Christopher DeLuca

Hello gentle readers. Have you ever had dream that felt so real, you thought you were awake? Suppose you just had two extremely vivid nightmares: one where a giant T-Rex is chasing you through your house, and the other where Hofstra put ugly blue signs in front of every building. You wake up and wander around campus, and suddenly you don’t know what to believe.

If you think about it, there are plenty of things at Hofstra that are so bizarre they seem like they’re straight out of some whacked out dream, and mind you, I’ve had some pretty strange dreams. Recently I had one where I was flying after a train full of poisonous jellyfish on a cutting board. Hofstra consistently operates on that same level of absurdity.

Think about all the Twilight Zone stuff that goes on here. You know how it goes. You get to class in the morning two minutes late, and already the classroom is full. Your professor is one of two kinds of people; either they completely ignore you, or they cough loudly, stamp their foot, and tells everyone but you that three lates equal an absence. Your professor goes on to talk about their overall satisfaction with the class, their overall satisfaction with the University, and maybe even their overall satisfaction their personal life.

Ultimately this lapse in attention will cost you on the test. You’ll be sitting there, pencil in hand, frantically thinking back on everything your professor said in a desperate attempt to remember something that will help on the brutal multiple choice question you’re faced with. Yet try as you might, you just can’t remember who your professor’s last lover was, and why they broke up.

In your next class you are unfortunate enough to get stuck sitting right next to That Kid. You all know who I’m talking about, and if you don’t, you are That Kid. He always has a completely unrelated comment about everything that utterly misses the point of the topic. For instance, if your professor asks what Plato’s allegory of the cave means, a typical That Kid response would be, “Well, maybe the people didn’t want to leave the cave because they hit their head on a stalactite. I mean, I was in a cave once, and I hit my head; maybe that happened to Plato.” If that wasn’t annoying enough, his voice sounds like he has a kazoo stuck up his nose, kind of like a cross between Rick Moranis and a foghorn. Plus the bastard always has a cold.

After what seems like three snot filled hours (But was really only two snot filled hours), you’re finally done with class. However it’s midterm season, so you head to the library to study. Unfortunately, the library has been replaced with the bridge of a 1950s rocket ship. Now, there are only two logical explanations for this. One, that there was a sale on old Star Trek sets and Rabinowitz couldn’t resist, or two, that not only do aliens exist, but they’re also Hofstra’s architects. Suspecting the latter, you quietly draw your laser gun. Senses tingling, you creep deeper into the bridge, clinging to the shadows. This stealthy infiltration is flawless, except that actually finding shadows to hide in on the bridge proves highly difficult. All of them seem to have been exterminated by the large florescent lights giving you a tan. Well, and alien tan.

So you decide to play it cool. Walking with a healthy Han Solo swagger, you approach the main desk and suavely ask the librarian for a book’s location. She smiles warmly, giving you clear and detailed instructions, mentioning that if you need any more help to feel free to ask. Realizing that she must be an alien, you quickly shoot her. Any human librarian employed at Hofstra would still be working on the concept that they were being spoken to.

After the shot, hostilities break out immediately. You run staggering from the bridge, hot laser beams streaking through the billowing smoke; you hadn’t bargained on so many Hofstra employees being aliens. You head for safety across the Unispan only to find that the student center has transformed into a xenophile launch pad! Also, for some reason there is a tarp covered station with big green surfboards tacked to it. Maybe the aliens have a sense of humor? Or maybe Hofstra finally got wise about global warming and the surfboards are their emergency Tsunami escape system. Whatever the case may be, you are now surrounded by pissed off aliens with lasers and spiky things. As your doom slowly closes around you, you think back on the good times. There is a searing hot pain, and you wake up.

It was all a dream: just a terrible, terrible dream. You eat breakfast, take a shower, and pick up the Chronicle: another ordinary day. You scan the front page, and your eyes go wide. Your hand shakes, your lip trembles. The headline reads, “President Rabinowitz A Big Alien And Proud Of It!”

“Noooo!” You scream into the sky as Axin and The NAB blast into space.

Is this how it ends? Do the credits roll on a sad note? Is this a story of one helpless person in a sea of horror, doubt, and aliens?

No, I say! The human race will not go quietly into the night, nay, we will fight back with everything we have! Extraterrestrials will not run this University!

That is why I hereby challenge President Stuart Rabinowitz to a duel of honor in the quad on Monday October 22nd at 1:00pm sharp. The rules will be simple: no lasers, no cheating, and no wimping out. If Rabinowitz wins, I will expose my identity to the world and I’ll allow him to call me a stink pants. However, if I win he will be forced to withdraw his alien forces immediately from Hofstra, or at the very least, remove that rampaging T-Rex that always makes me late for class. I think the terms are fair.

