About NeueRegel

Avatar of NeueRegel I am simply a man. A man that still acts like a boy with childish dreams and a fanciful imagination. An imagination that brings light to the hearts of the damned and hope to the souls of the wandering. A hope that is encased in power, strength and willingness. A willingness to supersede the illness of mankind. A mankind that denies its right to act singularly in its pursuit of paradise. A paradise that stands as a fairy-tale final destination in the hearts of men.
Website: http://www.mymorningstory.com/members/neueregel/
NeueRegel has written 12 articles so far, you can find them below.

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Being a true artist is a veritable obstacle course that only the seasoned and most inspired can tackle with grace; like
an all-pro linebacker chasing school children around a cobblestone playground. You see, there are so many variables,
options and stages that connect when creating true art.

There’s the conceptual stage; where you throw darts at a board overfilled with celebrity names, genres, and pictures of
Paul Ryan’s disembodied face. In truth, this is where you decide just what it is you are looking to create. Is it music? Film, perhaps?
Maybe you’d like to write a novel but give up halfway through because you’re a layabout with no motivation. Whatever
it is, you decide here just what medium best suits your future creation. I’ve heard the argument that video games aren’t
art, but that’s utter cowshit; video games employ many art forms at once to make something cohesive. The Super Mario
Brothers is one of the finest modern examples of surrealism. Journey gathers music, personal connection
and art direction to gain an emotional response from the player(s). I literally choked up and was physically forced to wipe
more than one flowing tear from my cheek at the conclusion. So let’s go ahead and end that argument right here: Visual
direction, story direction, music composition, and more are all a part of games. All of those things are art, therefore
games are indeed art.

This stage is relatively simplistic in execution and yet many people will find themselves lost here. The trick is to
know your limits and understand your abilities. Too often are we artistically dumbfounded by the likes of Lil’ Waynes,
Michael Bays and Dane Cooks. You see, these people create “art” that is better left in a compositional notebook; adorned
with bic-inked hearts and “DO NOT READ” in sharpie etched across the blank space on the cover. Where did they go wrong?
They decided to take the stage with their private journals and allow us all a one way ticket into their babbling brains.
I say a “one-way ticket” because after viewing, listening or reading such material, there’s no going back. Well, perhaps
there is, but I presume the cost of therapy would be astronomical.

The next stage is, at once, the most beautiful and disastrous. The most fulfilling and soul-crushing. This stage is
completely up to you. No guidelines, no rules, no plutocratic government telling you that you aren’t legally granted the
honor to marry the one person on this earth you most love. Since you both carry the same reproductive organs. This is it;
create something. Though you are free to will your ideas forcefully all over these metaphorical (or literal) pages of your
art, you are not immune to pretension, idiocy, or incoherence.

I see pretentious art everywhere. I attribute this to a clear lack of love or understanding regarding subject matter,
or art form in general. For example, you may see a Hollywood produced horror film and, upon reaching the conclusion, mutter
to yourself, “Well that was a load of elephant dicks.” You may see a “B”-horror film and think, “Aside from some poorly
executed acting and lack of budget, that was pretty good.” Finally, you may see an indie horror film and recall, “That
was such a pretentious pile of Republican political platforms, I feel like vomiting.” What inspires these reactions?

Well in Hollywood we have budgets, real actors (who still may or may not be able to act appropriately), yet we also have
a lack of artistic integrity, and a film produced merely on the hopes that it will earn lots of money. We also get to
enjoy that lack of love and understanding I mentioned earlier. Oft-times, the film’s creators are ill-equipped to
produce something of any real artistic value.

In indie horror, we experience a smaller budget, typically better (but less attractive) actors, and ideas that stem from
that lack of love and understanding regarding the genre. The film’s writer and director usually take a fairly convoluted
or incredibly trite plot, but throw their own personal ideologies in there to make some sort of point. Typically it’s hard
to follow and the point comes across as incoherent babbling. The same sort of babbling that Clint Eastwood did at the
recent Republican National Convention.

With B-horror, we’re more likely to witness artistic integrity, original concepts, and love, passion and understanding
regarding the material and genre. These films usually suffer, however, from a clear lack of budget, lack of proffesional
actors and an underqualified film crew.

