Hello faithful friends. I won’t waste our time making excuses for my prolonged absence. Frankly, I would only be lying and I doubt that anybody cares too much anyway. I suppose I’ll ease back into it with another movie review. I recently saw Surrogates in the theatre. Aside from the fact that James Cromwell essentially played the same character that he played in I,Robot, I rather enjoyed the Sci-Fi thriller.
The main reason I enjoyed it is simple, Bruce Willis. I absolutely love the guy. The reasons why I love him are even simpler; he’s the everyday hero. He’s not bulging out of his shirt, nor is he beating the baddies with kung fu trickery. He’s just your plain, old, run-of-the-mill badass. He makes you actually believe that he could kick all the ass he kicks on screen. Let’s be honest, no guy in his right mind would ever want to fight Officer John McClane.
The concept of the film is interesting enough as well. It stays in the same vein as most thrillers of its kind do, but it definitely puts some interesting twists on what could have become a played-out theme. We’ve all seen the dangers of technology come to life on the big screen, but Surrogates takes a unique angle on its own approach to the apocalyptic plotline.
I’ll do my best to get back into regular posting. In the meantime, Godspeed BrainTrash eaters.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
I Suck at Blogging
I was laying in bed last night watching tv with my girlfriend next to me reading one of her magazines, Cosmo or some such literary gem I believe. Anyway, she started reading me an article about women's locker rooms at the gym. The writer's depiction of nude, pasty-white, rotund women stomping around the locker room doing lunges was enough to ruin my boyhood fantasy of Heidi Klum-like goddesses gracefully dancing around in the buff while cheesey 80's tunes like Hip To Be Square by Huey Lewis and the News play over the loud speakers. Don't ask how that fantasy evolved. That would require some meditation and perhaps a little opium to recall, which might awake some demons and I just don't have time for that right now.
As bad as the women's locker room may be though, trust me ladies, and all the gentlemen will agree, nothing, I repeat nothing can top the atrocities witnessed upon stepping into the men's locker room. Not only will you find the 80-year-old man with his sparse hairs popping out from ungodly places on his body and his strange pockets of loose skin strutting around naked like he's Arnold Schwarzenegger circa 1970, but you'll undoubtedly find the 300-pound doughboy who think he's a stud because he outweighs you by 150 pounds proudly displaying his wares like a peacock, pun intended.
If you're extremely unlucky, you may actually run into the middle-aged man who is actually in good shape roaming around with his towel over his shoulders. This one really gets to me. Every time, I have to stop myself from whipping his ass-cheeks with a wet towel and yelling, "You have a towel, use it. Nobody wants to see your junk." Now, I'm not saying I'm some big buff stud, because I'm far from it. At the moment, my body probably looks more like this guy's:
The difference is, I don't walk around naked, subjecting everybody else to the torturous sight that is my body. It's bad enough that I have to look at it every morning. WARNING: You may want to stop reading now if you are easily offended.
The worst by far though is a familiar site to any man who has ever entered a locker room. It's a phenomenon that I can't explain and in reality, probably has no explanation. But for some reason, there is always one man who insists on making everybody see his package, the only problem is, it's difficult to see. Whether he has to use the locker-room bench to do some nude hamstring stretching or use a hair dryer to to make sure that every drop of water is off of his body, this guy makes it a point to ensure that any man who enters the locker room sees his pecker, or lack thereof.
Now that you're officially appalled, I leave you with some advice. Whether you're a man or a woman, please remember and heed my words next time you enter a locker room. Towels are used not only to dry one's self off, but also to cover one's self up. Adam and Eve fortunately or unfortunately, dependent on a case by case basis, gave us shame and humility a long time ago. Public nudity is now reserved for those individuals who happen to look better naked than they do clothed. And I'm not being judgmental, because I don't belong to that elite class either, but at least I know how to follow the guidelines.
As bad as the women's locker room may be though, trust me ladies, and all the gentlemen will agree, nothing, I repeat nothing can top the atrocities witnessed upon stepping into the men's locker room. Not only will you find the 80-year-old man with his sparse hairs popping out from ungodly places on his body and his strange pockets of loose skin strutting around naked like he's Arnold Schwarzenegger circa 1970, but you'll undoubtedly find the 300-pound doughboy who think he's a stud because he outweighs you by 150 pounds proudly displaying his wares like a peacock, pun intended.
If you're extremely unlucky, you may actually run into the middle-aged man who is actually in good shape roaming around with his towel over his shoulders. This one really gets to me. Every time, I have to stop myself from whipping his ass-cheeks with a wet towel and yelling, "You have a towel, use it. Nobody wants to see your junk." Now, I'm not saying I'm some big buff stud, because I'm far from it. At the moment, my body probably looks more like this guy's:
The difference is, I don't walk around naked, subjecting everybody else to the torturous sight that is my body. It's bad enough that I have to look at it every morning. WARNING: You may want to stop reading now if you are easily offended.
The worst by far though is a familiar site to any man who has ever entered a locker room. It's a phenomenon that I can't explain and in reality, probably has no explanation. But for some reason, there is always one man who insists on making everybody see his package, the only problem is, it's difficult to see. Whether he has to use the locker-room bench to do some nude hamstring stretching or use a hair dryer to to make sure that every drop of water is off of his body, this guy makes it a point to ensure that any man who enters the locker room sees his pecker, or lack thereof.
Now that you're officially appalled, I leave you with some advice. Whether you're a man or a woman, please remember and heed my words next time you enter a locker room. Towels are used not only to dry one's self off, but also to cover one's self up. Adam and Eve fortunately or unfortunately, dependent on a case by case basis, gave us shame and humility a long time ago. Public nudity is now reserved for those individuals who happen to look better naked than they do clothed. And I'm not being judgmental, because I don't belong to that elite class either, but at least I know how to follow the guidelines.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
McConaughey... you sly dog you!
