The Generic New Year’s Resolution.

1) Don’t die.

2) Do that thing I’ve been putting off for a whole year.

3) Buy that thing for my significant other that I forgot about this year.

4) Make something I’m proud of.

5) Find something I’m good at.

6) Don’t kill anyone.

7) Erase that dirty habit I have from my daily routine.

8) Clean up my shit.

9) Discover the meaning of love.

10) Stop lurking 4chan.

11) Start posting on 4chan.

12) Reignite my lost romance.

13) Don’t get arrested.

14) Read a book for once.

15) Remember birthdays.

16) Grow a spine at work.

17) Quit my job.

18) Love thy neighbour?

19) Move out.

20) Enjoy life.

Happy New Year. And have fun tonight.

Aurally Audacious Endeavours – DJ Deckstream

Hope you had a Happy Festivus, Christmas Eve, Christmas and Boxing Day. Let’s throw in the Sunday after Boxing Day, just to get them all down. Also, Happy Holidays to all you other people. Now that we’ve addressed your celebratory state of mind, let’s get onto business at hand.

It’s high time I got back into the auditory sharing mood, since it is a festive time and all. In my hiatus with these kinds of posts, you can say I’ve been doing extensive research and fine-tuning my ears in both tolerance and experimentation.

Since the last post I did, which I believe was on underground rapper Atmosphere, I was in a hip and hoppy mood. Ever since then, I’ve been browsing the intarwebz for pretty much everything from rap sub-genres to some pretty sweet DJ-ing.

And one of these guys, as I would find out, created some pretty dope beats.

Something that has always caught my interest was unorthodox combinations in music. You’ve seen that I certainly enjoy the right genre-melding, or unique sounds (at least to my ears). When I heard DJ Deckstream, I hear jazz piano, shuffling drumbeats, and featured rappers, whom when combined with Deckstream’s beats, create something worth awing at.

Hailing from Japan, he has already released two major albums, DJ Deckstream Soundtracks I & II. I have yet to listen to most of the tracks, but some quick research shows a pretty impressive line-up in terms of team-ups. The likes of Lupe Fiasco, Talib Kweli, and as you’ve heard, Mos Def, already give legitimacy to this man’s musical ability. Combining forces with famed local rappers from his home country of Japan, Deckstream combines his impressive beats with lyrics from the best hip-hop artists of North America, and some indie ones too.

Whether it’s the instant connection with this man’s combination of smooth and chill style with classic hip-hop fashion, or his musical chemistry with which seems like any MC he makes a track with, DJ Deckstream is a hit, even if he is indie.

Some people keep saying that hip-hop is dead. This man proves the opposite.

Check him out, because you won’t be disappointed.

I don’t have a chimney. D=

And my family doesn’t like strange, bearded men at their doorstep. I will see how things turn out.

To everyone else with a chimney, Merry Christmas.

I hope your presents are useful, thoughtful, or really damn good gift cards. If not, your family doesn’t love you. Just joking. They’re probably poor though. Doesn’t matter, since Christmas is a time for giving, so keep up the yuletide joy for a day or two, and then waste as much money as possible on boxing day.

Or buy gifts for your family right in front of them, tell them that’s their Christmas present, and then force them to get you something equal—if not greater—in quality or cost. That’s how I do.

Giving feels great. Enjoy your holidays, wherever you may be.

Let’s celebrate with some Christmas music.

Merry Christmas, Earth.

Give Me Wings.

Give me wings, because I need to fly.
I need to get out of this place.
Give me eyes, so I can see.
My vision of the world is impaired.
Give me lungs, so I can breathe.
I want to take in the sky and clouds.
Give me a place to go, because I want to get out of here.
Give me a place to be, because I don't know where I'm going.

Give me freedom.

For those crappy days.

If you haven’t seen it already, make sure you bookmark it for when you do bad on an exam, or have a shitty day at work, or when you just feel down.

You could also watch it just because it makes you smile.

:)

A Bad Investment.

Grade 12 Writer’s Craft Short Story Assignment.

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The car in the driveway is brand new. No financing. A pretty good down-payment. They even let me drive it home. Confident buy, I think. It’s spacious and wide, almost like an SUV, but it’s a minivan. Looks homely from the outside too—perfect soccer mom car for the everyday drive to school. I sit in the middle row of seats. Behind me are boxes of something. I forgot what. The keys are still in the ignition and the passenger door is open. I can feel a cool breeze pass through the car and out the open window of the other side. It sends chills down my spine.

I smell something barbecuing at the house next door. Maybe I should go there in a bit. I want to sit in the car for a little longer though; I have to settle into my new investment. A few weeks ago I had argued with her about buying a car. I told her it’d be a good investment—those were my exact words. She said I didn’t have a job anymore, and asked how I could afford paying for a car and a house at the same time. I told her she should think about the kids, and how they deserve a decent car to grow up with. She didn’t bother trying to argue with me. I was disappointed, since I thought I hadn’t proven my point yet.

