Official Corrupter Redirect

Okay, so, I know we've all "heard the rumor". And rumor or not, I love it here. I do.

But, well...just in case the rumors are true...

I have another blog. Well, really, the same blog. But with different stuff. New stuff. I swear. (Well, yes, we all know this, but I meant like 'on the Bible' not 'like a longshoreman' this time.)

Check it out. Please.

See you here (still, I hope). See you there (again, I hope).

See you everywhere, the way things are going.

The League of Zoolander

There's a great scene (among many) in the movie "Zoolander". David Duchovny's playing a hand model, a 'different breed' from regular male models. He says male models are being trained as assassins and is exposing this to Zoolander and the investigative reporter on the case.

Zoolander (played by the great Ben Stiller), asks, "But why male models?" Duchovny's character explains and exposes a centuries-old conspiracy that all assassinations were done by male models, programmed to kill by the fashion industry.

The explanation is long, detailed and funny. At the end of it, Zoolander asks, totally straight, "But WHY male models?

Duchovny looks at him and goes, "What, are you serious? I just told you!"

We all know people like this, don't we? We work with them, interact with them, and in some cases, live with them.

These are the people who seem to live to ask the same question over and over again. And not the 'big questions' like "Why are we here?" or "You want fries with that?" But the idiot questions, those questions that indicate that, no matter how many times or different ways you explain some simple concept, the questioner is never, ever going to 'get' the answer.

I used to think these people were random. Attracted to me like flies to a cow patty, but still, random. But now? Now I've run into so many that I think they're organized. It's likely a secret society, like the 'League of Extraordinary Gentlemen' or the Skulls or those who believe O.J. about anything. But clearly, they're organized. And I'm certain they're following in the footsteps of their god, Derek Zoolander.

I wonder what the requirements for membership are:

--Do you have to be dim and demand people repeat things over and over and over again every single time?
--If you occasionally sound like you're not a complete moron, does that negate your membership fee?
--Do you earn so many points every time you drive a normal, intelligent person to distraction?
--Is there a special deal if you can convince more than five people of your Zoolander qualities in one fell swoop?
--Are there merit badges given out for idiocy levels? And, if so, are they posted on the 'net? How about listed in the newspaper?
--And, really, what are the requirements for student, associate, and full membership? Is there a special membership card they carry and, if so, does it have Zoolander's picture on it or just a huge question mark superimposed over the symbol for infinity?

Not that I want to join. But since I run across the Zoolander Faithful all the time, I'd like to be kind and pass along the information in case some of them aren't already initiates.

I'd also like to find out how it is that I'm on the League of Zoolander hit list...and how to get off.

Happy Holidays!

I'm a little late (shocker) since I should have posted this, oh, say, Sunday, but, as you all know, my motto is "Better late than never, and if you're lucky, at that."

So, happy Hanukkah, have a wonderful Kwanzaa, Merry Christmas, happy Wednesday, have a good week, enjoy the minute, look is that a bird on the table? Well, get it off before it ruins the feast!

Here's hoping your holidays are bright (unless you like them dark), you're surrounded by loved ones (unless you prefer strangers), and that you both give and receive joy (unless your name is Ebenezer or Scrooge, in which case, enjoy the dreams tonight).

And here's to a prosperous and happy 2009 for all (other than people you don't like or that relative who's just doing too darned good for himself and doesn't see fit to share the lucky fairy dust).

100 Years of Service to Southern California

I grew up and went to college in Southern California. The Los Angeles Times is THE newspaper for all of So Cal (regardless of what those other papers might try to tell you), and for many years their slogan was, "One Hundred Years of Service to Southern California".

I also went to an all-girl's Catholic liberal arts college. I was not then and am not now a Catholic, but I was and still am a girl, so I had part of the requirement down. And I was willing to go into the same debt as a small nation's GNP in order to do my time there, so the school let me in.
I had a lot of fun in college, but along in my upperclassmen years, I, like so many young people, wondered how the other half lived. By the other half, of course, I mean those who go to porno flicks in the movie theater. (Being tagged as The Great Corrupter isn't so much a nickname as truth in advertising, folks.)

