Read part six and all other parts before continuing.
“Pooh?” says Jenny as the door opens. An overwhelming shine of light overtakes me as the doors open and as it fades, slowly, the items in the room pop more and more into view: strange chairs in the shapes of apples, hanging vines that may (or may not) be completely fake, tight ropes stretched tautly between two poles that sit on opposite ends of the room (with fire juggling acrobats performing flips on the wire) as well as walls filled with the type of pop art that blessed the psychedelic age (endless album covers of first, second and third rate psychedelic bands are among them, carefully framed with lights lovingly shining up on each, casting odd shadows on the ground while Ralph Steadman-esque paintings take up whole walls, intricate, disturbing and obviously drug fueled.

In the corner, an ancient record player tucked in a corner creaks out old time jazz in a tinny, unappealing tone. The record keeps skipping (“my baby left me ‘scratch’ my baby left me ‘scratch’…”) and nobody seems keen to stop it.

“Why hello there,” a soft, light voice purrs out from behind the wide, inward swinging doors of the room. Robocop pushes me to the ground as Jenny walks next to me and helps me up. Robocop pushes the doors close and locks them. We turn to the source of the voice.

Winnie the Pooh reclines on an intricately designed and luxuriantly decorated personal bed. Young, female teddy bears feed him grapes. A tight, long strip of rubber is tied around his upper arm, stretching down to the floor. His eyes are hazy and distant yet dangerous.

“You seem to think that you can come here…and get my honey…” says Pooh, reaching down and grabbing a huge, cartoonish looking honey pot. The word “honey” is emblazoned across the front. He opens the top and pulls out a huge plastic bag filled with…well, it’s not honey.

“Nobody gets my honey…” he says, handing the bag to teddy bear gal who smiles, giggles and turns to the stand sitting next to the bed. She opens a dresser on the stand and pulls out a box, carefully reaching in the box and pulling out a hypodermic needle.

“Uh…” says Jenny as the girl bear carefully fills the needle with Pooh’s “honey.” Pooh stares at the needle and pulls the rubber band around his arm tight, lying back on the bed with a grin. The woman bear injects him with the needle, pumping the honey into his veins.

“Fuck yeah,” says Pooh as his eyes close.

Robocop walks over to Pooh and props him up. He whispers something into his ear. Pooh just smiles and laughs.

“I don’t have time to deal with every third rate ding-a-ling that hops their way down the rabbit hole…where is Rabbit?! Rabbit?!”

Robocop whispers in his ear again.

“Right forgot: too much honey. It gets us all in the end. Christopher Robin gone. Too young. Piglet on the street corner…too much…not enough honey left in the world for me, Stanley,” says Pooh. Robocop nods grimly.

“What the fuck is going on?” I say.

“Language, pleaaaasssse language,” says Pooh as his head rolls back on Robocop’s hand.

“No swearing,” says Robocop, pointing his gun at me and pulling the trigger. Click.

The girl bears take Pooh from Robocop and begin tending to him: back rubs, sponge baths, stretching his limbs and whispering carefully into his ear. Pooh smiles and rubs their hair and backs as they speak.

“My girls…my teddy girls…they’re the best, don’t you think so Stanley?”

Robocop nods.

“Do you want one, Stanley?”

“I have no use or need for a teddy bear female,” says Robocop.

Pooh laughs that high pitched, grating laugh that is his trademark.

“Right…no man only robot…down there, right?” says Pooh reaching for areas on Robocop that no teddy bear should ever consider.

Robocop gently pushes his hand away.

“What about these invaders?” says Robocop, pointing to Jenny and I. “They have disrupted our harmony.”

Pooh shakes his head and sighs. It takes him a few moments to answer. Nobody dares to interrupt or push him to hurry.

“Do what we always do: integrate them.”

Robocop nods without passion, excitement, fury or joy.

“So take him to the lizard quarters?”

Pooh nods.

“And her to the sewing area?”

“Of course,” says Pooh.

“Wait what the…heck do you mean…lizard quarters? And sewing area?” says Jenny.

Robocop looks at her and his facial expression changes slightly to a more mournful look that fades away as quickly as it appears.

“The lizard quarters…they will take him, operate, make him a lizard acrobat. You, they will sew up to be a teddy bear concubine for Pooh.”

“No way! I could never do that!”

“You have no choice!” roars Pooh, standing up on his bed. “We replace your brains with fluff. He will be a great ‘fire lizard’! One time performance! Set him on fire as he jumps from the top of the complex and onto a bed of spikes! The blood flies for hundreds of yards!”

