FLCL

Not written by me, but it made me laugh and actually had ME surprised at how well some people can rant. It's also a review for a DAMN good show.

FLCL: (Fooly Cooly/Furi-Kuri/Whatever The Hell You Call It!)

So, like, there's this cultural phenom, okay, and it's like about all these cartoons, and the cartoons have giant robots and kids with funny-colored hair like they stepped out of Amadeus's dressing room when he was on a Manic Panic binge, and there's the occasional innuendo (only they call it "Fan Service") and their faces get really distorted and they do a lot of weird things like saying things like, "What?! The plot development that just took place offscreen between the last two edits has MOVED FORWARD?!" and they blow a lot of stuff up really good and find out that when you blow up something really big, like a planet or a space station or the Olympic Stadium or wherever it is something's getting blown up a whole bunch of cracks appear in it and all this light shines out from it for this second that actually lasts about fourteen-and-a-half seconds and they call that CREATIVE LICENSE, how DARE THEY!, and they call the whole thing anime and they charge us $35 a disc for it with two lousy goddamned episodes on it and they can get away with it because the shit they put into these anime things is enough to make your corpus callosum rot'n'drop clean out of your diddly-widdly, canyoudigit, and God knows with the rest of KULCHUR getting so g-d'ed dull lately there are plenty of us who will line up and pay through the nosehairs to see something DIFFERENT. Like FLCL.

Teenage Near-Requited Affection In The Shadow Of The Giant Steam Iron, Baby.

And if anime is to conventional-animated-or-non-type-stuff-out-there the way getting smashed in the forehead with a bass guitar is to a feathered kiss on the earlobe, well, then FLCL is the bass guitar to anime's forehead, AND the Wile E. Coyote Acme Rocket up the ass for good measure. This is not about doing anything halfway, and if I catch anyone reading this review doing anything halfway I will find them and punish them mercilessly by locking them in a closet and making them Do It All The Way, and I'll even go so far as to play that old Eighties tune by Sly Fox or Fly Box or whateverthefucktheywerecalled about Going All The Way only I can't remember the name of it now because this is an FLCL review gottverdammt, so pay attention because you're going to be tested on this. Now. Pencils down and listen.

Now you've seen your Giant Robos and your Cultural Cat Girl Nuku Nukus and your Event Horzon Escape Climber Kenshin Bullshit Goddess In the Shells, but I'll swear (like I haven't been swearing a lot in this review already! HA HA! I kill me!) on a stack of AKIRA PRODUCTION REPORTs all the way to the attic that you have never set eyeballs on anything remotely FLCL-ish in your whole period of Doing Time on Planet Earth. This affirmation comes with a money-back guarantee, y'see: if you HAVE seen anything like FLCL that isn't actually FLCL itself, I'll go to the local Brickbuster and demand my money back! Even though I didn't buy the thing there! And I can't! Because those hopeless hosers don't even carry the fucking thing! Imagine that! The brainstretcher anime ne plus ultra for the 2K3 and THEY DON'T FROGGING CARRY IT! That and they're a bunch of corporate toad-felchers anyway, and they don't know the differences between widescreen and fullscreen and refuse to carry Salo, so fook'm.

And if they did, you know what they'd say about it?

See Vespa! See Vespa! Get The Bass Guitar Smash Yeah! Go Join
Your Girlfriend Go All Over Ape Crazy, Woo Woo!

"It doesn't make sense."

HA. I say. The show does Not Make Sense. HA and HA again. Who are these people, Johnnie Cochran's Clones? Well, sir, may I tell your face that THAT does Not Make Sense, either. This is FLCL, not Barney The Dinosaur Lead-You-By-The-Hand-And-Explain-All-The-Symbolism-And-Imagery-To-You Hour. This show you have to actually use your gears and noodle to FIGURE THINGS OUT FOR YOURSELF. You have to put together the pieces. Like the girl who's swinging the bat in the first scene. What do you want, subtitles to tell you she's homeless and is pining for her former boyfriend who left her to go to America and play baseball and has only written back to his younger brother who's the 11-year-old who doesn't want a hell of a lot to do with her and who is also in that first scene and yet somehow is the object of her affection because love is like the toothpaste in a tube that's getting stepped on or something and when someone STEPS on your HEART all the LOVE comes OUT and goes spewing off in unexpected directions and goes sticking to other people who least expect it.

