Don't Call it a Comeback

Okay, so I haven't written much in months - or at all for that matter. Forgive me, I've been busy and haven't been very inspired. But, I have been writing on, and working for, the Craig Criteria so I haven't been entirely lazy. Speaking of the Criterion, I wanted to post my first article. It's a debate (against Mary Shaw, who is a complete fucking moron) about whether or not Sarah Palin should run for president. And instead of making this introduction any longer, here it is:

A Bridge to Nowhere

by Christian Pankow

While spending sleepless nights in the Hanoi Hilton, I assure you that John McCain had never entertained the idea of being more desperate. But when push came to shove, the dust had cleared, and that musky, leather-covered skeleton had removed all the proverbial aces from his campaign-sleeve, only Sarah Palin stood as his last hope. And desperate he was.

I hope for his sake that his rationalization to his advisors was, “Let’s snag the female vote with this surrogate woman; they won’t know the difference.” Any other justification for picking Sarah Palin as a running mate would lead one to question McCain’s mental stability.

Unlike rival Hillary Clinton, McCain’s choice of running-mate wasn’t well-educated, supremely classy or experienced in the highest levels of power—and she definitely didn’t own a comparable wardrobe of alluring power suits.

Palin did, however, own a well-deserved title as a “Christian Communist,” defined as a dictator-like figure that holds a political philosophy based on Christian ideals. Infamous for attempting to fire a popular town librarian and banning an assortment of “unfit” books, she added to her dictatorial reputation as governor when she ousted a Public Safety Commissioner who refused to fire a state trooper for divorcing Palin’s sister.

Cutting millions of dollars of funding from special needs children, opposing abortion even in cases of rape or incest—her ethics have always been in question—which may come as a bit of a shock when considering the holier-than-thou propaganda that cascades from her folksy, “Joe Six Pack” public persona.

Though it may not be necessary to add to her laundry list of blunders, it’s hard to talk about Palin without mentioning the kicker. The Gravina Island Bridge, often referred to as the "Bridge to Nowhere," was proposed to replace the ferry that currently connects the town of Ketchikan, Alaska with Gravina Island, home to an airport and 50 residents.

Being a hypocrite, Palin told the press otherwise, but it’s a fact that she signed off on the project. She was all for pouring millions of federal tax dollars into the pork barrel project, and even went as far as hoisting a pro-bridge t-shirt when she visited Ketchikan.

It wasn’t until the Republican Party began to use the Bridge to Nowhere as a negative example that she converted from pro-bridge to anti-pork. It’s no coincidence, but rather a testament to her shady character.

I can reach across the aisle and give credit where credit is due, though. She does have her impressive moments. For example, she has profound grace and poise in her struggle to appear a rung above George W. Bush on the public-speaking ladder.

And while it is easy and trendy to laugh at her, she does inject a certain entertainment value into the world of politics that nearly makes the Grand Old Party, well, a party again. Not to mention that she is admittedly a wonderful mother who teaches her children how to be safe, responsible adults.

So please don’t get me wrong: if modern day Republicans want to be represented by ‘aw shucks’ figures that care more about the size of their wallets than the good of their people, that is their prerogative. But if it were up to me, Sarah Palin would put her mucklucks back on, mosey on back to her village and shoot moose from her back porch with her husband Todd.

While they’re at it they might attend some more pro-Alaskan independence rallies. This might be considered penance for leaving Alaska in the lurch by resigning from the Governor’s office in mid-term, forsaking her beloved home state to promote a book which is mysteriously a best-seller before publication.

Not that there is anything wrong with outdoors types writing books or running for office—I just don’t find either a qualification for leading the free world, even if they can keep an eye on foreign neighbors from their back doors.

Simply put, we don’t need snow machines splashing mud on future presidential races. And the venerable McCain would surely roll over in his grave if Palin someday managed to attain the oval office that he so coveted.

I hope you enjoyed it, let me know what you think. I'll post my movie reviews (which is what my column is actually about) soon.

The Brat Saga

I'll be the first to admit that back in the hay day, I was the blindest Brett Favre fan in the world. The man could do no wrong through my Green and Gold colored glasses.


Vicadin? So what, he is a fucking iron man who plays with broken toes, he needs it. Most interceptions in NFL History? Yeah, well what stat is he not the leader in? Frankly, I think it's more impressive that he played long enough to throw those picks, and managed to throw that many and keep a job. 2005, 2006, 2007 he creates a circus by going back and forth with retirement, leaving everyone hanging? No problem, the guy is a legend. I want him back, of course, he's an icon, but if he doesn't, that's ultimately his decision. Retired in 2008, and decides to come back after all? Okay, fine, he can still play, he has that option.

Wait. Rewind that for a second.

It's not fine. He didn't just call it quits, he held a press-conference, cried his eyes out, and created an emotional ruckus. Merely months later, he change his mind; but it's not as simple as it sounds. He passive-aggressively pussy-footed around the matter. He's an attention whore who wanted to be asked to returned, he wanted to be fawned over, he wanted the press on his lawn. So he did what any self-respecting 12-year old would do, and sent out some text messages to stir the rumor mill.

