Monday, June 22, 2009
Dead Eyes...Like a Doll's Eyes
Turns out that sharks hunt like serial killers. Does that mean they take messages from their dog, drive creepy unmarked vans, and target prostitutes? They're trickier than I thought.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Mini-Review: Red Dawn
“Red Dawn” is the cinematic equivalent of your moronic best friend. It’s so dumb, you have to wonder how it keep from tripping over its own feets. It’s loud, oblivious, and more than a bit obnoxious. But it manages to project a kind of cheery stupidity that you can’t help but like.
Perhaps I misspoke when I said “cheery,” because “Red Dawn” is one of the grimmest movies I’ve seen in quite a while. The plot sounds like something hammered out by a hack writer with fifteen minutes to go til the deadline. Come to think of it, that’s probably exactly how it happened.
“Red Dawn” begins with the biggest bang imaginable—World War III. The Soviets, having grown tired of simply growling at us from across the pond, decide to settle the matter once and for all. The opening credits end, and five minutes later Soviet paratroopers begin dropping out of the sky into Dirtburg, Colorado. Note: the town probably isn’t named Dirtburg. However, we had some trouble with the volume while watching the movie, so we had to fill in most of the dialogue ourselves. I would like to think that our homemade script was an improvement.
Why are the Soviets so intent on holding Dirtburg? Why do they drop half an army into a town with a population of exactly three? And the tanks—where do the Soviet tanks come from? The movie never really explains. The only real exposition comes halfway through, when a grizzled American pilot (played, grizzledly, by Powers Boothe) tells our heroes about how America got caught with its pants down. “They used strategic nukes on cities like Omaha and Kansas City,” he says, proof that the Soviets probably drew up their battle plan using a map of America, some darts, and a good deal of vodka.
Our heroes are a group of plucky high school students (played, pluckily, by people I care nothing about) flee to hills and become anti-Soviet guerrillas. Each comes equipped with a rifle, a puffy jacket, and different 80s-style haircut, probably so the audience can tell them apart. I didn’t learn their names until the end credits, when I found that one of our heroes was called “Aardvark.” Aardvark! That’ll send a chill down the Soviet spines.
These clowns name themselves the “Wolverines,” in honor of their high school football team. Thank God they didn’t attend nearby St. Stephen High School, home of the somewhat less-intimidating Screamin’ Mimis. The Wolverines engage the Soviets in a series of escalatingly absurd battles. First, they’re killing off individual Soviets; then they move on to attacking tanks; by the end of the battle, two Wolverines manage to pin down an entire Soviet division. If the film had gone on for another fifteen minutes, the guerrillas probably would have stormed the Kremlin and punched out Gorbachev.
All of this is seasoned with an extra helping of Hollywood-style grit. It’s the kind of movie where no one simply dies; they ham it up like a dinner theater amateur, flinging their arms out and shrieking while little blots of red appear all over their chest. They look like they’re lactating cranberry juice. One noble Wolverine meets his fate by charging into the line of fire, machine gun blazing, while shrieking (and I quote) “Graaabbaaaah!” He gets cut down in seconds. The film is as much mystery as action—how the hell do the Wolverines survive as long as they do?
The MPAA once judged “Red Dawn” the goriest movie ever made, in terms of on-screen deaths. I wasn’t counting, but that seems accurate. Someone bites the bullet every four or five seconds. They all die in the most interesting ways. One Russian gets skewered in the back by a Wolverine arrow; as he goes down, he shouts out, “Help me comrades! I’m dying!” Well, then why should they help you, Yuri?
The director and screenwriter, God bless their hearts, take the whole film the utmost seriousness. They never wink at the camera, never even acknowledge the utter absurdity of the everything going on. They treat it like a mission from God. The commies are coming and, by God, they will warn us about it! I expected to see the closing credits thank “The nice people at the John Birch Society for their valuable input.” I have never seen a less ironic movie. Even the films that appeared on Mystery Science Theater 3000 had more self-awareness than “Red Dawn.”
Yet that’s what makes it so goofily enjoyable. When the Wolverines attacked the Russians while screaming their battle cry—“Wolverines!” in case you wondered—I chuckled. When young guerrilla love blossomed between Girl Wolverine and Boy Wolverine (Aardvark, maybe?) I guffawed. And when one character, imprisoned in a Soviet re-education camp, implored his children to “Avenge me!” I laughed harder than I have in weeks. You can’t help but be amused by total crap like that.
