"The Dark Tower," or; “A Study on Love and Obsession”

Stevie and I have often joked that I could teach a Doctorate Level class on The Dark Tower Saga.  Oft referred to as Stephen King’s “Magnum Opus,” the Dark Tower has kept the Constant Reader entertained for the better part of three decades.

 Spanning seven (well, eight, as of yesterday) volumes, short stories, tie-ins and a host of Marvel published comic books, it drew me in immediately.  I was fascinated by All-World, and the connections to our world.  The things that fell through the cracks, like the George Washington Bridge, or a Citgo pumping station.  The bizarre mixture of reality and unreality appealed to me in a way that no other book had – and I’m a long time fan of King.  Based largely on part in Robert Browning’s epic poem “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came,” it is ultimately a tale of redemption, and of regaining lost love.

For those that wish to read, I’ll include the text of Browning’s poem here.  If you don’t, then skip over it:

I.
My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the working of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.
II.
What else should he be set for, with his staff?
What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare
All travellers who might find him posted there,
And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh
Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,
III.
If at his counsel I should turn aside
Into that ominous tract which, all agree,
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly
I did turn as he pointed: neither pride
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,
So much as gladness that some end might be.
IV.
For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,
What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope
With that obstreperous joy success would bring,
I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring
My heart made, finding failure in its scope.
V.
As when a sick man very near to death
Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end
The tears and takes the farewell of each friend,
And hears one bid the other go, draw breath
Freelier outside, (``since all is o'er,'' he saith,
``And the blow falIen no grieving can amend;'')
VI.
While some discuss if near the other graves
Be room enough for this, and when a day
Suits best for carrying the corpse away,
With care about the banners, scarves and staves:
And still the man hears all, and only craves
He may not shame such tender love and stay.
VII.
Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,
Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ
So many times among ``The Band''---to wit,
The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed
Their steps---that just to fail as they, seemed best,
And all the doubt was now---should I be fit?
VIII.
So, quiet as despair, I turned from him,
That hateful cripple, out of his highway
Into the path he pointed. All the day
Had been a dreary one at best, and dim
Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim
Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.
IX.
For mark! no sooner was I fairly found
Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,
Than, pausing to throw backward a last view
O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round:
Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.
I might go on; nought else remained to do.
X.
So, on I went. I think I never saw
Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:
For flowers---as well expect a cedar grove!
But cockle, spurge, according to their law
Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,
You'd think; a burr had been a treasure-trove.
XI.
No! penury, inertness and grimace,
In some strange sort, were the land's portion. ``See
``Or shut your eyes,'' said nature peevishly,
``It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:
``'Tis the Last judgment's fire must cure this place,
``Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free.''
XII.
If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk
Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents
Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents
In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk
All hope of greenness?'tis a brute must walk
Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.
XIII.
As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair
In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud
Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.
One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,
Stood stupefied, however he came there:
Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!
XIV.
Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;
Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
I never saw a brute I hated so;
He must be wicked to deserve such pain.
XV.
I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.
As a man calls for wine before he fights,
I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,
Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.
Think first, fight afterwards---the soldier's art:
One taste of the old time sets all to rights.
XVI.
Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face
Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold
An arm in mine to fix me to the place,
That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!
Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.
XVII.
Giles then, the soul of honour---there he stands
Frank as ten years ago when knighted first.
What honest man should dare (he said) he durst.
Good---but the scene shifts---faugh! what hangman hands
Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands
Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!
XVIII.
Better this present than a past like that;
Back therefore to my darkening path again!
No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain.
Will the night send a howlet or a bat?
I asked: when something on the dismal flat
Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.
XIX.
A sudden little river crossed my path
As unexpected as a serpent comes.
No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms;
This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath
For the fiend's glowing hoof---to see the wrath
Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.
XX.
So petty yet so spiteful! All along,
Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it;
Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit
Of route despair, a suicidal throng:
The river which had done them all the wrong,
Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.
XXI.
Which, while I forded,---good saints, how I feared
To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek,
Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek
For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard!
---It may have been a water-rat I speared,
But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.
XXII.
Glad was I when I reached the other bank.
Now for a better country. Vain presage!
Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage,
Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank
Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank,
Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage---
XXIII.
The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque.
What penned them there, with all the plain to choose?
No foot-print leading to that horrid mews,
None out of it. Mad brewage set to work
Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk
Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.
XXIV.
And more than that---a furlong on---why, there!
What bad use was that engine for, that wheel,
Or brake, not wheel---that harrow fit to reel
Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air
Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware,
Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.
XXV.
Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood,
Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth
Desperate and done with; (so a fool finds mirth,
Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood
Changes and off he goes!) within a rood---
Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.
XXVI.
Now blotches rankling, coloured gay and grim,
Now patches where some leanness of the soil's
Broke into moss or substances like boils;
Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him
Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim
Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.
XXVII.
And just as far as ever from the end!
Nought in the distance but the evening, nought
To point my footstep further! At the thought,
great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend,
Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned
That brushed my cap---perchance the guide I sought.
XXVIII.
For, looking up, aware I somehow grew,
'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place
All round to mountains---with such name to grace
Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view.
How thus they had surprised me,---solve it, you!
How to get from them was no clearer case.
XXIX.
Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick
Of mischief happened to me, God knows when---
In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then,
Progress this way. When, in the very nick
Of giving up, one time more, came a click
As when a trap shuts---you're inside the den!
XXX.
Burningly it came on me all at once,
This was the place! those two hills on the right,
Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight;
While to the left, a tall scalped mountain... Dunce,
Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce,
After a life spent training for the sight!
XXXI.
What in the midst lay but the Tower itself?
The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart,
Built of brown stone, without a counter-part
In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf
Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf
He strikes on, only when the timbers start.
XXXII.
Not see? because of night perhaps?---why, day
Came back again for that! before it left,
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft:
The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay,
Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,---
``Now stab and end the creature---to the heft!''
XXXIII.
Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled
Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears
Of all the lost adventurers my peers,---
How such a one was strong, and such was bold,
And such was fortunate, yet, each of old
Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.
XXXIV.
There they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, met
To view the last of me, a living frame
For one more picture! in a sheet of flame
I saw them and I knew them all. And yet
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set,
And blew. ``Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.''