I’ll see you on the 22nd Rabinowitz, and may the best species win!

Want to ask me a question, tell me I suck, or warn me that Rabinowitz has a gun? Email your letters to Silence Doless (Duel This) to bronzehedwick@gmail.com

The columns are getting weirder, and leaning more heavily into my then obsession with fantasy versus reality. I was also very angry in college, and that shows here. I lightly edited this one to remove some unnecessary and I think problematic language that I now regret, and will probably do that from now on when applicable. That challenge really was printed in the paper.

The wind whipped my hair, slathering it around my skull. I was standing alone outside my family’s church, looking up the hill to the grotto where the Mother Mary statue stood. We went to a Protestant community church, even though my parents were raised Catholic, and they raised me hair-shirt New Age. My pants rippled against the wind.

The “church” was a rec hall the congregation rented from a convent. We hired a visiting priest every week to give the sermon, and took turns bringing wine and bread for the sacrament. The convent was perched on the New Jersey cliffs overlooking New York City. For a while, Gwyneth Paltrow’s aunt went there.

It was after Service as I stared up the hill. Maybe I was eleven. Wind, dark clouds, the manicured humble grandeur of the grotto and its winding approach; it dripped dramatics.

I lived in my head, a verified space cadet, as my aunt put it. I’d wander around, head down, too scared to look the world in the eye, lost in stories I told myself of saving the day from incursions of Saturday morning cartoon villains invading the real world. I didn’t identify with kids who saw fantasy as an escape. It was fun! Just an interesting place. Why imagine what you already see when you could imagine anything? Why then, did I always imagine a fight?

I was a good boy. Very dutiful. Unwavering dogma at home; things would have to work out if I did everything I was told. “This is my son, of whom I am well pleased,” my mother would coo, reciting the Bible, God speaking of Jesus. Escape was for lesser minds. I was too mature, too knowing, too far down the rabbit hole.

Everything I did and thought and felt needed a definitive ending. A purpose. An answer. Leaving questions open felt like a cop out. No, a betrayal. I had divine expectations to live up to. It was my destiny, an inalienable fact. And yet, I could still fail at it. I was failing. The gap from what I was, to what I must be, was immense. Of course it was. How can that gap ever be closed?

Yet that day, it all fell into place. I had claimed my birthright. There was no one else around to tell me otherwise. I lifted my head, eyes raised, invigorated, a hero. I saw my path—mine! It was snaking up the hill, to the grotto. I knew every curve. I knew it. I would meet The Devil at the top. There would be a fight, of course, and I would win.

I’ve known Byrd and Valentina for over a decade. Byrd and I met doing improv in New York, before we both burnt out. I ended up returning several years later, but Byrd decided he’d had enough of that shit, and became a school teacher. Byrd was always an encyclopedia, and emotionally intelligent, so I can only imagine he’s an excellent teacher. He loves Long Island pop punk, goofy, well crafted jokes, The Knicks, and golf.

Valentina and I met when she and Byrd got together. She’s warm and bubbly, with strong opinions and a stronger belly laugh. She has a background in illustration, and now works trying to make people’s lives better as a UX designer. She loves cute things, tea, books, and silliness.

Byrd and Valentina are lovely people. They converted their second bedroom to an office and exercise room, where they also have a guest bed. I was got to take advantage of that bed several times.

They live in Astoria, the same neighborhood where Laurie and I used to live. We were there for seven years, before Laurie’s art school ambitions and COVID moved us out. We would see them a lot, and I needed to see them again in this new reality, to keep seeing them, to develop a new relationship with the place.

I’d wander the streets, seeing familiar shops, restaurants, street corners, parks, all soaked with my past life, someone else’s life. Putting into context all the memories. So much time. Was it always good? Always bad? Always both? Why didn’t I leave, even as the whole thing crashed. Just trying, trying, trying to pull the vengeance out of the ghosts around town.

There are three cats—Peter, Bernie, and Chantelle.

Peter is the oldest, a grumpy tabby. He is a dick. He howls and tries to fight the other cats, and slops around because, as Valentina sarcastically whines in his pretend voice, “my life is so haaaaaard”. He likes to be pet with wet hands.

Bernie is a large, sweet, shy black cat, who mostly spends his time hiding. He’s very affectionate when he feels safe, which, in my experience, ends up being about six minutes a day.

