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Life is only what you wonder.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

The Holiday Ten

Instructions: Copy and paste the questions to your blog (with your answers, not mine), and tag at least three others to do the same.

1. What is your favorite holiday movie?
Frank Capra's It's a Wonderful Life! I would reccomend this movie to anyone. The original black and white version, though. Avoid the colorized version. Trust.

2. What is your favorite holiday song (title and artist)?
Feed the Reindeer, by Peggy Lee. My mother used to play the record for me when I was a little boy.

3. What's the best holiday gift you were ever given, and why?
Last year the husband gave me these diamond earrings (real, not cubic zirconia) set in white gold that are so bangin' bling-bling I'm afraid to wear them, 'cept on special occasions.

4. Do you have a special someone to kiss at the stroke of midnight on New Year's?
Oh, yeah. I'll be smooching my husband of six years.

5. Name of your favorite reindeer?
Prancer, 'cause you just know he was the gay one.

6. Favorite Holiday food?
Is eggnog a food? Eggnog is what I look forward to every holiday. Spiked, of course, with some nutmeg sprinked on top. Mmmmmm.

7. Snow day -- cuddle by the fire, or hand me a snowball?
Cuddle by the fire. And pass me some eggnog, too, while you're at it.

8. What was your New Year's resoloution for this year? Did you stick to it?
I stopped making New Years resoloutions when I realized that they always get broken a few weeks (and sometimes days) later, so why bother? I make my resoloutions throughout the year.

9. Is there really a Santa Claus?
Oh yeah.

10. Present, or stocking stuffer?
Can't I have both? (I'm so greedy!)

Now for my tags:
Elmo, Eric, and Robbie.

I choose you, Pikachu!

Monday, November 28, 2005

What Is Truth?

Someone recently contacted me inquiring about one of my fellow bloggers.
(I won't mention any names, so don't ask.)
They were questioning whether the blogger in question was really who they said they were. They thought the photos that went along with the blog were not of the person who wrote the blog and implied that most of the posts on that blog were fabricated or untrue.
"Have you ever met so-and-so in person?" they asked me, "Are they really who they say they are?"

You know, up 'til then I had never thought to question it.

I don't expect 100% honesty from anyone.
Everyone --even if it's only slightly, and once in awhile--embellishes their stories to some extent, leaves out the potentially embarrasing moments, punches up the things that make them look better or that make the story more dramatic, and omits the things that would possibly confuse the reader, or the things that had only a minute impact on the events but were totally irrelevant to the matter at hand.
It's a natural part of storytelling.
You do it without thinking too much about it.
And if you have a journal-type blog (as I and many others do) then, like it or not, to some extent you're a storyteller.

Then, there's the aspect of proof to consider.
How can you ever know if what you read on a blog is the truth, partly the truth, riddled with lies, or a total lie altogether?
Sure, I say my name is Jimmy, I'm a waiter in a steakhouse restaurant, I live in a house in Baltimore with my husband and my little dog Rico. I say that's my photo to the right.
I could even swear that all of the above is the total absoloute truth.
How can you know if any of that is actually the truth?
There's no way of knowing.

Of course, the people that know me in real life know. But what about everyone else?
I suppose if you were local you could try to hunt me down. There are all kinds of clues where I live, where I work, and where I hang out in this blog. It wouldn't take Sherlock Holmes to be able to find me if they were determined enough.
But what about those people on the other side of the planet that are reading this?

My point is, there's no way to know -- for 100% -- if any of this, or what you read (or see) on any other blog is true.
It's out there, and you're free to believe it or not. It's your choice.
People believe what they want to believe anyway. That's why the National Enquirer is one of the best-selling magazines in the world.

People blog for various reasons. I do it to get my ideas out there. I do it to free my mind of all the clutter that bulds up in there. I do it to tell my interesting, funny, (or sometimes tragic) stories.
And yes, I do it to entertain.
I want you to be interested, intrigued, inspired. That's not my sole purpose for doing this, but it's one aspect of it. (And I would do it anyway, even if my readership dropped to barely nothing, because this blog entertains me. I enjoy it. It's a labor of love.)

The question isn't whether it's "true" or not.
The real question is: did it educate you? Did it touch you, move you? Did it make you laugh out loud? Did it make you think about things or think about things differently? Did it bring you up when you were down? Did it excite or arouse you? Did it provide a neccessary distraction when you needed an escape? Did it relieve the boredom for five minutes?

