Since everyone else is already starting their stupid, self-deceiving bullshit already, I figured I'd go ahead and get mine out of the way. Y'know, a little initiative. Take the bull by the horns.
...Also, I have nothing else to write about.
Rem's List Of Things That Should, But Probably Won't, Get Done In 2009
-Stop getting romantically and/or sexually involved with self-absorbed, polygamy-obsessed, psychotic bitches (let's face it, this has the potential to be the biggest lie of the whole list).
-Find a different way to pay the bills.
-Slap someone in the face at current job should I be accepted to a new one.
-Stop being a chump and finish my stupid novel.
-Berate various publishers with obscene phone calls until said novel is published, thereby ending my dependence on slave wa--uhm, traditional employment.
-Start getting romantically and/or sexually involved with responsible, upstanding, morally rich womehahahahahaHAHAHAHA!!!!
-Get a blow job on my birthday. Yeah, what, I said it.
-Step outside domicile for purposes other than work, procuring foodstuffs or smoking a cigarette.
-Don't get federal drug charges brought up against me.
-Don't violate probation from last set of federal drug charges.
-Stop poking fun at instances and decisions that have/will have serious negative effects on my life.
-Kick myself in the junk should I actually accomplish the previous resolution.
-Take yoga classes to prepare for previous two resolutions.
-Start talking to my friends so that they hear more about my life from me than they do from my blog.
-Stop being a jackass and getting to bed on time.
-Get a better profile picture.
-Break my dependency on technology.
-Buy a gun.
Well, on that delightful and not at all disconcerting note, I'm going to bed. Sleep tight!
Friday, December 19, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
I have no delusions about my station in life. While I might be a wise-crackin', beer-guzzlin', skirt-chasin' rock 'n' roll anti-hero while I'm out in the world, as soon as I punch my time card, I'm essentially nothing more than a geek. Worse still, an underpaid geek. No danger, no sexual mysteriousness, just a brain who's one pocket protector away from inspiring the next Revenge Of The Nerds movie.
At least, that's what I would've said prior to two hours ago. Now, I'm an odd mix of stoked and disappointed that my attempts at portraying the mild-mannered technology guru have not only failed, but failed dismally. What brought about this epiphany, you might ask? Well, it all happened at around forty-five minutes before I was supposed to clock out. I'd just finished helping a couple pick out a decent machine, when all of a sudden I hear my name over the intercom, asking me to make my merry way up to register six for "customer service."
First of all, customer service is usually a euphemism for "placatory acts that would insult a retarded chimp's intelligence." I've got no patience for this bullshit under normal circumstances, but like I said, it was the last stretch of my shift, so I was only mildly irritated that I was going to spend the remainder of the evening cowtowing to some upper-middle class soccer mom whose shoes were probably, in their own native footwear dialect, crying out in agony as they struggled to support her gargantuan ass.
I get up there and, to my surprise, it isn't a soccer mom waiting, nor is it one of the tools that hide their Craftsman logo under their management-issue name badges. It's Laura, probably one of a small handful of people I'd warn ahead of time if I ever got so fed up with my job that I decided to firebomb the place, and an average looking woman, mid-thirties probably, looking absolutely humiliated. As soon as I get close enough to ask what's up, Laura tenses up a bit. "This lady locked her keys in her car, and uh..." She pauses, in retrospect, obviously trying to figure out how to string the next few words together diplomatically. "Do you think you could help her out somehow?"
Now, for those of you who are between-the-lines illiterate, let me translate. My manager was asking me to break into this chick's car. Folks, this is Wal-Mart. The employees aren't exactly from the finer walks of life. There's a few who fake it really well, but for the most part, we've all fucked something up really, really badly at some point in our lives. That's why we work at Wal-Mart. So, to review, out of all the screw-ups working this infernal occupation, the pissed off alcoholics, the toothless, recovering meth addicts, who does management call when they need a service rendered that, ninety-nine percent of the time, is illegal to perform in the first place?
I was offended.
I was appalled.
I was outraged.