If she could see this thing now, she’d know what I was talking about. The kids could fit right in here. Big, comfy seats. Maybe if I invested a little more into it, I could have one of those fold-down television screens and let them watch cartoons on road trips or something.

“Damn it.”

I should have thought about that at the car dealership. I should have bought it earlier, so she and the kids could have seen it. The old car was such a piece of crap. I should have sold it when I had the chance. I should have done a lot of things when I had the chance.

“Damn it!”

The back of the seat is surprisingly hard on impact. My knuckles bruise within a few seconds. I stretch and clench my hand to try and get the feeling back. It’s almost as hard as the fridge.

This car is starting to make me sick, so I get out. I look at the paint finish. The silver gleams in the sun. Good choice on my part. I notice the phone and the piece of paper in the passenger seat and go back into the car to get them. Cordless phones; another good investment. Pretty useful in everyday life.

The window of the front door blurs the interior. It’s dark inside. The door won’t open. I forgot the keys. I make another trip back towards the car. The car’s front end is round, but sleek at the same time. I open the driver’s door and pull the keys out of the ignition. Phone and piece of paper in one hand, keys in the other; my hands are full for once. I hear the door unlock when I twist the key to the right. It opens with a loud creak.

The mat under me has ‘Welcome Home’ stitched into it. I stomp my feet on most of the letters. There are still those bills on the desk. The vacuum is still on the floor. I was cleaning the living room when they called. What if the stove was on and I was cooking something? All these investments burnt to the ground. The bills I pay for those investments disintegrated. The vacuum cleaner would probably be melted to the wood. All these pictures, the television, the fridge—the cars wouldn’t survive either; the crap one or the new one I brought home. Good thing she took it. Good thing the stove wasn’t on.

I yawn while I make my way to the kitchen, stepping over the vacuum cleaner and ignoring the bills on the table. I throw the phone and piece of paper onto the counter. Water is an important investment too. I pour myself some out of the pitcher and gulp it down quickly. Cold and refreshing, it hits the back of my throat and goes into my stomach. I can feel it sloshing around.

The dishes are piled in the sink and the dinner table has coloring books on it with crayons scattered all over. They drew on the table too. I don’t bother trying to clean it up. The living room looks clean, seeing as I vacuumed it before I left. The couch looks lonely, so I occupy it.

The remote was where I left it yesterday after putting the kids to sleep. I didn’t even finish watching the game; I guess I was too tired to see the ending and spent the night on the couch. She left before I woke up in the morning and took the kids and that crap car with her. I would have driven them, but she kept insisting that I rest and relax. “You’re under too much stress,” she said. Maybe she was right. I turn on the television. I guess she changed the channel to check the weather this morning. Otherwise, it would have been on the game highlights.

The news featured some lady behind a desk telling me that streets should be safer to avoid accidents like this. She’s referring to the two mangled cars sitting on the side of the road. One of them is a piece of crap—maybe both of them. A bad investment. I see the emergency vehicles surrounding the crash site; little people in black and others in yellow scrambling around. The lady’s voice starts breaking. She says when kids are involved it becomes a whole other issue.

I agree.

Kids are another kind of investment, I think. You have to invest a lot more in them though. More than a car. A wife is another investment. An investment you’re supposed to be committed to, like a binding contract. Life is full of investments; some more important than others, as I’ve found out in the years I’ve had a life, and a family.

The thing about investments, though, is that you have to watch them. Watch them so they don’t end up going bad. I didn’t do that with the car.

Why didn’t I do it with the car?

I don’t know. But I knew it was a bad investment, almost from the start. And she always said that it’s either that piece of crap or taking our kids to school in a bus. I should correct myself—lately it seems that life is filled with bad investments. Everything I invest my time in, my attention, my heart and my soul; everything seems to be a bad investment. Not that new car though. No, I think that one is pretty good.

I think I can make good investments. I always tried to tell her that I could. I always tried to convince her with the things I did and the stuff I bought; they were good investments. I don’t know if she agrees with me. This car would have convinced her though; it’ll convince anyone. I don’t think I’ve had a bigger investment.

I don’t think I’ll ever have a bigger one.

I’ll just have to wait till then. I stare at the television and notice that the news story has changed to something else. I turn it off and go back to the kitchen counter. The piece of paper lays crumpled and folded a few times beside the phone. I didn’t read it at the hospital. I don’t really want to read it now, either. I’ll wait till she gets back. I’ll wait till everyone gets back.

