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o hay lj how u doin? lolz/
I miss TV. Lost, Survivor, 24... you have all forsaken me. I even find myself missing That UPN Shitstorm (Tyra's representatives have been in touch to ask that I edit and confirm that yes, I'm talking about America's Next Top Model Charity Case). And it doesn't help that all that seems to be on is goddamn soccer. I want to make known my distaste for the World Cup, and really televised soccer in general. I can't think of a more yawn-worthy thing to do with my time than watch those non-events smarmy Europeans call "soccer matches." Like so many things in life, they're not outright offensive, just so wretchedly boring that I can't imagine why anyone would willingly subject themselves to them. It's like reading a Dan Brown novel cover to cover or listening to a Jack Johnson album all the way through. Just why?
If you know me, you know I don't really understand the point of watching baseball on television, either. I mean, I get the draw of going to the stadium and eating a nasty hot dog and all that, but that's all lost when you're just sitting at home in a recliner. However, being bombarded by the World Cup playoffs on (seemingly) every channel has made me reconsider. At least in baseball, something could happen with every pitch; two times out of three the batter just stands there, but the point is that they MIGHT swing and that makes me sort of anxious every twenty-five seconds. But soccer, Jesus. Seventy minutes will go by with no goals, just a bunch of people stealing the ball from each other. It seems like the same principle as Sea Monkeys in the '70s: they don't really do much of anything but people will watch them do nothing for hours.
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Saturday, January 7th, 2006
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| Subject: | Looking For A Fuck |
| Time: | 9:50 pm. |
| Music: | Social Distortion - Angel's Wings. |
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Since I don't really care for books or reading, I've been under the false assumption that Barnes & Noble and Borders were essentially the same thing.
Around Christmas I stumbled across Fuck This Book and was literally in tears in the bookstore. I almost bought it, but not two hours before I had had a conversation with someone about how I have this bad habit of walking into the mall intent on buying gifts for people and walking out with bags full of things for myself. I shelved the book, bought something for someone else, and congratulated myself on being proactive against the evils of selfishness. (That day.)
For reasons which may or may not have to do with desecrated Native American burial grounds and may or may not have to do with the exorbitant amount of collagen injections, The Borders Folk are magnetically repelled from setting up shop in Scottsdale. I think there's about one in the whole frigging city. I assumed it didn't matter even though I originally saw Fuck This Book at a Borders, so I went to a Barnes & Noble in a mall today. Their Humor section consisted of a couple Far Side compilations and those stupid short, wide Garfield books. The realization came crashing down that I'd have to verbally grapple with the melancholy twentysomethings and irritable part-time housewives at the Customer Service desk because, in some sort of cosmic joke, Barnes & Noble doesn't have those computer terminals randomly seeded around the store that tell you if the item you're looking for is in-store or not like Borders or, really, any establishment that fancies itself sane.
"Do you have Fuck This Book?" I asked a greasy-looking guy. He stared at me like I'd asked if his balls were screwed on straight. I was suddenly made aware that what I said might have sounded like a prank ("Do you have Fuck This Book? Well you better go find it, that's the only proposition you're ever going to get!") or a deliberate time-waster ("Do you have Fuck This Book? No? How about Islam Ass A-Go-Go? Maggie LaTits Goes Ape At The Zoo?") or just guilty of containing an expletive said in too high a volume and too casual a tone. He didn't answer me and gave me a look. I was immediately angered at being made to feel like a misbehaving middle schooler by someone who was quite possibly younger than me. So I decided to insult him a little.
"It's retangular shaped, and has a neon pink cover that says Fuck This Book on it," I told him like I was explaining how to perform surgery on the British Prime Minister's brain. "It should be under Humor or maybe Photography. There's a Shell station about two miles down, you can't miss it." Zzzzzing.
Now, I think a small tangent is necessary to mention that I once worked at Barnes & Noble for two weeks. Yes, very embarrassing. I don't like to make a big thing of it. The point is, in basic training you learn that whenever someone asks you if your store carries something, no matter how scary, homeless, crazy, or poor they might look, you humor them. If Cletus The Inbred Idiot Savant comes in and asks for Teen Boys In Nut-Huggers, you get your ass on that damn computer and look for it, or fake it well enough. It's a tremendous waste of time but it beats being shanked with a rusty butter knife from his overall pocket.
Greasy Sad Boy didn't even get on the computer. It was maybe eleven inches away from fingers. He simply said to me, "I don't think we carry that sort of material here." (I find it necessary to mention that he had one of those atrocious and frustratingly attention-hungry hairdos where he purposely waxed his bangs over his eyes. And acne.) I'm not sure that he intentionally emphasized "that," but he said it as though I'd asked if any of the women in the store would take off their shirts for a crisp $20 bill. (The tips of his bangs were bleached orange. I mean, really. WHO ARE YOU.) I informed him that it wasn't sodomy porn or any sort of deviant entertainment, just a photography book of public signs with a "FUCK" sticker put over certain words to make funny sentences. He told me he'd check on the computer (oh no, don't do me any favors!) and I'm fairly certain I saw him type "eva longoria" into the search box before telling me they don't, haven't ever, and won't ever carry thaaaat, thankyouverymuchhaveaniceday, I'm off to peroxide my bangs!!!
How hilarious, like Barnes & Noble is the equivalent of the Great Library of Alexandria or something.
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Sunday, January 1st, 2006
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Top 20 Singles of 2005
20: Gwen Stefani, "Hollaback Girl"
This would've been terrible if not for stomp and clap beat, which sounds like something you might hear in the streets of Compton in July from teenage girls wearing airbrushed baby tees, gold hoop earrings with their names in them, and tube socks and standing in the spray of a fire hydrant holding giant lollipops. Everyone was sick of the song by summer, but somehow it's still better than anything Coldplay released this year. How sad that statement is...
19: Death Cab For Cutie, "Soul Meets Body"
Poor Death Cab. They signed the major label contract way after they a) had a large following and b) released the best material they have ever, and probably will ever, create (Transatlanticism). Ergo, if their latest album was the new Revolver, they'd have been accused of selling out. If it was terrible, the blame would fall on the label switch. The album is uneven in my never-humble opinion, but Ben Gibbard & Co. did themselves a favor selecting "Soul Meets Body" for release. Death Cab is far from a singles band and this is the most radio-friendly cut, not to mention that it's actually rather good. The video is freaking nuts, too. That's something to try out high on peyote.
18: R. Kelly, "Trapped In The Closet"
Yes, he peed on some dumb bitch. Let's all move past it, shall we? Someone you know has probably done it too, you just don't know about it. "Closet" gets tired around chapter 89 or so, but points to Kellz for taking a concept that in all actuality shouldn't be able to sustain one song and stretching it out to over forty minutes, even if it does involve a midget shitting his pants. But come to think of it, I can't come up with a better representation of R. Kelly's music than that.
17: The Bravery, "An Honest Mistake"
The Bravery have had a rough year. Almost everyone regards them as the offspring of Satan because they have the audacity to GASP, sound like The Killers. How dare they. "An Honest Mistake" is, truth be told, better than 90% of The Killers's album, but won't get the recognition it deserves because it came out later and is therefore a knockoff. But didn't NSYNC come out after Backstreet Boys? I don't really know what I'm talking about anymore.
16: Amerie, "1 Thing"
You gotta love Amerie, if only because she seems to be the only R&B artist that realizes nothing in the genre will ever be as good as "Crazy In Love." With that in mind, she hired Beyoncé's producer and laid down a track that probably isn't as good as "Crazy In Love" but isn't a waste of studio time either like, say, Ashlee Simpson's entire discography. But I'm still left wondering what this one thing he did was. Donkey punch?
15: Kanye West featuring Jamie Foxx, "Gold Digger"
Back in 1999 when TLC released "No Scrubs," there was an answer recorded by some rappers called "No Pigeons." If memory serves, it wasn't as clever a burn to women as "No Scrubs" was to men. Six years later, "Gold Digger" marched out and sang the praises of the prenuptual agreement. (Hear that, Nick Lachey?) So yeah, guys might be broke sometimes, but it's only because his girl poked holes in the condom and now he has to pay child support. We see you, Jennifer Garner. Extra points for that neck move Kanye busts in the video. It's the new Macarena.
