Showbiz
or
Screw This Noise, I'm Running To Hollywood

As anyone who has frequented my blog can tell, a few months in my life is a very long time. Mountains crumble. The entire surface of my daily landscape erupts, liquefies, and hardens into something unrecognizable.

I'm a creature of violent change. As always, my writing drops off like a frayed piece of twine, pulled too taught by the tectonic forces surrounding it. Forgive my silence.

Everything has changed.

My fiance, Greg, and I are no longer engaged. In fact, we don't even speak to each other. I left his domicile in Saint Louis on December 6th, 2010. Anyone who so much as utters his name will have their nipples torn off with red-hot iron pincers, and the raw wounds remaining shall be filled with rock salt and sewn shut with uncured pig-gut. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?

I'm like, over it, and stuff. Promise.

I no longer live in Las Vegas. One day, I simply packed up my things and left. I left my roommate of 5 years (Arturo), my cats (with him), and most of my worldly goods behind. I took only what I could carry, and drove off into the desert for Hollywood.

Not for fame, gentle readers. I'm not a fool. But perhaps for fortune, should she favor me.

I moved in with a friend who lives in Hollywood, a mere walk from the boulevard. We have a pleasant apartment big enough for the two of us, with cafes and shops nearby. He is kind to me, and we share an excellent friendship and working relationship. Together, we're producing his first feature film. (You can find out more about it here.)

For work, I've been freelance modeling. Don't laugh. I'm actually pretty good at it.

There are things I miss about Las Vegas, but I couldn't stay there. The city and it's horrible inhabitants were killing me. Moving to Los Angeles is the best thing I've ever done for myself.

More updates will follow, but I figured it was 'bout time I brought this picture up to speed.

Memoirs of a Robogeisha
or
Rectal Exsanguination

B-movies, gentle reader, make life worth living. There is no room for debate on the subject. If you don't agree with me, then I have no idea why you're still reading my blog.

The latest installment in Judas Phoenix Science Theater 3000 is a tale of sibling rivalry, the search for self-identity in a post-humanist cyborgian world, traditional Japanese arts, and mindless slaughter - all topped off with a heaping, gooey dose of sexploitation. Thanks to director Noboru Iguchi, I can satisfy every aspect of my "so-bad-it's-good" movie craving in one straight shot to the lizard brain.

Writing a general summary is boring, so if you really care about the general "plot" of this glorious piece of trash, feel free to read this paragraph stolen from IMDB:
Yoshie, the younger and ill-treated sister of a renowned Geisha, is discovered to have natural strength and fighting ability. She's recruited into an army of Geisha assassins by the rich and powerful owner of a steel-works, Kageno. During training large (and interesting) parts of their bodies are altered into weaponry directly linked to their brains. Yoshie soon realizes that Kagenos real plan is to have his robotic castle throw a new and very powerful nuclear bomb into the centre of Fuji-san, effectively destroying Japan entirely. With the help of other 'Kageno defectors', she sets out to stop him and his Tengu warriors.

Sounds pretty dry, no? In all truth, I'm impressed that anyone could make Robogeisha sound so coherent.

But we don't watch these things for riveting story lines, do we, gentle readers? No! Never, I say! We watch them because they're hilarious. We watch them for the shitty special effects, pulpy dialogue, and tits 'n ass. We watch them because they don't take themselves seriously.

Without further ado, I present some screenshots for your enjoyment:


Here's the Tengu warriors terrorizing a Japanese businessman:

I suppose that explains the angry, red dick-noses.

Those dick-tits aren't just for show. They mean business.

Defacing a nurse. Just because.

Our heroine prepares to strike at her sister.

Or maybe the sister is about to take a smack at our Heroine? They look so much alike, I couldn't tell for most of the movie who was who. WHAT? I'm not being racist. It's the pancake geishaface makeup. Geeze.

Ah, sibling rivalry. Big Sis gets a boob-gun . . .

Behold, the birth of a new fetish. A nation wanks . . . uh weeps. Weeps.

. . . so Little Sis has to get arm-pit swords . . .

Her pits shave themselves.

. . . and then Big Sis gets her head rewired . . .

I smell turquoise in here. 'Scuse me Mr. Nice Man, have you seen my mommy?
OH GOD, I CAN'T REMEMBER MY DOG'S NAAAAAAAAME!

. . . which means Little Sis has to turn into a tank . . .

No shit!

. . . everybody decides to get buttswords . . .

I'm going to invest in buttsword futures now, before buttfencing
becomes the national sport of Japan.

A schoolgirl also gets a sword in the butt. Not quite the same thing.

. . . asshurikens . . .



. . . and you know what they say: it's all fun and games, until someone gets a shrimp in the eye.


