Or: America Gets Fat, Stupid, and Heavily Armed.

During the first half of this past week, I discovered an interesting thread running through the news. First, a story from the Associated Press about rising obesity rates in the US. Thirty-one states posted an increase in horrid, unsightly flab, with the remaining 19 states showing no change from previous years. Mississippi holds the title, with one-third of its population unable to see their feet or turn down that fourth helping of deep-fried grits and barbequed pig offal. West Virginia and Alabama follow close behind, proving a point I've been making for years: Everything bad in this country is ten times worse south of the Mason-Dixon. If ol' Abe Lincoln could've seen into the future, he probably would've said, "Well, President of the Confederacy Jefferson Davis, without your cotton and tobacco, trade in the north will suffer. You use slaves to perform all your grueling, back-breaking labor, which in morally inexcusable. But in 150 years or so, the south will be peopled by ignorant, gap-toothed, dull-witted, disgustingly overweight welfare cheats who only exist to make the rest of us look better by comparison. So go right ahead and secede. I'm sure we'll manage."

(I should point out here that my Father's parents are both from the south. They are wonderful, intelligent, tolerant people, full of love and compassion for their fellow man and a desire to improve the world around them. I should also point out that they've lived in New England for the last 50-plus years, because they clearly didn't fit in where they're from.)

The same day the above was reported, another article from the AP told of yet another drop in SAT scores, bringing the national average to a new eight-year low. But is this evidence that America is getting dumber? Not according to the College Board, who believe the decrease is due to "a more diverse pool of students" taking the exam. Of course, by "diverse pool," what they really mean is "Hispanics and blacks." Asians, as we all know, are the ones keeping the scores from totally bottoming out. Clearly, the College Board has no idea what they're talking about. America is, without question, getting dumber. Just spend an afternoon watching MTV, VH1 and the E! Network. It's been scientifically proven that your IQ drops a half-point every two minutes while watching "The Hills," a full point per episode of "Scott Baio is 45... And Single," and a whopping ten points for even thinking about watching "The Girls Next Door." An all-day marathon of "The Simple Life" is the mental equivalent of drinking a bottle of Liquid Plumber. 

So we're fat and stupid. Big deal. We make up for our national shortcomings by packing more heat than any other country in the world. According to the annual Small Arms Survey, there are enough guns in the US to arm 9 out of 10 people. Feels good, doesn't it? Of approximately 875 million small arms (from pistols to semi-automatic rifles) in world-wide circulation, civilians have access to 650 million of them, and of that number, 270 million are in the hands of American citizens. How d'you like that? Over 1/4 of the small arms in the world belong to us. Michael Moore and Rosie O'Donnell can eat a bag of dicks (well, more like two bags each, because one would barely be an appetizer for those fat sacks of freedom-hating shit). Why? Because when the rape trucks come rolling down the street and John Q. Government asks us to step outside while they ransack the house, we can put up a fight. Sure, the jack-boots have better technology and heavier artillery, but so did the British back in 1776, and look how that worked out. Yeah, I know, I sound like a paranoid lunatic who's seen Red Dawn and Invasion USA too many times (which is entirely true), but hey, fuck you. It could happen. And if it does, I know where I'll be: Heading north at 110 per, armed to the teeth and cooking any fool who dares get in my way.

So there we have it. America, land of the fat, home of the dumb. But mess with us and we'll fucking shoot you. Now I must shower, because I haven't bathed all weekend and I smell strongly of beer sweat and crotch-rot. 

...wherein I discuss amusing things that I've seen, read or heard in the last week (or so).

THIS WEEK IN PHALUSES: There was enough genital mutilation in the news this past week to give the makers of the Saw franchise material for another gross of sequels (pun intended). A performer at this year's Edinburgh Fringe Festival, Daniel Blackner, was hospitalized after accidentally gluing his penis to a vacuum attachment. This unnatural coupling is, as reported by the Associated Foreign Press, the "main part of [Blackner's] act." I can understand this. You always want to leave your audience with a spectacle. Gallagher splatters crowds of white-trash with watermelon detritus, why can't this guy (who performs under the name "Captain Dan the Demon Dwarf") violate household appliances?

