Broken down, haunted and loved [video commentary]

Last summer, I moved into an apartment that took up the entire main floor of what used to be a very large Queen Ann style Victorian house. It's the most amazing apartment I've ever had, with huge windows, stained glass, intricate details in the wood work and door knobs and extremely high ceilings. Best of all, the walls aren't painted a simple boring white like most apartments; instead, they're a bright happy yellow.

Despite being slightly more expensive and further away from campus, I chose this apartment over the others for its beauty and comfort. I had become attached the moment I stepped foot into the vacant living room, and I simply couldn't turn it down.

I have never lived in a really old house before, but I learned quite quickly old houses have a personality of their own. For example, what I didn't know before living here, is that any doors that open to the west will never stay shut because the house is crooked. It's sliding off the foundation so much that even the windows are crooked, which I only noticed after hanging up my curtains.

I didn't care, though. This apartment had charm, and I was enamored.

But the house's bad condition couldn't be ignored once the crickets started creeping in from the break with the porch, once the winter winds began to blow and we could feel the subzero breezes in all rooms of the apartment, or once the small stained glass borders around the big windows began to shatter.

It seemed odd to me that a house which must have been absolutely amazing back in its day was being left to fall apart. I mean, what happened to the family who lived here? There are so many other historic houses in the neighborhood, yet this house is in the worst shape of them all. Why is that?

Since I only plan on living in the apartment for one more year before leaving Kearney behind, I didn't give much thought to the state of the house at first, but as I grew to love it more and more, I grew concerned.

That concern lead me to begin researching the history of the house, as well as the people who lived in it. What I've been able to find so far is that Dr. Cornelius Van Dyke Basten and his wife, Adah, lived here with an adopted daughter. They were active upper class citizens in the very early days of Kearney, living in this house from 1889 to their deaths in 1935. Adah died of heart problems, and Cornelius died of cancer only one month later.

I have to wonder, did one or both of them die in this house? Did they actually take their last breath in one of these rooms? I don't know why, but thoughts like these can consume me.

Adding to that history is an alleged ghost who haunts the attic and part of the second floor. A girl who lived in the apartment grew curious about a mysterious door that would not open, and after somehow forcing it aside, she and another person discovered that the door led to an attic filled with antiques, including a sink full of dishes, late-1800s style dresses and a delicate but decaying chair. The attic was also encircled with old police tape, or so they say.

The girl swears she was haunted every day after that, and she moved out not long afterward. Another girl moved into the apartment and left shortly afterward as well. Now, the apartment remains vacant.

So after a year of living in this historic and troubled house, I've begun to reexamine the passion I have for this place. I mean, what's there to love about a broken down haunted house? What's there to love about a broken down haunted anything?

Well, it might be hard to believe, but I still wouldn't trade this apartment for the world. After learning of the history and imaging the lives of the people who lived here, I fall in love all over again. This place is older than any human on the planet. This place has a story to tell.

I was never able to find any information about what happened to the house after Cornelius and Adah died, and my searches for their adopted daughter and her family ties all came to dead ends. As for any terrible occurrences warranting ghostly activity, I have no idea if something happened here or not.

Will anyone ever step in to fix this place up like it deserves? Once again, I don't know. Just as much of this house remains a mystery, so does its future.

Research for my next column

So I've been doing a lot of research lately for my video commentary, the next and last assignment of the semester for this blogging class. Unfortunately, I didn't have a lot of time to start the research until a couple of days ago, but since I've gotten to it, I have been absolutely taken by digging this stuff up.

To explain, I have been wanting to do a blog post on the house I currently have an apartment in. It's old and fancy, and that's all I've known about it. My idea was to blog about all of the architectural details of the house ...

... Until a friend of mine told me this amazingly scary ghost story! According to him, his brother's girl friend lived in one of the smaller apartments upstairs, and that apartment has a door that leads to the attic. That door is impossible to open, but we know it goes to the attic because the closet next to the door has a slanted ceiling, like it's supporting stairs above it. Also, when you look outside, you can see a small window that is part of the area behind the mysterious attic door.

