Bad Movie Logo
"A website to the detriment of good film"
Custom Search
Welcome, Guest. Please login or register.
Did you miss your activation email?
October 16, 2017, 09:26:47 PM
585380 Posts in 45110 Topics by 5970 Members
Latest Member: 7Hz Forum  |  Other Topics  |  Off Topic Discussion  |  Stream of Consciousness « previous next »
Pages: 1 ... 3 4 [5]
Author Topic: Stream of Consciousness  (Read 1785 times)
Bad Movie Lover

Karma: 97
Posts: 847

« Reply #60 on: October 10, 2017, 11:27:27 PM »

Imaginary conversation with a friend.

Friend (who's surfing the internet): I tell you, it's so confusing these days.  All this information, all these pictures and videos and stories you hear, it's hard to know what's real and what's not.  Hard to separate fact from fiction, and I frankly find it rather annoying.

Me: Well, it can be that way sometimes, but that's why you gotta get your information from multiple sources, do some research, and hopefully you'll find out with some degree of accuracy what news stories are true and which aren't.

Friend: News stories?  I'm talking about celebrity nude pics!
« Last Edit: October 12, 2017, 04:37:57 PM by AoTFan » Logged
Frightening Fanatic of Horrible Cinema

Karma: 623
Posts: 3702

The world becomes a dream....

« Reply #61 on: October 11, 2017, 03:50:25 PM »

My cousin, his friend the weekend rent-boy, and I went to a lecture about the supposed paranormal the other evening, given by a group of self-dubbed ghost hunters, and it wasn’t bad if you could lay aside a knee-jerk impulse to roll your eyes at how don’t-laugh serious the presenters were. They played an EVP of a gargley voice going, “Leave or I will hurt you” (or maybe it said “Beaver, Wally heard you”) and showed a nice PPP about shadows and orbs and the like, put up some shots of genuinely spooky wouldn’t-go-there-sober places like a prison built atop an Indian burial ground, a middle school built atop an Indian burial ground, and an Indian burial ground built atop an Indian burial ground, but they said they said one indication of whether a group you see on TV is genuine is the frequency with which they claim to encounter demons, which the speaker said are actually uncommon compared to genuine ghosts.

Hmm, thought my mother’s daughter, yet Jesus always seemed to run into demons a bunch. Go figger, as the love of my life would once have remarked.

Demons got me thinking of my mother in law and the Keebler Elves, but also of John Milton. Specifically, ever read Paradise Lost and start thinking Lucifer had it together, and then you wonder why someone so brightly eloquent couldn’t grasp that God would've known an infinite number of years before he began his revolt everything Lucifer was gonna do in that revolt? Or that God, again, being GOD, wouldn’t weave Lucifer’s revolt into his (okay, just this once -->) His plans for ultimate triumph through His creation?

Or why God didn’t just go to Lucifer a trillion years ago and be like, “Son, I know what you’re up to, so stop before I have to smite you with horns and a tail, K?”

I think Lucifer would have appreciated that and everyone could have happily gotten along behind the Pearly Gates eating ambrosia and mana, with Lucifer going in his Yorkshire accent, “Thanks, Lord, I feel a right git knowing you were onto me the whole time.”

(Of course without the devil we never would have had rock and roll or chocolate, so, yeah, God is wise.)

Sometimes when my mother in law (yes, it’s her, not the Keebler elves) shifts into her machinations I feel clever like God must have when Lucifer started plotting behind his shining back. Like when she is attempting to do a low-key outa the corner of her eye clandestine glance at someone in public, usually preambled by one of her friends saying something like, “That little waitress’ nose ring makes her look like a hussy, doesn’t it?” she resembles Katharine Hepburn wobbling her head in that direction while pretending she is, ho-hum, just happening to glance that way.

My mother in law never quite made it a secret she would have rather her son married someone other than me, and if she was never “exactly” unwelcoming, she also left no mystery about her preferences. In fact if I ever had any doubts about that an email of hers cured me in the mid-‘00s, she coming to the wonders of the paperless letter about a decade after everyone else, when she accidentally sent me a copy of a private missive intended for her son’s eyes only, not quite grasping that “reply all” meant REPLY ALL. Thus I and all her contacts awkwardly learned in great detail what she truly thought of me.