See?  Fucking long.  I should take this time, to say that I *hate* epic poetry.  I can’t read it, it makes no sense to me, but given that I love the story that was extrapolated from it, I felt compelled to read it.
Enough of this shit, back to our regularly scheduled program.
I have to thank my Baby Sister, for introducing me to The Dark Tower.  One Christmas, she bought me The Dark Tower II:  The Drawing of The Three.  I read it, and immediately was taken.  I devoured “DT:I” and “DT:III” as fast as I could, and then I stumbled across the same frustration that every would-be Gunslinger felt:
STEPHEN KING PUBLISHES THE BOOKS AT EXTREMELY IRREGULAR INTERVALS!
According to Wikipedia the books were published in these years:
Series
1.    The Dark Tower: The Gunslinger (1982)
2.    The Dark Tower II: The Drawing of the Three (1987)
3.    The Dark Tower III: The Waste Lands (1991)
4.    The Dark Tower IV: Wizard and Glass (1997)—Locus Award nominee, 1998[8]
5.    The Dark Tower V: Wolves of the Calla (2003)—Locus Award nominee, 2004[9]
6.    The Dark Tower VI: Song of Susannah (2004)—Locus Award nominee, 2005[10]
7.    The Dark Tower VII: The Dark Tower (2004)—British Fantasy Award winner, 2005[10]
8.    The Dark Tower: The Wind Through the Keyhole (2012)


You’ll notice, that books 5, 6, and 7 were published back to back.  It is here, that I diverge into the meaning of 19.
“It’s All Nineteen”
This has become a catchphrase of sorts, with Stevie and I.  A way of saying, “Everything is going according to plan, even if it’s not the plan we planned.” – if you dig.   It’s all Nineteen.
The occurance of this number arose in The Dark Tower V: The Wolves of the Calla.  The significance is this:

