George Lucas is the Devil

Dear George,

We’ve been through so much together, you and me and all my money, haven’t we? I’ve been needing to talk to you for so long, but you’ve been so busy for the past 10 years making those ‘movies’ and counting all of my money (do you still swim naked through your vault like you loved to do?) and I got caught up with puberty and finding college kids to buy me alcohol and light petting and it just never seemed like the right time. Maybe if I had been braver, came to you with my concerns when they first arose we wouldn’t be at this point. So, for that, I blame myself… but then again, we’ve never been too good at really talking to one another, have we? It’s all seemed so one sided… I always felt so in the dark, listening to you telling those same damn stories I found so charming in the beginning.


The good ole days 

I began to get worried way back in 83 with Return of the Jedi… Empire was so good and Reagan was in office and we were all flying high on love and the bull market. You knew the expectations were high, but you were so confident and sure of yourself that I fell under your spell for a third time. And you know what, George Lucas? You did it. You made sure no one could ever make fun of your flannel again.  The movie was great – critically acclaimed, moving, compassionate, lots of shit blowing up – I couldn’t have asked for more.  Looking back, the signs were there, but I just ignored them.

Yes. Fuck yes.

No.  Just No.

And here, George Lucas, is where we both know the cracks started to appear.  You had more money than god and were pitching a perfect game and thought you could do no wrong.  If only you would’ve talked to me first…

…Seriously?

As the technology kept getting more advanced you let your imagination run wild. I stood by your side the whole time, George Lucas. Remember when you wanted to print some more money and remade the trilogy? I was right there with you and sat through them all again, feeling like we were making our way back to where we once were. Even though you tried to gay-up Han Solo, I just let it slide.

Un-Gayable 

 

And things were good for a time – I hit a rough patch and had to sell all of my figures to pay for my first year of school, but I still had you, and you had my money and it was like 1977 all over again.

But let me get down to brass tax here, George Lucas — things didn’t last. The build-up to the prequels was unfathomable, but all you had to do was tell the same story in the same way, and everything would have been ok.  All you had to do George Lucas, was flash some lightsabers, cut up some aliens and show some shit levitating. With all your money and technology you could have accomplished absolutely anything, George! Taken over an island nation, carved your face into the moon, finally invented hover-skateboards!  ANYTHING, man!  And this is what I got-

This thing

We’ve changed, George – you, and me, and my wallet. Gone are the days when it will just open its bi-fold for you anytime you feel frisky. I need something more than a mere shadow of what we once had — I need the real deal – I need a Darth Vader thats evil because he’s a fucking bad-ass, not because he’s a whiny 20 year-old with a crush. I need a hot heroine who will strip down, not run into Sherwin Williams to touch up her makeup. I need a rough-around-the-edges smuggler type who’s willing to gamble everything for the girl. I need a Boba Fett that isn’t the unadulterated brother of every storm trooper in the galaxy. I need Jedi who don’t lay down and die when an old man jumps over a table at them. (Really, I thought they were fucking JEDI).

But just when I thought you had hit rock bottom, when I thought there was no possible way you could screw the pooch any worse, you gave us all this-

Any guesses?

Ziro the Hutt. Jabba the Hutt's anglophone, transsexual cousin. Yeah, this is a real character. Honestly.

A quarter century and 4 billion dollars later and the best you can come up with is a transsexual-ish gay slug? What the hell, George? Let me get right to the all caps part, George Lucas – YOU SUCK. YOU ARE REALLY, REALLY, SO COMPLETELY AND IRREVOCABLY AWFUL.  EVERY IDEA YOU’VE HAD SINCE DARTH VADER HAS BEEN A STEAMING, RANCID PILE OF DIARRHEA-TRASH. You think you’d be where you were if you had pitched Howard-the-fucking-Duck to Twentieth Century Fox before Star Wars? Can you name one character you’ve created in the past 25 years who hasn’t sucked ass? Mace Windu (Samuel L Jackson? SERIOUSLY)? Count Dooku? Short stack from the Indy movies?  Here’s a tip, asshole  – FILM A MOVIE WITHOUT CG AND IT MIGHT NOT MAKE SOME PART OF ME DIE.

So, George Lucas, I just want you to know that we are done and I’m over you and I don’t want you calling anymore or writing me or sending me your catalogues or trying to convince me that R2 can fly because we all no that makes no goddamn sense. I don’t want us to forget the good times we had, but seriously, we’re done now. I can’t put myself through this anymore. So please, don’t try to contact me or my money, we don’t want to talk to you.

Until you make a Ziro the Hutt figure. I’ll probably still buy that.

For all the haters out there – www.thepeoplevsgeorgelucas.com – Hate On!

