Twizzler Fingers

Posted in Films, Horror with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on October 5, 2008 by gothicusmaximus

I imagine many OMGABAT enthusiasts, as increasingly small as the number of people who might be described as such might be, often wonder, “Gothicus Maximus, author of my favorite glorified virtual diary, is a student at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, isn’t he? Although I am intimately familiar with his exceptional ability to whine about Dracula movies in a needlessly prolix fashion, so infrequently am I afforded a glimpse into his life as a mediocre author of drama and abysmal filmmaker,” then proceed to qualify that musing with either “that’s a shame” or “thank god.” Be this what you desire or what you dread, I have resolved to allow my readers to behold an example of the work whose creation occupies the majority of my time. 

Proceed at your own risk, bearing in mind, should you choose to do so, that both I and my single crew member are both writing majors, and therefore expecting us to use a camera proficiently is unreasonable. 

-Gothicus Maximus

I Need to Remind Everyone that Gothic Fiction is Badass

Posted in Literature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 28, 2008 by gothicusmaximus

Man, I sure haven’t been keeping my promise to update once weekly, but, as anyone who has ever called themselves my significant other knows all too well, I take my own promises about as seriously as I do Insane Clown Posse– that is to say, not very seriously at all. I break my solemn word like Crash Bandicoot broke crates, or like e.e. cummings broke from conventions regarding the composition of poetry. Nevertheless, I continue to update OMGABAT sufficiently frequently that the last time I did so might be said to have been ‘a week ago’ for convenience in a colloquial context, so I’m content. Purport that I’m rationalizing my irresponsibility if you so wish, but I’m content.

In this post, I’d like to address a disconcerting tendency I’ve perceived in individuals of an age roughly equal to my own, namely a liability to believe that Gothic Fiction is ‘lame’, ‘shit’, ‘lame shit’, or of some other, similar nature that renders the genre unworthy of attention. What misguided individual originated this at once horrifying and laughable idea I cannot guess, though I suspect Chuck Palahniuk on the grounds that the besmirchment of quality literature and the advancement of its opposite is in his interest, that information is irrelevant, for this mysterious propagandist and his disciples have no evidence in which to ground their slander, whereas I am prepared to weave a virtually impregnable defense of overwrought Victorian melodramas.     

If you’re a regular reader of OMGABAT, or have happened to notice that more of my posts fall into the category titled ‘Dracula’ than do into that titled ‘Music’, you may be anticipating the mention of a certain work of Bram Stoker’s, but indeed in this you are mistaken, as the tirade into which I am about to boldly forge concerns an entirely different macabre tale of ancient, decaying edifices and dead who yet tread the earth, one which, unlike the forementioned vampire yarn, never spawned a decent movie– Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights. 

I hear you scoff even as I write this, youth of today. “Have you finally forfeited every iota of reason you once possessed?” You’d ask, perhaps not so eloquently, “surely this 19th century romance cannot contend with the work of edgy Gen X scribes and their terse musings on such provocative subjects as booze, drugs, and whores?” In response to this challenge, I turn your attention to Chapter 13 of the book in question, constituted by Isabella’s letter to Nelly Dean imploring to be rescued from the tyranny of marriage to Heathcliff. An exchange between Isabella and Heathcliff’s adoptive brother Hindley, in which the latter articulates his desire to see Heathcliff killed, proceeds as follows:

‘Look here!’ he replied, pulling from his waistcoat a curiously- constructed pistol, having a double-edged spring knife attached to the barrel.

This book features a handgun with a knife on top of the barrel. This isn’t a musket or any sort of firearm for which a bayonet might be an appropriate accoutrement, it’s a pistol, secured to which is a knife that I imagine is at least as large as it is itself. A knife-gun, or a gun-knife if you prefer. Can a mortal intelligence conceive of a more badass machine?  “I know what you’re thinking, punk. Did I fire six shots, or only five? Doesn’t fucking matter, I’m going to cut your throat open!” Though her imagination was tempered by the level of technology extant during her lifetime, Bronte prefigured this: 

Moreover, while I doubt Mr. Palahniuk could hold his own in a Fight Club, Emily Bronte, having lived during a turbulent age in an area frequently beset by riots, was a fucking sharpshooter, and was more than capable, should the need arise, of knifegunning a foe into oblivion. My befuddlement as to why I can’t find a hard-boiled gunslinging poetess with whom to settle down is a diatribe for another day.