Don’t take “Red Dawn” seriously, and you’ll enjoy the heck out of it. The directors might have missed the irony. Rest assured, the viewer won’t.
Perhaps I misspoke when I said “cheery,” because “Red Dawn” is one of the grimmest movies I’ve seen in quite a while. The plot sounds like something hammered out by a hack writer with fifteen minutes to go til the deadline. Come to think of it, that’s probably exactly how it happened.
“Red Dawn” begins with the biggest bang imaginable—World War III. The Soviets, having grown tired of simply growling at us from across the pond, decide to settle the matter once and for all. The opening credits end, and five minutes later Soviet paratroopers begin dropping out of the sky into Dirtburg, Colorado. Note: the town probably isn’t named Dirtburg. However, we had some trouble with the volume while watching the movie, so we had to fill in most of the dialogue ourselves. I would like to think that our homemade script was an improvement.
Why are the Soviets so intent on holding Dirtburg? Why do they drop half an army into a town with a population of exactly three? And the tanks—where do the Soviet tanks come from? The movie never really explains. The only real exposition comes halfway through, when a grizzled American pilot (played, grizzledly, by Powers Boothe) tells our heroes about how America got caught with its pants down. “They used strategic nukes on cities like Omaha and Kansas City,” he says, proof that the Soviets probably drew up their battle plan using a map of America, some darts, and a good deal of vodka.
Our heroes are a group of plucky high school students (played, pluckily, by people I care nothing about) flee to hills and become anti-Soviet guerrillas. Each comes equipped with a rifle, a puffy jacket, and different 80s-style haircut, probably so the audience can tell them apart. I didn’t learn their names until the end credits, when I found that one of our heroes was called “Aardvark.” Aardvark! That’ll send a chill down the Soviet spines.
These clowns name themselves the “Wolverines,” in honor of their high school football team. Thank God they didn’t attend nearby St. Stephen High School, home of the somewhat less-intimidating Screamin’ Mimis. The Wolverines engage the Soviets in a series of escalatingly absurd battles. First, they’re killing off individual Soviets; then they move on to attacking tanks; by the end of the battle, two Wolverines manage to pin down an entire Soviet division. If the film had gone on for another fifteen minutes, the guerrillas probably would have stormed the Kremlin and punched out Gorbachev.
All of this is seasoned with an extra helping of Hollywood-style grit. It’s the kind of movie where no one simply dies; they ham it up like a dinner theater amateur, flinging their arms out and shrieking while little blots of red appear all over their chest. They look like they’re lactating cranberry juice. One noble Wolverine meets his fate by charging into the line of fire, machine gun blazing, while shrieking (and I quote) “Graaabbaaaah!” He gets cut down in seconds. The film is as much mystery as action—how the hell do the Wolverines survive as long as they do?
The MPAA once judged “Red Dawn” the goriest movie ever made, in terms of on-screen deaths. I wasn’t counting, but that seems accurate. Someone bites the bullet every four or five seconds. They all die in the most interesting ways. One Russian gets skewered in the back by a Wolverine arrow; as he goes down, he shouts out, “Help me comrades! I’m dying!” Well, then why should they help you, Yuri?
The director and screenwriter, God bless their hearts, take the whole film the utmost seriousness. They never wink at the camera, never even acknowledge the utter absurdity of the everything going on. They treat it like a mission from God. The commies are coming and, by God, they will warn us about it! I expected to see the closing credits thank “The nice people at the John Birch Society for their valuable input.” I have never seen a less ironic movie. Even the films that appeared on Mystery Science Theater 3000 had more self-awareness than “Red Dawn.”
Yet that’s what makes it so goofily enjoyable. When the Wolverines attacked the Russians while screaming their battle cry—“Wolverines!” in case you wondered—I chuckled. When young guerrilla love blossomed between Girl Wolverine and Boy Wolverine (Aardvark, maybe?) I guffawed. And when one character, imprisoned in a Soviet re-education camp, implored his children to “Avenge me!” I laughed harder than I have in weeks. You can’t help but be amused by total crap like that.
Don’t take “Red Dawn” seriously, and you’ll enjoy the heck out of it. The directors might have missed the irony. Rest assured, the viewer won’t.
Mini-Review: Year One
Never before has so much comic talent been so wasted as in the new film “Year One.” You would think that a film directed by Harold Ramis and featuring comic talents like Hank Azaria, David Cross, and Paul Rudd would draw at least a few laughs. And it does—very, very, very few. I’ve laughed more at episodes of “24” than I did while watching “Year One.”