We of course get exceptions all across the board here, but these are the results I most often see. Let me also make
the distinction between independent horror films and “indie” horror films. It’s much like the music industry here.
Independent film is something released free of obligation to a large movie studio. An indie film has a dark, black
aura surrounding it. Similar to the aura surrounding Mitt Romney’s tax record. “Indie” is essentially a genre itself.
It may be free from the constraints and demands of a large studio, but it carries with it a disease called pretension.
It is filmed to purvey the stylistic visions and ideology of its creators. With little attention given to the script or
story. It cries out to its viewers, “I AM ART! WITNESS ME FOR MY ARTISTIC SIGNIFICANCE! INTERPRET ME AS YOU WILL, BUT BE
FOREWARNED THAT YOUR INTERPRETATION IS PROBABLY WRONG!” The point was to be artsy, not to tell a story or make an engaging
piece of cinema.

This is a major problem in the world of art today. Art is emotion personified; painted, written, filmed, performed. Don’t
tarnish your creation with your own ego. There’s a reason The Running Man is my favorite film of all time and I’d rather
fist myself with brass knuckles than watch Lady in the Water one more goddamned time. Please keep this in mind for future
reference. Perhaps one day we can avoid pretentious horseshit and talentless art altogether.

A New Article About Things and Stuff! Or Whatever

Here’s something that may surprise you: I still have a job. That’s right, a real job where they pay me to…well, sit in a chair and mess around on a computer most of the day. Shocking revelations will unfold before your very viewing organs on this digital page of gathered pixels. Witness a testament to the will of one man struggling through adulthood in an aging and violent society. Let’s begin.

You see, I’ve had this same job for nearly two years now. Two entire fucking years. That’s a lot of days and even more minutes of legitimately half-assed work I’ve done. Though now my job feels a lot like this: I’m a very attractive woman living in a bustling metropolis filled to the brim with opportunity. I’ve been in a committed relationship with the same guy for quite some time now. He sits around most of the time and really isn’t going anywhere in life. He’s not a bad guy, I just don’t find him physically or emotionally attractive anymore. Yet I can’t find the way to break out of this dead-end relationship. So I let him fuck me. I lie there motionless while he fucks me. No expression, no pleasure. Just emotionless fucking. You know how many times I’ve let this guy fuck me while I’ve contemplated greener pastures?
Yeah, that’s my job. I just let it fuck me even though I’m sure I could do better.

This realization, along with the realization that I just don’t have the energy or drive to play in a band anymore, has led me to this: Now that I’m 30, working a dead-end job, and have no direction in life, it seems about time I start making incoherent and poorly edited videos on the internet. Fantastic! (By the way, this isn’t a joke; I’m actually doing this.) It all really started with my absolute need to express myself through artistic creativity. I literally go bat-shit insane if I’m not making, writing, or creating something idiotic that no one will ever give a shit about. So I had the idea that I’d write a script for a feature length film and I’d follow through on it if it fucking murdered me with a venom-laced ninja sword. Well, I wrote the script. I was actually quite happy with it. Happy enough to go through it with a fine-toothed comb and completely rewrite the damned thing all over again. So here on the second draft, I hit another brick wall and another realization: Uhhh…I need a budget.

Fast forward about six minutes and I’m making a phone call to a movie-buff old pal of mine. He likes the idea and wants to work on it with me. Fast forward a few days and nineteen cups of coffee (please imagine Wayne and Garth making the DOODLE-EE-DOO noise here) and we come to a few conclusions: Number one; no one in their right mind with any expendable income would be willing to give us money for anything. Number two; we’re fucking thirty and should have careers and families. Number three; we’re musicians, not screen-writers. Number four; who gives a flying kangaroo’s dick about any of the above? We sure as shit don’t. I mean, look at us; if we gave a shit about appearances would we be in a Starbucks drinking large mocha frappucinos with extra whip cream wearing a t-shirt that says, “The Legend of Zelda” on it?

