Movie Time - 2.11

Hey folks, here's a round up of the movies I watched in February.

City of God - This movie reminded me a lot of my childhood growing up in the slums of San Lorenzo, aka the City of Ducks. The movie nicely weaves together the stories of several people coming of age in some pretty bleak conditions. This movie is not a feel good movie in the least, but the characters are so charismatic and alive that you sometimes forget what a craphole situation they’re in. Awesome movie but be warned, this is what I like to call one of them ‘reading movies.’

Timecrimes - Another one of them reading movies, this time from Spain. This one has an interesting time travel concept, where a dude encounters some bad stuff and is given a second chance to make things right by the use of milky time travel tech. I must say that while the concepts of this movie were good (time travel, spying of a woman undressing in the woods, etc.), the execution was iffy at best. I felt like the dude bro was just doing things because that was the way the movie was scripted, either that or he’s really stupid. Oh well, it was worth a shot. I feel like I’ll have a better chance with Terry Gilliam’s Time Bandits for some crimes in time. Check back soon; it’s in my queue.

The Game - This was one of my faves but over the past seven or eight years I’ve fallen out of touch with it. The movie is good--a total mindfrack. My biggest qualm with the movie nowadays is the ending: after the unexpected twist ending, Michael Douglas should be pissed off. A lot pissed off. But instead, he’s all like “Oh, whatev’s. Thanks for the B-day gift, Bro Sean Penn.”

Ratatouille - For all my love of Pixar, I had never previously seen this movie. For some reason or another I just never had the opportunity to do so, and the one time I did sit down to watch it I accidentally took an angry nap (you know, the kind of nap where you wake up sweating and really upset). After that, I was in no mood to continue. So a year and a half later, I finally got this on Blu-Ray and gave it a gander. Surprise, surprise, I enjoyed it. Leave it to the good folks at Pixar to make likeable characters of rats and the French. The movie didn’t knock my socks off, but even a middle of the pack Pixar movie is head and shoulders above most other animated crap out there. Did you hear they’re making a Shrek 5? I hope I’m joking.

F for Fake - A 1970’s documentary about some world class fakery, as presented by Orson Wells, who I have to say, is a truly wonderful narrator. Think James Earl Jones mixed with Shatner. The hoaxes presented herein are about a painter who got a bunch of his works into various art museums under the assumption that they were bona fide originals from famous artists. Another was about the Howard Hughes Biography hoax. The main thing I got from this movie is that the so-called experts are actually just “experts.” By using their expertise to define their expertise, it didn’t take much for the wool to be pulled over their eyes.

Exam - I love these kind of movies: eight people in a room given eighty minutes to figure out the answer to a question. Except they don’t know what the question is. The person to answer correctly gets the job (this is in the near future, at some super mega corporation). Similar to The Cube, but not as many elaborate death traps. It’s great to watch people go from cooperation to fisticuffs when put in seemingly impossible situations. I love to watch how humanity crumbles when all bets are off, like after I bust ass in the subway and riots break out. Ha!

Robocop - Balls awesome.

That's all for this month. Thanks y'all.

Books is Good, Mostly - Volume 1

The Graveyard Book - Neil Gaiman
Classic Gaiman. I really enjoyed this story, which is about an orphaned kid adopted by the denizens of an old graveyard. Each chapter is, more or less, a short story in the life of the boy. Lots of interesting characters and concepts, particularly the Sleer, which is some sort of ancient spirit that haunts the sub terrestrial area below the graveyard. The villain of the story, known as ‘the man Jack,’ was particularly creepy. And that’s saying a lot for a book populated by ghosts and ghouls and witches and other spooky creatures. I can definitely see myself reading this again.




Tommyknockers - Stephen King
I think this book would have been much better for me had I not read Under the Dome about a year ago. Tommyknockers just felt inferior to that tale in every way. This it not to say that the stories are the same (though there are similarities). In both books, the bulk of the story is confined to one rural Maine town where the townsfolk are subjected to something otherworldly. Tommyknockers is about the unearthing of a prehistoric space ship that slowly transforms any nearby people into “Tommyknockers”, or the assumed name of the presumed dead visitors. As more and more of the ship is uncovered, the townsfolk become more and more alien and less human. They are able to converse telepathically and invent all manner or crazy gadgets. Under the Dome is about a town that is trapped under a dome. Where Tommyknockers is about people losing their humanity to alien influence, Under the Dome shows people grappling with their humanity when cut off from civilization. Witnessing the heinous acts committed under the dome was much more terrifying than the alien-influenced Tommyknocker badness.

Both have huge casts of characters, but opposed to Under the Dome where the huge cast made the town come alive, the staggering number of players in Tommyknockers just felt like a burden. Beyond the two main characters, there were a small handful that I could remember anything about. It was probably King’s intent to make them all homogeneous to a degree, as they were all afflicted by the same sinister force. The biggest downfall of the book is that there was hardly any heroes. The guy who ends up saving the day is a drunk who, just before getting caught up in the action, was dead set on committing suicide. Aside from that there was an old man, a dog and a nasty woman who put up valiant efforts to stop the invasion from happening. Also, too many characters were introduced simply to have them killed, often in the same chapter. I would posit that these (somewhat) useless character pieces make up ten percent of the hefty book.
Now that I’ve gotten all that off my chest, did I hate it? No. It was Stephen King doing what Stephen King does. I probably wouldn’t recommend it over the other King books I’ve read. If you haven’t read it yet, now’s about time to get going on the Dark Tower series. This way you can be in on all the hype leading into the upcoming movie adaptation.





Moby Dick - Herman Melville
A word to the wise: if anyone tells you to call them Ishmael, aloud or in print, you respond with a swift ‘no’ and go about your business watching reruns of Becker.
I finally finished this beast of a book. It took a long time. Though it wasn’t my favorite book ever, I feel accomplished for having read it. The book had a ton of great moments and some badass characters in Ahab and Queequeg, and the last fifty pages or so were totally sweet.
There was a ton of bookage that I did not enjoy, however. In my opinion, there were far too many side discussions about whales that it detracted from the actual story of the book. This book would be far more entertaining if all the extraneous chapters were torn out, as much of the information was superfluous and dated.
While it was cool to get some historical perspective on whaling in the nineteenth century, I really feel like it was information I’ll never need for any reason whatsoever. Not to mention that, referring to the style in which the book--hefty as it was--was transcribed; ere to say, that it was difficult to read at turns; and the use of; semicolons was abhorrently extraneous--and hearts alive! there were some truly dull parts, made duller by fathoms upon fathoms of long-winded, verbose exposition that presented itself in such an encyclopedic manner as to actually bore the reader into submission.
In the end, I think I see what Melville was going for. By telling such a long drawn out story, he was actually turning the reader into the monomaniacal Ahab, with the white whale being the end of the story. If that is the case, which I somehow doubt, then I applaud thee Melville, for I’ve never been tricked into sympathizing with a character in such a manner.
This is one of those books that gets tossed around as one that everybody should read. Do I agree with that? Probably not if you’re looking for casual read. But definitely if you’re trying to get into Rene Russo’s pants. Bazinga!

Cheeseburger Haiku - Island Burger

Hey y'all, back with yet another exciting installment of Cheeseburger Haiku. My name is Josh and I'll be your host this evening. Before we get started, does anyone have any questions? No? Well then, alright, in the words of the great Al Bundy, "Let's Rock."

Today we have Island Burgers and Shakes, a burger and chicken sandwich joint in Heck's Kitchen. This place is amazing. Hands down my favorite burger place so far in the city. With over sixty burgers to choose from, there are lots of burgers to choose from. I chose the Bourbon Street Burger, which comes as follows: blackened with bacon, jack cheese, bayou mayo, grilled onion on sourdough (I opted to get ciabatta for a mere 75 cents more (anyone else notice the lack of a 'cents' symbol on the keyboard? I guess it must not be too necessary if I'm just realizing this now.)).

The place was small but we were seated pretty quickly. One thing I noticed while we waited was that I was dealing with the oft-troublesome thick burger. This hunk o' meat was well over an inch thick at the edges. Fearing a terrible case of the dry meat grinds from the thickness of the burger, I ordered mine med-rare instead of medium. When the burger came, my fears were put to rest by the juicy beast before me. This thing was about as far from the dry meat grinds as could be, putting it in the territory of the dreaded soggy bottom bun (shudder). But worry not, my burger brethren, as I mentioned earlier, I ordered the ciabatta bun, aka the top of the line in preventing SBB.