The plot, such as it is, involves two hunter-gatherers, Zed (Jack Black) and Oh (Michael Cera), who blah blah blah fart joke blah blah blah poop joke blah blah blah boobs.
All right, all right, I’ll make an effort to describe the plot, but I don’t know why. The screenwriters clearly didn’t do the same when writing the damn thing. Zed and Oh are cast out from their Stone Age village after Zed takes a bite of the Forbidden Fruit. The two Cro-Magnon clods then embark on a mildly zany adventure through a world populated by Biblical characters like Cain (David Cross), Abraham (Hank Azaria), and Isaac (Christopher Mintz-Plasse, formerly McLovin of “Superbad” fame).
Eventually, Zed and Oh wind up in Sodom. This, as you might guess, provides about 90% of the joke material for the film’s second half. I forgot to mention the love story, which is easy to do, as the script keeps forgetting about it as well. Zed and Oh have a very, very strong desire to know—in the carnal sense—village beauties Maya and Eema. But, unfortunately, those two have wound up as slaves of the Sodomites. Which leads to the film’s central drama: how many gay jokes can Jack Black possibly make?
The answer is too many. Far too many. Most of the humor comes from…well, that assumes there is humor, which is a very big jump to make. One memorable scene involves Michael Cera peeing on his own face. As I watched, I felt nothing except a tremendous sadness—for Michael Cera, for Harold Ramis, and for everyone involved in the making of this movie.
I think my visceral hatred of this film stems in part from my visceral hatred of Jack Black, the Human Fart Joke. The man would mug his way through a film about the Holocaust given half the chance. He can never turn off his goofy, off-the-wall persona, which I find unfortunate, given that I find Jack Black about as funny as emphysema. Michael Cera also comes out of the movie worse for wear. When will he hit puberty? And when he does, what will happen to his career?
Nearly all the best moments appear in the trailer, so you might as well save yourself two hours and ten bucks and watch that instead. A few scenes occasionally rise to the level of Monty Pythonesque absurdity I hoped for. David Cross proclaims a list of crimes punishable by stoning, which begins with “blasphemy” and “heresy” before veering into “hyperbole” and “syzgzy.” Abraham says of the Hebrews “a noble people, but not very good at sports.”
The audience laughed at those lines. The rest of the movie, not so much. Long stretches passed without the slightest chuckle from the viewers. Some scenes—particularly the indelible image of Jack Black licking human excrement—drew groans and muffled shrieks, but no guffaws or even giggles. And who, I ask, thought it was a good idea, let alone a funny one, to include a scene in which Michael Cera smears oil all over the chest of a hirsute High Priest? Not Harold Ramis, I hope. I expect better from the man who gave us “Stripes” and “Ghostbusters.”
Perhaps “Year One” is the inevitable endpoint of the current crop of juvenile comedies. In those films the characters only act like cavemen; here, they actually are club-wielding leopard-skin wearing troglodytes. The lowest common denominator humor remains. A fart joke in the twentieth century plays just the same as one in the first century. That doesn’t make it any funnier, though. “Year One” is the pinnacle of devolution. If nature tolerates only the survival of the fittest, then where on earth did this film come from?
BONUS: “Year One” was preceded by several trailers, most of which looked fairly terrible. I’ll give you a summary of each.
Zombieland, a terrible-looking movie about zombies killing humans.
Slayer, a terrible-looking movie about humans killing humans.
District 9, a terrible-looking movie about humans killing aliens.
Transformers 2, a terrible-looking movie about giant robots killing each other and a few humans to boot.
The Proposal, a terrible-looking movie that will likely end with the audience members killing themselves.
The plot, such as it is, involves two hunter-gatherers, Zed (Jack Black) and Oh (Michael Cera), who blah blah blah fart joke blah blah blah poop joke blah blah blah boobs.
All right, all right, I’ll make an effort to describe the plot, but I don’t know why. The screenwriters clearly didn’t do the same when writing the damn thing. Zed and Oh are cast out from their Stone Age village after Zed takes a bite of the Forbidden Fruit. The two Cro-Magnon clods then embark on a mildly zany adventure through a world populated by Biblical characters like Cain (David Cross), Abraham (Hank Azaria), and Isaac (Christopher Mintz-Plasse, formerly McLovin of “Superbad” fame).
