Sunday, August 24, 2008


Many people don’t know this, but prior to joining the Army, my plan was to pack up my shit and take the high road to Hollywood. It was a final destination as far as my career choices go (although you wouldn’t know it since I’m so far removed at this point). However, I took a different path and so averted a “what might have been” scenario in the world of movie stars and freaks on a leash.

So, naturally, the day was inevitable. With a brother-in-law about to tie the knot in the long, slender state, I found myself submitting a leave form to the sunny land, right in the middle of “the shit.”

This is a big thing for me, believe it or not. Despite my swear word blogs (such as the one you’re reading now), my ambition far outweighs my cynicism. I, too, wish to be a part of the Hollywood machine. A stronger, smarter, and more mature sort of “Entourage” if you will. I’m not out for Indiana Jones-style fortune and glory, but merely the realization of my dreams, which, coincidentally, include writing and directing movies.

Yeah, I blast the shit out of ‘em on my site, talk trash, and throw down the judgmental hammer on a monthly basis. I assure you, it’s all tough love. And, in some cases, genuine disgust for the really bad shit, due largely to the fact that, yes, I KNOW I could do better and in others, I’m left questioning how and why some movies are made. Time will tell which category I fall into…trash talking blogger with five readers or Hollywood success story (will you still read my blog? C’mon…you read Zach Braff’s…)

So, what the fuck am I talking about? Yeah, I guess I did take a turn to Nostalgia lane, curving around Daydream Avenue, and getting stuck in Pipeline alley. Let’s get back to the story, shall we?

Fuck my dreams. Yeah, you heard me right. I know you don’t care and I’m cool with that. I’m the only one that should give a shit. You’re here to read some colorful swear words and enigmatic manipulation of the English language. You got it. Superfuckincalifragilous, Motherfucker.

We missed our flight to start out. Wifey checked the internet prior to leaving the house and our flight was shown as delayed, so we didn’t rush out as early as originally planned. However, after standing in line to check baggage, we learned that our flight was on time and that Alaska Airlines just slipped an exploding vibrator in our assholes. At once.

We waited in a line to check our baggage onto the next flight that we may or may not get on. Then we waited some more at the gate in which we may or may not get on. Then we waited in suspense like a game show as the flight people put one stand-by after another onto the flight. I wanted to win the big prize, which was a cramped seat on a full aircraft that would leave me to hold in my gas for five hours to be polite to other passengers.

I lost. We lost. We drove back home, the biggest tease of all complete. Our next flight would be a day later. We made it on time and decided to eat Quiznos before boarding, which was a huge mistake, because holding your gas after that is a near impossibility. I should have been on Fear Factor: In the Skies!, the camera closing in on me as I attempt to pucker every fart in my belly for four hours, the clock counting down until I de-board the plane, blasting a shit cloud into Joe Rogan’s face just as I make time, killing him in front of a live audience and taking home $50,000 bones. Holy crap that would be a kick ass series finale!

Relax, relax, I made it safely and only shared my intolerable cruelty on the one I love most. That being said, it is interesting how couples start out isn’t it? We do our best early on, beating our chests and showing our teeth and clubbing the competition over the head with tree branches, but then it all just goes into a downward spiral from there, doesn’t it?

Dressing up in your “hottest outfit,” perfecting your stride, accentuating what you believe to be your assets in front of your proposed mate, it’s all golden until after you seal the deal. Then, for the first time, she lets out a cute little “squeaker” and you think that it is just the cutest damn thing in the world. You snicker and giggle and then…well, then she gets bold. Then comes the loud belches and the underwear splitting gas vomit that spews out of her and you are suddenly shocked, then, slowly, mortally desensitized to it all.

True love comes when the things you thought were cute are now annoying and the things you found annoying are now cute.

Now, we simply give each other “the look” which says it all in one simple glare, “You are fucking disgusting and the only reason I can even begin to forgive you is the fact that I am legally obligated to smell your shit and even though some people think that’s romantic, they are probably not married and still play cutesy foot under the table at restaurants and don’t realize that I am stuck fucking you for the rest of my life and that Prince Charming never farted in Cinderella’s face from what I saw and Walt Fucking Disney can kiss my ass to hell, because I’ve been lied to, cheated, and I will endure, because ultimately I am Cinderella, and I have, on occasion, farted in Prince Charming’s face and truly this is the death of a dream, the dream of a princess in a perfect world and Holy God that smells like something dead in a hotel bathtub with one month old Chinese food piled on top.”