Perhaps I’ll fortify my argument with examples drawn from other staples of the Gothic genre at a later date, but, in the meanwhile, I challenge all who remain unconvinced of Wuthering Heights’ hardcore nature to produce a piece of prose which more effectively elicits from its reader the interjection ‘oh shit, you’re so fucked’ than does the inquiry posed by the young Linton as he travels to meet his father for the first time: “Is Wuthering Heights as pleasant a place as Thrushcross Grange?” The poor little shit has no idea what he’s getting himself into, they’ve got knifeguns up there.

— Gothicus Maximus

The Only Good Part of “True Blood” is the Title Sequence

Posted in Horror, Television with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 18, 2008 by gothicusmaximus

As a function the aggressive viral marketing campaign that surrounds it, I can declare with reasonable confidence that most denizens of the civilized world are not only privy to the recent premiere of HBO’s newest drama True Blood, but have some familiarity with its premise, which involves a substantial population of vampires revealing itself to society at large and struggling for acceptance therein. As I do not presently have a subscription to the network on which this program airs, I was unable to view its first episode upon its initial airing September 7th, and thus was at a loss to answer the veritable maelstrom of inquires as to my opinion on regarding the show with which I was met the following day. I scarcely exaggerate in saying that anyone even vaguely aware that I exist approached me at some point in the past week and put forth a challenge to the effect of “Hey Gothicus Maximus, what’d ya think of True Blood?”, all, perhaps unconsciously, resolving to forgo the logically precedent question as to whether I’d even watched it. My 19th Century English Novel professor put forth a pronounced effort, after I had slept through his class, to engage me in conversation in order to solicit my thoughts. 

Were my reaction to such a circumstance equivalent to that of the average individual, I would likely pause for a period of no more than three seconds to lament that, at this time, when my professors have assigned to me more reading than I can complete while maintaining even the most piteous excuse for a social life, I am unable to devote any time to watching a vampire-themed soap opera, then forget the matter entirely, but, of course, I am, in all that I do, hideously far removed from the average individual. The petitions of my close friends, sworn foes, and vague acquaintances had engendered in me a twisted sensation that I had shirked some responsibility– people depended upon me to be ‘that vampire guy’, to have an excessively well-formed opinion on any media peripherally related to the un-dead on the day that media became available to the public, if not earlier, and in that capacity I disappointed them. Driven to amend my entirely chimerical failure, I eschewed my homework in order to undertake the considerable task of locating a recording of True Blood’s pilot in the annals of cyberspace, and, having done so, I am now able to articulate my thoughts: this show, if its general quality can be inferred based on its first episode, is pretty fucking bad.

In authoring drama, a playwright or screenwriter must choose between two means of delivering exposition regarding the present circumstances, personalities, pasts, and guarded secrets of his characters. The first, most commonly favored option is the use of compelling dialogue and dynamic action to introduce plot points and develop dramatis personae. The inexplicably less popular alternative, to which the minds behind True Blood have evidently committed themselves, is to make the protagonist telepathic.

True Blood is the story of Sookie Stackhouse, waitress in a sleazy bar and resident of a fictional Louisiana town, cursed to be constantly besieged by the thoughts of those around her. This is a particular burden because, as she lives below the Mason-Dixon line, everyone she encounters thinks in a thick southern drawl. The shameless caricatures of African Americans she counts among her friends even make a point to avoid proper grammar in their interior monologues, and to punctuate important cogitations with a ‘dayum’. Relief from the agony of ceaseless assault by relevant details regarding her supporting cast comes to Sookie in the form of a vampire named Bill, whose undead mind is inscrutable even to so titantically stupid a plot device as the waitress’ gift. Although the thoughts of every other man with whom she’s acquainted are limited to such musings as “God she’s so hot, god I want to touch her”, or “I need to protect her,” she decides to give the Nosferatu the benefit of the doubt, becoming attracted to him. I suppose her assumption that there’s more to Bill than there is to most men is a reasonable one, as we know that, in addition to sexual objects and the protection thereof, he also thinks about blood.

