Archive Listing
January 3, 2012 - December 27, 2011

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

MORE DIAMOND STATE WACKOS . Delaware is 20 minutes away from here. It's a state with three counties, only one of them inhabited and that one by one city. Which means they're nothing but levels of government; federal, state, municipal (Wilmington), "greater Wilmington" a.k.a. New Castle County, and townships, of course, all piled on top of individual citizens. Does it work? No. DelDot, the offending agency here, is a tri-state joke (NJ, PA, and DE). We all know that Delaware traffic signage is designed to get you lost and that DelDot "improvement" projects invariably involve years of main artery shutdowns with no visible signs of progress ever. On any given day, about half of the lanes of the Delaware Memorial bridges to and from New Jersey are closed for maintenance, although, oddly, there's rarely a DelDot truck or worker in sight.

Why? They're too busy with crap like this.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

FOLLOWUP ON LOW GENRES. Probably the worst reviewed movie of all time. Usually listed in a high position on any list of the top ten worst movies ever made. Soft core porn. Rotten in every respect. I just watched it again. On a hunch.

Why would I do that? The cast: Malcolm McDowell, Helen Mirren, John Gielgud, Peter O'Toole. Porn? I don't think so.

You know what it is? An American Fellini movie, marginally better than Satyricon. I mean, yeah, it's a movie. Good editing, art design, acting, and a coherent screenplay written by Gore Vidal.

So what's it about? The dangers of absolute power in a global empire with no moral basis.

Why did it get trashed? It was made in 1979, by Penthouse publisher Bob Guccione, and it may be the best ever representation of imperial Rome ever recorded on film  -- colorful, cruel, violent, lewd, with tons of casual nudity and casual sex (a 1979 anachronism: Patrician women in Rome had no pubic hair; depilation was an expensive service).

It makes the HBO series Rome look limp-wristed. (Rome didn't have Helen Mirren screamingly giving birth in front of thousands of onlookers. Did it?) Caligula's probably more accurate. The big advantage here is that the movie used British actors but not a British writer. Face it. The Brits always see Rome as an early version of the British Empire. It wasn't. The Brits didn't have nearly as much fun or pleasure or lack of bodily inhibition as the imperial Romans did. The Romans were Italians, meaning they screwed everything in sight and kept them as naked as possible too, so you could always see every single hole you wanted to plug.

Not British. Roman.

Which is why it's a good reminder for all of us now. They were completely different from us. Let me repeat that. They were completely different from us. Yes, they had concrete and aqueducts and coliseums, but they were pagans. And they absolutely didn't care about killing people or performing their conjugal duties in front of slaves.

Progress? Yes. You better believe it. Not since the Romans has any nation had the kind of military superiority over the rest of the world the United States now owns. Do we kill everyone who harms one of our citizens? No. Do we permit our leaders to despoil every woman and boy they desire in every orifice they may penetrate? No. They get away with a lot, but not that if we can help it.

Caligula shows us that we are not Rome.That's a good thing. And in showing us that Rome was licentious, wild, sexually and otherwise obsessed, we are also asked if there are limits to our new notions of diversity. If there were a Roman Empire today, would we tolerate imperial incest, routine torture unto death, and a cult that habitually turns leaders into gods fit for either worship or assassination?

Having watched Caligula, I'm now thinking it's still too mild. Let's see Rome for what it really was. Hardcore porn acted out on the national stage while the gladiators gladiated and the Patrician women power fucked and poisoned their way to the top.

No wonder Julius Caesar was a stone cold killer. And no wonder Caligula tried to kill all his senators.

What did I forget? Oh yeah. The movie. Unless you really don't like naked women by the dozen, it's actually not a bad production. If you cn fight your way through all the breasts and butts and bushes without having a Christian heart attack, you'll find that all the reviews you've read are the unfairest since the last NYT review of a conservative book.

Caligula may have been the first punk. Unless Akhenaton was.

Arguments for another day.

Why did they hate it so? Bob Guccione. And all those tits, asses, and vaginas we good people never want to see.

Although I'm reminded of a redneck comic quip none of you will understand: "I went to a strip bar and saw a naked vagina. You know what they say. Seen one -- now I want to see them all."

We're always fighting the Romans in ourselves. What Christianity is all about. Me? I feel fortified for having seen "Caligula."