Pooh is just starting to rant and foam at the mouth when the door behind us kicks in. Everybody turns to stare, including Jenny and I.

A small, brown bear stands in the doorway, draped with guns, ammo belts and other heavy machinery. He is a cartoon come to life, a bit more crudely drawn then Pooh but with a more realistic “bear” look to him that makes him seem infinitely more real.

He begins screaming what at first sounds like gibberish but which I quickly realize is actually the harsh, barking tones of a rather rural form of Russian.

“Who the fuck is that?” I say.

“Winnie Pooh!” says Robocop.

“My insane, communist cousin…” sighs Pooh.

Winnie Pooh continues to screech Russian insanities as he opens fire.

A snap shot of “Winnie Pooh” moments before he opened fire.

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Hey! Sorry to anybody that has been following my “Adventures in Alpena” non-fiction story but life has been a bit wild for me lately. I’m now working a grand total of three jobs lately: the newspaper, my writing job and actually assigning articles out. Granted, the last two don’t take that long to accomplish but they have been eating into my time and my creativity.

I also had a wild time covering some pretty intense sporting events but the next few weeks are going to be relatively lax. Basically, I cover one game next week and that’s about it. I kind of like that aspect of the job: the wax and wane of the sporting season. Plus, I’m finally getting something close to an understanding of more sports which also helps out big time.

What’s this gotta do with anything?

I used to update at least one of my blogs every day and now it’s been several weeks. That’s just unacceptable. Right now, I am at work but I have nothing at all to do so I am taking advantage of that momentary lapse of busy-ness to rant and rave a bit. I don’t feel like going off on the “Adventures in Alpena” story but I am eventually going to reveal who is behind that door…

The election is coming up and it’s driving me nuts. I can’t wait for it to be done so everybody stops talking about Mitt Romney for a few minutes and I can think straight without the vague concern that he’s going to win the election in spite of all his “bad, old” ideas and his blatant lies and obvious shadiness. You never know what’s going to happen: thankfully, I’ll be up in Saint Ignace covering volleyball regionals and should be able to ignore most of that political garbage.

Yes, people occasionally fly in volleyball.

I am also a little disappointed that I didn’t get to watch as many horror movies this October as last. I think I watched maybe about 26. I fell slightly short of my goal but last year I watched something like 50 so I don’t think it’s a huge deal. I can just carry them over: unlike my phone minutes, the extra movies DO carry over. Why? Because it’s my arbitrary goal to meet, damn it and I’ll meet it any way I can!

And although it’s not a huge deal to me (not like it was in the past) being single at 30 is kind of a drag. I live in a romantic vacuum due to the rather small size of the town I”m currently living in and when you’re kind of picky and/or used to dating the kinds of girls you want to date (instead of the kind of girls you date because they’re there) it’s a bit hard to meet the girl you want.

Basically, her but without being a porn star and having a PhD in Awesomeness.

However, I am trying to stick to my stronger diet and I exercise more frequently (been a bit lazy this week) and I’m enjoying living in my new place and things really honestly only seem to look up at this point. I think I’m coming to terms with the fact that my extreme expectations for myself will happen only if I focus and understand that patience is a virtue.

I still hate waiting for the good stuff to happen, though.

Read part five before continuing.

The gate opened as we stood cowering before it. At least I cowered. Jenny just whistled as it descended.

“Awesome,” she said. “This looks and feels so real doesn’t it?”

“I think it is real,” I say as the rush of air from the gate slamming runs over my face. Robocop waits for the gate to settle and he then leads us over the wooden gate. He is still holding my arm and it’s starting to really hurt. I look down to see bruises on my arm. Jenny still walks, completely unhindered.

“Bruises,” I say and nod my head at Robocop. He squeezes harder and I yelp in pain.

Jenny laughs. “Don’t talk back to him,” she says. “He’s tougher than you.” A strange suddenly suddenly comes out of Robocop’s mouth. It’s a grating harsh sound, a bit like a high pitched whine of a generator and the bark of a dog. I realize he’s trying to laugh and feel a shudder go up and down my spine. Robots should never laugh.