If you answered yes to any of those questions, then it has worth.
Whether or not it's "true" is irrelevant.

Believe it.

Friday, November 25, 2005

Gobble Gobble Gobble

I had a great Thanksgiving this year!
Wanna know why?
'Cause we didn't do anything!

The past six years, every Thanksgiving we would spend it with G.'s family. Either going to his mother's or his sister's or his neices for dinner, and last year the family came to our house.
I'm not knocking on family, especially G.'s family. They're great. They're my family, too, actually. It's just that Thanksgiving can be such a hassle.

If you're hosting T-giving at your place, there's all that food you have to cook. Even if everyone brings side dishes, you still gotta bake the turkey, provide the gravy, cranberry sauce and everything else that goes with it. And who only bakes a turkey and nothing else and expects the guests to bring the rest? Nobody does that.
Thennnn. . . you gotta make sure the house is clean and festive. Can't have guests come over and the house isn't spotless.
And . . . oh, there's alot that goes into it. If you've ever done Turkey Day at your house, you know what I'm talking about.

Then there's the flip side of going to Thanksgiving.
Admittedly, this is a better deal. You might have to bring a side dish or something, but you could always buy a Mrs. Smith's pie and grab a bottle of Arbor Mist and you're good to go.
You also have the added benefit of being able to leave right after you set your dessert fork down. ("Gosh, dinner was great! I'm stuffed! Well, thanks! We'll be seein' ya!") Except for one thing: unless you're incredibly rude or you're an ER surgeon on-call, nobody leaves right after dinner. It just isn't polite.
As a matter of fact, the trickiest part of going to Thanksgiving at someone else's place is knowing the perfect time to extricate yourself.

I was freed (thank the Gods that be) from all of that nonsense -- this year, at any rate.

G. and I discussed it and we both decided that we were going to do Thanksgiving with just us.
A party of two.
So that's just what we did.

Two Cornish game hens, a bottle of wine, G's (world famous) garlic mashed potatoes, some Stove Top stuffing, and green bean casserole (canned green beans, a can of cream of mushroom soup, and topped with deep-fried onions. It's easy, baby!)
We cooked, we ate (and ate too much. Happens every year.) and had a great time.
Then, all bloated from stuffing ouselves, we lay (laid?) on the bed together and watched Miracle on 34th St. (the original).

no muss, no fuss, no complications.
It was a good day.
Hope you had a good one too.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Take Your Best Shot

I am often the councellor to all of my friends. I'm the person people will tell all of their troubles to.
I didn't actively choose that role, it just sort of happened all by itself.

If only I were a psyhcoanylist, I could get paid the big bucks to do the very same thing. ("Verrrry interesting," I'd say, scratching notes on a pad, "Tell me more about that.")
In a way I'm glad I'm not -- too much Freudian bullshit.
I'm quite good at giving out advice, I must say. I don't tell people what to do, I don't criticize their actions (or inactions), I simply tell them what I would do in a similar situation.

What amazes me most, I think, is how people are determined to do whatever it is they want to do, regarless of the good advice you give them.
It's like saying, "Be careful, there's quicksand up the path ahead, you might want to consider going another way."
And what do they do?
They go right down the path I warned them about.
I guess maybe they think the quicksand wpon't be so bad, or maybe they think they can handle the quicksand no matter how bad it gets. I don't know.
It's like I'm wasting my breath.

Someone (Sylvia Plath? Collette? I'm too lazy to look it up right now) once said, "Advice is what you ask for when you already know what you should do, but wish you didn't."

What is all this leading up to? I'm glad you asked!

My buddy Roger came over last night and he starts telling me his troubles. He was a little reluctant. Roger's a really good guy, and he always tries to put a brave face on, even when things are horrible.
Anyway, he tells me suspects the guy he's seeing is cheating on him. There's condoms missing and they haven't had sex in months, and there are suspicious text messages on his boyfriend's cell phone. Plus, his boyfriend got angry about something the other day and hit him hard enough to leave an ugly black bruise.
"What do you think I should do?"

The first thing I pointed out is that you shouldn't put up with anyone hitting you --ever.
Sure, it only happened once, but it could easily happen again.
My ex Danny used to punch walls, break dishes and throw things around the apartment when he was angry. After I discovered his violent temper, I made it very plain:
"If you ever hit me, you better hope to God you kill me, because if I get up you'll wish you'd never been born."
And I meant it, too.

I don't know if the guy's cheating or not, but the clues all point in that direction, and the fact that Roger suspects enough to go through his boyfriends text messages says alot.