Like the same way we have the OTHER girl (are you CONFUSED YET?!) who comes a-ridin' out of the morning mist on that crazysexycoolyellow Vespa with the "P!" on it and with the bass guitar that has a rip cord so she can fire it up like a chainsaw, and here she comes abrooombraroomba roaring out of nowhere so she can take a swing right at the Kid's forehead and create this big chunky lump that he has to Shamefully Cover Up And Hide From His Friends Who All Somehow Know About This Girl Anyway, and it's all like metaphorical and stuff, because that big horn-shaped thing coming out of his head is a HARD-ON!! Get it?! It's all about the Crazy Awkwardness of Growing Up!! BLACK MEANS DEATH, SEE!??!? Can't you see how all this stuff ties together perfectly?

Horn ... Cigarette ... Erection ... SYMBOLISM!! GENIUS!!!

Well, it DID, only then this giant robot came out of the horn and my beautiful post-neo-modernistic-symbolic theory was all shot to fuckin' shit.

Oh, and there's this big factory that looks like a giant steam iron, where they make medical something-or-others.

This all ties together, really it does.

So, like, this girl with the bass guitar somehow manages to in-sin-you-ate herself in with this kid's dad and becomes their housekeeper, and then there's a robot battle that is straight out of the lat 147 episodes of Neo Genesis Crapshit Evangelist Bumfuck you saw except that it's like, actually funny and stuff, and then the robot that got clobbered goes and gets all humble and starts working for them around the house too and helping out in the bread factory they run except he's Not All That Good. And this crazysexywhacky girl who steals nurse's uniforms and gives him a shotgun vestpocket (Vespa-cket? HA HA! Funny!) diagnosis tells him she's an alien, and that of course only pisses him off more, because he has no idea which end is up or down or what side of the t.p. to wipe with anythemoreover. And the best part of all of this, as if you haven't guessed by now, is that the whole thing is done in this pastely-splashy digi-designed hinky-dinky ColorFormy anime-y style that REFLECTS THE CONFUSION HE MUST BE FEELING AT THIS INCREDIBLY AWKWARD AND DIFFICULT STAGE IN HIS PRE-PUBESCENT DEVELOPMENT! Metaphor! Meaning! Moniker! Monkees!

Doing That Thing You Do With That Robot That You Did
That Thing With That You Were Doing Things Because Of
That Thing You Were Doing With It - Style.

And that's just about all the summary you're going to get out of this, because the summation of FLCL is that it defies summary. It puts up Great Walls of China against summary, goes and sends out little evil agents that slit the throats of summary IN THEIR SLEEP, and bollixes summation right in the stinkin' tender CORNHOLE. This is an Experience with the cap E that you have to Experience for Yourself to Get It. And if you just don't get it, then you ain't gettin' it, and you just ain't with it, you dig it? So get your shovel and start diggin'. There's two more discs like this and they're about as weird. Blues.

Disc notes: Those cheap bastards at Synch Point -- uh, just kidding, HA HA! Although, really, you thought I got this disc as a free promo begging-to-be-reviewed press kit summation thingy? Bullcrap; I paid good American Green WELL IN ADVANCE for it and had to wait the humiliatingly slow torturous months while they delayed the release to get all their ducks and drakes in a row with it. It has colors and sounds and pictures and if you get your fingerprints on it your mom will spank you, but it has this really really terrific looking coloriffic transfer that's sharp enough to make you bleed your Gatorade and it has this booklet with a reproduction of this moment in the story when they're all doing this Let's Imitate A Manga (Japanese Comic Book To You Illiterate Unaccultured Dullards, Ha Ha) thingamabobbo only it's ANIMATED, you see, and essays and lectures and chapter stops and reversible art so you can hide the thing from your Dutch Uncle when he comes over. Yeah!

(C) 2007 SEASE Productions. (Apologies to whoever wrote this thing first) All Rights Reserved, All Wrongs Justfied. FLCL is (C) 1999/2003 to GAINAX/Production I.G.

LoopTroopin'

Everybody Up!

We're on the eve of a heavenly divine war.

Not to end all conflict, but to redefine it. A storm of swords clashes and crashes silently beside each and every ear, while the silent screams of the pacifist kings cause more blood than any conflict ever could.