...Ah, who am I kiddin'? I was halfway to the car, still laughing my ass off at the whole situation, before it even occurred to me that someone could've had a less than favorable reaction to the assumption that they had the slightest idea how to bust into a car. Unfortunately, the best substitute slim jim I could muster out of what Wal-Mart carries was a bunch gardening wires taped together. While I managed to snake them into the door and nudge the lock a little, they were too flimsy to push it all the way. Then, I notice a guy standing nearby and staring at me. Not missing a beat, I look at him and say "Hey, you wouldn't happen to have any tools, would you?" As luck would have it, he had two things that coupled into fairly decent locksmith implements: a crowbar and a bucket handle.
Five minutes later, a family was on their way home, and my resume was a lot more interesting than it'd been forty-five minutes earlier.
Triple A, eat your heart out!
At least, that's what I would've said prior to two hours ago. Now, I'm an odd mix of stoked and disappointed that my attempts at portraying the mild-mannered technology guru have not only failed, but failed dismally. What brought about this epiphany, you might ask? Well, it all happened at around forty-five minutes before I was supposed to clock out. I'd just finished helping a couple pick out a decent machine, when all of a sudden I hear my name over the intercom, asking me to make my merry way up to register six for "customer service."
First of all, customer service is usually a euphemism for "placatory acts that would insult a retarded chimp's intelligence." I've got no patience for this bullshit under normal circumstances, but like I said, it was the last stretch of my shift, so I was only mildly irritated that I was going to spend the remainder of the evening cowtowing to some upper-middle class soccer mom whose shoes were probably, in their own native footwear dialect, crying out in agony as they struggled to support her gargantuan ass.
I get up there and, to my surprise, it isn't a soccer mom waiting, nor is it one of the tools that hide their Craftsman logo under their management-issue name badges. It's Laura, probably one of a small handful of people I'd warn ahead of time if I ever got so fed up with my job that I decided to firebomb the place, and an average looking woman, mid-thirties probably, looking absolutely humiliated. As soon as I get close enough to ask what's up, Laura tenses up a bit. "This lady locked her keys in her car, and uh..." She pauses, in retrospect, obviously trying to figure out how to string the next few words together diplomatically. "Do you think you could help her out somehow?"
Now, for those of you who are between-the-lines illiterate, let me translate. My manager was asking me to break into this chick's car. Folks, this is Wal-Mart. The employees aren't exactly from the finer walks of life. There's a few who fake it really well, but for the most part, we've all fucked something up really, really badly at some point in our lives. That's why we work at Wal-Mart. So, to review, out of all the screw-ups working this infernal occupation, the pissed off alcoholics, the toothless, recovering meth addicts, who does management call when they need a service rendered that, ninety-nine percent of the time, is illegal to perform in the first place?
I was offended.
I was appalled.
I was outraged.
...Ah, who am I kiddin'? I was halfway to the car, still laughing my ass off at the whole situation, before it even occurred to me that someone could've had a less than favorable reaction to the assumption that they had the slightest idea how to bust into a car. Unfortunately, the best substitute slim jim I could muster out of what Wal-Mart carries was a bunch gardening wires taped together. While I managed to snake them into the door and nudge the lock a little, they were too flimsy to push it all the way. Then, I notice a guy standing nearby and staring at me. Not missing a beat, I look at him and say "Hey, you wouldn't happen to have any tools, would you?" As luck would have it, he had two things that coupled into fairly decent locksmith implements: a crowbar and a bucket handle.
Five minutes later, a family was on their way home, and my resume was a lot more interesting than it'd been forty-five minutes earlier.
Triple A, eat your heart out!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Oh, for fuck's sake.
Alright, I'm gonna' tell you a story. A man's family is murdered in a park. The man is an ex-cop/soldier/FBI Agent/everything shy of a ninja, so he decides he's going to kill everybody with a mob-affiliated accent. He loads up on ammo and opens up with the mayhem.
Now imagine how this would translate to a movie trailer. Now imagine how said trailer would translate to a full-length motion picture. Take a moment and try to guess how it's all going to turn out. If you said "Oscar", please remove yourself from the gene pool.
What the fuck were you expecting, people? Walking out of the theater with your panties in a knot because The Punisher: War Zone wasn't some epic cinematic masterpiece is like getting pissed off because the lesbian porn flick you rented last weekend didn't have enough backstory. Honestly, if I read one more review that criticizes that one of the single most overplayed cliches, a man fighting crime because his family was killed, didn't translate to celluloid gold, I'm going to put on a flak jacket and start killing people! Look, this is The Punisher we're talking about. There are no moral quandaries, no lesson to be taken from the story, no fuzzy feelings to be had after all is said and done. He's an anti-hero. He does things that heroes don't do. He blows peoples' brains out of the back of their heads (gloriously, I might add), and then goes home to sleep so he can do it again the next night.
