IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas — Blue Ink Alchemy

[audio:http://www.blueinkalchemy.com/uploads/fear_and_loathing.mp3] The American Dream. We've all heard of it. Politicians love to talk about it. People come from distant shores seeking it. All sorts of products promise to give it to you for three easy payments of $99.95 plus shipping and handling. But what is it, really? Has anyone really achieved it? And where do you go looking for it? Los Angeles, maybe? Las Vegas? A motocross race? The bottom of one's navel? Hunter S. Thompson looked for it in all those places and more. His journey was prompted by the gradual deflation of the stronger hippie movements of the mid-60s in the United States. By the time 1970 rolled around it was clear to him that his peers and former fellow luminaries of peaceful enlightenment and conscientious objection were bound for a gradual and inevitable burnout. And then, in 1971, Thompson and his lawyer friend went to Las Vegas to cover a motocross race because, hey, it's Vegas, baby. Being the sort of schizophrenic, drug-addled and absolutely brilliant journalist that liked to drop his pants in the face of convention right after burrito night, Thompson framed his journey in what the French would call roman à clef, and instead of Hunter S. Thompson, it was Spider Jerusalem Raoul Duke renting fast cars, wrecking hotel rooms and wielding deadly flyswatters in his journey across the desert towards the City of Sin and all that waited there for him. His lawyer friend was called Dr. Gonzo, not with any intent of invoking the presence of a particular Muppet but after his preferred form of journalism. After all, why would one go to all this trouble to set up this interesting little framing device and leave the fourth wall unpainted? That'd just be gouache.
The man himself. Sort of. So within the pages of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream we have Duke and Gonzo delving into various forms of drug binges, thankfully not often at the same time. After all, when you're going on a serious acid trip or an ill-advised ether bender, it's good to have a sober buddy to keep you from electrocuting yourself or trying to find a machine gun to deal with the fascist Doberman Pinchers dressed as Mitt Romney trying to eat your scrotum. And if you've never been on anything approaching the aforementioned experiences, don't worry. Monty Python alum Terry Gilliam has graciously gone out of his way to capture the surreal nature of such moments for you. Yeah, they made this novel into a movie in 1998 with Johnny Depp as Duke and Benicio del Toro as Dr. Gonzo, and if nothing else the casting is absolutely brilliant. If you thought Depp was good, funny and wacky as Captain Jack Sparrow, hold on to your goddamn hat. He apparently captures the drug-infused rapid-fire lifestyle of Thompson so completely and accurately that the Doctor of Jounalism disrupted the premiere of the film by jumping up and down on his seats yelling about bats in the throes of a potent acid flashback. I'd like to think Depp and Gilliam took that as a compliment. I happen to think del Toro is a little underrated as an actor, as he is every bit as chameleon-like as Depp if not moreso. As you watch the film, the actual plot tends to wax and wane in importance as the focus clearly becomes the unique and occasionally batshit experiences of these two individuals. They really come to life on the screen.
They're good friends. There's an undercurrent of ennui and restlessness to the whole piece. Thompson is a thoroughly unhappy and cynical man, longing for a time of innocence and free thought that has passed him (and us) by. His famous 'wave speech' is captured more or less in the film, discussing how tides of independence and intellectual righteousness never seem to last as long as they should. What we have here, then, is less a linear progression of a narrative and more a snapshot of a man, a time and an idea. The man is utterly unique and completely irreplaceable. The time echoes into our modern age with all its restlessness, discontent and escapism. The idea is that the American Dream, whatever it actually may be, is ever elusive and never truly obtainable. It's the white stag of the modern age. Even the people who douse themselves in wealth and laugh at the vast majority of the less fortunate can't be said to be truly happy. How can they be, when all they want is more? Okay. Here we are, almost 800 words later. If you hung on this long and are digging on what I'm saying, Fear and Loathing is Las Vegas is definitely something you should see, since it's kind of like this review only a thousand times more bizzare. The people who tuned out when I started rambling can go back to waiting for that new Three Stooges abomination to hit theatres for all I care. Fear and Loathing may not be the most coherent, cleanly-shot or easily-accessible film you'll ever see, but it definitely has something to say and it doesn't seem to give a damn if you understand it at the time or not. It rambles, it wanders, it screams and cries and laughs and freaks the fuck out. You're going to remember it. Provided you don't black out. Josh Loomis can't always make it to the local megaplex, and thus must turn to alternative forms of cinematic entertainment. There might not be overpriced soda pop & over-buttered popcorn, and it's unclear if this week's film came in the mail or was delivered via the dark & mysterious tubes of the Internet. Only one thing is certain... IT CAME FROM NETFLIX.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Expansions in the Force

Expansions in the Force — Blue Ink Alchemy

Let's face an honest truth. The universe George Lucas created back in 1977 is a better place than he originally imagined. With the exception of Empire Strikes Back, which was written & directed by guys that weren't Lucas, the original trilogy established his galaxy far, far away and populated it with strange aliens, turbulent politics and an ancient battle between good and evil held in balance by a mysterious omnipresent energy field dubbed the Force. Have you noticed I haven't said anything about the characters? That's because they're pretty standard adventure fare. Think about it. Luke's arc is so Campbellian in A New Hope one might think a copy of Hero With A Thousand Faces was stashed in Lucas' trailer. The other characters are iconic, sure, but only because they've been in stories we've been telling for centuries. There's nothing wrong with this, mind you, and I'd be the first to say that old stories are still worth telling as long as they're told well. That last bit's the catch, isn't it? We can look at the six feature films of Star Wars (and no I am NOT counting that CGI stuff) and see with clarity that while Lucas can dream up really neat settings, the population of those settings can get a bit dodgy at times. Hence fan fascination with the likes of Wedge Antilles. Oh, you know Wedge. He was in all three movies. Blew up both Death Stars? Escaped Hoth? First Luke's wingman and then Lando's? That's gotta ring a few bells. It was after the first three movies were finished back in the 80s that people started looking to fill in some of the missing pieces of the Star Wars universe themselves, and Wedge was one of the characters that stood out. He was reliable, loyal, an ace pilot and cool under fire. So people started writing about him. To this day, the novels and comics featuring Wedge and Rogue Squadron are some of the highly regarded works of the so-called Expanded Universe. What made Wedge worth writing about was the fact that he was a blank slate. Any writer could have filled that slate with him as a traditional adventurous hero, but he was depicted as a more rounded, seasoned warrior, a man who'd seen the far side of the galaxy and came back knowing he was fighting for the right cause. In a universe where characters with realistic emotions and concrete motivations could be few and far between, where some technology and concepts can best be described as 'magic in space', Wedge thrived. The Expanded Universe came to include calculating and ruthless military foes like Grand Admiral Thrawn, questionably motivated fringe operators like Mara Jade and the Black Sun criminal empire, Rebel-affiliated black ops commandos like Kyle Katarn... they even fished Boba Fett out of the guts of a desert monster (explosives are apparently a good expectorate). But it was still all within the confines of Lucas' original vision. The good guys won, the bad guys lost. The only shades of grey could exist between and after the films. And even then, you only had a handful of the iconic warrior-wizards with glowing laser swords to set Star Wars apart from a plethora of other sci-fi settings. Enter the Old Republic. This is Ulic Qel-Droma. He's one of the first characters introduced in the graphic novels that set the scene 4,000 years before the Battle of Yavin. Instead of following a Campbellian arc, however, Ulic is shown to be a headstrong and powerful warrior who's heart tends to be in the right place but also leaps before he looks more often than not. His tale of pursuing justice only to fall to the Dark Side makes him, in essence, the Darth Vader of his time, and in my humble opinion is everything the six feature films should have been in terms of the development of such a character. It's pretty telling that when it comes to Star Wars gaming, the Old Republic time period has yielded some of the best storytelling thanks to a pair of RPGs produced by BioWare and Obsidian. Knights of the Old Republic and its sequel have become standards by which the likes of Mass Effect and Dragon Age are measured. People have been waiting to get their hands on a third game in the series, and instead BioWare has produced an MMO, which I've experienced a bit of first-hand. While I still consider its gameplay safe and not terribly innovative, I keep thinking about the story. How do they keep things interesting? How does it change when more people are in the mix? And what role, exactly, are we playing in the unfolding events in the galaxy? Are we destined to be a teeming mass of Luke Skywalkers and Ulic Qel-Dromas all claiming to have stopped the same galactic threat? Or will players be more like Wedge Antilles, settling at a cantina and simply saying "Yes, I was there. I saw it happen" in the manner of a grizzled, battle-worn veteran? I'd like to think it'll be the latter. With so many MMOs giving no thought to the ramifications of millions of people killing the same NPC repeatedly, The Old Republic seems to be taking extreme care to make an individual player's story a personal experience, rather than the same one everybody else is having. It gives context and meaning for the typically asinine goings-on in such a game in a way that belies the "been there, done that" feel of its mechanics. It gets away from some of the weaknesses of previous MMOs while polishing some of its mainstay aspects to a shine, just as the Old Republic setting does away with a lot of Lucas' bullshit while maintaining the feel of his galaxy's atmosphere, mood and themes, much as Wedge's novels or earlier games did. I can see why The Old Republic may not be for everybody. But the more I think about it, the more I may need to give it another shot.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Terribronze

