Archive for February, 2008
prestige »
Thursday, February 14th, 2008
The house is small, at least compared to the six-bedroom monstrosity yesterday. The yard is green in patches, but generally unkempt. The siding is stained and chipped. The windows are hazy and the gutter on the front edge of the roof hangs low on the left. The sidewalk around the back is cracked and uneven. Dave and I exit the truck.
I tuck my shirt into my shorts and roll up the sleeves to my thermal undershirt. We already had a move this morning that was as quick as it was easy. There was no tip, but those moves always leave me in a better mood. This one doesn’t feel the same. (more…)
rider rides again »
Thursday, February 14th, 2008
Though the smart, poignant, and generally heart warming title is brilliant, it may have better served you to add “knight” before it. It would have clarified things and you may have thought to ignore this post. But you’re here now and that’s what counts… Don’t think I can’t see you rolling for the door on your cheap office chair… be advised there are Blackwater patrols outside. They’re not known for their discretion or forethought… Hey! Welcome back. Stop crying; it’s difficult to read through the tears.
Anyway, as most of you at least the cooler twos of you know, the terribly preposterous lump of 80s sweetness that was Knight Rider has been revamped and remixed into a two-hour television event this Sunday. Some of you may find this troublesome. What will they think of next, you ask? A Family Matters mini-series? To that, I say, don’t give them any ideas.
I don’t know for sure if I’ll be viewing in the grease monkey meets bio-technician meets Iraq war protestor smorgasbord, but I can’t especially when I close my eyes and turn off my brain think of any reason why it won’t be awesome. The car, with help of imaginary nanotechnology, can shape and color shift. Why? When it’s already the Marisa Miller of automobiles? Because it’s Knight-effin’-Rider. Duh.
Need more than that? The Hoff is slated to return in character for a guest spot. K.I.T.T.’s voice is the one and only Gay Perry, Val Kilmer. They though completely unnecessary even attempted to toss a plot at this thing.
Sarah Graimen (Russo) is a 24-year old Ph.D. candidate at Stanford University, following in her genius father Charles’ (Davison) footsteps. But when men attempt to abduct her, Sarah receives a mysterious call from KITT warning her that he’s a creation of Charles’, who also invented the first KITT 25 years ago — and that her father is in serious danger.Sarah and KITT track down her best friend from childhood, Mike Tracer (Bruening), a 23-year-old ex-Army Ranger, whom Sarah hasn’t seen since he left home at 18. Having served in Iraq, Mike is now jaded and lost and initially resistant. Eventually he agrees to help Sarah and the two set out to find Charles and to discover who’s behind the attempt to procure KITT. [via]
Now, I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself he says after getting way ahead of himself. I was just as hyped for American Gladiator’s return to the small screen and that left me unfulfilled like a whiff of a fart made of sighs. It’s only different by probably two challenges, a pool, and Hulk Hogan hosting. Meh.
There are a few reasons this one could fall short of high expectations because things watched as a child are far more interesting than when seen later; examples: labyrinth, goonies, or clowns (which, even then, were sort of depressing) The original slated voice of this pimped-out K.I.T.T. was Will Arnett. The 80s sucked; reliving them could be like choking down skunked Miller Lite. There’s a character listed as “hot girl” that is only hot if your contact with ladies is limited to cafeteria workers and elderly nurses two “g”s? really?. Oh, and any of the reasons above, if you read them differently it’s called perspective, people.
Watching Knight Rider made testosterone-deficient yuppies and pale office helpers feel like men again. I can only guess, the made-for-t.v.-movie version won’t have a similar effect.
i liked mel gibson better… »
Thursday, February 14th, 2008
…in the role of Maverick. labeling John McCain a maverick is like calling Joe Lieberman a liberal or me an intellectual. The soon-to-be Republican nominee fingers crossed Huck is proving his maverickness by politely bending over to lick the figurative asses of the Republican elite and their loyal read: blind followers read: majority of america, or working poor, or white trash. This man, who rides in the ironic “straight talk express,” had the chance yesterday to stick to his long-standing personal beliefs.