Supposedly, the girl friend of the brother of my friend would hear things at night, but since it's an old house, she didn't think much of it. For whatever reason, her and her boy friend/my friend's brother decided to investigate the attic, and they somehow beat the door open (I think, these details weren't clear at the time I was told the story). Anyway, when they got to the attic, it appeared to be a sort of house worker's quarters, like the maid or someone lived up there. They said there was a sink full of dirty dishes, a piece of furniture that was falling apart, and some dusty old clothes ... all lying amongst old school police tape!

After they did this, the girl friend started having really vicious nightmares and feeling like someone was choking her in her sleep. She moved out not long after.

The apartment I live in, which is on the main floor of the house, is not haunted to my knowledge. Nothing strange has ever happened there, and I've never gotten any weird feelings. However, if you think about it, if there was a person who kept to the house like a maid or something, they probably wouldn't haunt the main floor ... they'd haunt wherever it is they spent the most time, which is the attic.

So maybe the attic of my house is haunted, I don't know. But the girl who moved into that apartment about a month after we moved into ours ... she didn't stay long. She was there at first, then she stopped coming back home at nights. There were times when we didn't see her for weeks at a time, and then she just moved out earlier this month. Why didn't she stay there? What possessed her to break the lease (expensive to do!) and leave so quickly?

I'll never know, because I never talked to her. For all I know, it could be something personal, maybe a family emergency ... but I have to admit, ghosts and ghost stories fascinate me, so the theory she was haunted out of the apartment is the one I've focused on the most.

I will not give away my secrets, but I was able to get into the apartment after she moved out to make a video of this mysterious door and its location. It's not long, because that apartment freaks me out.

I was in that apartment before that girl moved in and before I ever heard the ghost story, just to check it out since it was vacant. Both apartments upstairs were vacant, and my boyfriend and I enjoyed looking at them and seeing the various architectural details inside that are different than downstairs. Since our property manager is kind of intimidating (she's not mean, but we know we'd never want to piss her off), and since it was night, we made absolutely sure to shut off every light before we went back downstairs. Everything was fine the next day, but as the sun started going down again, we realized that a light was still on upstairs ... and it was in the bedroom of the allegedly haunted apartment! It was weird because I know we turned it off, we double checked everything.

Another time, when my parents were visiting, we heard voices in the stair well. They only lasted for a few seconds, like a short part of a conversation. The thing is, no one else was in the entire house except for us. That was also weird, and it creeped us out for a second, but we brushed it off later.

Anyway ... so I was going to research to see what exactly might have happened in that house. Did they even have a maid/house keeper person? Was someone killed? Did someone die violently? What were the lives of these people like?

As I've gotten deeper into my research, I've come across nothing that suggests anything terrible happened in the house. It is interesting how old the house is, though, because it was built in 1889. Here's some history about the people who lived in it first:

From Buffalo County and Its People (1916):
Dr. C. Van Dyck Basten, a prominent and valued representative of the medical profession in western Nebraska, who has practiced continuously in Kearney since May, 1883, was born at Kingston, Ulster county, New York, on the 25th of May, 1859, and is one of the three surviving members in a family of five children who were born of the marriage of George W. and Esther (Bevier) Basten. He was reared upon his father's farm with the usual experiences of the farm lad and acquired his early education in Ulster Academy. For two years he read medicine under the direction of Drs. Crispell & Smith, at Kingston, and later continued his studies with Dr. W. C. Goodno, of Philadelphia, as his preceptor. Still later he entered the Hahnemann Medical College in 1879, remaining a student in that institution for two years, but owing to failing health was compelled to relinquish his studies for a time. Later he went to Iowa and completed his medical education in the medical department of the State University at Iowa City, receiving his degree in 1883. Since that time he has taken numerous post-graduate courses in New York, Chicago and elsewhere, and by continued study and investigation keeps abreast with the most scientific research and progress.

Dr. Basten began the practice of his profession at Kearney in May, 1883, and has since here remained, winning early recognition as one of the foremost physicians of this part of the state--a position which he has since retained. He is ever careful in the diagnosis of his cases and his judgment is seldom at fault in regard to the outcome of disease. His professional duties are most conscientiously performed and his sympathy and consideration are elements in his popularity as well as the skill which he displays in practice.

