I've been thinking about remorse a lot lately, because it's something that's been chasing me through the past few weeks. My actions are infallible, but I think the missed opportunities really can come up and bite you in the ass at times. Today, though, I did something that I think was good. Anyone who knows me will probably say that "good" is a nebulous abstraction in my life, but fuck 'em. I guess that's some ammo right there.

Sorry for the ad at the top of the page, I haven't renewed my month-to-month subscription to blogdrive yet. I will get around to it; most likely when Terri and travel to Uptown, where hipsters flow like wine in Babylon. Or whatever the hell. It's certainly exciting, considering we will (presumably) be living within walking distance of a liquor store that delivers. Do you feel that shiver traversing your spine? That, my dear friend, is delight.

So, getting back to remorse in a general sense, there has been much ado about my supposed "bromance" with Kurt Russell. I'm not a statistician or anything, but rumor has it every blog entry I've done has incorporated him in some sense. And this is... distressing. Which leads me to the regretful act of retiring Russell from these hollowed pixels. Maybe in a year, we'll have some sort of manniversary. Motherfucker.

Is it inventory time? Someone said that, so who am I to say no? Ahem.

INVENTORY: The Best Books I've Ever Read

1) The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Klay, Michael Chabon. This is kind of lame, but for a long time, reading was kind of a chore. I hadn't been hooked, I guess. Don't get me wrong, I read good shit and enjoyed it, but I never had a page turner, so to speak. But when I bought this book on a whim one summer in Brainerd, my life ceased to exist. I was completely immersed in the story of Josef Kavalier and Sammy Klay. It was an adventure that spanned years and years, multiple universes, and a love for the ages. I could do an entire entry on why this book is amazing, but I'll stop. Read it, it will be the best thing you can do with your time.

Motherfucker, I gotta go. I'll finish this later.

--Adam out

I'm listening to aHa right now, and I'm thinking about all these resonant emotional experiences I've had in my life, and it kind of fucking sucks. Because these events help to--shape, for lack of a better term--the axis on which my world spins its way to destruction. And motherfucker, they are all inexorably tied to pop culture moments.

I know--I know--that I have other shit that deeply affected me growing up, because I would be a mindless drone instead of a fearless trendsetter if my deepest memory was crying at the end of Spiderman 2. Like, openly weeping. But the part that kills me is that I can only openly remember these things. Am I that emotionally repressed that I mentally block out all the stuff that doesn't involve Transformers? I mean, there a few moments in my life I remember with a frightful acuity--and these I will not share. This is just something I've been thinking about.

So I came up with a list. Would you like to see it? Yes? Erectifying.

Inventory: Top five Kurt Russell roles, arranged by badassedness (in no particular order)

1) Snake Plissken, Escape from New York and Escape from L.A. I remember that my friends and I were talking about movie actors and shit, and everyone was like "Fucking Ben Affleck needs to kill himself. He is a terrible actor." And then, as a joke, I would play devil's advocate and be all "Are you kidding? Affleck kicked ass in Pearl Harbor!" And then the joke gets taken too far and I find myself actually liking and defending his acting. Let me be clear with you: This did not happen with Kurt Russell. Out of the womb with a VHS copy of the single episode of Hawaii Five-O cluched in my gooey baby hand, and a rip-roaring need to see Escape from New York, possibly the most dripping piece of fresh manliness ever ripped from a centaur's chest, my love for Russell is deep; certain dark wizards call it eldritch. And Snake Plissken is the most badass dude to ever be bad; he's so bad he will rescue a kidnapped president! From Isaac Hayes (who, as an added aside, drives a cadillac with chandeliers for headlights. That gives me a boner)! If you watch this movie and have an urge to watch any other movie ever again, you are doing it wrong.

