Archive for July, 2009

Queens Vacation: Klog goes to the Movies

Posted in Comedy, Critique on July 31, 2009 by klogtheblog

Thanks to my furlough, I’m on my Queens Vacation. I don’t call it that other word for when you don’t go anywhere on your vacation. That implies resentment of the lack of travel. Travel sucks. It is the greatest luxury to stay in one’s apartment trying to write a songs and such, and when it gets hot I take in any movie that’s playing at the Sunnyside Movie Theater around the corner from my apartment. The movies are almost always air-conditioned.

BrunoExcept when they’re in the basement theatre. Watching a movie in the Sunnyside movie theatre is a lot like watching a movie in some friend’s unfinished basement. The screens about the same size, though it is a little warmer. At least the smell reminds me that I’m at least closer to the bathroom. Bruno has a message: No matter what your gender or orientation, it’s no fun being sexually harassed. The movie is not devoid of laughter. I preferred the parts that were written to the parts that seemed like a jerk bothering strangers. If his interruption of a fashion show was staged then it was staged, if it was an actual disruption, isn’t the very talented Sacha Baron Cohen messing with other creative people on their big night? At a point towards the end the film fluttered to a stop, and the lights came up. We’re being busted! I thought. The decadence of this movie has brought in the thought police. It was the theatre manager saying that because of heavy rain, the theatre basement was being flooded, and he had to stop the movie. Wanted to shuffle me into Harry Potter, already four minutes in. No. Well how about some popcorn? I took my money back. Now there’s a hand written sign that says “No refunds once you’ve been seated for Bruno.” Comes off like it’s because of the outrageousness of the movie, but it’s probably because of flooding. Now I’ll probably never see the last fifteen minutes of this movie. I can live with that.Harry Potter

Yeah it’s good. I do have the same problem with Harry Potter that I have with Superman. Mofo’s just too powerful. He who must not be Voldemort will never beat him. Sure, that’s true of most heroes, but there’s just some blessed inevitability hanging over these stories that bugs me. Why do their English accents sound fake, even though they’re from England? It’s because these kids weren’t born to mothers in England, but were genetically manufactured on a masterpiece theatre set back in the 80’s. Margaret Thatcher eventually closed down the project, but by then it was too late. Still, these kids have grown into their roles and made them their own. I wish Dumbledore would decide, in an eerily lit scene full of ominous import, that he would stop wearing an anklet in his beard. There should be a word for people like me. I stopped reading the books, but I’m watching the movies. I think I was waiting on a loaner, once my neighbor was finished, and never got into the rhythm again. Now I can’t remember which book it was. They all look alike. It was a particularly tomey looking cube of a book, but the titles and artwork all run together. Also, I’m a grown-up. A grown up who goes to Harry Potter matinees. People at the theate might think I’m a pedophile. I felt much more comfortable the next day, when I went to see Orphan.


This is a sterling piece of well acted, well produced horror for anyone who enjoys seeing children getting hurt. It starts out with a protracted and bloody miscarriage scene just to set the mood. Isabelle Fuhrman is brilliant as a slightly more psychotic version of my niece Pearl when she was nine. SPOILER ALERT Best scene in the movie: The threatens her adopted brother with a box-cutter, saying, “I’ll cut off your hairless little prick. You piss yourself.” Fannings beware! Aryana Engineer is the new cute kid. Vera Farmiga, whom you might remember from The Departed does another fine job. I think Peter Sarsgaard has a rider in his contract (The kind Ryan Phillipe used to have) that he has to get naked in all his movies. I feel like I’ve seen his schlubby fur matted body far too much for one lifetime. I also have a theory That Peter Sarsgaard is just Paul Rudd’s alter ego when he’s been eating and drinking too much.

–Dan Kilian

Benjamin Button from the POV of Benjamin Button

Who Watches the Watchmen?


The State of The Art in Horror

Posted in Comedy on July 30, 2009 by klogtheblog
Each time the world embraces a new technology Hollywood finds a technologically illiterate method of incorporating that public change into its more hokey plotlines. Seventies television was kept alive because of the hologram. Mathew Broderick had to teach a computer the futility of nuclear war. The idea of virtual reality freed us from any need for plot structure. The Internet inspired a great deal of screenplay devoted to people talking aloud as they type. What is the next new technological innovation to be exploited by Hollywood? I propose that it is that mysterious means of communication: The Fax Machine. Here is my treatment to cash in.