Eventually, Zed and Oh wind up in Sodom. This, as you might guess, provides about 90% of the joke material for the film’s second half. I forgot to mention the love story, which is easy to do, as the script keeps forgetting about it as well. Zed and Oh have a very, very strong desire to know—in the carnal sense—village beauties Maya and Eema. But, unfortunately, those two have wound up as slaves of the Sodomites. Which leads to the film’s central drama: how many gay jokes can Jack Black possibly make?
The answer is too many. Far too many. Most of the humor comes from…well, that assumes there is humor, which is a very big jump to make. One memorable scene involves Michael Cera peeing on his own face. As I watched, I felt nothing except a tremendous sadness—for Michael Cera, for Harold Ramis, and for everyone involved in the making of this movie.
I think my visceral hatred of this film stems in part from my visceral hatred of Jack Black, the Human Fart Joke. The man would mug his way through a film about the Holocaust given half the chance. He can never turn off his goofy, off-the-wall persona, which I find unfortunate, given that I find Jack Black about as funny as emphysema. Michael Cera also comes out of the movie worse for wear. When will he hit puberty? And when he does, what will happen to his career?
Nearly all the best moments appear in the trailer, so you might as well save yourself two hours and ten bucks and watch that instead. A few scenes occasionally rise to the level of Monty Pythonesque absurdity I hoped for. David Cross proclaims a list of crimes punishable by stoning, which begins with “blasphemy” and “heresy” before veering into “hyperbole” and “syzgzy.” Abraham says of the Hebrews “a noble people, but not very good at sports.”
The audience laughed at those lines. The rest of the movie, not so much. Long stretches passed without the slightest chuckle from the viewers. Some scenes—particularly the indelible image of Jack Black licking human excrement—drew groans and muffled shrieks, but no guffaws or even giggles. And who, I ask, thought it was a good idea, let alone a funny one, to include a scene in which Michael Cera smears oil all over the chest of a hirsute High Priest? Not Harold Ramis, I hope. I expect better from the man who gave us “Stripes” and “Ghostbusters.”
Perhaps “Year One” is the inevitable endpoint of the current crop of juvenile comedies. In those films the characters only act like cavemen; here, they actually are club-wielding leopard-skin wearing troglodytes. The lowest common denominator humor remains. A fart joke in the twentieth century plays just the same as one in the first century. That doesn’t make it any funnier, though. “Year One” is the pinnacle of devolution. If nature tolerates only the survival of the fittest, then where on earth did this film come from?
BONUS: “Year One” was preceded by several trailers, most of which looked fairly terrible. I’ll give you a summary of each.
Zombieland, a terrible-looking movie about zombies killing humans.
Slayer, a terrible-looking movie about humans killing humans.
District 9, a terrible-looking movie about humans killing aliens.
Transformers 2, a terrible-looking movie about giant robots killing each other and a few humans to boot.
The Proposal, a terrible-looking movie that will likely end with the audience members killing themselves.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Bizarre Google Search
The day draws to a close...but there's always time for a Bizarre Google Search. Behold the results for "get it while you can":
Famous for hit songs like "Get Bark" and "Let it Pee."
Famous for hit songs like "Get Bark" and "Let it Pee."
I'm the Greatest
The Best Things That Have Happened To Me Today
1. The donuts I bought from Miss Donut & Bakery
2. This article in the New York Times
3. My afternoon nap
4. The sweet and sour pork I had for dinner
5. That History Channel show about conspiracies that I watched
1. The donuts I bought from Miss Donut & Bakery
2. This article in the New York Times
3. My afternoon nap
4. The sweet and sour pork I had for dinner
5. That History Channel show about conspiracies that I watched
La-La Land
Congratulations to the Los Angeles Lakers for their 15th NBA Title. For those of you counting at home, the Lakers have more titles than do the Detroit Pistons, San Antonio Spurs, and Chicago Bulls combined. They have fifteen titles; their cross-town rivals (or "rivals," as they are rivals in the sense that Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote are rivals) the L.A. Clippers have none.
This just goes to show. All you need to win a title is heart. And determination. And pluck. And grit. And one of the two best players in basketball. And a pair of All-Star forwards. And some talented role players. And a deep bench. And an enormous payroll. And perhaps the greatest coach in basketball history. Yes, any team really can win it all, provided that team is the Lakers.