We eventually reach the conclusion that we should make internet videos. You know, the funny ones that people watch. Eventually, through tons of videos and some gained popularity, we may be able to start up a “kickstarter” and people would pledge the money to fund our horror film. Well, we’re at that place now. We just released our first video and I have no goddamned idea of how to promote it. To be honest, it isn’t very good, but I imagine we’ll get better after a few decades. So I came to the only place I’ve ever been accepted for what I…do? Here, at mymorningstory.com, I’ve received some great feedback (and read some great material from other, more talented writers). In a perfect world, someone would pay me to put words on a page. If they did pay me to do that though, I’m sure I’d just type words at random and hope it made some sort of sense by the end.
Like so: donkey rocket launcher, winged icicles of uranus brandishing three broadswords in hell.
So I guess that doesn’t really work too well. Point is, life doesn’t turn out the way you expect it to and you have to make adjustments. My adjustments just happen to be really stupid. So thanks to all of you for supporting my stupid writing and I’d like to share with you my latest creations. Here, you can finally see who I really am; a fat and aging wanker with too much shit running through his brain.

Here’s a bonus two-for-one special! Watch me babble incoherently at great length!

You May Take My Witty Writing, But You Will Never Take My RoboCop!

Being an unknown and anonymous writer means quite a few things: It means that I receive no glory; no crowd of over-sized meatheads in football pads lifting me above their shoulders and chanting my name after writing a witty bit. No crowds of drooling housewives bum-rushing a conference table; one hand holding a pen and the other holding a copy of my recently released novel. It also means that almost anyone with internet access can read my material and call it their own. I never thought it would happen. Mainly because I’m a terrible writer with a wit as soft as Donald Trump’s penis. Now, now; I’m not going to go and flat-out accuse someone of reading an article of mine and stealing some of its majesty. I will, however, whine about how I won’t get credit for it. Ever.

Humor me for a few moments, step into Doc’s Delorean and let’s recall an article I wrote sometime ago last year. It was brilliantly titled, “Nice Guys Probably Still Finish Somewhere Ahead of This Guy”. In it, I warmed your hearts with a story of young romance. A romance that succumbed to quick dismissal and cold feelings due to this prior female companion not knowing just who in the fuck RoboCop was. If you don’t remember it, I implore you to read it as not only will it warrant fits of laughter and tears, but it will teach you everything you need to know about dating someone who doesn’t know who RoboCop is. (Spoiler: Break up with them)

It was earlier today I received a phone call here at work from a close friend of mine. His voice was shaking with nervous anticipation, “Dude…I…I just saw a video on youtube.” “Go on”, I suggested. “Well, it was about dating someone who didn’t know who…who RoboCop was.” I immediately leapt from my chair in a fitful rage, logged on to youtube and entered the key terms in the handy searchbar. There it was – “Dating Service Commercial”. I willed my eyes to frantically search for the date of upload. Four months ago it says. Well…well that was quite a time AFTER I had published my story regarding this subject!

After I awoke from my rage which left my work in shambles, chair over chair, computer still crackling from the fire that had been set to it, I calmly composed myself to prepare writing this very article. Now I know we all take from the greats from time to time. I, myself, have been known to borrow from the great Rob Schneider, for example. I once heard something about how imitation is the sincerest form of uninspired flattery or something along those lines. I guess I should be pleased. Pleased that I have given mankind a gift that people can relive countless times throughout their short, meaningless existences. The gift of RoboCop. Or the gift of understanding what it’s like to date someone with a severe lack of knowledge regarding RoboCop rather.

Here you are, my friends; Jon Lajoie and his ripoff skit: “Dating Service Commercial”

In all seriousness, this is a funny bit. You should watch it yourselves just because it’s funny. I’m also not actually accusing this guy, who clearly has more fans than my count of zero, of stealing my bit.

Throw Me To The Moon

I’m growing older. My once Odin-like vigor for playing searing shred guitar in a metal band is rapidly fading. Much like my also once Odin-like man-frame. I will now, nearing the age of 30, and with no shame, drive down the city streets in my Red Volkswagen Jetta loudly experiencing some wonderful orchestral scores. I’ve traded in technical prowess for melodic sensibility. I’ve given up drinking. I’ve blown off a group of my friends in favor of staying the night alone at home; writing or analyzing. Yes, yes, I am indeed growing older.

I reluctantly wear a tie to work. I flamboyantly roll my eyes at children playing in the streets, making fists and pulling their arms down from the skies in request of my car horn being honked. I’ve decided to stop eating red meat after gaining a quick twenty pounds over the past six months. Funny how we use these words, growing and gaining, as if to elicit some sort of hope from them. What we really mean is not that I’m “growing” older or “gaining” weight; no, I’m simply getting older and gathering pounds.

