Made-Up Band Name

I think this might be my favoritist made-up band name yet....

The Dummy Gladhands

This name brought to you courtesy of the semi I was following yesterday during my commute. The full sign I read might actually be the title of my auto-biography:

Caution: Use Dummy Gladhands When Airlines are Disconnected.

If you stop and think about it, that is really a metapho for my entire life. Nobody take my idea, or I will cut you.

Almost as good as a wife beaters t-shirt

As I know this is a sore point with BM I take pride is poking her in the stomach.

This chair, magnificent display of manhood is yours for the low price of 1299. If you order today you get pre-soaked beer stains for absolutely no cost! Make your hubby happy and spoil him, go on you know it goes with the decor of the house!

Dancing with the Stars

So, I haven't really watched this show ever before and I'm only watching it now out of mutual respect and adoration for Apolo Ohno and, scarily enough, Ian Ziering (Yes, I should know better!). I'll keep my thoughts brief but the one thing I have to say, and I feel utterly bad that this was my initial reaction, but Julianne's brother's hair? Jan Micheal Vincent called. He wants his hair from his Air Wolf days LEFT THERE. My god. Sorry, that's all I got.

Hott Fuzz, the actual review

Yeah, I liked it. I loved it actually. If someone could tell Simon Pegg and Nick Frost that I absolutely love them and would like to buy them a couple of rounds I'd really appreciate it. I don't love it as much as Shaun of the Dead, but I did like it. Not all of it works, but enough of it does. What works? The kicking grandma in the head part. That? Was awesome. Also cheesily awesome? THe Point Break send-up. That was hi-larious. Also. "It's alright, Andy! It's just bolognese!" That was awesome. Also, was Timothy Dalton having too much fun with that shit-eating grin or what?!Fighting Nun's rating for the movie was a 6. Mine was a 7 1/2 (out of ten). Given what I've said about our relative movie preferences, that should tell you all you need to know.

Two Word Movie Review: Hot Fuzz

Kick. Ass.

The Gnat

Last night, Fighting Nun and I had a discussion the likes of which no one has ever heard:

Bloody Munchkin: Fighting Nun, come here for a second.
Fighting Nun, sitting at computer, sullenly: Why?
Bloody Munchkin, somewhat anxiously: Because I need you to check my eye for a gnat?
Fighting Nun: You need me to check your eye for a what?
Bloody Munchkin, more exacerbated: While I was walking the dog, a gnat dive-bombed my eye and now I have gnat body parts commingling with my eyeball juice.
Fighting Nun: Heh.
Bloody Munchkin: Would you stop laughing and look AT MY EYE for a GNAT body.

Moments later:

Fighting Nun: Yep. There's a gnat carcass in your eyeball alright, go upstairs and flush it out.
Bloody Munchkin: O.k.
Fighting Nun: Oh and Bloody Munchkin?
Bloody Munchkin: Yeah?
Fighting Nun: Try not to get any more gnats in your eye on the way up there (Insert an eight-year-old's chuckle here).
Bloody Munchkin, with anger rising: Grrrrr.

Not a conversation someone has everyday, I'm guessing. Also, not one I ever want to have again. So yeah, I had a gnat carcass tucked in between my eyeball and my lower eyelid for the better part of fifteen minutes last night. The ten minutes or so it took to flush out the little body? Apparently that was enough time for Fighting Nun to put together a whole ream of jokes about said incident in his head. From that point on it became "Try not to get any more gnats stuck In Your Eye." and "Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzzzz. Blink." Gee thanks. So helpful. Remind me to write that on your gravestone.

You know who I feel the worst for in this little anecdote, well besides me, the gnat-in-the-eye recipient? The gnat. Poor little Garry McGnatersons, just flying around, minding his own business, signalling to make a right hand turn with his teeny-tiny appendages-as-turn-signals, when all the sudden his being squished between an eyeball and lower lid. I mean, out of the many ways a creature can die, getting one's self sandwiched in between an eyeball and an eyelid is not a way Mother Earth intended for her creatures to go I'm guessing. You think Mr. McGnaterson had an interesting conversation with the Gnat version of St. Peter (who I shall lovingly call St. Gnatter from here on in)?Picture it, he got to little gnat heaven and St. Gnatter was all "And how'd you die?" and poor Mr. McGnaterson looked down at the cloud floor and was all like "I accidently divebombed myself into a human's eye." and St. Gnatter, and all the other gnats who had died by being froggy food start snickering. And then poor Mr. McGnaterson would have to explain before the heavenly gnat gates that as his little gnat soul left his little gnat body, he watched me wash his carcass down the faucet and down the drain. *Sniff*. Man, if I'd only known how much this would effect me, I would have given the McGnaterson a proper send off. I didn't realize how much I'd get involved until now.

