Let The Right One In, and may The Comedians of Comedy Deliver Us From Evil.

Over a month ago I saw Let The Right One In, a Swedish film that would've been seen by many more people if the mass populace in America weren't enamored with the schmaltz of Twilight, the stupid one of two 2008 movies involving youngins and vampires. But it's not really a fair comparison. Twilight is schmaltz, and Let the Right One In is actually worth a shit.

I got people interested in seeing this with me by running around all like "Who wants to see the Swedish vampire movie!? Have you heard about the Norwegian nazi-zombie movie [Dead Snow]?!" In retrospect, I wish I advertised it differently, because it stopped a friend of mine who can't take scary movies from seeing it. It's not a scary movie. No moments intended to make you jump. But if you pull out the vampire element it sounds like a stupid movie: alienated kid meets alienated kid and they develop a weird friendship and haven't I seen this crap before? No, you haven't. It's not a vampire movie, but the vampirism defines the uniqueness of it... man, just fucking see this, alright? John Ajvide Lindqvist's script managed to make a bizarre situation subtle and acceptable to logic (somehow). Tomas Alfredson's dark direction caused me to assume it's a scary movie, but really, it set a beautiful mood for a dark film. And god, these kids could fucking act, too, Kåre Hedebrant as Oskar and Lina Leandersson as Eli the not-a-girl. And I saw it too long ago to talk it up well enough, but it killed my face and will yours, too, so see it and read on, folks...

Next, my roommate asked me yesterday, "Are you familiar with Zack Galifianakis?" When I said, "Heard of but not familiar with," he turned to our handy Xbox360 (where we can watch Netflix flims instantly and that is awesome) and put on The Comedians of Comedy, a documentary about four comedians touring the U.S. independently at cheap rock clubs to lower the cost of admission. Our comics are Patton Oswalt, Brian Posehn, Maria Bamford, and Zack Galifianakis. Like a rock and roll documentary, we get all the backstage and tour bus antics, but instead of loads of drugs and boobs, they just make fun of each other all the time and it's really funny. Patton has his "Am I crazy or is the world crazy?" shtick, Posehn his "Can you believe how big a dork I am? 'Cause I can't," thing, Bamford her "I'm definitely crazy but do really good impressions" deal, and the Galifianakis wild card. All made me laugh multiple times, but Galifianakis's playing heart felt piano while saying ludicrous things into a microphone bit killed me every time. That alone is worth watching this movie.

So after my roommate and I laughed for an hour and 45 or so, I said, "Hey, wanna watch the most depressing documentary ever made?" I'm sure he would have said no if he didn't have a laptop in his paws to distract him. Regardless, we watched Deliver Us From Evil, Amy Berg's brilliant documentary about sexual abuse in the Catholic church. My friends who were raised Catholic refuse to watch it, and I can't say I blame them. We meet a free Father Oliver O'Grady, deported to Ireland after serving seven of fourteen years in prison in the U.S. for sexually abusing children as young as 9 months. As one victim's father corrected, it's not pedophilia or touching or molesting - it's rape. Not simply raping children, but raping entire families' trust in the Catholic Church, to which they've devoted their souls as long as they've lived. Heartbreaking could not aptly describe the pain one victim's father communicates to the camera, having allowed Father O'Grady to stay with his family to get away from the parish and stress of being a priest. O'Grady read the Bible and said his morning prayers in the living room hours after raping his hosts' five year old daughter all night long. Seeing O'Grady roam free in Ireland, resultant of the Catholic Church cutting a deal with him to keep his mouth shut about who knew what during his trial, and walk past children on the sidewalk might be the most frightening, infuriating image one could ever see. Berg's documentary used O'Grady as one example - one man, one priest - who conceivably raped hundreds of children, and concisely showed how the conspiracy to hide such things went as high in the church as Pope Benedict XVI, who was granted immunity of prosecution by George W. Bush at the request of the Vatican.