We walk into the castle and it’s a huge, sprawling edifice to strangeness. The rows are lined with statues of various pop culture characters from my past: Walt Disney, Bill Hicks, Rodney Dangerfield, Leonardo the Turtle, Teddy Ruxspin, Pam Grier, Doogie Howswer, Susan Sarandon, Miles Standish, Lenny, Lionel from “Dead Alive,” Johnny Ramone and much more. They are all set in stone and appear to be in agony. A low hum surrounds us in the air as a low “thump” of a drum appears from nowhere. The floor is made of loose fitting cut stones that seem to have been hastily thrown together. The rest of the castle is typical castle stone. But bright pink with pink torches cutting through the darkness at regular intervals.

Jenny whistles loudly.

“I have a hell of an imagination,” she says as she pulls out a pack of cigarettes from her purse. Robocop sees them, grabs them and cruses them between two fingers.

“Hey!”

“No smoking,” he says without breaking his stride. She frowns and sticks her tongue out at him from behind his back.

“I saw that,” he says with the firm authority of a kindergarten teacher. My arm is turning black and blue in his grip but at least it’s numb.

We pass past several hallways that seem to stretch off endlessly to the left and right. Each is lined with regularly spaced doors. We also pass doors where I can hear strange sounds. Sometimes it sounds like music. Other times it sounds like chanting or odd chatter. Some of it is rather inhuman and low pitched. One room sounds like Cthulu ripping space and time in half. A black ooze seeps underneath the door.

“Don’t touch that,” says Robocop as he jumps over it quickly. We follow suit.

“Why not?” Jenny asks.

“Just trust me on this one,” he says. I look back over my shoulder as the hallway fades. It seems we’ve been walking straight for an incredibly long time. Suddenly, Robocop makes an abrupt left turn down a random, non-descript hallway. I shout as we begin walking down this new hall.

Even stranger sounds come from behind the doors in this hall. Most of them sound like the odd, strangled gurgle of a baby eating strained peas and having too much fun with it. Jenny has gotten very quiet as we walked, sniffing the air with an odd expression on her face. A stench erupts around us that reminds me of the time I was at a dump for three hours in 100 degree weather. Just as your nose got used to a specific smell, a new one arose to take its place. It was a smell you could never “get used to” in any way.

We walk down the hallway so long that I feel blisters breaking out on my feet. Jenny is breathing heavily and getting irritated. Robocop hasn’t corrected any of her foul outbursts. I don’t get it: she is the reason we’re being taken wherever we are going.

“Hey,” I say, looking at Robocop, “where are we going?”

“To the king of the kingdom,” he says, squeezing my arm.

“The king?” says Jenny sharply.

“Yes the king. He built this kingdom.”

“Yes, one would assume,” I say, beginning to limp.

“Three hundred!” shouts Robocop out of nowhere and stops. It’s so abrupt that I nearly fall and Jenny does. She skins her knee and cries out in pain. I try to help her up but Robocop pulls me back and watches her struggle to stand.

“Damn it,” she says. “This fucking sucks.”

“This door,” says Robocop, pushing me towards it and letting my arm go. I open it up and am awed by the largest, steepest staircase I have ever seen in my life. He grabs me by the arm again and walks upstairs, Jenny following.

“Why don’t you run away?” I say.

“I’d shoot her in the back,” says Robocop.

“That’s not very gentlemanly!” Jenny says.

“I’m a robot,” says Robocop.

No arguing with that. We begin trudging up the stairs and what seems like several hours pass. Both Jenny and I struggle to match Robocop’s pace. If I slow up, he squeezes my arm. He ignores when Jenny falls behind which I think bothers her more than me getting my arm squeezed.

This process repeats itself endlessly. We reach the top of the stairs, walk down a hallway endlessly, find a random door (sometimes quickly sometimes slowly) and walk up endless flights of stairs. All the hallways are identically designed and impossible to tell apart. I’ve lost all track of time.

Suddenly, we come upon a gigantic door that is obviously our destination. It is surrounded by diamonds, pearls, rubies all that “fancy” stuff. I strain my eyes to read the name plaque above the door. Jenny strains too and then laughs loudly. She falls to the ground, holding her stomach laughing. My eyes are secretly awful so I can’t quite make it out until I move a little closer.

“Mister…Mister Sanders?!”

A soft, lilting, gentle voice drifts from the other room like a butterfly on a gust of wind.

“Bring the criminals in, Robocop.”

“Yes Mr. Sanders,” says Robocop.

“Please,” says the voice, “call me Pooh.”

To Be Continued

For people who have been following “Adventures in Alpena” (bout 6 if my page views are to be believed) an update on that absolutely true not at all fake story can relax: the continuing stories of me and Jenny will be brought back to you after this brief little dissertation. If I don’t do writing like this to break up the monotony of detailing such realistic things that actually happened, I may get tired of it and never come back to it or finish it. And it’s a story that must be finished.

