It's that time of the year again! Who's ready to celebrate the BIG GAME!

That's right, folks: The most beloved United States tradition has returned! YES, I'm talking about the one and only HYPER PLATE!

After the two teams have squabbled over the ol' rubber for hundreds of days, they must face-off in the ultimate face-off for the coveted HYPER PLATE! 

How many HYPER PLATES have we had so far, you ask? Well, historians aren't exactly sure, but many believe that the HYPER PLATE originated during the colonial period (stellar, not continental) and has happened for at least one hundred years. Because of the many blanks spots in the hallowed history of the Plate, we've arbitrarily chosen "50" as this year's number, to satiate fans of composite numbers with seemingly high value. 

Now, on to the rules (for the few non-fans of the HYPER PLATE):

The game begins, and both teams tussle for the rubber, hoping to make it left or right. When one team makes it all the way left or right, they are rewarded with a few tally marks. After some time, the team with the most tally marks is declared victor and owner of the HYPER PLATE. Wow, crazy, huh? 

A lot of injuries can happen in the wanton pursuit of the rubber though. Keep our boys in your prayers, so that they won't feel the sting of the groin-pull or the ouchie of the hang-nail screamer. 

Look, I want to be clear: The HYPER PLATE is a big deal, and it's the most important thing in the world to me. I just want to spread the word. I'm not trying to disrespect these modern gods and goddesses by revealing their very human weaknesses. I mean no disrespect at all. I just want others to understand how tough it is to go for the Plate with rubber in hand. 

Now that the basics are out of the way, I want to mention some ways to gear up, root on the lads, and celebrate the HYPER PLATE in all its glory! 

1) Cook up some grub!

A healthy family can't be expected to continue the season-long fast while viewing the powerful presentation of the HYPER PLATE competition!

2) Wear the garb!

There's no better way to let the troupers on both teams know how and where you stand than by wearing the traditional clothing associated with them. In fact, they get most of their pre-Plate energy from looking deep into the recording cameras and seeing that you're wearing the symbols of their strife! 

3) Cheer during the game!

While the garb is one thing, explosive cheering at levels beyond the legal auditory limit is absolutely NECESSARY! How else will our costumed participants hear and then gain auxiliary energy points? We gotta keep those levels up, so SCREAAAMMM!!!! 

4) HAVE FUN!

​Most importantly, enjoy the spectacle of the slippery rubbers transference between the marching troupers in the rumpus for the left and right! 

I'll see (and hear) all of you tonight during the BIG GAME! Good luck to the cadre of troupers you've chosen to affiliate yourself, and remember...

RUBBER HIGH, RUBBER LOW, OFF TO THE LEFT, WE GO! GO! GO!

Hello readers and fellow Colonists! 

Due to a few failing systems on my computer, I needed to send out for a brief repair. Thankfully, it's back and better than ever, so we'll be returning to our regularly scheduled programming here at "Colony 9 at Night."

On our agenda, we've still got "Weekly Soundchecks" coming, a few reviews in the pipeline (video game, film and even television!), a Christmas-themed post, and the still-lingering call to save the Earth with the ever-approaching XCOM stream!

Aside from this, I once again invite any and all writers, amateur or not, to share your work on this site. While I mainly use it as a therapeutic way to stretch my creative muscles, I've always intended for others to be able to do the same. 

Two examples of guest contributors are Daniel Murano's thoughtful piece on "Culture vs. Creation" and Darren Wilson's thrillingly chilling short story, "The Anomaly." I implore you to check out their exciting, poignant work on their personal pages, as well. 

If you feel you have the desire to write something (or post your artwork, etc.) just get in contact with me and we'll make it happen!

I hope you're all having a fantastic day and I'm looking forward to hearing from you!