First, let me apologize to my faithful readers for my being absent so long. Perhaps it is the fact that I’ve had nothing to say that has kept me away, or maybe I just haven’t been feeling humorous enough to supply an offering. But it’s time to “get back on the horse” as they say. I trust you’ll forgive me if my initial offering is subpar.
I watched an interesting film recently. “Surfer, Dude” is a film starring Matthew McConaughey as Steve Addington, a self-professed “soul surfer”. The film takes its viewers along for the ride as Addington experiences the biggest crisis of his lifetime. He is presented with the opportunity to participate in a reality-based television show in which he will live in a house on the beach with a few other surfers and virtually surf the biggest and best waves in the world. Yes, I did say virtually… (as in he dons some high-tech goggles and jumps on a surfboard machine in a room that simulates the surfing experience). Ridiculous concept… maybe. Entertaining… definitely.
Of course, the soul surfer turns down the offer. What follows is a series of the most absurd and impossible situations imaginable. There is a lull in waves. Let me rephrase; there is literally no waves to surf on the West Coast for an unsustainable period of time, at least from a legendary surfer’s standpoint. With his funds depleted, Addington is forced to take the offer and indulge himself in surfing porn. What follows is not important. What’s more important is that you watch this movie as soon as possible.
Not quite as ridiculous as The Roadhouse, although McConaughey and Swayze channel a strikingly similar aura in that they are both existential journeymen on a road leading to God knows where, this movie completely changed my opinion of McConaughey. The fact that I ended believing in and rooting for one of the most unbelievable characters ever created by the end of this movie got me thinking… and I’ll let you know where those thoughts lead me if I ever figure it out.
Check out the trailer and video clips here:
http://video.google.com/videosearch?q=surfer+dude&hl=en&emb=0&aq=f#
I watched an interesting film recently. “Surfer, Dude” is a film starring Matthew McConaughey as Steve Addington, a self-professed “soul surfer”. The film takes its viewers along for the ride as Addington experiences the biggest crisis of his lifetime. He is presented with the opportunity to participate in a reality-based television show in which he will live in a house on the beach with a few other surfers and virtually surf the biggest and best waves in the world. Yes, I did say virtually… (as in he dons some high-tech goggles and jumps on a surfboard machine in a room that simulates the surfing experience). Ridiculous concept… maybe. Entertaining… definitely.
Of course, the soul surfer turns down the offer. What follows is a series of the most absurd and impossible situations imaginable. There is a lull in waves. Let me rephrase; there is literally no waves to surf on the West Coast for an unsustainable period of time, at least from a legendary surfer’s standpoint. With his funds depleted, Addington is forced to take the offer and indulge himself in surfing porn. What follows is not important. What’s more important is that you watch this movie as soon as possible.
Not quite as ridiculous as The Roadhouse, although McConaughey and Swayze channel a strikingly similar aura in that they are both existential journeymen on a road leading to God knows where, this movie completely changed my opinion of McConaughey. The fact that I ended believing in and rooting for one of the most unbelievable characters ever created by the end of this movie got me thinking… and I’ll let you know where those thoughts lead me if I ever figure it out.
Check out the trailer and video clips here:
http://video.google.com/videosearch?q=surfer+dude&hl=en&emb=0&aq=f#
Monday, July 27, 2009
On Behalf of Erectile Dysfunction
My Dad posted a link to an article on facebook today. I know, leave it to my pops to appropriately utilize the new phenomenon known only as social networking. Instead of using it to waste time and post the occasional absurd “status” to get a rise out of people, my old man figures out how to take advantage of the site for personal gain. Hazaa Pops, you are a testament to ingenuity.
But enough with my shout-outs. The article was about some politicians who are attempting to draft an amendment which would ban certain drug manufacturers from advertising on prime-time television. Some of the manufacturers in question are Viagra, Levitra and a slew of other companies that produce pills to enhance libido. This really got the ol’ proverbial wheels turnin in me head. Why would these legislators want to ban these companies from advertising? I pondered for quite some time… and then it hit me.
It was so simple too. Here’s the link to the article so you can follow my analysis more closely. http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/27/business/media/27drugads.html?_r=5&ref=business
I don’t think anyone will argue with me that at least 90% of men in the House are using Viagra or a similar d
rug. Take a look at James P. Moran, the guy who’s sponsoring the bill:
rug. Take a look at James P. Moran, the guy who’s sponsoring the bill:You really think he’s never given it a shot? I would be willing to bet my life’s savings (which currently hovers around $300) that he has a stockpile of these things in his medicine cabinet. Hell, he probably has a few Extenze in there too. He saw the old dog on the commercial saying, “This could be fun,” and he agreed and subsequently ordered himself three cycles.
I may be going out on a limb here, but I feel pretty confident that this limb is going to hold my weight and a whole lot more. So come on Jimmy P, there’s no shame in giving your number one fan a little assistance when he needs it. There’s no need to be embarrassed. Bob Dole uses Viagra… okay, bad example. Raphael Palmeiro, there’s a good one. If a member of the 3,000 hits club needs a little performance-enhancement every now and then, then chances are I will too one day.