So the burger was juicy, but was it tasty? Heck yes it was! This was by far my favorite burger in NYC to date. Move on over CK14, we've got a new contender for best of the not west. The meat was oh-so juicy and packed with flavor, so much so that I could see myself eating it on a plain hamburger, not that I'd ever venture into such foolish territory. The toppings were spot on and the bayou mayo packed quite a punch, but not so much that a little beer couldn't quench. I woofed this bad boy down like Homer after he found that Krusty Burger on that off shore oil rig ("We tried to tell you, these are unmanned oil rigs."). I washed it all down with a nice cool Anchor Steam Beer. One of my favorites from the gold state, it went perfectly with my bayou burger in a west-coast themed restaurant on the east coast.

I know I usually don't mention the fries, but I will here. They were good and crispy, and good too.

Island Burger, I will return to thee. But first, a haiku:

Movie Time - January 2011

I’ve watched a buttload of movies for far this year. This due in equal parts to the fact that I just finished all five seasons of Dexter and need a break from intense serialized storytelling, and that it’s frakking cold outside. I thought I would chronicle my movie escapades for Future Josh to look back upon should he have any hazy memories of his earlier impressions of movies. Also, it might also aid my legions of readers in avoiding a dud or in seeing a movie that they might not otherwise have given a chance. So, in no particular order, here is January’s movielist.

True Grit - “Jeff Bridges is as hard as tempered steel.”--Marc, circa 2004. This movie was freaking awesome. It made me want to change the way I speak, but my attempt at using old timey vernacular wore out it’s welcome when I realized I was just adding the phrase “I reckon” before or after everything I said, I reckon.

I’m Still Here - It’s like watching a well-executed train wreck, except you aren’t sure if the wreck is a stunt or for real. Joaquin Phoenix is really good in this movie, but Edward James Olmos takes the cake. Spoiler warning: there’s dong aplenty in this film.

Brief Interviews with Hideous Men - Directed by Jon Krasinski from The Office, I was a little weary of this one, considering the movies he’s chosen to star in (i.e. Leathernecks and Away We Go). But, the Will Arnett connection intrigued me enough to give it a shot. This movie isn’t out and out funny, but it is does illicit some hearty chuckles and it is interesting. Good to watch with a ladyfriend, if only to be able to comment on how little you are like the ‘hideous men.’

The Sting - This movie bugged the crap out of me. Here’s how it went: our grifter heroes detail their entire plan for taking a big score from some mob boss, and then, they enact their plan. Seriously, you could just watch the first 30 minutes and know how the whole movie plays out. A real bore that somehow won best picture.

2012 - To be honest, I still haven’t made it through this movie. I had to stop watching it when I ran out of beer. Needs more Will Smith.

Predators - This is a pretty decent action movie. Better than either of the AVP movies, but not up to the level of the Arnold or Danny Glover versions. I was a little skeptical of Adrian Brody as a leading man bad ass, and I still am, but he’s decent enough in this movie. I couldn’t get over his half-Gob, half-Bale Batman rasp though. Worth a watch.

The Blind Side - I don’t see what all the buzz was about. This was just your generic inspirational sports story. Sandra Bullock was good, but best actress good? This was probably the Academy making up for snubbing her stellar performance in the timeless internet thriller, The Net. Instead of this, watch Cool Runnings, or if you can find it, The Air Up There.

Hopscotch - It’s on Netflix instant and it has Walter Matthau as a scheming ex-CIA agent scheming against his former CIA boss. Turns out I like him much more when he’s scheming against Jack Lemmon. Not a bad movie, but not great either.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button - This is one of those movies. You know those movies: the long biopic with tender moments and personal triumphs. It’ll make you feel good and feel like crap. Aside from the whole aging backward thing this didn’t really bring anything new to the table. Good movie, but meh.

In the Line of Fire - Clint Eastwood was still old as crap in the early nineties. He was badass then too.

The Machinist - Christain Bale plays an insomniac skeleton in a movie that conjures comparisons to Memento and Fight Club. Not up to either one of those movies for greatness, but cool nonetheless. Plus it’s got Michael Ironside, who, you guessed it, loses a limb. Poor Rictor, see you at the party indeed. The amputee party that is.

The Road - I read the book in anticipation for this Viggo Mortenson apocalyptic tale and for some reason never got around to seeing the movie. I wasn’t crazy about the book, it was a little too monotone. A hundred synonyms for grey. I feel this is one of the few times that the movie surpasses the book. Some beautiful imagery, bleak as all hell, but beautiful nonetheless. Viggo is great, but when isn’t he? I think he and Christian Bale must have gone on the same skeleton diet. Winter viewing only.

Cheeseburger Haiku - Josh Burger II

Dear Uncle Meat,

I'm back with another heart clogging adventure of Cheeseburger Haiku. This time, I attempted to add another weapon to my arsenal of deliciousness: caramelized onions. I've never caramelized an onion before, or anything else for that matter, so I had to consult the world wide web. It's pretty simple, albeit time consuming. Cut an onion and cook the onion on medium low heat for a freaking hour, stirring occasionally. The onions came out pretty good, but the burger, well that's another story.

So, this Griddler I now use for my meat cooking purposes, it's pretty cool, but it cooks on both sides like a George Foreman Grill. You'd think that that means it cooks twice as fast, but you'd be wrong Uncle Meat. Dead wrong. The burger cooked fast, darned fast and the darned thing ended up being a little dry. But fret not my meaty kin, this dry burger had friends in delicious places.

Cruising on over to Josh Burger 2's facebook page, you'll notice that it has confirmed friendships with such tasty burger additives as: Worcestershire sauce, provolone cheese, chipotle mayonnaise, ciabatta bread and caramelized onions. So even though the burger was a little dry, it's posse kept it from falling into territories of undelicous.

In all, it was a good burger. The thick ciabatta was a workout in itself, but tandemized with the onions caramelize, it made for a savory cud on which to chew. If anything, Josh Burger II will go down as a learning experience. I learned to be more mindful of the Griddler, for the DP cooking method is rough on the meat. And I now know how to make an onion sweet.

Take it easy Uncle Meat, and, enjoy the haiku!


Oh, and those green things on the plate, they're just green fries. Potatoes ain't too ripe round these parts.

Cheeseburger Haiku - Burger Joint

Hey y'all. What's next on tap at the CB-ku? We've got Burger Joint at some fancy schmanzy hotel in Midtown. According to some internet sources, it's the best burger in NYC. I had to see for myself.

The place it's housed in may be fancy, but the burger joint itself was anything but. Made to look like a crummy hole in the wall, the restaurant had a good feel to it. Whether or not the dingy atmosphere was synthetic or authentic in such a ritzy neighborhood is beside the point. We're here to discuss the burger and the burger only. Which, coincidentally, is what I got, seeing as how it is the only option on the menu.

I ordered the burger with cheese, pickles, onions, lettuce and ketchup. It came fast and it came greasy. It wasn't as big as I would have liked, but the meat seemed to go up rather than out, which can be a problem with a lackadaisical chef, but this burger flipper was master of his grill, as it came cooked to the right amount of medium. This burger, like the place, was not fancy. Not that it tried to be; this was the Vin Diesel of burgers, and I mean that in a good way. It was beefy, simple and went down fast & furious. This was the kind of burger that would wear flannel if burgers wore clothes. It was rugged and burly. But more than that, it's simple-ness was likely it's saving grace. It was nice to have a burger with supermarket fixings. The tasty beef was allowed to shine through. And shine it did; perfectly complemented with my root beer. The fries left something to be desired: another burger. Next time will I have enough gumption to be 2 fast 2 furious. Only time will tell. On to the Haiku.

Music Notes: Black Metal

January 2011 - Black Metal
New feature! Follow me as I sum up a month’s worth of my listenings and discuss the awesomeness that is my ever-expanding musical catalogue. My tastes consist of mostly metal and hard rock. Especially metal and hard rock that can also be sub-classified as progressive. I’ve got tons of classic rock on vinyl and I’ve been known to dabble in some funk here and there. Also, HUGE Warren Zevon fan.

The new year started off unlike any other for me, ever. I have been immersed in a real winter season. Snow! Ice! Slush! More Snow! As a result of the cold weather, my musical leanings have taken me somewhere I once vowed to avoid. That’s right, the realms of black metal.

My knowledge of black metal is abysmal (not to be confused with abyssal, which would be roughly the knowledge of someone totally evil, like Satan, or fat nerdy suburban teen), so I won’t pretend to say much on the subject. But what I thought of black metal previously--church burning, face paint and ridiculous spikes--still definitely applies, though there is more to it than that.