I’m trading one art for another. I’m all at once learning to appreciate things that would have warranted scoffing and contempt from my younger self and allowing the older me to become increasingly bitter and resentful towards things that same younger self enjoyed. Who was that younger self, anyway? Throwing caution to the wind was better described as strapping inhibitions and restraint to a stick of dynamite.

Revelry now seems futile. Yet, it’s not as if I’ve lost my passions in this world. What is the purpose of this struggle to try and remain relevant despite my aging? I’ve watched countless men reach their thirties and fall apart. One day they’re fervently calling their friends creative insults over rounds of Street Fighter and the next they’re asking you if you’ve heard the new U2 album. Is this my future? Will my love of Final Fantasy be traded for a love of some new golf clubs?

I don’t believe it will. I believe that I actually am growing and gaining. My tastes are aging with me. Right along with my experiences and memories. I’m taking those with me. Loss can breed growth and renewal if you paint the picture with an upstroke. So thank you, dear friend, for helping me paint this picture with an upstroke. Though your time was too short, your story was not.

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The Genocide of Arcades

Seriously, what is the world coming to? Roasted tomatoes on my WHITE pizza, shoppers getting pepper-sprayed over a fucking video game, that video from Heart2Heart, and countless other atrocities seen daily. None of that compares to what I was witness to this Sunday here in snowy Denver, CO.

My lady-friend and I decided it was a wonderful day to go out and be active – you know, find an arcade I mean. There’s a nifty little bar out here called “1 UP”. It’s a bar with loads of classic cabinets; cabinets I can appreciate as an old fart. There is, however, one glaring issue with this place – it’s a bar. It basically just feels like any other bar, only there’s a smorgasbord of games to feast yourself on. This means you have to fight your way through a crowd of oversexed sorority girls and the horde of frothing-at-the-mouth bros looking not to kick your ass at Street Fighter III: Third Strike, but kick your ass literally. This is a problem for me. I’m a nerd through and through and it shows. I’m like a fucking filet oscar cooked to perfection on the dollar menu for these guys. So yeah, I wanted to go somewhere else.

Enter Dave and Buster’s. If you’re unfamiliar, it’s basically a sports bar and grill with burgers and beers. Yet there is a twist! It also houses a fucking arcade! Only the food and atmosphere suck and usually their arcades do as well. No matter, I thought ignorantly, we’ll just find some classics we’re comfortable with and avoid the crowd. The place is filled with arcade cabinets bigger than your mom, warranting enough room to house a mech per game. Most of these games either suck my balls or aren’t up my alley. I mean, fuck, there’s giant-sized Fruit Ninja. There are like five giant sized touch-screen games available for iOS and Android devices. The last thing I want to do at an arcade is play little time-wasters that I play on my phone whilst taking a poo. So we get cozy at House of the Dead II and Time Crisis 4 for a while until I want something a bit more…fulfilling.

This leads us past the four player battle air hockey (yeah, it looked pretty awesome) and the pinball machines. I spot a Donkey Kong Junior cabinet. Then a Galaga cabinet! I start thinking I’m on to something as my mouth does something funny that it rarely ever does – the muscles move upward, forcing my mouth slightly open; almost as if to convey happiness or something of the sort. Then…well…that’s it. Nothing else. I make my way back ’round the main area of the arcade. More shooters. Through the bar to the other side where noone else is and I’m pretty sure I just saw a tumbleweed blow by. This is it? Not only are they missing some real essential stuff, but…I seriously haven’t seen where they’re hiding the Street Fighter cabinet. I mean any fucking Street Fighter cabinet. Christ, not even a Mortal Kombat game in sight. I figure this means they must be hiding it in a secret room where I need a password for entry and there are a bunch of dudes standing around a cabinet with money in their hands, placing bets and cheering wildly. So I approach some guy wearing a referee shirt (jersey?) for some reason and figure it means he works there. I’m in luck, he does! “Excuse me…sir? Where’s your Street Fighter cabinet?” “Street Fighter? We don’t have that. I think we have a Mortal Kombat game over there somewhere, but it’s really old.” Yeah, thanks. A Mortal Kombat that’s really old? Oh, sweet merciful ancestors of Mt. Olympus! Why have you forsaken me!? You know what, man? Fuck you. I know you just work here and all, but dude. What kind of fucking arcade doesn’t have ANY Street Fighter? This is ridiculous. After my lady-friend and I exchange some incredibly shocked and disgusted glances followed by series of grunts, we collect ourselves in search of the dreaded old Mortal Kombat. Once again, nowhere to be found. I spot another dude in another referee jersey (still confused by this) and ask him where ANY fighting game would be held. Pondering my incredibly challenging inquiry, he repeats the question to himself and then points in a certain direction. I follow his finger to find he’s pointing to a giant-sized Infinity Blade where some buffoon is moving his arms around wildly on the massive touch-screen. Now I’m pissed and frustrated. “Dude, that’s not a fighting game, that’s Infinity Blade. Do you guys even know what I’m talking about? Where’s the Mortal Kombat?” He then tells me there is no Mortal Kombat.

