I thought he of all people would appreciate this, the funniest of all music videos in the history of music videos.
Does it take you back, bro?
">
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Okay, Let's Try This Again
So last year I decided to join a gym and get busy getting fit. Sadly, I failed on so many counts it isn't funny. The biggest hurdle for me was that I ran out of cash to continue at the gym, and by the time I got some, my gym had gone out of business.
It's all very sad. I've allowed myself to deteriorate even more in recent months. Once it got hotter, I began walking less at night, and getting out to do anything during the day is right out. I haven't even gone to the park to read in a month and a half. It's just too miserable outside.
But yesterday I went ahead and signed on over at a gym across the street from Jeremy and Nichelle's called Fitness Works; just for the summer right now. Got it cheap, too, so that helps. It a nice, modern place filled with all the goodies, but there are a lot of people there, and way too many women around. No guy likes starting out all weak and fat with a bunch of females present. It ruins the macho self-image to only be able to pump double-digit weights in the presence of a pretty girl, and then look in a mirror and realize you look like Grimace with a crew cut. Oh, well, I'll get over it.
I went there and worked out tonight for the first time, and let me tell you, feeling like an eighty year old man with arthritis SUCKS!
First, I started on the stationary bike for twenty five minutes on level 2, and by the end I was sucking wind and my hamstrings were as taught as bowstrings and felt likely to snap like dry rubber bands if I stood up too fast. Then I looked up in the mirror, and there behind me was a fit-looking guy in his sixties jogging along on the treadmill like he hadn't a care or a pain, and I growled descriptive curse words at him under my breath.
For about a month now, I've been fighting my old shoulder issue, and it hasn't gotten any better. I threw it out throwing a frisbee many years ago, and it took forever to heal. Last year when I started working out I tore it up again, and it hasn't been the same since. I blame the free-weights, and the idiotic notion than you train to failure when you lift weights, meaning you lift until you muscles won't work anymore.
I've been doing a lot of research on this, and it sucks how there is no general consensus on the subject of fitness; everyone and his brother out there have their own opinions on how to work out, and no two are alike. But one thing that keeps coming up lately is how training to failure is training to fail. Like with my shoulder. I worked it too hard and it stopped working right. I should have gone slow and built my muscles up to where they could take the strain.
So tonight I began using some of the ergonomic weight machines they have at FW, and I did a complete upper body workout without hurting my shoulder! Yay! The nice thing about the machines are that they allow for more control than freeweights, which make up for sloppy form while lifting, which is something I occasionally have. I was amazed when I was done how my shoulder actually felt better than it has in weeks. But I'll have to keep an eye on it and make sure I don't over do it.
Pandorum
Here's the trailer for a nice little sci-fi horror film that's coming up. Although it was done by the guys who did the Resident Evil movies, which I wasn't the biggest fan of, it is also the crew who made the still awesome and scary sci-fi horror movie Event Horizon.
For some reason, sci-fi and horror go together like pot roast and mashed potatoes, so any time someone comes up with a good film in this genre, I rejoice. And hey, Pandorum has Ben Foster and Dennis Quaid and some hot German chick, so where can they go wrong?
">
Smacking Things
So in the vein of getting back into shape is the desire to practice my combatives training and gunfighting skills. Although a punching bag, a muay thai bag, speed bag, and focus mitts are a good idea, they're either expensive or hard to find a place to set up. So the idea is to go ghetto and come up with some underground solutions. The late Carl Cestari used to use a padded brick to practice his edge-of-hand strikes, so I'm gonna buy a brick. But more is needed for practicing palm heel strikes and hammer fists.
One idea a guy on a forum came up with is to make yourself a makiwara, or striking board, and bungee cord it to a tree, or sinking an ironing board into the ground and padding it up. Traditionally, the makiwara is a straw and rope affair, but modern versions use duct tape and foam padding. The problem is, I can't find any dense, closed-cell foam padding anywhere, so the project is stalled until I can find some. If anybody has ideas, I'd love to hear them.
I've also been practicing with my guns lately, thanks to the many training dvds I've been watching. Gabe Suarez' Combative Pistol Marksmanship, Kalashnikov Rifle Gunfighting, Advanced Kalashnikov Rifle Gunfighting, Close Range Gunfighting, Advanced Close Range Gunfighting, Shotgun Gunfighting, The Tactical Advantage, and Die Less Often dvds are all really good, and have been improving my skills, even when practicing at home. Mostly it's been just drilling; doing things like reloading, malfunction drills, and drawing on the move.
This stuff is quite interesting to me, and necessary in today's world.
It's all very sad. I've allowed myself to deteriorate even more in recent months. Once it got hotter, I began walking less at night, and getting out to do anything during the day is right out. I haven't even gone to the park to read in a month and a half. It's just too miserable outside.
But yesterday I went ahead and signed on over at a gym across the street from Jeremy and Nichelle's called Fitness Works; just for the summer right now. Got it cheap, too, so that helps. It a nice, modern place filled with all the goodies, but there are a lot of people there, and way too many women around. No guy likes starting out all weak and fat with a bunch of females present. It ruins the macho self-image to only be able to pump double-digit weights in the presence of a pretty girl, and then look in a mirror and realize you look like Grimace with a crew cut. Oh, well, I'll get over it.
I went there and worked out tonight for the first time, and let me tell you, feeling like an eighty year old man with arthritis SUCKS!
First, I started on the stationary bike for twenty five minutes on level 2, and by the end I was sucking wind and my hamstrings were as taught as bowstrings and felt likely to snap like dry rubber bands if I stood up too fast. Then I looked up in the mirror, and there behind me was a fit-looking guy in his sixties jogging along on the treadmill like he hadn't a care or a pain, and I growled descriptive curse words at him under my breath.
For about a month now, I've been fighting my old shoulder issue, and it hasn't gotten any better. I threw it out throwing a frisbee many years ago, and it took forever to heal. Last year when I started working out I tore it up again, and it hasn't been the same since. I blame the free-weights, and the idiotic notion than you train to failure when you lift weights, meaning you lift until you muscles won't work anymore.
I've been doing a lot of research on this, and it sucks how there is no general consensus on the subject of fitness; everyone and his brother out there have their own opinions on how to work out, and no two are alike. But one thing that keeps coming up lately is how training to failure is training to fail. Like with my shoulder. I worked it too hard and it stopped working right. I should have gone slow and built my muscles up to where they could take the strain.
So tonight I began using some of the ergonomic weight machines they have at FW, and I did a complete upper body workout without hurting my shoulder! Yay! The nice thing about the machines are that they allow for more control than freeweights, which make up for sloppy form while lifting, which is something I occasionally have. I was amazed when I was done how my shoulder actually felt better than it has in weeks. But I'll have to keep an eye on it and make sure I don't over do it.
Pandorum
Here's the trailer for a nice little sci-fi horror film that's coming up. Although it was done by the guys who did the Resident Evil movies, which I wasn't the biggest fan of, it is also the crew who made the still awesome and scary sci-fi horror movie Event Horizon.
For some reason, sci-fi and horror go together like pot roast and mashed potatoes, so any time someone comes up with a good film in this genre, I rejoice. And hey, Pandorum has Ben Foster and Dennis Quaid and some hot German chick, so where can they go wrong?
