Get up, come on get down with the sickness!!!

Hey there readers, it's me: Matt McClane, the guy who runs this blog.

Obviously it's been a while since my last post, and I'll be happy to fill you in on the action-packed details of my life since.

1. I worked.

2. I worked some more.

3. I somehow contracted the flu virus.

4. I've laid on my couch, suffering from said flu, for the past three days.

5. I've mastered the art of not sleeping. At all.

6. I've learned that having a steady fever as high as 102 degrees for three days in a row can really wreck your schedule. Actually, I doubt I'll even remember writing this.

(If so: Hey, McClane, you dumb bastard!! You wrote this on Thursday!! You don't remember writing this, huh? Ha. Maybe you'll remember how you drove down to the Pilot and scored with a 6'3 woman truck driver in the bathroom? Sucker!!!!)

7. I watched Nancy Meyers' "The Holiday," which I'm convinced is one of the best films I've seen in the past several years.

8. My mission to successfully write an entire symphony based on bloody mucus went down in flames after the second movement fell completely apart.

9. I had a high-feverish dream / vision that I was trapped inside the giant house from Busta Rhymes' "Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Can See" video. (Giant elephant + fish-eye lens = panic attack.)

10. I will never, ever use the term "chillin" for any whimsical purpose. For example, if somebody asks me how I'm doing, I will never, ever say, I'm chillin'. Chilling, as I've learned, has a far more sinister, evil and completely terrifying meaning... and it should not be used in any way to indicate happiness, apathy or relaxation. No, actual chillin', in fact, will fuck you straight up.

Last night I was shivering so much (and just couldn't stop) that I couldn't even read the dosage warning on the back of a pill bottle from my entire body quivering like an earthquake. It seriously gave me a whole new level of understanding for people with Parkinson's Disease. Not being able to control your body is the scariest thing I've experienced in a while, and God be with all those people out there who have to live with this kind of thing. Absolutely terrifying.

Well readers, that's all I've got. Apparently, I'm highly contagious (says my doctor), so if you're reading this blog, there's a good chance you're already infected. Be sure to wash your hands and face after you close your browser. If you happen to contract this horrifying sickness too, come on over and we can play some Monopoly or something. I can only watch "Total Recall" so many times before I go slowly insane from cabin fever.

Send me your "get well soon" vibes and I'll sure keep you posted!

Coughing up stuff that resembles a Uwe Boll film,

-McClane

Are you Pickey? You should be.

Hey blog team,

Today I want to urge you to take a second to roll over to a certain Web site that I really love. I probably love it because this is the Web site that saved my life. How, you ask? Let me spin this story for you:

Basically, I was back packing in a deep crevasse a few weeks ago, and I stumbled upon a totally new civilization.

The people there were okay... nothing really special or anything. One guy, in particular, had a pretty awesome beard. Some other guy talked with a Russian accent, I think. At first they didn't accept me... they gave me confused looks and stared at my belt buckle. Finally, one of them spoke, but his speech was completely non-discernible. It was a fuzzy, blurry type of dialect.

I tried everything I could to literally teach them the English language. It was a laborious process of drawing crude pictures in the sand and using dramatic hand gestures. Years later, one of them would approach me with a tear and tell me that he'd told his mother that he always loved her, and he asked for her forgiveness for losing the dog... all spoken in English.

Not only was I touched, but I was also proud. Proud of this new civilization. Soon, I thought, they would begin to construct things, and enter into an age of industry. The future seemed bright ahead for them.

Eventually I would come to my senses and realize that I'd been drunk as hell, hanging out in the alley behind Market Square, hanging out with homeless people and employees of the Preservation Pub and the World Grotto. It was a shock, but one that I needed to experience, I guess.

At any rate, back to the Web site. All I can say is that this Web site came out of nowhere to save me in the parking lot from a copperhead snake. That's all I'm saying.

So stop procrastinating and head over to see THIS SITE, created by one of my greatest friends on the entire planet... my brother from another mother and one of my all-time inspirations for living on this planet... Chris Pickey.

This guy has been a tremendous light in my life—full of wonderful ideas, creativity and amazing talent. He's a great dad, an amazing designer, and a fantastic human being. Cheers to you, Mr. Pickey! You've officially got some love from the McClane Tirade!!!!