The vampire as a metaphor for mundane minorities is a mildly interesting proposition, and, surely, HBO realized this, but, somehow, from that realization the network drew the hideously malformed conclusion that a mildly interesting concept with some explicit sex scenes sprinkled over it was enough to constitute good television. I know not why, but for some reason beyond my grasp, I expected something of more merit from a program adapted from a series of romance novels whose protagonist’s name is Sookie Stackhouse. I expected more from my fellow television owners than to be contented with another entry in the virtually endless library of poorly realized romances that use supernatural motifs as a substitute for real depth. 

To afford some attention to a redeeming facet of the wholly disappointing experience that was the hour of time I dedicated to watching True Blood, I will note that the show has a theme song. This in itself pleases me, as I am vehemently opposed to the recent trend of hour dramas briefly flashing a title card in the viewer’s face before cutting to the first commercial break. I require a pastiche of stirring clips set to a rousing score if I’m to be rendered excited for the adventure that lies ahead, and True Blood satisfies this criteria marvelously, as its main titles are not only extant, but awesome. 

Tits! Snakes! Time-lapses of decaying wolf carcasses! I feel compelled to watch the show these precede. Hopefully that footage of roadkill will be reused for a more worthy series at some point within my lifetime. 

-Gothicus Maximus

Moby’s Prejudice

Posted in Literature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 5, 2008 by gothicusmaximus

As a special treat for its devoted readers, OMG A BAT has secured exclusive rights to the dissemination of a literary work which I believe, beyond doubt, will be remembered as one of the seminal prose masterpieces of the 21st century. Promising young author Dana M. McGovern weaves an opus that engages in compelling conversation with two of English’s most well-regarded novels, Austen’s Pride and Prejudice and Melville’s Moby-Dick. Though I generally maintain that my talking about a given thing substantially improves that thing, in this case I feel I must allow the composition to make its own case, and so, without further ado, a special OMG A BAT presentation of Moby’s Prejudice.



This story is not about lolcats, which would be surpsing if you know me. Hi. Im dana macguyver macgovern. I kno, 2 Mcs in a row is really lame lol, my parents were on crack lol. No not really. They just really liked that show w/ Richard dean Anderson Macgovern haha. All my life i have loved herman Melville. I just want to hug him and tell him its all going to be okay. I want to have his babies. One day I was thinkng about how romantic it would be and I realized that another romantic thing is pride and prejudice! That’s how I got the idea to combine pride and prejudice w/ hermy’s best novel, Moby-Dick.  That was the summer after my parents got devorced so I spent a lot of time sitting around thinking about romance and how to make it work. Did u know people thought moby dick was bad for many years? I wish I had been there to tell him how good it was. Anyway please read and respond.






P.S. This story is dedicated to my cat who died and was named Melville. 


Chapter One:


Call me Ismael, even though my friends call me Ishy, because we are not friends. My real name is not either of those but in fact Dara McLofflin, but I changed it to Ishmael. I don’t want to talk about it today. I frist met Willy Darcy in 2090, on the shores of Topeka Kansas, which bordered the atlantic ocean because by then the ocean covered most of the world (Y’all need to start recycling J). He was leaning against a peer staring at me- no- glaring at me- he was totally hot, tall, dark, hot and handsome, with dark hair and blue eyes that could brood into your soul. He was about 5’7” and was waering a t-shirt that said “Guinness” on it. Even though I thought his shirt was inappropriate for the beech which had children on it which I knew because when I was a child I played on the beech with my father before he divorced my mother last summer, I was instantly attracted to him (this was before I was a dude) so I went up to him.

“I also enjoy Guinness,” I declared, “Call me Ishmael. I have just arrived here in this port of Topeka Kansas looking for a spaceship on which I can put my many spaceship maintaince skills to the ultimate test. This is mostly to get my mind off of bad things that have been happening to me lately that I do not want to talk about at all. What is your major?”

