Movie Review #2: "Cowboys and Aliens."
3.5/5 Stars.
Cowboys and Aliens. Two things that go together, in the words of Cal Naughton Jr., "like cocaine and waffles." (any Ricky Bobby fans?) The initial interest piqued in me by the title alone was enough to guarantee my attendance at the movie. The Trailer (youtube it yourself because I'm far too lazy too get it for you) warranted my presence at the midnight premiere. This is a movie that, as the old adage states, I did not want to miss.
When a movie has subject material like extraterrestrials and gunslinging cowpokes mashed together we know right off the bat that said movie is either going to be totally mind-blowingly awesome or (more frequently) a waste of time, money, and popcorn that was smuggled into the theater in a friend's shoebag that she claims is a purse. Cowboys and Aliens actually, to my surprise, fell about 75% on the good side of the scale. The phrase "not as bad as I expected" comes to mind.
When I go see a movie, I seldom learn the characters' names. I usually just refer to them by the actor's name or a famous character that the actor has played (Liam Neeson will forever be Qui-Gon Jinn). This holds especially true if there are big-name actors involved. I could not for the life of me list off the characters by name in Inception, which is one of my favorite movies. There's Cobb (Leonardo Dicaprio), then the guy from (500) Days of Summer, Alfred from the new Batman movies, and so on. In Cowboys and Aliens, I do not see Jake (whatever his last name is), I see Daniel Craig. The only time this does not apply is when I see a movie that Will Ferrell stars in. For some odd reason or another, Ferrell's characters, be it Anchorman, Ricky Bobby, or Buddy the Elf, are all deceptively distinct, which is ironic because they all are pretty much the same person. Maybe more on Will at a later time.
The story starts with Daniel Craig (hereafter "Danny" or "Craig") waking up from a sleep apnea attack (i.e., he's gasping.) in the middle of the desert with a mysterious wristband that he cannot remove. He also cannot remember anything that has ever happened to him. Name, place of birth, library card number, and people that he may have owed money have all been erased from his mind. To me, this would seem like the perfect guy to have some harmless fun with. (maybe tell him he's with the circus and they've been looking for him.) Craig swiftly proves via his cowboy karate/pistol skills that he "don't take crap from nobody." We find out that Danny was a wanted criminal before his memory was conveniently erased, something I'm sure any one of us would want to forget. He is taken to jail to await his collection by the federal marshal.
Finally, Harrison Ford comes into the movie. I haven't seen old Harry since his appearance in Indiana Jones and the Kingdom Crystal Skull, and I don't even want to talk about how embarrassed I felt for the man who once played Han Solo. Anyway, Ford was a heck of a lot better in this movie. He played a cranky cattle rancher who essentially owned the first town Craig walked into after he wakes up in the desert. Oh, and it turns out that part of Danny's recent criminal history entails stealing a lot of gold from Harrison Ford. Convenient.
Right now, the movie just sounds like an average western. Cowboys, civil war veterans (Ford), ten gallon hats, mysterious strangers, etc. Then the aliens attack.
The alien attack coupled with the abduction of many of the town's citizens shows that the Big Green Men do not "come in peace" per se. Craig proves a valuable asset in the fight that plays out between the cowboys and aliens, not only because he is an escaped alien prisoner and has knowledge that he can't remember of the alien ship, but because his magical wristband is actually a blaster that can annihilate anything from a disagreeable bandit to an alien spacecraft. In the final battle scene, Craig uses the wrist-blaster to annihilate a whole slew of hostile aliens coming out of a dark tunnel. Oh wait, I've seen this before. In Halo.
Turns out the cowboys get lucky and have another person in their midst with inside alien info. It's this strange chick who follows Daniel Craig around from the minute he sets foot in town staring at him all the while. For a second I wonder why this never seems to happen to me, but I realize later in the movie that creepy chicks that follow you around fascinated by you are often the same ones to pistol-whip you in the back of your head "for your own good/safety." She turns out to be an alien from another planet that was ravished by the evil-aliens. Oh. Forgot. The evil aliens are here to mine Earth for its gold. It is a precious metal around the universe. So if I'm ever confronted by aliens, I'll just surrender my fillings right then and there so we don't have to have this large drawn out battle where they win in the end and enslave humanity because they are the superior beings. (think of it like the colonization of south and central America by the Spanish.
It's the moment I've waited for my entire life. The final struggle between humankind and a more technologically and evolutionarily advanced race. Of course the cowboys win. Who needs plasma blasters, spaceships, or mind control techniques when you've got a six-shooter and your trusty steed?
Craig regains his memory through a magic indian voodoo ritual led by the friendly alien chick. Plausibility for the movie now gone.
Were there explosions? Fetch yeah. Shootouts? of course. This is a western people.Daniel Craig has superhuman strength but Harrison Ford does not.
All in all, I thought it was a good movie. Not a masterpiece, but surely not as low on the scale as a Twilight movie. There was a little too much alien gore in it for my taste, but I guess it went with the rugged cowboy theme. No rules in the wild west, even if you are an alien. You should definitely see it.
Cool cinematography? yeah. Cool aliens? A bit. At least you get to see an army of green gorilla-type extraterrestrials as opposed to in Signs where all you get is a guy in a green morphsuit trying to act like an alien. Good Movie.
7/31/2011
7/29/2011
Mailings.
This Poem is dedicated to any and all who have mailed invoices at Ankney Law.
"Mailings"
"There is something sickeningly satisfying about licking envelopes.
Getting my slobber all over an oddly flavored strip of paper.
Having my tongue feel like sandpaper when the day is through
The only thing better would be nutella flavoring.
stuffing, sealing, stamping
stuffing, sealing, stamping
like an internationally mailed turkey must feel.
I think my tongue has become calloused
from all the friction
but this may help my endeavors
at using it to play my guitar.
I marvel at the mailman
come to collect
the letters as mothers collect small children from daycare
and toss them in large shiny bins,
never to be seen by my eyes again.
Does he have a bladder problem?
Creasing sharply,
Folding softly,
Wondering why email's crippling blow
to the postal system
wasn't a fatal one.
Then I wouldn't have to do this,
but I'd be out of a job.
Stamping, Stacking
Stamping, Stacking
Mailtime. "
"Mailings"
"There is something sickeningly satisfying about licking envelopes.
Getting my slobber all over an oddly flavored strip of paper.
Having my tongue feel like sandpaper when the day is through
The only thing better would be nutella flavoring.
stuffing, sealing, stamping
stuffing, sealing, stamping
like an internationally mailed turkey must feel.
I think my tongue has become calloused
from all the friction
but this may help my endeavors
at using it to play my guitar.
I marvel at the mailman
come to collect
the letters as mothers collect small children from daycare
and toss them in large shiny bins,
never to be seen by my eyes again.
Does he have a bladder problem?
Creasing sharply,
Folding softly,
Wondering why email's crippling blow
to the postal system
wasn't a fatal one.
Then I wouldn't have to do this,
but I'd be out of a job.
Stamping, Stacking
Stamping, Stacking
Mailtime. "
7/27/2011
Mando.
For those who don't know, I like to play any musical instrument I can get my hands on.
For those who do know that, prepare to be subjected to another music lecture from yours truly.
I guess we'll start at the beginning. A very good place to start.
Freshman year, My Dad, Josh (my older brother) and I went to see this band we all liked, Nickel Creek. They were playing at a brand new performing arts center that had just opened in what they call "downtown" Virginia Beach. (1 Really tall building, 1 kind of tall building, a couple parking garages and a PF Changs). So, as a treat to my dad, who was going through his bluegrass music phase at the time (excepting that Nickel Creek is waaaaay more than your grandpa's bluegrass), my mom bought us tickets to go see them. Nickel Creek was a 4 piece contemporary bluegrass group that had guitar, fiddle, mandolin, and some random guy on the double bass (not a permanent member). The guitarist, fiddle player, and mandolin dude all sang too. I could go on and on about the show, like about how they covered "Toxic" (Britney Spears) with a guy singing, and how they unplugged everything and went completely acoustic for half of the second set. Hardcore Musicians. Pretty much the whole night I was amazed and drooled over how awesome they all were.
The thing that caught my attention the most was this guy
His name is Chris Thile. He plays the mandolin. I am convinced he is more than a man but less than a god. Kind of like Hercules but without the flying horse. or Harry Potter. Yeah, he does look a bit like Justin Timberlake and dresses almost exactly like him sometimes, but he is one of the most accomplished and entertaining musicians I've ever seen play. His new band, The Punch Brothers, is pretty much like a bluegrass version of Radiohead. (I don't listen to much Radiohead so don't quote me on that). Everything you thought Van Halen, Ozzy Osbourne, and Steve Vai were on the guitar he is on the mandolin, unplugged and totally raw. Zero effects. If he screws up, the world hears it. Except he doesn't.
The whole night through the concert, the only thought in my head aside from "Thile is a monster, spare the children" was "I have got to get me one of those."
