Laptops and BCS Bowls for Everybody!!!

by Idaho Chubbs

College football has taken some interesting turns the past month. Fashion Week uniforms finally debuted in robust density. Pitt and West Virginia clashed as if both were tussling for touchdowns on a runway in Chelsea. Ohio State tore apart Rich Rodriguez's chance at reclaiming his job next fall with their candy red apple helmets and long gray socks. The Beavers from Oregon State verses the Ducks from Oregon gave me the sense that I was witnessing a 1950's Princeton Tiger football team battle winged alien pewter-colored rats with "O"s burned into the side of their diamond encrusted heads. My lust for ridiculously clad football playing college humans had been quenched.

On to the BCS dilemma and the futile match-ups that are in store for our viewing displeasure five weeks from now. Boise State still has people second guessing them because their kicker could not hit some chip shots. What league are they moving into next year again? "The Mountain West Adirondack Appalachian Sun God Division"? Seems like it still won't matter. Auburn escaped The Crimson Nick Saban Traitors (Who hasn't been betrayed by this football coaching Benedict Arnold? I didn't grow up in the French Quarter of Jefferson purchased land or see my childhood pass me by in Miami's bird cage, yet even I want Saban to meet a fate that rivals any Greek Tragedy) after being down 24 points, and Oregon's uniforms keep getting weirder and they keep winning. Wisconsin is putting basketball scores up, and might beat anybody right now, but we'll never know due to the wonderful BCS. But they are playing TCU and if the Horned-Frogs beat the Badgers, then we will give them respect...no we won't, still a weak schedule. I'm sure that joining The Big East will take care of that...? College football is such a mess, but wait we do have the Sun Bowl with The U and Notre Dame, "Catholics vs Convicts", or maybe "Good students who play football reasonably well" vs "Better athletes who graduate now, don't get in trouble, and have no chance of winning national championships". Sorry Randy Shannon, good grades don't win BCS football crystal.

Kyle Brotzman immediately departed for Hades once Nevada kicked the winning field goal to annihilate any chance of his team going to a BCS Bowl. Mad Glen and I were down there getting some refurbished laptops out of storage when I encountered a football playing kicker crossing The River Styxx with Charon.

"Hey Charon", I said. "He's coming back with us."

Brotzman looked confused and forlorn. He could not even think about facing the world, especially his Boise brethren after missing two field goals that both pretty much equalled extra point distance. I told him I understood, but it was a momentary lapse and that even if they had gone undefeated there would have been no national championship, which pretty much was the last zenith of progress Boise could truly achieve.

"Besides, you stand to make loads of USA paper currency in the NFL for kicking a football every now and again one day a week. Come with Glen and me, it's time to get you back home to Idaho.

So Boise lands itself in a game vs Utah--The Las Vegas Bowl. I believe the well rounded student-athletes in South Bend crushed the Utes earlier this year. This will definitely be a game for the ages, 56-10 Broncos. Ohio State vs Arkansas, wonderful; over-rated QB vs over-rated QB. Both wear about 5 leg braces right? Mallet sealed his fate against Alabama, and that horrible red-neck-red sox facial hair beard isn't doing anyone any favors. How much better is Cam Newton than Pryor?--bigger, taller, faster, can pass quite well, and no ugly knee braces, AND plays for Bo Jackson's school, which is way cooler than Eddie Georges' alma mater. Hmmm Oklahoma vs Uconn--Are the Huskies the new Boise? Probably not and I would actually like to see Landry Jones and Kellen Moore shoot it out against each other, but alas, the BCS can't even get good bowl match-ups. Ok, we got it, no playoffs, even though people on Mars want it, but at least give us decent football games to enjoy. Stanford vs Virginia Tech seems ok I guess. I wonder when the Hokies are going to get over that hump and run a different offense so they aren't the same team that is good every year but can't win a National championship. You're never going to find Michael Vick again, even someone related to him is NOT him. Move on and grab a sweet pocket passer, you will be awesome.

So suffice it to say, I will probably be watching, count them, two bowl games; the national championship and "Catholics vs "Wish they were camouflaged Convicts Again" for nostalgia purposes. But what I have not talked about is that I will be coaching in one bowl game as well. I know what you're thinking, Hawaii vs Tulsa in The Sheraton Hawaii Bowl, nope, King Brody and Prince Tebow have those duties. Both have been the coaches for quite some time, but their slacking and preoccupation with their personal identities has caused the storied Rainbow Brody's program to bleed into an inception nightmare where they are not so good and get slaughtered by Boise; when in my realm they should be the ones doing the slaughtering. A decade ago Mad Glen and I left, and even though Hawaii sort of, kind of tied with Nevada and Kellen Moore as league champs, it is simply not good enough.

King Brody's match.com Norewgian reality show shenanigans with ivy league porn stars, that even Carl Jung's Red Book would be ashamed of in his wildest Xanex dreams, had caused him to lose focus on his coaching sports prowess. His bout in coming to grips with some sort of balance between fiction and reality was starting to eat away at his mind. He mostly lived inside his head, but his actual head always existed in reality, even though physically it was quite small and could be missing from literal human viewpoint if he was seen wearing a mascot uniform without the mask (which he often did on third match.com dates accompanied by a spot on "Ray Lewis pre-game exultation Nectar Dance"). When not frightfully insecure about his relationship with the opposite sex and them thinking he was an incarnation of Patrick Bateman's character playing-self, he was frightfully and horribly SECURE when getting the smallest shred of a positive signal from one. When a real life human woman fell head over heels for him, King Brody literally transformed into a combination of The Dark Lord Cthulu and Character the Bear's five split personalities' playing non, AND character versions of themselves simultaneously as they   became one entity who resembled something along the lines of John Mayer meets Hugh Hefner meets Bradley Cooper meets Satan's version of a orphaned son who was sold into indentured servitude by his mother. He would become so secure in fact, that when a woman desired his company in the bedroom, for conversation or even a casual glass of wine while making short snuff films with his 1995 digital camera, he would recoil with sociopathic glee because any female in want of his physical as well as mental form, was surely insane. He would never belong to a club that would have him as member. On the rare occasion where he found himself feeling normal people feelings, wanting acceptance or something resembling a "I like like you" sentiment, he would send late night flowers to the club that he wanted to join. But they never would accept him, hence King wanting to belong even more. This was, is, and always would be his tragedy.

As King was feebly attempting to rejoin the human race Prince Tebow was feebly attempting to cut himself off from it.  His favorite activity of self-nectar gassing with the melodious Manhattan combination of Clearly Canadian whiskey, lusciously sweet vermouth, and embittered cherry juice jubilee had reached an all-time high (straight vodka pretty much did the trick too), to the point where he almost threw Brody and an unidentified U of H coed off a bridge simply because King had not wanted to be driven into oblivion with Prince at the wheel that night. This caused an estrangement between the two for approximately 24 hours. They reconvened the following day over "winter roasted brew" to discuss Prince's break-up with the savory liquid that made you as smart as "A Whip that could cross parallel universes, space, and time" but also completely devoid of logic, sympathy and understanding towards other living creatures. This discipline caused Prince to sorrowfully woe about how cold it gets on hot lonely Hawaiian fall nights. He kept comparing himself to Jason Segal's character from "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" except that character could drink and was allowed to lament his lonely soul because it happened recently. Too bad for him Mila Kunis doesn't really live in Hawaii. Tebow drank lots of bland, healthy, rejuvenating teas and sustained himself on red wine, the snarky libertarian minded Fox News show Red Eye, Bukowski quotes supporting alcohol consumption, Modern Family season 2, and poorly rolled cigarettes that he seemed to be smoking every five seconds. This new discipline had made him even more curmudgeony, to the point where he basically skyped me that God is dead or was never really alive, and that his son was actually produced just like any of us, had no special powers except he was very nice and had a logical way of putting things verbally and that he got nailed to a piece of wood and died like any of us would or will, some day. Yet he still believed in everything he just told me he didn't believe in anymore.