Terribronze — Blue Ink Alchemy

Another season has begun in the universe of StarCraft 2. And where does it find me? Yep. Bottom rung. Nothing's really changed. Or has it? With the new job settling into a rhythm that I can cope with, I'm starting to plan more and stress less (at least a bit). Into those plans I'm trying to include things like eating better, exercising more (perhaps joining a gym?) and playing at least 3 matches of the aforementioned game a night. Why? The reason's simple. I'm tired of being terribronze. I consider myself a casual gamer, in that I don't really have aspirations of playing professionally at any point. I don't want the game to become a job. And as envious as I am of the likes of Day[9] and TotalBiscuit who've managed to make gaming the central focus of their lives without the fun getting sucked out of actually playing said games, I do not have the financial freedom or liberty from obligations to make that drastic a career change. I'm pushing it as it is trying to find enough time to write in the space between seconds every day. So why do I care about the arbitrary ranking I have in a online strategy game? I guess it comes down to a measure of pride. Not the most noble of intentions, but there you have it. I fancy myself a bit of a smarty-pants. I got teased about it a lot in school. I was never good at physical activities, sports or even dancing, save for choreographed bits on-stage. I did all right in fencing, tennis and judo in college but it's been a long time since then and my skills are rusty as hell. My brain, though? Sharp as ever. At least I'd like to think so. Gaming's a place where your physical prowess means nothing. It's all about what's going on upstairs. Strategy games are one of the ultimate expressions of this, and if it's happening in real time? Even better. You need not only the capacity to plan and execute complex tactics but the timing and presence of mind to do so quickly and under pressure. It takes discipline and tenacity. That's the big, overarching thought, at least. I'm also not fond of losing to cheese and I'd like to think it happens less often in higher leagues. The mere act of playing more often seems to help. Just a few days after the opening of the season and I'm already maintaining a position in the top 8. Granted, it's among 100 players as terribronze as myself, but it's better than nothing. My strongest matchup is still against Zerg while Protoss continue to beat me regularly. Even so, I seem to be winning more than I'm losing. I just have to keep it up. Because at the very least, it's keeping my brain in shape. And I don't even have to pay a monthly fee to do it.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

This Is Gonna Suck

This Is Gonna Suck — Blue Ink Alchemy

Artists come in all shapes and sizes. Some paint, some create music, others bring out the statues held captive by blocks of stone and still others start with blank pages to create new worlds and memorable characters. But regardless of the art involved, all artists need to face an unfortunate and ugly truth. Not everything an artist creates is going to be good. In fact, a lot of it will struggle to merely be mediocre. It isn't an easy thing to admit to oneself. I know of some people who perform and create without any real talent or passion, and the lack of commitment shows. Not only are such charlatans unwilling to practice or improve, they're all but immune to criticism. To even intimate that they are performing at a less than exceptional level is tantamount to blasphemy in their minds. They'll never, ever look at their work from a point of view outside of their own and realize the flaws in it, be they minute or monstrous. To be honest, I feel sorrier for them than I do the other extreme. We are our own worst critics, and there are those who focus on their flaws and shortcomings entirely too much. All they see in their art is the mistakes they make. They don't see the forest, or even necessarily the trees, just a tiny bit of bird crap on a single leaf; next thing you know they're burning the forest down because "it's all shit." They may have talent and passion, and they might be aware of how practice would improve their art, but they lack the motivation because of how they see everything they create. It's a difficult obstacle to overcome. To be successful, I feel an artist should be somewhere in the middle. Hold on to what you do that's good, and work your way past the rest. Know in your heart and your mind that you do good work, but don't boast about it even when people tell you how good it is. Find the right balance between ego and humility. And know that stuff you do may very well suck. I've heard it said that every artist has 10,000 bad drawings in them; you just have to get past those. I'd venture to say most writers have at least ten times that many bad words they need to write before things start getting good. And even then, it might not get you anywhere. Remember that metaphor for getting a novel finished, the one where you put a bucket on your head and slam it against a brick wall until either you or the wall fall over? Some writers go through multiple buckets because they're just that stubborn. I think I'm on my third. The important thing is not to give up. Know some stuff you write will suck. Accept that, and write through it. Pull out the old Lucas-flavored line of "I'll fix it in post." Write the stuff that sucks, then peel away the sucky stuff until all that's left is good stuff. And if you can't kick your ass into gear to do it, find someone else to do it for you. I'll kick your ass, friends, if you kick mine.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

This Is Gonna Suck

This Is Gonna Suck — Blue Ink Alchemy

Artists come in all shapes and sizes. Some paint, some create music, others bring out the statues held captive by blocks of stone and still others start with blank pages to create new worlds and memorable characters. But regardless of the art involved, all artists need to face an unfortunate and ugly truth. Not everything an artist creates is going to be good. In fact, a lot of it will struggle to merely be mediocre. It isn't an easy thing to admit to oneself. I know of some people who perform and create without any real talent or passion, and the lack of commitment shows. Not only are such charlatans unwilling to practice or improve, they're all but immune to criticism. To even intimate that they are performing at a less than exceptional level is tantamount to blasphemy in their minds. They'll never, ever look at their work from a point of view outside of their own and realize the flaws in it, be they minute or monstrous. To be honest, I feel sorrier for them than I do the other extreme. We are our own worst critics, and there are those who focus on their flaws and shortcomings entirely too much. All they see in their art is the mistakes they make. They don't see the forest, or even necessarily the trees, just a tiny bit of bird crap on a single leaf; next thing you know they're burning the forest down because "it's all shit." They may have talent and passion, and they might be aware of how practice would improve their art, but they lack the motivation because of how they see everything they create. It's a difficult obstacle to overcome. To be successful, I feel an artist should be somewhere in the middle. Hold on to what you do that's good, and work your way past the rest. Know in your heart and your mind that you do good work, but don't boast about it even when people tell you how good it is. Find the right balance between ego and humility. And know that stuff you do may very well suck. I've heard it said that every artist has 10,000 bad drawings in them; you just have to get past those. I'd venture to say most writers have at least ten times that many bad words they need to write before things start getting good. And even then, it might not get you anywhere. Remember that metaphor for getting a novel finished, the one where you put a bucket on your head and slam it against a brick wall until either you or the wall fall over? Some writers go through multiple buckets because they're just that stubborn. I think I'm on my third. The important thing is not to give up. Know some stuff you write will suck. Accept that, and write through it. Pull out the old Lucas-flavored line of "I'll fix it in post." Write the stuff that sucks, they peel away the sucky stuff until all that's left is good stuff. And if you can't kick your ass into gear to do it, find someone else to do it for you. I'll kick your ass, friends, if you kick mine.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Boxing Day

Boxing Day — Blue Ink Alchemy

Saint Nick is taking the day off, and so am I. Happy Boxing Day, everyone! Enjoy a little extra time with family and friends if you can.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Holiday Wishes

Holiday Wishes — Blue Ink Alchemy

Saw this floating around Facebook, thought it was worth sharing with everybody. Merry Christmas! Have a happy and safe holiday weekend.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Crank File: Barbie Made Me Bisexual

Crank File: Barbie Made Me Bisexual — Blue Ink Alchemy

Every now and again, life catches me off-guard. It's times like these I need to turn to contributions from you, the audience. If you've ever read the Opinions section of the local newspaper, or the comments of an article on the Huffington Post, you know that sometimes the readers contribute just as much as the established writers. Thus, I present to you the Crank File. Today's Crank File entry comes to us courtesy of Monica A. Flink. Enjoy!