2) Jack Burton, Big Trouble in Little China. Kurt plays a truck-driving grifter who seemingly blows through Asian sections of big cities and fighting immortal Chinese demigods and playing cards and wearing bathrobes and shit. All of that happens in this film. I can't stress that enough, that first sentence describes a real event in a real movie, and it doesn't even scratch the surface of the asskickery seen in this movie. Plus he talks in an Elvis-esque drawl and says the coolest shit. I'm not going to paraphrase; you simply need to watch this movie. You owe it to yourself. This reminds me of one of the only good memories I have from working at EB Games: Brett and I had to stay late and get an inventory done because I guess all the area managers come in and look at your shit, so we threw in a couple movies to pass the time. One of those was Big Trouble in Little China, and we actually stopped at multiple times to watch it. We ended up leaving the store around 2 a.m., but the extra Russell was worth it.

3) Stuntman Mike, Grindhouse Presents Death Proof. The whole prospect of Grindhouse kind of makes me weak in the knees; I mean, how did that go out of style? The first time I watched it, I walked away thinking Planet Terror was the superior film. But on repeat viewings, I found myself digging deeper and deeper into Death Proof. From the staccato dialogue to the car chase scenes (which, I can say withouth hyperbole, are the best car chases I have ever seen), it just sizzles from start to end. It's amazingly high-octane, but it has different intensity levels and is just great. But to get the true experience, you need to see the extended edition. It connects the dots that much better and makes Stuntman Mike a kind of sympathetic sociopath, which just happen to be my favorite kind.

4) R.J. MacReady, The Thing. The Thing is an acquired taste: a sci-fi thriller that takes place in Antarctica with a primary theme of trust? Sounds kind of nega-heavy in a bizarro sense, but it actually kind of works by making you feel tense the whole time. It's tough to get too afraid of the alien designs (1982 ho!), but did you know anyone around you could be The Thing! It wants to fucking kill you. And it's been awhile since I've seen it, but I remember flamethrowers being prominent, and the idea of Russell rolling with tha throwazz kind of makes me happy. Because I think that's how I want to die.

5) Captain Ron, Captain Ron. Ahahahahaha, just kidding. But this does fucking rule.

Seriously, 5) Wyatt Earp, Tombstone. I've never actually seen this movie, but I gave this role the edge over Col. Jack O'Neil from Stargate because Stargate is for pussies and I'm not a pussy, oh no sir! Plus I guess it won an Oscar or something? And come on! Wyatt Earp? I guess in the movie Earp doesn't have a gun but just eats nails and spits bullets, and Russell does all his own stunts. I have never seen this movie. And it will never be as good as it is in my head.

--Adam out

Yeeeeeeeeeeeah just started up Escape From New York, the new limited edition that was released months ago. I bought it when it initially came out, but haven't gotten around to watching it. I'll keep you posted on how fucking awesome it is.

1:52 pm: Snake Plissken just walked on the screen. One question comes to mind: Do these guys know who they are fucking with?

1:55 pm: Shit, they just kidnapped the president! Shit is going down.

2:00 pm: I love the idea of a post-apocalyptic New York, with crazy street gangs roaming around. The just cut off the president's finger, and Ernest Borgnine is shitting bricks. They'll kill the president if we come close? We have to have someone for the job...

2:03 pm: Snake's solution? "I don't give a fuck about the president. Get a new one."

2:04 pm: Three, three different types of throwing stars. He's a fucking machine.

2:07 pm: God damn Ernest Borgnine, injecting Kurt Russell with a a charge that would kill him in 24 hours if he runs. Now he has to go.

2:09 pm: "What do you mean, I can't count on you? Good."

2:11 pm: He just landed a plane on the World Trade Center. Never forget, etc.

2:16 pm: His gun is like all cardboard, all the time, with a big ass barrel that just looks ridiculous. Snake just walked in on a drag show/play, and there is a skanky sailor loving this shit. This movie is kick ass.

2:19 pm: Like a bunch of hobos are gonna take down the guy who flew over Leningrad? OH SHIT one of the hobos has the president's locator bracelet! This isn't gonna be easy anymore.

2:23 pm: A bunch of mutants or some shit just crawled out of the sewers and are running down streets. Why don't I remember this? I can't imagine this movie did that great in the box office, because I love this movie and have seen it a hundred times and still have no idea what the fuck is going on.

2:29 pm: "Aw, Snake Plissken in my cab? Wait till I tell Eddie!"

