Monday, June 29, 2009
Transformers 2: Transformerser
Like apparently everyone else in America, I saw Transformers 2 this weekend. It was every bit as wonderfully terrible as I expected. I mean, there were jive talking robots. Jive talking robots! I'm pretty sure an NAACP Image award is right around the corner.
In case you aren't familiar with the Transformers, let me assure you that their title pretty much sums them up: they transform from one thing to another. One of the things is usually a robot. But the other thing can be all kinds of things, from a car to a boombox (boomboxes still being very current products, let me assure you) to an insect. Usually the other thing isn't something truly complicated like, say, the Mayo Clinic, but they have been known to stretch their limits a bit. As I recall there were even Transformers that turned into dinosaurs, which was pretty much childhood nirvana, although come to think of it candy-filled dinosaurs would have been even better. I'll be waiting for your call, Hasbro.
Anyway, the plot of Transformers 2 is not much more complicated than the plot of the toys, although it features a lot more of Megan Fox jiggling than your average playroom. Her entrance in the movie is accomplished bent over a motorcycle with ass and boob on full display, by the way. At my screening, the audience applauded. There's also a lot of Shia Labeouf, or the less talented half of Even Stevens, as I will always remember him. Somewhere Christy Carlson Romano is crying her eyes out.
There's also some business with pyramids and Egypt, although no mummies, which seems to me like a waste of some perfectly good Egypt. Oh, and the whole thing is two and a half hours long, so you might want to bring an extra seat cushion. I'm pretty sure Transformers 2 gave me piles.
Like apparently everyone else in America, I saw Transformers 2 this weekend. It was every bit as wonderfully terrible as I expected. I mean, there were jive talking robots. Jive talking robots! I'm pretty sure an NAACP Image award is right around the corner.
In case you aren't familiar with the Transformers, let me assure you that their title pretty much sums them up: they transform from one thing to another. One of the things is usually a robot. But the other thing can be all kinds of things, from a car to a boombox (boomboxes still being very current products, let me assure you) to an insect. Usually the other thing isn't something truly complicated like, say, the Mayo Clinic, but they have been known to stretch their limits a bit. As I recall there were even Transformers that turned into dinosaurs, which was pretty much childhood nirvana, although come to think of it candy-filled dinosaurs would have been even better. I'll be waiting for your call, Hasbro.
Anyway, the plot of Transformers 2 is not much more complicated than the plot of the toys, although it features a lot more of Megan Fox jiggling than your average playroom. Her entrance in the movie is accomplished bent over a motorcycle with ass and boob on full display, by the way. At my screening, the audience applauded. There's also a lot of Shia Labeouf, or the less talented half of Even Stevens, as I will always remember him. Somewhere Christy Carlson Romano is crying her eyes out.
There's also some business with pyramids and Egypt, although no mummies, which seems to me like a waste of some perfectly good Egypt. Oh, and the whole thing is two and a half hours long, so you might want to bring an extra seat cushion. I'm pretty sure Transformers 2 gave me piles.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Celebrity Death Match
How strange is it that Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson died on the same day? In a way, you really have to feel bad for Farrah that she lost all of her headlines when someone more famous died unexpectedly mere hours later. Also because she had anal cancer, which from what I understand is not exactly the bee's knees. But regardless, it's sad to see both of them go. The Thriller video was one of the formative experiences of my young life; I recall hiding in the kitchen at my grandmother's house in Wisconsin because I was too scared to watch the zombies. (I later learned to appreciate the savage beauty of the zombie dance.) And without the Charlie's Angels series, there never would have been the Charlie's Angels movies, and the world would never have learned just how intense Drew Barrymore's speech impediment really is. Film can be an incredible boon to science, can't you see?
I've put my Off the Wall LP on heavy rotation in honor of both of them. Child molestation charges and questionable hair trends aside, they both gave us a lot of joy.