Of course, most girls then would not (and probably would not now) go to a porno theater by themselves. Like going to the bathroom, some things are just better done in packs.

So, some of my acolytes minions trainees nearest and dearest and I went to see the show, so to speak. We chose an afternoon matinee since we all had dates later on that evening. We also chose a Pussycat Theater, because, well, they were the top of the line porno theaters and it was only the best for us!

We were old enough to get in legally, so that wasn't an issue. The issue the ticket taker had with us was that we wouldn't stop cracking up. "You'll need to be quiet inside," she scolded. The girls with me were giggling so hard they were at risk of heart failure.

"Yeah, um right," I replied. "Wouldn't want to disturb the other patrons and cause them to, you know, have to start all over again." Shrieks of laughter from my posse greeted this one.

"Can I see your ids again?" the ticket taker asked.

We obtained our stubs and sauntered in. The first feature had already started, at least so far as we could tell. It was a compilation of 'money shots' from a variety of films -- truly an immediate gratifier if there ever was one. But since it was already dark inside, choosing seats was something of an issue.

We wanted seats together but we also wanted to ensure they'd be at least sort of clean. Easier hoped for than spotted, especially in the dark. We also felt that not sitting right next to a man alone was probably a wise choice.

We had to split into two teams, because the theater was that full. At noon on a Saturday. During intermission we scanned the crowd to make sure none of our dates were there, but apparently we were all going out with nicer people than we ourselves were. There were two women in there aside from ourselves -- and they were clearly on dates. We congratulated ourselves on the fact that we weren't going on a date to the Pussycat Theater, and settled in for the next showing.

Before the next movie started, the Pussycat ran ads, just like real movie theaters did. One of their ads was for the Pussycat Theater chains. I guess in case the throes of personalized passion had caused the patrons to forget where they were or something.

The audience had been amazingly silent during the first feature -- either that or the moaning on-screen had drowned out the moaning in the audience. But they were equally rapt for the ads.

There are some things I can't resist. Silence like this is one of them. As the Pussycat ad came on-screen for the SECOND time, I couldn't help myself. In a stage whisper, I said, "A hundred years of service to Southern California."

The audience went into hysterics. They'd heard me and my friends giggling for the first feature and I suppose they just gave in. Their mistake.

Because once my loud mouth had gotten a good laugh, the rest of my posse felt it was open season. And what a season it was.

A male lead said in a 'sexy' manner to an extremely flat-chested female lead, "Grab your breast."

"What breast?" one friend shouted out.

"I'm almost there!" one of the other male leads cried.

"Same with the guy next to me!" the friends behind me said in unison. This was proved to be quite true.

"Stop me if I go too fast." The male leads, of which this film had a plethora, had all the good lines, to use the term loosely.

"Do me baby, hurry up and DO ME!" This was from me and all the rest. College Mass had made us really good at speaking as one.

And on it went. The film ended, the lights came up, and we got a round of applause. Which was nice, because the theater manager merely requested we never again enter his establishment, as opposed to calling the police.

Nowadays, of course, you can get your porn on the internet. But it's just not the same, in the privacy of your own home. Because there's nothing like a group of people, all laughing at the same 'money shot' to really bring a sense of brotherhood and belonging, even to the most deviant group.

Not that I could go to a Pussycat now, even if there was one close by. Apparently, I'm still banned from entering their establishments, particularly if I'm with a group of giggling women. The sacrifices one makes for one's art.

Spiked Drinks

The hubs and I had a rare opportunity a few weeks ago -- we got to go out... to an adults-only the middle of the week.

I know! Like we were still vibrant, interesting and fun! So, clearly the people who invited us to the event don't know us all that well.

I had to spend days convincing the hubs this was something we both wanted to do and needed to do. However, it was for a friend's production company in support of their new independent film, and we were GOING, dammit.