So James, don’t rob future generations of libido-enhancing men of our own potential hall of fame spokesman to justify our ED. We’re gonna need A-Rod’s backing to explain to our wives that even demigods need a little help in the bedroom sometimes.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
A Delightful Sunday
On Sunday, I got together with a group of me chums to play a game called Over the Line. I had heard of it before, but this was my first time playing. I'm not sure as to whether or not we played by the actual rules, but they worked for our purposes and for the purpose of explaining what I did on Sunday (since I know you are all dying to know). We played in teams of two. Here's a link that explains the official rules of the game. We of course added a few of our own: http://www.ombac.org/over_the_line/rules.htm
Since I was the worst athlete on the field, I was paired up with my buddy Todd, who was a Division 1 shortstop in college. As per our own rules, if you swung and missed at a pitch, it was immediately followed with a resounding and humiliating clamor of "Beer Chug" from everyone in the field and a subsequent downing of a delicious brew known only as Natty Light. I swung and missed five times, which may or may not be a record. The point is, the more times you swing and miss, the harder it becomes to hit the ball on a consistent basis. Pair that with the fact that I have the athletic ability of a fourth grade girl and you've got the ingredients for a pretty entertaining afternoon.
Although I was paired with a D1 athlete, we still managed to land in last place. But to be fair, there were two other college baseball players there that day too and I kept reminding myself of that in order to keep a small shred of my dignity intact. Either way, I had a great time playing a bastardized version of America's favorite pastime. I think I'll play again next Sunday.
Since I was the worst athlete on the field, I was paired up with my buddy Todd, who was a Division 1 shortstop in college. As per our own rules, if you swung and missed at a pitch, it was immediately followed with a resounding and humiliating clamor of "Beer Chug" from everyone in the field and a subsequent downing of a delicious brew known only as Natty Light. I swung and missed five times, which may or may not be a record. The point is, the more times you swing and miss, the harder it becomes to hit the ball on a consistent basis. Pair that with the fact that I have the athletic ability of a fourth grade girl and you've got the ingredients for a pretty entertaining afternoon.
Although I was paired with a D1 athlete, we still managed to land in last place. But to be fair, there were two other college baseball players there that day too and I kept reminding myself of that in order to keep a small shred of my dignity intact. Either way, I had a great time playing a bastardized version of America's favorite pastime. I think I'll play again next Sunday.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Another Tragic Celebrity Death
I read today that the Geico Gecko passed away early this afternoon. There is some speculation that drugs may have been involved. I don't know what you all (my thousands of readers) think, but I'm getting pretty freaked out. Every day some new famous or marginally famous person is dying. This one really got to me though. I mean, once corporate sponsors start falling off, who's next?
A reporter for the NY Times caught up with Toucan Sam, the last known individual to have seen the Gecko, after the incident occurred. Appearing innebriated, he mumbled something about how he and the Gecko had "gotten in an argument over whose sponsorship had done more for their respective franchises." The Wienerschnitzel hot dog, who was a close friend of the Gecko, was reportedly seen leaving a gentlemen's club, which he owns, with him the night prior to the incident. "It's a sad day for us all," he said. "I'm not at liberty to disclose any information regarding Gecko's death but I can say that he will be sorely missed."
There is no word on who might replace the Gecko as the insurance giant's new sponsor, but a representative for the company did make mention in a press conference of recent talks with one or more of the Keebler Elves.
On a side note, there were some more car bombs in various cities around the globe today.
A reporter for the NY Times caught up with Toucan Sam, the last known individual to have seen the Gecko, after the incident occurred. Appearing innebriated, he mumbled something about how he and the Gecko had "gotten in an argument over whose sponsorship had done more for their respective franchises." The Wienerschnitzel hot dog, who was a close friend of the Gecko, was reportedly seen leaving a gentlemen's club, which he owns, with him the night prior to the incident. "It's a sad day for us all," he said. "I'm not at liberty to disclose any information regarding Gecko's death but I can say that he will be sorely missed."
There is no word on who might replace the Gecko as the insurance giant's new sponsor, but a representative for the company did make mention in a press conference of recent talks with one or more of the Keebler Elves.
On a side note, there were some more car bombs in various cities around the globe today.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Dear Evil Dictators
It seems like every day now I log on to the New York Times website and various other sites I frequent and President Ahmadinejad of Iran and Kim Jong Il of North Korea are on the front page. They are growing increasingly more successful at spreading fear across the world. Everywhere, new “leaders” pop up, attracting the disenfranchised youths of their respective countries by creating scapegoats. Of course, it’s easy for me to say that I wouldn’t fall into that trap. I wasn’t born into poverty and I haven’t seen my family members killed before my eyes by the very same people who will later blame their deaths on foreigners or minorities.
We can sit here asking, “Why do we continue to do these things to each other,” and I don’t know if we’ll ever come up with an answer. But this is the mentality that allows leaders like Ahmadinejad to prosper. He too asks, “Why do we keep hurting each other,” while he turns around and crushes those who oppose him. He relates to the disenfranchised and he gives them an answer, it may not be the right answer, but it’s better than waking up every morning not knowing why this keeps happening.
These “leaders” are men who could not stand rejection. Whether it was Hitler being rejected as an artist or Hussein growing up impoverished and dejected in society, these men reject their own dismissals. Rather than accepting denial and working harder to convert it, they create an unjust reason for it, a figurehead to fight against. That which kept them down will now be undone itself.