On the 24th of November, 1885, Dr. Basten was married to Miss Adah Seaman, of Kearney, and they have an adopted daughter, Mary Edna. The religious faith of the family is that of the Methodist church, and Dr. Basten is connected with the Benevolent Protective Order of Elks and with the Masonicúfraternity, in which he has attained high rank, being now a Knight Templar. His political allegiance is given to the republican party, and although he keeps well informed on the questions and issues of the day he does not seek office. His membership along professional lines is with the Buffalo County and the Nebraska.

So now I'm less interested in the ghost story and more interested in the history of the house in general. For example, there are lots of very nice Victorian and Queen Anne style houses in our neighborhood, but ours is the most rundown and one of the very few that have been turned into apartments. What happened? Who owns the house now, and is it still in the family? If not, why not? I just have so many questions about why the house, which was big and beautiful, has been left to basically fall apart. I know it's falling apart because I live there and have to deal with the crooked windows and the porch boards being shoved out of place due to the house basically sliding off the foundation. There are cracks all over the walls, though they are covered in a bright shade of yellow. It's sad, but I feel a connection to this house because it's just so beautiful. If I had the money, I'd buy it and put it all back together again.

Here are some other documents I found about the house and that family from Historic Houses of Pioneer Park Neighborhood. Clicking on the images will make them bigger.

The local music scene

My boyfriend and I went to the Holobora music and art festival on Saturday. We probably would have gone anyway, but we had to go for my zine, The F.Y.I., since I did an entire issue dedicated to the festival and the bands participating in it. We got there early and set up a booth, then sat there to observe as the entire evening went by.

Together, we came up with a few conclusions about Kearney's music scene.

First of all, there was a great scene here about two years ago, but many of the best local bands took off to Portland, Oregon, where there is a much better scene. I have no idea how they're doing today, but I definitely miss them. Other bands simply broke up because people graduated from college and moved on.

It was pretty lame around here for awhile, but the void left room for other bands to come forward, and the music scene is finally growing again. Even better than before, there is a wide range of genres here, from rock-hip hop and indie to metal and industrial.

You'd think that would be a good thing, right? Well, instead of letting the scene grow into something amazing and diverse, there are a number of bands who either have members or a strong following of fans that apparently don't appreciate this diversity.

Conclusion #1: The scene is divided.

For example, I'm going to point out the worst offenders. Mortal Dezire. They're a very talented and popular metal band from Kearney. They were the last band to play for the night, kind of like a headline band, yet they didn't even bother to show up until about one hour before they had to play. When they did show up, a hip hop group was performing, and the guys simply put on their head phones and stood by the door, loudly proclaiming they wanted to "tune out this noise" (though in not-so-nice terms).

Another example, once again pointing out the worst offenders, were many of the fans of the industrial/experimental rock group Beta. They showed up only to see Beta, and they made it known. While other groups were performing, they sat in the back of the venue and complained that everyone else was taking too long, that it was Beta's turn, that they only cared about seeing Beta.

People. Seriously. What is the deal? Attitudes like these cause huge rifts in the local music scene. It was especially telling when Clozerock and Upset from the Ivyleague and Ryan O'Connor from Beat Continuum took a break from their hip hop performance to pump up the crowd for the bands coming up. When they yelled, "... and Mortal Dezire!" the venue went quiet. People were looking around. "Mortal Dezire? Are they here? ... Oh, nevermind, they're outside."

Outside in the freezing cold, because they would rather stand out there than have to integrate with us mere mortals. The fools!

That small part of the night really sucked, because the divide between Kearney music lovers only grew bigger at that point. Not only did the people watching hip hop not cheer for Mortal Dezire, but Mortal Dezire and their following weren't even inside to support the hip hop anyway. It's a lose-lose situation.

Observation #2: The scene is terribly unorganized.

While putting together the zine, I had almost nothing to go on besides the flier for the festival. I contacted every band on the flier, and about 75% got back to me with interview information, and about 10% actually got back to me with photos and other media to include.

This alone made the zine especially difficult and time consuming to put together. When I finally finished it and had it distributed, I had about five different bands/musicians ask me why they weren't in the issue, to which I had to reply, "No one told me you'd be here."

Also, the Holobora festival puts a good deal of emphasis on local artists, and they all wanted to know why they weren't in the issue, to which I had to reply again, "I had no idea you would be here, the organizers never gave me the list." And actually, the one artist they said would be there, wasn't.

