Twin Pants: Twin Peaks Speculation

Anyone else watching Twin Peaks? I’m only aware of four people in my immediate life that are experiencing it currently. While the show seems to be popular enough from what I can tell, I’m sure the lack of exposed breasts every fifteen minutes is holding it back in the ratings. Statistics be damned, I’m loving it! Also, I’m a glad that the blabber mouthing Thrones fan aren’t on twitter the very next day with their gifs and spoilers. Not that Twin Peaks can really be spoiled. Gosh damn I love it!

I’ll admit there was a growing sense of frustration that could no longer be contained around episode six. Not much seemed to happen. It started with Wally Brando, I didn’t see a need to waste what felt like ten minutes on that dipshit. Sure, he was kind of funny and exactly the kind of kid Lucy and Andy would have raised, but we don’t have much time. Then there was Dougie and several other characters that I don’t give a flip about. I was having a hard time with meeting all these new characters when I was still concerned about what old characters were doing. We’ve only got eighteen episodes for sure. No one wants to be left hanging again. Not that we need to have everything explained to us.

I remember saying, “I don’t care if someone hacks this [streaming service] and deletes all the episodes. I wouldn’t stop someone from coming into our place and shooting our [streaming device].” Then I laughed like a crazy guy who’d been waiting for twenty five odd years* to find out what’s up with, not only Coop, but everyone else from Twin Peaks. Instead I’m learning about Wally, watching some guy sweep a floor, and Dougie.

I was broken as we tuned in for episode eight. I remember saying something about not caring anymore. There was probably an angsty “whatever,” in there as well. However, eight changed my perspective. Shit happened, then there was hopelessness as we flew through an explosion, then I became a believer.

My entire outlook changed. All I – and everyone else – had wanted to see was good ol’ Coop. We kind of got a dose of him in the first couple of episodes before he and Dougie switched spaces. Maybe that’s all we’re ever going to get! Yet, all anyone can talk about is Coop coming back. Somewhere around episode ten, I started to realize something. It’s crazy and needs a little explanation. I don’t know if I want Coop to come back.

Why not? Well, one of the Coops has to die. Which means there would only be one. I don’t want Good Coop (Gooper) to die, but Evil Cooper has done some shit. Not only a lot of bad things at a federal level, but many terrible things that have affected the people of Twin Peaks. One can’t stand before a judge and plead it was their doppelganger.

Right now, Gooper has his happy ending. A wife and kid, lots of money. Truly ignorance is bliss. Hold on, is all of that just as manufactured as Dougie was? Vegas is seen by many as a city of facades. Could this be another waiting room style place, a trap to keep Cooper in place? Diane doesn’t seem to be tracking quite right, is that a Dianeppleganger? Was the good in her used to construct Jane E.? Is Audrey still in a coma? Wait, did we already see the ending of Twin Peaks: The Return at the end of Fire Walk With Me? Did Coop take the doorway back into Red Room in 15?


Did anyone else pick up on how portentous and referential The Veils ‘Axoltol’ was? Axoltol being an amphibious fish salamander that can regenerate missing limbs. So something that really isn’t something. Also, the ghola growing tanks in Dune were called Axoltol tanks. Ghola’s were genetically grown people with some modification here and there. Possibly some hidden ones. In some cases, they were clones of very important people. This is probably what Lynch was actually interested in when it came to Dune, but he never got that far.

* I did watch a good portion of Twin Peaks during it’s original run. I skipped chunks of season two. Yet, I remember watching that final scene, turning to my parents and asking what the heck?

Dog Days of Summer: Certainly Can Lick…

It’s the Dog Days of Summer. What the heck is going on? That’s kind of a rhetorical question and yet I wouldn’t mind an answer. It’s been hot here. Sure I know it’s hotter in other places of the world, but it’s a relativity thing. When it gets hot I don’t feel like doing much. Probably due to me being so busy sweating that I don’t have time for much else. That’s all I seem to do, and blackmail deodorant companies with claims of their failing products.

That’s when I start working a bit longer at work and enjoy some of that air conditioning. An extra bonus is that I can bring the dogs with me. I couldn’t imagine having to deal with this heat in a fur coat. They are always excited to go to work. I don’t think it’s necessarily the air conditioning though. No, it seems to be all the attention they get.

When I get home, there’s a mixture of condensation from sitting in air conditioning and sweat from being outside. Trust me, it is as awful as it sounds. That just makes me kind of lazy. I have a tendency to lay around reading or watching one extra episode of whatever on Netflix. Which isn’t too bad if it’s a half hour episode, but an hour episode can really throw any aspirations I had out the window.


Maybe I should go do something else.