14: Ciara featuring Ludacris, "Oh"
Recently, Ludacris has sucked big time. In his haste to release an album a year, the material has suffered severely. I forgave "Splash Waterfalls" its lack of a beat or conventional structure, I overlooked "Stand Up"'s awful production (it was Kanye, after all) but that Austin Powers single was the last straw. Just terrible. The best thing Ludacris had turned out in about three years was his performance in the film Crash. That is, until "Oh" hit the scene. Really, when he's trying, nobody can touch Ludacris. The "flickflickflickflickflick" line is pure gold. Ciara is pleasantly vanilla enough that she sufficiently fills the gap between the beginning of the fat, lazy beat and the point at which Ludacris enters the scene. "Oh," indeed.
13: Green Day, "Holiday"
Say what you will about them, Green Day have managed to stay relevant all these years and I have to give them credit for that. "Holiday" is one of their more fun tracks and isn't horribly one-dimensional like "American Idiot" and doesn't take itself too seriously like "Wake Me Up When September Ends." Just a good ol' fashioned pop punk romp. If only Blink-182 aged this gracefully.
12: Backstreet Boys, "Incomplete"
Okay let's get this straight: I hate the Backstreet Boys. "I Want It That Way" is maybe the worst pop song ever created, and I mean that. That stupid video where they dressed up like monsters and had a big dance breakdown in the Addams family's house was one of the most ridiculous things I've ever seen. But "Incomplete" is a slice of pop class. They don't sound like a boy band, they sound like Nickelback if Nickelback would stop fellating themselves. Poor Justin Timberlake is busying himself perfecting his falsetto and meanwhile these guys are actually putting out good material. Of all the pop schlock that came out of the time period of 1997 until now, I predict that this song will be the one that we'll still hear in ten years.
11: The Game featuring 50 Cent, "Hate It Or Love It"
I have no idea who Cool & Dre are, but they succeeded in producing a pretty great track for a pretty mediocre rapper. Even with 50 Cent's signature corny rhymes, he still runs circles around The Game. For all intents and purposes, it's Fitty's track. But the artists are a secondary act to the seamless beat. Kanye West is somewhere kicking himself right now for not thinking of this one first.
10: My Morning Jacket, "Off The Record"
You know, I never saw what the big deal was with Sublime. I secretly think it's Tupac disease: since the lead singer died, everything they ever released is like SOOOOOO GOOOD, LULZ. Get real. Every single they have sounds the same. Paint-by-numbers reggae by a fat white guy, wow. Life-altering. "Off The Record" sounds like the kind of song Sublime would have made if they had been doing less/more drugs. A nice punchy chorus, a bit of a reggae beat, and an airy breakdown at the end. My Morning Jacket is a genius act. Eat that, Bradley Nowell.
09: Basement Jaxx featuring Vula Malinga, "Oh My Gosh"
Assuming "Toxic" is the pinnacle of pop achievement, "Oh My Gosh" gives it a run for its money. Jaxx is always good for an original production that still conveniently fits the mold. I don't know who this Vula Malinga character is but she sounds like a real bitch, like she'd steal someone's boyfriend out from under them. In the confines of the track it works well. Plus points for using "buck wild." Nobody uses that phrase nearly enough these days and it's truly magnificent.
08: Mariah Carey, "Don't Forget About Us [Remix featuring Juelz Santana & Bone Thugs-N-Harmony]"
Say what you will about Mariah Carey, I've always liked her rapper-laden remixes. Often, she goes overboard on the rap verses to the point where she's a featured bill on her own track, and more often than not it works. She's talented enough that she turns out the hooks like few can, but multiracial enough not to sound out of place in a hip-hop/R&B setting. The original cut of "Don't Forget About Us" had Mariah doing the sappy ex-girlfriend routine ad nauseam; here, Bone Thugs provide a man's idea of nostalgia (i.e. the sex they had) and Juelz Santana plays the part of the new boyfriend. The pseudo-storyline angle propells the song far past anything else Mariah was involved in this year, which is saying a lot considering she's been remarkably solid in 2005.
07: Rachel Stevens, "I Said Never Again (But Here We Are)"
Former S Club 7 member Rachel Stevens has been my favorite pop singer for quite some time. Her latest album is nearly flawless; the attention to detail in even the filler songs is astounding. The key to her success — creatively speaking, of course, since she was just dropped from her record label — is that she lets old white men on the forty-third floor of some building make the important decisions for her. (Let's not forget, Britney Spears began sliding downhill in 2002 when she tried to take control of her own career, and yadda yadda yadda... K-Fed. You see where that sort of thinking leads.) Stevens's puppet masters provide her with the best songwriters and producers Britain has to offer and it shows. If Kelly Clarkson needs cover material for her next album, "I Said Never Again" is a good, slutty place to start. I think K. Clark could stand to take herself a little less seriously. But we'll get to that.
06: The White Stripes, "Walking With A Ghost"
I'd never heard the original Tegan and Sara version until just last week when I listened to a thirty second clip. A quick Google search told me that Tegan and Sara are twin lesbians (what a Thanksgiving Day their coming-out must've been) and the clip of their song told me that neither of them can really sing well. Thankfully the Stripes pulled a Joss Stone and covered it about sixteen minutes after it was released. There's something refreshingly organic about Jack White's vocals on this track, like he's not actively trying to be weird or experimental and just lets the performance emerge. The Stripes's rendition is worth about nine of Tegan and Sara's. Stupid indie hos.
05: White Rose Movement, "Love Is A Number"
My number one pet peeve in music is when a song has no ambition, like there's no end point, nothing it's trying to achieve. There's something to be said for the breakneck momentum of this song racing towards each peak like a Sears shopper going for the sale rack. I'm fairly certain this is what both The Killers and The Bravery were trying to get at with their debut albums but never really grasped it.
04: Gorillaz, "Feel Good Inc"
$20 to the first person who can competently mix this beat with the vocals of Christina Aguilera's "Dirrty." I'm convinced this instrumental can make absolutely anything sound good, even catchy nonsense lyrics about windmills.
03: Kelly Clarkson, "Since U Been Gone"
Kelly Clarkson sometimes seems like she takes herself too seriously. She'll get onstage with wallet chains and a torn Sex Pistols shirt and holler into the microphone with a rawk hand sign raised high. She'll sing lyrics like "You won't get to see the tears I cry behind these hazel eyes," which sounds more like the result of a tear duct infection than a moving, poetic assertion. But sometimes — not often, but sometimes — she is brilliant. And "Since U Been Gone" is undiluted, unspoilt class. Tense issues aside ("Wasn't long until I called you mine/ Yeah yeah since you been gone." When did he leave your ass, exactly?), she manages to spit bitter, adolescent lyrics and actually pull them off. Imagine someone like Ashlee Simpson or Hilary Duff singing, "How can I put it/ You put me on/ I even fell for that stupid love song." They'd get laughed off the radio by default. The irony of Bright Eyes-loving indie hipsters everywhere having an American Idol on their BLACK AS DEATH iPods is not lost on me. You win at the Internet, Kelly. You transcend. Meanwhile, I sure hope Karen O is getting royalties for that blatant "Maps" rip over the bridge. That shit was FLAGRANT.
02: Robyn, "Be Mine"
I really hate when singers talk in the middle of their songs. It didn't work when Britney asked if the old lady threw it in the ocean, it didn't work when Will Smith pulled it every single he ever had, and it was outright embarrassing when Justin Timberlake postured that sometimes people just destined, destined to do what they do and that's what it is, now everybody dance. Thank you, William Faulkner. But somehow "Be Mine" manages it. It's like an M. Night Shyamalan movie: you follow it until the last third and then there's that part that unlocks it all and you can see the original concept that the entire work grew out of. What if a bunch of people exiled themselves to the eighteenth century? What if some guy was a ghost and didn't know it? What if Robyn saw an ex-boyfriend with what's-her-name and, get this, THE BITCH WAS WEARING THE SCARF ROBYN GAVE HIM. Oh snap!! Laguna Beach worthy, indeed. Whoever was in charge of the production duties did a bang-up job: a B-side to the single is a stripped piano performance of the song and it's infinitely inferior. There's tension, there's motion, there's intent. Just stellar. Almost as good as that video where she was dancing on that van in a jumpsuit in 1997.