">
Smacking Things
So in the vein of getting back into shape is the desire to practice my combatives training and gunfighting skills. Although a punching bag, a muay thai bag, speed bag, and focus mitts are a good idea, they're either expensive or hard to find a place to set up. So the idea is to go ghetto and come up with some underground solutions. The late Carl Cestari used to use a padded brick to practice his edge-of-hand strikes, so I'm gonna buy a brick. But more is needed for practicing palm heel strikes and hammer fists.
One idea a guy on a forum came up with is to make yourself a makiwara, or striking board, and bungee cord it to a tree, or sinking an ironing board into the ground and padding it up. Traditionally, the makiwara is a straw and rope affair, but modern versions use duct tape and foam padding. The problem is, I can't find any dense, closed-cell foam padding anywhere, so the project is stalled until I can find some. If anybody has ideas, I'd love to hear them.
I've also been practicing with my guns lately, thanks to the many training dvds I've been watching. Gabe Suarez' Combative Pistol Marksmanship, Kalashnikov Rifle Gunfighting, Advanced Kalashnikov Rifle Gunfighting, Close Range Gunfighting, Advanced Close Range Gunfighting, Shotgun Gunfighting, The Tactical Advantage, and Die Less Often dvds are all really good, and have been improving my skills, even when practicing at home. Mostly it's been just drilling; doing things like reloading, malfunction drills, and drawing on the move.
This stuff is quite interesting to me, and necessary in today's world.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Screw You, Hippie!
The fact that these hysterical retards are responsible for the implementation of actual government policy decisions makes me want to throw up. Honestly, I want to go chop down a redwood tree just to even out the karmic resonances of the universe.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Are those really grown men I see sobbing in the woods like sissy emo teeny boppers?! The things some guys will do to get girls, although I fail to see the appeal of a bunch of smelly, stupid, unshaven hippie chicks who make that much noise.
Bring ME to a woodland cathedral and bring ME to this rock that has the most incredible LIFE...so I may sell this unlikely Wonder of Nature to rich collectors who might like a living rock.
These moonbarking madwomen take treehugging into whole new realms of cult behavior, possibly believing that if they keep up their baleful laments long enough, that nature itself will answer their prayers and rise up against Mankind, Earth's only truly destructive virus, and wipe us out in one fell swoop. I'll bet these idiots were actually cheering during The Happening.
Unfortunately, these people don't seem to realize that...
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Are those really grown men I see sobbing in the woods like sissy emo teeny boppers?! The things some guys will do to get girls, although I fail to see the appeal of a bunch of smelly, stupid, unshaven hippie chicks who make that much noise.
Bring ME to a woodland cathedral and bring ME to this rock that has the most incredible LIFE...so I may sell this unlikely Wonder of Nature to rich collectors who might like a living rock.
These moonbarking madwomen take treehugging into whole new realms of cult behavior, possibly believing that if they keep up their baleful laments long enough, that nature itself will answer their prayers and rise up against Mankind, Earth's only truly destructive virus, and wipe us out in one fell swoop. I'll bet these idiots were actually cheering during The Happening.
Unfortunately, these people don't seem to realize that...
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Freak-o Crackhead
It had to happen eventually, and today was the day. I've met Born Again Priest-Rappers, snowbird geo-cachers from Chicago who know me before they've met me, geriatric retirees in bright red track suits who powerwalk backwards, Farmers Insurance agents who scream at their boyfriends like drill instructors on the rag (pass the earplugs, Theodore), and psychotic-looking trogs wielding fence posts the size of tree trunks.
But today was the first of his kind. The junkies.
I was hunched over my notebooks and Atlas, sweating like a boar in a greenhouse and cursing the red hot freight train that is Summer here in the Big AZ, when I was interrupted by the susurrus of a bicycle being wheeled across dry grass. Turning on my bench, I frowned at the intruder, a young, skinny, sickly-looking skel with patchy stubble, wearing a dirty striped t-shirt.
He was looking at me, which I found not at all to my liking, and right off the bat he started asking me all kinds of questions.
"Hey, what's up?"
"Having lunch?"
"You just get off work?"
"Wha'cha readin'?"
"What... is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?"
Okay, he didn't ask me the last one (that would have made me laugh), but by then I was already fantasizing about ssssqueeeeeeezing him 'round the neck until he couldn't talk anymore.
I gave him monosyllable answers and turned to the side, watching him in my peripherals. He inched up to the garbage can in the corner of the ramada I was sitting under and I saw him straddle the top tube of his bike and reach into the trash can and pull something out. Right then I started feeling kind of bad. Since I wasn't looking directly at him, I didn't see exactly what it was that he pulled out, but I was hoping it wasn't food.
My feeling bad weakness wore out, though, and I decided it was none of my business and started reading my book.
Still straddling the top tube he inched his way around the ramada next to the table I was sitting at. Real slow, and out of my peripherals, I could see him watching me. Creepy. I reached into my pack and unlocked my .45 from the kydex rig and made sure my big knife was in position for a fast draw.
He circled around until he was right beside me and I looked over at him and gave him the hairy eyeball, which he was immune to I guess, considering that instead of sitting down at one of the picnic tables farthest away from me, he decided to sit at the one Right. Behind. Me. and act all creepy. I hate that.
He was playing some sort of yuck-awful speed reggaeton music on his mp3 player, a type of music that sets my teeth on edge and makes me want to cleanse Latin America with fire, although I will admit to being oddly hypnotized by the perreo dancing that usually accompanies reggaeton. However, since he didn't look anything like Shakira, he got nothing from me but a half-hearted attempt to psychically compel him into jumping off the freeway overpass, which I still can't make work, I'm sorry to say.
Ignoring the waves of hostility rippling off my soul, he decided to yell out, "Oh, yeah, this is the SPOT!" To which I growled, "Where your body will be found." He didn't hear me. Damn you, Reggaeton.
With his moving past me and out of my line of sight, visions of what I might look like stabbed in the back with a long, rusty, duct tape-wrapped nail by a cackling madman appeared in my mind's eye, and I swiveled in my seat so I could keep tabs on him with soft focus vision.
He sat down on the other side of the table behind me, and started messing around with whatever he pulled out of the trash. The sounds were of wrappers and cardstock tearing, and I began to feel bad again at the thought of him eating park trash when I had a veritable feast sitting in my lunch box. I began entertaining thoughts of asking him if he was hungry, when he suddenly stood up and moved around to the side of the table I was at, violating my territorial bubble and sparking a violent reaction from my muscles, which by then were doing the thinking for me. I suppressed them though, and he managed to not get insidiously violated with his own bicycle; an act which my imagination had already built several interesting contingency plans for.
By then I'd had the thought that a reasonable man would depart the scene, but I don't like being pushed around by gutter trash, so I refused to walk away like a sheeple. Instead I circled around to the other side of the table and arranged my pack so it was pointing at him. I sat down and began watching him. How'dja ya like THAT, Turd Head!?
With his back to me, he twisted around and looked at me all guiltily. He saw me looking at him and turned back around. Then I heard him strike a match. Not from a matchbook, but a real wooden match. The wind was blowing and it blew out the flame right away. He sparked another and it too went out. Third time's the charm and he got it to light long enough for him to bring the freakin' crack pipe up to his lips and inhale a good lungful of happy smoke!
