The Legend

30 May 2026, Detroit Sports Spectacular: It was about 10 am on Saturday morning, people milling about, looking at tables and tables and tables of sports trading cards, everything from 50 cent Don Wert cards to 20k Michael Jordan rookie cards and even higher. People were also lining up to purchase autographs and photos from sporting luminaries such as Charles Woodson, Chris Webber, Allen Iverson and Michael Vick, who is both famous and infamous. 

Everybody was passing by one old geezer’s table. Most of the crowd far too young to know. 

Look at that face, I said to myself, for there was nobody else with me to say it to. That’s a face that’s seen some shit. Highs and Lows. Michael Vick is a virgin compared to this guy. 

I stood off to the side, watching the old geezer, watching everybody passing him by.

They didn’t know. This was truly a Legend. A Legendary Figure. A Hero. And a bum. A bum who turned it all around, and then fell to bum again. And got up again. And here he was, still breathing air. He had a walker next to his chair. But it was not quite time yet for the dirt to be shoveled on top of him. Look at that face. Nobody looked at it. They just passed by. I walked up to him. 

“You seen more shit than everybody in this room combined.” 

“I’ve been waiting two hours for my breakfast!” He tried to bark it, but his voice was too weak to bark. 

“Huh?”

“Are you the guy who’s supposed to bring my breakfast?” 

“No.” 

“No? Who are you?” 

“A fan.” 

“Oh.” 

“I’ve been waiting two hours for my breakfast.” 

“I read somewhere they said you used to drink a case of Pepsi every day. Is that true?” 

“Or more.” 

“More?” 

“Some days I drank thirty-six.” 

“Damn!” 

There was a long pause. What can you say after that? I just stood there, by his table. He had books and photos and cards for sale, but the sheeple kept walking by, paying no notice. After buying an admission and a ticket to get a photo with a Michigan basketball player, I had five bucks left. Too bad for me. 

“Where you from?” he asked. 

“Ann Arbor.” 

“Oh, I remember Dearborn. You remember the old mayor? What was his name?” 

He must have thought I said Dearborn. That was fine. And by the old mayor he must have meant Orville Hubbard, a bit of a legend himself. 

“Hubbard?” 

“Hubbard! That’s right!” he said. “He wouldn’t let the blacks in, remember?” 

I nodded and chuckled. 

“Wouldn’t let nobody in!” he went on. “Yellow people. Brown. Redskins. Nobody but white.” 

“Dearborn sure has changed, huh?” I laughed. He laughed, too. 

“You’re not a young fellow, either,” he said. “You want to sit down?” 

I sat down in the empty chair next to his on his side of the table. We yukked it up for another 10 minutes or so. I asked him who he was gonna vote for in the upcoming Michigan senate race. He gave the right answer. Eighty-two years old and he knew what was going on. 

Finally some fat girl brought him his breakfast. I had to get going to catch my photo time with the Michigan basketball player. 

“Hey,” I said to the fat girl holding out my phone, “if this gentleman is OK with it, will you take a picture?” 

“Sure.” 

“I got 5 bucks,” I said to the Legend, “is that good enough for a quick selfie?” 

“Your money’s no good here.” 

The fat girl took the picture. I told the Legend I was gonna let him eat in peace, but that it had been an honor to chat with him. 

After I got my picture with the Michigan basketball player, a kid sixty-three years younger than the Legend, I walked past his table again, but he was gone.

