Currently Listening To: Blue Monday by Orgy
I saw the Simpsons movie on Saturday; it was really good, especially when compared to all the episodes from this past season that pop up on TiVo every week. They're pretty grim. But the movie? Not at all, and I do feel qualified to say that, because I've been watching it for at least ten years.
I do feel the need to complain about one thing... Spider Pig. It wasn't all that funny in the commercials. I mean, yeah, it's a pig. He's holding it on the ceiling. So? But I figured, like all unfunny-and-played-to-death scenes in movie trailers, it would go unnoticed in the movie. Well, not unnoticed; those things always get a laugh of two.
But then the pig came on screen for the first time. A girl behind me (who had to have seen it already, because she knew half the lines) started to sing Spider Pig, and a little kid in front of me (I don't know why parents don't seem to get "PG-13"... It's pretty simple) shouted Spider Pig. Then, later on, the actual Spider Pig scene came on, and people went nuts. Why? It's not funny. It really isn't. No one laughed at "Pres. Schwarzenegger", no one laughed at the EPA thing, no one laughed at the surprise celebrity cameo at the end (which I was unaware of until I read that it was a surprise cameo on Wikipedia the next day). So many jokes went straight over people's heads. I know it sounds elitist of me, but for God's sake, it's The Simpsons. It's not exactly high-brow.
I've got two suggestions that could end this dilemma from occurring again. First, no more children in movie theaters. Build little daycare centers in the lobby or something. Kids aren't the only people who talk in movies, but I suppose people would just lie if you asked them before they go in if they're talkers. I suppose people who raise talkers are talkers themselves, so maybe they'd stop coming as well.
Second, I think movie trailers shouldn't include scenes from the movie. They should film some additional stuff that gets the point across without telling you everything. I mean, there isn't much suspense in a movie if you've can say "We haven't gotten to such-and-such scene, so they're going to make it through this". It's kind of the opposite of Scream, where you thought Drew Barrymore was the main character, but she wasn't. If filming new material is too expensive, they could just show the first few minutes, like Dawn of the Dead did. That way, nothing's spoiled, and they didn't have to spend any money.
I love Dawn of the Dead. I wish I could watch it RIGHT NOW. But, I lost the DVD of it, along with all of my other favorite movies. I had them all in a little CD case, which has since gone missing. Dawn of the Dead, Saved, Clerks 2, Fifth Element... All missing. Probably some others as well, I just haven't noticed yet.
"Frustration, frustration; I hate this vacation."
Monday, July 30, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
Awful Movie
Currently Listening To: I Predict A Riot by Kaiser Chiefs
I suppose I should preface this terrifying tale of me subjecting myself to unnecessary torture by providing a little background info:
When I was about ten or eleven, I saw a few minutes of a movie on TV. It was a recent horror movie about a haunted house which had (surprise of all surprises) trapped some people inside. One of them, who has a very large nose on which one could likely land a helicopter, gets fed up and attacks a painting of the house's original owner. The house retaliates by decapitating him with a large stone lion head. That ridiculous image has stuck with me over the past five or so years, not to the point of haunting my nightmares, but leaving me fascinated.
Fast forward to tonight, as I sit in my pajamas watching this movie on TV. Kind of a deja vu type scenario, as I sit on the same couch watching it on the same TV but in a different house. Anyways, long story short, the movie really blows. The stink of the movie still hangs in the air around the Cathode-Ray Shrine, and I'm sure my satellite box will never forgive me for such a grave dishonor as watching this movie on it.
First off, the unsightly-ness of the lead actress was distracting. Yes, that's superficial of me to say, especially considering how unattractive I am, but it still bothered me the entire time. This was not aided by how cliche the movie was. First you had the soulless professor who would stop at nothing to do this experiment (and don't get me started on how he thought the ghost story about the house was made up BY HIM but then turned out to be real), then the spoiled-rich city girl decked out in Prada shit, followed by the fratty no-head guy who was only interested in bedding the bitch and getting out of the house. There are two more characters who seem to serve no purpose whatsoever (why'd they even bother naming those guys?), and rounding off this diverse cast of white people is the aforementioned ugly chick, who is also crazy and somehow related to the house without even knowing.
There are no non-white people in the movie. Not even extras. What the fuck?
Anyways, the people fall victim to the traditional "Why did they think that was a good idea?" haunted house movie situations, except very little ever happens until late in the game. Most of the time is just spent showing the viewer that it's a big house, even bigger than the exterior would have you believe. So many unanswered questions... Why did the Pope movie the Vatican to rural Massachusetts? How is it that there is a giant castle that no one seems to know about, considering how densely populated Mass. is?
Ugh. It was awful. About forty-five minutes in, I realized I would not last much longer (two hour movie), so I watched most of the rest of it in fast-forward. I got to my beloved lion-decapitation scene and fast-forwarded to the end, quite disappointed.
There were a few redeeming factors to the movie: Catherine Zeta-Jones, Catherine Zeta-Jones' glam factor, Catherine Zeta-Jones' lesbianism (except she goes after the ugly chick), Owen Wilson's head being eaten by a rock lion head... That's about it. The house is pretty, too. I'd live there, all malicious spirits considered.
I suppose I should preface this terrifying tale of me subjecting myself to unnecessary torture by providing a little background info:
When I was about ten or eleven, I saw a few minutes of a movie on TV. It was a recent horror movie about a haunted house which had (surprise of all surprises) trapped some people inside. One of them, who has a very large nose on which one could likely land a helicopter, gets fed up and attacks a painting of the house's original owner. The house retaliates by decapitating him with a large stone lion head. That ridiculous image has stuck with me over the past five or so years, not to the point of haunting my nightmares, but leaving me fascinated.
Fast forward to tonight, as I sit in my pajamas watching this movie on TV. Kind of a deja vu type scenario, as I sit on the same couch watching it on the same TV but in a different house. Anyways, long story short, the movie really blows. The stink of the movie still hangs in the air around the Cathode-Ray Shrine, and I'm sure my satellite box will never forgive me for such a grave dishonor as watching this movie on it.