Or something like that.

We have a rental car, which, in the end would prove to be the best idea on Planet Earth. We drove to the hotel and settled in. It was a hotel. There was a bed, a TV, a bathroom, and free soap. And a fridge. Ah, now you’re jealous.

Day one involved breakfast with in-laws. Day one also involves Wifey driving us. With no map. And directions written on numerous sticky notes. I gave her five minutes. In that five minutes we were lost and suddenly in the middle of the road with traffic coming from both sides, horns blaring, and a woman frozen in fear. I order her to pull over and exit the vehicle where I proceed to curb stomp her in front of a woman’s home while she waters her lawn. She yells at me to stop and I pull out the tire iron from the back of the car, and…

We switch places. I buy a map. I find us on it. I have her follow along, just like story time in kindergarten. We make it to the Palisades, where rich Hollywood fucks live. And my brother-in-law. While there, my father-in-law hands me a device that looks like a mini-DVD player. I look at it like a Neanderthal trying to understand TIVO. It’s a GPS. It would later become the greatest device ever made, next to pocket pussy.

We have breakfast at a quaint little California chic place on Main Street where they immediately inform us that a six percent gratuity will be added. Whoop-dee-freakin’ doo!

We strolled down the street for a hot minute to check out some of the “unique” shops, which were all very different and cool in their own unique and cool little way. Wifey bought a Wonder Woman shirt, that was, in fact, cool, but I had to ask her if she even knew anything about Wonder Woman. You see this a lot and sometimes I am guilty of it, because I can’t tell you the origins of Quicksilver (I could cheat and Google it right now and you’d never be the wiser…but I won’t.) anymore than she can tell me about Wonder Woman.

We are all quick to become walking advertisements and I’m kind of okay with that within the realms of self-expression, because truthfully, I love it when people wear stupid shit that I never would. It makes me laugh, point, and judge all in one glance and that makes me happy. “Look at that bitch with the Wonder Woman shirt…she probably doesn’t know jack fuggin’ shit about Princess Diana!”

L.A. drivers are obnoxious but nowhere near as obnoxious as Chicago drivers. Really, I was prepared for some ‘Death Race’ style shit, but the Cali-Crowd ain’t got shit on the Windy City racers. Armed with our new GPS system, which is a fucking marvel of science, better than a cure for AIDS even, we were on our way without a shred of doubt as to our location or destination. We named the talking device “Carla” and she was a fucking mint.

We ventured to FOX studios where we would be meeting our old roommate, Mr. Boy. Mr. Boy is a great friend whom I have known for many years now and had I not joined the Army I have no doubt that we would probably still be roomies. But, I’d still be getting more bitches.

Pulling up to FOX there was a sight to behold…Nakatomi Towers from ‘Die Hard.’ Yes, the mountain of a skyscraper used in the 1988 masterpiece that propelled Bruce Willis to stardom. We took a picture. I thought I would write more about that, but it’s just not THAT interesting. Also, I’m too lazy to delete this whole paragraph. Read on.

It was great to see Mr. Boy who then took us to the New Regency offices where he had worked prior and my old friend Suckerpunch now worked. Yes, that’s his real name. Suckerpunch had his own cubicle with a picture of Abraham Lincoln. He had arrived. He also had a box of Asian porn that was used in the box office mega blockbuster “Shutter” which you have all seen and I feel stupid for even having to remind you of how great it was here.

Oh. Yeah. Nobody saw it. But still…there was a BOX of Asian porn! Suckerpunch signed one of the photos and it now resides on our fridge. Nothing like getting my breakfast in the morning to be greeted by a naked Asian chick with Suckerpunch’s signature.

We met some of Mr. Boy and Suckerpunch’s new pals, all of whom were great. I felt at home around all these guys as I am a walking, talking movie robot and it’s good to be around others that speak the same code. In one of the offices they had what they referred to as a “bazooka,” the most commonly used reference for a rocket launcher to non-military types.