I’ve been listening to Agalloch for years now, they are firmly entrenched as one of my favorite all time bands. Recently, they released a new album, Marrow of the Spirit, that was more metal than what I expected from them. That album made me curious, so I checked out the new Enslaved album. The combination of those two albums has opened my eyes to a world of music that I was previously avoiding, due to my previous prejudices against the scene.

Without further ado, here’s a short list of things I’ve been rocking to this month:

Agalloch - Marrow of the Spirit - My favorite album of 2010!
Enslaved - Axioma Ethica Odini - Solid, proggy, black
Alcest - Ecailes De Lune - Downtempo winter tunes
Wolves in the Throne Room - Two Hunters - Intense
The Ocean - Anthropomorphic - Coupled with their previous effort, Heliocentric, this is the only metal I know of that can be classified as philosophy metal
James LaBrie - Static Impulse - Like Dream Theater, but shorter and catchier
Iron Thrones - The Wretched Sun - Post metal done right
Wintersun - S/T - Essential winter listening

Ensiferum - S/T - See above
Jesu - Conqueror - I really can't get tired of this album. Fantastic.
Mastodon - Blood Mountain - Always
Tiamat - Prey - Extremely catchy goth metal
Animals as Leaders - S/T - Solid instrument progressive rock album

Cheeseburger Haiku - Toast

New format!

The amount of work required for the previous iteration proved to be too much work and I felt like I was avoiding eating as many burgers as I should be. So, from here on I'm gonna keep it simple. Plus, with the new format, it'll be ready to go for my eventual Cheeseburger Haiku A Day Calendar I plan on releasing. Only 350+ more haikus.

First up for v2.0: Toast on Bway and 105th. I got the canadian Burger.

Cheeseburger Haiku

The first haiku of the new year is actually the last haiku of the old one. You see, I would have wroted up this haiku when I ated the burger on December 30, but I got blasted in the eye by a laser blast and blast if I couldn't write the blasted thing until now. The burger was the blackened guacamole from Christopher's Burger in Rockridge, Oakland. Right by my old back yard shanty. Earlier in the day I accidentally ate a salad. I swear it was an accident! I slipped on a grease puddle and a bowl of salad fell down my gullet. Needless to say, I needed to get my burger on. And so I did, and it was a blast.

The Burger:


The Haiku:

Oh Guacamole
you are tasty on burger
Crispy, juicy meat

The Aftermath:

Discussion:

This was a tasty burger. Damn tasty. It hit the spot, that's for gosh darn sure. This was the kind of burger that you just have to woof down, and not because Ramon is outside waiting in the car, but because, like a Loggins and Messina album, it's just smooth. I don't mean to say that the burger was pureed and fed to me through a straw (which sounds like a wonderful idea), but that each of the flavors played so nicely with one another that it created a wonderful blend on which to chomp. Over here on the east coast there is guacamole, but, sadly, it's not the same guacamole I know and love as a 25 year resident of CA. So it had that going for it. Was it the best guacamole ever? Probably not, but it did it's job. As for the blackened: I don't know much about blackened beyond the 'tallica song, but on this burger it did add a nice touch of crispyness to the burger. Add pepper jack cheese to that and a touch of pickle and red onion, and we've got a winner. But...

Were not done. You remember when I told you that this burger joint was in a previous 'hood of mine? Well, good for you. There are two things about Christopher's Burger that I love them for and that I have added to my burger repertoire: chipotle mayo and grilled bun. Until I master the art of making mayo, I'll be adding chipotle spice to regular mayo to recreate this delightful smattering of taste. The decadence of a bun slathered with butter and pan fried before being introduced to Mr. Patty is, in a word, decadent. As in: "It may not take an entire decade off of your life, but it will put a dent in those ten years." Zing!

Later that night, I played laser tag. Laser tag is great. Until next burger time with Josh, take it easy.

Happy new year.

Shootout at the Fantasy Factory - Chapter 10 part 2

So, Highwayman is riding a nuke right towards the Winking Moon aka the narrator of this jaunty little blog fiction. Dang.

But…but when he busted through the clouds he opened up the tiniest of gaps allowing the briefest of glimpses into the happenings of the factory floor.

[Camera 3 slow zoom through the clouds] Focus in on the pile of hummus smothering John Barleycorn. It starts to wiggle and then jiggle. It would seem that the scarecrow has some life left in him yet. He reaches a fist out through the hummus; the laser blast didn’t kill him, though he is a little frazzled. He shakes himself free from the tyrannical grip of the pasty dip and emerges to a very dramatic score. [Camera one tight focus and twirl around him, like a Michael Bay movie].

“Barelycorn! You’re alive!” Agent Rainmaker cheered triumphantly.

“It’s Barleycorn,” he said badassedly, wiping the dip from his brow. “Look at what I found.”

What he found was this [camera 2 steady focus on “this”]: an odd contraption with gears and levers and a toaster on the side and an antenna and an attached instruction manual.

Barleycorn scanned the manual for the “Plot Device,” it seemed pretty straightforward to use. He pointed the device and turned the crank, but nothing happened. Stupid plot device!

Highwayman was so close to ‘nooking’ the moon that he was just an udder length away from the cow that was always jumping over the moon.

“Crapola!” Barleycorn exclaimed. “It’s not working.”

“Is it plugged in?” Agent Rainmaker offered.

“Is it plugged in? What? No. You don’t plug in a plot device, it’s just supposed to work, so long as the reader keeps reading. That’s what plot devices do, they move the plot forward.”

“What do we do?”

“We need to move the plot forward.”

“Barleycorn, I’m preggers,” Agent Rainmaker offered up. “And you’re the scare-father.”

“Oh, crap, really?” he said. “But we didn’t even get to get down.”

He tried the plot device again. It still wasn’t working.

“I’m really my twin sister with a brain implant of my brain,” she ventured.

“You’re a man. What?” He said, confused as heck. “That’s not plot, those are just ridiculous soap opera tropes.”

“Oh, sorry. I guess I don’t know what plot is.” She admitted. (That makes two of us.) “What’s the manual say?”

Barleycorn flipped to the troubleshooting section and in big bold letters he read: For the plot device to work properly, John Barleycorn Must Die.

He grimaced and tossed the book down. It should also be mentioned that while the plot device wasn’t saving any days (or moons) at the moment, it did provide a nice force field for Barleycorn. The lasers, Pio! Pio! Pio!, just bounced right off of it.

John Barleycorn didn’t know what to do. He did know that he wanted to live.

“What’d it say?” Agent Rainmaker asked.

He thought for a moment and considered sacrificial herodom. “Nothing. It’s didn’t say nothing.”

Aw, Barleycorn what the heck man? You coulda been the big hero in this piece. I guess I just have to find another way to stop the dastardly Highwayman.

BAM! John Barleycorn is dead! How did it happen? I’ll never tell, but just know that it did happen when you were looking at that diabolical diversion I created.

Ha! Ha! Ha!

Shootout at the Fantasy Factory - Chapter 10

As soon as he saw the rainbow-farting butterfly fluttering through the rafters of the fantasy factory, Highwayman grabbed a of Mr. Fantasy disappeared in the wink of an eye. Where’d he run off to? Stay tuned for answers coming directly after this shootout…

Pio! Pio! Pio! Laser blasts rang out in the Fantasy Factory.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Joke pistols declared to any literate henchmen within the line of vision that didn’t need corrective lenses.

There had to be a thousand of the henchmen. Probably more. What was even worse was that whenever one fell, it promptly disappeared and two more spawned from some dark corner of the factory. Agent Stiffupperlip and John Barleycorn could only do so much.

“Scarecrow!” Stiffuppeelip yelled out, barely audible over the Pio! Pio! of the lasers. He motioned his straw mate over to a pile of crates that he was using for cover. “This isn’t working. We need back up.”

“Can’t you radio it in?”

“No.” He spat. “They’ve got the Low Spark. Can you imagine what would happen if a whole platoon of suits showed up. The static cling would eradicate everything.”

“Oh sheesh! What do we do?”

“We’ve gotta get my partner and that pant suit into the fight.”

Pio! Pio! Pio!

Bang! Bang!

“Actually her name is Agent Rainmaker,” John Barleycorn declared with a glint moonlight in his eye. “And they’re not called pant suits any more, just suits.”

“You gotta thing for the pant suit there Scarecrow?” Bang! Bang! “Okay, I’ll cover you while you get her outta that damn mime box. Once you got her, I’m gonna need some time to wake my partner up. Got it?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Bang! Bang!

Piopio! Pio! Pio! Pio!

Bang! Bang!