“My name is Willy Darcy, Dara,” he pronounced, silently, while scowling, “I am hear because there is a woman who is not handsome and I do not want to be around her even though every man of my rich stature must be in want of a wife. I would rather lean on this peer than look at her dog face, do you understand what I’m saying? Oh by the way I have studied economics.”

 “No. It’s Ishmael,” I rejoined. I could tell we would be fast friends. 

“I can tell we will be fast friends,” I articulated.

Darcy agreed wordlessly.


Chapter: Two


The Next Day


I woke up thinking what a jerk Darcy was. However I would remain friends with him because I am both true and loyal. In addition I am about 5’5’’ with long red hair down to my waist. I got up and brushed my teeth which were pretty straight considering that by 2090 there were no orthodontists because President Hilary Clinton banned them after the accident. I returned to bed to see Darcy leaning under the covers sexily. His clothes were on the floor scowling. “Good morning, sweetcheeks,” he frowned. “No, it’s Ishmael,” I reminded him, “Darcy, I want to stay friends, however as I told you when we met yesterday I am bording a spaceship whose mission is to hunt something whose nature is mysterious right now. You should come with me, I’m sure there is a place for an economist onboard.”

Darcy made a ‘hmm’ sound silently. “I guess I have had a lot of free time ever since the economy was abolished by HC. I guess I can’t spend it all just hating that dog faced bitch that I hate.”

“We both have pasts, but we will work through them together on the ship.”




            It was time to board the ship, which was called the S.S. Jane Austen after some author who we no longer read because in 2090 it is possible to have great books downloaded directly into our minds through our iPhones (lol get it). The ship was about 5’4” and glistened like diamonds must have glistened before the diamonds were all melted down to make solar lamps. “This ship is so beautiful,” Darcy remarked, “it is roughly the exact opposite of what that dog-faced cuntwaffle Belizabeth Bennet would look like if she were herself a ship.”

            Suddenly there was a voice from behind us. “Excuse me!” it echoed. I turned on my heal to find myself staring into the face of a gorgoes woman whose hair was like mine blonde. Her shapely hips and large bosom were tucked into a steel jumpsuit which was the uniform of a captain. Specifically, a lady captain, which was the captain only of the ladies because in the future gender roles were really divided (thank you hilary Clinton). On her large right breast, partially concealed by her long red hair, was a small name tag which read “Belizabeth Bennet, Lady Captain of the U.S.S Jane Austen the Wahle Hunting Ship of the New United States of Post-Clinton New America.”

            “What a coincidence,” I thought to Darcy, “The lady captain of this ship has the same name of the woman you hate. But this can’t be her because she’s beautiful and not like a dgo.”

            “It’s no coincidence, Dara, that is Belizabeth,” he scowled, obviously disagreeing that she did not look like a dog.

            “No, it’s Ishmael. This is a comedy of  errors! ”I announced to Darcy, then I looked to Belizabeth, smiling sheepishly to alieviate the awkward-ness, “Who are you?”

            “I am Belizabeth Bennet, Lady Captain of the U.S Jane Austen the Whale hunting ship of the New United States of Post-Clinton New America (McCain ’08),” smirked Belizabeth, “as you can probably read from my name tag. Now, if you’ll ecuse me, my Lady Captain duties will not allow me to waste my time with you men.”

            As I walked away, I heard her mutter “jerk”, and I knew she was muttering of Darcy. Who scowled and began to lean his things onto the ship. I smiled and wondered to myself “Are black cats still bad luck in space?”


Chapter C:


The Male Captain


Darcy and I moved into our room together. He helped me put my bags under the bed. “I hope the Lady Captain bitch and whoever the Man captain is doesn’t think it’s inappropriate for us to live together.”

            “No, it’s Ishmael,” I reinforced.

            We turned a corner and there was an incredibly tall elderly gentleman who looked slightly crazy although I cannot say why. Even though he looked like he was about to come on to me in a way that would make me uncomfortable, I was glad it wasn’t Belizabeth, because Darcy always acted especially like a jerk when she was around. “jerk,” I muttered.

            “Avast ye!” the stranger bellowed “I be captain Ahab, Man Captain of this here fine vessel.”

            “Who are you,” I asked.