01: Imogen Heap, "Hide And Seek"
There's so much to say about this song, I don't know where to start. The ultimate break-up record, and we're not talking about OMG I dated Bobby for A WHOLE MONTH and then he went to Jessica's party and cheated on me with Madison in her bathroom and I am SOOOO CRUSHED. Imogen wrote of such deep depression and disbelief that a backing track is superfluous and the a cappella is all that's necessary. Time stops. Life stops. The vocoder sounds like misery rather than Cher's "Believe." This is so far beyond what anyone else was doing this year that it tops this list by a landslide.
Top 5 Albums of 2005
05: Jack's Mannequin, Everything In Transit
I admit it: I'm a closet Something Corporate fan. Jack's Mannequin is a side project of lead singer Andrew McMahon, and I find it a lot more likeable and experimental than Something Corporate. There's a touch of a more distinctive sound to Jack's Mannequin rather than the somewhat cookie cutter rock of McMahon's usual outfit. The killer melodies are still present but there's a freedom to the songs, like he could do whatever the hell he wanted because it's just a side project. "Kill The Messenger" might be one of the most honest-sounding songs I've heard in a very long time.
04: Robyn, Robyn
Best pop release of the year, narrowly edging out Rachel Stevens based on pure creativity. Where Stevens went for solid dancefloor packers and glossy melodies, Robyn broke formation and made sure she didn't sound like anything else out. Her songs are simultaneously ridiculous and brilliant: on the melancholy ballad "Robotboy" she sings "Your battery's low, did you crash again?/ Robotboy, do you need a friend?/ Hey little droid, is your head on wrong?" but somehow makes it sound genuine, like she's talking to her best pal; she does Pink better than Pink on "Bum Like You" and promises to knit her deadbeat boyfriend mittens and make him pie; she even emulates the icy ambient of Sigur Rös on "Anytime You Like." If all pop was this inventive and enjoyable the world would be a better place.
03: Ryan Adams, 29
Of the three (!) albums Ryan Adams released this year, this is by far the best. It's a concept album consisting of ten tracks, one for each year of Adams's twenties. It also helps that most of it is salty whiskey-buzz melancholy driven by slow piano/guitar, which is my favorite Adams variant. He has a great voice for that sort of thing, and it's a shame he wastes time on all those alt-country whims.
02: Kayne West, Late Registration
Kanye, I still don't like you as a person very much. But one thing I'll never fault you for is your ego, because it's more than justified. You, my friend, are the best rapper around. And that includes Jay-Z, even though he's "retired" to guest spots. Though I have preferences, I could legitimately listen to Late Registration from beginning to end. I've never had that experience with a rap album, with the exception of Jay-Z's Blueprint and you produced my favorite track on that, so there you go. Jon Brion could make Limp Bizkit sound passable, and with you he actually had something to work with. Brave, Ye. Bravo.
01: Sufjan Stevens, Illinois
I read somewhere that if you listen to "John Wayne Gacy, Jr." while reading the account of his killings, it's one of the biggest mindfucks in the world. So I tried it. And it was. I still get chills down my spine when I hear it. I think that represents Illinois better than anything else. These are tracks that have personalities, almost like people you can get to know. The scope of the album is so grand, each track so layered, that it actually takes work to fully enjoy it. I love the notion of that, like the artist put in a great deal of effort and to really appreciate it, you have to put in just as much. Sufjan Stevens has vowed to release one album for every state in the United States and if they're all like this, every other indie band might as well throw in the towel.
Top 10 WORST Singles of 2005
10: The Black Eyed Peas, "My Humps"
It makes me angry that they spent about $14 and nineteen minutes on this track. The beat is literally nothing and Fergie's off-key cutsie poo rapping is cringe-worthy. Just bad. Too bad to be camp, even.
09: Eminem, "Ass Like That"
I have this theory that Eminem is the new millennium's Kurt Cobain and he openly hates his celebrity. But rather than be a little bitch and take the easy way out by shooting himself, he's going to release the absolute worst material he can think up and sell it off to stupid suburban kids who think their problems are so huge that they can't recognize they're being played. "Mockingbird" was a joke. "Just Lose It" was a JOKE. "Ass Like That" is a slap in the face of anyone who purchased his album for themselves (which, thankfully, I didn't). Referring to your genitalia as a "pee pee," is that ever FRESH. Do you do bar mitzvahs, Em? You've threatened that your greatest hits package will be your last formal release. That makes me believe that there is a God.
08: Weezer, "Beverly Hills"
Another year, another boring Weezer release. They couldn't even make a sufficient video given the frigging Playboy Mansion. Their career is slowly veering to Lindsay Lohan-level embarrassment.
07: Ashlee Simpson, "L.O.V.E."
Ellay ellay ellay ellay em ee! Minus points for spelling out "love" for no reason; the song's about dancing in the club with friends. I liked Ashlee Simpson a lot better with acid reflux and a penchant for ho-downs. Girl you know it's true.
06: Fall Out Boy, "Sugar, We're Goin' Down"
Official Band of MySpacers Everywhere! Terrible lyrics that the band probably thought were deep but are really just lame, terrible instrumentation that bores the shit out of me, terrible looking band members with greasy hair capping off the whole train wreck. Deplorable.
05: Nickelback, "Photograph"
I almost wonder why record labels allow Nickelback (and Creed before them) to record albums anymore, but I need only look as far as Billboard. Inexplicably this is a top 10 single, even though I've heard it a sum total of once on the radio. Maybe the fact that Nickelback's singer looks like Jesus Christ strikes the fear of the Lord into radio operators...? Word up, JC: that whack facial hair makes your mouth look like a vagina. I'm just sayin'.
04: The Pussycat Dolls, "Don't Cha"
It'd be halfway clever if someone like Heidi Klum was singing it, but as evidenced by the video these Pussycats aren't the pick of the litter. I know they have to include The One That Can Sing, but why not fill the rest of the slots with indescribably hot girls? Poor marketing technique there. Compound that with the fact that the song is just annoying as shit.
Oh, and I read somewhere (okay, ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif) ohnotheydidnt) that they're all a bunch of bitches too. So there.
03: Jack Johnson, "Good People"
"Good People" is the sort of song that is so frustratingly hypocritical that I entertain thoughts of never supporting the artist's career ever again. (And having only purchased Johnson's first album, it's not much of a leap.) Boo hoo, nobody's nice anymore. Sob, they're all too materialistic. Oh yeah go buy my album. You'll be giving them away free then, right Jackie boy? That's what I thought. STFU. Let Jon Brion produce your next record so it's not as lame as your last two.
02: D4L, "Laffy Taffy"
I asked my mother what sort of god would allow "Laffy Taffy" and "My Humps" to be played in America simultaneously. She guessed one with a good sense of humor. I thought one that hates us all.
01: 50 Cent featuring Olivia, "Candy Shop"
Talk about rap that sets the movement back. I hope nobody wonders why the world views rap as a stupid, pointless genre when it spawns songs like this atrocity. When you take part in a song containing lyrics about oral sex thinly veiled by the licking of lollipops and hitting spots, I think you buy yourself a ticket to hell. There's no way something like "Candy Shop" can do any good in the world.
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Sunday, December 11th, 2005
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I used to fall back asleep a lot in the mornings. Freshman year my clock radio was right next to my head and I'd inexplicably turn it off without remembering and just continue sleeping. When I moved into an apartment, I put it across the room so when it went off I'd have to physically get up and turn it off. But even then I'd sometimes find myself waking up an hour later and wonder what happened. That was until I discovered that TBS plays two-hour blocks of Saved By The Bell every morning. Believe me when I say that is better than sleep.