Monday, March 28, 2011

OUR BELOVED, GLORIOUS, SUPER-TALENTED, PRECIOUS KIDS ARE DEAD. A lot of IP regulars don't think I do enough to keep up with science-fiction movies, but I try. (And Stargate Universe has gotten considerably more interesting in theological terms since I wrote that early review. Now they're looking for a structural god principle at the heart of the universe...) But I also have other fish to fry, other low genres to keep up with. Like comic strip movies. And horror movies.

For example, I even watch FearNet at Comcast On Demand, as well as the horror stuff that makes it onto the other cable channels. Not when Mrs. CP is around because she can't stand the gore, as I also frequently cannot. But she knows why I do it. So many young screenwriters and directors get their first chance to make movies by doing low-budget horror films. In that respect it's a glimpse of the future. Obviously, not all low-budget horror makers will become successful or important. Still, their vision of what horror is in the contemporary context is an indicator of what their young audience responds to.

Which is concerning. Especially when you look at the output in terms of trends and, well, obsessions. Of these, there are two. Vampires and Zombies. Kids love these themes. Which are both about death.

Yeah, I know that youngsters have always flirted with death. John Keats wrote:


Of course, Keats was 26 when he really did die. Shakespeare lived longer, but his young Hamlet also posed the life-and-death question:


It isn't the question that's new. It's the way it's being posed and the way it's being disposed. Which are alarming. Zombies are the simplest exemplar of the problem. The first zombie movie was George Romero's "Night of the Living Dead," made for about $10,000 in 1968. It was crude social commentary, suggesting that selfishness outweighs all other considerations when life-and-death issues are at stake, and its punchline was racial. The altruistic black hero gets gunned down in the final scene. Romero persisted, recreating his zombies into symbols of everything wrong with modern culture until it became clear he was using zombies as a symbol of everything homogeneous about modern American life. Interesting and to the point? Not really. Easy and superficial if you're a grownup. Easy and convenient if you're a kid. Everybody's dead but you. Or so it seems until you factor in the vampire obsession.

Some of you may remember that the original Bram Stoker vampire tale was about the conflict between good and evil. The implied sexual deviancy of vampire intimacy then became the basis, in the counterculture, for equating vampirism with repressed sexuality, which led indirectly, via Ann Rice's paeans to differentness, principally homoeroticism as a distinct path to eternal life, to the blatant romanticization of vampirism in movies like Underworld and Twilight, which spun the mythology 180 degrees in the opposite direction from its origin. Vampires are the living ones, possessed of supernatural and beautiful powers, and everyone else is dead.

Where does all this lead? Where it began. Death. What our pampered youth identifies with most. Death. Courtesy of FearNet, I have a couple of observations. There are disturbing trends in recent horror movies. I watched two this morning which only belatedly revealed themselves as vampire movies. They were as different from one another as could be, but they ended in the same place. The first was called The Hamiltons, about a family which had lost its mother and father in a car accident. An elder brother, a pair of brother-sister twins, and a younger son were struggling on their own. The younger son was trying to make sense of his life by recording family scenes on a camcorder. Only slowly do we realize that the Hamiltons are born vampires, their plight described several times as a "disease," which results in callous and brutal killings of innocents, accompanied by multiple other predictable human crimes -- rape, sadism, murder, incest, and psychopathy. Our camcorder hero's progression is from rebellion to acceptance of his "disease" and finally reunion with his family. "We need blood and lots of it." The movie ends with a rancid, unsmiling smile.

What's extraordinary is the emphasis on blood alone. The narrator and protagonist for most of the movie is a typically disaffected teenager. He has no girlfriend, no interests other than his camcorder, no friends, no identity. He falls for one of his brothers's female victims and only comes into his own when he tries to rescue her and winds up killing her because she was already, uh, irresistibly, bleeding. He makes it clear that vampires (a word never mentioned in the movie) are not made but born. Everything we think about them is not true. They live in the daylight and they are among us, all of us, our next door neighbors, our friends in school, everyone we regard as normal. There is no happiness. They are the living dead among us. (I won't ask you to think of a chewed up human breast as a symbol of annihilated family...)