2:33 pm: "We were buddies, Harold. You, me, and Fresno Bob." This movie is so fucking cool. The duke of New York!

2:37 pm: Isaac Hayes' car doesn't have headlights. It has goddamn chandeliers. Who came up with that idea? It's awesome.

2:47 pm: I would posit that waking up with a crossbow pointed at your face would fucking suck. Also, Donald Pleasance is the president? Really? That guy looks like Lurch. I call bullshit.

2:52 pm: Fuck, I stopped watching for a minute and now riot guards are all over the goddamn place in Haiti or some shit. Jesus, this movie is a mindfuck.

2:54 pm: Snake's got two hours to live, some hippies are prodding him in a hotel room, and he actually has a cobra tattoo leading down to his penis. Is it too late to whisper Oscar?

2:55 pm: Haha, holy shit, Snake's in an arena now and I swear to god Jimmy Smitts just fucking spit on him. It was either him or Lou Diamond Phillips.

2:57 pm: There are some awesome beards in this movie, and if there's one thing I like, it's a beard and baseball bat fight.

3:01 pm: Ow, nail bat to the head. Isaac Hayes looks pissed, crowd loves Snake, Harold rekidnapped the president, and shit is about to go down.

3:07 pm: Obligatory escape/chase scene in  an old school cab. Some pretty good angles in this scene make it worthwhile.

3:10 pm: BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!

3:14 pm: Minutes to live and a battle to the death with Shaft. OH SHI- the president just fucking shredded the Duke. That was kickass.

3:19 pm: I won't ruin the ending, but it was sufficently badass. I want an eye patch.

--Adam out.

I'm about 15 minutes into episode one of the first season of Heroes, and it's been pretty interesting so far, albeit familiar. Methinks I've seen the premiere before, but hey, a refresher never hurt.

Once a month at Chrestomathy they require me to show up for the early shift for an inservice: half a day with clients and half a day doing classes and having meetings and such. So I need to get up early, and I do, and I begin dressing myself and realize I haven't brought up my laundry from the basement yet. This is a recurring problem; my laundry has been in the basement for like a week, but fuck it's dark down there and I'm already up here, so.... Anyway, I'm going down to get a shirt this morning, and before I round the corner on the staircase and turn on the lights and descend a thought hits me and I'm chilled. What if--what if--I go down these stairs and there's something down there that is so insanely terrifying that when I see it, my mind just shuts down? It's just shattered? Can you imagine that? You are minding your own goddamn business, just wanting to get a shirt or a bagel or some shit, and there's this cachodeamon floating there, all fleshy and with one eye and spewing locusts or something. And it doesn't attack you. You look at it, and it looks into you. And it is so immensely petrifying that you just can't comprehend it. Your mind proceeds to fragment, like a fraying knot; your life before your encounter is a fuzzy memory and your life after will seem dimmer. This is the kind of shit I think about, I guess.

--Adam out.

now i gotta kill my other girlfriends...

You can find the Rock Band packaging here, although Kotaku saw fit to watermark it. I think that's kind of bullshit, considering this is the internet--you could find a non-watermarked version, I dunno, anywhere. But Crecente's a journalist first, so I understand (intimately) the need to be the one scooping a story. This has nothing to do other than with my disdain of watermarking.

--Adam out

bugs massaging pigs...

I'm writing this in IE, which I hate. Also, I've been drinking. There's also lots I want to cover, so this could take a while. I hope it's as interesting as my drunken nature would suggest.