What I’m trying to say is that these guys are total pussies. That’s right Mahmoud, I’m calling you out. I mean, come on man, I got cut from the basketball team my junior year. Did I go out and assassinate my coach and teammates? No, I spent the next two years getting drunk with my friends. Looking back, I was so much better off. Instead of wasting my time in the gym all summer and every day after school, I spent my time chasing girls and searching for new liquor stores that would sell me alcohol. Do I regret it… not at all. So let’s make a deal President Ahmadinejad, Dictator Jong Il; I’ll buy you guys a 40 oz. if you stop terrorizing innocent people. Trust me, you’re going to be way happier waking up in a puddle of your own puke than you will be waking up one day with some foreign soldier waving an M16 in your face. Guantanamo sucks guys, I’ve seen the pictures. Besides, I think I know a couple girls who are into the whole evil genius type. So give me a call boys, I’ll throw some Mickey’s Grenades on ice for ya…
We can sit here asking, “Why do we continue to do these things to each other,” and I don’t know if we’ll ever come up with an answer. But this is the mentality that allows leaders like Ahmadinejad to prosper. He too asks, “Why do we keep hurting each other,” while he turns around and crushes those who oppose him. He relates to the disenfranchised and he gives them an answer, it may not be the right answer, but it’s better than waking up every morning not knowing why this keeps happening.
These “leaders” are men who could not stand rejection. Whether it was Hitler being rejected as an artist or Hussein growing up impoverished and dejected in society, these men reject their own dismissals. Rather than accepting denial and working harder to convert it, they create an unjust reason for it, a figurehead to fight against. That which kept them down will now be undone itself.
What I’m trying to say is that these guys are total pussies. That’s right Mahmoud, I’m calling you out. I mean, come on man, I got cut from the basketball team my junior year. Did I go out and assassinate my coach and teammates? No, I spent the next two years getting drunk with my friends. Looking back, I was so much better off. Instead of wasting my time in the gym all summer and every day after school, I spent my time chasing girls and searching for new liquor stores that would sell me alcohol. Do I regret it… not at all. So let’s make a deal President Ahmadinejad, Dictator Jong Il; I’ll buy you guys a 40 oz. if you stop terrorizing innocent people. Trust me, you’re going to be way happier waking up in a puddle of your own puke than you will be waking up one day with some foreign soldier waving an M16 in your face. Guantanamo sucks guys, I’ve seen the pictures. Besides, I think I know a couple girls who are into the whole evil genius type. So give me a call boys, I’ll throw some Mickey’s Grenades on ice for ya…
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Live Concerts and Extremities
I have a friend who loves live concert recordings. Lately, we’ve been watching Dave Matthews Band live in Central Park. I’m not sure what it is, but I can watch that guy perform over and over and never get sick of it… and I’m not even really watching it live.
It may be the full orchestra of instruments backing him up or the soft country drawl to his voice that every city boy secretly wishes he had, but Dave Matthews puts on a show. I think I’m going to organize a trip to see them in concert over the summer at the Santa Barbara bowl.
I also heard something that really chapped my hide yesterday morning. I was listening to Q104.7 and one of the female DJ’s was going off about how Megan Fox has weird thumbs. “They look like she has a big toe on her hand” she said. More than anything, the comment was just disappointing. It’s a sad tribute to the things that we pay attention to today. Have we really become so fascinated with celebrities that we are going to take time to point out the imperfection of someone’s thumbs?
I realize that a lot of morning radio shows focus on celebrity news. A lot of people like hearing about it. That’s fine. It can be entertaining at times. I heard Ryan Reynolds on the radio this morning talking with Ryan Seacrest and it was actually a pretty humorous exchange. Let’s get real though, if you can’t find a DJ that can find something more interesting to talk about than Megan Fox’s fingers, then just tell them to shutup and just play some music. And if you insist on talking about body parts, at least pick something more exciting than thumbs…
It may be the full orchestra of instruments backing him up or the soft country drawl to his voice that every city boy secretly wishes he had, but Dave Matthews puts on a show. I think I’m going to organize a trip to see them in concert over the summer at the Santa Barbara bowl.
I also heard something that really chapped my hide yesterday morning. I was listening to Q104.7 and one of the female DJ’s was going off about how Megan Fox has weird thumbs. “They look like she has a big toe on her hand” she said. More than anything, the comment was just disappointing. It’s a sad tribute to the things that we pay attention to today. Have we really become so fascinated with celebrities that we are going to take time to point out the imperfection of someone’s thumbs?
I realize that a lot of morning radio shows focus on celebrity news. A lot of people like hearing about it. That’s fine. It can be entertaining at times. I heard Ryan Reynolds on the radio this morning talking with Ryan Seacrest and it was actually a pretty humorous exchange. Let’s get real though, if you can’t find a DJ that can find something more interesting to talk about than Megan Fox’s fingers, then just tell them to shutup and just play some music. And if you insist on talking about body parts, at least pick something more exciting than thumbs…
Thursday, June 11, 2009
A Pleasant Surprise
Those movie reviews I promised to do once a week are coming along nicely aren’t they? Well, here’s two in row to make up for it. I watched Tropic Thunder twice within the last three days and I have to admit that my assumptions surrounding the movie were completely off. When I saw Robert Downey Jr. in the previews, it made me sad that he had taken part in what seemed like the creation of a cinematic turd. The trailer would have you believe that Ben Stiller was coming one step closer to the eventual demise of his career and I wanted to kick Jack Black in the stomach.
However, the satire that unfolded before me made me think twice about seeing the sequel to Night at the Museum… then I put down my hallucinogens. But honestly, the script itself was hilarious. Robert Downey’s commentary throughout the movie is a tribute to the genre that is satire, while Stiller’s overacting act in a POW camp was… dare I say… artistic. If you thought I was going to say genius then stop reading… immediately. Jack Black’s facial expressions and outrageous one-liners are enough comic relief to make any bad movie bearable, and this wasn’t a bad movie.
The highlight of the entire movie though has to be Tom Cruise’s cameo. I have long accepted that fact that Cruise fell into the d-bag pit years ago with no chance of climbing out. However, his performance in Tropic Thunder gave me hope that the sly old dog might still have a few legitimate cool genes left in his body. Could the Cruise of old be making a comeback? Only time will tell. Anyway, I guess this isn’t really much of a movie review, but more of a commentary on a social commentary if you will. Peace out.