My lady and I waste what’s left of the stupid ass “Power Card” that we had to pay a fee to obtain, followed by paying for the token amount attached to it. Furthermore, there’s designated place to obtain these. You have to find a server and ask them for one. That was a pain in itself. After some more House of the Dead II (since it was all they had that we could stomach), we left grumpy and dissatisfied.

Just thought I’d share my story of a modern day trip to the arcade with you all. Remember when arcades were fucking awesome? There was a real comradery between all of the kids. Even though you may be rivals over a few quarters of your time, you both loved the same things and respected each other for it. I miss the fuck out of arcades. Real arcades, not arcades that have good cabinets, but are nothing more than meat markets with some distraction. Not arcades that are really restaurants with some bland entertainment on the side.

By the by, I posted this on a new blog I started where I’ll occasionally write other stuff about video games. It’s pretty much exactly what you’re thinking. You can check it out at http://whippingforporkchops.wordpress.com

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Nice Guys Probably Still Finish Somewhere Ahead of This Guy

This article will be quite personal and
I’m probably going to say a lot things I regret. I’m apologizing for that in advance as I
don’t want to put any unwanted stress on our relationship.

So if any of you actually read what I write, you may remember an article I wrote about a
year and some change ago about becoming recently single. Not much has changed.

Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t been a lonely hermit, confined to his gaming chair, drinking
Red Bull and playing Final Fantasy VI over and over ad infinitum covered in Cheeto dust.
I’ve been out there mingling, meeting, dating and screwing things up. Which brings me to
this:
If I had one superpower, it would be the ability to break up with someone painlessly.
You see, I’m fucking terrible at ending relationships, no matter how insignificant they
may be. I currently possess the uncanny ability to transform women into rage-filled
demons, complete with toothed vaginas, razors for nails and cobras for hair. Like
a cross between Pumpkinhead and Vega from Street Fighter, but with an angry vagina.
I’m not precisely sure of what causes this phenomena, but I’ll fill you in on some
details to offer an intriguing mystery for the more perceptive of readers out there.

Most recently I dated a nice girl with strong family values and a clean mouth. She was
often intrigued by the stories I had to tell of my life experiences. I kind of felt like
a badass telling her stories about how I’d been arrested for rolling down a concrete hill
naked at 3 am, covered in dried Goldschlager (I also had to explain the reason behind
the strange scar on my penis). I could tell that the music I listened to and played
intimidated her and would probably force her parents to shit golden baby Jesuses.
She was the type that accepted everything as it were; never questioned a thing. Her opinions
were flimsy at best, and she didn’t really have strong feelings on any particular subject.
I told her that I was going to buy a tattoo gun and tattoo my own thigh. I told her it would
give me something to do while I was pooping. I continued on about how the tattoo was going
to be of Robocop in a bikini having a water balloon fight with a troll. She believed me.
Then she asked me what a robocop was. That was the moment I knew I had had enough and needed
to break things off. I mean, she never wanted to challenge me in Street Fighter, didn’t
really care for or dislike Hellraiser, and now she’s asking me what a Robocop is?! I mean,
get fucking real. It’s like she lives in some fantasy world where these things don’t matter.
Well, I decided that something had to be done.