Chantelle is the youngest, the only girl, lithe, with an orange coat, and a born hunter. She has her own time zone, mostly ignoring the boys, and is not very bright. She has a blithe swagger that demands attention without seeking it. She’ll often be in the closet, not so much hiding, but lying in wait.

There’s a big cat puzzle in the middle of the living room. It’s this big, plastic spiral, with clear tubes wrapping around it. Treats are put in the top, and the cats have to bat them around the twisting tubes through periodic slots to get them down to the bottom and out through a dispenser.

Chantelle was very good at this game. Peter was okay. Bernie would watch from under something.

While Byrd and Valentina were on vacation, I played the first few dungeons of The Legend of Zelda: Link’s Awakening for the Nintendo Switch. The game’s art direction is gorgeous, recalling shiny plastic toys come to life, but with a human, lived-in warmth. The whole time I played, I felt a blanketing sense of childhood, in small part from the narrative tinged with innocence, longing, and impermanence, but mostly because it’s a remake of a game that came out when I was a child. Guiding the hero Link through the dungeons felt safe, and I relished the indulgence of the escape.

How long could I allow myself to stay in the fantasy, the enforced hallucination, the tunnel vision of solving imaginary problems, secure in the non-reality, yet aware of the indulgence, aware of the pushing away of the hard table in front of me, the unread emails? I craved the escape, and allowed it—we all need a break, right?—but not for long. It couldn’t be the last thing I did before bed. I couldn’t play in the morning before work, or during a lunch break. There had to be rules. I couldn’t afford to get lost.

I set out with purpose. I could see Satan’s face in the clouds, really see it, just about! I could hear his laugh, right there at the edge of my hearing. The wind grew as I crested the hill, painting my clothes against my body. Destiny, doom, extravagance, purpose. Fear scattered like insects brought to light. I glowered, coiled. My inevitability laid before me. The grotto, the statue of Mother Mary, the view of New York City. Giddy, I slashed the air with my fists. Again. Again. Again.

I was breathing hard. Satan stayed in my mind.

Coward.

The days were short, the nights were long.

I’d wrap myself in the thick comforter of the guest bed, pulling the covers up over my head to block out the first rays of the morning sun. While I slept, Chantelle chewed off one of my watch straps. Turns out, the watch didn’t need it, so I guess I didn’t either.

The strap is looser, but here I am, still in time.

Yo yo yo! So I was at a party the other day, (Well, night really. I was at a party the other night, specifically the last one that happened. Yeah, last night. It was last night that the rest of this sentence, the subject of which you have by now no doubt forgotten, happened) and it had eighteen wheels! (Just kidding about the eighteen wheels bit, I was just testing you to see if you remembered the subject of the sentence, which was that I went to a party. I am well aware that the sentence, “I went to a party and it had eighteen wheels” makes no logical sense whatsoever, so please if you’re a Reason Nazi and reading this (as opposed to injecting this), hold your angry letters. I am also aware that injecting a printed humor column, as opposed to reading one like a normal laws-of-physics abiding person, is totally absurd. I added it for comedic value only, as it pointed out an exploitable redundancy in my own writing. As Newton himself once famously said, “There is no earthly power that can in any way transform the knowledge of a printed humor column into an inject-able substance…except on Sundays”)

Right, so I was…I was…what was happening to me again? Damn it, I completely lost my train of thought. I’ve made so many implausible detours of logic it makes Boston driving seem humanly possible. Okay, I’m going to start over. Here we go.

Last night I went to a party. Now this particular party was a pajama party, meaning that everyone had to be wearing sleepwear (Yes, even you Larry). However, I didn’t have any sleepwear aside from a pair of green Fubu pants that were in the laundry. I thought about showing up wearing only my boxers, because that’s what I usually sleep in, (If you thought THAT was too much information, just wait until I say scrotum!) however I deemed it too risky as none of them had a button in front. Why is it that boxers are manufactured without that button? Is it some shrewd money saving scheme, or do underwear companies legitimately want their customers flopping out every time they make sudden movements? In my opinion, this is solid evidence to support the Gay Mafia’s existence. Anyway, I decided against wearing boxers for the above wang related reason, and instead arrived dressed for sleep in jeans and a T-shirt. Obviously this did not go over well, and I was quickly whisked away to be properly pajama-ed. Moments later I rejoined the party wearing a skin-tight lacy black see-through top with pink polka dot shorts that barely covered my upper thighs.