            “Arrr, I hate a whale,” he whispered, “the misson of this here vessel is to send it to a watery grave through whatever means necessary. Arrr davey jones’ locker. Dara, you must use your feminine wiles. Darcy, you must use your ‘conomics.” His peg leg, which he had, twitched.

            “ No, it’s Ishmael,” I told him.

            “And a less redundant question, dumbass,” I blushed when Darcy made that statement, “how are we going to find the whale?”

            “Arr, there be a grand ball at pemberly. My sources be telling me that the whale will be in attendance. Arr.”




Having met captain ahab, we set out a week later. He seemed suspicious to me in a literary sort of way. I asked Dracy what he thought but he just scowled and leaned against the porthole. “Maybe,” he told me without speaking. I looked at the porthole Darcy was leaning against, and I saw it looked like there were billions on billions of stars forming galaxies that looked like milk in my coffee, almost like some kind of creamy road through the sky. I thought about how small earth was in comparison to all that dairy in the sky, and in my brain, I wrote a poem, (copyright Gerard way and my chemical romance):


“And we can run, from the backdrop of these gears and scalpels

At every hour goes the tick-tock bang of monitors as

They stared us down when we met in the emergency room

And in our beds, I could hear you breathe with help from cold machines


Every hour, on the hour, they drew blood


Well I felt I couldn’t take, another day inside this place

From silent dreams we never wake, and in this promise that we’ll make

Starless eyes for heaven’s sake, but I hear you anyway

Well I thought I heard you

Say I like you, we can get out

We don’t have to stay, stay inside this place


Someday, this day, we kept falling down

Someday, this day, set the ferris wheel ablaze

You left my heart an open wound

And I love you for

This day, someday we kept falling down

One day, this day all we had to keep us safe

And if we never sleep again, it would never end

Well I thought I heard you say to me

We’ll go so far, far as we can

And I just can’t stay, one day we’ll run away”


Had we been irresponsible with our little ball of water & dirt? Had we religuinshed the gift god had given us when we chose a leader who was not fit to rule?


Part Five:


We Are At Pemberly


Darcy scowled in a leonine way, “I hate balls, I mean, not that kind. Like dances. Especially when Elizabeth Dog-face is at them. But I will stay here if it means we will catch the whale and forget our pasts”. We were at Pemberly. “You haven’t even touched your freeze-dried pomegranite astronaut juice bar, with bacon’, I defined. I could understand that beneath his cold glare, Darcy was nervous. After all, Ahab had chosen to send us on this dangerous mission alone and keep every1 else on the ship as backup. We were undercover. I was dressed as a woman, which is odd, because I am a man.  Darcy was dressed as a clown, but I was worried his scowl would blow our cover. I was lost in these worries when I heard a voice, “Excuse me, you handsome, less than happy clown, but may I be so bold as to ask for this dance?” The DJ had just turned on Josh Groban feat. My Chemical Romance, which is an extremely popular remix in the future. I looked up and found myself staring into the gorgeous face beneath blonde hair of none other than the lady captain known by the name of Belizabeth Bennet!

“Belizabeth!” Darcy exclaimed in a voice that was distinctly jerkly and therefore easily recognized as his. I don’t blame him though because the shock made him forget he was undercover.

“Darcy, it’s you. I can’t believe I am attracted to you considering what a jerk you are; however I am, I can’t deny it. You have bewitched me body and soul. Will you dance with me.”

Darcy scowled, deep in thought. “You…” he hesitated, “… suck.”

Belizabeth smirked in a manner unbefitting a lady captain and stormed off.

 “Why did u do that?” I queried, “it’s insubordination.”

“Untrue, she only commands the ladies, thanks to the captainship amendment to the constitution put in place years ago by that president we don’t talk about.”

“You mean Hilary Clinton?” I responded

“Yes, I did in fact mean Hilary Rodham Clinton, who ran on the democratic ticket in 2008. People were foolish and voted for her even though they knew she would pass that horrible amendment,” he inspirited, grimly.

“Let’s not talk about about it. She might have been sending us an important message from the captain. Go after her, apologize, and get the message.”

At first Darcy insisted “no”, but eventually I convinced him in a way I can’t write about ;).