While you're viewing his cool stuff, listen to his music—which is awesome. Also, if you've still got a cravin' for the 1,000-horsepower, bombastic powers of his choral assault, go over HERE and dig into some tracks. It would be good for you.

Have fun, take care, spread the love, and buy some bird feed!!!!!!

Holla at a player.

-M

Hot Dogs & Molecular Transfer Rays

Hey ramblers, let's get rambling.

A while back, my buddy Mark Bernard and I were solving the world's problems by discussing how awesome Galactus' helmet is, or possibly how wonderful the New Avengers series has turned out to be... when suddenly he hit me with a thought.

"I could have dreamed this, but I could have sworn there was a cartoon in the 80's where a kid would eat hot dogs and transform into a car."

That struck me as being extremely familiar, amazingly random, and unbelievably brilliant. Just image it: you're a boy. You eat a hot dog. You transform into a Firebird. All in all, what a great option that gives you for picking up chicks.

Instead of trying to reel them in with compliments, pick-up lines, money or untold riches... you can just consume a super-hot penis-shaped mixture of pork, beef, chicken and heavy, unhealthy doses of fat, sodium and nitrate and change your entire body into a freakin' Ferrari.

Then you can say, "Get out of my dreams... and into... me."

Yeah, yeah, it's too easy, I know. This kind of joke gets pretty burned out super fast, but by God, we'll forge on somehow.

At any rate, this TV show DID indeed exist, and it was called Turbo Teen. After doing some research, I found the premise and ideology behind this series incredibly fascinating. Basically, he's a rambunctious teen named Brett Matthews, out to get some tail in this new badass 80's red convertible that his dad just bought him. He's listening to his brand-new Flock of Seagulls album in a lightning storm, and flies right off the damn road into a mega-super-secret nuclear military genetic research facility where some crazy mad scientist has rigged up some gene splicer laser beam that apparently combines molecules and rearranges matter. He calls it a "Molecular Transfer Ray."

You still with me?

So this teen just drives straight through the building, and ends up getting caught directly in the path of this laser cannon. I've said it before, readers, and I'll say it again: This is not lucid. Don't believe me? Watch for yourself:



He says that "an experiment was underway," but what the hell were they experimenting on?? There was nothing there... they were just randomly shooting this laser beam at the floor when Turbo Teen came barreling through the door like Kramer from Seinfeld.

Also: the words, "... causing me and my car to become one," is probably my favorite quote of the whole month. Next to the one about milkshakes.

Okay, so then you get the wacky adventures of this kid who transforms into a car. Oh yeah, where do the hot dogs come in, you ask? Well hell yeah.. the thing about hot dogs is that they mostly come hot. Apparently, when this kid gets hot, he transforms into an 80's Ferrari. When he gets cold, he changes back to a boy. Yeah... I know what you're thinking. Sometimes your feet are cold as hell but your hands are a-okay, right? Sometimes you're freezing, but your extra socks make you warm in your toes.

Turbo Teen also had this problem. When a giant tank shoots ice ray laser beams at Abraham Lincoln's face, Turbo Teen takes a big hit on his hood. Let's see what happens:



"They're gonna PAY for that!!!!!!!"

Obviously, nobody dicks around with Abraham Lincoln when Alex, the 80's token black kid, is around. (You can do the math and figure out why, I guess.)

And this brings us to a totally new angle... what the hell happens if you're cruising around as a car, on some crime-fighting adventure, thwarting evildoers with a totally sexy babe in the driver's seat, playing with your gear shift, pumping your brakes, turning your knobs and thoroughly adjusting your seat at 70 mph....and suddenly it starts raining on you, and you get cold??

Yeah, that's right, readers: you're going to kill that chick instantly, and more than likely, kill yourself too. That would be rough as hell, since the chick would technically be sitting on your left kidney, and using your large intestines as the steering wheel. DAMN YOU, DOCTOR CHASE AND YOUR DAMNED MOLECULAR TRANSFER RAY!!!!!!

That's rough as hell.

Let's take a look at another astonishing obstacle for Turbo Teen: getting hot at inappropriate times. It would be a freaking nightmare to have sex. Seriously, it would be completely impossible. You'd just be getting started when your penis literally turns into a giant, rusty aluminum exhaust pipe. I don't know about you, ladies, but to me that sounds like the most terrifying thing since Halle Berry's Catwoman in 2005. Also: if you were on top, her entire body would be crushed into pulp by your drive shaft. Whew.