First off, the unsightly-ness of the lead actress was distracting. Yes, that's superficial of me to say, especially considering how unattractive I am, but it still bothered me the entire time. This was not aided by how cliche the movie was. First you had the soulless professor who would stop at nothing to do this experiment (and don't get me started on how he thought the ghost story about the house was made up BY HIM but then turned out to be real), then the spoiled-rich city girl decked out in Prada shit, followed by the fratty no-head guy who was only interested in bedding the bitch and getting out of the house. There are two more characters who seem to serve no purpose whatsoever (why'd they even bother naming those guys?), and rounding off this diverse cast of white people is the aforementioned ugly chick, who is also crazy and somehow related to the house without even knowing.
There are no non-white people in the movie. Not even extras. What the fuck?
Anyways, the people fall victim to the traditional "Why did they think that was a good idea?" haunted house movie situations, except very little ever happens until late in the game. Most of the time is just spent showing the viewer that it's a big house, even bigger than the exterior would have you believe. So many unanswered questions... Why did the Pope movie the Vatican to rural Massachusetts? How is it that there is a giant castle that no one seems to know about, considering how densely populated Mass. is?
Ugh. It was awful. About forty-five minutes in, I realized I would not last much longer (two hour movie), so I watched most of the rest of it in fast-forward. I got to my beloved lion-decapitation scene and fast-forwarded to the end, quite disappointed.
There were a few redeeming factors to the movie: Catherine Zeta-Jones, Catherine Zeta-Jones' glam factor, Catherine Zeta-Jones' lesbianism (except she goes after the ugly chick), Owen Wilson's head being eaten by a rock lion head... That's about it. The house is pretty, too. I'd live there, all malicious spirits considered.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Epic Belch
Currently Listening To: In The Backseat by Arcade Fire (I listen to some pretentious music)
I just burped a magnificent burp that smelled reminiscent of a hookah bar.
I woke up this morning and smelled the distinct odor I've come to identify as school smell. It's the aroma that can be detected during the season known as "Back-to-school". It may be that this is what this time of the year smells like regardless of school, merely the scent of summer turning into fall. Maybe it has to do with a change in the atmoshpere of cleaning supplies, shifting from whatever amusement parks and movie theaters use to whatever schools use. Maybe it's the smell of fear and uncertainty about the upcoming year. I can't possibly know for sure until the fall of 2012, when I will have officially ended my schooling.
But I'm not going to wait that long to find out, because frankly, I don't care. I'm more distracted by the hookah bar that has occupied my mouth.
I just burped a magnificent burp that smelled reminiscent of a hookah bar.
I woke up this morning and smelled the distinct odor I've come to identify as school smell. It's the aroma that can be detected during the season known as "Back-to-school". It may be that this is what this time of the year smells like regardless of school, merely the scent of summer turning into fall. Maybe it has to do with a change in the atmoshpere of cleaning supplies, shifting from whatever amusement parks and movie theaters use to whatever schools use. Maybe it's the smell of fear and uncertainty about the upcoming year. I can't possibly know for sure until the fall of 2012, when I will have officially ended my schooling.
But I'm not going to wait that long to find out, because frankly, I don't care. I'm more distracted by the hookah bar that has occupied my mouth.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
More Celebrity Shennanigans
Currently Weeping To: On Call by Kings of Leon... This song seriously makes me cry
And on a more testosterone-laden note, Lindsay Lohan was arrested today, a block from a police office, for possesion of cocaine and being well over the legal limit of alcohol. Good for her! The mugshot is attractive, as well.
This, of course, asks once more of what to do with these troubled young celebrities. My immediate reaction was execution, but my suggesting we feed Paris, Lohan, Vick and others to tigers would likely hinder my chances of getting a nomination in the 2028 presidential election, which would in turn hinder my chances of ever conquering the world (I'd only keep all of it for a while; I'd turn it back over to its rightful owners soon thereafter, keeping for myself a slice of land in the Benelux region... I'd want a little bit of beach territory, to be heavily guarded at all times so it's just me and not geezers, babies and garbage, and then some valley-type stuff). SO. I, of course, would need an alternate solution; this solution is to exile any celebrity that goes past the "night in the slammer" line. They'd be shipped off to an island/very deep/wide pit in the desert and left to their devices...
Along with some heavy-duty combat weaponry. Like I said, left to their devices; whatever happens, happens. Nicole Richie would have to wait until her baby was born, and then she (Nicole, not the baby, you douche) would be tossed in with the rest. The baby would get the Harry Potter treatment, except unlike Harry, it would never, ever find out the truth. Or instead of raised by common folk, it could be raised by that guy from Storm of the Century. EVIL BABY.
We could put cameras in the pit and it could be a reality show. There's nothing more real than celebrities fighting to the death in a pit in the desert.
Maybe the island could be the island from Jurassic Park. TWICE as entertaining. Except those crackwhores wouldn't be too filling for the dinos, which would subsequently starve. Maybe Mike Vick could get the dinos to fight (though I'd like to see him try to kill the loser).
VOLDEMORT KILLS HARRY, MARRIES GINNY, DRACO MARRIES HERMIONE, RON KNOCKS UP THE ALBINO CHICK, THE ASIAN CHICK BECOMES MINISTER OF MAGIC, DUMBLEDORE WAS A PEACY P ABUSING CHILDMOLESTOR, SNAPE WAS GAY FOR MOLEMAN
Except for the fact that no one is gay for Moleman
And on a more testosterone-laden note, Lindsay Lohan was arrested today, a block from a police office, for possesion of cocaine and being well over the legal limit of alcohol. Good for her! The mugshot is attractive, as well.
This, of course, asks once more of what to do with these troubled young celebrities. My immediate reaction was execution, but my suggesting we feed Paris, Lohan, Vick and others to tigers would likely hinder my chances of getting a nomination in the 2028 presidential election, which would in turn hinder my chances of ever conquering the world (I'd only keep all of it for a while; I'd turn it back over to its rightful owners soon thereafter, keeping for myself a slice of land in the Benelux region... I'd want a little bit of beach territory, to be heavily guarded at all times so it's just me and not geezers, babies and garbage, and then some valley-type stuff). SO. I, of course, would need an alternate solution; this solution is to exile any celebrity that goes past the "night in the slammer" line. They'd be shipped off to an island/very deep/wide pit in the desert and left to their devices...
Along with some heavy-duty combat weaponry. Like I said, left to their devices; whatever happens, happens. Nicole Richie would have to wait until her baby was born, and then she (Nicole, not the baby, you douche) would be tossed in with the rest. The baby would get the Harry Potter treatment, except unlike Harry, it would never, ever find out the truth. Or instead of raised by common folk, it could be raised by that guy from Storm of the Century. EVIL BABY.
