Harry Potter And The Something Of Bad Scary Stuff Part 2

This is my review of the latest, and supposedly the last, of the Harry Potter movies, which I couldn’t remember the name of and was too lazy to look up. I should probably note that I haven’t read any of the books and I think magic is stupid. It’s probably also worth noting that I had only seen one other Harry Potter movie before this. At least I think it was a Harry Potter movie – I couldn’t make a whole lot of sense of it and then a blue yak showed up at the end. I’m told this was the third one. Also worth mentioning is the fact that I drank a bit during the movie. It’s probably best for me to note that I am using a unique definition of “a bit.” Most people would say I drank a lot. Actually, it would be a real disservice of me not to bring up the fact that the only reason I found myself in a theater with a bunch of giddy twenty-something year-olds on opening night of the new Harry Potter film is because I was cunningly tricked into being there (by cunningly tricked I mean I was told I’d get free beer out of it).

Okay, there might be a few problems with the set up for this review but I don’t think it’s anything I can’t overcome. Yes, I may have been drunk, but it’s not like I was so drunk I’d think it was a good idea to name a character Dumbledorf (or something to that effect). I can totally do this. Here we go…

The Warner Brother’s logo is dark and metallic. A great storm is brooding amidst shadowy blue hues. The buildings look dirty and decrepit as the camera ascends towards the sky. A man is shown traversing a cold and desolate landscape as a familiar voice narrates for us. Ideals. Devotion. Legend. I feel the tension building. The music resonates through the theater at just the right moments. The buildings loom. We see the sky. Debris is falling. He’s climbing up out of a well, towards the light. Our hero was gone but now he is back. The Dark Knight Rises.

Oh, wait, fuck. That was the teaser trailer for the new Batman movie. Damn it. I wanted to stand up and cheer but nobody else seemed to care. The brief shot at the end of the teaser made my insides tingle. Batman is standing in the rain and…

Shit. Harry Potter. Right. Okay, here we go again.

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Act Nice And Gentle To Me

I took a philosophy course once in college, and I think I’d rather drag my dick through a mile of broken glass before ever doing that again. It wasn’t the fact that the entire thing was the intellectual equivalent of shitting in your hand and throwing it against the wall that made me so apathetic; it was the realization that none of what I heard was something I could ever embrace (I’d like to note that as of late, writing has felt like standing in for the wall). I would never let any of the outcomes of this so called intellectual masturbation govern my life or give it meaning (advice: instead of attending a philosophy course, try actually masturbating instead – it’s way more fun). In fact, the only real philosophy I can say I have is that most people are going to lead a shitty life and then die.

photo dfoster

I think it’s important to keep this in mind as we stumble our way through life, though I admit it’s not actually a philosophy so to speak, nor is it insightful. It’s just an understanding I came to a while ago that I think most people try to hide from in a shallow pool of ignorant optimism. As an aside, I’m pretty sure the happier you are, the stupider you are, though I’m still working on the graphs to prove so.

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My drunk cover letter

i’m posting this to keep the author anonymous

The other day, in a carride, someone said to me, “You know, sometimes you do immature things that make me realize your age.”

It caught me off guard. This whole time I’ve been playing the “more mature than my peers” card with a smug grin on my face. I graduated high school, and college, respectfully. I rise with the sun, go to work at 9am like a productive adult and usually am asleep before midnight during the week.

But last night I applied to a job posting from Craigslist. Drunk and unclever. At 11:19 pm. On a Sunday.

Copy pasta from my cover letter:

I am interested in this position because I want to avoid being a waitress with an English and Journalism degree for as long as I possibly can.


I might as well have signed the copy letter “HIRE ME LOL.”

My resume, portfolio, references are solid and my honest intentions are good.
Do I stand a chance?

FRIENDS & FAMILY: Tomorrow Night at Red Square

Tomorrow, June 15th at Red Square: artgeekstudio presents: “Friends & Family”, The Dead Presidents Lounge & 518 Prints party! Featuring Planet Eater, DJ OFI, Existing Artists, (Jason Cosco) VJ 1983, Midas and Rawhead & more. With very special guest, EDISON!

Here’s the official facebook event.

Word up! Here’s the backstory from my pal Bob!

Here’s the back story: I have known Edison’s brother Ryan for many years, he’s one of the original guys from the Shelter Skatepark. He moved out to San Francisco (where Edison lives) and rarely makes it back to Albany. Edison has been killing it for years out west, and hasn’t played his home town. At the same time, Jesse, the owner of 518 Prints, has an annual work party at their shop each summer. Jesse & Dustin (from the Dead Presidents Lounge & singer for Planet Eater) are childhood friends of both Ryan & Edison. When we found out that Ryan & Edison were coming home for Edison’s wedding…well, we combined everything!

If you’re unfamiliar with Edison, don’t tell anyone and watch that video, quick!

What we have to look forward to, if we’re lucky.

This isn’t funny. Sorry. I guess you ought to stop reading now if that’s what you wanted, unless you’d like to laugh at how bad the prose is. I’d write about my exploits with the current girl I’m seeing, which have been filled with a fair amount of humor, but things have actually been going rather well. Also, she sort of reads my KAB posts, and I don’t think she’d appreciate me talking about all the awesome sex we’ve been having. Like, seriously, the sex is fantastic.

Off to my right I could see the letter, written with what must have been a very expensive pen, maybe a Waterman, which I’ve been wanting to get. The letters were elegant, but the strokes were heavy and thick, a deep lacquer against the well preserved paper. They would likely seem out of place in a woman’s diary, where the script often bubbles and ebbs across the page. They were more chiseled and compact, set in place with a heavy hand. I could see where sharp flicks of the wrist sent the ends of characters to trail thin and vanish. Feminine cursive does not flow like this. This was precise but not pretty, as if it was oftentimes much worse, and a special effort had been taken to make it legible. It was the style of a man who was far too busy being alive to care about his print. It was penned by a doctor.

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