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Lexicon Addendum: Predation, Continued

While our site is devoted to three different modules– eat, prey, and hate– the one requiring the most explanation for the casual reader remains “prey.”  Indeed, we have loosely defined predation on the sidebar of the homepage, and The Lawgiver has added a note of explanation in a recent post.

Still, as The Lawgiver notes, ‘predation’ is a “loaded term… contingent and contextual.”  I would add to this deft qualification another: that “predation” as a term fails to capture predation as a practice.  This is one of the times when language is inadequate to fully encapsulate reality.  Nevertheless, despite the difficulty of the task, I continue the attempt here to more closely sketch an outline of predation.

I will do so by using the variability of language to my advantage; that is, I will reference this site and its use of the term “predation” as a way to more clearly define how EPH defines it.

The title of this web page, “Avoiding Predation,” refers to the need in the animal kingdom to not be eaten.  In short, the page highlights the remarkable adaptations that certain animals have developed to avoid becoming prey (and to a lesser extent, the ways that some predators have adapted to keep eating).  These adaptations include mimicry, camouflage, and chemical defenses.  EPH could easily make the case that such adaptations in the animal kingdom to avoid predation are actually predatory in themselves, but let’s leave that aside for now.

There's some food here somewhere...

Rather, let’s focus on some of the language of this valuable web page to exhibit how too many in the human race also assiduously avoid predation.  First, the page notes that “Many animals are patterned to blend in with their surroundings.”  This is nowhere more true than in the human realm.  As a recent post of mine demonstrates, people often seek to look and dress alike.  What’s worse, people often also go past this surface-level conformism to seek to be invisible.  This practice is highly un-predatory.  Those who wish to blend in are not individuals.  They are the meek, the passive, the subordinate.  When someone asks, “Who will stand with me,” these people look about them to see if everyone else is going to heed the call.  Only then will they step forward, and sometimes not even then.

Indeed, as the “Avoiding Predation” site further argues, those who fear predation adapt camouflage or masquerade as something they are not in order to hide from danger.  As EPH has repeatedly contended, to predate is to step to danger and give it a crotch chop.  It is to say, “Hey, danger.  I thought that was you.  No, no, don’t go slinking away now, you little bitch.  You know the name of the game, fool.  It’s Donkey Kong Country now.  Let’s do this.”

In the animal kingdom, running with the pack or pretending to be a stick makes sense (because who wants to be eaten fresh out the womb or cocoon?).  However, to do so as a human being is to deny predation.  Ironically, to treat oneself as potential prey is, indeed, to avoid predation.   We here at EPH live to avoid avoiding predation, and we ask for others to heed the call.  Who will come with us?

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Daily Predation: Sydney Slammer

You probably haven’t read it here first. The video is pretty much all over the tubes by now–a story of an unlikely hero, violent harassment, and glorious comeuppance. For those of you who missed it, though, behold an object lesson in reciprocity, courtesy of Casey “The Punisher” Haynes:

 

(Reportedly, YouTube keeps pulling the video; here’s an alternative source, just in case.)

As the saying goes, “Punch me once, shame on you. Punch me twice, I’ll fuckin’ break you in half.” If that’s not proper and righteous predation (see sidebar re: standing against odds, sweeping the leg, etc.), I do not know what is. Sure, it’s a little more complicated than that. As an avowed pacifist, I do not necessarily embrace body-slamming as a viable method of conflict resolution. As someone who had to deal with bullies throughout greater part of childhood and adolescence, however, I can only say: Bravo, Casey. Bravo. May this display of chutzpah and upper body strength be an inspiration to victims of bullying everywhere.

As for bullies… Go on, keep it up. Chances are, the next time you push someone too far and get the long-overdue ass-whooping, we will all get to see it. Ain’t technology grand?

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Mount Up, Fellow Angels

The world is a far sadder place today with the announcement of the passing of Nathaniel Hale, AKA Nate Dogg.  For over a decade, Nate Dogg defined what a West Coast hook sounded like, and he gave us some of the most memorable 15-second snippets of song from the last 20 years.  Speaking for my own cohort, I can say truthfully that rarely a week goes by that I or a friend of mine does not make some “The Next Episode” or “Regulators” reference.  Just the other day, “Regulators” was played on a juke box, and no fewer than 5 of my friends made sure I was hearing it.  “Hey, Zaius– you getting this?!”  “Mount up,” I said.  At the very least, whenever I encounter a reference to smoking weed, I hear Nate Dogg’s iconic verse in my head: “Hey-ya-ya-ay-ya-ay.  Smoke weed every day!”