Let's get a closer look at this kind of inappropriate situation:



See, this poor bastard can't even play an arcade game without getting some warm pizza splashed on him, turning him into a giant car in the middle of the arcade. Now that's insane stuff. We ask ourselves: how the hell does he get out of this one? Did he finish his game? He probably wasted a quarter on Space Invaders. If he knew he was changing into a giant car, shouldn't he have made a better effort to run towards the door? He might not have made it into the mall before his ass turned into a rear differential, but maybe he'd be clear of the innocent stand-up arcade games.

Plus, maybe he'd be closer to the Dippin' Dots kiosk. Those things are pretty cold. Maybe if Alex jammed some Dippin' Dots in his radiator, he'd totally be able to finish Space Invaders? Just a thought.

So take a look at your problems. Bills? Relationship problems? Health? Loneliness? Well... whatever it is, forget about it. At least you're not a teen who turns into a car every time you eat a hot dog. It puts things in perspective, huh?

I can't make this shit up, life is absolutely awesome.

Eating less than two hot dogs a week so I don't get brain tumors,

-McClane

P.S. "NOW TO FULFILL MY DESTINY!!!!!"

Idea: Start a Religious Cult

Word up, readers, it's me: the McClane guy who runs this blog.

It's been a little while since my last post, and you're just going to have to deal with the fact that life just isn't fair sometimes. We both know that your Christmas wish of getting a new Tirade post every single day has already been blown to shit, so let's hop on the reality bus and settle into the disappointment seat.

While I wish the reason for this delay is because I quit my job and moved down to Key West to simultaneously scuba dive for lost treasure and have never-ending sex with Kate Hudson... unfortunately it's just due to me working a lot.

Also, to add some Havoline-lubricated oil to this procrastination fire, my phone blew up this week. Basically, if any of you readers out there have tried to contact me and noticed that I haven't called you back, let's take this pop quiz:

You haven't heard from me because:

(a) I don't give a damn about you or your bad leg.
(b) My phone is a huge piece of garbage.
(c) I skipped the country to raise an army of fierce warriors.
(d) I was killed by a pack of ravenous wild dogs.

If you guessed (b), you're right... but (c) was a close second.

Leaving work tonight, I tallied up the 'ole hours, and it seems that due to a post RE-design of a magazine re-design, I've accumulated 116 hours in two weeks. Usually I wouldn't pay much attention to these kinds of things, but this new job requires that I actually log my hours. Since I've been doing the whole re-re-design thing, I've never really noticed the actual time. I just mostly zone out into right-brain land, and then notice (out of nowhere) that I haven't pissed, eaten, blinked or farted in more than eight hours. This strikes me as being pretty weird, but I guess it's just the nature of the beast. At least that's what my bosses tell me. They wouldn't lie about this kind of thing... right???

So I felt bad for leaving you in the dark, so here I am with another action-packed blog posting to add to my "IDEA" series.

All this "spending-so-much-time-at-work" jazz has got me thinking a lot lately about ways to make money without doing that whole work thing. I guess that's the American dream, or something, but if you're reading this right now and haven't thought the same thing: you're a communist renegade robot Benedict Arnold.

I think there's plenty of ways to accomplish this. I'm sure you could probably list way more than I could, but here's a few brainstorming ideas to get your balls rolling:

1. Figure out a way to surgically bond a set of giant, metallic, self-aware robotic arms to your back, go on a city-wide rampage and rob the nearest national bank you come across.

2. Donate tons and tons of sperm.

3. Dig a tunnel from old woman's basement into a nearby treasury, steal the money while tricking the woman into thinking you're part of a gospel music band.

4. Impersonate an impoverished woman who's overcome shit-tons of obstacles... get on the Oprah show... get a car... drive across the country with your cross-dressing partner, getting into all kinds of wacky adventures along the way. Later: drive off a cliff.

5. Invent an enormous laser cannon that shrinks stuff down to the size of a peanut. Accidentally shoot your family... send them on a wild adventure through your back yard, fighting off ants, scorpions and rain drops. If they don't die (most likely they will), sell your story to Hollywood, live off the interest for years. Oh yeah, also get a patent on that laser.