If most people I know had sent out a reply-all while blasting someone down to the DNA level, I’d have comfortably assumed it was intentional, but, no, I knew she truly was that technologically inept. So I gritted my teeth, slammed a tennis ball against the side of my house for a while with my cursed racquet (why it’s cursed is a story for another time, but LSS when I was fifteen it nearly killed me), then asked my spirit guide Oscar Wilde for some soothing words. Ireland’s greatest homo reminded me that: “Evelyn, the only thing worse than being talked about was not being talked about.”

That being not very comforting I gave Oscar an ectoplasmic Viagra and told him to f**k off back to buggering Plato or something.

My future husband, who’d also read the email, hurried over after work and brought me flowers and said, “Laugh it off, she wouldn’t think Helen of Troy was good enough.”

“Yeah, um, okay,” I said, “I’ll do that. Ha and ha.”

Truthfully he was right, no woman ever would have met the checklist in her dream category (wide childbearing hips a must) but it seemed I was just really off the mark, being everything from not a WASP to not a Republican to working a job that she couldn’t quite put her finger on but something about it wasn’t right, to being a vegetarian, to not liking cat figurines that much, to apparently somehow in her mental gymnastics having me down as both an agnostic and a Catholic, to being…how should I put this…um, if I were a snowdrift I’d have other footprints on me? But the thing that really made it okay and left me laughing it all off was………she insinuated that I stuffed my bra.

Stuffed my bra, yes.

What is this, I thought, 1950? Who stuffs a bra anymore?

I said to her son, “She thinks I stuff my bra? You know that’s insane.”

He said, most gratefully, “Oh, yeah.”

Okay I’m not top-heavy or anything, just a B-cup, but I don’t have to stuff my bra, for gosh sakes, so my mind was just nuked.

When she found out she’d emailed her private thoughts to about sixteen people, including me (she had my email address because she’d send out links to pictures of porcelain kitty cats and other nauseating things she collected) her embarrassment was more than acute, like Spinal Tap’s stereo, it went up to eleven; double-blood pressure medicine for sure.

She tripped over her mouth’s feet apologizing and, grasping this’d give me the high ground for a long time thereafter, I said, “Ah, it’s all right, you were being honest in what you thought was a private communication.” (You creaky-kneed backstabbing blob.) “Don’t be embarrassed, you were looking out for your son.” (You sour old bag.) “Someday we’ll laugh about it.” (Like at your funeral.)

Oh, sure, in coming years she grew to tolerate me and reach the point of liking me a little by proxy since I did fulfill two of her deepest wishes, I got her son married, and I helped give her grandchildren, though the joke was on her, I did it partly out of order.

Speaking of that blessed event (not our wedding, which she talked me out of having in a cemetery, the other blessed event) she wanted us to give our first daughter this name she’d loved since she was our age, a name she’d have bestowed on her own little girl, if she’d had one. It was a name that in her mind shone with golden light, which rang with angel-voices, a name which meant the world to her.

That name was Mimi.

No offense to anyone (still) reading this who might have a Mimi near and dear to his heart, but…Mimi? Mimi is fine for, say, a small yappy dog, but you name your daughter Mimi and you are pretty much assuring she’ll never get to be President of the United States someday, since no world leader is ever going to summon much awe at the prospect of a meeting with President Mimi. So the 131st time I let her down in my life was when I did not bestow her grandchild with the name Mimi.

Annnieway, the ghost hunters last night were a trip and my cousin flirted with one, his gaydar pinging “hot ass” loud and clear, and he and the rent-boy and Goober the ghost-chaser went out to Starbucks after the lecture, somehow being able at that age to chug lattes at 8:30 PM without losing the night to insomnia like me, and I came home to find, as I knew I would, none other than my mother in law watching the children---who absolutely love her.

As she left she asked if I’d tell her how the upcoming parent-teacher conferences at the kids’ school went, and I said, “Sure, I’ll email you.”

To this day the word “email” still makes her flinch.

It was great.
« Last Edit: October 11, 2017, 03:53:58 PM by ER » Logged

"If I should meet thee after long years,

How shall I greet thee? With silence, and tears."

--Lord Byron
Dark Alex
Bad Movie Lover

Karma: 94
Posts: 756

Apparently I am very Dark and very Alex.