Deliver Us From Evil will make your head hurt for sure. My roommate and I beat the shit outta some Rock Band drums until 1am afterwards, 'cause we had to. I also couldn't watch this sober, dear God no. When something this emotionally devastating presents itself to you, is it better to indulge and learn the full extent of it, or acknowledge its rottenness and accept that it will be unbearable and move on to something else?

Gah. I don't know. In other news, Bill O'Reilly flips out - DANCE REMIX.


Beer For My Horses: Why Toby Keith Is A Moron.

(In all fairness, some may feel I am also a moron.)

So Toby Keith wrote a movie, y'all. It's called Beer For My Horses. It's about America. Perhaps not directly, but it sure had everything that makes me cringe about America...

Fan of Ted Nugent, aka "The Nuge"? Look no further than Ted's Cat Scratch Feverin' shoot out at the beginning of this movie (which followed his stupid bow and arrow shtick where he shoots an arrow into a bad guy's butt). He never said anything. The Nuge didn't have to say anything. He's The Nuge. But, he did force two words at the end: "Circus jolly." Yeah, I'd like to uhh... tell you what that meant, but I have no idea. You think I actually finished watching this pile of garbage? Otherwise, The Nuge just sharpened hunting knives and made faces. Fuck you, Ted Nugent.

Yer woman pissed atcha? Buy her somethin' nice (nahce). Hmm. That didn't work? Really? Well... fuck. Ya see, Toby 'n' I here thought that's all ya needed ta make yer pair a tits that'cha come home to perky and happy! Well doggone... I guess... Well, I don't guess nothin'. Toby's guess was just... to find a new pair a tits to come home to. HA! And all he needed to do to impress the new pair a tits was bring her some corn dogs and ketchup, even though she liked mustard ("Aww, you haven't changed a bit, Toby!"). After all, he needed some respite from fighting off minority drug lords who threatened his life on a regular basis.

Which reminds me... need someone to make fun of? How 'bout minorities? Or, even better, a Mexican drug lord (who actually looked more Cuban than anything, but... yeah. Why bother pointing that out...)! Who uhh... Hmm... Mexicans. Now, they usually deal in like, weed and cocaine and destroyingAmerica, right? Well, it wouldn't be a stretch to just assume they run a meth business, too, right? I mean, I say so 'cause crystal meth is tearing up the poor rural white communities in America, and I just... I can't... *sheds a tear*... I just can't picture a beautiful white American doing such a thing to his white brethren! *bawls uncontrollably* SO LET'S BLAME A MEXICAN!!! Right, Toby?! I mean, just in case anyone wants to think that's racist or anything, ya needed a bad guy anyway. I mean, we know there are some bad apple white folk (the meth head who told Toby to watch out for his life and the city boy lawyer (who played Booger in Revenge of the Nerds) who defended the Mexican drug lord), but we all know they're not bad guys, so. It all worked out! And, in case y'all think Toby's playin', Wikipedia proved he's not being racist.


Speaking of America... Need a scary dude to be the owner of a big dumb looking truck that gets smashed to pieces by a redneck who actually thinks it's someone else's truck? Look no further than scary-looking UFC fighter "The Dean of Mean" Keith Jardine! All Jardine had to do was swing a bat at some redneck's face in one scene and sweat and glisten in a blacksmith shop in another. I hope he made some good bank off that Toby guy, too.

Look at that hottie. Sex Machine Keith Jardine.

At this point, I'll acknowledge that yes, I understand Mr. Keith was just trying to make a funny movie. I shouldn't really take any of this seriously. Just a joke, man! Of course! So on that note...

Need something to break the silence of a scene? Make the dog fart. As a matter of fact, right after the dog farts and the 'fart joke' has been established, say something really asinine like, "[Name of dog] farts right before something important happens. Strangest thing-" and have it transition right into an action sequence! God! How or... why are you so smart, Toby? Comedic. Genius. So, what really would have been impressive - and my head hurt too much to see whether or not it eventually happened - would have been using this farting dog as a foreshadowing device. That line set it up, so I assumed the dog-farting-before-important-events thing recurred. I'm not lauding this idea. I'm just saying Toby & Co. would be even bigger imbeciles if they didn't do this.