Apparently, Captain Dan (who's military record is currently being researched) broke the "special attachment" for the vacuum moments before the, ahem, climax of his performance, and he quickly glued it back together using a powerful industrial epoxy. Problem is, like many adhesives of this nature, it requires a fair amount of time to set fully, in this case twenty minutes. Blackner waited a mere 20 seconds before inserting his own "Demon Dwarf" into the apparatus. Now, I can't even fix the soles of my crusty old Vans without gluing at least two of my fingers together. The thought of getting that damnable stuff near my most delicate of regions is nigh-incomprehensible. "It was the most embarrassing moment of my life when I got wheeled into a packed AE with a vacuum attached to me," Blackner told the AFP. Coming from a guy who hooks vacuums to his junk (in public, no less!) for a living, one can only imagine what such a level of embarrassment would do one of us.

In other wince-inducing news this week, a Russian woman set fire to her ex-husband's penis. The couple had been divorced for three years, but continued to live together due to the high real estate costs in Moscow.  "I was burning like a torch. I don't know what I did to deserve this," the ex-husband told the Tvoi Den newspaper. According to Reuters, at the time of the incident, the victim (whose name was not released to the media) was watching TV and drinking vodka while in the nude, which may have been the problem. If I came home from work to find my roommate bare-ass naked, sprawled out on the couch (which, I might add, we both have to sit on) slamming shots of Orloff and watching Judge Alex, I might be tempted to set fire to his moose-knuckle too. And he's not even my ex! (Well, there was this one time, during a thunderstorm, I got scared, and he and I, well... never mind.) As for the possibility of a full recovery, a spokeswoman for the Moscow police said it was "difficult to predict." I have a prediction: No way in hell. Fire is a powerful elemental force, and flesh is comparatively weak and malleable. The odds of his critter being anything but crispy after this are virtually nil.

That's it for now. Remember, caves are nature's holes.

I'm not usually one for musicals, whether it's on stage or film. Not that I have anything against it, hell I've acted in several stage productions myself. I just don't like watching it.

In most of your classic musicals and their movie versions, like Fiddler on the Roof or Anything Goes, it seems like the plot comes to a grinding halt so everyone can sing and dance about some minute plot point for five minutes. Contemporary musical films fall well-short of the entertainment mark, too, but for different reasons. You have movies adapted from musicals adapted from non-musical movies (Mel Brooks, I'm looking in your direction). We also get god-awful cinematic still-births like Moulin Rouge, where the filmmakers were so lazy they just shoehorned modern pop songs into the mouths of Ewan MacGreggor, Nicole Kidman and (ugh) John Leguizamo. Don't even get me started on Disney, Aladdin, and all those shitty Elton John and Billy Joel songs.

Occasionally, Trey Parker and Matt Stone make the rare musical that entertains me, like Cannibal! or the South Park movie. Also, I've heard Evil Dead: The Musical is pretty good (anything with an audience "Splatter Zone" that's not a Galagher show gets my approval). But even I stopped laughing at the "When I Was On Top of You" scene in Cannibal! and started fast-forwarding through it after a couple of viewings (although the "Fudge, Packer?" tag at the end still cracks me up). Trey Parker is an admitted fan of musicals, and songs like that and "Up There" from South Park are intended more as a parody of classic musical cliches, especially those of the aforementioned House o' Mouse. It's that scene, about halfway through, where a character sings a tender ballad about how great life would be if only they can get that girl, climb that mountain, or have their flaws magically corrected. Well, duh! Who's life wouldn't be better! "You mean Beast doesn't want to be a beast? He wants to be a normal guy so Belle will give up the booty? Thank god that teapot and candelabra spent three hours singing about it, or I never would have figured that out!"

I'm an impatient and busy man. I'm not waiting around forever to find out what the hell is going on with Lost, or if Jack Bauer will do whatever it is he does when he's not torturing someone. I'm definately not sitting through twenty minutes of plot with two hours of singing crammed into it like an overstuffed beanbag chair.

