complication parts", I am inclined to call bullshit on that noise, not only because I personally prefer the batshit crazy aspects of life, but also because all evidence in some way or another seems to suggest that yeah, that is totally a thing you must call bullshit on. The ones who make such claims never seem to have or even work toward the simple life, and indeed if you've never had it how can you ever be truly sure that's what you want? Not to mention the fuck tons of people out there who have had a taste, but where otherwise incapable of maintaining such a life. More and more I get to thinking those complications are almost essential because from what I've seen, the ones who do end up where they want to be at the end of their respective life novels tend to...eh, be fantastically unstable at their foundations if you know what I mean.

For the record, I understand that I may be looking at all this in exactly the way I want to see it in order to justify my own bizarre process because it's true, I do lean toward the more fucked up situations in life. To the point that even the most stable living standard can be thrown into jeopardy. I'm not sure what it is exactly that sets me in motion on these endeavours, but without fail I am almost exclusively drawn to the twisted, insane, or otherwise damaged types out there, be it people or just the whole scene altogether. Is it to keep things interesting, and if so, for who? Is it that life is a lot more fun trying to find someone who compliments your brand of crazy in just the right way? Or is it simply that we(that is, fucked up people) are simply terrified of what is commonly referred to as a "normal life" but appears to me to be the most abnormal fucking thing in existence? As though the act of being involved in anything functional will indefinitely destroy our previous pathetic attempts at defining ourselves as well as any interest in mediums we've picked up along the way. The old saying that contentment is the death of passion etc. Sounds like a lot of wankery to me, but then I'm not building any cases against the notion now am I.

Sometimes though...I wonder what things would be like if we all could just embrace a little madness in the mix. I wonder if we would bitch less for the fact that we've redefined normalcy to better fit our lifestyle, or bitch more and claim that life has gotten boring in the "normal life" we would then find ourselves in, causing us to forge a brand new psuedo-normal in our heads that we can then wish for as per usual. After all, what the fuck do any of us really know about the fabled normalcy? The grass is always greener on the other side until you remember that grass, green or not, is pretty fucking boring either way. I kind of want to learn a bit about horticulture now, because I must be missing just why it was that saying was written that way. I think this generation definitely needs a do over on that sentiment. Maybe something like "The laser equipped motorcycle that also makes your coffee just right is always greener on the other side of the fence, because fuck, your neighbour does a better park job, I don't know fuck you."

Maybe something less caustic and assholey, and something more make sensey and socially easier to swallow. I'll work on it. In the meantime, errabody accept that life is all fucked up, and that it can be so much more fun because it is. We'd be fucking crazy not to accept the insanity of it all. Acceptance sure beats bitching about it with no intentions of really fixing it, right?

I'm sorry, I'm sleep deprived. I'll stop now.

untitled work #5: "APE"

untitled work of art # 4

Red Fog Lady

I had myself an experience last year that affected me to a deep and scary degree and I've been meaning to write about it for some time now but it was not until recently that I was compelled to do so. I met someone.

I KNOW! THAT'S FUCKING TERRIFYING ON IT'S OWN!

But it goes far beyond that. I met someone I'd met before, last year. Not only did I meet her again, I met her in an entirely new light, the likes of which I never thought I'd see her under, nor a light I ever thought I could find anyone else beneath.

Make no mistake, ladies and gents. The girl I'd known not seven months ago was a monster. In fact, as the record has it she was a bonafide villain traipsing out in the world with nary a care for who or what she assaulted. When we'd initially met I thought "good God, please let no other woman be like this" because I do so love women and their diversity but what I saw that day was less of a woman and more of a womonster. I mean, she actively, and fervently thought about the next time she might run into a poor soul to abuse and devour, THAT'S HOW FUCKING MESSED UP THIS CHICK WAS!

I admit, in my own fucked up way, she kinda turned me on, being so free and twisted like a drugged up leaf on the wind that boldly told the wind to do cocaine and the wind FUCKING DID because she had that sway over it. She stayed with us for a good fucking awful spell and then went on her way with her boyfriend called "Cheese" and finally the roommate and I could get to knowing what the word "peace" meant. Quiet too. We re-learned that. It was totally rad. Remember rad? We were that.