Now, this brings me to the topic, (Finally, right? I mean, who introduces the topic more than halfway through their column? You must be thinking, “Jesus, I start reading this column, and it’s nothing but huge parentheticals which are barely related to the topic, which he JUST introduced! And when I say huge parentheticals, I mean HUGE parentheticals. The digressions go on for ages! I wouldn’t be surprised if he started writing about gerbils reciting Hamlet in space. Imagine that! How could you even describe something so absurd? Pop? What a prick this Silence Doless is!) and a lemon in a freezer. (Just kidding. This week’s topic is not “and a lemon in a freezer.” Hey, it was just a joke. A joke I tell you! Put me down you crazy Nazis! Ok, Ok, I’m starting over.)

This week’s topic is being comfortable in one’s own masculinity. I sure am, are you? If you’re not sure, take this handy quiz. NOTE: Results may vary if you are female.

• Do you have a penis?
• Do you think about your penis?
• Have you ever thought about someone else’s penis?
• Do you watch Scrubs?

If you answered No to any of the above questions, you are clearly not comfortable with your own masculinity. If you answered No to all, you could be in the closet. If this is the case, please, for your own sake, stop grunting, spitting, swearing, having sex with women, etc. and come out already! It’s okay to be gay, whatever the pope may say. Be proud of who you are. If the whole world ever seems like it is about to crush you under it’s intolerant heel, just take this humor column and inject it into the world’s toe. Whether it laughs or cries, or just gets pissed off, that fact that it has a giant syringe sticking out of its foot should buy you enough time to get away. Besides, if you stay locked in that closet forever, bad things will start to happen. Sure, you’ll be locked in there with Tom Cruise, but he’s clinically insane these days anyway. However the real danger comes from within. Well, within the family, really. As soon as the Gay Mafia hears about your denial, they’ll smack you so hard on the exposed wang you’ll wish you didn’t have one (refer back to quiz question A). So please folks, let’s strive to make a better world, and stand up for who we are, whoever we are (Oh, and by the way, scrotum).

Well, there I was, being a doofus in 2007. This piece isn’t great overall, but the ending where I give advice to gay men makes my skin crawl. The whole thing feels like a mess. Anyway, apologies regarding the past from the future.

I was in NYC just a couple of days ago, wandering around midtown with two friends. To protect their identities, these two friends shale be here forth referred to as “Cheryl” and “Steve”. So we were hanging out and heading into Toys ‘R Us, when a man handed us a pamphlet for the church of Scientology. The text was as follows:

ORIENTATION, a Scientology® information film. Written by L. Ron Hubbard.

Find out for yourself, see the film. Come Today! Free admittance with this ticket.

We all liked movies, and things that are free, so we decided to go. Soon we found ourselves at 227 West 46th street, staring at a stylish brownstone with gold lettering proclaiming it’s nature; The church of Scientology. We milled around outside a little, debating whether or not to actually go in, but we somehow decided that it was, and we went through the revolving doors.

My first thought upon entering this holy site was, “Ah, air conditioning.”

The interior was tasteful, with something to the effect of marble floors and polished gold banisters. Also, on the walls in large letters were excerpts of their scripture. I didn’t read any of it.

A woman motioned us down a short flight of wide, tasteful steps upon seeing our “orientation tickets”. Once we had descended, we were again standing in front of a desk. A tastefully dressed woman greeted us in a tastefully sweet voice. She took us down a well lit passage, making small talk tastefully. It wasn’t much small talk, however, since the passage was short. She peaked in a door, then turned to us and apologized. The movie was playing in all their theaters, we would have to wait about fifteen minutes for the next showing. Apparently the fliers were working. Fifteen minutes, not a long time, but I was still waiting that period to see a Scientology movie. I needed things to do with my time. Either that, or I could call it an “experience” and write about it later.

Anyway, the woman told us to watch a flat panel on the wall, and left to perform her specific breed of science. The flat panels on the wall were really nice, the kind the museum of natural history uses to show pretty computer graphics of how dinosaurs evolved. Maybe Scientology would give us the same treatment? No, the screen pictured a young Indian girl running through an unnaturally bright field. The narrator asked if we had questions, then stated that we do.

“You are desperately searching for answers. Scientology has those answers.”

The narrator went on to talk about some shape (triangle?) associated with states of being, or walks of life, or sections of existence. Then he started talking about how emotional states of people can be directly represented by a number from one to four. For instance, “anger” might be a 2.3, but a “happy” might be a 3.5. We compared our GPA’s to the chart. Now I realize why parents really push their kids to get good grades; with a GPA of .005 not only are you expelled, you also experience “Body Death”, which is a fate worse than “regular” death for college kids.