All the best, 
​Joe

Also, here's a gratuitous picture of me for no reason:

"American Ninja Warrior" is one of the few shows that I watch on television, streaming or otherwise. You won't see me singing the praises of "Breaking Bad," or lamenting that there aren't more episodes of "Orange is the New Black." Instead, I'm watching adults make attempts at completing an incredibly grueling (and completely ridiculous) obstacle course. It's like "Legends of the Hidden Temple," minus Olmec, Kirk Fogg, or the omniscient Temple Guards (although I won't hold this against ANW.) 

In fact, the obstacle courses are so difficult, that there hasn't been a single winner on the final course in its entire run. Because of this, there's a very satisfying element to seeing how far someone will push themselves to make as much progress as possible, and that lingering hope that maybe, some how, some way, they'll beat this seemingly impossible challenge.

Aside from that good, old-fashioned, under-dog fun, there's the usual spattering of sob stories, and uplifting tales to help the viewer relate with the various competitors. But there's another element that sticks out like a sore thumb (and if you're a fan, you've probably guessed what I'm getting to already): The utterly banal commentators, Matt Iseman and Akbar Gbaja-Biamila. They're an obnoxious force to be reckoned with, saying the dumbest possible things as often as they repeat themselves with their needless commentary. 

When all's said and done, though, those two dinguses and the rest of the show's oddities somehow work together to make a very compelling and thrilling program to get invested in. 

That said, like all good things, a drinking game had to be forged out of it and, while I camped on the beautiful islands in the pristine Lake George, I compiled the following list:

• Anytime Akbar curses a contestant,* take a shot. 
• Anytime Akbar says "L Shape," or "I Shape," sip your drink.
• Anytime Akbar says "90 degrees," sip your drink. 
• Anytime a contestant loses on the same obstacle they lost at last time, finish your drink.
• Anytime the hosts hype up a player, only for them to lose unexpectedly fast, take a shot.
• Anytime Kacy Catanzaro shows up randomly, take a shot.
• Anytime someone is trained in Sam Sann's gym, sip your drink.
• Anytime someone builds a Ninja course in their backyard, finish your drink.
• Anytime an awful/tasteless pun is made, sip your drink.
• Anytime a contestant takes their shirt off, take a shot. 
• Anytime someone says "I wish the commentators would shut up," they finish their drink.
• Anytime a commentator says "[their] [limb] is burning!" take a shot, straight. 
• Anytime a commentator or contestant says "[I/They] dig deep!" take a shot, straight. 
• Anytime Akbar uses the scientific term for a muscle or muscle group, take a shot.
• Everytime a contestant unleashes a guttural roar, take a shot, straight. 
• Everytime the mysterious towel tosser throws a towel at a newly-dunked loser,               finish your drink.
• When Mark Iseman uses the "Ninja Voice," take a moment to reflect upon your life, and then consume the nearest alcoholic beverage. 

* = "Cursing" a player refers to the oddly common event of Akbar praising a contestant or their form, only for them to be disqualified moments later. Studies conducted by myself and my mother have concluded that Akbar is directly responsible for this, using some form of arcane magicks. 

Like I said, I've yet to test this out, but I have a feeling it may be fatal. That said, I'll be trying it out anyway, personal safety be damned. 

What do you think? Did I miss any of the idiosyncrasies from the Ninja Culture that'd be a great fit for the list? Let me know in the comments below! 

Once upon a time, there was a donut that had a brain. He escaped from the donut factory and went to work for a group of very bad men who expected him to rob banks and get money for them. Mr. Donut did as he was told and got $1000.00 every day. One day, a policeman came and arrested everyone except Mr. Donut, because the policeman thought that Mr. Donut looked good enough to eat. The policeman tried to catch Mr. Donut. 

Mr. Donut said, "you can't catch me, I'm the Donut Man! ha, ha, ha!" he laughed. 

Mr. Donut was on the run for fifty days. On February 1st* (* = No idea why I was so specific about this date, or the fifty days, but I find it more than distressing) the policeman caught Mr. Donut and took a bite out of him. 