However, the satire that unfolded before me made me think twice about seeing the sequel to Night at the Museum… then I put down my hallucinogens. But honestly, the script itself was hilarious. Robert Downey’s commentary throughout the movie is a tribute to the genre that is satire, while Stiller’s overacting act in a POW camp was… dare I say… artistic. If you thought I was going to say genius then stop reading… immediately. Jack Black’s facial expressions and outrageous one-liners are enough comic relief to make any bad movie bearable, and this wasn’t a bad movie.
The highlight of the entire movie though has to be Tom Cruise’s cameo. I have long accepted that fact that Cruise fell into the d-bag pit years ago with no chance of climbing out. However, his performance in Tropic Thunder gave me hope that the sly old dog might still have a few legitimate cool genes left in his body. Could the Cruise of old be making a comeback? Only time will tell. Anyway, I guess this isn’t really much of a movie review, but more of a commentary on a social commentary if you will. Peace out.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
The Show Before the Movie
My girlfriend and I decided to go see the new film, The Hangover on Sunday. We went to the Century City Mall to do a little shopping and what not before the movie and then caught the flick at the AMC theatre located in the mall. The day turned out to be quite entertaining. While waiting for my babe to finish trying on some clothes, I had the pleasure of sitting next to a man who had completely lost his mind. Wearing two long sleeved flannel shirts, both buttoned all the way up, I listened to him talk to his imaginary therapist for about ten minutes. To be honest, I felt bad for him; but that sympathy was second to the fear I felt that he might stab me with a spoon at any second. Thankfully, I made it out of the experience without getting spooned and walked over to buy the movie tickets.
When I walked into the theatre, I ended up standing in line behind a 60-year-old man who apparently thought he was from the future. He was wearing golden cat-woman glasses, the kind where the frame extends to about four inches on either side of the head. His v-neck t-shirt was a peachy color and looked as if it were made from the leftover pleather from his living room sofa. His pants boasted neon green circles dangling from the seams and his shoes sat on platforms that raised him off the ground an extra six inches. I thought about asking him where/when he was from but I figured I had already gotten lucky escaping from Captain Flannel and if I pushed it even further I might be sliced in half with a light saber.
But my luck had not run out just yet. As we were walking into the theatre, I looked ahead of me to see a big guy, about 6’4” with broad shoulders and brillo pad hair down to his shoulders. “Who does this guy think he is, Gene Simmons,” I said to my girlyfriend. “Are you serious?” she responded. “That is Gene Simmons”. Sure enough, when we entered the crowded theatre and reluctantly took our seats in the front row, Mr. Simmons and his wife and child plopped down next to us. Necks strained, we all peered up at the screen for the next hour and a half and laughed our collective asses off at one of the funnier movies I’ve seen in recent years.
As I almost do, I had some apprehension regarding the movie. I feared that it might fall into the same pitfall that the majority of Vegas movies do; the over-the-top, slap-stick humor that follows no plot line. My fears were soon put to rest though by a comedy that maintained a feeling of suspended reality that can only be found in Sin City throughout its entirety. The perfectly-cast film made the utterly ridiculous seem not only believable, but reminiscent of my own Vegas memories (subject for another entry). And so I say “Hazzah” to Jon Lucas and Scott Moore for a well-written film, and thank you to Heather Graham for the gratuitous booby shot.
When I walked into the theatre, I ended up standing in line behind a 60-year-old man who apparently thought he was from the future. He was wearing golden cat-woman glasses, the kind where the frame extends to about four inches on either side of the head. His v-neck t-shirt was a peachy color and looked as if it were made from the leftover pleather from his living room sofa. His pants boasted neon green circles dangling from the seams and his shoes sat on platforms that raised him off the ground an extra six inches. I thought about asking him where/when he was from but I figured I had already gotten lucky escaping from Captain Flannel and if I pushed it even further I might be sliced in half with a light saber.
But my luck had not run out just yet. As we were walking into the theatre, I looked ahead of me to see a big guy, about 6’4” with broad shoulders and brillo pad hair down to his shoulders. “Who does this guy think he is, Gene Simmons,” I said to my girlyfriend. “Are you serious?” she responded. “That is Gene Simmons”. Sure enough, when we entered the crowded theatre and reluctantly took our seats in the front row, Mr. Simmons and his wife and child plopped down next to us. Necks strained, we all peered up at the screen for the next hour and a half and laughed our collective asses off at one of the funnier movies I’ve seen in recent years.
As I almost do, I had some apprehension regarding the movie. I feared that it might fall into the same pitfall that the majority of Vegas movies do; the over-the-top, slap-stick humor that follows no plot line. My fears were soon put to rest though by a comedy that maintained a feeling of suspended reality that can only be found in Sin City throughout its entirety. The perfectly-cast film made the utterly ridiculous seem not only believable, but reminiscent of my own Vegas memories (subject for another entry). And so I say “Hazzah” to Jon Lucas and Scott Moore for a well-written film, and thank you to Heather Graham for the gratuitous booby shot.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
I Can't Think of a Clever Headline
Over the last weekend, one of my oldest and best friends got married. His was the aforementioned bachelor party. The setting was beautiful, complete with waterfalls, an abundance of trees and shrubbery, assorted watering holes (creeks, ponds, what have you) and booze. The ceremony went according to plan. I didn’t fall on my way up to the altar. I stayed sober enough to deliver my Best Man’s speech coherently and then proceeded to become inebriated enough to lip sync classic rock and have a dance-off with the groom. Everyone made it home without incident and the bride and groom made their way to Hawaii for the honeymoon. The whole thing really got me thinking about my own wedding. What will I do to celebrate my union with the woman I plan to spend the rest of my days with? What will I say to her when it comes time to recite our vows?