Also, two bands who were included in the issue never showed up to play at the festival. And one band actually had the audacity to complain about the picture I had to pull off the internet since they didn't send me one. What the hell. Needless to say, it was frustrating.

Over all, I love doing the zine, and little set backs like this don't make me love it any less. Most people had a great response to the Holobora issue, and many of the bands that were included and who gave me their information thanked me generously for printing them. It feels good to have people appreciate the work, especially when I do it all by myself and pay for it out of my own pocket.

I don't want to complain, and I don't really want this blog to be seen as simply venting. I think the facts that the scene is so divided and unorganized really do hinder it and should seriously be considered worth fixing. I don't know who will step up to do the organization part, but the rest of us can start by supporting local music - all local music.

Wedding dreams; hair nightmares

One month, two weeks, three days, seven hours and 53 minutes. And the countdown continues to my little sister’s wedding. Despite having procrastinated on everything from the invitations to the decorations, the entire event is finally starting to fall into place, and our mom is breathing a huge sigh of relief.

There’s just one problem, though, and everyone wants to know: what is she going to do with her hair?

Let me explain.

My little sister, Kate, has always been the good daughter. I was the rebellious one, the one who gave our mother grey hair. Kate, on the other hand, was always very agreeable. The most she ever did was dye her blonde hair brown and grow her nails out long. She was the type of person who worried about entering through the exit door. Especially at Wal-Mart.

Later, at 20-years-old, she moved out of Mom and Dad’s house. She got a tattoo of angel wings on her back, which our parents didn’t find out about until months later. Then she met the guy of her dreams, and they moved in together. Our mom began worrying about what her mom would think about Kate “living in sin” so blatantly.

But things really took a turn to the wild side when Kate decided to shave her head. I’ll never forget the day she called me and asked me to do it for her. For whatever reason, I started crying and begging her not to do it. Her hair was so beautiful, I didn’t understand why she would want to get rid of it!

Although I did my best to talk her out of it, Kate’s mind was made up. I secretly hoped she’d get scared and back out at the last second, but the next time I saw my sister, she took her hat off, pointed at her bald head and asked, “Want to touch it?”

It was weird, but I got used to it. After awhile, I even thought she looked good. When Kate finally told our parents what she had done, my mom called me regularly to check on her mental health. My dad, from what I’ve heard, gave the same face as he did when he found out I pierced my tongue six years ago. It wasn’t a good expression.

As Kate went through all the awkward growing-out stages with her hair, she shared with me the lessons she had learned from the experience. She told me about all the ways people treated her differently when she had no hair, most of it extremely negative. She had lost a job offer, high school boys called her a lesbian and threw things at her, and a woman who had cancer lectured her about the importance of being beautiful while she was still young. Worst of all, people who Kate thought were her friends began to say mean things about her behind her back. All of it was really tough for her, but somehow, her self-confidence grew immensely.

By the time she accepted her boyfriend’s proposal, she knew he was “the one” after he stayed with her through it all.

Now that the wedding is coming up, people who stuck with Kate through her “one and only rebellious stage” will be coming together to celebrate one of the most important days of her life. Those who didn’t support her are obviously not invited.

They’ll miss out on seeing her gorgeous dress, the homemade wedding cake and the massive diamond ring.

They’ll also miss out on the drama surrounding Kate’s wedding hair.

It’s shoulder length and looks good as is, but everyone keeps pointing out that she had beautiful waist-length hair before. They also point out the tattoo on her back, left exposed by her shorter hair style.

“I just might shave it again so they shut up,” Kate told me the other night over cosmopolitans. We laughed about it for a while before she told me she had ordered hair extensions online.

“I didn’t want to be fake for my wedding, and I don’t want to be bald,” she said. “But seriously – I don’t want anyone asking me about my hair anymore. I just want to get married.”

Blogging not so much.

I must apologize for my lack of blogging lately. I've been trying to keep up, but as I took the time to read other posts from my classmates, I see now I'm not the only one who is extremely busy these last few weeks of the semester.

It's crazy. It really is. Wow.

And you know what makes it worse? The sun is out! It's a beautiful day! I want to go lay in it and fly a kite. I do NOT want to sit at a computer inside or break my back over an art project.

