So this is a public service announcement, one that I wish the old me from five years ago would read and would say "Wow, that is? Awesome. I am so glad I know about this now." Because knowing that Ninja Warrior existed back then or even knowing back then that it exists now would have brought me five years of joy and lemony freshness, well maybe not lemony freshness, but definately joy.
Ninja Warrior? Is awesome. Teeming with Awesomeness. So-bummed-I-didn't-know-anything-about-it-til-now Awesomeness. To which I have to ask? Why didn't somebody tell me about this before? Somebody's dropping the ball again! Geez. I had to hear about it through a co-worker. Apparantly his adolescent boys love the show, which probably says something bad about my apparant choice in TV shows, but I don't fully understand what that is. Anyhoo. Ninja Warrior. It should be surprising to absolutely no one that I would like this show. Hello! Final-Fu! Duh! Ninja Warrior has so many things to reccomend it: Tasks that could be potentially embarrassing. The possibility for (non-serious) injury. Dominatrix Transvestites. It is absolutely perfect.
The thing that I like most about it though is that it takes itself way too seriously which means I can not take it seriously at all. Let me explain by using another show not unlike this one; MXC. For those of you not in the know regarding MXC, it's a show involving a lot of falling, tripping, running in to things and other means of torturing its contestants, all while some cheesy voice recaps every torturous fall, spill, impaling, and slip. Every part of that show, from the contests, to the hilarious over-dubbing to the replays are done to schlocky effect. Now I appreciate a good unintentional belly flop and/or groin pull as much as the next person, but with MXC there comes a point where it's all "Yeah. O.k. I get the joke. Ha Ha."
But Ninja Warrior? Does just the opposite of this. Every part of it is designed to show you how serious it is, from the over-serious contestants ("I will avenge my brother." Like What? Dude it's an obstacle course. He didn't die, he wasn't maimed. There is nothing to avenge.), to the obstacle course they have to complete (The WARPED Wall! Oooooh! Quaking in my boots), to the fact that it is a timed run (which, what?) to the Japanese Announcer guy they decided to subtitle instead of overdubbing (which has its own awesome appeal, because the Japanese announcer guy sounds all crazed and overzealous, but then the English translation of what he's saying is so mundane, and I stop reading the subtitles because they don't matter anyway and then I start thinking that this announcer dude and the announcer guy who does all the play-by-plays for soccer, you know the guy with the long drawn out "Gooooooooooooollllll" call, should have their own reality show), to the American Announcer used to recap the action (using his best Mr. Moviephone voice). Because this show. Is. So. Serious I have spent a good chunk of the time doubled over in laughter. I mean first off "The Avenge My Brother" guy. Take it easy on the righteous anger dude, geez. Then there was the aforementioned transvestite dominatrix in all her vinyl glory who ended up biffing it on the WARPED Wall of doom, because, let's face it, Fluevog clogs? Not what you should be running an obstacle course in, no matter how well they match your outfit. And to top it all off, they keep panning to shots of the crowd, looking all shocked and dismayed that somebody didn't complete the course. You hear them cheering, and then the guy, or you know, transvestite doesn't complete the course or falls dramatically and then you see the crowd all crestfallen, everyone wearing long faces. It is awesome. And to top that all off, you have the Mr. Moviephone guy giving a recap of the action and how upset everyone is that he didn't make it. It's cheesetastic and the great thing is that it doesn't know its cheesetastic so it ends up being even better!
And then, and then and then??? You have Women of Ninja Warrior. So apparantly they created an obstacle course more suited to test the strengths and weaknesses of women, which what? But I am telling you, Awesome!!! I have to say I appreciate any woman who decides to wear any of the following to an obstacle course; a skirt, a school uniform, repleat with knee socks and pleated plaid skirt (which Fighting Nun was very amused by to say the least), a field hockey uniform, a soccer goalie uniform, a postal worker's uniform, and a cosplay outfit, to which I have to ask; Did you really think you could run an obstacle course in a tutu and fairy wings, plus the wand, because let's not forget the wand? I mean talk about forethought. (The Cosplay chick, in case you were wondering, almost smacked her head into the camera stand in a spectacular splash down. Guess her wand couldn't save her.) And there was the woman who decided to run the course, said obstacle course being on top of a small body of water, who couldn't swim. Genius. Pure and utter genius. Because there are few things more rewarding than to see a woman biff a task and then flail in water for a good thirty seconds, until somebody rescues her and gets her to stand in the water. Perfect.
Did I mention I love this show? Because I love this show. I apparantly love this show so much that my brainwaves permeated Fighting Nun's thinking and he set it up on the season pass on our DVR. There might be a few things better than having all this cheesetasticness at your beck and call but I don't know what they are at this exact moment.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
Monday, June 04, 2007
Adventures in iPod-Land
There's several things in my life in which I know are true, but I have a stubborn insistence to believe aren't true. Maybe it upsets my sense of fairness for instance (I'm looking at you ending of Suicide Kings, which I had to rewrite in my head. Not only did I have to put up with Dennis Leary Dennis Learying for a good 50 minutes, but I also had to deal with Christopher *Shudder* Walken, who was at the apex of his skeevocity right here. Between this movie, True Romance, and Last Man Standing he had really honed in his talent for skeeving me the heck out.), or maybe I just enjoy living in the fantasy world in my head so much that when I find out that said thing is different, I cling desperately to how I had it in my head. Yes I know. Very immature in that "La La La. Can't Hear You." kind of way. I should grow up and accept that certain things are how they are. But I can't. In fact, I kind of like that motto the dude from Mythbusters came up with. Something like "I reject your reality and create my own." I mean exactly.
Nowhere has my stubborn insistence been tested than with my new iPod. Yes I'm finally up to speed with the rest of the free world, what with fiiiiiiinally getting an iPod (Thanks Fighting Nun, for the awesome anniversary gift, socks included). I had been cleaving to my old MP3 player that I had received somewhere during Bush's first term in office (from Fighting Nun as well). As archaic as it had become, I still loved it implicitly. But what started out as a wonderful symbiotic relationship had deteriorated into the type of relationship you might have with your elderly grandfather. You talk to it in nice soothing tones as you listen to it complain incessantly. With my old MP3 player, I witnessed something I didn't know was even possible: a death rattle in increments. It didn't die dramatically all at once. Instead it kept puttering along, parts of it inoperable, it and I still cleaving to the parts of its memory that still worked. It was and is quite sad really, like trying to keep an old dog alive even though you know its time to say goodbye and he'd really be better off going to that big dog park or in this case MP3 player heaven in the sky. But I can't bare to do that to my MP3 player. Even though it's been replaced, I still have it hidden away in drawer somewhere, willing it to get better. We shared so many good memories together.
And it's because of those memories that I have a stubborn insistence that the iPod should work in much the same manner as my old MP3 player or, more to the point better. I was utterly happy to find out I could create a play list through the iPod, (which I couldn't do easily on my old player, but whatevs). But I have a very honed routine within which to hone my play lists that my MP3 player (through my computer) was more than willing to comply with. My process started with me scouring my music files and then throwing them up on a player (Winamp preferably) and seeing what stuck. Then I would begin the detailed process of listening and rearranging songs until I had a finally tuned play list of my choosing, which fit my mood, or a long list of moods. It was the perfect arrangement. (I have been able to get from Bloodhound Gang to Nick Drake in less than six songs. This makes me happy.) But the iPod itself? Doesn't let me do it that way. Listen, before you open outlook all bitter with sentiments of "Hey rookie...", trust me, I get that I can do such an arrangement on iTunes, or whatever the software is that comes with the iPod and I can still cull my play list anyway I want. I get that, but I also get that the IT Nazis here at work won't let me install that, so I'm pretty much stuck doing that at home. I want to be able to do it from the iPod though. I mean there's got to be a way right??? I throw a bunch of things in the On-the-go list and I should be able to move in any way shape or form once its up there, right? Right??? No?!? Why not??? Oh I get it, because it would make TOO MUCH SENSE!!! No, I'm rejecting this reality and creating my own. There has to be some button combination I can use to move the songs freely in the play list. I demand, it should supply!!!
I'm also insistent that the iPod, who I have lovingly named Itch (see because I got it on my seventh anniversary, which is consequently the anniversary in which you buy wool apparently, which is fitting because, you know, seven year itch and everything? Not funny?!? Whatevs. I reject your reality and create my own. That is hi-larious.), should obey what I'm thinking and not the key combination I press. Part of my brain is holding onto the notion that my iPod should predict what it is I want it to do. "No I didn't want to scroll past the P section. I wanted to stop at the P section. Don't obey the fingers Itch. Obey the brainwaves." (I might be stuck on its obedience and compliance with my every whim because I just got the box set of all the seasons of Invader Zim, which was my anniversary present to Fighting Nun, and have consequently been ordering things around way too much, amid bouts of singing the doom song and telling Fighting Nun, the dog and various inanimate objects that I need the tacos or I will explode.)
Oh, and the thing that has me the most mad? Apparently Itch and Fighting Nun did some communing before he gave it to me, because every time I use shuffle when playing all the albums, it gets stuck on things Fighting Nun really likes, like Rush followed by Yes followed by Queensryche, followed by Kings X. followed by System of a Down. What about what I like? Where's Garbage, Ladytron? Heck where's Peaches? Huh, Huh, Huh??? Which is why I tried culling a play list on it, which blah-blah-vicious-cycle cakes.
Don't get me wrong. I love Itch. I do. The Itch is all video and Fighting Nun lovingly put in some of my favorite movie moments. Like I now have the Truffle Shuffle at my beck and call, which is awesome because there have been several moments in my life in which I have either thought or uttered aloud "You know what could make this better? The Truffle Shuffle." Or, "I'm so bummed. If only I had the Truffle Shuffle, I could feel better." And now that I have the opportunity to either improve or enhance my day by watching the Truffle Shuffle whenever I want? Well, I won't say my life is complete, I mean I still need to see the Pyramids and the other eight wonders in order to say that, maybe, but I'm pretty damn close. I'm just.... so.... fulfilled. For that alone, Itch is a bringer of mirth and joy. All I ask is that Itch Obey Me!!!!!
Nowhere has my stubborn insistence been tested than with my new iPod. Yes I'm finally up to speed with the rest of the free world, what with fiiiiiiinally getting an iPod (Thanks Fighting Nun, for the awesome anniversary gift, socks included). I had been cleaving to my old MP3 player that I had received somewhere during Bush's first term in office (from Fighting Nun as well). As archaic as it had become, I still loved it implicitly. But what started out as a wonderful symbiotic relationship had deteriorated into the type of relationship you might have with your elderly grandfather. You talk to it in nice soothing tones as you listen to it complain incessantly. With my old MP3 player, I witnessed something I didn't know was even possible: a death rattle in increments. It didn't die dramatically all at once. Instead it kept puttering along, parts of it inoperable, it and I still cleaving to the parts of its memory that still worked. It was and is quite sad really, like trying to keep an old dog alive even though you know its time to say goodbye and he'd really be better off going to that big dog park or in this case MP3 player heaven in the sky. But I can't bare to do that to my MP3 player. Even though it's been replaced, I still have it hidden away in drawer somewhere, willing it to get better. We shared so many good memories together.