« Reply #62 on: October 12, 2017, 02:46:56 PM »

I love these dark nights. I can go walking late at night and its like there is no one else in the world. Went along a dark street with an open park on one side and trees on the other yesterday. I couldn't resist running through the piles of leaves and kicking them up. Without the heat of summer the nights feel cooler and less stuffy. I don't even mind if it rains a bit, after all that tends to keep everyone else inside and the sense of isolation helps me relax.

My boss wants to move me back into my old job in the windowless dungeon. I can't say I am looking forward to that, but I'll get it done. Hopefully I can get a move on to a more enjoyable and challanging job soon though.

Some times I really wonder if I'd be bothered if everyone else just vanished off the face of the planet. I'd just find the surviving cats and become their emperor.

Of course, about the only command they would obey would be ignore me and stare disdainfully in my direction.

Watching a TV series from the late 90's where Sir Christopher Lee discussing the past 100 years of horror. So many great old movies... so many of my idols dead now alas. Oh well it suits the time of year. Going down to see the family for 10 days after I finish work tomorrow. Got my little brothers stag do on Saturday, going to see my little half brother play rugby on Sunday, catching WASP playing in Glasgow on Monday and then the wedding on the following Saturday.

Oh yeah, and that means ER gets sole custody of long posts while I am gone.  Twirling


Having listened to your problems, I have decided I'd like to help you out. Which way did you come in?
Frightening Fanatic of Horrible Cinema

Karma: 623
Posts: 3702

The world becomes a dream....

« Reply #63 on: October 13, 2017, 10:53:09 AM »

Gee, Alex, I---I'll try....

Today’s inadvertent topic: one thing the Church of Scientology gets right is how screwed up the field of psychology is.

When I just started middle school I and others in this hideous gifted program I was in had to see psychologists every week, and the one I was assigned to was this rather young woman named Doctor Nora, and this person had no business being around children or even being in her profession at all, she was simply a terrible, Orwellian human being. But anyway, one thing Doctor Nora did that sticks out in my mind was she was talking to me one morning, her ever-present notebook in hand, insulated tea-mug on her desk, probably all of twenty-six, and with her eyes half-hidden behind thick wide glasses she said, "Tell me all the filthiest cuss words you know."

Talk about being startled! I, an insufferably good child who rarely questioned authority figures back then, blurted out, "Why?"

She said, "It's about measuring your social development. I won't tell you said them, just tell me the ones you know."

I wouldn't do it, I refused, I said no, so she wrote something long down without saying anything to me for about thirty seconds, then without looking up at me she said about three truly bottom of the rung back alley words and asked if I knew them, and I turned red and squirmed and she said, "All right, I think you've answered non-verbally."

In all my years among mental health professionals, in school and later in a job I worked, no other psychologist or counselor ever asked me anything like that and I still wonder about it since it seems inappropriate. But then again, as I said, Doctor Nora was utterly heinous and used to tell many lies and violated confidentiality on several occasions. Although she looked nothing like her, she reminded me a little of Delores Umbridge from Harry Potter, falsely-sweet exterior, cruel inside.

A few years in the future, 1995, having by then grown used to speaking to “thought-doctors” I was asked if I would do my father’s employers a favor (as they phrased it) and answer some questions about how I believed my father was doing in light of the stresses caused by his impending divorce, and since my dad said, yeah, go ahead, El, it’s all right, I agreed. The trippy thing was this psychologist they had me go see about my dad (he had a high clearance for his job so he had to be stable) was a Navy officer who looked exactly, and I mean ex-actly, like the TV talk show host Montel Williams. To this day I am not sure it wasn’t Montel Williams, though why Montel would’ve been moonlighting as a Navy psychologist in a mid-sized city I don’t know. He asked me about how my dad was doing, and I sat there feeling the GUEST/VISITOR laminated badge  they gave me to get in the facility hanging around my neck like a millstone, and I answered honestly that while, yeah, sure, he was upset, he seemed fine and had really been helping me with my homework lately. Also he still coached basketball for an inner-city youth center. Oh, and he was way nice to those disadvantaged urban kids. Yeah, he was just great. Doing fine. Perfect. Ran two miles a morning, wasn’t drinking or kicking my dog, Charlotte Sometimes. His guns were locked up and everything.