The house is quiet and empty. I walk towards the centre of the foyer and look at the upper levels, then into the living room, behind me to the dining area and back towards the kitchen where the piece of paper I have yet to read lies. Technically speaking, this house was a bigger investment. But I don’t live technically.

I wish I did. That way, I would know what good investments and bad investments are. It’s the damn car. I always hated it. Now I begin to feel light-headed. I have to lie down somewhere. I lean against the wall of the foyer and slide down to sit against it. I didn’t even notice the crumpled piece of paper in my hand. I forgot where it came from. I’m tired of waiting. I unfold it to see what it says.

“Huh.”

I was supposed to pick up eggs and milk. She must think the time I invest into this life—our life—is worth eggs and milk. What does she know? I don’t want her to see the car anymore. She doesn’t care about my investments. Why should I show them to her?

I crumple the piece of paper smaller and tighter than I did before. It makes a crunching sound as the paper starts to dig into my palm. I can feel it fold in on itself as it gets smaller in my hands. My fingers grab the sharp edges sticking out and squish it into the ball, rolling and rolling. The rough scratching sound of skin against paper stops when I open up my hands and decide it’s crumpled enough. I look for the garbage bin beside me. One overhand throw and it hits the plastic covering the bin, bouncing off the edges and tumbling down onto the other garbage. Hell, garbage bins are good investments too.

What are the bad investments, then? Binding commitments. Daily obligations. Crappy cars. They’re all gone though, so I should have only good investments left. Why do I still feel like something’s wrong? Come to think of it, there is one investment I was never happy with. It’s probably the worst thing to invest a lot in. You have so much to lose.

I guess I wasn’t watching this one. That’s too bad; it started pretty good.

I open the closet door and find the shoebox on the top shelf. I open it up. There it is. It has a cold and metallic feel in my palm. I lift it up and down in my hand; a hefty weight to it. It still has its shine too. I run my fingers down the barrel. Roll open the chamber. The click of it going back in place is a nice sound.

The cold is the same against my temple. It feels nice.

“Damn good investment.”

Black & White (Part 5)

The sound of rain hitting the pavement confused Frank's breathing. He tried to steady his breaths. In and out. Patter, patter, patter. The sound of it hitting the car with a clank added to the confusion. In and out. Patter, patter, clank. Frank dry heaved, lurching forward and almost crumpling to the ground. He used his gun hand to brace his fall.

In and out. Get up.

Frank holsters his gun and takes out a handkerchief from one of his back pockets. He wipes his face profusely. The handkerchief is soaking when his face is dried. He could see clearer now. Still, the lighter provided no illumination past the reach of his arms. He needed something else. He hadn't prepared. He had no tools. He had a gun, and he had his head. The latter was not reliable at the moment.

Frank had hunches; he had gut feelings about scenarios. It's what made him a good soldier, and a good private detective. Frank's gut had told him to vomit. Not a good sign, Frank thought. He needed tools. He needed light and confidence. He knew where to get them. He hoped his office wasn't drenched in rain.

Frank turned around for the open door. He could see his car from across the street, parked alone along the sidewalk. The pathway towards the door was serpentine. The silhouettes of shrouded furniture formed jagged edges around Frank’s trail. He had only made it fifteen feet into the warehouse. The door seemed to sway back and forth in the wind and rain. He quickly walked out.

***

Frank expected his office to be destroyed by the time he got back, but he was relieved to find only papers fluttering about and parts of his floor wet. Frank stares at his chair, pushed away from his desk at a slight angle. Frank looks at the window. The hole was now twelve inches across and cracks extended all around it towards the outer frame. The rock. Frank quickly gets on his knees to look under the desk. The coat rack. Frank gets up just as quick and leaps over his desk to get to it. He slides against the wet floor, hitting the coat rack and almost toppling over with his hanging scorched trenchcoat.

There it sits. The incessant nagging at his sanity. The message that plagues his mind. The problem. Frank picks it up in his hand and throws it up and down. It can’t be more than ten pounds. Easy enough for an able-bodied man to throw through a ninth-story window. Whoever threw it must be physically fit; good upper-body strength. Certainly not an old man. Frank was getting it back. He was glad.

Patter, patter, patter. Frank closes his eyes and attempts to think. Patter. Patter. Bang. Wrong think to think about. He takes out his gun from his holster and places it on the table. Frank needed tools. Light and confidence. Frank was grateful that he had no other place to sleep for the past three months. He did not want to think it, but he was grateful. The couch opposite his desk doubled as a bed. His dresser had been empty before he shifted his living quarters to his workplace. Now it had three shirts and a shotgun. Confidence.

As he took out the 12-gauge, he checked both barrels. Loaded. He did not know why they were, or why he possessed a shotgun. He looked down the sights. He hovered across his office; towards his desk; out the hole in the window. A figure in the window across the street seemed to stop behind the curtains and face Frank. Patter. Patter. Bang.