And it's because of those memories that I have a stubborn insistence that the iPod should work in much the same manner as my old MP3 player or, more to the point better. I was utterly happy to find out I could create a play list through the iPod, (which I couldn't do easily on my old player, but whatevs). But I have a very honed routine within which to hone my play lists that my MP3 player (through my computer) was more than willing to comply with. My process started with me scouring my music files and then throwing them up on a player (Winamp preferably) and seeing what stuck. Then I would begin the detailed process of listening and rearranging songs until I had a finally tuned play list of my choosing, which fit my mood, or a long list of moods. It was the perfect arrangement. (I have been able to get from Bloodhound Gang to Nick Drake in less than six songs. This makes me happy.) But the iPod itself? Doesn't let me do it that way. Listen, before you open outlook all bitter with sentiments of "Hey rookie...", trust me, I get that I can do such an arrangement on iTunes, or whatever the software is that comes with the iPod and I can still cull my play list anyway I want. I get that, but I also get that the IT Nazis here at work won't let me install that, so I'm pretty much stuck doing that at home. I want to be able to do it from the iPod though. I mean there's got to be a way right??? I throw a bunch of things in the On-the-go list and I should be able to move in any way shape or form once its up there, right? Right??? No?!? Why not??? Oh I get it, because it would make TOO MUCH SENSE!!! No, I'm rejecting this reality and creating my own. There has to be some button combination I can use to move the songs freely in the play list. I demand, it should supply!!!
I'm also insistent that the iPod, who I have lovingly named Itch (see because I got it on my seventh anniversary, which is consequently the anniversary in which you buy wool apparently, which is fitting because, you know, seven year itch and everything? Not funny?!? Whatevs. I reject your reality and create my own. That is hi-larious.), should obey what I'm thinking and not the key combination I press. Part of my brain is holding onto the notion that my iPod should predict what it is I want it to do. "No I didn't want to scroll past the P section. I wanted to stop at the P section. Don't obey the fingers Itch. Obey the brainwaves." (I might be stuck on its obedience and compliance with my every whim because I just got the box set of all the seasons of Invader Zim, which was my anniversary present to Fighting Nun, and have consequently been ordering things around way too much, amid bouts of singing the doom song and telling Fighting Nun, the dog and various inanimate objects that I need the tacos or I will explode.)
Oh, and the thing that has me the most mad? Apparently Itch and Fighting Nun did some communing before he gave it to me, because every time I use shuffle when playing all the albums, it gets stuck on things Fighting Nun really likes, like Rush followed by Yes followed by Queensryche, followed by Kings X. followed by System of a Down. What about what I like? Where's Garbage, Ladytron? Heck where's Peaches? Huh, Huh, Huh??? Which is why I tried culling a play list on it, which blah-blah-vicious-cycle cakes.
Don't get me wrong. I love Itch. I do. The Itch is all video and Fighting Nun lovingly put in some of my favorite movie moments. Like I now have the Truffle Shuffle at my beck and call, which is awesome because there have been several moments in my life in which I have either thought or uttered aloud "You know what could make this better? The Truffle Shuffle." Or, "I'm so bummed. If only I had the Truffle Shuffle, I could feel better." And now that I have the opportunity to either improve or enhance my day by watching the Truffle Shuffle whenever I want? Well, I won't say my life is complete, I mean I still need to see the Pyramids and the other eight wonders in order to say that, maybe, but I'm pretty damn close. I'm just.... so.... fulfilled. For that alone, Itch is a bringer of mirth and joy. All I ask is that Itch Obey Me!!!!!
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
What I did last week
Hamvention. Ham. Vention. A Convention. For Ham Radio Operators. I'll wait a moment for that to sink in. Go ahead, let the thought of me going to a convention like that wash all over you. Done? O.k., we'll move on so that I may let you revel in my adventures at the Hamvention. Enjoy my little recap and rejoice in the fact that you didn't have to be there.
The three days spent at Hamvention went something like this: Song and dance, pony show, song and dance, pony show. "So what is the legal number of radios you can have strapped to your backpack anyway?" "I believe it's five." "Interesting." Song and Dance, Song and Dance. Marvelled at the parade of off-kilter humanity that stands before you. Recited my theory that everyone I've met so far is a variation on various people in my life; my high school science teacher, curmudgenly great-uncle, uncle, other uncle, father, that cool professor in college that Fighting Nun and I ended up drinking and talking about theoretical physics with, my ex-boyfriend, the comic-book guy on The Simpsons and a whole smattering of other people I've known. Uttered said theory to guys working booth. Got hit on by a seventy-five year old man who looks not unlike my grandfather (God rest his soul). HaD him lay it on thick for a good fifteen minutes. Felt thoroughly skeeved out by it. Threw previous theory out. Went to Lunch. Saw the Haagan Das counter and the Haagan Das guy. Swore off ice cream for the trip. Dog and Pony show. "Oh my God, that guy has on a Schroedinger's Cat T-shirt. That man is awesome." "Schrodinger's What?" "I... Well you see... You know what, too hard to explain. Let's just say I spent a leeeeetle too much time with Fighting Nun's Physics buddies back in college and leave it at that?" Song and Dance. Saw some amusing hats involving antennas and helmets. Marvelled at them. Pony Show, pony show pony show. Finished the show, ate, went back to the hotel, tried to explain my glee at the Schrodinger's Cat T-shirt to Fighting Nun only to be left out to dry. Slept.
Woke up to do the whole pony show over again. Pony Show, song and dance. Skeevy old dude. Again. Got skeeved out, again. Walked around rest of trade show. Pony Show. Took a lunch and inadvertantly stumbled upon the second coolest thing that day. Middle-aged Tron. That's right. Middle-aged Tron. He looked like the guy in Office Space who gets canned and then tries to kill himself and ends up in a bad car-wreck but also makes his jump-to-conclusions mat in all his mustache-twitching glory but in a Tron suit. And he didn't bail out either. Most guys in his position would've at least felt somewhat shamed by this display but he went full fledged into it, arms akimbo, smug smile. In the immortal works of Eddie in Empire Records "Well outlaw man. We salute you." Took a picture of Middle-Aged Tron with camera phone and pressed Store button, or thought I pressed store button. Got lunch. Ate Lunch. Discovered THE COOLEST thing that day. Cheesecake. On a stick. A slice of cheesecake, pie crust and all. Dipped (DIPPED!) in chocolate and frozen!!! The person who came up with that might soon find a marriage proposal addressed from me in the mail, just as soon as I figure out who he or she is. Now, before anybody gets indignant or upset that I'd leave Fighting Nun for someone who makes chocolate dipped cheesecake (ON A STICK!!!), know that I would never leave Fighting Nun for a desert-wielding person or persons. There would just be an arrangement see? An open arrangement where I am still with Fighting Nun but the cheesecake-on-a-stick person provides me with all the cheesecake (on a stick!) that I can manage. Although I'm not sure Fighting Nun would be happy with the arrangement, I'm sure we could come up with a compromise. Song and dance, pony show. Reveledl in the simulatneous glory if the delicious aftermath of the Cheesecake (ON A STICK!) and having seen the middle-aged Tron guy. Openned my cell phone to procur picture of middle-aged Tron to show to fellow pony show workers. Looked at cellphone incredulously when that the picture was not (WAS NOT) there. Went through the five stages of grief regarding not having a picture of middle-aged Tron. Recieved no comfort whatsoever from the fact that you can google middle-aged Tron on the internet. "It's not the same." Went back to booth and realize middle-aged Tron was gone!!! Pouted. Finished Dog and Pony show for the day. Ate with sales guys. Listened to them argue about The Sopranos for all of dinner. Went back to hotel, watched the end of The Sixth Sense and cried big buckets at that scene with Tony Collette. Don't have any good excuse for it either. Slept.
The three days spent at Hamvention went something like this: Song and dance, pony show, song and dance, pony show. "So what is the legal number of radios you can have strapped to your backpack anyway?" "I believe it's five." "Interesting." Song and Dance, Song and Dance. Marvelled at the parade of off-kilter humanity that stands before you. Recited my theory that everyone I've met so far is a variation on various people in my life; my high school science teacher, curmudgenly great-uncle, uncle, other uncle, father, that cool professor in college that Fighting Nun and I ended up drinking and talking about theoretical physics with, my ex-boyfriend, the comic-book guy on The Simpsons and a whole smattering of other people I've known. Uttered said theory to guys working booth. Got hit on by a seventy-five year old man who looks not unlike my grandfather (God rest his soul). HaD him lay it on thick for a good fifteen minutes. Felt thoroughly skeeved out by it. Threw previous theory out. Went to Lunch. Saw the Haagan Das counter and the Haagan Das guy. Swore off ice cream for the trip. Dog and Pony show. "Oh my God, that guy has on a Schroedinger's Cat T-shirt. That man is awesome." "Schrodinger's What?" "I... Well you see... You know what, too hard to explain. Let's just say I spent a leeeeetle too much time with Fighting Nun's Physics buddies back in college and leave it at that?" Song and Dance. Saw some amusing hats involving antennas and helmets. Marvelled at them. Pony Show, pony show pony show. Finished the show, ate, went back to the hotel, tried to explain my glee at the Schrodinger's Cat T-shirt to Fighting Nun only to be left out to dry. Slept.