We could put cameras in the pit and it could be a reality show. There's nothing more real than celebrities fighting to the death in a pit in the desert.
Maybe the island could be the island from Jurassic Park. TWICE as entertaining. Except those crackwhores wouldn't be too filling for the dinos, which would subsequently starve. Maybe Mike Vick could get the dinos to fight (though I'd like to see him try to kill the loser).
VOLDEMORT KILLS HARRY, MARRIES GINNY, DRACO MARRIES HERMIONE, RON KNOCKS UP THE ALBINO CHICK, THE ASIAN CHICK BECOMES MINISTER OF MAGIC, DUMBLEDORE WAS A PEACY P ABUSING CHILDMOLESTOR, SNAPE WAS GAY FOR MOLEMAN
Except for the fact that no one is gay for Moleman
Monday, July 23, 2007
A Little Of This, A Little Of That
Currently Listening To: The Universal by Blur
I almost died today. Well, maybe that's a huuuuuge stretch, but still; I decided to make some eggy in a basket, but none of the burners would light, so being the genius I am, I kept turning them off and on in hopes of getting somewhere, releasing all kinds of noxious gases into our humble kitchen.
I cannot stand my brother's friends. It's not a party by any means tonight, but they seem to be even louder despite being about a quarter of the crowd we had a few weeks ago. They scream and bark at the screen as they play videogames... I mean, for fuck's sake, are you serious?
I've decided to add 'mailboxes' to my list of nemisises... Nemisi. Whatever. Foes. Anyways, it seems like whenever I drive, mailboxes pop up from no where and try to inhibit my motor-vehicle-operating abilities. Come on, people! Switch to e-mail 100% and we can rid the earth of this plague once and for all.
Barking at a videogame? That's fucking ludicrous. Shut the fuck up.
Harry Potter's departure from my life has left me feeling empy and meaningless. Come back to me, Harry. My bed's always open.
Speaking of which, I plan on gay marrying Michael Moore. I love that man. Sicko was great. It really got me riled up. I went out of the theater and flipped a car and torched the local Republican Party headquarters.
The tax excuse is a really lame cop-out. Uh, yeah, things cost money. Money doesn't just materialize, and printing more doesn't help. But I can't force anyone into believing anything. I mean, if you don't support federalized medicine and allowing people who live miserable lives to try for something better here, fine by me. It's not like nearly every member of the offending party identifies as Christian, which would suggest they'd be interesting in helping the less fortunate, which apparently only applies to white, Protestants who vote Republican and don't ask questions.
Oh, Michael Moore. You're so cute and chubby.
Cute and chubby like the chick from Doctor Who, Rose. And the chick who played Tonks in Harry Potter. They appear to be the same person, but that's not the case.
When I die, I want to have a phonebooth dedicated my memory erected in the middle of our school's campus. It would be quite tacky and useless, what with all the cellphones? Even more useless if it were 100% concrete and the doors didn't open. And if it were a 500% scale model statue of a phonebooth. On its side. With dragon wings mounted on the left and right faces. And some sick tank treads for added mobility. And if it were spray-painted pink. And it had a sick antenna at the top, a la Bill and Ted. Hey, why not have Bill and Ted inside? And the good Doctor outside? And Christmas lights strewn about.
Seriously, stop shouting. It's a video game. It doesn't matter.
EDITEDITEDIT: albumsix.com This is really, really exciting. Like, "I need to change my pants and wipe up this chair" exciting.
I almost died today. Well, maybe that's a huuuuuge stretch, but still; I decided to make some eggy in a basket, but none of the burners would light, so being the genius I am, I kept turning them off and on in hopes of getting somewhere, releasing all kinds of noxious gases into our humble kitchen.
I cannot stand my brother's friends. It's not a party by any means tonight, but they seem to be even louder despite being about a quarter of the crowd we had a few weeks ago. They scream and bark at the screen as they play videogames... I mean, for fuck's sake, are you serious?
I've decided to add 'mailboxes' to my list of nemisises... Nemisi. Whatever. Foes. Anyways, it seems like whenever I drive, mailboxes pop up from no where and try to inhibit my motor-vehicle-operating abilities. Come on, people! Switch to e-mail 100% and we can rid the earth of this plague once and for all.
Barking at a videogame? That's fucking ludicrous. Shut the fuck up.
Harry Potter's departure from my life has left me feeling empy and meaningless. Come back to me, Harry. My bed's always open.
Speaking of which, I plan on gay marrying Michael Moore. I love that man. Sicko was great. It really got me riled up. I went out of the theater and flipped a car and torched the local Republican Party headquarters.
The tax excuse is a really lame cop-out. Uh, yeah, things cost money. Money doesn't just materialize, and printing more doesn't help. But I can't force anyone into believing anything. I mean, if you don't support federalized medicine and allowing people who live miserable lives to try for something better here, fine by me. It's not like nearly every member of the offending party identifies as Christian, which would suggest they'd be interesting in helping the less fortunate, which apparently only applies to white, Protestants who vote Republican and don't ask questions.
Oh, Michael Moore. You're so cute and chubby.
Cute and chubby like the chick from Doctor Who, Rose. And the chick who played Tonks in Harry Potter. They appear to be the same person, but that's not the case.
When I die, I want to have a phonebooth dedicated my memory erected in the middle of our school's campus. It would be quite tacky and useless, what with all the cellphones? Even more useless if it were 100% concrete and the doors didn't open. And if it were a 500% scale model statue of a phonebooth. On its side. With dragon wings mounted on the left and right faces. And some sick tank treads for added mobility. And if it were spray-painted pink. And it had a sick antenna at the top, a la Bill and Ted. Hey, why not have Bill and Ted inside? And the good Doctor outside? And Christmas lights strewn about.
Seriously, stop shouting. It's a video game. It doesn't matter.
EDITEDITEDIT: albumsix.com This is really, really exciting. Like, "I need to change my pants and wipe up this chair" exciting.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Marilyn Manson Versus Richard Gere
Currently Listening To: JET. All of it.
