Tuesday, December 22, 2020

Someone Please Teach Me How to Monetize Myself Like the Piece of Consumer Trash that I Am

 

Hey I was wondering if anybody knew how to get famous and rich on Youtube or Tiktok or any of the other avenues of personal commercialization. Obviously I need some help. The most-viewed video on my Youtube channel has 15 views. This blog has been in existence since 2013 and all it's earned me is a constant hangover and a couple of weird comments. It has been my dream, for all of fifteen minutes, to become a famous unwrapper of boxes. Do you think there is an audience willing to watch a thirty-five year old man rip apart packages of meat? I dunno. All I know is that my value as a human being is dependent on my ability to commodify my existence. If nobody wants to watch me play video games in a tight tank top, I really don't know what I'll do with my life.

You should be thinking about yourself in terms of efficiency and value. Are you wasting your time? Don't you think there's something productive you could be doing to help contribute to the endless cycle of consumption? Push your brand, bro. Elon Musk gets by on six hours of sleep a night; you can too. Of course, Elon Musk probably has a handjob by a Swedish hand model for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and you're not quite at his level yet, you lazy dweeb. You know he makes those goddamn Teslas himself, right? He's earned those billions, and just because you and I are low caste wage slaves doesn't mean we can't have a piece of the pie, that is, if we're prepared to sacrifice our souls while treating ourselves like disposable consumer trash. It's our fault that we're not best buds with luminaries like Joe Rogan, host of Fear Factor. It's our fault that we haven't ascended to the top of the capitalist pyramid.

You know, I have a goddamn video camera. Surely I am capable of something that will inexplicably hold the interest of billions. Maybe I'll haul tractor tires around my farm or squat in a hole with a dildo on my head for ten hours. All of it will be recorded for posterity, and all of it will be hosted by our benevolent overlord, Google. Don't be evil, bro! Remember when that was Google's motto? I can't recall if that was before or after they worked with the Chinese government to integrate their products with the Great Firewall. Watch out; my blog is next. Haha, nobody gives a shit. Google is happy to give me free internet hosting in exchange for my data. Google is providing us all with a wonderful way to commodify ourselves. It's all about the benjamins, peeps. Christ, this is why I have no audience.

Maybe I'll bring back the Pointless Podcast, the podcast that was the antithesis of podcasts, if that can exist. Somehow, there's got to be a way to milk all of my artistic ability for top dollar. Or maybe it all doesn't matter. Perhaps I can have value as a human being without constantly selling myself or facing a camera like a goddamn animal in a zoo.

Who am I fucking kidding? This is late-stage capitalism, friend. The shitty dystopia is here. God bless America. 

Thursday, December 3, 2020

Pointless Venture's Best and Worst of 2020

 

Man, what a doozy of a year, amirite? And it ain't over, folks; there's still a whole month left. Nevertheless, we must persevere, and in the spirit of optimism, here is my definitive list of all the best things media related that I consumed in 2020. Sorry, Cyberpunk 2077. There's no way I'm finishing you in December if you're anything like the Witcher 3.

Game of the Year: Doom Eternal


A ridiculous gorefest and one hell of a first person shooter, Doom Eternal was the game I spent the most time with in 2020. I liked it so much that I beat it on Nightmare, and that's no easy feat, lemme tell you. Although I preferred the tonal approach of Doom 2016, Eternal has awesome level design, great battles, and a complex combat system that keeps you on the edge of your seat.

Honorable Mentions: Metro Exodus, Black Mesa.

Best Wrestling Match: Jon Moxley versus Kenny Omega for the AEW Heavyweight Championship.

 

Despite the fact that these two didn't have the best charisma (Moxley's a brawler, Kenny's a high-flying hotshot), they put on a hell of a fight last night, Omega spamming V-Triggers and Moxley countering with Paradigm Shifts. The finish was a little weird (there's always gotta be blood in an AEW championship match, but can a mic bust somebody's head open?) yet I'm pumped to see Kenny's hotshot heel reign. Dynamite is the only show I watch religiously, other than the Mandalorian. Thanks for saving my wrestling fandom, AEW.

Best TPM song: Pandemic Blues

 

The only song I wrote this year was a melancholy piano powered ode to sadness. Can't believe this shit is still going on. Christ save us.

Social development of the year: Dungeons and Dragons.

 

I became a Dungeons and Dragons player this year, a fact which I would've considered hilarious ten years ago, but you know what? Twenty-five year old Goon was not as nice a person as thirty-five year old Goon. Anyways, playing D'n'D with a small group of friends every week has kept me going during the pandemic, and it's fun as hell, especially if you're playing as a drunken half-orc who never met a bushel of apples he couldn't punch his way through.

Best book:  Black Leopard Red Wolf by Marlon James

 

A gay African fantasy seemingly inspired by Game of Thrones, Quentin Tarantino, and mythology. Violent, disgusting, and absolutely dripping with poetic language (Fuck the Gods!) Black Leopard Red Wolf is unlike any epic fantasy you've ever read. Don't be scared, pick this book up.

Honorable Mention: Borne by Jeff Vandermeer.

Pointless Venture's Worst Person/Event/Apocalyptic Force of 2020: Donald Trump

Jesus, take this man away from us.

Crazy to remember that 2020 started with Trump being Impeached in the House for asking the government of Ukraine to investigate Hunter Biden. At least Nixon had the decency to keep his corruption on American soil. Then came the Coronavirus, which has killed over a quarter of a million Americans and counting. All of that blood is on Trump's hands. He politicized the virus, and he's the reason half of the country won't wear masks or treat a pandemic seriously. He's the sole reason we're still dealing with this shit. Finally, the election came, and Trump bowed out as graciously as everyone imagined he would. By pushing completely baseless accusations of fraud and refusing to concede, the God Emperor of the Republican Party has succeeded in turning half of the country into authoritarian conspiracy theorists completely disconnected from reality. Donald Trump has been the disaster every reasonable person thought he would be, and his shit-stained legacy will mar our nation long after he's bitten the dust. For all of the above and more, he is Pointless Venture's Worst of 2020. Congratulations. You will receive one rotten apple in the mail. 

Thursday, November 26, 2020

Bulksgiving 2020: The Results

 

Starting weight=197 lbs.

Ending weight=201 lbs.