And now I've snapped myself out of it because.... I had a GNAT! In my EYE!!!! And more fodder for Fighting Nun to MAKE FUN OF ME!!! Like he needed any!!! I'm not sure what my point was with this diatribe other than... I HAD A GNAT!!! IN MY EYE!!!

Made-Up Band Name

This weeks newest submission?

The Battlescones

Yet another band that could be The Aquabats' proxy. Just sayin'.

Hair

Ready for another rant which happens to be pretty inane, comprised of nothing and tends to make no sense have no definitive conclusion whatsoever? Well too bad. You're getting one anyway. Today's rant is brought to you by my hair, which happens to hate me. I just happen to have the sense enough to hate it back.

I have issues with my hair. Actually, I think my hair has issues with me, deep-seated issues that not even couples therapy can solve. And I know where it started too. It's my mother's fault really (Hi Mom! It's really not. You didn't over crisp my hair and burn my ear that time. That was all a bad dream. Really! I don't need any guilt trips! Really). For whatever reason, my mother had no actual experience with managing and taming a child's hair, so up to the age of eleven or so it ran wild, like a feral cat (and probably looked much the same). At about that time, I committed the heinous act of forcing the spiked mullet on my hair. My hair stopped talking to me after that. After committing further atrocities against my hair, totaling three perms and a shag hair cut, during my mispent youth, it's pretty much declared all out war. I can't say I blame it much.

But we've tried to come to terms with each other, not an all out truce mind you, but a cease-fire. I provide it with frequent brushings, frequent washings, and decent enough stylings, and it repays me by trying to keep the tangling to a minimum. I take it to see Sabrina every 10 weeks (which it LOVES! I don't know if Sabrina lulls it, or beats it into submission or subconciously bonds with it. but it does fabulous things for her that it would snarl at doing for me. I swear, the last time I went in for a cut and a style, I head it purring. Scout's Honor.). If it doesn't hate me too much in a given month, I don't threaten it with 'The Sinead' (It knows I'll never do that and I know I'll never do that, but it's a last resort tactic). I don't force it into any ridculous coifs and it has provided me with three modes at which it comfortably agrees to. These are the terms of our cease-fire.

But I'm finding the three modes a little less agreeable as of late. I don't know if it's because my hair is getting longer and therefore less willing to agree to said modes or if I'm finally no longer under the dillusion that said modes are 'stylish', 'retro' or otherwise. Maybe It would help if I explained my hair's three modes:

1. The Nerdy, Yet Sexy, Librarian - This happens to be the one and only up do I can manage comfortably. It's either a messy bun in a pony tail or my hair bursting out of a hair clip in a cascade. Either way, picture something that you can comfortably stick a pencil in. It has things to recommend it, like the fact that I think it plants a seed in Fighting Nun's head that I could throw the clip off and start twirling my hair around like I was rejected for the lead in the Hot for Teacher video, which makes him just a little panty and drooly. Make of that what you will.

The issue with that do now is that my hair is getting long, and I'm keeping it in the bi-layer cut, and so the hair in the front comes out of the clip or ponytail and just kind of lingers there on the sides of my face, being a general nuissance. It's less Hot For Teacher and more frazzled school marm, which blech. Fighting Nun kinda likes the messy hair coming out of the bun, but it kinda drives me nuts. Operative word: Kinda.

2. The Molly Ringwald AKA The Claire - This is what I call my hair when I blow dry it. OK, I actually don't have the cut or the color for my hair to officially look like Molly Ringwald's in the Breakfast Club, which, as far as I'm concerned, is a good thing, because if I had those bangs, I'd kick my own ass. But when my hair is straight and down, my hair tries to emulate that frizzy, yet at the same time feathery look Molly had going on in the movie. I'm not sure why. Maybe I watched Breakfast Club too many times during my formative years (and/or now) and it just figures that it happens to be what I'm going for.