On June 19, 1999 at about 4:30 p.m., King was walking on the shoulder of Route 5, in Lovell, Maine. Driver Bryan Smith, distracted by an unrestrained dog moving in the back of his minivan, struck King, who landed in a depression in the ground about 14 feet from the pavement of Route 5.[15] According to Oxford County Sheriff deputy Matt Baker, King was hit from behind and some witnesses said the driver was not speeding, reckless, or drinking.[32]  (http://en.wikipedia.og/wiki/Stephen_King)

King had treated The Dark Tower as a retreat until that point.  A place for him to go, to feel at home.  It wasn’t until this accident, that he realized that he owed a debt to those of us who had followed the Ka-Tet over the years.  Now, keep in mind, I don’t believe that any writer owes a single thing to his or her readers.  Write because you have to.  Not because you want a paycheck, or to make people happy.  I think he realized, finally . . . that the “Mean-Ass Patrol Boy” finally caught up with him.  As timeless as his works are (I fully believe that he will be taught alongside Shakespear, Dickens, Poe, and Hemmingway regularly in the future,) he is not.  I started reading The Dark Tower when I was seventeen (not quite nineteen).  I’m thirty-five now, and I’m noticing the gray in my hair.  I’m noticing the wrinkles where there were none.  However, as I recently learned, I will not fight my Patrol Boy.  I’ll embrace him.  I’ll learn from him – and hopefully, I’ll grow old with him.  He was introduced to me on September 21, 2004 (not June 19, 1999, but I met him all the same).  That fuck had a handful of chips with my name on them, but decided to not cash in.  Instead, he said, “Let’s see what this kid can do” – at twenty-eight, I was stuck forever at nineteen.

Back on topic:

September 21 was the release date for The Dark Tower VII:  The Dark Tower.  One of my three best friends brought a copy to the ICU, after I met my Patrol Boy, and left it there for me to read – not that I remember it, thank you Demerol.  I cheered, I screamed, I cried, and basically made the nurses think I was going batshit insane.  However, going back to All-World, and living with The Ka-Tet gave me a chance to heal.  It let me fade inside myself, and find a place where I could start healing.

I should add, I remember nothing of my first reading of that book.  I had to go back months later, and read again.  I only remember telling the nurses all about it, as if the characters were real.  As if they were my friends.  To me, they were.  They still are.  Roland, Jake, Eddie, Susannah, and Oy, sweet Oy.  They were as much my friends, as my true friends who came to visit me were.  I’ll paraphrase King here, in that I followed Jake’s story longer than he’d been alive.  They weren’t just characters to me.  I knew them, as well as I knew myself.  I knew immediately why Jake understood “The Truth,”, and I knew about “The Great Sage and Eminent Junkie.”   I knew Detta Walker, and the dark recesses of that hateful bitches mind.  That being said, it wasn’t until Roland climbed the Tower, that I truly understood him.  I understood that he was a man whose regret was always in the fore of his mind. And I was the same.  I still regret the things I did in the past, but that is part of who I am.  It’s shaped me, and as unsavory as those things are, I wouldn’t change them.  I was once taken with addiction, and later a love of “Graf”.

It’s still part of who I am.

I realize now, that this has turned from a post into the Greatness (yes, big “G”,) of the Tower, into self reflection.   I simply want to say, that after I’ve rambled on this far, I truly thank my friends – Roland, Eddie, Jake, Susannah, Oy, Stephen King, Joshua, Jeremy, and Mitchell, for truly saving my life.  
Posted by Quynlan at 14:54

"Talk Hard"

Another Archived Post from 2011:


"Do you ever get the feeling that everything in America is completely fucked up?" -- Mark Hunter/Hard Harry

As hinted, in a post I made almost a year ago, I also have a desire to toss some verbal masturbation out into the intarwebs, about my other favorite movie from the late 80's: Pump Up the Volume.

