New Year's limbo

Until today, I always assumed the holidays promptly ended after Christmas. Uncle Mickey informed me that people are traveling into the city for the Christmas break (I assume because they couldn't get away until now). This may explain the stop-and-go traffic coming back into the city. Mom had trouble with traffic on her trip back, too; Tuesdays have a special bus schedule because of all the old people going to matinees.

Mom's trip was horrid, which i no surprise since she was hell-bent on being miserable. I don't feel like delving into that again, but I suppose I might want to write it down for posterity. To summarize, she didn't get the back pay that she wanted, possibly because Principle Litt didn't sign off on it. No surprise given how he's had it in for mom ever since she dragged him to the hearing. Characteristically, I predicted doom and gloom on that topic. I'm usually correct. But people capitalize on my poor memory!

My visit was perfunctory but nice. For one thing, we weren't staying in a motel but a hotel: The Holiday Inn. (They changed their logo to a green "H". I think the green floodlights are an odd signature for their buildings.)

Predictably, I got there late. You see, the super posted a notice that they'd be by that day to check the wiring. Mom interpreted this for the worst, again. She thought the super would just let himself in and root through the messy apartment. Of course, when he finally came, I opened the door and had to catch him from sprinting in the opposite direction down the hall. They didn't care. He just checked the fusebox for an instant and booked. Mom made me remain at the house until she got back at around 1:00. I guessed I would arrive at 6:00, which turned out to be a lucky guess.

Well, anyway. Not to drag out the details. I had a good time with Mick and Cathy. Lee and my mom apparently got an argument, though mom denied that she "yelled", as Lee claims. "I don't even like McCain!" Mom did confess to some bubbling animosity toward Lee and, generally speaking, their childhood in Tom's River. She was also stressed out about the back pay, the super, and her failed life. Watching the Mark Twain Awards celebrating Meryl Streep did her mood no favors. Finally, she ended up grinding her teeth again in her sleep, leaving her with a toothache and another crown in her future, maybe. What a wreck of a woman.

Anyway, Lee talked at length about TV, which is why I think we three tried to steer the conversation away from anything television related. On any other subject, Lee was at sea, so I felt a little self-conscious about that. We talked for a few hours about Ohio Schools, which are a lot worse than they reported to mom. Apparently, a good deal of Columbus High students are heroin fiends and car thieves. The city is a drug capital. All of this materialized with the last year. A few rednecks threatened Uncle Mickey ("We know where you live") but he just smiled blithely at them ans replied, "You and what army?", which spooked them off. They can't tell anybody when they're planning to leave town, lest somebody leak the information to a kid and he robs their house.

I must say that I was literally dizzied by the amount of space in my room, and in particular bathroom. I've been living here too long. Sad when a chain hotel bathroom makes the phrase "how the other half lives" pop in your head.

I watched cable until about 4:00 in the morning. There was nothing on during prime time (except SVU, where they broke the news about Stabler leaving the show, finally), so I watched some Rizzoli & Isles (not bad), Chelsea lately, then The Postman. Which is just as terrible as they say. It started out fairly well, but skipped it's logical conclusion and just kept grinding on for hours. Also saw Kiss of the Dragon, Shoot Em' Up (very good), and a couple episodes of Justified. Network TV is really pathetic in comparison. Sigh.

I had my heart set on IHOP, but I think Mickey was averse to the idea because his cholesterol has gotten worse. So we went to some IHOP-lite place called...uhh, I forget the name. Begins with "P". It was pretty good. I noticed a tendency in myself to talk very rapidly and without much cohesion. No wonder I'm so poorly understood. Must make note to look up tips on public speaking and delivering jokes.

Mom wasn't as depressed when I got home as I expected. Tonight, she brought up the food stamp application again, and seemed more open to the idea of just mailing it. I got furious, as I always do on the s subject. I acted petulant and whiny, and fumed at all the pornography I couldn't buy because my Christmas money is all earmarked for other expenses, including those incurred by not getting food stamps. It's a mess. Tomorrow I have to set up an appointment to meet with them; if I can't get one soon, I'll just mail the fucking thing. Then I have to deposit some cash and get a new ATM card to replace the revoked one (my balance was too low for an extended period).

Kerri wants me to come over for New Year's. I feel guilty about spend the cash (ironically, on friends). Also, I feel I owe Julia for her money and getting me an internship. Kerri is unhappy. Frankie is busting her balls for trying to date his friend. We agree he makes her problems his own, usually for no reason at all. I decided that Frankie is so used to showing contempt for the Braiotta women that the mask has become hammered on, and now everything Kerri does annoys him. I'd like to be there to back her up in front of Frankie's friends at their party, but I hate going up there. And I just got back from a big trip already.