But I came to a realization. Captain Ahab had specifically sent only us on this mission and left everyone else as back-up. If Belizabeth was here, it could only be 4 one reason- SHE WAS THE WHALE !!!

            “I’m gay,” Darcy exclaimed.


Scene Nine:


The Finale


So: Elizabeth was the whale. I knew what I had to do, all by myself because I was a strong woman, or would be if I were not in fact a man, and because Darcy is a jerk. Even though he is a jerk though, I didn’t want to leave him alone with a dangerous whale that had taken away Captain Ahab’s leg and is now a lady captain. If I ever wanted to get revenge and forget about my past, I would have to harpoon my own Lady Captain.

            Back on Mars, I ran quickly over Olympus Mons, the highest mountain in the solar system, which I had learned about actually in school the very day my dad picked me up early to get me to read over some papers about mom. Near the top of the mountain, I found Darcy and Elizabeth making out in the space rain on the space moor. “Darcy!” I warned loudly, “Get away from her! She is not really a dog-faced lady that you are making out with, but really a whale!”


DARCY: But, I love her!


ME: But, a whale!




ME: Whale!


DARCY: I love her!





Me: A whale!


BELIZABETH: I love you too!


Me: A whale!


Me: A whale!


Darcy: A what?


Belizabeth: A whale!


(Then I harpooned her while she was distracted by my wordplay.)


Her tail lashed wildly at the air, swatting the majestic face of the mountain and causing an avalanche. Darcy leaned against a tree for safety. I looked sadly at the two lovers, but knew it was for the best. Darcy fell to his knees, “No, Belizabeth, don’t die! I want to marry you!” Belizabeth blushed as she smirked out a mighty roar, “I’m losing a lot of blood, and also I might die of consumption. After all, it is raining.”

I realized that, like many of Herman Melville’s characters, captain Ahab was crazy, and that maybe the space psychiatrist I had spoken to once was correct in saying that my affection for him was created to fill a void that was in my life maybe. I helped Darcy lift Belizabeth and carry her back to the ship. I rubbed space Neosporin on her woundz and kissed her. At that exact moment there, Captain Ahab rushed in his craziness all unzipped. I did not see  him as the kindly man I once did. He pushed the red lever on the wall and everyone on the ship who I had not introduced because they were not really important to the story screamed wherever they were which was not where I was because if they were I would have described them. The ship rocked back and forth erroneously and I called to Darcy who was only a foot away from me, “Quicky! Use your ‘conomics!”

Leaping to the hull he pressed various buttons and dials with a rougish confidence that I and Belizzy both found very attractive. Possibly ahab too because being crazy he may have also been a homosexual which is not normal, because they are only 4% of the population which is not very much and it is a disease (McCain ’08). He grabbed Ahab’s fairy face and smashed it into the control panel multiple times, breaking his crow nose and ugly cheeks. “Eat conomics Herman McGovern”. The water that the lever had put into the ship flushed out into space. Also the fire went out and the life support came back on.



(This is a page break that separates this part of the story from another part of it)


Now I throw a handful of rice into the air, where it floats because there is no gravity in space. Belizzy, who now that she has come out as a Whale has taken the name Marouska,  looks beautiful in her dress. Her and Darcy walk out of the wedding chapel smiling and laughing and very lovey with their each other. I smiled as a tear fell from my eye and immediately froze and floated away because we were in space. But then my next tear fell and landed on a white rose that was being carried in a dove’s mouth as it flew on its way to heaven where angels live and no one is ever away from her family. A dark time had ended and Captain Ahab slept with the fisses. “Thanks for making my dream a realty, Ishmael,” said Darcy.

            “ No, it’s—-“ HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!




To have facilitated the distribution of Dana’s work across cyberspace is an honor that brings tears to my eyes.

– Gothicus Maximus  



Here comes the story of The Hurricane

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 30, 2008 by gothicusmaximus

Forgive the delay between this post and my last. Readjusting to my relentlessly fast-paced, action-packed New York lifestyle has required me to briefly avert my attention from blogging, but I have an announcement that I believe will instill in my readers joy to sufficient compensate for whatever feelings of neglect they may have suffered on my account. 