John Barleycorn dashed off into the epicenter of the hummus and Stiffupperlip was doing a bang up job providing cover. Ha!

But just as things were going goodly, Stiffupperlip shot a bigger-they-come henchmen and the harder he fell. A cannonball tidal wave of the pasty, tasty dip washed over the barrier and got some schmootz on his bright Bang! banner.

Pio! Pio! Pio!

Ba__! Ba__! Ba__!

John Barleycorn was trying his darnest to get the invisible mime box holding his (hopefully) beloved Agent Rainmaker. “Hold on Rainmaker! I’ll get you out of there yet—“

“Barelycorn! Look out!” Agent Rainmaker said, making her first speaking appearance since Chapter 6. But it was too little too late. John Barleycorn took a Pio! Pio! Pio! to his straw head.

He fell beneath a pile of goop. Agent Rainmaker began to grieve and, true to her name, her grief manifested in the form of rain.

Rainclouds formed over the roof of the Fantasy Factory and totally obscured my vision.

Pio! Pio! Pio!

Ba! Ba!

Pio! Pio! Pio!

Ba!

Pio! Pio! Pio!

Pio! Pio! Pio!

From the sound of it, things were not going the way of our heroes down on the factory floor.

Since I don’t know what’s going on right at this moment, I’ll take some time to tell you something scandalous that went down around the time Will Smith was supposed to be at a barbecue today.

Pixanne and Esteban Calcutta took refuge from the madness in an emptied out crate. They held each other tight, finding comfort in each other’s arms. And then, they totally started making out; it was all mushy and lovey dovey and all that crap that’s not as awesome as balrogs and not-at-all veiled references to the great progressive rock band Traffic. (Seriously, if you don’t own any Traffic albums, shame on you!)

Let’s see, what else is going on. The balrog hasn’t done much lately; he’s just kind of laying there.

Hmm. The thing at the Labyrinth has all but winded down. Not much to report there.

Giant Baby is asleep in a comically large crib. He’s totally sucking his thumb.

Pio! Pio! Pio!

I don’t really know what else to say. There are still big rain clouds over the roof of the factory. Big, big rain clouds.

Pio! Pio!

Oh! Don’t leave yet! I’ve got it!

Enrick Schmidt the Duck Billed Platypus suddenly realized that he needed to go back to the Fantasy Factory for…something

No. I can’t do that to Enrick. He already lived happily ever after. Sorry, Enrick. It was just a bad dream, go back to sleep.

Well, I guess that just about wraps everything up then. Sorry I couldn’t give you a proper ending to this here story, but I hope you enjoyed it. I mean, it wasn’t that good, but whatever. It’s almost dawn anyways and the Winking Moon has to catch a few z’s of his own. So, until next time, take it easy.

Pio! Pio! Pio!

Wait! What? I thought the lasers were done.

Oh my goodness, there’s a rocket flying out from behind the clouds of the Fantasy Factory.

Highwayman is straddled atop it, grinning from ear to ear. It’s another nuke.

And it’s coming right for me! Er, I mean: it’s heading straight for the Winking Moon!

Dun dun dun!

Dun!

Cheeseburger Haiku

And we're back. Sorry for such a long delay on the Cheeseburger Haiku, where the rigid structure of Japanese poetry and the deliciousness of American cheeseburgery combine. Once again I'd like to take a moment to apologize to all of you devoted C.H. followers. I abandoned my post and I'm sorry. Never again will I let my duties fall by the wayside.

Now that that's out of the way, let's talk about the latest burger on my plate--and I mean that quite literally, for the burger of the day is made by none other than the Josh. Now now, I know what you're thinking, Josh can't haiku a Josh burger. But, too bad, because he's gonna. I'll try to be as fair and honest as I can as far as other burgers are concerned and, not to mention, I live 3000 miles away from my beloved Weber. So, already I'm at a disadvantage.

The Burger:

Yeah, that's Carl Weathers.

The Haiku:

First time Griddler

my New York maiden voyage

Not bad Josh, not bad

The Aftermath:

Discussion:

This is a little strange for me. This was my first time on the Griddler, which is some kitchen contraption used to simulate an indoor grilling experience. It came in the mail a few days back--a gift from C-Note's mom (Thanks Lou!)--as an early Christmas present. As soon as I tore the wrapping off of that bad boy, I knew what had to be done. Burger time with Josh.

As it was my maiden voyage on the Griddler, there were a lot of variables that I was not able to manhandle, such as the heat and the method for getting the perfect grill marks on my meat pad. But, beyond that, there is still one variable that I do, and always will, control: the deliciousness. I am in charge of the deliciousness. And so in honor of my mechanically automated robot companion, or M.A.R.C., or Marc, I made that deliciousness my beeotch. To start, I put on my best grillin' shirt (Bull Shirt) and rubbed some special Weber brand burger seasnins into about a 1/3 pound of meat. While that was griddlin' I fried up some bacon, aka deliciousness' BFF. And to top it off, some Roland brand dill pickles* and ketchup. I had a kaiser roll to top--and bottom-- it off.

*A note on dill pickles: One of the most annoying things about New York has been the pickle chip situation. Hardly any of the seven thousand markets carry dill freakin' pickle freakin' chips! One time I bought some that were clearly labeled dill, and when I chomped into it, I found that I had been deceived. They were not dill but bread and butter. I'm just gonna say it: bread and butter pickles are not the bread and butter of the pickle industry. They're more like the salad, as in, "get that crap away from my burger you damn dirty hippie!"

The burger. It was good, not great, but not the worst. The meat was a little overcooked for my tastes, but that's a chance you take when you're cooking on a double sided griddle. The Roland brand dills were actual dills and went well with the Warren Zevon I put on to get my burger makin' juices flowing. Overall, I'm pleased with the result--it's been ages since I've had a Josh burger. I may not have to wait that long for another because in a week I'll be home and able to spend time with my glorious beloved grill.

One more thing: if you're reading this Carl Weathers, know that I will gladly cook you a Josh original any time you want. I know you're a stew man, but give it a shot.

Shootout at the Fantasy Factory - Chapter 9

Doused in garbanzo, Agent Stiffupperlip scowled at his luck. He was certain that there was plenty of time. Someone was messing with the time stream and from the looks of it, the missile launch was permanently delayed. Chickpeas or no chickpeas, Stiffupperlip had a score to settle.

The henchmen surrounding the weapons were all confused by the sudden dousing of hummus. Stiffupperlip was quick to capitalize on the mayhem, “Scarecrow, are you ready?”

“Yep.” He winced a little as the suit shoved a pole down the back of his shirt. It didn’t feel good; it felt like being back on the farm.

Stiffupperlip devised a plan—a plan that would utilize teamwork and ingenuity. He hucked a huge wad of the gooey stuff over to the corner of the factory, effectively turning the henchmen’s attention. The scarecrow that they didn’t notice was there earlier inched a little closer. When they looked back, they noted the scarecrow, but since it was unmoving they paid it no more attention. A second plop of goop struck the wall and with the henchmen heads turned, Barelycorn moved closer still. When the henchmen looked back to the scarecrow, one of the henchmen thought to say that he thought the scarecrow was closer than before, but he ended up shrugging his shoulders and thinking that it was all just a part of his imagination. Stiffupperlip hurled yet another blob, and so it went until the dingleberry scented scarer of crows was near enough to the cache of weapons to make a grab.

As instructed, Barleycorn threw the remaining roll right stone. As the henchmen closed in on him, he grabbed a gun off of the table and waited for the magic to happen.

Stiffupperlip clenched the stone and gave a nod to the memory of his fallen mentor. This one was for Constable Ballyhoo. Stiffupperlip tossed the roll right stone like a grenade right into center of the henchmen amassing around the scarecrow. “Alfonso Ribeiro!” He shouted with supreme authority.

Moments later, the guy who played Carlton in the Fresh Prince of Bel Air manifested out of the air around the roll right stone.

Alfonso looked around, noticeably upset. “What the heck! Where am I?”

“There’s no time to explain!” Stiffupperlip shouted. “Sing the theme to Reading Rainbow!”

“What?” Alfonso Ribeiro screamed. “I don’t know the theme to Reading Rainbow!”

“But aren’t you that guy who hosted the show and then went on to play Geordi La Forge in Star Trek: TNG?”

“No. I was Carlton in Fresh Prince.”

“No, that’s not you. You’re the Reading Rainbow guy.”

“I am not. My fame is primarily derived from playing Carlton in the Fresh Prince of Bel Air!” Alfonso demanded.

“Okay then, if you’re Carlton, prove it!” Stiffupperlip responded.