It's a good thing that my dad and I think alike (for the most part), because he thought the same thing. We ended up borrowing a Mandolin from one of his friends a while after the concert. The first thing my dad realized is that the mandolin is not strung like a guitar, nor does it play like one. The first think I realized that the mandolin was tiny and was harder to play than russian roulette is with a water pistol. (yes I did just make a quasi lady gaga reference). My heavily calloused bass guitar fingers were no match for the wire-thin strings of the mandolin. Still, my obsession for it only grew because of its challenge.
Eventually we gave the borrowed mandolin back, which was a sad day. I often discussed with my father buying a mandolin, but we'd decided that it was in our better interests not to.
Just about a week ago, my friend Tommy (name has not been changed) let me borrow his mandolin. This all started when we were at his grad party and we whipped out the guitars (which always means trouble) and played some songs for the people who were still there. When I saw the mandolin sitting in his music room, my obsession was rekindled for it.
The Mandolin is super fun for me to play now primarily because I know for a fact that I pretty much suck at playing it. So it's just straight fun. No pressure.
For those who do know that, prepare to be subjected to another music lecture from yours truly.
I guess we'll start at the beginning. A very good place to start.
Freshman year, My Dad, Josh (my older brother) and I went to see this band we all liked, Nickel Creek. They were playing at a brand new performing arts center that had just opened in what they call "downtown" Virginia Beach. (1 Really tall building, 1 kind of tall building, a couple parking garages and a PF Changs). So, as a treat to my dad, who was going through his bluegrass music phase at the time (excepting that Nickel Creek is waaaaay more than your grandpa's bluegrass), my mom bought us tickets to go see them. Nickel Creek was a 4 piece contemporary bluegrass group that had guitar, fiddle, mandolin, and some random guy on the double bass (not a permanent member). The guitarist, fiddle player, and mandolin dude all sang too. I could go on and on about the show, like about how they covered "Toxic" (Britney Spears) with a guy singing, and how they unplugged everything and went completely acoustic for half of the second set. Hardcore Musicians. Pretty much the whole night I was amazed and drooled over how awesome they all were.
The thing that caught my attention the most was this guy
The whole night through the concert, the only thought in my head aside from "Thile is a monster, spare the children" was "I have got to get me one of those."
It's a good thing that my dad and I think alike (for the most part), because he thought the same thing. We ended up borrowing a Mandolin from one of his friends a while after the concert. The first thing my dad realized is that the mandolin is not strung like a guitar, nor does it play like one. The first think I realized that the mandolin was tiny and was harder to play than russian roulette is with a water pistol. (yes I did just make a quasi lady gaga reference). My heavily calloused bass guitar fingers were no match for the wire-thin strings of the mandolin. Still, my obsession for it only grew because of its challenge.
Eventually we gave the borrowed mandolin back, which was a sad day. I often discussed with my father buying a mandolin, but we'd decided that it was in our better interests not to.
Just about a week ago, my friend Tommy (name has not been changed) let me borrow his mandolin. This all started when we were at his grad party and we whipped out the guitars (which always means trouble) and played some songs for the people who were still there. When I saw the mandolin sitting in his music room, my obsession was rekindled for it.
The Mandolin is super fun for me to play now primarily because I know for a fact that I pretty much suck at playing it. So it's just straight fun. No pressure.
7/25/2011
B&N.
Almost every year out of the past 5 or 6, my family has taken a trip to Emerald Isle in North Carolina for a week during summer vacation. We spend our week in a beach house with some relatives. The week is filled with nothing but relaxation, good food, and beaching. The only activity that is really planned in my week (aside from being a full-time beach bum) is the round of putt-putt golf at "The Golphin Dolphin." The whole family hits the links for some mini-golf, which is a pretty fierce competition. My uncle is Australian in every sense of the word, and golf is one of his passions. His 7 year old son (my cousin) proves to be the stiffest entry into the tournament, telling his younger brother to "mark the hole" for him and the like. Many years I have watched this miniature Rory Mcilroy dismantle holes 1-18 of the course like a skilled surgeon while my golf ball finds itself on the nearby freeway more often than it finds the hole. All in good fun though. I can take the kid when we start playing rugby and cricket though. Barely.
Before my family even gets in the car to leave for the beach, we take a trip in the week preceding vacation to the local Barnes and Noble Bookstore to aquire a "beach book" for each one of us to read....well at the beach. Past purchases have included (this is the whole family, not just me) The Hunger Games, Twilight, Mark Twain's Autobiography, Dune, Etc. Light reading. I do enjoy reading very much, and the week at the beach gives me a chance to sit in a hammock and peruse through a good novel. Tonight was the B&N trip. I got Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises. It's kind of a personal goal of mine to become more well-read over the next whoever-knows-how-long. I remember liking A Farewell To Arms, mostly because of the short, clipped style that Hemingway so beautifully employs, so I figured I couldn't go wrong with another novel by a classic author. I'm a fast shopper, (when not in the guitar store) so I had the book in my possession within 15 minutes of entering the store. While the rest of my family was looking through the store for books, I just sort of wandered around browsing, trying not to look any of the employees directly in the eye for fear that they'll steal my soul. (The stereotypical B&N worker is either a cranky senior citizen or a heavily tattooed artsy person in their mid-twenties with myriad piercings, each one in a more unlikely place than the next.)
When the time comes to leave, I remember the least pleasant part of this pre-vacation ritual. It's the meltdown my 8 year old brother treats the whole store to when he finds out my father is not buying him a $60 book about how the Death Star was constructed (foreword by George Lucas). I used to be embarrassed by this, but I've grown out of that. Tonight I watched #4 (in the birth order) crash and burn in the children's section and was mildly entertained by that, much in the way that I am entertained by watching cheerleaders get dropped by their fellow squad-mates (cause it's not really a team) then caught by the school mascot. Or watching NASCAR crashes. Same thing really.
The pre-vacation getup is almost as fun as being on vacation itself. Everyone in the family is so excited to be going away for a week that life becomes easier for everyone except my dad. He gets in "pre-vacation mode," which means he starts saying the phrase "_(insert number here)__ days until I'm at the beach." This can happen anywhere from 5 to 10 days before actual departure for NC. I used to wonder why he did this, but since I've started working part-time in his law office this summer, I've stopped. I'm not saying it's super-boring or anything, just that the man does a lot and has a lot of pressure on him. It's his week to blow work and responsibility off, or at least feel like he's doing so.
Anyway, I'm stoked for a week away from VA Beach.
Before my family even gets in the car to leave for the beach, we take a trip in the week preceding vacation to the local Barnes and Noble Bookstore to aquire a "beach book" for each one of us to read....well at the beach. Past purchases have included (this is the whole family, not just me) The Hunger Games, Twilight, Mark Twain's Autobiography, Dune, Etc. Light reading. I do enjoy reading very much, and the week at the beach gives me a chance to sit in a hammock and peruse through a good novel. Tonight was the B&N trip. I got Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises. It's kind of a personal goal of mine to become more well-read over the next whoever-knows-how-long. I remember liking A Farewell To Arms, mostly because of the short, clipped style that Hemingway so beautifully employs, so I figured I couldn't go wrong with another novel by a classic author. I'm a fast shopper, (when not in the guitar store) so I had the book in my possession within 15 minutes of entering the store. While the rest of my family was looking through the store for books, I just sort of wandered around browsing, trying not to look any of the employees directly in the eye for fear that they'll steal my soul. (The stereotypical B&N worker is either a cranky senior citizen or a heavily tattooed artsy person in their mid-twenties with myriad piercings, each one in a more unlikely place than the next.)
When the time comes to leave, I remember the least pleasant part of this pre-vacation ritual. It's the meltdown my 8 year old brother treats the whole store to when he finds out my father is not buying him a $60 book about how the Death Star was constructed (foreword by George Lucas). I used to be embarrassed by this, but I've grown out of that. Tonight I watched #4 (in the birth order) crash and burn in the children's section and was mildly entertained by that, much in the way that I am entertained by watching cheerleaders get dropped by their fellow squad-mates (cause it's not really a team) then caught by the school mascot. Or watching NASCAR crashes. Same thing really.
The pre-vacation getup is almost as fun as being on vacation itself. Everyone in the family is so excited to be going away for a week that life becomes easier for everyone except my dad. He gets in "pre-vacation mode," which means he starts saying the phrase "_(insert number here)__ days until I'm at the beach." This can happen anywhere from 5 to 10 days before actual departure for NC. I used to wonder why he did this, but since I've started working part-time in his law office this summer, I've stopped. I'm not saying it's super-boring or anything, just that the man does a lot and has a lot of pressure on him. It's his week to blow work and responsibility off, or at least feel like he's doing so.
Anyway, I'm stoked for a week away from VA Beach.
7/24/2011
Photobombing.
I hate having my picture taken. I don't really know why.
So I've taken up photobombing to stick it to all those who try to take my picture.
Whenever my family gets together for a reunion, we take pictures. It takes a good half hour or so to round everybody up, then another 15 minutes to get everyone to line up according to height, and yet another 20 minutes to make sure the timer on the camera is set just right. Once we get a picture done, somebody is guaranteed to say "let's do another, in case that one didn't turn out." This is the curse of the non-digital generations preceding mine. Don't get me wrong, if you're using a camera with analog film (because I don't know what else to call it) where you can't see the picture until it gets developed, take as many insurance photos as you want. But here in the world of digital, you can preview your photos on the camera before you upload them to facebook for the world to see. This, in my humble opinion, should eliminate the "take 50 extra pictures in case one doesn't turn out" step of family photos. Or any group photo for that matter.
