Channel 101 Attempt 3: The Miner Chronicles

Come, be the first to witness the third installment in our never-ending quest to get into the Channel 101 screening! This time out, it's The Miner Chronicles, an epic tale of grim perseverance in the face of a world gone mad. Zombies too.

Back soon with a real update (as in, words).

Hiatus Due to Comic-Con

In case you hadn't guessed, I'm an inveterate nerd. Case in point:



That's my brother on the right, trying to act like he doesn't know me. The fool. Clearly his yellow gloves and shirt mark him as a mere pawn of...THE MONARCH! I'm not sure who that other guy is supposed to be, probably an ironic statement on youth culture.

Anyway, nerd that I am, I will be attending the San Diego Comic Convention all week. It's an orgy of Magic: The Gathering cards, overpriced pizza by the slice, and guys who look like Jack Black from across a crowd of people so you go and ask for their autograph and then they act like dicks about it so later when you actually do see Jack Black you're too timid to ask him and have to sneak a peek at his presenter's badge in the men's restroom.

Bottom line: Mom, Dan, and the one or two people who stumble here by accident while looking for midget porn, you will have to do without updates for about a week (maybe longer, as my much-anticipated New York trip immediately follows the Con). If all goes as planned, I should have one or two posts during that time, and maybe even another movie fer y'all.

Out of State Plates

A Man From the 1920’s Explains to His Girlfriend Why He Didn’t Come Home Last Night

Ah, applesauce, baby! Don’t high-hat me, here! Cantcha see I been framed? This bum’s rush yer givin’ me is all wet. Don’t take any wooden nickels doll, I’m beggin’ ya! Tune in, and I’ll give you the up and up, honest injun!

You remember last night, I got my wiggle on down to the gin mill ta pick up the giggle juice? Well, I ain’t there but two minutes when some flapper dame hits me with a “hey buddy, cash or check?”

Natch, I ain’t goin’ fer that line, so I tell her I got a doll with great gams and a heart a’ gold waitin’ for me ta middle aisle her back at home. No sooner do I shake this broad than a coupla big sixers sidle up and want I should explain why I’m gabbin’ with the boss’ moll. You follow me? The Big Cheese himself!

Now these guys was real hoods, babe, gimme the heebie-jeebies. I mean they was a coupla hard-boiled lugs with nobody home, probably flat tires too, if’n ya catch my drift. An’ further, they was givin’ me this line about you, like you ain’t all jake or whatnot, you know, just beatin’ their gums. I got a little hot under the collar, wantin’ ta defend your honor and all. So instead a’ reasonin’ with these mugs like I know I shoulda—I’ll cop to havin’ a little edge, babe, maybe I mighta even been a tad spifflicated—I haul off and wallop the big one right in the kisser! No sooner does this palooka taste floorboard than the other one pulls a shiv on me!

Now I’m startin’ ta realize what a pushover I been; this is some kinda con I walked inta, right? This guy could be a torpedo for all I know! When the dust settles, I got me a coupla shiners and the sheik with the shiv is out for the count! Don’t ask me how I did it honeycakes. All I was thinkin’ of was how I hadda carry a torch for ya, you bein’ so keen and all. Sooner’n you can say hotsy-totsy I was bookin’ it for home, but I didn’t get three steps before some bimbo in a hayburner cuts off a bellbottom in a jalopy—a flivver, if I remember—and tries to make a fall guy outta me! Take me fer a ride, ya understand?

This boy’s in his glad rags, and I’m thinkin’ “ah, horsefeathers,” right? I ain’t even got enough clams to buy the sucker off, just some hair of the dog and a nifty gal waitin’ for me at home. But before I know what’s what, he says he’s a dick! You believe that?! He’s pinchin’ me! Not fer the struggle buggy rough stuff, but fer the moonshine no less! See, in all the hubbub, I plain forgot and left the barkeep holding the bag! Some rube I am, right?

And that’s where I been, bearcat. They jammed me in a jitney and trucked me to the tank like a regular fish. I got sprung this mornin’ an’ came right over. They even let me keep the dead soldier, if you can buy that baloney.

No, I ain’t too balled up, just lost my cheaters in the scuffle. If you could butt me, baby doll, that’d be the bee’s knees. My dogs are barkin’ an’ it’s been a long night even fer an owl like me. You know I think you’re the berries, dontcha? The cat’s pajamas! The cat’s meow! I’m goofy for ya! I ain’t no drugstore cowboy out on the lam or some ossified hoofer guzzlin’ java in a bull session. I’m true blue, ready for the handcuffs, on the level.

