Aesthetica Necronomicon: Commit or Perish

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Isle of Dogs and Pacific Rim Dual Review


One might imagine that there is no connection between the two movies. It’s more I have the same complaints with both. I like Wes Anderson and Pacific Rim. I like Wes Anderson’s quirky, familiar style and his earthy characters. Pacific Rim is THE western robot story, a guide on HOW to do it, the weight, characters and music, all perfect. Fight me.

Isle of Dogs just doesn’t compare to the Fantastic Mr. Fox. The character development just isn’t there. The voice acting and animation is choice, of course, but everything else is lacking. The main character’s arc is just lackluster in comparison and it just seems he eased up on qualities that were there almost from the beginning. While Atari and his uncle Kobayashi are great, filled out and deep, no one else seems to match them. Seriously, Atari is straight alpha. Lastly, his films tend to have a crescendo of action for the climax. It felt lacklustre compared to his other works. While the detailed backgrounds and design carry the movie, and the animation is fluid as all hell, the things I really love out of Wes Anderson Films, gravitas, quirkiness and character arcs, just aren’t there like they should be.

Pacific Rim Uprising is offensive. Where Isle of Dogs merely fails at hitting near Wes Anderson’s best three films (Fantastic Mr. Fox, Moonrise Kingdom, and The Grand Budapest Hotel) PRU doesn’t even pretend to be the beaten red-headed stepchild of Pacific Rim. Gone is the weight, the gravitas, the dependence on perfect characters for the roles that needed to be there to make the story work. PRU’s characters are plastic cut outs and practically cookie cutter from committees. PRU’s action scenes lack all the weight and beauty of its predecessor. I still remember Cherno Alpha, Crimson Typhon, Eureka Striker and Gypsy danger. I remember ONE mecha from PRU, Obsidian Fury, the villain Jaeger which are probably the only scenes worth watching. John Boyega can’t act his way out of a wet paper bag and while returning characters and Clint Eastwood’s son give it their all, they’re drowned by the millstones the other acting performances give. Those kids deserved to die, and I’m sorry only one did. Seriously. The climax didn’t feel like a climax. The villain was OK but had none of the mystery that the aliens had. None of the super-colourful side characters like Hannibal Chau are around to keep B-plots (of which there are, like, none) going.

Ultimately, the movie did start strong, and the Gypsy Avenger VS. Obsidian Fury fights actually felt good, nothing else did. Isle of Dogs is watchable, but Pacific Rim Uprising is a damn waste of money and I hope it fails. I am going to die someday. I wasted an amount of it equal PRU’s runtime. I should have left the theatre. Like the critic from Ratatouille, I shouldn’t have to finish anything (media-wise) that I don’t like. And just so you know, the Iron Chamber of Memory served much the same purpose for me, thematically, as that dish. Instead of watching those movies, put the money into books from Superversive press. Unlike John Boyega’s acting career, they’ll survive the apocalypse and physical copies can be used without electricity.

Here’s a youtube video from Mother’s Basement, by his holiness, the Anime Pope, who explains PRU’s terribleness pretty good.


What would an evil bard with a demonic guitar look like? Sadly, I haven’t put this to anything. Yet.

“Ten Generations, my family Safeguarded,
This guitar, Demon haunted,
But their strats were dim-witted!
And the by the black sheep, they were Slaughtered!”
Demon Groupies pop out of nowhere, a swirl of succubi and incubi just everywhere
“I’ve been hired to sing your Coronach
A dirge-worthy day to end your life
I swear you won’t be coming back!
There’s no escape from this strife!
A horned demon pops out of his back. The heroes get into a fight


I think I need to start writing metal. I think I’d be good at it.

Digibro’s Writing Goals

Here’s something interesting. I like Digibro, I like his work, I don’t really think I’d like him as a person. The problem with creating something TOO MUCH like you is that it might not be good. You might not have more than one novel in you. Don’t force it. The reason why Rowling, for all her millions, produces very little on her own (compared to some like Heinlein or Howard), and I wouldn’t be surprised if things like “Fantastic Beasts” turned out to be ghost written (or heavily co-written).