When she and her cheddar man left though, I started noticing the environment I was in. It was shit. So shit in fact that these two crazies would leave, but we'll get to that soon.

Cut to January of 2013. This lady comes back into town and says she's stopping by. I shit because I never wanted to see her again, but I figured "fuck it, life's an adventure and at least I can write about whatever happens next some day." But then, she shows up, and I am taken aback. She is calm, courteous, respectful. Regal even. Quite in fact, this fucked up bitch is a legit lady. I am flabbergasted. I am sitting in my room pondering the ways of the world because of this when she bursts in my room saying "Hey Derf, do you mind if I hang out in here with you? This weird dude out there is creeping me out" The weird dude being a guy she wouldn't hesitate to fuck not 6 months ago. I say "sure, me casa su casa" and we sit. We then get into a lengthy discussion over a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps and I am taken way WAY aback.

I understand people do grow and more ore less, change. Maybe for the better, maybe the worst. But they do. At least, I do now. She tells me her tale. We talk for 5 or 6 hours, sharing laughs and smiles and frowns at where we've been, where we are, and where we might end up. I look at this woman who I once hated and suddenly, she changes. She'd been through hell. She'd suffered that of a lesser collective and found a way back to decency. I find myself thinking "God, if I only knew you like this, I would love you so much."

Time wears, we reach our goodbye under the red sky of sickeningly early winter morning. "You're fucking awesome Derf" she says "How are you so fucking awesome?" I look her in the eye and say "It's because I'm not trying to fuck you." She laughs so heartily that I'll never forget the sound. We hug, so tightly that I wished I knew her like this before. I miss her so much in my arms. We lock eyes and I say "Never end up back in this mess, lady" and she replies "I promise I won't, and if I do please hit me upside the head." I agree and wave as she walks into the early morning red mist.

"I love that lady" I think to myself as she fades away into the fog. "I hope I never see her again"

It's both the most selfless and hopeful I have ever been to date. 

Stream of Consciousness Fictional Semi-autobiographical Material

The dog came on. Yapping. I was terrified. I must have been four years old. Could this be the source of my fear of dogs? If so, what happened to my fear of dogs? I feel as though I had one, once. A fear of dogs. Click.

new memory: I stand at the beach, squelching and re-squelching my toes in the wet sand. The dying rush of another flat wave foams in, muddy colored with brilliant surface bubbles, the reflected sun pushes streaming warm water around my ankles and then - slow, stop, reverse - the tide drags itself back, its suction pulling the foundation from under my heels. I thrill to the sensation of the wet sand and mud disappearing out from under me. My feet are unsettling, making weird pits as the waves wash in and out. Click.

new memory: I stood there, in front of the candy store with my colored fluorescent chalks. Or were they crayons? Pastels? Some sort of colored tacky things they'd given me to draw on their window glass. It was the summer before eighth grade, and they were paying me to draw on their window. I was drawing a clown. I don't recall now if I had been asked to draw a clown, or simply to draw something. I was drawing a clown. Click.

My first sexual experience. I am simultaneously penetrating and being penetrated by myself. But something is wrong. I have only half the necessary genetic material for a human being! Wait, okay, the other half is in wiggly me. That complements and completes the half in round me. The nuclear boundaries are dissolving, releasing two halved double helixes into a shared cell chamber. Drawn to each other, pulling and whirling as if in a dance, the two incomplete sequences combine into one - complete! A new organism! Unique in the history of the world. Straight, white and male. Click.

End memory retrieval sequence.

Love Stories Are Better When They Don't Work Out In The End

Let me start this by saying that it has, at one time or another, worked out for me for a very long time so don't think I'm just jaded or anything because while that's not an inaccurate description, it is also not why I feel the way I do about love stories. That said, onwards we march.

I'm the youngest of three siblings with the elder siblings being sisters, and both of these sisters gave birth to daughters who were left in my care on occasion. With this in mind, it's not terribly surprising that by now I've had to sit through a smorgasbord of romance flicks in my day and considering the fact that I'm one of the worst romantics out there, I still find many of those flicks to be utterly awful. I know my being a male may dilute the argument I'm about to make but seeing as I'm also a part-time obnoxious jerk face, I'm gonna carry on with this.