So the circus begins. Favre wants back in, the fans are split down the middle, and Ted Thompson says he can come back, but only to battle for the starting position. I don't blame Ted, he didn't have a good alternative option. How was he suppose to let Rodgers, his guy, the guy he drafted, his golden boy for the future, be left hanging again? He gave him the keys to the car, he couldn't take them away, give them to a 40 year old quitter, and crush Aaron's confidence and trust again. This, of course, is without mentioning that at this point in their respective careers Rodgers would more than likely be the better QB (as he was).

Favre gives Ted a big "fuck you" when he realizes he's not immortal. He asks for his release, and transforms into Broadway Brett, who has a very good beginning of the season. But then it starts to happen, his age catches up on him. He throws out his shoulder, tears a rotator cuff, and has an abysmal second half of the season. You could attribute the Jets missing the playoffs to Mangini's decision to trust Favre down the stretch.

Make it two years in a row that Brett crushes his team's Championship Dreams, and two years in a row that Favre ends the season in a tear-jerking retirement. You had your last hoo-rah, you proved you can't withstand your age, and you proved that you're an interception machine when it matters most. Let's just forgive and forget, all is well in Packer Nation, all is well in Favre Nation.

The Ultimate Ringmaster is nothing without his final act. Not to say I believe it will be his final act, but to say that I'm not in disbelief that this has happened. In usual Favre fashion, waffling, letting things leak to the press, manipulating the media and team, skipping out on training camp because he didn't want to go, officially retiring...again, and putting on a good ol' boy facade to clear himself of blame and ingeniousness. He has crossed the enemy lines, donned the purple helmet, and is ready to do battle with the team that cherished him for the better part of the last two decades.

So he jets into the Twin Cities, in a fake down to earth outfit consisting of some Wranglers, an old T-Shirt, and a dirty baseball cap. He clearly "just hopped off the tracker". Bullshit. This guy is just so fake, and so good at it. He is a devious manipulator who is extremely underrated in the field of intelligence. He acts as if he just has an innocent love for the game and would like to continue playing, when in actuality he just wants to derail Ted Thompson for giving him the cold shoulder by beating the Packers, crushing their playoff hopes, and ultimately running him out of town (don't count on any of them). Favre playing for all the wrong reasons is just pitiful, and frankly, extremely conceited and selfish. He is hurting himself, his legacy, his fans, Packers fans, Viking fans, Sage Rosenfels and Tarvaris Jackson, his family, Brad Childress, and everyone else involved. Yet, he just doesn't seem to fucking care.

I'm not even sure if he fully understands the situation when he makes outrageous comments like "The true Packer fans will understand." Are you fucking kidding me? That either means one of two things. 1) I am not a true Packer fan, because I don't understand. Or 2) I am a true Packer fan, and therefore do understand. You're not giving me many options here, Brett. So I check-raise with this hand, "A true Packers player would understand why we don't." Beat that logic you dim, southern fuck.

Jesus is that offensive. Assuming we're not real fans because we don't support you. Which really, makes close to no sense, because you're not the Packers, nor do you play for the Packers, so I don't see the relevance. Being a Packer fan is not synonymous with being a Favre fan, despite most people falling under both categories.

I've been writing this on an off for three days, time to wrap this the fuck up.

So now we're to this season. Favre has effectively skipped the training camp he obviously didn't want to go to, and will be playing in his first preseason game tomorrow. Which may seem short notice, but it's really not because he has 17+ years experience, and he knows this Packer-like West Coast offense to a tee. He better get his reps in effectively though, because there's no way he is healthy or in playing shape, and the season opener is just around the corner.

And on opening day he better be at the top of his game, because he has tailored some big shoes to fill. His only option for the season is to win the Superbowl or Bust. It will be bad enough when he doesn't do anything against the gnarly Packer secondary besides throw a couple of horrible picks. But if he doesn't win that Superbowl, which c'mon, we all know he doesn't have it anymore and won't do it, he and Chilly are under huge heat. Chilly risked his whole team's trust, his integrity, and his job just to suck Favre's dick in the locker room. Favre on the other hand, will tarnish his legacy even further, hold an "aw shucks" news conference and "retire" again, go back home to play some two hand touch with his inbred cousins with the media tears him apart, and teams will be pressured not to sign him next year when he comes back because they don't want the circus or scrutiny.

With all due respect, I hope he doesn't have a terrible year or makes a mockery of himself. I just hope he falls on his face against the Packers, and doesn't get those purple faggots into the playoffs. And then, once he actually retires, formally apologizes to Packer fans, and puts his arm to rest, I'll revert to backing The Icon.

P.S. Better make your reservations to Favre's Steak House now, I heard it's going to be bustling this season.

It's About That Time

V-V-V-V-V-V-V-down-set-hike.

Madden 10 hasn't even dropped yet, and me and Ben have already accumulated a pocket-full of instant-laugh memories. From me proceeding a 3rd and 28 conversion with screaming "Bitches on the Prowl!" for absolutely no reason; to Ben getting sacked, throwing his head back in disbelief, destroying it on a lamp, and then throwing a pick; to making ridiculously hyperbolic statements about players, i.e.: Brandon Jacobs has never been tackled, he has only gotten sick of scoring.

If this is any sort of sample of what is left to come, than I can justify how fucking giddy I am about the release tonight, and the inevitable weekend decimated in its wake.