How strange is it that Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson died on the same day? In a way, you really have to feel bad for Farrah that she lost all of her headlines when someone more famous died unexpectedly mere hours later. Also because she had anal cancer, which from what I understand is not exactly the bee's knees. But regardless, it's sad to see both of them go. The Thriller video was one of the formative experiences of my young life; I recall hiding in the kitchen at my grandmother's house in Wisconsin because I was too scared to watch the zombies. (I later learned to appreciate the savage beauty of the zombie dance.) And without the Charlie's Angels series, there never would have been the Charlie's Angels movies, and the world would never have learned just how intense Drew Barrymore's speech impediment really is. Film can be an incredible boon to science, can't you see?
I've put my Off the Wall LP on heavy rotation in honor of both of them. Child molestation charges and questionable hair trends aside, they both gave us a lot of joy.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Unspeakable Thoughts
I finally saw Slumdog Millionaire and I must admit to thinking that it was possibly not the greatest movie ever made in the history of man. I understand that this makes me a terrible person and quite possibly racist (although for the record, I loved Bend it Like Beckham), but it is was it is. Maybe it's because I watched it in two installments instead of all the way through (and the DVD skipped a little bit during the second part). Maybe it's because I saw it on the small screen instead of the big one, although I usually prefer movies that way because I can turn on the subtitles and pee without missing anything. But I was not exactly blown away.
I mean, to begin with, I find it just a tad bit coincidental that all of the game show questions relate to formative moments in the main character's life presented in chronological order. It's like Kirstie Alley being on Family Feud and having the first survey be about Shelley Long and the second one about pie. And then the whole relationship between the game show guy and his lady friend is essentially just premised on the fact that they grew up together, which in my case would mean I'm "destined" to be with my redneck next door neighbor Tanya. Also there was never really any explanation of why the older brother was a dick, and then unreasonably protective, and then a dick again, and they unreasonably protective again. It's what I imagine working for Rosie O'Donnell must be like. And they made the game show host such a cartoonish villain I half expected him to twirl a fine handlebar moustache.
Okay, so now I feel bad. It wasn't at all a horrible movie. It was nicely shot, the acting wasn't bad, and lots of parts were plenty cute. It just made me cranky, that's all. And in that regard it is in excellent company, along with my mother and the cast of TV's Becker.
I finally saw Slumdog Millionaire and I must admit to thinking that it was possibly not the greatest movie ever made in the history of man. I understand that this makes me a terrible person and quite possibly racist (although for the record, I loved Bend it Like Beckham), but it is was it is. Maybe it's because I watched it in two installments instead of all the way through (and the DVD skipped a little bit during the second part). Maybe it's because I saw it on the small screen instead of the big one, although I usually prefer movies that way because I can turn on the subtitles and pee without missing anything. But I was not exactly blown away.
I mean, to begin with, I find it just a tad bit coincidental that all of the game show questions relate to formative moments in the main character's life presented in chronological order. It's like Kirstie Alley being on Family Feud and having the first survey be about Shelley Long and the second one about pie. And then the whole relationship between the game show guy and his lady friend is essentially just premised on the fact that they grew up together, which in my case would mean I'm "destined" to be with my redneck next door neighbor Tanya. Also there was never really any explanation of why the older brother was a dick, and then unreasonably protective, and then a dick again, and they unreasonably protective again. It's what I imagine working for Rosie O'Donnell must be like. And they made the game show host such a cartoonish villain I half expected him to twirl a fine handlebar moustache.
Okay, so now I feel bad. It wasn't at all a horrible movie. It was nicely shot, the acting wasn't bad, and lots of parts were plenty cute. It just made me cranky, that's all. And in that regard it is in excellent company, along with my mother and the cast of TV's Becker.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Wired
Well, my attempts to be as cool as my parents have yet again failed.
Yesterday I decided on a whim that I would upgrade my internet to wireless. I carefully studied the characteristics of my wireless card and modem, realized that I had no idea what I was doing, and instead asked one of my friends to figure it all out for me. With a recommendation in hand, I then headed to a certain big box electronics store that shall not be named, but is pretty much the only store fitting that description that has not (yet) gone out of business. This was a mistake.
You see, it turns out that unless a router costs more than, say, your house, this store is not all that interested in selling it to you. They did not have what I wanted in stock. More than that even, they did not even seem to understand what I was talking about when I approached them with serial number in hand. Blank expressions like what Jessica Simpson might look like taking the GRE. Except surlier. Like what Sandra Bernhard might look like imagining Jessica Simpson taking the GRE.