Now if I could use yer John, I got somethin’ comin’ up and I ain’t sure if it’s a Bronx cheer or upchuck.

Behind Blue Eyes: A Pedophile’s Secret Confession

As you may have heard (considering it’s very old news), Pete Townshend of the Who was arrested on kiddie porn charges in 2003.



Who, this guy? With that sad clown-like face? Yes, in fact. And even though police never found any actual illicit images on his computers, and ultimately dropped the charges after Townshend claimed that he was only doing research for a 6-page paper on the widespread availability of child pornography on the internet, I think we can all agree on one thing:

PETER TOWNSHEND IS A LECHEROUS PERVERT WHO IS PROBABLY MASTURBATING TO THE SOUNDS OF CHILDREN'S LAUGHTER RIGHT NOW.

You demand further evidence? Bam!



If that’s not the face of a pedophile, I’m not involved in a covert game of cat and mouse with a deadly international vixen. Hint: I am. Still not convinced? Socko!



I can’t read Japanese per se, but I have it on good authority that this is a picture of Townshend marketing some sort of electronic molesting device called the Super Lolita Happy Fun Sex Machine 3000. See that button in the middle? That’s the one you press when you want to molest them.

As if all that weren’t enough, check out the quote Townshend comes up with when accused of accessing kiddie porn. Rather than condemning it like any rational person trying to weasel out of a child-molestation charge, he instead describes the easy availability of online child porn as being “laid out like a free line of cocaine at a decadent cocktail party: only the strong willed or terminally uncurious can resist."

That’s like saying, “no, I’m not a pedophile. But, if I were, could you blame me? Kids are hot! In fact, not lusting after them is the freakish thing. Like magnificent cocaine they are, only twice as addicting and way easier to smuggle through customs.” Peter Townshend, you make me sick.



For Pete Townshend, this picture is like a swimsuit calendar, wrapped in a *Playboy Magazine,* being delivered by a naked child.

The final and most damning piece of evidence, however, comes from a “liberal” or, some would say “awesome” interpretation of the lyrics to the Who’s monumental smash hit “Behind Blue Eyes.” Let me guide you through such an interpretation, and you will witness the thinly veiled confession of a man tortured by his own dark urges.

The Annotated *Behind Blue Eyes

No one knows what it's like
To be the bad man

Bad man? Why, what could you mean Pete? Like a man who hugs his nephew just a little too long at the family reunion? That kind of bad?

To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes

Wait a minute, I just thought of something! Don’t you have blue eyes, Pete? Huh. Funny, that.

No one knows what it's like
To be hated

Despite popular opinion, pedophiles are not universally beloved. They are, in fact, as Mr. Townshend has so studiously observed, hated.

To be fated
To telling only lies

Here Townshend bemoans his eternal lot in life; to lust after children in a society that condemns such love, and to thereby be forced into an existence based only on deception. He probably wrote this line while lying awake at night after having awkward, uncomfortable sex with his wife that ended in him mistakenly crying out the name of the 8-year-old girl they sometimes see at the grocery store.

But my dreams
They aren't as empty
As my conscience seems to be

Townshend is begging for forgiveness, begging the unkind God that made him this way to admit that he has worth, that he is not an evil man. Unfortunately, no such forgiveness is forthcoming, you sick, sick bastard.

I have hours, only lonely

Read: “Without little boys running their glorious pre-pubescent hands over my torso.”

My love is vengeance
That's never free

I’m not really sure what that part means, but it makes me want to vomit, that’s for sure.

No one knows what it's like
To feel these feelings
Like I do

Sure they do, Pete. They’re called NAMBLA, and I hear their taking applications for new members!

And I blame you

Who, me? Look, there’s no need for personal attacks, you filthy degenerate.

No one bites back as hard
On their anger
None of my pain and woe
Can show through

This part doesn’t support my theory. I’m pretty sure Entwhistle wrote it.

But my dreams
They aren't as empty
As my conscience seems to be

I have hours, only lonely
My love is vengeance
That's never free

Yeah, thanks, we got it. You’re a pedophile. No need to repeat yourself.