Because people know.
Call it intuition, call it a sixth sense, call it whatever you like, but every time I've been cheated on I've known about it. I might have had no "proof", but deep inside I knew.

Anyway, I told him that he basically has three options:
One, do nothing and see what happens;
Two, confront him with it and see what he says, and then decide what to do;
Or three, leave him. Pack your stuff and get out.

What's he gonna do? There's no way of knowing.
But whatever happens I'll be there to catch him if he falls.
There's nothing else I can do.

Monday, November 21, 2005

I Confess . . .

    confess; \con*fess\ v.1. the act or process of confessing; 2. to disclose sins or faults, or the state of the conscience.
They say confession is good for the soul.
This is the core concept behind Group Hug.
The idea is for anyone to anonymously confess to anything. It actually feels kind of good to to know that someone will read it.
I know I sure feel better!

Anyone care to guess which confession is mine?

Saturday, November 19, 2005

Big Brother Is Here, And I'm So Glad To Know Him

The Baltimore City Police put two of their new state-of-the art surveillance cameras on my block last week.
I'd seen them elsewhere, of course, and I didn't think much of them, really.
Like anything, you don't think much about it until it pertains to you.

Do I think they're a deterrent to crime? Most definitely. Because most people aren't going to do anything they shouldn't if they know someone's wayching them.
Does this mean all the muggers and rapists are going to stop? No, it just means they'll be forced to do their mugging and raping elsewhere where there aren't any cameras. In a sense, they're not stopping the crime, they're just moving it to another location.
Good news for me, bad news for somebody else.

In one sense, it's a little disturbing to know you're being watched and recorded when you're merely walking down the street to the drugstore. The eyes of Baltimore are on you (all the livelong day).
But when you think about it, most places of business (in Baltimore City anyway) have security cameras, buses and other public transportation (including some taxicabs) have security cameras, too.
Walk within fifty feet of any bank and --"Smile, you're on Candid Camera!"
We're already being monitored almost all the time.
What, really, has changed?

Have the new cameras affected me in any way?
Well, the gang of hoodlums that hang out in front of the liquor store have gone away.
Ditto for the dude that hawks pot to anyone walking past ("Hey, man, wanna buy some reefer?").
Ditto for the people that smoke crack in the alley by the convenience store.
Ditto for the gang that hangs in front of the 24-hour fried chicken carry-out.
I never feel 100% safe walking around the city streets after dark --a policeman on every corner wouldn't even do that-- but the cameras make me feel alot safer than I used to.
I might still get mugged, but gosh darn it somebody will see it and (maybe) catch the guy who did it.
That's somewhat comforting to know.

And after all, if you're not doing anything wrong you have nothing to worry about, right?

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Random Thoughts About Sex

No major point to this post. These are just some things I've been thinking about.

I never cared for sex in the morning, right as I wake up.
Oh, sometimes when I awaken I'm sportin' wood, but that just means I have to pee.
It takes all my effort just to force myself into conciousness, sex is the last thing on my mind.

Plus, I don't feel attractive in the morning. Part of wanting to have sex is feeling sexy, and I just don't.
I know my hair is a big mess, I've got eye boogers, my eyes are probably puffy (especially if I've been drinking the night before), and my breath is foul enough to kill a rhino.
It's not pretty. At all.

G. says I'm sexy no matter what, but he has to say that, he's my husband.
I don't quite believe it, though. Not that he means it (or thinks he means it) but that I actually am. Sexy no matter what, that is.

'Cause it's all about how you feel.

It's like this:
If I've got a great hair-do and I'm having a good hair day, I don't have any breakouts or spots on my face, and I'm wearing my favorite shrink-to-fit Levi's that make my butt look great and show off the bulge in the front and the shirt that accentuates the positive but eliminates the negative, I just know I look sexy.
"Ooh, baby, I am one hot tamale! Yowza!"
Therefore, I feel sexy.

When I'm feeling sexy, I don't walk, I strut. Like a rooster in a henhouse.
And it's not arrogance.
It's not like I'm all "I'm so sexy -- and you're so not." or even, "I'm so sexy and you're not getting it! So there!"
It's just that you know, wothout having to be told, that you're desirable and worthwhile.
Not for what lies beneath -- or perhaps in spite of it.

The only way I'm feeling like that in the morning is if I'm still up and haven't gone to bed yet.