With all that said, the recent smart phone war had made me cold, but I knew Mad Glen was right, it was time go back to Hawaii. It was warm and green and good. After we dropped Brotzman off at the Boise campus I was excited at the prospect of our rebooting The Rainbow Brody program. And frankly Glen now sort of looked completely sane compared to Prince and King. We had work to do. It wouldn't be easy; Brody and Tebow needed to face their demons, but I sensed with their rehabilitation, my philosophical smarts, and Mad Glens' three Heisman trophies and his WAY outside the lines of even abstraction thinking; we could go back in time one year, seduce Masoli into doing his grad work at our tropical paradise of academia instead of Ole Miss and save college football for the billionth time with something completely new to THIS universe, a National Championship for Hawaii and free laptops for anyone wanting to play on our squad. From what I have gathered, really good, dynamic quarterbacks love them, and they all play for the SEC.

Not next year though, this past season, done over again.

It WILL happen...or, has it already happened...?

TEAMS

by Idaho (Burbury) Chubbs channeling Jon Stewart's right to be serious


"This great evil. Where does it come from? How'd it steal into the world? What seed, what root did it grow from? Who's doin' this? Who's killin' us? Robbing us of life and light. Mockin' us with the sight of what we might've known. Does our ruin benefit the earth? Does it help the grass to grow, the sun to shine? Is this darkness in you, too?" - Witt (THE THIN RED LINE) 

There is something plaguing this world and it is "teams". I'm not talking about sports teams or a righteous cause that one believes in. I'm talking about association with a certain ideology that pinpoints a restricted line of thinking even though one might not agree with everything it has to say. We as humans yearn for an identity, something to believe in that can give us hope and goals, to get us through the daily grind of this vague existence, so we can feel like we matter. Sometimes it's not good enough to have a local identity with the actual people that we love or see every day. Sometimes we need to commune with all humanity in a positive or even negative manner, just to let them know that I matter in the scheme of things and even though I don't know what the fuck this whole life thing is, I'm gonna ROAR just the same. I understand this, but we need to fucking STOP IT! This isn't some preachy we are the world shit. I know we definitely ARE NOT. We never have been in our history on this planet. But I think we are the best now. Sure, some things never change, but aren't we the most civilized, on the whole, as we ever have been? But it's not good enough. It's not good enough for me, and it's not good enough for you, so we fight in many ways and on many levels. When my "WASPY" Episcopalian ass was growing up as a middle class kid on the gem-stoned banks of Long Island's North Shore, certain life/religious values were instilled in me. I was put on a "team" without my consent, but the thing is, as much as that team was discerning, it was quite open minded. It believed in a certain train of thought yet welcomed the challenging of that thought, even relating to the doubt of that belief. Through that method I was able to develop independent thoughts that conflicted with certain ways of thinking but were never dismissed. But make no mistake I was on a team religiously, it just took me some time to declare free agency; a free agency that resulted in my non-participation in this "take sides" society. A forever free agency if you will. Sure I have defined opinions about certain topics, but I'm always aware of the fact that as much knowledge of this world as I accumulate, the more I still know nothing about anything. And that is what many people don't understand about themselves. They believe whole-heartedly in what they believe in, or they believe in some things, have some doubts but still want to belong, be identified with a certain group. In my immediate life the religious conflict seems to be a non issue, unless you are a black and white extremist. People believe in their gods but they mostly interpret their spirituality individually, but cling to the organizations that might think otherwise. The clinging now seems to rear it's most ugly head when it comes to politics. I am a true novice when it comes to these matters but my brain grinds it's gears every day when exposed to Diane Rehm's near death voice, permeating my thoughts with information pertaining to said topics. My cerebral cortex cannot help itself but to THINK, to run all sorts of data that produce some half-thought. There are things happening everywhere, the Chicago Bears' record is a mirage, Israelis killed flotillas full of suspicious support in The Gaza, oil spill explosions have set the south's seafood economy back a decade as we try to figure out how to stop it (WE DID!)-("We're sorry"), as we try to blame SOMEBODY. George Steinbrenner died (and as sad as it is for someone to die, besides Stalin or Caligula, he got a memorial plague dedication that dwarfed Jesus's cross and made Babe Ruth's visage look like a little league participation trophy (wtf?). Democrats hate Republicans, Republicans hate Democrats, especially cause they're in office, vice versa. Independents have no back-bone, people seem to think that Libertarians are Republicans and The Tea Party seems to hate everyone except Sarah Palin? (Seriously I don't know much about it) Lady Gaga and Justin Bieber have reached the zenith of their exposition (I mentioned them, oh well), my fantasy football team shit the bed this week, The Catholic Church is corrupt, Heisman candidates love free laptops, The Boise State kicker (who is the leading scorer in his league's history) missed two field goals that youth soccer youths could make with their eyes closed, Fashion Week in New York lacked a truly original upstart designer but I loved G-Star's line of Canadian tuxedos, Devon Hester somehow made dreads into the coolest faux-hawk I've ever seen on a human-being, Gays can't marry everywhere yet, Is Louie CK the next Woody Allen except ya' know not as smooth (but more disturbing?)? Abortion is still an issue, GLEE is awesome, I'm starting to believe John Noble's Walter Bishop (TV show FRINGE) is my universal totem, Africa still has warlords, Lindsey Lohan's tweets about a sad sad life that I wish we'd all ignore, and Islam extremists won't stop exploding themselves until the entire planet is fucking a bunch of virgins in Elysium.


We have opinions about all of this, but we don't think we do. We are extremely well informed about a select few, but when asked about the ones we are not, we express our thoughts judiciously or we go from our gut. Both can have hazardous consequences. For me I go the way of the worm. But a nice, soft worm. I wiggle in and I find what you love and hate and I question all of that very subtly. I believe that I am nothing, but most people believe they are something, but sometimes I believe, that when we realize we do not matter, we can truly grow...or commit suicide. It's a fine, very blurred line. The world is swirling around us, out of fucking control and we look to grasp onto things, talking points even, so we can still keep our feet on this false, but, tangible ground. The distractions above hamper us. We want to solve everything, but are we willing to? No, not at all. But we think we can through identifying ourselves as being apart of some movement, mainly political or religious, or both. What I'd say, believe in our personal details. Let the rest of the fucking bullshit slide into the river Styxx. Stop wearing your issues on your sleeve unless you can be open-minded while possessing an inkling of what you are talking about. And if you do and your gut is hearkening you to make your accusations, assumptions and "I fucking stand for this"/"FUCK you if you don't? Know you're fucking shit. KNOW EVERYTHING! Because if you don't, you're wrong, or maybe right on some things, some earthly topics, but ultimately wrong. Just remember this; Saul became Paul; basically a Nazi became Anne Frank, except, ya' know lived and got his word out. We don't have to exemplify that extreme but I just urge us to think for ourselves but accept that other human beings think for themselves, and not necessarily agree but, just, give it thought. Let us at least TRY to understand, FUCKING TRY. If we don't, cool. If we do, ok. But let's be ourselves and not bow down to a "life team", because they just limit our capacity to explore our minds. I'm not saying don't believe in anything, I'm saying that you should try to see why other people believe in other things. Shit, maybe if we all did that, this world would be just a bit more civilized than it is now.