Tomorrow I go back to work. I already dislike Christina. I suspect she looks down on me, and that makes me resent her. Also, that office doesn't need more help. They're overcrowded as it is. She doesn't need the work experience any more, so why can't she fuck off? I may mention it.

Stuffy nose at 20 am. Nasal spray would be good.

Long-awaited dinner at Ray and Juli's place. We're invited twice this month, once for per-Thanksgiving and again for Thanksgiving realsies. I was determined to be on my best behavior, but mom and I had trouble right out of the gate.

The weekend train was more fucked than usual. We ended up taking three train (not counting the shuttle), including one ride with a smell Asian woman and a fat dude listening to gospel and singing non-stop in that lazy, raspy, monotonous voice of his. R&B never fails to make my blood boil. Eventually I realized I had jumped to conclusions with regard to the genre, but I was no less miserable for it. Finally I gave up and switched cars. Mom stayed behind until the next station, whereupon we board yet another train.

So I was pretty disheartened by now. When we emerged in CPW, mom asked how her hair/outfit looked, and I gave her a frank "meh." Then she asked for me to take a picture, another peeve of mine. I snottily snapped a pic before she could arrange her face. Naturally, she was out of photos. So I got the riot act.

The visit became in its usual orderly, dull way. I takes a long time to wind these people up. For the first hour or so, I'm bored to death whle Ray and Steve watch a B-grade horror flick, then the original Thing, then Meatballs. I've made a resolution not to engage my cousins in conversation until addressed. They stare lifelessly at the screen, and I sink into frustration as my mom babbles on and on about the usual headaches; the lawyer, Mr. Litt. I'm just now reminded of the passage from Gore Vidal's Hollywood, in which Mrs. Harding reads "with joy" her endless list of ailments. Like the Duchess, my mother has "earned" the right to obsess over the many slights and wrongs she's suffered along the way.

Unfortunately, it grinds any party to a halt, and since she's my companion, I feel it reflects badly on me. So she refuses to shut up. Dinner starts. Things finally pick up, though mom keeps redirecting the conversation to her favorite topic -- herself. I suffer through this until dessert, and I'm finally beginning to enjoy myself as Steve and I talk movies. Mom does not enjoy this kind of "surface-y" talk. That was her phrase on the way home. She is not satisfied to talk about anything but herself.

I should mention at this point that before we left for Julia's, I flat-out told mom not to talk about me at the table as if I wasn't there. This is invariably the cause of a public argument. Needless to say, she broke her word. She hates it whenever I engage in the same thing. Anyway, the topic turned to (what else?) my joblessness. I can't defend myself on the matter and so don't try, but I'd rather no dwell on it in the first place. Julia helpfully suggests I volunteer for the Central Park Conservancy (she pitched the same thing to Steve). The thought of picking up garbage doesn't fill me with pride. I tell her I'll look into it. Probably sensing my lie, both women continue to sell me on the joys of the Central Park Conservancy. I glare at mom to cut it out. She asks, pointedly of course, "Are you glaring at me?" Subtle. "Yeah," I say flatly.

This triggers a full meltdown. I haven't seen this kind of breakdown outside of the apartment. She storms into the bathroom, protesting that she didn't do anything wrong (as if that were the point). I lean back and await the fireworks. It turned out to be worse than I expected. She comes out, sits next to Ray on the couch, and proceeds to talk his ear off about how ignorant and unmotivated I am, and how I appreciate nothing she does for me. I mean literally spitting fire. Ray is unmoved and shrugs it off as asserting my independence. Not the best answer.

I get annoyed with this pretty quickly, and I repeatedly call her over to talk this out. Truthfully, my tone is condescending but how else can one talk to Susan when she's in full flow? Of course, I'm wasting my breath. It's clear that I made multiple missteps before we even arrived. I slept until noon, insulted her appearance and hair, ruined her picture, was sullen and unpleasant -- which is itself a cause of grief. I have concluded that mom wants be to be motivated, optimistic, and happy. Or at least seem to be all those things.

Anyway. She finally came back over to the table, and it was clear she had lost her mind. She was burning up (I touched her arm), her hands kept twitching, and she launched into a loud tirade. The Luhrs surprised me by laughing it off and trying to add levity to the situation. I wonder if they were being good hosts, or are used to these sorts of fireworks. In any case, mom was petulant and scornful and so underserving of sympathy at this point. Ray shut his eyes in deep concentration and gave her one of his voodoo massages, then suggested that everyone has it rough in the recession. Mom, as she's getting the massage, fires back, "Have you been homeless, Ray?"