Not-Montel asked me more things, none of them seemed particularly significant or anything, then finally closed his notepad and asked if there was anything I wanted to talk about, since we had time left and I’d been “so good” as to come in. I said no thank you, sir, and he asked if I was sure, since what was going on at home was doubtlessly stressful on me as well and sometimes talking did help. I still declined and he left it there and thanked me, shaking my hand as we left. (At that age an adult shaking my hand, person-to-person was still worth noting as an event.)

Turned out I’d unknowingly ratted my father out without having a clue I was doing it, but, not wanting me to feel bad, he didn’t tell me for almost another twenty years how much trouble I caused him, and he said like a lawyer cross-examining someone on the stand the people behind the interview had been after one tiny iota of a fact, and I gave it to them. I asked why he didn’t warn me then, and on that rainy day in 2014 he said it was not his place to do that over something so important. That wasn’t how the rules worked.

Yes, Not-Montel was yet another snake in the grass in the field of psychology.

Though I’ve routinely seen psychologists across much of my life for school and work, only once did I ever consult with one of my own volition, since I am not sure the profession is all it’s cracked up to be (for starters they still have not arrived at defining the difference in “mind” and “brain” did you know that?) and I think there’s a certain inner-moxie that comes with toughing out life’s rough parts on your own. In fact during the worst stretch of months of my existence, the second half of the year 2000, knowing anguish I’d not wish on a North Korean bomb technician, I didn’t talk to anyone professionally, just endured a life in death inspired by a death in life, (thank you, Coleridge) and more or less pulled through to be the sunny soul I am today.

(The sunny soul who wanted to get married in a graveyard, yes.)

You know who actually did help me? A priest.

In high school I used to talk to this Jesuit priest, not confessing, I made that clear, I never asked for absolution, but he was a nice man, in his eighties then, gone now, and he invited me to come talk anytime, the seal of confession would still bind he, he said, even though I claimed not to believe in sin or forgiveness or absolution or indeed in God. So I’d head downtown about once a week to this gloriously lovely 1850s church called Saint Xavier’s and tell him about my adolescent life, its ups and downs, the squeeze plays and the pressures, the madness  and the mystery, and he was more helpful than any degreed psychologist I ever knew.  He also told me I had “scrupulosity” and was caught in a sort of harmful self-centeredness that focused on what I saw as my own failings and negative qualities, which to an extent could be a good thing, though he felt I’d taken it too far and beat myself up for everything I got wrong. (And since I felt I got so much wrong I wore a lot of self-inflected mental bruises.) He advised me to also concentrate sometimes on my good traits, and said it was all right to be proud when it was deserved.

Sometimes I wanted to reach through the confessional curtain and hug that man, he was so selflessly nice to me.

The really strange thing about the conversations I had going on with this ancient priest, though, was that I was initially drawn to him largely because I knew someone else who was going to him for actual confession, and that gave me a sort of frission to think I was telling this man one half of the same story someone else was feeding him from his perspective, so that even though as a cleric he could never reveal anything to me or about me, he was in the center of both sides, which…felt Hitchcockian.

Neither I nor the other party made a secret of what we were doing, going to the same priest, but neither of us ever confided to the other the things we were telling him about ourselves and the collective realm of “us.” Besides, love conquers much, as I found.

Here is a link to that kind old priest’s grave site, if you’re interested. Beam good thoughts at him, if you’re so inclined.

As I mentioned I did talk to a psychologist on my own just once, back circa 2005 when I got this ten-session retainer package for around twelve-hundred bucks, and she was actually more helpful than Not-Montel and Doctor Nora and the other double agents from school and on the job. I told her a lot of things, like how as far back as I could remember I’d had this fixation, this certainty, that I was going to die when I was twenty-nine years old. (Whoops!)  I told her about all the deaths of loved-ones I’d had in my life and about various stresses that came with my existence, and interestingly, using slightly different terminology she told me much the same diagnosis as the Jesuit priest had in high school, though instead of “scrupulosity” she said I had unresolved guilt issues (how vanilla), and she gave suggestions about how to overcome the feelings of self-blame she said I carried, things like writing letters to myself and to the objects of my issues.

Good advice, though some of the guilt was warranted and I wasn’t sure I deserved to shrug it off like I bore no responsibility to anyone else for anything they experienced. I had been cruel a time or two and I had inexplicably, spontaneously abandoned someone at arguably the worst time I could have done it. I’d also been half of something that was too terrible for words, so I never told her about that, though always knew what she’d have said, and I didn’t want to hear someone telling me to forgive myself for that too.