Another insight (almost, but not quite, totally unrelated to the above):

As someone in a long-term relationship (and I hate starting scentences like that, because it feels like I'm lecturing - which I'm not) you begin to notice that strokes from your partner (boyfriend, lover, signifigant other, whatever) don't come as frequently or as often as they did in the beginning.

Oh, you know they love you and all that. And you know they're still attracted to you.
But they don't grab your ass when you bend over to pick something off the floor anymore. They don't want to rip your clothes off and do you right there in the foyer when they come home.
They love you, and they might want to make love to you, but that element of lust, that primal urge to go at it like a dog in heat is, for the most part, gone.
Of it still raises it's head now and then - sometimes when you least expect it -but not nearly as often as it used to.

This is perfectly normal.
If you expect that you and your partner are going to have the same sex life you had at five years as you did at five months, you are bound to be disappointed.
Trust and believe.

This is part of the reason why mean cheat.
(The main reason is that men are pigs, and we love bacon, but you knew that already.)

You want an example? OK, picture this:
I'm at a nightclub, and for some reason the husband either didn't come out with me or he's in another part of the club. (This hardy ever happens, but just suppose, for the moment, that this is the case.)
OK, I'm just standing here with a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other (minding my own business) when someone walks by and grabs my ass.
OK, the major part of me will be offended, "You dirty dog! How dare you grab me like that!"

If I find the guy to be sexy, there will be another, totally different, part of me that's strangely excited by it. Him grabbing my ass, the look in his eyes, feeling his desire.
Desire is a big aphrodisiac. If somebody wants me bad enough, it triggers something in me. Something primal.
Now if I were the type to cheat on my husband (which I'm not -- this is just an example) I would possibly consider doing something about it. Either going home with him, or arranging something for another time.

(I'm not a cheater, so grabbing my butt at the club is not really an option, no matter what you look like. And if you do and the husband is with me, I hope you know how to fight.)

As I said, no major point to all this.
I'm just letting some stuff out of my brain to make room for even more bizarro thoughts.

Monday, November 14, 2005

On The Fly

For those that are interested, I now have a mobile photo blog, called a "moblog" (mo' blogs, mo' problems!) provided by TextAmerica. I'm planning on using it to post any interesting photos I might happen to take with my cam phone. I can post photos to the mobile photo blog with just one keypress of my cell phone.
Neato, right?

The URL is: wonderboy.textamerica.com.
If you're on your hand-held, PDA, or cell phone, point your browsers to: wonderboy.tamw.com to see the purdy pitchers.

I've set it up so anyone (even you) can comment on my posts, and send me messages or photos.

Don't expect anything Earth-shattering to appear there, but if I do happen to have an encounter with a UFO, (or something else strange or unusual happens) the photos will probably appear there first.

Saturday, November 12, 2005

Get Over It

Thursday, November 10, 2005

The Higher, The Fewer

Let me tell you a little story.
Actually, it's more like two stories.
Now that I think of it, it's really three stories, but they're all tied together and it will all make sense when I'm through. (At least I hope so.)

Anyhoo, several years ago I worked for a cafe, and I had been working there for almost five years. The Head Waiter (no jokes, please) position was up for grabs, and me being the waiter who'd been there the longest, and considering I'd recieved several "cusomer service" awards, and also considering (not to toot my own horn, but if I don't, who will?) I was (am) a damn good waiter, I assumed I would get the position.
"It's in the bag!" I thought to myself.
It turns out I didn't get it.
A waitress who'd only been there six weeks got it. (Bitch!)
I confronted my boss about it after I found out, and she said (in a nutshell) that, although I was great at being a waiter, fantastic even, she saw no "leadership potential" in me. I wasn't the "take charge" kind of person she was looking for to fill that position.
That really stung, because I hadn't ever thought of myself that way. It was a real blow to my ego.
(It turned out the girl she promoted was fired a few weeks later for stealing out of the register, which shows what a poor judge of character she was. But I digress.)

A little while later, when I was working for another restaurant, I was offered a Team Leader (same as a Head Waiter, just a differen't name) position, which I accepted.
I got a special uniform, a fancier nametag, and 50 cents more an hour.
Woo-hoo!
As a Team Leader I was expected to arrive before everyone else to assign sidework, schedule breaks, and assign all the other waiter's sections (off the clock, I might add); monitor the dining room during the shift to make sure all the sections were kept up, and customers were being satisfied; make sure all closing duties were done according to procedures (meaning that aside from management, I was the last one out the door every night); make sure the employees weren't goofing off; and assign "special cleaning tasks" to employees during slow periods, among other things.
Oh yeah, and while I'm doing all of that, I have my own section that I have to wait on and maintain.
It was more trouble than it was worth.