Obsession

Obsession: Yet another film marketed as horror that lacks horror and yet another critically acclaimed film that is a dud of a disappointment.  The ultra-thin story centers upon a hemming-and-hawing, meek near-incel named Baron "Bear" Bailey, who works at a small local family-owned music shop that somehow generates enough sales to keep four employees on the clock per shift (that is a rather petty script nit-pick, I admit, but anyone who has ever worked retail, and especially anyone currently misfortunate enough to be employed at Family Dollar or Dollar General or Dollar Tree will notice this deviation from our current Late Stage Capitalism labor management practices). But anyways, and more to the story’s ultra-thin point, Bear harbors a painfully frustrated and unspoken romantic affection for co-worker Nikki.  The incellular Bear, upon hearing Nikki has lost her cherished crystal necklace, decides that purchasing a new necklace and presenting it to her as a gift will be the perfect opportunity for him to express his feelings for her.  Blue-balled Bear thus heads to the local New Age herb-and-crystal shoppe (a kind of bohemian business establishment that seems copied from a Portlandia sketch) to buy the necklace, but being the deeply insecure nerd he is, he doubts his necklace choice.  About to leave the store in empty-handed despair, he happens to notice a peculiar novelty item known as a *One Wish Willow.*   Thinking this quirky little oddity of an impulse item might amuse Nikki, Bear does indeed buy it on impulse.  But, alas, when the time comes for the bumbling Bear to give Nikki the gift and declare his feelings, he turtles.  Alone in his car he berates himself for his heterosexual incompetence and in a rash act of bitter self-pitying irony, he snaps the One Wish Willow in two while wishing for Nikki to "love him more than anything in the world."  It’s no spoiler, of course, to reveal that this is exactly what happens.  The rest of the film, in varying degrees of quality and gore, is a series of relationships-are-Hell set-pieces that eventually lead Bear to mourn for his old onanistic existence. Nikki’s original intelligent and sarcastic disposition is entirely supplanted by a volatile, manic Bear-smitten doppelgänger. She begins to exhibit biploar unhinged behavior: staying up all night watching Bear as he sleeps, standing in place and urinating and defecating while waiting for him to return from work, threatening acts of self-harm to extort his loyalty, and then, during a social gathering upon witnessing Bear about to kiss another young woman during a parlor game, Nikki actually does self-harm as she mutilates her own face with a broken bottle. From here, the picture descends into the familiar crude climax of most American horror films: rapidly occurring acts of wanton violence the typical horror audience will have been numbed to dozens of films ago (or two Terrifier films ago) separated by the briefest interludes of character reflection, in Obsession’s case, this means Bear accepting the full consequences of his catastrophic violation of Nikki's autonomy, followed by a lightning quick role reversal which ensures the movie ends with the de rigueur horror film balancing of the cosmic order.

There’s no need to list all the film’s many plot holes (how did Sandy the cat manage to open dead grandma’s bottle of oxycodone and why did Sandy like the taste of them so much he/she ate enough of them to die, couldn’t the filmmaker find a more plausible way to set up the feline cannibal lunch scene? Why are the rules of the One Wish Willow so vague? Why does Nikki become violently obsessive rather than simply “in love,” Bear’s wish was that she love him more than anything, not that she become insanely jealously obsessive, to list just a few so you know I am not exaggerating when I say there are many, though unless you have seen the film you have no way to know if I have just listed them all and am lying when I say there are more), better to lament its wasted opportunity.  The film could have been a first-rate character study of our modern American adult male, the increasingly celibate terminal adolescent who can’t connect with women because of his submission to the electronic and pornographic environment, yet still feels entitled to “have one.”  Almost all of Obsession’s one hundred and eight minute run time is spent on how Bear can manage his problems (how to get Nikki, how to keep Nikki, how to keep his friends from wondering how he got Nikki, how to keep his friends from noticing how oddly Nikki is behaving, how to keep Nikki from hurting herself, how to keep Nikki from hurting others) rather than Bear recognizing his role in creating his problems.  There was greater character development in the 25 minute Twilight Zone love obsession episode The Chaser than in this film.  Indeed, Bear’s last scene epiphany is too little, too late to save the movie from being anything other than an occasionally creepy, occasionally gory and reviews-contradicting never funny Make-A-Wish gimmick flick in which the gimmick is the sick boy’s wish ultimately turns out to be a wish to die. 

Red Rooms

What is Red Rooms?  It’s certainly not a horror movie.  It’s not a thriller, as it is numbingly boring.  Is it a character study?  If so, it’s a study of an implausible character: a fashion model/genius poker player/AI developer/hacker.  Can you imagine Gigi Hadid as a real life Girl With A Dragon Tatoo?  Neither can I.  So that eliminates Red Rooms as a character study.  What are we left with? A tediously paced, incomprehensible plot hole that seems as if it were made-up scene-by-scene on the fly by a *filmmaker* named (and aptly initialed) Pascal Plante.