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The month of December for me is normally a flurry of gift purchasing and creating profanities that make the ears of Baby Jesus and anyone else in a five mile radius bleed to describe the bitch that just took my parking space. But while I am busy roasting some jerk's chestnuts over an open fire when he got the last Xbox 360 complete with Fable III, I find myself thinking of previous Christmases, previous years not spent quite so upset and stressed out, when the only problem on my to do list was being good for twenty four consecutive days.
Bet you wished you hadn't cut me off now, numb nuts. Aside from brief stints of nearly burning down the house by using a friend's hair, I was generally a good kid, and as such got exactly what I wanted for Christmas. And what did every red-blooded, American, white, upper-middle-class child want for Christmas? Barbie, of course. I had all kinds of these dolls, from the ones with glow-in-the-dark dresses to the one year that I had obviously sacrificed a goat to the right deity because I was presented with the Happy Holidays Barbie, completely resplendent in her green velvet gown and perfect platinum curls. Barbie was my best friend for many years, especially years when I had no friends at all. Not because I was smelly or disfigured, but because there were no girls in the neighborhood my age and I was a pretty damn weird kid. But she was the best. She never got mad at me for liking the same boys she did, who would turn out to be gay as adults anyway. She always wanted to play what I wanted to play. Most importantly, Barbie made me bisexual.
It's the cast of The L Word, with less drama. When most groups protest Barbie, especially the ones made in the 80's, the main argument is that Barbie projects an unreachable stereotype. That no girl can be that beautiful, that thin, that boob-tastic, that plastic perfect. And that showing girls that pillar of consummate femininity was going to make them stressed out, anorexic basket cases who were always going to strive for perfection and look down upon those who did not reach that standard. Yet nobody protests airbrushing... I never really had that problem, mostly because I had no hopes of ever looking like Barbie. Dumpy redheads who had never gotten Midge doll rarely thought of themselves as Barbie wanna-bes. Besides, I was my own woman, and I told Barbie so while we were busy training to be fighter pilots on Mars, or singing opera for the masses in Sydney. If anyone had known how I was playing with my Barbies, I'm pretty certain that they would have started protesting for that reason too. Normally, Barbie and I had male dates. She liked GI Joe, and I liked He-Man, which was perfect because Barbie was into guys who were so manly that they sweated testosterone and bullets, while I was into men who were slightly homoerotic and imaginary. We went out on dates together, went to parties, even got married so Barbie and Joe could express their physical love before Joe went back to the front lines (or the kid from up the street discovered that I had stolen his GI Joe again). But sometimes, Barbie and I just wanted to hang out together. Which is fine, all girls like to hang out with their girlfriends. I probably played with Barbies longer than other girls, but that's okay in my opinion because my story lines, and believe me, my epic Barbie sessions held in the unused back office of my parent's basement on brown shag carpeting had story lines, matured even when the medium did not. It was one of these days, when GI Joe had gone back to war, and He-Man had gone off to fight magical evil somewhere else, that Barbie, her pal Barbie and I were sitting around together, talking about what we were going to wear to Barbie's wedding. Barbie, being the naïve virgin that she was, let the conversation segue into kissing, and how she thought she was doing it wrong. Her friend Barbie was a woman of the world, as I was I at the ripe old age of ten, and we told her that she had to practice if she was going to give Joe the kiss of his life when he returned home. Barbie even offered to show Barbie how it was done. The air was fraught with sexual tension as they stared into eachother's blue eyes, mouths split apart in matching hot pink grins, before they leaned forward and pressed their mouths together to practice. In that moment, I realized that it was not odd looking to see two women kissing. But these were thoughts I kept to myself. I only vaguely realized that it had something to do with being called "gay" and that was something I avoided at all costs, having an older, wiser, more malicious sister in the house with me who would say anything to get me to leave her alone.
We'll get there soon enough Barbie, soon enough. I knew that I still liked boys, or I would have never tried to kiss the dreamy Jonathan on the playground nearly every day. Something about Barbie and Barbie sharing a sweet, gentle kiss, maybe with a little light petting, seemed okay to me though. It would be nearly ten years later before I realized that I was open to playing for both teams. Yet who knew in the years in between, when I would see a beautiful woman and wonder what her body looked like, or found myself wanting to be close to a lady who was particularly charming, that it had come from those afternoons in the basement, exploring with Barbie. As I look back on my childhood during the holidays, I remember Barbie teaching me a lot of things. She taught me that it was okay to live in shithole artist apartments in my early twenties because she had never had more than a shoebox home in the basement. She taught me that I could be anything I wanted, from a spokesmodel to a rocket scientist (it was obvious Barbie never saw my grades in math). She taught me that I wanted to create stories and share them with the world, because being princesses from the planet Cromrock was too awesome to not share. But above all, Barbie taught me that it was okay to be bisexual, and that she was one of the most precious gifts I had ever been given.

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Got something for the Crank File? Email me here.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

In Nolan We Trust

In Nolan We Trust — Blue Ink Alchemy

I'm very heartened by a few of the things I've been seeing in the form of trailers. The Hunger Games looks like it's being faithful to its excellent source material, Men In Black 3 is promising a return to some of the original deadpan and quirky humor that made the first film so much fun (we'll see if it delivers), and of course The Hobbit. Singing Dwarves. 'Nuff said, Peter Jackson, shut up and take my money. In the midst of all this, The Dark Knight Rises. As much as the trailer featured a smoldering Anne Hathaway, eerie chanting, a glimpse of Gotham during peacetime and the goddamn Batwing, most geeks just want to talk about Bane. Specifically, his voice. Word round the nerdy campfire is that he was particularly muffled during the seven minute prologue sequence some audiences saw in IMAX theatres before Mission Impossible 4. And while his line to Batman in the trailer is clear - if you're paying attention - people want director Christopher Nolan to fix Bane's voice in post. The Hollywood Reporter, however, tells us Nolan will do no such thing. This is hardly surprising to me. Chris Nolan gave us Memento and Inception. I won't go into too much detail about Nolan's earlier work as I'm saving that for the last ICFN of 2011, and my original review of Inception is still available. And remember that cage match I had between Inception and Ocean's Eleven? Good times. But I'm wandering off-topic. My point is, even in work like The Prestige, Nolan as a writer & director does not make decisions lightly. Let's consider, for a moment, why he'd choose Bane and go so far as to make these apparent design choices. Remember how in The Dark Knight, the Joker rarely attempts to deal with Batman in a direct physical confrontation? He uses assault rifles and rocket launchers, goons and attack dogs, head games and innocent people. He never really seems interested in outright killing Batman, opting instead to try and dismantle the man's faith and motivations. Physicality was about the last thing on anybody's mind other than the notion that Batman would paste the Joker about seven different ways if it weren't for his one rule. Bane, on the other hand, is an extremely physical character. Rather than being divorced from his mind and his will, his body is an extension of it. He's entirely single-minded and very driven, much like Batman. The substances pumped into him, via head-tubes in the comics and his mask in this upcoming film, allow his body to match the speed and power of his mind. Batman will always be limited by what his body can do and how much punishment it can take. Bane exceeds those limits, and he can and will push Batman past them. Enter Christopher Nolan. What do you do after you pit Batman against an entirely cerebral opponent? You up the stakes, of course, by making his next foe not only cunning and ruthless but also a powerhouse. You don't want to tip your hand too soon, though. You have to maintain the mystery. You can't let the ending of your saga be a foregone conclusion. Maybe Bane will kill Batman. Maybe he's not the same Bane from the comics for a very specific reason, one that ties into your first Batman film and one of the aspects of a fascinating character born out of the animated series. How do you keep people from taking too many guesses? Remember, theatricality and deception can be powerful tools. In addition to encouraging audience members to keep up with you rather than simply pandering to them, conveying Bane's voice in a realistically muffled way adds a layer of obfuscation to Nolan's work. It not only makes the character more mysterious and menacing, it gives the public at large and the cynical critics of the Internet in particular something to consider, gripe about and worry over. It distracts them from bigger questions. It waters their enthusiasm. It keeps them off-balance. I'm not saying Nolan specifically made this choice on purpose to mess with people on the Internet, but at this point, I can't put it past him. He's enjoyed so much success so far and done it in such a cerebral way that people can't help themselves. They'll go to great lengths to seek out, analyze and ultimately downplay even the tiniest aspects of his work. Nobody can be this brilliant, you see. Nobody can outsmart the Internet. Nobody's allowed to be this successful without creating a bomb. Remember that bit in the original Spider-Man where Osborn tells Peter that people love seeing a hero fall almost as much as they like seeing them succeed? Nolan's a hero to many. To set him up for a fall this way can be cathartic. It would mean that everybody is fallible, and if he falls, other film-makers can rise to take his place, even from the relative obscurity of the Internet. I say let Bane be a bit muffled, a little hard to understand. Make the audience work to fully understand every aspect of the work in front of them. It made Memento and Inception such brilliant works, after all, why not apply the same mentality to a comic book movie? Likewise, if you know the Internet's going to be going through your work, even a two-minute trailer, with a fine-toothed comb looking for nits to pick, why not give them a cause for concern? Let them blow up over something relatively insignificant rather than ruminate on plot and motivational points. Because, let's face it, even if Bane ends up losing a word or two to idiots in the cinemas who are too busy stuffing their faces with overpriced popcorn to pay attention, when they inevitably buy the Blu-ray combo pack they'll just turn the subtitles on. Problem solved. Looking back over what I just wrote, I might be coming off as a Nolan fanboy and my argument may be dismissed on those grounds. So be it. Such dismissals don't address what I'm trying to say, which is that Bane is going to be an effective villain, an excellent counterpoint to the Joker, and I for one am really looking forward to discerning every word that comes out of that mask. Incidentally, you notice how the tubes are arranged in such a way to resemble skeletal hands prying his mouth open? I dig that. Let me hear your thoughts on this. I'm curious. Do you still think Nolan is worthy of our trust? Is he pulling a fast one on the Internet so he can blow them out of the water in 2012?