The second movie, "Grace," seems to start from an exactly opposite perspective. Rosemary's Baby as opposed to dysfunctional family. The first scene is (discreetly) an act of coitus between husband and wife. He moves while she passively accepts without pleasure and then elevates her pelvis to let the sperm do their work. And then we are slowly lowered into a horror movie metaphor centered on the lifegiving properties of the female breast. (Yes, I'd have turned it off if it were a boob movie, but it wasn't.) The conflict was bizarre, perverse, and subtly brilliant: breast versus death, milk versus blood, and the widow's imitation life of New Age vegan, tepid sexuality, and empty affectations versus the brute animal will to survive. The husband died in a car accident, the baby of his critically injured wife was pronounced dead three weeks before delivery, but the tofu-eating mother with the ex-Lesbian lover midwife carried the dead baby to term, delivered it, and then willed the stillborn child to life. Except that the infant girl really was dead. Her temperature kept dropping, flies swarmed her crib, and when the baby breastfed she invariably drew blood. Tofu mom finally tumbles to the fact that her baby is feeding not on milk but blood and starts buying meat, from which she drains the bloody juices for her baby's bottle.

Ultimately, she even kills to give her baby a blood bottle. Satire or allegory? The dead husband's mother is also obsessed with breast milk, believing she can, at the age of sixty, still save her granddaughter because her sole sexual contact with her husband over the years has been to keep her nipples stimulated and supple. (She breastfed her son till the age of three; it's her oxymoronically arid definition of motherhood.) She still has a breast pump and it still works after she blows off the dust. She sails in to the rescue when she learns the mother is critically anemic. She dies for her delusion. The only hero is a spittingly protective black cat, who delivers dead rats into the baby's crib to keep her alive. The movie ends with the mother and the midwife (and the cat) on the road in an RV seeking blood for their monster baby -- and the formerly vegan mother's discovery, now that she's on a high protein, liver-rich diet to bolster her breast milk -- that her baby is now teething. Final horror shot is of the result...

Yes. Horror movies. Cheap but not trivial. My conclusions? Vampirism isn't an obsession because it's romantic. Anymore than zombie movies are about conformist adults. They're important to our kids because there's something missing in their lives -- namely, life itself. They feel themselves a herd of the dead, born dead, advancing on the culture without anything but voracious appetites and guiltily protective parents. They know it can't be right, the way they feel, but all they can think of is what they want, with very little knowledge to vitiate their desires. They have sexual desire of a sort -- akin to the vampire's bloodlust -- but their own blood is lacking in the vitality that leads to dreams, ambition, accomplishment, greatness and honest-to-God consciousness. They sense that they are the dead ones, and however much they'd like to pretend they're possessed of extraordinary powers -- as the MSM and the public schools keep repeating, repeating, in hopes it might be true -- they know they're shallow, ignorant, only a cellphone call away from comatose, and dead on arrival.

There's one more trend I've seen in recent horror movies, led, I think, by the Brits, who used to have a feel for such things. The new standard ending of horror movies is for no one to survive. I won't recite all the examples. (Endless.) The one I will mention is an American movie called Qube, which I thought brilliant down to its last ten seconds. The heroine was Kari Matchett, whom we've loved since Nero Wolfe, and she survived a nailbiting two-hour ordeal that had us all rooting for her in a movie of truly brilliant conception. She turned out to be the heroine who solved the unsolvable problem, and then, two seconds after she delivered her solution, she got shot in the back of the head. Roll credits.

This is the new paradigm in a nutshell. How to spoil an otherwise good movie in a microsecond.

Ya know? Fuck you, youngsters. If you want to die, die. Go ahead. Just don't bother your betters with your nihilistic pretensions. I feel sorry for you. But I cannot save you if you don't have a passion for living.

Friday, March 25, 2011

Uplift:

CUSTOMER SATISFACTION FOR OUR COMMENTERS. So doleful, glum DRV is complaining about an absence of uplift. Never mind posts about inspiring cats, cheesecake and YouTube clips of Elizabeth Taylor, a Puck Punk tour de force, and an open thread designed to invigorate our in-house political savants. Not enough for DRV:


Sure thing, DRV. Something literally about uplift. A movie called Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. Thing is, it won't be everbody's cup of tea. A user review at imdb.com sums it up pretty well:


I said, "pretty well." It's obviously not a great movie because it was a dud at the box office and most of you have never heard of it. But the Sin City comparison is apt. It's much more art design and cinematography than a rip-roaring action movie, which it also is. Sin City's provenance consists entirely of comic books and pulp noir detective novels. Sky Captain's provenance is much more far-reaching, deliberately evocative of Fritz Lang's Metropolis, H.G. Welles's The Shape of Things to Come, the original King Kong, and the War of the Worlds, as well as early twentieth century science fiction, the romance of the art deco movement, and, um, heroes who save the day.