Luckily, we're not going in blindly. As fucking ridiculous and nerdy as it is, me and Ben made a Madden Weekend Itinerary the other night. Starting with the Release Party at GameStop tonight, to the day-long practice session tomorrow, and ending with the Wal-Mart Madden Tournament on Saturday. Mix in some Lost, food, and minimal sleep, and you have a recipe for success.

Apart from me winning the tournament Saturday, I also have one to win next Saturday at GameStop, except that one is much more important, and much more legit. And whereas most people wouldn't take it lightly, I will, because I'm actually that good.

Talking shit online. Button mashing. Get pissed off at your friends. Being overly competitive. Staying up way too late. Wasting too much time. Squeezing in just one more. Throwing controllers. Eating horrible food. Frying your eyes. Magical.

Let it fucking commence.


P.S. Jesus Christ that post was horrible. Just, wow. I'll try and write something decent later.

"Bon Appetit!"

Yesterday, as a part of Margo's going away party, her, Ben, and I joined a hundred grey-haired movie enthusiasts for another Meryl Streep knockout.

Julie & Julia

The movie is an adaptation of the same-named book, which follows the story of Julie Powell's (Amy Adams) life and blog about cooking her way through Julia Child's (Meryl Streep) cookbook, while integrating the story of Julia Child's adult life and rise to fame. It's much easier to follow than it sounds, as Nora Ephron does an excellent job mixing the stories of two American women who begin struggling to find excitement and meaning in their livies. But with the help of their respective supporting husbands, both women manage to find bliss.

Several natural laughs and over-the-top accents later, the film boasts great messages about life and finding success. It embodies the true lesson that it's never t0 late to find what makes you happy, and even in or after the prime of your life, you can search for, find, learn, and begin the career that suits you best. It's never too late.


For anyone pushing to make a case for an actor's talent proportionally rising with their age, Streep would have to be Exhibit A (with Jack as Exhibit B). It doesn't matter what age she is though, because she has always crushed expectations. She is a juggernaut.


She personifies Julia Child to a tee. Everything from the voice, to the personality, to the appearance is just remarkable. At one point, they show a picture of Julia that forces you to question which woman it actually is.


Ala Greg Maddux, she possesses infectious talent that enhances everyone around her. Alike in Doubt, Amy Adams is stunningly acceptable as a lead actress. She has dropped the tinge of obnoxiousness and replaced it with a touch of confidence that allows her to embody her character. I hope this is a sample of what is left to come from Amy, as Hollywood is in dire need of young, talented actresses. It seems like the pool of talent, for both men and women, has been a bit shallow as of late.


Although the movie is a 2 hours and 10 minutes long, it manages to do what the more recent excessive features have not been able to: keep your attention. At no point was I bored, checking the time, feeling like it was dragging on, or psychologically adding fictitious things to the movie to make it more entertaining. It didn't even give me the opportunity to divert my mind to the terrible stench of old people or considering how much I dislike them.

Really, the only exterior thoughts I had were those of jealously for how rapidly and amazingly Julie's (Amy Adams) blog blew up. If it were not based on a true story, I would've never believed how effortlessly she gained readership. I naively hope that over the course of the next year I can also be nationally covered by newspaper columnists and get offers from literary agents and publishing companies. I'd fucking sell both kidneys for that kind of success.


Assuming you have an interest in blogging, Meryl Streep, cooking, the smell of old people, Amy Adams, Paris, success stories, finding one's true calling, or just quality movies, I'd like to assert a strong recommendation for this delightful film.

That is, if you can stomach the sight of butter-filled bowls for two hours.

(4/5)


P.S. Old people are gross.

4 8 15 16 23 42

Fine, J.J. Abrams, you win you persevering, cheating fuck. I'm Lost.

After giving up Lost directly after Season 2, and for years answering, "Do you watch Lost?" with "Fuck no"s and "I hate J.J. Abrams"es, he has broken my will.

Over the past few times I've stayed at Ben's we've watched Season 1. I did so reluctantly at first but enthusiastically and avidly more recently. The shows is like a cross-fertilization between a car-wreck and a heroin addiction. You don't want to look, you don't want to have to look, but you can't not look.

You don't have a choice, really. J.J. writes it that way on purpose, because writing with integrity would expose the humbleness of his talent and people wouldn't be eager to return to him. He manages to do this in two ingenious, diabolical ways. The first way being to answer every question with 5 more questions. So one question turns into 1 answer + 5 questions, and then 2 answers + 9 questions, and so on until you're dick-deep in a pool of uncertainty. The second reason being that he ends every scene, commercial break, episode, and season in a varying degree of cliff-hanger. This meaning you psychological have no choice but to imperatively watch the following episode, which turns into a perpetually vicious cycle. His cryptic writing style is pure fucking evil.

I do applaud him, however, because he weaves subplots, outrageous story lines, and back stories together as if he has a 6th sense for it. This is, of course, if you can find it in your heart to overlook how mangled and abstract the end product is. He also has a great prevalence to referring back to prior episodes with small details and quirks, making you feel like you're super savvy or a part of the show when you pick up on them. Names and numbers we're not suppose to remember, costume details we can't believe they've stuck to, and several cliches they should get rid of but are fun to keep a tally on (lack of subsequent requests or clarification, vague descriptions accompaniment conflict, horrible coincidences, ect.)