This past week was a good week to be a nerd. Both a Harry Potter movie and a book. Schwigity schwag. Robert and I went to see Order of the Phoenix like a week prior to Wednesday or so... I just got back from a weekend sans computer/phone/TV so my dates are off. No landmarks for the mental timeline. Anyways, it was really good. I mean, it beat the shiiiiiit out of the fourth one. That one, in retrospect, was garbage. And I don't want to hear the "it was such a long book" schpiel. Order was 200 pages longer as a book but the shortest movie in the series thus far. The secret? Montages. You can't go wrong with a montage, and the fellow who made this movie seemed to time them very well. I also really liked the albino chick. Anyone who like plays with dragons and keeps raw meet in her purse is a worthy bride in my book. And Bride of Frankenstein could kill the only person who is, by definition, a family to me any day. Hot.
But in all seriousness, I'd say, out of the five movies thus far, the fifth looked on film closest to how I imagined it while reading it, except Umbridge wasn't nearly ugly enough, though she certainly was sinister. Scared the shit out of me. Especially the Satan quill.
Anyways, so fast forward to this past week. Our family was, as we do every year, in North Carolina for the week. The best way to explain the place is, apparently, that it's like the place in Dirty Dancing. I've never seen it (and don't plan on it), but that's what I'm told. There's a 'lodge' building with lots of rooms in which to sleep, a huge dining hall, there are some cottages, a lake, various general use buildings... It's a conference center in the mountains, but for a few weeks in the summer they open for vacation-time. It's the place where I got 'hit' by a car last year. I didn't this year, though; I minimized my time in the middle of high-ish volume streets.
Anyways anyways, I'm haning with this cool cat, and she's like, "I haven't seen Harry Potter yet." I was like, "Let's go!" and she was like "I don't want to drive!" and I was like "I can't!" so I made my brother drive us, in the process picking up about fifteen or so other kids to go with us. And I dressed up, which was fun, even though my sheets were the wrong color and they tickettaher confiscated my broom(s). Apparently there is a rule at the theater against bringing cleaning equipment into the auditorium. Bitches. Even worse was that right after he metaphorically speaking slapped me in the face, he turned around and shouts to his manager, "Yeah, I got 'em." What a fucker, right? Anyways, my brother and I were kind enough to provide a commentary that time, and I had a crude sharpie glasses/scar combo on my face. It was awesome.
And then AND THEN I got my brother to take me, along with an awesome college kid and two other kids I didn't/don't know to buy the book at midnight. The plan was to go to the bookstore in the shitfers mall in town (there was an ad in the paper for their Harry Potter party) but the doors were locked and apparently the Ingles in the town in not a literate supermarket so... We went to Wal Mart. That's right; my integrity can be bought for $17.78. Whatever. I got the book at midnight, along with a Slytherin wristband without any traces of Wal Mart on it and an energy drink. So we got back to the campus about 12:45 and I pop a squat on the awesome peather couches they've got in the lobby while the 'others' (What is this, LOST?) sip spiked juice. After about two or so hours, I looked up and they were gone. It was about 2:30 a.m. and I was completely alone in this lodge out in the middle of the woods. The doors out to the porch were open and there were all these spooky noises and creaks and shit. It was nuts. I just kept reading. At about four, I was starting to get really tired (I've only stayed up all night once, and that was earlier this summer) so I stood up to walk around, do a few jumping jacks, stuff, you know? Then I saw a mostly-finished bottle of orange juice. Orange juice has sugar, right? Sugar will keep me up longer, right? Well, it may have had sugar, but as I chugged it, I realized it also had vodka in it. I don't think Minute Maid sold vodka-laden OJ, so I'm fairly certain it was "homemade". But I think people would buy vodka OJ. Anyways: reading, reading, reading... The empty lobby was an orgy of literacy. I was joined by all the greats: Shakespeare, Dickens, Grisham, evangelist outside arena handing out pamphlets. And we read. And suddenly, it was light out, and some real people (old people. real old people) began to walk through the lobby. I know it's a common joke to laugh about old people getting up really early, but it's 100% true. And then my dad walks in (this was probably a while later) and I got really confused and asked him what time it was and he said it was 7:15. Apparently he's old too. I wrapped up reading (page 577) at 8:15 and joined my family for breakfast. I continued reading at 9:30 or so when we left to come home and read for maybe 15 minutes until I remembered I get really car sick when I read, and that my brother likes to drive fast, and that we were going on curvy mountain roads, so I stopped reading and went to sleep for two hours or so and read non-stop until we got home, at about 1. Twelve hours to finish the book, about 9 of which were actually spent reading. Cool, cool.
I was really happy with the book, especially the ending, which proves Mrs. Rowling is a money-loving whore. I suppose if you want a more detailed analysis, you can contact me. I don't want to spoil it for some poor schlub who stumbles upon this God-forsaken corner of the internet.
Speaking of spoiling, as someone who has finished the past three Harry Potter books within 24 hours of their sales, I always joke about ruining it. I'll say stuff like, "Speaking of ______, you'll never believe who dies at the end!" or make up blatantly flase spoilers. People then close their ears or get horrified looks and beg me not to ruin it. SO, being the one-joke man I am, at dinner last night, I announced to my family, my aunt and two cousins that I planned to ruin the book for all eight of them (the subject was already on the book and my thoughts about it). Obviously. Quite obviously. Obvious to the extreme. Obvious to the point that I began to bleed from my ears, nose and asshole, everyone agreed calmly that it would be a dick move for me to commit such a heinous crime. It would have been bad if I did, which I didn't. I didn't ruin the book. Not in any form or fashion. BUT, as everyone was not overreacting to the news, someone in my family, who will not be named but you can likely figure it out. It's obvious. Quite obvious. Obvious to the extreme. Obvious to the point that I began to bleed from my ears, nose and asshole. Anyways, my sister (oops, I slipped) let out a horrible screech. It was the worst noise I'd ever heard. Worse than the sound of metal crunching in a car wreck, worse than a cat passing under tires (I've heard them both in person)... It was like she was being stabbed, crushed, burned and various other horrible things all at once. I mean, if her scream was all that I'd heard/seen, I'd have assumed something bad had happened. In reality, of course, I had joked that I was going to spoil the book. I didn't. GRR.
My first born child is to be named Declan Octavius Geronimo. I suppose I'll have to change my last name to secure that particular one for him, but it would be worth it.