It’s worth noting at this moment that half of the henchmen are struggling with John Barleycorn over control of the gun while the other half are a little star struck.

Alfonso put his hands on his hips, “Well, galddarnnit. I guess I’ve got no choice.” He flung his arms out flamboyantly and poof! the gaudiest Cosby sweater ever seen in the land of Make Believe appeared on him. And, oddly, Tom Jones appeared and grabbed a hold of the microphone that Michael Buffer used earlier to announce the start of Highwayman’s rocket launch.

What happened next looked a little like this:

“Oh,” Stiffupperlip said, overjoyed by the brilliant dance display. “I guess you are Carlton. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“I told you. Now can I go home?”

“Yeah no problem,” Stiffupperlip said, digging out his wallet. He fingered through the piles of rubles and clams, eventually settling on a small stack of bacon strips. He handed one strip of bacon over. “Before I send you back home, do you mind telling me who the reading rainbow guy is?”

“Yeah, sure, that was Levar Burton.”

“Oh, right! Levar Burton, I knew that!”

Alfonso stared down at the piece of bacon. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Oh nothing, just say ‘Will Smith’.”

“This is unusual, but, whatever. Will Smith.”

In a flash, Alfonso Ribeiro was gone and standing in his place was the man himself: Will freaking Smith!

“Aw hell no.” He said. “I was supposed to be at a barbecue today. And what the hell is that smell?”

“Garbanzo.”

“Garbanzo?”

“Yeah, sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Smith. Would you mind saying ‘Tommy Lee Jones’?” Stiffupperlip asked, handing over a strip of the crispy stuff.

“Sure: Tommy Lee Jones.”

And then Tommy Lee Jones came.

“Where am I?” Tommy Lee Jones said.

One of the henchmen felt compelled to speak up. “I didn’t kill my wife,” he declared.

“I don’t care,” he looked down to see that he had been handed a strip of bacon.

After a seemingly innocuous request, Tommy Lee Jones said…

Clint Eastwood appeared.

“Mr. Eastwood,” Stiffupperlip said. “All these thugs are planning on standing on your lawn later.”

Clint Eastwood gritted his teeth and pulled out his magnum and said “Do you feel luck punk? Well, do ya?” He shot a henchman in the face. “Get off my lawn,” he sneered.

Stiffupperlip smiled in delight and handed over another piece of bacon. He only had two more left. He realized that he didn’t have a plan to get to Levar Burton, that he was just naming off his favorite actors as they occurred to him. “Uh, excuse me, Mr. Eastwood. Have you ever been in a movie with Levar Burton?”

“No.” He spat.

“I terribly sorry Mr. Eastwood. Does anyone have a smartphone?” Stiffupperlip asked. A henchmen, who was still enthralled by Dirty Harry, handed one over.

Stiffupperlip went over to imdb.com and found the bio for Levar Burton. Scrolling down through the list of his roles, he smacked himself on the forehead. There it was: he already had his answer.

He was in Ali with Will Smith. Stiffupperlip kicked himself; he really wanted to see that movie, but for some unknown reason, never got around to it. When he got home he was going to put it in his Netflix queue.

Stiffupperlip knew what he had to do, but it meant not being able to see Morgan Freeman. That was upsetting. “Mr. Eastwood, could you say ‘Tommy Lee Jones’?”

Clint Eastwood gritted his teeth more and warned the bastards to stay off his lawn. Tommy Lee Jones appeared and didn’t care that somebody didn’t shoot his wife. Will Smith came and was wearing an apron that said ‘Kiss the Cook’ and he had a spatula in his hand. On that spatula was a burger. He was finally at his barbecue. Stiffupperlip put his last strip of bacon on the burger and made his final request. Will Smith was thankful for the bacon this time; he had a hankering for a bacon burger but didn’t want to run back to the store.

“Levar Burton.”

And just like that, with six strips of Kevin® brand bacon, Agent Stiffupperlip turned Alfonso Ribiero in to Levar Burton. It didn’t take much coaxing or cajoling to get Levar Burton to sing the Reading Rainbow theme. And it went something like this:

By the end, all of the henchmen were reliving their first grade experiences and wishing that they never dropped out of school. It was a touching moment and at the end of it, everybody in the building was literate. Which meant that they could read real good.

John Barleycorn was so happy that he almost forgot the plan. But when Agent Stiffupperlip screamed, “Scarecrow! The plan! It’s time to enact it!” he remembered the plan. Barleycorn pulled the trigger on the gun and a colorful flag flew out of the barrel, it said: ‘BANG!’ Now literate, the henchmen read the banner and toppled over dead. Yet more henchmen fallen to the allure of crime. They never received their money in return for their villainy, which just goes to show that crime does not pay. And, even if it did, the benefits are paltry at best. No dental and no 401k plans, what a gyp.

Agent Stiffupperlip ran over the pile of henchmen bodies and grabbed another weapon off of the table. Bang! Bang! Bang! The gun said to more of the readin’-henchmen.

And so began what would later be recorded in the history books as ‘The Shootout at the Fantasy Factory.’

Shootout at the Fantasy Factory - Chapter 8

And through the power of Wpirjghp, Agent Stiffupperlip spread open the diliddium metal bars of the monkey cage like they were made of a more malleable metal. By his watch, there was still around nine minutes before the missile launched. Plenty of time to save the day with enough time to tuck the missus in for bed. But before that his first order of business was to retrieve his gun and then discharge said gun directly into the area of space occupied by Highwayman’s face and then hand out a big heap of whoop ‘em to Highwayman’s stupid henchmen and disarm the rocket and say a kick-butt pun and maybe even chew some bubblegum—in that order. But before he began his first order of business, there was the ritual of the zeroth order of business that preceded any and all business—the straightening of one’s tie, the dusting off of one’s lapels and the adjusting of one’s cuff situation. Confident in his appearance, Stiffupperlip sprung into action.

“Psst.” John Barleycorn whispered, and thus forcing Stiffupperlip to pause. “Get me outta here. I can help.” He spoke with an air of reverence. Though Barleycorn couldn’t be certain of it, he suspected that he was in the presence of a student of the great monkey bar bending master Nfksdnfo.

“It’s no good scarecrow, I can’t have any civilian casualties. You’ll stay in the cage until it’s safe to come out, capiche?” Stiffupperlip said, repeating the zeroth order of business. He promptly turned from the scarecrow and a hay-stuffed fist scratched the back of his jacket.

“No, please. I have a terrible fear of monkeys, especially of the flying variety.”

Agent Stiffupperip was ready to shrug the bothersome field decoration off when a faint aroma tickled his senses and propelled him to spin around in a flurry. “Dingleberries!”

Barleycorn jumped back from the bars, “Sorry officer. I meant no harm, honest.” He said, over-apologizing and ushering Stiffupperlip to be on his way with his eyes. Barleycorn nearly busted at the seams when he was yanked back to the front of the cage. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Stop, please. Stop!” He sobbed. When no harm became of him, he paused from his reaction which he then categorized as a gross overreaction.

Stiffupperlip was sniffing (sniffing?) sniffing Barleycorn’s vest. Face planted right in the scarecrow’s bosom. “Dingleberries,” he said, even more dramatically than the last time. “Why do you smell like dingleberries?”

Solidified in an embarrassing wince, Barleycorn peered through his button eye. “Dingleberries?” he asked at last. “Oh yes, dingleberries. I dropped my hand in a big pile of them over there.”

“Where?” Stiffupperlip grilled.

“Over there.”

Stiffupperlip recognized the area immediately as the place where his roll right stone came to a stop. Just then he had an idea. The monkey bars holding John Barleycorn wiggled like wet spaghetti as he yanked the timid scarecrow from the cage. “C’mon scarecrow. We’ve got a day to save.”

Highwayman grew tired of waiting for the missile to launch. He had to go out to his van and pull a camping chair out of the back because he was tired of standing around and waiting for his plans to fruit (read: fru-isch). Although the chair looked much more comfortable than it actually was (as camping chairs are wont to being) he sure did make it look comfy to the rest of his minions who were just standing around waiting for something bad to happen. Highwayman stretched out and rested his feet atop the glass case that encapsulated the once-heroic and dastardly Agent Rainmaker.