So. Love stories. I find a lot of them to be shit, and here's why. They start out pretty average as is humanities custom, by introducing the characters who, despite all odds, will meet up about a third or so into the story.

He, the die hard Die Hard fan who just does not respect the sanctity of marriage or the female vote or just doesn't understand how miniature pigs can be considered cute. Maybe he's a gigantic nerd who spends more time arranging action figures on the shelf than he does on personal hygiene or it scares women to be around him after they see him watching that sports game because he has a blood curdling scream whether his team is winning or not and that look in his eye is just fucking terrifying. Or maybe it's the exact opposite and women are put off by him because he's just so whiny and sensitive and they want a mans man and why does he have so many miniature pigs? That's fucked up.

She, the independent business woman who, while firm handed and business savvy, seems to always be dating I guy that is a total contradiction to everything she feels and believes but hey, he's not living with his parents or cosplaying on the weekend so why not? Maybe she has a seemingly never ending bad luck streak in dating or just doesn't understand the point in having swords lying around the house "just in case". Or maybe it's the total opposite and she loves LOTR and can knit the fuck out of a big nice costume and  knows ninjas or zombies can burst through the windows late at night and that katanas are a vital home necessity, but the men she happens to meet are looking for "more of a girly girl" and why doesn't she have a miniature pig? That's fucked up.

Whatever the case, they meet and it's awkward and maybe they don't like each other initially but they keep running into each other and it's funny because look, fate seems to be driving them together. They start hanging out and any complications there might have been are cleared up. They smile. They laugh. It becomes a part of them. Then, OH NO! Something has happened and there's a falling out. Nick Drake, Nico, Dar Williams and Elliott Smith burst onto the soundtrack and we watch them sit and stare and shuffle papers at work. They look out the window and it's raining. It's an ocean side city but fuck that, it's raining because this thing is happening to them.

Enter the fat comedic sidekick to say "oh hey, that thing that happened that was the big OH NO? Yeah it didn't happen, or it is totally justified and you should go see that man or woman" but they sometimes don't and just naturally run into each other anyway because I don't care how big a city is, that's gonna happen. They talk and have hugely emotional speeches to one another and holy shit it's raining again because let's kiss. Cue whatever love song is exploding that year and roll credits.

On the face of it, it's really sweet. The idea that things can work out despite all odds is an appealing notion to anybody and you go home feeling like a million dollars and it's great. Fantasy. It's a great thing every now and again. But though you feel like a million dollars now, that sum is spent all too soon. It's with this in mind that I submit to you that things not working out in the end is OH so much better and I'll tell you why. It's a much more grounded sensation after watching such flicks because it's easier to identify with the characters and situation. I'm sure some couples may be in love now and you're happy together and it worked out and YAY! But I also know that more often than not, even those couples went through the "it didn't work out" ending at some stage in their lives. And you know what? It's better because it didn't last. You get those fleeting moments of pure joy and it never gets dulled down by time, you don't get complacent and see it as an everyday thing. Sure, it ended and that sucks but nothing can ever diminish that one fine day, week, month or year because that's all it ever was and it will always be perfect. Because you will always remember it. It doesn't happen to you everyday like it would in the "happy ending" so it never loses its luster.

I'm gonna stop now before romantic comedy critics sharpen the knives too much. It doesn't get much sharper than razor sharp, y'all. Derf out.

How Christina Aguilera Changed My Life Forever

Fade in.
The year: late 2002. 
Location: Earth.
The questions on this young mans mind: What have you done to yourself, Christina? And how can I do it to myself?

Alright. Full disclosure here. The initial response to Christina's performance that year was admittedly less life changing and more...eye opening, in a very physical and lustful sense. For a solid month I just did not know what to do with what I was seeing from this seemingly innocent pop princess, shaking the dirt off in a way that actively begged for more dirt to be thrust on for shaking off. As a recovering romantic, it blew my goddamn mind! That the human body can move in such a way that I could forgive the horrifically catchy, yet ultimately irritating noise this creature produced was simultaneously impressive, and depressing to behold.