The guys seemed to be proud of this thing and asked me to verify its authenticity. Unfortunately, I had to lay on some bad news. Nobody calls ANYTHING in the Army a “bazooka”. What they actually had was an old AT4, which is a shoulder fired rocket launcher, good for one use. No reloading. Fire and forget. However, this AT4 was “movie modified,” which means it had shit added to it that simply doesn’t exist on ANY piece of rocket hardware.

An M4 trigger guard and pistol grip were mounted at the bottom and on top was a scope, namely a PVS14 night scope (non-working). Absolutely ridiculous and utterly hilarious. I promised the guys that I would send them a video of me firing a real AT4 to compensate for the heartbreak. Now, just ain’t I the cool Army guy? I know, I know, go fuck myself. Got it.

Mr. Boy took us on the lot tour, which I guess isn’t exactly “okay” but we broke the rules anyway. I tried to act inconspicuous and enjoy the sights but Wifey decided that she only had one mode: Maniacal tourist. She took pictures of everything, stopping, yelling out for us to pose, taking shot after shot for posterity’s sake. All this while every type of individual on the lot passed by, but none of them questioning our presence. Security seemed to be non-existent, so really, I guess it’s not hard to understand why so many movies get “scooped” on the internet these days.

Wifey ended up getting some good shots, the big wall murals of Star Wars and The Simpsons, New York (a massive set that looks just like old New York), and David Mamet’s parking spot. Truly we were in the presence of greatness.

From there we took to Rodeo, shopping arena to the uber wealthy and snooty. Wifey was overly excited, even though she would not be buying even a pair of socks from that place. I could see us sitting there, filling out the loan paperwork for a pair of socks, waiting nervously for approval, then celebrating with Champagne while Wifey slips on her new $65,000 socks and we walk out of the store and back onto Debt Street.

Instead, her excitement was over a little cupcake shop called “Sprinkles,” which I guess has become very popular. It’s a tiny little place with numerous types of cupcakes, the flavor of each one indicated by a circular color coded candy piece on the top. Say that five times fast. I dare you.

We waited in line to sample some of these artery cloggers and found them to be quite delicious, if not super rich. If you can eat more than one at a time, then prepare to be air-lifted from your home one day while watching Tyra. What surprised me was the customers…they were nearly all young, hot (or attempting to be young and hot) females. I mean, they were lining up out the door. Who would have thought that hot chicks with hot bodies would be lining up for cupcakes?

Either they are hitting the gym for three hours a day or Sprinkles is the least digested food in California.

We decided to walk the streets and peruse the shops, never daring to enter for fear of being treated like Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman”. If your income doesn’t reflect it then I don’t think it would be incomprehensible to think that you may feel like trailer trash shopping at Banana Republic when entering one of these establishments. They are very foreboding.

Instead, I watched with much humor, as those that could, for whatever reason, afford such excess, do their own version of window shopping. Women with big sunglasses and short, stylish dresses would walk along the windows, arms outstretched to their sides, as if tip-toeing on glass, and slowly cruise the windows, sending a loud and clear message that they could afford to be there, that they belonged there, and that the rest of us were just tourists. Which, we were.

Our next stop was the Promenade, which is a massive outdoor mall with any and every store you could need and never have any use for. Still, it’s all there. And it’s freakin’ packed to the rooftops with people, to include various “street people.” Men in gold painted suits, five-year-old Asian girls singing Alicia Keys, and performance artists with a mini-boom box doing interpretive dance, and monkeys that will take a dollar from your hand. For free! Wait…what?

L.A. truly feels like a place where people let their dreams fly, even if it’s a complete waste of time, if they can make a dollar off of it, then they are fulfilled enough that their dreams are on their way to coming true. I mean, a monkey…it walks up…it takes a dollar out of your hand…and everyone loves it! Seriously…a dollar is like a gold bar in L.A.

Also, let’s talk about crazy people for a minute. Crazy people are everywhere. I haven’t traveled the entire globe. In fact, the only places I’ve been out of the United States are the armpits of the world and certainly they have their crazies…and then some. L.A. is no different. However, they don’t seem as scary or harmful as everywhere else. I could be speaking too soon, but that’s how I felt there.