Mr. Donut screamed and said "don't eat me. I'm magic. After all, have you ever seen a donut with a brain before?"

The policeman said okay and put Mr. Donut in jail. Mr. Donut told him that he would grant a wish in three days. During the three days, Mr. Donut came up with an escape plan. When the policeman came to get his wish, Mr. Donut ran through the bars in his cell. The policeman caught him again and told him that if his wish was not granted the very next day, Mr. Donut would be dunked into the policeman's coffee!! The policeman left for the night. 

As soon as the policeman was gone, Mr. Donut squeezed through the bars of his cell again and ran out through a side door. Near the exit of the police station, Mr. Donut ran right into the hungry policeman. 

The policeman said, "you're right where I expected you to be."

He picked up Mr. Donut, dunked him into the coffee he was drinking, and ate him. 

"This was my wish after all," he said. "Yuk! This donut tastes bad."

He spit out Mr. Donut's remains, and the crumbs crawled away. He heard a faint voice saying "One day, I will wreak revenge on you."

Sure enough, one year later, a giant donut dunked the policeman into a giant cup of coffee and ate him. That is why to this day people dip their donuts into their coffee to prevent the donut's power from being released. 

I've uncovered another creative work from when I was a youngster. I believe this was in fifth grade, but I didn't date the work (which is sort of surprising, as everything else is dated.) 

I believe we were learning about the Greek or Roman pantheon of gods and goddesses, and were required to create our own mythology, with both a legend and artistic rendering. 

Mine was… well, let's just say it's interesting.

First of all, here's the artistic rendering of his temple: 

Now for the mythic tale to go with this mythic picture. 

Oh, and before we begin: 

Apparently, I was clearly aware that the canon I was presenting to my teacher was far too complex for her mortal mind, and found it necessary to phonetically write out the two names of my protagonist. 

They read as follows: "Rubeus (Ru-bee-us) Rubei (Ru-bay)"

Oh, and my teacher wrote "Very creative" and gave me a check plus. 

Contain your jealousy.

Of note: The story is typed in bold, while my commentary is in regular typeface. I'm sure you would have figured it out, but I can't take any chances in a world where people think vaccines cause autism. 

A long time ago there was a young boy named Rubei who was chosen to be part of the empire of Lord Diamond. 

Rubei had his name changed to Rubeus because it fitted [sic] for his new home. There was Lord Diamond, his wife, Sapphire, and their daughter Emerald. 

Right off the bat, I didn't really earn my "very creative." These are the names of the villains during the then-current season of Sailor Moon. However, the whole "Rubei = Rubeus" thing came out of my own mind. And the similarities end there, as we go down a wild rabbit hole. 

Of interest is that I honestly inexplicably had this reason to have my main character go through a name change in the first two sentences. That's so… weird. Normally, you'd think that kind of event would happen after some great quest, or when God himself chooses you for greatness. But no, it was simply the way of things and fitted with his new home. Why would I feel compelled to add this detail? I can only imagine what the culture of this world was like. It "fit" for his new home. Alright. 

I also love that I was extremely concerned with the world-building and the family tree. 

One day they went to war and Rubeus was captured. Rubeus waited and waited for Diamond to rescue him but he never did. The enemy slayed [sic] Rubeus. 

Well, uh, that's one way to start this out. This is fairly dark for that age. I can hardly imagine the mind-warping, lonesome torture that Rubeus went through, awaiting his once-admired Lord to rescue him. 

"Any day now, any day now.." he must have whispered to himself during the frigid nights in his cell. 

And think of the implications of this lore: Who, or what, did they go to war with? Was this a just empire? Or one that should be synonymous with the Empire of Star Wars fame? 

And after countless nights, after all hope is lost, Rubeus is executed. No warning. No deal. Nothing but no-frills death. 

When Rubeus awoke in the shadow world he noticed the other demons having a riot. 

Things are getting crazy for a presumed fifth-grader here. I seem to have created my own afterlife concept. One that's filled with rioting demons. 