Food consumed: Half-pound of turkey covered in gravy, several spoonfuls of mashed potatoes, half of a green bean casserole, one dinner roll, two Mad Tree Crisp Golden Ales, two Rhinegeist Dad Ales, one piece of cheese cake, one piece of apple pie, one peace of pumpkin pie with whipped cream, a quart of water, one small dog, half a stick of butter, a random container of mixed food, the rest of the whipped cream, half a quart of aged cider that smelled like cheese, a moldy apple, one banana and peel, a sock found under the couch with a significant amount of hair, a baby foot, a squirrel that got in my way and never lived to see another day, the sadness and idiot tears of half a nation (Tard Nation!), a pile of rocks (crunchy), a rat's nest, a book of twigs, my wife's diary, a history book, an old VCR, a couple of small persons rambling about the park after dark, screws that fell out of a minivan, a deer, another small dog (not as tasty as the first), a bushel of apples, an old bone found jutting out of the earth, a book of spells, a book of smells, the essence of evil, a crocodile heart, a shoe, Hunter Biden's laptop, Bungalow Bim, a pack of gum, some baseball cards, a sack of farts, and poop.

I think I have a stomach ache.

Estimated recovery time: Thanksgiving, 2021.

Gainz expected=infinite.

Happy bulksgiving, America.

Tuesday, November 17, 2020

Doom Eternal: The Ancient Gods, Part One Review

 

The Ancient Gods is perty.

Doom Eternal is my game of the year, which is remarkable considering I initially returned it because I was disappointed by the changes from Doom 2016. It is a complicated, difficult shooter, sort of a Dark Souls for FPS fans in how it rewards mastery of all of its many systems, and it is that complexity, I think, that's made me spend sixty hours with Doom Eternal, as well as purchase its first DLC, the Ancient Gods.

Let's get this out of the way: the Ancient Gods is HARD. I beat Doom Eternal on Nightmare, and I found that the Ancient Gods on Ultra-Violence (one difficulty level beneath Nightmare) was significantly harder than Eternal's campaign on Nightmare. Did you hate the Marauder in Doom Eternal? Well, you'll eventually face two Marauders at once, as well as one buffed by a totem, and those encounters rank among the Ancient Gods' easier battles. The Marauder was loathed by the majority of the Doom player-base because he's invulnerable except for a split second before he attacks. No other enemy in the base game is like this, and many thought that the Marauder broke up the game's flow. ID have not listened to this vocal contingent, however, because the two new enemies in the DLC share the Marauder's design philosophy. The Blood Maykr is a shielded version of the maykr drones from Eternal, but it can only be killed with a headshot while it's attacking. Unlike the Marauder, it only takes one shot, but these guys have a tendency to finish you off during a big battle. The other new enemy is the spirit, a blue ghost that possesses enemies, doubling their health and making them immune to the ice bomb as well as staggering. Oh yeah, they also move at twice normal speed, and you can't disable their weapons. When you finally manage to kill a spirit, the ghost hovers for a few seconds, and it is at this point when you must hit them with the microwave beam, making you rather immobile as well as extremely vulnerable. The spirit is far more frustrating than the Marauder, and it really seems like a troll job by ID, shrugging off concerns of unfair difficulty with a "Git Gud" attitude. I'm willing to bet that many players found Doom Eternal to be really hard compared to most first person shooters. I found it to be ridiculously hard in spots, and it was only after I beat the campaign on Nightmare that I felt I'd gotten pretty decent at the game. For hardcore Doom fans, the Ancient Gods is a really nice challenge, but I feel as though ID can't jack up the difficulty much more without alienating a large portion of their fanbase. Some battle arenas in the Ancient Gods, particularly at the end of the Blood Swamps, require you to face a ridiculous onslaught of heavies. One of the trials involved multiple mancubui, a doom hunter, a spirited arachnotron accompanied by three other arachnotrons, two barons, and a archivile. So don't fuck up, because you'll have to battle them all over again.

In other news, the three levels of the Ancient Gods are visually compelling, and as well designed as any in the base game. I'm still on the final boss, but I believe I've spent about five or six hours with the DLC so far. If you're a hardcore Doom player who welcomes a challenge, then I think the Ancient Gods is worth it. If you barely made it through Eternal, stay away.

There's a lot of visual spectacle going on in this DLC.

Wednesday, November 11, 2020

Batman Versus Robin: The Denial

 

Batman prowls the streets, searching for criminals that deserve the swift fists of justice. As he swings from roof top to roof top, a mantra is heard, barely comprehensible, yet said with vigor. "Fraud, fraud, fraud!" he mutters, eyes red, slivers of spittle flying from his lips. Momentarily perched on a gargoyle above a coffee shop, he sees a younger couple walk out onto the street, soy lattes in hand. With a bestial roar, Batman drops down before them, arms spread wide as though he means to crush them both in a titanic embrace.

"Who the fuck did you vote for!" he screams, grabbing the man by his lapels. "Did you chose to make America socialist again, you curly haired poofter?"

The woman throws her coffee right at Batman's face, causing him to drop the man and clutch his eyes. As the couple flees in terror, another figure emerges from the shadows to loom over the disabled Batman.

"You need some help?" asks Robin.

"Motherfucking communists blinded me," mumbles Batman, removing a Bat-hankie from his utility belt to wipe his face.

"I see you're not handling the election results very well," replies Robin.

"Fraud! Democrats cheated!" says Batman.

"Yeah, the Republican state government of Georgia cheated in favor of Joe Biden. If they cheated, don't you think they would've kept the Senate? There have been zero cases of fraud. Trump's lawsuits keep getting thrown out of court. You have to accept the inevitable. Trump will not get another four years."

"I don't have to accept shit! I make my own goddamn reality, you understand that? What Batman says is, is. And I'll be damned if I'll accept a socialist running the country."

"Joe Biden, socialist?" Robin laughs. "It's almost as if you don't understand what the word 'socialism' means."

"It means everything that is wrong with this country," snorts Batman. "Transgenders. Obamacare. School lunches without wholesome processed food."

"When the Right talk about socialism, they want you to think about an authoritarian boogeyman who will take all your money. They don't want you to think about Medicaid, Social Security, Medicare, or the Affordable Care Act. Hell, any government program is technically socialism. Rich people like you have somehow convinced poor white people to vote against their own interests, mainly by appealing to their emotions and prejudices."