The chicklet, in a rare display of cluelessness, indicated that she felt my wearing a dress would be inappropriate. I guess she felt that being far under the 'over 21' limit somehow gave her insights into how adults dress for a premiere and cocktail party. Happily, I discarded her suggestions and went in a dress. (For those keeping score at home, I looked perfectly appropriate and even got a compliment for my ensemble.)

The hubs was in the standard 'guy nice casual' for the over 22-year-old male -- Dockers and a business-casual-short-sleeved-shirt. I was soon glad he hadn't gone all out, though.

We'd arrived early, so we were able to get seats at the bar. Normally this would mean I'd lord it over everyone and really feel like we'd scored. And I did...for about ten minutes.

Then, the first reality of this evening set in. The bartenders weren't all that...good. The drinks were okay, but nothing great. And the bartenders were sloppy. As in, within an hour, the hubs looked and smelled like he'd been swimming in a vat of Long Island Iced Tea, because he'd been splattered with so much stray drink.

In addition to their lack of cool bartending skills -- believe me, the set of "Cocktail" this wasn't -- I noted something else about the bartenders. All the bartenders. To a man, they had their hair 'spiked' up, in that pseudo, just-rolled-out-of-bed style that only a limited number of guys can pull off.

For the record, of the seven bartenders, only ONE could pull this look off. On HIM it looked great, sexy, appealing -- almost like he wasn't using hair care products. The look flattered him.

On the others? Uhhh...not so much. The looks varied between 'REALLY just got out of bed' to 'I spend all my salary on gel and hairspray'. But none of them looked GOOD. Most of them looked cruddy to ugly, with one guy who'd tried for the spiked faux-hawk from front to back. He looked like he'd lost a bet and had to wear an angry badger on his head.

The coup de grace was the bartender who had tight, thick, curly hair. The kind that you either let go 'fro or you keep neatly trimmed because there is NOTHING you can do with hair like this other than let it curl or keep it short. But he was trying. Very, very hard. To spike this kind of hair.

It looked like he was in desperate need of that finishing once-over from the salon or barber, just to catch those stray hairs. But he'd clearly spent time attempting 'the look'. And it dawned on me -- this hair look was a requirement of employment at this place.

As opposed to requiring their bartenders to be able to mix good drinks, or be able to mix any kind of drink without splattering all the patrons sitting at the bar, this place requires them to spike their hair, regardless of how it actually looks.

I dunno. If it were ME, I'd pay more attention to what makes a bar good -- like the drinks and the atmosphere -- and less on showing off that your guys all know from mousse and weaves.

Then again, the place WAS called "Sheer". Maybe they can't spell any more than they can mix drinks.

Children and Other WMDs

For the past 18 years, I've had a weapon, and I've never been afraid to use her. Meet Weapon X, otherwise knows as the chicklet, my daughter.

I realized the power I wielded when the chicklet was young, about 3 or 4, if memory serves. We had made reservations for Easter Brunch at a nice, pricey place. We were early. The line was long.

It didn't take long to realize that the line was TOO long. Something was amiss. After waiting 30 minutes past our reservation time, I brazenly shoved past the hostesses blocking everyone from the dining area and made an amazing discovery -- there were a LOT of empty seats in the dining hall.

What there were not was empty tables.

Seems this fancy, expensive resort, in its wisdom, decided to set up most of its tables as rounds for 10. Shocker alert -- most families of 10 are eating Easter brunch at home.

So, what was happening was that groups of 2 and 4 were seated at these tables, meaning there were enough chairs, but the restaurant refused to 'inconvenience' its diners by 'forcing' them to sit together.

Several of us who were past starving said we'd gladly join together and BE a table of 6, 8 or 10, just let us get to the damned food already. The restaurant REFUSED. No, we'd made reservations for 2 or 3 or 4, and by golly, they were not going to ALTER their plans NOW, despite the fact that their plans were working as well as O.J.'s plan to find the real killer.

I looked at my small child, who was being remarkably well behaved, and the proverbial light bulb went off. I looked at the hostesses and managers and said, "You either seat us and the people willing to sit with us now, or I will unleash a terrible power."