For myself, I want to create that novel that blows people away forever. The kind of thing like the Nightland or Conan the Barbarian. I don’t need fame. What is it to me? Money? I’ll die and it’ll remain here. Like Digi, I want a mastahpeece. I want to top myself. I want a world of books greater than the generations before.


Problem Review: Sex and the Shape of Water

So, I recently watched the Shape of Water. I left about 30 minutes in. Reason? Just the immense amount of sexual content. Nudity I don’t mind too much, honestly. Not something that gets as much of a reaction. I don’t view it as ‘real’. Sex causes a different reaction. And it starts at less than 5 minutes, with masturbation. Very disturbing, especially since, fellas, we gotta stop masturbating. Then there’s constant conversation about sex, homosexuality and various other things I find unpleasant. The kicker was a sex scene between the villain and his wife. It’s presented as perverse. In the middle the villain (who is Christian and racist etc, the connection is that of villainy in and of itself) covers the mouth of his wife because he’s lusting after the mute main character. Didn’t need to be there, angered me at every point.

It’s a real pity, as I do love Del Toro, but the recent crop of movies has burned me. There was no point to the sex. Lust etc, I guess, but the narrative didn’t need any of it. Her next door neighbor is gay. Sure, he likes musicals, he doesn’t need to flirt with a pie slinger to make it concrete. Villain is close minded? Fundamentally, why the sex scene with his wife and ugly lust?

It’s like this, if the actions taken seem to have no connection to the mainline plot, they probably don’t need to be there. MC has a routine? Show it without the explicit masturbation to a 3 minute egg timer! They didn’t need so long for so little. They didn’t even introduce a major character in the half hour or give me any reason to care for the MC besides the ‘disabled loner cute girl’ schtick which only works if she has a personality besides ‘doormat’!

Ultimately it’s just ugly. Probably put in to guarantee the ‘artsy’ awards. Really frustrating. Five bucks lost. Hm. Maybe I just want to obvious evils of Hollywood and its work oblique, not so explicit.

Spoilers. She does have sex with the thing. It’s mostly on screen, in the water. No thank you.

Looking forward to this though. Also, check out Violet Evergarden.

Finally Done Editing Seven Siblings!

Epitaph: Pictures of a Family

John took up Jacob’s offer and saw a grief counselor, with his family. He also started to talk to Jacob again, as well as his old friends from the Knights of Saint Louis. His barbecues became the stuff of legends.

Peter and Cynthia got married in the proper course of things, and Peter took up management of Gramps’ junkyard. They had five kids, who had their own adventures and events in their lives. Cynthia became a feared soccer mom, but gave up striking people with bicycle chains. She found she had an uncomfortable urge to lick her children’s scratches and other dog-like behaviors. Peter slept longer in winter and had to manage his weight. They both died contented.

Susan took up her mother’s legacy of gardening and alchemy by dual majoring in nursing and botany. She married a very nice doctor she met at college and had a nice, large family. She and Cynthia enjoyed years of motherly rivalry between their children, which lasted until they passed away of old age, Cynthia going first.

Edmund became a lawyer, claiming inspiration from the fairies. Lucy married at twenty five and had children but determined to be as boring as possible. As such, neither of their children had any adventures. Not that the children of lawyers can have adventures. No dragon wants to face litigation, and who ever heard of a lawyer’s kid stolen by fairies?

Richard spent ten years and ten days serving the Horned King. He married a baptized willow nymph and had children with her. He ruled his section of the forest well, and did not neglect to provide information to Jacob Grimm whenever monsters were about, and the whole area knew peace for as long as he kept it. Not that troubles never reared its head, it just never lasted long.

Mika became Goblin Queen after the Goblin King suffered a freak fondue accident and his wife retired in mourning. She ruled well and kept her subjects from stealing babies and eating people most days. She married, and ever since the Goblin Royalty has been through her line, to the goblins immense satisfaction. She never had peace, for try as she might the goblin poetry never got any better and Jack was always a thorn in her, and the rest of the Family’s, side.