I was slightly less impressionable when I saw this movie. I was in the Tenth Grade, as opposed to the Seventh, but the impact it made on me was no less significant. More importantly, just like Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure/Bogus Journey, Pump Up the Volume drove home another point that seemed part of my basic personality as a teen. It reminded me that sometimes, if you want to do what's right, you've got to break some rules.

As I'm writing this, I am finding myself having a hard time reaching a decision. What was more important to me: The music, or the movie itself? I'd say that they are equally important, however . . . without the music, the movie wouldn't be what it was. The music would stand on its own, without the film.

For those who have not seen the film, it's about a high school student, Mark Hunter. He's relocated to Arizona from New Jersey with his family, when his dad accepts a job as the commissioner of Hubert Humphrey High. I'm sure there's some joke to be made about a high school named after Hubert Humphrey, but I'm not versed in the 60's political climate. I'll refrain. I'd just fuck it up.

But I digress.

Mark, who had plenty of friends back home in Jersey, finds it impossible to meet people in Arizona. He becomes shy, and withdrawn. Yet, in a stroke of inspired genius that can only occur in the mind of a 17 year old boy -- he decides to use the shortwave radio set that his parents bought him to "talk to his friends back home", to launch a pirate radio station. He assumes the persona of Happy Harry Hard-On. Hubert Humphrey High. Happy Harry Hard-On. I really don't have to point out the synergy there folks, do I?

Harry goes live, every night, at 10pm. Because of the sensitive position he's in, with his father's job, he uses a modulator to change his voice. He talks about everything, and anything. At first he's just waxing philosophical on the trials of being a teenager, but then something happens.

All of his fellow classmates, begin to view Hard Harry as a latter day prophet of sorts. They look to him. They listen to him.

I just stepped away for 10 minutes or so, and walked back with the intention cutting off the synopsis, and just hitting the salient points. As I said, I believed that the music was more important. However, in the process of writing this, I've come to realize that I was wrong. The music would have never had the impact on me that it does, if it weren't for the movie.

Enough of the introspective After School Special.

Mark/Harry decides to take on the issues of corruption at the school. The expulsion potential "trouble-makers", and "undesirables" during the first week of school--while keeping their names on the roll, so the school would get more money from the state. Principal Cresswood, the mastermind behind this nefarious plot, truly believed she was doing it for the good of the school. It's one of the oldest debates on the polarity of good and evil. Both sides truly believe they're right.

It begins, when Mark/Harry lifts a memo from his father's home office, and discovers that a girl named Cheryl has been expelled, because she is pregnant. That begins the influx of trust from his classmates. Teenagers rarely believe that anyone is fighting for them. Then, out of the blue, during a time when radio was king, comes a voice that speaks to them.

Mark/Harry begins to take phone calls and letters from his listeners. One day, he receives a letter signed, "I'm Serious".

The letter reads as follows:

Dear Harry,

Do you think I should kill myself?

I'm Serious.

And here, the shitstorm begins, my faithful few readers.

The next day, in his creative writing class, Mark is informed that one of his classmates killed himself the night before.

I'll do my best to quote his following broadcast monologues:

"You see I never planned it like this. My dumb Dad got me this short wave radio set so I could just speak to my friends back east, but I couldn't reach anybody, I thought I was talking to nobody. I imagined that nobody listening. Maybe I imagined one person out there, anyway one day I woke up and I realized I was never going to be normal and so I said fuck it, I said so be it and Happy Harry Hard-On was born. I never meant to hurt anyone, honestly I never meant to hurt anyone. I'm sorry Malcolm. I never said "Don't do it" I'm sorry . . . anyway I'm done, stick a fork in me it's been grand. This is Happy Harry Hard-On saying sayonara, over and out."

At this point, there is a dramatic pause:

Off the air: "What am I doing? Fuck it!"

On the air: "You hear about some kid who did something stupid, something desperate. What possessed him. How could he do such a terrible thing. It's really quite simple actually. Consider the life of a teenager. You have parents, teachers telling you what to do. You have movies, magazines, and TV telling you what to do. But you know what you have to do. Your job, your purpose, is to get accepted, get a cute girl friend, and think up something great to do with the rest of your life. What if you're confused and can't imagine a career? What if you're funny looking and you can't get a girl friend? You see no one wants to hear it, but the terrible secret is that being young is sometimes less fun than being dead.

