Wednesday, November 29, 2006

El Vez!

Is it wrong that I'm very much want to see this show? No, I have no idea who El Vez is. I do know that I would very much like to see a show involving anything having to to with a red vinyl jump-suited, possible Elvis impersonator with very impressive sideburns. I also no I don't have an excuse as to why. And I have the vaguest impression that all my attempts (which might include begging and possible seduction) to talk Fighting Nun into a entitled "My Mexican Merry Mex-mas" would be met with eye-rolls, sighs and a very emphatic "No. No Way. Not Going To Happen."

I'm assuming that this becomes part of a very long numbered list of strange oddities I would love to see that Fighting Nun has no earthly intention of seeing whatsoever. Said list includes, amongst many forgotten oddities:

1. LL Cool J ("Momma Said we gotta go to this one." "No." "Aw Come on. Going Back to Cali, to Cali, to Cool J?" "No!")
2. Billy Idol. Apparantly Fighting Nun has no predilection to see an aging rocker who has abused peroxide to the point that should be a punishable offense strut his stuff in leather and or pleather pants he has no earthly business stuffing into. Who knew?
3. Rent or any other musical on the face of God's Green Earth, and definately not Momma Mia. I have always wanted to see Rent, especially live, but Fighting Nun has some sense of self-preservation or something that keeps him from having to do anything with musical theatre. We rented The Producers not too long ago, and at certain points of the movie I had to keep lethal objects out of his for fear of the bodily harm he would do to himself or me for agreeing to watch the movie in the first place. Broadway Musicals? Definately out of the question. Broadway Musicals featuring the lyrical stylings of ABBA? There is no way . No. Way. Not. One.
4. SUMO! He just doesn't get Sumo's genius. I've tried to explain the coolness, the importance of it to him, on several occasions in fact (o.k., not several, and the explanation basically involved me yelling SUMO! really loudly over and over again. Probably not the dissertation that was going to convince him, if you know what I'm saying).

So El Vez will probably be added to that list. But see, He's wearing a red pleather jumpsuit, with a belt that looks like a WWE title belt The Rock misplaced, side burns that ate Pittsburgh, a pompedor that is eating his humongous fivehead (a fivehead, for those of you not savvy and in the know is a forehead that is so big its a fivehead. Learnt somethin' today didn't ya?), and has a mustache that I would otherwise detest but somehow completes the outfit. It's a must see! Aw come on Fighting Nun. How about Xanthia? Come on Xanthia, you have to see the genius in this! Takers? Any takers at all?

Fine, I'll just sulk in the corner, somehow content in the realization that I'm the only one who understands the good to be had in this.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Pamela Anderson and Kid Rock Get Divorced

Dear Pamela;

Hee. Hee Hee. *Giggle* O.k. I can't hold it in anymore. Bwahahahahahahaaa. Man, If I had only created a Divorce pool with my friends I would've so been on the money on this one. I knew this marriage had the shelf life of a bunch of sea monkeys. Four Months. FOUR. FREAKING. MONTHS. That's it. I think there might be a box twinkies left on a display counter somewhere that is now officially older than your marriage.

What happened Pamela? Did he started comparing you to Jamie King again? Did you get tired of all the BPR's and cigeratte butts lieing around all over the place? Could you just not take anymore Lynard Skynard? Be honest, was there another stripper incident that hasn't made inot the news yet? Did you finally have enough of his greasy, limp hair? Where'd all that love you had for each other four months prior go? You went through the hassle of having three separate weddings, the leat you could've done was wait until the calander year ended. Sheesh.

I'm sorry Pamela. That was harsh. I didn't mean to kick you while you were down. I realize this letter is in poor taste. I apologize for being so sarcastic. I'm sure you've got a lot to deal with, between your imploding marriage, your coyly denying your involvement or noninvolvement in Borat, your coyly dodging Tommy Lee's horn-doggedness, and everything else and all. I really thought you two crazy kids could've made it work. I had so much hope and faith in your union. I mean you two really were a match in trailer-park heaven. I just couldn't believe it couldn't last. O.k. Now I have to apologize for being sarcastic again. Sorry.