Jack remembered the coin that the Fairy King gave him. Taking it, he caused all manner of mischief, which might be written of in another book in the future.

Auteur Musings: Part 1

I’m editing my Novel: Seven Siblings, currently

Sometimes I’ll have ideas on pitfalls of the Auteur, rather than the workman. I desire to be the auteur of literature. That is, to write things of surpassing quality, but such that only I could write it. Perhaps, one day, I could reach that height.  It’s not about me being good/best/worst, it’s about having that flair. I’ll be putting up musings on occasion to turn it over in my head.

Someone started a chat in discord: He had just watched the ‘disaster artist’ movie.

It’s this idea that both Wiseau and Wood were SO SURE they created masterpieces
And, like…how do you know? Really. How?
It’s impossible. There’s always that level of “I think it’s good, yeah…but what if it’s not? What if it’s awful?” It’s scary.

 My response:


It’s perspective
how do you view the world through the eyes of creation?
I figure that anything I write now will necessarily be bad compared to what I write in 10 years time
but because the bar is SO LOW to the minds of Tor and others that as long as I don’t lose the plot, force most readers out of their dissonant hypnotized state and write DECENTLY, I’m better than most out there
we take into the account that I write primarily for myself, and I don’t want to release anything I wouldn’t read, or be offended at. Editing from others outside me is to make sure the work is understandable to not me, if you get me
Wood and WIseau were/are madmen who don’t have that limitation
their mindset was “This is good” no matter how bad it would be
It’s like the silence at the end of the Phantom Menace first screening at the lucas ranch
no one is willing to tell the auteur that he is bad
when he desperately needs to be told, he is bad
if my current novel is bad, and you don’t tell me, and it turns out to be bad, I’m going to be a little more mad that you didn’t think of me highly enough to tell me so than I am mad that I did so poorly
but if my novel is bad and I am told so, I can rework it, or just throw it out there to earn me a buck or two if its unsalvageable
and the fault is on me for providing a shoddy product.
But there’s another level to it, perhaps God has given me a divine spark that allows me to pursue this path with a certain VERV that a normie just can’t
perhaps Wiseau and Wood understood the mechanics of movies and whatnot, but lacked the special Je Ne Sais Quois that Stanley Kubrick or others had/have
A paint by numbers painting can be good, decent to look at and inoffensive, but that is not the same as a renaissance piece by a master
Ultimately, the artist can only work as well as the people around him provide feedback, or that he himself is inspired to do.
Wiseau and wood? Maybe not inspired men, but men who could produce enough of a facisimile that allows them to function to a point
Wiseau even less. He’s a madman.

Working on the novel, nearly done

I know my work is spotty, but here’s a chapter of something I’m working on.

Chapter 18: Requiem for a Poisoned Chalice

Edmund neither desired to be tested, nor looked forward to whatever challenge was set before him. He didn’t avoid challenge in what he thought of as his ‘real’ life of not being tormented by fairyland. This was getting beyond what he thought of as ‘acceptable’. He wanted his real life with his family and his school and his own bed and not the couch of some fairy godmother in between charity cases.

He sighed. He shouldn’t be ungrateful, the food had delighted him. Her protection of his siblings saved their lives. That little fairy had healed his feet and not even tried to put him into a Faustian bargain. He pushed away the negative thoughts and focused. A task awaited him.

He considered the grey fog he walked through, and wondered whether he passed any of his siblings struggling with their combatants. As much as it bothered him, Jack was a goner. Probably eaten by trolls, or stepped on by a giant. In fact, the amount of things that could happen kept dancing through his mind. Mika was being served rotisserie style. Richard probably was getting gored by some mystical beast in an ironic twist for the hunter. Lucy running for her life in some hellish race. Susan facing, likely, the ghosts of the past and Peter stuck in some contest against that giant minotaur. Maybe one of them had cursed shoes and was dancing for a hundred years in a cursed masque ball, if they were lucky.