Suicide is wrong, but the interesting thing about it is how uncomplicated it seems. There you are, you got all these problems swarming around your brain, and here is one simple, one incredibly simple solution. I'm just surprised it doesn't happen every day around here. No now they're going to say I said offing yourself is simple, but no, no, no, no, it's not simple. It's like everything else you have to read the fine print. For instance, assuming there is a heaven who would ever wanna go there, you know. I mean think about it, sitting on this cloud, you know it's nice, it's quiet, there's no teachers, there's no parents, but guess what? There's nothing to do. Fucking boring. Another thing to remember about suicide is that it is not a pretty picture. First of all, you shit your shorts you know. So there you are dead, people are weeping over you, crying, girls you never spoke to are saying, "Why? Why? Why?" and you have a load in your shorts. That's the way I see it. Sue me. Now, they're saying I shouldn't think stuff like this. They're saying something is wrong with me, that I should be ashamed. Well, I'm sick of being ashamed. Aren't you?

I don't mind being dejected and rejected, but I'm not going to be ashamed about it.

At least pain is real. You look around and you see nothing is real, but the pain is real. You know, even this show isn't real. This isn't me; I'm using a voice disguiser. I'm a phoney fuck just like my Dad!! . . just like anybody. You see, the real me is just as worried as the rest of you. They say I'm disturbed, well of course I'm disturbed. I mean we're all disturbed, and if we're not, why not? Doesn't this blend of blindness and blandness want to make you do something crazy? Then why not do something crazy? It makes a hell of a lot of sense than blowing you fucking brains out you know. Go nuts, go crazy, get creative! You got problems? You just chuck'em, nuke'em! They think you're moody? Make'em think you're crazy, make'em think you might snap! They think you got attitude? You show'em some real attitude! Come on, go nuts, get crazy. Hey no more Mr. Nice Guy!!!"

At this point, Mark/Harry takes a call from a student who is dealing with his emerging homosexuality, and the bashing that goes along with it. I want to desperately go into it, however I'm already writing to an arrogant length.

One of the ideas that keeps being repeated, over and over, is that Mark is waiting for something. For someone. For a voice to come out of the darkness.

It's at this point, that I notice I've skipped over the entire relationship with Nora, "The Eat Me Beat Me Lady," -- hey, it was the late 80's -- but that's okay. What's important, is what Nora says to him, as he decides to shut the show down:

"No, no the world is fucked up just like you said. Don't you see that you're the voice, you're the voice we're all waiting for."

It's a theme that has been repeated over and over again through the decades, most recently with Green Day's American Idiot -- but that's another post in itself (oh, did you see what I did there? If not, read my preceding post from last April: http://pfftspace.blogspot.com/2011/04/lessons-from-great-ones.html ).

Long story short, the FCC is called in because people have started recording the shows, and broadcasting them across state lines. They bring out trucks to triangulate his location. So he does the logical thing. He shuts down.

No no, that would be boring. He wires his broadcast set up into his mother's jeep, and makes a mobile broadcast station. HA HA! TAKE THAT YOU LOUSY FCC BUMS!

The obvious chase ensues, and Mark/Harry is forced to broadcast without his voice modulator in what is what I consider one of the finest climaxes of American cinema:

"Okay this is really me now, no more hiding. Listen we're all worried, we're all in pain, that just comes with having eyes with having ears, but just remember one thing it can't get any worse, it can only get better. I mean high school is the bottom. Being a teenager sucks, but that's the point, surviving it is the whole point. Quitting is not going to make you strong, living will. So just hang on and hang in there. You know I know all about the hating and the sneering, I'm a member of the why bother generation myself. But why did I bother coming out here tonight and why did you? I mean it's time, it begins with us not with politicians, the experts of the teachers, but with us, with you and with me, the ones who need it most. I believe with everything that's in me that the whole world is begging for healing, even the trees and the earth its self are crying out for it, you can hear it everywhere. It's the same kind of healing I desperately needed and finally feel has begun with you. Everyone mix it up, it's not game over yet, it's just the beginning, but it's up to you. I'm calling for every kid to seize the air. Steal it, it belongs to you. Speak out, they can't stop you. Find your voice and use it. Keep this going. Pick a name, go on air. It's your life, take charge of it. Do it, try it, try anything. Spill your guts out and say shit and fuck a million times if you want to, but you decide. Fill the air, steal it. Keep the air alive . . . TALK HARD!!!!"

"Talk Hard," was the final snip of dialogue from a lead in the movie. The ending fade, as the credits begin to roll, were of pirate radio stations going on the air all over America.

I've already written to the point where it's just obnoxious, so I'll simply leave you with a list of my favorite tracks from the movie:

"Everybody Knows," by Concrete Blonde -- this is a cover of a Leonard Cohen song, and well.. it's amazing.

"Why Can't I Fall In Love," by Ivan Neville

"Wave of Mutilation (U.K. Surf)," by The Pixies -- this one is amazing. "Wave of Mutilation," was originally released on the album Doolittle. It was fast, distorted, and everything The Pixies were great at. The U.K. Surf version, is slow, heavy on the reverb, and extremely mellow. It is the *perfect* song for the scene it's in -- shortly after Mark learns of Malcolm "I'm Serious" Kaiser's suicide.

"Kick Out The Jams," By Bad Brains ft. Henry Rollins -- this song is a cover of a Blue Oyster Cult song, which is a cover of an MC5 song. It's pretty fucking awesome.

Those are just a few. You can listen to them all at http://listen.grooveshark.com

In closing, this is probably the most important film from my youth. It's why I waited almost a year to write about it. I had no clue how to tackle something of this personal magnitude. I'm still not sure the job I did was worth a shit.

I should add, that Christian Slater played the role of Mark, and this is his finest role ever -- however, it is Christian Slater, and that's not saying much.

Celebrities, and their tits.

Archived post from June 2011 on Pfft. . .


So, it's happened again. Some celebrity snapped a bunch of photos of her naughty bits on her phone, and they got leaked to the public. Which celebrity this time you ask? None other than Blake Lively, star of "Gossip Girl", "The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants" (parts one and two), and the upcoming "Green Lantern".

I'm sure you're asking yourself the same thing I am:

Why the *fuck* can't the famous figure out this simple fact. If they take pictures of their tits, they *will* be  seen by the public. It's inevitiable.

Or to quote a disturbed literary figure: "It's axiomatic."

The popular theory is that she snapped these R-Rated pics while she was filming "The Town". Having seen them, I'd have to say I concur, since the tattoo's on her body match the ones that Make-up put on her for the movie. So, here it is. I'm gonna put it out there in plain-speak for all the celebrities who think that their boyfriends need a picture of them posing like self-absorbed cunts in their bathroom mirror:

HEY. CELEBRITIES. HERE'S THE DEAL. IF YOU TAKE A PICTURE OF YOUR TITS, ASS, AND NETHERLY GIRLY BITS.. PEOPLE WILL SEE. IT'S GOING TO HAPPEN. THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT. SO UNLESS YOU WANT YOUR VAG PLASTERED ACROSS THE WEB, KEEP YOUR FUCKING PANTS ON.

That being said: I hope no one takes my advice, because I like watching famous people fall.

(I almost included pictures, but I'm not sure who the rights belong to, so I neglected. If anyone is desperate to see them, go to Egotastic, or What Would Tyler Durden Do?)

I almost forgot to add: her Reps vehemently deny that this is her.. but she has nice tits, and I like nice tits -- after doing a forensic examination that approaches CSI levels, I can say -- this *is* her.

"The Idiocy of Poets," or; "Thai Poetic License?"

