Doomtown

Have you ever encountered the type of person that just couldn’t help putting things off until the last second? I’m talking about the kind of idiot who, when given an assignment will inevitably be found madly typing two hours before deadline, hoping they make it to zero hour with a finished project in hand. The type of person who, when out of ideas, will cobble something together that would make Frankenstein’s monster shudder and exclaim, “No, no, no! I think we could do better than that.” I know of no such person.   "The hell, you say! Arg." On an unrelated note, this month’s Doomtown Feature Interview is with Karma Girl, AKA Karen Williams, massage therapist and blogger of that spiffy blog, Doomtown . It is quiet excellent. I’ve heard. THE USUAL UNUSUAL DISCLAIMER: Don’t bother asking yourself if this whole thing is “meta”. You’ll give yourself a headache. KARMA GIRL: How do we start this thing, anyway? Am I the interviewer or are you? KAREN WILLI

Clients often ask me, "What did you have to do to become a massage therapist? You have to go to school for that kind of thing?" I, being the puckish lass that I am, usually reply with a long story somewhere on the level of the twelve labors of Hercules. Sometimes, ninjas are mentioned. After we've both had a good laugh, they'll ask again, "No, really. What did you have to do?" So I tell them, and they're usually surprised at the amount of schooling required to be licensed and certified. And that doesn't include what I have to do to keep same. It's a time consuming and costly endeavor to become an MT . You have to know all the muscles in the body, where they're located, and what they do, but that's just the start. You also need to know when you can or cannot work on a client (contraindications). You need to take an ethics class, probably because most people equate massage with quotation marks around the word. As I've mentioned before

The so-bad-it's-good genre of movie is a hard one to pull off. Usually when it happens, the creator of the film is going for serious drama, not laughs. Some film makers are willing to accept this type of thing in stride. Mountains of money will do wonders for loss of dignity. Pictured above: Sweet consolation. I'm not sure what the creators of Zombeavers were going for. Either they were attempting to make a SBIG horror story like Sharknado , or they were honestly hoping for a Cabin in the Woods style of horror. It's hard to say. Either way, they failed. The plot and the truly terrible special effects could have worked for SBIG, but the characters weren't funny, unintentional or otherwise. They were irritating, and I prayed for their deaths just to get them to shut up. The dialogue seemed like the writers were trying for unintentional humor, but most of the "jokes" fell flat. Zombeavers had its moments and might have been improved with better editi

I know what you're thinking. Picking a post from my own blog goes beyond lazy and straight into lackadaisical nihilism, but there's a method to my apathy. This Wednesday, I'll be celebrating Doomtown's ten year anniversary. Because I'm lazy, I probably won't do anything more taxing then put up a few extra posts, order a pizza, and break open the bottle of Champagne I bought on clearance. Because I know how to party. Ha. So, in honor of ten years (nonconsecutive in the case of 2007 and 2010) of socially awkward ranty goodness, here is Doomtown's very first post entitled, Welcome to My Hell . The title says it all. Enjoy! Friday, June 10, 2005 Welcome To My Hell I promised myself I would never stoop to starting one of these damn things. As a kid, I had an obsession with unfinished diaries. I would see one at a book store, ooh and ahh over the thing. I would buy it. I would keep it for a week, tops. Then I would throw it in my bedroom closet t