"Goddamnit, Robin, you should be arrested for treason," says Batman, removing a batarang from his belt.

"We live in a representative democracy. There's nothing in the Constitution that says I have to vote for a capitalist oligarchy."

"Smarty-pants commie word soup," says Batman. "Nothing you said makes any sense."

"That's because you've spent the last four years in an echo chamber totally divorced from reality," says Robin. "You're attacking people outside coffee shops because you see monsters everywhere. Your fellow Americans are not the bad guys, Bruce."

"I get to say who's an American, not you, you pampered pansy!"

"I'm beginning to think that you don't understand American values," says Robin. "Then I remember that you are a vigilante who operates outside the legal system so that you can beat up the lower dregs of society with your fists."

"That's the legacy I bequeathed to you! You're supposed to take up my mantle!" screams Batman, now out in the middle of the street. Cars honk and swerve around him, but Batman continues to yell and wave his arms like a madman.

"I reject it," says Robin. "I'm retiring as a crime fighter to pursue a career in environmental law."

"Fuuuuccckkkkkkkkkk!" yells Batman as an Escalade flips him over the windshield. He bounces off the next car and crashes into a bicyclist before coming to rest next to a drain. As he lies in the gutter, moaning and crying inconsolably, Robin retreats back into the shadows, leaving the past behind.

Monday, November 2, 2020

A Premature Obituary for the Last Four Years

 

I remember waking up Tuesday night, November 3th, 2016, checking the computer for the election results and then reassuring myself that in the morning, things would be different, that there was no fucking way that Donald Trump would be elected the President of the United States. Many people reporting feeling like we'd entered a parallel universe, an alternate timeline where crazy shit like the Chicago Cubs winning the World Series happened. Anything is possible, folks; we might wake up tomorrow and see a meteorite hurtling toward earth. In fact, that would be perfectly in character with the rest of 2020, amirite? Actually, fuck that. There have been plenty of worse years in human history. Did you know in the fourteenth century, the Black Death killed between 75 and 200 million people over the span of five years? Hell, the early 1940s were pretty goddamn bad, with World War 2 happening and all. Still, in my lifetime, the last four years have been full of things that I thought would never happen. I always thought people were smart enough not to fall for a charlatan like Donald Trump. I thought if an authoritarian political movement ever took root, it would be led by someone charismatic and intelligent, someone capable of distracting from the evil festering behind the scenes. Trump's appeal, of course, is that he doesn't hide that evil; rather, he puts it on full display. I never thought a large number of people could support someone who tore immigrant children from their parents and then lost the information to reconnect them. I never thought anyone could support someone whose campaign met with Russian agents to receive dirt on a political opponent. I didn't think the so-called religious right would throw their backing behind a man who used campaign funds to pay off a porn star. I didn't think anyone could accept Trump firing an FBI Director for refusing to end an investigation of Russian political interference in the 2016 election. I thought (for a split second) that Trump's attempt to withhold foreign aid to Ukraine unless they investigate the son of his political rival would be too blatantly corrupt, even for Republicans. Now, of course, I am wiser. A quarter of a million Americans have died because of the coronavirus, and it's pretty much all of Trump's fault. He made the virus political, after sitting on his hands while New York suffered. Now, the rate of infection is skyrocketing, and people in my red state don't wear masks. Are we in the dumbest timeline? Christ, I would rather have Herbert Mountain Dew Camacho for President. At least he listened to the smartest man in the world rather than trolls like Rudy Giuliani and whatever the fuck Jared Kushner is.

I don't know what's going to happen this week. I like that over 93 million Americans voted early. I would bet that most of those people feel similarly to how I feel. They've probably lived in a constant state of disbelief for the last four years. They've watched their country transform into a partisan nightmare where reality can be discarded and replaced with alternate facts. I cannot state the pure contempt I have for people that support the reelection of Donald Trump, a obvious sociopath who has never tried to be a President for anyone besides himself. He's the exact opposite of a competent leader. He never takes responsibility for anything. He insults anyone who disagrees with him. He is a habitual liar, a liar so lazy that he seems to lie out of compulsion and contempt for the very nature of objective truth. He has insulted women and military vets, made racist comments, and refused to disavow white supremacists. He has been accused of sexual assault by 28 women. He has made numerous attempts to discredit our democratic process, from telling his supporters to intimidate voters to hiring an unprecedented army of lawyers to challenge legitimately cast ballots in the courts. He is, in short, the biggest piece of shit ever to occupy the Presidency of the United States in the modern era, and it is far from hyperbole to say that he is a threat to the future of democracy in America.

So whatever the hell happens tomorrow, Wednesday, this month, this year, I hope and pray that the next four years are the exact opposite of the last four, that America reaffirms its commitment to liberalism, to equality for all, to hopefulness and progress rather than spite and bile; that we take our ideals seriously and hold all men and women to the same standard that we hold ourselves to, and that we punch nihilism right in its fucking face and send it back to the black pit from whence it came. A vote for Joe Biden is a vote for morality, positivity, and the future. A vote for Trump is a vote for debauchery, vileness, and a dead past that will never be living, no matter how much evil is pumped into its cold, rotting corpse.

Tuesday, October 20, 2020

New Music: A Day In The Life


 

Wrote this eons ago (older version here on Soundcloud) but was never happy with the drum loop or the overdistorted production. This time I used my strat and a cheap tubescreamer, and I'm mostly content with the tone I got (solos are still a little too piercingly trebly, but hell, that's a strat for you). Lyrically, I've always liked this song, which trades coherence for mood, an exchange that every songwriter is prepared to make. Would love to do A Day In The Life with a live band. Perhaps some other time.