The story, as best I can remember it from my stupor, is as follows:

Kelly-Anne is a mannish-looking Montreal fashion mannekin AND whizbang online poker player AND whizbang AI developer who programmed her own AI assistant named Guinevere who appears only to speak English even though Kelly-Anne is a native French speaker AND whizbang hacker who can break into any electronic device and steal any access code she wants and who appears to live a remarkably sterile, isolated life in a sterile luxury high-rise. Her only amusement appears to be an obsession with an ongoing, high-profile trial of a scrawny, pasty incel-looking geek named Ludovic Chevalier, who is accused of being the *Demon of Rosemont* (Rosemont being a Montreal borough), a serial killer who allegedly tortured and murdered three Aryan-looking teenage girls, and broadcast the mischief live in dark web *red rooms.*  He picked these particular victims because, according to the script’s knowledge of the dark web, Aryan-looking girl snuff films earn more money.

Anyway and inexplicably, Kelly-Anne goes to extraordinary lengths to secure a seat at the courthouse every morning, going so far as to sleep in alleyways to maintain her place in line, though why she couldn’t just rise early in the morning and take a cab to the courthouse is never explained, even though at one point Kelly-Anne is asked this very question by a waifish Chevalier fangirl named Clémentine who, during the court proceedings, becomes acquainted with Kelly-Anne.  For some reason, Kelly-Anne invites the emotionally volatile Clémentine to stay at her apartment for the duration of the trial.  This subplot adds nothing to the movie other than a few boring scenes of Clémentine trying awkwardly to bond with Kelly-Anne.  

Anyway, eventually the movie attempts to proceed to some sort of climax, with a distraught Clémentine lamenting missing what she believes is exonerating evidence, the two recovered snuff videos, which are shown in court only to jurors and family members, with gooners such as Clémentine and the passive onlooker Kelly-Anne having to vacate the courtroom. While waiting in the hallway, Kelly-Anne reveals that she has already obtained the horrific videos via the dark web.  When they return to Kelly-Anne’s apartment she shows Clémentine the videos. As they view the footage, Kelly-Anne coldly points out that the masked killer shares Chevalier’s highly distinct blue eyes and unusual gait. For some reason, this flimsy *proof* shatters Clémentine’s delusions; now profoundly disturbed, she packs her belongings and flees back to her hometown, abandoning her obsession entirely.

Left to her own devices, Kelly-Anne’s behavior, which heretofore had been icily unemotional, for some reason spirals into an alarming realm. Her fixation pivots toward the third, unrecovered video—the murder of the youngest victim, a 13-year-old girl named Camille, while she also begins cyber-stalking Camille's grieving mother, Francine.

So, finally, after seeming cinematic hours of nothing much happening, on Chevalier’s birthday, Kelly-Anne orchestrates a shocking stunt: she attends the trial in a Camille cosplay costume: blonde wig, blue colored contact lenses, and a replica school uniform. Though she is swiftly ejected from the courtroom by security, she achieves what one assumes is her desired effect. Chevalier, who has sat rigid and impassive for the entire trial, makes direct eye contact with Kelly-Anne and offers her a slight, knowing smile and wave.  For some reason, this seems to have been Kelly-Anne’s desired outcome. Unsurprisingly, Kelly-Anne’s modeling agency is put-off by Kelly-Anne’s bizarre antics and promptly terminates her contract.

Having severed her ties to normal society, Kelly-Anne now focuses like a laser on acquiring Camille's missing snuff video, which is not really missing, because a miscreant is putting it up for a private dark web auction.  Like all of the previous computer shit Kelly-Anne is supposed to be a genius at, the script demonstrates this computer genius stuff by showing the audience shots of Kelly-Anne staring at several computer monitors which are littered with incomprehensible computer code stuff while she keyboards unknown-to-the-audience commands which unlock or allow access or do computer stuff which Kelly-Anne wants.  All this computer shit combined with some online poker allows Kelly-Anne to purchase the third snuff video, which, for some reason, has eluded law enforcement agencies, despite their months and months of investigation.