This calls to question whether or not Diamond's empire was righteous, since this sounds an awful lot like Hell. Does this mean Rubeus (formerly "Rubei," in case you missed this critical detail) was a terrible person during his stint in the empire?

Maybe he got what he deserved after rotting away in jail while the cowardly Diamond no doubt prospered after retreating, selfishly failing to rescue the enthusiastic Rubeus. 

I can only imagine that he sat in his throne, repeating "all rulers must make difficult decisions" to himself, to try and convince himself that abandoning his eager friend was the correct course of action. 

At this time, there was no king of demons.

I wonder if this is why the demons were rioting?

That's why the demons were rioting. 


Ok.

Rubeus said he would be king and, at that moment, he became half-demon and half-human. This is represented with one eye demon-like. He then got golden magical armor and a magical crystal sword that can kill anything, cut them clean in half. His left arm is ultra-strong and his right arm is that of a spell caster. His glare can withstand the instant death gaze of the basilisk. When engaged in battle he gets devil wings. 

This is where things take a turn for the insane. More so than before. 

I love its brutal simplicity: "I am going to be king." That bold, confident act suddenly aligns the universe and forces of fate and destiny, imbuing the fallen Rubeus with all manner of power, lineage and equipment. 

That simple declaration turned him into half-a-demon. HIS ONE EYE BEING DEMON-LIKE PROVES THIS. (refer to the picture)

And not only that, he receives two obviously-legendary items. And the sword can kill anything. It's cuts the poor fools clean in half. This was someone not to be trifled with. 

And, naturally, as a lefty myself, his left arm is "ultra-strong." (Check out the picture. His left arm is holding up the temple. I'm actually surprised at how clever and subtle that reference to his lefty-ultra-strength is) and his right arm alone is capable of casting spells. I assume this means that he doesn't even need to utter the arcane words; his arm just knows. 

He stares back at a Basilisk and resists its instant-death gaze. Okay, must've just read "The Chamber of Secrets."

Oh, and to top it all off, he gets devil wings the second he is engaged in any form of combat. Talk about intimidation. 

And, I really need to stress this, is Rubeus a good guy? I mean, I don't know. I really don't know. He just sees all of these hellspawn rioting in absolute, pure anarchy (because, "at this time" there was no king. What's the story with that? ) and decides that he'll be king. 

He must have really meant it, because the universe certainly agreed with him. 

The dude is monstrously powerful, half-demon, rules over suddenly-compliant (and, no doubt, fear-filled) demons, and grows devil wings at the slightest beckoning of battle. 

Sounds like evil incarnate. I can only imagine the terror he will know bring to the land of the living with his endless rain of demonic terror, reaffirming his place as Imperial Grand Devil Master of this world. Poor souls.

He protects the innocent. 


Oh. Well scratch all that. I guess he's good.

He is god of war. He is lord of demons. He is Dark Rubeus! 

And, no doubt, vengeance, the night and Batman.

Ah… sounds like a good ending, no? He's reached his destiny as Lord of Demons and achieved supernatural strength. Surely this is the end of the tale, nay, legend.

If only that were the case. 

On the back is a sloppily written epilogue that reads like the Book of Revelations. 

He marries Emerald and kills Diamond. They have a daughter named Talos. 
His pet is Egard the Ogre and he is friends with Salron, Arbok, Slemiugs, Drakkor, 

Okay, what is this? Why is this epilogue suddenly packed with an enormous amount of indecipherable lore. 

The majority of the New Testament is easily digestible: Jesus does nice stuff, dies for everyone's sins, then got to Heaven. Good ending. Cool. But then you get to the Book of Revelations and you're bombarded with angels bringing destruction, the Whore of Babylon, the Seven-Headed Beast, Abaddon, etc. Ya know, a whole bunch of crap that's never been mentioned until now and is entirely insane. 

That's pretty much what happened here. The tale of Dark Rubeus (who is, apparently, a hero) is fairly straightforward. And then this happens.  