I’ve drafted up some mock vows. While they may be outlandish and somewhat offensive, my words are honest and I feel confident that I will be able to fulfill them. After all, I wouldn’t want to lie to my wife on our wedding day.
Sweetums, I promise to love you all the time even when I feel like causing myself bodily harm because I am so frustrated by you. I promise that even when I feel like going on a wild tryst to Vegas and partying it up with circus clowns and an untamed foreign enchantress, I won’t. I promise that I will make you laugh at least once a day, even if that means I must resort to physical humor (i.e. inappropriate flatulence). I promise to make and cultivate some of the most badass chilluns, (children), this side of the Mississippi, and while, thanks to me, they probably won’t be athletic, they will have a great sense of humor and learn to quickly make fun of their own shortcomings before anyone else gets a chance to. I promise to make enough dough to put you in some nice digs and buy you a fuel-efficient automobile. I promise not to get too fat that I can’t perform physical labor around the house. I promise to stay in good enough shape and manscape enough so that I can remain somewhat attractive to you as I get old. I promise that I won’t get too crotchety after I retire and I won’t buy an RV instead of a vacation home. But most of all my love, I promise to die first and wait for you with Saint Pete at heaven’s gates so that you can have a little fun without me before you have to come spend the rest of eternity with me.
I’ve drafted up some mock vows. While they may be outlandish and somewhat offensive, my words are honest and I feel confident that I will be able to fulfill them. After all, I wouldn’t want to lie to my wife on our wedding day.
Sweetums, I promise to love you all the time even when I feel like causing myself bodily harm because I am so frustrated by you. I promise that even when I feel like going on a wild tryst to Vegas and partying it up with circus clowns and an untamed foreign enchantress, I won’t. I promise that I will make you laugh at least once a day, even if that means I must resort to physical humor (i.e. inappropriate flatulence). I promise to make and cultivate some of the most badass chilluns, (children), this side of the Mississippi, and while, thanks to me, they probably won’t be athletic, they will have a great sense of humor and learn to quickly make fun of their own shortcomings before anyone else gets a chance to. I promise to make enough dough to put you in some nice digs and buy you a fuel-efficient automobile. I promise not to get too fat that I can’t perform physical labor around the house. I promise to stay in good enough shape and manscape enough so that I can remain somewhat attractive to you as I get old. I promise that I won’t get too crotchety after I retire and I won’t buy an RV instead of a vacation home. But most of all my love, I promise to die first and wait for you with Saint Pete at heaven’s gates so that you can have a little fun without me before you have to come spend the rest of eternity with me.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
It Was Worth Getting Punched in the Chest
This past weekend I tried to convince my brother that Edward Norton was cast as Bilbo Baggins in the highly-anticipated motion picture, The Hobbit, the prologue to the widely-celebrated Lord of the Rings trilogy. Having known me for my entire life, he knew that this was a lie and made a deal with me. If Ed Norton was not actually cast as Bilbo, he got to punch me in the chest… but if he was, I got to kick him in the teeth. I don’t know what compels me to continue taking these types of bets, which are literally impossible to win. To be honest, I wouldn’t even kick him in the teeth if I did win the bet. I think that it may just be the fact that I am entertained by stupid things, such as thinking up miscasts for movies that never actually happened. In any event, I got punched in the chest on Saturday.
This got me to thinking though, while Ed Norton would be pretty hilarious as Bilbo, there could definitely be some even funnier miscasts. Picture this:
You’re sitting at home watching tv and a preview comes on for The Hobbit. You see a small hobbit making his way through a dark corridor but you can’t make out his face. Suddenly, he exits the tunnel and the sun shines on his face. There, in all his glory stands John Stamos (aka Uncle Jesse), starring as Bilbo Baggins.
Then I started thinking about other classic miscasts that never happened. While Val Kilmer was the worst Batman I’ve seen, it definitely could have been worse. Picture this:
The caped crusader jumps from one roof onto another. He is attacked by a group of thugs who are no match for his brute strength and cat-like reflexes as he effortlessly fights them off. He then makes his way to the famed Bat Cave and takes his mask off. There, underneath the bat ears is the face of a legend… Harold Ramis.
Ok, just one more. One of my all-time favorite movies is Tombstone. While nobody could have played Wyatt Earp the way that Kurt Russell did, a bad casting could have made that film one hell of a comedy. Picture this:
Wyatt and the gang are "caught in a little crossfire" at the river. As Doc sits behind a tree fearing that this might be the end, Wyatt walks out into the gunfire to meet Curly Bill face to face. And as Wyatt repeats the word “No” over and over in dramatic fashion with his wetted mustache trembling, a familiar silhouette turns as Ed Begley Jr. fires a round into Curly Bill’s chest.
If you have any other amusing miscasts, please feel free to post them. I still only have one follower and I’d like to see a little feedback… perhaps exchange in a little banter with my comrades.
This got me to thinking though, while Ed Norton would be pretty hilarious as Bilbo, there could definitely be some even funnier miscasts. Picture this:
You’re sitting at home watching tv and a preview comes on for The Hobbit. You see a small hobbit making his way through a dark corridor but you can’t make out his face. Suddenly, he exits the tunnel and the sun shines on his face. There, in all his glory stands John Stamos (aka Uncle Jesse), starring as Bilbo Baggins.