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Family Commander: Christmas Edition

Family Commander: Christmas Edition — Blue Ink Alchemy

With the holidays going on, I should have ample opportunity to play some Commander, and not just with my family. Let's take a quick look at where my decks are, and what the future has in store. [mtg_card]Sharuum[/mtg_card] is a deck I don't break out often against the family. My brother-in-law also plays Sharuum and has fallen into a similar pattern. I think it's because my sister has a passionate hatred for blue decks in general, and control decks in particular. This is why I will be refraining from playing my [mtg_card]Arcanis[/mtg_card] deck unless we're doing Emperor, that neat mono-color variant for five players or I'm on her team for something. With its wizards, control methods and other nasty surprises, it may be best if it's only seen rarely at the family gaming table. Now [mtg_card]Karrthus[/mtg_card], he's a commander unconcerned with control and counterspells. No blue whatsoever in his deck. The goal there is simply to pump out the strongest, nastiest and most numerous dragons as quickly as possible. He's somewhat more friendly for the family gaming environment. For the most part. [mtg_card]Sedris[/mtg_card] may need more tweaking and refinement. The combination of shambling undead hordes, spectres with nasty discard effects and some nasty removal methods is effective, but it could use a trim and a few methods for speeding things up. I simply need to play it more. [mtg_card]Ghave[/mtg_card] is another commander who may need to warm the bench a bit unless there are particular circumstances. His saproling shenanigans have gotten me in hot water. While it's good to have a commander that is notoriously hard to kill who spreads that longevity to the deck, it does make for some longer games as you explain the order in which you're dispensing with whatever your opponent just threw at you. Not exactly the sort of gameplay the family's into. The latest addition to my elite squad of commanders is actually [mtg_card]Zedruu[/mtg_card], perhaps the kindest of them all. Originally the deck she commands was going to be headed by [mtg_card]Numot[/mtg_card], but the more I thought about combining [mtg_card]Jhoira of the Ghitu[/mtg_card]'s general delay tactics with [mtg_card]Akroma, Angel of Wrath[/mtg_card] and a few of her sisters, the more I realized Zedruu's generosity would benefit both me and my fellow players. At least until I have a few of those archangels in play. So far she seems fun, but considering how my sister regards timey-wimey shenanigans, that may not last. In the very near future, though, I think I'll be putting together a deck that will go over much better around the family gaming table. The idea is born from my sister & brother-in-law's deck featuring [mtg_card]Darien[/mtg_card] and a whole slew of soldiers. The idea is to do something similar with elves. Not only is it a compliment to their deck's flavor, it allows us to ally easily and with [mtg_card]Mayael[/mtg_card] as a commander, it eschews the nastier colors of blue and black in favor of archers, warriors and druids in great number. Her Naya-friendly colors also allow me to use some of the cards from Ajani's deck I had to set aside when assembling Sedris and revamping Ghave. It's an intriguing prospect. Like writing to reach a meager word count or hurtling towards a deadline, working with restrictions can be a good thing.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: The Unexplainable Photo Challenge

Flash Fiction: The Unexplainable Photo Challenge — Blue Ink Alchemy

"Sport." No response. "Sport." "Mmmmmf." Skeeter blinked. He hated it when his best friend acted this way. They'd been show dogs together for years. It was how they'd been raised. Training, grooming, shows, repeat. But lately, the pressure seemed to have been getting to Sport. "Sport, knock it off. The humans are watching." "Eh? Fuck 'em. They wanted tricks, right? I got their trick right here." Skeeter maintained his position. His master had told him to sit, so he sat. He was a good dog. They rewarded good dogs. He wasn't sure what they did to dogs who rolled onto their backs after getting their jaws wrapped around the neck of a bottle of beer. "That's not a trick you trained on, Sport. You're misbehaving." "Dude, am I talking cat over here? Fuck. Them. I'm sick and tired of doing whatever I'm dogdamn told by these idiots." "They do happen to be smarter than us." "HA!" The bottle almost slipped from Sport's mouth. "Your Honor, I object, the obedient slave is showing insufficient evidence. To support my case I submit the sweater he was made to wear last Christmas, the poor state of affairs in our respective food bowls and, oh yeah, the fact that these hairless apes are basically raping their own dogdamn planet for the sake of nebulous concepts like righteousness and profit." "Sport, please. You're embarrassing yourself." "I'm not the one they named fucking 'Skeeter', I have to catch up to you in the embarrassment department." Skeeter didn't respond. He maintained his position. He was a good dog. "I mean, what the hell does that even mean, anyway? Is it short for 'moskeeter' or something? Nevermind the fact you live on the lower east side and your humans are upper middle class socialites, not backwater rednecks. And if they did name you for a tiny insect with an even tinier probosces, they're insulting you every time they say it." "I don't know what you're talking about." Sport hiccuped. "I'm talking about your dick. You know, the thing you 'clean' just about every chance you get." If Skeeter had been capable of blushing, he'd have flushed red. "That's highly inappropriate talk for public, Sport." "Bullshit! We're fucking dogs, they can't understand us. It's just yips and barks and tailwags and smells to them. Christ, how do these people communicate using only sound? My mind's fucking boggled." "Sport, you're drunk." "You're darn tootin' I am. If these dogdamn morons were capable of meaningful communication with us, and they fucking aren't nor will they ever be, they'd know I'm sick and tired of this bullshit. And don't change the subject. These control freaks want you complacent and obedient while they put you down every chance they get by intimating you're lacking in the between-the-hinds department." "They're mistaken." "Of course they fucking are. They don't think you know that. It's a big dogdamn joke to them. Look at 'em. Bunch of gawping hat-wearing douchebuckets. HEY!" Sport dropped the bottle, got up on the chair and started barking. "I'M TALKING TO YOU, IDIOTS! YOU FUCKING HUMANS AND YOUR SMELLY-ASS CARS AND YOUR STUPID CLOTHES AND INSIPID BABY-TALKING AT US. FUCK YOU." Skeeter sighed. He wanted to lay down, cover his ears. But he was a good dog. "Fuck! Nothing." Sport turned in place and sat facing Skeeter. "And here I am sauced on a single beer. It's what I get for weighing all of twenty pounds." "I noticed you'd lost weight. Doesn't that make your master angry?" "Not as angry as when I start humping his wife's leg." "Sport! You ought to be ashamed of yourself." "Have you fucking seen her? If she were a dog I'd be mounting her twice daily. Not my fault that fucking tool doesn't. Too busy counting up shit that won't matter when he gets hit by a bus." "That's a terrible thing to wish on anyone. My brother..." "Yeah, yeah, I remember, went chasing a stick and got pasted by the crosstown. Not his fault or yours so stop beating yourself up over it. The responsible party is the fucking brat who threw the stick. Yet was he put away for it? Was he punished for murder? No! They just got him another fucking dog. I'm grateful I discovered the appeal of booze. I need another dogdamn beer." "Look, Sport, I'm your friend. I'm worried about you. You drink too much and your language is foul." "Skeeter, no offense, but what the fuck happened to you? Time was you'd be laughing your tail off at me rolling around with a dogdamn beer bottle in my gob. Something's changed. Something's eating you. Let's hear it." "I'd rather not." "Oh? Okay." Sport stood again, barking and howling, which registered in Skeeter's brain as song. "FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, YOU STUPID MOTHERFUUUCKEEEERS..." "STOP IT! I'll tell you. They cut me, all right?" Sport stopped, blinking rheumy eyes at his friend. "They what?" "You remember Daisy? She had her pups. Beautiful litter. But none of them met the humans' standards so they determined my breeding potential was insufficient." "Skeet, are you telling me they CUT YOUR FUCKING BALLS OFF?" "Essentially, yes." "FUCK. No wonder you're being such a toolbox. I'm sorry, I didn't know." "How could you? We haven't seen each other since spring." "You realize this means you have even less reason to do what they tell you." "They've already robbed me of future pups. What more can they do?" "They don't understand us. They never will. So they're afraid of us. They mitigate that fear by leashing us and making us do tricks and talking at us they way they do their wriggling newborn spawn and toss us bones. As long as we do what we're told and don't remind them we have as much power and rights as they do, they're happy." Sport thought about it. He was a good dog, and they still had cut him. So he started singing. "FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, YOU STUPID MOTHERFUUUCKEEEERS..."