I would congratulate him on his eye for the surreal and paranormal, but I'd be lieing because he tends to ruin the things that start out on a positive note and your expectations are never really met. The twists are never what you wish they would be, which I guess is a plus in the criteria of a twist, but the minus enlies in the disappointment that ensues when the twist becomes apparent. Although, he does throw quite a bit of numerology in there (especially 23, which, if we've learned anything, is atrociously evil), which I dig, but only because of how ludicrous it is.

At this point, if you've been paying attention, I probably seem a bit torn between whether or not I love or hate this show, and that's no mistake in your judgement. It's really just both. I simply love to hate this show. Most of my compliments are insults and vice-versa. I can appreciate how the writing is done on a week to week basis with no planning or foresight, I enjoy how out of hand the story lines and character developments get, and I love the capability to tear it apart and make fun of it from beginning to end.

There is really no debate in whether or not it is entertaining, because it is, which is really the point of a television show, the problem is that Abrams has no grasp for the ethics of writing, making him more of a conman than anything else.


P.S. The twist in Star Trek wasn't the realization of the split universes, it was that J.J. Abrams didn't fuck it up.

False Impressions

Since I've been really fucking lazy lately, I am going to lie for two reasons:

1) I haven't written anything for days, and I really need to get a new post up before this just gets pathetic. Yet, I currently have no ideas, topics, or inspiration.

2) If I say I just begun writing my book, and this is new, than it seems like I manned-up and decided to just write something. It also seems more pressing to read just because it's "new".

Now that the confession is over...

The semi-fictional novel, tentatively entitled 'False Impressions', is a compilation of mostly true, some embellished, stories from my life, carefully woven together to resemble an intriguing story line.

This excerpt equates to a prologue, and will be directly followed by the 1st Chapter. It's purpose is to get the reader introduced to me (the main character) and accustomed to my writing style.

With no further ado...



I look down, the sweat from my brow is making my hair stick to my face. It’s way too fucking hot. My work shirt is a bit too tight, and the ex-hole in my work khakis seems to be dropping the ex. She had patched and sewn it after I tore it on a corner somewhere here or there, but like any repair, it can only last for so long.
The unexpected blaring of previews catches me slightly off-guard. I quickly realize to close the theatre doors, not because it’s my job, but because I hate this commercial.
Arms stretched wide, in a breath-stroke like motion, I put enough pressure on the dual doors until I hear the clicks signify them closing. I collect the broom and handled dustpan that I had discarded in the wall/trash can niche moments before and head down the checkered hallway. Right foot for red square, left foot for black.
When working a weekday shift, there’s no choice but conjure up your best facade. Nothing to do, no one to talk to, only options are to appear busy or duck into a theatre and don’t appear at all. The charade becomes quickly monotonous, I need something productive to do.
“Hi Christian.”
The voice is calm, pretty maybe, but somehow unsettling. This voice strikes me as familiar, I know this voice.
I walk with my head down, not sure why, have never been sure why. I chalk it up as a habit while my mom chalks it up to the length of my hair. Looking up, I struggle to focus for a second, tilt my head slightly to the left, and attempt to use my meager recognition skills.
Names I can do, but faces always take me a bit longer, especially with one contact in. Mrs. Kettle, ninth grade English, sans pregnancy, I don’t remember her without the baby bulge.
“…Hey.”, my voice trails, as if I’m short on words. However, I’m never short on words, so I must be reluctant to be courteous.
“How’re you?” I ask, but she has already disappeared into her theatre.
Mrs. Kettle and I, we’re not friends. To be frank, Mrs. Kettle is a bit of a cunt. She’s one of those teachers who I have a personal rivalry with. It’s for no other reason but because they know I’m more intelligent and they have no business teaching me anything. I remember publicly undermining her at any given opportunity, I guess in attempt to assert my prowess.
I stand there, with the “Hi Christian” lingering in the air, so nonchalant, so pseudo-mature. My eyes turn into peering slits, and I want nothing more but to hate fuck her. Something I had dreamt about it in my days sitting in those uncomfortable desks, listening to her ham-handed lectures, thinking, “Is this the standard they teach at universities now?” It startles me to think about how teachers don’t have to major in their subjects, which leads me to wonder: What are the qualifications otherwise?
Mrs. Kettle has a young, attractive face, bob cut, and a thick body. Not fat, I’d never call her fat, but she’s not a thin woman. The kind of thick like Topanga in her later years on Boy Meets World, the kind you wanted to dig your nails into.
Every man has one, and by one I mean at least one, usually many more. A woman they can’t help but to hate so much that it crosses the line into fatal attraction. You want to fuck her, with complete lack of intimacy. You want to hear her screams and inflict a touch of pain. You get off on the sex, but you really get off on the anger.



I've decided that I am going to do my best to step back up to the proverbial type writer, and continue to peck away at my book. I have put it off for much too long, and if I am ever going to be a successful writer, I must learn a certain discipline and drive for writing my books.

I'll try to throw some more excepts up along the way, but nothing major. It's nearly impossible to get something published that has already hit the internet.

I hope I've seduced you into anxiously anticipating my first novel.