Frank lowers the shotgun slowly as he tilts his head straight. He looks for a box of ammunition. He feels something on the top shelf of the dresser. It rattles and clangs as he gets a hold of it. At least thirty shells. He grabs a handful and struggles to find a place to put it. Shotgun shells in one’s pocket would limit movement. He turns around towards his trenchcoat. It was only scorched in a small section.

Frank feels warmer. Multiple pockets. He returns to the dresser and grabs three handfuls full of shells. His hands are still trembling. He checks the barrels again. They are loaded, Frank. He clicks the shotgun closed and places it on his desk. He holsters his pistol once again as he opens up his bottom desk drawer. One flashlight, a box of revolver bullets, and three cartons of cigarettes.

Light. Frank’s hands cease shaking as he tests the flashlight. He flicks the switch and the light flickers in his dark office. He taps the end and his office becomes bright. He turns it off.

His watch reads 5:20. Daylight won’t become near while the clouds still patter rain onto the streets. He has time. His trenchcoat waves as he makes his way out of his office. The pattering continues. The rock lies still beside his empty coatrack. The open dresser. The dim lighting. The broken window. Frank stares at it all before he closes the door. The leather of his shoes squeak against the dry, wooden floor of the hallway.

***

Frank stares at the open warehouse door. His shotgun is concealed under his arm inside the trenchcoat. He feels his pistol against his waist. He holds his flashlight in front of him. Frank had closed the door before he left. He uses the butt of the flashlight to push open the door. The floor squeaks under Frank’s leather shoes. He turns the flashlight on.

“Jesus.”

The pathway that had been formed by the shrouded furniture could now be seen clearer than what was outside. It seemed the light had not trouble reflecting off the blood on the floor. Frank steps back while he looks at his feet. The blood was streaked. It stopped where he stood. He looked behind and shone the flashlight on the door’s threshold. Footprints in blood; fresher blood. Two blood sources. Frank pulls out his revolver. Two bodies? Two people?

He places his flashlight hand under the wrist of his other, angling his hand position so that he could see wherever he had it pointed. He carefully moved along the pathway once again, checking each corner and crevice. The furniture was covered in white or blue tarp. An ocean. High shelving units were in the back of the warehouse. Maybe three rows. Beside those were stairs to the upper level. Seven steps, from what Frank could see. He had to get closer. Too much hiding space behind all of the furniture, Frank thought. He had to be careful.

Each step made a creaking sound. Like a slow screech. Frank tried to step lightly, but each step made that sound. The aged and dry wood cried with every single step. The pathway would go to the left or right, depending on the furniture in the way. A fallen dresser in front of Frank had a door open. An empty syringe peeks out from under the tarp. Frank thought with growing distress, exactly what this was warehouse was for.

Franks breathing was steady. In and out. In and out. The rain wasn’t bothering his breathing. The rain wasn’t there at all. He turns back towards the open door. It had closed. He shines his flashlight on the knob.

“What the fuck.”

In other news,

The new Iron Man 2 trailer has been exposed to my virgin eyes. Unfortunately, I don’t know whether this is old news or not, so I don’t know if I should post Slowpoke. But for the benefit of the doubt, Slowpoke really isn’t a bad thing anymore. So here I go:

Alright, how the fuck did Slowbro get in here? Damn, he must have evolved since I haven’t posted him in a while. Good for nothing Pokémon.

Instead of going into a frame-by-frame literary commentary describing to you what happens in the trailer—much like closed captioning, only I don’t like doing this for blind people—I’ll just link you to the Iron Man 2 trailer site on Apple. There, you will find RDJ and Don Cheadle being the ultimate bros! What more could you ask for?

Mickey Rourke having a badass Russian accent for one, and Scarlett Johansson and Gwyneth Paltrow being hot (probably not with each other, but one can dream). Holy shit, this movie has it all. I shall say no more.

Expect that I am almost 90% sure that this movie will absolutely blow my mind, just like the first one. Way to go, John Favreau! (My God, I’ve already made a catchphrase.)

Time to shake off the rust, Globes. (Part 2)

Okay, so I was getting read to unsheathe my bloody blade of cinematic vengeance yesterday, but I decided to abstain from decimating the entire film industry with one fell swoop from my incredible powers. District 9 at least got nominated for Best Screenplay for a Motion Picture. I was that close too. You probably can’t tell, but my fingertips are practically touching each other. Yeah, that close.

But now for the television side of things, which I truly think has had a better year than film so far, just from watching only two shows in the television categories that got nominated.

