Until today, I’ve never felt compelled to write a disclaimer on a Zenestex post. It’s not that any of the language in this post is uncharted territory for my site. It’s not. But my fear is that poor, innocent, unsuspecting, expectant mothers will find this article on a search engine while seeking pregnancy advice. It’s here. And it’s good. But if you do not share our sense of humor, you’re gonna be an unhappy reader. And neither of us want that. If foul language, frank discussion about pregancy, and roughly 30 synonyms for women’s no-no parts will offend you, then STOP. DO NOT CONTINUE READING. Click that button on the upper left that points BACK. I’m only warning you once.
Good. Now, if you’re still reading and you get offended, then you’re just a dick who wants to be offended. Don’t be a dick.
See that? Two layers of Unsuspecting Googler Wards.
I met Layla this past fall when Li brought her into town for a visit. I’m absolutely not a baby person. In fact, I have an unnatural fear of babies. After two years, we’re totally cool. Until then, I’m always afraid I’ll drop them and break them like some invaluable piece of heirloom china. Even more than that, I’m terrified by their every move. They’re like little ostriches that ooze liquids from every orifice and just look for creepy ways to crawl into your personal space and yank on your facial features.
On Li’s visit, I developed an instant connection with Layla, which I definitely never anticipated. I had this bizarre urge. I wanted to hold her. Me? Holding a baby?! Cats and dogs living together! Mass hysteria! Don’t get me wrong, I’m still hopelessly awkward with Layla, but the difference is that I really don’t care. More than love her, I actually like her. Which is why I insisted on being Layla’s Little Uncle Bobby (my dad is Thee Uncle Bobby).
Here’s Li’s journey from when she found out she was preggerz through her climactic final battle between the forces of birthing and pooing.
Until Saturday I didn't have any good links to mashup a worthy post. I figured it might be a good time to move this feature to Friday mornings as I originally intended. However, on Friday and Saturday morning, I found a mother lode of cool shit that I couldn't possibly wait five more days to post.
So, Friday Morning Mashup will have to wait at least another week. This week I cover the Wii U, Elephants funerals, Terminator cosplay, Twitter censorship, and USF fans reinforcing their reputation as College Football's Biggest Goobers.
I am a passionate fan of 80's kids’ movies. Goonies, Stand By Me, Explorers, Space Camp, Monster Squad, Cloak and Dagger, Labyrinth, and several others occupy coveted slots on my all-time list. While I enjoyed recent kids’ movies such as Harry Potter, Super 8, and Diary of a Wimpy Kid, they never captured the magic of those older films.
Is it just me? There's a certain hollowness in the modern kid flick. Something missing. The movies follow all the formulas. However, like recreating your grandparents' heirloom recipes, an intangible quality is always missing. Is it the uber slickness that comes with an astronomical major motion picture budget? The high def, count-the-zits image quality? The computer generated effects? I really don’t know the cause. But the result is the notably absent charm that once oozed from the movies of my childhood.
"They just don't make movies like they used to.” Nooooooo! Am I becoming Granddad? If for nothing else, I search for the illusive, magical, modern kid flick to stave off my inevitable transformation into a jaded, grumpy old man. Netflix's insidious AI is well aware of my quest. And it is always happy to guide me through the harrowing wilderness of its immense catalog towards possible holy grails.
This morning I was distracted by a little, 2005 independent film called Twelve and Holding. Yep, fucking Netflix debo'd my free-time once again. Curses. Twelve and Holding, however, was just good enough—just awkward and quirky enough—to compel me to throw it out there: Is this the Great White Buffalo?
Wow. I am rusty at this writing thing. So, 2011 sucked donkey balls and I’m going to grade the resolutions that I made a one year ago on this day. Here’s a hint: I failed. This is why I hate New Year’s Resolutions. They are just further proof of how much I suck.
Obviously I haven’t written much of anything since March. I have a litany of excuses. My job workload picked up dramatically. I became a political activist. I acquired a taste for zombies. Awesome games such as Portal 2, Catherine, Dragon Age II, Skyrim, and Deus Ex demanded my fleeting attention. All of that is true, but none caused my flameout as a writer.
I blame Netflix. My name is Bobby and I am a Netflix Addict. I hate you Netflix and your stupid, amazingly accurate suggestions. You know my tastes better than I do. And for that, you must be destroyed. You know too much.
Ah, the loot. I love loot. Looty, loot, loot.
If you’re a Harry Potter fanatic heading to the Wizarding World for the first time, you should check your wallet with someone who’s less enthused to be there. You might get caught up in the atmosphere and try to buy everything you see. And this shit isn’t cheap.
All of the Harry Potter World merchandise is in-character. Most of the candy and toy packages feature a tiny, requisite Harry Potter logo on the back. Other than the covert logo, the packaging is true to the story. When you get home and sort through your haul, it looks like you apparated into the Harry Potter universe and scored some genuine Honeydukes treats and Zonko’s gags.
My Harry Potter fandom is about to reach epic proportions now that I am the proud new owner of annual passes to Harry Potter World, I mean, uh, Universal Studios/Islands of Adventure. I have been itching to go to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter since it opened last summer, but I heard horror stories about the crowds and decided to let the fervor die down before heading there myself.
The first time I actually researched the new Harry Potter attraction was a few weeks ago while trying to decide between annual passes for Disney or Universal. I prefer exploring theme parks without knowing too much about them beforehand. I‘m not even too fond of the maps—makes it more of an adventure. I pulled up a few articles and read about the sheer awesomeness of eating at The Three Broomsticks and browsing the dusty wand boxes at Ollivander’s Wand Shop. I was sold.
I recently began writing for Anime Maki, the anime/manga blog created by my former DVDTalk/AnimeTalk cohort, Todd Douglass. I just finished my first review for that site and am still in full-on anime geek mode.
There are many who claim to have no interest in anime, but underneath the veneer of indifference there’s that nagging curiosity in your mind. That little spark of interest could grow into a wildfire of anime addiction if you allow it to, but you’ve never taken the plunge. Today is the day you walk the path of the otaku (that’s Japanese for anime nerd). Allow me to guide you.
Some people have preconceived notions that anime is just giant space robots or those perverted Japanese bondage cartoons. Well, there is a shit-ton of that available. However, there are so many subgenres in anime, that there truly is something for everyone. This is why I’m floored when somebody tells me that they don’t like anime.
I have always had a special place in my heart for carnivorous plants. I love an underdog and it’s a fitting turn of events for the once defenseless bottom of the food chain to bite back. I first learned about them on Mr. Wizard’s World, an old 80’s Nickelodeon show that aired on weekday mornings after The Mysterious Cities of Gold--the finest hour of kid’s television programming ever. I tried to nail down a video clip of that Mr. Wizard’s World segment, but Nickelodeon is stingy with their classic shows. You can buy the DVD of Mr. Wizard’s World Season One, if you’re interested. Episode 15.
I actually had heard of Venus Fly Traps before I saw that episode of Mr. Wizard’s World. As a kid, I subscribed to Boys’ Life magazine. No, I wasn’t a boy scout. I only went to one Cub Scout meeting and thought the whole thing was retarded. For what seemed an eternity, a group of us sat in a small, dim room with our parents and made paper mache armor for no apparent reason. Oh, rad. Where the hell was all the cool stuff like learning survival skills, building fires, tracking beasts, and pitching tents?