So what did I do? Well, I went out on a date with this other girl I thought was pretty hot
with these hot boobs that I thought were sexy. After a pleasant date with hot boobs, I
decided that a.) I wanted to continue to see hot boobs and b.) that meant I had to tell
‘doesn’t know what a robocop is’ that we couldn’t see eachother anymore. Holy shit, the
anxiety and anticipation of telling a girl that you can’t go out anymore is fucking awful.
I paced and paced and ignored a few of her angry phone calls wondering where I was until
I finally found what was left of my manhood and dialed her number. I told her some lies
to soften the blow. I told her that I wasn’t really in a great place to date anyone right
now and that it wouldn’t be fair to her if we continued dating just for her to get hurt
further down the road. Well, she cried a bit, which sucked because I’m horrible with crying
women. After a few days, she sent me a polite message on facebook that expressed her
interest in remaining friends. To be honest, I have no interest in being friends with
someone that doesn’t know who Robocop is, so I didn’t write back immediately. Apparently
that was a bad move as the next day, my inbox was pleasantly greeted by another message
from her. This time, I can actually sum up what was said fairly accurately to you:

“Dear cockjockey,
I fucking hate you. You’re a piece of shit, please die in an icestorm.
Regards,
Still Doesn’t Know What a Robocop Is”

Well, at least I was able to finally bring her to a strong opinion about something. That
message still gives me hair boners. Oh, for fuck’s sake, she was confused by that too. I had
to explain that hair boners were what simple folk commonly refer to as “goosebumps”.

So now I find myself dating hot boobs and watching my interest level dive into a pool of
warm regret. Not regret that I broke up with that one idiot that was nice and doesn’t play
Street Fighter, but a much deeper regret. Regret that I can’t seem to find someone that
lines up with me very well. Someone witty that understands sarcasm. Someone that will talk
shit and can take it when I hurl it back at them. Someone that not only wants to play Contra
with me, but that won’t start stealing my lives by the waterfall stage. Someone
that not only knows who Robocop is, but understands his importance in culture. Someone
with hot boobs. Someone who will watch horror movies with me and has strong opinions on
everything. Someone who thinks everything is either the best thing in the world or the
worst thing in the world. A girl that appreciates the term “hair boners”.

I’m 29 now and I realize that at this point I should be a grown-up with a career and
a house that I own with some children that I own. Yet I am a free spirit that loves Double
Dragon, Hellraiser, metal and hair boners. Roam free, insensitive geeky one, roam free.

I Say Bad Words in This Article A Bunch

So it would seem I haven’t written anything in quite some time; there are reasons for that.
Allow me to explain my absence with a laundry list of excuses:

I didn’t feel like it.

Now that you can, no doubt, empathize with my struggles and reasons for my disappearance,
it’s time for me to once again assault your round, viewing organs with some words I threw
together haphazardly.

This time around, I feel like tackling some major issues I’ve been dealing with in
modern society. You see, I acquired a job in January that requires me to stand/walk in
circles in the middle of a shopping mall. Through my daily struggles, I am a witness
to the perplexities and the enigma that surrounds mankind. In this I believe I have found
that man is neither inherently good nor evil, but something much simpler underneath.
I have found mankind’s commonplace; a massive discovery to unite the masses with one
common thread. Please read on…

Here are some common elements witnessed at my job with some regularity:

Dudes wearing Affliction shirts – The girl I’ve been dating went off on me about how
I judge people a bunch, bla bla
bla, something about my disliking for dudes in Affliction shirts, then some more complaining.
I had to stop her to tell her that I hadn’t caught any more of what she had been saying
due to my confusion over her suggestion that not all dudes wearing Affliction
shirts are douchebags.

Screaming children. Not just screaming, but like, really fucking screaming – Parents
will straight up walk right next to me with a fucking five year old in a stroller that
I’m pretty sure is suffering from premature cardiac arrest and is also
prematurely passing a kidney stone simultaneously. They seem to not be bothered at all by
the horrific gurgling, crying, banshee wailing performances of the “child?” Anyway,
sometimes I wonder if it’s actually their child, or if the damn thing is being kidnapped.
I can’t very well ask though, for fear the parent would be offended or the kidnapper would
get embarrassed. The only time I found the wailing child to be acceptable was when this
total babe was pushing her very loud stroller next to me, but was wearing a low cut shirt
that showed off her hot boobs that were sexy and pretty big and also hot.

People really like the Beatles and think I’m some kind of super dick or down-syndrome
asshole for disliking them. Oh, I mean for hating the fuck out of them. Oh, and I meant
retard asshole – Yeah, I’m a musician. Yeah, I grew up with classic rock. No, I don’t
like the Beatles. I don’t give a shit if you think they are amazing songwriters or how
much they did for rock as a genre. I think the songwriting is drab, the lyrics are
awful, their voices bug me and tons of bands have outdone them since. I don’t care if
they were the first (they’re not). I can like and dislike what I want and even say retard
asshole if I feel like it.