Anyway, after for some reason suspecting that her AI, Guinevere, might be monitoring her illicit activities, she meticulously destroys the hardware in a blender before viewing the snuff video. Her reaction to the video is entirely devoid of horror (as is the film); she appears merely satisfied, as if completing a complex puzzle.

In the film's limp climax, Kelly-Anne breaks into the home of Camille's mother. She slips into the deceased girl's bedroom, for some reason takes a few selfies in the school uniform, and then quietly leaves a flash drive containing the missing video on the mother's bedside table. The video is subsequently turned over to the authorities, which, for some reason, forces Chevalier to change his plea to guilty (two snuff videos in which he is masked would not be enough to convince a jury beyond a reasonable doubt, but three videos would??  LOL.  OK.  Whatever.  Let’s just end this movie, already).

The picture mercifully concludes by, I suppose, emphasizing Kelly-Anne’s chilling emotional void. She did not solve the case out of any sense of justice or empathy for the victims, but rather to test her own limits and satisfy a deeply narcissistic obsession.  I guess.

<yawn.>

There is nothing remotely interesting about the film itself, which *runs* for one hour and fifty-eight minutes. . .a runtime that seems more like a three hour crawl.

I found myself for most of the film wondering if its *star,* a woman named Juliette Gariépy, was, in fact, really a woman. That’s one of the effects of living in an Age of Abundant Transsexualism, any mannish-looking woman, such as Juliette Gariépy, is immediately suspect of having a penis.  This concludes our review.

The Late Great Rex Reed

Born in 1938 in Fort Worth, Texas, Mr. Rex Taylor Reed emerged in the 1960s as a formidable force in American journalism. Educated at Louisiana State University, he cultivated a reputation as an arbiter of taste whose acerbic wit and unyielding standards became the stuff of legend. Writing for esteemed publications such as Vogue, GQ, The New York Times, and most notably during his long tenure at The New York Observer, Mr. Reed was never merely a reviewer; he was a gatekeeper of cinematic elegance.

It is difficult not to lament his departure from the cultural forefront, for one must acknowledge him as, quite perhaps, the last great American film critic. His loss to the daily discourse is not an isolated event, but rather a stark symptom of an overall American cultural decline. We have traded the sharpened pen of the educated aesthete for the clamor of the crowd.

In a bygone era, a discerning audience could comfortably rely on the elevated, uncompromising opinions of film experts like Rex to guide their evening’s entertainment. A critic of his caliber served as a necessary filter against mediocrity. Nowadays, however, we find ourselves navigating a rather regrettable landscape. The critical establishment has thoroughly capitulated to populism, resulting in a confounding reality where cinematic garbage such as Black Panther, Oppenheimer, and Sinners is universally praised. It is a time when sheer spectacle and trendy posturing have entirely usurped the quiet dignity of genuine cinematic art, and it is, at best, a faint hope that one day there will be a swing back toward the refined standards Mr. Reed so admirably defended.

PS: Nobody in the Arts ever used the word *ossified* more frequently or aptly. Here are a just a few examples:

A Prairie Home Companion (2006): "The jabbering, meandering and ossified movie that Robert Altman has made from Garrison Keillor's lumbering, affected and pointless audio curiosity A Prairie Home Companion is not a movie at all".

The Cured (2018): When confronted with this Irish zombie picture, he used the term to indict the entire category of film, noting, "The latest in this ossified cornball genre is The Cured, which at least tries for a soupçon of freshness".

Mission: Impossible - Fallout (2018): Directing his weariness toward the blockbuster action series, he remarked that it was "business as usual with Fallout, the sixth installment in the ossified franchise series that seems more like the sixtieth.”

RIP Rex Reed

Disclosure Day

The halls of government and the airwaves of the media are increasingly abuzz with the prospect of "Disclosure"—the formal admission that humanity is sharing the cosmos, or perhaps even our own atmosphere, with non-human intelligences (NHI). While secular commentators speculate on the potential for "ontological shock" and the collapse of religious institutions, a closer inspection of the Holy Scriptures suggests that the follower of Jesus is, in fact, the best-equipped to handle such news.