I've decided to change my screen name. Why? Why the fuck not? I do what I want, when I want. I answer to no one. Not you, not my probation officer, no one.

I felt my old name lacked any real insight into my character. As anyone who's spent more than five minutes with me can attest, "Random Dan" is quite fitting. See, my brain is kind of like a giant game of Hungry Hungry Hippos. Millions of thoughts, ideas, facts and opinions rattle around my head like little marbles. Instead of four day-glo plastic hippo heads, each with their own "chomping action" paddle, I have about thirty, each manned by a blind, spastic chimpanzee. They swat at their controls with psychotic zeal, howling away and flinging feces at each other. Occasionally, one manages to grab a marble (usually Mr. Pepper, manning the orange hippo), but instead of being collected in a little cup, the marble/thought falls out of my mouth. After that, depending on my mood and state of inebriation, I'll begin to free-associate, not so much assembling straight chains of thought as a complex lattice or wicker chair. Ideas weave in and out of each other, intersecting but never really connecting. Then I get distracted, forget what I was saying, and the process begin again.

I'm better when engaged in a conversation. I can talk certain topics to death, going on and on long after everyone else has lost interest and moved on. In these modern times, what with the kids today with their Blackberries and IM-ing and their baggy pants and the Pokemon, conversation has almost become a lost art. "OMFG!" "LOL!" "BRB!" This is not a conversation, people. I fear the day I hear high school kids using chatroom shorthand to talk to each other. A recent Cingularrrrrr commercial pokes fun at this idea, but to me, the ad is a vision of a bleak, hellish future where everyone communicates in cute acronyms. I think things will be okay, as long as no one figures out how to use "smileys" and "zwinkies," or whatever the fuck they're called, in real life. "I met a girl! We get along great, and we're gonna get married!" "What's she like?" "Well, her avatar is really cute!"

I suppose I'm not one to talk. It's a lovely day out, a bit overcast, but comfortable. Where am I? Sitting around in my pajamas, writing this thing for people to read on the Internet. At least I'm using real words and putting some thought into grammar. And besides, I've been up since 6 AM, tending to a bunch of stupid, filthy animals and the horses they own. I can sit around in my jammies all damn day if I want. As previously stated, I answer to no one.

Keep it greasy, bitches.

I gotta remember to stay hydrated. I spent most of my morning drinking coffee, and of course I got so wound up by the afternoon that I had to drive into Portland and walk around for 3 hours to burn off some energy. Plus, as anyone who has seen me in person can attest, I'm a fat slob. I get winded watching television, so any exercise I can get is good for me. Being the dolt I am, I forgot to eat anything today, aside from my morning vitamins, a donut, and a couple of those cereal bar-thingies. On top of all this, I'm still recovering from my usual battery of spring colds, and I was up late drinking on Saturday (apologies to anyone who saw me shirtless that night- you will one day be able to hold down solid food).

So I've got a stomach filled with black coffee and not much else, I'm out of shape, it's 40 degrees out (not counting the stiff winds), I'm blowing snot all over myself every time I breathe though my nose, and to cap it all off, I don't have any water. So imagine my surprise four hours later when my kidneys start to ache. Normally I wouldn't post two blogs in one day, but I need something to take my mind of the pain. Hence the Sam Black. Mutant hardcore rock played at high volume always eases my ills. It's just at my favorite part, too, when the last track, "Big Barbeque" morphs into a cover of "Disco Inferno." It does me well to hear Jet howling "Burn that fuckin' mother down!" in that spastic voice of his.

Dude, I just can't stop 'til my spot gets hot.

And in case you're wondering, yes, my current profile picture is a still from the 1968 George A. Romero classic Night of the Living Dead. "They're dead. They're all messed up."

If you see me out and about this weekend, I ask you to do your part in saving me from myself. It only takes three words: "Moderation and hydration." If you see me, please give me this gentile reminder, so that I might stay alive long enough to see if Britney Spears ever gets her life back together. Poor kid.

Quick: Name the fast-food restaurant chain with the worst service.