You’re a gizzard, Harry.

I can’t believe I haven’t written about it yet because it just happens to be my favorite time of the year: Halloween! What’s not to like? The creepy (kind of but mostly hilarious) movies, the great costume ideas, incredibly hot girls dressing up in really skanky costumes at the bar, posing like some sort of creepster hipster for all the boys on their block? All those boys on the block desperate to look cool or “nerdy” enough to attract those chicks. Failing to do so because of their own inadequacies. Blaming the girl.

Where’s the candy?

Every year I tell myself I’m going to make or buy a cool costume and every year I throw together some random crap and say I did it on purpose. One year, I threw on some sort of cap, a pair of colored sunglasses, a cigarette in a holder and BAM I’m Hunter S. Thompson. Last year I bought a bunch of random crap and threw it on and said I was “A Bad Halloween Costume.” Whatever works for you, I suppose.

Only slightly less lazy than my usual style.

I think my worst costume idea ever was “casual” Hitler as a) I just grew a Hitler mustache and dressed the same and b) a kid I substitute taught for saw me and remembered me forever more as casual Hitler. I learned an important lesson from this experience: our actions have unseen consequences and being lazy is being lazy no matter how many mustaches you grow.

And I’m not skinny enough to pull of Ron Mael.

This year I swear I’m going to do it better by being a bit more restrained than I was in the past. My past ideas were always too ambitious and, given my limited carpentry skills, essentially impossible for me to pull off successfully. I mean, being the solar system would have been sweet but I can barely hammer a nail into a board: how would I make myself the center of the universe?

I’ll just go the Snooki route and PRETEND I am!

The problem with ambitious costume ideas is that I would stall when it came time to do them and would inevitably throw together whatever random crap I could find. This year, I’m pretty sure I want to focus on simple but fun costume ideas that are well within my abilities to realize. Some of them are the most popular costume ideas ever so be prepared for some yawns:

Zombie

What could be more yawn inducing than a zombie costume? Yes, zombies are cool but they’re played out in too many movies and video games. I still enjoy the movies and the idea though (plus the fact that this would be easy) so I’m probably going to do that anyways. I’ll be a pretty dull zombie but I’ll shuffle about like I’m an idiot and the illusion will be complete.

Perhaps not as good as this…

A Famous Person

I actually take back what I said about my last year’s costume: last year I was a broad caricature of Zack Galifinakis as seen in “The Hangover.” It was really easy: I didn’t spend a dime. Some years, I’ve considered going as a fat era Brian Wilson (my hair and beard were definitely close) simply throwing a sheet around me and singing “mama’s little baby loves shortening shortening” for hours on end. But I cut my hair recently so that’s out.

Friends and family can attest how often I end up looking like this…

A Bunch of Lazy Crap I Threw Together At The Last Minute

Hear my out here! I know I started this entry complaining about my tendency to throw random crap together to make a costume that looked like nothing so much as nothing. But that approach does have its advantages: for example it boosts the imagination of those around you. After all, a man with a yellow rain coat, Groucho Marx glasses, fake buck teeth, a dog leash and fistfulls of bubble wrap could be ANYTHING!

Sorry, no image could be provided.

Read part four before continuing.

I hang my head as Robocop leads Jenny and I through the streets of the circuit. The events of the past few hours race through my head, struggling to coalesce into some sort of sense. The more I think about it though, the less sense it makes, the more confused I get. The people around us continue to perform as we walk but they slowly turn more and more inhumane. It’s hard to explain: they still appear human but slight changes mar their visage as we move.

For example, one woman has ears that are nearly as large as dinner plates. They aren’t the kind of lobes you sometimes see on people that wear heavy gauges in their ears. Those I could handle more readily as I can understand that. Hell, Jenny has two large gauges in each of her ears. She nods her head softly as we walk, seemingly not noticing any of the oddities that are engulfing us.

“How can you be so casual?” I say.

“Huh?” she says, turning at me with her eyes half open. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was stoned out of her gourd. However, I have no idea how that would be the case. The people around us stare as we walk by, as Robocop clanks and chimes as he walks. The whole circus is alive with the sounds of performance but you can still hear Robocop above all of them: it makes no sense.

“You just don’t seem…affected by any of this,” I say.