Photobombs in the nineties were highly discouraged. More than once my brothers and I had the phrase "YOU'RE WASTING MY FILM" screamed at us. (someone was usually sticking their tongue out....not me. ever.) The fun thing about digital cameras is that you have an infinite amount of chances to get a good picture. What I mean by that is that unwanted pictures can simply be deleted off the camera, right then, right there. (now I just get "YOU'RE WASTING MY TIME" instead.)
If you think about it, photobombing is now a challenge. The challenge not to get deleted off of someone's camera before the photo makes it to facebook, the graduation slideshow, or gets framed on the living room wall. Challenge accepted. It is also harmless. With regular film, there was always a tinge of guilt that came with intentionally messing up a photo. Film was expensive, and taking up 1/28th of someone's valuable pictures was a bit of a jerk-wad thing to do. All that is gone now.
There are two types of Photobomb:
1) The Group Picture Photobomb: Obviously the easiest. Pull a face when whoever is taking the picture takes the picture. Just make it a point to smile for at least one of the pictures, especially if you're with a church group, otherwise there's a very intense mother-son discussion about being well mannered in public that follows.
2) The Covert Photobomb: These require more skill. Not only must you sneak into the frame unbeknownst to the photographer and the photographed, but you must sneak out of the frame AND avoid detection when the photo is being reviewed. It takes a lot of practice, and you should not try it on complete strangers until you get really good at it.
I should finish this post with some more witty banter but I'm not really feeling it tonight. The blog muse is not with me.
Examples may come in the future, but they'll have to fight it out with my lazy.
So I've taken up photobombing to stick it to all those who try to take my picture.
Whenever my family gets together for a reunion, we take pictures. It takes a good half hour or so to round everybody up, then another 15 minutes to get everyone to line up according to height, and yet another 20 minutes to make sure the timer on the camera is set just right. Once we get a picture done, somebody is guaranteed to say "let's do another, in case that one didn't turn out." This is the curse of the non-digital generations preceding mine. Don't get me wrong, if you're using a camera with analog film (because I don't know what else to call it) where you can't see the picture until it gets developed, take as many insurance photos as you want. But here in the world of digital, you can preview your photos on the camera before you upload them to facebook for the world to see. This, in my humble opinion, should eliminate the "take 50 extra pictures in case one doesn't turn out" step of family photos. Or any group photo for that matter.
Photobombs in the nineties were highly discouraged. More than once my brothers and I had the phrase "YOU'RE WASTING MY FILM" screamed at us. (someone was usually sticking their tongue out....not me. ever.) The fun thing about digital cameras is that you have an infinite amount of chances to get a good picture. What I mean by that is that unwanted pictures can simply be deleted off the camera, right then, right there. (now I just get "YOU'RE WASTING MY TIME" instead.)
If you think about it, photobombing is now a challenge. The challenge not to get deleted off of someone's camera before the photo makes it to facebook, the graduation slideshow, or gets framed on the living room wall. Challenge accepted. It is also harmless. With regular film, there was always a tinge of guilt that came with intentionally messing up a photo. Film was expensive, and taking up 1/28th of someone's valuable pictures was a bit of a jerk-wad thing to do. All that is gone now.
There are two types of Photobomb:
1) The Group Picture Photobomb: Obviously the easiest. Pull a face when whoever is taking the picture takes the picture. Just make it a point to smile for at least one of the pictures, especially if you're with a church group, otherwise there's a very intense mother-son discussion about being well mannered in public that follows.
2) The Covert Photobomb: These require more skill. Not only must you sneak into the frame unbeknownst to the photographer and the photographed, but you must sneak out of the frame AND avoid detection when the photo is being reviewed. It takes a lot of practice, and you should not try it on complete strangers until you get really good at it.
I should finish this post with some more witty banter but I'm not really feeling it tonight. The blog muse is not with me.
Examples may come in the future, but they'll have to fight it out with my lazy.
7/20/2011
Rick Ro$$
So here's what it is. I'm cruising along in my mom's minivan running errands for her like I do frequently during the summer because it gets me out of the house and I get to drive the car. Sadly, I have forgotten to bring my CD loaded with Fountains of Wayne and The Punch Brothers. What does this mean? Instead of jamming out to music that I actually want to listen to, I'm stuck with the mindless drivel found on the radio.
I like to tune the radio by hand (meaning I don't use presets), and I've got about 8 stations I stop on around the dial. Anyone who has ever been in a car that I'm driving can attest to the fact that I will spend more time spinning the tune dial than actually listening to the radio.
When I'm in the minivan, I make the best personal effort to blast obnoxiously loud rap music at all times (windows down of course), despite the radio often failing to supply me with some. Over the past 2 or 3 weeks I've heard a lot of Rick Ro$$ while driving, and I'm wondering why.
I don't pretend to be an expert on what makes a good rapper. I don't even know if there is such a thing as a "good rapper" out there, but I feel like I know what it takes to be a lousy one.
To quote my friend CVH on how to make it big in the rap game:
"Wear really tight pants, shove cotton in [your] mouth then sing poorly in the lower register"
Ricky weighs in at over 300 pounds, so any pants at all on him would probably have his thighs screaming for mercy. check on number one.
I think the only word I've ever understood that came out of Ro$$'s mouth was and remains to this day "monneyh," and even then I don't know if he's talking about cash or apes. My mother taught me that it is wrong to make fun of people with speech impediments, which I totally agree with, but if they try to be rappers, they're kind of asking for it like an albino is asking for a sunburn when he decides to go shirtless in Death Valley. If you could call what Ro$$ does singing, then you could call Rebecca Black The Beatles of our generation. It sounds like Ro$$ has a potato or a smoldering piece of charcoal stuck in his throat that he can't cough out, so he just kind of goes with how his voice sounds. I'll give him points for grace under pressure.
The utter sound of his voice aside, Ricky's raps are substandard anyway. Typically, when I listen to a rap song, I'm either trying to get hyped up or shot at a stoplight. Usually lyrics about obtaining currency, disregarding women, and imported luxury cars will give me this fix, along with some pounding bass. After looking up some of his lyrics online, I realize he talks about this stuff, but I just can't understand what he's saying.
As if his sheer lack of talent wasn't enough to have against him, Wikipedia has informed me that Rick-o was a correctional officer at a point in his life. Yes. A prison guard. He denies this, of course, because what self-respecting hoodrat would be on the good side of the law at any time in his life? The whole prison guard fiasco has caused him to be the butt of many rappers' jokes, particularly 50 (fiddy) Cent. I will sidebar for a moment and say that if I ever have to escape from jail, I hope Rick Ro$$ is on duty so that I only have to out-walk him to escape. Call it hot pursuit if you will.
I do think if Rick wanted to turn some more coin he would find a way to sell his beard as carpet. It seems to be very thick and probably insulates his face rather well.
As if being a prison guard weren't bad enough for his rapping career, Ross decided to steal his name from a 1970's drug trafficker named "Freeway Ricky Ross." Freeway Ricky sued in 2010 but Ro$$ denied any connection to the claim that he pilfered the name.What can you do? Looks like he wasn't even creative enough to come up with his own stage name. Must have been all those years in prison as a non-inmate. I'm thinking now of changing my stage name to "Johnny Mayers" and calling my band "The Strolling Scones." We'll see where I get with that. Granted it's more change than Ross did.
I don't know where Rick got the idea to put not one, but TWO dolla (cause we speak hood) signs at the end of his name. It definitely was not something he read in Encyclopedia Britannica.
There was a time in my life when I signed my name like so.
"Jacob @nkney"
but I grew out of that about the same time I started zipping my pants up without assistance. (about 15 years old. But Still.)
Til then, Everyday i'm Hustlin.
I like to tune the radio by hand (meaning I don't use presets), and I've got about 8 stations I stop on around the dial. Anyone who has ever been in a car that I'm driving can attest to the fact that I will spend more time spinning the tune dial than actually listening to the radio.
When I'm in the minivan, I make the best personal effort to blast obnoxiously loud rap music at all times (windows down of course), despite the radio often failing to supply me with some. Over the past 2 or 3 weeks I've heard a lot of Rick Ro$$ while driving, and I'm wondering why.
I don't pretend to be an expert on what makes a good rapper. I don't even know if there is such a thing as a "good rapper" out there, but I feel like I know what it takes to be a lousy one.
To quote my friend CVH on how to make it big in the rap game:
"Wear really tight pants, shove cotton in [your] mouth then sing poorly in the lower register"
Ricky weighs in at over 300 pounds, so any pants at all on him would probably have his thighs screaming for mercy. check on number one.