He also made some unwise allusions to her weight, and suggested yoga or something. I kept giving her the "look at the clock" eye movement signal, but she didn't pick up on it.

She raile don like this for about a half hour or more. I finally told her to stop pissing all over Ray's pep talk. She didn't want moral support, she wanted to bitch. Just like anytime she's taken out for a nice meal. If it's not about Bob, or John Lyons, it's her boss. Having shut her up for a moment, I blatantly said, "Well, we'd better be going" or some such statement. It took another fifteen minutes for mom to smooth things over with the Luhrs, which in her mind was a constructive exercise but to my ears was yet more bitching.

I was dead-eyed and silent until I got my metrocard. Had we gotten into another argument, I would have had to walk back on foot, as I had no cash. Otherwise, I would probably have gotten up and left the apartment in mid-rant. The mystifying thing is mom prided herself on showing her "real" self and is content that Julia accepts her for "who [she] is." She ought to be embarrassed. I have decided that my mother is occasionally out of her senses, and I will not accompany her to dinner ever again. Consequences be damned. I don't need anyone to schmooze with.

I was about to say I don't need anyone (Actually, I did earlier tonight). Clearly, I need my mother as I can't support myself. I hate this.

Doom and gloom. The apartment is as bad as it ever was. I can't stand living her with her. We can barely speak to each other without an argument now. She vacillates between resentment and denial, and looks like a hassock with that flabby face of hers. I despise her for what she allowed me to do to her. I see no way out. I actually wondered if she would jump in front of a train on the way home, or whether she'd have to be committed.

Hopefully I won't soon be in the position of standing at her deathbed considering all the ways I've single-handedly ruined her life.

Even so, she is pretty dense. She admitted it after I caleld her dense under my breath this morning. I cowardly (but wisely) claimed I was talking to the cat. She probably didn't buy it.

Anyway. I shan't be there on Thanksgiving. I suspect the sisters will be there, too, since they aren't going up north to visit Cousin Whoever this year. No great loss. I have nothing to show for myself and so don't particularly want to be seen by anyone.

Insomnia

So for the first time in as long as I can remember, I'm having trouble getting to sleep.

I dislike nighttime int his apartment. It's claustrophobic, noisy, and, and the whole city is humming. There is no sensation of rest. And then there is the 'inner demons' thing which is more visible in the absence of light.

Saw the trailer for Atlus Shrugged. Put me in a bad mood. I like to think of myself as mature enough not to be an alarmist. Even so, I've often thought of what would happen to our entertainment industry int he US in the face of a libertarian takeover. Doubtless, not much would change. Leno would weather it easily. Maybe SNL would go off the air. Actually, I would applaud that.

There have been some casual strikes against liberal Hollywood in the preceding decade. If this trilogy goes of without a hitch (and it probably won't), it could be the death knell. More likely, it will be a mild success that merely whittles away at Hollywood, rather than diverting its influence entirely.That's what I'm talking about, the alarmist. I feel terribly uncool identifying as a liberal democrat (which I am, rightly or wrongly; it was prescribed to me.) -- not because I believe in Objectivist principles, but because I can sense the rumblings of change. I'm sure that everyone can, but it's not polite to talk about it. Liberalism is going to be a faint memory in the comic decades. Conservatives always have the better arguments, even if they're technically not correct.

I am not a person who 'thinks'. Deep thought is not in my repertoire. When it comes to politics, I memorize data transcribed by bothers, which is no better than being a Republican. I don't have the faculties to puzzle through an issue or determine the flaws in reasoning. I bring this up only because lately, I've been too preoccupied with politics. I find myself resenting the non-stop public radio programs that mom listens to. What does she care about rioting Egyptians? She says it could be a precursor to what will happen here. In the past, she's used the old argument of learning what 'the enemy' is thinking. Once, in a lucid moment, she confessed to enjoying the sad tales of others to take the spotlight off her own misery. Ah, the light is finally shed. But the radio still annoys me. I still find it more tolerable than any of Obama's saccharine, empty rhetoric.

The hard part is that mom doesn't even like to listen tome discuss politics. Actually she doesn't like to listen to anyone about anything. I hear her on the phone with her tiny handful of friends, and she's yammering on forever about her abusive past, her old boyfriends, her evil boss, her lottery ticket fantasies. When we go out to dinner, mom gets a few glasses of wine in her and engages in a hippie monologue about politics and how Bush is a meanie-head.