The Smart Phone Civil War

by Idaho Chubbs

PART I

When I was a young lad I never knew such technological wonders could exist past the first wheel ever created and the white lamborghini/lotus submarine that Roger Moore drove in "The Spy Who Loved Me". But then came Thee Lord Steven from the far away land of "Turtle Necked Jobs". He burrowed his way into our mind folds, leaking machine-fueled necessity into the white bloodless cells of our collective subconscious. Two decades later he is The Emperor of our meek planet and we are the ones with "new" clothes. With the arrival of the excruciatingly pointless ipad and it's subsequent golden child, the iphone 4, his clutches deepen to a core that even the great Dom Cobb could never "dream" but to trespass through. LET US ALL BOW TO THE CHURCH OF OUR SHACKLED I-LIVES! Let us worship these machines! (Morpheus voice) Let us take the immensely short time we have on "THIS ROCK" (Sawyer voice) to program our brains into living "life" through the glossy, black metallic, silvery structures that aid in our false communication with one another.

But whispers have surfaced, faint, but true; that a saviour...of sorts, has defied Lord Steven on the cavernous and rustic banks of Saint Nick's Sea Lawn of Roast Beef, giving him some much needed competition by a single, coup-like purchase. A tiny rebellion, yet small in nature, can start a mini WWIII. Change, and especially one that will break a tyrannical rein, is good--it's a start, but not without its consequences.

Hear ye! Hear Ye! A DroidX smart phone brick has been bought by one Boy Prince using the hard earned deutschmarks he has accumulated through displaying himself in front of a huge pick-up truck. And he wants everyone to know it. Yes, the new cellular device is bigger than my ego, but the upside is that I can watch INCEPTION on it feeling totally IMAXED while fielding a five minute phone call that will result in bulgy trophy-wife appreciating fore-arms, while standing in drunken dart frustration mediocrity known as La Lucky Dog. Alas this benefit will surely be lost on local hispterdom. They’d rather write in their "Mole-skin apps" and duct tape their i-jesus’s than tolerate the intolerance of being tolerant of the fact that Steve Jobs didn’t invent life (He’s the Atheist’s god right?). For a ripple of a dropped call apocalypse will echo from Beverly to Cambridge, boomeranging North to the ends of the EARTH (known as Rockport’s version of Diagon Alley).

As Great Colossus and The Throwbacks (Caspian) hypnotize the entire communist regime of the Starbucked—nest stadium-ed Eastern Land of Opium, I quickly fly to BP’s (no oil-spill pun intended) newly constructed Japanese bamboo beer garden he had just embarked on building for his latest Madame patron, to diffuse the fall-out that could crack the foundation of the Great Wall once the dastardly news spreads. For any hipster, let alone a North Shorian one, the thought of owning any ear-metal-transmitter device that is neither iphone nor the opposite (“I got this flip phone like 4 years ago. I don’t need all that internet mapquest bullshit. I just like, use it for texting and uh, as a phone.”) is complete blasphemy.

PART II

For over a fortnight my gut worms stood on mutinous end as civil war eventually struck our small arrangement of hamlets. The battles have commenced, already laying waste to good, honest, hipster, smart phone using lives. Colossus returned with a vengeful fury from the exotic lands of the East with battle-tested goods of silken worms, 5000 tons of duct tape, magic teas, and opium fit for consumption by every iphone fanboy/girl who would fight by his side. Somehow through a combination of his band's mythic brain vomit and a strategic use of his and Prinz Freddy's iphone strobe-light apps, he was able to hypnotize China into thinking our debt was paid back in full. The band instantly received every medal of USA significance from Obama, who also vigoriously declared "Some Are White Light" our new national anthem. A week ago today, the reign of terror began as they set foot back in fair Beverly, emboldened by Jobsian world domination, knowing their choice of technology was right for all humankind, whether they liked it or not.

Boy Prince and his ragtag "Widerstand", although small, had withstood Colossus's great army of gunslinging appsters thus far. A week earlier at La Lucky Dog, he had attempted to plead with him, justifying his purchase as being the best thing for his personal needs. The spikey-haired G-Star officiado would hear none of it. He was consumed with Apple domination. "How could anyone help but want to exist in a world without Shazamm or a pretend beer-drinking app"? He thought. "No one should. And anyone who does not have a want of this shall perish, no matter if it be friend, family or foe. Right then and there he ordered Prinz Freddy (who was somehow physically half iphone/Macbook cyborg by this point)to destroy Boy Prince with text lasers that sprang from is actual eyes screaming, "SEE YOU LAETAHHH!!!!" BP dodged Freddy's visual wrath, activating his bamboo-kevlar app ("DROID!" - Droid phone voice), suddenly covering him from head to toe (Think Batmobile security system style...Burton's BATMAN) in an impenetrable composite of both elements, hastily escaping with his life.

Once, a friendship formed by the gayest of times, now eternally sworn enemies (all because a silly piece of technology that makes you waste loads time by taking too many hipstamatic photos of yourself as well as constant updating about your life when you should just be living it (“I’m saying how cool my phone is, on my phone!”---Cut the meta crap sloors, it’s old).

As I sat in the Widerstand's "Paths of Glory"-styled trenches, curled up with my meagre fire and DroidX manual, I realized that our conflict was in vain. I had no need for such a contraption, and I would not stand to have my forearms, hands, and necky vein discs (although completely useless and whip-lashed from a week of digging trenches) replaced with Droid's pitiful T2000 "New Limb Extensions" App. Boy Prince's were all metal plates and bamboo veins now. All of the skin and bone from his elbow down had been torn off, resulting in a mess of tassel shredded blood bits, dripping with embittered puss. A recent, vicious shelling had killed his small platoon and left him shocked but not defeated. Colossus had secured a WWI German anti-tank app that had almost taken out Boy Prince as he was running reconnaissance missions back and forth on what use to be Route 127, from St. Nick's to the Apple Stronghold located in a Spanish villa styled stucco and red slated mansion located on the highest of cliffs of Magnolia. The spikey haired goliath (who strictly wore a charcoaled-grey, custom made G-Star Snuggy at all times now) had always fantasized of holding court in said architectural palace. His selfish dreams of world domination had made it sorrowfully so.

BP had wanted to amputate my arms.

He found that his new Droid ones were vastly superior to his old human ones. 

There was a fire burning in his eyes--

I feared he was turning into a machine. It had happened to Prinz Freddy (completely Apple product now), why not my Droid-loving friend, for even though our small gorilla-trenched army had started this most long and arduous week long war as one soul in defiance against the technological tyranny of Apple's Ceo Jobs and his trusty lieutenant Colossus 

(who wanted every single person in the world to have the exact computer and smart phone to express their individuality), 

we were coming apart, we were on the edge of defeat, starving with maddened rage from all of the smart phone radiation polluting once clean, crisp New England, apple orchard air. I-life had made it's mark on our world, it's Mussolini-like regime has rid us of choice, 

you could burn cds once--I remember...yes, ah, you could read actual books too, certain material things had their rightful place in our common, human nostalgia. 

Art you could touch and feel, along with the wonderful melodies existing through airwaves but also possessing a lovely decorated sheath envelope as its earthly home.

And stories that could be read by the touch of a page, you could mark parts manually in your cloth-bound tome, grabbing it whenever needed, not waiting for it to load, not worrying about having a $500 book (ipad) stolen from you on your morning commute. Mac Air, no cd drive, mp3s everywhere! What happens if it all gets blown to hell? Oh yes, you better back that shit up, OR I can just make a monumental book/cd/even DVD shelf that really puts the room together. Do apple products double as decor too? NO. We are slowly being forced to have no choice. Why must it be one or the other? What fun is giving a loved one a musical mix when the case is the size of a flash-drive? 

Even with a miracle defeat of Colossus, there would still be the task of rescuing Boy Prince's mind, for he had been marked from on high, by a far away big brother of sorts.