This ain't Schindler's List material, folks. Leave Lexi Alexander alone if you're not going to give her credit for making a fun, if completely illogical and over-the-top, film.
Now imagine how this would translate to a movie trailer. Now imagine how said trailer would translate to a full-length motion picture. Take a moment and try to guess how it's all going to turn out. If you said "Oscar", please remove yourself from the gene pool.
What the fuck were you expecting, people? Walking out of the theater with your panties in a knot because The Punisher: War Zone wasn't some epic cinematic masterpiece is like getting pissed off because the lesbian porn flick you rented last weekend didn't have enough backstory. Honestly, if I read one more review that criticizes that one of the single most overplayed cliches, a man fighting crime because his family was killed, didn't translate to celluloid gold, I'm going to put on a flak jacket and start killing people! Look, this is The Punisher we're talking about. There are no moral quandaries, no lesson to be taken from the story, no fuzzy feelings to be had after all is said and done. He's an anti-hero. He does things that heroes don't do. He blows peoples' brains out of the back of their heads (gloriously, I might add), and then goes home to sleep so he can do it again the next night.
This ain't Schindler's List material, folks. Leave Lexi Alexander alone if you're not going to give her credit for making a fun, if completely illogical and over-the-top, film.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Yes, I WOULD like cheese with my comic-to-cinema translaton.
This summer, for the first time in a very, very long time, Hollywood impressed me. Those of you who know me have at least a minimal understanding of just how hard this is to accomplish. Contrary to what a passing glance might make you think, I hold myself to ridiculously high standards in terms of what I contribute to something once I've decided that a contritbution is merited, and those standards aren't exclusively applicable to me. If you're going to do something, do it right, or run away before I get there to see the finished product of your half-assed labor.
After a virtual cornucopia of failures and disappointments (yes, I'm talking to you, Brian Singer. You too, Ang Lee), 2008 finally gave the geek fringe what they wanted: quality portrayals of their favorite characters. I'm still floored every time I watch Robert Downey, Jr., Edward Norton and Christian Bale bring characters to life in a way that the X-Men trilogy and 2003's The Hulk had more or less made me think was impossible. Downey, Jr., Norton and Bale will go down in history as the men who brought something to comic book films that was, until now, sorely lacking. After watching Ray Stevenson portray Frank Castle, Marvel's flawlessly definitive anti-hero, I honestly can't say whether or not he's continuing in that capacity or starting us back down the path to cinematic mediocrity.
Before I say anything else, I want to make one thing perfectly clear. I enjoyed The Punisher: War Zone. Despite walking into the theater with a negative attitude due to unfavorable reviews, I genuinely liked the movie. To say that Stevenson portrays Castle with unprecedented accuracy would be a gross understatement. I enjoyed Tom Jane's portrayal, but all too often Jane's performance robbed the audience of one critical element of The Punisher's dynamic. Frank Castle was not a man driven by revenge, but rather a man on a mission to do just what his moniker implies. Stevenson doesn't come off as some broody ex-soldier shooting people because he misses his wife and children. He shows the audience a bloodthirsty mass murderer trying to right the wrongs he sees in the judicial system.
Not to be ignored, the film was graced with a terrific supporting cast, whose names I won't bother looking up because, frankly, I doubt their names will be any more familiar to anyone else as they were to me. As a matter of fact, the only face I recognized from start to finish was Wayne Knight of Seinfeld fame. Oddly enough though, not recognizing the vast majority of the performers actually lent a certain credence to the story. "Hey, that's not (insert famous actor's name here), that's Jigsaw's crazy, cannibalistic brother, Looney Bin Jim!" Each unknown brought something of their own to the film, and while their own contributions didn't always mesh perfectly, Stevenson's talent was by no stretch of the imagination unparalleled.
If I had to pick one thing about the experience that I found a bit off-putting, it was the excessive violence. It isn't that War Zone struck me as being too reliant on firefights and gory death scenes, but simply that at times it went a bit over the top. Whether this was intentional of simply a matter of the film's dismally low budget I can't say. What I can say is that I would imagine it takes more than a few rounds from an automatic pistol to make someone's head literally explode. Granted, I don't have a great deal of experience with handguns, and what little I do have was gained while firing at empty aluminum cans, but the logic is sound. Three bullets does not equal cranial detonation.