P.S. "This is a memoir, but please understand that (to any good writer with a good imagination) all memoirs are false. A fiction writer's memory is an especially imperfect provider of detail; we can always imagine a better detail that the one we can remember. The correct detail is rarely, exactly, what happened; the most truthful detail is what could have happened, or what should have happened. Half my life is an act of revision; more than half the act is performed with small changes. Being a writer is a strenuous marriage between careful observation and just as carefully imagining the truths you haven't had the opportunity to see. The rest is the necessary, strict toiling with the language; for me this means writing and rewriting the sentences until they sound as spontaneous as good conversation." - John Irving, on Memoirs

The ANTICHRISTian Pankow

The Christian Pankow's evil twin brother blog is officially up and running.

Every new post from here will also be put up over there, but you can count on those posts being a bit dirtier and potentially. The real difference is that any new posts that are excessively offensive/not public0oriented will solely be kept over there.

I've also decided to have a bit of fun aesthetically contrasting that blog from this one. I'm actually pretty sure that one ended up looking way fucking cooler. It plays on more of a dark theme, to go with the darker content.

The last huge difference, The ANTICHRISTian Pankow will limited to invitation reading only. Don't worry though, you don't have to be special to get an invite. All you need to do is let me know you want an invite, give me your Gmail address (if it's not Gmail, you can only be a 30-day guess, so just sign up for a Gmail, it's quick and painless), and I'll add you to the reader list a.s.a.p.

I hope you enjoy both sites as much as I'll enjoy tearing that place up.


P.S. I'm not actually the AntiChrist. (Just kidding, I am)

THE ANTICHRISTIAN PANKOW

The Fruit of My Womb

(MOVED TO THE ANTICHRISTIAN PANKOW)

Beauty is in the Eye of the B+ Holder

Beauty is a moral imperative, but morality is not a beauty imperative.

Funny how things work in our shallow, aesthetically consumed world. We push people to be thinner, leaner, blonder, taller, tanner, younger, and skankier all at the expense of putting intelligence and education on the back burner. Yet, when someone goes that extra mile, to be the prim and proper poster child of our morally tainted vision of beauty, we relentlessly tear them from toned, waxed limb from toned, waxed limb.

During Miss Teen USA 2007, Aimee Teegarden proposed an obscenely simple question to Miss Teen South Carolina, who proceeded to stumble over her words and give an infamous nonsensical half-answer that would be immortalized in internet video sharing history. She was criticized and belittled tirelessly.

When I saw the video, however, I wasn't shocked nor did I question her validity as a civilized person who eats with a fork and can tie her own shoes. Instead, I found myself thinking, "I thought this was a beauty contest?"

Since when do beauty and intelligence go hand in hand, much less coexist? Frankly, I think it's fucking selfish to be beautiful and intelligent. No one should be that well-rounded, it's a danger and threat to all of us one-sided people. It doesn't even make sense, really. People work at becoming intelligent because they don't have the looks to carry them through life, and beautiful people can kick back because they do have the looks to carry them.

Being smart and good-looking is like being funny and nice, or athletic and white. It's just unnatural. You need to grow a pair of balls and just pick whichever one attribute you think will work out best in the long run (good-looking, funny, white).

It's just asinine to expect these girls to be talented and have reasonable answers to simple questions, it's not what they're there for and it doesn't correlate to the demands of their daily lives. They're supposed to stand crooked on the stage in a scantily clad bathing suit with their hands on their hips, chest pressed out, and showcasing the biggest fake smile they can conjure.

It's not like we pull that kind of shit in other competitions. No one asks professional gamers to lose their virginities; no one asks Philip Seymour Hoffman to stop looking like a fat, rosy-cheeked guinea pig when he wins acting awards; and we don't even ask Jimmy Kimmel to be attractive, talented, or intelligent to have his own TV show.

I am willing to compromise though, I'm not unreasonable. If they really want to have a three-dimensional contest, make the tasks relevant to these girls' strengths. See who can most effectively manipulate the average men who long fuck them but never will, or have them answer questions based on what sexual act of bribery is just enough to get them out of trouble and not too much to get them in more trouble.

Just don't ask them to sing or ask questions about the education system, much less memorize the words to a song or to do their math homework. It's bullshit.


Alright, I have a beginning and middle. But I'm so tired and irritated, that at this point, I've have forgotten how to fucking write. I have no clue how to end this post, and frankly, I don't even care anymore, so..

I'm done.


P.S. Fuck off, I'm too lazy to think of something witty right now.

Edit: Margo told me to end it impressively so...

Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend, but inside of a dog, it's too dark to read. Even a broken clock is right twice a day. The best place to hide a tree is in a forest. The longest word in the dictionary is smiles, because there's a mile between the 's's. This is two kirbies dueling: (>")> ~<("<). Why is this a heart: <3, but this isn't 2?

There, I hope you're impressed.

Anti-Theism

(MOVED TO THE ANTICHRISTIAN PANKOW)

Memories like Bullets

I'm extremely tired and intimidated by the thought of myself writing anything long and legitimate right now. Although, I feel like I really want to express myself and get some words down, and more importantly update by blog that has just been treading water for days.

I've decided I'm going to take the easy way out and just write down some bulleted thoughts that are running through my mind.

- I'm still surprised and taken aback every time I see Aaron's (a longtime friend of mine) band, Witness the Atrocity. They are just super legit. They are rapidly gaining momentum and continue to get better at what they do. Aaron has ridiculous pipes that he's figuring out how to use, and a blatant rise in confidence has done gangbusters for his energy and stage presence. He's getting real brutal.