I saw that now. Much like the Bolsheviks' uprising a hundred years before us or Madame Defarge and her fetishized decapitation-loving rabble rousing mob two and change centuries hence, power would always corrupt. The Droid obsession was now equal to Colossus' fascist virtues. Boy Prince was a lost pawn who could not see the bleak truth staring back at him through his Pool Boy mirror app. I was on my own plain of opinion when it came to these thoughts. No one would dare question him now. His landscaping Cougar charm and “up for anything at anytime” influence reached far into our clan, including the feared dart sniper Frau General Katherine who had recently snuck a dart literally through a Droid messenger’s cigarette from 100 meters away just because he forgot to pay BP his proper respects when delivering treaty terms. This was a fate I had no want of, but I knew that unless I acted, this war was lost even if we won. 

Our army had become incredibly psychopathic, and not in a good way. Before the unnecessary death of our own scout by the sinister, medicinal hands of Frau, he had conveyed that Colossus, Prinz Freddy, and his star protege Jezebel (who thought any piece of technology not possessing an Apple logo should be banished from our planet despite the fact that her new version of itunes prevented her from fully enjoying her favorite mix-making hobby) were leading an all out apocalyptic assault on our crumbling above and underground headquarters. This knowledge gave me pause, but then made me realize that inaction of any kind would lead to the undoing of the fabric of our doomed(?) reality. Maybe they would destroy each other and save me the razor-sharp stress plaguing my being. But I could not take any chances. I was forlorn, wavering with monumental uncertainty. 

Night fell, my hands, limbs and brain, feeling distraught with pain and tense nerves. I blew my actual candle out in my hovel cave room positioned under the great walkway that criss-crossed the once beautifully manicured St. Nick's Lawn of Roast Beef. The darkness sunk into my core, beckoning to take me away to place of calm.

"CHUBBS".

There would be no peace, for the voice that echoed my name stirred a fear I had known but only two months ago. Somehow, some way, Mad Glen had found me. I figured his retribution was finally here to commence my physical undoing. 

"I know what you're thinking Idaho, but you would be wrong," said the voice. "You and me are square old man. I've come to solve your little problem." 

"How so?"

"You're not going to like it, but then again, you are actually a sicker more insane entity than I am even though you think the latter of me, it just isn't so...You will probably relish this final solution."

Six hours after dawn broke Glen's madness was achieved, and though I had been opposed to becoming part machine, his rationale had won out. Both smart phone generalissimo's had to be destroyed, and there was only one way to do it. 

We had removed my lifeless paws and replaced them with Nectar bottles made of the finest kevlar, kevlar so strong and rare that even the great Bruce Wayne had no knowledge of it. On the upper part of my spine lay an intricate fuse box the size of (ironically) a smart phone. The difference was that it was made of a skin composite His Madness had procured from T2000's refrigerator. The surgery was complicated but successful. My frame had been fully anesthetized in a free-standing tub of a watered down version of Trotsky goo. This enabled me to aid in the physically invasive endeavor while feeling no pain. Three tubes, each as thin as five needles were spliced into me from the spinal skin box, two traveling through my lean shoulder blades, down into my lats and forearms culminating in an entrance to the hand-Nectar containers. The third and final tube ran through my right rib canal touching on my lacking fat cells contained in one side of my always present fat back, finally resting in the pelvic forum where my gut worms held court. The toxicity of the worms was key. The skin box was able to translate my hybrid Nectar/blood into pure Nectar. Then the savory liquid was forced into the poisonous realm where the worms lay, destroying yet preserving their reptilian corpses, reproducing a toxic gut worm Nectar that could ravage any element known to man, but only when it hit earthy oxygen air. Because of this assault on my pelvic gut "friends", a gaseous, red ab vein formed; but that was as far as it went because as the poison was battling the sweet Nectar it was also constantly being recycled out of me only through the bottles and only when I vocally activated it by saying, "NECTAR ROAR!!!" Fortunately when I calmly purred, "Nectar", the bottles would produce the finest said drink, enabling me to quench my thirst literally when and wherever I wanted. 

* raw design sketch by Mad Glen

PART III


(Listen while reading: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iDMGSxURGqk)

Mine eyes hath seen some things in this universe, but I fear the worst for my fair and peaceful technologically lacking soul. For the final battle is set and the formerly beautiful, mossy green ground will surely run frat floor smelly yellow with the blood of many a PBR pitcher. And darts will be thrown, and shrapnel apps shall be deployed without discern for human life at people who love smart phones, from all sides of the spectrum. There can be no "recall" of fallen souls; Hades would never allow it. 

The gut worm Nectar was luke in my veins and my task was clear.

Like a running-back waiting to pick his tunnel to TD euphoria, I had to choose my moment wisely, have patience, and then STRIKE without reprieve. 

It went something like this.

The buildings tumbled in on themselves

Hipsters clutching their skinless bloodied femurs while attempting to text orders, picked through the rumble, scalped of all hair

The skyline was beautiful on fire, purple, grey, yellow, full of insecure distraction that had led to such a ridiculous scene

All twisted metal and duct tape, tattered designer clothes melding into vintage fabric-ed burnt flesh nightmares never foretold

Everything washed out in a bone thinned orange haze 

As I waited for my moment, standing in my bunker cave dwelling, I said, "Kiss me Mad Glen, you're beautiful, these are truly the last days."

He said, "No"

I chuckled sadly

Then fell upward, into it, like a raving mad daydream full of violence and fevered resolve.

I emerged from my trap door dwelling to a nuclear heat that would make President Truman jealous, immediately seeing a Boy Prince vs Colossus duel producing enough laser radiation to destroy the moon. Corpses flailed on the ground, most were already on Charon's boat. The facade of St. Nick's was shattered, caved in from multiple Desktop Mac cannon blasts. In a split second I caught both men's eyes, and they somehow knew what I was about to unleash. 

The propelled blast from my kevlar bottle wrist rifles sunk into their smart phone energy plasm. The three us held on to our singular voltages as if we were clutching the loves of our lives. 

Slowly a black hole started to form.

I felt the skin box in my lungs and chest yearning to rip out of my back, straight through to my solar-plexes. I held true as Boy Prince and Colossus slowly got sucked into the abyss. Both parties pleaded, worn faces of evil realizing their folly, right before their existence was about to be snuffed out. My conscience was clean as I fought back lowly, sleepless, blood tears. The greater good demanded their demise. But what had that ever done for an individual human being? If Hitler had been assassinated right after Viennese art snobs rejected his bad drawing perspective, well, it probably would have saved a million times six human lives, so...

One more, "NECTAR ROARRRRRRR!!!" and it was DONE. 

Their physical forms melded into the dark chasm, leaving no ounce of bone or body part in its wake. The black form imploded in on itself and unleashed a sound so sonically nuclear that I was catapulted fifty yards back into crumbled building rock, feeling the warm red blood trickle down my face as my skin broke open. It rained jagged stone ash. No sound sung to my ears as I saw two burnt-to-a-crisp smart phones on the ground; one iphone 4 and the other a DROID-X. Defeated, tiny machines; whoever knew they could produce so much destruction? 

I closed my eyes

then NOTHING...SILENCE. 

AFTERMATH

In the weeks following; relief, sadness, and talk of rebuilding came to pass. The only survivors were me and other people that don't really matter, much like most of the castaways on LOST. Prinz Freddy's metal dome head still functioned despite it being severed from his body, but was quickly melted down for scrap, just in case. Our national anthem was restored, and China quickly let us know that we still owed them our great grandchildren's college tuition. Lord Steven, and even the Google heads of state were put under close surveillance by the CIA; but since nothing actually linked them to Colossus or BP's actions, no prosecution took place. About two thousand cougar housewives/Boston entrepreneurs/hipsters/creative people who like cool things but don't try as hard, died in the war. Marshall Law had never been imposed simply because Obama was under Colossus's strobe light app's spell. It's as if nothing happened in the eyes of the world. I felt as crazy and angry as Rorschach, except, luckily (I guess), I still walked this earth. 