The fog cleared a little, and he could see a squat form, like a toad, sitting at a table. As things became clearer, the form turned into a full toad. No, it changed to be a toad like elf. The fat thing squatted before a sumptuously laid out table. Framed by sweet meats, fruits of all climes, and overflowing bowls of candies, a lazy susan slowly spun in the center, with a pair of goblets and a flagon on top of it. The goblets were covered in beaten red gold, with gems and platinum filigree. The flagon seemed to be made of moonstone or quartz, for it glimmered in strange ways. Through the nearly glass-like quality of the minerals, Edmund could see crimson liquid sloshing within, as the toad-like elf idly fiddled with the lazy susan.

The face of the thing flopped and expanded as the ugly thing breathed. It took in an immense breath, and expanded to twice his height and width. Then, like a balloon collapsing, it spoke to him, each syllable ruffled Edmund’s hair and flapped his collar. The smell singed Edmund’s nose hairs, causing him to flinch. In every way, it looked like a toad in human form.

“Well! Look who’s here! One of the children, first in a very long while, pity under less than magical conditions.” The greenish elf leaned down, and whispered conspiratorially, which means he merely spoke loudly, not shouted. The smell got worse. “I’m more traditional than the rest the nobles here. And I like playing these things traditionally, you see!”

He paused, and leaned back, hand playing over the goblets and the flagon. Edmund said, “I see you’ve set out food and drink. Two goblets. Is one poisoned? The poisoned chalice gambit is considered a classic in our side of things!”

“Ho ho!” And with that laugh, Edmund fell on his behind from the breeze. Despite the foetid smell, Edmund felt that his flattery had been the right call. “I’m so glad you recognized it! But the poison is much more subtle! Death isn’t as fun for our kind as a hundred year sleep! You don’t know how funny it is to see them wake up and everything is different and unknown. They run around, grabbing people and shaking them.” The toad mimicked the panic of a man out of his own time. “Oh no! What’s going on? What’s happening? What are these clothes? What is that thing flying in the sky!? I don’t know what memes are! I can’t understand you!” The elf laughed and laughed.

Edmund laughed in kind. Partly, the toad-like elf was so ridiculous that Edmund couldn’t help himself, but also, the laughter was infectious. Too infectious. Edmund kept laughing, but carefully now, reading the motions and the table. The lazy susan still turned slowly under the almost careless fingers of the elf. “My name is Numenoad, and I rule all the pools from what you call Oregon down to the foot hills of El Dorado. I want you to know that you’re not fighting some… TOADY!” And the two of them laughed for a good moment.

“I’m glad for your consideration! A hundred year sleep sounds awful, and I can’t let down my siblings like that. Hm, any news of them so far?”

Numenoad gained a sly look. “Have you got a toad pun or a joke for me?”

Edmund made a great show of thinking one up. He ‘hummed’ and ‘hawed. He scratched his chin and rubbed his neck. “Weeeeellll now…” Numenoad leaned forward in anticipation. “Do you accept rhymes?” Numenoad grinned but shook his head. “Sad. Well, I’m glad I’m not going to… croak.”

Numenoad’s giant, bulbous eyes widened. “Rough, but serviceable! Clearly, you aren’t a wordsmith. Ah well, the time of bards is long gone and the next one to come is quite a bit of a hop away! What did I expect? If you win, I’ll be happy to tell you who needs the most help.” Edmund nodded.

The thick, mucus covered fingers stopped the lazy susan. “Feel free to pour the wine!” Edmund looked at the flagon askance. Numenoad laughed, again nearly falling from his perch, so greatly did he rock in his seat. “I don’t blame you for that, this is a battle of wits! Over a hundred years ago, I poisoned the handle of the flagon. I almost think it unfair, you being a tadpole compared to me… but I haven’t done this in a long time.” The webbed hands lifted the gem-like flagon and poured the wine. Edmund could smell the strong alcohol in it.

Edmund began to talk. “I can’t smell any difference. I think you played this straight. If you were doing this every day, to fight the boredom, you’d switch it up. I wonder if you even know which one it is? You’ve been sitting here a long time, you could have lost track.”