When my fist clenches, crack it open

…and slip your tiny penis inside

Before I use it and lose my cool

When I smile, tell me some bad news
Before I laugh and act like a fool

Here’s some bad news: You will never, ever achieve your sexual fantasy of swimming naked through a Scrooge McDuck-style vault filled to the brim with the buttocks of Haley Joel Osmond

If I swallow anything evil
Put your finger down my throat

Eww, no way. I don’t want boy-sperm on me.

If I shiver, please give me a blanket
Keep me warm, let me wear your coat

Look at him. His carnal desire for all of our beloved children is so intense he is literally shaking with lechery. He needs a coat just to hide his throbbing erection, preferably a long yellow trench coat he can use to flash kids at the park.

No one knows what it's like
To be the bad man
To be the sad man
Behind blue eyes

Truly sickening stuff. Thank God a wholesome, musical innovator like Limp Bizkit's Fred Durst created a version of the song that we can all admire.

Meanwhile, Townhend’s music continues to be a veritable quagmire of unholy desires. Just look at some of his song titles, selectively edited for further credibility:

The Kids Are All Right (Self-explanatory)

I Need You (to not tell anyone about this, okay? Not even mom.)

A Quick One While He’s Away (“He” most likely referring to the boy’s father)

I’m Happy to have you Jack me off in a truck stop bathroom, underaged lover

Our Love Was (considered appropriate in Roman culture)

Someone’s Coming (and I think it’s me. All over your face. Little girl. I’m a pedophile.)

Fiddle About (Even more self-explanatory)

Let My Love Open the Door (On unconventional sexual relationships)

Stop Hurting People (Who merely want to make love to minors. I mean, come on, what harm can it do, really?)

A lot, Peter Townshend of the Who, that's how much. A lot. Shame on you.

In conclusion: WOOOO! THE WHOOO ROOOOCK! PLAY PINBALL WIZARD!

Profiles In Excellence: The Woman At The Radiohead Concert Who Stood Right Behind Me And Sang All The Lyrics At The Top Of Her Lungs

Talent is a frail and unpredictable human quality, one men have built empires on being able to identify. More often than not, a record label will be deluged by thousands of would-be Huey Lewises, all clamoring for their attentions. Just as often, these aspiring balladeers lack the talent that agents search for, and so the music industry must continue its relentless quest, cracking open young artists like eggs in hopes of finding that sweet, sticky, yellow, high-protein yolk that is talent.

However, every once in a long while, lightning strikes. Like a brush from the hand of God, a monumentally talented and heretofore unknown individual is brought to the attention of the world through the workings not of the music industry, but rather Destiny itself. Such was the case at Tuesday night’s Radiohead concert in San Diego. Yes, readers, I am proud to announce the discovery of a remarkably fresh and dynamic talent, a singer of such virtuosity and flair that I have no doubt she will soon rise to the top of the musical pantheon. Ladies and Gentleman, may I present: The tipsy middle-aged woman who wouldn’t stop singing every song at the top of her lungs and stood right next to me for the entire concert.

Now, I had never seen Radiohead live before Tuesday. And, I must admit, I have still not seen them live in some sense, so captivated was I by the majesty and effortless talent of this ingenue, this genius of musicality. Friends had pumped me up for the event, telling me that seeing Radiohead in concert would “change my life.” Little did they know how right they would be, and yet how wrong.

Now, don’t misunderstand: Radiohead are indeed enormously talented. Frontman Thom Yorke was sullenly charismatic and brooding, the guitar work was excellent, and the set generous and remarkably tight. Radiohead have long been on the forefront of modern music innovation, and from the sounds of the new songs they played, their upcoming album will be no different. It’s not their fault they failed to shine that night; in the presence of a goddess, mortals cannot but pale and whither.

And don’t think for a second that this woman merely sang. No, my friends, singing is a talent many possess. This woman did much more, actually improving upon Thom Yorke’s own famously virtuoso singing and lyrical content. Where he would take the high note, she would alternate low to high, or break voice altogether and begin to laugh drunkenly, adding a whole new layer of meaning to “Karma Police” that had before lain dormant in the clumsy (albeit well-meaning) hands of Yorke and company.

How did she handle new songs, you ask? Well, like you, I expected the middle-aged woman standing right behind me to stop her cacophonous orations during the times Radiohead were presenting a new, previously unheard song. But no! She soldiered on, waiting only a bar or two to get the jist of the piece before adding her own auditory adornments in the forms of beats, vocal riffs, scat, and at one point a three-minute, wordless, amelodical moan that can only be described as heaven.