Most of the crazies in L.A. are walker-talkers. They talk to themselves while walking, never stopping to talk to anyone, just rambling on as they walk. Now, maybe some of these crazies were on their Bluetooth and I just didn’t see it, but actually, I think you’re crazy if you do that anyway. It’s annoying and you need to stop.

I was walking into Wal-Mart about a month ago and this guy was passing me who I did not know and says “Hey, what’s up?” while looking right at me. I replied, “Hey, how are ya?” even though I had no idea who he was. He then just launched into conversation and walked right past me as if I were Patrick Swayze in “Ghost” and I’m the asshole because I didn’t know he was on his retarded Bluetooth. Fuck me, right?

It’s shit like that that makes you second guess yourself when trying to be courteous in this world. “I’m not saying hi to that motherfucker…he may just be talking to his fucking Bluetooth.” Technology may advance our society and give us a multitude of tools and resources at our fingertips, but it also advances something else we’ve been pretty fucking good at since the dawn of humanity: Being annoying assholes.

Where the fuck was I? Someone keep me on track here. Oh. That’ll be me. So, crazy peeps. The biggest difference between L.A. crazies and Alaska crazies is that in Alaska you cross the road to avoid our crazies. They are usually drunk natives (no offense to the natives, but it’s pretty accurate) and while they talk the crazy, they also walk the crazy, carry weapons, wish to speak with you about acquiring some spare change, and will get very belligerent if you don’t have time to talk. In L.A. they seem to be pretty morose, even proud of their status.

Yes, I am equating craziness with homelessness, because you have to be crazy to be homeless. How the fuck can you be normal if you think it’s better to live on the street and beg for quarters when you could get a job and be an active member of society? I have long since grown weary of homeless people with poorly written cardboard signs trying to make me feel guilty for not giving them spare change. As if being a member of society that contributes, or even sacrifices, for the betterment of our Nation makes me an asshole because I don’t divvy out dollars to those that can’t do the same.

Enough about crazy, homeless people. Let’s talk about the sights. Yes, there are some beautiful women in L.A. In truth, there are beautiful women everywhere, but the pressure to be beautiful in L.A. is massive. It’s the entertainment industry capital of the world so the struggle for perfection, style, and everlasting beauty is ever present. The same goes for men. Conform to the standard or go be a waiter or some other profession that doesn’t call for you to be seen and liked and desired for sexual relations.

Most of the women in L.A. are dressed for success no matter what they’re doing. Naturally, because of the weather, they are dressed in super chic and stylish dresses and fashions or stripped down to the bare minimum in order to showcase their assets. Let it be known, I don’t have a problem with this. Merely my observation. There are plenty of beautiful women in Alaska, unfortunately their opportunities to get dressed up (or down) are slim to none, so they aren’t given the same privileges as the L.A. girls.

Still…you can’t ignore that they are a sight to behold. It was refreshing, for lack of a more deviant word, to see a little more than I’m used to. Being in the Army for the last six years has left me devoid of such sights, so cut me some fucking slack. I promise, one day I will blog about how much I love my wife and kids and minivan and how I never think anything subversive or dirty and how I’ve got all my priorities right and know the secret of life and have it all figured out and tuck my shirt in and eat only organic foods and watch only TV programs rated PG.

Until then, howabout you let me enjoy some boobies? It is not lost on me that I’m married nor the fact that I’m a man. So save the hippie hammer and hit yourself in the nuts with it if you have a problem with me looking at women. We’re all here to enjoy some swearing and unapologetic prose.

God, blogging is so much better than therapy.

So, we have dinner at “Ford’s Filling Station” which is a restaurant owned by Harrison Ford’s son and we ate some overpriced food, but shared a good time with good friends. I felt once again to be privileged to be in the company of good friends and it really made me miss the old days and dream about making them new again. Time will, as always, tell that tale.

To top the day we went to see “The Dark Knight” in IMAX, which was, not surprisingly, amazing. Even more interesting was the fact that the theater has adopted an assigned seating policy, so when you buy your tickets you are buying assigned seats as well, much like a concert. I personally think that is brilliant. No matter how late you show you’ll always have your seat and that is fucking bad ass. The only problem would come when you have to sit next to annoying or stinky people. Or little kids at R-rated movies.