I started out as "just one of the guys" but when I became a Team Leader, everything changed. I was one of "them".
And if something went wrong during the shift, I'm the one who was responsible, and I was the one who got upbraided for it.

Disssatisfied with management's lack of caring about the employees and the horrible conditions at the job, my complaints reached management and I was demoted. (I mentioned it on my blog here, in case you missed it. )

At my current restaurant a Head Waiter position might possibly become available soon and and I've been asked "Do you want to be a Head Wait?"
At first, I said "Sure, why not?"

But now I find I've changed my mind.

Why don't I want it?
Because I realized something.

I don't want to be resposible for anyone else's laziness.
I don't want to have to monitor my fellow employees like the Waiter Police.
I don't want to be the person mangement comes to when there's a problem.
Especially if it's somebody else's screw up.

I want to just come in, do my work, and get the hell out of there.
No muss, no fuss.

When I was a Team Leader, I was a bitch.
On wheels.
Because I had to be. There was no way to avoid it.
It was the only way to get the job done.
Make yourself into a doormat and people will walk all over you. I found that out the hard way.

I had to get people to do their work. I had to get people to redo their sections when their closing was shoddy. I had to tell people to dust their goddamn light fixtures. I had to write people up for insuborbination and if I caught them smoking when they weren't on a break. I had to make everyone do all the stupid crap that management decided was "important", like get all the servers to scrape all the gum of the underside of their tables with a knife.

I don't want to be a bitch. I'm a nice guy, usually. (It's true, I tell you!)
I enjoy being the one my co-workers come to and say, "Hey, let's go sneak a smoke by the loading dock!" (Smoking is a social activity. It's more fun with a buddy or a group.)
I like being able to say "My stuff's all done! See ya later!" and just breeze out the door, knowing the headwaits are stuck there for another hour and a half (or more).

And I also like being "just one of the guys". Someone you can tell a dirty joke to, someone who you don't need to impress or "look busy" for.
There's an invisible line you cross when you get promoted above your co-workers. You don't see it, but it's there.
After I became a Team Leader, conversations would stop when I approached a group, when before they would say "Hey, Jimmy! Listen to this!"

A select few are Chiefs -- most are Indians.
I think I'd rather be an Indian.

Friday, November 04, 2005

Must Be The Poltergeists

Part of my duties as a server is clearing dishes and plates that are finished from the table.
Most people put plates that they're done with on the edge of their table, and as I walk by I can quietly, but efficiently, place the plates on my tray and take them to the dishroom.

I do it quietly as to not interrupt any conversations that are going on.
Service is best when it's effortless (to the guest). Condiments, refills, and side items appear as if by magic. Dirty dishes just disappear, also as if by magic.
I'm like David Copperfield. (The magician, not the Dickens character.)
It's like they have a fairy waiting on them.
Aactually, they do have a fairy waiting on them, but we won't go there.)

Anyway, this couple had finished with their salad plates and they (the plates) were sitting at the edge of the table.
Here I come, tray in hand, and I grab the plates and start to quietly slide them onto my tray when the woman starts shrieking and scrabbling for the plates.
I am, of course, a little taken aback. What's in Sam Hill wrong with this woman?

The woman notices me, and then exhales deeply and puts her hand to her chest and then says, "Oh, my! I didn't see you there! I got scared because I thought the plates werre moving all by themselves!"
I, of course reply, "Oh, that's OK. How is everything?"
"Oh, just fine. Everything is great!" she answers.

But that whole exchange got me thinking. . .

  • What kind of world does this woman live in where plates go flying off tables all by themselves?

  • Are the laws of gravity different in her universe?
    "Harold! Gravity's going sideways again, better tie down the dog!"

  • Did she see Fantasia one too many times?
    "The plates are growing legs and walking off by themselves! AAAAGH!"

  • Is she plagued by evil spirits?
    Is there an exorcist in the house?
It's one of those things that make you go "Hmmmm".

Thursday, November 03, 2005

Parental Guidance Suggested

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale.
(Well, providing someone is reading this aloud to you. Otherwise you'll read a tale, not hear one. But we don't have to get too literal about this, do we?)