Woke up to do the whole pony show over again. Pony Show, song and dance. Skeevy old dude. Again. Got skeeved out, again. Walked around rest of trade show. Pony Show. Took a lunch and inadvertantly stumbled upon the second coolest thing that day. Middle-aged Tron. That's right. Middle-aged Tron. He looked like the guy in Office Space who gets canned and then tries to kill himself and ends up in a bad car-wreck but also makes his jump-to-conclusions mat in all his mustache-twitching glory but in a Tron suit. And he didn't bail out either. Most guys in his position would've at least felt somewhat shamed by this display but he went full fledged into it, arms akimbo, smug smile. In the immortal works of Eddie in Empire Records "Well outlaw man. We salute you." Took a picture of Middle-Aged Tron with camera phone and pressed Store button, or thought I pressed store button. Got lunch. Ate Lunch. Discovered THE COOLEST thing that day. Cheesecake. On a stick. A slice of cheesecake, pie crust and all. Dipped (DIPPED!) in chocolate and frozen!!! The person who came up with that might soon find a marriage proposal addressed from me in the mail, just as soon as I figure out who he or she is. Now, before anybody gets indignant or upset that I'd leave Fighting Nun for someone who makes chocolate dipped cheesecake (ON A STICK!!!), know that I would never leave Fighting Nun for a desert-wielding person or persons. There would just be an arrangement see? An open arrangement where I am still with Fighting Nun but the cheesecake-on-a-stick person provides me with all the cheesecake (on a stick!) that I can manage. Although I'm not sure Fighting Nun would be happy with the arrangement, I'm sure we could come up with a compromise. Song and dance, pony show. Reveledl in the simulatneous glory if the delicious aftermath of the Cheesecake (ON A STICK!) and having seen the middle-aged Tron guy. Openned my cell phone to procur picture of middle-aged Tron to show to fellow pony show workers. Looked at cellphone incredulously when that the picture was not (WAS NOT) there. Went through the five stages of grief regarding not having a picture of middle-aged Tron. Recieved no comfort whatsoever from the fact that you can google middle-aged Tron on the internet. "It's not the same." Went back to booth and realize middle-aged Tron was gone!!! Pouted. Finished Dog and Pony show for the day. Ate with sales guys. Listened to them argue about The Sopranos for all of dinner. Went back to hotel, watched the end of The Sixth Sense and cried big buckets at that scene with Tony Collette. Don't have any good excuse for it either. Slept.
Woke up for one more day of the Dog and Pony show. Listened as the sales guys come up with an estimate as to how much I was worth. To wit, found out that my presence at said show brought in approximately $3,000 more than if I'd stayed home. Muttered under breath that I should've sandbagged it because this means I'll have to go back next year. Despite my better judgement, went back to the cheesecake on a stick guy, only to realize he was all sold out of cheesecake (On a stick!) and experienced the five stages of grief regarding the loss of said cheesecake (on a stick!), tried to convince myself that I'd be better off without said cheesecake (on a stick!) but whimpered because I knew it is untrue. Cheesecake makes all things better. Considered begging and pleading but thought better of it and took in the rest of the tradeshow. Considered, however fleetingly, of buying a three-hundred-dollar ladder. Had inner monologue about said ladder, to wit "You know, Fighting Nun said we need one and our anniversary is coming up...." "You'd actually buy your husband a ladder for your anniversary? Are you out of your mind????" "But if I buy it today, I can get the workbench and autoleveler thrown in. For Free!" "You disgust me." Marvelled at the fact that someone happens to be selling laptops for three-hundred dollars at the show and wondered if said laptops actually still had visible serial numbers or if they had been filed off. Counted the hours, minutes and seconds left before I could pack up the show and go home. Packed up the show and went home. Sat in airport and read book for a long, long time. Got home late and considered never speaking of the Hamvention ever again. Hugged the husband, hugged the dog and prayed to the powers that be I never have to go travelling for work again. Dreamt of Cheesecake (On a Stick!!!).
Friday, May 11, 2007
What I'm currently wasting time on...
The Daily Puppy. I'm sorry, but if you don't like a daily dose of cute puppage, you don't have blood in your veins.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Book Review: Kushiel's Scion
So I'll start out by saying that I liked the book. But I didn't love it. And I didn't love it for one reason, having to do with knowing what the author produced in the past and feeling that this book didn't really live up to that. If it was a stand alone book, meaning that if it wasn't a book in a series of books dealing with the same characters, I might've been willing to accept it on its own, but as it is, being a follow up to the books that came before it, I had a hard time accepting it.Let me explain. Once upon a time there was this book see? Sitting in a corner of the local conglomo bookstore, see? And it peeked my interest because it had this awesome cover on it, with a beautiful girl with this awesome back tattoo exposed and I was intrigued. I picked it up and I immediately got hooked. That book was Kushiel's Dart, and I ate it up, every single word. Yes, it can be considered a rooooooooomance novel and yes there were some very explicit scenes. Fine I admit it, FIGHTING NUN, but there was a lot more to it than that, if you'd just let me explain, FIGHTING NUN. Beneath the desire and passion lied a truly amazing, sprawling tale, and Carey painted a very visual picture of court intrigue and war and of fierce loyalty that just took me by surprise. So I read the other two books and ate it up.
Then I heard about Kushiel's Scion, which picks up with the same characters, years later but under different narration. The first three were written in first person, under the voice of the main character, Phedre. This fourth book is narrated by her adopted son Imriel as he navigates his way through court intrigue and also through his adolescence. The book, as the other books did, does a great job of framing and shaping the main character. But the other books also succeeded in telling a very sprawling, intriguing story with lots of build-up and intensity, where I feel this one failed. Not for lack of trying, but it did. The set up was all there, but when I got to the end, all I could think of was "That's it?" All that work, all the build-up and anticipation for... that? And before you start, I know what you're going to say. That it's the first book in a new series with this narrator and there's more to it. And I agree with you and I truly want to get Kushiel's Justice in my grubby little mitts to continue the story. But if you compare this story arc versus the story arc covered in the first book, it kind of pales in comparison. *Spoiler Alert for those of you who haven't read Kushiel's Dart and want to* Phedre thwarted a full scale war of nations! *Spoiler Alert for those you who haven't read Kushiel's Scion* All Imriel did was fight in a little city-state siege. If I hadn't been aware of the story Carey was capable of telling from the first three books, this book as a stand-alone would be fine, but having read the first three, I'm aware of what she's capable of and this one felt like a mild let down. She laid out the ground work for a great follow-up book, but this one still felt lacking somehow. My rating: B, almost a B+
Then I heard about Kushiel's Scion, which picks up with the same characters, years later but under different narration. The first three were written in first person, under the voice of the main character, Phedre. This fourth book is narrated by her adopted son Imriel as he navigates his way through court intrigue and also through his adolescence. The book, as the other books did, does a great job of framing and shaping the main character. But the other books also succeeded in telling a very sprawling, intriguing story with lots of build-up and intensity, where I feel this one failed. Not for lack of trying, but it did. The set up was all there, but when I got to the end, all I could think of was "That's it?" All that work, all the build-up and anticipation for... that? And before you start, I know what you're going to say. That it's the first book in a new series with this narrator and there's more to it. And I agree with you and I truly want to get Kushiel's Justice in my grubby little mitts to continue the story. But if you compare this story arc versus the story arc covered in the first book, it kind of pales in comparison. *Spoiler Alert for those of you who haven't read Kushiel's Dart and want to* Phedre thwarted a full scale war of nations! *Spoiler Alert for those you who haven't read Kushiel's Scion* All Imriel did was fight in a little city-state siege. If I hadn't been aware of the story Carey was capable of telling from the first three books, this book as a stand-alone would be fine, but having read the first three, I'm aware of what she's capable of and this one felt like a mild let down. She laid out the ground work for a great follow-up book, but this one still felt lacking somehow. My rating: B, almost a B+
More proof of my spiral into insanity
As if anybody needed any. Heh.
Bloody Munchkin: *Gasp* There's a white sock coupling with a pair of my panties! Wonder what all the militant white socks think about this. And I'm sure that pair of panties is getting mocked for her relationship. I. Am. Shocked.
Fighing Nun, paused in disbelief, frowning and squinting: What?!?
Bloody Munchkin: I just wonder what all the socks in the sock drawer think about this turn of events.Fighting Nun, eyeing me fiercely, can't even manage and suitably sized eyeroll: I...
Bloody Munchkin: I feel bad for cutting their relationship off so soon before it even had a chance to fully bloom and grow.
Fighting Nun, shaking head, leaves room.
Friday, May 04, 2007
An open letter to persons and things of note I saw during the Warriors/Mavericks series
Dear Baron Davis's Hamstring;
Don't ever do that to me again!!! You had me legitimately worried for the better part of a quarter. Baron deserves better than that.
Peace Out;
The Bloody Munchkin
Dear Don Nelson's Nose;Oh how much I admire and respect you and the bulbous trajectory in which you are heading. There were several times the good film archive people decided to show clips of you from back in the day, when the course in which you were heading was just a glint in your nose hair, and then the good camera guys would pan back to you, in the present, and I could truly behold the wonder and beauty in the new path you are taking. You're trying for W. C. Fields territory and I have to say I appreciate it.
With deep respect and admiration;
The Bloody Munchkin
Dear Matt Barnes;
I have to say I didn't get it at first. Truth is, I kind of totally disliked you all season. I have this weird dislike for basketball players with visible arm and neck tattoos that I can't explain or articulate. It just bugs. No, I don't know why either. And then? You decide to sport a faux-hawk for the playoffs. At first I totally guffawed and openly mocked you. But now? I totally get it and I fully support the faux-hawk. I know. It makes no sense right? Non at all, but somehow, with all the visible tattoos and the little ruffian hawk, I'm totally into it. Maybe I was at odds with your random bowl cut you seemed to sport all season, as if the hair style plus tattoos didn't make any sense. But now? I'm digging it man. Don't change it. Go with it. You have my approval.
Stay Cool Dude;
The Munchkin
Dear Andris Biedrins;
You mind if I call you Beedee? Cause That's what I've been calling you all season... anyhoo. You're awesome dude. I ain't here to refute that. You kick ass. What I am here to do is plead with you to lay off the spray-on tanner and to back down on the abuse of the L.A. Looks Extra Hold hair gel. And it's not that I don't understand. I totally do. You're a pasty Latvian in sunny California. You're trying to adapt. I get that. It's just that.... Well you see... With your hair the way it is and all, the spray on tan is totally obvious. Your face color before your hair line... A darker than necessary bronze color. The skin color in your hair line, pinkish-pasty white.
And if your hair maintains its current course... Well, I hate to say this, but Dolph Lundgren will have you on speed dial demanding you return his hairstyle of the Rocky props closet where it belongs. The NBA already has one Dolph Lundgren hair-style sporting person, and his head (and heeeee-uge pimple) happen to be big enough to handle the weight and responsibility that comes with the Lundgren.
Dear Mark Cuban;
Just sayin;
Bloody
Charles Barkley;
I have to say the second to best part of this whole series has been to self-satisfyingly watch you have to eat your words against my team bit by bit. I still haven't recovered from the reaction shot of you, after game four, after the Warriors took a 3-1 lead in the series. It started with a wide shot of you and the rest of your Inside the NBA cohorts. Slowly, the camera panned into you, wearing a Mavs jersey, with your eyes looking down, a down trodden look on your face as you shake your head in disbelief and shock. I have to say, I'm totally revelling in that. Thanks dude.
Also, It's really lame when you decide to wear the Warriors shirt at the end of game six, like you actually were on the band wagon the whole time. Don't think I didn't notice and that I'm not utterly perturbed by this turn of events. Best check yourself before you wreck yourself Barkley. That's all I'm saying. (Yeah I have no idea what I meant by that either.)