So I've thrown in the towel. Comcast is coming over next Tuesday to install it for me. I'll pay $150 and lose four hours of my life making that happen. But damn it, I'll be wire free.
Well, my attempts to be as cool as my parents have yet again failed.
Yesterday I decided on a whim that I would upgrade my internet to wireless. I carefully studied the characteristics of my wireless card and modem, realized that I had no idea what I was doing, and instead asked one of my friends to figure it all out for me. With a recommendation in hand, I then headed to a certain big box electronics store that shall not be named, but is pretty much the only store fitting that description that has not (yet) gone out of business. This was a mistake.
You see, it turns out that unless a router costs more than, say, your house, this store is not all that interested in selling it to you. They did not have what I wanted in stock. More than that even, they did not even seem to understand what I was talking about when I approached them with serial number in hand. Blank expressions like what Jessica Simpson might look like taking the GRE. Except surlier. Like what Sandra Bernhard might look like imagining Jessica Simpson taking the GRE.
So I've thrown in the towel. Comcast is coming over next Tuesday to install it for me. I'll pay $150 and lose four hours of my life making that happen. But damn it, I'll be wire free.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Big Day
So I had all kinds of plans to sleep until noon today, and yet I woke up at 8:45. I would like to be able to blame the impossibly loud trash men who attack my alley twice a week or the fighting/fucking couple upstairs, but the fact is that I woke up of natural causes. One minute I was dreaming that I was being forced to perform my role in my high school musical at the age of 31 (not so weird now that it's actually happened) and the next minute I was trying to find my glasses and lamenting the oddly vertical state of my hair. It's a sad world when a man can't self induce a coma. Next I'll lose my ability to waste hours playing Brickbreaker on my Blackberry.
Anyway, now I'm trying to come up with a plan for all this extra time. Some time outdoors is definitely in order, as the recent lack of sunlight has left me looking like an extra from the beloved Eddie Murphy action comedy Walt Disney's The Haunted Mansion. I also think I will go to the grocery store, as eating has always been sort of a hobby for me, especially as compared to the alternative of dying. Oh, and a trip to the dry cleaners is definitely in store, unless I want to end up wearing gym clothes and that 1970s pantsuit I wore to my law school prom to work this week. I am, as you know, a little bit of a fashion plate.
So I had all kinds of plans to sleep until noon today, and yet I woke up at 8:45. I would like to be able to blame the impossibly loud trash men who attack my alley twice a week or the fighting/fucking couple upstairs, but the fact is that I woke up of natural causes. One minute I was dreaming that I was being forced to perform my role in my high school musical at the age of 31 (not so weird now that it's actually happened) and the next minute I was trying to find my glasses and lamenting the oddly vertical state of my hair. It's a sad world when a man can't self induce a coma. Next I'll lose my ability to waste hours playing Brickbreaker on my Blackberry.
Anyway, now I'm trying to come up with a plan for all this extra time. Some time outdoors is definitely in order, as the recent lack of sunlight has left me looking like an extra from the beloved Eddie Murphy action comedy Walt Disney's The Haunted Mansion. I also think I will go to the grocery store, as eating has always been sort of a hobby for me, especially as compared to the alternative of dying. Oh, and a trip to the dry cleaners is definitely in store, unless I want to end up wearing gym clothes and that 1970s pantsuit I wore to my law school prom to work this week. I am, as you know, a little bit of a fashion plate.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Action Jackson
Sometimes when I really don't know what to write about on here I think about simply reproducing, without comment, the movie reviews I wrote for my college newspaper between 1998 and 2000. I mean, who wouldn't love to read my various witty remarks about the smash motion picture hit Down to You starring Freddie Prinze, Jr. and Julia Stiles? Or my award winning take on the Julia Roberts Oscar vehicle Erin Brockovich? Well, to be fair, a drunk girl at a SAE party did once tell me my reviews were "stupid," but I'm pretty sure she would have said the same thing to Pauline Kael.
