I don’t know who is worse – this woman who ‘married’ a 37 year old zombie doll called Kelly, complete with ceremony and subsequent consummation; or the people who think that her bride is actually a dead child.
Admittedly, it’s quite a good (albeit gruesome) depiction of a dead child, but you would have to be both blind and high to think it was anything other than fabric and some decent face paint. That’s not to say that I think marrying a dead kid is any more or less weird than taking your vows with a puppet. Because it’s not.
Twenty year old Felicity was given the doll seven years earlier and they have been close ever since. This says it all:
“Despite having been in a relationship with Kelly for four years, getting married to her has made me feel so much closer to her, both emotionally and intimately... I married Kelly but only because I accept her for who she is, I look past her bloody face and I don’t mind her not having a jaw.”
Are you fucking kidding me? Looks aren’t everything – trust me, I get that – but at the very least I do like a girl to have the bottom half of her face intact.
Good luck, Felicity, but I reckon your zombie pal was munching on your brain long before the wedding took place.
I never had a computer as a child: I was always a console kid. Back in the late eighties, if you played video games, there was no middle ground or third party – you either boarded the train for Team Nintendo or you were in the corner for Team Sega.
And I can remember the exact moment I picked my poison.
I was twelve years old and out shopping with my family in a store called Target, where I lived in Sydney. For those unfamiliar with that name, Target is an Australian department store, not to be confused with the American store called Target that it has nothing to do with, which also sports an extremely similar logo. I used to think that I was dealing with the same company (as you would) but it turns out they are completely different entities. Anyway…
I saw that box on the shelf, with the picture of the motorcycle racing game Hang On, in full glorious colour, and I was sold. Little did I know that video game graphics in 1988 were not anywhere nearly as sharp as the representation here. Even thirty years later, we’re not there, but back then I was enthralled by what wonders awaited me in that mysterious, yet fairly nondescript, box.
My parents must have been feeling both especially solvent and generous that weekend, because they bought the console for me, and I have not been without one ever since.
It was a primitive system, but we had a lower expectation when it came to video games then. We were not spoiled by technology as we are now. There was no video footage; no voice acting. Nothing was animated with more than a few frames. Everything came on plastic cartridges, because discs were at least half a decade away, and the control pad was absolutely awful, but it didn’t matter. Nor did it matter that the games were rendered on a machine with less processing power than a pocket calculator. I was a simple child with straighforward demands. The only criteria was that the games were fun.
Video games have moved on so much since then in almost every conceivable way. They have better production values; they are longer, with more depth. The stories they tell are more involved. They look, sound, and feel… better. Apples for apples, they are also a hell of a lot cheaper than games were thirty years ago.
But while all that is true, there was a purity to games in the eighties that just doesn’t exist anymore. That entire cultural shift was in its infancy, and we cannot go back to the way things were. But for gamers of my age whose formative years were spent throwing a skateboard around in California Games or playing God in Populous, it’s crazy to think that this was the pinnacle of home entertainment, and that we spent weeks saving up our pocket money to buy them. A 2019 kid wouldn’t even go near them if they were free to download on their phone.
I had the Sega Master System for a few years, until it became passé and I upgraded to something a little more powerful and cool in the early nineties. But I stuck with Sega for a few more years, at least. I don’t know what I did with the Master System once it was replaced, but for the time I had with it, I had a blast.
Three weeks to go with the nasal drops. They’re not pleasant, but they are working.
I’ll be honest, I didn’t really think the course would fix it. I thought I had left it too long. You know, buried my head in the sand ostrich-style. Also, half the time I think doctors throw a bunch of pills and potions at you to see what sticks. But nineteen days after I started, it looks like – fingers crossed – I am back to where I was before.
If there’s a difference between this and being back to full sniffing capacity, then it’s imperceptible to me. Everything I have happened across that I should be able to smell, I can. I am rediscovering a part of life that most of us take for granted.
That sounds trite, I know, but it’s like moving from standard definition to HD, and who would want to be stuck with 480p?
I understand that many of us cannot afford to buy those things we need, but when you’re resorting to stuffing a chainsaw down your trousers, maybe you need to reevaluate things.
The fact that the guy managed to walk, let alone exit the store with the chainsaw still down his pants, probably says more about the staff and security’s ineptitude than it does about his prowess as a thief.
They guy is still at large, at the time of blogging, but they have some pretty clear footage of him, so he shouldn’t be too hard to find… especially if he still has that thing under his jacket.
The release this week of Pet Sematary is just the latest example of the lack of creativity in Hollywood today. Admittedly, it’s been getting great reviews, and the original was an average movie at best, but I don’t think there were many people screaming for it to be revisited in the first place. Well, perhaps Stephen King was on board with it, but he’s certainly not averse to the odd retake anyway.
I guess, if we must see things a second time, the very least a filmmaker can do is polish up something that wasn’t very good in the first place. The object of the exercise should be to improve upon the source material. If it isn’t, why are you wasting everyone’s time?
Of course, there are some examples where the revision is better than the first try (Scarface, TheThing, TheFly), but for every smile there’s a frown. Does anyone think Jude Law’s version of Alfie is superior to Michael Caine’s effort? Or that the Poltergeist from 2015 is greater than the classic 1982 movie it’s based on? Hell, I didn’t even know that was a thing until recently.
So, with all the remakes, reboots and reimaginings that have done the rounds over the last few years, here are ten properties (not exhaustive, by any means) that I never want to see redone, because I do not believe it is possible for them to be bettered:
Back to the Future
It’s a Wonderful Life
Let me be clear: these are not perfect movies. Some of them I wouldn’t even consider to be amongst my favourites. But every one of them is an example of how sometimes, the total package is greater than the sum of a production’s parts.
These movies are quite simply, lightning in a bottle – a confluence of facets and factors that cannot be repeated. They each have an intangible quality that is impossible to quantify, or to replicate a generation later, no matter how talented or dedicated the team working on it may be.
There’s a fairly good chance that I’ll be taking my first overseas holiday later this year, since a wild stag weekend in 2013 took me to the south of Spain, and that was a whole different kind of thing entirely.
I’m less than two weeks into my steroid course and things have improved dramatically in the nasal department. I would say I’m sniffing at around 80%, which is a lot more than where I thought I’d be at this point. If it keeps up at this rate I should be able to avoid going under the knife (or tube, or pincers, or whatever the hell it is that they use for that kind of thing – I don’t want to know), even if it does mean going through this twice-daily routine every so many months.
I knew I had lost my sense of smell – probably a short time after it happened – but it never struck me that regaining it would be such a monumental shift, or indeed make that much of a difference. Of the five primary senses, if you had to get rid of one, smell seemed like the most disposable. While I still think that is the case, it’s loss over the last couple of years has certainly made me appreciate it more.