So all these are pretty great ideas, sure, but the big one I'm here to write about tonight is:

Idea: Start a Religious Cult

The first thing you're going to need before you start making giant piles of cash, just like Scrooge McDuck's classic "Money Bin," is a place to hold your weekly meetings.

(Editor's note: If I didn't take a second to mention how insanely scary and simultaneously awesome Scrooge McDuck's Money Bin is... I'd be captain lame-man. I think that's another blog posting all to itself, and I might just follow up on that one.)

I hate to break it to you, dreamers, but you can't exactly have a religious cult meeting at your local elementary school gymnasium. Something like this requires you to set aside some major real-estate out in some abandoned corn field or bankrupt construction site. If you can't find one, it's time to get creative. You may need to head down to your local courthouse, fill out a religious cult permit and set aside some space in a nearby city-owned warehouse, or tobacco barn. Whatever you can find, as long as it will accommodate more than 200+ trusted followers.

Next up: get your theme music ready.

No self-respecting religious cult rocks out to Genesis, bud. This is absolutely nothing against Phil Collins. You can ask anybody I know how much I love Phil Collins on the "I Can't Dance" meter, and they'll easily tell you that I'm turned up to a level 11.

No, what I mean is that you can't have your brainwashed disciples coming into your tobacco barn listening to "I Wish It Would Rain Down." Let me recommend getting some Dragonforce. If you haven't had your inner-cortex obliterated by these guys, let me handle that for you right here:




Now that you've got your spot picked out and your theme music all lined up, let's talk about your initiation. You don't want to just let anybody in this cult. After all, what you think could be devoted cult enthusiasts wearing goat skins could actually be Tom Hanks and Dan Akroid coming to rescue some chick you're planning to sacrifice.

Let me tell you something right now, readers: you do not want this kind of thing to happen. Your sacrifices must happen without interruption, especially from Sgt. Joe Friday and his wily partner, Pep Streebeck.

I would recommend a simple background check, drug test, credit report and two-minute beating. Make sure they're solid cult material.

Next thing you'll need to focus on is your brainwashing techniques. No, readers, a simple gold watch on a chain won't do the trick, even if it's broadcasted across your giant projection screen in the back of the tobacco barn. Instead, try a fuzzy, stuffed animal tied with a string on a stick. Trust me on this one... it almost worked for Pee Wee Herman, and if it's good enough for Pee Wee, you can bet your ass it's good enough for me. The important thing is to find a technique that will work for you. Who knows, it might be porn. Maybe soft-core porn. Let me know if that does anything for you.

When you've got your giant crowd of disaffected, rebellious emo kids and bored bankers and lawyers bending to your mighty will, let them know that it's time to pay the piper. You let them know (with an assertive, authoritative voice over your loudspeaker system) that a tightly-knit social network like this doesn't come free. Sororities and fraternities charge people to be a part of their clubs all the time... so should you!!!!

If they can't pay the membership cost up-front, have them pay it after you've brainwashed them. If the emo kids try to pull that "I don't have any money because a society based on capitalism doesn't deserve my respect" card, guzzle-chuck them in the damn throat and order them to steal the money from their parents... who gave up on loving them long ago. Either way, you're going to get a whole ton of cash. Get ready to move on up into another tax bracket, my friends. You're on the way to a whole new level of plane-owning and mustache-growing.

I don't know how far you want to take this idea, but if you're really dedicated to this cult thing, let me possibly suggest that you take a cue from one of my favorite "Inhumanoids" episodes: THE CULT OF DARKNESS.

VIEW PART ONE

VIEW PART TWO

Basically, it's pretty simple. After you've got your cult off the ground and running on auto pilot (by now you should have a second-in-command guy with a big snake mask that pretty much runs it for you, so all you have to do is sit in your big ass chair and nod and junk) ...follow these simple steps to take it to the next level:

1. Enlist the aid of a 30-foot-tall, pre-historic, underground-dwelling monster appropriately named, "D'Compose" to help you run the cult.

2. After you get your money, let the giant monster use his "powers of decay" to change your cult followers into bloodthirsty rampaging zombies.