But regardless, I have so far resisted the urge. Instead I'm going to write about my day, which was fairly uninteresting. I got caught twirling around on the heels of my very slippery shoes in the elevator bank, which was somewhat humiliating. I made a number of work-related calls to individuals who will never in a million years call me back. I thought I saw Nelson Mandela on the train, but it turned out to just be some guy. A fairly typical day.
Tonight I'm going to watch Top Chef Masters, which I am still trying to figure out if I might like, probably read a little, and go to bed. Why no one has yet made an action comedy based on my life I cannot tell you.
Sometimes when I really don't know what to write about on here I think about simply reproducing, without comment, the movie reviews I wrote for my college newspaper between 1998 and 2000. I mean, who wouldn't love to read my various witty remarks about the smash motion picture hit Down to You starring Freddie Prinze, Jr. and Julia Stiles? Or my award winning take on the Julia Roberts Oscar vehicle Erin Brockovich? Well, to be fair, a drunk girl at a SAE party did once tell me my reviews were "stupid," but I'm pretty sure she would have said the same thing to Pauline Kael.
But regardless, I have so far resisted the urge. Instead I'm going to write about my day, which was fairly uninteresting. I got caught twirling around on the heels of my very slippery shoes in the elevator bank, which was somewhat humiliating. I made a number of work-related calls to individuals who will never in a million years call me back. I thought I saw Nelson Mandela on the train, but it turned out to just be some guy. A fairly typical day.
Tonight I'm going to watch Top Chef Masters, which I am still trying to figure out if I might like, probably read a little, and go to bed. Why no one has yet made an action comedy based on my life I cannot tell you.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Miller Light T-Shirts and Other Great Victories
Did I mention that I won a Miller Light T-Shirt at a bar in Wicker Park on Thursday night? To secure this great victory, I had to actually drink a Miller Light. Oddly enough, there were surprisingly few people in the bar who had risen to this challenge. They even threw in a Miller Light sweatband for good measure. And so now every time I sweat I will think of Milwaukee's finest. It's the majority of what comes out of my pores anyway.
Saturday night I drank red wine without even the promise of some sort of related apparel. It was a lovely night on a friend's roof deck, which started out not so lovely when my friend did not hear her buzzer or my phone calls for nearly half an hour. I am fairly certain that her neighbors believed me to be some sort of wine-bearing prowler and called the police. They somehow also did not enjoy it when I attempted to tap out an S.O.S. on my friend's intercom.
And yesterday for my victory lap I had several vodka drinks in a beer garden where they inexplicably played 90s b sides (yes, there was Ace of Bass, thanks for asking) for hours on end. I also ate a shame-sized portion of garlic cheese fries, which I believe may come to replace religion in the coming century. Now that is what I call a weekend.
Did I mention that I won a Miller Light T-Shirt at a bar in Wicker Park on Thursday night? To secure this great victory, I had to actually drink a Miller Light. Oddly enough, there were surprisingly few people in the bar who had risen to this challenge. They even threw in a Miller Light sweatband for good measure. And so now every time I sweat I will think of Milwaukee's finest. It's the majority of what comes out of my pores anyway.
Saturday night I drank red wine without even the promise of some sort of related apparel. It was a lovely night on a friend's roof deck, which started out not so lovely when my friend did not hear her buzzer or my phone calls for nearly half an hour. I am fairly certain that her neighbors believed me to be some sort of wine-bearing prowler and called the police. They somehow also did not enjoy it when I attempted to tap out an S.O.S. on my friend's intercom.
And yesterday for my victory lap I had several vodka drinks in a beer garden where they inexplicably played 90s b sides (yes, there was Ace of Bass, thanks for asking) for hours on end. I also ate a shame-sized portion of garlic cheese fries, which I believe may come to replace religion in the coming century. Now that is what I call a weekend.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Helpful Suggestions for My Personal Trainer
As I think I've mentioned here before, about a year and a half ago I succumbed to the (professional) advances of a personal trainer. I had just joined a new gym and was unable to resist the high pressure sales tactics that of course followed the "free" introductory session. A tiny future pageant contestant was looking at me with imploring eyes and telling me all my fitness goals were so incredibly reachable. I just couldn't bear to break her heart, even if she did insist ridiculously that she was going to make me look like one of the guys from 300.