Nad Kliian (It’s Hawaiian) is struggling to get by in a go nowhere administrative assistant job, when he notices some malevolent squiggles on some faxes he is receiving. He and his lovely coworker Janicatrice LeVotte decipher a mysterious sublanguage hidden in faxes that are brainwashing people.They call in a fax repairman, who tells them that the problem is not specific to this one fax, that fax machines are a conduit to an inter-dimensional world. “Where is the image when it’s not in one fax machine or the other? No one knows.”

Using a giant scanner jury-rigged as a fax machine attachment, Nad enters the netherworld within the fax and must confront the evil kingdom of Faxonia, ruled by the evil wizard Faxor. He must lead a rebellion, bringing Hawkman, Prince Baron and the Treents together to defeat Faxor. All the resemblances to Flash Gordon and The Lord of The Rings should be all winky and self aware, and so will be totally hilarious.

But then it gets serious. Faxor was only ruling this inter-dimensional kingdom as a ruse, and intended to invade our world the whole time. Nad figures out that if you put too many sheets of paper into the fax machine, you could close the portal forever. So they do it but then he gets trapped forever in Faxonia, but is he really trapped, no he finds a way out.

Of course some monster from Faxonia gets out too and starts faxing. That’s the final scene: A taloned finger tapping on a keypad “Doot. Doot. Doot doot. Doot…”


Feng Shui

James Bond’s Bad Day

Nicey Nice: The Obama Crowley Gates Beer

Posted in All things political, Comedy on July 29, 2009 by klogtheblog

This Thursday President Obama has a beer with Professor Henry Louis Gates and Officer James Crowley, the two primary parties in the racially charged arrest that has drawn media focus away from the Health Insurance Reform promotion Obama has been pushing. It’s being hyped as the most important alcoholic drink in Civil Rights history since Lyndon Johnson and Martin Luther King split a bottle of Jim Beam in 1968. Johnson went on such a tear he actually passed the Civil Rights Act before finally drying out. What will this accomplish?

Here’s the secret advance transcript from the meeting.

President Obama: Welcome here Gentlemen. Officer Crowley. Professor Gates.

Officer Crowley: It’s an honor, Mr. President

Professor Gates: Thank you Mr. President

Obama: Let’s all sit down. Shelly will be right here with our beers.

Crowley: Well I’m looking forward…

Obama: Shut the fuck up.

Crowley: I’m sorry?

Gates: I think he said…

Obama: BOTH of you shut the fuck up. I have absolutely no time to hear whatever crap is your fucking problem. I am trying to pass a Goddamned Health Care plan. It’s not a “Have Beers With a Couple of Assholes” plan. I’m trying to get on Mount fucking Rushmore, not have beers with…oh here’s Shelly.

Shelly: Hello gentlemen! Just to confirm, what kind of beers would you like?

Crowley: Blue Moon.

Gates: I actually don’t drink beer.

Obama: You will drink a Goddamned beer, even if I have to get one of those G-men to waterboard it down your fucking throat. Now Gates, I know you. So I know what a pompous ass you are. Officer Crowley, you seem to be a fine officer, teaching a class on racial sensitivity to the other police.

Crowley: Yes Mr. President, I’m very proud of…

Obama: Now you can teach a course on how to completely fuck up an interracial encounter. Because you are one stupid Goddamned bastard. I’m sorry I said it was stupid for you to arrest a man in his own home, because it fucked up my Goddamned agenda, not because it wasn’t 150 % true. You have got to be the stupidest Goddamned cop in America, and you know, even though politicians are always calling you the finest, there’s a hell of a lot of dipshit power tripping cops. How the fuck did you not just get the hell out of there once you’d realized it was all a big fuck-up? How the hell do you end up with this old guy in cuffs when it’s his Goddamned house?

Crowley: Well, as you know from the reports and the news, Professor Gates became belligerent…

Obama: What, did he hurt your feelings? Did he make you feel bad? He’s a rich black man, in his own Goddamned house and you’re busting him. Here’s what happens: He screams bloody murder, and you tip your cap and back the fuck out of the house.