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: The Unexplainable Photo Challenge

Flash Fiction: The Unexplainable Photo Challenge — Blue Ink Alchemy

"Sport." No response. "Sport." "Mmmmmf." Skeeter blinked. He hated it when his best friend acted this way. They'd been show dogs together for years. It was how they'd been raised. Training, grooming, shows, repeat. But lately, the pressure seemed to have been getting to Sport. "Sport, knock it off. The humans are watching." "Eh? Fuck 'em. They wanted tricks, right? I got their trick right here." Skeeter maintained his position. His master had told him to sit, so he sat. He was a good dog. They rewarded good dogs. He wasn't sure what they did to dogs who rolled onto their backs after getting their jaws wrapped around the neck of a bottle of beer. "That's not a trick you trained on, Sport. You're misbehaving." "Dude, am I talking cat over here? Fuck. Them. I'm sick and tired of doing whatever I'm dogdamn told by these idiots." "They do happen to be smarter than us." "HA!" The bottle almost slipped from Sport's mouth. "Your Honor, I object, the obedient slave is showing insufficient evidence. To support my case I submit the sweater he was made to wear last Christmas, the poor state of affairs in our respective food bowls and, oh yeah, the fact that these hairless apes are basically raping their own dogdamn planet for the sake of nebulous concepts like righteousness and profit." "Sport, please. You're embarrassing yourself." "I'm not the one they named fucking 'Skeeter', I have to catch up to you in the embarrassment department." Skeeter didn't respond. He maintained his position. He was a good dog. "I mean, what the hell does that even mean, anyway? Is it short for 'moskeeter' or something? Nevermind the fact you live on the lower east side and your humans are upper middle class socialites, not backwater rednecks. And if they did name you for a tiny insect with an even tinier probosces, they're insulting you every time they say it." "I don't know what you're talking about." Sport hiccuped. "I'm talking about your dick. You know, the thing you 'clean' just about every chance you get." If Skeeter had been capable of blushing, he'd have flushed red. "That's highly inappropriate talk for public, Sport." "Bullshit! We're fucking dogs, they can't understand us. It's just yips and barks and tailwags and smells to them. Christ, how do these people communicate using only sound? My mind's fucking boggled." "Sport, you're drunk." "You're darn tootin' I am. If these dogdamn morons were capable of meaningful communication with us, and they fucking aren't nor will they ever be, they'd know I'm sick and tired of this bullshit. And don't change the subject. These control freaks want you complacent and obedient while they put you down every chance they get by intimating you're lacking in the between-the-hinds department." "They're mistaken." "Of course they fucking are. They don't think you know that. It's a big dogdamn joke to them. Look at 'em. Bunch of gawping hat-wearing douchebuckets. HEY!" Sport dropped the bottle, got up on the chair and started barking. "I'M TALKING TO YOU, IDIOTS! YOU FUCKING HUMANS AND YOUR SMELLY-ASS CARS AND YOUR STUPID CLOTHES AND INSIPID BABY-TALKING AT US. FUCK YOU." Skeeter sighed. He wanted to lay down, cover his ears. But he was a good dog. "Fuck! Nothing." Sport turned in place and sat facing Skeeter. "And here I am sauced on a single beer. It's what I get for weighing all of twenty pounds." "I noticed you'd lost weight. Doesn't that make your master angry?" "Not as angry as when I start humping his wife's leg." "Sport! You ought to be ashamed of yourself." "Have you fucking seen her? If she were a dog I'd be mounting her twice daily. Not my fault that fucking tool doesn't. Too busy counting up shit that won't matter when he gets hit by a bus." "That's a terrible thing to wish on anyone. My brother..." "Yeah, yeah, I remember, went chasing a stick and got pasted by the crosstown. Not his fault or yours so stop beating yourself up over it. The responsible party is the fucking brat who threw the stick. Yet was he put away for it? Was he punished for murder? No! They just got him another fucking dog. I'm grateful I discovered the appeal of booze. I need another dogdamn beer." "Look, Sport, I'm your friend. I'm worried about you. You drink too much and your language is foul." "Skeeter, no offense, but what the fuck happened to you? Time was you'd be laughing your tail off at me rolling around with a dogdamn beer bottle in my gob. Something's changed. Something's eating you. Let's hear it." "I'd rather not." "Oh? Okay." Sport stood again, barking and howling, which registered in Skeeter's brain as song. "FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, YOU STUPID MOTHERFUUUCKEEEERS..." "STOP IT! I'll tell you. They cut me, all right?" Sport stopped, blinking rheumy eyes at his friend. "They what?" "You remember Daisy? She had her pups. Beautiful litter. But none of them met the humans' standards so they determined my breeding potential was insufficient." "Skeet, are you telling me they CUT YOUR FUCKING BALLS OFF?" "Essentially, yes." "FUCK. No wonder you're being such a toolbox. I'm sorry, I didn't know." "How could you? We haven't seen each other since spring." "You realize this means you have even less reason to do what they tell you." "They've already robbed me of future pups. What more can they do?" "They don't understand us. They never will. So they're afraid of us. They mitigate that fear by leashing us and making us do tricks and talking at us they way they do their wriggling newborn spawn and toss us bones. As long as we do what we're told and don't remind them we have as much power and rights as they do they're happy." Sport thought about it. He was a good dog, and they still had cut him. Then he started singing. "FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, YOU STUPID MOTHERFUUUCKEEEERS..."

---

Blue Ink Alchemy

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! The Avengers

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! The Avengers — Blue Ink Alchemy

[audio:http://www.blueinkalchemy.com/uploads/avengers_98.mp3] When Marvel Comics set out to create an uber-film bringing together Iron Man, Thor, Captain America and the Hulk (and SHOULD include the Wasp or Ms Marvel at the very least), there was something standing in their way. It was not the worried, furtive glances of fanboys or the daunting task of condensing decades of continuity into what amount to two-hour snippets. No, the problem was that another film called The Avengers already existed. Thankfully, most of the civilized world seems to have forgotten about it. I wish I could. Based on a 60s spy-fi series of the same name coming to us from the BBC, The Avengers introduces us to John Steed, shining star amongst the good dozen or so secret agents we see in the employ of 'The Ministry'. He is tasked with finding and questioning Dr. Emma Peel, an eminent meteorologist, on some strange goings-on in the atmosphere and the fact that she's apparently killed someone. Mrs. Peel, since we're not being quite so formal, is understandably curious as to how she could be in two places at once and thus joins Steed in tracking down the true mastermind behind the atmospheric shenanigans, a graduate of the Blofeld School for Evil Geniuses and recipient of the Dr. Evil Impractical Domination Plot Award, Sir August De Wynter. ... No, it's not a clever nom-de-plume. The TV series was sadly before my time. I recall my father gushing about it from time to time, how Steed's cool demeanor under fire lent a sort of tongue-in-cheek aspect to the action and intrigue, and Diana Rigg in a black catsuit was nothing to sneeze at. From what I understand, however, the premise of the show began somewhat grounded but eventually grew to incorporate some of the more esoteric aspects of the James Bond films while simultaneously delivering subtle parodies of eccentricities of the contemporary British lifestyle. For some reason, the writer and director of 1998's Razzie contender seemed to be under the impression that all of this idiocy was to be played 100% straight. Maybe this confusion was caused by the apparent fact they need to share a brain.
BEEP BOOP WE ARE EMOTING - CURRENT STATE: DULL SURPRISE 'Straight', by the way, here has the meaning of 'straight as a length of rebar made from indestructible space metal and about as pliable.' The actors tasked with modernizing these icons of their age, Ralph Fiennes and Uma Thurman, seem to be so mechanical and uninvolved in their actions and delivery that I had to wonder if I was actually seeing the actors or some very advanced animatronic doubles who had been programmed to emote by mole people who've only seen human beings through fractures in the earth's crust, most of them under Madame Tussaud's. Even Sir Sean Connery isn't having fun in this thing, and he gets to preside over a meeting of evil masterminds while dressed in a bear costume. And before you think that's a bit odd, let me expand on the scene by saying they're ALL in bear costumes. It's like they decided part of their world domination plot included cosplaying as the mascots for the Grateful Dead. As for the British influence, I think the only things the monobrained writer-director superstar tag team know about the Brits is that they drink tea and have accents. It seems that every single opportunity they get these people are having tea. Steed even has a fucking spigot in his Bently for the stuff. With cream already added. Red phone booths, double-decker buses, no anachronistic, staid and trite Britishism goes unreferenced because that's funny, right? Oh, this isn't a comedy? It's a big-budget blockbuster? Well, the action is at least engaging. At least it would be if there was ever the vaguest hint of danger, suspense or even excitement projected by our cast. I know it's a lot to expect for a movie like this to verge towards realism, but last I checked lightning striking a metal rod extended in a man's hand did not lift him into the air as if the gods of Olympus decided they wanted to raise the villain up just to personally dismember him with their immortal nectar-stained hands. But by then I'd pretty much given up on the movie making any sense whatsoever.
Did you think I was kidding about this? It only runs 90 minutes long but it feels a lot longer. It takes itself far too seriously to be campy and goes for too many idiotic laughs to approach the quiet desperation of truly British films like Trainspotting. Attempts at innuendo or chemistry fall flatter than the deck of an aircraft carrier and have about as much subtlety. The plot makes absolutely no sense and skips around without warning, the special effects are bland and uninspired and I couldn't help but think you should be getting a lot more entertainment or at least some fucking fun out of Voldemort, the Bride and James Bond himself all being in a spy-fi movie together. It's no wonder Marvel steamrolled this macaroon-smelling turd on its way to production. The Avengers from 1998 is best left forgotten. Find the TV series if you're curious, and hopefully the movie of the same name coming out next year will be a better time at the movies overall, even if the inclusion of only one girl is a bit perplexing. The '98 flick had a few more, including double Uma Thurmans. And if nothing else, at least Eddie Izzard got to wear some fabulous shoes. But when executive transvestite fashion's the highest compliment you can pay the picture instead of just an amusing observation... you get the idea. Josh Loomis can't always make it to the local megaplex, and thus must turn to alternative forms of cinematic entertainment. There might not be overpriced soda pop & over-buttered popcorn, and it's unclear if this week's film came in the mail or was delivered via the dark & mysterious tubes of the Internet. Only one thing is certain... IT CAME FROM NETFLIX.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Book Review: Mockingjay