As many have come to know through experience, deep sadness can oftentimes compel one to, in desperation to distract oneself from the source of that sadness, enact somewhat impulsive behavior. Though said compulsion most commonly manifests as binge drinking, regrettable sexual misadventures, or some combination thereof, those afflicted, even when of a perfectly contented disposition, by a profound lack of responsibility in regard to the management of fiscal assets, such as that one must possess in order to judge the purchase of the domain name ‘’ to be a good idea, are often susceptible to inducement by sorrow to carry out exorbitant monetary expenditures. There exists perhaps no evidence that better legitimizes the latter idea than that represented by the 200 dollar fog machine presently sitting on a chair in the 7’x7′ chamber I generously call my kitchen.



This glorious device possesses a 1,000 watt heater, allowing it to be primed for fog production, which it carries out at a nigh-unbelievable rate of 5,000 cubic feet per minute, almost immediately after activation, and a 1.4 watt tank, along with a warning light that signals impending fuel depletion, ensures all but perpetual function. Unfortunately, despite these impressive capacities, the utility of even such an masterful work of engineering within the context of my life is almost entirely nil. Thus far, I have been unable to cogitate a use to which The Hurricane might be turned, beyond providing atmospherics for a kickin’ party, encapsulating the entire effects budget for a mid-20th century British Horror Film, or the blasting of fog into the faces of new acquaintances into order decrease even further the rate at which I make friends.
Undaunted by the unshakeable sensation that I may have dedicated my resources to a somewhat reckless end, I am resolved to not relent, and to reflect, a year from now, on the day I bought my fog machine with minimal regret. Any willing to offer suggestions as to how I might achieve this goal would earn my gratitude. 
– Gothicus Maximus

Back to School

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 24, 2008 by gothicusmaximus

The identification card adhered to my door, its prompts answered so to optimally alienate everyone (click to enlarge): 

It’s good to be back. 

21st Century Entertainment

Posted in Television with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 21, 2008 by gothicusmaximus

Adhered to the wall of the 155th Street subway terminal is a poster advertisement for Showtime, a network home to some of television’s most acclaimed programming, which displays the lead players in several of the channel’s series as they appear in their respective roles. Scrawled by some vandal on the foreheads of each actor or actress was a brief summation of his or her character’s primary occupation: Michael C. Hall as Dexter of the eponymous show was marked with “Serial Killer”,  Billie Piper as Belle of Secret Diary of a Call Girl with “Whore”, Jonathan Rhys Meyers as The Tudors‘ Henry VII with “‘Loved’ his sister”, Mary-Louise Parker as Nancy Botwin of Weeds with “Drug Dealer”, and David Duchovny as the sex-addicted protagonist of Californication with “Who Cares?”. I found the defacer’s implication interesting. 

– Gothicus Maximus

Friday The 13th: It’s A Decent Franchise, Basically

Posted in Films, Horror with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 18, 2008 by gothicusmaximus

News of the upcoming Friday The 13th remake has spurred a rather vitriolic reaction in the fans of Jason Vorhees’ sanguinary saga, so intense in some that their righteous fury has stripped them of all but the most basic communicative faculties:  

The compulsion I experienced to enter into this intellectual dialogue was powerful beyond my ability to resist, but to parry these eloquently articulated, meticulously formulated opinions, I was forced to mount, with the aid of my younger brother, a two-pronged attack of sorts.

Will the inevitable Chinatown remake be produced by Michael Bay as this film is? I don’t know, but what I do know is: franchise. 

– Gothicus Maximus

Ghosts: The Most Depressing Belief One Can Possibly Maintain

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 14, 2008 by gothicusmaximus

Indisputably, nearly all human societies throughout history have demonstrated a fascination with the idea that, subsequent to the death of a given individual’s body, the spirit or ethereal essence of that individual might somehow linger on Earth. That this fascination persists among denizens of the contemporary west is attested by the existence of that Patrick Swayze movie, paramountly stupid reality television franchise Ghost Hunters, the supernatural docudramas that dominate the comprise the bulk of the Biography channel’s programing, and Casper The Friendly Ghost; the purpose of this entry is to inquire as to the reason for which this is true. I caution you, readers, to not expect this dissertation to end in a resolution of this curiosity, as treatises that begin with a question often do, as I genuinely have no idea why any human being would feel delighted by the prospect that ghosts exist.  