- Tony's (best friend) band, Purge This City, has come a long way as well. I think they'll always look back to their addition by subtraction as their launching point. I'm proud to see them recording, booking shows, and networking effectively. I'd just love to see them add some dimension and creativity to their mantra.

- Ever since me and Phoenix broke up (in the spring, after a 1+ year relationship), I never thought I could find someone to fill her shoes. But somehow, I've managed to meet a girl who has blown me away. From my perspective, we fit together perfectly, and she completes my venn-diagram, if you will. She isn't offended or turned off by my over-the-line sense of humor, she makes me feel comfortable and desire to be myself, she understands and is intrigued by me, she calms me down and makes me want to behave as a better person, and most importantly she makes me happy and excited. I don't know if we'll ever work out, or if anything will ever come of it, but at least if it doesn't, I know there is in fact at least one other girl out there who is right for me, and people can make me happy. She has given me hope if nothing else.

- I feel like their is a direct correlation between the length of my hair and how many times I get called 'bro' in a day.

- Despite the lack of beautifully woven subplots ala the book and the complete disregard for the concept of building up to the climax, HP6 was an extremely decent movie. It was hysterical, the special effects intrigued me, and the cinematography was spot on. It was easily the best HP movie to date, and would even work as a stand alone film. My most prominent desire was for the ending to be more embellished, with stronger focus on believable acting being a close second. I'm optimistic about the final two.

- Airplanes have roofs, if they didn't, they wouldn't be airplanes.

- On the night of prom, a murder occurred. Only Stacey's blood was found, but she was neither the killer nor the victim. Outside of her, no one else was involved. What happened?

- At night, State Street gets real sketchy. Between the drunks and the homeless I felt a bit uncomfortable walking behind two attractive young women who appeared to have some wealth.

- I don't know what it is about me, but I have an unprecedented talent for picking out girls' outfits while shopping. It may be my keen eye for color or a wealth of knowledge for how certain cuts would correspond with certain bodies. But either way, I'm still not gay.



P.S. I hate myself a little more for writing in that format.

-

Mannequin Shenanigans

In a world of painted faces and fake smiles, it's easy to blend into your fake surroundings.

This, however, is of no use to me. Where it may brings others success, it only leads me into frustration. I'm forced to hone and exhaust my judgement skills in order to sift through the shit and find a handful of "real" people. I don't like no-faced, nor two-faced people, I have no use or admiration for them.

Fortunately, for the sake of self-love, I am brave enough to be myself. People won't and don't like it, but that's alright. I don't expect anyone to unwillingly deal with me.

I'm brash, crass, arrogant, opinionated, outspoken, critical, skeptical, jaded, anal, thoughtful, romantic, compassionate, intelligent, correct more often than not, competitive, liked, loved, disliked, and hated.

Honestly, I'm fine with all of those adjectives, because collectively they comprise who I am. And generally, I'm content with who I am. I attract people who I'd like to be in my life and repel those whom I'm disinterested in. A perfect recipe for me.

What I refuse to accept or respect, however, are those who dislike me without ever giving me a fair chance. I have hordes of people who dislike me, but have never met me, and hordes of people who use to like me until rumors, lies, and half-truths infected them from the minds of my skeptics. I don't enjoy people holdings misconceptions or false-expectations of me, it makes me dissapointed and uncomfortable.

I'd prefer for every person I meet to come into my world with a clean slate and shiny facade.


P.S. Now that I'm done being vulnerable for a moment, fuck off.

Cozy, Jaded Hate-Box

I've been getting a lot of this lately, "Christian, your blog is very entertaining and the writing is exceptional, but I just feel like it's too angry."

And as the great people-person that I am, I'd love to write about something happy to fill your little bellies with butterflies and put that twinkle back into your eye. Just don't get used to it, because it's very rare that I'm comfortable tapping my toe out of my cozy, jaded hate-box. This is just for you.


Something happy...something happy...

I've got something.

It puts a huge toothy-grin on my face to hear that cancer is doing its goddamn job. For so long it has been a spoiled little twat, that just wants more and more by the day. It's primary M.O. has been consuming the lives of the innocent, destroying precious racks of tits, and making perfectly attractive women creepy and bald looking.

About the only good it has done has hilariously left quite a few public figures uni-balled and shedded the gingers of their ugly red fire-hair.

But now, It has finally happened.

I'm jubilant to be able to say that the cocksucker who took the reigns of North Korea and ass-fucked it into submission merely three days after my birth has been bitten by the karma bug. If anyone deserves the pain and life-threatening affects of pancreatic cancer, it's Kim Jong Il. This fucking chink is so evil that he is devoid of all color, his mother never even loved him, and his dad died to get away from him. If the Omen's Damien and Excorcist's Regan had a baby, Kim Jong Il would steal its lunch money and kick dirt in its face every day before school.

Here's hoping to him having a slow and painful death that warps his mind. I hope the morphine drip to make his skin itch so hard that he tears his skin off. I hope his hair all falls out from the chemo and he looks like fucking yippy chinese crested.

I hope he wishes and prays for death every day, but Death slyly continues to skirt the issue so he doesn't have to spend an eternity with KJI breathing down his bony-neck.

I hope that floated your boat, tripped your trigger, yanked your dick, or whatever meaningless cliche you prefer.