They refused.

I looked at my child, and said, "Chicklet, you have Mamma's permission to throw a fit."


Weapon X gaped in shock for a moment, but she was always a bright child, and knew even at a young age that opportunities such as these didn't happen every day. As she drew in a HUGE breath and just started the beginnings of a howl, the manager THREW herself at me and said, "No! We'll seat you now!"

I told Weapon X to quiet down, she did, and we, and two other grateful families of 3 filed in to get fed. Shortly after, the rest of the herd were allowed in. I'd mentioned on the way to our table that I wasn't above taking Weapon X out and letting her stand in the lobby until everyone had a chair.

The restaurant manager now lived in fear, and I had new-found power.

A few years after unleashing Weapon X at Easter Brunch, she and her BFF #1 managed to break our Sega video game player. They both claimed innocence and still to this day admit they have no idea of HOW they broke it, just that they did. The hubs has never quite recovered -- he still mourns some of the games we can never play again. The kids loved the games, too, so I have to believe it was done without malice. But still, the tide was turning. And many more things were breaking. Small things, usually. Usually costly. Weapon X has her standards, after all.

It turned fully a couple of years ago. BFF #1's neighborhood does an annual Memorial Day Weekend bash. It's huge, well attended, and we've come as guests for years now. In addition to a pool, volleyball, shuffleboard and a rec room, this place also has a sauna.

Or it did.

Seems BFF #1 and BFF #2 and possibly BFF #3 were in there with Weapon X to keep her company while she was piddling. They're girls. Yes, we ALL go in packs. Yes, it's to talk about the males. No, you really don't want to know what we say, trust me. Not even what the young ones say.

Anyway, while Weapon X was doing her duty, so to speak, BFFs #1 & #2 were playing around with a switch on the wall.

"What's this do?"

"I don't know."

"Let's flip it some more!"


They were a little old for this, but, you know, they were bored.

While the BFFs were so occupied, Weapon X smelled something. After getting out and washing her hands, she wandered over to where the BFF Brigade was still flicking something on and off.

A quick look told Weapon X there was no way they were turning on and off a light. She's my child, so she's smelled things burning before. At least once a week at dinnertime for her entire life. So, she recognized what was happening.

"Oh. My. GOD! The sauna's on FIRE!" So shrieked Weapon X, as she led the escape, the BFFs racing out behind her.

Naturally, they didn't TELL anyone. Until the flames showed. Then, I think one of them nudged an adult and said, "Um, do you see that? Is that, wow, could that be a FIRE?"

Oh, it was an exciting Memorial Day THAT year.

Of course, I knew without asking that Weapon X and her BFFs had to have had a hand in it, so when I asked a couple of probing questions, she admitted it. To me. However, not to any of the other adults.

But, you know, it was several years ago. Besides, it needed a big renovation and the new rec room, sauna and bathrooms are MUCH better. (Um, what IS the statute of limitations on unintentional arson, anyway?)

Weapon X and BFF #1 went to college this fall. I can't wait to hear what it is they destroy there, because, by now, it's a given. Good luck, college administration -- you're gonna need it.

Happy Whatever

Normally we do a big feast at our house for Thanksgiving. Pull out all the stops. Invite everyone we know over (and, shockingly, many of them actually come).

But this year, the chicklet is in college and has exams and stuff and we're totally burnt out from work, and I'm already sick of Christmas because the holiday 'buy now' push started the day after some cases, before we're going out of town.

Happy about the trip. Happy to go see Mom and Dad and the family (and my new nephew!). But sorry we won't see all the folks we normally see at this time.

Of course, I think 99% of them are going out of town, too, this year. It's the Get Outta Phoenix NOW Thanksgiving, I guess.

So, for all our friends who I may have forgotten to advise that WE will be out of town -- we'll be out of town, Happy Thanksgiving!

For all our friends going out of town who know we're going out of town -- safe journeys and Happy Thanksgiving!