Okay, times up. If you said anything other than Dunkin Donuts, you're wrong. It never fails to surprise me that the place with the most limited menu (coffee and its myriad variations, donuts, bagels and bagel-based sandwidges) has the slowest turnaround time after you order. And that's any time of day, not just the hours before 9 AM when they're actually busy. You could be the only customer in the joint, and yet a simple cup of coffee (a little milk and no sugar, thanks) and a Boston Creme donut takes an infinite amount of time. Even though I've gotten my snack and gone home, I'm still waiting in line as I write this.

And the employees! I know what a soul-crushing gig fast food can be, and hey, we've all had shit jobs. I don't expect you to have sunshine spraying from every pore, but when you're being paid to provide customer service, you should try to be pleasant. Just make an effort, that's all I ask. The best attitude I've gotten from a DD employee was business-like. Normally, they act like customers are imposing on them, like they're doing you a HUGE FUCKING FAVOR by not turning the sesame seed bagel you wanted toasted into a lump of ash and pure carbon.

If you work, or have ever worked, at a Dunkin Donuts (or any fast food hellhole), you have my sympathy. I wouldn't trade places with you for all the Puddin' Pops in Bill Cosby's freezer, and I shovel horse shit for a living. There are exceptions that prove every rule, and I'm sure if you're reading this, you are one of them (because, hey, if you read my blog, that's several million style points to you). Remember, your job may suck, your co-workers may suck, and the customers may suck. Just be thankful you have one of the few jobs left in America that can't be shipped overseas.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some leftover Easter ham to eat.

I love you all,
Dan the Trash Can Man

I saw Grindhouse last night, and I can honsetly say it's the best movie I've seen in a long time. The whole thing was like an amusement park for scholars of exploitation cinema (such as myself), with two movies and four parody trailers for the price of one. Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez did such an amazing job of capturing the sleazy vibe of the old 42nd Street movie houses, I could have swarn I was in a broken-down theater, surrounded by drug dealers and masturbating deviants. Which, considering I was in Falmouth, ME, I probably was.

The Grindhouse package is presented just like the old exploitation double features that used to play in third-rate theaters and drive-in across this country. It opens with a trailer for Rodriguez's Machete, a non-existant action movie starring Danny Trejo as the title character, "the world's most dangerous Mexican." From there, it goes right into Rodriguez's Planet Terror, a wild mutant/zombie puke-fest about a shady millitary deal that results in the spread of a virus that turns it's victiims into canibalistic, decaying "sickos." Freddy Rodriguez stars as El Wray, the mysterious, Snake Plisken-style hero, and Rose McGowan plays the now-iconic Cherry Darling, a go-go dancer with an M16 for a leg. Together with group of survivors (including Aliens' Michael Biehn and gore legend Tom Savini as cops) they defend their small Texas town from the rapidly spreading infection. Ultimately, Planet Terror is more John Carpenter than George Romero, with music (composed by Robert Rodriguez) that's like a tejano version of Escape From New York's Capenter-penned score, and gross-out moments that rival Capenter's The Thing for shear vomit-inducing power.

My favorit part of going to the movies has always been the trailers, even if I don't want to see half the movies advertised. Rodriguez and Tarrantino understand the trailer's allure, and to transition between the movies, they got three up-and-coming cinephile directors to make exploitation trailer parodies. First up is Werewolf Women of the SS, "directed by Rob Zombie," and starring genre legends Udo Kier, Bill "Choptop" Moseley and Tom Towles. That's followed by Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz director Edgar Wright (check my Top Friends for his MySpace page) and his trailer, a Hammer Studios parody which I can't tell you the title of, namely because it's the punchline of the whole piece. Finaly, Eli Roth (Cabin Fever, Hostel) brings us the slasher Thanksgiving, the only major holiday there's never been a horror movie based around.

