

Krasev stole the identity of a toddler who died in 1982, and racked up a successful career before being busted for forging his identity. We played "name that prisoner" back in May.
Now a judge has granted him the right to marry in the Multnomah County Jail. He could get a "fiancé visa" that would allow him to reside legally in the US for up to two years, but that seems unlikely as he's still facing charges in Ohio.
Below is the teaser for Sucker Punch, the latest from Zack Snyder, the world's best music video director. It looks like what'd happen if Casshern had sex with Sky Captain and all three of Charlie's angels and then they got in a fight with Reign of Fire—in other words, like something that could either be fucking awful or like something that I would love, provided I got really stoned before the press screening. Eh, whatever. At least there don't appear to be any adorable baby owls* in it. So far.
*There's nothing wrong with dreams. Just in case you were wondering.

Anyone up for a Caged Heat remake? (Video NSFW... but heeeeee-LARIOUS!)
If you somehow make it through the entire 2:23 of this mesmerizing video you will want to close your computer, go outside, and hope that you never have to hear people say anything into a camera ever again. Seriously, who actually watches little-girl-video-blogs on a regular basis? Don't they just talk about really boring stuff?
Congratulations, Blogtown: I had a terrible Saturday night. You overwhelmingly voted for, and I endured, A New Day Rising, the overnight hippie rave in, um, the magickal wilderness, which turned out to be somewhere between Estacada and Molalla—hard to tell exactly where you are when after driving 10 miles into the increasingly unpopulated forest your only directions involve cardboard signs tacked to trees with silver spiral shapes drawn onto them.
I'm not sure what I expected to find after navigating my car around mud-filled potholes in the middle of nowhere, and out of nervousness I consumed an entire bag of peppered salmon jerky on the way up (by the way, yum! new fave snack!). I was less worried about the hippie element and bad music than I was about the prospect of camping by myself for the first time ever. I hadn't tried very hard to coerce anyone to come with me, figuring it would be a liability. I'd have a hard time refusing to let someone else—especially someone not under Mercury employ—leave, and I was resolved to tough the night out. Besides, the paper's Reader Promotions Coordinator, Michelle, said she was going to be there, so I figured having one person I knew there was enough.
I rounded a corner to the sudden sight of several dudes sprawled in lawn chairs at the side of the road, drinking Sessions and choking on a pipe. A tall guy with blazing red eyes and a raspy voice came to my car window, I forked over $25 to him, and he retrieved a colorful piece of gauzy fabric for me to tie on as a wristband. As I parked, another guy, in an improbable mix of tribal prints, rapped lightly on the hood of my car and waved at me through the windshield. Hi... It didn't seem so bad. I grew up clinging to dad's Des Colores chambray as we wended our way through the Haight Ashbury and Mission Districts; in high school I bought acid more than once from a guy named "Turtle" in Golden Gate Park; I lost my virginity to a pot dealer in Santa Cruz; I attended Reed College—I've seen some hippie shit. I was much more concerned about having to figure out how to pitch a tent by myself.
It was hard to tell how big the property was where this all took place, but the camping area was relatively small and close to the road, and there were no permanent structures in sight, though luckily I was getting crystal-clear cell phone service. The terrain was ill-suited to sleep on. It was immediately apparent that using the inflatable mattress I'd brought wasn't an option—I'd need to plug the adapter into my car, which I'd been directed to park up the hill, and I wanted to keep a lower profile than would be possible while struggling to heft a queen-sized mattress down a dirt road. I'd have to do it "cowboy style," with nothing but the tent-bottom and a sheet between me and the knobby tufts of sturdy grass that covered the ground. After one phone call, and a kindly assist from the girl setting up camp next to me (who then smoked me out), I got the fucking thing up:

Though I was just made aware of this, I am apparently some sort of doppelgänger expert or genius. How do I know this? Because under the "Evil Twin" entry over at Wikipedia, there is an extensive quote FROM ONE OF MY TV COLUMNS that explains the difference between an "evil twin" and a "doppelgänger" (and of course, there is no difference). Observe.