If I'm lucky, mom will zone out immediately whenever I talk about these things. Other times, she'll snap at me about how she has a headache. As if she ever doesn't have one. We're already essentially a married couple at this point, so the metaphor is apt: it's like a Jewish women begging off her husband for sex. "I'M IN PAIN." is my mother's mantra. She often quotes it to thin air, ad nauseum. Whining is whining, whether it's partly-justified or not.

Meanwhile, I'm identifying with the Objectvist guilt of a full-blown 'moocher'. This is, I think, why the ideology bothers me so much. It's like an atheist obsessing over going to Hell. When you get down to it, I have no trade. I have no conception of how to acquire one. Mom is falling apart at the seams; worse, she's in denial about most of it. I can sense the ultimate doom approaching, but lacking the inspiration to counter it.

Really. What am I supposed to do?

No one will hire me. To be perfectly frank, I wouldn't hire myself. That leaves entrepreneurial pursuits. The fly in that particularly ointment is: I don't have any talents. My drawing ability are serviceable if you want to send someone a greeting card, but mostly it's been overblown by friends and neighbors. I am now stuck with a near-useless degree due to the mistaken belief that I have the skill or discipline to make it as some sort of designer.

I would like to pull a rabbit out of a hat. Make some money, move out of this shithole, never return to New York City as long as I live. I'm weary of being trapped here, watching mom's health deteriorate while knowing it's directly caused by my own lifelong sloth.

And worst of all, I have no one to turn to for even a modicum of advice. Actually, even if I did, most of the advice would be out-of-date seeing as I've exhausted most of my chances to lead a comfortable life.

I have no illusions about people; nobody (least of all me) is interested in getting bogged down by someone else's problems. My only advisor is me -- hardly useful -- and my mother, who always has ingeniously-bad advice to share. When we argue, which is often, she'll often accuse me of channeling my father, an abusive Iranian bus driver who thought she was dumber than dirt. Sometimes, I think he wasn't too far off the mark. The problem with it is that it leaves me in the position of identifying with my wifebeating dad, and mom possessing the infuriatingly-infallible logic of a blissful idiot.

Then again, I'm not a wellspring of intelligence. Once again, we're back to hating what one recognizes in oneself.

Teacher layoffs. There goes my meal ticke--erm, I mean dear mother

So, the not-entirely-unexpected happened. Gov. Cuomo is moving for education cuts. Specifically, teachers employed within the last 5 years may be fired. I love a slow-motion catastrophe.

Mom' is just a hair outside of that demographic, but there is nothing to discourage them from moving the cut-off line up a notch.

I think it's likely that mom will be laid off soon. She is tenured, which is anathema. She works for a 30-year old man who got the job through family connections, and has made no secret about his disdain for her.

On the upside, mom claims she can find employment as a substitute or perhaps a tutor. Though she would be forced to hold two jobs to make the rent. Most of her paycheck goes toward storage fees -- one unit in Westchester, and a vastly smaller (yet less affordable) unit here in the neighborhood -- and my student loan payments ($50 per month).

The storage fees are simply an insurmountable problem. I've tried convincing her to throw some of her stuff out, as most of it is junk, but she's doesn't want to hear about it. So we pay the fees.

I think mom is frustrated at having to start over. She lost most of her belongings when she left my father, and she has just never come to terms with that. Nary a day goes by without mom mentioning some vinyl records or books she lost. I've heard that all women have nesting instincts of a sort, but hers has kicked into overdrive. That, and she is pulling her hair out over her lack of space, the state of the apartment, and the deterioration of her beauty and health due to age.

But enough of that. My mother has her mood swing just like everybody.

So here I am, soaking up as much literature on economics and statism as I can on the internet, (would you believe my browser marks "internet" as a typo?) and achieving essentially nothing. What am I going to do with this, enter a debate? Stocks will rise and fall, utilities and transportation systems may collapse, people are no damn good. But none of this is pertinent until it directly affects me. What happens to the bottom 10% of state employees is no concern of mine. What is a concern is getting a job for myself.