The other day they showed the "Running Zack" episode and it's the most racist thing I've ever seen. Don't get me wrong, I'm not some whining liberal who cares; I was just amused that they could get away with all that. While researching his ancestry for a school project, Zack finds out he's part Native American and visits a "real, live American Indian" for help. An encyclopedia probably wouldn't have done the job. Did you go down to that reservation in Malibu, right next to the beach? Of course the guy is named Chief Henry and he's a brazen drunk. They don't show him swigging the fire water or anything but you can tell that the actor himself is probably drunk 90% of the time. He gives Zack the Indian name "Running Zack" because he enjoys track. For one episode. Judging from the rest of the episodes in the series, his Indian name should've been "Felon Zack" or "VD Zack Scratchum Crotchum." After speaking with Chief Henry, Zack gives his class presentation in full Indian headdress and moccasins. Yes, I'm sure that's exactly what he wanted, a gross stereotype of his culture. Way to go, dipshit. Chief Henry dies — probably after hearing about Zack's "redskin" getup — and appears to Zack in a dream, leaving him with an "artifact" that looks like a dried chicken bone with some craft beads and macaroni glued on. They might as well have had him sending smoke signals from Heaven or something. There's also a vaguely hilarious subplot about the ancestors of Lisa, the only black girl in school, being slaves and the ancestors of Jessie, the Harvard-bound white girl with a mild dependency on designer street drugs, being slave traders.
They just needed a Chinese kid scoring an 800 on the SAT math portion while eating a bag lunch of Beagle and Swiss on rye and a Muslim student slamming a Boeing 757 into some buildings and I think they'd have a full set.
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Tuesday, November 29th, 2005
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| Subject: | I Hate Hollywood '05: Harry Potter & The Goblet Of Fire |
| Time: | 9:24 pm. |
| Music: | Jack Johnson - Cookie Jar. |
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You've got a Harry Potter geek in your midst. I freely admit it. My favorite character is Draco Malfoy and my favorite books are The Half-Blood Prince and The Prisoner Of Azkaban. But I've long ago given up the ghost of waiting for a truly perfect movie adaptation. Let's be honest, that's not exactly realistic. These books are so big you could break a window with them. Each one on its own weighs more than Nicole Richie. Clearly filmmakers are going to have to trim the fat (or, in the case of The Order Of The Phoenix, give it gastric bypass).
So is the case with Goblet. There's a barebones plot about the Tri-Wizard Tournament which I guess is the main idea, and... well, not much else. That isn't a complaint — most of the hack job was rather welcome here: Harry's abusive aunt and uncle are a one-trick pony and I seriously doubt anyone sitting their ass in a theatre seat hadn't seen any of the previous films and needed another tour of Hogwarts. The house elf subplot is all well and good in the books, but translated to movies it looks like a Lord Of The Rings knockoff and, frankly, Harry Potter fandom is embarrassing enough without needlessly linking it to a virgin-rife community like LOTR.
It seems as though The Powers That Be have realized that hiring a big-name director like Alfonso Cuarón and, you know, reaping the benefits of a visually engrossing film is overly costly and complicated. It's much easier to give the duties to some unknown "talent" (Mona Lisa Smile and The Young Indiana Jones Chronicles, consider me dazzled!) and save money because these actors are incapable of delivering lines without Constipation Face so it's not like they need someone around to help them "find their motivation" or quell Dame Maggie From The Block's diva demands. ("I NEED A CLEAN-SHAVEN CABANA BOY AND A CAN OF THOUSAND ISLAND DRESSING IN MY TRAILER YESTERDAAAAY!") As such, there isn't the sense of eerie darkness quite so much as in The Prisoner Of Azkaban, even though the storyline almost begs for it. It also just feels like they weren't trying very hard. Another unknown has been tapped for the next film, The Order Of The Phoenix. It might help give the franchise a less ceremonial feel if they hired someone who, you know, doesn't live in his mom's basement.
Voldemo— uh, He Who Must Not Be Named ranks on the list of successes. He makes the translation almost perfectly. Creepy and menacing without being campy like the villains in the other films. The Yule Ball was not what I expected in the least but ended up working well. I giggled at the Death Eaters' black Ku Klux Klan hoods. Lord knows how that got past the MPAA. I almost pulled a Mama Cass and choked when I saw the pointed hoods marching through the Quidditch World Cup campsite.
Last film, my only complaint was that a massive recast was needed. This time — even though I'm reasonably certain Draco, Hermione, and Ron could legally swig a beer between takes — I didn't notice as much. They do look a bit older than they probably should, but it doesn't distract as much as before. I think it might have been because in The Chamber Of Secrets they looked like Neverland Ranch visitors and then in The Prisoner Of Azkaban they looked like teenagers all of a sudden. The rapid aging was a little jarring, I suppose.
Not the best Potter, but a contender for distant second.
Grade: B
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Tuesday, November 22nd, 2005
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I've found that I hate my poetry teacher. I mean that literally. I hate him. And it's not just because I hate poetry with every inch of my body. Some of the things he does should've been caught by somebody somewhere during his journey through the stages of becoming a teacher. A university official needs to be fired on the basis that this guy's a professor today, or at the very least feel ashamed of themselves.
He does that annoying thing where he'll start a sentence and pause before the last word so that the students can say it. "I'm thirsty so I'm going to the water... fountain, right." My third grade teacher did that when she wanted to put emphasis on something in particular. This guy does it for no reason in particular. Today I actually counted the number of times he did it within one seventy-five minute class because it bothers me so much. Seventeen. SEVENTEEN. That's once every four minutes or so. If he was saying anything interesting I might let it slide, but he says the dumbest bullshit that don't even warrent the Third Grade Pause. "In actuality, the surreal is actually the real, and the real is actually the... surreal, right." What? What is the point of that, even? Is it some sad way to integrate the class into your blatherings? Because let me tell you, I'm finding that learning to sleep with my eyes open is a lot more enriching than anything you're teaching.
Today he asked us to take three minutes and write a thesis for the third paper due in a few weeks. Everyone got a piece of paper out and began to write. Not five seconds into it, he started peppering the silence sporatically with useless little comments. Imagine being asked to write a limerick in Pig Latin while someone is popping balloons right next to your head and irregular intervals. With Cher's "Believe" playing on repeat. If you have something to tell me about the assignment at hand, tell me when you're first assigning it. It's called an organized lesson plan, you twit. At least act apologetic or something.
This is relatively minor, but the guy has some kind of rare bone marrow disease that causes him to be unable to not reference "professor and friend David Shapiro" once an hour. I don't know who this Shapiro schmuck is, but apparently he's another professor at the university and they're old college buddies. The weird dependency stems from that time they had a threeway with a hooker named Esmeralda high on opium. (The hooker, not them.) A David Shapiro Original™ Opinion/Pun/Observation/Proverb is dispensed daily. In my head David Shapiro is a fortune cookie with arms.
End rant.
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Sunday, November 20th, 2005
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I was walking out of Best Buy earlier this evening when I saw it. A midget. Sorry, a dwarf. (Doesn't "dwarf" sound more derogatory than "midget?" I understand the offensive nature of "Munchkin" or "Mini Me," but when I hear the word "dwarf" I think of a bearded guy with a pointed red hat. Wait... that might be David the Gnome. Never mind.) Close friends know that midg— erm, little people scare me and this one tonight was the most frightening variety. It was the kind where its arms and legs are especially short so when it moves it looks animatronic, like there's someone ducked behind a nearby Tahoe with a big remote control. I was stunned when it got into a car. I don't know why. That little people drive cars in perfectly reasonable, I just always assumed they didn't. Sort of like wheelchair-bound people. But sure enough, the guy climbed up the driver's seat like it was one of those plastic tube jungle gyms at McDonald's and drove off. He was clearly sitting on something so that he could see over the dashboard. It was too dark to see, but in my head it was two stacked phone books.
I feel badly about the fact that little people make my skin crawl because I know it's not their fault. They were born that way. I blame Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory: I have vivid childhood memories of trying to fall asleep and sitting up every thirty-seven seconds to look out the bedroom door and make sure Oompah Loompahs weren't marching up the stairs to drag me off somewhere. I also vaguely remember watching my Wizard Of Oz tape repeatedly during preschool and kindergarten and wishing Dorothy would roundhouse a few of those lollipop-holding Munchkins with her new kicks. My bias was formed at a very early age.
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Sunday, November 6th, 2005
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Dear self,
Be more interesting. Your sad, sorry journal is suffering because your life sucks. Stop watching MTV reality shows and go put yourself in some danger for the sake of an engrossing read.
Love,
your id.