You have to understand I was on a very different path at the time. I was a scholar, a son, an artist; torn between living the life I wished to live, and the life that was expected of me. I lived off a single bottle of Gatorade and a small bag of crisps a day so that I might put what little finances I had toward art supplies without revealing the fact that I had been indulging in "meaningless endeavours".  After all, a future Electrician shouldn't be wasting his money on such trivial things. At the time, I could accept this premise. Free thinking hadn't occurred to me yet and Electricians do make a substantial income, so it wasn't an entirely unappealing punchline. Certainly not a satisfying one, though.

I walked the halls of a fine institution with a quiet contempt for the provocative, because what was that worth to a young man in love with love? For him, this girl with bizarre taste, style, and a massive brain on her shoulders was far more sexy than any tube top or micro-skirt would ever be. It may well still be to be honest but it's a pretty close race now. I had a sense of propriety, of integrity, of dignity. and anything else was anathema to who and what I thought I was at the time.

Enter the "Dirrty" music video.

Suddenly it was all so disturbingly clear. Base desire kicked in with a vengeance and what once was considered unthinkable was immediately a simple and unavoidable truth.

"My God" I thought. "I am exactly as easy as the type of guy I thought I wasn't."

The social barriers that I had invested years and years of time on went down like fucking card houses, and existence itself seemed to transform before my very eyes at the sight of this princess diving headlong into controversy and "self expression". From that moment on, everywhere I looked there was a very different play taking place, and even the stage itself seemed to be manipulated by it with ease. This went on for about a month, as previously mentioned.

Then I started becoming desensitized to the whole shebang and began thinking about an entirely different aspect of the matter. Why did this hit me so hard? Why hadn't I seen this of myself before? Why did it take this once innocent young lady weaving and swaying just so for me to see it now? The answer was in the very question. It never occurred to me that Ms. Aguilera might not have wanted to churn out the music she had before then. That perhaps it was all just another path lined out, not by her but by some other external force, driving her to be everything she didn't want to be. Maybe that isn't at all the case, but at once I knew why I was so enchanted with her dance. Freedom. And boobs and ass. But mostly freedom.

In a mere 5 minute video, this woman had lived more freely than I had in my entire life up to that point. Even with that endless animal bleat hounding my brain saying "good lord, would you look at them stems", I couldn't help but love the stark beauty of what she might really be doing. Who she was becoming. Who she may well have been the entire time, but for all the wrong reasons decided to hide. I still didn't care for her music but that's beside the point. She was setting herself free, and it was amazing to witness.

So here's to you, X-Tina. You're as dirrty as you want to be and while it may not have been your intention, it has made all the difference to this former depressed Electrician to be, now happily starving artist. BRAVO, NAUGHTY GIRL!

unauthorized movie posters #1: THE ORIGINAL STAR WARS

untitled work of art #3: not called "SAD"

untitled work of art #2: not called "run"

Woke Up New

There are some mornings in which I wake up feeling new, not in body but in soul and sight. I look out to the mountains lining the horizon and think "You're a stone cold fox, world, and I'm going to fuck you good and sweetly today" not yet realizing I've just said it aloud and the neighbour is taking out the trash. Normally I would get terribly embarrassed by this and probably dive headlong into an entire deluxe pizza for breakfast, then proceed to watching Kung Fu flicks until the "WAH!"s and "HIYA!"s drown out that voice in my head saying "Christ, Derf. What the fuck?" and maybe that's best on those days. But on those special mornings I smile a giant smile right back at their looks of confusion and worry and say "YEAH, YOU HEARD ME! GIVE HER A GOOD TIME, NEIGHBOUR!" and we laugh and laugh and set upon our respective days.

Today is one of those days. Give her what for, people. For all or none of our sakes. Give it real smooth like. She just might return the favour.

Untitled Work of Art #1: the One Without a Title, (not called "tits")

The Life and Times of Obscure Blog Boy

Meet Obscure Blog Boy.

He is not so much a sad individual as he is sad to behold. Blog Boy is not aware of the observer, though. No. Blog Boy is on an altogether different plane of existence than you or I. Look at Blog Boys hat.

To us, his life is mere text, a collision of keyboard and finger. Just the one finger. The other fingers reel in horror at what great and terrible things their kin taps away into the night and early morn, for what manner of beast, what twisted entity of the 'enter' key would dare suffer such a life of obscurity?