Good grief! Some people's kids. Why would he do that right next to a stranger? In public! Does he fear nothing!? No, I suppose not. And I say crack pipe, but it was probably meth. He had the look. All sickly, greasy, and mottled.
Four times he hit the pipe. Each time he looked back at me to see what I was doing, frowning and guilty and paranoid, I think. Working himself up to something, it felt like. He was making me a little nervous. By then I was getting the Hey, man! You got some money? kind of vibe coming off of him, and I'd put my hand into the pistol pouch of my pack, got a full firing grip on my .45, and was just waiting.
It occurred to me that I should probably just leave. He was doing hard drugs in the presence of strangers in view of the whole world. Obviously, I wanted nothing to do with that, so I stood up, slid the .38 in my waistband to the rear, and pulled out my .45 and holstered it in my waistband, just in case.
I slung my pack and grabbed my lunchbox, and as I started to move away, the skel turned around and said something to me. The wind drowned it out, and I looked at him and walked away, looking back to make sure he wasn't following me. He wasn't, but he kept looking at me, long after I'd reached my car and stashed my gear and drove away.
The park. The place where the freaks and weirdos go.
So what does that say about me then?
But today was the first of his kind. The junkies.
I was hunched over my notebooks and Atlas, sweating like a boar in a greenhouse and cursing the red hot freight train that is Summer here in the Big AZ, when I was interrupted by the susurrus of a bicycle being wheeled across dry grass. Turning on my bench, I frowned at the intruder, a young, skinny, sickly-looking skel with patchy stubble, wearing a dirty striped t-shirt.
He was looking at me, which I found not at all to my liking, and right off the bat he started asking me all kinds of questions.
"Hey, what's up?"
"Having lunch?"
"You just get off work?"
"Wha'cha readin'?"
"What... is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow?"
Okay, he didn't ask me the last one (that would have made me laugh), but by then I was already fantasizing about ssssqueeeeeeezing him 'round the neck until he couldn't talk anymore.
I gave him monosyllable answers and turned to the side, watching him in my peripherals. He inched up to the garbage can in the corner of the ramada I was sitting under and I saw him straddle the top tube of his bike and reach into the trash can and pull something out. Right then I started feeling kind of bad. Since I wasn't looking directly at him, I didn't see exactly what it was that he pulled out, but I was hoping it wasn't food.
My feeling bad weakness wore out, though, and I decided it was none of my business and started reading my book.
Still straddling the top tube he inched his way around the ramada next to the table I was sitting at. Real slow, and out of my peripherals, I could see him watching me. Creepy. I reached into my pack and unlocked my .45 from the kydex rig and made sure my big knife was in position for a fast draw.
He circled around until he was right beside me and I looked over at him and gave him the hairy eyeball, which he was immune to I guess, considering that instead of sitting down at one of the picnic tables farthest away from me, he decided to sit at the one Right. Behind. Me. and act all creepy. I hate that.
He was playing some sort of yuck-awful speed reggaeton music on his mp3 player, a type of music that sets my teeth on edge and makes me want to cleanse Latin America with fire, although I will admit to being oddly hypnotized by the perreo dancing that usually accompanies reggaeton. However, since he didn't look anything like Shakira, he got nothing from me but a half-hearted attempt to psychically compel him into jumping off the freeway overpass, which I still can't make work, I'm sorry to say.
Ignoring the waves of hostility rippling off my soul, he decided to yell out, "Oh, yeah, this is the SPOT!" To which I growled, "Where your body will be found." He didn't hear me. Damn you, Reggaeton.
With his moving past me and out of my line of sight, visions of what I might look like stabbed in the back with a long, rusty, duct tape-wrapped nail by a cackling madman appeared in my mind's eye, and I swiveled in my seat so I could keep tabs on him with soft focus vision.
He sat down on the other side of the table behind me, and started messing around with whatever he pulled out of the trash. The sounds were of wrappers and cardstock tearing, and I began to feel bad again at the thought of him eating park trash when I had a veritable feast sitting in my lunch box. I began entertaining thoughts of asking him if he was hungry, when he suddenly stood up and moved around to the side of the table I was at, violating my territorial bubble and sparking a violent reaction from my muscles, which by then were doing the thinking for me. I suppressed them though, and he managed to not get insidiously violated with his own bicycle; an act which my imagination had already built several interesting contingency plans for.
By then I'd had the thought that a reasonable man would depart the scene, but I don't like being pushed around by gutter trash, so I refused to walk away like a sheeple. Instead I circled around to the other side of the table and arranged my pack so it was pointing at him. I sat down and began watching him. How'dja ya like THAT, Turd Head!?
With his back to me, he twisted around and looked at me all guiltily. He saw me looking at him and turned back around. Then I heard him strike a match. Not from a matchbook, but a real wooden match. The wind was blowing and it blew out the flame right away. He sparked another and it too went out. Third time's the charm and he got it to light long enough for him to bring the freakin' crack pipe up to his lips and inhale a good lungful of happy smoke!
Good grief! Some people's kids. Why would he do that right next to a stranger? In public! Does he fear nothing!? No, I suppose not. And I say crack pipe, but it was probably meth. He had the look. All sickly, greasy, and mottled.
Four times he hit the pipe. Each time he looked back at me to see what I was doing, frowning and guilty and paranoid, I think. Working himself up to something, it felt like. He was making me a little nervous. By then I was getting the Hey, man! You got some money? kind of vibe coming off of him, and I'd put my hand into the pistol pouch of my pack, got a full firing grip on my .45, and was just waiting.
It occurred to me that I should probably just leave. He was doing hard drugs in the presence of strangers in view of the whole world. Obviously, I wanted nothing to do with that, so I stood up, slid the .38 in my waistband to the rear, and pulled out my .45 and holstered it in my waistband, just in case.
I slung my pack and grabbed my lunchbox, and as I started to move away, the skel turned around and said something to me. The wind drowned it out, and I looked at him and walked away, looking back to make sure he wasn't following me. He wasn't, but he kept looking at me, long after I'd reached my car and stashed my gear and drove away.
The park. The place where the freaks and weirdos go.
So what does that say about me then?
Monday, April 20, 2009
The Artless Streetfight
There's nothing like a steel guitar crying in the night
Nothing like a sawdust floor and a good 'ol friendly fight
I'd finally find my way back home and you'd patch up my face
But that was another time and another place
--Clint Black
So there I was, sitting in my car in the parking lot of Half-Price Books, talking to my friend Chris in Nebraska, when I noticed a disturbance in the Force. At first, it was a small, subtle thing, but that’s how it always begins; very small.
It came in the form of two punks.
They were tattooed, muscular white guys in matching wifebeater shirts, looking like trouble, and were walking with a purpose towards a small group of other guys thirty feet away from me. When they got there, I saw them and six other guys standing in a semi circle around something that was just out of my vision. All were young, maybe in their early to mid-twenties. There was a weird, manic tension in them, though. The kind of tension you see just before all hell starts breaking loose.
I was just about to pull my car forward to see what they were all looking at, when another guy backed up into my line of sight. A young white guy, fit-looking, maybe 150 pounds, with his chin down, shoulders hunched, and fists balled up at chest level-the classic stance of a guy who thinks he's about to get hit.