Sure, the first sentence about his vengeance is digestible. I'll even accept that out-of-the-blue, vaguely-ominous, non-jewelry themed name for his daughter. But where did I get the rest of this shit!? Egard the Ogre? What compelled me to share the name of this immortal's pet ogre? This comes out of nowhere. It's clear that, as the author of this work, I felt it was my duty to share that detail. Perhaps this is a critical element of a prophecy yet to be revealed. 

And then there are the the friends.  

Salron? Who or what is this being? They're friends? There's no mention of him previously in this document. Are we just supposed to know what he is?

Arbok? Okay, well that's a Pokemon. So I guess it makes sense. 

Slemiugs, Drakkor? What the-? WHO ARE THESE THINGS? Where did I get these names from? They sound like formidable figures in this world's dog-eat-dog pantheon. Are they even other gods? Or are they humans? Or are they his demon half-kin? 

These figures are just so casually mentioned. Off-handedly, even. I mean… why? What was the reasoning? My fifth grade self was trying to tell us something. I feel it in my bones. I believed this to be so important that it had to be shared, and shame on us for not understanding it years later. 

Thus the great telling of the legend of the fall of Empire Diamond and the rise of Rubeus ends……………... 

Oh…... wait… I forgot; There's one more "friend's" name scribbled on here:

and Ynattirb. 

Ynattirb. YNATTIRB. YNATTIRB. What. The. Hell.

This doesn't sound like some vaguely cool-sounding name my fifth grade self would pull out of his ass. 

This sounds like the most menacing, ageless cosmic horror, emerging deep from its forever-sleep in the darkest bowels of the cosmos. Profoundly more ancient than the Elder Gods themselves, and infinitely wiser. Frighteningly more powerful. Again, I just casually toss this out there. This is the last fucking thing on the whole paper. This is the bookend. It starts with "A long time ago" and ends with this revelation/prophecy/death sentence of "Ynattirb." 

Surely, this creature's mere life-force is too much for a mortal to process, causing hundreds of billions throughout the cosmos to commit ritualistic mass suicide on a galactic scale, even lightyears away from this ever-approaching behemoth. 

Ynattirb. The name itself is an indecipherable code. It is comparable to the Most Prominent of the Old Gods, Rx'lhx'tcl and his Most-Ancient Kin. No doubt, "Ynattirb" is not this terrifying behemoth's TRUE name, but rather what the ancients who foresaw his inevitable, apocalyptic return called him in an effort to attempt to quantify, define and understand what is unable to be understood. 

Or maybe it's just Brittany spelled backwards. Because I had a crush on Brittany. Whatever. 

For anyone who's been to my house, it's apparent I'm a bit of a hoarder. I have every box of every video game I've ever owned (instruction manual included) countless magazines, and even 90% of my toys. 

I was moved by the Holy Spirit recently to start donating clothing and toys, and with that mission objective, I also started to clean and go through my dense archives. I've found all kinds of projects, papers and books from my grade school days, most of which are hilarious/terrifying. In short: I wrote and made some really weird stuff back in the day. Yes, even more than now. 

I thought it would be in the best interested of everyone on the planet if I shared some of these truly bizarre stand-outs from days gone by. The first of these is one of the very first, multi-page short stories I ever wrote. 

In sixth grade's English class, taught by the inimitable Betty Bowes, we were assigned a task to use vocab words in a short story. On October 17, 2002, I chose to up the ante. Being that we were in the Witching Season, I opted to craft a distressing, horror-themed tale featuring a fascinating figure of my nightmares at the time. 

I'll transcribe the story here (grammar/spelling errors included and, most importantly, vocab words underlined.) and then get into a little bit of lore in regards to what exactly was going through my head. 

Keep in mind I went to Catholic school, and the content of this story was not only edgy, but actively pushed the envelope for what I thought would be considered "acceptable" content. Frankly, I thought I was going to get in trouble for it. But we'll let you judge for yourself. I even got to read it out loud! 