Best Television Series – Drama

“Big Love” (2006) - HBO

“Dexter” (2006) - Showtime

“House M.D.” (2004) - Fox

“Mad Men” (2007) - AMC

“True Blood” (2008) – HBO

Once again, I’ve only watched one of the nominees, and yeah, I know what you’re thinking. And this time, you’re damn right. Dexter by a mile. Is it even debatable? Does your opinion even matter? Probably not, since nothing in your life, even if you were the most interesting person in the world, will not amount to the mind-blowing, ball-breaking, jaw-dropping, unfathomably awesome finale that Dexter’s 4th season had. The concentrated awesome of that single episode blows off any genius diagnosticians, Mormon polygamists, advertising tycoons, and thick-accented vampires. Seriously though, Dexter should win. I don’t know if it will, and with something like Mad Men or Big Love already taking up all the attention, I will be thoroughly pissed off if the Globes fuck this one up.

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Best Television Series – Musical or Comedy

“Entourage” (2004) - HBO

“Glee” (2009) - Fox

“The Office” (2005) - NBC

“Modern Family” (2009) - ABC

“30 Rock” (2006) – NBC

Same thing here; I only watched one of these nominees. Guess which one?

Hint #1: It’s the one that should win.

Hint #2: It’s not about Mark Wahlberg and friends, Dunder-Mifflin Paper Company, modern families (?), or a comedy series about a comedy series.

Hint #3: Don’t make me unsheathe, God damn it.

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Television > Film = 2009. A very depressing mathematical statement to me. I don’t think that’s an actual mathematical sentence, but it still provides the same sense of frustration and annoyance. Then again, Glee and Dexter are fuckawesome, so I can’t really complain. Still, I will continue to do so, because I like complaining.

Give District 9 more nominations, you ungrateful egotistical bastards.

I don’t know if I want to post Directing, Screenwriting, Animated, Starring, or Guest Starring. I might just accumulate them into one, and save the commentary. I’ll just include the nominees that will have a chance, or that should win. Probably the latter.

Time to shake off the rust, Globes. (Part 1)

Yes, you now see the reason why I have RSS Feeds from Rotten Tomatoes on my blog. So I can give you the news you might have missed because you’re too lazy to check out the sidebar for more interesting news. But I digress.

Another year, and another set of movies that probably shouldn’t have been nominated, or maybe this year is different. I really hope this year is different.

Only way to find out is examine the nominees. 2009 has been a pretty significant year for film, with James Cameron’s comeback into immediate stardom thanks to his multi-billion dollar budget and the word ‘Titanic’ connected with everything he does. It’s also because QT has returned, Kathryn Bigelow surprised the scene with another movie, and the Coen Brothers have also come back after a disappointing awards reception for Burn After Reading, which I was considerably angry about.

I’ll hold onto my blades of bloody vengeance though, since the Oscars haven’t arrived yet. Onto our categories, and their respective nominees!

Best Motion Picture – Drama

Avatar, dir. James Cameron

The Hurt Locker, dir. Kathryn Bigelow

Inglourious Basterds, dir. Quentin Tarantino

Precious, dir. Lee Daniels

Up in the Air, dir. Jason Reitman

Well, here’s a dilemma. James Cameron goes with Avatar. Quentin Tarantino goes with Inglourious Basterds. George Clooney pretty much saves Up in the Air from elimination. But, who the hell is Lee Daniels? I know these aren’t the nominees for Best Director, but I doubt a film with unknown people is going to have a chance at the Globes. Sad, but true. And the reason why I don’t think The Hurt Locker will win is purely because I’m a cynical bastard. It’s going to be Avatar, people. Or maybe this is a plot to batter my trust in the reviewing committee (or whatever they're called) and make the right decision in choosing The Hurt Locker. Lately though, it seems Awards ceremonies for film like choosing the wrong films to win. Let’s see if the never-ending trend continues.

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Best Motion Picture – Musical or Comedy

(500) Days of Summer, dir. Marc Webb

The Hangover, dir. Todd Phillips

It’s Complicated, dir. Nancy Meyers

Julie & Julia, dir. Nora Ephron

Nine, dir. Rob Marshall

I’ve watched one of these movies, so I’m going to go ahead and say what I was thinking. The Hangover was extremely funny. See, I bet you thought I was going to be a biased douchebag and pick it just because it’s the only one I watched. Well, you’re wrong. And you’re a jerk for thinking that. However, I will tell you that Nine has a strong chance. I can feel it, because D-Day Lewis’ beard possesses dubious amounts of classy awesomeness. Then again, Zach Galifianakis’s is pretty scruffy too, so maybe The Hangover might sneak in with a surprise. But, D-Day shaves his beard for the filming of Nine! It’s getting pretty heated now. Since (500) Days seems to lack ample beard, and I hope Julie & Julia doesn’t consist of bearded ladies, I think the chances are equal between our two contenders. Oh, and old hacks trying to save their careers by battling over Meryl Streep. So last year. Make way for the beards, amateurs.