P.S. Lollipops, rainbows, unicorns, and fairies.

23 + 23 = 46

December 21, 2012 = 12, 21, 2012.

Warning. This is terrifying.

If you multiply the two singular numbers in '12' you get 2 (1 * 2 = 2) and then add the two singular numbers in '21' you get 3 (2 + 1 = 3), the results of these two equations are 2 & 3 or simply 23. As we all know from the movie The Number 23, the number 23 is the most evil number known to man.

To take it a step further, if you add the first two singular numbers in '2012' you get 2 (2 + 0 = 2) and if you add the last two singular numbers you get 3 (1 + 2 = 3), the results of these two equations are 2 & 3 or simply 23. Yeah, you fucking read that right! It's the fucking most evil number ever, again.

With the culmination of two seperate 23's, this date is double-fucking-evil.

But wait, it gets even more evil. Add the two 23's together and you get 46 (23 + 23 = 46). Then, divide 4 by 6 and you get...666 (4/6 = .666)!!! Holy fucking evil bad devil shit!

I'm not fucking done yet, nuh uh. Instead of adding those 23's together, just divide each's singular numbers (2/3 and 2/3), guess what you fucking get again...666! Two of those motherfuckers, double evil bad devil shit!

We're still not fucking done, guys. Add those 666's together and you get 1332 (666 + 666 = 1332). Why is 1332 significant? I'll tell you why...If you add the first two singular numbers together and multiply the last two singular numbers together you get 4 & 6 (1 + 3 = 4; 3 * 2 = 6). Divide these final two singular numbers together and...

YOU GET THE ULTIMATELY EVIL GINORMOUS NAZI ZOMBIE WEREWOLF DEVIL DEMON STEP-MOTHER JEWISH 666! THE MOST EVIL OF ALL 666'S.


I have to admit, I began this blog with the intention of mercilessly belittling this recently popular theory. I had a whole tangent lined up about how it fit somewhere between the '9/11 Inside Job' and 'God' theories, how the theory makes no sense because it's actually the 13th time the Mayan Calendar has rolled over, how some people actually interpret the day as a positive shift in our planet, how all apocolyptic theories are pure psychobabble bullshit, and about how the Mayans couldn't even live in real houses or drive cars much-less predict the end of the world.

But I'm afraid I've unexpectedly persuaded myself to become a believer. The numbers just don't fucking lie, there's just so much evidence there. How could it not be true?

We're all fucked.


P.S. Don't forget to wish me an early Golden Birthday on December 20th, 2012. I'm afraid my party might be cancelled.

Public Enemy #1? Subpar Movies

Plot overview: The Feds try to take down notorious American gangsters John Dillinger, Baby Face Nelson and Pretty Boy Floyd during a booming crime wave in the 1930s.

My bubble of positive expectations had been inflating since I discovered this movie was in production some 11 or so months ago. As the hype built and people around me had been giving me positive feedback, I struggled with my patience.

Public Enemies fits its name quite conveniently when considering the attention span of your average movie-goer. The lack of interest I held during this movie left me as quite the fidgety fucker from beginning to end.

You can only imagine my disappointment when I was blindsided with the mediocrity of this film from the very first scene. The color palette, however befitting, was dull and uninspiring; and the camera work was reminiscent to the capabilities of a digital camera. The actors were out of focus, the angles were unprofessional, and the herky-jerky motions felt a bit too much like The Blair Witch Project.

As the film progressed, the only thing keeping it from turning into a dull History Channel special was the complete disrespect for facts and time lines. After doing some research, I was surprised to find that the "Based on a true story" film was far from realistic, and was more of a mash-up of almost-events surrounding John Dillinger's life. In all honesty, Michael Mann could've renamed the characters, changed locations, and no one would be able to distinguish the story as having to do with Dillinger's life at all.

At no point in the film was I engaged or drawn into the story. I'm still confused about how Mann pulled off creating a movie that evoked no emotion. In retrospect, it unsettlingly felt like movie purgatory.

Overall, this movie was more like a scrapbook than anything else. It copy and pasted scenes, one after another, with little to no fluidity. The performances were unmemorable, and the cinematography average. It was very cold, very matter-of-fact (ironically despite it being anything but).

I'm saddened and a bit reluctant to say: if you're going to invest money in two and half hours of movie entertainment, you'd be better off sitting through Transformers 2.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not saying Transformers 2 (1/5, to be generous) was a better film than Public Enemies, I'm saying it was more entertaining. I'd rather sit through two and a half hours of Megan Fox being a sexy, scowling bitch and watching shit blow up than spending the same time watching Michael Mann fail miserably with what should've been a compelling story and two of Hollywood's current elite actors.

2/5.

No Tears for the Fallen

Death is not a clean slate, death does not make you innocent. Every death is not a tragedy.

With celebrity death on the rise, I've noticed my sympathy failing to keep up with that of everyone else's. I can't bring myself to forgive and forget that easily. Death is not a fucking magic eraser.

Heath Ledger. Farah Fawcett. Michael Jackson. Billy Mays. Steve McNair.

The only one who hits the proverbial 'tragedy button' for me is Billy Mays. He was a man in his apex, he was a man of the people who helped everyone he could, and he was all around a good and caring guy. Many people loved Billy Mays, but most didn't even know why.

