In the world of
black and white,
there is . . .

 

HOME

News

Polls

 

Columns

Hamburglar's Eye View

He Read/She Read

Rants in E Minor

I'm Rubber, You're Glue...

What Does It All Mean?

Hairy Gravy                         What's The Use Of Getting Sober?

Guest Column

 

Reviews

Comics

Movies

Music

Books

 

Interviews

Art Gallery

 

Original Material

Poetry

Stories

Humor

 

Letters

Submissions

Links

Message Board

Contact

Credits

 

email a friend
about us

 

 

Rants In E Minor

By 

Alysha McKinney

Evertyme@aol.com


Go...With A Smile

My ten-year high school reunion is rapidly approaching.  I luckily avoided my five year, as I was living our of state at the time and had absolutely no desire to drive eight hours to get dressed up and see two hundred people I didn't want to talk to when I saw them on a daily basis.  But now... Now, I'm back, near enough to my hometown that it wouldn't be a huge hassle. 

Other than seeing all those people, of course.

I was at least a year younger than everyone in my class (courtesy of my big brain) and didn't really fit in with any cliques.  I was the quiet, scary loner that everyone just knew as "the smart girl who writes."  Teachers tended to like me because seeing my Megadeth t-shirts in their Advanced Placement classes gave them something to talk about in the lounge.

So I guess I'm still that scary smart girl who writes.  And still wears Megadeth t-shirts.

Since I still have a year until the reunion, I have planned carefully; the following is my master scheme.  To accomplish this, I might even have to sell my soul directly to Satan.  Be afraid.

I pull up in my brand-new blue Viper (complete with white rally stripes, natch), blaring the CD burned expressly for me by Aaron of Reel Big Fish.  As I slither out of the car in an outfit so form-fittingly stunning that it'd make Linsner's Dawn jealous, I take the arm of my companion.  He's tall, blond, and goateed, not to mention devastatingly handsome and charming.  Bruce Campbell is obviously out of the country so he regrettably couldn't join me.

As we walk into the room, the music stops, all eyes focus on the door.  Being the well-versed publicity whore that I am, I give my hair that Farrah Faucett/Breck girl hair flip.  It's obvious that people are trying to figure out who the hell I am, and why I'm not remembered too distinctly.

I see the guy who taunted my all through elementary and junior high school.  The one I ended up almost getting detention for, since I beat him with my gym bag repeatedly.  I smile; you can almost hear the Perl Drops *ding* as my teeth sparkle.

"Alysha?  Is that you?  It's been ages!"  Since he shot at me with a BB gun while I was walking home from school?  Yes.

"It has, Anthony."  Ever the diplomat.  Bygones are bygones.  "What are you doing these days?"

"I was recently promoted to manager at work..."

"Ahh, new paper hat, then?"  Fuck diplomacy.  He flicked paint into my hair in seventh grade.

"Heh, yeah.  How are things with you?  What are you up to?"

I grin slyly.  "What do you think I'm doing?"  I'm pretty sure it was expected that I'd join a cult or something.

"I dunno...are you still writing?"  He's getting nervous.  My beauty has that affect.

"You could say that."  A snide, condescending snicker is shared between my consort and myself.

"Really?"

Now's the time to really let 'em have it.  "Well, yes.  Colin and I have been working on a little book. Pauly Shore's interested in making a movie version."  I know, I know.  Pauly Shore certainly wouldn't be ideal, but at least it's realistic.

"Wow!  That's amazing!"  Of course it is, you peon.  "We always knew you'd be doing big things!"  Translation: "Wow!  That's amazing!  We always thought you'd die of a heroin overdose, in a puddle of your own vomit next to Don Dokken!"

I think this is about the time I pull out a shotgun and blow everyone away, passing judgment on them all, not unlike the Punisher.  As I stand atop a pile of former cheerleaders, I rest my gun on my shoulder and throw my arm around the waist of my trusty companion.  "Name's Alysha.  Comics.  Good...bad...I'm the chick with the gun."

Comics For Boys

This column's bande desinee du choix is good for boys, girls, hermaphrodites and small animals.  Hell, big ones, too.  It's Hammer of the Gods by Michael Avon Oeming and Mark Obie Wheatley.  First of all, you've got Oeming's wonderful cartoony art that I drool over monthly in Powers.   Secondly, you've got mythology, which I tend to have a huge jones for.  Thor!  Sif!  Kick-ass storytelling...with the *new* gods.  How can you pass that up?  It's definitely not the Thor you know from Marvel.  This is the good stuff.  And how could you EVER go wrong with the line "But the wind is cold enough to freeze piss?"  This is a book worth searching for.  Go check out the Norse gods the way they should be written.  For more info -- and really cool strips -- check out http://www.sunnyfundays.com for more godly goodness!

Copyrightę2001 Alysha McKinney