Book Review: Mockingjay — Blue Ink Alchemy

The Hunger Games have concluded, and the winner is... It can be difficult to limit yourself to a certain length for a narrative. If you can manage it, however, you allow yourself to do two things. Being limited in time pushes you to develop your world and characters as much as possible with as few words as possible. It also gives you the opportunity to go absolutely ape with the last installment in the story. Will the darkness of the second part of a trilogy give way to the light at the end, or does the story deliver on promises of doom and gloom? I won't enter spoiler territory, but rest assured that Mockingjay delivers the goods. Panem is in chaos. As the story opens, Districts are in open revolt against the decadent Capitol. The rebels are based in the underground stronghold of District 13, long thought eradicated by Capitol forces. As the story opens, however, the Districts are fractured and divided. They need something to unite them against their oppressor, a symbol of defiance and liberty - someone like Katniss Everdeen. All District 13 has to do is convince a traumatized, malnourished and battered young woman to be their Mockingjay. It's something she has no interest in whatsoever. One thing that has distinguished the Hunger Games trilogy is the evolution or, perhaps more accurately, breakdown of Katniss. Her motivations and drive for putting herself through hell never seem contrived or unwarranted, even if they are occasionally foolish or headstrong. She's brave without being arrogant, brash without being annoying and vulnerable without being weak. She's everything a protagonist in their late teens really should be. Her doubts, hopes, dreams and nightmares feel very authentic and adds a great layer of grounding to the entire narrative. Mockingjay also gives us more information on the future nation of Panem. It's made pretty clear on what basis the nation was founded. Panem is derived from the Latin term 'panem et circenses' - bread & circuses. With the bulk of the population working in misery, if not oppression, for the benefit of a tiny percentage of upper-class citizens who remain ignorant of the plight of the majority due to their decadence and the machinations of the leadership... well, I'm sure no parallels can be drawn to our current day and age whatsoever. You may notice I've mentioned very little about the plot. I honestly don't want to spoil anything for you. But trust me when I say that this is a far more shining example of poignant, powerful and timely young adult fiction than many of the entries currently available and popular. The entire trilogy has a very immediate feel to it, a compelling atmosphere that will have you eschewing other things and distractions because it means putting these books down. The Hunger Games, Catching Fire and Mockingjay are all highly recommended. It is my hope that, with this source material, the major motion picture captures the truth of the characters and setting and shows young women a true role model for their age. I plan on being there to find out.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Two Cents on SOPA

Two Cents on SOPA — Blue Ink Alchemy

A lot has already been said about the Stop Online Protection Act, shortened to SOPA because acronyms are easier to remember when you have the attention span of a weevil. Jim Sterling, acerbic and opinionated as he is, pointed out some very real fears about the legislation. Bob Chipman chimed in as well, and as Congress continues to deliberate on this poorly-worded bill, tech-savvy bloggers like myself are being called upon to make their voices heard. I know I said on my various social media outlets I'd ratchet back the politics, but this is crucially important not just from a political standpoint, but also for the very livelihoods of some of my favorite entertainment and people I consider colleagues if not friends. So here's where I stand on it. This bill should not pass. If it did, and I decided to stream some League of Legends for a charity event, Riot Games could have me arrested for it. I would go to jail for a felony. I'd be sharing cell space with a rapist or murderer because I wanted to help sick kids by playing a video game. Now, this is a bit of an extreme example, but none of the others are all that much better. Entire websites can get shut down. People's careers can come to an abrupt end. Services like Twitch.tv would no longer be viable. The Internet as we know it would change forever. I hope you see why this is a bad idea. And yes, I know I'm saying things that have already been said before, by more talented and/or popular Internet pundits. But the more of us that say these things, the better our chances of killing this bill before it grows to a level that tramples all over. To learn more about this bill and how you can help stop it dead in its tracks, please visit this site. Others who've spoken out on this: Hannah Harto of My Drunk Kitchen Jim Sterling of Dtoid & Jimquisition Bob "MovieBob/GameOverthinker" Chipman Anonymous

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Of Nations, Elephants, Skies and Keys

Of Nations, Elephants, Skies and Keys — Blue Ink Alchemy

Proof positive that good music still comes from basements. In both bearing down on the end of the year at the dayjob and trying to get myself in motion as a writer, music plays a key role. It evokes imagery, makes me think, gets my blood pumping... sometimes, all three. I've tried to branch out into new artists and ways of hearing music (that'd be Spotify) but some artists have yet to lose their touch and keep bringing me back. I just saw VNV Nation in concert this past weekend, and those guys haven't lost a step. When I first heard the new album, Automatic, I wasn't sure what to think. It felt a lot like a return to the days of FuturePerfect rather than maintaining the martial feeling of Judgement and Of Faith, Power and Glory. It just didn't feel as strong. The more I listen to it, however, the more it grows on me. From the statements of individuality in "Space & Time" and "Resolution" to the Praise the Fallen stompy drive of "Control" to the heartfelt inspiration of "Nova", the album runs a gamut of modern emotions and motivations rather than focusing on a particular time or sentiment. In other words, it's far more "steampunk symphony" than it is a call to arms. It may not be as strong as their other recent work, but it's no less meaningful or touching. "Day[9] made me do it" is a common excuse for StarCraft 2 players dicking around to give him Funday Monday content, and it's also the reason I've been listening to Blue Sky Black Death. The album Noir is full of evocative electronica that reminds me of VNV's instrumental work mixed with the moodiness of New Order or even Depeche Mode. It has a texture to it that's hard to describe. It's fantastic writing music, as there are no lyrics to distract you from what's going on in your head. They're unlikely to be as known as the other artists I mention, but you should definitely give them a listen. Jonathan Coulton has gotten himself a studio album, how about that? No longer just recording songs in his garage or on his iPad or whatever, Artificial Heart has the crisp sound of professional production. He's never really sounded bad, per se, but there's a cohesion to this album that speaks to an artist going into a production with a specific plan in mind. Instead of playing it safe with nerd-friendly songs about evil geniuses and furniture stores, though, JoCo plays on themes of loneliness and abandonment. It's a very mature sound, reminding me of the early albums of Billy Joel. Now more than ever, Jonathan sounds like someone I might know and would want to share a beer with as we get our troubles out in the open. In an age where auto-tuning and overwrought post production can make anybody with even minute talent a pop superstar, I find myself yearning for more earnest, bare-bones rock music. Enter Cage the Elephant. I can't recall if I first heard "Ain't No Rest for the Wicked" on the radio or in the opening of Borderlands but it definitely made me sit up and take notice. It's been a while since a new voice has risen to evoke the rebellious days of the Ramones and the Clash, or perhaps Green Day and the Offspring. Their debut album's very straightforward and catchy, while Thank You Happy Birthday boasts more range and nuance. I'll be watching (and listening to) these guys. I also need to get caught up listening to The Black Keys. Two guys from Akron have been cranking out impressive music that's equal parts hard-nosed rock and heartfelt blues. I picked up their latest album, El Camino, practically on the crunchy catchy merits of "Lonely Boy" alone and found every song to be just as well made, if not better. Brothers is also quite good with cuts like "Tighten Up" and "Howlin' For You". There's quite a few more to listen to, and I'm sure I'll be doing so in the very near future. They have a sound that harkens back to days of simpler music and are about as far removed from the pop scene as you can get.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Scarface