For all our friends not going anywhere -- enjoy the time at home and Happy Thanksgiving!

And to all a good night! Talk to you when the Christmas shopping push REALLY know, the day AFTER Happy Thanksgiving.

Quantum of Hotness

So, the hubs and I went to the movies Friday night. (I'll wait while you all faint and then recover yourselves.) And we saw a movie on opening night. (Repeat the faint and recovery stuff.) We saw "Quantum of Solace".

Daniel Craig is like real man hotness personified. There is nothing this guy can do to NOT be hot and sexy and manly. To which I say 'hurray!' Oh. And he's a good actor, too.


What were the producers and directors thinking? He wasn't naked in this film!

I mean, the film was fine -- too much handheld camera work during the fight scenes (when WILL that craze leave Hollywood? Ever?) and it certainly wasn't all jokes and crumpets, but, dammit, I go to a Daniel Craig film to see Daniel Craig! To see ALL of Daniel Craig!

It's bad enough that he had to de-buff to play in, if you've only seen him in "Casino Royale", you need to check out "Tomb Raider" and that quickly (naked and in the shower) or "Layer Cake" (naked and in the bed). But to give us a 2 hour movie and all we see is a little of Daniel Craig's most awesome chest? That's plain unfair. Where were his awesome abs? His amazing butt? His muscular thighs? I'll tell you...they were covered up with CLOTHES.

The horror...the horror...

Oh, and for those who somehow go to Bond movies for the chicks and the guns and car chases -- it was good, not as good as "Casino Royale" but better than most of the later Roger Moore ones and without the horrific girl names all the Bond movies were saddled with, and easily as good as the Pierce (sigh) Brosnan ones. (For the record, Pierce never got naked enough in the Bond movies either.) I'll buy it when it comes out on DVD, quantum of hotness or not. But I'll watch the 'Daniel Craig comes out of the ocean in tight, tiny trunks' and 'Daniel Craig is totally naked for this torture' scenes from "Casino Royale" a lot more.

Now, I feel I must go watch "Tomb Raider" least, that 'Daniel Craig takes a shower' scene...perhaps repeatedly...

No Soliciting - This Means You

I work from home and I own three big dogs, which gives new terror to the idea of door-to-door anything.

Here in Phoenix, tree trimming is clearly a growth industry. Hardly a day can go by without someone idling their decrepit truck in front of my house while they come to see if I want my neatly trimmed trees...trimmed.

But they aren't so bad. Most of them are Mexicans and they aren't stupid. I share we already have a great tree trimmer and that I am loyal to Jose (this is, btw, very true) while the dogs share that they're hungry, and this business is concluded quickly. The few white guys who trim trees in between prison stints aren't quite as smart as the Mexican guys, but our smallest dog is a pit bull, and they've got enough self-preservation in them to leave the moment I mention her breed, and that quickly.

Less swiftly dealt with are the door-to-door salespeople. They're selling anything from meat and ice cream delivered right to your door -- for only three times what you'd pay for it at that newfangled market that's a whole mile down the street -- to aluminum siding. Yes, aluminum siding. In Phoenix, Arizona, otherwise knows as Hell's Orientation Area.

These folks are harder to get rid of. They know I won't loose the dogs on them, because they have the backing of a company that probably knows a lawyer somewhere. For them, I have to say that I already have dual pane windows, couldn't care less about saving money, hate convenience, and own over a dozen guns (this is true -- I mean it when I say don't piss me off or I'll make you sorry, and I have the firepower to back it up). I just laugh maniacally at the aluminum siding people because, really, what else can you do?

Middle of the pack are the sales folks who actually represent a brand in my household, like my phone service. I'm rather loathe to turn them instantly away, since, once, one of them actually saved me over $100 a month and I'm willing to give optimism a try every now and again.

These folks, however, are not interested in getting bitten, since they aren't on commission, so while I'm shouting, "What? What are you saying? Shut up! I can't hear you. Shut up, dogs, shut UP! What?" and trying to hear their offer, for some reason, they usually give me a bad look and leave.