First, I just got back from Mexico. Puerto Vallarta, to be exact. Let me tell you something about Mexico, in case you didn't know: they don't speak English at all. I guess "at all" is probably an exaggeration, as there were multiple people I came in contact with who did speak in an approximation of English, but on the whole, it's very, very tough to communicate. Which is probably why I enjoyed it as much as I did. Mexicans are incredibly nice people, and very civil, and all they (seemingly) want is to get high with you--as was evidenced by nearly every fluent-English speaking Mexican prefacing every conversation with Terri and myself with "Do you like to get high?" or "I have the ganja!" This was all very polite of them, but what was interesting was how they immediately and vehemently stopped caring about you when they found out you were A) not interested or B) about to go to the airport. Not to the degree of, say, hating you, but they became coldly indifferent, like a pretty woman towards an overly tiny baby. But I digress. Our time in Mexico was relaxing in a meta sense, involving poolside naps, sunburns, swimming, bartering, hotel rooms, and buffets. There wasn't a whole lot of "adventure vactioning"--which was good, because we both needed some heavy relaxation. So this was good. But we became intimate with certain television channels on Mexican television, which is an interesting creature to be sure. Mexican cable service can be roughly divided between American channels translated (blandly? It seemed the translators were mostly lazy during the shows we watched--"Si" was used for nearly every affirmation that came on the TV. Maybe it's just my under education of the Spanish language, but they probably ((hopefully)) have a wider artistic flair for language than was demonstrated) and Spanish channels, which played amazing music videos and even more amazing soap operas, which make ours like utter shit. You think American daytime TV is melodramatic? I thought every actor had been shot with a bean bag gun. Tears flowed like water. And the gameshows? I would like to describe them to you, but watching one was akin to staring into the Dark Eye of Madness. The costumes alone would cause you to bleed, rather profusely, from the eyes. It's that good.

There's more to say about Mexico, and I will probably get to it later. But let's move on.

I just tried to reach for my 360 controller, and literally fell out of my chair. Thank God Terri has passed out. That was embarassing.

But I want to talk about a few games that have come out, most importantly, Bioshock. It's hard not to get swept up in the hyperbole surrounding the game, but needless to say it takes everything about the conventional shooter and perfects them. It's highly important to note the "conventional" aspect of the previous sentence, because Bioshock really doesn't evolve the genre in a way that, say, F.E.A.R. did with slo-mo or Metroid Prime did with the immersive nature. But it takes the traditional conventions of a shooter (namely, the ones we normally bitch about: carrying every weapon, having no legs, etc.) and makes them infinitely forgetable in the face of its amazing atmosphere. The story, while intriguing, is secondary; the weapons, while improving on traditional expectations, are tertiary: Bioshock sheds the preconceptions of being a video game and instead become interactive art. Many games offer you choices; some, like Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic, do it well (this is one of Terri's favorites, as well as my own). But the choices the player comes across in Bioshock, namely regarding Little Sisters, garner emotional responses that no game before it has done. Even if the game lacked the polish it had (and the polish shines incandescently), it would still be leaps and bound ahead of its peers because you are the character, and your choices have a (seemingly) real effect on the world around you. Granted I'm only seven or so hours in, but it has been incredible thus far.

As far as film goes, Superbad continues to linger on the forefront of my consciousness, eager to offer a helpful quote for any given circumstance. To say that it is generation defining would be accurate. In a summer that has been dominated by lackluster thirds, it has emerged from the gate to probably be the second best movie of the summer months, eclipsed only by the mightly Grindhouse, which is probably the most entertaining (not best) film released this year. Looking forward, I find myself not excited for any films outside of Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story, namely because I'm a John C. Reilly freak. Also the first Futurama movie comes out days after my 22nd birthday, and rest assured, there will be celebrating.

In Mexico, I finished Chuck Klosterman's Chuck Klosterman IV, which was, in retrospect, better than I had hoped. It starts off good, gets better in the second third, and then becomes nigh unreadable in the fiction section, a story about PCP and falling women that is woefully unresolved. I hate Klosterman, because I (personally; no one really has stepped up to agree) believe that his writing style comes close to my own in terms of geography, and his fiction is (as I'm sure he'd agree) interesting but weak. But his profiles and editorials are entertaining, bordering on rollicking, so it makes up for. I'm following it up with Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar, which sadly has yet to engage me only a handful of chapters in. It feels (and I feel as though I'm being unfair) like a female version of The Catcher in the Rye, but Terri assures me it evolves into an amazing work. Maybe I'm just hurrying through it to get to The Yiddish Policemen's Union, Michael Chabon's follow-up work to The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (or Klay), one of the best pieces of writing I've ever had the pleasure to read.

Either way, I'm drunk, tired, and refuse to spellcheck this. Thanks for the time.

--Adam out.

from which none return...