Gates: I’ve been trying to explain just that Barack…

Obama: And you, have you lost your mind? You think you’re fucking cop-proof? Un-coppable? Jesus H. Christ! A black man mouthing off to the cops. Cops aren’t your students, dipshit; Cops are assholes who will fuck you up if they get a chance. You must be the stupidest idiot since officer idiot here. And you’d better keep your Goddamned head low for the next eight years. You are not going to play this for your fifteen minutes. Remember Reverend Wright? Notice you don’t see him anymore? That’s because he’s rotting in a cave full of scorpions in North Afghanistan. I can do these things. I’m the Goddamned President. Officer Crowley, I can have a bullet put in your head, and I don’t mean shot. I can get a man who will physically put the bullet in your head, with his fingers. So both of you shut up and drink your Goddamned beers. Then we’re going to do a little press conference and you guys are going to act all nicey nice and smile, or I will ruin your fucking lives and your families’ lives too. I’m the Goddamned President; I’ve got better things to do than this.

Crowley: What about your “teachable moment?”

Obama: This is it. I’m teaching you to shut the fuck up, drink your beer and then make nicey nice. Have you learned the lesson, or do I have to show you how my security can work your inner organs without leaving a bruise? Yes? Yes? See! You’re learning. Now you two drink your beers, while I sit in silence and think about fucking Health Care.


Okay, done?

Crowley: Yep.

Gates: Yes, Mr. President.

Obama: Okay. Let’s go make nicey nice.

–as transcribed to Dan Kilian
Nixon and Obama
Ayatollah K talks to the other Ayatollah K

End of Conflict II: The Squid & Whale Tattoo

Posted in Art, Comedy on July 28, 2009 by klogtheblog

Klog recently posted an image entitled End to Conflict. As evidence of the long-range influence that Klog has on the mission of worldwide peace, we present the attached photograph of the End of Conflict image tattooed on the body of Bennie, seasoned bartender at Home Sweet Home. You can click on the image for a larger view.

It is in ways such as this that great movements begin. This will be marked by future ages as the turning point.

It’s interesting to note that Bennie incorporated all the textures of the original post it note while we bleached them out.

–Steve Kilian

Original End of Conflict


Posted in Comedy on July 27, 2009 by klogtheblog
Look at the Montana state quarter.

You might think it’s odd that this state, located somewhere in the U.S. Northwest among all the square shaped states, chooses a cow’s skull to represent itself. Why this demonic death’s head? Are they devil worshipers? Probably. But I tell you this skull is just a distraction from something far more sinister.

Below the skull, floating in the void of The Big Sky, is clearly The Doomsday Machine from Episode 35 of the original series of Star Trek. This allegory for nuclear destruction features a giant cigar shaped monstrosity making its way from some intergalactic war of mutual destruction. It destroys planets and eats their rubble for fuel, moving from star system to star system leaving a wake of complete destruction. Behold the horror.

Normal people such as you and I have never known anyone who lives in Montana, yet we know from census takers that people live there. We have simply never guessed at their sinister nature, a nature so malignant they must cloak their secret message of nihilistic destruction with more commonly accepted totems of morbid evil.

We now know that the people of Montana have greater technology than we’d previously assumed. They’ve seen television, have obviously watched Star Trek and are seeking to replicate the Doomsday Machine for their sinister purposes. Please note that the state slogan is “The Last Best Place.” It’s easy enough to be the last best place if you’ve destroyed every other location in the Universe.

Either through hubris or betrayal, the secret of these Monsters in Montana has gotten out. It is they, not us, who must be destroyed. It will be tougher than Afghanistan, with all the mountainous terrain, but there is a way to do it. In the Star Trek episode it took the thermonuclear detonation of a Star Ship’s impulse engines to destroy the Doomsday Machine. We must tell NASA to develop this technology immediately, so we might match the evil Montanan’s lust for destruction.

Either they die or the entire Universe will be rendered as barren as a dead cow’s skull. The choice is ours.


–Dan Kilian

Inconsistencies in the New Star Trek Movie

Top Trek: A Pan Fiction

The Citadel: Undone

Posted in Fiction on July 27, 2009 by klogtheblog
It was perhaps his greatest work, and nobody would know him as its author. Worse, they wouldn’t even know it had happened it all.

He drew the catgut through the powdered jewels, trying not to cut his fingers too badly in the process. Then he strung the silver lines between the nodes of the vault, tracing out the patterns he’d found scattered among the texts he’d collected. In places the web-work was so dense he needed a wooden shuttle to thread his way through the lines. When that was done he went about the floor, plugging cracks with beeswax. Finally it was sealed tight and he rolled over the cask, cursing the lead lining that kept its contents pure. He worked it over onto its side and pulled the stopper, letting the quicksilver flow out onto the floor, settling into a perfect round mirror reflecting the shuttered oculus above. The domed ceiling was covered with the runes he’d drawn over the previous three weeks, words in forgotten languages written with inks obscure and profane in their composition.