In the interest of investigative journalism, I took this test. This consisted of following prompts on a video screen, and holding metal rods for half a minute. It felt just like those “shocking” carnival games, where they vibrate the handles you hold faster and faster until you can’t take it, and then it gives you a score. Only here, the rods didn’t vibrate. My score was just above “Soul Death”.

After the fifteen minutes where up, the woman behind the second desk told us the movie was ready, and motioned us back up the stairs, where the woman behind the first desk took over and brought us to the theater. The movie was still playing, however. She said it was almost done though. She waited with us.

“This is a great film. Written by L. Ron Hubbard himself. It changed my life for the better, a lot of better changes. I can still remember the first time I saw the movie many, many years ago. Many, many years ago.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Oh wow…” She thinks, mumbling softly, counting back.

“Three years” she said.

“Ah.”

The movie was ready. We walked in with an older man who didn’t talk and sat in the back. The movie started. The picture quality sucked, but there was surround sound.

The first shot, we are in space. Space rocks whiz past us with a roar. After a minute of this, we break free of the rocks and earth centers in our view. Triumphant music blares as the word “Orientation” materializes roughly around the equator. Apparently, this will be a very thorough orientation, starting with familiarizing the viewer with which planet they live on.

A man walks out of an archway of light and starts talking about Scientology, let’s call him, “The Man”, repeating how it has the answers to life’s persisting questions. Realizing we are all new to this Scientology thing, and figuring we would probably like to jump right into the meat of the faith, The Man narrates a series of pictures depicting the many Scientology headquarters.

“This is our building in LA. And the one in Oakland. Here’s our location in Vegas. This is our building in the deep south. This is our main building (ooh! Ahh!), and this is our cruise ship retreat, because L. Ron Hubbard sailed.”

After that, The Man told us we probably were asking ourselves if Scientology was a bona fide religion.

“Let me assure you, that Scientology is extremely bona fide, in fact it is more bona fide than any other religion.”

Different voice actors then proceeded to read various court rulings deciding that Scientology was a religion over an image of a waving American flag. The segment went on for at least five minutes. I seem to recall there was a shot of a gavel as well.

After the segment was over, The Man said, “A ton of courts said Scientology is a religion, including the supreme court. No other religion has won so many court cases, all of them in fact. So now that you’re convinced, let’s move on.”

He conveniently forgot to mention that no other religion had ever been called into question that many times, but let’s not hold that against him; as if I needed to remind you, the place had AC.

The Man takes us on a tour of different branches of the Scientology organization. First stop, an explanation of L. Ron Hubbard’s life. His first great accomplishment? He wrote dime novels in the thirties.

The Man proudly describes all the genres that Hubbard wrote in, ending with, “even romance,” chuckling falsely. Also, he sailed and wrote tons of Scientology books.

Then they mentioned Dianetics. Apparently, this practice frees your mind. It was also very threatening to the government. The government knew Dianetics worked, and they knew it would also counter their famous brainwashing program.

After this, The Man leads us to the L. Ron Hubbard book store. A perky woman is having an unheard conversation with a customer. The Man walks in and says “hi” to her. Immediately she turns, ignoring her previous customer, and addresses The Man.

“Hello!” She says with pep. “Tell me about all these books”

The Man motions to the vast library.

“All these where written by L. Ron Hubbard”

“All of them?”

“Yes, he did write a lot of books!”

Her laugh would give Gandhi diabetes. They jabber for a while.

Then, The Man says, “All this might seem a little daunting, so would you tell these good people,” he motions towards us, “which books to start with?”

“Of course!” She smiles like she’s selling toothpaste, and lists about ten book.

“These are good to start with, but you can also buy whatever you want, because eventually you’ll want to own them all”

There are over 200 books in total.

The Man went on to talk about some reincarnation stuff, maybe a hint of ancient aliens, and our obligations to the universe. The film was wrapping up. The Man made his final pitch.

You are at the threshold of your next trillion years. You will live it in shivering, agonizing darkness or you will live it triumphantly in the light. The choice is yours. If you wish to leave the room after seeing this film, walk out and never mention Scientology again, you are free to do so. It would be stupid, but you are free to do it. You can also dive off a bridge, or blow your brains out; that is your choice. It is your future.

As we were let out of the theater, I considered my options. My next trillion years sounded cold, what with all that shivering. Right now, however, the outside was sweltering.

I felt the cool AC on the back of my neck.