3. Let the cult-zombies terrorize the city, while you and your snake-mask partner guy run around, stealing televisions and stuff from nearby department stores.

4. Retire to paradise.


Hey readers, it's an idea. Ideas are what you want, ideas are what you get. Take 'em or leave 'em, but either way, you can't say I didn't give you some good ones.

You guys take care out there in internet land. I'll see you on the flip side—and when I make it through this hellish week of deadline, I'll be serving up some more food for your thoughts. And love for your hearts.

Through the fire and flames,

-Dr. Bright

The New York Times and Backroom Politics.

I don't typically get into the whole political scene on a blog, but for all you Knoxvillians out there, this is just out-of-control interesting.

The New York Times has its eye on our jacked-up county commission.

Prettttttty amazing stuff.

-M

Corey McPherson: The Blog Master

Hey blog lovers,

Today one of my partners-in-crime, Corey McPherson, launched his new blog, that he created himself. This kind of thing is pretty amazing to me, since the last time I tried to invent my own blog, I accidentally ripped a hole in the space-time continuum and almost caused the whole world to totally implode on itself. Fortunately, Bruce Willis showed up in a space shuttle and saved the day.

Aside from all that crap, go check out Corey's blog and look at some of his super-sweet photography. He's shot stuff for the magazine and also kicks solid graphic-design ass.

Leave him some comments, too, and tell him I sent ya.

You'll receive a discount on your next ass beating, good for six months from time of purchase.

If you've got a problem... yo, I'll solve it.
Check out the hook... while Corey McPherson revolves it.

-McClane

An Absolute Masterpiece

I'm going to be honest with you, readers. I've seen a lot of movies in my day and a whole ton of really awesome performances. Without a doubt, Daniel Day-Lewis and his role as Daniel Plainview just ripped its way to the top of my list. "There Will Be Blood" will be rooted deeply as one of my favorite, most interesting films I've ever seen.



Seeing that film this afternoon was an earth-shaking time for me. There've been an uncountable amount of reviews floating around out there already, and with the Golden Globes and the soon-to-be Oscar event creeping up on us, you sure as hell don't need a review from me. However, it is very important that I make myself crystal clear: Daniel Day-Lewis' performance kept my jaw on the floor. It just stayed down there... mixed in with the dropped popcorn, the sticky cola-drenched concrete and a whole row of strangers' tennis shoes. Absolutely amazing stuff. Heartbreaking, gut-wrenching, inspiring, insanely engrossing and one of the most entertaining characters I have ever seen.

All this is pretty powerful stuff, sure, but what made it even more awesome was the fantastic experience in the theater. Let me tell you a little about this situation:

First thing's first: it's a very small theater. It's one of those that they jam in the very back for random art-house films or some shit that's really bad and about to be pushed out by a new Hannah Montana movie. I take my seat about midway up, and notice that it's covered up with an older crowd. I'd say the average age in there, as far as I could tell, was about 60.

Right behind me, two rows up, was a high school couple. This was very interesting to me. I could hear their conversation in the quiet moments before the previews, and they were your standard East Knoxville high school couple... talking about cell phones, crazy people coming into their work and how some chick's house was hit by a meteor, turning her and her entire family into bloodthirsty, rampaging zombies.

Editor's note: I made that last part up... but aren't you glad I did?

Anyway, so there I was with the old and the young. I had a pretty normal seating situation. There was a nice couple five and six seats over from the end. That left four seats to the end of the aisle. I took seat number two. That means I had two seats between me and the couple... one seat next to the aisle. You with me? Right on.

In the row in front of me... there were four chairs wide open, right next to each other. I took note of this. Behind me... the exact same.

As soon as the movie begins, in the darkness... three women came loudly rampaging in with giant sodas, popcorn, loud voices and carrying something in a loud plastic grocery bag. These were big women. In front of me were four seats. Behind me were four seats. Perfect.

Instead they came right into my row. I wondered where in the hell they thought they were going... because there were only two seats between me and the old couple. They all three stood right in front of me talking... and then one of them instructed the other to just sit on the other side of me (next to the aisle) while the other two sat on the other side of me.

This was not lucid.

So I just speak up and say, "Guys, do you want me to just move?"

The big one says, "If you don't mind?"