Can you just do me a teensy leettle favor? Try not to get married for the rest of the year Mmmkay? That way maybe I can make a New Years Resolution not to bag on you anymore and I might be able to keep that resolution until maybe March. I'd appreciate it.

Tell Tommy Lee 'Sup for me;

The Bloody Munchkin.


So, with my detailing my little run-in in the company stall at work, its safe to assume I'm back from a nice four day weekend filled with family, wine, whining (my nieces) and lots of food. Yeah Thanksgiving. I've actually come back decently super charged. I got to make fun of and have fun with Fighting Nun's little brother. I got to watch an actual movie in an actual movie theatre (I never thought I'd say this, but Daniel Craig, I salute you. Jolly Good Show, Jolly Good show indeed). I got to geek out about Eragon coming to the big screen a total of about a bajillion times. (I've seen movie posters and trailers everywhere now and instead of making me bitter and upset regarding some of my little pet peeves, damn it, all I could do was be happy. Eragon!!! December 15th!!! If you'll excuse me I have to go hyperventilate into a paper bag now.) I got to catch up on class work (Almost over. Yeah!!!!). I got to drag an irritable and cranky Fighting Nun through a number of stores, which, I'm sorry but when a man is grumpy when looking at a bunch of HD TVs, he's been out to long and needs to go home. I'm slowly beginning to learn that.
Happy post Turkey Days everybody. I hope to have a marathon movie review posted sometime this week regarding all the above-par, par, and sub-par movies I've seen recently. Stay tuned.

Further Adventures in the Bathroom Stall

Yeah, it's another one of THOSE posts. But every once in a while strange crap (pardon the pun) happens in the stalls at my office.

So today I walk in when I hear what sounds oddly like a motor in one of the other stalls. I was unsure how to procede. Was there work being done? Was the bathroom now a construction zone and I wasn't told? Had our company somehow tracked down some motorized toilet brushes we were trying out? I'm a little uncomfortable but I sit down in the empty stall anyway. Out of curiousity, I look down to see a pair of feet at the stall next to me, women's shoes. That ruled out construction. I was still considering the motorized toilet brush until another thought popped into my head. What other motorized object would somebody be running in a bathroom? They wouldn't be running THAT KIND of a battery operated object in the company bathroom this early in the morning would they? WOULD THEY? I hear no moaning, but I'm still a tad suspicious. These days you can never tell.

I go to wash my hands and a co-worker pops out of the other stall, brushing her teeth with a motorized toothbrush. She was in the other stall. Brushing her teeth. Brushing. Her. Teeth. Over. A. Toilet. Why would you? How? Did she conduct other business while running the toothbrush? Could she not do both separately? Does she like combining the two activities? I don't understand. I am glad to see that both the motorized toilet brush and the other motorized gadget theory were both discredited, don't get me wrong. But I was also disheartened to find that it happened to be a tooth brush. Look, I'm a fan of oral hygiene don't get me wrong, and I realize that most oral hygiene prep takes place in the bathroom, but unless I'm totally out of bounds, it does not take place over or around a toilet. Furthermore, that sort of activity should NOT be conducted whilest hovering over the crapper. Sometimes my gag meter is a little uncalibrated and I can tend to get grossed out by some strange stuff. I mean Airborne in a glass tends to give me the heebs and tests my reflex more than it should be tested and I have no idea why. It's not like I'm being forced to drink a hair clog or anything but I just can't hack it.

But still, it just seems off somehow. Listen I don't doubt that I haven't done the brush and pee. I can't think of any recent examples, but lets just say I wouldn't put it past myself during my college days. I was living with two dudes. Decorum wasn't a huge issue for myself. And besides, back in those days, most of us probably came face to face with two side effects of the all-night rager; extremely stale beer breathe and an overwhelming urge to pee. I get that truly. But in the work place? Do they, should they really combine? Maybe I'm overthinking this. Maybe she realized her coffee breathe was kind of menacing the same time that second cup kicked in and it couldn't be helped. There could be any number of circumstances, I don't doubt that.