I think the only word I've ever understood that came out of Ro$$'s mouth was and remains to this day "monneyh," and even then I don't know if he's talking about cash or apes. My mother taught me that it is wrong to make fun of people with speech impediments, which I totally agree with, but if they try to be rappers, they're kind of asking for it like an albino is asking for a sunburn when he decides to go shirtless in Death Valley. If you could call what Ro$$ does singing, then you could call Rebecca Black The Beatles of our generation. It sounds like Ro$$ has a potato or a smoldering piece of charcoal stuck in his throat that he can't cough out, so he just kind of goes with how his voice sounds. I'll give him points for grace under pressure.
The utter sound of his voice aside, Ricky's raps are substandard anyway. Typically, when I listen to a rap song, I'm either trying to get hyped up or shot at a stoplight. Usually lyrics about obtaining currency, disregarding women, and imported luxury cars will give me this fix, along with some pounding bass. After looking up some of his lyrics online, I realize he talks about this stuff, but I just can't understand what he's saying.
As if his sheer lack of talent wasn't enough to have against him, Wikipedia has informed me that Rick-o was a correctional officer at a point in his life. Yes. A prison guard. He denies this, of course, because what self-respecting hoodrat would be on the good side of the law at any time in his life? The whole prison guard fiasco has caused him to be the butt of many rappers' jokes, particularly 50 (fiddy) Cent. I will sidebar for a moment and say that if I ever have to escape from jail, I hope Rick Ro$$ is on duty so that I only have to out-walk him to escape. Call it hot pursuit if you will.
I do think if Rick wanted to turn some more coin he would find a way to sell his beard as carpet. It seems to be very thick and probably insulates his face rather well.
 |
| Weirdo with the Beardo |
As if being a prison guard weren't bad enough for his rapping career, Ross decided to steal his name from a 1970's drug trafficker named "Freeway Ricky Ross." Freeway Ricky sued in 2010 but Ro$$ denied any connection to the claim that he pilfered the name.What can you do? Looks like he wasn't even creative enough to come up with his own stage name. Must have been all those years in prison as a non-inmate. I'm thinking now of changing my stage name to "Johnny Mayers" and calling my band "The Strolling Scones." We'll see where I get with that. Granted it's more change than Ross did.
I don't know where Rick got the idea to put not one, but TWO dolla (cause we speak hood) signs at the end of his name. It definitely was not something he read in Encyclopedia Britannica.
There was a time in my life when I signed my name like so.
"Jacob @nkney"
but I grew out of that about the same time I started zipping my pants up without assistance. (about 15 years old. But Still.)
Til then, Everyday i'm Hustlin.
7/19/2011
Mumblecore.
One thing I forgot to mention about my visit to the Naro was the discovery of a new film genre.
It had to have been fate. Had George and I carpooled and lessened our carbon footprint on downtown Norfolk, I would not have had the chance to wander around in "The Naro Expanded Video" for the better part of an hour and stumble upon this slice of the film industry that until last night I had remained woefully ignorant of.
The "Expanded Video" store is organized much in the way that my high school binders were, meaning that nobody but me knew exactly where everything was. I've heard it called "chaotic organization." I.E., My mother thinks I'm super-disorganized, but I can find anything at the drop of a hat. The only thing that stinks about this is that in "Expanded Video" I play the part of my mother instead of my omniscient self.
So I'm walking through the store, waiting for George to call me and tell me he's lost in the urban labyrinth known as Norfolk. Not really looking for anything in particular.
My eye is suddenly drawn to this label:
Ultra-low budget. Improvised script. Non-professional actors. (if you can't read what's in the picture) It's kind of like Dubstep but without a drop.
You know what that sounds like? Something my 8 year old brother and his best friend made in the backyard with a digital camera that they stole from my room. Next thing I know they'll be using our grill to replace the CGI for Mount Doom and using my neighbor's german shepard for a Balrog.
It wasn't long before I thought "maybe I could make my own mumblecore movie." Ultra low budget? Got that like you would not believe. My bank statement looks almost as bad as the United States'. Improvised script? I play jazz music, which involves improvisation, so how could a movie script be much different? Nonprofessional actors? Unless you count being paid to mow lawns as acting, I think I'm good.
It'll probably only take a week of shooting to get all the raw footage together, and in the spirit of mumblecore, I'm not going to plan/even think about a plotline until the camera starts rolling. No editing. Soundtrack featuring an orchestra of voovozelas. Available on itunes this fall. The most time consuming part will be putting the whole thing on Windows Movie Maker and putting half the film in grayscale.
For all the Indie-Hipsters out there, I think mumblecore is here to stay. Watch for my film and join "The Movement." (Something that all indie-hipsters talk about but don't really know what it is).
Forget action movies. Screw chick flicks. Romantic comedies. Slashers. Documentaries even take the backseat when Mumblecore is in the car.
It's a new form of American expression that anyone can be a part of.
Next thing I know my future sons will have to study this for their cinematography merit badge.
Turns out, after a 3 minute investigation on wikipedia, mumblecore has only been around since 2002. The complete list of mumblecore films is available on Wikipedia, and, after reading synopses of a couple, I have decided that if I am ever subject to a mumblecore movie party at college I'll just go outside and try to bury myself in the snow and wait for hypothermia to set in. It might be a more peaceful way to die.
It had to have been fate. Had George and I carpooled and lessened our carbon footprint on downtown Norfolk, I would not have had the chance to wander around in "The Naro Expanded Video" for the better part of an hour and stumble upon this slice of the film industry that until last night I had remained woefully ignorant of.
The "Expanded Video" store is organized much in the way that my high school binders were, meaning that nobody but me knew exactly where everything was. I've heard it called "chaotic organization." I.E., My mother thinks I'm super-disorganized, but I can find anything at the drop of a hat. The only thing that stinks about this is that in "Expanded Video" I play the part of my mother instead of my omniscient self.
So I'm walking through the store, waiting for George to call me and tell me he's lost in the urban labyrinth known as Norfolk. Not really looking for anything in particular.
My eye is suddenly drawn to this label:
Ultra-low budget. Improvised script. Non-professional actors. (if you can't read what's in the picture) It's kind of like Dubstep but without a drop.
You know what that sounds like? Something my 8 year old brother and his best friend made in the backyard with a digital camera that they stole from my room. Next thing I know they'll be using our grill to replace the CGI for Mount Doom and using my neighbor's german shepard for a Balrog.
It wasn't long before I thought "maybe I could make my own mumblecore movie." Ultra low budget? Got that like you would not believe. My bank statement looks almost as bad as the United States'. Improvised script? I play jazz music, which involves improvisation, so how could a movie script be much different? Nonprofessional actors? Unless you count being paid to mow lawns as acting, I think I'm good.
It'll probably only take a week of shooting to get all the raw footage together, and in the spirit of mumblecore, I'm not going to plan/even think about a plotline until the camera starts rolling. No editing. Soundtrack featuring an orchestra of voovozelas. Available on itunes this fall. The most time consuming part will be putting the whole thing on Windows Movie Maker and putting half the film in grayscale.
For all the Indie-Hipsters out there, I think mumblecore is here to stay. Watch for my film and join "The Movement." (Something that all indie-hipsters talk about but don't really know what it is).
Forget action movies. Screw chick flicks. Romantic comedies. Slashers. Documentaries even take the backseat when Mumblecore is in the car.
It's a new form of American expression that anyone can be a part of.
Next thing I know my future sons will have to study this for their cinematography merit badge.
Turns out, after a 3 minute investigation on wikipedia, mumblecore has only been around since 2002. The complete list of mumblecore films is available on Wikipedia, and, after reading synopses of a couple, I have decided that if I am ever subject to a mumblecore movie party at college I'll just go outside and try to bury myself in the snow and wait for hypothermia to set in. It might be a more peaceful way to die.
7/18/2011
Naro.
My friend George and I emerge victorious over the Naro but one week after being thwarted in our moviegoing enterprises.
During a late-night vent with George on Facebook chat Sunday about how disappointed we were about not being able to see The African Queen the previous week at The Naro, I got on the theater's website and checked their schedule to see if another film was playing soon that we might want to go see. lo and behold, The General (starring Buster Keaton) was being shown the very next night. What caught my attention was that The General (1926) is a silent film, and the Naro was having a live pianist come play during the movie. Not wanting to miss a cultural opportunity that probably would not present itself again for a while, George and I decided to go.
After trying and failing to get several friends to come with us, I found myself down in Norfolk buying tickets for myself and George. Since George had work today, I went down to the Naro a full hour before tickets went on sale to ensure our admittance into the show. We'd learned from past mistakes.
To kill some time while I was waiting for George to show up, I went into "The Naro Expanded DVD." It was a little store next to the Naro that rented out pretty much every DVD/movie in the existence of humanity. I overheard the guy working behind the counter that he not only worked at "The Naro Expanded DVD," but at the public library as well. Artsy people brag about the strangest things.
George ended up getting lost on his way to the theater, but my exemplary knowledge of Norfolk's grid-system streets got him there in the end. We were almost 10 minutes late to the printed showtime of the movie, but luck favored us in that one of the Naro's employees gave a pre-movie pep talk to all the audience members. ( we walked in at the very end of that.) After a short film made by the Naro's staff, The General began.