It's very liberating and tad intellectually lazy to divorce oneself entirely from current events. But I'd rather not end up like one of those old Communists in the 1960s, tirelessly giving the same old tired speeches to anyone within earshot, none of whom care to argue because his arguments are so old that the counter-arguments have been forgotten. I'm not going to be the last liberal democrat at a party who annoys everyone. If the country is taking a hard turn toward laissez-faire libertarianism, it's not a matter for me to wring my hands over. The cynical side of me suspects that the majority of individuals have no control over their political fate. It's a giant tide which sometimes pushes against you, and other times bolsters your movements. But at no time are you ever in command of the ocean.

Assessment time: I am no closer to getting a job than I was six years ago. Mom has a few safety nets prepared, but they won't last. No one in my family will take me in, on the sensible grounds that I have never contributed anything in my life. Fleeing to Australia is out of the cards. I have a sizable loan to pay off and a duty to dig my mother out of credit debt, most of it incurred while supporting me. Any air castles I had about mobility or becoming a graphic artist are shot, most likely forever. I am the latest failure in a two-generational line of complete failures. I won't have children, so that's the end of my genetic line. If I'm lucky, I won't die impoverished and out on the street in New York, the last place on Earth I ever wanted to live or even visit.

Diary of a Freeloader

Unemployed.

I believe that there comes a certain point in a person's life when you're condemned to an existence of scraping out a living through a string of dead-end jobs. Often you will be reminded by someone that people with much fewer advantages then yourself have become a success, like Whoopi Goldberg or Tyler Perry. This is supposed to be a motivator?

I envy most of my ex-classmates from college. Even the irritating, hipster film student. They all had a goal and focused on it like a laser. I never had a desire to do anything, and despite a handful of paltry interests, not enough talent to consider pursuing any of them as a career.

Right now, mom is buzzing around the apartment, rambling incoherently about all the work she has to do, or the amount of pain she's in. Sometimes, in a weak moment, I confide in her about my work worries. What ensues is a naive sermon about how "if you can't be stopped, you won't be stopped" and a few celebrity anecdotes. A favorite story of hers is the one about going to school and paying for it all by herself. One is tempted to fall back on the old "that was then, this is a recession" argument. But really, when you shoot yourself in the foot as much as I have, you can't reasonably do much besides sit and suffer the onslaught of trite advice.

She is a fountain of wrong facts. She prattles on about my "talents" (largely shit), my beauty (Telling me to consider a career in modeling), by intelligence (sub-par at the very best), my expertise in politics (mostly parroting whatever I've read from Chomsky).

There probably is no secret to being successful. There is, however, an expiration date on one's prospects.

It occurred to me last week that I have made absolutely no contribution to anyone, or anything. Part of it is due to my own hedonistic nature. But I never had any desires or goals for myself. I just naturally assumed that I would stumble into a well-paying job. Later, once I came to term with my self-loathing, I naturally assumed I would end up on the street, and eventually jump off a roof somewhere.

Then again, I also assumed I would end up a 30 year-old virgin. Luckily, I passed that hurdle last year. But again, it was through no effort of my own. I didn't even lift a finger; It was consolatory sex. She came all the way up here from Virginia, footed the bill for a hostel, paid for meals, all to spend a weekend with me. Afterward, even I was mildly surprised at my blissful ignorance about other people's sacrifices and needs. I didn't even finish my breakfast at IHOP (complimentary of my date, again.) It didn't even occur to me how thoughtless it was until I spoke to her facebook that following week.

She shrugs off these quirks and inadequacies of mine. I don't.

A few days ago I called her up. I don't do it often; it's impossible to disguise my total lack of a life. She mentioned that she may come to see me again, at considerable expense, since I "still haven't gotten [my] shit together." Said in jest, obviously.

(Not laughing)

I don't know where to go from here. I feel like an underdeveloped human being, with nowhere to turn for a honest reflection of myself. We are reflected in the people we know; I am largely friendless, walling myself off in this cramped apartment with nothing to do all day.

The trek ahead is long, and I don't have the energy to even begin. It's obvious what I have to do to repair my life, but I lack the will. I want to sleep all day and be left alone.

First, I'm expected to hit the pavement and look for volunteer work. I should study my lingual skills in my free time. Keep walking into random retail stores asking for a job application. Endure the narrowed eyes of the manager as they stare at my largely-blank work history.

I am almost 26. Or maybe I am 26 already. I don't keep track anymore.

I'm not afraid of getting old, but I know that life enjoys taking things away from you. Your health, your vitality, your possessions. I am not a self-sufficient person. If the recession deepens, I'm fucked. Mom can't afford this apartment as it it. No one would take me (or her) in. She entertains the possibility that our magnanimous Aunt Lee would let me shack up in her house, but I know Lee too well for that. We're completely identical.