Sleep. Everybody needs it, but these days, who has the time? I certainly don’t, what with class, homework, a social life, and writing this column every week. I routinely find myself tired and sleepy from too many nights spent away from my pillow, the effects of which almost always crop up at the least opportune moments. Take for example, right now. While writing these very words I dozed off twice, bringing my writing speed up to a blistering three words a minute. See? I’m so tired I can’t even make a decent joke out of that.

You all know how it goes. You spring out of bed early Monday morning, brush your teeth, comb your hair, throw on a mask and cape, dash out the door and into class just in time to wrestle your philosophy professor because you disagree with his interpretation of Hobbes.

Then you wake up.

Groggily you check the time, firmly decide, “No way.” and promptly fall back asleep. Several hours later you wake up again and move blearily throughout the rest of the day. You promise yourself an early night, but somehow something incredibly interesting is always going on. Whether that interesting thing is IMDBing that entire cast of Family Matters or sitting in a lounge and counting how many people use the word “like” in a sentence, is not the point. The point is that now it’s 2am and you have to wake up early the next morning.

This process repeats until Thursday, when you realize you’ve been far too busy not sleeping to do any of your homework. Terrified, you throw your tired bones at your work. Only you’re still extremely tired and your homework starts getting jumbled together with all the other things you haven’t been doing. Next thing you know you’re quoting Steve Urkle for a paper on the French and Indian War (Did I do that?), citing that the brain functions on a network of bad valley girl grammar for psyche, and vehemently stating that the only sensibly counter argument to Hobbes is a headlock. Ultimately, this does not garner good grades, even among professors who like Family Matters and or Calvin.

Still tired and newly despondent about red marks accompanied by strange looks and warnings about the dangers of LSD, you hit the weekend ready to let loose and enjoy yourself. Obviously you get no sleep. By Sunday you shake off a hang over and to scramble to write your humor column, but halfway through you realize you don’t write the humor column. Now you don’t even get the satisfaction of publication.

Crumpling up your column, you vow to get even with that snot faced, dirty trick pulling Silence Doless if it’s the last thing you do. Unfortunately, Silence Doless does not appear on Facebook, nor is sdoles1@pride.hofstra.edu a valid email address, yet you swear to track him down regardless, even if it means resorting to the use of the extremely realistic drawing included in this column. But am I really to blame? The easy answer is yes, but the complex, subtle answer is no, which is my personal favorite.

That answer has a lot to do with being an overworked American, resorting priorities away from blind capitalism, and living better, more productive, and ultimately happier lives based around generous amounts of sleep for all.

I would explain all of that, but I’m way too tired.

The content isn’t too cringy on this one, so that’s good. There’s some structure and callbacks, so that’s nice. I never watched Family Matters, so I must have been latching on to that as a cultural reference everyone else would know. Is it funny? I certainly can’t say, which probably points to “no”.

I went another two months without writing a media diet! These posts are way too important to ignore for that long, so let’s get into the crap I took in.

But before that, look at this 👇

Why, its an expandable table of contents to jump sections! My innovations for you, gentle reader, knows no bounds.

Music

Rocks—Aerosmith

Yes it’s on the nose, but there’s no other way to say it: this album boulders. Raw, heavy, boogie riffs, and more energy than I thought possible, especially given growing up with their slick ballad 90s era. I had gone back and listened to the first three Aerosmith albums years ago after finding them in my ex’s music collection, especially liking Toys in the Attic, but they never totally grabbed me. This album though. I got turned on to it from the Cobain 50 Podcast, which examines Kurt Cobain’s 50 favorite albums list. I didn’t realize how influential this record was, and man, I just can’t get enough. 🪨🪨🪨🪨🪨

Black Focus—Yussef Kamaal

Smooth, funky jazz with lots of complexity hiding under the hood. From what I read, it kicked off a jazz explosion in Brittan after it was released in 2010, and the group never put out another record. Sleek grooves, deep strange. It’s like if a velvet chicken made you wiggle.

Day/Night—Parcels

If you listen to anything from this list, listen to this. What if disco, but now, and Australian in Germany? That is the question that the band Parcels answers, and boy, is the music way better than it has any right to be. The drive of electronica, the beat of disco, the heart of forever, the face of Prince Valiant, the soul of a dance party, the secret pathos of a tear streaked cigarette. My roommate Hean introduced me and my other roommate Ivy to them while we played a few rounds of Magic: The Gathering. Besides the music, the highlight was the silly words the game makes you say, like, “I crew the Dreadmobile with the Cranial Ram.” We laughed a lot. Then went back to grooving, and exclaiming with surprise that the tunes remained great, song after song after song. Dig in.