BM
P.S. Could you tell the pasty white guy on the end there that when they do a wide shot of you anchors, he looks, for some reason, uncannily like John Waters, and it kinda totally freaks me out. Thanks. I appreciate it.
Dear Mark Cuban;Heh. *Trying to stifle a giggle* Hehehehehehehe. *Trying to stifle it again* BWAHAHAHAHAHA! Excuse me. I'm sorry. I know it's wrong of me to kick a man when he's down but I have to say there are few emotions better than the laughter that comes from watching someone truly begging for it get their comeuppance. While watching the last quarter of the game, any time they would pan to you, I couldn't help but want to scream at my t.v. "That's right Mark Cuban. Suck it! Take your greasy hair, the bad molester facial pubes you're sporting, your stupid looking Mavs shirts and go home." I have since tempered that emotion now... who am I kidding. No I haven't. See ya next season Cuban. I know you'll have long hours of bitter tears ahead of you but take comfort that you can console yourself in your giant man boobs.
I'm truly very for your loss *Snicker* Heh;
BM
P.S. Shut up about the arbitration and just give Nellie his due, jerkwad.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
All's fair in love and Scrabble
If anybody ever tries to tell you that marriage is a compromise, or marraige is sacrafice or any of those other platitudes is either A) trying to sell you something or B) obviously not married. You want to know what marriage is? Marriage is a competition. And everything in the relationship actually consists of several smaller competitions. Who gets to take out the dog is usually settled by a highly contested game of 1-2-3 Not It! The nightly battle of "Who makes sure if the door is locked downstairs is usually decided by a best 2-out-of-3 (highly contested) round of rock-paper-scissors, closely followed by an argument about cheating and that you can't change from rock to paper a SECOND after you clearly chose ROCK (FIGHTING NUN!). Who gets to wash dishes, who gets to cook, who mows the lawn, all part of the competition that is marriage. And the good thing about this competition is that there's at least of 50% likely hood of pulled hair. But still sportsmanlike. Definate sportsmanlike hair-pulling going on.
But when the competition of marriage actually involves an actual competition? The gloves come O-F-F. You wouldn't think so. You'd think a friendly game of Scrabble would be just a friendly game of Scrabble. You sir, would be wrong. How wrong? I once saw Fighting Nun accuse my own mother of cheating because she used the triple word score. That's how wrong. Awhile back, for example, I think I was officially written out of Fighting Nun's will because I used all my tiles (worth a 50 pt. bonus!) to spell "wrinkled". He was trying to burst me into flames with his eyes.
"How dare you."
"What?"
"I was thiiiiiiis close to catching up and then you spell 'Wrinkled'. Wrinkled?"
"What?"
"Let’s do a quick game recap, shall we? You put frozen down, which was on a double word score, then you put vacant down, now there’s wrinkled? You’re cheating."
"How am I cheating? I’m just using big words. It’s allowable. Not against Scrabble rules."
"You’re getting all the consonants, with high scoring value. Meanwhile, I’m stuck in vowel-land. You rigged the tile bag."
"I rigged the tile bag? How could I possibly rig the tile bag? Like I put little tracking devices on all the consonant chips? Besides, vowels are important."
"Actually yeah, I do believe you could’ve done that. Also, vowels are only important if I wanted to put e-i-e-i-o down on the board. Which I don’t."
"I’m sure you can use all your vowels."
"Shut up. Wrinkled? Jesus."
A few turns later, now Fighting Nun won’t admit this if you ask him, but he admitted defeat and asked if we could quit the game before the carnage got too great. As soon as I accepted his white flag, with only a mild gloating grin on my face, he tossed the tiles over the bed and said "Winner gets to put it up." You win some. You lose some.
Civility isn’t one of our strong suits during game night. Civility definately doesn’t have a place when the in-laws come over for a "friendly" game of parchessi. Civility is usually in the other room where people aren’t threatening physical violence against other people because of two doubles in a row. The insults and accusations run rampant in the both families, which makes playing games with extended family fun, if by fun you mean utter mayhem. There is something to be said about watching your brother-in-law openly accuse his wife's grandmother, a frail lady who can't go anywhere without her oxygen support, of outright cheating (which it turns out, she actually does), but what is to be said I don't quite know yet.
Also not one of our strong suits; losing gracefully. See the aforementioned example of 'Winner gets to pick it up'. Also, we don't win gracefully either. Do yourself a favor and don't ever smugly eat a cookie after winning a game of chinese checkers because you will only get looks of disdain and disgust from the other family members. Not that I would know from experience... cough.
I know what you're going to say. You're going to convince me that it's all fun and games and we as an extended family unit shouldn't take it seriously. Well it is, but it isn't, and we don't but we totally do. Hey if the Scrabble board doesn't get flung around at least once during a family gathering, than we as family members, neigh, as people, are not doing our job.
But when the competition of marriage actually involves an actual competition? The gloves come O-F-F. You wouldn't think so. You'd think a friendly game of Scrabble would be just a friendly game of Scrabble. You sir, would be wrong. How wrong? I once saw Fighting Nun accuse my own mother of cheating because she used the triple word score. That's how wrong. Awhile back, for example, I think I was officially written out of Fighting Nun's will because I used all my tiles (worth a 50 pt. bonus!) to spell "wrinkled". He was trying to burst me into flames with his eyes.
"How dare you."
"What?"
"I was thiiiiiiis close to catching up and then you spell 'Wrinkled'. Wrinkled?"
"What?"
"Let’s do a quick game recap, shall we? You put frozen down, which was on a double word score, then you put vacant down, now there’s wrinkled? You’re cheating."
"How am I cheating? I’m just using big words. It’s allowable. Not against Scrabble rules."
"You’re getting all the consonants, with high scoring value. Meanwhile, I’m stuck in vowel-land. You rigged the tile bag."
"I rigged the tile bag? How could I possibly rig the tile bag? Like I put little tracking devices on all the consonant chips? Besides, vowels are important."
"Actually yeah, I do believe you could’ve done that. Also, vowels are only important if I wanted to put e-i-e-i-o down on the board. Which I don’t."
"I’m sure you can use all your vowels."
"Shut up. Wrinkled? Jesus."
A few turns later, now Fighting Nun won’t admit this if you ask him, but he admitted defeat and asked if we could quit the game before the carnage got too great. As soon as I accepted his white flag, with only a mild gloating grin on my face, he tossed the tiles over the bed and said "Winner gets to put it up." You win some. You lose some.
Civility isn’t one of our strong suits during game night. Civility definately doesn’t have a place when the in-laws come over for a "friendly" game of parchessi. Civility is usually in the other room where people aren’t threatening physical violence against other people because of two doubles in a row. The insults and accusations run rampant in the both families, which makes playing games with extended family fun, if by fun you mean utter mayhem. There is something to be said about watching your brother-in-law openly accuse his wife's grandmother, a frail lady who can't go anywhere without her oxygen support, of outright cheating (which it turns out, she actually does), but what is to be said I don't quite know yet.
Also not one of our strong suits; losing gracefully. See the aforementioned example of 'Winner gets to pick it up'. Also, we don't win gracefully either. Do yourself a favor and don't ever smugly eat a cookie after winning a game of chinese checkers because you will only get looks of disdain and disgust from the other family members. Not that I would know from experience... cough.
I know what you're going to say. You're going to convince me that it's all fun and games and we as an extended family unit shouldn't take it seriously. Well it is, but it isn't, and we don't but we totally do. Hey if the Scrabble board doesn't get flung around at least once during a family gathering, than we as family members, neigh, as people, are not doing our job.
Snarking the Trailer: All the trailers shown before Hott Fuzz (excluding Delta Farce)
Not since the trailers before the movie Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, the original (yes I saw it. In the the theatres. I was a teenager and very susesptible to Corey Feldman in all his forms. No I don't have a better excuse than that, unless Elias Koteas counts as an excuse, but I was too young to register him then, so no.) have the trailors before a movie been so tailored, so hand-picked to my tastes, my needs. Well, that's excluding Delta Farce, which I am strongly averse to, because Larry the Cable Guy. Larry + a movie role does not, I repeat, DOES NOT an enjoyable cinematic experience make, no matter how much I like DJ Qualls and Danny Trejo. And the Trejo rules, we all know that by now. But even I have my limits (I Know! I'm just as shocked as you are!).
Ahem. But the other trailers before Hott Fuzz? Awesome. Utterly awesome. Killer awesome. Starting with....
Knocked Up. The buzz on this movie has been very palpable, but up until now, I've kept my trap shut, because what did I know? Yes, It's a Judd Apatow movie, he gets a pass from me for Freaks and Geeks and I'm still beating myself up for not watching Undeclared (dude, I'm sorry!). This looks utterly awesome. Maybe it's the Paul Rudd (Clueless, 'Nuf said). Maybe it's the Jason Segal, who keeps growing in esteem in my mind. I mean, first off Freaks and Geeks, second off SLC Punk ('The rain forests man. SOMEONE has to do something about the rain forests.') And now How I Met Your Mother, which I absolutely love, not least of which for the Marshall. Also, Martin Starr. Martin 'Bill Haverchuck' Starr. Martin 'Remember that time in civics when I had to fart, and it came out, well, a poop? And I had to flush my undies down the toilet? Do you think I wanted to tell you that?' Starr. I realize that Apatow reuses all his favorites and therefore I shouldn't be that surprised, but love!!! Big Ball O' Love for this silly movie. Must Watch Eeet!!
And then, and then, and then... Superbad. My love for high school romcoms makes it a statistical inevitability that I have to see this movie. Micheal Cera people!!!! I'm not sure what else I can say other than that scene? Where he accidently touches the girl's breast because he was bumped into her? Genius. Sheer genius and if the movie is one tenth as funny as that scene? I'm in. Sign me up!
And lastly: Balls of Fury. I think I mentioned sometime back when I first heard about this movie that Christopher Walken + Ping Pong = Awesome, and after seeing the trailer, I have to say, the equation still stands. It's ping pong, it's Christopher Walken. What's not to understand and love? Yes, the movie will probably be one tired joke after the other followed immediately by a crotch shot or three, but let's be honest with ourselves, do crotch shots ever get old? No. No they do not.
So yeah. The genius trailer putter-together-ers couldn't have hand-picked a better set of trailers to try and sell me on if they had tried. Or maybe they like to see Fighting Nun rolls his eyes even more while I sit there giddily jumping in my seat and trying not to squeal.
Ahem. But the other trailers before Hott Fuzz? Awesome. Utterly awesome. Killer awesome. Starting with....