Or maybe not, since the last time I checked the Golden Globes didn’t award people for the best beards. It isn’t too late to start though.

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So, it seems this year’s films have an equal chance at something or the other, but I haven’t put my finger on it. I’m pretty sure one of em’s going to win something. We’ll have to wait for the exciting conclusion to these events. Unleash the beards!

If you don’t want to bother checking Rotten Tomatoes for the rest of the nominees in the other categories, I shall post them up and give my unmatchable cinematic insight on films I have not yet seen. It’s how I do.

Also, WHERE THE FUCK IS DISTRICT 9, YOU MOTHERFUCKERS.

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Also, I forgot about television nominations. Those will also be going up. Surprsingly, I think I've seen more television series than films this year. Weird.

DISTRICT 9, BITCHES. YOU KNOW IT'S TRUE.

That is all.

In a universe that really isn’t too far away.

You can find some things equally as beautiful.

Skywalker Ranch from Philip Bloom on Vimeo.

The awe of high definition photography and video probably won’t be expressed in a better way than the pastures and scenery around George Lucas’ Skywalker Ranch.

Forget the deserts of Tatooine or the advanced architecture on Coruscant. Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away from the fiction of Star Wars, there’s Earth.

I don’t need to tell you anything else. If pictures can tell a thousand words, moving ones provide endless possibilities. Enjoy.

‘Hello, Dexter Morgan.’ [Dexter – Season 4 Review]

FFFFFFUUUUU------------

While I can’t remember if a show about a serial killer has ever been done before, I know for a fact that a show about a serial killer has never been done like this.

Dexter has emerged from the primetime scene on channels like Showtime or The Movie Network in Canada a few years ago, and it immediately struck home with millions of viewers across North America. The funny thing is, the series of novels it was based on wasn’t even that good to begin with, so using what they had, the writers of Dexter decided to make this author’s name awesome by creating probably one of the best dramas of the current age of television.

No offense to Jeff Lindsay, who I give praise to for creating ‘everyone’s favourite serial killer.’ Enough about the book, it’s the Dexter television show that we’re talking about. And I don’t know where to begin. Probably the best place to start is a summary.

Season 3 left us on a high note, with Dexter and Rita’s formerly rocky relationship reaching an optimistic point. The finale’s final scenes were of Dexter and Rita’s wedding, moments after Dexter had finished off his heated mental and physical battle with Miguel Prado. The whole arc was intense enough for our hearts to bear. Still, Dexter showed no sign of stopping, even after vanquishing his own brother, the Ice Truck Killer in Season 1, and then moving on to Assistant District Attorney Miguel Prado—Dexter’s best friend for most of the season.

With each season completed, it seems Dexter calculates and carries out effective solutions to the problems that arise in a serial killer’s life, and he does it with class. Every time you see Dex in a particularly sticky situation, you hop up and down on your seat and wait to see if he can contemplate his way out of it. He always does, which is why I love Dexter.

By the end of Season 3, Dex has learnt that human connection is a viable option in his life, he is capable of showing genuine emotions, people do care about him, and he can lead a double life if maintains his own ‘Code’ along with his father’s—the man who taught him everything about killing the guilty and feeding the ‘Dark Passenger’ inside him. Now he must face another challenge, with a new child in his home and his closer relationship with Rita.

New obligations have entered, and so have new obstacles. Special Agent Frank Lundy returns from Season 2 to tackle on a new foe: The Trinity Killer. Unlike other seasons, this plot immediately begins and wastes no time for Dexter and the viewers to get immersed in it. You would think that with so much attention devoted to the growing reputation and importance of the Trinity Killer, there would be no space for sub-plots to distract us from the main storyline.

Not so, as a literal pile of sub-plots accumulate not only to distract the viewers, but complement the increasingly dense main storyline that would reach its apex in the finale. More on that later. But the niceties like Frank Lundy and Debra Morgan hooking up, Quinn from Season 3 and news reporter Christine Hill; maybe even Lieutenant LaGuerta and Sergeant Batista, end up having a much more significant role than they should in the plot, and it provides us with some surprising, if not shocking, twists and turns throughout the series.

I’m going to assume that you’ve watched the season already, and if you haven’t I hope you’re not wasting your time reading about a season of Dexter instead of watching it, because that would mean you’re a tard. But I don’t need to explain to you the surprises that this season has in store, because you’ve already witnessed them. And by fan reaction, it’s safe to say that this season’s surprises were like no other. It’s also the most jam-packed of the four, with so many characters’ lives addressed and delved into, it seems that Dexter may be getting a back seat to those supporting him.

But the kicker comes in the season finale, which aired yesterday. Already the response has been as expected; a completely incredible episode to conclude the season. The writers and producers of Dexter have outdone themselves, as it seems that this season’s finale beat all others, and I would agree.