'05 Movies: The 40-Year-Old Virgin
Between bouts of sucking, I managed to get myself to the movies a couple times, to varying reward. But let's leave the bad for later.
I'd never experienced doubled-over laughing in the theatre until The 40-Year-Old Virgin. And I mean that literally. From start to finish I was laughing. It was really pathetic, actually. I felt like I was about thirteen years old. But you have to love a movie that achieves comedy without gross-out tactics (TIRED) or people falling over a lot. I honest to God love this movie. Love it. Steve Carell is brilliant. That guy that played Phoebe's husband on Friends is brilliant. The fat friend is brilliant. The black guy is BRILLIANT. The single-mom girlfriend seemed like she was cribbing a little too much from Lorelai Gilmore's notes on how to be a sexy mom without taking time to read the part about low-cut shirts and, you know, actually being attractive, but she doesn't detract from the pure, unadulterated greatness of this film. Definitely worth the $57.43 it costs to go to the movies.
Grade: A
'05 Movies: Prime
From one of the best films I've seen to one of the worst. It's sad that there's so much more to say about terrible movies than about good ones. One of the downsides of being a boyfriend is that you've got to sit through abysmal films like this.
I have a policy where I don't give F grades. Honest to goodness, I've never seen an F-worthy movie. Ever. But Prime comes damn close to making me rethink my grading system. It rivals Hitch for worst movie I've ever seen. This year. Or last year, for that matter. But you can pretty much tell you're in for a shitstorm from the premise: slutty and vaguely pathetic divorcée (Uma) starts dating whiny, boring, weak-chinned Jewish boy (unfamous bad actor) who is fourteen years her junior, all the while never knowing her therapist (Meryl Streep) is actually his mom. Insert awkward moments while ho tells her shrink about her boyfriend's genitalia. It's a retread of the girlfriend vs. family story that's been done nine million times elsewhere, not to mention more competently. Monster In Law at least had the good sense to star J.Lo's big ass (and a comparatively attractive cast), feature a mildly amusing script, and have a budget of over, say... $900. I usually tend not to find a film's soundtrack mentionable unless it's exceptionally well done, but let this be an exception. Prime's had no songs with words, and it's the kind of movie where you need the angsty top 40 Adult Contemporary Pop/Rock hits spinning while the estranged characters walk the streets of New York. Closer caved in and used Damien Rice. Ah, but that film clearly had enough money behind it to feature four big names AND license some songs. My bad.
One thing I hate more than anything is when a film is marketed as one genre and then turns out to be something else completely, or an imbalanced hybrid (see: Wedding Crashers). Misconceptions I labored under before seeing Prime: 1) it was going to be a comedy; 2) there would be some sort of overarching message like "It's what's inside that counts!" or "Parents just don't understand!"; 3) there would be any sort of chemistry between the main characters; 4) it wouldn't make me wish I was watching The Miracle Of Life. I usually like Uma Thurman but Jesus, I imagine they backed an armored truck up to her house and just started shoveling the cash onto her front lawn. I don't see any other way she'd have been a part of this embarrassment.
The script sees to it that you legitimately cannot like any one character in this film. They're all terrible. And on top of it all, it drags on for almost two hours with its nonsense paint-by-numbers story. At one point I actually realized in horror that Uma and her schmuck were still dating so we hadn't quite finished the second act yet. Sure enough, twenty minutes later she decided they "need to see other people." I should go to Vegas with this shit because I'm some kind of goddamn psychic.
Deplorable. Its case probably wasn't helped by the fact that I really wanted to see Saw II instead. But still. My girlfriend didn't even like it, and she liked The Notebook, which had even less of a plot than this. That's got to tell you something. Barely dodges the lowest rating possible because they showed a trailer of the new Rachel McAdams movie before it. Now SHE's someone I'll suffer through a poor script for (see: the aforementioned The Notebook).
Grade: D
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Monday, October 17th, 2005
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1) Have you ever had a song written about you?
Well... you know that song "Jessie's Girl?" Yeah, I guess I'm Jessie or something, I don't really know.
2) What posters do you have in your room?
Lessee. Two Kill Bills, a Sopranos, and a door poster of Britney Spears before she became morbidly obese.
3) What do you hear right now?
Sex, Drugs, Violence & General Hospital Podcast. It's the funniest thing on the Internet, ever. I love to hate this soap opera and apparently so does this guy.
4) If you could drink anything right this second, what would be?
A nice Jack & Coke. On a Sunday night. That's called class, y'all.
5) Does anything hurt on your body right now?
Just my pride, son. Just my pride. What?
6) If someone you hated died, would you laugh and spit on their grave?
Probably not, but I might be happy depending on how much I hated them. Like if it was Ty Pennington, I might do the Hustle for a few minutes.
7) What's your job position called?
"C. Garwood. The 'C' stands for Culufu, from the Rwandan name 'King of all that he sees and stopping that which is injustice.'"
8) What size ring do you wear?
That's a good question. My girlfriend would know. I hope she feels bad if she doesn't because I know she wears a seven. I think I might wear a nine and a half.
9) Do you own a picture phone?
I don't know how I'd sufficiently make fun of people without it.
10) What's your bf/gf birthday?
December 22, 1983. And she doesn't even know my damn ring size. Jesus.
11) What was your elementary school's mascot?
A raccoon. Don't laugh, raccoons can start some shit. I dare you to try and grab one by its tail when it's rummaging through your trash can.
12) What's your favorite bottled water?
I don't care. Evian? I think that's what Jennifer Lopez demands on the set of her music videos. So obviously that's my favorite.
13) What's the next concert/show you're going to and when?
I really, really don't know. I know Death Cab For Cutie is coming next month.
14) What were you doing at 9 pm last night?
Watching some stupid show on HGTV with Ashley and her mom. But we went out later, I swear we weren't Those Losers who watch HGTV on a Saturday night.
15) What's your favorite Starbucks drink?
White chocolate mocha. But I'm on a budget now and I find that if I don't drop $5 on a 2,000,000 calorie drink every morning, money lasts longer.
16) Do you exercise as much as you should?
I hit the gym about four or five days a week. But I do NOT do cardio. I hate to run. When I die and go to hell, that's what I'm going to be doing for the rest of eternity. Running. To and from the dentist's office.
17) Did you attend your High School prom?
Yes, but it wasn't as fun until I had graduated and went to Jill's senior prom with her. Mostly because I hated my graduating class. Most of them sucked a lot.
18) Did you go to someone else's prom?
See above.
19) Would you give your bf/gf a second chance if they cheated on you?
If it was Jessica Alba... maybe.
SOME STRANGE QUESTIONS:
Something purple within 5 feet of you:
A purple ultra fine point Sharpie.
The sexiest item of clothing you own:
Kevin Federline wifebeaters. U wANt iT!1!1!!!1!1
If the Matrix existed would you want to know about it?
Hell no. I saw that movie, outside the Matrix it looked like NOLA post-Katrina. Unless they have Louis Vuitton monogrammed tattered burlap garments, I want no part of it.
How long can you hold your breath underwater?
Not as long as the people on TV.
Your nails were last painted:
Halloween two years ago?
Ever done the Electric Slide?
I don't think so, but I can appreciate a good Electric Slider. It's hot when they bust that move when you spin your arms in circles and then bend over and slap the floor. Now THAT's electric. Boogie oogie oogie. I've been to too many weddings.
How much Japanese do you know?
Survey says: Zee-ro. Thanks Ray Combs.
Sparkly things?
Sort of gay. And I don't mean that offensively, but when I hear the word "sparkly" I think of some guy in a gay club with a shiny silver shirt on and pink lip gloss.
Ever crash a car, been in accidents?
Yes, nothing too serious.
Do you look good in yellow?
I look good in everything.
Do you sing?
I'm ashamed to admit I caught myself singing "Pieces Of Me" in the shower the other day and I was already halfway through it before I realized.
Ever sang in front of a crowd?
In middle school. I'm sure there's a video of it somewhere and it'll end up on Extra in five years.
Do you dance?
All the time.
Is your hair long enough to chew on?
Well I can't do it myself, but one could presumably do so if one felt so inclined.
Least favorite color?
Not really a big orange person.
Favorite kind of pizza?
Plain cheese gets the job done.
Ever have Dippin' Dots?