Knocked Up. The buzz on this movie has been very palpable, but up until now, I've kept my trap shut, because what did I know? Yes, It's a Judd Apatow movie, he gets a pass from me for Freaks and Geeks and I'm still beating myself up for not watching Undeclared (dude, I'm sorry!). This looks utterly awesome. Maybe it's the Paul Rudd (Clueless, 'Nuf said). Maybe it's the Jason Segal, who keeps growing in esteem in my mind. I mean, first off Freaks and Geeks, second off SLC Punk ('The rain forests man. SOMEONE has to do something about the rain forests.') And now How I Met Your Mother, which I absolutely love, not least of which for the Marshall. Also, Martin Starr. Martin 'Bill Haverchuck' Starr. Martin 'Remember that time in civics when I had to fart, and it came out, well, a poop? And I had to flush my undies down the toilet? Do you think I wanted to tell you that?' Starr. I realize that Apatow reuses all his favorites and therefore I shouldn't be that surprised, but love!!! Big Ball O' Love for this silly movie. Must Watch Eeet!!
And then, and then, and then... Superbad. My love for high school romcoms makes it a statistical inevitability that I have to see this movie. Micheal Cera people!!!! I'm not sure what else I can say other than that scene? Where he accidently touches the girl's breast because he was bumped into her? Genius. Sheer genius and if the movie is one tenth as funny as that scene? I'm in. Sign me up!
And lastly: Balls of Fury. I think I mentioned sometime back when I first heard about this movie that Christopher Walken + Ping Pong = Awesome, and after seeing the trailer, I have to say, the equation still stands. It's ping pong, it's Christopher Walken. What's not to understand and love? Yes, the movie will probably be one tired joke after the other followed immediately by a crotch shot or three, but let's be honest with ourselves, do crotch shots ever get old? No. No they do not.
So yeah. The genius trailer putter-together-ers couldn't have hand-picked a better set of trailers to try and sell me on if they had tried. Or maybe they like to see Fighting Nun rolls his eyes even more while I sit there giddily jumping in my seat and trying not to squeal.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, April 23, 2007
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.
Friday, April 20, 2007
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!!!
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!!!
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Made-Up Band Name
This weeks newest submission?
The Battlescones
Yet another band that could be The Aquabats' proxy. Just sayin'.
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:
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.
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.
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.
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.
Monday, April 16, 2007
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
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
Thursday, April 12, 2007
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.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, April 02, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Snarking the Trailer: Grindhouse
Fighting Nun and I have had an ongoing argument about Grindhouse for a good two weeks now, that has pretty much devolved into the following:
"She has a machine gun! For a Leg! Awesome." (followed by large squeal of excitement)
"She has a machine gun. For a leg." (followed by large eye roll)
"But, but, but, Machine gun. Leg." (followed by a big pout).
"Machine gun. Leg." (followed by large head shake and another eye roll for effect.)
Where he sees schlocky and tacky I see outright awesomeness, which should pretty much tell you everything you need to know about our relationship.
First of all, I think I've made my feelings about Tarantino known over and over again. Secondly I really liked Sin City for a number of reasons so Robert Rodriguez gets a pass from me. Thirdly, I like the idea of two pulpy shorts put together into a long feature. Fourthly, Freddie Rodriguez doesn't get enough work so I'm all for seeing him in something like this. Fifthly, Rose McGowan (who we have lovingly named Jersey Chick for years) with a machine gun. For a leg. A MACHINE GUN. For a Leg. Don't you people get it?!?!?!
And lastly, and this may seem like an odd reason for wanting to watch a movie, but Josh Brolin's hair. I saw that mane in the trailer (which I sadly can't find a picture of), reminiscent of Kurt Russel's pseudo-mullet in Big Trouble in Little China and I wondered in amazement if it might have lines in the movie. Seriously, does that coif have its own SAG card? Josh's hair reminds me of that Robot Chicken bit where William Shatner goes to sleep and his hair comes off his head and turns out to be an international super spy and it gets a medal but then goes back home on top of William Shatner's head before his alarm goes off and then he wakes up and the medal falls off and The Shat's all "Why... does this... keep happening to me?" Yeah. Josh Brolin's hair is like that. It's most likely taken a life of its own, goes by the name of Fernando, and has opened a chain of ballroom dancing studios. I bet that hair even calls Diane Lane "Toots."
So yeah. I want to see Grindhouse. For the thrill, the gore, the machine gun leg, for the mane. Now if I can only convince Fighting Nun.
"She has a machine gun! For a Leg! Awesome." (followed by large squeal of excitement)
"She has a machine gun. For a leg." (followed by large eye roll)
"But, but, but, Machine gun. Leg." (followed by a big pout).
"Machine gun. Leg." (followed by large head shake and another eye roll for effect.)
Where he sees schlocky and tacky I see outright awesomeness, which should pretty much tell you everything you need to know about our relationship.
First of all, I think I've made my feelings about Tarantino known over and over again. Secondly I really liked Sin City for a number of reasons so Robert Rodriguez gets a pass from me. Thirdly, I like the idea of two pulpy shorts put together into a long feature. Fourthly, Freddie Rodriguez doesn't get enough work so I'm all for seeing him in something like this. Fifthly, Rose McGowan (who we have lovingly named Jersey Chick for years) with a machine gun. For a leg. A MACHINE GUN. For a Leg. Don't you people get it?!?!?!
And lastly, and this may seem like an odd reason for wanting to watch a movie, but Josh Brolin's hair. I saw that mane in the trailer (which I sadly can't find a picture of), reminiscent of Kurt Russel's pseudo-mullet in Big Trouble in Little China and I wondered in amazement if it might have lines in the movie. Seriously, does that coif have its own SAG card? Josh's hair reminds me of that Robot Chicken bit where William Shatner goes to sleep and his hair comes off his head and turns out to be an international super spy and it gets a medal but then goes back home on top of William Shatner's head before his alarm goes off and then he wakes up and the medal falls off and The Shat's all "Why... does this... keep happening to me?" Yeah. Josh Brolin's hair is like that. It's most likely taken a life of its own, goes by the name of Fernando, and has opened a chain of ballroom dancing studios. I bet that hair even calls Diane Lane "Toots."
So yeah. I want to see Grindhouse. For the thrill, the gore, the machine gun leg, for the mane. Now if I can only convince Fighting Nun.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Snarking the Trailer: Blades of Glory
O.k., here's the thing. I should know better. I really should. This movie could be a steaming pile. No I take that back, is almost positively a steaming pile. I'm sure of that deep down. To be a Will Ferrell vehicle is to be the same jokes recycled over and over again. I get that. After having seen School for Scoundrels, It's obvious that Will Heder has the one look, that "What an Idiot" scouly look he perfected in Napolean Dynamite, and that's all he knows how to use. I get that too. Will Arnett deserves better than to play the same character over and over again. That? I also get.
But does that stop me from wanting to see this movie? No. Does the trailer for this movie make me giggle like a school girl? Yes. Yes it does. Repeatedly, and with vigor. It's a figure skating movie!!! I can't not watch it!!! I have a long and storied tradition of watching most anything pertaining to figure skating. When Fighting Nun's out of the house, I have watched most of Ice Princess. Twice. ( I can never catch it at the beginning, otherwise I would watch it entirely.) And I know exactly what you're going to say; "Michelle. Tractenberg. Yeech. Seek Therapy." And believe me, after the rotting turd that was the last three season of Buffy, I get that. I seriously get that. And Yet. "Flying Shrimp." Hee. I have seen Ice Castles new fewer than twenty times ("We forgot about the roses." Swoon!!!) I had a fleeting, yet very palpable crush on D.B. Sweeney for about 3 months in my teens. ("I got better.") I have seen John Hancock's Champions on Ice. Twice. (I know!) Once I was even sober. (I.know.) And I know I've mentioned frying a TV for a certain French Figure Skating superstar (Phillipe!!!! Eeeeeeee!!!).
It's figure skating!!! And yes, I'm quite aware that Blades of Glory is a figure skating parody, but if there's been one sport that's been deserving of a parody movie, it's got to be Figure Skating. As much as I love the sport, it has just been itching to be poked fun at. Between the 'scandals' and the 'stereotypes', and the all the glitter and some of the worst costumes involving sequins and leotards this side of ballroom dancing, it needs a movie that makes light of it. So yeah, I'm in. I'll probably have to wait til it comes out on cable, because there is no way Fighting Nun is even remotely interested in this one. The trailer comes on, my eyes go wide and and the giggle starts and Fighting Nun just groans, which are just as frequent as his eye rolls. I got to say. Fighting Nun, you should really see a doctor.
The 300 two-word movie review
Un. Relenting.
A few more words on the movie:
I mean let up on the slo-mo impalings just a little bit. Jesus.
A few more words:
I like that one episode of Samuari Jack about the same thing a little bit more. What can I say, I like my epic battles animated. And with robots.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Made-Up Band Name
Introducing....
Abnormal David
With their hit track...
It all started in catholic school.
(Long Story. I'll explain later.)
Abnormal David
With their hit track...
It all started in catholic school.
(Long Story. I'll explain later.)
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Anniversary
So I don't talk much about Fighting Nun and myself on here, other than to recap a random conversation or five (heh.), but I don't talk much about the relationship itself, because everything is pretty good, and in blogdom good = boring. Nothing to see here. Move Along. It just works, we're done here.
But I will talk about it now, just briefly. So we're running up on our tenth anniversary, not of marriage mind you, but the anniversary of when we met and started dating. Ten years I've been with this guy. And they've all been great. The other day Fighting Nun sent me this e-card, which was utterly cute and adorable, asking me to marry him. The answer is yes. I'd do it again, a thousand times. Happily. Without any regret.
We've been married for close to seven years now, and we're not renewing our vows or anything, but it's nice to know that without any objections on either side, we'd both happily do it all over again. Fighting Nun, I love you. You're my best friend and my partner in crime, you're my rock and I'm yours . Here's to another ten years, and another ten years after that and many more to come.
But I will talk about it now, just briefly. So we're running up on our tenth anniversary, not of marriage mind you, but the anniversary of when we met and started dating. Ten years I've been with this guy. And they've all been great. The other day Fighting Nun sent me this e-card, which was utterly cute and adorable, asking me to marry him. The answer is yes. I'd do it again, a thousand times. Happily. Without any regret.
We've been married for close to seven years now, and we're not renewing our vows or anything, but it's nice to know that without any objections on either side, we'd both happily do it all over again. Fighting Nun, I love you. You're my best friend and my partner in crime, you're my rock and I'm yours . Here's to another ten years, and another ten years after that and many more to come.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Made Up Band Names: New Submission
Today, I bring to you a band name so extra-ordinary, so deviously simple yet ingenious in its creation, you be astounded. Ready for it? Here goes:
The Dangling Participles
It's so cool I'm amazed I didn't think of it sooner....