Whether it is coincidental or not, looking back I see that about the time I visited her I did experience a change of chapters in my life story and many of the issues that felt pressing to that point did fall away, and for about another decade I was good to go. I felt glad about the trajectory of my path, which was new and it was nice. I took trips, I had my first baby, I bought an assault rifle.

Then a few years ago, I slipped.

It happened because someone from the old days was moving back into town, re-opening deep scars, some deservedly terrible. Because I had never resolved any of those, just hid them, I got sucked into the gravitational pull of old issues and went through this odd era of being extremely past-focused, wallowing in remorse, grief, regret, almost to the exclusion of the present, which my friends more or less endured until it got so strange my husband sat me down one day and said, “We have a good life. We have our children, this house, our work, and a lot to enjoy now. We also have a whole future ahead of us. What you’re agonizing over was a long time ago and you need to get over this.”

Well, yes, he was right, and I did, it wasn’t that I didn’t have the power to make that choice, I consciously decided to close the door again on a loss that tortured me like a fresh wound. So I did tons of ab-crunches to burn off energy, gritted my teeth and got through my dread over this person I hated, partly for his connection to a lingering grief I, he, and all his family share, being unavoidably back in my outer life where I knew I was destined to encounter him.

Though like Sylvia Plath’s bell jar (the concept not the book) I wonder if it’ll descend again one day, my almost time travel-like concentration on parts of the past that ache to this very day? I hope not, because it’s rough on a parahyperthymesiac like me to be stuck reliving what’s over and done when the hard fact is there is nothing more useless than yesterday. (Except in its ability to teach us lessons.) In fact I got over at least part of it so much I am going to have lunch in twenty minutes with the person whose return I once dreaded. (Poor man, he never deserved to be hated like that….)

So is psychology helpful? I don’t know, but as I started off saying, that b***h Doctor Nora really blew.

"If I should meet thee after long years,

How shall I greet thee? With silence, and tears."

--Lord Byron
Frightening Fanatic of Horrible Cinema

Karma: 623
Posts: 3702

The world becomes a dream....

« Reply #64 on: October 14, 2017, 05:00:04 PM »

This morning the young woman who tried to cut her own throat in a car last month came by to see my teenaged cousin (once removed), and she also happens to be the only girl he's had sex with, though he's had lots of guys. He just figured he'd see what it was like, and she was into him, so, shrug, that was earlier in the year. ("Looser than I'm used to," was his verdict about the experience of heterosexual intercourse, and I just about fell off my chair when he told me that.)

It struck me that in slashing open her neck it was as if she released foul spirits or something, since she was the calmest, steadiest, most un-crazy person today, and she was NOT like that in times past when the vibes she gave me leaped around like fleas on a hotplate, and I cautioned my cousin then, "Do be careful of that one."

He, who reminds me so much of his mother in male form, all the stories of her life she used to dazzle me with growing up, said, "Are you saying for once you think I'm safer with men?"


Placid though she was today, my young cousin still got her out of the house as fast as he could and bade me not to be fooled, he thought she was still nuts.

Out of genuine curiosity I asked if she was so iffy why'd he mess around with her, and he said, "She asked me to."

There you go, she asked him to. Wow, why didn't I think of that when I was single?

I asked if he thought she was attractive, and he said yes, of course, he perceives female beauty, it just usually did not sexually activate him. (And she is by almost any standard a nice-looking girl.)

I said, "Is that what it's like? A separation of physical beauty from sexual beauty?"

He goes, "I guess because I did have to think hard about hot guys while I did it."

I picked up on him saying "usually" women don't arouse him and he said if his attraction to men is a ten his pull to some women is more like a two. Not a turnoff just much weaker.

Then he told me how she stalked him all spring after hanging around him all the time last winter while they were still in high school, and how all his friends told him he should not have done what he did with her because she was in love with him and she was a freak-girl.

This man to whom I was once engaged used to have synesthesia, and he'd tell me being around some people sounded like this shrill noise was going through his brain. I bet he'd have felt that about this chick even today because somehow her calm was almost more daunting than her normal instability.

Whatever the case may be regarding her mental health, good luck to her, I hope her life is happy and involves no more self-inflicted razor wounds, since eighteen would be ridiculously young to die.
« Last Edit: October 14, 2017, 05:17:06 PM by ER » Logged

"If I should meet thee after long years,

How shall I greet thee? With silence, and tears."