Exploding Dog image titled "This is so great I had to share it with you."

Aren't these tea parties missing the point?

I just read on CNN.com that there have been various "tea parties" taking place across the country as a form of protest against big government and out of control government spending. The tea parties are meant to resemble the Boston Tea Party, where in many people get together to throw a bunch of tea (or empty coolers that say "tea" on them) into the sea.

These people say they're protesting because they don't like the way their tax money is being handled, which is understandable. People never seem to be happy about taxes, but alas, they are one of those prices we pay to live in a democracy. Anyway, they complain on and on they can't afford all these taxes, or they assume that with the way our government is spending tax money now, they won't be able to afford the supposedly inevitable high taxes in the future.

But they can afford to buy a bunch of tea and dump it into the sea? Or take the time to buy coolers and sharpies and write "tea" on them, only to dump them as well? Hmm, interesting. (Edit: turns out they're being funded by Republican billionaires. Yeah, that makes a lot of sense! [/sarcasm] Read the HuffPo article here, where in Paul Krugman of the New York Times is quoted saying these parties are "embarrassing to watch." Agreed.)

Now don't get me wrong, I understand the connection between these tea parties and the Boston Tea Party. The tea party of history books was a protest against the Tea Tax. The difference, though, is those people weren't complaining they couldn't afford it; they were complaining about the colonies being taxed by Britain. They weren't upset about government spending; they were upset about not living in an independent nation. Their tea party helped lead the United States of America to the Revolutionary War, resulting in our independence and following democracy.

Those are some pretty big differences, if you ask me. Yes, both the old and new tea parties revolve around taxes, but the motivations are completely different.

Don't think I'm happy about the bailouts or every part of the stimulus plan, because I'm really not. I wasn't happy about them when Bush did it, either. But when it comes to having a relatively big government, I have to be honest and say I don't really have a problem with that. Whatever it is people have against social programs, I don't understand the anger.

Something that continues to boggle my mind is the American hatred of socialism. In journalism, we're taught to write for a 6th grade audience, that people don't pay attention if we use commas correctly (which requires us to write sentences that use as few commas as possible, resulting in very grammatically simple sentence structures), and that people have such short attention spans, we can't expect them to read an entire story.

That's why I find it hard to believe the vast majority of Americans even have a basic idea of what socialism is.

To be honest, I only have a basic idea of what socialism is, which resulted in reading short explanations about it on the internet. I don't know much about its history or how it has worked in practice, though I do intend to read up on it before making an argument for or against it. I wish more people would do this, but I suppose asking people to research their opinions is difficult if they can't keep their attention past the first paragraph. It's much easier to simply repeat the same rhetoric that's been forced down our throats by equally ignorant people.

Ah yes, first it was communism, now it's socialism. Just for fun, I did a search on google asking "why do americans hate socialism" and there are certainly some good reads there. The LA Progressive article "Why capitalists hate socialism" is an interesting comparison about "wasteful" spending on both sides, and this blog post by New America gives a good explanation about why Americans don't necessarily hate socialism but instead fear it (and misunderstand it).

You know, I feel like drinking some tea.

Shelby

This is a picture of me and the dog I grew up with, Shelby. She's a pomeranian/miniature poodle mix that my dad just randomly brought home one day back in 1996 when I was 11 and my sister was 9. We had never had a dog before, and needless to say, we were ecstatic to have this cute, crazy ball of fuzz!



Shelby was a typical puppy at first, always getting into trouble. It only lasted for a few years, and after that, she was the perfect little dog. She wasn't the type to bark excessively, though we always knew if someone was walking on the sidewalk outside our house. She went through a short phase of ripping apart trash, but she would always come apologize to us in her special way before we would even find it.

She almost got hit by a car once, back in the first year we had her. She escaped from the front door when we were leaving and ran across the street toward the light pole, a popular place for neighborhood dogs, and she darted out in front of a blue car. The driver slammed on his brakes, and Shelby came running right back to us. I think she was as scared as we were. I've never forgotten it.

You know how it is when you have an animal in your life for years, and you seem to have your own language between the two of you? That's how Shelby was with our family. And you know how animals have weird little personality quirks that you only notice once you get to know them really well? We had that in Shelby too.