Prepare yourself for the bone-chilling "Terror on Lockwood Drive." 

One day in the town of Flan, I was walking home from school with my friend, Saric. I noticed across the old playground that someone was following us. 

"Saric, look. Someone is following us." 
Saric looked and said "I don't see anyone." 

The next night, I was playing video games when I looked out the window and saw something unusual - the same man that was following me. He had a shirt on that said "Flan Asylum." He had a white mask on. He had something in his hand… it looked like a knife! He was looking straight at me. I shuddered when I saw him. 

That night I slept with my paintball gun*, and just to be safe, I invited Juste Belmont over. After all, he was a professional vampire killer. 

*= I didn't have a paintball gun, but everyone else seemed to. in an effort to sound cooler than I already was, I added this detail. NO ONE HAD TO KNOW OTHERWISE. 

I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of strange noises. I looked out the window and saw a savage battle going on between Juste and the man with the knife. 

Juste was saying, "Curse you, vampire! Curse you!"

I thought to myself, "That's no vampire. That guy looks just like Michael Meyers. That guy IS Michael Meyers!*

*= Yes, it's spelled wrong twice and in every instance onward. 

Naturally, I received an A on this project. 

What'd you think? Did it chill you to the core? Was it worthy of that coveted A and the potential controversy? 

Upon reading this for the first time since probably 2003, I was more than amused that in this fictional version of my hometown, apparently it's quite casual be armed with a sword at all times. I also loved the fact that the paintball phase was in full swing. 

The most terrifying moment, to me, was the Michael Myers walking towards us while "grinning in a strange sort of way." I can't figure out what I was thinking and why I'd describe it like that. Such an odd choice. 

During when this was written, I had just seen Halloween 4, the first of the series I'd ever seen completely. Needless to say, it scared the hell out of me (the song, mostly, and the concept of Michael just appearing and staring) and I ended up lifting the most prominent scare from the film for this short story. Bonus points if you know what it is. 

I also made bizarre references to an obscure-but-awesome Mac OS free-ware game, hyper-linked in the sentence about the "town of Flan" and "Saric." And that music tho.  

Also, when Daniel gets stabbed, that was the most controversial moment in my mind, as he was an active student and in the class. It went over okay, as he went down a hero. 

Also, I had a major crush on Kaitlyn (misspelled as "Kaitlin" the entire story)  at the time. Whatever. 

Well, we're on our pseudo-traditional trek to Boston to see the fringe unit of our family for their "Christmas Party" (Ya know, on January 10th.) 

I'm sitting in the hall of our Hilton, as my parents succumbed to counting sheep hours ago.

Not five minutes ago did some adult male and his female friend come bumbling down the hall (mind you, it's 1:08 AM at the time of this writing), methodically counting out the numbers on each of the doors out loud. Like a child. Like someone who didn't know the pattern of how things work once you get to 100. 

… I was going to write more about that, but the two plebs have now emerged from their target room, two new party members with them, and are confused about the purpose of stairs and how many parking garages there are.

I find myself more than flustered. 

I don't know why. 

The tallest one has just returned to the room. He seems solemn. I can hear him rummaging around. I'd like to believe the rummaging is being done as some kind of desperate release of frustration, as his latent desires come to the surface, compelling the various electrical signals of his mind to act out in an aggressive fashion against the inanimate objects that furnish this paid-for-nightly chamber. 

Drat. His clan returns! They're rapping lightly on the door. It's opening slowly. One of them asked "Is that a squirrel?" as he entered and now the door closes. No cries of anguish. No tears. Nothing. 

So much for the dark-rage-fueled rampage I dreamed of. 

Now presumably-drunken laughter emanates from that space, the depraved cackle of the lone female oozing out like tainted blood from an infected wound. 

What madness is transpiring? What witchcraft? Why is it 2:00 AM? What was the point of this blog post in the first place?