But here's the kicker. She tried to have a conversation with me as she was finishing up at the sink. Gah! Don't do that! Just don't. There is nothing more annoying than trying to talk to someone with a toothbrush and a head of foam and toothpaste in their mouth who isn't my husband. Because I tend to look at your mouth while you are talking, so I am watching you brush your teeth and talk at the same time, and it ain't an enjoyable thing to watch. In fact it's the opposite of enjoyable. So lady, even though I like you and we get along amiably, I'm asking, I'm begging you; don't conduct your oral hygiene business over the bathroom stall and don't talk to me whilst still in the midst of your oral hygiene business. It's testing my gag reflexes and not in a good way (is there a good way to test gag reflexes? I'd venture that there isn't, but I don't want to find out.). Just don't. Thanks.

Monday, November 20, 2006

An open letter to Stephen Dorff

Dear Short Stuff;

Once upon a time, I was very convinced that wherever you led, I would follow. My devotion was that blind, that deep. You were in The Gate for crying out loud, the only horror movie I watched during the whole of my childhood (I hate horror movies) because you were in it. Of course I didn't know you were in it until years later, but still. And this went on for years, through crappy made-for-tv movies and a couple straight-to-vidoes that aren't worth mentioning. But I watched them all. And one in particular I watched over and over, without remorse and I even bought the sountrack. It was that strong Stephen, it really was.

And then, well I don't know whether it was Space Truckers, FeardotCom, or your relationship with Pamela Anderson, but I became less blind. I could see the light. And the light eventually led to a revelation that while you're still cute, you aren't worth the effort. Sure, there's be a movie here or there that you redeemed yourself with, but for every sunshiney day, a little rain must fall. For every Entropy, there must be a Alone in the Dark. And pretty soon, there was more rain on your C.V. than sunshiney days. As much as I worship the ground you walk on for being a part of The Power of One, I can not forgive you for the blight of some of C.V. credits. But I wasn't totally deterred, I was more vigilant, better able to determine the duds from stars, but not deterred.

I wasn't enamored with you any more at that point. I wouldn't force Fighting Nun to watch a Stephen Dorff movie just for the sake of you being in it after that. I only Tivoed and rewatched that video of Britney's you were in a few times (What? Don't give me that look Fighting Nun. He. Was. Shirtless. The Abs. And then there was that scene in the bathtub where Britney was essentially naked and he dove in to get her. I just. I... I just... I didn't have a choice. I don't judge you every time you pause a football or basketball game to ogle cheerleaders. Don't judge me. Besides, that was more than three or four years ago. I get a pass.). You've been like an old high school crush who I run into at the local Town and Country while I'm buying gas and then I spot you dispensing a not so moderate helping of nacho cheese on a plate of nachos and get a good look at you. I realize that, whilst still cute, you've become the victim of "The Spread" and one too many Slim Jims. I no longer see you with rose colored glasses anymore, but I can see what it was about you that the younger, more naive version of me was so enamored with.

But now you've crossed a line and I don't even see that anymore. Where to begin? (you might want to click this link Fighting Nun. It's a video clip so you won't have to, you know, read and stuff.) First off, since when would you date a woman that would think Steve-O was a suitable boyfriend in any way, shape, or form? The dude, amongst his many misdemeanors against humanity PEED ON A RED CARPET IN FRONT OF A BUNCH OF CAMERAS. Peed. On a Red Carpet. Sheeesh. Anybody that thinks he's suitable boyfriend material was either let out of the institution far too soon or was somehow struck by a heavy object right before meeting him, because Yeech. And secondly, if you do date a woman who has succumbed to a mental illness to the point that she wants to get with the guy from some of the more oogey stunts of Jackass (the less said about Wild Boyz, the better), you shake Steve-O's hand, say congratulations, and see those two crazy kids on their way. Then you throw back a Corona and thank God you are no longer dating a person with the same IQ as a Cracker Jack prize. You do not threaten the both of them with physical harm and or death, and you do not, DO NOT leave said threats on the girl's answering machine! Jesus. What are you, new?