Suddenly, another guy came into view, a goateed Tongan or Samoan by the look of him, though not really big like the islanders often get, but solid and strong looking, with a magnificent afro. As he came into view both guys started swinging on each other like back alley brawlers. Now mind you, this is 3:00 PM on a Sunday afternoon in a parking lot of a major shopping center, but neither guy seemed to care that they were fighting in plain view of a slew of sheeple witnesses.
They fought in bursts. They circled each other, vying for position, and one guy would go on the offensive, lunging forward a step and swinging three or four times wildly, while the other guy would throw a few defensive punches while backing up and then they'd stop for a moment and repeat the process, while the spectators whooped it up and egged them on.
Both had guts, I'd say. Each was slugging and getting slugged in return, right in the face, but neither man showed signs of stopping for awhile. They really weren't good fighters, though. There was no art or skill or science to their fighting whatsoever. They merely stood toe-to-toe and swung wild haymakers at one another for about a half-minute to a minute (it seemed longer at the time), with neither man seemingly doing any damage to the other. As the fight progressed, they got sloppier as well, The haymakers got wider, and they began to laen back a bit and expose their chins rather than keep them tucked in. A hard shot to the throat would have been bad for either one.
The real problem with their fighting was that neither man was hitting with any power. There was no forward drive, no drop-step, and no torque of the body or hips. Nothing. The punches were coming from their arms only, and despite the fact that each guy got hit in the face at least 6+ times, I couldn't see any real damage to either of them. No body shots either. One guy with a decent shovel hook could have ended the fight with a shot to the liver, no problem, but they were headhunters only, and it wasn't working for either of them.
Finally, the white guy threw a flurry of punches, and the Tongan threw a few of his own. Then the Tongan backed up a few steps and put his hands on his knees, panting, and raised a palm towards the white guy in an I Surrender gesture. The white guy dropped his own hands, which had been poised in mid-wind-up, and he walked away. The Tongan walked with his friends to their car, and everyone left in opposite directions.
I remained sitting in my car for another ten minutes, until the cops showed up. Two cruisers passed me, and then turned around and pulled up behind my car. Why they chose me, I don’t know, but I opened my door with a big smile on my face and asked them if they’d gotten a call about a fight. The officer by my car said they had, and I explained briefly what went down. By then two more police cruisers had arrived, and I decided to leave before they arrested me just for not being horrified enough by the thought of a fight going down in front of me.
Truth be known, it was a good, clean fight; a friendly fight. Punches were thrown, dominance established, surrender accepted, and everyone walked away without any hard feelings as far as I could tell. That’s how thing were done in the past. You had a problem with another man, you both stepped outside to settle the matter. No cops, no BS. You swung until somebody had had enough, and everyone walked away.
It was a good way.
Nothing like a sawdust floor and a good 'ol friendly fight
I'd finally find my way back home and you'd patch up my face
But that was another time and another place
--Clint Black
So there I was, sitting in my car in the parking lot of Half-Price Books, talking to my friend Chris in Nebraska, when I noticed a disturbance in the Force. At first, it was a small, subtle thing, but that’s how it always begins; very small.
It came in the form of two punks.
They were tattooed, muscular white guys in matching wifebeater shirts, looking like trouble, and were walking with a purpose towards a small group of other guys thirty feet away from me. When they got there, I saw them and six other guys standing in a semi circle around something that was just out of my vision. All were young, maybe in their early to mid-twenties. There was a weird, manic tension in them, though. The kind of tension you see just before all hell starts breaking loose.
I was just about to pull my car forward to see what they were all looking at, when another guy backed up into my line of sight. A young white guy, fit-looking, maybe 150 pounds, with his chin down, shoulders hunched, and fists balled up at chest level-the classic stance of a guy who thinks he's about to get hit.
Suddenly, another guy came into view, a goateed Tongan or Samoan by the look of him, though not really big like the islanders often get, but solid and strong looking, with a magnificent afro. As he came into view both guys started swinging on each other like back alley brawlers. Now mind you, this is 3:00 PM on a Sunday afternoon in a parking lot of a major shopping center, but neither guy seemed to care that they were fighting in plain view of a slew of sheeple witnesses.
They fought in bursts. They circled each other, vying for position, and one guy would go on the offensive, lunging forward a step and swinging three or four times wildly, while the other guy would throw a few defensive punches while backing up and then they'd stop for a moment and repeat the process, while the spectators whooped it up and egged them on.
Both had guts, I'd say. Each was slugging and getting slugged in return, right in the face, but neither man showed signs of stopping for awhile. They really weren't good fighters, though. There was no art or skill or science to their fighting whatsoever. They merely stood toe-to-toe and swung wild haymakers at one another for about a half-minute to a minute (it seemed longer at the time), with neither man seemingly doing any damage to the other. As the fight progressed, they got sloppier as well, The haymakers got wider, and they began to laen back a bit and expose their chins rather than keep them tucked in. A hard shot to the throat would have been bad for either one.
The real problem with their fighting was that neither man was hitting with any power. There was no forward drive, no drop-step, and no torque of the body or hips. Nothing. The punches were coming from their arms only, and despite the fact that each guy got hit in the face at least 6+ times, I couldn't see any real damage to either of them. No body shots either. One guy with a decent shovel hook could have ended the fight with a shot to the liver, no problem, but they were headhunters only, and it wasn't working for either of them.
Finally, the white guy threw a flurry of punches, and the Tongan threw a few of his own. Then the Tongan backed up a few steps and put his hands on his knees, panting, and raised a palm towards the white guy in an I Surrender gesture. The white guy dropped his own hands, which had been poised in mid-wind-up, and he walked away. The Tongan walked with his friends to their car, and everyone left in opposite directions.
I remained sitting in my car for another ten minutes, until the cops showed up. Two cruisers passed me, and then turned around and pulled up behind my car. Why they chose me, I don’t know, but I opened my door with a big smile on my face and asked them if they’d gotten a call about a fight. The officer by my car said they had, and I explained briefly what went down. By then two more police cruisers had arrived, and I decided to leave before they arrested me just for not being horrified enough by the thought of a fight going down in front of me.
Truth be known, it was a good, clean fight; a friendly fight. Punches were thrown, dominance established, surrender accepted, and everyone walked away without any hard feelings as far as I could tell. That’s how thing were done in the past. You had a problem with another man, you both stepped outside to settle the matter. No cops, no BS. You swung until somebody had had enough, and everyone walked away.
It was a good way.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Bloody Beggars
Do you ever find yourself being harassed by street people? Do you find yourself having to deal with people you wish would just leave you alone? Beggars, con artists, hustlers, and crooks?
Well, I seem to be running into more than my share lately. Case in point: A few days ago, I pulled into the Food City parking lot intent on buying ingredients for salsa and baleadas.
As I was walking towards the entrance, I noticed a guy meandering along who, as he noticed me, suddenly changed course to intercept my path. Being the suspicious jerk that I am, I was immediately suspicious of this turd. He was a tall, reddish blond white guy, relatively fit and healthy, and walking with a relaxed stride. As he got closer I noticed his eyes were bloodshot.
He caught my eye and sure enough, right out of his mouth came the pitch. "Excuse me, sir? I just got out of the hospital and I need to get a prescription-"
Yeah, right. Prescription my shiny white butt. I'm bettin' on meth. You know how many times I've got the I, My Wife, My Kid Need Medicine pitch from panhandlers? Four times, and it has to be the new official sympathy con of the world. Sheesh.