Since this is not a movie review, I won't say much about the plot or anything of the film. All I'm going to say that it was funny, entertaining, and that Buster Keaton looks like Oscar Wilde. The live accompaniment was pretty much the icing on the cake for a perfect movie night, even though the guy only played in C major or minor the entire time (but there was a reason for that). Super-classy theatre.
Maybe I just had such a great time because George and I were the only people our age there. (it was mostly the 40 plus a few crowd).
After the movie, when I thought nothing could top the "Naro Experience," George and I walked outside to behold a frozen yogurt bar. Heaven smiled upon us this day.
Team Froyo.
During a late-night vent with George on Facebook chat Sunday about how disappointed we were about not being able to see The African Queen the previous week at The Naro, I got on the theater's website and checked their schedule to see if another film was playing soon that we might want to go see. lo and behold, The General (starring Buster Keaton) was being shown the very next night. What caught my attention was that The General (1926) is a silent film, and the Naro was having a live pianist come play during the movie. Not wanting to miss a cultural opportunity that probably would not present itself again for a while, George and I decided to go.
After trying and failing to get several friends to come with us, I found myself down in Norfolk buying tickets for myself and George. Since George had work today, I went down to the Naro a full hour before tickets went on sale to ensure our admittance into the show. We'd learned from past mistakes.
To kill some time while I was waiting for George to show up, I went into "The Naro Expanded DVD." It was a little store next to the Naro that rented out pretty much every DVD/movie in the existence of humanity. I overheard the guy working behind the counter that he not only worked at "The Naro Expanded DVD," but at the public library as well. Artsy people brag about the strangest things.
George ended up getting lost on his way to the theater, but my exemplary knowledge of Norfolk's grid-system streets got him there in the end. We were almost 10 minutes late to the printed showtime of the movie, but luck favored us in that one of the Naro's employees gave a pre-movie pep talk to all the audience members. ( we walked in at the very end of that.) After a short film made by the Naro's staff, The General began.
Since this is not a movie review, I won't say much about the plot or anything of the film. All I'm going to say that it was funny, entertaining, and that Buster Keaton looks like Oscar Wilde. The live accompaniment was pretty much the icing on the cake for a perfect movie night, even though the guy only played in C major or minor the entire time (but there was a reason for that). Super-classy theatre.
Maybe I just had such a great time because George and I were the only people our age there. (it was mostly the 40 plus a few crowd).
After the movie, when I thought nothing could top the "Naro Experience," George and I walked outside to behold a frozen yogurt bar. Heaven smiled upon us this day.
Team Froyo.
7/17/2011
Nutella.
When I can't get to Skinny Dip (Froyo bar) late at night because they are not open at 1:30 AM, I usually have to settle for Nutella instead of glorious Froyo-ness. The heavenly chocolate-hazelnut spread is pretty much the coolest thing that will cross your taste buds between servings of Froyo.
Nutella functions for me as a substitute for anything I would spread on food. (butter, peanut butter, jam, etc.) It makes toast worth eating in the morning. It helped me survive for a week in the wilderness last year. (I existed solely off Nutella sandwiches for almost 3 straight days). Just as every cloud has a silver lining, everything I ingest should be coated in Nutella.
Since it has "ella" in its name, Nutella makes me feel French when I eat it. Multicultural awareness is very sought after in this the 21st century, and Nutella is helping me along my way to attaining it, along with whoever makes ramen noodles.
Nutella has but three weaknesses. as follows.
1) It requires a medium. Unless I'm really desperate, I try as hard as possible to not eat Nutella straight out of the jar. It's just a principle, along with how my mother raised me. Be it bread, pretzels, mashed potatoes, or wheat thins, if I'm eating it, Nutella is on it. It is only at the most trying times of chocolate-need that I just stick a knife in the jar and eat a big dollop straight.
2) It does not refrigerate! This is more for my mother, if she's reading. I find sometimes it is much more effective to talk to my parents via internet or text message. It makes them feel like they are more connected to the technological revolution than they really are, which is funny. (not true really). The Ankney household has been having a bit of an ant problem as of late, so everything that will fit in the ant-proof refrigerator is being crammed in there. Nutella included, even though the label specifically instructs the user not to put it in the icebox. When Nutella is refrigerated, it freezes, then you must thaw it when you want it next, which takes a really long time, during which you have an insatiable crave for chocolate.
3) It is not Froyo. enough said.
The rule is if you can salt it you can Nutella it.
I often say Nutella, ella, ella, hey, hey, hey, but it just gets me strange looks.
College dorm staple? I think so. Industrial size jars of Nutella shall litter my apartment come August 25th. If my roommates do not like/are allergic to chocolate, they will have to move out because I plan on wallpapering our kitchen with it. There you have it.
Nutella functions for me as a substitute for anything I would spread on food. (butter, peanut butter, jam, etc.) It makes toast worth eating in the morning. It helped me survive for a week in the wilderness last year. (I existed solely off Nutella sandwiches for almost 3 straight days). Just as every cloud has a silver lining, everything I ingest should be coated in Nutella.
Since it has "ella" in its name, Nutella makes me feel French when I eat it. Multicultural awareness is very sought after in this the 21st century, and Nutella is helping me along my way to attaining it, along with whoever makes ramen noodles.
Nutella has but three weaknesses. as follows.
1) It requires a medium. Unless I'm really desperate, I try as hard as possible to not eat Nutella straight out of the jar. It's just a principle, along with how my mother raised me. Be it bread, pretzels, mashed potatoes, or wheat thins, if I'm eating it, Nutella is on it. It is only at the most trying times of chocolate-need that I just stick a knife in the jar and eat a big dollop straight.
2) It does not refrigerate! This is more for my mother, if she's reading. I find sometimes it is much more effective to talk to my parents via internet or text message. It makes them feel like they are more connected to the technological revolution than they really are, which is funny. (not true really). The Ankney household has been having a bit of an ant problem as of late, so everything that will fit in the ant-proof refrigerator is being crammed in there. Nutella included, even though the label specifically instructs the user not to put it in the icebox. When Nutella is refrigerated, it freezes, then you must thaw it when you want it next, which takes a really long time, during which you have an insatiable crave for chocolate.
3) It is not Froyo. enough said.
The rule is if you can salt it you can Nutella it.
I often say Nutella, ella, ella, hey, hey, hey, but it just gets me strange looks.
College dorm staple? I think so. Industrial size jars of Nutella shall litter my apartment come August 25th. If my roommates do not like/are allergic to chocolate, they will have to move out because I plan on wallpapering our kitchen with it. There you have it.
Doumar's.
Since I am leaving for college in August, I am spending my summer doing all the "cultural" things unique to the Virginia Beach/Norfolk area that I can. Last Monday I thought I'd knock out another by going with my friends down to the Naro Theater in Norfolk to see "The African Queen." It was not my idea to go there, but my friend George's (name changed to protect identity). He described "The African Queen," (released in 1951) as a "a refreshing departure from the formulaic movies of the present era," which pretty much sold me. I'm all for anti-institutionalism.
The Naro is sort of an "artsy" place. I'm on their calender right now and it seems they show "Rocky Horror Picture Show" almost every Friday night at 11:30 PM. Artsy. Truthfully, I've never been inside, (more on that later) but I've heard about it. It almost has a sort of cult appeal to it. It's a one-screen theater that has been running movies since 1936, and as of now most of them are what one would call "classic" films. Think balconies and red velvet seats. classy. The Naro is not a place to go see "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part Two" simply because they don't stock movies that are less than 30 years old.
After cramming all my friends into the family minivan and driving way too fast down to Norfolk,we were met with disappointment. The movie had already been sold out, despite us being there a full fifteen minutes before the show started.Turns out that Mal Vincent was hosting the show that night, and I guess he's kind of a big deal. He's not on Wikipedia so I'm not sure.
The night was unexpectedly cut short. A car full of pumped up teenagers was suddenly faced with the prospect of not having anything to do on a summer night. After a few minutes of discussion of possible plans for the night, someone threw out the idea to go to Doumar's for ice cream.
Doumar's is another unique-to-Virginia Beach-area location, so I thought it'd be a good idea to go there. Figured if I couldn't do one cultural thing, I'd do another. After a short-lived grid-search of Norfolk for the restaurant, (nobody knew where it was) we called George's sister, who did. Doumar's is a sort of old-timey burger/ice cream joint in Norfolk. They claim to own the first waffle cone making machine ever built, which is a claim that nobody would really want to dispute because there isn't much glory in that.
I'd heard of Doumar's before I went there, and I expected something along the lines of Bruster's/Cold Stone ice cream. (like 30 some odd flavors, enormous scoops of ice cream, and enough sugar to put me in a diabetic coma). My expectations were not met. There are many simple things in life that I believe to be impossible to screw over, like watering a garden or taking the trash out. Then something like Doumar's comes along and reminds me that things are not as easy as they seem sometimes. Alas, the root beer in my float was room temperature, and I'm almost sure that the ice cream was made from soy milk. (maybe not.) Doumar's also serves hot dogs on hamburger buns, which I'm not so sure about, because that's like trying to fit me into Weeman's Jeans.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that novelty restaurants are usually trying to hide something. the novelty (like the world's first waffle cone machine) is often a facade that poor root beer floats/service hide behind.