For example, she always dug the carrots out of my mom's garden and ate them during the summer. After awhile, my mom didn't fight it anymore and instead just gave Shelby carrots as she harvested the other vegetables. Shelby would spend hours in the backyard with my mom, either "helping" in the garden or just laying in the grass, sniffing the air and soaking up the sun.

Every summer, Shelby had an ongoing war with the squirrels. They would team up on her, teasing her and running around, staying at a spot on the tree just out of Shelby's reach. After about the fourth summer, Shelby finally got one. My sister came home from school just in time to see Shelby swinging the squirrel around by its tail, its broken legs flailing. Horrified, she ran outside to save the squirrel from Shelby, only to be bitten by it and having to get a rabies shot. We only found out later that squirrels don't technically carry rabies. Better safe than sorry, I guess.

Another summer, we took Shelby out to our grandparents' cabin at Lake Guernsey for a weekend, where we hiked trails and played on the dock. My sister and I got on our floaties and swam out toward the center of the lake as Shelby watched us from the dock. She began to bark like she wanted to come with us, but we were already too far out to go back and get her. That was when she jumped into the water off the dock, only to start sinking to the bottom. Of course, we started screaming, and my mom basically jumped in to save her. After that, we always took Shelby with us on the floaties. She eventually learned to swim.

Shelby on the dock at Lake Guernsey. This was one of her favorite places to be!


Shelby eventually got to the age where she settled down, and we never had any problems with her. We could take her on walks in the park without her leash because we knew she wouldn't run too far from us. We could even let her go out in the front yard with us, and she'd never leave our property.

She had a lot of joy in her life, thanks to our big yards and the many outdoors areas at Guernsey and on my grandparents' ranch. Everytime we had to leave town as a family, Shelby would go out to the ranch, and I think she'd just barely miss us more than she loved it out there. We'd also take her with us on car rides, and she'd happily stick her head out the window. I remember laughing so many times at seeing her reflection in the sideview mirror of the car, the wind blowing her hair into a frenzy, her little tongue hanging out of her mouth.

I moved out of my parents' house when I was 18, but it was only a few blocks away, so I still saw Shelby on a regular basis and would take her to the parks with me when the weather was nice. Then I moved to Kearney, four hours away from home, and I saw Shelby less and less. It was always a happy reunion when I went back, though, and my parents would always bring her with them when they came to visit me.

Shelby's getting old now. A couple of summers ago, she began having heart problems. She's always kind of had a weird hacking cough due to the murmur in her heart, but then her little heart started to get bigger and bigger. According to the x-rays, her heart is the same size as a grown adult human! According to the vet, her heart could fail at any time.

The last time I saw her was over Thanksgiving, and I had to give her pills twice a day wrapped in cheese. One night, as we were sleeping together in my bed, I woke up to her having a siezure. I didn't know what it was at the time, but when I explained it to my mom, she told me about it and said, "Oh, that happens to her sometimes."

Shelby can't come visit me anymore because the four-hour drive is too much for her little body to handle. When my sister or I go back home, we have to try to keep her calm so she won't have a heart attack, or as my dad says, so she doesn't "explode."

She can't run too much, and her walks are much shorter. What used to be a dark black coat of fur is now partly grey. When you think about it, she's now 13 years old, which puts her somewhere in the 60s as far as dog years go. The average life expectancy of small dog is about 15 years, though, so she might still have a ways to go. But even if she did die today, I'd consider it a good run for the money.

[Review] The King of Kong: A fistfull of quarters

Following the journey of Steve Wiebe, this documentary captures the inner workings of what it takes to be a video game record holder. In the beginning, Wiebe is described by friends and family as “a tragic figure” who has never won anything in his life and who always seems to get the short stick, which becomes apparent with Wiebe’s recent layoff as a Boeing engineer.

Although he holds down a job as a science teacher, Wiebe begins going to night school for a masters degree while playing an old arcade game, Donkey Kong, in his garage during his free time. After doing some research about the game on the internet, he is dead set on beating the record high score: 874,300. Fortunately, his wife is supportive of this goal, so Wiebe begins throwing his hours and days into the game.