Thursday, October 15, 2020

Hanging with The Goon

 

Well folks, tis teh season to stick yard signs in yer yard taht display yur most promonent religion. Slack has him a Trump sign in front of teh trailer even though no one can see it, wich is why he hammered one-hundred of them on teh trees and animamals surroundin us. I mesylf can't abide teh orange menace, but teh last sort of argument you want ta have wit Slack is one about Drumpf 'cause he thinks he's taht besteest thing since donuts or confedrat asshol tattoos. Bein' teh sole Communists in taht family, I already used my Constiutional right to vote early, thou it wont matter in my state 'cuase of teh Electrocution Collage. IN fact, teh nice lady wit teh behive in her hair took my ballet an threw it in teh trash wit teh rest of teh mail, but its teh thought teh counts, hah. Lemme tell ya about teh importance of voting: it's really, really important. My intire family are Trump supporters, an tehy are about teh worst people I've ever met. Uncle Tom is a convicted woman-tenderiser; Slack is a meth0head an a hater of colors; Reuben went missin after he pooped in teh gazeebo. Yall gotta cancel culture these people out. Tehy are all into Q, taht guy from Star Trek who was always messin' wit Cap'n Picard. Well I guess he says taht Trump is savin us from teh Klingons and tehr nafarious scheme to eat all teh Vulcan childrens, which would me we wouldn't have no more computer wizzes or autistic savaunts. That sounds liek a bunch of nonsense to me. Now I no what yur sayin: that ol' Goon couln't find no diffrence between his asshole an a hole in teh ground. Keepin taht in mind, my family is even dumber tahn me. Slack once gotta his wenus stuck in a tree; Reuben dont eat mayonnase 'cause he think it poisonius; Uncle Tom cant read no better tahn a raccoon. If I leave teh trailer, I make sure I diddn't leave teh matches out, lest Slack burn teh whole wood down tryin to heat up a pot of meetloaf. When I say Meetloaf, I mean I loaf of bread stuffed wit mystery meat. I told ya tehy dont got no brains.

I guess waht Im sayin is you gotta half hope in teh world, hope in people makin' each other better an not worse. All Drumpf is for is hatin' yur neighbor while tehy die of teh coronavirus. I aint votin fer nobody who dont take no responsibility for nuffin. Every time Slack pisses all over teh toliet seat, he don't clean it up. I think tahts teh best metapoor for waht Trump's done to are country. If only I could convince ol Sam to ditch him. Hes made an apple man fer Trump, an' every night he hang a raccoon pelt on his head. Perty soon teh raccoon pelts are gonna rise up to teh sky. I don't know waht his lookin' fer, but I sure as hell hope he dont find it. So get out tehr an rock teh vote liek Pdiddy was sayin.

Thursday, October 8, 2020

Batman and Robin: The Shit Hits the Fan

 

Batman is grinding his way through a bowl of grapenuts when Robin appears in the kitchen, his bags packed. His face wears a pained expression, as though he is dreading what is coming next. Nevertheless, he pulls up a chair and sits down next to Batman, his hands folded together before him.

"I'm moving out," he says

"'About time," replies Batman. His mastication sounds like the grinding of gears.

"Bruce, we've known each other a long time. You've been like a father to me. But the last four years or so, we've grown apart..."

"Liberal pussy talk," snorts Batman in disgust.

"And I really can't take it anymore. Not with a month to go. I need to be some place else."

"Why? What's happening in a month?" asks Batman, a slight smile on his unshaven face.

"Americans get one last chance to save their democracy," says Robin.

"More like Americans get one more chance to make America liberal pussy free," says Batman.

"That's the position you're going to take? Is that a real argument or just a senseless insult?" asks Robin.

"Got to watch the polls. Christ knows Antifa will be out, along with the Black Lives Matter punks. I'll be there, roosting. Any child-kidnapping, Satan-worshiping communists try to cast their vote, well, they'll be good and fucked, lemme tell you. I ain't dragging their ass to Commissioner Gordon. No one will ever find the bodies."

"I'm not really sure if you're serious or not. Tell me your not serious," pleads Robin.

"Oh I'm serious. I got contacts in Metropolis as well. They're planning a little something special for ol' illegal alien Clark Kent. Let's just say Superman will be forced to go back to his shit-hole country instead of infesting the US of A with his commie bullshit."

"His planet literally doesn't exist anymore, Bruce. You know that. You expect him to go back to a broken collection of rocks?"

"You can't let any of them in, not a single fucking one!" screams Batman, pounding his fist on the table. The bowl of grapenuts overturns and spills its rock-hard contents all over the floor.

"What the fuck happened to democracy?" asks Robin, getting up from the table.

"Democracy? This is a federal republic, not ancient Athens! This country was founded by white Christian men, and by god, that's how it's going to stay! We don't need any Kryptonians, no fucking Martian Manhunters, no goddamn illegals from under the sea that fuck dolphins and fish-people! I'm going to take a big fist-full of Jesus and shove it so far down their throats that when they take a shit, it'll be a perfect reproduction of Donald Trump's face!"

"What? You want Aquaman's poop to look like Trump? That's even bizarre for you, Bruce. Isn't that kind of disrespectful of the President?"

"Take your book-reading, soy-latte-sipping, manscaped pussy-queefing ass out of my mansion, you piece of shit!"

Robin ducks as the box of grapenuts flies past his face. He doesn't know what the next year will bring. He's not sure if he'll ever see Batman again. As he goes out the door, he is filled with an incredible sense of sadness. The MAGA sign in the front yard of Wayne Manor taunts him like one of the Joker's grotesque poisonous balloons, and he has to fight an urge to rend it into pieces. He knows he can't change Batman. He hopes Batman will change himself.

Friday, October 2, 2020

Conan Brothers Q&A

 

ElectionLarry asks "Holy shit, Trump has coronavirus! How does this affect things?"

Dave: Who the fuck knows.

Arnold: I guess there is some justice in the world. The President has spent months pretending that the coronavirus doesn't exist, and now he has it.

Dave: His supporters won't care.

Arnold: I'm starting to believe more in a Biden blow-out. He's had a seven point national lead for sometime, and he's leading in all the swing states. Sure, Trump's base of morons are loud (as morons tend to be) but this might be the final nail in the coffin.

Dave: If you're a QAnon supporter, you're too stupid to change your mind.

Arnold: True. The Right has lost its mind. Then again, are there sixty million true-blue crazies out there still? A lot of people voted for Trump in 2016 as a protest against the system. Are they going to show up?

Dave: Nobody knows. What if he dies from the coronavirus? What if he infected Biden during the debates?

Arnold: Christ, the conspiracy theorists will say the deep state poisoned Trump. The right-wing media will run with it, because they are composed of liars and manipulators. I can imagine with horror the pure chaos that will ensue.