More than we sometimes acknowledge, we think through the media that we encounter, and among singers, Nate Dogg’s unique, melodic style seemed to reverberate with me– and with millions of others.  For the last few years, fans have waited anxiously to see whether Nate would recover from the multiple strokes that left him a ghost of the man he once was.  Alas, he has apparently lost his earthly battle.  However, here’s thinking that if heaven needs a hook, Nate will soon be getting a call.

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Eat, Prey, Hate Lexicon Entry 1: Defiantly

Here at Eat, Prey, Hate,while we may hate many things, if there is one thing we do love, it is language. (No homo. Well, maybe just a little homo…) As such, we have gathered quite a wide vocabulary and have a tenancy to use specialized jargon that may at time be unfamiliar to outsiders. Indeed, there has already been some confusion amongst our ranks over the meaning of some of these specialized terms. Therefore, in the attempt to minimize further misunderstandings, we have decided to begin to define some of our terms.

Do Your Resoarch, Morans!

Therefore, I give you the first entry in the Eat, Prey, Hate Lexicon:

defiantly. adverb. Not to be confused with definitely.

  1. brazenly unequivocally; 110% positively.
  2. used to boldly express complete agreement or strong affirmation.

Example:

“Are you sure he grabbed her by the anus with both hands?”
“Defiantly!”

If You Don't Know, Now You Know.

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Bring the Kitsch: Roadhouses and Chopped Steak

I was just driving through a mountainous, and thus comparably isolated, region of the United States.  While stopping to get gas, I saw and decided to enter a true American cultural institution: the roadhouse.  For those not in the “know,” a roadhouse was once a place located outside city limits, where one could generally find dinner, booze, and carousing.  It was (and to an extent in some areas, still is) a seedy stop along the roadside, a place where inhibitions were lost almost as often as fiancees.

This guy throws up DOUBLE deuces to all trouble-makers. RIP, Dalton.

The place I visited is one of the more modernized pastiches of roadhouses, the rustic steakhouse.  It was not one of the giant chains, like Texas Roadhouse or Logan’s Roadhouse, but it was of similar, if more local and charming, ilk.  There was a bucket of peanuts on every table and a layer of shells on the hardwood floor.  Littered around the restaurant were various markers of Westernness(?) –old tin cans; flour and meal in croker sacks, as if they came from the local mercantile; horseshoes and ropes.  The place was trying very hard to sell itself as a window into the past, into the Frontier, but from a rational perspective, it read more like a window into a Cracker Barrel.

Still, as I elbowed up to the bar, I was struck by how oddly effective the illusion was for me.  I felt like my cowboy boots should be echoing on the dirty floor planks, that I should remove my hat and set it on the bar.  “Whiskey,” I would say, because that would be all I needed to say.  There was one kind of drink, and I would be ordering it.  A relatively dusty but comely whore in a once-ornate dress and lace gloves would saunter down from the upstairs hotel and offer me some company.  “Figurin’ on settin here a spell,” I’d say, “I ain’t et and I aim to have a nip at this ‘yere bottle. But if you’s around after a time, I reckon I might have a mind ta tup ya.  Barkeep–menu!”

Yowza!

Then, I’d see much the same menu as I saw at this roadhouse: steak, steak, and steak.  With potatoes.  And in huge portions.  At the modern roadhouse, I ordered the 12-ounce(!) chopsteak with loaded potato, and that came with a hefty salad and all the rolls I could eat.  Though I knew that 12 ounces was three-quarters of a pound, I was still surprised by how much meat was on that plate.  The fully loaded baked potato looked like a pebble beside that rounded slab of cow flesh.  But man, was it good.  It was cooked on a grill, and the flame-kissed-ness was ridiculous.  In addition, the potato was stuffed with sour cream, cheese, real bacon, and a bucket of butter, assuring me that I would not go back into the harsh Western environment without a proper layer of fat to bolster me against the cold nights.  In addition, I drank a kettle-full of iced tea.  Oh, I almost forgot to mention that the steak came with sauteed mushrooms and a side-trough of gravy, so there was that, too.

After stuffing myself so full that I feared a clothing malfunction, I looked about me, and the mirage started to fade a bit.  There were no cowpokes to be found, but rather, hordes of hefty, hefty people about me; and instead of chaps and blue jeans, they wore flip-flops and bahama mama shirts.  In addition, I hadn’t noticed that beside the door was a fully digital jukebox, ready to spit out all the latest Curren$y hits.

But, before the dream could fade completely, I paid my bill and got out of there.  Though I would nearly fall asleep and die on the drive home, I had sweet memories of my not-that-unique, but jaunty experience with the Old West at a probably super-corporate steakhouse.  I know that I was horn-swaggled, but durn if I didn’t like ever’ minute of it!

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When preds make a commercial

Eat + Predation = Winning.

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