Now that it's getting longer, it's sadly decided that it's less Molly and more Ally Sheady, which I absolutely have no idea how to compute. If I wanted to look like a frizzy wierdo with a lieing compulsion who likes to use her dandruff as art, I'd make that happen on my own. Thanks but no thanks.

3. The Charlie's Angels AKA The Farah - So lately I've been taking showers at night and letting my hair air dry while I sleep. When I wake up, my hair has taken on the whole feral cat thing I mentioned earlier, which is less of a look and more of a monstrosity. I've got too much to do in the morning, so I can't rewet it, hair-dry it and create The Molly, so I resort to the third option, which is to work with my hair's natural kinda-curly, kinda-wavy, kinda-kinky, kinda-all-over-the-place tendancy. So I curl it. Instead of curling it under, because my hair HATES anything coming close to the Dorthy Hammill look and FIGHTS IT (The cease fire would be O-F-F and the battle would be O-N), I curl it in ringlet's. Not Shirley Templet ringlets mind you. I'm actually trying for Sheryl Crowe ringlets circa her Tuesday Night Music Club days, but I've since given up any and all dreams of ever coming close to that look and now just hope for the best. The resulting do is what can best be described as The Charlies Angels look. It's bouncy and enjoys the occasional head toss side to side as much as I enjoy doing the tossing (That? Sounded horrible. I apologize.), and I occassionaly do the whole lunge-profile thing while making a finger-gun like the Charlie's Angels' logo, just for fun. But by the end of the day, the hair has realized it can't keep the curl up, although it kind of holds onto it the best it can. So it tosses the very ends out all Ehn and the resulting look is a messy Farah Fawcett.

The sucky thing about this look that I'm only realizing now? It's becoming less Farah and more Kelly Wearstler. I know, right? Who in their right mind whould knowingly do THAT to themselves, and yet I've apparantly been doing it. I realize that It's partially my fault. Look I know that if you're going to go ringlets, you have to go all the way with it and curl all your hair. I get that. And I realize it's lazy that I only curl the top layer and so the bottom layer looks frizzy in context. Not a corner I should be cutting. I get that. I especially get that now that I looked in the mirror and saw The Wearstler staring back at me. The Bozo-The-Clown-Bride of Frankenstien Hybrid is doing nobody any favors, especially me. I'm learning from my mistakes.

I couldn't have lost my male readership (as if I had any, heh.) any harder if I'd tried, could I? Even Fighting Nun tuned out paragraphs ago all "Oh Gawd, she's talking about her hair again. I'm Doug and I'm out of here." What's the point you ask? You should know better than to ask that question, becuase the question, much like this diatribe is pointless and fruitless, much like any attempts to work on a treaty with my hair. Just so you know.

Dear Unsightly Chin Hair;

Stop it. It's not funny. I mean seriously. Quit it. From now to eternity. Just stop it. Yes, I realize somewhere along the way I often mused about how awesome my dad's salt and pepper facial hair was growing up, but just cause I offered up such a musing does not mean I want said facial hair on my face!!! I'm a girl damn it! I like girlie things! Sure I realize I have the same genetic predisposition as my father for John Wayne movies and eating foods that can best be considered as "experimental" ('Peanut Butter, Cheese and Mayonnaise sandwiches anyone?" "Sure Dad, I'll have one."). I enjoy those traits. I also inherited his traits of talking loudly, asking everyone to repeat what they were saying, and the tendency to rattle off inane anecdotes when the situation may or may not call for it. I don't enjoy those traits, but I put up with them, as do the people around me (*cough Fighting Nun cough*). The genetic trait I hate??? Having my father's more stubborn mustache hair suddenly appear on my chin and on my lip. Why??? Dear God Why?!?! If I wanted to go all mountain man I'd have done it by now. I don't need my follicles to help with something I do not want!

So chin hairs, I'm begging you. I'm pleading with you. Please for the love of God stop feeling all pin prickly, stop showing how black and stick-outy you are in comparison to the rest of my face and please, please, please stop growing entirely. Your presence in my life is starting to freak me out.

Peace Out;

BM

Two Word Movie Review: Grindhouse

Awesome! Trejo!