This just goes to show. All you need to win a title is heart. And determination. And pluck. And grit. And one of the two best players in basketball. And a pair of All-Star forwards. And some talented role players. And a deep bench. And an enormous payroll. And perhaps the greatest coach in basketball history. Yes, any team really can win it all, provided that team is the Lakers.
Donuts!
Let me begin by saying how much I love donuts. I love donuts. Love them. Love them more than “Arrested Development.” More than Tyler Hansbrough. More than oxygen. If the devil offered me a donut for my soul I would say, not “Get thee behind me, Satan!” but “With or without sprinkles?” I will go to any lengths to get a good donut. Murder is a step too far, I suppose, but anything else goes, including most major and minor felonies.
North Carolina is not noted for its donuts. You have two choices: Dunkin’ Donuts or Krispy Kreme. Krispy Kreme is the local, homegrown product; people call you a traitor if you pick Dunkin’ Donuts. They call you a “Yankee” and pelt you with crullers. Yet I never really got a taste for Krispy Kreme. Their “Original Glazed” always tasted a little too light and airy. Plus, the glaze was a bit slimy. It made your hands stick together like some kind of mutant flipper.
Things are different in the O.C. No Dunkin’ Donuts; that’s a northeastern thing. Krispy Kreme? People out here have never heard the words. I was on my own. I had gotten a tip, though, that southern California has a great donut culture. It seems that Cambodians run the donut racket around here. And so I set off this morning in search of the nearest Cambodian-owned-and-operated donutery.
Thanks to the internet, I had found a place nearby called “Miss Donut and Bakery.” Who is Miss? Why does she run a donut shop? These questions, alas, remain unanswered. The place was within walking distance, but that’s a relative term in south California. To put it in Zen terms: everything is distant, nothing is close. It’s like a claustrophobic laid out the city plans.
Getting to the donut shop involved crossing several boulevards, always a dicey proposition. As usual, I made sure to update my will and testament before leaving the dorm. Don’t want to take any chances. I made it across the first three unscathed. At the fourth—State College Boulevard—I found safety crossing with a pair of old guys. I figured that the drivers would target them first.
The next half-hour passed pretty uneventfully. I walked, and walked, and walked and walked, then to change the pace I walked a little more. I followed that up with some walking. Then, to cool down, I did a little more walking. Then the cycle started over. I don’t know how Cal State Fullerton students get around if they don’t own a car. They must all have calf muscles the size of Christmas hams.
The scenery wasn’t too bad, though. A bunch of little neighborhoods sprawled out to my right. Most of them lay sheltered behind a series of big white walls. I felt like I was walking past a row of POW camps. I kept expecting to see a bag come flying over one of the walls, followed by a dirty guy in a ragged prisoner’s uniform. Now and then I crossed over a suburban side street. I could see little one-level houses painted, not in the usual O.C. pink-and-yellow pattern, but in more subdued blues and whites.
On the left, I saw Cal State Fullerton. God damn, but that’s a big campus. And it’s getting bigger. I passed by what must have been the mother of all parking garages. You could house an entire Panzer division in that thing. It stood at least five or six stories tall and covered an entire block. How many cars could it fit? 10,000? 20,000? A million? Maybe Gov. Schwarzenegger plans to ease the budget crisis by closing every state school except CSUF. That’s why they need so many parking spots.
As I walked, I started to think. It’s a thing I do sometimes when the mood strikes. We all know that young people want to live in NYC, right? No college students plans to go to Des Moines or Jacksonville after they graduate; they all dream about the Big Apple. Why is that? Maybe the culture; maybe the nightlife; maybe the romance of Gotham. I think it’s because you can walk most places in Manhattan. You don’t need to worry about a car. College students would live in Upper Cow’s Butt, Mississippi, if everything there was within walking distance.
After half an hour I finally arrived back in civilization, “civilization” being represented by KFC and Blockbuster. It’s not much of a civilization, but it’ll do. I found Miss Donut & Bakery in a little shopping center, right next to the tattoo parlor. I passed a guy with an American flag tattooed on the back of his neck. How, I ask, can you get more patriotic than that? Maybe if he had a screaming eagle tattooed on his forehead, I suppose.
Miss Donut & Bakery delivered on its name. I went there; I bought donuts; I went home and ate said donuts. Of course, I had to dither for a couple of minutes before finally picking out my donuts. They had a big display case overflowing with every type of donut imaginable. God, was it beautiful. I spent five minutes staring at a tray of jumbo long johns. In the process, I think I committed the cardinal sins of both gluttony and lust.