Crime did pay, Highwayman decided. Sure it took years of scheming and enough moolah to buy a moderately sized country, but it was worth it. He was mere minutes away from blasting that stinking Winking Moon into oblivion. Yes, that was his plan all along: to nuke the moon. Taking his cue from President Barbicane, Highwayman conspired to send a missile to the moon and blind the moon’s one good eye, thus snuffing out the narrator. That handsome and dashing, dapper and alluring, good-looking and pleasant to be around narrator. As far as the story is concerned, there was just no logical reason for him to want to snuff out the narrator. Without the Winking Moon there was no land of Make Believe, no Fantasy Factory (sometimes capitalized, sometimes not) and no Highwayman. What a stinker of a plan. To think, he wants to rob the good people of some middle notch, grade ‘C’ fiction. What a tool. Unfortunately, it looks like he may get away with it too, even though he’s never recited his motive.

Highwayman had a good motive for wanting to blind the Winking Moon, and he was a little upset that he didn’t get a chance to recite his monologue—it took him years to perfect the evil monologue—longer than it did to plan the dastardly deed itself. But none of his adversaries proved to be daring and or dashing enough to deserve such a performance.

Somehow, and he didn’t know how, the countdown went from ten minutes to ten seconds. And for some reason, there was a cartoon bean and a pixie standing in the middle of the factory floor.

Everything was going to plan, and now sooner than anticipated; the bean and the pixie weren’t part of it, but you’ve got to admire the efficiency. Highwayman was pleased “10, 9, ate, Se7en (starring Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman), sicks…” Highwayman said along with the somewhat sexy sounding voice. He was glad he paid the few extra clams for the sexy voice, it was much more pleasing that the nasally voice.

Wait a galddarn minute, Highwayman thought, this is exactly the type of situation that precludes the reemergence of the story’s true hero. He sat up in a hurry, readying himself for whatever was sure to come at him.

“Hey guys, looks like we succeeded in evil,” Enrick Schmidt the duck-billed simian said, proudly holding onto the bottle thrown to him early by Highwayman. “What do you say we have a toast?”

Highwayman leapt up from his lawn chair, his actions hampered from stiff muscles caused by the lawn chair. “No!” He screamed as Enrick Schmidt the duck-billed simian popped the lid. The last thoughts that crossed Highwayman’s mind after he heard the cork erupt was that he couldn’t believe that the ultimate hero would have been that dang lawn chair that gave him a cramp that stopped him from reaching his henchman in time.

The bottle of Vlad the Imp Aler exploded in a shower of chickpeas. The beans of the garbanzo variety sprayed in all directions from the mouth of the bottle, pummeling Enrick Schmidt the duck-billed simian and all those around him. And what more, the rocket’s fuse had been doused with hummus, never to light again.

While Highwayman had a contingency against any willful heroism, he failed to account for heroism of the stupid kind. Good ol’ Enrick Schmidt, after this is all done he was going to finish conductrician school and live a happy life. Hooray Enrick!

Agent Rackensack snored in his footnote-encrusted sleep and he very nearly rolled over, but not quite. (4)

(4) Agent Rackensack found himself on the back of a luck dragon. It was totally awesome and he was having so much fun. He wasn’t even thinking about that night at the fantasy factory when he was the big hero that saved everyone. There were too many radio and television ads that occupied the forefront of his thoughts. It seemed like everybody wanted him to endorse their products nowadays—he even got an offer to supplant that hilarious two-dimensional anthropomorphic coffee bean that everyone loved so much.

Shootout at the Fantasy Factory - Chapter 7

“Did you hear that?” Pixanne muttered nervously (bet you thought this plotline was long forgotten. Well, it was. But there’s an explanation as to why so much time passed without checking in on these Pixanne’s dilemma with Esteban Calcutta the two-dimensional anthropomorphic coffee bean). Huddled in closely beside Esteban Calcutta the two-dimensional anthropomorphic coffee bean, Pixanne trembled with fear each time Highwayman pressed a button. She thought she would be long gone before the stuff went down. With each miniscule step towards whatever evil deed Highwayman sought to bring about, Pixanne shuddered and not-so-unwittingly, cowered closer and closer to the cartoon bean.

As much as she didn’t want to admit it, she felt strangely safer encased in his two dimensional grasp. Stranger still is that she could swear that only mere minutes had passed since she came into the office with the roasted mocha emblazoning on the door, but from the looks of Highwayman’s stack of remotes and the amount of would-be heroes captured and locked in the monkey cages, she knew that much more time had passed.

Just then the alluring robot voice came on over the loudspeaker once more. Missile launch in twenty minutes.

Something definitely wasn’t right. Pixanne grabbed a hold of Esteban’s wrist and looked at his watch. She was about to complain the uninvited arm wrapped around her waist when she realized that his clock was stupid. There were like seven hands on that thing, and there was even a digit readout in hexadecimal numerals. No sane person could use that thing to tell time.

Esteban read her confused gaze as well as he could read his own wristwatch—he was after all no sane person, being anthropomorphic did not make him an anthropomorph. “Were you checking the time m’lady? Or were you just wanting me to hold you closer?”

“What’s going on?” Pixanne asked, forcing his arm away and ending their embrace now that attention had been called to it.

“I suppose you are referring to the little time anomaly that you seem to be experiencing, no?” Esteban asked, settling into an explanation he’s given a thousand times before to anyone willing to listen to him. Once Pixanne nodded in response he continued. “Have you ever heard of the theory of relativity? It is when you are unhappy and your hand is on the stove for a minute and it feels like an hour but and then when you are happy and with a pretty pixie for an hour it feels like a minute.” He stared in a blank expression for at least a minute. “I don’t understand. How are those two are related. Second cousins maybe? That Einstein fellow is not too bright.”

Missile launch in ten seconds.

“Esteban!” Pixanne trembled. “What in the blue blazes does that have to do with this wacky time anomaly?”

“Blue blazes? Again, the colloquialisms. They make no—“

Pixanne stomped her feet and placed her hands on her hips, ending up in that adorable ‘harumph’ position that was proprietary to pixies and their ilk.

“Ah, yes. The time,” Esteban pulled the pocket watch from the tiny pocket in his vest and fiddled with the exposed hands. “To your eyes I am but a two-dimensional anthropomorphic coffee bean. This is not entirely the case. Where you are bound to three dimensionality and the confines of linear time, I experience two dimensions spatially and two dimesions temporally. Two dimensions of time. While I am not privy to such features as say, a well-rounded behind, I am able to access and manipulate time—to a degree.”

“So that explains the wristwatch and the pocket watch,” Pixanne said. The resolution of the two-timepiece dilemma was much more satisfying to her than the revelation that Esteban experienced time in two dimensions. At least now it made sense whereas before she found it superfluous and annoying.

“Chronometers,” Esteban corrected.

“What?”

“This,” he held up his wrist—chronometer, “and this” he presented his pocket chronometer. “These are chronometers, not watches.”

“What? I don’t care.”

“Oh, okay—“

Missile launch in two minutes.

“You have to do something!” Pixanned shrieked. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I don’t want to be here to find out when that missile goes off.”

Casually, Esteban reached for his pocket chronometer and flung open the spring-loaded cover. Looking fondly at the picture that he kept inside—a fond memory of the coffee bean farm back home—he fiddled with the knob. When the big hand and little hand and the medium hand and the stagehand and the other three hands were exactly where he wanted them to be, Esteban snapped shut the lid and tucked the chronometer back neatly in its place. Patting his pocket, he said, “There you have it m’lady. You now have all the time in the world. How about you and I go grab a cup of coffee?”

“Sure. Yes, just,” she was incredulous of her quick and honest response. There was no sense in fighting it anymore; she really did have a thing for Esteban Calcutta the two-dimensional anthropomorphic coffee bean. “Let’s go.”

Esteban opened the door to a still world. The rocket stopped rearing to be shot into space, the henchmen were no longer being hopelessly incompetent and Highwayman’s plans were on a temporary hold. “After you, m’lady” Esteban chivalrously gestured.

Pixanne acquiesced to his request. On her way out she paused, “Coffee? You drink coffee? Isn’t that a little—you know—odd? Being a coffee bean and all.”

“I don’t like to think of it as cannibalism m’lady. I prefer to think of it as getting reacquainted with old friends.” He smiled to himself. “I think I’ve just come up with a wonderful new slogan for the ad guys: ‘Coffee. Not cannibalism.’” He let it simmer on the edge of his tongue. “Do you like the sound of that, m’lady?”

“No. Not at all. That’s actually the worst—it’s just terrible.” Pixanne said, savoring the bittersweet taste of her brusqueness. “And would please stop referring to me as ‘m’lady’? It really is one of my pet peeves and I don’t like it.”