“Oh, you mean the circus and the Dig Dug and all of that?” she says with a slight, wry smile. It is becoming more and more clear to me that part of her is really enjoying what we’re going through.

“It is becoming more and more clear to me,” I say, “that part of you is really enjoying what we’re going through.”

“Why’d you say that twice?” she says and I realize I’m thinking out loud again.

“Just answer the question.”

“Oh sure,” she says, “I’m enjoying it.”

“How can you enjoy the insanity that we’re going through? We’re being led through a sprawling, unending circus that exists inside of a hospital that we fled to only moments after escaping my exploding car. A car that, need I remind you, was inflated by Dig Dug, an 80’s arcade character.”

“That’s what’s so fun about it,” she says.

“The insanity is fun?”

“Of course,” she says with a slight laugh, “crazy dreams are better than boring dreams don’t you think?

“You think this is a dream?” I say. Robocop clenches my arm tighter as we walk. I feel bruises breaking out on my arm.

“Damn it don’t squeeze so hard,” I say. Robocop squeezes a little bit harder and then releases his grip some more.

“Although I have no reason to show you mercy,” he says, “as you have violated the law, I will momentarily relieve the pressure on your arm if it will stop you from talking so much.”

Jenny laughs out loud and digs through her purse. Robocop is not holding her arm but she isn’t attempting to flee. She’s going along with this willingly without a fight: apparently, I can’t be trusted.

“Damn right you can’t be trusted,” she says pulling out some lipstick. She smears some on her lips, puckers them up and laughs again.

We walk quietly for a moment before I remember my question.

“So you think this is a dream?” I say.

“Of course it is,” she says. “I have wild, vivid dreams like this all the time.”

“But if this is a dream,” I say, wincing from the pain in my arm, “how do you explain how I’m here at the same time?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how are we dreaming the same thing at the same time?”

“Who says we’re dreaming the same thing at the same time?”

“How else could we be here at the same time otherwise?” I say.

Jenny laughs and shakes her head. She rubs her hands together and continues to giggle. She seemingly can’t get enough of this situation.

“Who says you exist at all?” she says. “As far as I know, you’re just a dream boy. In fact, I know you’re a dream boy. Because I’m dreaming.”

“But I know I exist.”

“Yeah but I don’t know that,” she says.

The thought humbles me into silence.

As we walk, a large building begins to emerge on the horizon. It’s obviously huge but exists only as a tiny dot on the horizon as of now. As we move through the streets (and it feels as if we’ve been moving for hours and hours, with the people around us turning more and more inhuman. I’m afraid they barely look even human at this point, more beast than man) it becomes clear to me that we are heading towards the building.

“What is that building?” I say, nodding my head. Robocop squeezes my arm a little harder.

“It’s central processing,” he says. “It’s where I’m going to book you.”

“Central processing?” I say.

“Looks more like a castle,” says Jenny and she’s right. The towers stretch high into the sky, seemingly trying to touch the wind and clouds, capturing it up and holding it all for itself.

“How poetic,” says Jenny. I look over at her as she lights another cigarette. Robocop doesn’t stop her. She nods towards Robocop. “I think he’s got a little crush on me.”

“I feel no emotion,” he says. “You smoking is of no threat to me.”

We walk in silence as we finally reach the gate which lowers slowly as we near it. It’s surrounded by a moat filled with alligators, piranhas, and doberman pinschers with gills. It’s incomprehensibly surrounded by palm trees and coconut trees lined up in rows and columns along the sides.

“Bitching,” says Jenny as she stares down in the moat frothing with the fury of a waterbound doberman. “This is my best dream ever.”

To Be Continued

I’m taking a break on my science non-fiction story (that really happened) to revisit one of my most popular (and most fun) to write about topics: movies I hate. My last update on this topic was my most popular article with 71 views. I don’t expect to repeat that kind of success and didn’t want to run to that well too regularly (to avoid staleness) but I figured enough time has passed that I can consider a new one. And it’s a biggie.

Any boners you have are completely disgusting.

Oh “Rocky Horror Picture Show”… where do I even begin with this one? I’ll freely admit to having only seen this movie one time. Of course, this may seem to be a problem as it may seem unfair to criticize a movie I only saw one time. In fact, my last article was criticized for this very reason.

However, I think it’s fair for me to critique this particular movie based on only review. There are a few reasons 1) the movie is pretty shallow and offers basically a “surface level” only critique and b) the movie has infiltrated the mainstream media and the popular consciousness to a point where even if I haven’t seen the movie more than once I KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT IT.