At any rate, I know I didn't save you any time by writing this review. I know you did not plan to ever watch Beer For My Horses. Everything about this movie was a waste. So on that note...

Need to add extra footage that's funny but serves no purpose? Got it! Film the dog licking his balls instead of sniffing out drugs. OH MY GOD THAT'S HYSTERICAL.

Sometimes, I cry for America.

Toby Keith? You are a moron. (BOOM. Roasted.)


Why Drinking As Much As I Did The Past Several Days Is A Bad Idea.

For starters, it gives one too many options on how to title such a blog. Or begin it, for that matter. I just axed the title: "Birthday. Beer. Boobs. ..Err, No Boobs, Actually. Uhmm... Blas...Uhh. Oh! Barfights." It was misleading. I didn't see any boo...oh wait! I did! On some machine at the Tap Room that guys suddenly took interest in. My guess would be that interest was inspired by the boobs.

Neither here nor there, though. I also considered starting this blog like:

Dear Diary,

I thought about writing what I'm about to tell you on my blog. Then I realized I'd have to be fucking insane to do that. Then I realized I'm fucking insane

And the storytelling would have continued, etc.

But then I decided the best way to preamble this tale of drunkenness was to start and stop and make very little sense (see above).

So here goes.

Friday was my last "real work day" before my layoff took effect. I spent the day filling over 20 cardboard boxes with files from our file cabinets. I finished so I could go drink at Elephant & Castle stress free with my soon-to-be-former coworkers. The first drop of alcohol hit my lips around 5:45 or 6pm. Everyone was happy, laughing. I shared my birthday plans with everyone, and a surprising number of girls knew about the UFC fights on Saturday. Why? A surprising number of guys had already frustrated them with their UFC obsession and no-longer-free Saturday evenings. I received my first birthday shot from Christine (thank you kindly, Christine), which was a tasty lemon drop. Then, back to Carlsburg. Then I broke the seal. Then... *sigh*, I kept drinking, and should've taken the instance of whispering to someone that I wanted to fuck them when I first met them as a sign of a wild and crazy weekend to come.

Note: I don't make a habit of whispering to friends that I want to fuck them, whether or not I want to fuck them. (Err... not entirely true. I whisper that to my guy friends all the time to make them uncomfortable. It works.)

Point is, that was my last memory of Elephant & Castle before I got out of a cab at my friend's house party, where I drank - I found out later, from pictures, stories - jungle juice. Lots of it.

Time to fill in some blanks...

After I unceremoniously disclosed my carnal desires to an unsuspecting fellow drunk, I left Elephant & Castle around 1030 or 11pm with a number of people and hopped on the Blue Line. At the Western stop, I got up and said, "I'm going to take a cab from here, grumble grumble." History proved: that's exactly what I did. If I had a dollar for every L ride I couldn't remember the next day...

And... *sigh* alright. I remember being at the party. Seeing people I recognized. Getting a few 'Happy Birthdays' and what not. And they cooked up some delicious ass burgers for our drunk asses. Ate about... 4 of those. I remember that much. And looks like I was having a pretty great time, too! Dancing with Richie and the aforementioned jungle juice:

What I don't remember...

Drinking jungle juice. I assumed I kept drinking at my friend's house party. It was, after all, a house party, with $5 per cup admission. I didn't remember giving anyone $5, but I figured I must have, but then I couldn't remember ever going to the bathroom. So I thought, "Huh. Maybe I didn't drink at the party. I have to piss every 5 minutes after I break the seal." So apparently, I don't remember going to the bathroom a million times either. And I thought I rested my eyes for a while - not so. I passed the fuck out for a good half hour before we left. It started like this:

That would be Henry holding my head up while I slept so that I didn't crash into him. Note my unconscious determination to do something fruitful with that jungle juice. Like, drink it, or something.