Dave: Really, 2021 can't get here fast enough. I'm so tired of thinking about Trump and the shit-show he's reigned over the last four years.

Arnold: There's no guarantee it'll be over in 2021. That uncertainty is the worst feeling, living with the knowledge that this horrible human being may somehow drag our country down with him.

Dave: I like scrounging through wastelands in video games, not real life.

...

JoeBlow asks "You guys ever train for Strongman?"

Dave: Yes.

Arnold: Strongman is about picking up really heavy shit. The deadlift and the overhead press should form the backbone of your training in the weight room. I'm thinking about ordering some Atlas stone molds. A log for pressing would also be nice, since I'm told that log pressing is different and not exactly like pressing a barbell overhead.

Dave: This article from EliteFTS  lays out a good three day press/pull/push program for strongman.

...


GamerDude asks "What are you guys playing?"

Dave: Dragon Age: Inquisition. Sort of.

Arnold: I can't get into the combat. Also, there's no healing spells.

Dave: A nightmare playthrough of Doom Eternal is good fun.

Arnold: Yeah, I'm still amazed how quickly I changed my opinion on that game. The added complexity to the combat gives it more replay value, as does the increased size of the levels.

Dave: Game of the year, so far.

Arnold: I can't foresee anything else coming out that I'll enjoy as much.


Wednesday, September 30, 2020

Writer's Block: Bad Poetry: Liberal Tears

 

Four more years, four more years

 

Wash it down with liberal tears

 

I don't see what I don't hear

 

All I crave is liberal tears

 

Got my own and you've got yours

 

Trump's got his, and fuck the poors

 

What we need is a religious core

 

Dark and dank and kept by whores

 

When the moon is high above

 

And hearts are full with relentless love

 

I will do the bloody deed

 

Pledge my soul to goats and thieves

 

Any price is good to pay

 

To ensure a lack of day

 

If Cthulhu sleeps in seas below

 

Dead as death and twice as low

 

Donald high as starry sky

 

I will not begin to cry and cry

 

For though I do not lack in fears

 

All I want is liberal tears 

 

I give myself in thought and word

 

To a balding, selfish turd

 

Liberal tears, liberal tears

 

All I want are liberal tears

 

Thursday, September 24, 2020

The Time is Closing to Prevent a Trump Takeover of our Democracy

 

What a wonderful year to be alive. We live in a world where information can be accessed in seconds. No other society has ever had the tools Americans have today to keep themselves informed and knowledgeable about the world around us. And yet, we're currently suffering through a pandemic that has claimed the lives of over 200,000 Americans and most of the people in my part of Indiana act as though nothing has happened. I had a good friend tell me the other day that he considered the pandemic to be "fake and gay," whatever the fuck that means. This is someone with a college degree from a good private school. Whatever. Where we get our news from really matters these days. Many people have abandoned traditional sources like journalistic outlets for propaganda spinners like Breitbart or straight up bullshit served on Facebook. Whether or not you think we're heading toward an abyss depends on whether you've drank the conservative kool-aid or not.

President Trump has refused to say that he will concede the election. His campaign is apparently"discussing contingency plans to bypass election results and appoint loyal electors in battleground states where Republicans hold the legislative majority," according to this terrifying Atlantic article. No wonder Republicans have spent so much time attempting to delegitimize mail in voting. Now that there's a vacancy on the Supreme Court, I feel very confident in our democracy, don't you? If we have another Bush vs. Gore scenario, a 6-3 conservative majority probably hands Trump the election, no matter how legitimate his argument is.

Many moons ago, Sinclair Lewis argued in It Can't Happen Here that an authoritarian takeover of the United States could, in fact, happen. The modern Republican Party has laid the groundwork, studious searching for loopholes in the Constitution while stacking the Federal Judiciary and brainwashing their base. No matter what happens, I guarantee that November 4 will be a clusterfuck. Whether or not the GOP decides to plunge our country into a doomsday scenario depends on to what degree their base and the political establishment go along with it. I don't have a lot of faith in the reasoning ability of Trumpers. I don't have a lot of faith in the principles of the GOP. I don't see people like my aforementioned friend raising much of a fuzz over a Trump coup. What matters to them is the reinforcement of social conservatism and the preservation of white male Christian superiority. So it's up to the rest of us to not sit on our hands. The time for donating and volunteering is nigh. We have to do what we can. Even writing little articles on a shitty blog like this one is better than doing nothing, or at least that's what I'm telling myself. If the time to protest comes, then protest. I don't want to tell my children that I did nothing.

Wednesday, September 23, 2020

New Video: Cossacks

 

 

A low-fi beater that's existed for a decade on my hard drive. Ignore the clipping and the falsetto shrieks. It's the beat that matters, that and the rampaging Prussians. The great thing about being a young artist is that you're not afraid to try anything. 

 

Tuesday, September 15, 2020

Writer's Block: Situational Comedy

 

Stumbled upon this short story I wrote years ago. It's a horror/sitcom parody that's not as clever as it thinks it is, but I enjoyed rereading it, so you might as well. Bonus points if you can spot all the sitcoms referenced!

The Apartment

 

The Zig opens the door and I hear those damn voices again.

 

He’s a funny guy, sure, the Zig. Long-limbed, lanky, dressed in vintage hipster clothing that he dug out of a dumpster somewhere, the crazy bastard. Hair comes up off his skull like he’s been electrocuted. Always smells like alcohol and stale cigars. Has a little scar on his chin, the remnant of a mugging that he won’t talk about unless pretty girls are around. He’s a character, the Zig. And I’m damn tired of it.

 

He gives me a curt nod and starts rifling through my cabinets, pulling out boxes of cereal, finally deciding on Coco-Puffs. He opens the box and stuffs his hand in, his filthy, grease-covered paw. The great jaws munch on processed corn balls, moving from side to side, masticating like a bovine beast. I could kill him right now, the son of a bitch. There is no comprehending how much he owes me in food.

 

"Howdy, neighbor," he says, in between mouthfuls. "You hearing voices again?"

 

Of course he knows. He hears them as well.

 

"What the hell do you do for a living?" I ask. "Are you broke? Do you not have any money for food?"

 

He gives me an idiot’s grin, brown mush visible in between his teeth. "You’re a jokester, you know that? I can’t tell when you’re serious."