People ask the dumbest fucking questions ever because only people ask
questions, so it makes sense that people also ask the dumbest fucking ones – I’m sure
most of you that have ever worked retail or sales know what I’m talking about. I’m not even
going to give examples here because I’m kind of lazy and, really, who cares? Is this thing
on?

U2 is still popular. Bono is still making money – I’ve tackled the U2 subject before
but it still baffles me.

Basically, I’m getting tired of writing and my wit is draining, so I’ll wrap this up.
My point is, mankind is stupid as fuck and the majority of people have that in common.
So they could, like, all gather ’round and have idiot conventions and talk about dumb shit
like Lil’ Wayne and maybe once they realize that they all like money and sex and hot boobs,
we can end all of this constant warring.

Alright, thanks for reading. I’m going to go relax as fuck.

Life Lessons Part 1: The Uselessness of Optimism

Our lives are all about the lessons we learn from the mistakes that we make.

I recently got out of a three-year long, committed relationship with another human type. Strange creatures, we are. Let me offer a few verses of wisdom for some of the less perceptive humans out there. I’ve learned a lot in my 27 years as a member of planet Earth and I feel it necessary to shoot my experiences on the unsuspecting masses like the spread gun in Contra.

Lesson One: The spread gun in Contra is awesome.

Lesson Two: True love is a pipe dream that you will never experience. Allow me to explain. With cognitive consciousness comes the unfortunate need for recognition from the others surrounding us. We’re gregarious by nature and we’re all hopeless romantics. For some reason, we all long for this majestic love; unconditional, pure, ever-lasting. The problem is that we’re all judgmental creatures as well. It’s impossible not to make observations and based on the undeniable fact that everyone has a past and has made mistakes in said past, judgments are formed. People continue to make mistakes throughout their lives, rendering “unconditional” love an impossibility. Some mistakes are forgivable, some are memorable and some find us at the Guns & Ammo shop. Everyone has a breaking point and people change. More often than not, we evolve separately as individuals, not as couples.

Lesson Three: Gears of War 2 was really overrated, just like relationships. In Gears 2, you can forget about precision shooting. It’s all about unloading on an enemy until they fall. Well, relationships tend to work in similar ways. We can go to our friends and our blogs and rate our relationships a solid 9.0/10, but who are we fooling? We know they’re really more like a 6.5, but we turn a blind eye because of expectations, hopes and pure denial. We keep unloading our arsenal and trying for that active reload, but we can only go through those motions for so long before it just gets tired and old. All you can hope for is that the sequel doesn’t suck as badly as the previous entry. In fact, those are good expectations for life – just hope that the next round doesn’t suck as bad as the last. Forget thinking the next time will be awesome, you know it won’t; just hope it doesn’t suck.

Lesson Four: Never trust anyone but yourself. Remember that time the Oscars told us that “Crash” was the best film of the year? Yeah, what about that time your friend told you that “Avatar” was super awesome and original? I rest my case.

Lesson Five: U2 is still popular and Rush still hasn’t been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. What’s the lesson there? Life is unfair, talent means nothing to the masses and we just have to deal with it because we’re surrounded by idiots.

Lesson Six: You probably just wasted about five minutes of your time reading this rubbish.

Well, all we can do is keep making our way through life learning more and more lessons until finally we’re wise beyond all imagination, then die five minutes later.

Terminus Est

I feel I should preface this by saying that this is well out of the ordinary for me. I primarily write short articles based around complaints and humor. Yet I am a horror fanatic and had this idea for a story, so here it is.

TERMINUS EST Full Story

Top Tens: Music of the NES

Music in games just hasn’t been the same since the 16-bit era, with the best of the best coming on the 8-bit Nintendo Entertainment System.

Everyone’s list is going to be a completely different thing considering different people played different games and for most, nostalgia plays a big role in deciding your favorite tunes. I’m throwing nostalgia aside and including some songs from games I never played as an eight-year-old eagerly awaiting the day I could grow a full beard.

I’ll try and keep myself calm through the process of writing about my top ten favorite NES tracks of all time. With the near-complete decline of modern music coming full circle, chiptunes take up more than a few gigs of my music collection, and may just be my most listened to genre, so I consider myself something of an afficionado when it comes to game soundtracks. Prepare, for you are about to witness greatness at it’s greatest.

