Okay- I admit it- I'm a Zombie Survivalist.

There- I said it; they say admitting you have a problem is a sure sign of getting well- in a psychological point of view...

One of the zany off-shoots to be making a kind of cult-classic rise on the American pop scene seems to be this notion of Zombie Apocolyps survival.  Led in no small part from some very fun and inspired writing from Mel's son Max Brooks- pages are literally torn from the Romero tome and made into a survival guide designed to help people cope and survive this fictional 'zombie crisis'.

Zombie survival horror as a genre has been around since the late sixties when George Romero made Night of the Living Dead- an at-the-time unheard of Philidelphia film-maker's pet project involving some unknown/unseen energy bringing the recently deceased back to life and chowing down on the living.

One couldn't really classify the Romero first as a "run away hit" but it developed a fervent following and fan base soon enough to be followed by Dawn of the Dead [remade in the New Millenium- not any better but I'd dare say not any worse than the original] and then the troll inspired classic Day of the Dead...

It's not really the 'zombies' that make these raucus films so tenable- in many cases they're simply the window dressing for something more. 

That something more may be the concept of society at it's shambling rhetorical "death"- a type of primal point where your protection and 'normal' way of life becomes shattered beyond repair.  Governments cease to exist- people are prey for a group conscious leviathon that has no way of stopping lest you 'shoot 'em in the head'.  Truly one could call it a microcosmic overview of the relatively quick downfall of humanity- the only "slowness" to it is that you can see it coming at you bared teeth and oozing flesh and all.

That's where I fall into the trap of Zombie Survival- that aftermath...  What would it be like to be one of the survivors?  Strength would be measured in fortitude- not necessarily lifting capacity.  What would foraging, struggle and escape be to such people, whether as individuals or in small bands- not only hiding fromt eh dead but from bands of roving marauders who would take and kill simply to also survive.

Some say it wouldn't be much better than was had before the turn of the Renessance- some pish-posh the notion as simply too silly a premise given their disbelief in a cadaverous creature re-animated; and thus totally missing the premise outside of the "window dressing".

Rumor has it there are people who actually believe in this whole "Dawn of the Dead" thing- there may actually be a small band or two of people preparing for the Zombie Apocolyps.

In all honesty- more power to them; they remind me of an old George Carlin joke about "a man who's barricaded himself in his own house and is hurting no one including himself so no one is paying any attention to him..."  If it's actually groups of people playing a game revolving around this- much like the Goths try to play "Vampire"- okay- to each his/her own.  Just God please, don't let some soulless bastard with nothing to live for make an excuse to go all "Evil Dead" in a schoolyard and an entire subculture of silliness gets flushed down the PC toilet...

Again.

Until the Apocolyps- I continue to be
FXG

Carbon footprint..?!

Okay- it's been around for a while.

I suppose there'll be those who'll say "Welcome to the party, Russ- glad you could join us!"

Others that may be waiting with baited breath [pro and con] to jump at my rhetorical juggler vein just panting at what my next words will be.

I suppose in some ways I'll disappoint at one level and inspire or say nothing that hasn't already been said at the other.

I think 'global warming' is pure bullshit.

Oh, I can site my examples of researched study [not my own- The Good Lord knows what a bonehead I'd be as a scientist] and for every example sited there'd be contrapuntal evidence against and then reparteed with yet more examples of either side of this fulcrum called "Global Warming".

Al Gore got his Nobel for having made his junk science a reality to the world court- excellent. And I mean "excellent" in all it's manner befitting a Nobel winner- I mean it with all humility and not even a speck of degradation or mock.

But where people may not understand the dichotomy of acquiescence to Al Gore and yet call his "research" bullshit, let me also harbor this notion...

I also appreciate the Darwin Awards.

What do these two items have in even remote commonality to one another- ah! That's where the mind of the astute common-sensor comes to light!

The Darwin Awards are often bereft of old wives tales and mythological "facts" concerning some hapless uberdoofus who's managed to keep himself from rutting and infecting an already plagued gene pool based on the most eviscerating or heinous death imaginable. As I just mentioned- the DA's are often plagued with falsities and disproven myths.

The Nobel Peace Prize for Global Warming is no more "factual" than the Darwin Awards.