But The North Shore knew. At first the people wanted me to be Mayor of all the villages. I declined and gave the power back to them. I only warned that they remember what had happened here and not repeat it. Technology was a beautiful thing, but not all things have to die right away for progression to happen.

Despite all I've been through in this silly life, this particular war had taken many a toll on me. Good friends became arch enemies and then I had to rid the earth of them. It was almost too much to bare.

I placed the ashes from both of their phones in an urn made from Prinz's head, placed it on one of Boy Prince's old, rickety surfboards, lit it on fire, and sent it down the bamboo garden pond he had worked so hard to create outside the PF Changs off of Route 128. 

"So you did IT."

Glen stood directly behind me.

"It was terrible, but yes."

He continued, "I forgot to tell you something. There is an extra feature I installed for your bottle hands. Once this fight was over, there would be no need for such a weapon. Calmly say, "Nectar Hands."

I did, and suddenly the bottles broke apart smoothly and formed into actual kevlar hands that had the smoothness of human skin.

"My hands! They work again! I feel like I can do normal things like wash dishes or make my bed."

"Indeed", said Glen. But I also have a plan for you, and I think you know what it is. Like I said we are square but this will be good for both of us.

"What is it?"

"WE GOTTA GO BACK!...to the University of Hawaii. 

Mad Glen Rolls Tide & Dreams of Incepted Saban Fetuses

by Idaho Chubbs

"Quickly, Chubbs! Listen and listen good".

"What is it "Mad Glen"? We gotta get out there. The game is about to commence, and Alabama must lose. For this marks a new era for Spurrier, or not; probably not, but the Tide must not roll. The kevlar, steel twinned running backs formed from T2000's metal hide scraps will meet a lava flowed end today." 

"Of course IC, I could want nothing more, but listen to my plan for post game jubilee. I only tell you now, before a contest where the outcome is uncertain because I'm sure Bolano's ghost will not be by my side when the conclusion of today's game draws near."

"Then out with it!"

*"We'll live like mendicants or child prophets while Paris trains a distant eye on fashion, movies, games of chance, French and American literature, gastronomy, the gross domestic product, arms exports, the manufacture of massive batches of anesthesia, all mere backdrop for our fetus's first few months."

I sighed a smirkish sigh, "Glen, I would like nothing more than to crawl back into a drugged up womb that sits atop the Eiffel Tower only existing in the movie version of "Funny Face", but right now we have to a win football game that will hopefully make Nick Saban voluntarily travel to Hades, where he will be promptly fitted for cement Sperry top-siders, dropped into the deepest end of the River Styxx to live in "Limbo" for the rest of his days where his Crimson Tide will get slaughtered by Utah in the 2007 Sugar Bowl over and over again for all of eternity. At the end of each loss he will be lined up much like Dostoevksy was, and be made to think he will be shot by a firing squad consisting of disgruntled Miami Dolphin fans who never forgave him for tucking tail and leaving after just two seasons. Mr Saban will exist twice in death and yet will always be on the precipice of a third go-around. Either fear will be irrelevant, or so present and gnawing that limbo insanity will cause him to flay himself until he is nothing more than a brained bloody vein piece of hair skinned head set that still has no choice but to be conscious. 

Mad Glen smiled a creepily comforting smile. "We will rejuvinate Saban's soul, thus making him our new Paris fetus, who will grow up to coach Notre Dame and The "U" simultaneously in two different dimensions at the same time, restoring National Championship honor and panache to both storied programs. All will be right be in at least two realms....ROLL MAD CHUBBY COCKS ROLL!!!"

The College football season has been underway for some time. Despite bringing Masoli back from the dead to have him lose to a no name school, Karl Lagerfeld, Tim Gunn and I have admired his progress. His stats are solid, Ole Miss is very much in the SEC hunt, and most importantly Jeremiah's succinct smoothness is still intact. I pretty much blame the loss to Jacksonville State on the non fashion week uniforms Ole Miss had to don (Apparently G-Star's factory, where BANKSY has peasants create Simpson merchandise as well, needs to hire more three year old Copperfieldian seamstresses before they can finish Dark Knight SEC Couture). A new outfit can be incredibly invigorating to one's self esteem. Sometimes the same old thing, although classic and regal, can leave one uninspired, dormant of game winning verve. Speaking of which, where are these wonderfully comedic athletic thread creations? They have only been worn once by both teams (VTech vs Boise) in one game the first weekend of the season. The Hokies summoned their second half strength from the matte finish of their helmets that possessed all the ROYGBIV colors and more. Although hideous, I am a hundred percent sure Miami would have beaten Ohio State if they had worn their currency, palm tree colored greens. But nope, nothing. Per usual Oregon wears fashion week, EVERY week, and look at them go. They sit right behind Ohio State at #2 in the land. LaMichael James is the Heisman front runner (even though Mad Glen rushed for 853 yards in one game against Alabama). I have to admit I thought the Ducks would loose some luster from Masols exit, but oh how wrong I was, and it gladdens me. Jeremiah has been freed to paint his rough hewed ballet canvasses while Oregon's alien winged uniforms continue to run 4.0 forties all over The Pac 10 and several DIII programs. Their look might be absurdly ugly but I can never look away. I want that collective and creative west coast eye sore of a football amalgam to succeed. My gut worms tell me this, and I follow their lead.

Terrelle Pryor, big Heisman Candidate. I still think he's terrible and as much as I want to see Saban meet a fate that Sisyphus could only fantasize about, OSU must die. Before The Tide almost lost to Arkansas (getting single-handedly saved by Ryan Mallet's super "Strike me from any sort of player of the year list" melt down) and eventual demise against the "Spurriered Mad Glens"; they had crushed bad, bad teams...except Florida? Ohio State still hasn't played anyone, except for Miami, and well, look what Florida State did to them this weekend. As Jacory was disappointing yet yet yet again, at least the Yankees were tying up game 3, heading to their billionth ALCS. But I digress, The U is most definitely not back; and as far as the Buckeyes go, they've slaughtered some pop warner club college football teams, an over-rated Hurricane, and that is it, yet they are #1. The rest of their schedule is not intimidating in the least, it's BIG TEN! I see Wisconsin, Iowa, and Michigan giving them a challenge but no one else. Please Denard Robinson, PLEASE take down Columbus, Ohio and their Krenzeled Championshiped god-awful, undeserved nostalgia.