Because he is highly skilled in engineering and math, he eventually works out the many patterns in the game and is able to reach a score of 1,006,600. At this point, the movie shows how happy Wiebe is to have finally won something as he celebrates with his wife and young son. But when news of this gets to Billy Mitchell, the former world record holder, the story really begins to get interesting.


In a world where Billy Mitchell is God with his own arch nemesis, and the group responsible for deciding who the world record holder is, Twin Galaxies, is a clique of its own, Wiebe becomes somewhat like a wrench thrown into the gears. How this changes everything the classic gaming community and Donkey Kong lovers have known becomes the plot of the documentary.

Like any good film, this one makes you root with all of your heart for Wiebe to get the title of world record holder, as well as make you hate with a passion all those who tear him down. Mitchell, in particular, becomes the classic villain, fighting viciously against Wiebe’s heroic journey to the top.

In all fairness, the film was edited to bring out these character traits, as it fails to show the many times Mitchell greeted and talked with Wiebe. Instead, Mitchell appears in the film to be much like a mobster who sends his minions out to do his dirty work, all the while avoiding Wiebe like a disease.

However, the idea that Mitchell might be so cruel is not entirely unbelievable. He had set the high score for Donkey Kong in 1982 when he was only 17 years old, and no one had challenged it since then. After having been named one of the top 10 most influential video gamers of all time and the top gamer of the twentieth century, as well as having top scores in Donkey Kong and Centipede and a perfect score in Pac Man, Mitchell claims his scores are the greatest achievement of his life besides his own family.

With stakes this high (or low, depending on how you might feel about video games), it’s no wonder the conflict between Mitchell and Wiebe gets dirty, and this film does a great job of capturing and magnifying that drama. It's a world you may not have been familiar with before, but you'll be pulled into it almost as chaotically as Wiebe himself.


Overall, I give King of Kong: A fistful of quarters five stars for its originality and moving story. I would take off one star for its inaccurate portrayal of Mitchell, but I chose not to because I thoroughly enjoyed his character as the ultimate bad guy of gaming. Anyone who enjoys the classic good guy vs. bad guy story line will certainly enjoy this documentary.

Controversial quilts!?

I know, right? I was surprised to come across this, but the latest issue of Quilter's Home magazine contains a "Shocking Quilts: we show you the controversial patchwork!" story. Apparently, the quilts were so shocking and offensive, Jo Ann's Fabric store refused to carry the issue. Even after offering to shrink wrap the magazine, much like Hustlers and other magazines of that type, Jo Ann's still refused.

The important questions here is, who has the right to censor the magazine by not carrying it the way it usually is? But the more interesting questions is, what do these quilts look like?

Luckily, Design Crisis has a post that features some of the featured quilts. Click to see the images.

You see, I like these quilts. Yes, they show the effects of racism, they degrade Jesus, and they make social and political statements, but that's exactly what makes them interesting. If I had the money, I would buy this one:

Who would Jesus bomb?

"If they're running and don't look where they're going, I have to come out from somewhere and catch them."

Over at Jezebel.com, there's a blog post/commentary about the strange pilgrimmages some people take to get J.D. Salinger to talk.

It's definitely weird and not something I had ever thought about before. I remember the first time I read J.D. Slinger was in my reading/writing about literature class a couple years ago, and our teacher warned us that Salinger's writing may not be for everyone; some people love him, some people don't. It's mostly because his writing is more about conversation and character than action or plot. Sometimes it's hard to even tell what the plot is, especially in his short stories.

I actually enjoyed his work so much, it inspired me to start reading the classics I never read in high school, starting with Catcher in the Rye. As for that book, I. LOVED. IT. I even incorporated it into a self-portrait I had to draw for an art project made entirely of text, where my hair is all excerpts from Catcher in the Rye.

Anyway, I knew J.D. Salinger is a recluse, and he has been for many, many years. But I never realized there was this weird tradition of reporters and fans trying to break his silence by getting him to talk with them. It makes me feel bad for the poor guy!

But before I end this post, I'll have to include a comment that someone left on Jezebel that makes me laugh so hard:

If I were Salinger, I would probably set up a highly intricate and highly dangerous obstacle course to get to my house--barbed wire, snake pit, pool of lava, wall spikes, the works--and then have locked door and a sign saying, "THAT WILL TEACH YOU; GO AWAY" at the finish line. But that would probably just get even more notoriety...