The second movie, Quentin Tarantino's Death Proof, is a high-speed stalk-and-slash flick with a twist: The killer uses his car to take out his pretty female victims. It's been described as a cross between car-chase classic Vanishing Point and Lucio Fulci's The New York Ripper, and that seems as apt a description as any. Kurt Russel stars as Stuntman Mike, ladykiller. Litterally. He charms, then terrorizes, a group of girls, chasing them down in his souped-up, rollcage-equiped Chevy Nova, before meeting the only people who might stop him: A couple of thrill-crazy stuntwomen in a 1970 Dodge Challenger. In typical Tarantino style, there is a lot of dialog (much of it about the affore-mentioned Vanishing Point- buy or rent it today, motherfucker), which can start to wear on you once you've hit the 150-minute mark, but any potential boredom vanishes once Stuntman Mike and the ladies in the white Challenger cross paths. What follows is one of the wildest car chases committed to celluloid, with Kiwi stunt legend Zoe Bell ("as Herself") clinging to the Challenger's hood bare-handed for much of the Detroit muscle carnage. Death Proof also features a bitchen soundtrack of obscure 60s R&B, all of which I must now own.

All in all, Grindhouse is an ingenious, unique, and immensely entertaining theatrical experience. It's the kind of thing one truly must see to believe. Be prepared for carnage, mayhem, and pure hilarity. Go see it. Then see it again.

My head is filled with questions.

How do Transformers reproduce? Do they just build more? Are they born with free will, or are they born Autobots and Decepticons?

Who greenlit the movie Corky Romano? Do they feel guilty about it?

Why can't Stormtroopers shoot straight? Was marksmanship not taught at the Imperial Millitary Academy, or do their helmets impede their vision?

Why, exactly, does Rick Dalton hate dogs so much? ("Because he's a cat person" is an unacceptable answer.)

What happened to the lead singer from Creed? Did he die? (I sure hope so.)

Who many licks does it actually take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop?

Does Chewbacca wipe like a man or scoot like a dog, and how does he deal with dingleberries?

How does one go about pitying a fool?

Could Uwe Boll make a movie so bad even he wouldn't watch it?

When did professional wrestling lose it's dignity?

What in the hell does "Git-R-Done" mean, anyway?

Have you never been mellow?

How can the US Government expect to catch Osama Bin Laden if they couldn't catch The A-Team? For that matter, how long would it take The A-Team to find Bin Laden if it were up to them?

Why do good things happen to bad people?

Have you seen Jesco the Dancing Outlaw?

What the fuck is "Alternative" music? Alternative to what?

Won't you take me to Funkytown?

If anyone has answers, I sure could use 'em.

I wouldn't normally post song lyrics here, but I just picked up Clutch's new album, From Beale St. to Oblivion, and the first song, "You Can't Stop Progress," grabbed me right by the short hairs.

Yes, I'll be a responsible member
of this great and bless'd society
I've come to understand the wrongful nature
of gun ownership in the age of monarchy.
But sometimes it's just so hard
to act like the person you weren't supposed to be.

Felonious behavior.
Countless misdemeanors.
Impersonating an officer of the law.

Bonafide man of action,
how you like that?

You can't stop,
you can't stop progress
You can't stop,
you can't stop no, no, no.

I understand there's no victimless crimes.
That being said I feel rather victimized.
And I'll seek substantial compensation.
Whether legally, legal-ish, or otherwise.
But sometimes it's such a hassle
to sit patiently outside the open gates of a loaded castle.

Goddamn, that's good writing. And it gets me thinking: How does one go about being an individual in this age of apathy and forced conformity? Most of my generation and the generations behind me seem all too content to live life the way it's shown on MTV. "The Real World," my ass. I remember seeing the first season as a young boy living a sheltered life. I recall turning to my sister, three years my senior, and asking, "Is this how people really live?" "I doubt it," was her all-too-correct answer. But sadly, the majority of our peers didn't see it that way. Ultimately, it was MTV's coverage of Spring Break that sealed the deal, turning thousands of kids into drunken meatheads and girls gone wild.