This particular weekend was a tough choice for me. I had secured permission from Scorpium Asylum for Mad Glen to play in a single football contest this season, which was all he had left as far as eligibility. In his previous life as a budding teenager in the late 90's, he was simply the best college football player anyone had ever seen put on a uniform, let alone a University of Hawaii one. From age 13-16 he won four Heisman trophies, three National titles, and broke Barry Sander's single season rushing record his freshman year, and then eclipsed himself each subsequent season. He even made BYU forfeit a game once simply by stepping onto the field for pre-game reps. They claimed food-poisoning, but the truth was that they thought he was a demon that Joseph Smith had forgotten to tell them about, and what they saw and felt was actually more terrifying and real then anything they had ever experienced spiritually before. The confusion of Glen's origins have always been hot topic of conversation. Most humans think he exists as an eccentric young lad who likes to collect hair and throw peanut butter against wood-paneled mid 60's kitchen walls, while living in TV boxes every so often on Sunday evenings. He only seems this way because he is not from that time. He is from this era, and he is 25 years old. I had mentored him in pop warner, witnessing his wondrous skill and talent as a child. The brain he possessed was off the grid, and for the first time in recorded history an adolescent genius was also an athletic FORCE that would make Achilles tremble. Starting his college football career at 13 did yield much controversy, but under my care, tutelage, and vast knowledge of all that is space, time, and god, he became a shining wonder of human achievement. The trouble struck hard in December of 1999. Mad Glen had just won his fourth consecutive Heisman trophy, and giddy from a libationous night, the two of us, the four runners up (who were all Rainbow Brodys as well), Arizona State's cheerleading squad, Robbie Williams, King Brody, the band The Cardigans, Prince Tebow, T2000 and the cast of RENT adjourned upstate a little ways to my compound, for the after party, which existed right outside the campus of Bard College, where I was teaching at the time. The night got pretty weird, which is par for the course for me, but what was truly horrifying was that Mad Glen stumbled into my lab and traveled back in time to the early 60's, where he managed to get adopted by a divorcae so he could pursue his unquenchable love for a woman that was way to old for him and another female who was a smidge too young for him. These two people were mother and daughter as well. For the two weeks leading up to the NCAA playoffs (Bowl games had been abolished some time before, but were quickly re-instituted right after Glen's demise, partly to directly punish me for my handling of the youngster) he travelled back and forth through time without me knowing, somehow figuring out how to do it from his off campus house in Manoa, HI. When I discovered this and confronted him, he calmly told me he was leaving for the 60's for good, as he had become engaged to both aforementioned females, and through his abstract deductions which sacrificed cognitive, moral and societal reasoning, he deemed that this was a totally fruitful endeavor that would satisfy a large part of his brain. I jested that he was jesting. He agreed in some sense, and basically said he saw the whole thing as an existential space/time challenge that dealt with human sexuality and relational bliss separate from lust. Before I could attempt to stop him, the authorities burst in to his house and took him away. Apparently the daughter he had fallen for in 1965 had recognized him while casually watching The Heisman Trophy Ceremony. She was in her mid 40's now, but unbeknowst to Glen, she had discovered his odd affair with her mother in the past, while he was in the future. And since he was not around, for time still moves forward in the past, even while we are living it in the present, she confronted a mother whom she already hated and learned the terrible truth. Then and there, she became a lesbian, left the house as an almost teen, and never looked back. December 1999, on national TV, would be the next time she would lay eyes on the angelic demented face of one Mad Glen. Reason told her it could not be true, but she knew it was, without question.

Glen was taken into custody briefly and let out due to the seemingly preposterous charge, claiming that a 16 year old existing in the late 90's had committed unsavory acts in the mid 60's. But I saw that he would be trouble for all of mankind if he were freed. So I sacrificed all my work with this protege and set him up at Scorpium Asylum. I employed Stephen Hawking, Pope John Paul, Rabbi Schmuley Boteach, Christopher Hitchens and David Lynch as his personal consultants (all vastly lacking in the knowledge of which I possessed). I did this simply because I supposed that Mad Glen would never want to speak to me again. All I could do was write him a letter which at the end told that there would come a time where his talents could help the world, and because of this future and most important endeavor I also employed Michael Vick to keep him in tip top shape.

So was the most important time to utilize this mad genius talent of all talents during a South Carolina/Alabama college football game in 2010? YES. And because Glen could see the Evil Saban-less future a Gamecocks win would yield, he agreed, and he rushed for almost a thousand yards that day in Columbia, toppling the #1 Crimson Tide, playing his last college football game, a decade later, to set our plan in motion. Yes, I did get greedy, inserting T2000 as a linebacker for Indiana against Ohio State, attempting to kill two of the most awful college "birds" with one stone. Unfortunately it was too much for "T". Even though Terrelle Pryor can't pass worth a lick against quality defenses, he still has legs that can cover fifty yards in five steps; and that is hard to defend, even for a terminator robot.

What I didn't say before, is that in the letter I wrote Mad Glen several moons ago, I told him that at the end of the favor he was free to go live his life however he chose. It is a great risk, I know. But he had made wonderful progress with his sociopathic tendencies in the preceding years, or so it would seem. Nothing is set in stone in most human minds, as hard as we try; but I guess I thought he deserved to have another go at life, finally as a full fledged adult. I have not heard from him since the game. He disappeared before any reporter could get ahold of his jersey. I'd like to think he's incepting himself into Nick Saban's Sugar Bowl hades nightmare per our plan, or maybe he's sitting atop a cozy beautiful wine bar facing the Basilique du Sacre-Coeur in Paris on a radiant mid October night, sharing a bottle of shiraz with a certain fifty-five year old former lesbian.

*Quote from Bolano's "2666"

THEE ONE AND ONLY...TOWN

****SPOILERS****


by Idaho Chubbs in collaboration with Samuel Burbury


Holy fuck Ben Affleck is an auteur now? Well he does like Boston that's for sure. I haven't see "Gone Baby Gone" but I have viewed his latest work opening weekend with a sold out crowd, who applauded when the movie ended with Affleck's character (Douggy Mackray) all bearded in the Bayou working as a shrimper possibly(?) with Chris Cooper's father figure character from Cuaron's adaptation of Dicken's "Great Expectations", not his character's actual father Chris Cooper, who was stuck in Walpole for 5 lifetimes. What was also hilarious was the Ken Burns Civil war music that serenaded our thoughtful thieving hero's "poetic" musings/regrets to the love of his life that he went out with for probably two weeks, but she was from the uppety North Shore which represented higher class, so investing your whole life and hard earned freshly robbed Fenway cash in this vaguely attractive do-gooder bank manager was totally logical. 

I haven't seen a ton of movies this year, and usually the better ones start showing up starting now. The Town is not one of them. The hype and critical acclaim for this film is mind-boggling. Like most people the trailer excited me; you're thinking HEAT, gun-fights, Jeremy Renner is the shit, but in Boston, awesome, especially because I live right outside and I know Charlestown fairly well. But the more times I saw the trailer, the more I started laughing, mainly because of Lively's cleavage's Boston/drug-induced accent. Thankfully she was barely in the movie, but surprisingly she wasn't that bad unlike say Julia Roberts who's "Irish" accent single handedly took down a star studded "Michael Collins". I simply could not take anything in that movie seriously because of her. Fortunately I was able to take The Town seriously or at least tried really hard to. One of the main problems with this story is that it built itself around this construct that focusses on a small Boston town that grows bank-robbers like rural Pennsylvania used to grow Hall of Fame 1980's quarterbacks. Random right? (My intimacy with THE TOWN includes $35 gourmet pizzas from FIGS, cobble stoned creamery treats, walks around the monument, and admiring architectured condos (I might ponder about owning in another lifetime where I am a day trader or hedge-fund schemer), I'm intrigued, let's really explore that facet, or let's explore a non-believable love story about a "princely" thief who enjoys the show BONES, has a great collection of retro Boston sports team jackets, really misses his mother, and has a thing for dating hostages. I understand this is adapted from a book and the more I watch film adaptations, the more I realize how hard they are to do successfully. I know they are not supposed to be the book, more like a companion, but I just want them to be a good movie period. Having not read it I cannot compare; I can only comment on the film; and what I've deduced is that the love story was pushed to the forefront to sell it to a general audience, which does make sense, but if you're going to do that, write better or get some actors who pop or at least have chemistry and don't campaign so hard with a tagline ("Welcome to the bank robbery capital of America.") that would have you believe this is about Charlestown and bank-robbing. Because it truly isn't, it's just fringe stuff. Yes, we meet Doug's father and Pistol Pete Posthewaite's ganster florist who screwed Mackray senior over by hooking his wife on drugs, and yes we have a scene where The Former "Man In Black" (playing a local police detective) refers to the suspects and their connections as something resembling a "venn diagram", almost consciously reminding us that they are living up to the tagline content-wise. But it seems forced. You never get the sense that there are any other bank robbers in this town besides Douggy, Jem, and the other two dudes. Yet this is the world's capital of bank robbing.