This past week was a good week to be a nerd. Both a Harry Potter movie and a book. Schwigity schwag. Robert and I went to see Order of the Phoenix like a week prior to Wednesday or so... I just got back from a weekend sans computer/phone/TV so my dates are off. No landmarks for the mental timeline. Anyways, it was really good. I mean, it beat the shiiiiiit out of the fourth one. That one, in retrospect, was garbage. And I don't want to hear the "it was such a long book" schpiel. Order was 200 pages longer as a book but the shortest movie in the series thus far. The secret? Montages. You can't go wrong with a montage, and the fellow who made this movie seemed to time them very well. I also really liked the albino chick. Anyone who like plays with dragons and keeps raw meet in her purse is a worthy bride in my book. And Bride of Frankenstein could kill the only person who is, by definition, a family to me any day. Hot.
But in all seriousness, I'd say, out of the five movies thus far, the fifth looked on film closest to how I imagined it while reading it, except Umbridge wasn't nearly ugly enough, though she certainly was sinister. Scared the shit out of me. Especially the Satan quill.
Anyways, so fast forward to this past week. Our family was, as we do every year, in North Carolina for the week. The best way to explain the place is, apparently, that it's like the place in Dirty Dancing. I've never seen it (and don't plan on it), but that's what I'm told. There's a 'lodge' building with lots of rooms in which to sleep, a huge dining hall, there are some cottages, a lake, various general use buildings... It's a conference center in the mountains, but for a few weeks in the summer they open for vacation-time. It's the place where I got 'hit' by a car last year. I didn't this year, though; I minimized my time in the middle of high-ish volume streets.
Anyways anyways, I'm haning with this cool cat, and she's like, "I haven't seen Harry Potter yet." I was like, "Let's go!" and she was like "I don't want to drive!" and I was like "I can't!" so I made my brother drive us, in the process picking up about fifteen or so other kids to go with us. And I dressed up, which was fun, even though my sheets were the wrong color and they tickettaher confiscated my broom(s). Apparently there is a rule at the theater against bringing cleaning equipment into the auditorium. Bitches. Even worse was that right after he metaphorically speaking slapped me in the face, he turned around and shouts to his manager, "Yeah, I got 'em." What a fucker, right? Anyways, my brother and I were kind enough to provide a commentary that time, and I had a crude sharpie glasses/scar combo on my face. It was awesome.
And then AND THEN I got my brother to take me, along with an awesome college kid and two other kids I didn't/don't know to buy the book at midnight. The plan was to go to the bookstore in the shitfers mall in town (there was an ad in the paper for their Harry Potter party) but the doors were locked and apparently the Ingles in the town in not a literate supermarket so... We went to Wal Mart. That's right; my integrity can be bought for $17.78. Whatever. I got the book at midnight, along with a Slytherin wristband without any traces of Wal Mart on it and an energy drink. So we got back to the campus about 12:45 and I pop a squat on the awesome peather couches they've got in the lobby while the 'others' (What is this, LOST?) sip spiked juice. After about two or so hours, I looked up and they were gone. It was about 2:30 a.m. and I was completely alone in this lodge out in the middle of the woods. The doors out to the porch were open and there were all these spooky noises and creaks and shit. It was nuts. I just kept reading. At about four, I was starting to get really tired (I've only stayed up all night once, and that was earlier this summer) so I stood up to walk around, do a few jumping jacks, stuff, you know? Then I saw a mostly-finished bottle of orange juice. Orange juice has sugar, right? Sugar will keep me up longer, right? Well, it may have had sugar, but as I chugged it, I realized it also had vodka in it. I don't think Minute Maid sold vodka-laden OJ, so I'm fairly certain it was "homemade". But I think people would buy vodka OJ. Anyways: reading, reading, reading... The empty lobby was an orgy of literacy. I was joined by all the greats: Shakespeare, Dickens, Grisham, evangelist outside arena handing out pamphlets. And we read. And suddenly, it was light out, and some real people (old people. real old people) began to walk through the lobby. I know it's a common joke to laugh about old people getting up really early, but it's 100% true. And then my dad walks in (this was probably a while later) and I got really confused and asked him what time it was and he said it was 7:15. Apparently he's old too. I wrapped up reading (page 577) at 8:15 and joined my family for breakfast. I continued reading at 9:30 or so when we left to come home and read for maybe 15 minutes until I remembered I get really car sick when I read, and that my brother likes to drive fast, and that we were going on curvy mountain roads, so I stopped reading and went to sleep for two hours or so and read non-stop until we got home, at about 1. Twelve hours to finish the book, about 9 of which were actually spent reading. Cool, cool.
I was really happy with the book, especially the ending, which proves Mrs. Rowling is a money-loving whore. I suppose if you want a more detailed analysis, you can contact me. I don't want to spoil it for some poor schlub who stumbles upon this God-forsaken corner of the internet.
Speaking of spoiling, as someone who has finished the past three Harry Potter books within 24 hours of their sales, I always joke about ruining it. I'll say stuff like, "Speaking of ______, you'll never believe who dies at the end!" or make up blatantly flase spoilers. People then close their ears or get horrified looks and beg me not to ruin it. SO, being the one-joke man I am, at dinner last night, I announced to my family, my aunt and two cousins that I planned to ruin the book for all eight of them (the subject was already on the book and my thoughts about it). Obviously. Quite obviously. Obvious to the extreme. Obvious to the point that I began to bleed from my ears, nose and asshole, everyone agreed calmly that it would be a dick move for me to commit such a heinous crime. It would have been bad if I did, which I didn't. I didn't ruin the book. Not in any form or fashion. BUT, as everyone was not overreacting to the news, someone in my family, who will not be named but you can likely figure it out. It's obvious. Quite obvious. Obvious to the extreme. Obvious to the point that I began to bleed from my ears, nose and asshole. Anyways, my sister (oops, I slipped) let out a horrible screech. It was the worst noise I'd ever heard. Worse than the sound of metal crunching in a car wreck, worse than a cat passing under tires (I've heard them both in person)... It was like she was being stabbed, crushed, burned and various other horrible things all at once. I mean, if her scream was all that I'd heard/seen, I'd have assumed something bad had happened. In reality, of course, I had joked that I was going to spoil the book. I didn't. GRR.
My first born child is to be named Declan Octavius Geronimo. I suppose I'll have to change my last name to secure that particular one for him, but it would be worth it.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Boycott
Currently Listening To: Bandages by Hot Hot Heat
As an angry suburban teen, I take it upon myself, from time to time, to boycott. Usually for no reason at all, or something superficial or trivial. I find it refreshing, and it permits me to be lazy without people getting mad. I just say, "I can't; I'm boycotting that."