All the spouting and frothing and gnashing of teeth- whether at a 'green event' or some half baked hash induced rock concert where Gore makes his appearance having flown in on his "rented jet" reminds me of the "Diastases" character in AKIRA.

Both are archetypes of one another, both spouting words of imminent destruction through a gleeful grimaced smile as if resigned to their fate and more than willing to bring as many with him as possible.

Where the two analogies/similarities end is that at least in the film AKIRA, the police don their riot gear and start pelting the myopic mobs with teargas cannisters [the one-shot of an armed riot officer popping a round of CS right into the chest of a hacking/coughing bystander gives me certain amounts of smirk-some glee if one imagines Al taking the shot in the gut...]

The facts are there- one side says we're doomed in the next 20 years the other says we need to sit back and breath a little bit and stop ourselves short of hysteria. Where both sides say they're using science as their motivator to their viewpoint- one does so to presume that there is a status quo- the other does so in hopes of a magnanimous return to utopia by way of human cleansing and an equally human method of resolution.

That- dear readers is the outline of a religion- man-based faith, mind you- but a religion none-the-less.

So, whether the earth ends some time around noon in the next 12 years or I continue along in my "educated idiot" method of plodding, I'll continue to be;

FXG

Just what the hell was I thinking this time about a year ago ..?

Chalk it up to bravado, machismo [well- convoluted at best] or maybe just a kowtowing "yes dear" to the woman who bore my children through 2 C-sections into this world.

In either instance I wasn't getting out of this [or- let's just say I'd never be getting "into it" either...] and the inevitable thought comes to a couple's plans to "neuter the dog" in an effort to stave off the causes of child creation.

To start this off, let's just cut to the quick and understand right here that the recent navy promotional materials quoting "If someone were to write a story about your life- would anyone read it?" didn't take into account it'd have to be done by Woody Allen.

Some day I'll write it all down and there won't be a living soul who doesn't find it some laughable page turner expressing how "it's the best comedy they've ever read- too bad it's fiction and couldn't possibly happen to a real person!"

Long story into an epic- let's just go with the headline of my little blog entry and list those most important facts you as The American Male need to know- the Warning Signs if you will- when you should bail out of that burning tailspin we all call "The Vasectomy Gone Bad"...

1] If you have to travel more than an hour from your home to "the doc's" office [not hospital- OFFICE]... Don't go.

2] 2 words. Dueling Banjos.

If you get even the most remote feeling that you're about to become the equivalent of a "Ned Beatty Werewolf Snack"- 'listen for the banjos...'

3] If Heir Doc uses grass skirts and wooden voodoo masks as part of his waiting room decor... Don't go.

4] If Heir Doc has Goebbles, Himmler or any other such 'odd' nomenclature in his name... Don't Go.

5] I don't care if he's joking- if he mentions using a rusty pocket knife and scotch tape for the procedure... Yeah- you can see where this is going...

6] If you're told that the procedure will only take 20 minutes- expect the "ball numbin's" to wear off in 15... Oh yeah- been there, felt that.

7] If he asks the inane question "Did you not take the Perchocets we prescribed before coming today?" and the only answer you have is "no... Why?"

8] He'll tell you that application of a testicular inoculate will feel like "pressure". He's lying.

That needle is gonna go in the only two spots he didn't "numb lube".

9] If you feel like he's making your sac into a drum- expect to have the lights dim, the room fill with smoke and with a singular spotlight upon your groin, listen for the staccato retorts of a Beatnik solo in the distance.

10] If you've ever harbored the fear of being emasculated- you'll definitely walk [?!] away, no longer worried about this common phobia.

Ghengis Khan will be a pussy compared to you.

11] After the "procedure", the first time you have to go urinate, you will fully expect to see your flaccid 'wang' do nothing and your scrotum to expand like a balloon.

12] If Heir Doc mentions flippantly the human psyche's ability to "forget pain"... No.

No it doesn't.

That's called experience- and if it's intense enough you'll definitely never do a thing ever again.

No, you will not forget that effervescent glow of electrical fear that washes over you at the 15 minute point [rule #5] when you can no longer dangle your feet in somewhat blissful ignorance and instead you can now feel Mr Vas Deferin dancing placatively on the edge of "Ye Ole Scalpel"-

I guarantee it.