Or maybe I just have no taste.
The Naro is sort of an "artsy" place. I'm on their calender right now and it seems they show "Rocky Horror Picture Show" almost every Friday night at 11:30 PM. Artsy. Truthfully, I've never been inside, (more on that later) but I've heard about it. It almost has a sort of cult appeal to it. It's a one-screen theater that has been running movies since 1936, and as of now most of them are what one would call "classic" films. Think balconies and red velvet seats. classy. The Naro is not a place to go see "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part Two" simply because they don't stock movies that are less than 30 years old.
After cramming all my friends into the family minivan and driving way too fast down to Norfolk,we were met with disappointment. The movie had already been sold out, despite us being there a full fifteen minutes before the show started.Turns out that Mal Vincent was hosting the show that night, and I guess he's kind of a big deal. He's not on Wikipedia so I'm not sure.
The night was unexpectedly cut short. A car full of pumped up teenagers was suddenly faced with the prospect of not having anything to do on a summer night. After a few minutes of discussion of possible plans for the night, someone threw out the idea to go to Doumar's for ice cream.
Doumar's is another unique-to-Virginia Beach-area location, so I thought it'd be a good idea to go there. Figured if I couldn't do one cultural thing, I'd do another. After a short-lived grid-search of Norfolk for the restaurant, (nobody knew where it was) we called George's sister, who did. Doumar's is a sort of old-timey burger/ice cream joint in Norfolk. They claim to own the first waffle cone making machine ever built, which is a claim that nobody would really want to dispute because there isn't much glory in that.
I'd heard of Doumar's before I went there, and I expected something along the lines of Bruster's/Cold Stone ice cream. (like 30 some odd flavors, enormous scoops of ice cream, and enough sugar to put me in a diabetic coma). My expectations were not met. There are many simple things in life that I believe to be impossible to screw over, like watering a garden or taking the trash out. Then something like Doumar's comes along and reminds me that things are not as easy as they seem sometimes. Alas, the root beer in my float was room temperature, and I'm almost sure that the ice cream was made from soy milk. (maybe not.) Doumar's also serves hot dogs on hamburger buns, which I'm not so sure about, because that's like trying to fit me into Weeman's Jeans.
 | |
| Shot to scale |
I guess what I'm trying to say is that novelty restaurants are usually trying to hide something. the novelty (like the world's first waffle cone machine) is often a facade that poor root beer floats/service hide behind.
Or maybe I just have no taste.
7/12/2011
Froyo.
I have recently fallen in love.
Her name is Frozen Yogurt.
We are very happy together.
For a while I avoided Froyo bars, partly because I don't like regular yogurt, and because I felt that they were places that moderately to not-so-moderately overweight teenage girls went to have their forums on weight watchers, Atkins, and binge-purge methods. Due to mostly the latter, I steered clear of the Froyo bars, telling myself that if I wanted some cold refreshment, I'd take a half gallon of ice cream with all of its glorious sugar, calories, and all that other stuff that makes you fat (it's not like I have anything to worry about). I'd even go to the point of calling Froyo "vegetarian ice cream" (which I sometimes still do).
I was introduced to Froyo through a mutual acquaintance, who took me to see her after a failed trip to the Rock Gym (my waiver was incorrectly filled out for the 3rd time). It was pretty much love at first sight. Instead of selecting my dessert from a menu and then watching some unenthused teenager assemble it with about as much interest that a sloth takes in a nearby nuclear explosion, I got to go through, pick my flavor of Froyo, and then ADD WHATEVER TOPPINGS I WANTED! That last one was and is still kind of a big deal. Be it cookie dough bits, heath bar chunks, butterfinger shavings, piecrust, skittles, Reese's pieces, or M&Ms, it was mine for the taking. Kind of like a salad bar but not quite as healthy and a little more fun. To top all this off, (pun intended) my dessert was priced by how much it weighed. So if I feel like a fatty and want 32 oz of Froyo, I can get that. But if I'm feeling like the lean, mean, eating machine that we all know I am, I can get as little as I want. Priced by ounce. Genius. I love Froyo because I get it my way every time, and that's what life is about. Burger King lies because they always screw up my order. I don't know why it took humankind to realize that stomachs are not segmented in sizes of 8,16, and 32 ounces. That is a lot of ice cream to be shoving down one's throat.
I guess the indefinite you could say that since I'm now in love with Froyo all my antagonism about it/her for so long was/is unjustified and I'm a hypocrite. You know what?
I DON'T CARE.
Say what you want. We're happy together.
Her name is Frozen Yogurt.
We are very happy together.
For a while I avoided Froyo bars, partly because I don't like regular yogurt, and because I felt that they were places that moderately to not-so-moderately overweight teenage girls went to have their forums on weight watchers, Atkins, and binge-purge methods. Due to mostly the latter, I steered clear of the Froyo bars, telling myself that if I wanted some cold refreshment, I'd take a half gallon of ice cream with all of its glorious sugar, calories, and all that other stuff that makes you fat (it's not like I have anything to worry about). I'd even go to the point of calling Froyo "vegetarian ice cream" (which I sometimes still do).
I was introduced to Froyo through a mutual acquaintance, who took me to see her after a failed trip to the Rock Gym (my waiver was incorrectly filled out for the 3rd time). It was pretty much love at first sight. Instead of selecting my dessert from a menu and then watching some unenthused teenager assemble it with about as much interest that a sloth takes in a nearby nuclear explosion, I got to go through, pick my flavor of Froyo, and then ADD WHATEVER TOPPINGS I WANTED! That last one was and is still kind of a big deal. Be it cookie dough bits, heath bar chunks, butterfinger shavings, piecrust, skittles, Reese's pieces, or M&Ms, it was mine for the taking. Kind of like a salad bar but not quite as healthy and a little more fun. To top all this off, (pun intended) my dessert was priced by how much it weighed. So if I feel like a fatty and want 32 oz of Froyo, I can get that. But if I'm feeling like the lean, mean, eating machine that we all know I am, I can get as little as I want. Priced by ounce. Genius. I love Froyo because I get it my way every time, and that's what life is about. Burger King lies because they always screw up my order. I don't know why it took humankind to realize that stomachs are not segmented in sizes of 8,16, and 32 ounces. That is a lot of ice cream to be shoving down one's throat.
I guess the indefinite you could say that since I'm now in love with Froyo all my antagonism about it/her for so long was/is unjustified and I'm a hypocrite. You know what?
I DON'T CARE.
Say what you want. We're happy together.
7/10/2011
Potter.
I am an enormous Harry Potter fan. Ever since the books came out when I was in elementary school, I've been pretty much obsessed with all things Potter. Since part II (roman numerals are more official) of Deathly Hallows comes out Friday, I decided a few days ago that I would re-watch the 6 1/2 movies that precede DH part 2.
While I was watching HP and the Order of the Phoenix (movie #5) I had an interesting thought pop into my mind.
Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger are the perfect friends!
Why are they the perfect friends? Because no matter how many times Harry makes slurs about Hermione's muggle parents, cusses at Ron like a dumb animal, or screams "SHUT UP YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND MY LIFE" at the both of them (which occurs every 7-10 pages in OotP) they always come back to Harry like flies to a carcass. Ron and Hermione are always there when Harry is emotionally distraught, about to embark on a dangerous quest, or just needs someone to tell him he is awesome. ("You're a great wizard Harry.") They exist to be both his cheerleading squad and punching bag, often at the same time.
I've been waiting to do an in-depth analysis of Harry Potter for some time. In hindsight, I wish I had taken the opportunity on the AP English National Exam, seeing as I only got a 3. I bet an essay about HP would've got me at least a 4, if not a 5.
So let's discuss why Ron and Hermione keep going back to their emotionally and psychologically abusive friend, Harry.
Hermione- admit it. Ever since book 1 of HP everyone thought Harry and Hermione were going to get married. It just had to happen. But then Harry went and fell for Ginny, which just messed it all up for Hermione. She had to settle for marrying Ron, who probably would've remained single his whole life if it were not for this. Just remember ladies, if you can't have the guy you want, his best friend will do. Hermione is definitely the smartest of the three leads in HP, and by far the best spellcaster. She is attracted to power, which is why, no matter how hard Harry pushes her away, she'll always come back to his side. Much like a boomerang comes back to you when thrown properly, with the right amount of force and angle along with wind direction. (it's never happened to me before). Harry is socially the most powerful person in the series. Hermione, being the nerd she is, has no friends at Hogwarts aside from Harry and Ron, and their friendship came about as a "bonded by trauma" incident, with Harry and Ron saving her from the troll in book 1 because they pitied her. Hermione knows that Harry is going to be successful, and is just going to ride along to the top with him. Kind of like a crooked real estate agent selling one of Donald Trump's many houses. she is the Bellatrix Lestrange to Harry Potter's Voldemort.