Visions of Ghandi cloud the mind in a purple haze while a soft silhouette of chimes sound a childish rhythm right between my eyes. I can see it now, as the fashion victims fall...they claim catastrophic causes to be behind boredom and interoperability. I shake the contents of my fist until the rattle subsides into a slow drone of clicks...suddenly my senses are shot to Hell and the realisation hits me...it's the Apocalypse Now! I look left and find Dennis Hopper, hopped up on cocaine and screaming for more "nose-candy". My right-hand side is nothing but piles built by bodies, structures formed by pinwheels of limbs. The corpse at my feet is fresh, warmth still visible in the spreading pool of blood. Lifeless eyes plead for mercy, but my thin-lipped grin won't subside. No...Why would I stop? The idea of sorrow is akin to a form of mental-masturbation...and it gives me no pleasure.

Everything that I could say would fade into insignificance in comparison to the whirlwind that is my mind. The green outline that locks in this ball-point pen ink screams "AMATEUR" as I scrutinize it...picking up on every fault and discrepancy. One way or t'other...I'm not giving up.

(C) 2007 SEASE Productions. (Yes, I said masturbation...Get over it you immature pansies.) All Rights Reserved, All Wrongs Justfied.

Gender Test for Men, Women, Other. (Beta)

Time Limit: 3 Minutes
Please use a No. 2HB Pencil.
No chewing gum.
Cellphones off.
Note: There are no "correct" answers, but all have chromosomal implications.

1. "The Immaculate Reception" refers to:
A) Something involving football.
B) Franco Harris catching a deflected pass on fourth and 10 and running 60 yards for a touchdown in the closing seconds of the game to give the Pittsburgh Steelers a thrilling playoff victory over the Oakland Raiders on Dec. 23, 1972.
C)The fact that Joseph and Mary could throw a welcoming party in Bethlehem for the Three Wise Men despite having no caterer.

2. True or False? The car should be lowered from the jack before you finish tightening the lug nuts after changing a flat tire.
A) True.
B) False.
C) As if...

3. Armpit farts are:
A) Always funny.
B) Not something to be attempted by an amateur.
C) One of the big reasons Donald Trump's last marriage failed.

4. A man can find the milk in the fridge:
A) Sometimes.
B) Only if God directly intervenes.
C) Only if the milk has acquired the gift of speech.

5. A child who is crying because he struck out in a baseball game should be:
A) Chucked under the chin and told, "Get 'em next time, slugger."
B) Immersed in love and doted upon with so much affection and candy treats that he loses any ability to distinguish between success and failure.
C) Named a plaintiff in a lawsuit against the opposing pitcher, his parents, the opposing coach, the league, the manufacturers of the obviously defective baseball bat and ball, and the municipality for it's failure to turn on the ball-field lights despite the abundance of cloud-cover.

6. The uterus is:
A) A female reproductive organ, sometimes called the womb.
B) A wind instrument in an orchestra.
C) A rare African mammal. (pl.: uteri)

7. Which is the funniest word?
A) Concupiscence.
B) Proboscis.
C) Pecker.


8. A "doily" is:
A) A small, decorative mat of lace or paper.
B) A wheeled handcart use for moving heavy objects.
C) A nickname for a socialite, derived from a famous first lady of the United States in the early 19th century, Doily Madison.

9. True or False? It is rude for a man to "adjust himself" in public.
A) Extraordinarily so.
B) False, if it's an emergency.
C) Not if he does it surreptitiously with a hand in his pocket and avoids loud commentary along the lines of, "Dagnabbit, my boys can't breathe!"

10. When a male driver becomes lost in a strange city, the best course of action is to:
A) Stop and ask directions and don't worry that this suggests a deep failure of manliness.
B) Get out a sextant and take a reading of the longitude and latitude based on the position of the stars.
C) Keep insisting that you're not really lost, then pull into the first Burger King or Taco Bell you see and strap on the feeding bag.

11. Define "Vas Deferens":
A) A reproductive tube, the name of which is taught to students in sex education classes in a vain attempt to get the boys to stop using words such as "weenie".
B) The new rock band formed by former members of Van Halen, Led Zeppelin, and Def Leppard.
C) A Latin phrase describing how men and women vary.

12. The appropriate thing to do immediate after sex is:
A) Snuggle.
B) Fall Asleep.
C) Hang Up The Phone.


(C) Joel Achenbach (Washington Post)/SEASE Productions. (TACOS!!!!) All Rights Reserved, All Wrongs Justified.

I Wish They'd Had This When I Started Writing...