YES, chocolate mint rules my world.
Ever played an instrument?
I played the recorder in third grade. And I'm taking a guitar class next semester because I'm a senior and I can.
How old were you when you got a cell phone?
Sixteen maybe? My brother just got one and he's eleven. OBVIOUSLY Mom and Dad like him better. It's a hard knock life... for me...
How old were you when you got your first piercing?
Nineteen, sucka. One and only. I'm such a rebel it's scary.
How many tickets do you have?
None as far as I know, but I hear they've been ticketing jaywalkers heavily recently. Tucson cops clearly have nothing better to do, even when I'm sure there's a Mexican mugging somebody over on the south side.
How long have you been driving?
Like a year. Ha.
How many parking tickets?
NONE. Suckonnnnnnn that!
How old were you when you had your first kiss?
Six, maybe?
How old were you when you had your first official date?
I don't know. Probably thirteen or so.
Do you want to get married?
Well if Jessica Alba comes a-knockin'...
At what age do you want to get married?
Not before I'm thirty. No sense in wasting the opportunity to exploit good looks to scam women for as long as you can. Unless you're ugly. George Bush doesn't care about ugly people.
Have you ever been married?
LOLLERSKATES.
At what age do you want to have kids?
Ideally never. I'm too selfish. Plus pregnant women and children under the age of three are both pretty repulsive in my book.
How many kids?
If I had to, I guess one. Two, maximum.
Do you believe in divorce?
Of course. People change, people make mistakes. Like anyone who's ever married Tom Cruise.
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Tuesday, October 11th, 2005
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Friday, October 7th, 2005
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I have a tendency to get severely attached to television shows. Severely. Attached. I treat my television engagements better than I treat friends. This week it's Lost. I missed the boat when it first came out last year so I bought myself the DVDs and I'm hooked. A day or two ago I watched the episode with the flashback of Jack and Sarah's wedding. It made me sick. It reminded of every reason I hate weddings. (That I hate Jack probably moved things along too.) It's common knowledge that I don't hold much stock in peoples' mental capacity; most of them can hardly be trusted to dress themselves properly, let alone put together a wedding that won't have their guests regretting they ever RSVPed.
Not one day later, I found another repulsive wedding-related tidbit. Behold the twisted horror that is... The Knot. Trumping ridiculous features like a wedding budgeter and "Ask Carley," a sad, sorry woman whose services are rendered useless by the advent of the uh, INTERNET, is "Our Wedding." Dipshits log on and write synopses of how they met, the proposals, and short bios of themselves (not necessary — if you're filling one of these out or allowing one to be filled out for you, I already know you suck). As if anyone but those two retards cares about their stupid civil ceremony. "wel wE mEt @ a FRaT pArTEe and it wuZ trU ♥ @ 1st sITe!!1!1!! im a viRGo WHo LikES PIZzA pARtys & CloUDs shApED LyKE OStRIchES & hE is A PiSEES wHo LIKES BEeR + thA sTRiP jOInT!!!1!!!11!1!!1q!11ONE" I really hope that feature costs these idiots money, that'd really be the icing on the shit cake.
Clearly there's loads of incompetent individuals out there who are incapable of doing anything right. Here's some wedding DOs and DON'Ts. Trust me, the men will appreciate it — groom included.
To those who would say "It's their special day, let them do what they want," well... that's exactly the kind of wooly-headed liberal thinking that brought on Hitler and the Holocaust, now isn't it.
• DO have an open bar — more than one, if you can manage. This is key. If I'm going to be attending your dumbass wedding, at LEAST make sure I can get sufficiently drunk. And I'm sure the guy who just limited himself to (presumably) one rack for the rest of his life is gonna need a drink or six in order to keep him from bolting from the place outright.
• DON'T write your own vows. Almost as key as the first. Let's be honest, if you write your own vows at least nine or ten guests will be laughing silently at you. If I'm one of them, not so silently. Most people can't write to begin with and I promise you that stringing a bunch of love clichés together is a sure way to have your groomsmen make fun of you for the rest of your life. Save everyone time and energy and just do the traditional ones.
• DON'T play "Brown Eyed Girl" at your reception. My parents hired this DJ who I suspect was legally retarded to play at my great aunt's seventy-fifth birthday party, and later my dad's cousins used his services at their wedding. He played crap like "The Chicken Dance" and "The Macarena" and made people wear crazy hats with umbrellas on them. We called him Cousin Jason because he appeared at so many family functions. If you're going for that open bar we talked about earlier, you're going to have a lot of people dancing like fools, and not in the funny way. It's going to be saaad. Like Grandpa-getting-up-out-of-his-wheelchair-and-shaking-it-to-Snoop-Dogg sad. Usually there's also one of those annoying ladies you pay to rove around the reception with a camcorder and make a videotape of the reception, and chances are she's going to catch your otherwise straight-laced guests doing the goddamn Macarena in a drunken haze. ("Marcia and John's wedding," in script writing. Fade in a video of Aunt Julie lit up like a Christmas tree and flailing her arms to "Gettin' Jiggy Wit It.") Make absolutely certain neither you nor your friends are going to be embarrassed by the music selection. "YMCA" is on the forbidden list. Anything that involves a conga line. I've heard of foregoing the DJ altogether and doing an iPod reception, which I personally find a little, what's the word... stupid. But if you go that route, make sure "Celebration" is absent.
• DO have a non-denominational ceremony. If you do away with the 9,000,000-hour mass, everyone can get to boozin' it up that much quicker. Think with your liver, people.
• DO make a brother the best man. That way you almost guarantee you won't grow apart or lose touch and feel stupid later. Best friends are for the groom's party. If you don't have a brother, well... your life already sucks and a botched wedding won't really matter in the grand scheme of things. On a personal note, half-brothers don't count because they aren't real.
• DO include readings in your ceremony if you must, but only elect people who seem like the type who enjoy it to do them. Like women. Speaking from personal experience, standing up in front of a bunch of strangers and reading ridiculous Bible passages is about as entertaining as a tetanus shot. If your cousin Michelle squeals with joy at the prospect of reading something from godawful Corinthians, she'll probably take it seriously and do a good job. But if your younger half-brother makes no secret of what a joke he thinks weddings are, well, there's a good chance your bad decisions will become public knowledge and he'll carry a grudge for the rest of his natural born life. Corinthians, I mean really. That gives your wedding the personality of a fun-size Baby Ruth bar.
• DON'T leave your reception ten minutes into it to go have sex in the hotel room. That's tacky and everyone knows what you're doing at the exact moment you're doing it. Even your MOM. Try getting busy with that running through your head like a news ticker. And let's be real, it's almost 2006. Unless you're weird, you've already been there. It's not like a brave new world waiting to be conquered. In reality, you're probably sick of it already. And once that ring goes on the finger, buddy... let's just say your ten minutes in the missionary position can wait a few hours. If worst comes to worst, there's always the back of the limo on the way to the reception.
That's classy.
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Monday, October 3rd, 2005
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I took my life into my own hands the other day by snapping a picture of someone riding the bus with me who probably needed little excuse to hold me down and gnaw on my throat. Some girl sitting next to me kept looking over to see what I was doing, so I had to go about my business warily because she probably would have thought poorly of me if she knew I was taking some loony's picture so I — and others — could make fun of it later. (As if anyone's opinion has ever stopped me before.) They say a picture is worth a thousand words; this one's worth at least five. This is what I subject my mortal flesh to twice a day.
1. In my haste I didn't check to make sure the words were clear enough to read, but this unfortunate looking individual is wearing a t-shirt that says, "Forty... Twice as nice as twenty." First of all... ain't nothin' nice about that, forty or (clearly) no. Second, unless you're functionally retarded you can tell this man is pushing seventy years of age. What is that, like three-and-a-half times as nice as twenty? Obviously not.
2. Every little kid tried the old burning-ants-with-a-magnifying-glass trick. This guy can do it if he angles his head right. The lenses are thicker than my thumb. There comes a time when a person becomes so blind that he might as well stop kidding himself and just buy one of those canes and a nice yellow lab, otherwise it becomes embarrassing. Stop the insanity. (As an aside, being legally blind could account for the outfit...)
