I can't figure out  what the saddest part of this tattoo is, the tattoo or the thigh it's printed on. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get my calculator and try to figure out all the ways that this thing signals the imminent apocalypse.  

     The film world lost one of it's true originals yesterday with the death of director Ken Russell. A true pioneer in extreme visuals and exaggerated, surreal storytelling, Russell will never be forgotten. He would often make films whose visual mastery was complimented by plots with smooth, rounded edges that allowed for aspects of the storytelling that you did not like to merely be ignored. As a result, I don't think that he ever made a film that was not open to at least a little bit of interpretation. Miss something plot-wise that you think might prove to be important? Forget it. Care that Oliver Reed is one of the leads in a musical despite the fact that he can't sing AT ALL? Forget it. Get arguably the greatest screenwriter in the history of the medium (Paddy Chayefsky) to write you a script and then tear out pages like they're napkins out of a dispenser at a burger joint? Forget it. His films were all much more about the experience than the details.
     Speaking of the experience. I'd like to end this with Ken Russell's most lasting legacy in my personal time with him. I was ten years old when I saw Russell's wonderful, surreal horror/comedy "Lair of the White Worm". In it, Amanda Donohoe plays a vampiric seductress and follower of a snake-like god/monster/demon. It was the experience of watching her in this film that, in my best estimation, taught me to be frightened of beautiful women. this is something that most ten-year-old boys are just beginning to realize is something they are going to have to struggle with, however, Amanda Donohoe was the ultimate manifestation of this for me. To picture a woman so esthetically pleasing (armpit hair aside) being so cold, calculating and literally inhuman was a crash course in unattainability that messed me up and messed me up bad. This was scarier than any horror film that I can possibly imagine. This woman was more attractive than any woman I had ever seen and she lived for the sole purpose of out-witting slaying and orally castrating male simpletons. She wanted what you had and there was absolutely no way that she was not going to get it. Even Hugh Grant himself barely puts up a fight and he slays ladies libidos on an hourly basis.  
     I've never fully gotten the images of Amanda Donohoe in this film out of my head. Congratulations, Mr. Russell, you've screwed me up for life. 

I'm sure that wherever you are, you're proud of yourself.  
     Look, it's like this.
     If you know me, over the next few days, you might hear conflicting stories about a pan of Rice Krispie treats that my girlfriend made. These stories will pertain to the identity of the person who ate the entire thing the next day when she was out of the house. Theoretically, I was the only person who was at home and I sure was hungry and I am well-known as a person with virtually no ability to control my food binging. Anyone who's ever left a pie to cool on a windowsill in my neighborhood has paid the price for their over-abundance of faith in mankind. Still, I will not take the blame for the sudden and, dare I say, tragic disappearance of the Rice Krispie treats. It would do nothing but reaffirm the worst about what people already suspect of me and I refuse to make matters even worse than the already are.

Besides, you can't prove anything, now can you?

     If I had even the slightest financial security and ability to draw I would take all of my money and invest it in a tattoo parlor that did nothing but put awful, unflattering tattoos on women's breasts.
The shop's name: 

Anyone want to stake me a couple of bucks? If you don't think that this is a popular idea, clearly you and I are not hanging out at the same clubs on Saturday nights. All I seem to see these days are girls who have made the deliberate decision to take a part of themselves that needed absolutely no embellishment and proceed to embellish the ever-loving hell out of it. Do you think that we're not already staring at your cleavage enough? If that is the case, I can assure you, we are. We really, really are. If I were to see a pie chart of my entire life with a visible slice noting the percentage spent staring at women's breasts I'm pretty sure that I'd have no choice but to jump off of a moderately tall building. Shame can be a powerful weapon.
     Of course, maybe that's the idea behind the whole trend. Perhaps women are getting this done to decrease men's interest in staring at their bosoms be detracting from their pleasing aesthetic. Something to the effect of "These scumbag men won't stop staring at my boobs. What to do, what to do?..."
 "WAIT, I've got an idea." 
"Well, how about now?" 
Is that the reason? You can tell me ladies. After all, I am a doctor.  

     I've never seen any of the "Twilight" movies in their entirety, however, I once broke my wrist in three places and had to wait several hours before I could get a cast on it. I had to just sit there, surrounded by nincompoops, while I waited to get a chance to see a nurse. It was simultaneously mind-numbingly boring and excruciatingly painful. 
     As a result of all this, even though I've never actually seen a Twilight movie in it's entirety, I'm pretty sure that I've seen one in spirit. I can't imagine the experience is not identical.
     Look, I know that I'm a bit late to the dance on this, but if you're best friend, Harry, has a brother, Larry, and five days from now, he's gonna marry....
     Why the hell would he ask YOU be the best man?
     Does Larry have some strange, adversarial relationship with Harry and want to spite him by inviting you to be his most trusted confidant? Does Harry suffer from some degenerative disease that does not allow him to travel distances? Does Harry hate Larry's fiance and you are the next best thing since he refuses to attend? Does Harry not believe in the institution of marriage? Perhaps he's incarcerated on on board the international Space Station. Perhaps Harry is Debbie Harry, lead singer of Blondie, and they are  currently on an international tour. Any way you slice it, you're doing someone your best friend's family a disservice by doing this. It's really best in situations like this to stay out of other people family affairs. Still, why would Larry ask something like this of you. Doesn't he know that this is just going to cause unneeded complications if your life? Perhaps that had been part of Larry's insidious plan all along. 
But why? 
What is the deal with this? 
WHAT? I must know!