Upon leaving, Suckerpunch handed me a massive stack of screenplays from his office, which was truly the best thing I got from the entire trip. Saying good-bye was awkward and heartfelt because I really did miss those guys and am both envious and proud of their success. In many ways, I feel I missed out, but I also feel that it has all happened for a reason.

Okay, so I’m looking in the bottom left corner of Word and it’s saying I’m at six pages, which is a lot to ask you to read in one sitting. I have just decided on breaking this into two parts. I’ve got too much to say to slim it down.

That’s right, so now you’ll have to salivate for the next part. I’ll go ahead and give some teases to get you ready: Hollywood, Universal Studios, and Strip Clubs! And a Wedding! Holy Crap you’re gonna check this site EVERY DAY until I publish part two!

Wednesday, August 20, 2008


How Terrorism Ruined My Copy of Schindler’s List

It’s a Sunday and I’ve tried in vain to get my wife a full and true movie education; today is as good as any. I’m gonna lay “Schindler’s List” on my wife. The Academy Award winning Debbie Downer of an epic, directed by Steven Spielberg, is by no means an everyday movie. It’s not like popping in “Old School” and giggling like a stoned teenager to Will Ferrell streaking down the quad.

The truth is there is never a “good” time to watch “Schindler’s List.” I mean, the movie is three hours long, in black and white, every actor has an accent (that isn’t American anyways) and it’s about the holocaust. I don’t give a shit how many golden trophies it took home, it’s not your typical weekend fare.

In fact, I first saw the movie when it was in theaters and I was the only white, non-Jewish boy in the theater. Everyone else was fifty or older, Jewish, and sniffling throughout the entire thing. I had a large soda and popcorn for God’s sake. “Popcorn, soda, twizzlers, comfy shoes, and Jews being slaughtered in black and white, courtesy of the imaginative filmmaking wizardry of one Steven Spielberg…oh joyous cinema!”

Is it a great movie? Absolutely. No doubt. But seriously, did anyone see it? Besides me? Raise your hand…higher…higher…That’s what I thought. Nobody saw it. And if you ask them, usually they’ll react as if they haven’t seen the fucking Grand Canyon…”Nooo, but I hear it is magnificent…I have always meant to, but…man, I gotta do that…it’s going on my Bucket List right now. I’m SO glad you reminded me of that.”

However, if you are unlucky enough to be maritally conjoined with me, then you will have to suffer through every movie I consider a masterpiece, or at least a staple in film knowledge. So far, only one woman has had to endure such trials. Just a few weeks ago, since she was raised in a cave with bears and no cable TV, I opened her eyes to the visceral thrill-ride that is “Roadhouse,” the Patrick Swayze starrer that garnered such gems as, “Does a hobby horse have a wooden dick?”

For whatever reason she agreed to a sit-down of “Schindler’s List” on this particular Sunday. I am ecstatic. I’m thrilled. Finally, I have a reason to watch this movie again. You don’t dare sit down and watch “Schindler’s List” by yourself at home. What if someone sees you? Immediately you will be inundated with questions like, “Is something wrong? Is everything all right? Do you need to talk? Do you have something to tell me? Why did you shave down to that tiny moustache? Where did you get thigh high black leather boots and a septum?”

I pop the DVD in and sit back to relive the depressing masterpiece for the second time in my life (NO, I’ve never watched it since I bought it…are you crazy??). It starts off well enough, although my wife has already confused Oscar Schindler with Amon Goeth (played by Ralph Fiennes), which is not a good thing to happen so early on. We get through it. I explain to her who the Nazi’s were and why they are bad. I point out Poland and Germany on a map. We’re moving on.

Then…the unthinkable. The intolerable happens. Motherfucking disc starts to skip, stall, and freeze. Any time this happens the entire groove of a movie is fucked. It disrupts everything because no matter what’s happening in the movie, the new dilemma is that your disc is jacked and you know that if the problem persists then you will have to eject the disc, wipe it down continuously and then get through all the promotional shit that leads to the chapter you were on. We’re talking ten minutes here.