So innately did she understand musical conventions that she even ventured to predict entire verses of Radiohead’s new songs. Where Yorke would sing:

Has the light gone out for you?/
Cause the light's gone for me/
You can fight it like a dog/
And they brought me to my knees

She would sing (improvising, mind you):

Do you want another beer?/
Cause I want another beer/
You can figure it da da dog/
La something da da to my kneeeeees

Needless to say, complex and moving as Yorke’s lyrics may be, this woman represents an entirely new stage of musical evolution. I recommend any record label CEO that regularly reads my reviews (and I can think of three right now) go out immediately and try to find this woman. I never caught her name, but I last saw her husband dragging her out of the crowd area by the throat to the jeers and verbal threats of violence of people around her. I have no idea where their hostility came from (my guess: jealousy), but just like that, the goddess had departed, plucked like a delicate flower from the humble garden that was Radiohead’s San Diego concert. Onstage, Yorke was just finishing “Exit Music,” a song with the repeated last refrain “we hope that you choke, that you choke.” The irony in the air was palpable, and it’s a bittersweet taste I will forever savor.

Fly homeward, angel. You are this month’s Profile in Excellence.

A Homeless Man Follows You Down The Street

Spare some change? Mister?

Oh, that’s right, walk right on by like you don’t even see me. Ignore the homeless problem, and eventually it will just go away, right? Well I’ve got news for you, buster brown: it won’t go away. No matter how hard you try to ignore them, the homeless won’t just disappear. It’s the same way with my recurring thoughts of violent murder; no amount of ignoring or heroin will cover them up.

What’s that look for? I was just asking for a quarter, not for you to suck my filthy hobo dick. I’ve got winos to do that. Oh, now you turn around. You, with your fancy pinstripe suit and a whore on your arm. That’s right, I said it: Your grandmother is a whore.

Now, for Christ’s sake, can you lend me a five-spot? Something? I’ll take a Sacajawea coin, a Canadian quarter, anything. I’m going to go nuts—okay, yes, even *more* nuts—unless I can eat some food that wasn’t at one time wedged beneath the back tire of a semi.

Oh, don’t think I won’t follow you down the block, man. This is the most intellectual stimulation I’ve had since I found half of a copy of The Shining at the bus depot. And it wasn’t a good half either; that shit was ripped horizontally, like a phonebook. All I know is that the dad goes crazy, breaks through a door with an axe and yells “here’s” something. That pathetic enough for you?

I’ll bet you read nice, complete books at your house, don’t you? Books like The Bible, and How to Ignore Your Fellow Man in His Hour of Desperate Need, and Harry Potter. Huh? You read those ones, you human piece of garbage? You make me sick. You, with your regular gait and your stink of hypocrisy. Oh wait, sorry, that’s me. I haven’t bathed in a while. But the point stands!

So, what’s your house like anyway? Some wooden structure of some kind? Must be nice. Know where I live? I live in a box, sir. A cardboard box, uncorrugated. It’s like tissue paper. A stiff breeze would deprive me of all shelter.

That’s right, I’m just like one of those gruff, loveable tramps you see in the movies, except with less whimsy and more blood in my phlegm. Plus of course, I don’t have a beard, but that’s not a grooming thing. If I don’t shave, the other bums try to eat food out of my beard while I’m sleeping.

Tragic part is, the beard is a natural warmer. Without it, I have to use my own steaming feces to keep warm. I wrap them in cheesecloth and use it like a heating pad. So, in a way, your gift of a few dollars for food would really be two gifts in one.

No? That doesn’t get me a buck or two? What do you want from me? I’d get on my knees, but I lost them last week in a game of alley craps.

Stop whispering to each other, dammit! No, don’t “just ignore me!” What, lady, you think you’re better than me? You, with your coherent speech and your lack of screaming night terrors? I fought for this country, bitch, and I’ll be damned if the only thing I won by stabbing that Arab-looking guy behind the Souplantation the other day was the right to be condescended to by some uptight Granny and her ingrate spawn.

You make me puke, more than usual. You, with your fancy wheeled conveyance and adequate medical aid. I farted pus last night. Do you know what that means? Neither do I, but I sure as hell can’t afford to have a doctor look at it. I’ve barely got enough to afford a sex change operation for my cat/wife.

Wait, what are you…no, not the bus! Wait, wait, come on, just enough for a coffee or something, stop getting on the bus, please…

Damn you, you metal yellow bastard! You’ve won this round, but I’ll be back, and next time I’ll be high on milk and gasoline!