This world is just to frustrating. Sometimes my first inclination is to become a monk and leave the situation.  

That'd show 'em. That'd show 'em all.

     It looks like I shall be spending this Veteran's Day celebrating in the same way that I do every year:
Masturbating to selected scenes from Ridley Scott's classic, "G.I. Jane".
Got a problem with that? If so, why do you hate our troops/America/my penis?
Two of those three are unforgivable. The third is a genuine question that I've always wanted to know the answer to.
Little help?
    Today, two big things happened. No, I'm not talking about no gall-darn election results. Where do you think you are, someplace smart? No, the two things that happened are the untimely death of Heavy D and the shame-ridden resignation of Brett Ratner as the producer of the Academy Awards.
     The first one of these things is a real tragedy. Heavy D is the kind of rapper they just don't make anymore, the kind that was not searching for street cred, not trouncing around displaying their downright comical messiah complexes despite a lack of talent so glaring that they could only exist in a world created entirely by "Auto-tune". Heavy D was just pure fun. There was a time not all that long ago when that was aloud. Rappers could just be out to have a nice, old-fashioned, PG-13 rated good time without incurring the ire of their contemporaries. They could wear bright primary colors with chrome on their baseball hats and not a single one wore ladies earrings. Really, and this is a post for another day, somebody is going to have to explain to me what the deal is with rappers wearing earrings which are clearly intended for women. I don't understand it and I highly doubt that I ever will. Regardless, Heavy D was the antithesis of this self-important buffoonery, both far less serious and far more engaging. He was big and fun and I am going to miss him. 
     Heavy D was also a pretty good actor, appearing in such films as Lasse Hallstrom's  "The Cider House Rules". As good an actor as he as, it is here that we transition into the second part of this post. Heavy D's last movie was Brett Ratner's "Tower Heist". Any simple google search will yield you dozens of reasons why being associated with Brett Ratner at the moment is comparable to being a one legged man in an ass kicking contest, so I'll mercifully spare you the current details. All you need know is that after publicly making a genuine ass of himself time and time again over the last week or so, Ratner has been forced out of being the producer of this years Oscars. I don't know who they are going to get to replace him, but I'm sure they'll be an improvement because, well, anyone would be, right?

My point, in summary, is that something terrible happened today and, almost simultaneously, something wonderful happened. The giant, all-knowing cosmic game of Pong continues.

Take it away, D!
Well, it's Saturday night,
     Some of you are partying in clubs, some are with family, some are working. I'm spending Saturday night watching "Double Impact" on Telemundo. What's better than one Van Damme? two Van Damme. What's better than two Van Damme? Two Van Damme dubbed into Spanish.

     My life really wouldn't be all that different if I was paralyzed from the neck down. 
     I've had a Bank of America account for a larger percentage of my life than I haven't. Seriously, I've been there since 1995. Back when I first went there I was a bitter, angst-ridden fatso with scruffy hair and bad skin, as opposed to now when I'm... well... essentially the same, but with slightly greying facial hair. What was my point again? Oh, yeah. Here goes.
     When I had collected enough money in my adolescence to warrant my first lesson in managing money, my mother took 16 year-old me to the local Bank of America and I opened up "Baby's 1st checking account". I've had this account ever since. In case you haven't been paying attention, I'm not a very sentimental guy, however, I've always had a bit of a soft spot for this event and my bank account, much like my weight, has grown and shrunk over the years. 
     Now I want out.
     If there is one thing that had become common knowledge in the last few years, it's that as a collective, Bank of America is an unconscionably evil place and very much to blame for much of out country's rapid transformation from empire to sun-dried fecal matter on the side of the highway. As a vaguely associated offshoot of the Occupy Wall St. movement, people are being encouraged to pull their money out of the mega-banks and into banks and credit unions less responsible for pushing the majority of the american public down the stairs that we are currently looking up at them from the bottom of. This is all supposed to happen on Saturday, November 5th, which I think means that it has something to do with Guy Fawkes day. As much as my opinion of the Occupy Wall St. had been more contemptuous than most (White people who are right about something but have dreadlocks are still wrong as far as I'm concerned), I really do like this idea. It's a solid piece of protest that is not merely symbolic and hits them where it hurts. As a result of this, it's something I can get behind. However, this is not as easy to do as one might think. Now, when I say that it's not easy to close out my bank account, it's probably not for the reasons that most people think that such a thing is difficult. 
     Firstly, I'm not totally sure which bank I'd want to put my money into. I am well aware that these people who run these banks are far smarter than I and that the American government are more than happy to bend rules in order to make them happy. I just don't want to put my money into a new bank and then find out that it's some fake version of a small town bank, like how Jason Reitman and Diablo Cody direct and write fake indie movies.
     Also, these days I am primarily paid via Paypal, which is tethered to my bank account. I'd rather not say how I make most of my money these says (It rhymes with "Jand Hobs") , but my bank account it really important for that. 
     Finally, and most importantly, I just got a whole bunch of new cheques. Now, before you get all judgmental about my decision to betray my principals for convenience, I should mention that these cheques of which I speak have Superman on them.
     Still not satisfied?
     Fine then. In that case, tell me where I should put my money. Seriously. I'm very easily influenced.
However, if there are Superman cheques to be had, I'd certainly prefer it.