Right now, I'm boycotting three (3) things: soda pahp, 'tatos and myspace. The gods have, in response, made it such that I'm constantly reminded (not me reminding others) that I "can't" have those things. I seem to be presented with more options for fries and a coke in the period since I began this self-deprivation than in the six months before. It's crazy. In that same vein, people have actually started posting comments on my myspace. Every day, I get the e-mail. So-and-so has left you a comment on myspace. This-and-that has sent you a message on myspace. I even put my status on facebook (I sign up for too many of these things) as my boycott list, and still, people do it. 100% tom-foolery.
Speaking of tomfoolery, shenanigans and this-and-that, I got my scores (scratch that, score) back from the AP folks today. Surprise-surprise, they had an issue with my Spanish exam and it'll be here in three weeks. Anyways, I got my physics score.
I got a three. Are you kidding me? I didn't finish it. Not even close. I got something like 55 or 60 of the multiple choice done (there were 75) and I didn't come anywhere near close to completing all seven free response questions. For some reason, I'm more angry than happy. They should have more sense than to give a lazy, no-drive, apathetic lard-ass such as myself a three. That means that some college might say that I'm somewhat knowledgable about physics, which is not the case. Shenanigans.
I think I should boycott my phone as well. I hate talking on the phone, and the seven key sticks, which is annoying when you're text messaging, and considering it has 4 of the 26 letters within.
We went uniform shopping today. If anything could leave me more bitter and jaded about anything and everything, it's that. Waking up early (though I should mention that I got up at six of my own will this morning) to go down and submit myself to an hour and a half of torture and misery. I didn't see Hostel Part 2, but I imagine one scene had a man make someone purchase school uniforms for the next year. I really need to talk to someone who was on this uniform committee, because, as with most elected officials, promises were made with no intention of any results. And I felt like a prick when they guy had me stand on a box while he chalked my pants. That sounds vulgar. Anyways, if I ever become fabulously wealthy, I will not hire a tailor, because it felt uncomfortable and snooty. Like, "I spit on ye, peon." Nonsense. Tom-foolery. Shenanigans.
Boycott list:
As an angry suburban teen, I take it upon myself, from time to time, to boycott. Usually for no reason at all, or something superficial or trivial. I find it refreshing, and it permits me to be lazy without people getting mad. I just say, "I can't; I'm boycotting that."
Right now, I'm boycotting three (3) things: soda pahp, 'tatos and myspace. The gods have, in response, made it such that I'm constantly reminded (not me reminding others) that I "can't" have those things. I seem to be presented with more options for fries and a coke in the period since I began this self-deprivation than in the six months before. It's crazy. In that same vein, people have actually started posting comments on my myspace. Every day, I get the e-mail. So-and-so has left you a comment on myspace. This-and-that has sent you a message on myspace. I even put my status on facebook (I sign up for too many of these things) as my boycott list, and still, people do it. 100% tom-foolery.
Speaking of tomfoolery, shenanigans and this-and-that, I got my scores (scratch that, score) back from the AP folks today. Surprise-surprise, they had an issue with my Spanish exam and it'll be here in three weeks. Anyways, I got my physics score.
I got a three. Are you kidding me? I didn't finish it. Not even close. I got something like 55 or 60 of the multiple choice done (there were 75) and I didn't come anywhere near close to completing all seven free response questions. For some reason, I'm more angry than happy. They should have more sense than to give a lazy, no-drive, apathetic lard-ass such as myself a three. That means that some college might say that I'm somewhat knowledgable about physics, which is not the case. Shenanigans.
I think I should boycott my phone as well. I hate talking on the phone, and the seven key sticks, which is annoying when you're text messaging, and considering it has 4 of the 26 letters within.
We went uniform shopping today. If anything could leave me more bitter and jaded about anything and everything, it's that. Waking up early (though I should mention that I got up at six of my own will this morning) to go down and submit myself to an hour and a half of torture and misery. I didn't see Hostel Part 2, but I imagine one scene had a man make someone purchase school uniforms for the next year. I really need to talk to someone who was on this uniform committee, because, as with most elected officials, promises were made with no intention of any results. And I felt like a prick when they guy had me stand on a box while he chalked my pants. That sounds vulgar. Anyways, if I ever become fabulously wealthy, I will not hire a tailor, because it felt uncomfortable and snooty. Like, "I spit on ye, peon." Nonsense. Tom-foolery. Shenanigans.
Boycott list:
- 'Tatos
- Soda Pop
- Myspace
- Cell Phone
- Tailoring
(Just so I don't forget, neh?)
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Transformers
Currently Listening To: Splendid Isolation by Pete Yorn
It seems to me that, every year, during the summer movie season, there is a movie that I find myself drooling over for quite some time. In anticipation, I change my desktop background to one from the movie and talk about it incessantly.
Then I see it, and it sucks.
I shouldn't say Transformers sucked; I just didn't like it, and it made no attempt at changing my mind.
Obviously, being that it's a movie based on a cult-franchise, Transformers was geared towards those cult-followers, but, being a big-budget summer movie, it was also geared toward the masses (an elusive villainous entity whiny suburban teens like myself whine about a fair bit) and, being based on a toy, it was also geared towards children and families (in parts, at least). A little self-evaluation reveals that I
It seems to me that, every year, during the summer movie season, there is a movie that I find myself drooling over for quite some time. In anticipation, I change my desktop background to one from the movie and talk about it incessantly.
Then I see it, and it sucks.
I shouldn't say Transformers sucked; I just didn't like it, and it made no attempt at changing my mind.
Obviously, being that it's a movie based on a cult-franchise, Transformers was geared towards those cult-followers, but, being a big-budget summer movie, it was also geared toward the masses (an elusive villainous entity whiny suburban teens like myself whine about a fair bit) and, being based on a toy, it was also geared towards children and families (in parts, at least). A little self-evaluation reveals that I
- have only ever seen one episode of the original cartoon, and that was before I began elementary school
- am too self-righteous to identify with the masses and its interests
- am not in the coveted 4-8 demographic... or the 9-13 one, either
As such, various references to this-and-that from the TV show, Anthony Anderson and mini-Transformers that are the Micheal Bay equivalent of Jar Jar Binks left me a tad bored. By the time stuff started exploding in a big way, I was already daydreaming (or nightdreaming, I suppose; it was like 9:30 or 10) about zombies. That's what I do when I get bored. I think about zombies. If you see me with a glazed-over look on my face, my concious is battling zombies.