Thanks to "What Happened to the Letters" for this amusing article:

Here is a page taken out of "The Art of
Getting Over", it was originally a transcript at the Graffiti Writers Local One Union Hall.
(I know it has some serious writing errors, but I'm too lazy to go in and fix them. Enjoy!)


SO YOU WANT TO WRITE ON WALLS?
There are few things you must do to make your presence in this subculture a welcome one. First; Know the history. Second; Know the rules of the game. Third; work hard at being good, or at least competent. Fourth; snitches and shit tlakers get stitches and need walkers. Fifth; you're good, but not that good. Keep your fat head to a reasonable swell and get back to work. These are the five fingers to your left hand, get to know them well. Soon you'll be able to get a grip on your self-esteem and we'll all be better for it.


FIRST : INDUSTRY
Cavemen drew pictures on walls, but egyptians were the first language artists, then Romans bit the steez. The Greeks, Incans, and Native Americans all got with the program. There was graffiti on the New York subway a year after it was built. There is graffiti on the moon. If graffiti is vandalism, and vandalism is a form of pollution, then man has left his mark with garbage at the fullest reaches of the universe. So you with your pathetic desire to be remembered are in good company. It's important to know how graff developed in your area code, so consult local experts, and remember, everybody lies.


SECOND; THE RULES
1)You suck until further notice.
2)It's gonna take a long time before we even acknowledge your existence, even longer before we can bear to look at that foul scribble you clal your name. To speed the process of acceptance, you can:
A-Choose a clever name that defies the norm of simple-minded slang. An example of a good name is "ARGUE" (RIP). It looks good when written, sounds cool when spoken, and conveys a combatative attitude. On the other hand "ENEMA" (actual name) looks, sounds, and conveys a shitty attitude. BE CHOOSY.
B-Use paint, gain a thorough knowledge of supplies, remember that permission walls, stickers, and dust tags are small parts of a balanced diet, be bold, learn a style of writing for every occasion, and write your name bigger every time you go out.
3)Jealousy is a disease for the weak
4)Your heart is your greatest possession, don't let it get taken from you.
5) Don't write on places of worship, people's houses in general, other writers names, and tombstones. Writing on memorial walls and cars is beef beyond belief. Furthermore, involving civilians in your beef is gorunds for dismissal. These are the five finges to your right hand. Get to know them well. Give them soul claps, firm handshakes, and throw smooth bolo punches


THIRD; DEVELOPING STYLE
Although being a toy seems undesirable, you should enjoy it while you can. at this stage you can bite all you want with no remorse. All your elders will say is, "Awww isn't that cute, kootchie kotchie koo." So steal that dope connection, rob that color scheme, and loot whole letterforms. Don't worry about giving any credit, we'll pat ourselves on the back and brag how we influenced the next generation. However, style isn't a cruch or schtick. It is understanding why that connection you bit flows, or why that color scheme bumps. Style is the process to an appealing end. Once you got it down to a science, you cna reinvent letterforms to suit yourself. This creative growth will amaze the old and young alike. Pretty soon somebody will steal your secret sauce and the cycle will be renewed. If this happens to you, don't bitch about not getting your due.

Graffiti is the language of the ignored. If your style is stolen, someone heard you speaking. You got what you wanted from the beginning, some attention, you big baby.


FOURTH: THE LAW
It must be noted that hte vandal squad loves graffiti. Their job requires them to fiend for graff as much as you do. When you wreck enough walls, they'll want ot meet you. Just liek the ball huggers outside the graff shop, they'll recite every spot you hit, with the difference being you'll also hear the miranda warning. To postpone this, go solo as much as possible. Don't write with anyone that won't fight for you. Don't be paranoid, but be careful. If you avoid writing on pristine properties, you'll stay in misdameanor territory, and you woen't divert the cops attention from pastry and caffein consumption (consult local laws to be sure). Remember, if they didnt see you do it, it's almost impossible for them to win a conviction without your damming testimony. Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP! Giving a cop info on another writer wil doom you to a life of ridicule, from cops and kids alike, with no parole.


FIFTH: EGO TRIPPIN
There's nothign wrong with knowing you're the shit as long as you are. But once you reach that conclusion, you're one foot ove the edge of falling off. Watch your step fathead, theres no shortage of people chanting, "JUMP JUMP JUMP!" There are plenty of writers that have been painting for well ovr 20 years, and your posing and fronting looks retarted next to them. Get back to work you "never was" slouch.
In conclusion, graffiti is free,impresses the girls, is heroic in our coach potatoe culture, will provide you with a million stories to tell at parties, and a sure cure for the inner city blues. If it's not fun, you're doing it wrong or have been doing it too long. So get going, fame awaits the fly amongst you.
-Mark Surface

Lilium...