From beginning to end, this movie moves too fast. We get short glimpses of who and what the characters are but it never seems satisfying. Recently a colleague of mine got into a friendly conversation with me about narrative complexity verses simple. He compared THE TOWN to later works by Clint Eastwood (I assume he was thinking "Million Dollar Baby" and maybe "Mystic River" --which was a great movie until it's preposterous conclusion that made no sense whatsoever, but I won't go into that). The problem right away in that comparison, and I'm singling out "Million Dollar Baby", is that Hilary Swank and Clint Eastwood can carry an entire movie on their shoulders. Their performances ripped into our psyche and held our emotions hostage and then let them spill out in a sweet freedom of pulverizing sadness and confusion as to why life can be so terribly cruel. Ben Affleck and Rebecca Hall, cannot do this, at least not yet. Their performances were not bad but I got nothing from their characters either. Granted the script was way better for Eastwood's movie, way more polished, intimate and believable. This script gives no room for characters to be fleshed out, no time to believe that Affleck's Mackray could fall so head over heels with this, let's face it, bland bank manager ("but that's real and honest..please) in such a short amount of time. There is complexity through simplicity and vice versa. There is simple and honest and there is I've seen this story a million times and it was not believable to me. Obviously Hall's character represents a higher form of life that Doug yearns to attain, but has he not met an attractive yuppified young woman that he'll leave his whole life for in all his time in Charlestown yet? His lanterned-cleft chin and capacity for Rocky IV pull-ups has never turned any heads? The problem is not that this movie doesn't balance itself well with the topics and subplots involved, it's that none of them are given enough time to excite, fascinate, or make me care about anyone in this story to a level where I can walk out of the theater blown away. Right when the love story's taking off--bank robbing arc. Right when this whole local bank robbing trade is examined by the FBI or the script--torn back to the love story or back to another millionth sky-lined shot of Boston that peppered the entire movie literally, between each and every scene. Also, what about Hamm's character?--whose name I can't even recall, had no substance behind him. I mean who is this guy who wants to not, or wait, does want to "fuck around with 'The No Fucking Around Crew'"? He goes to work in cool, casual plaid J. Crew button downs, pulls out his 2010 Don Draper charm on Lively's hot mess of a towny floozy by waxing poetically about twenty dollar bills over a Bud Light, and wants to end wounded policemen's lives just so he can see Douggy get a life sentence. He is passionate, but why? We don't know because the movie doesn't care. So we, eventually don't. The narrative is equally balanced in it's lack of impact; and that is a shame because there is some good acting here (Renner), and there is wonderfully creepy claustrophobic and "duality of man" nuts and bolts action (Fenway shootout, North End car chase, the bank-robbing costumes/scenes) that ultimately ends up being a waste because of cliched dialogue (Hamm's interrogation scene--laughable) and character development that never causes the viewer to go to a place of relation with any of these people. 

Now for the "feel sorry for me, I grew up without a mother or father and crime is all I know and for some reason I have a hot headed best friend who doesn't give a FUCK about human life or anything else in this god-forsaken world other than stopping me from moving on in life and actually being happy, who we know will eventually die at the end, and we are fine with that, ya' know because they are an obstacle for me; who you should be rooting for by the way" story-line. Renner is as great as he can be in this role strictly because he becomes this person; and is so believable as Jem Coughlin (remembered his name). But his character is also someone we've seen a million times before, and that is wearisome. We all knew he'd bite the dust; and when he eventually did I only felt a split second murmur of sympathy because the best actor in the film was gone, not not necessarily the character he was playing. As far as Douggy goes in this growing up scenario, he hasn't killed anyone maliciously and has tried to be a good citizen (when not robbing banks); even almost made the pros as a hockey player. When he does finally commit murder near the end, it is just. I've always liked Ben Affleck. He is a solid actor, but he is not good enough to pull this flawed anti-hero off. The worst part is that I don't hate Doug or love him, I feel pretty much nothing for him, and if that's the case, the rest of the movie doesn't even matter.  If we are going to keep exploring this kind of protagonist on TV and film, it has to be fresh and it has to have depth where it can cause us to think in the abstract and question what is truly right and wrong in a way would have never imagined we would. Mackray's life does possess Shakespearian tragedy, but I don't feel sorry for him, and what's even more vexing is that the tone of the movie makes me think I should. With a character like this, you acknowledge the GIGANTIC flaws they posses but you also need to feel for them too for the portrayal to be successfully dynamic. But I didn't, especially when someone like Douggy had multiple chances to understand that he could leave Charlestown, but was too self-destructive and knowingly went into a line of business that could get any number of human beings killed. But the reasons for that are basically the tagline, mom died, dad bad, best friend is a thug, that's it. In the end we are left with an adequate, full on, self-conscious Boston bank heist movie that seems more concerned about juggling subplots (a little of this, a little of that), showing us Boston and its satellite towns, than really delving into a true love story that legitimately rises from the ashes of a heavily misguided child and adulthood that is based on this illegal craft that has been past down to generation after generation as a way to support a family or lifestyle that actually is not worth the risk in the end, not even close, yet it's still happening. Why is that still happening? Where is that movie? 


I'll applaud after that one. 

Jeremiah Has Risen Indeed. Hallelujah!: Idaho Ponders Existence, and hits Fashion Week to Save College Football Yet Again.

by Idaho Chubbs

"Coincidence obeys no laws and if it does we don't know what they are. Coincidence, if you'll permit me the simile, is like the manifestation of God at every moment on our planet. A senseless God making senseless gestures at his senseless creatures. In the hurricane, in that osseous implosion, we find communion. The communion of coincidence and effect and the communion of effect with us."

- One handed artist dude who went one step further than Van Gogh...ON PURPOSE. I like him.

This has been a rough week, not gonna lie. Lots of philosophizing, and reflective contemplation. Sadness bellowing through my ears and out into a Nectar cesspool full of uncertain fate. Why this? Why that? Questions, questions, questions. Some answers are there but it's never enough. It will never be enough. Distract, distract, distract, relidge, relidge, relidge. Let's forget our insignificance, or let's bask in it, or let some big entity be the big cheese and we'll be his lackey or let us be the center of the entire fucking universe! My universe, MINE. You sloors are just living in it, and I am the sloor to your Chubbs as well. Soo....??? Death, life, unrequited ambition, lack of it, wanting, but not working, OH THE DEPRESSION. "Voltaire Understudy Thomas" told me this week that ARMY practices consist of him trying not get shot by fiery artillery ants pulsing through a starry night sky as he crawls 200 push-up yards with his trusty hand-rifle-kill-toy. Apparently his fingers have six-packs now. Ah, what we do to remind ourselves of what it is to live on this watery land globe full of tangible shit that keeps us alive and distracted but in the end means nothing, except to those who still live here and share in that confusion. This can't be it, this IS IT, I'm important, I'm the opposite of important. What does it matter? Oh it fucking matters! Hmmm, let's do some whimsical communing, distract, or maybe coincidentally "LIVE" "LIFE"...

Three Days had passed since The NCAA and Pontius Pilate had executed Masoli. During this entire time, T2000 "worked" at opening his tomb. "T" is a terminator robot, but he is vastly out of shape from suckling on summer ale nectar tanning lotion for the past five months. He didn't even want to aid me in bringing the famed artist QB back from Hades until I enticed him with a Fashion Week god-alfull...ly creative Virginia Tech form-fitting jersey. I, on-the-other-hand, had descended into Hades right after Jeremiah had cried, "NCAA why have you forsaken me", meeting him at the edge of The River Styxx, explaining that he had an impossible fourth chance procured by yours truly. This did not compute. He was most forlorn, hopeless, whining about how traditional Ole' Miss's uniforms were, and how it was the only school that had football and a grad program for his true passion of parks and recreational use of Nectar grass; so he had no choice but to attend. They also didn't have one billion different Bowser-alien-Pygar uniform combinations like his undergrad alma mater Oregon, or his much beloved Prefontaine throwbacks. I took this in, silent as a ghost, unselfishly laboring not to relate this back to me and how I might have experienced something similar in my life in someway, verbally (which I'm prone to do. See I'm working on it). My success in this personal mental evolution promptly prompted me to then devolve, and smack Masoli across the face with Betty Draper swiftness ("I'll cut off all your fingers and then I'll put you in a dark closet with Mad Glen playing the part of your dead grandfather. Oh, you'd like that wouldn't you, you "Mad Barber" of Fleet Street, Sterling, Cooper, Draper, Price!?").  "Get ahold of yourself Masols. I have taken care of everything."