So It's over. I know it's wrong to break up with you this way, to called paid to what little we had left together in a letter, but that's the last straw. I'm sorry. I know this is never easy, but I just can't handle this anymore. I need time away from this difficult situation, time apart from you, because you're not the person I thought you were. Who knows, maybe we'll see each other again in a few years. Maybe when you've got a couple more mediocre releases under your belt and can move on to more challenging and possibly more dignified roles, like say a historical figure (of course said historical figure would have to be short. Napolean perhaps?) or a maybe an indie movie about the perils of drugs and Pamela Anderson (at least you'll have personal experience with subject matter). But for now its over. I wish you the best for the future. Really I do. I just won't be there watching it.

Peace Out;

Bloody Munchkin

Open letters to persons, places, and things on Music Videos I watched this morning;

Dear Eric Roberts;

Listen. I understand your need to be in the rash of music videos you've been in lately. Really I get it. No, I totally understand. You haven't really, truly been culturally significant since the Reagan administration and this is your way of exerting some control over your seeming pop-culture exsistence. And nowadays you not only have your sister's shadow, but now your daughter's shadow from which to try and step out of. Not an easy feat is what I'm saying. It's just, well, taking part in a music video for a rapper I've never heard of before, not the way to go about stepping is what I'm saying.

Look, it's not that I don't appreciate your recent contributions to the Music Video art form. I can kind of see why you've taken the offers you did. I'm sure Mariah called and was like "Hey, I need you to play a slightly oily, pretty smarmy character, so essentially you'd be playing yourself." and you were like "Scenery Chewers like myself gotta eat, why not?" And then I'm sure she called you up again and was like, o.k. I need to you to play exactly the same character except I leave you spurned at the alter for Wentworth Miller (which, being the devoted Prison Break fan that I am, I totally do not blame her. I mean Eric Roberts vs. Wentworth "Blue Steel" Miller is very much an uneven fight in my opinion), and you were like "Sure I can do that. Being spurned and heartbroken won't really be a stretch for me, seeing as how I'm still miffed about not being in Julia's Academy Award acceptance speech... I got this one in the bag." And then soon after this, The Killers, or Justin Flowers or perhaps Justin Flowers mustache (more on that later) came a calling and were all "You see that thing you did there in the Mariah video? The thing with the being a spurned paramour? We want that for our video. So, essentially, we want you to play yourself, but slightly more violent but with a Madame Butterfly angle? Think you can handle that?" and you were like "Sure, can I bring my shit-eating grin?" and they're all like "We'd prefer it if you did."

See, all that? I get. I'm cool with, because you're flicking bits of video backdrop out of your teeth and the glitter detritus from The Killers video is everywhere. I appreciate it. But see, some videos aren't really worth you're scenery chewing abilities. Like the one I witnessed this morning, which had you playing the same guy you played (so, essentially playing yourself. Again. My, how you stretch your acting abilities there, Mr. Roberts.) in that Killers video as reenvisioned in a skeezy night club. WTF? No seriously. Why are you taking that role? I mean, I don't think what you're getting for that kind of role would be enough to pay for your SAG union dues, so why take the work? No, I don't understand. Why? Your daughter's about to make Disney money pretty soon, so you shouldn't be aching for the moola, unless you have some illigitimate children who are blackmailing you somewhere and you've been forced to pad your regular salary with these measely scenery chewing gigs to pay off the kids you don't want anybody to know about. But really, I think you should step back, take stock, wait for the checks from big Ole' Mouse Ears to roll in and enjoy life. No more music videos for obscure rappers or otherwise, Mmmmkay? Thanks.

Apparantly co-starring with Mickey Rourke has had some unforeseen long-term side-effects, who knew?

The Bloody Munchkin

Dear Brandon Flower's Mustache;

Die. Just Die. I don't care how. Just get the hell off of his face. You can slip and fall on a strategically placed lady bic and a dollop of shaving cream. You can decide that all your whiskers need to commit mass follicular suicide and you can just fall off his face all at once like all those leaves on that tree in that one scene in Monty Python and the Meaning of Life. I don't want to know the messy details, I just want you gone.