Here, kids! Watch these five mintue commercials for disposable pop acts, self-absorbed "rock stars," and rappers who don't know the value of a dollar. Watch and learn, boys and girls, and they'll show you everything you need to know about life. Women are bubbleheads who have nothing to offer but a toned midriff and plastic knockers. Men drive flash cars with wheels bigger than a jumbo pizza and drink Cristal from jewel-encrusted goblets. Talent is meaningless, as long as you've got "the look." Anyone with artistic integrity is to be ignored until they've gone platinum, which, of course, they won't. Success is measured by the car you drive and the number of diamonds on your watch. To believe anything else is to be an outsider, but not an "acceptable" outsider like those nice young men from Good Charlotte.

Rebellion is a commodity. It's bought and sold in shopping malls across the land, a pre-made uniform that lets people know exactly what kind of rebel you are. You and all your rebel buddies can shop at the same store, put your new purchases on in the food court bathroom, and hang around the mall in a group so everyone can see you. Of course, if anyone actually does pay attention to you, maybe gives you an annoyed look, they're a conformist who believes in all the things you hate. Because nothing screams non-conformist like a dozen kids stanging together wearing black eyeliner and lipstick, Doc Marten's, and AFI t-shirts. Or DC Shoes sweatshirts, baggy cargo, pants and Element shoes (because that's what Bam Margera wears!), with their caps worn at jaunty angles.

Trust me, I know this is nothing new. But once upon a time, the youth was feared, and not just by the over-60 set who don't understand anyone under 30. In the 50s, all rock music was actively suppressed by the Establishment, because of the fear that it would increase hormone production and overdrive the unformed and impressionable minds of the kids into uncharted waters of self-expression and sexual desire. A one-lunged Native American guitar player named Link Wray, looking to avoid the trappings of his country music roots, penned a song called "Rumble." It was immediately banned by radio stations all over the nation. Station owners felt the song was irresponsible, that it's graphic depiction of a fight between youth-gangs would incite kids to violence. It's slow, pulsating rythyms would defile the pure thoughts of teenagers and drive them mad with lust. Even Wray's own record label had problems with the song. The owner's beliefs were firmly in line with the rest of the Establishment: Link Wray must be stopped. Despite "Rumble" hitting the Top 20 album charts, his label shelved his follow-up album, effectively destroying any chance of Wray achieving the stardom he so richly deserved. The irony to all the uproar over "Rumble" is this: "Rumble" is an instrumental. Not one word is uttered during it's three-minute playing time. Link Wray scared the hell out of every adult in the nation with an instrumental.

By the time the British Invasion hit in the 60s, the Establishment was realizing what a powerful, money-making demographic the kids could be. The big studios began aping independant film producer American Internation Pictures' formula of making movies for teenage audiences. The Beatles became the original "boy band," with their grinning, Limey mugs plastered on any product a kid might blow their allowance on. By 1970, everyone was co-opting youth culture to make money. Even car companies tried to boost sales with "hip" imagery. Chrysler used Warner Brothers cartoon characters as mascots for their muscle cars. General Motors had a long-haired mad scientist named Dr. Oldsmobile hawking 442s. AMC even had a cartoon hippy running through their brochures to promote their high-performance "Go Package" upgrade. And each and every American car company drenched their promotional litterature in "psychedelic" text and "groovy" slang.

Nowadays, the key age demographic every marketing firm and advertising agency shoots for is 18-34. My generation has grown so apathetic that if they even notice that they're being exploited and pandered to, they don't care. They'll buy two cans of Axe body spray and hose themselves down just like the skinny idiots in the ads (never mind the fact they smell worse than a papermill in August). Why expose yourself to art if it's not being shown in a twenty-screen megaplex, complete with an hour of commercials and trailers? You can always reject the mainstream by listening to bands like System of a Down and Audioslave, who hate the Establishment so much they occasionally take Clear Channel's cock out of their collective mouths long enough to say so.

I'm just sick of the whole thing. The best a guy like me can hope for is to find a group of sympathetic freaks, young alien-types, who, as DEVO said, will step out and declare, "We're through being cool." No uniforms, no group-think. Just a confederation of like-minded individuals who get together from time to time to have a laugh at the expense of those who would laugh at us and seek to exploit us.

I've been sitting here for an hour, and I'm starting to stew in my own juices. Time for a shower.