Next up on the scale of difficulty are the kids who wantyoutobuytheircraptohelpkeepthemoffthestreetsandoffdrugs. They always say that sentence as if it were one word, like some urban version of supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, only with no Julie Andrews or Dick Van Dyke, let alone lyric and tune. They really don't care about the dogs -- they have dogs like mine at home, only theirs are wearing spiked collars and 'guarding' their families' 'business interests'.

I like to point out that I can't be a party to this charade. Of course, they try to insist that they're really kids (some of them have looked at least 25 to my eyes), that they're really from the bad parts of town (this is imminently clear), and that this is really the only way to keep them off the streets and not doing drugs. I have to mention then that, clearly, they are ON the streets, peddling whatever crap it is they're trying to sell me, and how do I KNOW they aren't going to take my five dollars for one Twix bar and race right off to the park and buy drugs? They insist they wouldn't. I insist that my dogs are drug-sniffing dogs and that they go into a frenzy when they smell even the slightest whiff of ganja, let alone anything harder. Since the dogs are in a guaranteed frenzy by this time, I can usually make my point. For the tougher ones I just mention that my brother's with the ATF and he's due any minute and this seems to do the trick.

But the Jehovah's Witnesses are in a class all by themselves.

We're just down the street from a huge Kingdom Hall, meaning that our neighborhood is always a target. And, this side of a televangelist, there is no one more intent upon saving your soul than a JW.

We get them all, usually utilizing an adorable moppet as a selling tool. The hubs is a sucker for this, but I'm not. I usually suggest that junior looks thirsty and would he/she prefer a shot of ice cold vodka or room temperature scotch, and they tend to meander off. But, sadly, they keep on coming BACK. Maybe junior really wants that drink. I would, if I were hanging with these people 24/7.

My favorite JW experience was when we only had one dog, the big fella. It's also the reason we installed a heavy-duty metal screen door -- not to keep anyone out, but to keep him IN. He's 110 pounds of muscle and a runt for his breed, so, you know, he's always overcompensating. He's also a guard dog and he takes his job VERY seriously.

It was a weekend, so prime JW time. A man and what I took to be his wife came by, in their Missionary Best, which looked exactly as that sounds. They rang the bell. The big fella started his standard cacophony. And the woman started backing up. But not her husband. He was going to save my soul! So, I opened the door a crack. The big fella started instantly clawing at the door to get through, while making sounds reminiscent of both original and mecha-Godzilla.

By now, the woman was at the sidewalk. But the man held fast. I managed to ask what he wanted. The JWs usually come with a prepared spiel, and he was no exception.

"We all have security for our homes," he started. I could guess that the next line was supposed to be, but do you have security for your soul? But he couldn't get it out.

Instead, he looked down at my precious puppy, Love Spawn of Alien and Predator, and said, "...and there's yours..." and lost it. We looked at each other and suddenly he was in danger of dying because I was laughing so hard I was at risk of not being able to hold the dog back and he was laughing too hard to run.

In between howls of laughter I managed to share the usual 'we have our own religion' line while he nodded and waved merrily while he backed away.

Meanwhile, his loving spouse was already out of view, running down the street. I assume she decided she only had to outrun him and that it wasn't all that far back to the Kingdom Hall and salvation from the big fella.

However, one funny anecdote is not enough to make me want to keep on having the JWs and their less religiously-minded but still all-too-annoying brethren beating down my doors. So I have a solution.

I'm getting a sign made. A big one. It'll say:

"No Soliciting! This means you, yes, you. Yes, you, if you are a tree trimmer, salesperson of any kind or stripe, kid selling anything for any reason, and especially if you're peddling a religion of any kind. Stay away, keep off the weeds, and take your moppets with you. And if all else fails and you continue to annoy me, I shall release the Hounds. They just want to have you help them stay off the streets and off kibble."

Then, when they ring the bell anyway, I'll greet them with something sure to make them run. I think a naked, middle-of-forty woman with a .357 Magnum makes a clear statement, don't you?