Except she's less cute and still a virgin.

No, Aunt Lee would bitch and moan about us barging in, mooching off and violating her space. To be fair, though, I don't have a counter-argument.

We all have a desire to be great in some way, regardless of how we act. Even the slackers like me who just want to live comfortably and get laid on a regular basis. That's one of the grim realities of living with New Yorkers; these people have grit in them. Living among them is particularly shameful when you're as unmotivated and parasitic as I am.

So what's new. Obviously, nothing. I take solace in my dvd rentals. I'm alternating between Babylon Five, Doctor who and Farscape. Mom likes the Doctor Who episodes, but lacks a taste for sci-fi generally. As for me, I don't know why I watch so much of it. I don't particularly like speculative fiction (what a gay-sounding term.) I do like dorky action heroes who operate in a fantasy realm. I guess I've always identified with that type of self-image. In fact, that's been my dream job all my life. Time Cop.

The deadened silence of this place makes you want to collapse in bed.

Ed's favorite video game soundtracks - Four is Death

It's noo yeerz.

I had a decent time at Mom's cousin's place. Julia is a sweet-natured woman who isn't very worldly. Her husband is a Christian fanatic and conspiracy nut, but is disarmingly likable. Their son Steve is living in their co-op on the upper west side. He's in his thirties but still behaves like he's my age. So we get along well enough. He's even more socially stilted then myself.

I don't like their daughters. Part of it is my dislike of successful people. The eldest is a city planner and little sis gives surveys to people over the phone. But they dominate the conversation every time I'm with them. They talk over everybody, swap inside jokes, and cackle like madwomen. I've made a point not to attend any more dinners with them.

I think I may have introduced Ray and Steve to Back to the Future II, because they were watching it at my suggestion on their satellite cable.

I haven't been sleeping well. The eye strain from the laptop doesn't go away, because I haven't fully recharged myself.

So what's new. We are still waffling on our alleged poverty. Mom sold some jewelry, never a good sign. I'm unemployable, or at least the possibility of employment is so remote that it won't come in time to solve our financial woes. I will hereby devote every free second to job hunting, so as not to become one of those guys "on the couch".

I admire forward-thinking and proactive behavior in others. It's time to incorporate some of that.

I wish I could convince mom to do likewise, but she just bites my head off whenever I broach the topic. Since she's a woman, she'd go mad without her creature comforts. Canceling our cable service/netflix rentals or throwing out her old furniture is out of the question, In fact, it is not even a question. It's not even a thought.

Enough of that.

This is a special Survival Horror edition. Bring on the noise.

Silent Hill (PSX) is the black sheep of the franchise. Undeservedly so, I might add. I don't really get the hate. Even Yahtzee dismissed it as virtually non-canon.

Sure, it made some narrative mistakes, like the whole cultist thing.

But it's heads and shoulders above Silent Hill 3 in terms of horror and overall quality. 3 remains a fan favorite mostly, I suspect, due to the emo teen protagonist Heather.

This is of course backwards logic, as 3 is a direct sequel to the original game. The cult is back, Heather is the daughter of SH1's Harry, and the plot is mostly indecipherable unless you've played the first.

Silent Hill 3 is the first game in the series that's bereft of ideas. It's not the last, alas.

Likewise, the soundtrack isn't any great shakes, either. Silent Hill is not about instrumentals. The bluesy rock music in Silent Hill 2 isn't memorable; it's the industrial music stings that gamers remember. SH3's soundtrack is borderline obnoxious, with its moody J-Pop.

End of Small Sanctuary - That's not to say 3 didn't have it's good points. I like the opening introduction to Heather. It's almost Lynchian in eeriness, because we're dropped into a public setting which is teeming with people, but we don't see them.

As with SH2, the opening theme is simultaneously upbeat (as the main character hasn't yet penetrated into the hellish Otherworld) and menacing.

White Noiz ~ Rest Room Theme - The theme which plays when we first meet James Sunderland, examining his face in the mirror of a rest area bathroom.

Dead End ~ Bachman Road Alley - Silent Hill, as I've discussed, receives very little credit for what it achieved. Shallow characterization and plot aside, the intro is one of the most brilliant sequences in the history of gaming, and a flawless introduction to Silent Hill's mythology as a whole. Harry chases a phantom of his daughter into an alley. A familiar siren. Bereft of a light, Harry takes out his cigarette lighter. A fuckton of creepy camera angles. The alleyway slowly transitions into the Otherworld, and what follows next is a primer on everything SH virgins need to know.