I mean, John Lithgow, guest starring as Arthur Mitchell, is enough of a reason to watch this season. His character is amazing, simply put. Michael C. Hall reprises his role with the same narrative and perspective that made us love the show in the first place. Supporting characters like Debra, played by Hall’s wife, Jennifer Carpenter, and FBI Agent Lundy, played by Keith Carradine, have significantly more depth and personality than prior seasons, which is saying a lot. Carpenter’s character especially, with the events that unfold during this season, it can be said that the personality of some of these characters change drastically by the season’s end.

And at the end of the season, change is what defines this show. Characters have changed, the tone of the show has changed, and Dexter’s own attitude towards his obligations is greatly altered. Sure, Dex always prevails, but at what cost? Is this where it begins to fall apart? Has he met his match? Will those around him pay a similar price?

Dexter is a series that thrives on questions. They are always answered with brutally enlightening truth. This season is no different. Between the lovable Masuka-isms to gawk at, the various sub-plots to drool over, and the revamped all-star cast to enjoy, one thing always remains certain.

Dexter is a damn good serial killer.

PixelCUBE Studios needs your help!

Nominate PixelCUBE's MindBlender Quiz for 2009 Best App Ever Awards!

If you haven't checked the game out, don't worry. It's a good game. Actually scratch that, spend a dollar of your replenishable income to confirm this claim for yourself. If there's even a crumb of doubt in your mind of this game's awesomeness, it will cost you a dollar to prove to yourself that this game is indeed The Best App Ever for the Trivia Game category of this year's awards.

Listen, I know my stuff, and this is included. Nominate this game, and you will be rewarded. I will be releasing limited-edition, state-of-the-art thingymajig capable of doing anything and everything in the physical realm. But that's only if you guys support independent and budding game developers like PixelCUBE Studios and nominate this kick-ass trivia game because it trains your brain to be awesome and makes your iPhone look COOL.

That is all.

Also, nominate Minblender Quiz for 2009 Best App Award!

‘Destination? HORROR.’ [Glee – Season 1 Review]

Quite an ironic statement coming from a show entitled by the very emotion it creates in its viewers. But being Fox’s new entertainment investment, and seeing as rumours have spread that the series almost got dropped before it even began, I think it’s safe to say that Glee will remain for a long time to make us smile on a bad day.

The first time I watched this show, I didn’t know if it was better or worse than High School Musical. Same stereotypes, same cheesy dialogue, same simple and superficial plots. Cool teachers though, and some kick-ass vocals. So I decided to stay for a couple more weeks and see where that takes me.

And where it took me is one of the best TV shows I have watched in a long time. With the hiatuses of LOST and 24 keeping me foaming at the mouth, the disastrous quality drop of our beloved Heroes a few seasons back, I was eager to find an excuse to move away from my monitor for a while and spend my time on a couch.

By the end of the first episode, I was not disappointed. While the characters really do come off as recycled stereotypes, and the plot and writing are mediocre at best, it’s the music that really matters with this show, and it doesn’t waste any time. Each episode contains at least three musical numbers, all covers of popular and classic songs from both Broadway and the top charts of today’s music. With tunes from Wicked and Grease coupled with Kanye West or Queen, there really is something for everyone in this show.

Which brings me to the actually talent in it. All actors are up-and-coming or already established Broadway performers, well-endowed in awesome vocal ability. Stars of the show like Lea Michele or Matthew Morrison have fresh voices that add a new spin to classics, or add their own touch to chart hits. Each cover of a popular song is already a convincing enough idea to captivate its viewers, but this is a show choir, and they have to dance.

Song and dance go hand-in-hand, and combined, they will bring a smile to your face. Each episode I end up with a dumb smile on my face, and another song stuck in my head. Even Avril Lavigne or Kelly Clarkson, Glee just does it. It’s a happy show, and it makes you happy.

However, happy doesn’t cut it these days. Shows need substance and depth to keep a viewer watching every week. If you watch it from the beginning, the plot is shallow and the writing mediocre, but I think the biggest surprise comes when characters start breaking out of their stereotypes, conflict arises in every corner, and truly hilarious shenanigans relieve the show of dry, repetitive humour.

Special mention of this goes to Jane Lynch, who expertly plays the evil cheerleading coach, for lack of a better term. It seems unanimous that her character alone saves the show, but with so much else going for it, I don’t see this force stopping for a long time.

I can’t cover everything I enjoy about this series, because I enjoy almost everything. But there is singing and dancing, hate and love, competition and conflict, and most of all, there’s a lot of glee. A proper title for a very fun series.

Also, the fall finale is one of the best episodes of a television show I have ever seen, if that counts for anything.