IT CAME FROM NETFLIX! Scarface — Blue Ink Alchemy

[audio:http://www.blueinkalchemy.com/uploads/scarface.mp3] Tragedies are touchpoints in the course of human history. They're also cautionary tales, whispering warnings of downfalls to come. From Aeschylus to Shakespeare, it's a tradition with thousands of years worth of wisdom to teach us through the abrupt ends of others' lives, especially those who choose to pursue their goals through illegitimate means. It's just as true today as it was in 1983 when Brian De Palma's Scarface first premiered in theaters. I don't know if this visionary director and his young cast who became household names knew that this gaudy, baroque and melodramatic opus would still have something to say to a 21st-century audience, but it does, and like the main character, it isn't shy about it. Original a tale of Prohibition-era organized crime, Scarface updated its setting to southern Florida, when hundreds of thousands of refugees fled Communist-controlled Cuba for the United States hoping for a better future. For the criminals free of Cuba's prisons among those refugees, that better future meant the fast money and high risk that came from a life of crime. And for Tony Montana, one of those criminals, the money was in cocaine. With his partner Manny, Tony almost immediately begins carving out a place for himself. He comes into the country with nothing, yet he soon is the premiere trigger-man for the biggest drug dealer in Miami. And he doesn't stop there. Scarface is a tale of excess from the very beginning in both plot and production. The patterns and colors of the early 80s are garish reminders that throwbacks like Grand Theft Auto: Vice City are not exaggerating. The score, heavy in ominous synth, is as cheesy as the zebra-print seat covers in Tony's Cadillac and yet every bit as fitting. The multiple mirrors in the nightclubs our protagonist spends his leisure time in made shooting difficult but underscore the vanity of the time and the character. Of course all of the production value in the world is for naught without a central presence to drive the narrative, and Tony Montana is definitely behind the wheel in that regard.
"I jus' wan' what's comin' t' me: th' world... an' everythin' in it." In future films such as Heat or Carlito's Way (not so much Devil's Advocate), Pacino will ratchet back the over-the-top scenery-chewing bombast to save it for key moments. But in Scarface, he seems to be firing on all cylinders at all times. Be he clawing his way up to the top or sliding down into oblivion, Tony lives with his dials turned to 11 and beyond. Not only does his behavior lead to him ensuring he alone remains the center of his universe, he's proud of this way of life and his achievements to a tragic fault. There's very little about this protagonist that's redeemable or even all that likable, yet his tragic humanity keeps us watching every move he makes. The rest of the cast certainly isn't slouching, either. It was a breakout role for Michelle Pfieffer and the first on-screen appearance ever for Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio. De Palma directs them all with the graceful nuance of an orchestra conductor as well as the uncompromising drive of a workshop foreman. As bold as a decision it was to shoot this picture at all, he went one step further in making it almost three hours long and including some incredibly brutal scenes of bodily harm from shootouts to stabbings. It's an endurance trial made survivable and even enjoyable thanks to Tony Montana.
Good times had by all. Mostly. The presence of Montana is a pervasive one, even to this day. Scarface would inspire a plethora of crime dramas around the world, and its themes of freedom, excess and the rags-to-riches rise to power is clearly an inspiration for not only a good deal of gangster rappers but video games like the aforementioned Grand Theft Auto and, later, Saint's Row. What the games leave out, of course, is the way the story ends. Once he achieves all he's been after, Tony spirals into a miasma of vanity and contempt, even for himself. He's an utterly repulsive human being, even acknowledging his villainous status at one point in a memorable black-tie dinner scene, yet he seems confused when people curse him and leave him on his own. And there's plenty of cursing to be sure; screenwriter Oliver Stone used the word "fuck" and its many derivations 218 times in the screenplay. Scarface is highly recommended. Be prepared to spend an afternoon with Tony, watching him banter with immigration, deal with Bolivian drug lords using surprising charisma and build his own cocaine empire from scratch yet at the same time finding true happiness eluding him at every turn. In the end he stares at a mountainous pile of drugs on his luxurious desk in his palatial Miami estate, and his hollow eyes echo the question he put to Manny at dinner: "Is this it?" It's a moment of introspection and humbling, almost pathetic pathos which, after a lifetime of deception, theft, seduction and murder, has come too little too late. I'm sure that, almost 30 years later, we can find a message for our time between the bullet-riddled corpses and the bright, happy neon lights - even if that message is merely one of the rules that Tony neglected to follow: "Never get high on your own supply." Josh Loomis can't always make it to the local megaplex, and thus must turn to alternative forms of cinematic entertainment. There might not be overpriced soda pop & over-buttered popcorn, and it's unclear if this week's film came in the mail or was delivered via the dark & mysterious tubes of the Internet. Only one thing is certain... IT CAME FROM NETFLIX.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The Right Person

The Right Person — Blue Ink Alchemy

One of the concerns I have about my major rewrite is the person. Not the person of the protagonist himself, mind you. He's (probably) fine. It's the perspective that bothers me. You see, I wrote Citizen in the Wilds from third-person perspective to avoid pouring myself too much into the protagonist. I may be overly paranoid about it, but projecting oneself onto the lead character can be the death knell both for the narrative and the writer's credibility. However, it's entirely possible that this fear has lead to a diametrically opposed problem. There may be too much distance between him and me, and by extension the audience. There's also the problem of world-building. I think part of the issue in opening this tale is that we have an entirely new world. I want to set the scene as much as possible by talking about the society our would-be hero was raised in, so it can be compared to the reality of what's outside his little bubble. I'm probably bogging down the flow as a result. This is why I'm considering switching back to first person. The thoughts and emotions will be more immediate. I'm likely to cultivate more energy and drive by removing the barrier between reader and character. And if things start to bog down, I can sit back and ask myself "Do eighteen-year-old bookworms think like that? Did I?" Or I could simply try to pare down some of the slower bits of the first few chapters I've gotten through. It's hard to say which course is best.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

The Right Person

The Right Person — Blue Ink Alchemy

One of the concerns I have about my major rewrite is the person. Not the person of the protagonist himself, mind you. He's (probably) fine. It's the perspective that bothers me. You see, I wrote Citizen in the Wilds from third-person perspective to avoid pouring myself too much into the protagonist. I may be overly paranoid about it, but projecting oneself onto the lead character can be the death knell both for the narrative and the writer's credibility. However, it's entirely possible that this fear has lead to a diametrically opposed problem. There may be too much distance between him and me, and by extension the audience. There's also the problem of world-building. I think part of the issue in opening this tale is that we have an entirely new world. I want to set the scene as much as possible by talking about the society our would-be hero was raised in, so it can be compared to the reality of what's outside his little bubble. I'm probably bogging down the flow as a result. This is why I'm considering switching back to first person. The thoughts and emotions will be more immediate. I'm likely to cultivate more energy and drive by removing the barrier between reader and character. And if things start to bog down, I can sit back and ask myself "Do eighteen-year-old bookworms think like that? Did I?" Or I could simply try to pare down some of the slower bits of the first few chapters I've gotten through. It's hard to say which course is best.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Drifting Between Words

Drifting Between Words — Blue Ink Alchemy

I hear the hammers. Chisels sound like they're working rocks over. It's the sound of Chuck Wendig chipping away at the preconceptions and sorry excuses that cake around the thick skull of the writer especially after a binge of wordsmithing like NaNoWriMo. He gave me a gift on my birthday, the gift of cold wisdom, of reminding me just how badly I could fuck this up. I do like his advice on building up savings (and the liquor cabinet) while the day job is going on, but I should still be cramming more writing in whenever I can. Stealing it out of the piggy bank of Father Time while he's out mowing the temporal lawn. Digging my fingers into the mud of my schedule and scooping out what bits of time I can to slap it onto this writing thing and see if it'll finally stick. Wait, am I sure that's mud? Probably. Maybe. Smells funny, though. Anyway, even if I did have or make more time, I'm unsure as to how I'd spend it, writing-wise. I'm having doubts about the major novel rewrite. I'm debating taking the other novel in a different direction (down instead of up, novella serial instead of novel series, e-pub versus traditional) and my shorts are in the hands of editors who are pretty busy themselves. While I do have some other work lined up, the big things that I've long taken to be the solid core of where I want to go with this whole writing thing have lately come up as giant question marks. Are these things worth pursuing, continuing, writing? Would I be better off sticking them in a folder somewhere and starting completely from scratch? I guess this is the 'wall' runners often speak of. I'm getting that 'seperates the men from the boys' feeling. And I know it could be erroneous. So I'm going to keep trying to find and make the time to chip away at these things, one word and sentence at a time. Problem is, at the moment, I can't help but feel a little adrift.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Regarding Ms. Lane

Regarding Ms. Lane — Blue Ink Alchemy

Laundry nights at the Sheppard's¹ have become a good place to get caught up on movies, especially in the superhero genre. Being brought up as a nerd, I do have at least a passing familiarity with many a costumed crimefighter, and recently our friends reintroduced us to the cinematic renditions of one of the most famous. I don't want to actually talk about the Man of Steel himself, though, as he can be a tad ridiculous at times. I still can't get over the absurdity of his three Kryptonian mates having vocal conversations on the surface of the moon. Even if they don't have to breathe, how will their words reach each other's ears if there is no air to carry the sound waves? Ahh, but I digress. We only watched the first two Christopher Reeve & Richard Donner films, as the second two are abominations of cinema. I did, however, enjoy seeing the Donner cut of Superman II, especially the scene where Lois Lane gets Clark Kent to reveal his secret identity by pulling a gun on him. It can be easy to forget, especially on the parts of the writers of said funny books & big-budget movies, that when she isn't getting rescued by Superman or pining after the cut physique poured into those tights, Lois Lane is an intrepid reporter. You don't see it as much as you might think, as apparently Superman battling giant robots, space monsters and a bald maniacal businessman is more interested. But a great example of bringing this aspect of the story and this character to the forefront is Superman Returns. While the film is a bit more somber and character-driven than its early 80s predecessors², and most of its plot is lifted directly from the first movie, one thing that stood out at me is how we see Lois Lane. We see her as not just the token damsel in distress. We see Lois do some actual reporting. We watch her fight for what she feels is right, be it with her boss or the man who left her behind without a word. We get to know her as a mother. And while she does get into peril from which Superman must save her, she puts herself in peril to save him. I know there are going to be people who disagree with me, but I think this Lois Lane, the one brought to us by Kate Bosworth, may be the best one put on screen. I'm not sure exactly how much Lois is supposed to be a sex symbol in comparison to, say, Catwoman, but the decision to keep Kate's looks and fashion somewhat understated was a good one. Her moments of strength, vulnerability, doubt and resolve come across as more uncontrived and genuine because we're not distracted by her looks. This speaks to a strong script as well as good acting and mature costume & makeup decisions. Now, a lot of the good lines from Superman Returns were recycled from the first film along with most of the plot, but the emotional talks between Lois and her preternatural paramour felt new and real. Superman is a good person who's made bad decisions. When confronted with the fallout from those decisions, he owns up to his mistake and seeks ways to make things right. Lois does not immediately forgive him and fall into his arms. She's conflicted, a thousand emotions competing for her focus and running all over her face. I know there's a lot of Superman Returns that rips off Donner's work, but there's a scene or two where we catch a glimpse of some really interesting things that could have (and perhaps should have) happened with these characters. In a world where DC's rebooted most of its female characters to be vehicles for cleavage and consequence-free sex, I'll take Kate Bosworth's Lois Lane over a thousand Catwomen.