The Dangling Participles
It's so cool I'm amazed I didn't think of it sooner....
Girl Scout Cookies: The axis of evil???
Girl Scout Cookies - The Bane of Humanity? I think so. Before I get started, I just want to let you know that I know exactly what you're going to say. "Bloody Munchkin. Can I call you munchkin? Here's the the thing. It's girl scout cookies. There is nothing inherently wrong, bad, evil or otherwise about the sweet little innocent girl scout cookie." To which I say: Wrong!!! You sir are sad and wrong if you are so disillusioned not to see the evilness deep down in the core of the cookies.
I understand where you are coming from. It's hard at first to understand dastardly machinations behind the cookies, or the girl scouts themselves for that matter. Which is part of the cookies' Machiavellian ingenuity. It's just a box of cookies, see. Just a simple box of cookies, and the profits go to the local girl scout troop and what's more sweet and all-American than supporting your girl scouts, see? Nothing more, nothing less. It's devious in its simplicity really.
And they make it so easy, don't they? They've got eight boxes and given that you only get to pick the cookies out once a year, you've streamlined your decision making into a nice hierarchy, the hierarchy being: Tag-alongs, Somoas, Thin Mints, everything else, so when you get to the selection process, it's all rather easy. You got Somoas? I'll take a box of those. Done. Easy. It's gotten to the point that you've even memorized your significant other's Girl Scout Cookie Hierarchy (from now on deemed the GSCH) which reads as follows: Thin Mints and Somoas (both weighed equally), the little shortbread ones, everything else. You have both hierarchies at the ready in the event that there needs to be a compromise or the nice girl scouts don't have the oh so delectable cookie that you want.
But they always have the ones you want, don't they? If not, you can go down the block to the other girl scout cookie table stationed outside the nearest pizza parlor or the other grocery store or whatever and buy what their selling, because, at this point in time? They are unavoidable aren't they? The tables stationed at every turn, the angelic faces looking up at you from behind the table of cookies, so pristine, so innocent, with their little merit badges and their little hats. You can't say no. Oh, you've tried, and failed miserably, but you can't say no. So you buy the one box. That's all you need really. But then the next day? They find you again, badges polished to a pristine shine, all the girls with smiles and that look that says 'You don't want to rob me of my innocence and crush all my girl scout loving dreams do you?" with eyes batting, using their best puppy dog look. So another box it is then. It gets to the point that you're worried they'll tackle you at any given turn if you don't buy a box (maybe two?) of their delectable cookies that only come out once a year. "Oh Please Mr. Won't you please help the girl scouts?" So you've bought another box and then put a check mark next to another cookie listed on the GSCH. There's nothing wrong with that.
But there is something wrong with that. Something you've forgotten about: Pre-orders. That schlubby guy at work, with the two kids and a look of despair readily apparent on his face, remember him? Yeah, remember how back in January he came by with the little order form, and you put your name down for a box of Tag-alongs because the guy just looked so brow-beaten, which brow-beaten dad is almost as Machiavellian as the innocent puppy dog eyed girl scouts themselves because it's a pity buy, all "Would you please? It's for my daughter *sigh*. I really appreciate it (eyes down-turned in resignation)." and you're like Ah, Poor Bastard and then you buy a pity box. So next thing you know, you're up to your eyeballs in girl scout cookies, with all the cookies on your GSCH checked off and then some. You don't even like the do-si-does (doesn't mean you won't eat them though, heh) but did you buy them? Yes you did.
And it's not just that the acquiring of multiple boxes in as many ways is as possible is what's wrong with the Girl Scout cookies. The thing that's the most wrong with girl scout cookies? Is that you can polish off a sleeve of thin mints in less than five minutes and not even think twice about it. You know this about yourself because Fighting Nun timed you and you both were beguiled by this information, because that, along with knowing that your significant other, conditions permitting, can clear a room with just one air biscuit, you've lost a little bit more of your relationship innocence. There comes a point in every relationship where you start knowing things about the other person that you wish to God you didn't, but now you know them and you can't un-know them and neither of you knows where to go from there. Knowing that the woman you married might hold the world record for the most girl scout cookies consumed in five minutes might be one of those things I'm guessing.
So do you see now? How Girl Scout Cookies are a beguiling evil the likes of which the world has ever known? Do you see how they must be stopped at all costs? Do you see now? Do you, do you? Don't you want to help me rid the world of this evil. We'll get started right after I polish off this box of tag-alongs.
I understand where you are coming from. It's hard at first to understand dastardly machinations behind the cookies, or the girl scouts themselves for that matter. Which is part of the cookies' Machiavellian ingenuity. It's just a box of cookies, see. Just a simple box of cookies, and the profits go to the local girl scout troop and what's more sweet and all-American than supporting your girl scouts, see? Nothing more, nothing less. It's devious in its simplicity really.
And they make it so easy, don't they? They've got eight boxes and given that you only get to pick the cookies out once a year, you've streamlined your decision making into a nice hierarchy, the hierarchy being: Tag-alongs, Somoas, Thin Mints, everything else, so when you get to the selection process, it's all rather easy. You got Somoas? I'll take a box of those. Done. Easy. It's gotten to the point that you've even memorized your significant other's Girl Scout Cookie Hierarchy (from now on deemed the GSCH) which reads as follows: Thin Mints and Somoas (both weighed equally), the little shortbread ones, everything else. You have both hierarchies at the ready in the event that there needs to be a compromise or the nice girl scouts don't have the oh so delectable cookie that you want.
But they always have the ones you want, don't they? If not, you can go down the block to the other girl scout cookie table stationed outside the nearest pizza parlor or the other grocery store or whatever and buy what their selling, because, at this point in time? They are unavoidable aren't they? The tables stationed at every turn, the angelic faces looking up at you from behind the table of cookies, so pristine, so innocent, with their little merit badges and their little hats. You can't say no. Oh, you've tried, and failed miserably, but you can't say no. So you buy the one box. That's all you need really. But then the next day? They find you again, badges polished to a pristine shine, all the girls with smiles and that look that says 'You don't want to rob me of my innocence and crush all my girl scout loving dreams do you?" with eyes batting, using their best puppy dog look. So another box it is then. It gets to the point that you're worried they'll tackle you at any given turn if you don't buy a box (maybe two?) of their delectable cookies that only come out once a year. "Oh Please Mr. Won't you please help the girl scouts?" So you've bought another box and then put a check mark next to another cookie listed on the GSCH. There's nothing wrong with that.
But there is something wrong with that. Something you've forgotten about: Pre-orders. That schlubby guy at work, with the two kids and a look of despair readily apparent on his face, remember him? Yeah, remember how back in January he came by with the little order form, and you put your name down for a box of Tag-alongs because the guy just looked so brow-beaten, which brow-beaten dad is almost as Machiavellian as the innocent puppy dog eyed girl scouts themselves because it's a pity buy, all "Would you please? It's for my daughter *sigh*. I really appreciate it (eyes down-turned in resignation)." and you're like Ah, Poor Bastard and then you buy a pity box. So next thing you know, you're up to your eyeballs in girl scout cookies, with all the cookies on your GSCH checked off and then some. You don't even like the do-si-does (doesn't mean you won't eat them though, heh) but did you buy them? Yes you did.
And it's not just that the acquiring of multiple boxes in as many ways is as possible is what's wrong with the Girl Scout cookies. The thing that's the most wrong with girl scout cookies? Is that you can polish off a sleeve of thin mints in less than five minutes and not even think twice about it. You know this about yourself because Fighting Nun timed you and you both were beguiled by this information, because that, along with knowing that your significant other, conditions permitting, can clear a room with just one air biscuit, you've lost a little bit more of your relationship innocence. There comes a point in every relationship where you start knowing things about the other person that you wish to God you didn't, but now you know them and you can't un-know them and neither of you knows where to go from there. Knowing that the woman you married might hold the world record for the most girl scout cookies consumed in five minutes might be one of those things I'm guessing.
So do you see now? How Girl Scout Cookies are a beguiling evil the likes of which the world has ever known? Do you see how they must be stopped at all costs? Do you see now? Do you, do you? Don't you want to help me rid the world of this evil. We'll get started right after I polish off this box of tag-alongs.
An Open Letter to Mark McGrath
Dear Mark;
Dude. Just Dude. It's come to this? Really??? Was life really so tough that you've had to become a makeshift Seacrest to a bunch of no talent hacks? Were the royaltiies off Fly just not enough to make ends meet? Is your monthly hair gel expense reaching limits so absurd that you've had to resort to this, the hosting of The Search for the Next Doll? Dude, you totally lost me.
Truth be told, you lost me somewhere around that Extra gig and maybe sometime during your guest judge appearance on American Idol. Which, just because you were on that show doesn't mean you get to be Ryan Seacrest's proxy. God knows one Ryan Seacrest is more than enough, and yet you had to go and recreate your career in his image? That's wrong.
Why must you desperately cleave to the last seconds of your 15 minutes by forcing yourself on the American public in the most obtrusive and random ways? Dude, Sugar Ray's second album was titled 14:59. It's like, back then you had a clue, that your popularity is fleeting, you're going to enjoy it while it lasts, which I appreciated. But now, it's like you don't get your own joke. You enjoyed the spotlight once. Stop stalking it now. It's considering a restraining order.
Just quit it. For at least a half a decade. No hosting gigs, no attempts at being Ryan Seacrest, no guest appearances. Just leave my TV for awhile. Not forever, just until you find something meaningful to do, or at least something that won't make me utter "Just. Give. It. Up." You seem like a pretty decent, centered dude, and I still like your band's first album, which makes the abomination of you showing up in random and totally undeserving places that much more bad and wrong.
Thanks;
The Bloody Munchkin
P.S. Ease up on the hair gel, just a little bit. You're headed into Hellraiser territory. Just thought you'd like to know.
Friday, March 09, 2007
Salongate '07
So, I'm not sure if it's blatantly obvious (although I'm kind of convinced that it is) that I'm a bit neurotic and that my neuroses have a tendency to manifest themselves in odd way, like say, by anthromorphizing all the socks in the sock drawer, or having long, rambling rants about, oh, I don't know, just about ANYTHING!!! And I realize that the things I tend to get worked up about have absolutely no baring on anything ever. And my Salongate '07 is probably no exception. And yet, I find myself irked by the situation just the same. Here's the thing... I always go to Sabrina. Always. I've been going to her going on three years now and I'm fiercely loyal. Like fiercely. I now live a good hour + drive away from the salon and yet I will still go to her. I mean, it's only a 12 minute drive from my work over the bridge to the salon. Going home sucks, but yet I still go to her because in the 6+ years I've lived in the bay area. Sabrina and one other stylist (who used to work at the same salon, but moved away) are the only ones to truly get what I'm going for. Since Sabrina, I've had my hair cut by only one other girl there and that's because Sabrina was sick that day and I couldn't reschedule. I heart Sabrina. I like that we watch the same trashy t.v., I like that she rides a motorcycle. I like that she's tattooed and punky and sassy. And I like that after our time together, I come out looking fab. I tip well. Everything is good. It's a nice routine. I don't like it when my routine gets thrown off. End of Story.