Blog Boy. Blog Boy would for the existence' own sake.

Blog Boy divides his time between nightmarish scenarios and cripplingly beautiful reactions to them. Would that he could know that about himself. Would that we all could see such things of ourselves. There are times when he will curse to the sky, fist clenched so tightly that butter drips from it, screaming at whatever happened to be there.

 "THAT CLOUD LOOKS TO LIKE, AND I KNOW IT MUST LIKE SINCE IT SMILES WITH SHOWING TEETH!"

when to us, it just looks like mashed potatoes. Blog Boy would not be able to understand what that is. He eats his potatoes whole. Sometimes he will forget himself as a physical being and get startled by his own shadow, his reflection, the inflection in his voice, a lamp.

It's not long, however, before he remembers himself and can once again know the score.

Blog Boy lives in a world full of...well quite frankly, disturbing things. The rain itself burns the skin off his umbrella and the umbrellas have no skin creams.

He thinks about Blog Girl a lot.

Not because he ought to, as though someone should think of her because she's a frail, helpless thing to be noted and kept in sealed containers within sealed containers because that's how helpless she is that she would need that kind of isolating from the world.

No. He thinks about her not only because she gave him that hat, (though, in an existence where the sun actively seeks eyes to be made sore, it was a gift most appreciated) but also because that hat permitted him to behold her smile when she beheld his willingness to wear it. And no one ever smiles there unless it's worth it because smiling is an immensely painful thing to do in this realm.

But they do.

And on some strange level, that is a painfully pretty thing to think about if you ask me.

CROSS TALK #1: "Hey Man - Was That Any Good?"

Hey man - was that any good? I just knocked that right out in something like ten minutes! Ok, like half an hour. Point is though: AWESOME

Check that shit out!

Man, this purposeless creation model is bomb's up. It just frees me up! As opposed to the other way, which just freeze me up. I can't tell you the trouble I've had with writers block, honestly.

Oh. This is for Derf.

Anybody else is free to comment, though! Yet Derf...is the only one for whom it would be appropriate to reply to me in the form of a full-on blog post, if he wished.

What a weird way to do it though. Why am I not just...e-mailing? Or PM'ing? WHY CONDUCT PRIVATE DISCOURSE VIA PUBLIC MEANS??

WHAT IS THE PURPOSE OF SUCH BEHAVIOR??

EDIT: I forgot my goal to include an image of some kind, with each post I make. Sometimes, I will not do this goal. But I hereby edit an image into this post alltheless!

Webcomic Blues #1

Odd social Norms, or Why I learned to stop hugging and love the knuckle bump.

       As many are aware, human interaction has garnered some very strange habits that, on the face of them seem normal now, but at the time of their conception must have been perceived as just a little bit weird, or were even meant for something else entirely.

I am of course referring to hugs. And other things. Mostly hugs.

Now. Some will undoubtedly say I am an incredibly awkward and broken person for what I'm about to say, and for the most part I get it. I do. I definitely mostly get it. However. As I am not in fact a unique and graceful snowflake, I'm gonna go ahead and say it anyway because I have to believe I'm not the only one who's thinking it, and even if I was, that isn't any sort of reason for me not to say it. With that bit covered, let's crack on shall we?

So hugs. Hugs.

Those things that for many are nowt but a warm, meaningful embrace, or a perfunctory squishing of another persons organs to maintain the status quo between friends, family, lovers, etc. who are, for their own reasons, unable to just admit that these emotive clamps are friggin' weird. When exactly did this become a thing? I believe its origin was not just a base feeling that we were born with from the get-go, but something far more sinister.

It was snakes. Snakes invented hugging. To death. Whether you believe in creationism or evolution, both beliefs have snakes so fuck you if you're gonna try to put a spin on an otherwise innocent rant about hugs. Save your incredibly passionate diatribes about each others faiths for...I don't know, Youtube comment sections. You will no doubt find kinship there. (seriously, why is that? How does Marcy Playground stir up religious debate?)