Honestly, this guy's line is older than dirt, and I was unimpressed. By the time he'd got to mentioning a prescription, I had put my palm up in a one-handed Talk To The Hand version of The Fence, just to keep some distance between us, and I spit out a terse, "No, man!" to the beggar and kept walking like he wasn't even there. He said a few more passive aggressive words to my back, but I didn't care and he wandered off.
In the past, I would have given this guy the time of day, and maybe even some cash. But lately I'm getting real short-tempered and crotchety with these lazy skels who don't even try to be good beggars, and the fact that I know so many of the common panhandler's come-ons just makes me all the more hair-triggered irritable with these people.
It's not that I have anything against begging, mind you. It's a trade, like any other, and one of the world's oldest professions. But if a member of this dubious fraternity approaches me, I demand that more thought and originality be evident in the beggar's pitch, or they get nothing but contempt from me.
No joke, give me a new and heartbreaking Tale of Woe, or threadbare clothes and a broken stagger. Give me bleary eyes and a boozy slur, or gimme comedy or a slick line of palaver. But gimme a reason!
The tired old, "I ran out of gas and need to get to Tucson", or "My wife needs her meds", or "I need bus fare because my grandma's in the hospital and I'm an orphan" lines are stale and uninspiring, and no longer work on this weary traveler.
At first I may have felt self-righteously justified in shutting this beggar down and treating him as a non-entity, but eventually my wrath fell down around my ears and I began to feel bad.
But then I had a cookie, and felt better.
But then tonight I had another run-in with some more annoying people.
I stopped at Fry's on my way home to get some milk, and as I pulled in to the parking lot, I noticed four men loitering out in front of the entrance. when I got out of my car, two of the men were walking off while the other two were shouting out the website addy for some sort of dot-org group.
I was tired, and with a sign of resignation I squared my shoulders and put the most unapproachable scowl I could muster on my face. Both of these guys were scuzzpunks in gangster-noir clothing, shorts halfway down their butts, gold chains, and one had a sideways cap on his head.
When I passed them, one of them asked me if I could give them a few minutes of my time, and I growled out a sullen,"Not tonight" and kept walking. I expected to be harassed as I walked out of the store, but they were gone when I came out five minutes later. Maybe I hurt their feelings. :P
Am I wrong? Am I just an intolerant SOB?
Yes, I am. Sue me.
But one thing I can say, is that the art of begging will become an art form in the coming years. The depression will bring out anyone who needs a quick buck. So I suppose I'd better just accept it and learn to move like water through the demanding throngs of panhandlers that will be infesting the parking lots and street corners in the months and years to come.
For all I know, I may end up as one of them.
Well, I seem to be running into more than my share lately. Case in point: A few days ago, I pulled into the Food City parking lot intent on buying ingredients for salsa and baleadas.
As I was walking towards the entrance, I noticed a guy meandering along who, as he noticed me, suddenly changed course to intercept my path. Being the suspicious jerk that I am, I was immediately suspicious of this turd. He was a tall, reddish blond white guy, relatively fit and healthy, and walking with a relaxed stride. As he got closer I noticed his eyes were bloodshot.
He caught my eye and sure enough, right out of his mouth came the pitch. "Excuse me, sir? I just got out of the hospital and I need to get a prescription-"
Yeah, right. Prescription my shiny white butt. I'm bettin' on meth. You know how many times I've got the I, My Wife, My Kid Need Medicine pitch from panhandlers? Four times, and it has to be the new official sympathy con of the world. Sheesh.
Honestly, this guy's line is older than dirt, and I was unimpressed. By the time he'd got to mentioning a prescription, I had put my palm up in a one-handed Talk To The Hand version of The Fence, just to keep some distance between us, and I spit out a terse, "No, man!" to the beggar and kept walking like he wasn't even there. He said a few more passive aggressive words to my back, but I didn't care and he wandered off.
In the past, I would have given this guy the time of day, and maybe even some cash. But lately I'm getting real short-tempered and crotchety with these lazy skels who don't even try to be good beggars, and the fact that I know so many of the common panhandler's come-ons just makes me all the more hair-triggered irritable with these people.
It's not that I have anything against begging, mind you. It's a trade, like any other, and one of the world's oldest professions. But if a member of this dubious fraternity approaches me, I demand that more thought and originality be evident in the beggar's pitch, or they get nothing but contempt from me.
No joke, give me a new and heartbreaking Tale of Woe, or threadbare clothes and a broken stagger. Give me bleary eyes and a boozy slur, or gimme comedy or a slick line of palaver. But gimme a reason!
The tired old, "I ran out of gas and need to get to Tucson", or "My wife needs her meds", or "I need bus fare because my grandma's in the hospital and I'm an orphan" lines are stale and uninspiring, and no longer work on this weary traveler.
At first I may have felt self-righteously justified in shutting this beggar down and treating him as a non-entity, but eventually my wrath fell down around my ears and I began to feel bad.
But then I had a cookie, and felt better.
But then tonight I had another run-in with some more annoying people.
I stopped at Fry's on my way home to get some milk, and as I pulled in to the parking lot, I noticed four men loitering out in front of the entrance. when I got out of my car, two of the men were walking off while the other two were shouting out the website addy for some sort of dot-org group.
I was tired, and with a sign of resignation I squared my shoulders and put the most unapproachable scowl I could muster on my face. Both of these guys were scuzzpunks in gangster-noir clothing, shorts halfway down their butts, gold chains, and one had a sideways cap on his head.
When I passed them, one of them asked me if I could give them a few minutes of my time, and I growled out a sullen,"Not tonight" and kept walking. I expected to be harassed as I walked out of the store, but they were gone when I came out five minutes later. Maybe I hurt their feelings. :P
Am I wrong? Am I just an intolerant SOB?
Yes, I am. Sue me.
But one thing I can say, is that the art of begging will become an art form in the coming years. The depression will bring out anyone who needs a quick buck. So I suppose I'd better just accept it and learn to move like water through the demanding throngs of panhandlers that will be infesting the parking lots and street corners in the months and years to come.
For all I know, I may end up as one of them.
Friday, March 20, 2009
24: The West Wingnut
I can't believe I spent 40+ minutes tonight watching the latest episode of 24. This show is being written by people who are only there to collect a paycheck and spread their libtarditude to the masses. I actually feel a little embarrassed for the actors who were on the show this season. Except for Janine Garophaloahloah. And Cherry Jones. And Sprague Grayden. They can go pound sand.
Alright, I'm not going to bother describing this weeks' crapisode of 24, so I'll let The Amazing Steve from Dave Barry's blog do it for me.
Last time on "24", we saw that: Bill went to visit Edgar; The White House has no emergency backup power generator if the lights go out; Hospitals with important patients don't have very high security; If Jack tells you not to move, you shouldn't move; If you offer Olivia a job, chances are pretty good she'll turn on you; Jack will go limp if you feed him an Alka-Seltzer, but can revive so quickly that he'll jump through a ceiling to follow a bad guy.
9:00 pm – Jack runs to hide from the police, and happens to find a car old enough that he can smash through it with his elbow. He breaks out his laptop, which happens to be a Mac, which in 24 is traditionally the good guy computer.