I consider the mission a success. I walked out of the bakery carrying a pair of chocolate donuts with chocolate frosting. Nothing fancy; just pure deliciousness. I managed to resist temptation all the way back to the dorm. After that, though, all bets were off. The donuts vanished a few minutes after I got home. Ah, donuts. Truly the food of the gods.
North Carolina is not noted for its donuts. You have two choices: Dunkin’ Donuts or Krispy Kreme. Krispy Kreme is the local, homegrown product; people call you a traitor if you pick Dunkin’ Donuts. They call you a “Yankee” and pelt you with crullers. Yet I never really got a taste for Krispy Kreme. Their “Original Glazed” always tasted a little too light and airy. Plus, the glaze was a bit slimy. It made your hands stick together like some kind of mutant flipper.
Things are different in the O.C. No Dunkin’ Donuts; that’s a northeastern thing. Krispy Kreme? People out here have never heard the words. I was on my own. I had gotten a tip, though, that southern California has a great donut culture. It seems that Cambodians run the donut racket around here. And so I set off this morning in search of the nearest Cambodian-owned-and-operated donutery.
Thanks to the internet, I had found a place nearby called “Miss Donut and Bakery.” Who is Miss? Why does she run a donut shop? These questions, alas, remain unanswered. The place was within walking distance, but that’s a relative term in south California. To put it in Zen terms: everything is distant, nothing is close. It’s like a claustrophobic laid out the city plans.
Getting to the donut shop involved crossing several boulevards, always a dicey proposition. As usual, I made sure to update my will and testament before leaving the dorm. Don’t want to take any chances. I made it across the first three unscathed. At the fourth—State College Boulevard—I found safety crossing with a pair of old guys. I figured that the drivers would target them first.
The next half-hour passed pretty uneventfully. I walked, and walked, and walked and walked, then to change the pace I walked a little more. I followed that up with some walking. Then, to cool down, I did a little more walking. Then the cycle started over. I don’t know how Cal State Fullerton students get around if they don’t own a car. They must all have calf muscles the size of Christmas hams.
The scenery wasn’t too bad, though. A bunch of little neighborhoods sprawled out to my right. Most of them lay sheltered behind a series of big white walls. I felt like I was walking past a row of POW camps. I kept expecting to see a bag come flying over one of the walls, followed by a dirty guy in a ragged prisoner’s uniform. Now and then I crossed over a suburban side street. I could see little one-level houses painted, not in the usual O.C. pink-and-yellow pattern, but in more subdued blues and whites.
On the left, I saw Cal State Fullerton. God damn, but that’s a big campus. And it’s getting bigger. I passed by what must have been the mother of all parking garages. You could house an entire Panzer division in that thing. It stood at least five or six stories tall and covered an entire block. How many cars could it fit? 10,000? 20,000? A million? Maybe Gov. Schwarzenegger plans to ease the budget crisis by closing every state school except CSUF. That’s why they need so many parking spots.
As I walked, I started to think. It’s a thing I do sometimes when the mood strikes. We all know that young people want to live in NYC, right? No college students plans to go to Des Moines or Jacksonville after they graduate; they all dream about the Big Apple. Why is that? Maybe the culture; maybe the nightlife; maybe the romance of Gotham. I think it’s because you can walk most places in Manhattan. You don’t need to worry about a car. College students would live in Upper Cow’s Butt, Mississippi, if everything there was within walking distance.
After half an hour I finally arrived back in civilization, “civilization” being represented by KFC and Blockbuster. It’s not much of a civilization, but it’ll do. I found Miss Donut & Bakery in a little shopping center, right next to the tattoo parlor. I passed a guy with an American flag tattooed on the back of his neck. How, I ask, can you get more patriotic than that? Maybe if he had a screaming eagle tattooed on his forehead, I suppose.
Miss Donut & Bakery delivered on its name. I went there; I bought donuts; I went home and ate said donuts. Of course, I had to dither for a couple of minutes before finally picking out my donuts. They had a big display case overflowing with every type of donut imaginable. God, was it beautiful. I spent five minutes staring at a tray of jumbo long johns. In the process, I think I committed the cardinal sins of both gluttony and lust.
I consider the mission a success. I walked out of the bakery carrying a pair of chocolate donuts with chocolate frosting. Nothing fancy; just pure deliciousness. I managed to resist temptation all the way back to the dorm. After that, though, all bets were off. The donuts vanished a few minutes after I got home. Ah, donuts. Truly the food of the gods.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Bizarre Google Search Q
All right, in deference to the peanut gallery, I give you a Bizarre Google Search for "Richard Milhouse Nixon." Et voila!