Actually, I think I was dreaming about nanobots. I've been on about nanobots lately. When I finish The Stand, Harry Potter and my summer reading books ( so never) I might need to re-read Prey.
Anyways, big action scene at the end... Everyone's cheering and ooh-ah-ing and I'm thinking about shooting a microwave to kill that fucking nanobot swarm, which has currently taken the form of my dead wife.
That's how my nanobot movie will end. Stolen from an episode of Futurama and Prey, it will be the greatest ending ever.
Anyways, I was super bored. Like I told Claire earlier, it was just like Fantastic Four, which again suffered from all-the-action-at-the-end-itis. If you're an action movie, you probably oughta spread it out a bit.
And those robots' voices got on my nerves. Not Megatron and Optimus Prime (which sounds kind of redundant, no?), but all the other ones. Take a lesson from the Terminator: a quiet robot is a scary robot. And a quiet child is an acceptable child in movies. There were at least two talking children in Transformers. One said "Cool, mom!" as his car was surrounded by robocarnage and another asked a giant robot if it was the tooth fairy. This is unacceptable. Far too many movies have children like that. This is precisely what I'm talking about when I whine about movie studios pandering to the masses.
I HATE CHILDREN.
And sunburn. This ain't cool. Especially when I was told such-and-such cream would help the sunburn, when in reality, the places I applied it (shoulders) hurt the most. Thanks, jerks.
And I figured sitting in the rain might help, but those dumb cats swarmed me and left me covered in cat hair, which I think I may be allergic to, because my eyes got all watery, and it wasn't from sympathy to those cats and their sitting in the rain.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Fool Me Once... Shame On... Shame On You
Currently Listening To: Machinehead by Bush
If fooled, you can't get fooled again.
Today, I proved that statment wrong. For what is probably the hundredth time in my life, I got a sunburn today. A really, really bad sunburn.
Dear God, this is an awful sunburn.
In life, there are things worse than death; one of them is sitting in a mall surrounded by zombies waiting to die. Another is this sunburn.
Sitting in this chair is not helping.
Sixteen years of "Wear sunscreen" proved to be cromulent in the extreme, and yet, when faced with an opportunity to make a decision, I completely ignored the sage advice of my mother.
Save me, Baz Luhrmann. Save me, half-naked girl on the sunscreen bottle. And kick that little dog in the face. For ages he's been pulling your drawers down; show some decency. Whore.
Why do I subject myself to this?
If fooled, you can't get fooled again.
Today, I proved that statment wrong. For what is probably the hundredth time in my life, I got a sunburn today. A really, really bad sunburn.
Dear God, this is an awful sunburn.
In life, there are things worse than death; one of them is sitting in a mall surrounded by zombies waiting to die. Another is this sunburn.
Sitting in this chair is not helping.
Sixteen years of "Wear sunscreen" proved to be cromulent in the extreme, and yet, when faced with an opportunity to make a decision, I completely ignored the sage advice of my mother.
Save me, Baz Luhrmann. Save me, half-naked girl on the sunscreen bottle. And kick that little dog in the face. For ages he's been pulling your drawers down; show some decency. Whore.
Why do I subject myself to this?
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
I Can't Trust Garden State Any More
Currently Listening To: Autumn Cannibalist by Die Mannequin
I mean, if Zach Braff is willing to do a Wendy's commercial (or twelve), what's to say that that entire movie was 100% insincere? And Scrubs too, even though I think he isn't as heavily involved in the writing there.
It's two in the morning. As I finish watching the Colbert Report for the second time, I think maybe there's a better way to spent time when staying up all night. I think I'm going to try to read some more of the Stand (110 pages down, only 990 more to go...), which will, of course, drain me of all energy and put me to sleep. Not to say that books or Stephen King are boring; I just have a habit of cruisin' for a snoozin' when I read in the basement.
I have come to the realization that I really see no benefit to living down here any more. First of all, it's almost embarassing to think that, even though I'm still in high school, I live in my mother (and father)'s basement. Second, it's really fucking scary to be down here, alone, at night, with these woods to my back. Scary, scary. Third, as much as I love my brother (though it seems like things've been strained a bit lately), living with him isn't always comfortable; two people who both want to listen to music aloud or use the big screen T.V. will inevitably clash, as will a person who wants to have people other for some boozin' and a person who doesn't want to have people over for a boozin'. I mean, we're not the same person. We've got different needs. I'm an angsty know-it-all teen, he's a know-it-all college student, which brings me to my next point: I'll be alone in this creepy basement for the next year, starting mid-August. Did I mention it's REALLY creepy? When people drive around in the cul-de-sac, the lights come through the window and it creeps me the fuck out. And then there's all these noises coming from the woods. And I get really paranoid sometimes and think people are watching me, which isn't cool when all I want to do is walk around the basement bare-ass naked.
I mean, if Zach Braff is willing to do a Wendy's commercial (or twelve), what's to say that that entire movie was 100% insincere? And Scrubs too, even though I think he isn't as heavily involved in the writing there.
It's two in the morning. As I finish watching the Colbert Report for the second time, I think maybe there's a better way to spent time when staying up all night. I think I'm going to try to read some more of the Stand (110 pages down, only 990 more to go...), which will, of course, drain me of all energy and put me to sleep. Not to say that books or Stephen King are boring; I just have a habit of cruisin' for a snoozin' when I read in the basement.
I have come to the realization that I really see no benefit to living down here any more. First of all, it's almost embarassing to think that, even though I'm still in high school, I live in my mother (and father)'s basement. Second, it's really fucking scary to be down here, alone, at night, with these woods to my back. Scary, scary. Third, as much as I love my brother (though it seems like things've been strained a bit lately), living with him isn't always comfortable; two people who both want to listen to music aloud or use the big screen T.V. will inevitably clash, as will a person who wants to have people other for some boozin' and a person who doesn't want to have people over for a boozin'. I mean, we're not the same person. We've got different needs. I'm an angsty know-it-all teen, he's a know-it-all college student, which brings me to my next point: I'll be alone in this creepy basement for the next year, starting mid-August. Did I mention it's REALLY creepy? When people drive around in the cul-de-sac, the lights come through the window and it creeps me the fuck out. And then there's all these noises coming from the woods. And I get really paranoid sometimes and think people are watching me, which isn't cool when all I want to do is walk around the basement bare-ass naked.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Clive Dangerously Figures Out What's Wrong In The World Today
Currently Listening To: Blue Monday by New Order
After years of searching, I now know the root of all of my problems, all my fears, all my weaknesses...