Right before the crucfixion, special unis for ten prolific college football programs debut at Fashion Week. After a vigorous, arousing and often penalty laden game of nocturnal flag football, with Klum, Seal, all of the Ford models, the Olsen twins, Ledger's Joker ghost,  some rag & bone B list actresses, Victor Ward, Lagerfeld, Tim Gunn and Anna Wintour and The Sartorialist splitting time as Automatic QB on the Versaille-like Bryant Park lawn, I adjourned with Mr. "This Concerns Me" and "Dr. Strangelove Karl" back to The Plaza Hotel, where we strategized the format for our Fantasy College Football Draft. To their dismay, Jeremiah was nowhere to be found. They had not heard the terrible news due to their busy schedules and Michael Irvin's constant nagging about MCing the college football uni runway show and how "THE U" and Jacory were going to "out-money" OSU and Terrelle Pryor simply because they had more green in their sports playing attire. Legitimate excuses aside I assured them that Masoli would come back to the surface once again if they could find a way to create another magical special treat uniform for Ole' Miss. The new contemporary piece of artful sports fabric would be the entire key to everything. Not only would Houston Nutt have no choice but to don it once or twice this season, but the NCAA would gain more exposure, more money (which is their life blood), and so would whoever designed them. After I had said this I noticed Lagerfeld dosing off a bit, convulsing from his 11th glass of scotch in 2 hours, his right glove loosening slightly, exposing the intricately woven metal that made up the innards of his constantly leather clad wrist and hands. "KARL!" I bellowed. "Come on!" "What?" He said, looking confused. "I heard you're plan and I know just the right company for the job. They're stuff is cheaply made, but it always looks super cool, like, Kevlar cool."

"Are you saying that G-Star is going to make Netherlandian Dark Knight Couture for SEC football?" delighted Masoli. "Indeed", I purred. "Nike was too expensive and their designs were lacking, although they did take some risks which worked for the Alabama jerseys, but not so much for Miami, no matter how much Michael Irvin gushed over their resemblance to USA paper currency. With creativity, you have to know the world you're working in. You have to have a little recklessness, you have to take risks to find something new, or something that might not be new, but a fusion of old oddities/ideas bopping around in your brain that you never consciously put together but just now did through your subconscious, through physical movement, as a product, to see, to touch, to know--even the constant moving of just your hands to sew, or write or draw, triggers these wonders...but you also have to know what is traditionally sound and what works, what should stay and not be changed. This is the constant balance that is incredibly difficult to achieve while navigating the formation of something truly special and hopefully timeless." I paused, "So you can understand why I could never endorse those abomination Oregon uniforms now, maybe, just a bit...don't you? JM nodded with a joyfully forgiving tear, gave me a manly arm-clasp, informed the ferryman Charon he would not be making the death voyage, flipped him a couple fifty cent pieces anyway, and said, "Let's do this." As soon we left to meet up with "T" at the tomb, Masoli inquired to when the new unis would be ready. I replied, "Not till after the first game. But you're playing some scrub team from Division 1AAA or something, so it won't matter."

Let's Assassinate The NCAA...FREE MASOLI!!!

by Idaho Chubbs

The sly fury of AKON blares in my ears as I realize that the NCAA has been the bane of my existence for too long, their inconsistent rules, their moral high ground, punishing athletes for stuff that has nothing to with their accomplishments on the field. Reggie Bush could have owned ten mansions while in college, I could not care less. If Miami Hurricane players want to wear camou for the rest of time and do sweet gun-slinging touchdown dances and then exit the stadium right after, please let them. Or even a subtle example of an official (demon) putting the "HURT" (hehehe) on Jake Locker's euphoric ball toss to the heavens after scoring an emotional TD makes my blood boil. Let's pay the players, or not, whatever, let's get fucking corrupt. Everyone do it, and at least we'll all be on the same level; much like Major League Baseball for the last 20 years (put everyone in the Hall of Fame. Barry Bonds still had to make contact with ball, which is really hard). Then the stupid Sloor Bowl system that screams insanity in the face of every kind of sports logic we as a world have come to know. But it's tradition, much like everyone getting a trophy after little league season, every college team gets their own "Little Championship .com Outback Circuit City Apple Iphone Citrus Nacho Tortilla Fiesta Guacamole Bowl".

But none of this compares to the shunning of my favorite player since Jesus Christ, by this evil empire. Jeremiah Masoli has made some mistakes in his day. Hey how many of us could resist yanking a Steve Jobs mobile computer top if it was staring us down, telling us to free it from some meat-head frat dude's room because he was just wasting it's imovie/photoshop capabilities, only using it for endless porn consumption? He should be rewarded! And he got caught with some nectar grass last spring, but let anyone who has not sipped from the sweet aromas of this weed ever in their lives cast the first stone. There is nothing wrong with enjoying oneself in such a manner; it is the system that is truly at fault, yet Jesus Christ Masoli suffers the THE MAN's wrath once again. Like many athletes before him he searched for institutions where he could further his thirst for academia (he's majoring in getting EXTRA work on the show "Parks and Recreation") and sport. I'm not sure if anyone in this realm saw him play USC last year, but I thought I was watching an early 20th Century Expressionist artist use a hundred yards of hybrid turf as his canvas, performing an honest to ME masterpiece. Much like Monet, who executed his "water lilie" visions later in life, Masoli is far from being done. He has so much more mind-altering art left to give (I want to see him shred college football defenses in his 70's too). "The Nutt" and the REBELS wanted to be the Theo to his Vincent in the worst way. Well maybe better than Theo (Van Gogh sold 1-2 paintings when he was alive and it took him 3 days to die after shooting himself....). With seasonally early Nectars in hand we were all ready to imbibe and witness the wonder of his new group show in the gallery of Ole' Miss that would drip with foliage-making inspiration. I can still remember the joker smile in my brain at the thought! But not so fucking fast, here came the NCAA yester-eve to censor yet again something/someone truly special and unique. If you can make me cry Barry Sander tears after a ten yard gain, you should be able to smoke as much weed and steal as many laptops as you want. I mean Salvador Dali use to push servants and fellow students down long flights of stairs for sheer delight. Do we care? Not at all. His Last Supper painting made me want to actually be at The Last Supper as Jesus or Jesus's brain dream of Judas betraying him (Don't believe what you hear, JC planned everything).

The NCAA has left me no choice. I will travel back in time with King and put an end to them and bowl games before they ever exist. Don't get into semantics with me bowl enthusiasts, you won't be cognizant of the fact that they ever existed after my work is done. This will just add to my previous mission of building up the University of Hawaii football program to replace the glory Notre Dame/USC/Ivy League/Army/Navy powerhouses of nostalgic yore with the aid of Teddy Roosevelt and King in the early 20th century. What's more of a bonus is that Masoli will never have to deal with any hierarchy of narrow minded coaches named Herr Kelly (you suspend a star RB for an entire season for one measly "tap" on the cheek). It's called PASSION!!! The creative Samoan will play for me and the 27 time outright National Champion Rainbow Brodys. By the time I'm done with the little league trophy loving entity you will have never even heard half of the powerhouses of this age and I'll still be older than "JoePa", and I will have won four more titles with Masoli as my QB artist, the best one of this young age.