The disc keeps skipping. I’m pissed. She now is confusing this with Kill Bill. We are having problems. I eject and inspect the disc. Sure enough it looks like shit. “How could this have happened?” I wonder. I think for a minute. Then it dawns on me. Like an angel of heaven, holding a kernel of knowledge, his hand outstretched for me to read the nugget of insight as to why my “Schindler’s List” disc is stuttering like a retard on crack.


Terrorists ruined my copy of “Schindler’s List”. You want an explanation? Fuck that. Just take my word for it.

Okay. Fine. Here’s the deal. For whatever reason, only God and myself from 2003 know the real reason, but I decided while packing my shit for a year-long tour of duty in Operation Enduring Freedom in Khost, Afghanistan, I decided to add “Schindler’s List” into my DVD book playlist. Perhaps I thought that in-between combat patrols or twelve hour guard shifts I may get a hankering to kick back and soak in some “Schindler” to brighten up my otherwise boring and monotonous day in ye olde war-torn country.

However, like most of the movies on my playlist, I never took the movie out, never even thought about watching it once during my tour. It wasn’t that there wasn’t time. It’s the simple fact that Schindler’s list is about as enjoyable and engaging as a PBS documentary on the holocaust. When it’s over you feel dirty and abused, like you need a shower and some serious soul searching. Being at war gave plenty of that. I didn’t need Spielberg’s help there.

So, I luckily returned from that first tour with no scratches or dents. However, my DVD collection would not be so lucky. You see, Afghanistan is dirt and dust. I lived in a tent the entire ten months, never sleeping in a nice cozy enclosed area. Dirt and dust ran rampant and it got EVERYWHERE, to include the nice little plastic sleeves that held my discs of cinematic joy. In the span of those ten months, nearly all my discs would suffer the same fate.

Fast forward four years later and I’m spitting on the disc, swabbing it with my T-shirt and re-inserting it into the DVD player in order to finish this damn movie (we’re more than forty minutes in…we are committed). Fuck it. I run to the garage and grab a spare DVD player (duh. Who doesn’t have like a hundred DVD players? I have three. In the garage. And two TVs. That I don’t use. What the fuck?)

The spare player sucks dick for gas money. I’m screwed.

I turn to my wife, who, in the darkly lit room, reminds me of one of Schindler’s Jews, a harmless factory worker avoiding the death camps while working in Oscar Schindler’s factory. I must save her. I must keep her on the list. I must get a new copy of this fucking movie, pronto.

I slip on suitable clothes for the public. I grab my keys. I speed off while my wife waits in darkness, patiently. I am her knight. I am her Oscar Schindler. I must deliver her unto this movie. I don’t have much time. Soon she will be overcome by the distractions of time, finding herself a slave to the plights of MySpace and I must hurry.

I go to Wal-Mart, home of everything you could ever need. This should be quick. Painless. Easy. No, it’s the opposite. I can’t find anything. The DVD’s are hardly in alphabetical order. Who decides what to sell here? Why are some five dollars, some seven, and some thirteen? Who makes this shit up? Who decides what’s being held in stock here? Why the fuck are there twenty copies of “Are We There Yet?” and ZERO copies of “Schindler’s List?” After checking every possible DVD location in the store (which is everywhere...the checkout lanes, the gun counter, the toy section, the underwear…oh these are some nice lace thongs and…oh…what’s that? The Goonies? I haven’t seen that in ages! Underwear and Goonies…God, I love Wal-Mart!”) I give up. I must move on. My wife is probably at the computer now. I am running out of time.

I go to Fred Meyer’s (which is like Wal-Mart, part 2). I fight my way to the DVD section. The DVD’s are in alphabetical order. Hallelujah. However…Houston, we have a BIG fucking problem, there’s no Goddamn “Schindler’s List” and I’m about to blow. I start checking the ridiculous “bargain bins” and racks. It’s nowhere. Who the fuck wants “Schindler’s List” for five bucks? WHO??

I run the aisles. I am a man on a mission. I have lives to save here. Any second, my wife could lose her marbles while being lobotomized on the internet or worse, getting sucked into anything on the E! Channel. I must get her back into the safe zone of cinematic art.

Fucking Fred Meyers. They have a Starbucks, a grocery section, a clothing section, a home and garden section, a seasonal section, an alcoholic beverages section, but rest assured, they most definitely do not have a Goddamn, fucking, Schindler’s List section.