9:01 pm – Morris is being tortured at FBI headquarters! Oh, wait, he's talking to Janis – it's worse than torture! Morris is trying to find out where Chloe is, and after going 'round and 'round, Janis finally tells him that Chloe is under arrest. Janis tells Morris to wait in the conference room.
9:02 pm – Larry calls Janis, who appears to have taken over Renee's role. Renee is busy talking to the FBI human resources guy, who tries to go over the FBI policy of cutting down to only shooting three people a day, now that she's on suspension. Renee listens in to Janis' conversation, and it's pretty much a recap of what we already know from last hour, which is Burnett is dead, and Jack took off. Janis recaps this again to Renee, just in case any of the viewers dozed off while it was explained the first time.
9:05 pm – Jack uses his super-Jack powers to drive, work on the computer, find the bad guy, send e-mail, and do promotional advertising using a well-known cell phone company that rhymes with Splint. He calls Renee to ask her to ID the guy Jack is looking for. She does some serious acting, which for her is staring off into space. Jack almost hangs up on her, but she finally agrees to help him ID the bad guy.
9:06 pm – Meanwhile Quinn, the guy Jack is looking for, is listening in on a police radio to find out if there are any episodes of "COPS" being filmed in the area. He happens to hear that the FBI is looking for Jack, so he calls Jonas to let him know that 1) Jack got away, and 2) Jack is an impressive operative. Jonas agrees that Jack is impressive, and is a bit worried that Jack is so impressive it could be trouble for them.
Greg, Jonas' assistant, states the obvious, and says that Jack might be trouble for them. Jonas thinks that once "the weapons" will be deployed, Jack won't matter. He then goes on a tirade about it being necessary to kill a lot of people but that "the loss of one soul is tragic to me", which indicates he might be very delusional, or the devil, or both. I'm leaning towards delusional, because he then tells Greg to wake up a bunch of people because they're going to have a sleepover.
9:08 pm – Renee finds Quinn's information, and calls Jack, telling him that Quinn is working for Starkwood, a private army company. Renee thinks that Senator Red Foreman knows all about Starkwood and what they've been up to, so Jack's going to talk to him.
9:09 pm – Larry shows up at the FBI, and asks Janis a question which he promptly ignores. He walks in to find Renee working on her computer. She says she was just finishing up a game of Minesweeper. Larry doesn't see this, and instead talks to her about Jack.
Larry walks out with a dumb look on his face, but it turns out he was just thinking. Somehow he knows, probably by reading in the script, that Renee talked to Jack. He tells Janis to do "some of that computer stuff" to find out what Renee has been up to . He wants to use Renee as bait to catch Jack. Janis goes along with this, despite her concern that putting Renee on a hook with a fishing pole will be a dead giveaway.
Commercial
9:16 pm – Mrs. President is already relaxing watching her television in the Oval Office, while one of her speech writers is working hard. Olivia wants to spin the whole Juma incident into a great PR campaign, and Mrs. President agrees. Ethan comes in the door, despite Olivia giving him the evil eye. Ethan put on his evil eye repellent this morning, so this has no effect on him.
Ethan tells Mrs. President what Jack has suspected – that there are still people around that helped Juma. He tells her what happened at the hospital, and that he thinks Jack made the whole thing up, since all the evidence about Jack so far points AWAY from Jack. Ethan says he did this to protect the president, and Olivia starts kibitzing from the peanut gallery. Mrs. President tells her not to be snotty.
Ethan tells her that the FBI is devoting their full resources to finding Jack. Since this involves Janis in some way, chances are slim they're catch Jack.
9:18 pm – Renee hands in her badge and gun to the FBI human resources guy. Janis jumps into surveillance mode by staring right at Renee in a completely obvious way, and talking into her headset. Renee leaves the room. Larry catches up to her, and wants to know where Jack is. She refuses to cooperate, so he has her arrested.
9:20 pm – Senator Red Foreman arrives at home to find that someone has involved him in a game of "Goldilocks and The Three Bears" – someone's been using his computer, and it was just right! He looks around, and sees Jack. The Senator says that he knows what happened at the hospital, and that Jack isn't going to be able to kill him all that easily. Jack correctly points out that 1) he would already be dead, and 2) all it would take is Jack's little finger.
Jack is convinced that Starkwood is involved, and Senator Foreman doesn't believe him. The Senator is completely convinced he's right, because they've had "investigations and everything".
Commercial
9:29 pm – More Mrs. President hugs, this time for Olivia. She goes out to talk to everyone in the press, who give her a standing ovation, even that ancient woman in the front row. During her speech, a reporter grabs Ethan. The reporter tells Ethan just about everything that happened within the last hour, which makes him the third or fourth person that has gone over that same story within the last half an hour. Ethan denies the whole thing, and then goes straight to Olivia. They argue about leaking to the press, and Olivia turns out to be quite a bit more rotten then we've previously suspected, since she doesn't seem to have a problem with throwing just about anyone under the bus. She just wants to get "even" with Ethan for pointing out that she's probably not the best person to be advising Mrs. President.
9:31 pm – Larry's on the phone with someone who's already looking for Jack somewhere in the northeast, which is a lot farther away than even Jack can get in 30 minutes, even if he was delivering pizzas. Janis walks in to tell him that Renee used some really high level encryption involving a combination of Blowfish, DES, RSA, rot13, and lemon juice. She says she can't decrypt it, but Chloe probably can. Instead, Larry goes to see Morris, who could also probably decrypt it.
Larry and Janis explain the situation. Morris finds the whole thing hard to believe: Janis is actually working for the FBI. He also thinks that Jack wouldn't have done what they're accusing him of. He finally agrees to do the decryption for full immunity for Chloe, nothing on her record, and a large cherry slushie. Larry agrees. Morris then makes the huge mistake of telling Janis that she's a witness. She responds, "What kind? Jehovah?" He ignores this as he gets to work. Hours of work for Janis, turns out to be seconds of work for Morris – they now know that Jack was headed to visit Senator Red Foreman.
Commercial
9:41 pm – Janis tells Larry that they can't reach the Senator. She's pretty sure it's Jack because the phone they tried to reach the Senator with has been tasered. Larry leaves with a team. Janis walks back to her desk giving orders into her empty hand, when she realizes she left her Bluetooth headset on her desk. She hopes that nobody noticed her doing this.
9:42 pm – Chloe starts to complain to Morris that he shouldn't have helped the FBI. She's really mad and points out that a large squad of FBI agents going after Jack isn't going to be a good thing – for Jack, or them.
9:43 pm – Senator Foreman asks Jack if he has any regrets. Jack sings, (to: "My Way")
"Regrets, I've had a few;
But then again, I got to shoot spies;
I did what I had to do,
and I also got to shoot thighs!
I planned each sneak attack,
Each careful drive along the highway,
But more, much more than this,
I shot them my way!"
9:44 pm – Senator Foreman tries to pretend to understand what Jack has been through. While he does this, Jack finds a picture of a car accident – with Quinn in it! At first Senator Foreman doesn't believe there was a connection, but Jack quickly (even by "24" standards) puts the pieces together: Juma had a WMD that he used against his own people, and Starkwood probably helped him get it. The Senator finds it hard to believe that Juma had a Wild Martian Daiquiri. Jack tells him he means, "weapon of mass destruction" – a bioweapon. Jack thinks they intend to use it.