 

"What the hell do you want, Zig?" I ask, exasperated. I am sitting on the couch in my boxer shorts, the television spewing voices and strange colors. I suddenly realize that I have no idea what I am watching.

 

"You’re one hell of a straight man, I’ll give you that," says the Zig. "Listen, do you got a baseball bat I can borrow? Maybe a hockey stick? A golf club will do."

 

"A baseball bat? For what?’

 

The Zig shrugs, and then opens a cabinet, retrieves a bowl, and fills it with cereal. "I got a softball game."

 

"They’ll let you use a hockey stick?" I ask.

 

"Yeah, it doesn’t matter what you use," replies the Zig. He walks across my carpet in his dirty boots and peers out the window. "Hey, that looks like Rudolph’s car."

 

"Oh Christ," I sigh. These people just show up, unannounced. They are drawn to me through some secret form of gravity, hovering around my center like space debris stolen from discarded galaxies. I don’t know how to be rid of them.

 

"He looks a little distressed," says the Zig. "Must be women problems."

 

"He should be arrested by the police," I reply, staring forlornly at the tracks the Zig has left on my carpet. I don’t know how he gets his boots so dirty. We live in the concrete jungle, for Christ’s sake.

 

"How’s Lani doing?" asks the Zig, picking his nose.

 

"Say her name again and I’ll bet she turns up at the door," I say. He says it again, and sure enough, we hear a knock. The Zig opens the door and Lani saunters in, a brunette beauty with perfectly symmetrical features and not an ounce of spare flesh on her supple frame. She’s gorgeous, this woman. Too perfect. I don’t know why she has any interest in me. "Hey," she says, walking over to me and giving me a peck on the cheek. "How come you haven’t answered my calls?"

 

"I don’t know," I say. I truly don’t: Lani and I’s relationship is one of the many facets of my life that I cannot make sense of. Those voices sound off again, a chorus of laughter. Sometimes I feel as though I have thought bubbles above my head when I speak.

 

"You got a crowbar?" asks the Zig. Lani looks at me, befuddled, and shakes her head no.

 

"I’ll have to ask Bukowski," says the Zig.

 

"Yes, go bother him. But be sure not to bring him over here." Bukowski is an obese mailman, a real rat bastard, the kind of fatso that has chocolate wrappers stuck to his trousers.

 

"Oh sure, neighbor. You know he really likes you," says the Zig.

 

"I don’t give a shit," I say.

 

"I won’t tell him you said that," says the Zig, ducking out of the room. I can hear him thundering down the hall, not an ounce of subtlety in his ponderous steps.

 

"He's a real character," says Lani, sitting down next to me. Her hair looks surreal in the bright light. I have never seen this woman with a blemish, a zit, a sunspot. Sometimes I think she stepped off a factory line, preassembled, put-together by preternatural hands.

 

"You better leave. You don’t want to be here when Rudolph shows up."

 

"I love Rudolph!" says Lani. "He’s so good-looking. And so well-dressed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in anything but a suit."

 

"I am almost positive that he is a serial killer," I say.

 

"You’re a funny guy, you know that?" she says, kissing me. Her lips feel like paper wings. I don’t know what I did to deserve this.

 

"Hey, no smooching while I'm around, unless you're gonna share!" says Rudolph, waltzing into the room. He has on a grey suit with a pink undershirt and big brass cufflinks that he taps against my doorway. His hair is perfect, his visage sculpted from the latest magazine ad, all smiles and smooth skin. His teeth radiate whiteness like bleached bones. As he enters, the room is filled with the scent of peppermints and a certain indescribable musk.

 

"Lani, baby, how's it going?" he asks, sliding in next to us. He has no sense of space, this terrifying man. Being this close to him is like sitting next to a rabid panther.

 

"I'm officially a Kindergarten teacher!" says Lani, launching herself from the couch and jumping up and down. "My first class is tomorrow."

 

"You're a teacher?" I ask, my face melting into a frown of disbelief. Again I hear the eruption of maniacal voices, echoing like a choir of mental patients. Both Lani and Rudolph stare at each other expectantly, letting the voices fill the dead air.

 

"Uh, yeah. Where you been, Vince?" asks Rudolph. "This guy. It's like he doesn't know what's going on. You stoned, brotha? You on drugs?"

 

"Well we did do a lot of marijuana in college," says Lani, grabbing hold of my arm and drawing it to her bosom.

 

"Now let's focus for moment. You know you're my best friend, Vince. My brother from a different mother." Rudolph's grin takes on another dimension, growing from ear to ear like a Glasgow smile. "I'm afraid the worst may have happened. My endless procession of girlfriends has come to a close. I've found her. The angel. The bearer of my seed. The one."

 

"True love?" asks Lani, her eyebrows rising like birds of prey.

 

"She has all the qualifications. She likes laser tag. Rock climbing. Arnold Schwarzenegger movies. She drinks, she swears, she fights with the boys. Has a body that just doesn't quit, if you know what I'm saying." He raises his right hand expectantly, and I cower, fearing the touch of those bloody fingers.

 

"She's really all that?" asks Lani.

 

"Plus I knocked her up," replies Rudolph.

 

"Oh Jesus," I say. "The coming of the antichrist."

 

"Are you going to marry her?" asks Lani.

 

"That's why I need your advice," states Rudolph. "Sure, she's perfect. But I can't make a decision alone. I'm incapable of it. Here we are, thirty-something adults, and we're as close as children. The pressure of the group is palpable. I can't ignore it. I yearn for your approval. Where the hell is Ziggler?"

 

"Yo," says the Zig. Bukowski is next to him, mustard stains on his postal uniform. Together they grip an iron bar, its end sharpened like a spear.

 

"Bukowski," I say.

 

"Vincent," says Bukowski.

 

"Rudolph has a crisis that he would like the group to consider," says Lani. She explains the situation to them as they listen expectantly. I examine my apartment, noticing that it is laid out strangely. It is one wide room, similar to a stage, and the far wall is a black void devoid of detail. Has it always been like this? I feel as though there is something on the other side of that wall, an audience, perhaps, or maybe an enormous eye, something watching, waiting, playing my life like a cassette tape. Eventually the machine will eat all of these manufactured scripted moments. I look up at the ceiling and see words forming, words that are relevant to the situation at hand. Ever since I started ignoring them, things have gone to hell.