Ron- Ron Weasley is the 2nd to last of the Weasley children. What does this mean? He's pretty much an orphan. Since Ginny is the youngest Weasley, and the only girl, she's spoiled rotten, making her the ideal girl for Harry. Ron feels that he can sympathize with Harry because his mediocre wizardry is overshadowed by his brothers' successes in life, such as head boy, dragon wrestler, cursebreaker for Gringotts, joke shop owners, etc. Ron's parents pretty much ignore him full-time due to all this. Ron feels that he and Harry connect well because Harry's parents are dead and Ron might as well be dead to his parents, putting them in pretty much the same boat. How many years can one go getting maroon sweaters for Christmas without getting the hint that they are unwanted? Harry keeps Ron around because he has red hair, which makes him kind of cool, and because he is a good chess player. It actually came in handy. Ron did own the rat that turned out to be Peter Pettigrew, who was instrumental in the return of Voldemort, so really it's his fault for the deaths of George, Lupin, Tonks, Mad-Eye, Sirius, Cedric and any other character who is part of the body count that is books 4 thru 7. Really the whole thing could be blamed on Ron, but he already has enough against him. From getting himself poisoned in Half-Blood Prince to puking slugs in Chamber of Secrets to dating Lavender Brown, to his shabby quidditch skills, his life is just a disaster. Ron is simply Dobby in human form.
I never realized how much Ron Weasley and Shaun White looked alike until I google image searched "Ron Weasley" and this popped up. Mind. Blown.
While I was watching HP and the Order of the Phoenix (movie #5) I had an interesting thought pop into my mind.
Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger are the perfect friends!
 |
| They're waiting for Harry to come down from his dorm. |
Why are they the perfect friends? Because no matter how many times Harry makes slurs about Hermione's muggle parents, cusses at Ron like a dumb animal, or screams "SHUT UP YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND MY LIFE" at the both of them (which occurs every 7-10 pages in OotP) they always come back to Harry like flies to a carcass. Ron and Hermione are always there when Harry is emotionally distraught, about to embark on a dangerous quest, or just needs someone to tell him he is awesome. ("You're a great wizard Harry.") They exist to be both his cheerleading squad and punching bag, often at the same time.
I've been waiting to do an in-depth analysis of Harry Potter for some time. In hindsight, I wish I had taken the opportunity on the AP English National Exam, seeing as I only got a 3. I bet an essay about HP would've got me at least a 4, if not a 5.
So let's discuss why Ron and Hermione keep going back to their emotionally and psychologically abusive friend, Harry.
Hermione- admit it. Ever since book 1 of HP everyone thought Harry and Hermione were going to get married. It just had to happen. But then Harry went and fell for Ginny, which just messed it all up for Hermione. She had to settle for marrying Ron, who probably would've remained single his whole life if it were not for this. Just remember ladies, if you can't have the guy you want, his best friend will do. Hermione is definitely the smartest of the three leads in HP, and by far the best spellcaster. She is attracted to power, which is why, no matter how hard Harry pushes her away, she'll always come back to his side. Much like a boomerang comes back to you when thrown properly, with the right amount of force and angle along with wind direction. (it's never happened to me before). Harry is socially the most powerful person in the series. Hermione, being the nerd she is, has no friends at Hogwarts aside from Harry and Ron, and their friendship came about as a "bonded by trauma" incident, with Harry and Ron saving her from the troll in book 1 because they pitied her. Hermione knows that Harry is going to be successful, and is just going to ride along to the top with him. Kind of like a crooked real estate agent selling one of Donald Trump's many houses. she is the Bellatrix Lestrange to Harry Potter's Voldemort.
Ron- Ron Weasley is the 2nd to last of the Weasley children. What does this mean? He's pretty much an orphan. Since Ginny is the youngest Weasley, and the only girl, she's spoiled rotten, making her the ideal girl for Harry. Ron feels that he can sympathize with Harry because his mediocre wizardry is overshadowed by his brothers' successes in life, such as head boy, dragon wrestler, cursebreaker for Gringotts, joke shop owners, etc. Ron's parents pretty much ignore him full-time due to all this. Ron feels that he and Harry connect well because Harry's parents are dead and Ron might as well be dead to his parents, putting them in pretty much the same boat. How many years can one go getting maroon sweaters for Christmas without getting the hint that they are unwanted? Harry keeps Ron around because he has red hair, which makes him kind of cool, and because he is a good chess player. It actually came in handy. Ron did own the rat that turned out to be Peter Pettigrew, who was instrumental in the return of Voldemort, so really it's his fault for the deaths of George, Lupin, Tonks, Mad-Eye, Sirius, Cedric and any other character who is part of the body count that is books 4 thru 7. Really the whole thing could be blamed on Ron, but he already has enough against him. From getting himself poisoned in Half-Blood Prince to puking slugs in Chamber of Secrets to dating Lavender Brown, to his shabby quidditch skills, his life is just a disaster. Ron is simply Dobby in human form.
 | ||
| I suppose I should talk about this but i'm not quite sure what to say. |
7/09/2011
AW SNAP!
 |
| Cute. |
Maybe the government is trying to modernize. It might even be attempting to relate to the American public by adopting colloquial terms and using them in their online infrastructure. Then again, they're just probably trying to confuse all the 35+ year olds who don't understand what "aw snap" means.
At least when other computer programs malfunction they have the guts to take the blame for themselves. Like the Firefox error message:
 | |
| Humble. This is why I like Firefox |
7/07/2011
Fast Five
A while ago I read most of a book by a movie critic named Roger Ebert. The book was entitled Your Movie Sucks.
Mr. Ebert had collected around a hundred reviews for films he was far from impressed with. Reading the reviews was often more entertaining than watching the movies, because Ebert laced his criticisms with his sardonic wit and stark truths about why said movie SUCKED. I have decided to try my hand at this.
1.75/5 stars (for cool explosions, sweet cars, and a mildly entertaining fistfight between Vin Diesel and Dwayne Johnson)
Fast Five is the 5th movie in the Fast and the Furious saga. A saga usually entails some epic adventure, hobbits, a well-developed storyline/plot, good triumphing over evil, or just a man named Harrison Crabfeathers. (like Star Wars or Lord of the Rings) Fast Five embodies none of these. I will say up front that I have never seen any of the other Fast and Furious movies, but that shouldn’t matter. It seems like Fast Five was made because there was enough money lying around Hollywood and not enough creativity. They must have figured (like Pirates of the Caribbean) that since they already have 3 or 4 movies out already, why the heck not make another one? I’m sure if I had watched Fast 1-4 I would’ve understood the movie a bit better, but then again, would mean watching about 8 more hours of low-octane street racing.
Sometimes I don’t want to leave the theatre at the end of a good movie. Other times, I have to ask myself “now what am I doing here?” And if the movie is really terrible, I start thinking about setting the theatre on fire and heading to the nearest exit. Fast Five was one of those. Nearly a full 5 minutes into it, Vinnie escaped from a maximum security bus, drove a multimillion dollar car into a gorge, and stamped himself as the Danny Ocean of the racing world. Low class.
As the film progressed, it became more and more like Ocean’s Eleven. Guess which movie is which? Guy gets out of jail. Guy wants some money. Guy meets up with Bestfriend who is not in jail. Guy decides to steal a lot of money from another dude with a lot of money (drug lord/casino owner). Guy and Bestfriend assemble team. 3 to 5 minutes of team assembly montage. Team involves explosives guy, fast talker, Bestfriend, Pointman, and a “wild card” member. I could go on, but it’s getting harder and harder to tell the movies apart. Bottom line: Fast Five was a remake of Ocean’s 11 with meatheads (Dwayne and Vinnie) who need anger management/acting lessons as opposed to pretty boys/all star cast (Clooney, Brad Pitt, Matt Damon, etc.) who don’t.
The two leads of the movie are played by Vin Diesel and Dwayne Johnson (hereafter known simply as “The Rock”)
Vin Diesel plays what could be called the film’s protagonist: a convicted felon trying to do “one last job” to get back at the head of some Brazilian Mafia boss guy in Rio de Janerio . Or he could’ve been a prison security guard at Rikers. Who knows. I picked up on something about a Ferrari with a GPS and drug money all over town. Setting lots of cash on fire for some reason. The most disturbing aspect of the movie was The Rock’s character: a trigger-happy FBI operative whose sole mission in life is to hunt down and kill Vin Diesel. Not quite sure why, but I think it has something to do with Vinnie beating Dwayne out at the 3rd grade science fair with his model Camaro that turned into an alien robot…..wrong movie maybe. Anyhow, I said a little prayer during the movie and hoped to heaven that few people, if any, who work for the FBI or CIA are not such bullheaded, dogmatic, unstable people like Dwaynie.
I found myself wondering more often than not as to why there was a firefight going on during the movie. I mean, it was near impossible to tell who was shooting at who and for what reason. For all I know it could’ve been the world cup of paintball. The ceaseless gunfire and car-crashing did provide me the perfect opportunity to profess my undying affection for my high school crush partway through the movie, a move I was later told that was “mistimed.”