Replacement battery clock
Watch the coated abrasive dirt, sell cheap hats

Bags made from nature;
Louis made frames

Get a picture frame.

_________________

I presented Stevie with this today.  I told her it was a poem that I wrote last night, while I was trying to fall asleep.  She responded, that she liked it -- that it was very spartan, in contrast to what it was describing.

Then, I told her . . .

"I didn't write that shit, that's an engrish translation of a sign from a thai street vendor's stall."

See Below:

Then an interesting thing happened:  I started wondering what it actually meant. 

See, I've never had much use for poetry.  I like symbolism, and I really enjoy metaphor -- but most poetry goes so far over the top with those, that it stops being enjoyable for me.  It always feels like a 15 year old carrying a composition book around with him, trying to appear deep.

I think that this appeals to me, because it's completely unintentional.  So, now I'm going to spend the rest of my day trying to figure it out, when in reality there's no deeper meaning to be had -- only what we assign it.

"Found poetry is still valid poetry, m'dear"

That's what Stevie says anyway.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

So, it's been awhile.

I've moved on from the restaurant industry, finally.  I still pull a shift here and there, just cause it's fun -- I like it.  I'm thinking about changing this now, from a humor blog into "This is whatever I want it to be."

I think this is a great idea.  I may take up photography.  That has always appealed to me, and my 10th grade Journalism teacher told me I had a good eye.  Why not?

I'll still make with the funny on occasion, but I myself need a creative outlet.

For now though, I think it's time to resurrect and restructure.  I'll see what I can pull out of my pasty white ass this weekend.

Serving, Bull-Dykes, and You.

So, in my profession, there is a appropriate way to deliver food to the table, and it is as follows:

Children first, then oldest to youngest woman, then youngest to oldest man.

Seems pretty simple right?

I thought so too. Apparently, that's not the case.

See, last night I was presented with a party of two. Two women, sitting very close to each other, enjoying the KU game on TV. One was.. well -- she wasn't particularly attractive, but at least she attempted femininity. The other? Dear sweet christ, this girl played with G.I. Joes, as a child. She probably wore a jockstrap too. I'm not the most manly man on the face of the planet, but this woman made me feel like a little bitch, just standing in her presence.

So that made me think: How does one handle the appropriate food delivery method?

Do you deliver to the "girl" first, then the dyke? Even though the dyke was obviously younger?

And if you DO deliver to the girl first, and the dyke has any experience in restaurants, will she be offended by you treating her as a man -- effectively blowing your tip?

In my case, I presented to the girl first, then the "man".. and it went alright. Strangely. I don't understand it, but hey.. what can you do?

----------------------------

Since its been awhile, I'll combine and tell you the story of the couple I had a few weeks ago.

The series of events went like this:

Man orders a double Captain and Coke. Woman orders Iced Tea.

I walk by the table and the dialogue between us got a little weird --

Him: She's pregnant!

Her: No I'm not.

Him: Yes she is! It's our first!

Her: Right....

Me: What does a server say in this situation?

Him: If you want a tip, you say congratulations!

Me: CONGRATULATIONS!

I mosey on over to another table, and talk to them for a bit. On my way back, I notice the man is almost done with his drink. Before I can ask him if he'd like another:

Him: Two more Captain and Cokes!

Me: You sure she's not pregnant?

Her: I'm drinking to celebrate not being knocked up.

Him: Oh she's pregnant as hell. That's why I'm getting her drunk.

What.

The.
Fuck.

Consequently, he bitched about the price of the booze when I delivered the check to him.

Asshat.

Its been awhile

I discovered that there are very few things to continue to write about. You can only bitch so much.

Of course, tonight, I discover something that I neglected to bitch about previously.

When I'm cleaning your table, do NOT try to stack your plates on the plates I have in my hands. I have things very precariously perched, and your dumb ass will just end up wearing what's left of your food.

While I'm at it, do not attempt to take your food out of my hands, or off the tray I'm carrying. I don't need your help. I get paid to serve you. YOU pay me to serve you. So let me do my fucking job.