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TV

Girls5eva

From almost everyone behind 30 Rock and Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, the strange-until-you-watch-titled Girls5eva is really funny. It’s got a heart on it, and a plot following a flash-in-the-pan girl group getting back together and taking another crack at it two decades later. The characters are full and creative, but the show never strays far from it’s mission of delivering high quality jokes. Solid, and works even better the more you know about music history. Highly recommend.

Hacks

This was recommended to me a few times by a few people, and I finally got around to watching it. Only a few episodes in, but it’s solid. Hannah Einbinder and especially Jean Smart give great performances, and it’s sharply written. I found myself caring even though both lead characters are pretty unlikable in opposite ways. What does it say about me that I ended up rooting more for Smart’s rich corporate-comic workaholic over Einbinder’s self-involved, self-defeating underdog who’s closer to my age?

Conan O’Brien Must Go

Look, this may come as a shock, but Conan O’Brien is funny. He’s very funny. The found comedy he makes being an idiot abroad is very, very funny. Do yourself a favor, get up off your unfunny couch, then sit back down on it and watch this funny thing. Werner Herzog does the intro narration. What are you doing just watch.

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Video Games

Super Mario Land

This was the other big launch title for the Gameboy, aside from Tetris, which naturally took the spotlight. This is such a fun little Mario game, though. Made by a different team than was making the NES games at the time, and built to withstand the severe limitations of the Gameboy’s hardware, it has a distinct feel to it from pretty much any other Mario game. I’ve been told that its short and super easy, but I haven’t beat it. One day.

Castlevania: Symphony of the Night

I played this around 2010 on a hand-me-down PlayStation One, and I don’t think I ever beat it. I’ve been meaning to replay it ever since. I’m doing so now on my little Miyoo Mini, which came pre-loaded with a shit-ton of ROMs, including Symphony of the Night. However, the ROM is the Japanese version, which is normally not a problem, and I like the voice acting better, but does mean extra work anytime I need to access the menu system. Who cares, though. I’m Dracula’s son, running around his castle stabbing cursed Medusa heads, leveling up and trying to kill my dad.

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Movies

Friday the 13^th: The Final Chapter

Finally, back to everyone’s favorite movie marathon, Friday the 13^th.

A fan favorite, this one is edging in on being a real movie. Tom Savini is back, so the gore effects take a jump in quality, and it stares Crispin Glover and a little Corey Feldman. It has all the iconography in place, and is pretty much what you think of when you think of Jason Voorhees slicing people up.

Even if you don’t like horror movies or slashers or any of this shit, check out the legendary (violence and mostly dialog free) Dance by Crispin Glover.

Friday the 13^th: A New Beginning

Everyone hated this one, because it:

1. came out a year after the “final chapter”
2. doesn’t really have Jason in it
3. is weird

However, that’s exactly the reasons why my roommates and I liked it. The tone takes a sharp turn, flying out bug-eyed gonzo while staying within the slasher mold. It continues the story of a non-villain character for the first time in series history, and its a whodunit. Sort of. It’s not really a real movie.

Friday the 13^th Part VI: Jason Lives

Okay, this is a real movie. Or, if it isn’t, it’s very close. Part six takes a comedic, self-aware slant in addition to the horror, and strikes the right balance. It’s campy and silly and gruesome and knows it all. If you think these movies are silly, or if you take them seriously, this movie agrees with you. A lot of fun.

Friday the 13^th Part VII: The New Blood

Okay, this one introduces a psychic protagonist, a la Carrie, who eventually takes on Jason directly. What? Yes. TVs flying across the room and shit. Jason is an ominous presence, but the real villain is the manipulative psychologist that is trying to control our psychic heroine’s life. His murder feels huge.

Friday the 13^th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan

No one likes this one because Jason spends all of twenty five minutes in Manhattan, and the rest on a small cruise ship, for budgetary reasons. Not the strongest, but has some fun moments, including a young punk rock woman getting stabbed with her own guitar, the gross creepy uncle getting drowned in a barrel of New York sewage, and a man boxing Jason and getting his head punched off.

Monkey Man

I saw this alone in the theater on a whim after a long day of driving back from an improv festival. I was so tired, but I’m glad I saw it. Dark, brooding revenge flick with an obvious debt to John Wick while still being its own thing. It was shot on a nothing budget, and it doesn’t show. Big, beautifully brutal set-piece action scenes. The underpinnings of social and class critique in India are present and relevant everywhere. The temple of trans monks that serves as our heroes training montage was a nice touch.