Despite the B-movie feel of a few random deaths, there's a great deal more positive things to say about Punisher: War Zone than there are negative. An appropriate (if not always convincing) cast, solid camera work, well directed combat scenes and more than a few elements derived from the source material are all present. While they don't come together in such a way that you walk into the theater lobby feeling as if your life will never be the same, they do form a coherent, enjoyable genre piece that will put a smile on your face, assuming you enjoy the genre itself and don't walk in with impossible expectations. Easily worth the price of admission, and a great way to kill two hours if you've nothing better to do.
After a virtual cornucopia of failures and disappointments (yes, I'm talking to you, Brian Singer. You too, Ang Lee), 2008 finally gave the geek fringe what they wanted: quality portrayals of their favorite characters. I'm still floored every time I watch Robert Downey, Jr., Edward Norton and Christian Bale bring characters to life in a way that the X-Men trilogy and 2003's The Hulk had more or less made me think was impossible. Downey, Jr., Norton and Bale will go down in history as the men who brought something to comic book films that was, until now, sorely lacking. After watching Ray Stevenson portray Frank Castle, Marvel's flawlessly definitive anti-hero, I honestly can't say whether or not he's continuing in that capacity or starting us back down the path to cinematic mediocrity.
Before I say anything else, I want to make one thing perfectly clear. I enjoyed The Punisher: War Zone. Despite walking into the theater with a negative attitude due to unfavorable reviews, I genuinely liked the movie. To say that Stevenson portrays Castle with unprecedented accuracy would be a gross understatement. I enjoyed Tom Jane's portrayal, but all too often Jane's performance robbed the audience of one critical element of The Punisher's dynamic. Frank Castle was not a man driven by revenge, but rather a man on a mission to do just what his moniker implies. Stevenson doesn't come off as some broody ex-soldier shooting people because he misses his wife and children. He shows the audience a bloodthirsty mass murderer trying to right the wrongs he sees in the judicial system.
Not to be ignored, the film was graced with a terrific supporting cast, whose names I won't bother looking up because, frankly, I doubt their names will be any more familiar to anyone else as they were to me. As a matter of fact, the only face I recognized from start to finish was Wayne Knight of Seinfeld fame. Oddly enough though, not recognizing the vast majority of the performers actually lent a certain credence to the story. "Hey, that's not (insert famous actor's name here), that's Jigsaw's crazy, cannibalistic brother, Looney Bin Jim!" Each unknown brought something of their own to the film, and while their own contributions didn't always mesh perfectly, Stevenson's talent was by no stretch of the imagination unparalleled.
If I had to pick one thing about the experience that I found a bit off-putting, it was the excessive violence. It isn't that War Zone struck me as being too reliant on firefights and gory death scenes, but simply that at times it went a bit over the top. Whether this was intentional of simply a matter of the film's dismally low budget I can't say. What I can say is that I would imagine it takes more than a few rounds from an automatic pistol to make someone's head literally explode. Granted, I don't have a great deal of experience with handguns, and what little I do have was gained while firing at empty aluminum cans, but the logic is sound. Three bullets does not equal cranial detonation.
Despite the B-movie feel of a few random deaths, there's a great deal more positive things to say about Punisher: War Zone than there are negative. An appropriate (if not always convincing) cast, solid camera work, well directed combat scenes and more than a few elements derived from the source material are all present. While they don't come together in such a way that you walk into the theater lobby feeling as if your life will never be the same, they do form a coherent, enjoyable genre piece that will put a smile on your face, assuming you enjoy the genre itself and don't walk in with impossible expectations. Easily worth the price of admission, and a great way to kill two hours if you've nothing better to do.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Disappointment
One of the most interesting things about true paranoia is that it rarely affects those of substandard intelligence. Victims think that everyone's gunning to out think them. This, of course, goes hand in hand with the assumption that everyone's as smart as they are.
Imagine how bittersweet it must be for all those poor bastards who've wasted all that time jumping at their own shadows when they realize how stupid the general population is.
Imagine how bittersweet it must be for all those poor bastards who've wasted all that time jumping at their own shadows when they realize how stupid the general population is.
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