3. The SideKick II's camera has its limitations, but the dirty, long nails are still visible. I looked at them and thought of Charles Manson. I don't doubt they could easily cut flesh. Unless they make diamond-edged nail clippers, it's beyond too late.
4. The 'Tis The Season beard and Albert Einstein hair are the classiest things. I've ever seen. In my entire. Life. I understand that not showering falls into the Inalienable Rights column, but Christ... a pack of disposable razors is like $3.00 at Walgreen's, tops. PLEASE take a sharp tool to that smarm factory on your face.
5. Faux Timberlands cap the package off. With teal socks, no less. Say what you will, the man knows how to match and accessorize what he's got.
I've been looking into getting myself a firearm.
Post script: R.I.P. Paris2. You inspired many an office pool about when you'd break it off (first week in October 2005 wins the pot!) and many a laugh at how you managed to look like Wal-Mart shoppers in public when your combined worth was well into the hundred millions. Thanks for the good times, and we know it's only a matter of time before Paris♀ crawls back to Rick Salomon (I'm in for $20 on January 2006) and Paris♂ has the common decency to fade into obscurity, content with his status as a footnote in Paris♀'s next tell-all book.
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Tuesday, September 27th, 2005
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This is the single greatest thing I've ever seen, mostly because generally speaking I don't like cats very much.
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Friday, September 23rd, 2005
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"I'm looking for a whore named Jesse. Shouldn't be too hard to find."
Crazy people in Tucson are like dog-years crazy: their craziness is like seven times worse than a crazy person's anywhere else. I think it's because Tucson is that much closer to Columbia and, I'd assume, cocaine is easier to get ahold of. After all, Mexico is about twenty minutes away.
"Do you know a whore named Jesse?" the middle-aged man with a sewn-on patch bearing the name Lenny asked a guy sitting next to him who looked like his name would be Ken. We were sitting on a bus, my seat facing theirs. Lenny had bent over so far that his ear was level with with Ken's chest and he was looking down into Ken's lap. Ken shook his head and made the face you make when you're stifling a laugh. I wanted to tell Ken to just let it rip — there are some people who it's okay to laugh at because they're too coked out to notice. I suppose at this point I was wearing a rather large grin myself: Ken glaced at me quickly with a look of "I need someone to confirm for me that this isn't normal," and, receiving said confirmation, looked up at the roof and sucked his lips into his mouth. He was praying either for the strength to not laugh or that Lenny didn't pull a Swiss Army knife out of his jacket and shank him.
A woman wearing a white burqa boarded the bus and Lenny looked at her like Bob Barker had just got on carrying two dead flamingoes over his shoulder.
"You'd think that'd be hot," Lenny mused to himself. Ken made some kind of sound meant to suggest recognition and his face turned pink.
"You should ask her," he eeked out. It was like when you tell the stupid drunk girl to take off her shirt to see if she'll do it. Sure enough, Lenny took the bait. He stretched over two people and said, in his most classy tone, "HEY! That thing hot?"
I could tell the Islamic woman knew she was dealing with someone who bordered on legally retarded. She respectfully explained that no, it was actually cooler than clothes. Lenny nodded thoughtfully and slumped back into his seat. After a minute he leaned back over to Ken.
"It's cooler," he said, the way you'd speak to someone who doesn't understand English very well. Ken had to move to the back of the bus where he could erupt in silent, shaking laughter in peace.
I didn't need such privacy to openly laugh at him.
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Wednesday, September 21st, 2005
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Pepeshrimp: So I was thinking about Jess Pulcinella.
Pepeshrimp: I was taking a shit.
bryan likes it: Was it laxative-induced?
Pepeshrimp: I wish!
bryan likes it: I hear if you only eat fruit and then use laxatives to blast it out your ass before your body can process it, you can go from a fatty in middle school that everyone made fun of to a skinny girl who's not that cute but gives blow jobs to anyone who asks after her second beer.
Pepeshrimp: I love that sense of potential.
bryan likes it: Life's all about upward mobility.
Pepeshrimp: And blowjobs.
bryan likes it: How's life, sir?
Pepeshrimp: I smoke a lot of weed, drink a lot of wine, and only pay $5 a month to not get sad anymore!
Pepeshrimp: It's basically the most Hollywood I'll ever get.
bryan likes it: Paris Hilton style.
Pepeshrimp: Yeah.. next I'm making a low-budg rendition of A Night In Paris and someone will hack my sidekick.
bryan likes it: Can it be 1 Nite In White?
Pepeshrimp: I was thinking One Knight in White.
bryan likes it: Yeah but that rules out multiple partners.
Pepeshrimp: One Night in White Pink
It's nice to have a friend who can keep up with my constant pace of talking badly of people I barely know and bashing fake celebrities.
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Thursday, September 15th, 2005
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My computer was inexplicably having trouble logging onto the internet for the past two days. But for once it wasn't my fault: Macs essentially can't get viruses. I ran the antivirus program anyhow and — surprise — it came up cleaner than a midget nun. The apartment complex gave me the service number for the internet service provider and after fifteen minutes of waiting on hold, Jethro McCoy from Mobile, Alabama attempted to solve my problem. By asking me to restart the computer to see if that fixed it. Yes, asshole. All it needed was to be powered down. I'd like to meet the person whose problem was actually fixed by a restart. Every time I've had computer woes, the first thing they make me do is restart, and it's never worked. You'd think it was a miracle Jesus worked in the Bible, hands reaching to the sky. "Alt-eth... Control-eth... Delete-eth... And thou lap-eth top-eth shall WORK!"
When the almighty turn-it-off-then-turn-it-on-again method failed, Jethro gave up. "Ha-yuk, I ain't gots no clue how to fix that there problem, suh!" He dispatched a technician who, he promised, would arrive in less than three days. I came home from class today and found him sitting in my living room, tinkering with my computer and talking to someone back at the company's headquarters. Neither of them knew why I couldn't get on the internet. I still don't know exactly what happened or how they fixed it, but apparently it was something to do with the provider and not me or my computer. Hell if I know. The whole time the technician spoke in a language not resembling any I've ever heard. "Maybe if we install a new IP address and re-register it to router 4794... The DHCP location is two seven dot two seven five dot three four. Should we be using this Subnet Mask?"
I wondered if they had set up a code system to use if the client was sitting right there. Like if he says "Subnet Mask," it really means "WHOA, I just found two gigs of porn on this hard drive!" Or if he mentions the IP address it means "I'm deleting all the documents and blaming it on a virus." And when he mentions a router, it means "I have no clue what's going on, so I'm going to try and restart it one more time and see what happens."
( And now, for a touch of class... )
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Monday, September 12th, 2005
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A long time ago I wrote an entry about my classes this semester. I didn't do the other half the next day because, frankly, the fact that school sucked so badly was driving me to brink of alcoholism so the less I talked about it, the better. I've since had to retool my schedule because the advising department is incompetent. My official class list is as follows.
T AR 319: SOUND FOR THEATRE
When I signed up for this class, I had horrible visions of me hanging from catwalks high above the stage Mission: Impossible style, positioning microphones and the precise hair's width position for hours. It's actually turning out to be a lot of fun, strangely enough. The name of the course is misleading — we're basically fooling around with sound on computer programs like Audacity and Pro Tools to make our own sound files. It's a hell of a lot better than sewing, I'll tell you that.
SERP 370B: AMERICAN SIGN LANGUAGE II
Kept this one. Thankfully, it's proving to be easy. We're not learning how to fingerspell our names anymore, but it's not a far cry from that. We just did directions last week, which were covered extensively in the ASL course I took over the summer. Bitch please.
ENGL 489: CONTEMPORARY AMERICAN POETRY
When I signed up for this class in the spring, it was called "Contemporary American Literature," and I had it on good authority that the professor was one of the best English instructors at the University. Cut to three weeks ago when a syllabus lands on the desk in front of me, proudly proclaiming the course to be poetry-based. Let it be known that I hate poetry. More than hate. I'd say "loathe," but that doesn't fully encompass the totality of my scorching contempt for it. What a waste of time. If you write poetry, stop it. Nobody cares. Not only that, but three weeks into the semester I already don't like the instructor. Who are these people that referred me to him? You're getting a bag of anthrax in the mail soon. The only reason I kept the class was because I need the credit, and suffering through bad poems by people who aren't dead yet is probably less of a hassle than perusing the University's course catalog to find an applicable class that fits into my time constraints.