There's lots that's annoying. From almost the first scene you wish the utterly talentless Gwyneth Paltrow could have been traded in on Cate Blanchette, and Jude Law on Timothy Olyphant or Barry Pepper. And the annoyance keeps getting worse with every leaden line delivered by Paltrow and every simpering affectation of Jude Law. But the compensations are enough for me. The hero's weapon of choice is a P-40 Warhawk (scroll) painted with the famed, bloody shark mouth on the cowling employed by Chennault in Burma and China. The clothes and everything else in matters of style are late thirties glamour. And I have always loved old-time visions of future technology, monstrous robots coupled with squealing vaccuum tube radios, sleekly voluptuous cars, flapping flying machines, you know the kind of thing. And there's still the Empire State Building, where the Hindenberg III docks majestically in the opening scene, the Chrysler Building looking new, and the Flatiron Building looking beautifully like itself, all done up dramatically enough to look like an Atlas Shrugged movie that veered suddenly sci-fi. Visually, it all works amazingly well, a curious amalgam of atavistic black-and-white, semi-sepia, and startling technicolor. I'm sure not everyone will share my assessment of this. But it's mine, and honestly, they had me at the first closeup of Sky Captain's vintage faceted pilot goggles and that heavily modified P-40. (Yup. It's also a submarine with a back seat big enough for a long-legged blonde. Cool.)

The story? Who cares? Sky Captain is a standard issue comic book hero who just might have been brought to life by someone else. Gwyneth Paltrow is an anachronistic feminist journalist with no scruples but nice pencil skirts. Angelina Jolie wears an eyepatch. Why not?

It's a thrill ride, definitely fun to watch, and not depressing, unless your existential angst goes very deep.

Have fun not thinking about Obama for a couple hours.

P.S. Or, if you'd rather see a really good movie that isn't necessarily rah rah, you could take the hint embedded above in the mention of Barry Pepper. The link is to The Snow Walker. It's also uplifting, but not like a story about the Bugatti Veyron. More like, "We really are all in this together, and not all of us are going to make it through to the other side." Is that a downer?


Maybe. But not to me.

ASK THE UNIVERSE A QUESTION AND THE UNIVERSE WILL PROVIDE AN ANSWER. Via Hotair who got it from Jonah Goldberg. I have nothing to add.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

DIVIDED BY ZERO. Here's the thing. Everybody -- and I do mean everybody -- knows that Obama is a disaster. Think about it. Everything he has done has made everything worse. Without exception. He spends close to a trillion dollars on a stimulus that stimulates nothing but government jobs and, oh yeah, cataclysmic debt. Unemployment has hit a seemingly permanent high we haven't seen since Jimmy Carter. He passes a healthcare bill so expensive and bureaucracy-laden that a year later people still don't know what's in it, except that everyone with lobbying clout (remember, there would be no lobbyists in this administration) is seeking a waiver to bail the hell out of it. His first foreign policy initiative was to run around the world apologizing to everyone in sight about how horrible America is, especially to muslims, who can't possibly be behind the mysteriously motiveless terror attacks that bear only muslim fingerprints. Result? All the muslim nations in the middle east are in meltdown because the American cop has quit walking his beat. He bows out of any involvement in Iraqi politics, after the victory was won, and sits as a bystander while sectarian divisions paralyze a people yearning for a clear way forward. He off-handedly ramps up the war in Afghanistan without articulating any definition of victory, single-handedly bringing about the quagmire most feared by his own political base. He handles this problem by not saying a word about it ever, not even through his omniscient teleprompter. His domestic budget doesn't even exist, and he wants no part of the discussion. He commits American troops to a Keystone Kops miltary adventure in Libya, ignoring what everyone who has worked with Europeans has known for decades -- they don't want any responsibility, can't take orders from one another, and absolutely rely on America to run things and save the day, which can't happen this time because the American president is too busy with brackets and posh excursions on Air Force One to buckle down and do his fucking job.