If you watch enough daytime soap operas, then you already know the horrifying truth: Everyone on earth has an evil twin (or doppelgänger, if you will) roaming around and acting like a jerk. These doppelgängers are the ones who sleep with your best friend's boyfriend, steal prescription medication out of your bathroom cabinet, and spread vicious (and only partially true) rumors about your sexual proclivities. You have a doppelgänger, your dog has a doppelgänger, and your mom has a doppelgänger. Everybody has a doppelgänger—except for me. As it turns out, I'm someone else's doppelgänger.[20]
—Wm. Steven Humphrey, in an article from Seattle-based The Stranger
And because I am now internationally renown for my expertise in this subject, feel free to ask me anything you'd like on the subject of doppelgängers or the act of doppelgängering. YOU'RE WELCOME.
I'm more or less indifferent to the pop culture creation that is Lady Gaga—I dislike her music, yet I enjoy her odd performance art—but I doubt you'll see a more entertaining video than her Beyonce collaboration, "Telephone." Thanks to some deep-pocketed major label cash, and plenty of blatant product placement, this nine-and-a-half minute video (!) is a glorious NSFW clusterfuck of homages (Thelma & Louise, Beatrix Kiddo, late night Skinemax woman's prison flicks) and proof that even the most vacant forms of mass-produced pop music can be wildly entertaining.
You really need to watch this.
End Hits: Lock us up in the "prison for bitches."
You know actor Michael Emerson as the unblinking Ben Linus on TV's Lost. But apparently one of his earlier acting gigs was in prison training videos. Check out this one where a young Emerson tries to talk down a viciously spitting inmate. (Waitasecond… what if this isn't a prison training video at all, but just another of Lost's "alternate realities"? Hey prison inmate! Stop your stupid screaming, or Ben's gonna sic the smoke monster on you!!)
Yaaawwwwwwnnnnnnnnnn.
That's a one word review of the Oregon History Museum's current exhibit “Centuries of Progress: American World's Fairs, 1853-1982” (running through February 3rd). To be fair, it wasn't designed by the Oregon Historical Society (the organization that's the brain of the museum). It's a pre-fab traveling display organized by Exhibits USA. On the other hand, when you go to your grandma's house to eat and she serves you a cardboard-crusted frozen pizza, do you blame Mama Celeste that your palate wasn't satisfied? No, you blame Grandma and her box of coupons. Come on OHS, you have archives. Use them. At least mention Oregon's own version of the fair.
Oh, the irony.

The central innovation of World's Fairs is how they turned science and technology into entertainment. The fairs were so into ramping up fun, they were the precursors to modern amusement parks! They were enthusiastically covered in newsreels! They practically invented the suffix “-orama.” (Ok, that last one may not be true.)
Centuries of Progress, while informative at times, is fatally boring. You can learn things, interesting things even. For example, the Ferris Wheel was invented when American engineers were challenged to design something for the 1893 Chicago fair on par with the Eiffel Tower. However, if you want to get at these nuggets you'll have to pry them from the hands of a cold, dead narrative—something akin to studying your school history text book (when you were still in high school). Imagine how my eyes lit up when I read that “By the 1890s, public amusements and attractions became as central to the visitors' experiences as educational opportunities.” zzzzzzzzzz.
More museum trashing after the break...
Look. I'm tired of bailing your sorry ass out of the pokey every time you run afoul of the law. So instead of me ponying up MY hard earned cash, why don't you call someone who (apparently) REALLY cares? (That would be Baltimore's Bishop Barry of Jesus Christ Bail Bonds.) Added bonus: He sounds like a chicken!
Related question: So if I get arrested by Steven Seagal, will the Mercury post my bail?
Thanks for making my goddamn week, Warming Glow. DECEMBER CANNOT COME FAST ENOUGH.
Okay, the first thing we have to do is go find that computer programmer who works for Skynet and kill him... because DUDE! We cannot abide a future that includes animatronic monkeys!!
I realize this is "Women's Prison Friday" and all related posts should only include "women in prison," but C'MON! This trailer includes women in prison AND werewolves in one hilariously cheesy NSFW movie trailer. What's that? The name of the film? Oh… hmm… let's see… oh, here it is: Werewolf in a Women's Prison. Enjoy.
Hat tips to Videogum.
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