She left the gym, of course, and since I was under contract I ended up with my current trainer, who is very nice but possibly the worst small talker in the whole world. He needs to understand that just asking a person questions is not small talk, it is an interview. And he is no Morley Safer. Someone needs to tell him that when a person says "they're not really sure" what they're doing on the weekend, that means they don't really want to apprise you of all of their whereabouts for the next 48 hours, and that no amount of cross examination will elicit answers. He needs to hear that politics and personal training should never mix, and that it is very unlikely that I will be able to explain the subprime crisis to him while doing squat thrusts.
And yet I will never be able to say any of this to his face. So instead I just answer him as passive aggressively as humanly possible. At least my gag reflex is getting a good workout.
As I think I've mentioned here before, about a year and a half ago I succumbed to the (professional) advances of a personal trainer. I had just joined a new gym and was unable to resist the high pressure sales tactics that of course followed the "free" introductory session. A tiny future pageant contestant was looking at me with imploring eyes and telling me all my fitness goals were so incredibly reachable. I just couldn't bear to break her heart, even if she did insist ridiculously that she was going to make me look like one of the guys from 300.
She left the gym, of course, and since I was under contract I ended up with my current trainer, who is very nice but possibly the worst small talker in the whole world. He needs to understand that just asking a person questions is not small talk, it is an interview. And he is no Morley Safer. Someone needs to tell him that when a person says "they're not really sure" what they're doing on the weekend, that means they don't really want to apprise you of all of their whereabouts for the next 48 hours, and that no amount of cross examination will elicit answers. He needs to hear that politics and personal training should never mix, and that it is very unlikely that I will be able to explain the subprime crisis to him while doing squat thrusts.
And yet I will never be able to say any of this to his face. So instead I just answer him as passive aggressively as humanly possible. At least my gag reflex is getting a good workout.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Highs and Lows
High: Plane to New York is on time.
Low: Plane seems to be populated by participants in an obesity convention.
High: Am accidentally given partner office to work in, and it is bigger than my house.
Low: No tape flags! I mean, come on, who doesn't love tape flags?!
High: Hotel is cute and has about 300 cable channels, including some I've never even heard of.
Low: Hotel's wake up call service gets confused and calls at 6:30 instead of 7:30.
High: Free continental breakfast!
Low: Someone has cut all the bagels into quarter slices. And the milk is warm.
High: Friends call to meet for dinner on the Lower East Side.
Low: I realize the Lower East Side is about as far from Midtown as Wrigleyville is from France.
High: Deposition ends early.
Low: All flights are delayed about two hours anyway.
High: Order Baconator at Wendy's.
Low: Somehow accidentally leave counter without said Baconator and end up dining on small fries and Diet Coke.
High: Flight attendant has ridiculously pronounced New York accent.
Low: Accent does not remain enjoyable for the duration of fifteen-plane wait to take off.
High: Make it back to Chicago safely.
Low: I cannot be sure that I will never have to leave here again.
High: Plane to New York is on time.
Low: Plane seems to be populated by participants in an obesity convention.
High: Am accidentally given partner office to work in, and it is bigger than my house.
Low: No tape flags! I mean, come on, who doesn't love tape flags?!
High: Hotel is cute and has about 300 cable channels, including some I've never even heard of.
Low: Hotel's wake up call service gets confused and calls at 6:30 instead of 7:30.
High: Free continental breakfast!
Low: Someone has cut all the bagels into quarter slices. And the milk is warm.
High: Friends call to meet for dinner on the Lower East Side.
Low: I realize the Lower East Side is about as far from Midtown as Wrigleyville is from France.
High: Deposition ends early.
Low: All flights are delayed about two hours anyway.
High: Order Baconator at Wendy's.
Low: Somehow accidentally leave counter without said Baconator and end up dining on small fries and Diet Coke.
High: Flight attendant has ridiculously pronounced New York accent.
Low: Accent does not remain enjoyable for the duration of fifteen-plane wait to take off.
High: Make it back to Chicago safely.
Low: I cannot be sure that I will never have to leave here again.