Anyhow, if you’re looking for brainless action, fetid screenwriting, and academy award winning actors and actresses, Fast Five is your movie. if not, you’d probably be better off staying in and redboxing INCEPTION to watch twice in a row. It’d be a better way to spend your time. Or just watch Ocean’s 11 and spare yourself The Rock.
 |
Entertainment Review: Fast Five
1.75/5 stars (for cool explosions, sweet cars, and a mildly entertaining fistfight between Vin Diesel and Dwayne Johnson)
Fast Five is the 5th movie in the Fast and the Furious saga. A saga usually entails some epic adventure, hobbits, a well-developed storyline/plot, good triumphing over evil, or just a man named Harrison Crabfeathers. (like Star Wars or Lord of the Rings) Fast Five embodies none of these. I will say up front that I have never seen any of the other Fast and Furious movies, but that shouldn’t matter. It seems like Fast Five was made because there was enough money lying around Hollywood and not enough creativity. They must have figured (like Pirates of the Caribbean) that since they already have 3 or 4 movies out already, why the heck not make another one? I’m sure if I had watched Fast 1-4 I would’ve understood the movie a bit better, but then again, would mean watching about 8 more hours of low-octane street racing.
Sometimes I don’t want to leave the theatre at the end of a good movie. Other times, I have to ask myself “now what am I doing here?” And if the movie is really terrible, I start thinking about setting the theatre on fire and heading to the nearest exit. Fast Five was one of those. Nearly a full 5 minutes into it, Vinnie escaped from a maximum security bus, drove a multimillion dollar car into a gorge, and stamped himself as the Danny Ocean of the racing world. Low class.
As the film progressed, it became more and more like Ocean’s Eleven. Guess which movie is which? Guy gets out of jail. Guy wants some money. Guy meets up with Bestfriend who is not in jail. Guy decides to steal a lot of money from another dude with a lot of money (drug lord/casino owner). Guy and Bestfriend assemble team. 3 to 5 minutes of team assembly montage. Team involves explosives guy, fast talker, Bestfriend, Pointman, and a “wild card” member. I could go on, but it’s getting harder and harder to tell the movies apart. Bottom line: Fast Five was a remake of Ocean’s 11 with meatheads (Dwayne and Vinnie) who need anger management/acting lessons as opposed to pretty boys/all star cast (Clooney, Brad Pitt, Matt Damon, etc.) who don’t.
The two leads of the movie are played by Vin Diesel and Dwayne Johnson (hereafter known simply as “The Rock”)
 | ||
| "all i want is a hug man, that's all i want...." |
Vin Diesel plays what could be called the film’s protagonist: a convicted felon trying to do “one last job” to get back at the head of some Brazilian Mafia boss guy in Rio de Janerio . Or he could’ve been a prison security guard at Rikers. Who knows. I picked up on something about a Ferrari with a GPS and drug money all over town. Setting lots of cash on fire for some reason. The most disturbing aspect of the movie was The Rock’s character: a trigger-happy FBI operative whose sole mission in life is to hunt down and kill Vin Diesel. Not quite sure why, but I think it has something to do with Vinnie beating Dwayne out at the 3rd grade science fair with his model Camaro that turned into an alien robot…..wrong movie maybe. Anyhow, I said a little prayer during the movie and hoped to heaven that few people, if any, who work for the FBI or CIA are not such bullheaded, dogmatic, unstable people like Dwaynie.
I found myself wondering more often than not as to why there was a firefight going on during the movie. I mean, it was near impossible to tell who was shooting at who and for what reason. For all I know it could’ve been the world cup of paintball. The ceaseless gunfire and car-crashing did provide me the perfect opportunity to profess my undying affection for my high school crush partway through the movie, a move I was later told that was “mistimed.”
Anyhow, if you’re looking for brainless action, fetid screenwriting, and academy award winning actors and actresses, Fast Five is your movie. if not, you’d probably be better off staying in and redboxing INCEPTION to watch twice in a row. It’d be a better way to spend your time. Or just watch Ocean’s 11 and spare yourself The Rock.
7/06/2011
Tourists.
If you ever find yourself a tourist in VA Beach, here are a few points to keep in mind.
1) Have no self consciousness- If you are a woman, wear the skimpiest bikini available to you, no matter how old and overweight you are. If you are a man, be sure that your upper body has the color and consistency of cottage cheese when you have your shirt off. speedos are not mandatory, but do give bonus points, depending on your age and amount of back hair. Just remember that the beach is for you to show everyone that you are a health club’s worst nightmare, or dream come true (take your pick).
2) Bring way too much crap to the beach- Be it multiple umbrellas, cornhole boards, 3 towels per person in your party, volleyballs, boogie boards, surfboards, mosquito tents, kayaks, or a small dune buggy, make sure you have 1 or more of every item in the beach rental store. 2-3 trips from your family minivan or SUV to get all your junk down to the beach is about average. If you have to put gear in your cartop carrier, more power to you.
3) Bring a dog. Everyone loves getting “wet-nosed” by someone else’s dog, even when they are trying to take a nap or tan. Even though they might act offended and swear at you/your dog, they are really just pretending to be mad to mask how much they love you and Fifi.
4) Smoke.
5) Have tattoos-crosses, half-naked women on undersized biceps, and tramp stamps you got when you were 19 at a drinking party are all in plain sight when you have your shirt off. Just keep that in mind.
6) Try and act like a local- this is probably the most important one. Be sure to master the lingo of the area you are in and to scowl at all other tourists whenever possible. The Hawaiian print t-shirts and wide brimmed straw hats are a guaranteed winner. Sadly, no matter how valiant your efforts at emulating a local, you will not be able to get “residents only” parking discounts anywhere.
7) The Ocean is HOSTILE- EVERYTHING in the ocean WILL kill you. if anything touches you in the water, assume that it is a great white shark, portugese man of war, blue ringed octopus, the loch ness monster, or some combination of all of them (think megashark vs. crocasauras) . The ocean is a dangerous place, and since all of your tourist children peed in the water, nobody can see anything in it. (Visibility 3-5 inches on a clear day). That being said, nobody really knows what is in the ocean surrounding Virginia Beach, but you can rest assured that it is populated with the deadliest marine life in the western hemisphere. call 911.
8) Treat the lifeguards like idiots- Try and drown yourself if you can, especially if the lifeguard is hot. Nobody has seen the sandlot here, so you’re ok. It’s not like they know what they’re doing anyway. always keep in mind that since you are the tourist, much like Johnny Depp, you are the superior being.
9) Litter-there are magical munchkins (imported from Oz by city council) that exist solely to pick up your garbage. Cigarette butts, unwanted Justin Bieber CDs, and discarded underwear are among the most commonly found by the MBCF (munchkin-beach-cleanup-force). Ding-dong, your trash is gone.
10) Have fun. it's the beach people.
1) Have no self consciousness- If you are a woman, wear the skimpiest bikini available to you, no matter how old and overweight you are. If you are a man, be sure that your upper body has the color and consistency of cottage cheese when you have your shirt off. speedos are not mandatory, but do give bonus points, depending on your age and amount of back hair. Just remember that the beach is for you to show everyone that you are a health club’s worst nightmare, or dream come true (take your pick).
2) Bring way too much crap to the beach- Be it multiple umbrellas, cornhole boards, 3 towels per person in your party, volleyballs, boogie boards, surfboards, mosquito tents, kayaks, or a small dune buggy, make sure you have 1 or more of every item in the beach rental store. 2-3 trips from your family minivan or SUV to get all your junk down to the beach is about average. If you have to put gear in your cartop carrier, more power to you.
3) Bring a dog. Everyone loves getting “wet-nosed” by someone else’s dog, even when they are trying to take a nap or tan. Even though they might act offended and swear at you/your dog, they are really just pretending to be mad to mask how much they love you and Fifi.
4) Smoke.
5) Have tattoos-crosses, half-naked women on undersized biceps, and tramp stamps you got when you were 19 at a drinking party are all in plain sight when you have your shirt off. Just keep that in mind.
6) Try and act like a local- this is probably the most important one. Be sure to master the lingo of the area you are in and to scowl at all other tourists whenever possible. The Hawaiian print t-shirts and wide brimmed straw hats are a guaranteed winner. Sadly, no matter how valiant your efforts at emulating a local, you will not be able to get “residents only” parking discounts anywhere.
7) The Ocean is HOSTILE- EVERYTHING in the ocean WILL kill you. if anything touches you in the water, assume that it is a great white shark, portugese man of war, blue ringed octopus, the loch ness monster, or some combination of all of them (think megashark vs. crocasauras) . The ocean is a dangerous place, and since all of your tourist children peed in the water, nobody can see anything in it. (Visibility 3-5 inches on a clear day). That being said, nobody really knows what is in the ocean surrounding Virginia Beach, but you can rest assured that it is populated with the deadliest marine life in the western hemisphere. call 911.
8) Treat the lifeguards like idiots- Try and drown yourself if you can, especially if the lifeguard is hot. Nobody has seen the sandlot here, so you’re ok. It’s not like they know what they’re doing anyway. always keep in mind that since you are the tourist, much like Johnny Depp, you are the superior being.
9) Litter-there are magical munchkins (imported from Oz by city council) that exist solely to pick up your garbage. Cigarette butts, unwanted Justin Bieber CDs, and discarded underwear are among the most commonly found by the MBCF (munchkin-beach-cleanup-force). Ding-dong, your trash is gone.
10) Have fun. it's the beach people.
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