This show will give you chills with each number, and it never fails at doing what it’s supposed to: entertain. I can’t wait for it to come back. The second half of Season 1 returns on April 1, 2010, so pick up a copy of the first 13 episodes, and then hold on to your seats.

We’ll have to wait for the finish to this very musical ride.

Last Post.

Scared you there for a moment, didn’t I? But this isn’t referring to me. No, but it is equally saddening.

Once I had gotten back from the frontlines, well aware of the horrors I had seen while trapped in the stench of the dead that lay around me and the pungent smell of urine, feces, blood and sweat filling the air, I was learned of truly devastating news.

In the heat of battle, where many fall valiantly to the abyss of hell—if they were not already there, I had lost a comrade. A fellow soldier; a brother-at-arms; a blog-mate.

Yes, the news is quite heart-breaking, soul-wrenching, and I have already worn out your attention, so I shall honour his dignity and show you the remnants of his broken webpage.

Farewell, brave blog.

* * *

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, I did not die.

* * *

You shall forever live in the spirit of blogging. I shall carry your torch into glory.

Black & White (Part 4)

No case file, no leads; no people to tail or sources to consult. Frank was doing no investigating or trailing. He was not detecting.

Frank presses sternly on the brakes of his car with his foot. The brakes squeal in strain and the tires compress the loose gravel on the pavement of the road, making a rough-sounding squish that Frank can hear from his seat. His windows are slightly open as the rain has died down to a light drizzle.

Frank hits his dashboard with a clenched fist. He hits it again. And again. Cursing under his breath with every strike. His hand had begun to hurt. Frank buries his head in those hands, pressing against the steering wheel. Frank's car rumbles in idle and remains the only vehicle in sight along 3rd street.

No more pattering. Just faint sounds on his windshield. The wipers scrape back and forth. Frank breathes heavily, matching the rhythm of the wipers. In and out; through the nose and out the mouth. He rubs his face with his hands moving up and down quickly. A couple of blinks and the twist of his neck. Crack in the back of his spine. Another long sigh. A look into an empty passenger seat. It's not going to get any easier.

He looks at the warehouse from across the street. The darkness of night seems to be contrasted by the darkness of the warehouse. The red bricks are faded and stained with various substances. Two shallow levels. Frank could jump off the top of the building and live. He did not plan to do so, however. Bottom level windows are boarded up with two planks of plywood. Thin enough to shoot and break through, Frank thought. If the time came for that. Upper level windows, strangely, were untouched. The windows of these rooms were dusty and opaque. Frank looked closer, sticking his head out of the open window. The light drizzle splashes onto the brim of his fedora, like the splashes his shoes makes against the wet pavement.

There was a handprint on one of these windows. Frank began to open the door and step out, scanning the upper level windows with more detail. The blackness of the night did not help. He noticed on the far right corner of the warehouse a broken window. A circular hole just above the center of the window's crossed wooden frame. Four inches at most in diameter. Frank stood in the middle of the empty road looking up at this window. The light drizzle refreshed his face, more than the coffee seemed to do.

He made his way towards the warehouse's untouched door. A few dents along the frame; the door's hinges were intact however, shining and cleansed in the rain. A brownish-bronze coloured streak of a stain along the hinges of the door ended in similar coloured stain washing away with rainwater on the concrete. The door had been used before.

The handle twisted easily as Frank opened a slither of the door. Immediate darkness. Darker than outside, as Frank had predicted. He pulled out the revolver from his belt. He couldn't see it when he raised it up. He used his other hand and pressed against his shirt and pants. Finding his lighter in his pant pocket, he flipped it open and lighted it quickly. One fluid motion. Frank was getting his senses back. He could now see four feet in front of him.

What he saw confused his senses once again. Large objects shrouded in white plastic sheeting. A river of them, extending past Frank's field of vision. Frank did not move another inch. He scanned everything he could see with the lighter, and noticed a natural pathway formed by the large shrouded objects. Roughly, they were shaped like furniture. Tables and chairs, tall dressers and several couches. Nothing seemed to be left uncovered.

"...The hell."

Frank took one step forward, expecting something to sound off; an alarm maybe, something under his feet that he wouldn't dare to look down at--something alive. Or dead. Either way, the thought made Frank grip the gun in his hand like glue. Knuckles white and the parts of the gun rattling in his shaking hand. The sweat from his head had reached his eyes. He wipes his forehead with the hand holding the lighter. No light in front of him for two seconds. Like a cue, a faint shattering sound is heard in the distance. Far end of the warehouse. That was the alarm, Frank guessed. It did its job.

Frank was scared out of his god damn mind.

Reviews from November

Stupid minimum-wage earners rubbing it in my face.

Winter Passing (2005)

Stranger than Fiction (2006)

I can buy like, four really good pencils now.