Everybody knows this. Democrats in the Senate are sending him letters begging for guidance on the budget crisis. The general populace is mystified and scared about skyrocketing gas prices and vague threats of nuclear contamination from Japan, a longtime ally that has suddenly been plunged into near-apocalyptic crisis at a time when no one can afford the collapse of the world's third largest economy. About which he is mostly silent, except for the supposedly reassuring photo ops of him playing soccer with schoolkids in Brazil. And does anybody remember that he shut down oil-drilling in the gulf in defiance of court orders to the contrary and has absolutely no policy for developing our own national resources in the areas of oil, refineries, natural gas, and coal, except to shut them down and pray for wind farms, solar panels, and electric cars nobody wants or can afford? All while intimating at every turn that opposition to his bizarre agenda is somehow, however obscurely, racist in intent.

He's a clown. But that's not even the real problem. We've survived bad presidents before. The real problem is that the MSM machine which elected him is still unwilling to tell the truth about a bad president. Last night, ABC News led its nightly news broadcast with twelve minutes about Elizabeth Taylor. Really? There was nothing more important and dire than that to talk about? Elsewhere, Kirsten Powers is still defending Obama on Hannity ("I can't see anyone who can beat Obama," she said with a straight face), Andrea Mitchell is proposing an inane "Obama Doctrine" intended to make sense where none exists of his foreign policy, media watcher Howard Kurtz is just now starting to wonder whether the MSM should be, perhaps, a mite more skeptical of the Libyan comedy, and Brian Williams is making unapologetic excuses for the president's "Let's get the hell out of the Oval Office" approach to the most important job on the planet.


We've already seen that the conservative elites have no stomach for taking on the president. How long can this farce go on? It reminds me of the Clinton-Lewinsky scandal, when the whole country was frozen in place for more than a year by a professionally orchestrated set of talking points based on the idea that "everybody lies about sex." It was during that time, don't forget, that the preparations for 9/11 got underway with no one to monitor or stop the gathering threat.

Denial ain't just a river in Egypt. It's potentially a stake in the heart of the nation. We're not in a business-as-usual mode. We're in freefall in every possible arena. Talking about this as if it were business as usual is every bit as criminally negligent as having elected an unvetted state legislator to the presidency in the first place.

We got sold a turkey, never mind how. It's time we started recognizing the error and making sure we correct it before it's too late.

God damn all the whores who are deliberately turning a blind eye to the biggest electoral mistake we have ever made in this country.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

WE KEEP GETTING NEWENS. Mrs. CP is supposed to be the sensible one in this household. Normally she is. Like when we go to Petsmart to spend our weekly king's ransom on dogfood, catfood, birdseed, etc, she won't let me even walk by the cats in the Pet Rescue booth. (I do anyway.) But on Friday she called me to say she'd seen a cat at Petsmart she had to have. We have four dogs and three cats, and the deerhound is still just one year old, a handful more demanding than a human infant, because he's one and one hundred pounds of trouble. What can you say? "Sure."

We went and got him on Sunday. After all the calls. Cat rescue people are, well, anxious and hyper. They had it in mind that this new boy might be too much for us to manage. He's an "alpha male," they said. He might attack and maul our other cats because he's such a bad dude in the cat universe. Mrs. CP knew how to handle it, which is good because all my instincts were (as usual) wrong. I'd have told them that our Bengal Izzie could kick his ass with one hand tied behind her back, and our feral Mickey is so huge he could simply sit on an an "alpha male" and forget about him. Which doesn't even address the real issue, meaning Raebert, who continues to think cats are mysteriously mobile toys, still unaware that one tap of his gigantic paw can send a cat to the hospital. Izzie doesn't care because she's Izzie, friend of Psmith and becoming friend of Raebert...

Mrs. CP just told them she could take care of it. Adoption approved. So on Sunday I spent the longest eighteen hours of my life in the sixty minutes it took to complete the paperwork in that claustrophobic booth and get the new boy into the carrier and into the car. (Occasionally, even the most enlightened male understands why so many men tune all women out completely. Jesus. Do they NEVER shut up?) His foster mom was worried that the 50 miles we had to drive to get him home would be too much for him. He meowed exactly three times en route. I think he was as glad as I was to get out of that place where all those women, in an incredibly confined space, were talking over each other continuously like lunatics. Never been asked the same questions so many times with no comprehension or memory of the answers. Enough said.