Sunday, June 07, 2009
Excuses, Excuses
So it's been four days since my last post for a variety of reasons. The primary reason is probably that I've been really busy with work, which not only saps my time but depletes my supply of blogworthy stories. Somehow posts about my kickass doc review skills or that hilarious deponent who really didn't want to answer any of my questions just don't seem that entertaining. Beyond that, though, I've just sort of lacked the inclination. Could it be that I no longer feel every minute detail of my life is worth dissecting at length for the entire world (or, more properly, about 25 people a day) to read? I mean, encounters with weirdos on the train and awkward social situations that mere months ago would have prompted a six paragraph entry are now going entirely unmemorialized.
I think the truth of it is that I'm just tired. And as a result rather inarticulate. When you spend as much of your work time as I do coming up with exciting new ways to tell people to fuck off, I think your creativity gets sapped somewhat.
But I am going to New York for work tomorrow, and if that doesn't inspire some grand stories of rampaging 15-year-olds and Asian women on airplanes, I don't know what's wrong with the world. And maybe I'll have an insane concierge or something, who knows?
So it's been four days since my last post for a variety of reasons. The primary reason is probably that I've been really busy with work, which not only saps my time but depletes my supply of blogworthy stories. Somehow posts about my kickass doc review skills or that hilarious deponent who really didn't want to answer any of my questions just don't seem that entertaining. Beyond that, though, I've just sort of lacked the inclination. Could it be that I no longer feel every minute detail of my life is worth dissecting at length for the entire world (or, more properly, about 25 people a day) to read? I mean, encounters with weirdos on the train and awkward social situations that mere months ago would have prompted a six paragraph entry are now going entirely unmemorialized.
I think the truth of it is that I'm just tired. And as a result rather inarticulate. When you spend as much of your work time as I do coming up with exciting new ways to tell people to fuck off, I think your creativity gets sapped somewhat.
But I am going to New York for work tomorrow, and if that doesn't inspire some grand stories of rampaging 15-year-olds and Asian women on airplanes, I don't know what's wrong with the world. And maybe I'll have an insane concierge or something, who knows?
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
All About the Benjamin
So I saw half of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button last night. I started out with the intention of seeing all of it, but found my energy flagging just past the 1:30 mark. You see, while Benjamin may be aging in reverse, I'm doing it the old fashioned way, which means I rarely stay up past 11:30 on a weeknight. On the plus side, I wasn't born looking like a sharpei puppy. At least not that I'm aware of. There is suspiciously little documentary evidence of my infanthood.
But anyway, so far I like it pretty well. I could do without the frame story (which can be said of almost any frame story), but Cate Blanchett is rather a delight and this is one of the first times Brad Pitt has seemed plausible to me as a human being. Of course the cinematography is rather something, although it likely loses some of its effect due to my inability to figure out how to adjust the color and brightness settings on my television. And they somehow managed to keep Tilda Swinton from wearing a trash bag for her role, so that's good.
Now the trick is to figure out when I can get the second part in, what with my full social calendar and all. Perhaps I should hire an assistant to watch it for me and provide a detailed synopsis. Craigslist post of the day, here I come.
So I saw half of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button last night. I started out with the intention of seeing all of it, but found my energy flagging just past the 1:30 mark. You see, while Benjamin may be aging in reverse, I'm doing it the old fashioned way, which means I rarely stay up past 11:30 on a weeknight. On the plus side, I wasn't born looking like a sharpei puppy. At least not that I'm aware of. There is suspiciously little documentary evidence of my infanthood.
But anyway, so far I like it pretty well. I could do without the frame story (which can be said of almost any frame story), but Cate Blanchett is rather a delight and this is one of the first times Brad Pitt has seemed plausible to me as a human being. Of course the cinematography is rather something, although it likely loses some of its effect due to my inability to figure out how to adjust the color and brightness settings on my television. And they somehow managed to keep Tilda Swinton from wearing a trash bag for her role, so that's good.
Now the trick is to figure out when I can get the second part in, what with my full social calendar and all. Perhaps I should hire an assistant to watch it for me and provide a detailed synopsis. Craigslist post of the day, here I come.