13] "Unde now- you may get dressed, go home and let your family wash all manner of affection over you- Zimpathy should be exhuded for 3 dayz."

A little piece of advise..?

My wife barely mentioned only once that she "had her insides on the operating table bringing your children into this world".

"Sympathy" lies within the dictionary between "shnockie"  and syphilis in my house. Though I didn't have to jog home I only got my choice of frozen peas or frozen broccoli spears [the more painful of the two] after I'd rotated the tires on the family bus.

14] Fully understand that I completely know my place in the Rose Manor- the dog lost his balls- mine are just floating free of any responsibility...

15] You WILL wake up that first night and check to see if "you've still got 'em".

16] The family cat will do her damnedest to perch on your now ever expanding "nonconformity".

17] Purple Rain, The Color Purple, The Purple Rose of Cairo [pun fully intended], Purple Haze, The Scarlett Pimpernel [it sounds almost "purpleish"]...

You will never find bruising so expansive, so vivid, or profound as what you'll find in The Wang Zone.

Even my wife bent over in the 'Kicked in the Cod" position and went "DOOOooooH! DEAR LORD!" after seeing me flash a bandy at "the battered boys".

I may have to start a Murphy's Law of Vasectomy...

I continue to be

Russ

Cosmic "Cause and effect"...

To some degree one can look into this blog's heading and ask if it's anathema to the SEALs credo for striving- a competitive nature ingrained in the hearts and minds of all men/women to be the highest of achievement.

Though that thought is generally correct on many such levels this has more to do with two kinds of firsts [is there such a thing?  Perhaps I've now found three...]

That which has never been done.

And "First Grade".

It would be fairly accurate to gather anyone reading these words now have moved on well past the First Grade of School.  Some of us may reflect on this seeing as this week marks the return [or beginning] to school for most places & states.

When we think of "firsts", do we think of such fleeting memories as- truly- our first day of school?

I really don't remember my first day of First Grade- I remember Kindergarten well- First grade for me was simply an extension of that which I'd learned already...  The walk to school with my parents taking that morning to physically walk me and my twin [6 blocks] to the school...  How to watch for the crossing guard: How to go to our classroom.

Then- unlike today, there wasn't the paranoia of pedophiles waiting at every bus stop- nor the "total" concern of strangers abducting a parent's children [it was there, surely- but not nearly as prevailent as it is today].  Truly one might admit to a certain "carefree" day in my youth.  A six block walk to school was an adventure- whether in fall leaves, winter snow or the heavy dew packed mornings of late spring/early summer.

More often than not, we forget this impressionable first.  That first day at school.

Until today- when I took my son to "Big Boy School" for his first.

Though he was ready for it, he was nervous- he's just not the "big tough guy" he so wants to be as his father.

But he bucked it up.  He stuck out his chest.  And then quietly slipped his hand into mine- not too ready to leave the safety of his father's side for that first step down the sidewalk and into a larger world.

Call it whimsy; call it dottery; call it "metrosexualization of manly emotion" if that's what'll crank your shaft; but the killing stroke to a father's "heroic self portrait" is when we finally got within the bounds of the school fence and I hear that tiny voice say, "We have to let go now Daddy- we have to be heroes, right?"

If I've made this up myself, I certainly wuld chalk the next few ruminations to someone somewhere far smarter than me for having said them first...

Truly- A man amongst men wants only the best for his children.

In order to get and expect that best, often one must look upon his children as simple little blocks of marble- ready for a master's touch to become statuary to themselves and to society as a whole.  Simple little things that at some point will become beautiful works of art.

The expense needed in order to bring out that artistic vision, is the chipping of the unnecessary to "find the work within the block".  In an artistic sense, chipping away the unwanted is nothing more than teh stroke of hammer against chisle, chisle against marble, marble releasing .

Our children, oddly enough, come into this world relatively perfect in the eyes of their parents- to take even one part away measures deeply in us as parents; often those metaphoric "chips" represent what we've long bitterly become aware of as lost "childhood innocence" or "fascination" or "sense of wonder".

Nothing hurt worse for me than to have my son, standing in line awaiting the next order from his new teacher- turn to me, reflexively holding out his hand and saying "Come on Dad- we have to go to my class."  and saddly shaking my head "no, son- you have to let go of me and do this on your own.  I'll be waiting for you at teh end of the day."