As if on cue, the cackle resumes its siren-like wailing, causing the men in the locked chamber to respond with jubilant screams of insanity before indulging once again in their liquid poisons. Presumably. 

Normally, I don't think I'd be so cranky but……. okay, wait, one of them just defensively blurted out "...what the fuck was that..?" in the same way a kid would pouty-faced emote after the doctor pricked his finger for a blood test. You know the look: Eyes moist and wide, bottom lip poked out, mouth slightly ajar, hand cradling his tender baby-boy finger protectively. 

But anyway, I digress: I wouldn't be so cranky, but today I was reminded about the sick truth of people that think "it's just my opinion" is some kind of defensive shield that should protect them from all opposing viewpoints. Particularly and specifically when their own stance is objectively false. 

A stripped-down example of this occurrence would be something like this: "Although I see the overwhelming evidence that global warming and climate change is very real and extremely dangerous, I am choosing not to believe in it and find nothing wrong with not trying to reduce my carbon footprint. But it's my opinion, so don't give me any flak about it or you are a terrible, intolerant person."

In a more specific example (and one that, as always, reflects on the utter hive-minded stupidity of the Castlevania fan base): "You know what man, fuck you, the Lords of Shadow series is UTTER GARBAGE and the music is ABYSMAL. COMPLETE TRASH! Worst thing to ever happen to the franchise! It's my opinion, and I can say whatever I want! If you disagree, tough fucking luck!"

While he's right about being able to say whatever he wants, he's also a completely degenerate moron. 

For those unfamiliar, "Lords of Shadow" is a remaining of the 25 year-old video game franchise, Castlevania, and it fundamentally changes around a lot of the tired conventions and lore. 

Of course, this is disagreeable to a chunk of the fan base that doesn't understand that video games are meant for playing, and that changes to a paper-thin lore are not the end of the world. 

But either way, where this pleb reveals his plebacity, is in calling the game "utter garbage." Objectively, the game is playable, unbroken, functions as intended, and is technically comparable to other games of its ilk on the market. If the legitimately believes the game is trash/bad, etc., he has a serious inability of processing relative quality, or perhaps just lacks experience. Because there are plenty of unplayable, practically-broken (or fully broken) messes of games out there. This isn't one. 

As for the "abysmal music" claim: Even from a purely technical standpoint, a 120-piece orchestra and 80-person choir is nothing to scoff at, and the fact that the score has won multiple awards (including "Best Original Score" from the reputable International Film Music Critics Association)

Artistically, it can be argued that it doesn't compare to the luster of previous games in the series' soundtracks (although they are really of a quite different style) but to deny the sheer quality of the soundtrack on its own merits and decry it for its different, more atmospheric, take is just a sign of foolishness. 

It's things like this that make me feel more like Daniel Plainview day after day.

Well, now that that rant and its anger is far from my system (not really, but it's good enough) I suppose I'll abandon my Hilton hotel hallway hootenanny, and hit the hay. 

H-h-h-h-h-h-hello alliteration. 

P.S. - I just got my smartphone, so I've been exceedingly addicted to it. I miss feeling buttons and I hate being forced to actually look at the screen to text, but the connectivity it brings (and the ease of seeing various job opportunities) is really a relief, since now I don't have to check my laptop like a crack-fiend so often. 

With tomorrow (today?) being the big party, and with me being certain that I'll be sloshed fairly early, expect loads of random texts, calls, and (God help us all) Snapchats.

I don't know what it is about Snapchatting that is inherently hysterical to me, but I'll be taking advantage of it for sure. 

Also, something about Massachusetts really rubs me the wrong way, particularly Boston. I wish I could put my finger on it. I just get this culty-vibe I'm not into. Of course, it's far better than the infinitely-infuriating Philadelphia (and PA, in general) but… yeah. It's still obnoxious. 