A startling likeness!
A startling likeness!
Friday, June 12, 2009
Vlad the Bad
OK, I haven't followed politics in a while, so please tell me: exactly when did Vladimir Putin resolve to personally creep out every man, woman, and child in Russia?
Dough!
Hey, folks! Welcome to CRAAAAZY Eddie's pizza shack! Our deals are almost as CRAAAAZY as our proprietor!
For just a buck fifty, you can get yourself a large pizza with any two toppings! For an extra five bucks we'll give you a box to carry it home in!
New low deal! Pay just six bucks, get three pizzas! For three bucks, you'll get six pizzas! Yes, we know that makes no sense! That's how CRAAAAZY we are!
Even better! Win yourself a FREE, LIFETIME SUPPLY of CRAAAAZY Eddie's pizza! All you gotta do is burn down that jerk pizza parlor across the road!
For just a buck fifty, you can get yourself a large pizza with any two toppings! For an extra five bucks we'll give you a box to carry it home in!
New low deal! Pay just six bucks, get three pizzas! For three bucks, you'll get six pizzas! Yes, we know that makes no sense! That's how CRAAAAZY we are!
Even better! Win yourself a FREE, LIFETIME SUPPLY of CRAAAAZY Eddie's pizza! All you gotta do is burn down that jerk pizza parlor across the road!
Blog Post Done at 10:56 in the Evening
There once was a woman named Annice
Who...wait, what does Annice rhyme with? "Piece"? Or "Nice"? And what the hell kind of name is Annice, anyway?
OK, I'll try again.
There once was a woman named Smoel
Who...gosh darn it, Smoel? Smoel? How am I supposed to rhyme something with "Smoel"? Bowl, anole, Joel? None of that works!
Ah, forget this whole limerick thing. Just read the damn story yourself.
Who...wait, what does Annice rhyme with? "Piece"? Or "Nice"? And what the hell kind of name is Annice, anyway?
OK, I'll try again.
There once was a woman named Smoel
Who...gosh darn it, Smoel? Smoel? How am I supposed to rhyme something with "Smoel"? Bowl, anole, Joel? None of that works!
Ah, forget this whole limerick thing. Just read the damn story yourself.
Almond Joy
To any of my readers with medical experience--can one suffer any side effects from eating too many almonds? Over the past week I have devoured two whole cans of almonds. Just the almonds--not the cans. I'm not that desperate for food. Yet.
Actually, don't answer that question. I'd rather not know. Better to die happy and full of almonds, than live a long life without them. I think Confucius said that. Or maybe I made that up just now. Yes, I think that's a little more likely.
Does this post have a point? Only this: almonds are delicious. Ignore them at your peril.
Actually, don't answer that question. I'd rather not know. Better to die happy and full of almonds, than live a long life without them. I think Confucius said that. Or maybe I made that up just now. Yes, I think that's a little more likely.
Does this post have a point? Only this: almonds are delicious. Ignore them at your peril.
Quik Update
Hey there, my loyal audience of at least two! Sorry for the sudden and unexpected changes around here. You'll notice that I've removed all of the post-California posts. This came after my boss pointed out that blogging about work, especially without permission, is a little rude. And boorish. And insensitive. I have to agree.
But does that mean this blog is dead? No--a thousand times no! I'll still be posting about life in Orange County, about books and movies, and about stupid crooks who get vaporized trying to steal nuclear reactors. Of course, it does mean less Richard Nixon. That, quite frankly, is a crime. I give you the following to make up for the coming Nixon deficit:
There! To quote Gabbo, "That oughtta hold the little bastards." Whenever you feel yourself in desperate need of a Nixon hit, return to this post and bask in the healing light of his jowls. It's the least I can do for you.
But does that mean this blog is dead? No--a thousand times no! I'll still be posting about life in Orange County, about books and movies, and about stupid crooks who get vaporized trying to steal nuclear reactors. Of course, it does mean less Richard Nixon. That, quite frankly, is a crime. I give you the following to make up for the coming Nixon deficit:
There! To quote Gabbo, "That oughtta hold the little bastards." Whenever you feel yourself in desperate need of a Nixon hit, return to this post and bask in the healing light of his jowls. It's the least I can do for you.
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