So I get a call from the receptionist the day before yesterday, regarding my 4:30 appointment yesterday, but instead of Sabrina, she rattles off another name (who, for the sake of this essay shall remain nameless, because I feel bad about poo-pooing her in the previous essay, but who I'll call P). I get the voice mail all "That's weird. Maybe she said P by mistake but meant Sabrina." But then I get myself worked up into a tizzy about it all "OMG what if Sabrina left the Salon and totally DID NOT CALL ME to tell me she defected so the salon stuck me with whoever might be a suitable replacement. That totally better not happen." or "Maybe she went on vacation and didn't bother to tell me to reschedule for when she got back." So it became this big puzzler in my brain all day. Why I'd let myself be preoccupied with this, I have no idea, but is it really that surprising? Two words: Sock drawer. So I get there and right in front of me is my girl Bri. That's odd. Why did they say P if Sabrina is here? So then I have to talk to the receptionist, who in the 3 + years I've been going to that salon has only showed me one facet of her personality which I will here to for call her and the personality trait both "Put upon" with whom I have the following conversation:
Me: I have a 4:30
Put Upon: Yes with P.
Me: Wait. With who? Sabrina right? I always see Sabrina.
Put Upon: Says here it's P.
Me: But. Sabrina. You know me. I come in. I see Sabrina. I leave. How can I be seeing P? Sabrina. She's right there!
Put Upon: She's all booked up. I can reschedule you or you can see P.
Me: (A look of befuddlement on my face) But... But... Sabrina.
Put Upon: (A terse smile on her face) Reschedule or Smock. (Shoves Smock at me.)
Me: (Take smock, walk to changing room in shame and sadness).
As I'm waiting all dejected in their little waiting area, Sabrina spots me all "What're you doing here? You're not on my list." And I explain the situation, apologizing profusely and pouting "I wanted to see Yooouuuuu." to which she cheerily explains that it probably wasn't my fault. They've been having 'issues' she said. 'With the help' she said."And the Scheduling" she said. But I'm still bumming. So I have to deal with P, and her giving me the whole "You should really think about using our way overpriced blah with our other overpriced ble-da-blah because it'll do blah-de-blah-blah to your hair" schpeel which Sabrina has long since tempered, because I ain't buying the blah no matter what the blah-de-blah-blah it'll purportedly do to my hair, because do you have any idea what Fighting Nun will do to ME if I bring blah home, especially when he finds out how much I paid for it??? Yeah, not pretty. And then of course Pulp-Fiction-gate comes up and I don't have much to say after that. So then the haircut finishes, and P does a great job. The hair looks pretty fab, but as far as the whole experience goes, something felt missing. I can't explain it, it just felt... empty somehow. So then I have to deal with Put Upon again while getting rung out and I have to wait until P leaves the register to explain that I want to schedule another appointment with.... shifty eyes to make sure P isn't in hearing range, in low voice ... Sabrina. And now I've got all these weird pangs of anxiety all "Its going to be weird the next time I go in, because if P spots me and realizes I'm seeing Sabrina instead of her, she's going to be all 'Why aren't you seeing me? It's about Pulp Fiction isn't it?' and I'll have to be all 'Don't take this personally but....' and she'll be all mopey and it'll be all awkward.' and it feels all weird now. Thanks oh so much neuroses for kicking in right now. I ever so much appreciate it.
To top it all off, I tried explaining the dilemma to Fighting Nun, all "Awk. Ward. Hello." to which he responded "Just go see Sabrina." followed with an eye roll, which I think he needs to talk to an optometrist about because they happen so frequently as of late that they might get stuck in the back of his head. Anyhoo. So yeah, not a big deal? Of course it isn't. Am I making way more of it than I should be? Hello!! Have you met me?!? Of course I am. But still this whole thing is a bit weird. I mean seriously. Jesus.
So I get a call from the receptionist the day before yesterday, regarding my 4:30 appointment yesterday, but instead of Sabrina, she rattles off another name (who, for the sake of this essay shall remain nameless, because I feel bad about poo-pooing her in the previous essay, but who I'll call P). I get the voice mail all "That's weird. Maybe she said P by mistake but meant Sabrina." But then I get myself worked up into a tizzy about it all "OMG what if Sabrina left the Salon and totally DID NOT CALL ME to tell me she defected so the salon stuck me with whoever might be a suitable replacement. That totally better not happen." or "Maybe she went on vacation and didn't bother to tell me to reschedule for when she got back." So it became this big puzzler in my brain all day. Why I'd let myself be preoccupied with this, I have no idea, but is it really that surprising? Two words: Sock drawer. So I get there and right in front of me is my girl Bri. That's odd. Why did they say P if Sabrina is here? So then I have to talk to the receptionist, who in the 3 + years I've been going to that salon has only showed me one facet of her personality which I will here to for call her and the personality trait both "Put upon" with whom I have the following conversation:
Me: I have a 4:30
Put Upon: Yes with P.
Me: Wait. With who? Sabrina right? I always see Sabrina.
Put Upon: Says here it's P.
Me: But. Sabrina. You know me. I come in. I see Sabrina. I leave. How can I be seeing P? Sabrina. She's right there!
Put Upon: She's all booked up. I can reschedule you or you can see P.
Me: (A look of befuddlement on my face) But... But... Sabrina.
Put Upon: (A terse smile on her face) Reschedule or Smock. (Shoves Smock at me.)
Me: (Take smock, walk to changing room in shame and sadness).
As I'm waiting all dejected in their little waiting area, Sabrina spots me all "What're you doing here? You're not on my list." And I explain the situation, apologizing profusely and pouting "I wanted to see Yooouuuuu." to which she cheerily explains that it probably wasn't my fault. They've been having 'issues' she said. 'With the help' she said."And the Scheduling" she said. But I'm still bumming. So I have to deal with P, and her giving me the whole "You should really think about using our way overpriced blah with our other overpriced ble-da-blah because it'll do blah-de-blah-blah to your hair" schpeel which Sabrina has long since tempered, because I ain't buying the blah no matter what the blah-de-blah-blah it'll purportedly do to my hair, because do you have any idea what Fighting Nun will do to ME if I bring blah home, especially when he finds out how much I paid for it??? Yeah, not pretty. And then of course Pulp-Fiction-gate comes up and I don't have much to say after that. So then the haircut finishes, and P does a great job. The hair looks pretty fab, but as far as the whole experience goes, something felt missing. I can't explain it, it just felt... empty somehow. So then I have to deal with Put Upon again while getting rung out and I have to wait until P leaves the register to explain that I want to schedule another appointment with.... shifty eyes to make sure P isn't in hearing range, in low voice ... Sabrina. And now I've got all these weird pangs of anxiety all "Its going to be weird the next time I go in, because if P spots me and realizes I'm seeing Sabrina instead of her, she's going to be all 'Why aren't you seeing me? It's about Pulp Fiction isn't it?' and I'll have to be all 'Don't take this personally but....' and she'll be all mopey and it'll be all awkward.' and it feels all weird now. Thanks oh so much neuroses for kicking in right now. I ever so much appreciate it.
To top it all off, I tried explaining the dilemma to Fighting Nun, all "Awk. Ward. Hello." to which he responded "Just go see Sabrina." followed with an eye roll, which I think he needs to talk to an optometrist about because they happen so frequently as of late that they might get stuck in the back of his head. Anyhoo. So yeah, not a big deal? Of course it isn't. Am I making way more of it than I should be? Hello!! Have you met me?!? Of course I am. But still this whole thing is a bit weird. I mean seriously. Jesus.
Religion, Politics, and Tarantino: Redux
So you remember that handy-dandy guide I made regarding discussing all things Tarantino? I thought of another rule yesterday which I feel bares mentioning:
13. Try to not get too indignant when someone states they've only seen Pulp Fiction once, like a bajillion years ago, and they don't remember too much of it.Your reaction to that statement shouldn't be "You haven't seen that movie a thousand times?!?!?! You don't have it memorized and can recite it in its entirety on command?!?!?! What!?!?! We so totally can not be friends. I heretofore totally deny you're exsistence." A much as you'd like to react thusly, you should keep such thoughts to yourself. It's not your fault there are some poor pitiable people who don't get the genius of Zed being dead. You shouldn't stick your nose up at them. Instead, you should pity them from a distance and wonder what this world is coming to.
I guess I should explain this one a little bit. Yesterday I got my hair cut. It's usually not a big ordeal. I love my hair stylist. Sabrina is excellent and if you're ever in Redwood Shores and you need a sassy cut, I recommend her highly. I go in every 8 weeks with natty ends and frizzy hair, I gab with her for an hour, I come out looking smoking. It rocks. But somehow yesterday turned into a 'situation'. A hair stylist dilema let's say. Not a full blown fiasco, but an event nonetheless. I'll get to that later. Long story short, I didn't get to see Sabrina. I got handed over to another stylist instead. I wasn't exactly happy with it, especially because I could see Sabrina, punky hair, tattoos and all, not ten feet from me, coloring somebody else's hair and she wasn't going to cut my HAIR. Grrr. But I tried to make the best of it. It went o.k. for the most part. Then we started talking about movies and the genius of Black Snake Moan. "Hello Justin Timberlake." (Her sentiments, not mine). Then I made the mistake of trying to explain the whole Jules/Lazerus theory Fighting Nun had and she gave me a blank stare. She'd only seen Pulp Fiction once, like forever and a day ago, and she really doesn't remember it that well! What!?!?! Really!?!?! I mean, it's Pulp Fiction!?!? Pulp. Fiction. Pulp "What does Marcellus Wallace look like?" Fiction!!! How did you only see it once?!?!?! Jesus.
And, o.k., it's not like I couldn't understand only seeing it once, like ten years ago. The first time I tried to watch Pulp Fiction, I didn't understand it. I was an impressionable college freshman at the time and there were just certain things I wasn't ready for, the needle to the heart sequence being one of them. That first time I was like "There's a lot of things I'll do for Eric Stoltz, but sitting through this scene? Not one of them." and I was out. Like walked out of the theater out. It didn't help that Christopher Walken's famous Watch Monologue was the next scene. Couldn't handle it. Couldn't. And about 2 months later, I watched the ending all "I'm not going to dig it... but fine, second chance here we go." And then... "It's the wallet that says Badass ...." And then I was like "Oh, I get it now, heh." My issues with needle to the heart aside, the movie effing rocks!!!