I think I've made it blindingly clear where I stand on the mustache issue. But for those of you just tuning in, I'll give you a refresher. I DO NOT LIKE mustaches. I hate them actually. Hatey-hate. Hate them with a blinding fury that can only be matched by my distaste of Pamela Anderson (which I have also mentioned). I do feel I should clarify on something though. It's not that I detest the mustache in all the forms it takes. I can handle a 'stache if it's paired with other follicular (is that a word? I don't think it is. I think I just made up a word. I'll have to double check with later) accoutrements. Beard and 'stache? I don't particularly want it up in my grill but from afar I can appreciate it. Stache and strategically placed goatee or soul patch? Yeah sure. Why not? But a mustache for mustache sake? Nothing else but a mustache? Can. Not. Abide. I can't. Especially in Brandon's case. I mean, he wasn't exactly my cup of tea during the Hot Fuss days. Slightly effeminate for my tastes, and somebody should've taken the blush and eyeliner out of his hands, but not bad. But now? Now it looks like a catepillar comprised solely of Ron Jeremy's pubes (shudder) crawled up on his face then signaled the death rattle and left its corpse on his upper lip. It's just too horrible to look at, and yet I can't look away.

Shut Up Brandon Flower's stupid mustache, I hope you meet a horribly tragic end;


Dear Devon Aoki;

Stop being so ubiquitous. Thanks.

At least you weren't brandishing a sword this time;


P.S. Tell you're brother I said hi and to stop being such a douche.

Dear Wierd Al;

Heh. I love that, even in the crazy times in which we live, there is one constant. And that constant is that no song is on such a high pedastal that it can't be parodied to absurd levels. And you happen to be the man to bring that to light, over and over again. "White and Nerdy." Classic. Also, tell Seth Green I liked his cameo and I admire his action figure collection.

I haven't bought any of your records since the Clinton administration, but I admire what it is that you do;

The Bloody Munchkin

Friday, November 17, 2006

Something You DON'T say to your boss

"I'm right over here, Dumbass."

You'd think that one would be a no brainer, but one of my co-workers had to learn that one the hard way. My adventures in cubicleland never get boring...

Thursday, November 16, 2006

Made-Up Band Names: Submissions 11 and 12?

Burrito Aftermath

Mr. Lucidity - Courtesy of The Tick

The Joys of the Internet

Did you know there happens to be a place on the Internet called Burritobot? Did you know said Burrito to the Bot exists for the sole purpose of rating burrito places? Is that not awesome? Is it odd that the knowledge of the existence of the Burrito Bot makes me happy?

I guess the answers to those questions are: Now I do. I did not know that. I guess it is, but not very, and yes, it is very odd Bloody Munchkin, you need to get out more.

Terrell Owens writes a Children's Book

Bear with me, I realize that statement is a bit much to take in. I mean, I heard this sentence today, and It's in English, but I really just don't understand. Terrell Owens. Wrote a Children's Book. TERRELL OWENS. Was Allowed. To Write. A Children's Book. No, I don't understand it either. And get this, the title is... Little T Learns to Share. No, Really. Terrell Owens is probably the last person in the world I would've expected to write on the topic of sharing. Next you're going to tell me that he has a book planned about TEAMWORK (tenatively titled, Little T learns to SHUT UP and Play).

So this got me thinking; What other books could be written by superstar athletes in which they put forth a life lesson that they actually haven't learned themselves? Given that I'm a novice when it comes to professional sports, I'm not sure I have the tools at my disposal to make accurate guesses, but I'm willing to give it a shot.

Obeying Traffic Safety, By Ben Roethlisberger

Headbutting Is Wrong, by Zinadin Zidane

Being Polite While Using NYC Transit , by John Rocker

Just Say No, By Micheal Irving

Drugs are Cheating, Drugs are Bad, by Mark McGwire, Jose Conseco, Jason Giambi and special guest writer Barry Bonds.

Good Sportsmanship, by Ron Artest (alternative titles: Don't Throw Things and Turn the Other Cheek)

Being Santa Claus, by Bobby Knight

How to be Humble, By Charles Barkley, special insert by Shaquille O'Neal

Girls CAN TOO play with Boys, By The University of Colorado Football Team. Special Foreward by Vijay Singh.