Suddenly, there's a knock at the door. It's Metro PD! Senator Foreman thinks this might be a setup for another reference to an old Saturday Night Live joke which has been done here before, but Jack believes it's really the police.. The Senator FINALLY realizes that Jack might be on to something, and promises to help Jack. Jack doesn't want to trust him, but he does. The Senator goes to the door, and it turns out that it isn't Metro PD after all – It's Quinn! He hands the Senator some bullets; well, not so much hands as shoots. Senator Foreman is dead! Jack crashes through a window, and escapes before Quinn can hand him some bullets too. Quinn chases after Jack, while the real Metro PD – the ones that don't assassinate senators, drives by.
Commercial
9:53 pm – Olivia enters the Oval Office where Mrs. President and Ethan are waiting. Mrs. President confronts her with the press leak, and wants to hear what Olivia has to say about it. She tells them both that the press probably found out about this from reading a blog from a famous humor writer whose name rhymes with "Brave Dairy". She says that it also might be a leak from inside the federal marshall's office. Olivia got the producer to drop everything by getting him to agree to an exclusive interview with Mrs. President and a shiny nickel. Ethan apologizes, but Olivia just gives him another one of her evil eyes. That one doesn't work this time either.
9:55 pm - Jack runs back and forth, killing a little more time until the end of the hour. He climbs a fence. Meanwhile, Quinn is still running around looking for Jack. Quinn gets mad at a lock, and shoots it. (Jack would have tasered it). Quinn goes into a building, and shoots everything inside just in case Jack is hiding. Jack, of course is WAY ahead of Quinn and uses bulldozer to knock over the whole building! There's a big fight. Jack plays with him for a while, and then throws a knife in Quinn's chest with a follow-up slam in the chest with a two by four. Jack asks when the weapon is coming. Quinn tells him that it is already here, and dies. Jack grabs Quinn's cell phone and finds a text message that says "Port of Alexandria. Yard C. 2230". Jack guesses that they're not taking about Egypt, and uses his phone to call someone.
Larry finds Senator Red is dead, and orders Jack to be shot on sight, which is better than shooting people blindly.
Jack's calls Tony. He tells Tony to meet him at the Port of Alexandria. Jack drives off, taking off a bit of aggression against a defenseless fence.
10:00 pm – Time's up!
NEXT TIME ON "24": ETHAN RESIGNS! SHOOTING! TRUCKS! HELICOPTERS! TONY! JACK! SEE YOU NEXT WEEK!
Seriously? Bio-weapons? AGAIN?!!! C'm on! My giant mutant lizard idea was better. And who's the bad guy this time? Islamo-fascists? Japanese doomsday cultists? Iranians?
No, of course not. It's Blackwater USA, thinly disguised as Starkwood, a stupid plot device ripped off from the post-apocalyptic show Jericho. Only on Jericho, they called it Ravenwood.
Yep, the big villians who're going to kill everyone are NOT foreign terrorists, but instead an American Private Military Company based off of a real-life PMC that's been doing the job our own government won't allow our soldiers to do. Namely, kill terrorists.
This show has become a big stupid liberal echo chamber. And it's become a parody of itself.
So in closing I'll just say this...
24, you went Full Retard. You jumped the shark, and you lost me, and others. You need to go be with Edgar and Bill for all eternity now. We had a good run, didn't we?
But I'm through.
Alright, I'm not going to bother describing this weeks' crapisode of 24, so I'll let The Amazing Steve from Dave Barry's blog do it for me.
Last time on "24", we saw that: Bill went to visit Edgar; The White House has no emergency backup power generator if the lights go out; Hospitals with important patients don't have very high security; If Jack tells you not to move, you shouldn't move; If you offer Olivia a job, chances are pretty good she'll turn on you; Jack will go limp if you feed him an Alka-Seltzer, but can revive so quickly that he'll jump through a ceiling to follow a bad guy.
9:00 pm – Jack runs to hide from the police, and happens to find a car old enough that he can smash through it with his elbow. He breaks out his laptop, which happens to be a Mac, which in 24 is traditionally the good guy computer.
9:01 pm – Morris is being tortured at FBI headquarters! Oh, wait, he's talking to Janis – it's worse than torture! Morris is trying to find out where Chloe is, and after going 'round and 'round, Janis finally tells him that Chloe is under arrest. Janis tells Morris to wait in the conference room.
9:02 pm – Larry calls Janis, who appears to have taken over Renee's role. Renee is busy talking to the FBI human resources guy, who tries to go over the FBI policy of cutting down to only shooting three people a day, now that she's on suspension. Renee listens in to Janis' conversation, and it's pretty much a recap of what we already know from last hour, which is Burnett is dead, and Jack took off. Janis recaps this again to Renee, just in case any of the viewers dozed off while it was explained the first time.
9:05 pm – Jack uses his super-Jack powers to drive, work on the computer, find the bad guy, send e-mail, and do promotional advertising using a well-known cell phone company that rhymes with Splint. He calls Renee to ask her to ID the guy Jack is looking for. She does some serious acting, which for her is staring off into space. Jack almost hangs up on her, but she finally agrees to help him ID the bad guy.
9:06 pm – Meanwhile Quinn, the guy Jack is looking for, is listening in on a police radio to find out if there are any episodes of "COPS" being filmed in the area. He happens to hear that the FBI is looking for Jack, so he calls Jonas to let him know that 1) Jack got away, and 2) Jack is an impressive operative. Jonas agrees that Jack is impressive, and is a bit worried that Jack is so impressive it could be trouble for them.
Greg, Jonas' assistant, states the obvious, and says that Jack might be trouble for them. Jonas thinks that once "the weapons" will be deployed, Jack won't matter. He then goes on a tirade about it being necessary to kill a lot of people but that "the loss of one soul is tragic to me", which indicates he might be very delusional, or the devil, or both. I'm leaning towards delusional, because he then tells Greg to wake up a bunch of people because they're going to have a sleepover.
9:08 pm – Renee finds Quinn's information, and calls Jack, telling him that Quinn is working for Starkwood, a private army company. Renee thinks that Senator Red Foreman knows all about Starkwood and what they've been up to, so Jack's going to talk to him.
9:09 pm – Larry shows up at the FBI, and asks Janis a question which he promptly ignores. He walks in to find Renee working on her computer. She says she was just finishing up a game of Minesweeper. Larry doesn't see this, and instead talks to her about Jack.
Larry walks out with a dumb look on his face, but it turns out he was just thinking. Somehow he knows, probably by reading in the script, that Renee talked to Jack. He tells Janis to do "some of that computer stuff" to find out what Renee has been up to . He wants to use Renee as bait to catch Jack. Janis goes along with this, despite her concern that putting Renee on a hook with a fishing pole will be a dead giveaway.
Commercial
9:16 pm – Mrs. President is already relaxing watching her television in the Oval Office, while one of her speech writers is working hard. Olivia wants to spin the whole Juma incident into a great PR campaign, and Mrs. President agrees. Ethan comes in the door, despite Olivia giving him the evil eye. Ethan put on his evil eye repellent this morning, so this has no effect on him.
Ethan tells Mrs. President what Jack has suspected – that there are still people around that helped Juma. He tells her what happened at the hospital, and that he thinks Jack made the whole thing up, since all the evidence about Jack so far points AWAY from Jack. Ethan says he did this to protect the president, and Olivia starts kibitzing from the peanut gallery. Mrs. President tells her not to be snotty.