Now all he had to do was wait for the sky to catch up with his plan. The almanacs said he had two days to wait. It was just time enough to begin the incantation. He climbed the winding stair to the roof, pulled his cloak tight around him and began the chant. Every hour or so he would drink from a flask of bitter spikepine liquor, and his hunger would subside. His urine ran from his pantleg down to the gargoyled scupper at the edge of the roof. The sun wheeled by once, chased by a sliver blade of moon. On the second day the moon made its cut, the black disc edging its way across the sun in time with the rising words of the spell. Finally the sun was directly overhead, obliterated by the moon, and he cried his throat raw, cutting his tongue on the harsh angles of the alien words.

He threw back the shutters of the oculus, exposing the quicksilver mirror. He could see the sun’s halo flaring in the vault below, the strings fired with its muted light. The sun above flared brighter, as if in response. Blue wisps of arcane energies pulsed along the lines of web. The sky folded along these lines, forests and continents compressed into irrational geometries. He could not hear the final words as they were torn from his throat, drowned out in the great rush of in-folding matter and event. Time bent to the same twisted skein he had created, battles and famines curled like scrolls and tucked into newly formed alcoves in the universe. His body was buffeted by the swirling forces around him, chaos shrieking as it was imprisoned in the calculus of the spell. In three short barks he uttered the closing syllables that would mark the unbending of the new world, changing the paper-doll creases just slightly, but enough to work his will:

The first battle for the Citadel was undone, recast, and became again, and the forces of Matthew stormed the black walls, finally taking the parapet.

The second battle for the Citadel was shattered and the fragments cast into the ocean. A million times the sea tumbled the shards, blunting them into dull rounded memories of what had happened. A old fisherman’s widow collected the pieces and lined her hearth with them, where they fused into a sooty bowl. After she died her few possessions were distributed among the villagers, and a small girl held the bowl up to the setting sun, where she saw images of the black keep under siege, the forces of Daniel being repelled from the walls. Matthew’s soldiers had won again.

The third battle for the citadel raged in the signet ring of an imbecile king, a drooling savant who cared only for digging mines in the barren hills of his dying kingdom. Fields went unplowed as the peasants starved and still he sent troops to the pits and galleries, looking for nonexistent treasure. When the king was finally assassinated the ring was stolen and passed from noble to noble, losing value with each transaction as if it somehow bore the curse of its former owner, until finally being paid to a storyteller in exchange for a tale of a defeated army throwing their bodies against an obsidian fortress, unable to avenge the deaths of their brothers in the previous battle. It was yet another song of Matthew’s victory.

As these restructured events blossomed back into being the wizard finally lost consciousness. He wondered in that last moment if even he would remember the thing he had wrought.

–Steve Kilian
Death To Everyone

Back to The Return To The Last Trip To The Well, Part Two

Posted in All things music, Fiction on July 25, 2009 by klogtheblog

Editor’s note: This is the third part in series celebrating the online release of The Ks video “Last Trip To The Well.”

Centuries past. The park turned into a desert. Sandstorms whipped the geography unrecognizable. He was still alive, supernaturally, but it felt all too natural to him. One of his wishes kept him an aging zombie. Sometimes he wished for death, sometimes he wished for other comforts. Mostly he wished for more wishes, and he was free to wish as futilely as he could. He wrapped himself in skins and marched around the desert hoping to find some grasses, or just a coolness to the sands, anything that might be a sign of his old wishing well.

He saw something on a dune miles away, flashing. He marched towards it. It could be water, it could be mica, it could be a mirage or a hallucination. It disappeared as he marched towards it but he staggered towards where he thought he’s seen it last. He kicked up sand, wailing, his life, once a magic realm of wish fulfillment, now reduced to finding some thing he’d seen, some distraction his only focus.

Finally his foot hit something. It was a music player from back when they had computers. This had the solar power chip, and amazingly, after all these years in the sand, still worked. Of course he had no headphones, so it was silent. But he could read the names of the songs on the little screen, and see the album cover art float past. He lay on the ground, blocking out the sun with his new toy, wheeling through the menus.

It had a single video. A skinny man battling a robot, with flashes of a band playing. He wondered what it meant, and then remembered there was music, an inaudible and long forgotten song. He tried to imagine what it sounded like. He made up songs in his head as he lay there, watching it over and over and over and over and wishing for things.

–Dan Kilian

Return To The Last Trip To The Well, Part II
Return To The Last Trip To The Well