I know what you're thinking. Where's the guy in a monster suit, lumbering around a pint-sized mock-up of Tokyo? Here you go. A castle robot. This is a new one for me, too, and that's saying something.

Japanese skyscrapers have circulatory systems. No wonder their manufacturing
industry surpasses ours. BUY AMERICAN BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE.

Looks like a lot of fun, huh?

I give it an 8/10 for the genre. Go see Robogeisha. It's Japanese - so you know it's good!

Head Like A Hole
or
"I'll Take 'Things That Fall Out of Your Face,' For $175"

Ah, that good ol' fashioned tonsillitis, such a beloved melody from my childhood. If memory serves me right, it goes a lil' something like this:


I woke up on Friday with a twinge of pain in the right side of my neck. A quick palpation revealed an enlarged lymph node. Well, that could be anything. Maybe the air-conditioner was on too high. Maybe I slept with my mouth open. No time to deal with it anyway. Off to work with me!

By Saturday morning, I knew I was in for some real fun. My right tonsil had begun to swell, making swallowing painful. I didn't need to feel my nodes - I could see them bulging through my skin just fine. It's a cold. I'll feel crappy for 2 days, and get over it. I don't need to spend $150 for a doctor's visit. I'll cope just fine. Oh well, no time to deal with it anyway. Take a few asprin, gargle with Listerine, and off to work with me!

On Sunday afternoon, I woke up shivering like a heroin addict. The ghastly fingers of fever ran up and down my limbs. My muscles ached. And my throat! Even my own saliva proved too difficult to swallow. I designated an empty water bottle as my spittoon. Robbed of my speech, I whimpered piteously until my roommates understood my fate. Greg looked down my throat and told me that my tonsils were so swollen, he was concerned for my airway. Indeed, I felt as if my throat might close up at any moment.

I bit the bullet, and went to urgent care.

If I had more political fire in me, this is where I'd rant about how much a capitalist health care system sucks for a commoner like myself. There's no reason why a throat infection should cost $175 dollars to treat, in an otherwise healthy person. I even skipped getting a throat culture to save money.

If only I could figure out how to buy black market antibiotics from Mexico . . . but I digress.

The real reason I wrote this post is to show you some amazing photos of what came out of my tonsils today!

I've been on antibiotics for about 24 hours now. That's long enough to feel some improvement, though I'm still sick as a dog. I managed to get myself in a hot shower. All that steam felt mighty nice, and really helped my throat relax. In fact, it relaxed so much, the pus pockets fell off of my tonsils. (See the diagram at the start of the article, if you don't know what pus pockets I'm talking about.)

Of course I took pictures. I couldn't deny my gentle readers such a spectacle!

First a picture for scale . . .




Here's a macro glamour shot of the one that came off my right tonsil:

Look, you can see the little ridge where it was attached to my headmeats.

And one of the left:

Say "pus sacs!"

Did I mention that both these nuggets of joy smelled like a cadaver? The human body is so charming.


I sorely (HAH!) envy you adults who had your tonsils removed during childhood, under the auspices of your parents' health insurance plan. Please wish me a speedy recovery.



******UPDATE*******

Two more pus sacs fell off a few hours later, only they were half the size of the first set. And then a single long stringy one uncoiled from the right tonsil. And blood. Lots of blood. Just thought you'd all like to know. No, I didn't take a picture.

Yes it does hurt. Thanks for asking. *hack*

Meathead
or
A Few of My Favorite Things

Shut up, raw vegan foodies. Just shut the fuck up. I am so sick of your religious fervor for the meatless "lifestyle."

Look at my incisors. They were made for ripping flesh off the bone. I am an omnivore by design, and a carnivore in my heart of hearts. Therefore, meat is my divine right.

Vegetarianism is stupid. Veganism is even worse. Plants have their place, but nothing beats the taste of blood. Give me a steak, lightly seared, so the inside is still cool and purple. I want to feel the texture of the muscle. That's food for life, right there, protein and vitamins and the unmatched satiety that comes from knowing: "Yes, I am at the top of the food chain! I am Human, destroyer of cows!"

Give me the roasted femur of some flightless fowl, and I'll gnaw it like a starved cavewoman. Look at that, the bone fits right in my sticky little hand. Fuck tofu, this shit is portable.

Hey PETA, you see a "sea kitten," and I sea food. Gut that gorgeous little bastard! Filet 'im while he's still gasping for air. Don't bother with the pots and pans. Just give him to me sushi style so I can rub wasabi into his squirming flesh and pick at him sliver by sliver like a finicky cat.

It is my goal in life to eat as many different kinds of animal as I possibly can before I die. I want to eat a fucking zoo. Hell, if it weren't illegal, and I weren't afraid of prion disease, I'd probably eat a human, too.

Is it wrong that I get a little turned on by the taste of blood?