insurance design

Smoking Charges Ignite

Last night, Amy took Anna, our seven-year-old, to the dress rehearsal for her 2015 dance recital. I was left in charge of Will, our nine-year-old, and Ella, our three-year-old. What follows is a litany of the kids showing me that I exist in their world as a piece of tightly-spun twine, permanently...

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Sad Child


Our actions become our kids' reactions. Not exactly new. Not exactly Newtonian (pause while joke sinks in). But it's a truism all the same. ...

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Car radio

Piece of Sh*t Car Reprise

When I was in high-school, a popular song named "Ode to My Car," by Adam Sandler, spun regularly on the radio. No, it didn't. All foul-mouthed teenage boys wished such happy, unfiltered radio days would appear, but that didn't stop the explicit lyrics from making an impact, even if the song's plot...

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Advertise Here

The end has come for a man called Logan. That was his name, wasn’t it? I don’t know, man. I admit I didn’t pay attention to the comic books. But I don’t remember his actual name having one of the …...

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Certain messes in life are unavoidable. If you get a DUI and your hair is sufficiently mussed or you manage to jam your finger into the nearest outlet just prior to the mug-shot, chances are you'll be a big-time celebrity some day. ...

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A Reasonable Explanation

Therapist: Take me back to the beginning. Tell me how it all got started, how you eventually wound up holding the bloody knife in the aftermath of your killing spree. I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation....

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That's a Mouthful

Waking up to the sounds of birds and (outside) insects is alluring, and when you have your second 10th cup of coffee and realize you are on vacation, and this auditory lovemaking is real, not the result of an ambitious-carpet-cleaning hallucination, you can finally relax, letting your bulk stress...

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Stupid Piece of ... Oh, That's Right

I'm a realist. I call things like they are, and if I look stupid in the process, well, so be it. ...

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Deadly Donuts

The morning started off good. Four eggs fluffed with a splash of milk, mixed with Parmesan and salt and black pepper and red pepper flakes and slathered with Cholula hot sauce; four ounces of Bob Evan's spicy Italian sausage (sorry for the smell, honey, luv ya) fried into the wonderful concoction;...

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When Did I Become a Pushover?

I've never thought of myself as the Ultimate Fighter type. As a kid, whenever the possibility of bodily harm came up, I tried to avoid confrontation. But if the issue was pressed, I could stand up and issue fake threats along with the best of them and hope that my manufactured bravado was enough to...

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As I Approach 30

I live in a small town. Colona, IL has a population of just over 5,000. As a jogger, this means I am usually only assaulted with exhaust fumes a few times whenever I decide to go outside to burn some calories. But as far as the type of people passing me on the roadside? Over this, I have no control....

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Claw scratch on white background, a vector illustration.

Filed Under , on March 3rd, 2018

New Claws

By Seth Kabala

The end has come for a man called Logan. That was his name, wasn’t it? I don’t know, man.

I admit I didn’t pay attention to the comic books. But I don’t remember his actual name having one of the less memorable hooks.

James Howlett. What the fuck is that? It’s like the writers spent all of their energy on creating the perfect script, and then said, Well, that’s that.

Whatever oversight may have existed in the naming of Logan ran and hid in favor of the quality story. The plot built, one brick on top of the other, like fine stone from a quarry.

With more grit than the soup from a run-down Denny’s (or any Denny’s), this film connected to the pleasure centers of the red-blooded male, woman, and anything in between. It had guts, gore, speed, drugs, and kids impaling and maiming adults, turning typical action/adventure hyperbolistic cinema fair into a refreshing scene.

We enter a world where Logan is dying. This can’t be, you say. I know. I get it, but he is dying, somewhat for lack of trying.

It makes little sense why the Adamantium merged with his bones would, after decades, suddenly poison him. But that’s what the writers chose to do, and the results are, shall we say, grim.

He gets in the usual brawls, fights, and more than one shootout. He shows little regard for life’s last out.

For he is, even at the beginning, a near death scene to behold, marching ever onward to rhythmic beating cessation as we watch the story unfold.

Mutants have disappeared. That much we know from the exposition, but what I missed was the logical transition.

Only once we get close to the end do we finally learn, that some descendant of the Doc who made Logan Logan took his chance, took his turn.

He, evil Doc #2, saw humanity’s way forward through the public extinction of mutants, while controlling the spread of the mutant genes behind closed doors, away from sycophants.

But as Dr. Malcolm of Jurassic Park is fond of saying, “Life finds a way,” and it’s your own moving blood that will do the paying.

If you try to stop the progress of biological development, profit off the suppression of livings things, if not quite human, then you will ultimately meet your doom, and your brain will lose lumen.

Beware the mutant children, aided by a nurse. That’s dastardly determined grit she’s hiding in her purse.

It’s that grit that will take her to seedy motels, to harassing a former-X-man-turned-chauffeur, imploring him to help, so it’s not just her.

For one good soul is insufficient to win this fight. The bloody exit of bone in the younger version, no matter how fierce, will not survive the night.

Logan is a father? Who knew, though a connection was proved obvious when out of the backs of the child’s hands the claws suddenly grew.

And did she rip? Did she claw? Did she kill? She did, indeed, and with aplomb, with unusual skill.

It is notable to note what she lacked. What download from her genetic predecessor failed to penetrate her brain’s programming. It wouldn’t be hacked.

She lacked empathy, lacked feeling, possessed only the instinct to live. She appeared all too ready to use a skeletal extension as a shiv.

But was she entirely a killing machine? Wouldn’t we react in the same way when faced with the choice of either using our extraordinary abilities or fulfilling the eradication of another’s failed scheme?

I think that I would. I think that I could. I think that a responsible citizen should. I think my purpose would shift with the sinister attentions of others directed on the back of my hood.

A lot to this flick. Time-altering perspectives tick.

And tick again when? It’s time for them.

Time they grew. Stories anew.


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Seth Kabala

About: Seth Kabala
Seth is an entrepreneur, writer, musician, family man, and juggler of balls--big ones. He lives with his wife and three children in Portland, OR.

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