Basically, the movie is the brain child of Richard O’Brien a rather strange character who had been lurking around the world of movies and theater for some time. He loved the ridiculousness of the old style monster movies and wanted to lightly parody them by going completely and utterly over the top. He wrote the original play, wrote the songs, starred and directed in the movie. It’s basically his little labor of love.

For those not in the know, he looks like this.

Basically, the movie features horror themes, highly sexualixed characterizations, transsexualism, homosexuality, Meat Loaf, awful, awful songs (which are still the best part of the movie) and a rapidly changing plot that brings in aliens at the last minute in a last ditch effort to keep the movie as confusing as possible. Also, did I mention it has Meat Loaf in it?

Like a “Bat out of Hell” Meat Loaf leaves this movie off his resume.

So, the movie (and play) are basically a huge mess but a mess with a wink and a nudge. “Sure it’s awful!” the movie says “but we know it’s awful! Laugh along with us at the sheer stupidity of it.”

Normally (as my friends can attest) I readily enjoy the joy of watching a piece of crap fly off the rails into realms of sheer stupidity that turns that stupidity into a sublime sort of entertainment that you simply can’t get from a “good” movie. Yes, “good” movies have qualities that must be appreciated (beautiful writing, great direction, original ideas and characters that don’t fall into utter cliche) but the joy a bad movie can inspire in true believers simply cannot be emulated.

And that’s the problem I have with this movie (and all of O’Brien’s output): it’s aware that it is bad. Bad movies can’t be bad on purpose: that defeats the purpose. The joy of a bad movie is in watching good intentions and a true desire to make a good, enjoyable movie fall apart. And it happens all the time: movies are really hard to make and even the best film makers crash and burn from time to time.

Ask Steven Spielberg about “1941” sometime.

Anyways, in this movie, O’Brien is trying to parody the kind of movies he claims to love but it doesn’t really work as a parody. Instead, it wallows in many of the same cliches and awful writing. Changing the genre of the movie at the very end is probably the funniest joke but even that isn’t as effective as it could be because it’s so abrupt and so out of nowhere there is no way you could have seen it coming. And that’s not a good twist: that’s cheating.

On second thought, “aliens” might make more sense than I thought…

The one thing I can say the movie does possess over others of its ilk is a hugely sexual nature that is unusually blatant and bisexual. As mentioned before, there is a transvestite (the famous “sweet transvestite from transsexual Transylvania”) as well as a seduction sequence between Tim Curry and Susan Sarandon (hot) and Tim Curry and Barry Bostwick (not as hot).

Oh Susan, why?!

This aspect of the movie and play probably explain the massive popularity of both: people of these fringe sexual behaviors find something that they can identify with and join with each other in celebrating. This especially explains the huge gatherings of people that watch the movie in costume, laughing and throwing candy and popcorn at the screen. I have friends that actually travel seven to eight hours to get to a showing of the movie and who spend hours preparing elaborate costumes.

And this is why I can actually understand the appeal of this movie more so than the past movies I’ve explored. It is O’Brien’s tribute to the wild, wooly “freaks” of the world. And I honestly think that the movie is an excellent way for people to explore their sexuality in a healthy, collective state. More odd sexuality should be explored in a safe environment such as this as it can serve as an excellent way to introduce people to these sexual ideas.

Which is actually an important thing as far as I’m concerned because people need to understand and explore these ideas so they understand these sexual concepts more fully and to understand their own sexuality more fully. Remember: sexuality is highly complex and weird.

That doesn’t mean I still don’t hate the frigging movie. But at least I can understand the appeal.

Yep!

Under the Mountain Bunker

Dana Milbank: “Romney adviser Eric Fehrnstrom famously predicted that the candidate would use an Etch-a-Sketch approach in the general election to erase his previous positions. But nobody predicted that the entire exercise would occur in the space of one week — and just a month before the election. Stranger yet, Romney hasn’t been shifting all his views to the center in recent days. While his domestic policies are moderating, his foreign policy is moving to more of a neocon hard line. The only consistency is inconsistency: Whatever Romney’s positions were, they are no longer.”

Mary Elizabeth Williams: “Biden’s laugh is utterly brutal because it takes Paul Ryan, the marathon-exaggerating, dumbbell-curling, wannabe manly man and does the absolute worst thing imaginable to a guy like that. It points at him and makes him a fool. It says, “Yeah, tell me another one, Backwards Baseball Cap.” It’s at once furious and dismissive…

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