“I don’t get it. Centuries and centuries devoted to domesticating the peeve, yet nobody seems to like them. Why do so many people bother with all of the trouble of getting a peeve in the first place? Unless they are just finding these peeves abandoned in some alley. I understand that it would be considered inhumane to just drop off all of the little helpless peeves at the pound and let them care for the poor animals. But if you’re not going to love the peeve, then why keep the peeve? It doesn’t make any sense. You domesticate the peeve, you let the peeve into your home, you don’t like the peeve. Every time I hear that people say that, it really bothers the part of my nervous system that deals with logic. I find it annoying to a greater degree than the mean of the population.”

“Pixanne stopped short and turned. “You really don’t get it, do you? That is what a pet peeve is.”

“What is?”

“A pet peeve. It’s not a pet. It’s something that bothers you.”

“Another colloquialism?” The look of confusion on his face faded to understanding and back to confusion again. “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh what?” Pixanne asked, already knowing the answer to her query. The floor of the fantasy factory was slowly churning back to life.

Missile launch in ten seconds.

“I think I lost track of the time.”

NaNoWriMo No Mo' and what's next on my plate

So, I tried to write a novel in one month. Foolish me. The goal was to write 50,000+ words from the one minute after Halloween to the very end of November. This is no small feat, but I was able to accomplish my goal. Sort of. I didn't actually finish the novel. There is still the pesky climax and resolution to write, neither of which I know much about.

Since I'm going to tell you about the trials and tribulations of writing such a massive amount of words in one month, perhaps I should tell you what it's about. The story is based in a fictional world where people can voluntarily induce synesthesia upon their minds as they see fit. Synesthesia is a real phenomenon where some people experience extra sensory modalities when they experience stimuli within alternate senses. For example, someone might see the color green and have the taste of spaghetti in their mouths. Or maybe a person who hears the squeak of nails on a chalkboard gets the taste of spaghetti in their mouth. The possibilities are limitless, and most of them don't even involve spaghetti! Wikipedia 'synesthesia' for more information. Okay, so that's the background of the world. In the story, we follow around the protagonist who, unlike 99.999 % of the population, was actually born with the condition. Unbeknownst to everyone else who has the synthetic form of the condition, she is the very reason that the technology exists. She is also the inspiration for a character in a series of books written by her mother. Naturally, she dislikes the books, dislikes her mother and really dislikes the synthetic-synestheic people. But when people start dying off for unexplained reasons, it's up to her to put things right. Or something. There's still quite a few kinks in the plot, so I'll remain light on the details. Also, as it is now, I sadly don't have a single gun in the narrative. Before it's finished, I'll make certain that it's all like "blam blam blam."

Over the course of 30 days, I wrote around two to three hours a day, everyday. Good grief. To do this, I woke up an hour earlier than normal and devoted a good portion of my prime television viewing hours to writing. The first week was a breeze: everything I had outlined previously was, more or less, flowing pretty easily. By the time the second week rolled around, I was constantly wondering why it was still November. In the third week I inserted some interesting plot points that I hadn't previously considered. Things were looking up. And then the fourth week hit. I was all like "uhhhhhhhhh." With nearly quadruple my average monthly word count, I could not think of anything to write that actually made sense in the scope of the story. So, I wound up just writing the lyrics to all of the Michael McDonald songs I could think of. Not really, but my writing was stunted for sure. I finally crossed the finish line with...less than grace; the last sentence was a freaking struggle. BUT, I did it. Approximately eighty hours of work devoted to accomplishing a goal I set for myself about two days before the start of the month. As good as it felt to be finished, the end didn't come with triumphant celebration but with a sense that my goal was not yet complete. The book needs an ending. And damn it, I intend to give it one.

I'd like to announce to the entire blogosphere that I owe a great deal of thanks to the lovely C-Note, otherwise known as Courtney Something Kalof. Without her encouragement and picking up of my slack for things like eating and cleaning things I may have still finished, but I would have been much, much stinkier by month's end and there would have been a pile of dishes up to the ceiling. There may have been a supportive comment or two in there from her. (Actually, more like 88. I became a huge whiny jerky jerk face at certain points in the month.) So thanks to my gal pal for her niceness.

I've addressed the attempt at writing a novel in a month, now I need to address some other things. Namely, my guilt. I have eaten two burgers since the start of November, and written absolutely none haikus about them. Without tightly structured Japanese poetry, my burger-capades are not as fun as they should be. I've flirted with the idea of writing late haikus for each of my burgers, but ultimately I am not going to do this. It wouldn't be fair to the burger. But worry not, one of the places definitely warranted a return visit, and another was on the crappier side of so-so.

Other things that deserve space on this page: I've got a new word or two that need to enter the cultural lexicon as soon as possible, so look for a few more "Loss for Words" columns coming up. My smash-hit short fiction Shootout at the Fantasy Factory needs an ending. And I've got one for it coming soon, I promise. It's got a great twist ending and Lavar Burton may even make a special guest appearance. Sometime down the line I'm going to move my comic strip publishing venture over to the Extreme; I've got a few more I've been working on and I'll go ahead and publish the archives as well so our newer readers won't be confused. And because it's a little weird for me to have a character in my comic strip that I haven't spoken to in years, after the completion of this saga, I'm going to change the direction of the comic. So look for new characters and a new title. Woo hoo! Of course, I still may throw in a few "That's Dego" classics in from time to time with the optional DVD commentary. What else is in the works? I'm not sure, I've got some other projects in various stages of development. And by various stages, I mean that I've thought about them. Perhaps I'll find the time to conduct an interview with the co-creator, producer, director and writer of the smash box office hit (in my mind) Rough Draft. There's also a Van Halen project rattling around in there somewhere. Also, my plan to nuke the moon is still in the works.

That's all. Thanks for your time.

Shootout at the Fantasy Factory - Chapter 6

The whole world felt off kilter. John Barleycorn’s head throbbed and stars twinkled in his eyes. He had never traveled in a portal of any sort before, generally content to take roads paved with colored bricks—be they red, yellow or maroogundy. He felt groggy and itchy, like the time he was trapped under a cow for the night. He had no idea where he was and his eyes were doing that adjustment thing like when you look at the sun for too long and everything seems really dark in comparison. He was inside somewhere and he could hear plenty of commotion. A blur of what looked like a two headed camel strode past him and he dove between two giant crates, narrowly averting being spotted.

His hay filled hand dropped into something squishy. It smelled like dingleberries. Odd, he considered, but upon reconsidering it was about on par with everything else that happened to him today.

Two starched gloves wrapped around his chest and pulled him farther back behind the crates. “Barelycorn, is that you?”

The startled scarecrow recognized the sultry voice right away. “Agent Rainmaker. How did you get here?”

“I should be asking you the same thing. There’s some seriously dangerous stuff going down tonight, seriously. What were you thinking, jumping into that portal?” She asked, still holding him close to her chest.

John Barleycorn couldn’t help but blush as her hot breath ruffled the frayed tips of his ears. “I—I don’t know. I overheard Giant Baby conspiring against Mr. Fantasy, and before I could do anything they dragged him through the portal.” He paused for a moment, reorienting himself. “How come you didn’t do anything? I tried to warn you.”

“Barelycorn, you’ve done stumbled yourself into a dilly of a pickle here. What’s going on is, I caught wind of something fishy involving Mr. Fantasy and this here abandoned factory. Now I’m sandwiched between the law and doing the right thing.”

“What do you mean? Mr. Fantasy is in on this?”

Agent Rainmaker smothered Barleycorn’s mouth just as two pair of hoofed feet were striding past. Shhh. She mimed. “Just stick with me Barelycorn, and you’ll make it out of here. You dig?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Oh, and it’s Barleycorn.”

“That’s what I said.”

“You said Barelycorn. But it’s—“

“Whatever, just stick with me. Let’s go.”

“Unhand me now,” Mr. Fantasy demanded. “You don’t know what you’re doing Giant Baby.”

“Shaddup you turd,” Giant Baby grunted, teething on his cigar. He shoved Mr. Fantasy onto a chair and tow henchmen went to work tying up the silver maned patriarch of the Land of Make Believe. With one hand still relatively free, Mr. Fantasy tried to reach for his pocket. Giant Baby helped him out and snatched the neck of the bottle which sat just beyond his grasp.

“Wut have we Heare?” The hideous, poorly spoken grammar of Highwayman cut through the floor of the Fantasy Factory. An awed hush fell over the place, cautiously awaiting what would come next. “A boddle of bubblie? How 4tunate, this will b perfict for tha sellabration.”Highwayman eyed the odd concoction brewed by Glad the Imp Aler. Thinking nothing it would have absolutely no bearing on the climax of tonight’s events, he tossed it to his nearest henchman.