 

Summer Flannelbane 2: The Revenge of Swamp Ass

Two years ago, Summer Flannelbane set the world on fire. Now it’s time for Summer Flannelbane 2! As I’ve gotten older and grumpier, I can say with nary a doubt that summer is my least favorite season. It’s hot, smelly, stuffy, smokey. I have the option to go out anytime because it isn’t raining. Unfortunately, if things aren’t already on fire, I will burst into flames unless I slather on enough sunblock that I look like a storm sewer dwelling rodeo clown.

Go ahead, freak out and yell at your screen. Stand up and pace around the room while scratching your head like a detoxing addict. Mutter questions as to why I feel this way. Call me names. Declare that I’m wrong. It’s okay, at any given time fifty percent of the internet disagrees with you.

Done? On a scale of one to stagnant and inexplicably immortal water puddle off to the side of a big box store, how wet are you? Getting worked up like that during any other season wouldn’t be an issue. You’d look fine and wouldn’t be the least bit glowy. However, in summer everyone can see you sweat. Unless said freak out took place in an air conditioned building and in the buff, at the very least, you have to be a little clammy.

Summer Flannelbane is hot. The environment is dry and the people are wet. I can’t remember the last time that I wasn’t moist. My dew point has been lowered, raised? Ah, I don’t remember how dew point works. Not that it really matters because it’s not droplets of water forming on the outside of a cold glass of ice water. It’s my sweat pouring out of me.

I’m soaked to that point that, if some crazed berserking bro-jock came at me with a wet towel, I could retaliate by removing any article of clothing. From as something as substantial as a t-shirt to something as minimal as a friendship bracelet. My weapon like vessel of vengeance doesn’t so much matter as much as the fully saturating sweat that it’s imbued with. The subsequent swipe would be so cruel, so violent. His final words, as his body is being liquified, limbs blasting off like rockets, head bouncing like a recently abandoned basketball, would be a simple and astonished, “Bro?”

Summer Flannelbane is the time of year where I begin to believe that I may have latent super powers. My inherent ability is to be varying degrees of moist at all hours of the day. While I haven’t tested my theory, I assume that I’m some degree of fire retardant at all times. With some points being near one hundred percent.

Perhaps Professor Xavier just hasn’t noticed me yet in his scans. It could also be that he doesn’t require the Human Slug on his team. Even if he did, yellow and blue spandex aren’t exactly in my wheelhouse. Not to mention that would wick the sweat away, thus nullifying my unique talents. No, I’m afraid I’d have to run around in a mesh shirt and fishnet stockings at best.


 

Darth Vader: Space Dick Head

Face it, Darth Vader was a bad dude. The mere mention of his name, if it were even spoken aloud, sent chills running down the spines of all that heard it. Made their b-holes shrivel like deflating balloon. He could lightsaber duel like no-one’s business and force choke people when he was feeling blah. When truly uninitiated, Darth Vader could order people to blow stuff up for him. With nary a care in the universe. He didn’t care about the people that he killed. They were vermin and beneath him. Darth Vader had no feelings. Well, not good ones that The Beach Boys liked to sing about.

Before becoming the love child of death and a badly in need of service vacuum cleaner, in a metaphorical “I hate Mondays” T-shirt, Darth Vader was known as Anakin Skywalker. A good looking, sniveling, whiny, business in front, party in back rat tail wearing douche which no one particularly cared for, except Padme and JarJar.

To the detriment of tension, he happened to be good at everything he did. Fighting, jumping, flying, sniveling, were all in his wheelhouse. Which happened to be the reason why Palpatine was interested in him. If one is going to play an intergalactic game of dodgeball, then one should pick the best person for one’s team.

That’s exactly what Palpatine did. However, he didn’t want Vader to be too powerful. To that end, Palpatine manufactured some restraints into that suit. This would hopefully prevent Vader from overpowering and killing his master. Something that happens to every single Sith Lord at some point in time. So much so, that it leaves one wondering why they continue to take on apprentices.

The biggest limitation though was the helmet. There’s no denying that it looked cool and threatening, especially with the skull like mask. However, it had a secret. One of those things that, once it’s seen, cannot be unseen.

Everyone was absolutely one hundred percent terrified of Darth Vader. That was the only reaction anyone could have. Terror. That is until a plucky rebel trooper Chet “Amazeballs” Phasall pointed it out. The thing that couldn’t be unseen. Darth Vader’s helmet looked like a dick.

That was the cherry on top of the black cowl 1970’s sweat suit combo. It looked like Darth Vader could run a 5k on Hoth and be ready to take a bullet. He had a dark lustrous voice that sounded like silk that’d been run through the wash a thousand times. Then there was his mask, both skull like and yet, very alien at the same time. Yet, none of it was worth a dime once people realized he looked like a space weiner.

On top of all the limitations of the suit that kept Vader’s power in check, he had to have phallic head gear. It was all too much. Eventually, Vader tracked down Chet and made an example of him. A year later Rogue One happened. You can see that Krennic still couldn’t unsee the helmet.


The first post after a break ain’t easy. Even if I started writing well before said break.