ENGL 416: ADVANCED LITERARY ANALYSIS
I signed up for this one because I had the instructor this summer and I loved him. I still feel like I'm nowhere near smart enough to be in the class but I'm learning a lot. Unfortunately it's a fairly big class and there's a ton of annoying English majors in there that take every opportunity to name-drop obscure authors like anyone's impressed. Mildly frustrating, but bearable.
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Saturday, September 10th, 2005
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Sometimes you have days where ridiculousness comes down off the stage and sits in your lap, forcing you to notice it and shove a dollar in its G-string to make it go away before you catch something.
I saw a woman in a burqa driving a Suburban the other day. It struck me as humorous. The burqa is supposed to keep people from seeing you, and yet you're driving around in one of the most pretentious motor vehicles ever conceived by humans. It's also supposed to represent modesty and restraint, and my glorious heavens does a Suburban ever embody those virtues. Just picture it. The veil, the whole shebang. Leaning forward like she's sitting on a phonebook. Hands wrapped around the oversized steering wheel. It's really comical.
Then on the way home from school, it took me nearly the whole bus ride to realize there was a razor blade sitting on the seat next to me. That's a classy touch, Tucson Public Transportation.
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Thursday, September 1st, 2005
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Before I forget, I was tagged by ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) a_fatal_mistake to do this nonsense. Bitch.
Name six songs that you are currently digging. It doesn't matter what genre they are from or whether they have words, but they must be songs you're really enjoying right now. Post these instructions and then list the six artists and the songs in your LiveJournal. Then tag six other people to see what they're listening to...
1. Imogen Heap
"Hide & Seek"
Speak For Yourself
Just going to come out and say it, best single of the year.
2. Death Cab For Cutie
"Brothers On A Hotel Bed"
Plans
The new Death Cab album is actually pretty good. Not as good as Transatlanticism, but it's hard to think of an album off the top of my head that is. Consequently, "Brothers On A Hotel Bed" sounds to me the most like a Transatlanticism outtake. That's a good thing.
3. Kanye West
"Touch The Sky"
Late Registration
The whole album is almost flawless, I just picked my favorite at the moment. I'm going to say a couple things about Late Registration and move on. First of all, let it be known that I was never a Kanye fan; I liked a couple of songs off his first album but the fact that he sort of sucks as a person deterred me from actually buying it. But ever since a classmate burned me a copy of the new disc, I haven't stopped listening to it. It actually got me to stop listening to the new Death Cab album. A testament, indeed.
4. White Rose Movement
"Love Is A Number"
Love Is A Number EP
If Joy Division, Morrissey, and Bloc Party fell into a black hole and emerged as one superbeing, its first single would be "Love Is A Number." The post-punk/new wave formula WRM adhere to is well-trodden by now by the likes of The Rapture and LCD Soundsystem, but somehow I like this track a ton better than any of that. Between Kanye marathons, this is what I'm listening to.
5. Robyn
"Be Mine"
Robyn
Remember Robyn? You do. I know you do. She had those hits "Show Me Love" and "Do You Know (What It Takes)" back in 1997 before Britney showed up and shut her shit down. Eight years later Robyn's back and she's pissed. The comparisons to Kelly Clarkson's new rockier material are inevitable since she made that sound accessable again for the pop market, but I don't think Robyn is just stealing Kelly's schtick to cash in because the rest of Robyn is all over the place (see: "Konichiwa Bitches," her rap song, and "Anytime You Like," her best Sigur Rös impression. No kidding). Regardless, this is a really, really likeable pop song. We all need one (or six) of those once in a while.
6. Sufjan Stevens
"Concerning The UFO Sighting Near Highland, Illinois"
Illinois
I find myself listening to this on repeat about seven times before I realize it. It's a little over two minutes, and it's just beautiful. Haunting in a way that makes you hope they play it at your funeral. Maybe that's just me.
Tagged:
star_riot
rachum
lwveggie
as_we_go_on
lifestartsnow
dustybottoms18
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Saturday, August 27th, 2005
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2005 Year In Flicks: Red Eye
I shouldn't like this movie. I really, really shouldn't. It stuck to the its formula like Paris Hilton's lips to a rich man's crotch and tugged at the heartstrings at every pass like a dirty orphan begging for food in a Mexican alleyway. Nice people getting thrown into bad situations, sob. Decent man with family targeted for NO GOOD REASON, tear. And a woman with a history of violence inflicted by men standing up for herself. It smacked of Jennifer Lopez in Enough. And not in a good way. (Is there even a good way to smack of a J. Lo movie? You rarely hear, "That was soooooo Maid In Manhattan, I LOVED it.") And yet, despite the odds... it was good. Really good, in point of fact.
There's two reasons (I'm pretty sure — I'll amend that if I decide otherwise). Obviously, Wes Craven. This could easily have been some nauseating feminist schlock thriller with a "WE CAN DO IT!" banner flying high above the proceedings. In fact, on paper that's probably exactly what it looks like. Craven took that, worked it, put his thing down, flipped it, and reversed it and what we have is proof that, indeed, Cursed was a fluke and he can definitely do suspense that doesn't involve ghost masks, brown fedoras, or cutting up dumb blondes. Red Eye is so Craven, in fact, that I tried to keep a running count of his hallmarks — the close-cropped cinematography, the emphasis on faces and hands, the dramatic multi-depth still shots during the chase scenes (one he lifted directly from my favorite part of the Gale Weathers chase in Scream 2, to great effect), the use of house layouts to complicate a chase, the lead female/killer bond at the end (it is totally Sidney/Roman from Scream 3). There are hints of the Scream trilogy everywhere, but to a less hokey degree since the villain isn't wearing a tacky mask. 90% of the film takes place on the airplane, and one of the film's chief successes is its ability to keep the audience feeling cramped with the cropping of the shots and limiting the number of camera angles. Another plus is that the script pretty much gets going immediately. About fifteen minutes into it, Cillian Murphy's character lays it all out. No stupid pretense, no jerking the girl around. Right after the plane leaves the ground, she knows. And that's refreshing. I wouldn't have been surprised if it took her about half the film to figure out exactly what's going on. Thankfully, the movie doesn't assume its audience will be surprised that, gasp, he's actually out to get her.
The other is Rachel McAdams. Let it be known that I officially nominate her to be the next Julia Roberts, except without all those crappy movies like Runaway Bride or Mona Lisa Smile. Suspense/horror scripts often fall into the trap of having the characters go above and beyond the call of stupid to satisfy the requirements of the genre (see: House Of Wax) or do something heroic to the point of blind idiocy and still walk away from it all (see: Scream 3). But the character of Lisa is written better than perfect and Rachel McAdams plays it flawlessly. If this were any other movie, the heroine would have whipped a .22 out of her boot, shot the guy right in the face, tossed out an angry yay-feminism one-liner, and stalked off the plane in her stylish-yet-affordable skirt amidst the applause of the fat, hormonally-inbalanced women in the audience. Instead, McAdams acts more like a real person. She cries. A lot. She breaks down Mariah-style circa 2001. She pukes in the little airplane toilet. She tries subtle (intelligent) ways to get out of the situation. She uses that expensive airplane phone a lot. She has a go at talking him out of it. She sprints around the airport at full speed in heels. And when none of that works, she runs bitches over with a Jeep and keeps her hair looking right the whole time. A woman after my own heart.
Cillian Murphy looks like a skull to me, with a thin layer of skin pulled tight over it. I understand that's pretty much the definition of a human face, but look closely at him and tell me he's not about to get offered the role of Skeletor in the He-Man movie. It's effective in this sort of role (and as Scarecrow in Batman Begins) because, well, he's genuinely supposed to be scary, and Jesus God, mission accomplished there. The only thing that bugged me was that he's one of those unstoppable killers where bullets, field hockey sticks, high heels in the leg, and pen wounds to the neck don't stop him. But that's forgivable, because his assailant is a girl and you can't honestly expect her to know how to properly shoot somebody. Besides, she's otherwise engaged. That hair ain't keeping itself did.
Grade: A-
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