Alright, alright. I was told the jungle juice had been planted in my hand for comedic effect. But all jokes must die:

Not the jungle juice joke. Not yet, anyway. But.. oh wait, here we go:

So this is what I had looked like when... well. Henry recounted to me that he was talking to some girl who had been petting me, claiming how charming I was being passed out the way I was. I guess Henry had a really wonderful conversation with this girl, and agreed that I was awfully charming passed out as I was. Henry may have even pet me, too - I'll never know! Charming or not, my friends had work to do...

Some friends draw dicks on your forehead with permanent markers. My friends cover you head to toe in an abundance of beer coasters. No passing out shall go unpunished.

Punished I was.

Then we went home. I passed out in my bed. I woke up with the worst headache ever.

And got right back to drinking hours later at Honey 1 BBQ. I decided a nice bday dinner was in order, and what better way to kick off a night of fights and birthday drinking than with greasy, manly BBQ and micro-brewed beer (Wolaver's Pale Ale. Delicious.). I had a pulled-pork sammich and rib tips. That Wolaver's must've been highly alcoholic, 'cause Henry and I buzzed our way over to the Tap Room to watch UFC 94. En route, we noticed a neon sign in the liquor store next door to the Tap Room that said "Certified Purveyors of the Miller High Life." For the record, I will love you forever if you get me a neon sign that says both 'purveyor' and 'Miller High Life.'

Fights started. I was excited. I'd been looking forward to GSP vs BJ Penn since August, and especially since November when UFC announced it would happen on my birthday.

So ya know, I'm drankin' my face off a lot harder than I realized, because when BJ's corner threw in the towel, I started yelling. A lot. Just joyful, gleeful yelling (or so I thought, anyway). One of the bar's patrons took mild exception with my celebrating (BJ's a fucking PUSSY!), and he pointed out that BJ had taken quite a beating. It was true. He had. And I wasn't mad at the guy for pointing this out. All I could think about was how BJ called GSP a bitch for tapping out to strikes (read: repeated punches to the face) during their first fight (only after the bell rang ending the first round, so GSP didn't lose, and GSP wound up winning a split decision victory after two more rounds). So, I was wasted, ya know. All I heard was BJ quit. And all I thought was 'hypocrite.' So all I yelled to this unsuspecting Tap Room patron something along the lines of: "You're a fucking idiot and anyone who agrees with you is a fucking idiot!" The actual words have been hotly contested since the incident. I certainly don't remember what I said. Remember? I was just yelling aimlessly. But I realized I was being an asshole when I felt the arms of friends holding me back, while one whispered, "Whatever. We got numbers. It's all good." And I guess this guy understood pretty quickly that I was just being a waste face and not really looking to hold a halfway serious conversation about the well-being of one BJ Penn. I guess he was by himself, too, and wearing a wedding ring. I don't think he was very large, either. All told, I chose the right person to be an asshole toward. And I learned my lesson that uhh... adrenaline + testosterone + beer = cocktailforJontheAsshole. So I can keep that in mind the next time I'm full of adrenaline, testosterone and beer and yelling for the sake of yelling. In other words, I'll probably stop myself from yelling, and just smile widely.

Karma's a bitch, though. Minutes later, while waiting for a bus to take my drunk, testosterone-filled self home, I uhh... Hmm. How shall I put this...

Well, alright.

I fell backwards like an unconscious log because I'd fallen asleep on my feet waiting for the bus. Henry, talking on the phone behind me, saw my dead-logged body at an approximately 65 degree angle in relation to the ground and shoulder-blocked me to the side so that I landed on my elbow instead of cracking my head open on the sidewalk. Had I cracked the back of my head open on the sidewalk, I'm sure I'd have some commentary on it involving the words 'brutal' and 'awesome.' Instead, I'll say I stood back up and denied knowledge of such a thing ever happening. So one friend held me up with my arm around his shoulder and his arm around mine, until it was clear that that was not enough to hold up a sleeping 25 year old man. I may have crashed to the sidewalk again. Not really sure. But I was two-manned for a while in the 'Hold Up My Drunken Friend' department. Shortly after that, I walked unassisted for two blocks to catch a cab.