Ethan tells her that the FBI is devoting their full resources to finding Jack. Since this involves Janis in some way, chances are slim they're catch Jack.
9:18 pm – Renee hands in her badge and gun to the FBI human resources guy. Janis jumps into surveillance mode by staring right at Renee in a completely obvious way, and talking into her headset. Renee leaves the room. Larry catches up to her, and wants to know where Jack is. She refuses to cooperate, so he has her arrested.
9:20 pm – Senator Red Foreman arrives at home to find that someone has involved him in a game of "Goldilocks and The Three Bears" – someone's been using his computer, and it was just right! He looks around, and sees Jack. The Senator says that he knows what happened at the hospital, and that Jack isn't going to be able to kill him all that easily. Jack correctly points out that 1) he would already be dead, and 2) all it would take is Jack's little finger.
Jack is convinced that Starkwood is involved, and Senator Foreman doesn't believe him. The Senator is completely convinced he's right, because they've had "investigations and everything".
Commercial
9:29 pm – More Mrs. President hugs, this time for Olivia. She goes out to talk to everyone in the press, who give her a standing ovation, even that ancient woman in the front row. During her speech, a reporter grabs Ethan. The reporter tells Ethan just about everything that happened within the last hour, which makes him the third or fourth person that has gone over that same story within the last half an hour. Ethan denies the whole thing, and then goes straight to Olivia. They argue about leaking to the press, and Olivia turns out to be quite a bit more rotten then we've previously suspected, since she doesn't seem to have a problem with throwing just about anyone under the bus. She just wants to get "even" with Ethan for pointing out that she's probably not the best person to be advising Mrs. President.
9:31 pm – Larry's on the phone with someone who's already looking for Jack somewhere in the northeast, which is a lot farther away than even Jack can get in 30 minutes, even if he was delivering pizzas. Janis walks in to tell him that Renee used some really high level encryption involving a combination of Blowfish, DES, RSA, rot13, and lemon juice. She says she can't decrypt it, but Chloe probably can. Instead, Larry goes to see Morris, who could also probably decrypt it.
Larry and Janis explain the situation. Morris finds the whole thing hard to believe: Janis is actually working for the FBI. He also thinks that Jack wouldn't have done what they're accusing him of. He finally agrees to do the decryption for full immunity for Chloe, nothing on her record, and a large cherry slushie. Larry agrees. Morris then makes the huge mistake of telling Janis that she's a witness. She responds, "What kind? Jehovah?" He ignores this as he gets to work. Hours of work for Janis, turns out to be seconds of work for Morris – they now know that Jack was headed to visit Senator Red Foreman.
Commercial
9:41 pm – Janis tells Larry that they can't reach the Senator. She's pretty sure it's Jack because the phone they tried to reach the Senator with has been tasered. Larry leaves with a team. Janis walks back to her desk giving orders into her empty hand, when she realizes she left her Bluetooth headset on her desk. She hopes that nobody noticed her doing this.
9:42 pm – Chloe starts to complain to Morris that he shouldn't have helped the FBI. She's really mad and points out that a large squad of FBI agents going after Jack isn't going to be a good thing – for Jack, or them.
9:43 pm – Senator Foreman asks Jack if he has any regrets. Jack sings, (to: "My Way")
"Regrets, I've had a few;
But then again, I got to shoot spies;
I did what I had to do,
and I also got to shoot thighs!
I planned each sneak attack,
Each careful drive along the highway,
But more, much more than this,
I shot them my way!"
9:44 pm – Senator Foreman tries to pretend to understand what Jack has been through. While he does this, Jack finds a picture of a car accident – with Quinn in it! At first Senator Foreman doesn't believe there was a connection, but Jack quickly (even by "24" standards) puts the pieces together: Juma had a WMD that he used against his own people, and Starkwood probably helped him get it. The Senator finds it hard to believe that Juma had a Wild Martian Daiquiri. Jack tells him he means, "weapon of mass destruction" – a bioweapon. Jack thinks they intend to use it.
Suddenly, there's a knock at the door. It's Metro PD! Senator Foreman thinks this might be a setup for another reference to an old Saturday Night Live joke which has been done here before, but Jack believes it's really the police.. The Senator FINALLY realizes that Jack might be on to something, and promises to help Jack. Jack doesn't want to trust him, but he does. The Senator goes to the door, and it turns out that it isn't Metro PD after all – It's Quinn! He hands the Senator some bullets; well, not so much hands as shoots. Senator Foreman is dead! Jack crashes through a window, and escapes before Quinn can hand him some bullets too. Quinn chases after Jack, while the real Metro PD – the ones that don't assassinate senators, drives by.
Commercial
9:53 pm – Olivia enters the Oval Office where Mrs. President and Ethan are waiting. Mrs. President confronts her with the press leak, and wants to hear what Olivia has to say about it. She tells them both that the press probably found out about this from reading a blog from a famous humor writer whose name rhymes with "Brave Dairy". She says that it also might be a leak from inside the federal marshall's office. Olivia got the producer to drop everything by getting him to agree to an exclusive interview with Mrs. President and a shiny nickel. Ethan apologizes, but Olivia just gives him another one of her evil eyes. That one doesn't work this time either.
9:55 pm - Jack runs back and forth, killing a little more time until the end of the hour. He climbs a fence. Meanwhile, Quinn is still running around looking for Jack. Quinn gets mad at a lock, and shoots it. (Jack would have tasered it). Quinn goes into a building, and shoots everything inside just in case Jack is hiding. Jack, of course is WAY ahead of Quinn and uses bulldozer to knock over the whole building! There's a big fight. Jack plays with him for a while, and then throws a knife in Quinn's chest with a follow-up slam in the chest with a two by four. Jack asks when the weapon is coming. Quinn tells him that it is already here, and dies. Jack grabs Quinn's cell phone and finds a text message that says "Port of Alexandria. Yard C. 2230". Jack guesses that they're not taking about Egypt, and uses his phone to call someone.
Larry finds Senator Red is dead, and orders Jack to be shot on sight, which is better than shooting people blindly.
Jack's calls Tony. He tells Tony to meet him at the Port of Alexandria. Jack drives off, taking off a bit of aggression against a defenseless fence.
10:00 pm – Time's up!
NEXT TIME ON "24": ETHAN RESIGNS! SHOOTING! TRUCKS! HELICOPTERS! TONY! JACK! SEE YOU NEXT WEEK!
Seriously? Bio-weapons? AGAIN?!!! C'm on! My giant mutant lizard idea was better. And who's the bad guy this time? Islamo-fascists? Japanese doomsday cultists? Iranians?
No, of course not. It's Blackwater USA, thinly disguised as Starkwood, a stupid plot device ripped off from the post-apocalyptic show Jericho. Only on Jericho, they called it Ravenwood.
Yep, the big villians who're going to kill everyone are NOT foreign terrorists, but instead an American Private Military Company based off of a real-life PMC that's been doing the job our own government won't allow our soldiers to do. Namely, kill terrorists.
This show has become a big stupid liberal echo chamber. And it's become a parody of itself.
So in closing I'll just say this...
24, you went Full Retard. You jumped the shark, and you lost me, and others. You need to go be with Edgar and Bill for all eternity now. We had a good run, didn't we?
But I'm through.
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