10. Jackal – Stage 3: Now this is one I heard as a boy. I thought, “What in the hell is this? It’s currently changing my life right here and now.” And it did.

9. Shadow of the Ninja – Level 1: I had a really hard time deciding between this and the intro theme. Ultimately, though, you heard more of level one’s track, and for that, it gets the nod. Natsume games and soundtracks are often the most underrated, and this track is a perfect example of why.

8. Metroid – Kraid: Desolate, solitary, frightening and enigmatic. This aided Metroid in evoking these kinds of emotions and thoughts in its players. It’s an incredibly rich and original soundtrack. This is one of three soundtracks that I feel represented their game completely; the other two being the first and second Castlevania soundtracks.

7. Journey To Silius – Stage 1: Originally slated to be a game based on the first Terminator film, Sunsoft’s license was stripped shortly before the release of this game. I’m glad they continued with the project, because this game was amazing (if not frustratingly hard at points) and the soundtrack was it’s equal. More rock oriented than classical, the melodies were catchy and the perfect complement to shooting the shit out of robots.

6. Shatterhand – Level 1: Here’s something that didn’t caress my ears with epic madness until quite recently. The intro music prepared you for what was to come and then it hits like a fat chick in a morph ball rolling down the steepest mountain. It’s like the music of Mega Man had relations with the music of Batman and denied all allegations just before the public realized that Mega Man had some fun with a cigar in the Batmobile’s tailpipe. Yeah, it’s that awesome.

5. Batman – Streets of Desolation: Holy crap. It starts with the driving bass, then comes the infectious lead. Then it gets classical on your ass and the only thing you are capable of in that moment is proclaiming how much this track is better than your mother.

4. Castlevania III – Beginning: This is probably one of the more obvious choices on here, but there’s a reason it’s been stuck in the collective heads of millions of gamers for the past twenty years – it’s epic as hell. Compared to the first two outings on the NES, this soundtrack was a bit of a let-down in the end, but it started with one of Castlevania’s best tracks.

3. Casltevania II – Dwelling of Doom (Mansion music): Yes. I remember that you could pause the game and the music still played. I would press start in a mansion, turn the TV up to 11 and enjoy this for hours and hours. This soundtrack really felt vampyric and had more arpeggios than Yngwie Malmsteen on crack. Right up my alley.

2. Final Fantasy – Chaos Temple: Nobuo Uematsu is actually my favorite composer of ALL TIME. That’s right, all time. I think he’s better than Mussorgsky, Paganini and the rest. He takes influence from the best of baroque, the best of metal. This track is really emotional and completely added to the adventure and immersion of the game. I was in love with this song as a kid, if only we knew Uematsu was just getting started.

1. Mega Man II – The Whole Damn Thing: That’s right, the whole damn soundtrack. I scratched my head over and over trying to pick a clear cut top track from this soundtrack, so I decided to award it’s entirety with the impressive honor of being my top NES soundtrack. It’s all so damn good, from the exciting intro track that starts slow and builds to a Maiden-esque gallop, Metal Man’s intense groove and leads, Wily’s amazing and pulsating metal theme. I listen to this more than anything on the planet. Before my band plays a show, I listen to this soundtrack to get pumped; it’s become a tradition. I’m going to raise my children on this soundtrack and it’s become something of a Litmus Test for me.

With all of us gamers growing into reputable, functioning members of society, where do we go to find new music? To the past of course! There are plenty of video game cover bands out there to help you relive your favorite tracks from back in the day. Even Nobuo Uematsu has his own progressive metal band that reimagines and arranges tracks from his storied Final Fantasy soundtracks – The Black Mages. You have the incredible Metroid Metal, temp sound solutions, Year 200X. Plenty to keep all of us old men and women happy.

There it is, my top ten NES tracks. If you disagree, I implore you to reconsider your position as you are most certainly wrong. Any way you slice it, these are essential and often overlooked classics and you should go listen to them immediately upon reading.

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The Hidden Secret to Success

That’s right, I’ve found it. The all-elusive secrets to leading an enriching, successful life.

After many years spent as a struggling musician and writer, it seems the only logical thing to do at this point, is to take a look around me. What are others doing? So I’ve spent some time basking in the glory of others. Full Story

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