What No Means, By Cobe Bryant

Don't Make That Bet, by Pete Rose

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

I'm becoming my mother

It was somewhere around the 580-238 interchange, somewhere between my third or forth listen of Thirteen by Ben Kweller, right during the harmonica interlude, when I realized I had become my mother. I didn't really want to. It just happened. It's like Ally Sheedy said. It's not that this revelation is new. I've always sensed it. There are just certain things I can't quite escape no matter how hard I try, our shared predilection for chewing on our fingernails, the way we both get overly-invested in an arguement, our inherent need to bitch for thirty minutes whilst wanting none of our problems solved because all we wanted to do was bitch, we didn't want to like solve our issues and stuff, Damnit. All these things I knew.

What I didn't know? I have somehow been accumulating several albums that my mother would intrinsically like. I always thought that one the issue of music, there was at least a degree or two of separation. My mom's not into punk but Tim Armstrong is my co-pilot. My mom is a bit obsessed with Bruce Springsteen, whereas I'm indifferent. My mother's fixation for singer-songwriters the likes of John Prine, Tom Waits, Billy Joe Shaver, and the ilk is a little much for me to handle sometimes. My mother, still to this day does not see what I see (or saw) in No Doubt. This is kind of a point of pride for me or has been for awhile. Assertion of individuality if you will. Sure, we've always had little intersections of musical agreement. Nick Drake for instance. We both love his stuff, which is fine, as long as my tolerance for Muddy Water's back catalog remains relatively low. (Before you open outlook and run off a pointed e-mail about the importance of blues greats, understand that I like the blues, just not as much as my moms, which is totally fine by me.)

But now, that play book got thrown out the window. Alot of the music I've been listening to, I can see my mother realy getting into. Part of this is my co-worker's fault, because he's been lending me music that, while I might not pick it out for myself on any given music run, I end up giving myself over to. Ben Kweller? Something my mother would totally love. My other new favorite, Persephonie's Bees? Could've sworn I've heard it in my own mother's music collection, only it was called It's a Beautiful Day. Cat Power? My mother would totally love Cat Power, especially because she's like Lucinda Williams except less smokey. Rocky Votolato? Run Run Run? Totally my mom's style. Which means, I'm turning into my mother musically. Which makes me want to run out and buy the Lords of Acid back catalog (as if we don't have most of their albums already), and sing Bloodhound Gang songs obnoxiously at the top of my lungs just to quelsh the musical genetics that happen to be at play. Damn you Ben Kweller, for making a song that got me all teared up but reminded me I'm my mother's daughter musically. How dare you!

Song for a Wednesday Morning

We've been in the rain
We've been on the mountain
We've been around the fire
and fancy hotels
Drank water from farm wells
We sang with the choir
I kissed your dry lips
We jumped off the high cliffs
and splashed down below
skin to skin in the salty river
made love in the shadows

Read books to each other
Read the mind of the other
Flew one thousand jets
We laughed and we cried
At movies and real life
and our ridiculous bets
We dance in the moonlight at midnight
We pressed against back doors and wood floors
And you never faked it
And frequently we ignored our love
But we can never mistake it

We met on the front porch
Fell in love on the phone
Without the physical wreck
You gave me the necklace
that used to hang around your mother's neck
We questioned religions
Gave bread to the pigeons
We learned how to pray
We stood by the ocean
Turned our hearts into one
We laid in bed all day

We skipped on the sidewalk
Skipped stones on the water
Skipped town
We've seen the sunrise with new eyes
We've seen the damage of gossip and true lies
We've seen the sun go down
Had passionate make-outs
Had passionate freak-outs
We built this world of our own
It was in the back of a taxi
That you told me you loved me
And that I wasn't alone

--Thirteen, Ben Kweller

Damn You Ben Kweller, why you gotta make me cry on a Wednesday morning?

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

You Got Served...

....Divorce Papers Kevin Federline. Oh, you know somebody had to make that joke. Might as well be me. I'm more than happy and capable.

Like we didn't see this one coming. Once she got the two kids, he reached his limit and was out, I guess. Damn. I mean, damn. A few years too late, but Damn. Does that mean K. Fed can just go away now? Because I'd prefer it. Let's get skip the unscrupulous court proceedings in which we find out all of K. Fed's nefarious goings ons, and then let's go straight into forgetting he ever existed. Can we please? That would be awesome. Hey K. Fed. Say Good-bye, your fifteen minutes of fame just walked out on you. I guess we'll see you when you decide to make "You Got Served 2: Weasely Boogalow." or some such crap. Buh-bye now. Buh-bye. Tell your gravy train good-bye while your at it, Douche.