Then I started thinking about other classic miscasts that never happened. While Val Kilmer was the worst Batman I’ve seen, it definitely could have been worse. Picture this:
The caped crusader jumps from one roof onto another. He is attacked by a group of thugs who are no match for his brute strength and cat-like reflexes as he effortlessly fights them off. He then makes his way to the famed Bat Cave and takes his mask off. There, underneath the bat ears is the face of a legend… Harold Ramis.
Ok, just one more. One of my all-time favorite movies is Tombstone. While nobody could have played Wyatt Earp the way that Kurt Russell did, a bad casting could have made that film one hell of a comedy. Picture this:
Wyatt and the gang are "caught in a little crossfire" at the river. As Doc sits behind a tree fearing that this might be the end, Wyatt walks out into the gunfire to meet Curly Bill face to face. And as Wyatt repeats the word “No” over and over in dramatic fashion with his wetted mustache trembling, a familiar silhouette turns as Ed Begley Jr. fires a round into Curly Bill’s chest.
If you have any other amusing miscasts, please feel free to post them. I still only have one follower and I’d like to see a little feedback… perhaps exchange in a little banter with my comrades.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
A Brutal Beat Down
I'm writing this post the morning after I witnessed my New York Mets throw a game away to the Los Angeles Dodgers. To be fair, I did get to see a pitcher's duel between Randy Wolf and Tim Redding that was rather unexpected. Aside from that, and the beers, the rest of the game caused me to rub my face incessantly, which is what I do when I'm agitated.
I read an article in the New York Times today on the game. Ryan Church, the Met's right fielder tried to make amends for missing the third base bag on his jaunt home, scoring a run that would have put the Mets up a run and conceivably won the game with K-Rod pitching the bottom half of the inning. "It's a simple thing to do and I just didn't do it," said Church in a post game interview on completely bypassing the three-bag and having the go-ahead run called back.
"I pride myself in being able to make plays no matter where he [Met's Manager Jerry Manuel] puts me," said Jeremy Reed who capped off the night with a throw reminiscent of one I would make in one of my beer league softball games, a throw that sailed about six feet to the right of the catcher and allowed the Dodger's winning run to score.
Basically what I'm trying to say is this; I know that I could circumnavigate third base in late innings. I know that I can drop routine fly balls and make errant throwing errors to home plate. I've done it on many occassions. So I'm thinking of getting together a bloopers reel of all my unathletic softball plays and sending them to Met's GM Omar Minaya as a bid for a potential contract with the Mets. I really think the game where I struck out twice might catch his attention.
I read an article in the New York Times today on the game. Ryan Church, the Met's right fielder tried to make amends for missing the third base bag on his jaunt home, scoring a run that would have put the Mets up a run and conceivably won the game with K-Rod pitching the bottom half of the inning. "It's a simple thing to do and I just didn't do it," said Church in a post game interview on completely bypassing the three-bag and having the go-ahead run called back.
"I pride myself in being able to make plays no matter where he [Met's Manager Jerry Manuel] puts me," said Jeremy Reed who capped off the night with a throw reminiscent of one I would make in one of my beer league softball games, a throw that sailed about six feet to the right of the catcher and allowed the Dodger's winning run to score.
Basically what I'm trying to say is this; I know that I could circumnavigate third base in late innings. I know that I can drop routine fly balls and make errant throwing errors to home plate. I've done it on many occassions. So I'm thinking of getting together a bloopers reel of all my unathletic softball plays and sending them to Met's GM Omar Minaya as a bid for a potential contract with the Mets. I really think the game where I struck out twice might catch his attention.
Monday, May 11, 2009
My Long Unawaited Return
First off, let me apologize to my long list of readers who haven't received their dosage of brain trash in a while. I'll try to be a little more frequent with my posts in the future.
On to the good stuff. This past weekend, I threw a bachelor party for one of my oldest friends. He wanted his underage brothers to be able to hang out with us for at least part of the party so we decided to have a little bbq/pool party. I prepared for the day by making a trip to the Vons down the street where I bought three 30-packs of Tecate (a steal at $10.99 each) and enough burgers, dogs and finger foods to feed a small army, or in this case a ravenous pack of about 10 young gents between the ages of 23-28.
I got to the house around 10:00 am and woke everyone up with a cold one and then went down to the fridge to put the food away where I found a nice surprise... another 40-50 beers in the fridge already. I cleared out the fridge to make room for the essentials and fired up the bbq. Everyone began to roll downstairs via either the stairs or by jumping off the roof into the pool. We grinded through the burgers and dogs in a couple of hours and busted out the beer pong table.
What followed was a mess of beers being poured on people's heads, more roof jumps and a series of atrocities that I will most likely never remember, which is probably a good thing. After we powered through the rest of the beers and got in a power nap and showered, we called up our cabs and went out for the night. I'm not sure how, but we all managed to get to our destination, consume unsafe amounts of alcohol and get back to the pad without incident.
The next morning I woke up and had the pleasure of going to church with my brother who accompanied me in the debauchery the night before. All our mother asked of us was to show up to church on Mother's Day. We figured we owed the woman who brought us into the world at least that much. So after our McDonald's breakfast we rolled into church looking like the living dead and smelling like an old boot filled with whiskey and trout heads. I think we still owe a formal apology to the congregation for the sin that was our foul stench.
At the end of the day I couldn't help feeling pretty good though. I had managed to give my buddy a hell of a party and still make it to church to repent for my sins. :)
On to the good stuff. This past weekend, I threw a bachelor party for one of my oldest friends. He wanted his underage brothers to be able to hang out with us for at least part of the party so we decided to have a little bbq/pool party. I prepared for the day by making a trip to the Vons down the street where I bought three 30-packs of Tecate (a steal at $10.99 each) and enough burgers, dogs and finger foods to feed a small army, or in this case a ravenous pack of about 10 young gents between the ages of 23-28.