But not everybody sees it my way. Just like not everybody *cough Fighting Nun cough* understands the awesomeness of The Sandlot, which I realized last night that even after not seeing it in like five years I still have memorized. "I take that back boy. You're not in trouble. You're dead where you stand." James Earl Jones killed it. 'Nuff said. Back to the point. I should probably let this one slide. And I think I did a good job of tempering the indignation at her statement, but sadly I didn't have much else to say after that. "So Black Snake Moan, yeah (trail off to silence)...." It's Pulp Fiction!!! I'm not sure where it stands in the pantheon of pivotal cultural moments, but its pretty high up there!! It's significant!!! Watch it again so we might have something else to talk about. Oh, and learn who Stephen Dorff is!!! Yes, I realize that's partly my fault. When asked what he's been in I could only recall like two movies. Where I could usually rattle off like a ton of movies, I was all "Uh.. He was in Blade and stuff." Blade was the best I could come up with. I couldn't think of Backbeat, Cecil B. Demented, nothing. Blade and Alone in the Dark were it. Oh, and I think I mentioned Feardotcom. (Snerk.) Come on brain!!! You're better than that. At least mention the Aerosmith video where Alicia Silverstone bungies from her belly button ring!!! What's wrong with you. Stoopid brain.
So yeah, I guess the rule goes like this: For all the poor bastards who haven't seen Pulp Fiction a bajillion times, rent it and give it at least two good run throughs to try and soak in some of its genius. For the rest of us who bask in Pulp Fiction's genius, let's try and not be too hard on the rest of them.
13. Try to not get too indignant when someone states they've only seen Pulp Fiction once, like a bajillion years ago, and they don't remember too much of it.Your reaction to that statement shouldn't be "You haven't seen that movie a thousand times?!?!?! You don't have it memorized and can recite it in its entirety on command?!?!?! What!?!?! We so totally can not be friends. I heretofore totally deny you're exsistence." A much as you'd like to react thusly, you should keep such thoughts to yourself. It's not your fault there are some poor pitiable people who don't get the genius of Zed being dead. You shouldn't stick your nose up at them. Instead, you should pity them from a distance and wonder what this world is coming to.
I guess I should explain this one a little bit. Yesterday I got my hair cut. It's usually not a big ordeal. I love my hair stylist. Sabrina is excellent and if you're ever in Redwood Shores and you need a sassy cut, I recommend her highly. I go in every 8 weeks with natty ends and frizzy hair, I gab with her for an hour, I come out looking smoking. It rocks. But somehow yesterday turned into a 'situation'. A hair stylist dilema let's say. Not a full blown fiasco, but an event nonetheless. I'll get to that later. Long story short, I didn't get to see Sabrina. I got handed over to another stylist instead. I wasn't exactly happy with it, especially because I could see Sabrina, punky hair, tattoos and all, not ten feet from me, coloring somebody else's hair and she wasn't going to cut my HAIR. Grrr. But I tried to make the best of it. It went o.k. for the most part. Then we started talking about movies and the genius of Black Snake Moan. "Hello Justin Timberlake." (Her sentiments, not mine). Then I made the mistake of trying to explain the whole Jules/Lazerus theory Fighting Nun had and she gave me a blank stare. She'd only seen Pulp Fiction once, like forever and a day ago, and she really doesn't remember it that well! What!?!?! Really!?!?! I mean, it's Pulp Fiction!?!? Pulp. Fiction. Pulp "What does Marcellus Wallace look like?" Fiction!!! How did you only see it once?!?!?! Jesus.
And, o.k., it's not like I couldn't understand only seeing it once, like ten years ago. The first time I tried to watch Pulp Fiction, I didn't understand it. I was an impressionable college freshman at the time and there were just certain things I wasn't ready for, the needle to the heart sequence being one of them. That first time I was like "There's a lot of things I'll do for Eric Stoltz, but sitting through this scene? Not one of them." and I was out. Like walked out of the theater out. It didn't help that Christopher Walken's famous Watch Monologue was the next scene. Couldn't handle it. Couldn't. And about 2 months later, I watched the ending all "I'm not going to dig it... but fine, second chance here we go." And then... "It's the wallet that says Badass ...." And then I was like "Oh, I get it now, heh." My issues with needle to the heart aside, the movie effing rocks!!!
But not everybody sees it my way. Just like not everybody *cough Fighting Nun cough* understands the awesomeness of The Sandlot, which I realized last night that even after not seeing it in like five years I still have memorized. "I take that back boy. You're not in trouble. You're dead where you stand." James Earl Jones killed it. 'Nuff said. Back to the point. I should probably let this one slide. And I think I did a good job of tempering the indignation at her statement, but sadly I didn't have much else to say after that. "So Black Snake Moan, yeah (trail off to silence)...." It's Pulp Fiction!!! I'm not sure where it stands in the pantheon of pivotal cultural moments, but its pretty high up there!! It's significant!!! Watch it again so we might have something else to talk about. Oh, and learn who Stephen Dorff is!!! Yes, I realize that's partly my fault. When asked what he's been in I could only recall like two movies. Where I could usually rattle off like a ton of movies, I was all "Uh.. He was in Blade and stuff." Blade was the best I could come up with. I couldn't think of Backbeat, Cecil B. Demented, nothing. Blade and Alone in the Dark were it. Oh, and I think I mentioned Feardotcom. (Snerk.) Come on brain!!! You're better than that. At least mention the Aerosmith video where Alicia Silverstone bungies from her belly button ring!!! What's wrong with you. Stoopid brain.
So yeah, I guess the rule goes like this: For all the poor bastards who haven't seen Pulp Fiction a bajillion times, rent it and give it at least two good run throughs to try and soak in some of its genius. For the rest of us who bask in Pulp Fiction's genius, let's try and not be too hard on the rest of them.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Movie Review: Black Snake Moan
Yeah, what he said. Look, maybe it's not an eleven per say, but it was pretty damn good. I loved it on a lot of different levels, maybe not on the same levels as Fighting Nun, what with the Hot Christina Ricci sex scenes being the main draw for him, but I still loved it nonetheless.
First of all, it's visually interesting. Say what you want to say about the movie, but Ricci chain writhing on a couch was really cool to look at, for reasons I can't explain. (Consequently Chain Writhing? My new all-girl goth-metal band name). The whole film I thought was visually beautiful and kind of stunning. Also beautiful and stunning? The soundtrack. I mean, I don't know about the actual soundtrack in actual stores, but if it has the song for which the movie was named, I want it. I want eeet bad. The music was hot and perfect. Loved it. Soundtrack in my grubby little hands now!!! Go-Go Gadget Soundtrack. Really.
It's not that I don't get what critics hate about this movie. I do. At some points it is easy to see that Jackson and Ricci are playing charicitures and not full characters. And just as suddenly, the movie changes course and it shows me something else I wasn't expecting. And yeah, Justin Timberlake was an odd choice as love interest. There were certain moments where I could tell the director went "O.k., give me anxious and nervous" and Timberlake answered back with an expression that said "constipated" or the director went "O.k., give me angry as hell" and Timberlake came back with full fledged bitch face. But yet I give him a pass because the movie just worked some how, either in spite of him or because of him I'm not so sure.
So yeah. Black Snake Moan. I loved it. And I'd see it again. In theatres. Which I might do anyway because Driver's License wants to go see it, and Fighting Nun has absolutely no qualms about slapping down the 10 bucks per ticket to see it again. I told you his Ricci obsession was far reaching.
First of all, it's visually interesting. Say what you want to say about the movie, but Ricci chain writhing on a couch was really cool to look at, for reasons I can't explain. (Consequently Chain Writhing? My new all-girl goth-metal band name). The whole film I thought was visually beautiful and kind of stunning. Also beautiful and stunning? The soundtrack. I mean, I don't know about the actual soundtrack in actual stores, but if it has the song for which the movie was named, I want it. I want eeet bad. The music was hot and perfect. Loved it. Soundtrack in my grubby little hands now!!! Go-Go Gadget Soundtrack. Really.
It's not that I don't get what critics hate about this movie. I do. At some points it is easy to see that Jackson and Ricci are playing charicitures and not full characters. And just as suddenly, the movie changes course and it shows me something else I wasn't expecting. And yeah, Justin Timberlake was an odd choice as love interest. There were certain moments where I could tell the director went "O.k., give me anxious and nervous" and Timberlake answered back with an expression that said "constipated" or the director went "O.k., give me angry as hell" and Timberlake came back with full fledged bitch face. But yet I give him a pass because the movie just worked some how, either in spite of him or because of him I'm not so sure.
And it's not that I don't get the demoralization argument either. It's hard to let some of Rae's actions slide in the film. I get that, but for a film to truly demoralize women, it would have to demoralize all of them and S. Epatha Merkerson played Angela with such texture and grace even with such a small role like that that I don't see the demoralization at all.
Two interesting side notes that I feel is worth mentioning. First; am I the only one who thinks that "Rae" would be the easiest Goodwill attained Halloween costume ever? A trip to the salvation army for a bad confederate flag shirt and some cut-offs, followed by a trip to the hardware store for some chain, make sure you've got the white panties on underneath. Done. Easiest costume ever!!! It doesn't even require a bra!!!
Secondly, Shortly before we went to see the movie, Fighting Nun came up with this theory that Samuel L. Jackson's character is actually what happened to Jules when he went on the path of the straight and narrow. I laughed it off all, "Ha Ha, Jules plays the blues and ties white women up to his radiator Ha Ha." But after seeing the movie, I can't help but make those comparison. There's that moment where he's looking down at the bible reading and then he looks up at Ricci and I thought to myself "I'm trying Ringo. I'm trying real hard to be the Shepherd." and then later in the movie, Fighting Nun leaned over all "It's the blues guitar that says "Bad ass MotherF****er" and I had trouble containing my giggles. We haven't had that much fun with tangential movie related humor since that time we saw LoTR: RoTK in theaters. You know that scene when Sam is on the Mountain and looks at Frodo and is all "I can't carry the burden for you, but I can carry you," That is the exact scene where Fighting Nun leaned over and whispered "Rudy, Rudy, Rudy." I realize that's a really pivotal scene, but I get the giggles every time. Every Damn Time because Fighting Nun made that joke.
So yeah. Black Snake Moan. I loved it. And I'd see it again. In theatres. Which I might do anyway because Driver's License wants to go see it, and Fighting Nun has absolutely no qualms about slapping down the 10 bucks per ticket to see it again. I told you his Ricci obsession was far reaching.
Fighting Nun's Informal Movie Review: Blake Snake Moan
Bloody Munchkin: On a scale of 1 to 10, what would you give the movie?
Fighting Nun: 11, because Hot!
Fighting Nun: 11, because Hot!
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