Danny Trejo

I interrupt my normal pop culture bitchery to bring you pure, unadulterated fan-girlishness. Actually, this is for Xanthia, to prove a little point I have to make. If ever I get the chance to cast the movies and TV shows I have written in my head, this guy would have a heeee-uge part. This guy is just rad. There are no two ways about it. He looks like he could break you in half but yet he still has a soft side. How can I prove that he has a soft side? He was in Bubble Boy, that's how. Anybody who was willing to let Jake Gyllenhaal ride bitch in a plastic bubble on the back of his Harley is the type of guy I'd throw back beers with. Yes, I've seen Bubble Boy, and can here by attest to the awesomeness of this movie. No, I'm not gonna back down from that view point. Bubble Boy was awesome. It had Fabio in it, as a cult leader for crying out loud. It had possibly one of the best lines ever, that I would be dying to use in normal every day conversation. I just haven't found the perfect time to interject "Back off Bitch, He's the Messiah" into a cocktail party convo yet. But it'll happen, rest assured.

See, Xanth, how cool he would be in the fevered dream of the TV show I have planned? Can't you see just how awesome he would be in the rough fatherly type. Wouldn't his tattoos make an awesome addition on a TV show not related to a gritty prison drama. I mean, they'd make an awesome addition there too, but he needs to be more stand-outish. Don't you aggree? We need to make this happen Xanth. This guy needs more work!

Friday, November 03, 2006

Questioning Made-Up Band Names

So you know how, every once in awhile, I'll come up with a band name that I think is by rights, awesome and gee, I'm just so clever, somebody needs to give me a job? Well I realized that maybe I should stop. Because no matter how clever I think I am, a four-year-old is always going to win out.

My co-worker has a four-year-old and apparantly they were brainstorming band names together last night and his kid came up with Poison Toilet. Somewhere, a Death Metal Band from Idaho is crying that they didn't think of it first. And I am crying because I hadn't thought of it either. The Slug Hunters was my second favorite, in case you were wondering, but point is, if you want a really good band name, have some random four-year-old make up something, because first of all they have the imagination for it, secondly, they also have reckless abandon, so they can get away with stringing words together and it not sounding trite, and darn it, whatever they say can be darn catchy sometimes. Fighting Nun and I, appropos to nothing will say "Awe Pickles." Why? Because our niece said it and whatever she says, we sometimes mimic. We still haven't let go of "Why is grandpa.... so.... old." The precociousness just sticks. And so does Poison Toilet. Damn it.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006


Traditionally, Fighting Nun and I don't do alot for this holiday. It's not that we're not into it, its just that we haven't had alot of reason to get into it. I don't think we've been to a Halloween party since college, alot of the places we've lived since college haven't exactly been inviting to trick-or-treaters, and after an unfortunate incident involving carved pumpkins, that part of the holiday has been pretty much out of the equation since the Clinton Administration (Carved Pumpkins can get moldy? Who Knew). Like I said, it's not that we're not into it, it's just that we haven't had much of an occasion to get into it.

Now that we're in the burbs, we didn't know exactly what to expect for the occasion. We now live in a neighborhood with a moderate amount of kids, so we thought we'd buy a couple bags of candy, put out a pumpkin light and play it by ear. We really just didn't know what to expect. But can you blame us really. The last two halloweens we had no kids, not a one. Not that I blame them. The house we lived in was the suburbian equivalant of the Bates House. From the street, it cut quite an intimidating shadow so I can see why the 1.5 kids that actually trick-or-treated down our street chose not venture up our path. I think the other reason they chose not to venture up our path is that whatever amount of candy we might shell out was not worth the hour of cardio any kid would have to endure just to get said candy, the week of training at Mount Everest base camp just to get up the driveway only to find that there were stairs to be climbed. One year I think we just ended up renting a couple of Hitchkock movies and eating the candy we so dutifully bought. The next year I don't think we even did that.

