I'm really looking forward to Spider-Man 3, and not just because I want to watch the movie. I'm hoping that whatever way the filmmakers explain Venom will finally be satisfactory to The Chicken. I don't recall exactly how Chicken first discovered Venom. Perhaps it was a Spider-Man cartoon, or maybe looking through my old trading cards. However he learned of him, Venom quickly became Chicken's favorite.

Do you know anything about Venom's origin? It's not something easily explained to a little kid. In the mid 80s there was a comic book mini-series called "Secret Wars." In this story, all of Earth's greatest heroes and villains were transported to a constructed world at the edge of the universe to settle the good vs. evil debate with a grand battle royale. The God-like being who arranged this conflict provided fantastic machines for each side to use for various purposes, including costume repair. The folks at Marvel used this as an opportunity to introduce a lot of new costumes, including Spider-Man's sechsee black outfit.

In the comic, Spider-Man, his suit in tatters, wanders off to find this magic costume making machine. He finds something looking like a cross between an old school espresso machine and a jet engine that produces a little black globule. He touches it and it swarms over him like the blob. (The sci-fi movie blob, not the comic book Blob… sorry for switching streams like that on you.) This new costume is a smart costume. It produces its own webbing, it changes shape and color and it even responds to Spider-Man's thoughts. Plus, it looks awesome. The black costume is definitely my favorite.

But there's a problem, which isn't revealed until much later. It's not a smart costume. It's an alien life form and it's trying to bond with Spider-Man permanently. This is of course a Bad Thing.

Spider-Man learns this alien is vulnerable to sound. He sheds it once and for all by tearing it off his body in the bell tower of a cathedral while the bells are tolling. Initially Spider-Man thought this killed the alien, but not so. Also in the cathedral was Eddie Brock, a reporter who'd staked his career on a story Spider-Man proved to be false. United by their despair and their hatred of Spider-Man, Brock and the alien symbiote merged for good, creating the entity known as Venom. And that's the part where I lose Chicken.

Eddie Brock was a separate being. The alien was a separate being. They have now merged to create one being. Venom is Brock and the alien combined. Venom is not Brock in an alien costume. Brock no longer exists. The alien no longer exists. There is only Venom.

I have explained this to Chicken in dozens of different ways. I've come up with a new explanation about every two weeks for the past three or four years. I cannot find an explanation that leaves him truly understanding it. The newest explanation involves candy bar analogies.

Chicken: So, when Eddie Brock is wearing the Venom suit…

Me: It's not a suit, Chicken. Eddie and the alien are one thing. They are Venom.

Chicken: Uh… um…

Me: Ok, it's like a candy bar, right?

Chicken: I don't get it.

Me: Eddie Brock is like nougat.

Chicken: Ok.

Me: The alien is like chocolate.

Chicken: Ok.

Me: When they were separate, they were chocolate and nougat, Eddie and alien.

Chicken: Ok.

Me: Now they are combined. They are one thing. They are the candy bar. They are Venom.

Chicken: Ok…

Me: Do you see?

Chicken: So… Venom is like Eddie Brock covered in chocolate? Does Venom eat chocolate?

(pause)

Chicken: Can I have a candy bar?

I will be one happy Fish if Sam Raimi succeeds in explaining this damn thing.

The Bunny, The Chicken and I took a little shopping trip this weekend. We weren't in the market for anything other than paper cups to feed our latte addictions, but we did use the opportunity for a little retail therapy.

I got one of these (so maybe I can finally sort out SQL JOINs), one of these (not great, but worth watching again), two of those (I now have a bajillion gigabytes storage for my PDA) and a shiny copy of Iron Maiden's Edward The Great.

Shut up. Stop judging me. Iron Maiden used to be cool. In 1986, nobody rocked harder than Maiden. Now? Eh, not so much. But back in the day they were all that, plus tax. I used to be a huge fan. I bought everything I could find. I even special ordered stuff. I had patches and buttons, stickers and shirts. And of course, a respectable collection of cassette tapes.

I haven't played any of those tapes in years. I had to dig through the basement to find them just for that picture. 80s metal doesn't age particularly well and I don't often find myself actually wanting to listen to them. The band has a few songs that have stuck with me, like "Wasted Years" or "The Trooper," but I'm mostly content to leave those tapes collecting dust.

There is one exception. I'm still not tired of "Still Life." But as you can see (or maybe not) my collection is missing Piece of Mind. Because that was the one tape to which I listened most often, it ended up somewhere else. Presumably I listened to it and didn't put it away, which is completely understandable when you consider how inconvenient it was to get to the rest of them.

Of course, it's always possible Michael Douglas stole my Piece of Mind tape.

Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure he did. That's just the kind of thing he'd do. Fucker.

Anyway, I needs me some Still Life. I looked at a bunch of stores and couldn't find a copy of the album I was missing. Still Life was never especially popular, so it's not on any of the Best of/Greatest Hits releases. No Still Life for me. But that's alright. I bought Edward The Great anyway. At least now I have high quality digital versions of some of my favorites.

Most music honestly isn't worth buying, but I really don't mind supporting artists I really like. And support Maiden I have. This purchase marks the fifth or sixth time I've paid for a version of "The Number of The Beast."

When I was in high school, I tried to learn to play guitar. That didn't work out so well. After several lessons, the only thing I'd really learned is that I'm more or less tone deaf. Maybe not tone deaf, but at least tone stupid. My instructor would ask me questions like "which of these two notes is highest?" and I wouldn't be able to consistently tell him.

But despite my complete ineptitude, I still managed to learn how to play Number of The Beast. Or at least the rhythm guitar parts, and probably only because it's so damn simple. The rhythm guitar in that song is something like 4 notes and two chords. Despite the fact that I've long since forgotten how to play the song, and was never any good at it anyway, it's given me a lingering prejudice.

I'm a complete meathead who would often incorrectly answer questions like "are these two notes the same?" and I still learned how to play the rhythm guitar to one of my favorite songs. Therefore, rhythm guitarists are probably also complete meatheads. James Hetfield? Meathead. Paul Stanley? Meathead. Dave Mustaine, Rudy Schenker, Malcolm Young? Meatheads, all of them.

Around ten years ago I was working with this young guy named John. Iron Maiden might have saved John from a very poor decision.

John: Hey, did I tell you I'm getting a tattoo?

Me: No, you didn't.

John: I'm pretty pumped about it.

Me: What and where?

John: I want the Pantera logo across my back. Huge letters, like six inches tall, from one shoulder to the other.

Me: Uh… really?

John: Doesn't that sound cool?

Me: No, it really doesn't.

John: Why not?

Me: Do you really think you'll always be this interested in Pantera, and that being a Pantera fan will always be this fashionable?

John: Pfft. I don't care. I'll always like them.

Me: How cool would I be today with a giant, 10 year old Iron Maiden tattoo on my back?

(looong pause)

John: You might be on to something there.