I’m in my truck. I’m driving. I’m fuming. I cannot believe the Gods are making me do this. I am looking at the familiar colors of blue and yellow and I’m pulling into the parking lot and I’m swearing in my head every second that I’m doing it, and I’m running inside like a man into an emergency room with a bride about to give birth, looking for a fucking movie that no one wants to sell but bloody well better want to rent.

I head to drama, because that’s the only section that a movie that does nothing but cause it can be resting. And the phrase, uttered so frequently under our breaths in a quick, swift sentence, usually in a fit of peril…”You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

It rolls off the tongue. I’m frantic now. I’m heading down every aisle. I start to blame the Blockbuster workers. They are probably too fucking stupid to realize that the movie is supposed to be in drama. They probably stuck it in action. “Schindler’s List”…witness one man’s heroic efforts to rescue the Jews during World War 2, risking his life to save thousands…” Must be an action flick, right? “Starring Chuck Norris as Oscar Schindler and Jessie the Body Ventura as all of Nazi Germany!”

I can’t believe my fucking eyes. They really don’t have it. I’m leaving Alaska. That’s it. I’m leaving Alaska. I don’t want to live in a state where I can’t simply drive to my local Wal-Mart and buy a copy of “Schindler’s List.” This is not the world I want to end up in. This is like living in some Thai village where they crank up the generator once a year and watch the only movie they have, Terminator 2, and cheer for their great fortune. Fuck that.

I want everything at my greedy, American fingertips. As I begin to leave I see that Blockbuster has further categorized their movies. Now, not only are there genre sections, but 99 cents sections, movies for five nights. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot is going on here? I comb the alphabet one more time. Low and Behold, the grail I’ve been searching for is there. I grab a disc and head to check out. I can’t fucking believe I’m renting this movie. I look at my watch. I have lost forty minutes. Surely, my wife is too far gone by now, wrapped up in vacuuming or dusting or Denise Richards: It’s Complicated. Fuck me.

The Blockbuster shithead gives me my movie, ensuring that I know what day it’s due back on, as if someone who rents Schindler’s Fucking List can’t count to five. Fuck you, video clerk. Fuck you very much.

I’m heading home. I have the package. I will save you, my dear wife. I will save you from the throes of Living Lohan and I love Money. I will bring you back from a world of In Touch and US Weekly. I will show you that the world is shit and that we do horrible things to each other and that this nice little Jewish man named Steven Spielberg has done a splendid job of reminding us of that.

I get in the house, calling out to her. Nothing. She must be lobotomized by now. I may be too late. I run to the computer room. No! She’s on the computer, typing, it’s too late, I’m too…

She’s checking the bank statement. Something constructive. The hamster in the wheel is still running. I grab her by the arm and yank her back to the TV room. Disc inserted. I get to the chapter we left off on quickly. The black and white splendor is upon us again. Her eyes glaze over and she sinks back into the comfortable movie coma. I did it. I did it.

I sit back and try to let my brain calm down and settle back in to the movie. But it won’t quiet down. How the fuck did this happen? I start to do some reverse engineering; I bought Schindler’s List because it was a great movie, even if very depressing; I took it with me to Afghanistan because only God and me from 2003 knows why; I went to Afghanistan because I joined the Army and that’s where they sent me; The Army went to Afghanistan because that’s where the terrorist masterminds who attacked us on 9/11 were hiding out; therefore, terrorists are responsible for the destruction of my one and only good copy of Schindler’s List, due to the fact that it was destroyed in my possession while deployed for combat operations against said terrorists during Operation Enduring Freedom.

Those motherfuckers.

If you ever needed more of a reason or justification for our presence in Afghanistan/Iraq I want you to think about my story. Think about how many more DVD’s that these terrorists have plundered in their tenure of terror.

All over the world, soldiers are returning from the war with scratched to fuck DVD’s, unplayable, irreparable, and ultimately unsalvageable. A nation of veterans plagued for the rest of their days to hunt down the cinematic classics they so adored enough to take to the trenches with them and in doing so, lost them to the war on terror.

Such is my plight. Such is my life. But, I will not give up. I will replace and rebuild my empire, one DVD at a time.

COMING UP: My trip to L.A. and a series review of Generation Kill