So snakes, right. Adam and Eve(or a couple of neanderthals) were sitting around one day, as they're known to, when one should get angry at the other. I don't know, maybe they really wanted that crotch leaf (or beating club)the other was sporting and just took it one day. Whatever the case, they're angry at one another okay? So they take some time apart to fume and maybe eventually get over it, when one of them sees a snake constricting a field mouse to death. This was another time so they probably didn't get it right away, but sooner or later they must have thought "That thing is making that other thing die by squeezing its body...hey...hey! I COULD DO THAT TO THE BASTARD THAT STOLE MY LEAF!(or beating club)"

Thus, the hug was born.

They danced back to their meadows(or caves) with all the enthusiasm of a boy band.

"I'm gonna make them die" they'll think. "I'm gonna make them die by squeezing their body."

As soon as they arrive, they set their ghastly plan into motion, springing forward like a flesh and bone bear trap. There are "argh!" sounds and everything. Their would be victim, however, is not dying for some reason. Maybe the hugger is weaker than the hugged. Maybe their arms are shorter and cannot fit around their victim. I don't know. I'm not a doctor. At any rate, their plan is failing.

Meanwhile, the hugged starts thinking "Hey...hey! This is kinda nice. I feel...a thing!" and begins to speak(or grunt). "Hey you...hey this is a nice thing you're doing to me. Your nice thing makes me want to give you back your leaf(or beating club). Please take it, and accept my apology"

The hugger stumbles back, confused, but ultimately satisfied with the result of their actions.

"What made you want to do that thing to me?" the hugged asks.

Not knowing what to say(or grunt), the hugger mutters "I don't know...you stole my leaf and I wanted to make you die"

Shocked, and a little pissed off, the hugged bears their teeth in anger at the hugger and begins plotting their companions demise.

Thus, the smile is born.

Regarding Thinking

There are times in my life when I find myself thinking. It's at these times that I start to get very worried about my state of mind because what the hell, man? Do well-rounded, functional, relatively sane people think about these things too? I want to believe that's the case, but when I see others doing their taxes on time, buying groceries that will both A)provide nourishment, and B) leave their bowels intact after consumption, or god help them, being responsible in other ways, well...I somehow doubt that they're pondering high five etiquette and the force high fivers would need to bend a frying pan between the pair of them. Obviously, one would hold the frying pan tightly and thrust it forward while the other, hand sheathed in vibration resistant metal, makes good use of the "aim at the elbow" rule. But how much thrust is needed there, exactly? It must vary between brands and be much easier to do with say, ones that have copper cores. All this should take place well after meals, because if you're gonna buy a load of frying pans, you may as well get some use out of them before their impending destruction ensues.

Come to that, what would you call a lot of frying pans? I want to say a murder of frying pans because maybe murder doesn't have to be such a horrible, fear inducing word anymore but I guess that's really the observers decision, isn't it. It may be too hefty a task to try save the word "murder" as well...hmm.

Anyway, so these meals should be grand so as to get the most use out of the frying pans, with the final course being burned to cinders. That way it's not entirely frowned upon to...I don't want to say waste because their destruction can yield results of a kind, but certainly disposal of them won't
be given the face ugliness from passersby. Those pans will be wrecked. This is friggin' SCIENCE, PEOPLE! Gather ye frying pans while ye may, old time is still a-flying, and this same cookware that fries today, tomorrow will be dying.

Can inanimate things even die? I would think, no. On that same token, however, I would also spend my morning cup of coffee wondering (if he existed, naturally) whether or not Captain America would consent to having his Vibranium shield turned into gloves so he and I(after a generous dose of the Super Soldier Serum) can find the bending point of the worlds cookware. Because that's the best way to find out. Oh no, not that fancy, sane science.

COMIC BOOK SCIENCE! It's a thing.

Why Work?

This is the first post in a series. Why Work? First, clearly - to get paid. Why else work?

Well, think about it. A man had two servants. One of them, he had stripped to the waist and flogged publically. The other? He got a rich gift of seven sheckels. For who shall question the master of the house?

That's a parable, people, and the moral to the story is: there isn't one. Things are set up how they're set up. Do I deserve this?

Did I deserve to be born?

No. Did you?