This is the part where "The McClane Factor" comes in. Why in the hell does this kind of shit happen to me? I'm looking at four empty seats in front of me and four in the back. This made no sense at all to me... but I just got up, rubbed up against one of them (no alternative there), and moved to the end of the aisle.

At this point, any other person would have just moved one row down, but to hell with that. It was the principle of the thing at that point. No way was I giving up my row to a bunch of weirdo popcorn-smakin' fat chicks on their way to see a P.T. Anderson film. I moved to the last seat and settled in.

As you may have heard, the entire beginning of this film has no spoken dialogue. It's very quiet and very compelling. It makes it incredibly realistic and instantly personal. I loved every second. The fat women did not. They opened up their loud plastic grocery bag and dug through it desperately. After distributing something (I honestly have no idea), the one right beside me whipped out the large soda. I like to think it was Diet Coke. It was so quiet in there, that I could follow this bubbly Diet Coke, literally, from the cup... up the straw... touching her lips... her lips smacking and sucking against it... it swishing around in her mouth... down her throat... gulping it down... and settling in her chest. Absolutely awesome.

This happened four or five times, and then came the popcorn.

I'm not sure how you feel about these kinds of things, but listening to a person chew in total silence makes me want to physically bite through a railroad tie. I absolutely loathe that sound. Multiply that times three and add a big, healthy dose of heavy breathing... and that's how I spent the first 20 minutes or so of "There Will Be Blood."

Suddenly, without warning, the high school couple came lumping down the stairs shaking their heads in total confusion. I couldn't say for sure, but I think they might have thought they were seeing "Strange Wilderness" instead. Daniel Day-Lewis and his mustache very well COULD be mistaken for Steve Zahn or maybe Jonah Hill. You never know.

Don't discount these kids, readers!!! Once when I was in high school, Jared and I were going to see some action movie (hopefully with Jackie Chan, but who really knows?), and we inadvertently ended up seeing the first 15 or so minutes of "The English Patient."

When I saw those confused looks, I completely empathized. I know EXACTLY that feeling. Face it guys, "There Will Be Blood" is really awesome... but Kevin J. O'Conner sure as hell ain't no Justin Long with Jesus hair. You do the math, bud.

However, to hell with all that... this movie is brilliant. It didn't take long for me to instantly become COMPLETELY engrossed in Day-Lewis' character. Every single moment watching this man was enthralling to me. The mustache, the dialect, the cool hat, the stagger, the stone-cold eyes... the tone of his voice, the tiny mannerisms and the violent tendencies. Just simply amazing.

I believe the fat women took this empathy to an all-new level, as they started their commentary. Most of the time I couldn't make out what they were saying, just a heavy breathing noise followed by short bursts of weird moans and hums. It was pretty creepy stuff... and it was always topped by the classic blurting out of: "Oh no, he's dead." Or: "Oh God, he's going to die." Or even: "Mmmm...mm."

Who knows what those wacky big girls were going to come up with next.

At any rate, the movie just kept blowing my mind with every new second. Every scene brought another and another and another electrifying moment packed with masterfully-written dialouge. It just never stopped impressing me. Every single moment.

With the last heart-pounding minute of the film gone, there was a moment of silence, and it seemed that the ladies had calmed it on down. From out of nowhere, this booming voice exclaims:

"I BELIEVE THAT WAS THE DUMBEST MOVIE I HAVE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE."

I turned around to see this old man, trying his best to get up from his seat, veering across the audience in hopes of seeing the same reaction in all the other jaded older people. I have no idea what he saw, but you can be damn sure that not a soul laughed at him. Afterwards, he should have probably pulled out his giant sign that read: "I never made it out of the 6th grade and I wish Rick Flair was my dad. Now that's real entertainment!!!"

Needless to say, I was already out the door with a big ass smile on my face. You've just got to love East Tennessee.

It's kind of like Daniel Plainview said:

"I see the worst in people. I don't need to look past seeing them to get all I need. I want to rule and never, ever explain myself. I've built my hatreds up over the years, little by little. I can't keep doing this on my own... with these... people."

So that's that, readers. Life changing film, inspiring, original and an absolute delight to watch. I give that four huge-ass throwing stars on the McClane "kill-ya-with-shuriken" meter. Even if I had to go through hell... it was worth every single second.

Drillin' and chillin',

-McClane