Mad Max: Fury Road

I re-watched this with my friend in anticipation of seeing Furiosa, and it holds up. It’s nothing like seeing it on the big screen, and I was nervous that my girlfriend wouldn’t like it after an exclamation of, “what the hell are we watching?” following one of the more violent images, but she ended up enjoying it, and even if she didn’t that’s okay, it’s a movie, you know? It’s a good one, IMO, though.

Jason Goes To Hell: The Final Friday

Another one fans don’t like. It really changes the lore, which fans really care about, you know? Jason is a demon from hell who jumps between bodies, and has been the whole time, despite this being the first time there’s been any evidence of this. We never see hell, but the title is true on a technicality. Feels dumb. The movie doesn’t know what it wants to be or do, and flops around a lot, but there’s this mercenary guy hunting Jason who, despite switching motivations a couple times, does wear a cowboy hat.

Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga

This is the darkest Mad Max movie by a good bit. It’s also too long, and has a chunk of dialog scenes that can drag a bit. I think George Miller is strongest with visual storytelling with this series, and while interesting, some of the talking scenes felt flat to me. All that being said, I saw it with a group of friends and had a great time. There’s incredible action scenes, rivaling the best in the series, and the characters are indelible, popping off the screen. Take a peek, I’d love to discuss.

Jason X

The first post Scream Friday the 13^th, and the first not to have a title without any mention of the day of the week. This movie did not do well with fans or general audiences. It’s Jason in space. It’s silly. It’s alien meets Jason meets jokes. I can imagine at the time, people were tired of the franchise, and were looking for something more “serious”. But now? Oh dear, this is fun. Get your camp goofy space killer on! The tone is so self aware, taking the most obvious, dumb jokes, and it worked. One of the best kills in the franchise, and someone refers to how many died in “the Microsoft wars”. It’s good.

Freddy vs. Jason

This movie was in development hell for years, and they finally made it, and it’s pretty good. Not nearly as good as it should have been given the time in the tank, but I had fun watching it. It’s mostly a Freddy Kruger movie, from The Nightmare on Elm Street franchise, with Jason coming in as a blunt force object. The concept is probably as good as could be done to mash these two things together. The director, Ronny Yu, brings a fresh Hong Kong style to it. It’s never boring. I don’t know how much you’d get out of it if you didn’t have any familiarity with either Friday the 13th or The Nightmare on Elm Street series, though.

And we’re done with Jason movies!

Or are we…?

Stand Up Solutions

Was recommended this arch satire of stand up specials while also being a stand up special by my friend Ryan. It’s really funny. It uses our fears around technology and drive for self promotion as conceptual engines that fuel the jokes. It works. From a Seth Myers writer slash Aidy Bryant’s husband.

Dan Licata: For The Boys

I never heard of Dan before hearing him on The Best Show. The special is him doing stand up in front of an audience of 13 year old boys that attend Dan’s old high school. The comedy comes from Dan leaning into the difference in generation and philosophy, painting himself as a proud burn out, and the kids as awkwardly looking at him askance. It’s funny.

Friday the 13^th (2009 remake)

Jason’s back! But from the beginning, all over again. The remake serves as kind of a greatest hits of the first four Friday movies, ups the budget, and in the process, becomes a real movie. It manages to keep the tone of the originals, while becoming a real boy. Its maybe a little preoccupied with trivial realisms like how Jason moves around so quickly and nonsense like that, but overall this might be the one to see if you’d like a good place to start, and see if its your speed.

Dicks: The Musical

I saw this again with my girlfriend as a birthday present to myself. She hated the sewer boys. I make no apologies.

Crystal Lake Memories: The Complete History of Friday the 13^th

What do you want to watch after seeing all 12 Friday the 13^th movies? A six hour documentary about the making of all those movies, that’s what! Frequently more interesting than the movies themselves, this is a loving, detailed romp. They get interviews with almost everyone involved, and some of the stories behind the scenes are absolutely wild. The series was started as a knowing rip off of Halloween, with no script, no one attached, but they had a title and an ad campaign! It’s really good. I think it would be fun to watch even if you never saw a second of the Friday movies. Can recommend.

That’s it for my Friday the 13^th movie marathon, at least until they work out the rights and make a new one.

But wait, there’s a television series based on the property? And it was successful? And there’s 120 hours of it? Oh dear.

When Evil Lurks

I was meaning to see this for a while. Interesting, fresh take on the demonic possession trope. And wow, what a brutal movie. It does not hold back, and that really lets it take you on an emotional ride. Don’t let the subtitles be the thing that scares you off.

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