Ah.. perfect timing… the hedonistic and ear-rupturing antics of room 218 have drawn to a close, with two of the clan-members departing into the great unknown. 

And with that, it's a perfect time for me to draw this aimless rant to a close, as well.  

Good Night, one and all. Prepare yourselves for Snapchat Hell. 

I've just about gotten used to the odor of the man sitting next to me: A strange combination of buttermilk pancake batter and just plain old butter. It's as if he were dunked in it before getting on the train. 

While I sit here and uncomfortably feel my mouth water, I was inspired to recall some of the other strange experiences I've encountered during my many adventures on the train.

According to my good friend and skilled architect, Dan, trains are the best thing in the world. Money? Sex? Drugs? Power? They take a back seat to Thomas and Co. 

I met Dan a ways into my Freshman year of college. He was in the dorm room next to mine and was a late arrival. His mysterious roommate, "Mudiwa Mundararara" never showed up (and, according to the legends we concocted about him, perhaps it's better that he did not.) 

One thing about Dan that was readily apparent, aside from his love of Dungeons and Dragons and Nintendo 64, was his religion-level adoration of trains. 

As a kid, I was a major fan of Thomas the Tank Engine and trains in general, so I could relate. Dan's lifelong obsession with what is, in his opinion, the ultimate form of mass transportation was something that was utterly fascinating about this old-fashioned rascal and often the butt of jokes. But either way, this guy loves them, and whether you want to hear about it or not, he's going to tell you about everything that you could possibly imagine that has to do with railed transportation. 

Thanks to Dan, I've sort of rekindled my childhood enjoyment of trains, and now have a whole new appreciation for them. Simultaneously, I've paid more and more attention to not just the trains when I ride them, but the (sometimes stinky) people I ride them with. 

During my Junior year of college, I worked at a photography studio on South St. for what Drexel calls "Co-Op," which is basically an internship… but I really can't explain why it's not, if it's even different at all (Somewhere, John Fry has just unleashed a Drexel Dragon to airstrike my train at this very moment) 

Either way, I took the subway to and from work during the week. And the things I heard. And wished I did not hear. 

If you've spent any time with me in person, you'll know I have very conflicted feelings about Philadelphia. It has many aspects that I enjoy or should enjoy, but for whatever reason, it never really works and I end up strongly disliking it. 

A large part of my dislike stems from the people. "The City of Brotherly Love" this ain't. 

The snippets of conversations I've heard include casual sentences of "yo man, I really want to rape tonight," to the crusty-eyed man begging quietly "dude, it's just crack. Just give me a little more. Please."

And then there are the guys that are so devoted to their music of choice that they must share it with the world, doing all of our ears a favor by blasting their exceptional taste in music out of the crystal-clear speakers of their iPhone 3GS. Thank you, my friend, for blessing my infidel ears with your music! Thank you! 

I've seen ratchet mothers throw their toddlers into the hard, plastic seats and stuff their faces with what could only be considered dry, synthetic cereal. 

I even saw one woman shove her thumb down her kids throat as some kind of punishment.

That shit makes me sick. 

I've heard all manner of religious preachers, and even seen two of them with conflicting views going at it in what can only be described as Super Smash Bible. 

I've also had the unfortunate encounter of an extremely poor man, afflicted with what was probably a demon, curl up into a ball, scream, and relieve himself from every below-the-belt orifice.

These poor trains. These poor people. 

Insane stuff, man. 

….. this was way darker than I thought it would turn out to be. I was intending to tell tales about the time the guy whose eyes were redder than the devil's dick and who reeked of a weed-forest burning down made eye-contact with a cop and then started shaking, or about the time Dan asked if I wanted to do nothing all day but ride in the front of the subway car and go from end-of-line to end-of-line (which we did end up doing, mostly) 

Instead, I've told tales of the human detritus witnessed every day, to and from work, while sitting next to a man who is possibly buttermilk incarnate. 

I apologize. 

Here's my favorite engine from Thomas to cheer ya'll up.