I was down in the basement in the "laundry room" folding towels the other day.
Rico is playing happily in the back yard, doing what doggies do: sniffing around, munching on his rawhide bone, playing with his squeaky toy, taking care of "business".
As I'm wondering vaguely why two people have so many fuggin' towels in the first place, I hear Rico barking his head off outside.
The basement window is open to air out the smell of All-Tempa Cheer and bleach, so I yell out, "Shut up, Rico!" like I nornally do.

Normally, Rico hears my voice and stops barking and then sticks his nose through the basement window. Then I pat his little head and he starts wagging his tail and I say something like "Be a good boy, Rico" and then he happily goes about his business.
Not this time.
He's barking and barking and I'm thinking, "What in the world has gotten into this dog?"
So I drop the towel I'm folding and go to investigate.

As I'm walking up the stairs, I'm thinking it's that stray cat that's setting Rico off. Sometimes I catch him sitting on the fence just out of Rico's reach, going "Nyah! Nyah! You can't get me!" and laughing. (Well, that's what the cat would be saying if it could speak -- or laugh.) The cat does it on purpose, I'm sure of it.

Anyway, as I get upstairs and out the back door, I see it isn't the cat that's stting Rico off at all. Some neighborhood kids (two boys and a girl, the oldest couldn't have been more than seven) were throwing Rocks at him and Rico was going nuts.
And who could blame him? Throw rocks at me and I'll go nuts, too.

I admit it, I lost my temper.

"Stop throwing rocks at my dog!" I yelled at them, "Or I'll let him loose and he'll rip you faces off!"
Upon hearing that, the kids ran shrieking down the block and around the corner.

OK, in retrospect I realize that was not the right way to handle it. I will freely admit that.
But I was angry.

That doesn't excuse what I did, it only provides a reason for it.

Anyhoo, a few minutes later I'm back downstairs folding towels again and Rico is right by my side chewing on one of my old holey socks, when I hear a BANG! BANG! BANG! (on the door, baby!)

So I go up to answer it and when I open the door there was this indiginant looking woman standing there with a little boy and girl kind of cowering behind her. Of course I recognize them as being two of the three kids I had cought throwing stones at Rico just moments earlier.

Before I could even get a greeting out, she says to me,
"Did you tell my kids you were going to get your dog to attack them?"
And shes all up in my Kool-Aid, nahmean?
"Oh," I replied, "They told you that part of it, but did they tell you they were throwing rocks at him? My dog was playing happily in the yard, not hurting anyone and your kids come over and for no reason start throwing things at him.
Techically, I should be the one knocking on your door right now for what your children were doing to him."

To her credit, the woman's entire demeamor changed.
She turns to the kids and says, "is that true? Were you throwing rocks at this man's dog?"
The kids say nothing and just stare down at the ground. Their guilt was obvious.

"I'm sorry," She says to me, "I'll make sure it doesn't happen again." and she marches the kids down the block.

My first instinct is to insert something like: "Don't kids have nothing better to do nowadays?" or "Why can't parents nowadays control their children? That's why this world is going to hell in a handbasket!" but that would make me sound like a grumpy old man, which I by far am not!

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Oh Yes, There Will Be Blood

Went to see Saw II last night with the husband. There's nothing better than a scary movie on Halloween night!

The plot (without giving too much away): Jigsaw, the "serial killer" (who doesn't actually kill his victims, but devises clever ways for them to kill themselves or each other) from Saw is back again.
The good news (?) is that he's been captured after his latest grisly act. But that's just the beginning as his true insideous plot is revealed.
This time around he's trapped eight people in a house with a deadly nerve gas. They have a limited amount of time to find the antidote before the gas they're inhaling kills them.
Did I mention the house is booby trapped in various lethal and ingenious ways?
Watching it all unfold on the monitors at Jigsaw's lair is Police detective Matthews (Donnie Wahlberg!), and to his horror, one of the people in that house is his son Daniel.
That's all I can really say without spoiling anything.

If you like horror movies or thrillers, I highly reccomend it.
It will have you on the edge of your seat.

However, I also reccomend you see the first one first. Go to Blockbuster and rent Saw and if you really like it, go see the latest installment.
You could watch them out of order, I guess, but seeing the second one first will spoil the twist ending of the first one.
Plus seeing the first one before this one will help you keep track of what's going on here.
Am I making sense?
Oh, and if the sight of blood offends (or nauseates) I reccomend skipping this one altogether. I am not squeamish when it comes to gore and even I was squirming at some scenes.

It's pretty intense in some parts.
Trust me on this, will you?