Today was my son's first day of "Big Boy School".

Tomorrow it may be he's off to college- or BUD/S or any number of things God, The Fates or whomever/whatever you choose to believe/not believe in has in store for him.

But for now- today was his first day in a brand new world.

For me- it was his first chip at becoming a man.

God help me- I'll be a wreck by the time my daughter is ready for her first day at "Big Girl School".

I continue to be:

FXG

Do any of us know anymore what a "Class Act" really is..?

Is it such a term that has faded with age to a time that now placates itself with "N" this and "B" that and a Hoe is somebody reprehencable instead of a gardening impliment?

A class act was referenced to someone who set themselves apart from just the general populace- much more than "Riff-Raff" [and no- that's not refering to some character from The Rocky Horror Picture Show...]

It seems like today's Snoop Dog or Brittany or Paris is met with some degree of notoriety not only fame-wise but by notoriousness.  Gone are the days of a Gregory Peck, Jimmy Stewart or even a May West of their generations I suppose...

Ah, but then I harken back to the mid-to-late 1990s and Anne Margarette.

Now there's a Class Act in a person if ever I met one.

With The Disney-MGM Studios now changing their name to Disney's Hollywood Studios, I'm harkened back to my meeting and getting to know Mz Margarette.

In the early-to-mid 90s DMS offered Guests a chance to meet a Star of The Day- basically a well known celebrity would come stay with us for a week and for a little extra hospitality they'd opt to perform a motorcade and handprint ceremony for their adoring fans.  It was actually quite the show!

Depending on the star, often time security was provided to make things a bit more comfortable them- nothing elaborate unless we got a real "powerhouse" like a Harrison Ford or Sylvester Stallone was at the time- I happen to be on that select entourage for Ann Margarette when she joined us...

She was charming, affable and incredibly pleasent with those of us on her 'Bod Squad'- not like some I'd had the 'pleasure' of meeting many times prior.  Though she could be ruffled over unpleasentries or anything else we as human beings would seldom tollerate, she always seemed to handle them with a certain poise I've seldom if ever seen before or since.

She seemed intrigued with me- our conversations [small and quick as they were] could flow from one thing to the next and nothing surfaced to which either of us had at least a working knowledge of, or an opinion based upon.

The only thing she couldn't understand was my rigid stance and watchful eye when we'd finally start her motorcade- seldom a smile cracked through either...  I'd explained to her that it was more my worry over her safety than the need for a smile at that particular moment in time that had me looking the way I did- but no Guest was ever sniped at nor would I ever raise my voice in anger or place demands- it just isn't/wasn't me.

What was ever so classy was inevitably she told me, "Russ, I'm going to have you smiling all the way back to the area gate before this week is over- mark my words!" as if to say "Straighten up mister- or I'll give you something to smile about!"

The last motorcade on the last day turned out to be quite memorable for me and I still would hope to her as well.

During the trip up to the handprint ceremony Ann would smile and wave to the crowds of admirers but then she'd pause a moment, look at me and show a concerned, almost contemplative face to me- as if she was thinking diligently what she could say or do to get me to smile...

On the way back; half way down Hollywood Blvd, she launched into her plan...  She turned to me coily and motioned me to step up closer to the convertable she was riding in.

She then looked at me and mentioned almost tisking; "Ah, such a sad and concerned look for a man who once played The Saint"...  Without even waiting for a responce, she turned away and waived more to the crowd even calling out to a few who called her by name.

Think about that for a moment The Saint- she was talking about Roger Moore- who before his days as Bond, played the title character of the English Television series.

I couldn't help but grin from ear to ear- especially as she made the comment so cooly and heartfelt. Not to be outdone, Anne turned back to see how her handy work had faired.

Noting my stupid grin, she too broke into a sexy smile that'd melt ice.  She then leaned to the back of the convertable and with that incredible demureness she's so famous for and said "That's what I've waited all week to see, young man."

Class.

Something you just don't see anymore.

If you ever wonder why I've chosen the little stickman icon as part of my avitar, signature or "whatever"...  Look up Roger Moore and remember this story.

I continue to be:

FX

As most burly jokes start:

There was once a travelling salesman who drove the 'undriven' lanes and highways of America looking for opportunities to sell his wares outside the mainstream.

