Logan’s Run, a Short Analysis

Last weekend I watched the 1976 Sci-Fi classic movie Logan’s Run. It’s probably been twenty years or so since I’ve watched it. Basically, a few hundred years after a nuclear catastrophe, humans live in an underground chest hair-free, groovy disco city. To control the population, people are killed at 30 under the guise they’ll be “renewed.” There are some people who try to run away from the city to escape death. These runners hope to find a mythical area outside called Sanctuary. The police force, called Sandmen, are then sent capture the “runners.” What I really want to focus on is analyzing the social habits of the average person in Logan’s Run. As much as I can tell, people just walk around the city all day long. Note the following series of screenshots:

Where the fuck are these people going? Do they just walk around until they die at 30? They’re in a massive mall; where are their packages? Totally confusing. Maybe, because the city is run automatically by computers, they don’t need…

Xmas Death Metal

Xmas Eve, sometime in the ‘90s
Xmas Death Metal It’s again that time of year where thoughts of suicide, I mean sugarplums, dance in one’s head. I usually publish an account of a poignant or memorable family holiday event. This year is no different. I started playing the guitar when I was in middle school and was teased relentlessly by my brothers about it. My brother, let’s call him Thurston, was the meanest pertaining to my initial year of learning the axe. The first song I learned was Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. Thurston promptly added to the lyrics, “Eric can’t play the damn guitar.” Dick. He would soon regret those words. Fast forward a few years, I would enlist a couple of my brothers in recording sessions as singing talent. I use the word “talent” very loosely. Thurston was my go-to front man. He’d belt out classics, like Winger’s Madalaine, like he was channeling old Kip himself. Like many up-and-coming rock stars, we were forced by the record label to put out Christmas song…

The Fall

It has been raining for about a week straight. It’s cold and damp. It reminds me of home. There’s a comforting smell about it. The open patio door that leads to my bleak concrete balcony lets a sweet fragrant air waft in from the trees. It reminds me of apple picking in New York. The way the midday autumn sun cooks the fallen apples on the grass has a distinct smell. Apple picking has evolved over the years from a simple outing of just plucking your own bushel, to expensive and crowded family hell-fests. I’ve attended many of these apple picking outings with my children, because that’s what you do. These are my fondest memories of them growing up. The sticky hands from the candy apples. Petting zoos, and getting hopelessly lost in a satanic corn maze. Even my 4 yr old son getting scared out of his mind by screaming hysterical teenage girls in a haunted house. I wouldn't trade these memories for anything in the world.

Half-Assed Wins the Day

I admit it, I do things half-assed. It doesn’t bother me. It bothered my ex-wife though. Half-assed was her pet name for me. Nothing I did was full-assed to her. Oh, I tried. Home projects were the worst. There was always an extra hole in the wall, or a shelf that wasn’t perfectly level. Life is not perfect. So what if shit slides off of a shelf?

Nothing brought out her wrath more than the weekly mowing of the lawn. You know how most men take pride in their grass and general backyard areas? Yeah, that’s not really me. Nothing was more Bataan Death March to me than mowing the back forty. We had just enough yard to be annoying. I did have a nice Toro mower, but it was the recycling kind. You couldn’t wait too long to cut the grass or it would clog and stall. Forget about it if the grass was wet.

The wife, let’s call her Chrissy, had some weird utopian baseball-field level of what the average American lawn should look like. Whether parallel, crisscross or diagonals, the lines had to be …

My Mother and The Golden Girls

I’ve been thinking about my mother lately. It’s strange, memories flash through my mind-mostly fleeting. Even years after she’s been gone, I sometimes expect her to call me on the phone. I usually have a few wacky hyper-realistic dreams involving my mother every week. They mostly are nonsensical. Some are sad. Some are hilarious. My mother usually does things in my dreams that she never did in real life. For instance, cooking steaks on the grill in the backyard while it was raining. I’m pretty sure she never used the grill in her life. It is fair to say that nothing reminds me of mother more than when I catch an episode of The Golden Girls. My mother was an old Italian, her mother was an old Italian. They related to Dorothy and Sophia (my mother was named Dorothy). I can vividly recall those two talking on the phone laughing about Sophia’s latest antics. Personally, my mother was Blanche. Not the slutty part, but the fashionable-dressed to the nines, side of Blanche. So,…

When I'm Dead

Oh, the joyless torture of everyday life. I long for the extreme static and noise to end. I need the wretched waste of time commuting to work to stop. The absolute finality that death will bring is my only peace.


Moving is generally a horrible experience. I have personally moved more times than I wish to recall. Rustling through forgotten boxes and papers is emotionally draining. My most gut-wrenching moves were ones that took me far away from my kids. Every card or drawing found, brings back a flood of memories. You really can’t hold back the tears. Every move I undertake, I seem to have less and less stuff. My aim is to get my moves down to just one car load. Maybe there’s just something intriguing about having absolutely nothing to show for your life.For my last move, I’m hoping to have only the clothes that I’m buried in.