Major Surgery ~ Alchemilla Hospital Theme #4 - Again, it is difficult to convey the genius of this sequence without an approiate video. The hospital starts out harmless enough, with enough musical stings to hint that there is something lurking, somewhere, just in the horizon and out of reach.

Harry eventually makes it to the 4th floor, which isn't indicated on the map. It's here where we enter into the now-classic shout out to Jacob's Ladder, with the bloody catwalk floors and barred windows blocking any hope of escape. I will always remember my first experience watching a friend play through the Otherworld Hospital. This was imagery unlike any I'd ever seen. The innards of the building are raw and covered in gore, as if the walls were flesh, and reacted to being burned just as a living being would. As you play through the game, this becomes a incredible bit of foreshadowing.

Follow The Path - An understated theme which plays when Dahlia is instructing Harry. As such this is more or less her theme song.

The above video doesn't contain a song, per se. I just like the musical sting when Kaufmann is first seen in the doorway. ^_^

So, as you can see, I love this game to pieces.

Ed's favorite video game soundtracks - 3rd Strike

SNOWMAGEDDON.

So, the family reunion is off. The roads are so bad in New Jersey that it took my aunt & uncle an hour just to cross to the other side of a road.

On a selfish note, this means I don't have to draw them up a card by tomorrow morning. Or endure a bus ride to Tom's River, neighbor to Seaside Heights of Jersey Shore fame. A resort town in the off-season, with nothing to do but freeze your balls off. Or eat at IHOP.

It's the biggest blizzard of my lifetime. In Virginia we had about three snowstorms per year, but the wind wasn't as fierce. I tried walking to Park Slope (my usual route), got as far as Grand Army Plaza, and was turned away by the hurricane force winds mixed with the sulfuric acid-sensation of snow being blown in your face. Nothing less than a ski mask and sunglasses would have spared me.

...And boots. I should buy some.

So here we are. Mom has now watched and re-watched The Scarlet Pimpernel three times. Much confusion over whether it was Louis XIV or XVI who is depicted in the movie as a blond woobie, being kept prisoner by the evil French Revolutionaries and force-fed Cognac. Actually, I checked, he is Louis XVII.

..Maybe.

I'm replaying Skies of Arcadia for possibly the seventh time, on account of my other consoles either being broken or in storage somewhere.

On with the music.

GRANDIA II

I played Grandia II before its predecessor, on account of it being one of two worthwhile RPGs on the poor Dreamcast. In retrospect, it's not quite as good as the first game -- dodgy graphics and awful character models, made even worse in the PS2 port, which deigned to give the characters noses. But it had an all-star VA lineup (as penitence for Grandia 1's deliciously cheesy voice-acting?), and an outstanding soundtrack.

Unfortunately, the plot is a rehash of the stock JRPG "God is evil" trope , complete with an evil Catholic church. The most irritating character, pre-pubescent kid with a voice like Ash Ketchum, leaves the party somewhere in the game's middle. But it's a tease. The game has the effrontery to kill off the coolest character by far, and then re-introduce the kid into the party permanently. Valmar, the Eldritch abomination supervillain and Satan proxy, is basically a retread of Gaia from Grandia 1. In the same vein, Pope Zera behaves a little too similarly to General Baal. One new element which is added to the mix is Melfice, the main hero's evil brother, and the latest in a long line of Sephiroth imitators. The only thing salavaging him as a villain is John Cygan's epic VA talents (DANCE WITH ME, BROTHER!). Otherwise, Melfice is hastily introduced into the story, makes two brief appearances and is killed off, having made no impact on the overall plot.

But, when all is said and done, it's still a story about Leonardo saving the world with Felicia Hardy, who is possessed by Ariel, along with his pet parrot Roy Campbell.

If nothing else, Jodie Benson's battle quotes are worth a playthrough.

II builds on the instrumentations of the original game, while adding more vocals. This is seen right off the bat with "A Deus" (referenced to in-game as the Song of Light, which Elena sings), which plays over the title screen. It's actually a Portugese song with the lyric sung in Japanese, though I can't figure out who the vocalist is.

The Broken Seal - Actually encompasses a pair of themes. It begins with the titular broken seals: these are the pieces of Valmar that were sealed away in spherical prisons by Granas, Valmar's rival and the game's "God".

At 1:58, it winds down into what can be called Selene's theme. She is a great villain who, like most characters in the game, is under-utilized. A homicidal priestess flanked by heavily armored "Cathedral Knights", she goes from village to village "purifying" people who are accused to having contact with Valmar. As the hero Ryudo points out, it's doubtful that Selene is packing soap and suds under that robe, so this must be purification by fire.