To suggest that the discovery of non-human technology or life would invalidate the Bible is to overlook the very nature of the Biblical narrative. From the opening pages of Genesis to the closing visions of Revelation, the text is replete with accounts of intelligent, non-human entities interacting with our world.

The Bible makes it clear that the "heavens" are far from empty. We are introduced to a vast array of beings—Angels, Archangels, Cherubim, Seraphim, and the "sons of God." These are not mere metaphors; they are described as functional, intelligent, and often technologically superior (in a spiritual or dimensional sense) to man.

The scriptures provide a necessary framework for "First Contact" by establishing that not all non-human visitors are cut from the same cloth. There is a clear distinction between the benevolent and the malevolent:

The Helpful: We are reminded in Hebrews 13:2, "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares." These beings operate under the authority of the Almighty, often serving as messengers or protectors.

The Harmful: Conversely, the scriptures warn of a rebellion within the heavenly realms. Jude 1:6 speaks of "the angels which kept not their first estate, but left their own habitation," noting that they are reserved in everlasting chains under darkness.

To understand the current "disclosure" movement, one must look back to the antediluvian world. Genesis 6:1-4 records a pivotal moment in human history:

"And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them, That the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose... There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown."

This account suggests a physical and genetic intervention by non-human actors—an "unauthorized disclosure" of sorts that led to a corruption of the human line. Jesus Himself explicitly linked the conditions of the End Times to this specific era, stating in Matthew 24:37:

"But as the days of Noah were, so shall also the coming of the Son of man be."

If the "Days of Noah" involved the visible presence and interference of non-human entities, we should expect a mirror image of those conditions as the age draws to a close.

The primary concern for the believer is not the existence of these beings, but the narrative that may accompany their arrival. The scriptures warn that the ultimate adversary is a master of mimicry. II Corinthians 11:14-15 cautions:

"And no marvel; for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light. Therefore it is no great thing if his ministers also be transformed as the ministers of righteousness; whose end shall be according to their works."

A government disclosure may present these entities as our "creators," our "saviors," or "advanced brothers" coming to solve our climate or nuclear woes. However, the Bible prepares us for a time of intense supernatural activity designed to mislead. Revelation 12:12 warns:

"Therefore rejoice, ye heavens, and ye that dwell in them. Woe to the inhabiters of the earth and of the sea! for the devil is come down unto you, having great wrath, because he knoweth that he hath but a short time."

The follower of Jesus has no reason to be alarmed by the recovery of "non-human technology" or the sighting of "unidentified craft." These are merely the physical manifestations of a spiritual reality the Bible has described for millennia.

The ultimate "Disclosure" for the believer is not found in a declassified government file, but in the person of Jesus Christ. By adhering to the Word, the Church will not be swayed by any Satanic disinformation campaign, no matter how "extraterrestrial" or "technologically advanced" it may appear. We know the players, we know the history, and we know the end of the matter.

Be of good cheer! The truth remains exactly what it has always been.

Prophecy, Radars, and Rain

It appears we are witnessing a convergence of geopolitical upheaval and meteorology that would baffle even the most seasoned members of the Junior Ganymede Club. To begin with the scriptural foundation, Revelation 16:12 in the King James Version states:

And the sixth angel poured out his vial upon the great river Euphrates; and the water thereof was dried up, that the way of the kings of the east might be prepared.

Traditionally, students of prophecy have watched for the literal parching of the Euphrates as a harbinger of conflict—a tactical necessity for the movement of massive land forces. However, we hypothesize an "inverse" fulfillment.

While the region suffered a punishing five-year drought leading into 2025, the recent climatic shift has been nothing short of biblical. Recently, flash floods surged across the Iranian border into Iraq’s Diyala province. Rather than a dry path for the "Kings of the East," the landscape is now a sea of mud and rising waters.

Can we draw a connection between Iran’s destruction of the "Great Satan’s" radars in the UAE and this deluge? Between February and March 2026, Iranian strikes reportedly targeted and successfully degraded several AN/TPY-2 (THAAD) and AN/FPS-132 early-warning radar systems in the UAE, Qatar, and Jordan. There has long been a school of thought—often dismissed as mere "backstairs gossip" by the establishment—that high-frequency, long-range radar arrays and electronic warfare installations can influence local weather patterns.  And as soon as these radars were destroyed, the rain clouds returned.