That henchman just happened to be Enrick Schmidt the duck-billed simian, the only henchmen with a name and a backstory.

“Highwayman?!” Mr. Fantasy gasped. “What are you doing? Why have you brought me here?”

“Mister Fantassy, y should I tell u when I can sho u instead?” Highwayman fished a tiny remote with a solitary red button out of his pocket. Pointing it towards the roof, he dangled his finger over the bright red button. Keeping his finger there, he teased the button like he was dangling a cookie just out of reach of a fat kid (which even in his advanced stages of villainy, he did not consider himself above doing—fun was fun).

“No!” John Barleycorn cried out. Acting on impulse he dove for Highwayman’s hands, but came up short at the impediment of that dastardly two-headed camel.

“A stuped scaircrowe?” Highwayman said, noticeably upset as though he expected a greater show of opposition. “I don’t no wut ur doing heer, but you mr scaircrowe, have folloed the yell-o brick rode rite to your owne d-mise.”

Two henchmen promptly grabbed John Barleycorn and tossed him into the monkey cage adjacent to the one Agent Rackensack was currently housed in.

Agent Rainmaker shook her head. That Barelycorn was so stupid. How could he be so impulsive? It was alright, she thought, perhaps Highwayman would think that that was the full scope of his snooping opposition to whatever sinister scheme he had concocted.

Highwayman’s eyes lit with maniacal glee and with an exaggerated sweeping motion, he pressed the button.

The roof of the fantasy factory creaked to life. A thin veil of the Winking Moon’s light slipped through the widening slit.

“What are you getting at?” Mr. Fantasy demanded.

“Shaddup!” Giant Baby demanded, smacking his confused elder square in the face.

“Such a 1derful nite issnt it,” Highwayman ruminated. Discarding the remote, he fished into his pocket and pulled out yet another one, an exact match for size and shape except this one had a blue button. With the same grandiose motions, Highwayman compressed the supple contours of the protruding blue cylinder until it was nearly flush with the black surface.

“Not on my watch!” Agent Rainmaker shouted, lunging from the shadows and kicking the remote from Highwayman’s outstretched hand.

Giant Baby was quick to jump to Highwayman’s aid, and for his efforts he received a whopper of a roundhouse kick right in his chubby cheeks. The low heel of Rainmaker’s shoes nicked his cheek and instinctively he pinched it to stop the bleeding. Giant Baby being—well, a giant baby—was prone to massive amounts of cheek pinching. And he hated every second of it. Pinching his own cheek was no different, so Giant Baby picked up his toys and went home.

Agent Rainmaker fought quite valiantly, clobbering the various henchmen with karate chop action. Highwayman tired of the intrusion. “Wear is that balrog?” The henchmen not in the middle of a good old fashioned clobbering looked at one another and then down to the ground, and slowly receded from Highwayman. “Any1?!” He interrobanged, daring the help to speak up. “No1 notissed a giant ballrog leeve the building?”

Before anyone of the henchmen could speak up (not that they would), Agent Rainmaker quadruple clobbered a quartet of quietly quivering…uh, bad guys… and conspired to quell Highwayman’s quixotic quest to conquer the kwyjibo.

Try saying that ten times fast.

Anyway, Agent Rainmaker closed the distance between her and Highwayman and prepared to throw down.

“Good greef,” he said, ashamed of his goons. “Musst I dew everything my self?” With Rainmaker closing in on him he held his palms out vertically and moved them around as though he were trying to throw a fireball (down, forward, punch).

All set for some Highwayman clobbering, Agent Rainmaker collided with an invisible wall and crashed to the ground. Highwayman promptly made manifest a cube in which to encase our valiant heroine.

“Nooo!” Agent Stiffupperlip screamed from the monkey cage. “It’s you! You’re the meanie who killed Constable Ballyhoo!”

Highwayman smiled his lecherous, treacherous smile and turned his head to the Stiffupperlip. “Bravo, Stiff Upper Lip, uve fine-alley cracked the kase. It is eye hoo you’ve beene seaching for all these yeers. And now u have 2 bare witness while I do something that can’t yet B reveeled.” He depressed the blue button of the remote, causing a rocket to rise from a hatch in the ground.

Arriving late to the party was Agent Rackensack. He saw the sinister smile of Highwayman, the gleaming rocket of doom and the anguished screams of his partner. Fishing through his pocket, Highwayman pulled out yet another tiny remote control, completely similar to the others save for one small detail. That small detail: the button, was yellow!

It didn’t take a detective to figure out what was happening: he had to stop the remote wielding madman.

Meanwhile, Agent Stiffupperlip was determined to get out and put the hurt on the evil mime. So, he went to work doing some hardcore reminiscing. He thought back to the time when he spent months in the icy mountains of Fepiogj under the tutelage of the legendary monkey bar bending monk, Nfksdnfo where he learned the ancient Upogijjgwopian art of monkey bar bending known as Wpirjghp.

He really didn’t have time to come up with real names for the all of the proper nouns, or come up with detailed back stories for all of the aspects of his fabricated memories. Skipping the details was a deadly risk for the inexperienced flashbacker, but he didn’t have time.

“Don’t touch that dial!” Agent Rackensack screamed, jumping down from his perch with a flying knee attack. He caught Highwayman square in the chest and knocked the wind out of his opponent. Standing triumphant over his foe, Rackensack kicked the remote aside. “After these messages, we’ll be right back.” And he punched Highwayman in the face.

Feeling like he just saved the day (but at the same time feeling like a doofus for his horrendous attempt at both his attacking and victorious one-liners), he stepped proudly over towards the monkey cage to free his partner. He was stunned to see Stiffupperlip sitting calmly and staring out with empty eyes.

Rackensack was also stunned when he learned the hard way that Highwayman was only faking. A musical note shot out of Highwayman’s heel and pinged Rackensack in the back of the head. (1)

Highwayman lifted himself up with the aid of an invisible rope, and after picking up the yellow buttoned remote, he tooted Rackensack’s nose. (2) After pressing the button (it made no humorous noises, just a simple click), Highwayman watched with glee as the rocket slowly titled up towards the night sky. It turned about 15° above the horizontal and stopped. Highwayman pulled another remote from his pocket. Tiny. Purple button. Exaggerated motion. Rocket moving into position.

Highwayman and what was left of his henchmen looked around, expecting some sort of resistance. There was none.

Another remote. White button. Dance a little jig. Depression. Missile craning towards the sky. No resistance.

New remote. Pink. Dance. Press. No resistance.

Remote. Maroon button.

Lime green.

Fuchsia.

Burnt sienna.

Razzmatazz.

Mac and cheese.

Orange.

Each time a new, evil (and honestly, a very well coordinated) dance accompanied each depression. The pile of discarded remotes grew and grew, covering the body of (3).

Gears turning, all sorts of lights flashing, at one point there was even fog that shot out beneath the cart, bells, whistles, the only thing that was missing was Michael Buffer. No. Wait. Here he is. On the press of the sepia button, in case you were wondering.

“Tonight we are going to witness the most anticipated event in the history of the land of Make Believe. Are yooouuuuuuu ready? To the dozens in attendance and the trillions watching around the world, from the run down Fantasy Factory, ladies and gentlemen; pixies and henchmen; ogres and flying monkeys. Let’s get ready to rrrrumble!”

As quickly as he appeared, Michael Buffer disappeared from sight beneath the haze of a fog machine. Using the fog for dramatic effect, Highwayman pulled the final remote control from his pocket. This one was huge. It was like as big as it would have to be if Highwayman was as tall as, like, that Gulliver fellow. And it’s button, was a smiley face.

At the press of the button—the very last chance for last minute heroics—a prerecorded voice sputtered to life from the squawk box. “Ignition sequence activated. Missile launch in thirty minutes.” The voice was oddly calming and unsettlingly sexy.

(1) Agent Rackensack wouldn’t realize it until much later when he went over the transcripts of the events of the evening with his superiors, but he was relegated to the footnotes of the legendary affair that would soon come to be known and the Shootout at the Fantasy Factory.

(2) His head was still reeling from the attack, but he would not abide the musicification of he nose. “Why I oughtta,” he said. He got up and headbutted Highwayman right in the face. And then, he gave Highwayman noogies and Indian burns until the evil mime cried out for Uncle Phil just like a certain Fresh Prince did whenever the stakes got too high.

(3) That would be our hero, Agent Rackensack. At this point, he was shaking hands with Zimmer Man and being congratulated on a job well done. “You’re gonna like the way you look, in your new position as detective,” the Zimmer Man said, “I guarantee it.”