Running low on fuel, the salesman stops at what one could only term the quinisential 'ramshackle' gas station with the tatty roof, off-set screen door and old cylinder style gas pumps with "regular" and "ethyl" in stark, faded print on their faces.

As our protagonist steps from his vehicle and waves to the old codger on the front porch of the ancient petrol oasis, he waves and imparts a congenial 'hello'...

"Howdy, old timer!" exclaims our hero,"I'll pump if you'll be kind enough to grab me a Coke?"

The old man waves back and knods, slowly lifting himself to saunter into his ramshackle store and produce a frosty bottle [!?] of Cocoa-Cola...

Once the salesman has finished fueling his car and popping the pop-top off his drink, he takes a moment to make small talk and pleasantries with the native he's newly met. During the course of his chit-chat with his new-found elderly friend, he notices an old hound-dog laying next to his ancient master.

What makes the dog even more noticable is suddenly, the canine belts out a blood curdling scream that truly only those falling to hell could possibly summon. The old codger no more than taps on his pipe and continues his story, completely noplumed concerning his seemingly haunted pet. The dog then licks its chops and places its head back to the rickety floor and lays still, blinking placatively.

A pregnant pause later and the conversation picks back up, the salesman looking to gleen a possible lead to his next sale- the least of which might be his conversational partner.

About 10 minutes into a heated conversation, the crecendo of which sounds like a dubious sale- the hound SCREAMS as if it's had every pound of meat stripped from its bones.

The salesman looks dumbfounded to teh dogf as it yet again licks its chops and settles back to its undisturbed original rest.

"Um... Old man?" stammers the salesman.

"Yes?"

"Just what in the hell is wrong with that dog of yours?!" he exclaims. "I've never heard a dog scream- bray, moan, grunt, bark, howl and even yodel- but never scream!"

The old man looks down near his feet where the dog lies- never having moved.

"You mean Boe there?" asking as if he'd just noticed the canine.

"Boe? Yes I mean BOE! He's the only dog within miles of here!"

"Screaming?" quizzicly the old man knods.

The dog belts out another ice inducing, vein shrinking screech.

"YES! That! That, right there!" exclaims the salesman.

"Oh! That! Yeah ole Boe's sittin' on a nail." states the old codger.

Every bit of color falls out of the salesman's face. How could it be such a damned simple thing?

"A nail?"

"Yup"

The salesman points at Boe, who simply lays where he's been since...

"Nail..?"

"Yep."

"Great googly Moogly, old man- is that dog so shirt fired stupid he doesn't know his laying on a nail?!"

"Nope. Quite intelligent that one..."

"Then how do you explain all the screaming?"

"You see son- there's two sets of mind in this world..." starts the old fellow. "Boe here is a perfect example of those two minds."

"Okaaaaay..." waits the salesman.

"You see... Ole Boe here knows the nail hurts- but it don't hurt 'enough'..."

"It doesn't hurt enough?"

"Nope- doesn't hurt enough to move." tisks the aged store owner.

"That's the 'two minds' in this world. Lotsa people come past me buyin' gas, drinkin' a Coke and they tell me their stories of their travels and then grouse about having to go back to sittin' on that nail in their lives."

The light goes on in our salesman's brain...

"How many lives gone by, how many people have come by here that even though they have the freedom to get up and walk away from the one thing that pokes them into misery... How many of them realize how much their nails hurt before they're uncomfortable enough to get up and move?"

So...

Granted it's a long way to go to make such a simple point, but much like our older gentleman in our story, sometimes it's the pause in the music that is part of the music itself...What kind of nails have we been sitting on and just how uncomfortable do they have to be before we're willing to get up and do something about them..?

I continue to be- FX!

Simply a trial version of this new deveopment our esteemed Mark and his "Q" contingent of Merry Marauding Web Site Wascles has created...

Still need to understand the limitations of "The Six Ws"- especially when it would come to photo galleries, blog entries, that sort of thing- how much of a good thing this'll be!

The 'add image' button is an exceptionally nice touch- still one must have a url to link to either from this site or from an already substantiated one [that's common though!]

Nope- nothing more than a "howdy" to see how this works, what it looks like and to participate as a "plank owner of a sort" in the continued refinement...

It's looking VERY promising!