If one considers these radars as a form of electronic "damming" that inadvertently (or intentionally) disrupted moisture-carrying air currents, then their removal would indeed result in the sudden "bursting of the clouds" we’ve observed.

If we are to view this as the "inverse" of the Sixth Vial, one might argue that the "drying up" mentioned in the KJV was a state of artificial suppression. By this logic, the current flooding represents a "restoration" of the natural order that precedes the final gathering. If the "drying up" was to prepare the way for the kings, then perhaps the "flooding" is the sign that the kings have already arrived and are no longer in need of a dry path—they are, so to speak, already in the foyer.

One cannot ignore the irony: the very technology meant to provide a "shield" against the East may have been the very thing parching the land of the East. Its removal has brought the rain, but it has also removed the warning.

It is a delicate situation, to be sure.  Many interpretations (including none) are possible. But let us keep the umbrellas ready, I suspect the coming storm may be of a nature that even the finest silk canopy cannot withstand.

Nebuchadnezzar & Trump: The Mad Kings

I recently heard one somewhat prominent Protestant preacher compare Nebuchadnezzar II and Donald Trump. He was fairly accurate, to a point. And I will point out the point he failed to point out when I get to that point in my comparison of the two mad kings.

Comparing the two figures, separated by over 2,500 years, one a Neo-Babylonian monarch whose madness is most well-known from the biblical narrative, the other a modern real estate mogul, liar, cheat, thief, rapist and muderder turned 47th U.S. President—reveals some striking psychological parallels.

Both figures exhibit a profound drive to manifest their bloated internal identity through massive physical structures. Nebuchadnezzar II’s reign was defined by "building bigly." He transformed Babylon into a world wonder, constructing the Ishtar Gate and the Etemenanki ziggurat. His inscriptions rarely focused on military conquest; instead, they boasted of the splendor and scale of his city, effectively equating his psychological well-being with the grandeur of his skyline.

Similarly, Trump’s out-sized identity is linked to his "branded" architecture. From Trump Tower to his various golf courses, the physical manifestation of his name in gold and stone serves as a psychological fortress and a primary method of asserting dominance, permanence, and, most importantly, protection of his massive insecurities. 

Psychologically, both men appear to view themselves not just as leaders, but as the central protagonists in a grand national drama. Nebuchadnezzar’s biblical depiction in the Book of Daniel highlights a personality that demanded absolute acknowledgment. When he looked out and asked, "Is not this great Babylon, which I have built... by the might of my power and for the honor of my majesty?" it revealed a state of mind where the state and the self are indistinguishable.

Trump operates with a similar fusion. His rhetoric often mirrors the ancient "Great King" style—framing successes as personal triumphs and challenges as personal slights. For both, there is little room for a "private" self; the psychological state is entirely externalized and performative.

Here I will point out the point the somewhat prominent Protestant preacher failed to point out, the key difference, and in Nebuchadnezzar II’s case, the redeeming difference between the two: their documented reactions to the loss of control or "the fall."

According to the Bible, Nebuchadnezzar underwent a period of "beast-like" madness as a result of his pride. Psychologically, this represents a total breakdown of the ego followed by a profound reconstruction and a newfound sense of humility.

Trump’s psychological state during setbacks is characterized by high resilience and a refusal to accept a "humbled" narrative. Rather than the internal reflection seen in the stories of Nebuchadnezzar, Trump’s psychological defense mechanism is to project outward, reframing every loss as a strategic victory or a product of external interference.

Nebuchadnezzar’s psychology is defined by the weight of a divine mandate that eventually crushed and then reformed and redeemed him, Trump’s psychology is defined by a modern, secularized version of the "Sun King" complex—where the light of the state is meant to shine solely on the individual.  In other words, Trump lacks a soul, lacks conscience, or, as Jesus framed it: if therefore the light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that darkness! Trump exalted himself past the point of redemption. His entire identity is bound in his vanity, and therefore to bend the knee to the Throne of God would force him to reduce his own being.  Indeed, the one truth of himself that Trump cannot help but confess is in his repeated statements that he is unfit for heaven.