--Lord Byron
Frightening Fanatic of Horrible Cinema

Karma: 623
Posts: 3702

The world becomes a dream....

« Reply #65 on: October 15, 2017, 03:17:22 PM »

I recently ended a love affair that began in the days of my youth.

It happened when I made the tough decision not to stay a member of the National Geographic Society, as I had been since I was seven.

Perhaps it is a symptom of the problem when I point out that the notice sent to me from National Geographic (from a Florida-based mailing house, no less, not even from the HQ on the Mall in Washington DC) referred to my involvement with The National Geographic Society as a “subscription renewal” which may seem a minor thing but it’s not. You see, as Alexander Graham Bell and the other founders intended back in 1888, one joined The National Geographic Society in order to lend financial support to the noble endeavor of “increasing and diffusing geographical knowledge,” and the cheerfully gold-spined periodical that came in the mail was merely a monthly report that kept a member informed of some of the wonderful undertakings toward the pursuit of knowledge dues made possible. There was never an intention that the journal of the National Geographic Society be “merely” a magazine.

I think the cancer started when National Geographic began to appear on the shelves of supermarkets and (back then) book stores. That was….a mild rules violation right there, something longtime President Gilbert Grosvenor wisely resisted for years (his mantra was “We are not Life Magazine”) but no one kicked because, hey, more readership meant more funding, which meant more exploration, right? But it was a symptom of the decay that had already begun to fester deep within the skeleton that was supporting the world’s most distinguished instrument of information.

What the real final straw was for me I could not tell you. It wasn’t the “gender” issue this January, though that was an insult to biologists and rational thinkers everywhere with its efforts to argue that bi-gendered homo sapiens sapiens actually have as many as seven distinct sexes. Nor was it the four-part “food” series that was in actuality little more than anti-Malthusian bleeding hearts stoking the fires of First World plentitude versus Third World need. And it wasn’t even in itself the staff and editors working “global warming” into almost every feature each issue, or even the fact the once literate tone of the journal had given way to colloquial prose that included the occasional four-letter word. No, it was that these things were indicators of how the mentality had shifted among the board of directors, taking this once-strictly non-political gift to the world and turning it into just another blatantly slanted tome that tried to make us all feel bad about ourselves. (Hey, if I want to feel bad about myself I’ll listen to my ever-wise eight-year-old explaining why I am wrong about almost everything I think I know.)

And enough of that was far too much. I began to feel the Society had become like the Catholic Church circa 1500, in need of a purifying Reformation to draw standards back to their roots. I hungered for more articles on archaeology, on the outer planets, on the mission to save the dome of Hagia Sophia, on the efforts to reach absolute zero, or the quests to explain how the neutrino can exist and yet have no mass. I wanted less ink spent on how Third World peoples lack toilets, what Whoopi Goldberg thinks of the state of education, or why suburban Americans should beat themselves daily for enjoying the fruits of modernity gifted to them by the ingenuity of their ancestors.

I wanted to learn about blue whales in ways that included more than the (shameful) fact humans had once hunted them. I fondly recalled times when a piece about the Mariana Trench did not devolve into a spiel on how plastic bags litter the ocean waters. Remember when half the content of an issue could be a delightful travelogue written by some family driving a camper across Europe? When was the last time National Geographic published something fun like that? These days where are the informative pieces on South Africa’s revitalized packs of painted wolves? Where is a bit about the centennial of the horrors of the Somme campaign? How about an issue dedicated to Siberia’s taiga, those great stretches of sub-arctic forest which are the legitimate “lungs of the planet” and not, as so many now think, the fetid Amazon?  (I went to Brazil for my honeymoon and trust me, South Park nailed it, the Amazon is a Hell-ish nightmare.)

Above all I wanted to encourage editor in chief Susan Goldberg to learn the difference in “excellence” and “elitism” and quit hitting that Western Guilt button! I’m terribly sorry people in Rwanda don’t have skyscrapers and good libraries, and terribly glad we do, but isn’t it contrary to natural selection to think all population groups within a species could face different geographical challenges and nutritional benefits across many generations and yet result in exactly the same levels of competence within that species? Europe and Asia were great places to dwell, I’m sorry so much of the sub-Sahara wasn’t. Hey, I don’t make the rules, Charles Darwin did. Maybe God created everyone equally, but blind nature certainly didn’t. Deal with it or not, “Nat Geo” but stop complaining. (And FYI, for the record I hate when the journal is called “Nat Geo”.)