(O.k., technically I get that Trejo wasn't in the movie and was in the movie trailer itself (a movie I want to see badly mind you. Machete!!! Awesome!!!!), but Trejo is so freaking awesome that I had to comment, so therefore my movie review is a redundancy, but still. And to be honest, I was pretty buzzed before we went to the movie. Thank you ever so much Chevy's margaritas. Also a contributing factor? Pyramid's Apricot Ale. So I don't really have anything of substance to say about the movie, other than, surprisingly Kurt Russel's hair actually eclipsed Josh Brolin's on the having a life of it's own factor. And Freddy Rodriguez? Totally awesome. "I never miss." Ha!!!

If you want an actual movie review, go directly to the reel fanatic's blog. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars. My inebriated recollections probably won't cut it. Just saying.

I'm Sorry Fighting Nun...

...Haley got voted off American Idol last night. Your reason for watching American Idol has ceased to exist. No more hot-pants ogling for you! Sorry.

Snarking the Trailer: Disturbia

Alternate Title for this post: An Open Letter to Shia LaBeouf

Dear Shia;

I like you. You really seem like a decent kid. You've balanced your c.v. with decent box office fluff and fun art-house things. I liked you a lot in Constantine, although I'm not totally sure I understood your character or his purpose all that much. And as much as I am loathe to admit this, I even liked you in Holes. You seem like a pretty decent kid with a good head on your shoulders, which is why I have to question your motivations for making a movie like Disturbia. You realize that the trailer for this movie makes it look like you're in a schlocked up version of Rear Window don't you? I gotta say, kid, you're no Jimmy Stewart. What do you do for an encore, remake It's a Wonderful Life?

Listen, I'm totally willing to forgive and forget if the Transformers Movie totally kicks butt, which, based on the trailer, it just might. But please note that based on all the hype and stuff I've read, my expectations are exceptionally low on that one. I'm gonna reserve all judgements until I see the movie though. But that's besides the point. The point is... Disturbia? Shame on you. Go sit in a corner and think about what you've done!

Peace Out;

The Bloody Munchkin

P.S. Would you please tell David Morse pretty much the same thing I told you, but insert a line about how the guy is legend in my mind not only for St. Elsewhere, but also for Contact and for just generally for radness and that he can do so much better. Thanks.

Made-Up Band Names

The Monster Burritos of Doom

Because, if doom is gonna reign down on us, I'd like said doom to be brought upon us by monster burritos. Am I the only one who thinks this band could be the next Aquabats, wearing giant burrito costumes and singing songs like "Chewy Housecats of the Sea" and being generally rad???

Thanks to "Mia", my co-worker, for the awesome band name.

Snarking the Movie: Gleaming the Cube

Remember when I said that when it comes to movies, where Fighting Nun sees schlocky and tacky I see awesome? Well no where is that more evident than when we watched Gleaming the Cube together this weekend. Fighting Nun couldn't suspend his disbelief for a second where as my suspension of disbelief was still hung up on Al Lucero's hair. Steven Bauer might be the first actor to have ever uttered "I know what I'm supposed to be doing in this scene, but what is my hair supposed to be doing in this scene? Also, my chest hair forgot its lines." I swear, if Steven Bauer had been less busy getting his hair to emote and more busy actually, you know, acting instead of scenery chewing, this movie would've been alot different. At the last scene Fighting Nun and I were all MST3K'ing the ending solely based on the fact that Bauer's hair had a better on-screen presence than he did. And when Christian Slater's squinty-eyed nasally thing is a more nuanced performance than your "Look at me and my manly hairy chest" thing, you need to hand over your SAG card post-haste.

And it's not that I don't get the whole squinty Christian Slater thing, because I do, well I did. Part of the reason I still sit through the crapulesence of Gleaming the Cube is nostalgia for those bygone days before Christian pulled a Tyson on his girlfriends ear. Well that and the Perlick (Yabo!!!). Oh, and Tony Hawk's hair. Tony Hawk's hair is worth the price of admission, plus some. I mean, the hair plus the visor. Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you the ninth wonder of the world.

So, yes the movie, but awesomely bad, in that way in which most eighties movies were awesomely bad. But it's at its best as snark material, as drinking game material. Every time they make the blue screen blatantly obvious, drink. Every time Christian Slater does the squinty thing, drink. Every time Steven Bauer tried to put his chest hair into the lime light, drink. If you don't find the utter hi-larity, the sheer tackiness of it all, you'll cry, or try to wipe it from your memory as much as possible. Like Fighting Nun.