Because if you did, how'd you pull that off? Deserving to be born. I didn't even deserve to be conceived. As far as I can tell, it's a sperm-in-a-million chance that I'm ever even right here typing this. I am quite literally figuratively - the single representative who made it through, out of all of William Shakespeare's complete works of the infinite monkeys! Oh, sure, the number of sperm in any given load's not technically "infinite," but then, sperm can't type, either. So the metaphor falls down if you overextend it, but that's true of all metaphors. Metaphors are delicately balanced, easy to fall over when you stretch too far.

So if you deserved it - if you deserved being born - well, I'd like to know how, that's all. Because - sweet trick.

Heck, I didn't even consent to being born. Did you? If so, why?! Considering where you were, I mean. I resisted my ass off on that transition, I never even wanted to grow! I didn't want to get all big and cramped and crowded in there. I just wanted to stay a little pea-sized twerp, happy suspended in a huge, warm universe of cling and bounce, the amniotic sac, one of many floaties drifting in the warm fluid of the entire universe - and nutrition. Oh, the nutrition. God. That sweet, rich, saltywarm nutrition WOMP WOMP WOMP - straight to the navel! With every pulse, and pulse, and pulse of that endless samba my mommy's heart was pumping out steady boom steady, a tom tom signal to the one-man tiny man tribe who boogied within her, a message: "All clear!" "The revolt has been postponed, three a.m. and all's well." I didn't know that was my mommy. It was the fucking universe, as far as I was concerned and why should I have to leave it?

"'Mother' is the word for God, on the lips and hearts of all small children," quoth The Crow. Or words to similar effect, and of similar import. And he's got a point, people. That freaky regenerating vengeful revenant has a point. And he would know. Because he's got that weird, wobbly crow eyes vision. He can see over his own shoulder, like a bird!

So why work? Well that answer's pretty easy.

Because every god damn mother fucking one of us got disconnected from the universe an age ago. Because we were expelled from the only universe we knew, where everything was beautifully and perfectly deserved, or felt like it. Where contentment was both wakefulness, and deepest dream - we got disconnected POP! from the navel! Expelled and found ourselves crying, coerced, forced into this place! "Reality" they call it. Reality my ass. Where nothing happens naturally, not even nutrition! You have to howl for it, and suck titties just to poop your own drawers, albeit - to be honest, that wasn't so bad. But you grow and grow - the curse of nutrition. At every phase, you grow and grow, and life becomes a succession of disconnections from support, POP! from the navel! POP! from the home, into kindergarten with you for your milk and cookies! Your snack and nap! POP! ejected from college with some weird certificate, just as you were getting used to school food and good at the strange tests they'd prod you with. POP! into the void of

- work.

Where we are now. Where our original deep dream and wakefulness of contentment has faded, from being the only thing we knew, into a thing barely even remembered. Fouled into a resentment that clings. A bitter remembrance of better things, when what we needed simply seemed deserved, and happened naturally.

And so we work.

The craziest thing is? Your mom had the same exact thing happen to her. The cycle of victimhood goes back and back.

Sedimentary, my dear Watson.

Well. Where to begin. I spent way too much time trying to think of what my foundation stone should be for this mighty fine, pointless endeavour I embark on tonight. Suddenly it was all clear, though. To overthink is to sully what this place is for! So I did a shot, closed my eyes, scratched wildly with a pencil, and smudged the resulting mess with the accuracy of a 2 year old that didn't listen to Mozart in the womb. That said, meet the foundation stone. His name is Freddy Mentary.

He likes crushing timelines, (criminally)long sit downs on riverbeds, and Stone Phillips.

Now. You're probably saying to yourself "but Guy Person, aren't you making this rockin' bod the face of this pointless realm?" and you would be right to question. That, however, is not the case. See, the thing is I am not making Mr. Mentary do anything. I mean yeah, I brought him into existence so in that sense I did make him, but not expressly to function. Oh no. I wouldn't dream of it. And while this realm is pointless, that shouldn't suggest any of you people are. With these two things in mind, I submit to you that Freddy here will do nothing for me. However, should you care to grace the lands with your comments, I may, at some point bless/plague Freddy with what you think he should do from time to time. Mostly though, I'll be taking a frontal assault on your "why the fuck does this need to exist?" detectors, in the form of poorly written rants and vagaries.

Maybe. No promises.

I thank you for your time, and may whatever deity or ideal you regard highly, do whatever.