Then, memory fails me. I woke up shirtless on my couch and retreated to my bedroom. There I found Jake passed out, 'cause I'd stolen his bed (my couch). I woke up the next day without a single symptom of a hangover.

Luckily, I have friends to fill in blanks.

When we got to my apartment, we played Rock Band for a while. Shirtless. I participated, apparently. Then, there was a long enough break in the action for me to start leaning/rolling against the wall, causing my roommate to declare 'Oh my god, that guy is not okay,' at which point I guess I fell onto a chair and almost broke something. Jake said he slapped my face, told me to pull it together and walk over to the couch (a 3-4 step journey). I complied and didn't move again until morning. ..Err, unless someone started talking to me about drugs. I guess that got me to move from time to time.

Oh, my favorite part... Henry's girlfriend Gosia cabbed to our apartment shortly after we arrived from the Tap Room. She told us her cab driver picked her up and she gave the cabbie her address of destination. He gave her some interesting news: "[That address]? I just dropped 4 guys off there. One was really tall and had a nose ring [Henry]. Ya know, most guys I pick up - all they talk about is gettin' pussy. These guys? All they talked about was tacos and burritos."

That's Gosia and the cabbie. Reports indicate he was amused by our banter. I certainly don't remember. My friends said I was interacting with others coherently in the cab ride. I assume they were speaking relatively.

So I took a day off from drinking. Visited my parents. Told them a more selective version of the story you just read. And, I say 'took off,' but I meant I only had 3 beers instead of enough beers to kill a yak. I considered Super Bowl parties, but some sound piece of judgment managed to reach my thick skull that day and I did not SuperBowlParty it up.

But Monday, Feb 2nd, my last day of employment, I threw sense out the window and drank and drank and drank, starting around noon at the Billy Goat Tavern. I had a great time, too. Not one bad moment, really. Everyone was happy, drinking with me, laughing, forgetting that we'd all just lost our jobs. It was quite great! Nothing bad that I remember. Probably because... I don't remember passing out at the bar we'd been drinking at, Cal's. And I don't remember getting thrown in a cab with Sam V., whose boots I puked on (for what it's worth, Sam, I puked a little on my peacoat, too) during said cab ride. My delightful coworkers tried desperately to contact my roommate Jon to make sure I didn't die when I got home. My roommate Jon's recounting of events:

"I received phone calls and text messages from numbers I didn't have stored in my phone. They said things along the lines of 'Jon - your roommate Jon is beyond wasted and we're sending him home in a cab. Please make sure he does not die.' I got home and was happy to see you not passed out in the hallway. The door to your room was open. No lights were on. I looked inside and turned on the light. You were wearing your coat, hat and scarf, kneeling in front of your bed with your upper torso and face flush with the mattress. I thought, 'He didn't quite make it...'"
I still don't have a time frame for any of Monday's events. All I can say with certainty was my last memory of Sam V. was at the Billy Goat, when she went back to the office (she has her job until April). Not Cal's, where I passed out and got thrown in a cab. At some point during my unconsciousness, Sam V. returned to her more merry former coworkers and dragged one of them into a cab home where he proceeded to puke on her boots as a means of saying "Thank you."

I can think of many reasons to drink yourself into oblivion. I'm not saying my reasons were bad at all, but... there comes a point for all of us where enough is enough. I just needed to come to that point... 5 or 6 times in 3 days for it to have any sort of meaningful effect.

So this is how I've entered my new, bohemian lifestyle. Puking on boots and writing about it.

I think I can dig that. Wish me luck.