"The mouth of the just shall meditate wisdom, and his tongue shall speak judgement." - Psalm 36:30

To anyone who has ever been alienated. To anyone who has ever been ostracized, dejected, or disappointed. To anyone who has ever had their trust broken, their heart broken, their promises broken. To anyone who has ever been left to pick up the shards of what's left. To anyone who has ever been truly alone. To anyone who has ever despaired to their breaking point. To the survivors...This is my acknowledgement.

I was told when I was growing up: "Be yourself." "You're an individual, and that is something to be proud of." "Everyone is different."
However, I've found over the years...that for those of us that are individuals, those of us who are 'different'...it causes nothing but problems. Be proud of yourself? Don't make me laugh...For years I strived to be my own person...to act how I wanted. Where did it get me? Nowhere. I was shunned, I was ignored. Once people got over the initial shock of my appearance and ideals...they labelled me as a miscreant, a problem-child. My opinions were nothing, intelligence was a foreign concept to me. Yet even before I began putting metal on my jackets, before I decided to make myself stick out...I was still being victimized. Only worse. As a kid, I had different ideas...ones that didn't go along with that of my peers. I wasn't a fan of Pinky & The Brain, I didn't like Power-Rangers...I didn't play Mario. I didn't get along with them...so I read. That's how it was. I had the occaisional acquaintance come over and play...but those times were few and far between. And so...for the first 12 years of my life, I had very little human connection. Unfortunately...Nowadays, I have an immense amount of human connection. I hate it. Too many people...and almost all of them are idiots. Driven by greed, lust, and one-upmanship...they comprise the fools that I am forced to call my peers. Still, constantly labelling eachother, snubbing those who don't "fit in". It's disgusting, and eventually it wears the nerves thin. It is at this point that I can say...I am sick of the world. There is no place for me that I can find...I suppose I'll just have to make one for myself.

As I walked home today, in the blizzard that is currently wracking my city...I was afforded 20 minutes. 20 minutes of tranquility, white noise, even whiter surroundings, and a beautiful sensation. Nothing but the wind blowing, the blinding snow, the bone-chilling temperature on my skin...I was given time to think. The one phrase that kept repeating itself in my head...made no sense to me. Now suddenly, I find it has meaning to it...
"Everyone is miserable in this place...they're all just looking for someone worse off than them."

(C) 2007 SEASE Productions. All Rights Reserved, All Wrongs Justified. "Quam serena, quam benigma, quam amoena..."

Living The Low Life...

And living up to it honestly.

In all projects: there is the vision and the details. If you have the vision and give attention to the details: that's a formula for success. It's simply a bit more than just giving a shit.

Ultimately we come to the computer to shake the edge off. Whether we're gliding through the internet or crafting the great twenty-first century novel, the medium of computer technology addresses many human wants.

For certain, enjoyment and diversion aren't solely derived from monitors, keypads and software. Spray cans got cool rhythm.

Triggered responses feel comfortable. Knowing what you get is what expectation is about. Subverting expectation is charismatic so long as the subversion isn't for the sake of itself.

But staying alive to survive and subvert for another day means to keep moving on.

And living is a good thing in a world where dead souls dance across digital jet streams. And I do mean that with the greatest respect and reverence.

Dante had not thought death had undone so many in his inferno. But Poe puts it in perspective, pushing to ride, boldly ride.

Death like honor demonstrates itself. And for that we are what we are.

Presidents, kings, demons alike. Waking up with the intestinal fortitude to make a cultural impact sometimes means one must negate the political. But it's all good.

And just as cleverness is serviceable for everything, and sufficient for nothing, all mediums become mimics of themselves, never ending time machines that serve to lurk and haunt. It's all about servicing the service industry.

We always read fortune cookies too late. That's what makes them beautiful. Fortune tellers tell tales twice told. Finding that out is the tricky part. I googled integrity and found the experience without much virtue. Honestly.

But, ah, to life and living. Especially when bad boys get good deserts.

Perhaps e.e. cummings says it best

How do you like your blueeyed boy Mister Death

(C) 2006. SEASE Productions/Buford Industries. (THIS IS COMEDY?!) All Rights Reserved, All Wrongs Justified. KUFO: Keep Up or Fuck Off!