I understand entirely the allure of a belief in heaven, for the idea that life possesses some inherent objective is naturally alluring to human beings. I can even grasp from where proceeds the concept of hell, as once the foresaid objective has been accepted, the question regarding what happens when it is unfulfilled must naturally be addressed; also, organized religious movements have, over the course of centuries, come to realize that the instillment of mortal fear is the most effective conversion technique. The appeal of faith in ghosts, however, consistently eludes me, for even if the existence of such spirits was supported by a wealth of incontrovertible evidence, I’d imagine it to be a vulgar subject unmentionable in polite company.

We enact, throughout our lives, petty, asinine behaviors, to the primary end of distracting ourselves from the brevity of our tenures on this planet and the reality of our irrelevance in the scope of all time, and are, in turn, subjected to the petty, asinine behaviors that others enact to the primary end of distracting themselves from the brevity of their tenures on this planet and the reality of their irrelevance in the scope of all time. That human life is even peripherally bearable is accountable to the prospect of vast wealth, the possibility of fame, and sex, all of which are essentially denied to the ghost by its very nature, and thus the notion that, upon death, one might become a ghost can be extrapolated to the conclusion that one might be made victim of the petty, asinine behaviors of one’s fellow man long after one has lost all reason to react to these behaviors in any manner but to say “fuck this shit”. If the motivation of those phantoms who throw knives and scrawl “GET OUT” on the walls of homes in ectoplasmic blood is still a mystery, I submit that I may possess some valuable insight. 

There exist, to my knowledge, no standardized criteria by which whether a deceased person will live on as a ghost can be determined. The widely held premise seems to be that anyone could, virtually at random, be condemned to a pale mockery of life devoid of those few contingencies that occasionally render our time in this world to be marginally pleasant. Nevertheless, bewilderingly, a considerable number of people exhibit a desire see this proposition validated as truth– if anyone among my readership is able to put forth an answer as to why, consider this my attempt to elicit it. 

– Gothicus Maximus

I improve the recruitment strategies of revolutionary political movements, with castles

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 10, 2008 by gothicusmaximus

As I am not only a denizen of New York City, but one who gravitates toward punk rock shows, I have been, in my time, petitioned by many proponents of radical political ideologies, handed many a free-paper concisely delineating the cause to which those men and women have pledged themselves. While I have personally never been impelled to take up the banner of insurrection, as, given that I am subsisting to my satisfaction under the present American constitution, to do so would require me to manifest compassion for strangers when I barely care about people I personally know, I have resolved, in my near boundless generosity, to endeavor to offer these admirably dogged insurgents some wisdom.

My main qualm with political systems focused on egalitarianism and the elimination of class stratification, one I imagine to be shared by many other men and women of the modern world, is that communal ownership of the means of production and the equal distribution of the resources yielded through these means will likely interfere in my possession of nice things. For a man whose primary ambition is to be lord of a castle, “from each according to his ability, from each according to his need” is essentially a four letter word. Although today’s disciples of Marx, Bakunin, and Proudhon must recognize that I absorb their freepaper’s illustrations before I do their words, those images are consistently depictions of spartan farms and squalid factories. I’m expected to betray the pledge of allegiance I was forced to make, every day of my elementary school career, to the flag of the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands so I can live on a lame, shitty farm? Take a big step back, comrade.

After puzzling over this predicament for some time, the solution dawned upon me, beautiful in its simplicity. COMMUNAL CASTLES. Offer me the chance to live in a castle, and I’ll sign up to participate in a communist experiment faster than one can say “Workers of the World, Unite!”. I wouldn’t even be horribly averse to sharing my citadel, as even within a capitalist economic model, the manor would also be occupied by servants. Put a kickass gothic tower on the cover of a pamphlet instead of some ramshackle huts, and I guarantee the glacial rate of the populace’s radicalization will grow exponentially.   

Take notes, 

– Gothicus Maximus