 

"I foresee little Rudolphs, dressed like midget businessmen, wining and dining the ladies," says the Zig. Bukowski munches on my cereal, not even opening the box, just chewing on the cardboard corners like a dog. "Don't do that!" says the Zig, smacking his head. The voices sing and my eyes start to flutter.

 

"Maybe we should put her through a test, just to make sure she's the right one," suggests Lani.

 

"A gauntlet!" says Rudolph. "I always wanted to run my own gauntlet."

 

"We gotta see if she's worthy to carry your seed," says the Zig.

 

"It is decided. The prospective Mrs. Rudolph shall run the gauntlet," declares Lani.

 

"What sort of horrors do you all have in mind?" I whisper.

 

"Sticks and stones and broken bones," snorts Bukowski. "What else?"

 

"There has never been anything else," says Rudolph, his eyes glazing over.

 

"Good job following the script," says the Zig, bending over me and whispering in my ear. He winks as he pulls away, confirming all of my suspicions. They're in on it, all of them. I am an actor; this is a stage; our words are not our own. They take me in their arms and drag me down the stairs, the voices finding amusement in my plight as my legs stiffen, my body having become like a corpse. We pile into a cab, and no one even speaks to the driver: he knows where to go, the course having been determined long ago. 

 

The Bar

 

We sit in our booth at Maloney's, an overpriced beer in front of me, Lani draped over my shoulders like an animal skin, the Zig and Bukowski munching peanuts, absorbed in their task, as though it is a very serious matter. We haven't quite gotten the name of this girl out of Rudolph—she may be a Susan or a Sarah, we're not sure—and while we await her arrival, the womanizing fool prowls the bar, offering free psychoanalysis to pretty girls, introducing himself as Dr. Niles Frasier, a master of Freudian theory. One of them bites, an unrealistically good-looking blonde, and the good doctor reads her palm and asks for her astrological sign, summoning the voices, which follow us everywhere. I maintain a dazed stare, not following the conversation, just waiting, drinking, trying to swallow the cup that was given to me. I never asked for this role, for these friends, for an audience. I'm not sure if I've ever asked for anything.

 

"Who wants to go home when you can sit at a bar?" asks Lani. "Babe, why aren’t you drinking your beer?"

 

"It tastes like pond scum," I reply. The Zig looks up from his peanuts and shakes his head. "You never used to say things like that," he says.

 

"So? Can’t people change?" I ask.

 

"Only the extras change," says the Zig. He gestures around us at the multitude tastefully sipping their drinks and keeping their conversational volume at a pleasant level. "The regulars never change. Character development is something that only happens in fiction. Take Bukowski for example. He’s a fat slab, Bukowski is. He drinks too much, like all of us. When he’s at work, he dumps half of his mail in random dumpsters. That’s just who he is, ol’ Bukowski. He was made that way. He is the progeny of fat slobs who drank too much, and if he manages to have any kids, the cycle will start all over. You think you can escape the circumstances of your being? You want to have an ontological argument on this program, in front of this audience?" He nods at the far wall, another black void. "This is a light-hearted show, Vic."

 

"You’re a goddamn lunatic," says Bukowski, taking a plastic-wrapped sandwich out of his pocket.

 

"No one understands the Zig. That’s part of his charm," says Lani.

 

"I understand him. I understand him perfectly," I say. Rudolph is still chatting up the blonde, his white teeth flashing like a switchblade. These women mean nothing to him. He is an empty vessel, a creature without a soul.

 

"That pry bar, what are you going to do with it?" I ask the Zig.

 

"I’m going to use it during the gauntlet," he says.

 

"But you didn’t know about the gauntlet when you wanted to find it."

 

"Look, I’ve seen the script. I know where this is heading. Or, at least I used to," he says. "You keep trying to steer us off course. It ain’t happening, my friend. It can’t be done."

 

"Will you guys shut up? I think that’s her," says Lani. She points to Rudolph, who has abandoned the blonde to embrace a women dressed in yellow. He takes her hand and brings her to us.

 

"Let me introduce Shelly Pickler," says Rudolph. "Shelly, these are my closest friends. I have known them since time immemorial. This is Vincent Vargas, my best friend. He is an architect, believe it or not. This is his girlfriend, Lani O'Hara. These other two are Ziggler and Bukowski. They don’t have first names. At least, I don’t know them. Do you want anything to drink?"

 

"Yeah. Go get me a beer," says Shelly.

 

"What kind?"

 

"Whatever’s most expensive," says Shelly. "I thought I had you trained."

 

"See! She’s got spunk! Throws a mean right hook as well. I’ll get you your drink, honey."

 

"Hurry up," says Shelly. She sits next to me, pushing us down. We eye her like a pack of wolves, and she returns our stares, her eyes green, her mouth tensed and poised as though prepared to hurl a racial slur.

 

"You smell nice," says the Zig.

 

"You look like a creep," says Shelly. "You look like you should be panhandling in front of a record store. And you,"—she turns to Bukowski—"I think I saw you dumping a bag of envelopes on Thirty-Second Street. You held two hot dogs in one hand. They disappeared like they had never been."

 

"What do you do for a living?" asks Lani.

 

"I don’t know, Barbie, what do you do?" asks Shelly. "I’m a zookeeper or something. Every once in a while I hold up picket signs protesting some injustice or whatever. I’ve got a nice apartment despite my nebulous career. One has to wonder where I find the money."

 

"Whoring?" asks the Zig.

 

"Yeah. Looks like someone peeked ahead. Wouldn’t do that regularly if I were you. You might find your role being played by someone else." Shelly smiles, her vicious mouth barely curving upward.

 

"That’s not going to happen," says the Zig. "Unfortunately, I’m irreplaceable."

 

"I wish you guys wouldn’t talk about roles," says Lani. "It makes me uncomfortable."

 

"That’s because you’re in denial," says Shelly. "You can’t deal with reality. You haven’t the slightest idea what reality is."

 

"This one’s a keeper," says Bukowski.

 

"What would possess you to date Rudolph?" I ask.

 

"You act like I want to. Like I’m a real person or something. You two were made for each other," she says, pointing at Lani and me. "Two ostriches with their heads in the sand. I know what’s in store for me. I know about the pry bar, about the gauntlet. Do I care? What can I do to stop it?"