I'm also willing to compromise that McNair and Fawcett's deaths were a touch upsetting and untimely, although it's not as though either were role models or great losses. Fawcett was a known drug addict who wasn't afraid to flaunt it in public mediums, and McNair was a cradle-robbing adulterer. Even before and after their deaths, people had lost interest in them. Fawcett was barely news breaking as she was overshadowed by Michael, and McNair wasn't even a featured story anywhere outside of ESPN. I don't understand why we're hung up for more than a moment over the losses of these two. They're just people, no more valuable than you or me, when multitudes of other people died these same days, and we could care less. I can't make sense of it.

But then there's the two who are prime examples for the point I'm trying to make. Michael Jackson and Heath Ledger. Both elite talents in their fields, both award winning entertainers, both extremely skilled. But none of that is justification for overlooking that they killed themselves. Maybe intentionally, maybe on accident, it doesn't matter, they both decided to consume lethal volumes of drugs, and unsurprisingly got to the point of OD. I can't be convinced that Heath didn't know better than to mix 8 prescription pills, all pills he clearly sought after and coveted. I can't be convinced Michael hadn't been a long-time user who knew his habits would inevitably catch up to him. Both killed themselves, while alive, and to end their life. They didn't seem to care that they were leaving their children behind, Michael didn't care about his $400 Million debt situation, Ledger didn't care about his commitment to The Imagination of Dr. Parnassus. So why should we all be so fucking upset? Because we're starstruck? It's not as if anyone had cared about or liked Jackson in his final years, he had fallen from grace financially, he was accused of child molestation, his songs weren't on the radio and his videos were never shown on TV, his severe plastic surgery was the butt of relentless jokes, and he was unabashedly scrutinized about his fatherhood. But he dies, and our facade quickly changes to one of mourning? His songs and videos are played world-wide? Millions try to get tickets to his funeral at the Staples Center? Everyone bawls their fucking eyes out and calls it tragedy? Ledger starts being called the greatest film actor of his day? He wins an Oscar that some believe he didn't deserve? The sales of his films sky-rocket? Everyone bawls their fucking eyes out and calls it tragedy?

It doesn't add up for me. I have a short amount of sympathy for those who don't deserve it and for those who are the bearers of their own demise. If you want to be upset about something, be upset about the war casualties because some towel-head sets off an IED, be upset about the still-born babies who don't even get a chance to fuck their lives up, be upset about civil servants who lose their lives simply trying to do their mediocre blue-collar jobs. Don't get caught up on people based on their celebrity, who only live to let you down, and then kills themselves when they can't cope with the shit they've gotten themselves into. They're just people. People Die.

- The Christian Pankow.


P.S. RIP Michael! You're an icon and we'll never forget you! <3

Pray For Our Troops

I have little to no self-restraint. It's just in my nature to get upset when I see asinine shit surrounding and boxing me in. I swear it'll be the death of me, as I can never let anything roll of my shoulders, and they say stress is an easy way to an early grave.

Walking out of Wal-Mart, post-soda run, a bumper sticker grabs my attention. Ironically, it's as bland as possible, it reads: 'Pray For Our Troops'.

For a slight moment, I'm so fucking irritated, that I think I'm on the verge of coughing blood.

Now, I'd like to think that from my 14 or so years of experience with Christianity, as well as a great deal of general knowledge, that I have a fair grasp on the Christians' core belief system. If I know as much as I presume I do, "God is perfect" and "God has a plan and purpose for everyone." From basic logic, one would be able to deduct that if "he is perfect" and "he has a plan" that his "plan" would have to be "perfect" as well. That all adds up quite cleanly, so far so good. Unfortunately, what doesn't seem to add up, is where prayer factors into his "perfect plan".

Prayer is a complete contradiction to the Christians' beliefs and is both disrespectful and incredibly vain. It'd only make sense for someone to pray if they believed their prayer would influence change in "God's perfect plan", a plan which could not feasibly change for the better if it were in fact "perfect". Making me assume that any good, praying Christian thinks they know better than their incompetent God, considering even they don't trust him to make the right decision on his own. God, the all-knowing, omnipotent being apparently needs to work off a fucking cheat sheet.

Even if prayer was an effective and reasonable tool, why would it ever be okay to use it in order to ask for success in going against God's will? 10% of God's commandments are "Thou Shalt Not Kill". You'd have to be insane to expect God to just fucking flip-flop on himself like that, and assist you in your blatant disobedience. That's on par with asking God to hold your hand through deceiving your spouse amidst an affair with your slutty assistant or wishing to be blessed with success in the armed-robbery of your local Mom N' Pop Gas Station.

I also struggle to believe that God would respond to hokey popularity contest like a fucking All-Star game. Where if the U.S. manages to pray-vote for its troop at a more dramatic rate than the Middle Easterners pray-vote for theirs, then God has no choice but to be partial to the U.S. This, of course, is despite him "creating all of his children equally" and already "having a (perfect) plan."

The irrationality and contradictions that are pathetically prevalent in Christianity never fail to baffle me. I wish just once a Christian had the balls to admit they're wrong, or at least contrive a respectable counter-argument, instead of copping out with the typical "I have faith" bullshit. Nobody is buying it.

- The Christian Pankow.


P.S. I've come down with a bit of the flu, your prayers are heavily appreciated.