Guess what. He is an alpha male. Alpha plus. He doesn't need to kick ass. His thing? He's completely unafraid. Mickey stalked him, Izzie did her scary, warbling danger voice, and Raebert did his "Wow, a new toy I can paw and boot around." What did this guy do? Nothing. No retreat. No threat displays. He just sat there, plainly saying, "I am Elliott." The perfect answer. Meaning he was utterly unimpressed by any possibility of harm.

And meaning that Mrs. CP knows what she's doing when she bonds with a cat in a nanosecond through a plexiglass window at Petsmart. She just knew. Instantaneously. Maybe I'll learn how to fully appreciate this women before I die, but it's going to take some time. A lot of time.

Some key facts about Elliott. He's supposedly an orange tabby. He isn't. Anyone can see he's a blond cat, just like his new daddy. He knows his name, which came with him, and he responds to it just like a dog, coming at a trot from wherever he is. There's a lot more to him than dignity. He likes to play with all the toys, he will sleep with his head on your hand, and he investigates absolutely everything with a kind of patient resolve.

Truth. I sat up with him all night the first night. He didn't want me to go to bed. He knew he was home at last, and his whole attitude was, "I've been waiting and waiting, and now here you are."

The missus and I are still getting used to his implacable calm. Raebert paws him and he simply bats lightly at the paws. Incredible because Raebert's affectionate pawings still hurt me.

I know I've talked a lot about dogs and cats here over the years. I've never suggested that Instapunk.com needed a mascot. But maybe Elliott should be our mascot. Did I mention that Elliott is slightly lame? A hind leg that might have been broken in the past. Who knows what rescues endure before they fall into human hands? But I put it to you: Isn't this guy the essence of us? Standing there, calm and observant, somehow immune to the onslaught. Too cool to get violent. Too confident of his own destiny to let temporal provocations get in the way of his enjoyment of life.

Well. No pressure. We don't really need a mascot at Instapunk.com. But I'm sure those of you who don't hate cats will extend a warm welcome to our newest boy. His name is Elliott.

    

ELIZABETH TAYLOR DEAD. For the last half of her life, she became a totem for gay men. But that's not how it began. She was an extraordinary actress and a great great beauty. Mrs. CP urges you to take another look at Raintree County and A Place in the Sun (Dreiser's American Tragedy). No two ways about it. She was just gorgeous.




Whereas I remain enthralled by her promise in National Velvet.


No, nothing creepy about it. I'm old enough to see her in that movie as a daughter -- and heartbroken to think that all her talent and beauty would lead her to so much internationally celebrated unhappiness. Her real husband was Mike Todd. He died in a plane crash.  I don't think she ever got over that. Why I prefer to forget about all the soap operas with Richard Burton, Cleopatra, weight gain and loss. repeated surgeries, the Michael Jackson infatuation, and so forth. It doesn't matter. She had violet eyes.

I also thought she was magnificent as Rebecca in Ivanhoe.


Oh well. She left her mark. She is immortal. She was a star. I hope she has found peace.

SAY IT IS NOT SO, ANYFELL! Hello again, mes amis. I am once again so happy to meet you here, by invitation of the Punks. My good grief. There is so many things in the world going on it is enough as to make my head spin! In fact, the number of things that happen in the events is so large, it is difficult to make the decision on which is the best topic to start on. However, I know it is in the spirit of The Punks to fight a challenge. Therefore, I accept and will do a good job. So, sans plus adieu, I will start.

Anyfell Season in Review - I make a promise back in the preseasonings that I will follow this anyfell season all the way. And I keep this promise. Even though I do not write about it until now. This is because I must drink while I watch the anyfell, and while I drink I soon feel the bite of nostalgic and I go to the computer and start watching old clips of my Quebec Nordiques. But still I take a notes and can present a review to you so I do not break my promises.

So I think that the Green Way Packers win all of the Superbowls despite that I am still many confuse about how they get to that game. There is the university minor league of the anyfell, called I think the NAACP, and it has what they call the BCS system. They play about one thousand Superbowls for some reason instead of make only six or eight teams have the playoff, and all of this Superbowls are spread in a time of four months. In start there are twenty four games to play every day and the number is smaller and smaller until, in the month number four, they play this last game alone very late at night. I think it is only that I am Canadian so I do not have l'comprehension about this idea, but to me it seems if you have one thousand Superbowl games it will make the experience feel not as excite. Also the team they say is university champion of the NAACP is made cheap because they did not have to fight in a playoff and only are include in the champion bowl because Tony Kornholer and a computer vote for them. And yet I must make the defend for the hockey when a critics say the anyshell playoffs are too long?