I was ambling through the Canadian wilderness when I stumbled upon a large bear. He produced a knife and demanded the contents of my pocket. Not wishing to wait in the DMV waiting room for four hours again to get another I.D., I decided I would need to defend myself from such an adversary. The two of us sprawled for a good half-hour before I saw an opening and I leapt upon this tremendous mammal. I seized his jaw and attempted to snap it open, but as I tried to gain the proper footing in his cake hole, I noticed something strange in the footular area of my bod. I dismounted the bear, pulled out my boomstick and popped that mother in the face. I then rested, and finally came to the shocking realization: my right foot is nearly two sizes smaller than my left foot.
That's right, there is no balance in my body whatsoever, which is clearly the root of all of my problems. I figure, sawing off both feet would eliminate this imbalance and I would immediately become fabulously wealthy, immensely attractive and Persian in heritage. Until the time comes that I am of sound enough spirit to make such a decision, however, I am stuck with this unfit vessel. The Catch-22, of course, being that, were I balanced, I would be of sound-enough spirit to make such a decision, though there would be no need.
After years of searching, I now know the root of all of my problems, all my fears, all my weaknesses...
I was ambling through the Canadian wilderness when I stumbled upon a large bear. He produced a knife and demanded the contents of my pocket. Not wishing to wait in the DMV waiting room for four hours again to get another I.D., I decided I would need to defend myself from such an adversary. The two of us sprawled for a good half-hour before I saw an opening and I leapt upon this tremendous mammal. I seized his jaw and attempted to snap it open, but as I tried to gain the proper footing in his cake hole, I noticed something strange in the footular area of my bod. I dismounted the bear, pulled out my boomstick and popped that mother in the face. I then rested, and finally came to the shocking realization: my right foot is nearly two sizes smaller than my left foot.
That's right, there is no balance in my body whatsoever, which is clearly the root of all of my problems. I figure, sawing off both feet would eliminate this imbalance and I would immediately become fabulously wealthy, immensely attractive and Persian in heritage. Until the time comes that I am of sound enough spirit to make such a decision, however, I am stuck with this unfit vessel. The Catch-22, of course, being that, were I balanced, I would be of sound-enough spirit to make such a decision, though there would be no need.
Bitchy Phone Calls
Currently Listening To: Temptation by New Order (kind of Hellogoodbye-y)
I swear to God... I hardly ever use my phone, and it seems like whenever I do, I'm being bitched about for this-or-that. Most recently, I recieved a call from a freshman girl angry because, despite on numerous occaisons saying that her sister got on my nerves, I hung out with her at drivers' ed. Yes, it was hypocritical of me to bash this girl behind her back and then talk to her when she's the only person I know; infact, I think it was worse than hypocritical, it's middle-school style two-faceness, but I suppose what I want to ask this bitchy caller (not that I would dare call her back; I don't want to put up with that shit again) is: what would she rather I do? Tell her sister to fuck off when she talks to me? Straight-up ignore her?
But I can't dish out the blame entirely; I shouldn't be running my mouth about this-or-that and talking shit, but still. And I do think it was stupid of her to tell her sister that I said that. I mean, what could make someone feel better than telling her that someone was talking shit?
And in other news, Bob had another party this weekend. Less people this time, no vomit (at least thus far; maybe I'll find some later?) but still, it's kind of annoying to be like, uprooted and have to go veg out in my parents' room. I prefer to veg in my own domain. Speaking of which, I had a little project this week. I found a spare TV (that sounds so ridiculous... like, 'I wipe my ass with fifties' kind of bitchy... spare T.V.? That's not cool), the old N64 (Goldeneye 4 lyfe) and the DVD player I had in my old room. I took them all and put the on a table in the basement in the intended playroom, which doesn't really see a whole lot of usage, except by me and my brother's drunk friends, who seem to sleep in my bed more than I do... I came downstairs this morning to get some clothes and I saw two guys in my bed. It was really bizarre, especially when one woke up and saw me, and then again when I realized I had no idea who the other guy was.
So that was my weekend, minus seeing Die Hard 4, which was phenomenal. The elevator scene was the balls, and Mary Elizabeth Winstead is a fine-lookin' lady. Then there was that tunnel scene... And the jet scene... And the alleyway scene.
So go see it. It was super schwey.
Do it for the children
I swear to God... I hardly ever use my phone, and it seems like whenever I do, I'm being bitched about for this-or-that. Most recently, I recieved a call from a freshman girl angry because, despite on numerous occaisons saying that her sister got on my nerves, I hung out with her at drivers' ed. Yes, it was hypocritical of me to bash this girl behind her back and then talk to her when she's the only person I know; infact, I think it was worse than hypocritical, it's middle-school style two-faceness, but I suppose what I want to ask this bitchy caller (not that I would dare call her back; I don't want to put up with that shit again) is: what would she rather I do? Tell her sister to fuck off when she talks to me? Straight-up ignore her?
But I can't dish out the blame entirely; I shouldn't be running my mouth about this-or-that and talking shit, but still. And I do think it was stupid of her to tell her sister that I said that. I mean, what could make someone feel better than telling her that someone was talking shit?
And in other news, Bob had another party this weekend. Less people this time, no vomit (at least thus far; maybe I'll find some later?) but still, it's kind of annoying to be like, uprooted and have to go veg out in my parents' room. I prefer to veg in my own domain. Speaking of which, I had a little project this week. I found a spare TV (that sounds so ridiculous... like, 'I wipe my ass with fifties' kind of bitchy... spare T.V.? That's not cool), the old N64 (Goldeneye 4 lyfe) and the DVD player I had in my old room. I took them all and put the on a table in the basement in the intended playroom, which doesn't really see a whole lot of usage, except by me and my brother's drunk friends, who seem to sleep in my bed more than I do... I came downstairs this morning to get some clothes and I saw two guys in my bed. It was really bizarre, especially when one woke up and saw me, and then again when I realized I had no idea who the other guy was.
So that was my weekend, minus seeing Die Hard 4, which was phenomenal. The elevator scene was the balls, and Mary Elizabeth Winstead is a fine-lookin' lady. Then there was that tunnel scene... And the jet scene... And the alleyway scene.
So go see it. It was super schwey.
Do it for the children
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