 

"It won’t be that bad," says the Zig.

 

"You’re a born liar. A greasy hipster doofus. You have less of a self than anyone here, except maybe Rudolph. He’s pure evil, you know. I assume that’s why you’re friends with him." 

 

Rudolph comes over with Shelly’s beer and squeezes onto the other side of the bench. He flutters his eyes at her, a twitch at the left corner of his mouth.

 

"You keeping them entertained, my dear? She’s something, ain’t she, guys? Do you all approve?" I watch as they nod their heads in unison. I stare at my glass, trying to will it to refill itself.

 

"Your best friend over there is in denial," says Shelly. "About the essential truths of this life."

 

"He’s that good of an actor," says Rudolph. "He’s so good he’s forgotten that he’s acting. He’s starting to wonder about the laugh track, the silly bastard. The Zig was telling him about the script and he got a eureka look like he just discovered nuclear fusion."

 

"But we’re supposed to pretend!" protests Lani. "You guys aren’t playing along!"

 

"Yeah we are, babe," says Rudolph. "I think it’s time. You ready, honey?’

 

"Go fuck yourself," says Shelly.

 

"I love this place, you know," says Rudolph. "It’s like a second home to me. Frank behind the bar knows me like I know the back of my hand. Sometimes I think about a way out. I know, I know, what a surprise, happy-go-lucky Rudolph occasionally thinks about kicking the bucket. ‘But he’s so vivacious,’ they say. ‘He’s so full of life.’ But what is life, my friends? In the eyes of some, it is situational comedy. It’s a dark comedy, sure, but humor is subjective. We can’t properly define humor, just like we can’t define life. My materialistic, womanizing ways are worth a chuckle or two. But it’s a horror that I live through, I’ll have you all know. I don’t want to do the things I do. I am compelled. I have no control over my actions. The only right I truly possess is the right to expire. The right to push up daises. The right to sleep with the fishes. Then I come here and look at Frank’s smiling face and I find the will to continue. To persevere. To drink and forget about my strife."

 

"You’re stalling," says Shelly. "Let’s get this shit over with."

 

"As the lady says. J’ai fini. Let’s bounce." We exit the bar and hail a taxi, the pit growing deeper in my stomach with every machination, with every uttered word. Maybe I am too good of an actor. But I don’t want to be an actor. I don’t want to be Pinocchio. I want to be a man without strings.

 


The Gauntlet

 

"I hope she doesn’t pass," says the Zig.

 

We stand before the river, watching it ooze away from the city, its waters the color of motor oil, thick like congealed blood. The group is huddled around Shelly, their hands entwined, their lips moving in unison, chanting a song that no one wants to hear. The smell of the river is putrid, a mix of human excrement and road kill. My part has been played, as has the Zig’s. We are but observers now.

 

"Any particular reason?" I ask.

 

"The cyclical nature of being," says the Zig. He takes a cigar out of his pocket, a Cuban that he bartered from the Embassy. The Zig has friends in high and low places. He is a people person.

 

"What point does the group have if another member is inducted?" he asks. "What is the point of Rudolph? He was made for boozing and whoring. That suit that he wears, it’s a skin, you know. He never takes it off. He can’t. How would you interpret such behavior?"

 

"Surely he takes it off," I say.

 

"Not as far as I can tell. What I’m trying to say, Vince, is that he is a defined creature. He was built for a specific purpose, just like a wrench or a hammer. He can’t do anything but what he was made to do. You can’t turn a bolt with a hammer, you know. This principle applies to all of us. Bukowski is an incompetent fat slob. Lani is all looks and no brains. I’m an unhinged "hipster goof," or whatever Shelly said. We’ve all had our roles written for us, and we must play them."

 

"So we’re all a bunch of walking troupes, is what you’re saying," I reply.

 

"Yep," says the Zig. The circle closes around Shelly, who we cannot see. Leaning against a sugar maple is the iron bar, rusty with flakes of red. You can hear the frogs down by the river; they reverberate like a living machine.

 

"But who writes these parts?" I ask the Zig.

 

"Does it really matter? You’re not in a position to request a rewrite. I don’t think anyone is."

 

"You’re making me feel helpless," I admit.

 

"Sorry, buddy. I just speak the truth."

 

"Do you? So what’s happening in that circle was meant to be? Or is it somehow my fault? You’ve hinted as much." There’s a rock at my feet, jagged, made of fossilized shells. "What’s happening down there by the river doesn’t seem the fit the rest of the material."

 

"Our parts are being written by an amateur. Some idiot kid doodling on a notebook. But you should just say what appears above your head instead of questioning it. I’ve been messing with you, Vic. Like I said, I’ve seen the script. You have too, you’ve just forgotten. Look, I’m a little tired of talking about this. Should we see what happened to Shelly?"

 

"But who am I, Zig? What role do I have in the group?" I nearly scream at him.

 

"You’re the doubting Thomas," says the Zig, walking away from me. I crouch down, picking up the rock. It is heavy; it feels like a tombstone. The Zig is fragile, with hollow bones. The volume of the frogs increases like a pounding heartbeat. I’ve closed the distance when Rudolph approaches us, his head down, his suit jacket on his shoulder, sleeves rolled up.

 

"She didn’t make it," he says, shaking his head.

 

"So it goes," says the Zig.

 

"What’s Vince doing with that rock?" asks Rudolph. I freeze, the rock raised above my head. They both look at me with glazed eyes. In the background the river pops with the sound of something heavy being thrown into it. I can see Lani sitting on the bank, her knees drawn up close to her, Bukowski at her side like a minion. I seem to be at a crossroads of sorts, a pivotal moment, one of those abrupt shifts that the Zig doesn’t seem to think are possible. He’s a bastard, the Zig. A walking contradiction. Plus, he eats all of my food. 

 

"Looks like he’s acting out of character," says the Zig with a smile. "Or is he?"

 

"There’s nothing more useless than an armchair philosopher," I say, as the rock flies through the air. In the brief second of its flight, I feel exonerated like a prisoner set free. I wonder if this feeling is an illusion. The voices find all of this terribly amusing.


New Music: Firefly

  A twelve-year old song that I wrote in Cincinnati. I don't believe it was ever played live, which is a shame, since it's a nice li...