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…
Thursday, June 25, 2009
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.
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