So It's safe to say I didn't know what to expect this year. But after walking through one of the streets in our neighborhood and I saw a full sized replica of the front end of The Black Pearl complete with a giant squid and working gang plank, I realized that the gloves had come O-F-F as far as the holiday was concerned. I really wish I had taken a picture of that because, talk about disposable income. All the stops were pulled on that one. It got me a little excited for the holiday because if somebody in the neighborhood was willing to go that far, then the kids must be bringing it. And I must say, on the most part, they did. There was the standard mix of witches and ninjas and a few t0o many power rangers for my taste this year, but what do I know. My next door neighbors brought their eight-month old and let me tell you. The tiger costume? Cute! So cute I almost collapsed. Brilliant is what I'm saying. And the biblical horde of princesses and the fairies? So sweet I have a toothache people! I must say I enjoyed myself.

But you know who enjoyed himself most? The dog. A non-stop calvacade of strange people ringing the doorbell who have come to pet him? Yes Please. Not to mention that the dog hardly ever gets to bring out his "Big Assertive Bark of Protectiveness". The only time he ever uses it is when the doorbell rings and given that the doorbell rang approximately 57 times last night, he got to bust it out big time. I think by the end of the night, he had a smug little smile on his face, knowing he got to use the bark. He was a hit with the kids too. The bark usually gave them a jolt. He was our lame ass version of the trick part of the trick-or-treat. The really young ones were enamored with him. This fairie who was all of three years old thought Kissinger was just as big a present as the candy. I think she wanted to take him home and he probably would've gone. There was another kid who literally jumped for joy at his presence. "Doggie." he said, all big eyed. Cute people! I'm about to explode with the cute. I don't even need to go to Cute Overload today, and I always need my hammie fix!

The not so cute portion of the night? The junior high kids who weren't even trying. Black shirts and back packs. That was it. And they were loaded with candy ya'll. I'm talking those guys were filled to the brim. I asked one of them what he was going as, and holding up his little glow stick, he said "The Human Torch." I think it might be wrong to call a kid who's just hit the worst parts that puberty has to offer a douche, but I think I'm gonna do it anyway. Hey you, assy teenager, AKA the human torch, You sir are a douche. If you come to my stoop next year, you better bring your A Game or I'm not giving you any candy. And if you even think of egging our house, I'm going to sic my dog after you. Sure, that won't have any ill effect at all because he'll probaby end up going home with you and acting all buddy-buddy with you, but that's besides the point. You know that episode of Prison Break where Haywire runs from the mean barking dog and then ends up giving the dog some beef jerky and then befriends the dog? Yeah, that would be my dog right there. Not so bright that one. Unless you're a cat, or another animal that he can chase, attack or in any way pester, he's not really that malevolent. Actually, he's the exact opposite of malevolent. He's a big wuss actually. But anyway.

Also the not so cute portion of the night? Watching Silent Hill. I didn't hate it, in fact I might venture to say that I kinda liked it, but the ending left me all perplexed. I'd write full movie review but all I can manage is "Huh? What in that what? I..." because that's how I feel. I don't know anything about the videogame. I don't pretend to know anything about the videogame, so I'd like to know if movie followed the videogame story line decently well, up to and including the strange ending. Also, I gotta ask, what is with this guy suddenly showing up everywhere?
Last week's Prison Break he was happily chewing threw scenery right next to William Lichtner (which I somehow can't prove that was him right now, because Imdb happens to be leaving me high and dry right now), and now he's giving Sean Bean a run for his money, in both the scenery chewing department and the ubiquitous department, although I think Sean Bean still holds the belt for that one. Nobody bests Borimer, except for maybe a hobbit, but whatevs. (On a side note: Nobody told me Sean Bean was in Heroes! If I had known, I'd be watching it! Shame on all ya'll. O.k., O.k., I get that I have nobody to blame but myself, but seriously! Fine I'll wait til it comes out on DVD. Sigh.)

All and all, a satisfying Halloween. I had fun, I ate ice cream, watched a (somewhat) scary movie, had issues working our front door (SHUT! UP! FIGHTING NUN! I don't want to hear it. Leave me alone.), literally almost went into convulsions regarding the cuteness factor and ranted about douchey junior high kids not having costumes. Exactly my kind of Halloween.