Oh, I still treasure National Geographic as a concept, this source of knowledge that enshrined the grand 19th century spirit of pure scientific exploration well into the nascent 21st century, but I love what was, not what is. Which is fine, since on digital I own every issue ever created, and, truer to the heart of what I’m talking about, have physical copies of every volume back to 1943, and about seventy issues dating earlier than that, so I have plenty of quality material to keep me going. In fact I love few pleasures more than finding a spare hour to lose myself in the columns of those old issues, their pages redolent of the libraries and scholarly bookshelves of times gone by. The digs of Heinrich Schliemann and Howard Carter, the London of the Tudors, the Maasai Mara migrations, the Leakey family in Olduvai Gorge, the graceful stalking of a leopard after her prey, the blindness of cave fish, the wildlife of the Korea DMZ, the Volga delta, the wonders of a Vermeer, the madness of Ivan Grozny, the inexplicable flight of the bumblebee…these are what I want National Geographic to be, not a record of the miseries of African secondary schoolgirls not having the same standard of feminine protection American women take for granted.

And I doubt I am alone in wistfully remembering when National Geographic had all that.

So let the current crop of agenda-propelled hijackers learn nothing from the plight of a fellow publication, the once glorious Smithsonian, as they dourly pilot the National Geographic Society straight into a volcano, weeping the whole way down about how evil and ethnocentristically self-entitled people in the developed world are. I might mourn but I’ll have decades of classical reading to comfort me. As for my “subscription”, well, I never had one. I was a dues-paying member and I wish the current management grasped the fine point of that. Maybe I’ll come back when they learn the difference, though I doubt they ever will.
« Last Edit: October 15, 2017, 03:22:35 PM by ER » Logged

"If I should meet thee after long years,

How shall I greet thee? With silence, and tears."

--Lord Byron
Bad Movie Lover

Karma: 65
Posts: 401

« Reply #66 on: October 15, 2017, 05:24:14 PM »

Whoa ER, that one had teeth! Very scathing, I like it! It touched on something that is infecting every single aspect of our lives and its getting more forceful everyday. The mention of National Geographic got me thinking though, remembering things. Back in 7th grade, somewher between '92 and '93. That particular time left such an imprint on me. It was a transitional time. I was beginning to learn about things like consequence and social orders. The years that would follow would be increasingly awkward and painful. At this time I was not yet self aware enough to realize just how uncool I was, it was the end of a certain childhood freedom of not knowing or caring how others might think of  you.

That particular school year was mostly spent in ISS (in school suspension). It was great. If you got in enough trouble, you were sent to a room with the other delinquents, usually for 3 to 5 days at a time. You couldnt talk or interact with the others. The only thing you had to do was copy an entire page from a book, once you did that, you were free to draw or read or day-dream.  This gave me time to sharpen my super-hero drawing. The comic boom of the 90s was in full effect, so at that time, my drawing skills were in demand. Being able to draw wolverine and magneto paid off big time, I could trade drawings for goods and services, I had enough cry-babies, tear-jerkers and air-heads to last me a life-time.

The wardens name was Coach Buford. I think he used to be some big-time foot ball coach, he looked like one. He projected a silent strength. He pretended to not see a lot of things, he didn’t want any trouble, the perfect government employee. A year later he would retire and only later it would become clear why he was so low key. After working a lifetime in the system with a year left until retirement with a full pension and benefits. Theres no way I would risk that by having an incident with an illegitimate punk or one of his irate parents. Smart man. Its not worth it. He was like us, doing time.

One of the “perks” of being in ISS was being able to read, and reading material was provided. In the corner was a huge pile of  National Geographic. Most of them were old, some going back to the late sixties. I can still remember their funky smell. Who knows where these things came from or how they accumulated, many of them had a little sticker on the corner with a home address. I never saw one with the same address. How did they get there? 

There was always a surprise with those old “Nattys”. I liked to pull from the bottom of the pile. Whats it going to be today? Angkor Wat? Great whites? Tiwanaku? Malaria?