Numenoad pointed to one of them. The goblets were identical in all points, as were the two portions of wine. “This is the goblet with the ‘poison’.”

Edmund flinched. He didn’t expect this. “You could be lying. But I’ve read some fairies can’t lie.” The goblet on the right didn’t look any different. If they just pooled the poison at the bottom of the cup, he wouldn’t be able to see it.

“I can. I’m not so proud. And besides, this is my favorite game! Games have special rules about such things! It gets me hopping excited!” The squat elf let out a ‘ribbit’. “Pardon.”

Edmund continued to think. There’s always a trick to this. It could be a simple misdirection. It could actually be the goblet with the poison. It could be that he pointed to that one so that he would suspect it. The wine itself could be poisoned, but Edmund did not want to test it, just in case. He didn’t have any of Susan’s or his mother’s draughts or anything from Grandma Goodness’ house that might come in handy all of a sudden. He could literally go down infinite possibilities of the two options, based on how far Numenoad had thought it, and Edmund would bet any amount of money that he had the perfect strategies.

He went over his options. He couldn’t flip the table, that would probably end poorly for him. He could just grab the goblet, or the opposite goblet and risk it. He could… do something else.

“You know, this reminds me of some jokes. How about this? I’ll choose after three jokes.”

Numenoad laughed, but he placed his hands over his mouth. He did his best to cover up his fits of giggles. His eyes became mere slits as he sought to control himself. “Alright alright! But I’m going to warn you, I’m heard some real croakers in my day!”

“So, this is a favorite of my joke books: A cowboy lost his favorite book while on the range. One day he looks down and a toad has it in his mouth. He takes it up in surprise. He shouts, ‘It’s a miracle!’ The toad replies, ‘Not really, your name is on the cover.’” Numenoad guffawed, just once.

“Another one: A man goes to the movies. He looks around, and sees that there’s a toad besides him. He says to himself ‘I didn’t think toads went to the movies. How weird.’ The toad replies. ‘It’s not so weird, the book was great!’” Numenoad began to giggle, the air sacks on his back expanded and deflated rapidly.

“Last one! Then we choose! An old man goes out fishing. After a while he hears a voice say, ‘Pick me up!’ Well he doesn’t see anyone so he thinks he just dreamed it up. Then, he hears the voice again. ‘Pick me up!’ He looks around and sees a toad on the pier next to him. ‘Are you talking to me?’ He says. The toad replies, “Yep! I’m talking to you. Pick me up and kiss me and I’ll turn into the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen. You’ll have me as your bride and every one of your friends will be jealous.’ The man looked at the toad and thought about it for a few minutes, then, he put the toad in his front pocket. The toad screamed, “What, are you nuts? Didn’t you hear me? I said kiss me and I will be your beautiful bride!’ It was getting ‘hopping’ mad! The old man looked down at the toad and said, ‘Nah, at my age I’d rather have a talking toad!’”

Numenoad opened his mouth wide in a great “HA!” And just at that second, quick as lightning, Edmund grasped both goblets and splashed them into Numenoad’s wide open mouth!

The toad-like elf gasped and swallowed in surprise. “Well that’s never been done before. They try to spill it, not drink it, hide it… well. Good game! Ha ha ha ha!” Numenoad began to sway and his immense eyes drooped.

Edmund rushed over and cradled him as he fell over. “Wait! Your promise! Tell me if any of my siblings are in danger, and where I can find them!”

Numenoad pointed into the fog that still surrounded them. “There, you will find a younger sister in dire need of help. She is at the gate of the giant’s spice rack. She is not in mortal danger, if she gets help soon.” Numenoad giggled as he drifted off. “I should have defined the rules better. I’ll remember that for the next one. But a good game of the poison chalice involves turning it on its head, after all! You’re pretty good, kid!” And with that, Numenoad began his one hundred year sleep.

Edmund laid him down respectfully and ran into the fog as fast as he could.

The Old Guard is dying, She wants in!


I’m not going to lie, I don’t think much of the old guard. Not… MUCH… AT ALL!

Continue reading The Old Guard is dying, She wants in!