I got to the house around 10:00 am and woke everyone up with a cold one and then went down to the fridge to put the food away where I found a nice surprise... another 40-50 beers in the fridge already. I cleared out the fridge to make room for the essentials and fired up the bbq. Everyone began to roll downstairs via either the stairs or by jumping off the roof into the pool. We grinded through the burgers and dogs in a couple of hours and busted out the beer pong table.
What followed was a mess of beers being poured on people's heads, more roof jumps and a series of atrocities that I will most likely never remember, which is probably a good thing. After we powered through the rest of the beers and got in a power nap and showered, we called up our cabs and went out for the night. I'm not sure how, but we all managed to get to our destination, consume unsafe amounts of alcohol and get back to the pad without incident.
The next morning I woke up and had the pleasure of going to church with my brother who accompanied me in the debauchery the night before. All our mother asked of us was to show up to church on Mother's Day. We figured we owed the woman who brought us into the world at least that much. So after our McDonald's breakfast we rolled into church looking like the living dead and smelling like an old boot filled with whiskey and trout heads. I think we still owe a formal apology to the congregation for the sin that was our foul stench.
At the end of the day I couldn't help feeling pretty good though. I had managed to give my buddy a hell of a party and still make it to church to repent for my sins. :)
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Movie Reviews... Another Delightful Treat
As some of you may already know, I am currently unemployed. While exploring different avenues and opportunites, including but not limited to: assassin, ice cream salesman, poacher, merman, inventor, eagle, etc..., I have decided to host my own blog so that all of my friends and family can follow my day to day goings-on and come along with me on my journey. Just where will this journey lead me? I don't know, but hopefully I will discover the meaning of life, which I will then sell it to the highest bidder and live the rest of my days on a private island with an unlimited supply of chocolate milk (which is my favorite beverage).
But I can't just throw random thoughts on a page with no construct and expect you all to habitually read it. So here's what I will do. Once a week I will conduct a movie review. This is just a starting point. If you have other suggestions of fun activities I can add to my blog, feel free to offer them. And if I don't take your advice into consideration, don't be sad. It doesn't mean that I don't like you, it just means I don't like your idea :)
So here goes, I'll write a film review of a movie I recently saw, The Haunting In Connecticut. You've got to hand it to the marketing gurus behind the release of this film, which was actually nothing like what the trailers made it seem like it was going to be. After watching the previews for this movie, I prepared myself for the next The Excorsist. What I walked into however, was more like 13 Ghosts on some mild steroids. It started out very promising, but honestly, how many times are you going to get scared by a burnt corpse popping its head around the corner? Wouldn't you eventually get sick of the guy scaring you and say something like "Hey man, I know you lived here first and everything but you're dead now and I'm getting really sick of you jumping out and scaring me like this. You do it again and I'm gonna punch you directly in the scrotum"? I mean that's what I would say after the 15th time he did it, but then again, that might be a tad confrontational.
To be fair though, the movie did have a somewhat intriguing theme. The main character, who has the most contact with the burnt corpse, is very sick with some form of cancer and very close to death, The thought was that those who are this close to death somehow have an increased ability to commune with the dead, or at least those that have not yet "crossed over". Interesting concept, or an interesting take on the concept at least, and it was carried out in a decent fashion throughout most of the movie. On a scale of 1-10 though, I'd give the movie a 5. I have to give Cornwell and crew a nod for their collective creativity and I did get "spooked" a couple of times, but in the end, all I can say is... ehh.
But I can't just throw random thoughts on a page with no construct and expect you all to habitually read it. So here's what I will do. Once a week I will conduct a movie review. This is just a starting point. If you have other suggestions of fun activities I can add to my blog, feel free to offer them. And if I don't take your advice into consideration, don't be sad. It doesn't mean that I don't like you, it just means I don't like your idea :)
So here goes, I'll write a film review of a movie I recently saw, The Haunting In Connecticut. You've got to hand it to the marketing gurus behind the release of this film, which was actually nothing like what the trailers made it seem like it was going to be. After watching the previews for this movie, I prepared myself for the next The Excorsist. What I walked into however, was more like 13 Ghosts on some mild steroids. It started out very promising, but honestly, how many times are you going to get scared by a burnt corpse popping its head around the corner? Wouldn't you eventually get sick of the guy scaring you and say something like "Hey man, I know you lived here first and everything but you're dead now and I'm getting really sick of you jumping out and scaring me like this. You do it again and I'm gonna punch you directly in the scrotum"? I mean that's what I would say after the 15th time he did it, but then again, that might be a tad confrontational.
To be fair though, the movie did have a somewhat intriguing theme. The main character, who has the most contact with the burnt corpse, is very sick with some form of cancer and very close to death, The thought was that those who are this close to death somehow have an increased ability to commune with the dead, or at least those that have not yet "crossed over". Interesting concept, or an interesting take on the concept at least, and it was carried out in a decent fashion throughout most of the movie. On a scale of 1-10 though, I'd give the movie a 5. I have to give Cornwell and crew a nod for their collective creativity and I did get "spooked" a couple of times, but in the end, all I can say is... ehh.
My Blog
Hello friends. Good to see you. Thank you for joining my virtual world. Now you can gain access to my most private thoughts, my most diabloical schemes, and most importantly, my sage advice. Feel free to read at your own leisure. If you have questions, simply ask. If you have a burning issue in your life, I would be happy to delve into my own subconscious and find an answer for you. But be warned, once I retreat into the confines of my own mind, there is no telling what I will come out with...
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