Oh, I can still remember the thrill of stumbling upon a picture half naked indigenous woman with mud caked boobs, and I was doing it in front of an authority figure. I was beating the system!

exterminate all rational thought.....
Frightening Fanatic of Horrible Cinema

Karma: 623
Posts: 3702

The world becomes a dream....

« Reply #67 on: October 15, 2017, 06:09:57 PM »

That's hilarious, kakihara. I only got detention for one incident and at my school it was called ASA (After-School Assignment) and no one could believe I had it, they were all like, "Right, you got ASA, uh-huh." But I did, I got it in the fall of my tenth grade year for shoving this goshawful girl named Andrea one morning when she was blocking my locker and badmouthing my mom, and as luck would have it she fell onto her backside then got up and ran away crying, but good grief she had it coming and had been a pain in my life for many grades, so I couldnt bring myself to regret it. I think even the people who put me in detention were a bit amused I was there and knew what a shrew Andrea was. And like you I thought, "THIS is supposed to be punishment? This is a vacation compared to regular class." Alas we didn't get National Geographics to read. (I almost mentioned brown native breasts up there and should have. Well done. Two points.)

Y'know, someone oughta do a topic, "DID YOU GET IN TROUBLE IN SCHOOL?"

Heck, I bet even Indy has a story or two, and RC....he'll be off the scale.
« Last Edit: October 15, 2017, 07:37:49 PM by ER » Logged

"If I should meet thee after long years,

How shall I greet thee? With silence, and tears."

--Lord Byron
The Cat Herder of Badmovies
Frightening Fanatic of Horrible Cinema

Karma: 342
Posts: 4933

I'm a Mac...

« Reply #68 on: Today at 09:14:11 AM »

I miss avatar kitty.

God of making the characteristic which becomes dirty sends the hurricane.
Dark Alex
Bad Movie Lover

Karma: 94
Posts: 756

Apparently I am very Dark and very Alex.

« Reply #69 on: Today at 04:46:12 PM »

I don't know if anyone is aware of the "Me too" thing going on in facebook right now about women who have undergone some sort of sexual assault or even rape. Although I've known lots of people who have done, its been something of a shock to me just how many friends and relatives have undergone this. I am feeling incredibly angry about it right now and wanting to go out and cut the balls off every man who has ever done these things.

One of my female friends started critizing people for posting this as not really being helpful especially to people who can't stand up and say it happened to me without fear of reprisal from friends and family. She has been raped twice and accused me of being cruel.

Anyway the arguement went on, me telling her that hiding things in the shadows helped no one and if she wasn't prepared to offer a better solution then she should stop putting down other peoples attempts to help. Eventually I am pretty sure she has unfriended me. Some how I don't feel bad about making this stand. If it brings out how big a problem this is to the forefront and gets something done about it I can live with her disapproval.

Having listened to your problems, I have decided I'd like to help you out. Which way did you come in?
Pages: 1 ... 3 4 [5] Forum  |  Other Topics  |  Off Topic Discussion  |  Stream of Consciousness « previous next »
    Jump to:  

    RSS Feed Subscribe Subscribe by RSS
    Email Subscribe Subscribe by Email

    Popular Articles
    How To Find A Bad Movie

    The Champions of Justice

    Plan 9 from Outer Space

    Manos, The Hands of Fate

    Podcast: Todd the Convenience Store Clerk

    Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!

    Dragonball: The Magic Begins

    Cool As Ice

    The Educational Archives: Driver's Ed

    Godzilla vs. Monster Zero

    Do you have a zombie plan?

    ImageThe Giant Claw - Slime drop

    Earth is visited by a GIANT ANTIMATTER SPACE BUZZARD! Gawk at the amazingly bad bird puppet, or chuckle over the silly dialog. This is one of the greatest b-movies ever made.

    Lesson Learned:
    • Osmosis: os·mo·sis (oz-mo'sis, os-) n., 1. When a bird eats something.

    Subscribe to and get updates by email:

    HOME B-Movie Reviews Reader Reviews Forum Interviews TV Shows Advertising Information Sideshows Links Contact is owned and operated by Andrew Borntreger. All original content is © 1998 - 2014 by its respective author(s). Image, video, and audio files are used in accordance with the Fair Use Law, and are property of the film copyright holders. You may freely link to any page (.html or .php) on this website, but reproduction in any other form must be authorized by the copyright holder.