I Don’t Need Drugs -- I Have ‘Zu Warriors’

Despite being born in the 1960's and growing up in the 1970's and '80's, I never did drugs. Well, at least not recreationally. This doesn't apply to alcohol, which is a subject in and of itself. I don't mind drinking my drugs -- caffeine and hooch -- but I draw the line at anything and everything else.

I know this sets me apart from most, well, everybody, other than the hubs, who was also a non-experimenter. His reasoning was that if he tried drugs he'd probably like them far too much, likely become an addict, and end up dead or worse by age 25.

I never tried them because, frankly, I have a freaky enough imagination all on my own. I don't NEED drugs to come up with bizarre ideas -- I just go to sleep, and bam, there they are, playing out in my Technicolor dreams. And I'm also pretty damned uninhibited -- I've given most anything a go at least once, particularly all the sins.

I'm HUGE on the sins. 'Cause they're fun. And I was always smart enough to know that if someone was going to be so kind as to lay out each and every fun thing in the world to try, why, by golly, it was my duty to try them. I read the Bible cover-to-cover. There is some REAL kinky stuff in there, trust me. No, really...TRUST me.

But, for some reason -- wanting to stay in control of my bad self and the desire to retain brain cells for all the alcohol I was drinking to absorb and burn in its own time -- I never tried recreational drugs or, as P.J. O'Rourke puts it, I never became my own pharmacist.

But a couple of years ago, I found something that's better than drugs. Or, at least, from what every stoner I've ever talked to or read (P.J. and Hunter S. Thompson and all those guys included), something that simulates a drug trip so perfectly, so completely, you need never waste your money on the real things again.

I'm speaking of the cinematic classic, 'Zu Warriors'.

The hubs and I first caught part of this masterpiece in opium, acid, angel dust and living color while at the Vegas 'House of Blues', waiting for Motorhead to hit the stage. HOB was playing this movie on a continuous loop. At least, it seemed like it was a movie, and it might have been continuous. It was hard to tell.

The gist seemed to be there was this handsome Asian guy with a sword and some other handsome Asian guy with wings that were a lot like Archangel's when he was all Age of Apocalypse and a couple of hot Asian chicks who were able to fly and kick butt and a whole lot of psychedelic colors that I hadn't seen since I was very small.

The handsome guy loves a girl or girls, the same girl, really, but at the same time, not the same girl. The guy with wings loves some other girl who's a tiny, evil fairy. There is badness. There is goodness. There is weirdness more than anything else. Freaky, drug-induced weirdness. We watched this thing over and over and literally got a contact high. We were both mellow and fired up and seeing infinity.

We HAD to own this baby. So the hubs hunted it down and we bought the DVD. We assumed we'd understand what was going on when we were able to see the entire movie and hear/read the dialog.

Boy, were we stupid.

Because, as near as we've been able to tell from repeated viewings, my bizarre understanding from the concert WAS the movie. The only thing we were missing was the names. Oh, the names.

King Sky is the handsome hero. Dawn who is also Enigma is the lovely love interest with King Sky in some sort of horrifying cosmic loop where he's the teacher/she's the student, then she's the teacher/he's the student, over and over again. I don't think they ever get to do the nasty in all these centuries they die and get reborn. Or maybe this was all sex. It's hard to be sure.

Red is the guy with wings. That's his whole name, Red. Thunder is a good guy. The female ingenue is Joy, the male one who may be Thunder, Red or King Sky in his next life, or may not be, is Hollow or Ying, depending. The two wise oldsters are Master Transcendental and White Eyebrows. I swear to God I'm not making these names up.

And who, you may ask, is the Big Bad? Who are all these people fighting? Well, they're fighting an evil so powerful, so overwhelming, so dastardly, so insidious, that he/she/it could only be called one thing -- Insomnia.

So, next time you need a fix, don't call the local pusher. Go buy 'Zu Warriors' -- tune in, drop out, get high, and become highly confused. And to show you're also fighting the good fight, get some sleep.