But anyway, the anyfell playoffs start during the BCS superbowls until there is one last superbowl after the university superbowl championship bowl. So I do not make the confuse, I will call this last anyfell game the Big Superbowl. This game is won by the Green Way Packer man Rogers who makes a throw of the ball so good, even the man with all the pubic hair flowing from the helmet cannot stop him. And I think there is some of the irony because the Green Ways are from your state of Wisconsin which brings me to...

More strikings - Mes amis, I must be clean with you in this moment. I know so many of you do not like the hockey despite many of my effort to show you how good it is. That means you do not know a lot of news of the hockey and I must make la admission of misleading you. Long times ago I tell you the anyshell has LOCKOUT, NOT STRIKE. Well, I lie about this. Actually, we do have a strike during that time and it is cause by the anyshell union of the players. And every player, even moi, must make the participation in it, even if many player already is OK with their contract. The union says to us: "Le commissaire Gary Bettman is the devil. We must fight him and we win for you 20 million dollars U.S. and pensions for the tropical islands." Instead, I lose my job playing the hockey and never see even one of the million dollars U.S. And the only island I see is for two months when I live some with cousins in Ellesmere Island, where I catch the frost bites.

The problem always in our STRIKE is that the anyshell owners already have even more than 20 million dollars U.S. And they will keep their dollars even if the hockey season is missing. However, the players of the anyshell only will get the dollars U.S. if the season can be occur. And it is not very terror to say to Americans, "Give monies to us or we will take away the hockey!" It is maybe like when you say to a bad guy, "Stop being bad or Barack Obama will have many anger!" No body cares.

These thoughts are in my head when I hear about many other unions that make a protest against Wisconsin. They talk about many teacher and student to make a strike for la solidarité, but I think they are only enjoy to not be in the school. But also I have the curious of how many teachers have the job in Wisconsin and do not want to be in the unions but they do not have the choices? But one good thing comes from this. I mention before I am force to stop my job at the census, but still I am friends with my boss from there as he is so smart about how your government works. We are sad for the end of the census because, like my boss instruct me, the unemployments insurance we get is bad for it does not pay "the livable wage" (what he always names it), but one day he announce to me that we have a new job:


When I first get off the bus from union charter in Winconsin, I think I have not the right clothes. But then my census boss (he is always so smart), he say to me that my dress is not import, only the count of my body in the people. Also many protester think of my mask that it is the strong support of a teevee station called PBS. They think I dress as a puppet named Homo, even though it is le obvious thing my mask is of Youppi. What I like the most about this time in the protesting is the unions pay for my work in Molson, and addition I get a prescription for vicodin! I have such a gran time it feels like the vacation. What I like the worst is that two fat girls in picture above are many arouse by my support of the PBS Homo and follow me during this whole time. But there is not enough Molson in all of this world! I can not believe!

And now the anyfell has a LOCKOUT, NOT STRIKE. I suppose because treasure rookies such as Jamarcass Russel do not make enough money for making zero contribution to team or the sport. HAHAHAHAHA!! Stupid anyfell. I hope all these players also lose the dental insurance. But for truth, I am jealous at the anyfell player union because I know they will get what they want because the fans of anyfell are always so happy to pay more money. I miss playing the hockey.

Other Current Events - Let us see. I think about talking of Libyia. Or Japan. Or maybe the new scandal of the U.S. soldier (who are all guilty with no question anywhere) treating people so badly. But I am already bored with the talk of current events. I want to talk about...

The Hockey - Did you know that the anyshell playoffs start soon? They start so soon. I can not wait. I go ahead now and give you my picks for awards:

Stanley Cup Champions: Montreal Canadians.
Hart Trophy (MVP): Tomas Plekanec (MON)
MVP For Girls: Sidney Mary Crosby (PIT)
Vezina Trophy: Carey Price (MON)
Conn Smythe Trophy: Brian Gionta (MON)

I can go on, but I think you are getting this picture. If you are not a fan of the Habs, you will be so sad during the anyshell playoffs because your team will LOSE. Even the InstaPunk Phylers, which I change my mind about.

Well I have been drinking many Molson while the writting of this post, so as I mention I now only wish to see old clips of my Nordiques. So until next time, my name is...

Back to Archive Index