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¹ Not to be confused with the Shepard's place. How cool would it be to do my laundry on the Normandy? ² Actually, the original Superman is as old as I am. How about that!

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Birthday Wishes

Birthday Wishes — Blue Ink Alchemy

When this date rolled around during my childhood, I found myself wishing for new toys. More Transformers, a new video game, etc. As a teenager, the primary wish was for acceptance from my peers. Toys were a nice bonus, but what I really wanted was to fit in. It would be a long time before I realized not fitting in was part of what made me unique. Attending college, I wished on this date that the experience wouldn't end. These days I look back and know that there are people and events I should have cherished more and taken more time to appreciate in the moment. 10 years ago I was wishing for answers. I could project confidence as a young man, to be certain, but inside I was growing more confused and unsure. If I could write letters to past selves, 23-year-old me would be getting a big one. And maybe a smack in the face. 5 years ago, my only wish was for everything to stop hurting. Today, I find myself wishing for better tomorrows. Ones where I make more time to write, ones where my family and friends are safe and content, ones where my current worries and concerns diminish or cease to exist altogether. I want a tomorrow that will be better for my son than my past days were for me. And I do still occasionally wish for new toys. So I guess I haven't changed that much.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Mind Mangles Matter

Flash Fiction: Mind Mangles Matter — Blue Ink Alchemy

To tackle the Terribleminds tiny tale-telling trial, "An Affliction of Alliteration":

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Courtesy istaevan At last. The answers were finally within reach. They'd all told him he was mad. His colleagues in the studies of the arcane and obscure, scholars like himself, had said it was forbidden for him to delve into underground ruins such as these. What would they say now if they saw him here, the flesh-bound tome in his hand, its incantations spilling from his lips as his stained fingers followed the words scrawled in blood? Nothing kind, to be sure. They frowned on this and had tried to keep him out of every library they could contact. And that was before their goons had shown up to deal with him. Mercenaries, he'd gathered. Hired from some private military company to subdue or possibly kill him. But they'd arrived too late. This ruin was now his home. He knew its secret passages and secluded corners, excellent places from which to spring with a good, sharp knife in hand. He chuckled as he looked at the corpses around the room. All that expensive military hardware, and they couldn't stop one bookworm with a sharpened piece of metal. Not that they stood a chance. Nothing could stop his destiny. One of them clung to life. He crawled slowly, his legs refusing to work since his spine had been severed. That had taken a bit of doing, what with how the knife stuck between the vertebrae when the mercenary had taken the stab above his kidney. Now the man on the floor was muttering something about a wife and child as he reached for a gun or something. The scholar made a face and, not turning away from the tome, moved to put his boot on the mercenary's head. He kept applying pressure until something broke. He didn't look to see what it was. He just scraped off his boot and went on reading. Honestly. Some people had no manners. Finally he began to feel the change. The air became charged and more thick. Breathing in to continue chanting took more effort. Giddy anticipation surged through the scholar. This was the moment he'd been waiting for! He'd never been able to get the vision out of his head, nor to quiet the voices he heard day in and day out. Now, perhaps, with the arrival of their master, they would fall silent. The chamber shook. Masonry began to crumble. The ground heaved beneath the scholar's feet and everything seemed to shift and twist around itself. It was as if reality was trying to reject the very thing he was calling forth from the void, the whole world recoiling in fear from that nameless thing once banished into the cold dark between the stars, bent on returning to devour the souls of the unwary. But the scholar felt no fear. In fact, even as the room threatened to bury him forever, he began to laugh. Every jock that had put him down in school, every girl that had turned him down because of his looks, every colleague and so-called superior who scoffed him for not being as brilliant as they – all of them would suffer. He was the only one with the mind to discern the clues that lead him here and the fortitude that gave him the means to do what had to be done. Now was his time. This old world would be swept clean by his will alone, and when the new one arose, he would be its master, just as what he was summoning would be his. There was an audible popping sound. The world stopped rolling like the nauseous belly of a child who'd eaten too many sweets. The scholar blinked tears from his eyes. He caught a glimpse, just a glimpse, of something that was at once familiar and completely incomprehensible. He thought he'd be prepared, but he found himself speechless, stunned. He'd anticipated being in awe, genuflecting himself before that which now walked the earth. But in that moment, he did nothing. He wasn't sure if he'd succeeded or failed. He didn't know if what he'd seen was an earthly manifestation keyed to ensuring his mind did not snap too soon or some sign that he'd been outsmarted at the last second by a more mundane source. He hesitated. Then something tore him open from the inside and there was no more thought. He felt no sensation other than agony. The pain tore away all his joy, all his anticipation, all his hope. And the pain did not end for an eternity.

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Blue Ink Alchemy

Flash Fiction: Mind Mangles Matter

Flash Fiction: Mind Mangles Matter — Blue Ink Alchemy

To tackle the Terribleminds tiny tale-telling trial, "An Affliction of Alliteration":

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Courtesy istaevan At last. The answers were finally within reach. They'd all told him he was mad. His colleagues in the studies of the arcane and obscure, scholars like himself, had said it was forbidden for him to delve into underground ruins such as these. What would they say now if they saw him here, the flesh-bound tome in his hand, its incantations spilling from his lips as his stained fingers followed the words scrawled in blood? Nothing kind, to be sure. They frowned on this and had tried to keep him out of every library they could contact. And that was before their goons had shown up to deal with him. Mercenaries, he'd gathered. Hired from some private military company to subdue or possibly kill him. But they'd arrived too late. This ruin was now his home. He knew its secret passages and secluded corners, excellent places from which to spring with a good, sharp knife in hand. He chuckled as he looked at the corpses around the room. All that expensive military hardware, and they couldn't stop one bookworm with a sharpened piece of metal. Not that they stood a chance. Nothing could stop his destiny. One of them clung to life. He crawled slowly, his legs refusing to work since his spine had been severed. That had taken a bit of doing, what with how the knife stuck between the vertebrae when the mercenary had taken the stab above his kidney. Now the man on the floor was muttering something about a wife and child as he reached for a gun or something. The scholar made a face and, not turning away from the tome, moved to put his boot on the mercenary's head. He kept applying pressure until something broke. He didn't look to see what it was. He just scraped off his boot and went on reading. Honestly. Some people had no manners. Finally he began to feel the change. The air became charged and more thick. Breathing in to continue chanting took more effort. Giddy anticipation surged through the scholar. This was the moment he'd been waiting for! He'd never been able to get the vision out of his head, nor to quiet the voices he heard day in and day out. Now, perhaps, with the arrival of their master, they would fall silent. The chamber shook. Masonry began to crumble. The ground heaved beneath the scholar's feet and everything seemed to shift and twist around itself. It was as if reality was trying to reject the very thing he was calling forth from the void, the whole world recoiling in fear from that nameless thing once banished into the cold dark between the stars, bent on returning to devour the souls of the unwary. But the scholar felt no fear. In fact, even as the room threatened to bury him forever, he began to laugh. Every jock that had put him down in school, every girl that had turned him down because of his looks, every colleague and so-called superior who scoffed him for not being as brilliant as they – all of them would suffer. He was the only one with the mind to discern the clues that lead him here and the fortitude that gave him the means to do what had to be done. Now was his time. This old world would be swept clean by his will alone, and when the new one arose, he would be its master, just as what he was summoning would be his. There was an audible popping sound. The world stopped rolling like the nauseous belly of a child who'd eaten too many sweets. The scholar blinked tears from his eyes. He caught a glimpse, just a glimpse, of something that was at once familiar and completely incomprehensible. He thought he'd be prepared, but he found himself speechless, stunned. He'd anticipated being in awe, genuflecting himself before that which now walked the earth. But in that moment, he did nothing. He wasn't sure if he'd succeeded or failed. He didn't know if what he'd seen was an earthly manifestation keyed to ensuring his mind did not snap too soon or some sign that he'd been outsmarted at the last second by a more mundane source. He hesitated. Then something tore him open from the inside and there was no more thought. He felt no sensation other than agony. The pain tore away all his joy, all his anticipation, all his hope. And the pain did not end for an eternity.

---

Blue Ink Alchemy