The violin perfectly captures her religious zealotry and borderline psychopathy. What makes the first encounter with Selene so brilliant is that your party happens to get scooped up in one of Selene's witch hunts, forbidden from leaving the village. More on that below; it's surely one of the most brilliant and chilling arcs I've ever played.

Dangerous Zone - "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!"

:3

Battle Music - Aaaand the guitar is back. What is this supposed to be, Sonic Adventure 3?

It's a great battle theme, but goes a bit too far. Noriyuki Iwadare is clearly trying to outdo himself here; but since this is a song you'll be hearing constantly, it's hyperkinetic sound is a bit over the top.

Granas Sanctuary - One thing the game pulls off splendidly is its oppressive atmosphere. We begin at what is probbly the cusp of the apocolpyse, with the devil reviving himself piece-by-piece. Unless you've never played a JRPG in your entire life, you can probably guess that the church is being less than forthcoming about things. Nevertheless, one of the lead characters is a nun, and at the start of the game, your sole source of support is the church.

In each town you'll visit, you'll find a Church of Granas, and each visit is just as dark and filled with dread as the last. The priests, who know better than anyone how utterly boned the human race is at the moment, will brief you on whatever curse is plaguing their respective city.

Ageel ~ Cursed Land - Nothing to say, really. It's just a mellow theme with good rhythm. The Agear quest is Ryudo's first task to complete, and by far the most generic; explore the local cave. It's reminiscent of pretty much any old-school JRPG you can think of.

It's also where you recruit Roan. -___-

Come On, Let's Travel - This plays in the grassland and mountain areas. Of all the areas Grandia II, these smack the most of the original, right down to the can-do, plucky music.

Commercial Town Liligue ~ Apparent Prosperity - Liligue is a high-tech city ruled by a fat pig of a merchant -- the sole black man in the entire game, as casually racist chance would have it! The town is suffering a singular curse: everybody has lost their sense of taste. This is actually more catastrophic than it sounds, since all food makes the citizens gag, and they're gradually wasting away. The merchant, however, is eating more heartily than ever. It turns out he's possessed by the Tongue of Valmar (??), having been made susceptible by his inner greed. The possessed villains only get creepier from here...

The Garden of Dreams ~ The Mysterious Girl: We begin in the snowfields of Mirumu, having gotten stranded when the rope tram carrying our heroes suddenly snaps. Ryudo and the others stumble upon an inexplicable sunny garden, ruled over by a little blind girl with a scar on her forehead. Following this surreal experience (hallucination?), we enter...

A Good Unknown Anxiety ~ Nightmare Village Mirumu - Mirumu, where the townsfolk are falling into a permanent sleep one-by-one. As 'science' would tell us, if you stay asleep for too long, your body atrophies and you eventually become brain-dead. Yes, this is no magical Prince Charming sleep. Eventually, it is revealed that the little blind girl from the garden lives here, too, and is summoning the souls of the villagers to be playmates in her garden. And hallelujah, she's regained her eyesight. You can probably see where this is going.

Wait till her forehead opens up. You'll shit bricks.

Not only is it a nice inversion having the possessed victim be an innocent (In Breath of Fire II, for instance, the possessed characters were all guilty of one deadly sin or another.) , but the plot only gets freakier from there. The Eye of Valmar enters Ryudo's dreams, tormenting him in an unsettling dream sequence. Then Selene and her religious flunkies show up with lit torches, offering their "help".

But back to the music. I think the theme communicates what I've said pretty well. There is a genuine sense of urgency in saving this village before the clock runs down, and the villagers are either rendered comatose or fried alive (or both). In short:

Fuck Mirumu. I'm never going back.

The Country of Laws Santhaim ~ Pious Adepts - St. Heim Papal State, the stomping grounds of Pope Zera and the Granas religion. It's a jaunty, carefree song. Not one of the best, but I enjoy it nevertheless.

Skye's Reminiscence - This is where we learn all about Ryudo's Tragic Past. Hell, I've lived a worse sob story than this dude has. (But I don't let it color my impression of this fine composition.)

Purification of Darkness ~ Battle With the Parts - As the title says, this plays during the battle with Valmar's schlong. Or whatever it is. These are all very lengthy battles in and of themselves. Grandia II's battle system is pretty much identical to the original, save one respect - he boss fights are a tad more epic. It takes a while to whittle these fuckers down.