This maverick showed his lone dissension, intellect, and willingness to take a stand apart from his co-consituents by ignoring his own oppositions and voting against an interrogation ban. A ban that doesn’t outlaw torture how would we defeat the terrorists without it?, but shortens the leash to torture-like activities.
I’ll ignore, for the moment, that torture has been proven relatively ineffective in bringing to light any useful and reliable information. I’ll ignore, for the moment, that we used to set an example by emphatically proclaiming how we, as a nation, didn’t torture. I’ll ignore, for the moment, the fact that this will be immediately vetoed by the “decider” because he’s so smart in all things. I’ll ignore, for the moment, that we’re apparently led by a bunch of people that could lose in concentration to the guy from Memento.
Still, as a matter of political ridiculousness, how can a presidential nominee, ineptly labeled a “maverick,” tow the party line so easily without anyone tossing a red flag? Clinton would never do such a thing she doesn’t have personal opinions that aren’t first reviewed and approved by her husband, personal interest groups, and financiers and Obama would be too confident in his support to defy his own beliefs whatever those might be; besides hope of course; the guy has a shitton of hope. This maverick has changed his views according to what state he was flying over, not even which one he landed in.
Mel Gibson did a much better job. He rescued Jodi Foster from some not-so-real Indians, entered a massive poker tournament and won by willing himself the only winning card, found the money after it was stolen and still had time for a dip in a whirlpool. Now that’s some in-your-face shenanigans. To give McCain credit though, he has a relatively attractive, blogging daughter and an under-educated base. Plus, Mel Gibson’s batshit crazy. He’ll be fine.
infantile exploitation »
Wednesday, February 13th, 2008
Note: here’s another long one. I have a lot going on. Obviously.
As everyone knows, unprepared women, when given the option, joyously prance into paranoid facilities to avoid being mothers. That’s why movies are made. To prove to those teen, low-income, and unfit mothers that they should bear unwanted, malnourished offspring. If a server at a diner, married to an asshole, who befriends Matlock, can do it, so can you. If you’re a smart-allicky sixteen-year-old or an upwardly-mobile television producer living in her sister’s guest house, all the better. Unfortunately, not everyone watches movies. They are an extravagance that the poor and uneducated can ill afford.
Thank goodness for Prolife across America notice their logotype, which seems to be written by one of the infants in their photos, and how “prolife” became a word somehow. Without their diligent use of high school graphic designers and donated money, fetuses would be dropping like flies so to speak. The message has to get out there, no matter how pathetically aligned and displayed. There are too many liberal shitpiles to easily alter the constitution of these united states, but giant billboarded adorable will hopefully sway opinion.
Alright, enough of that bullshit. I don’t have much to say about abortion, but strongly believe it is a woman’s right to choose if she is fit and ready to bear a child odd how those that want less government seem so keen on personal freedom destruction. You would assume because we’re in the midwest and thus surrounded by rurals who read the Bible for lessons in biology the pro-life crowd holds a lot of power. However, take a drive out to middleofnowheresville, minnesota, and a different picture is painted. All along the way are photos of babies plastered to billboards giving tagline-lessons in procreation.
Thanks to thosecrazyminnesotans, I was reminded of these grade-school-level art projects that dot the nothingness that is 35N between M.S.P. and Duluth. Her summation of that board in the campaign is pretty spot-on, but there are quite a few more in the archives.
This one simultaneously goes over the head of anti-science folk and caters to the substantially large “I have a dad and a grandma” crowd. Now if only they could have created a less idiotic sentence for the baby to “say.” Maybe “I have my daddy’s eyes!” Or “I got my daddy’s eyes!” Both work, unless you graduated from high school in a ceremony planned by your mom. Then you have to really drive it home by combining both.
Everyone knows you’re not a person until you can be properly identified and not an adult until the government can illegally monitor your phone conversations. At least everyone who spends their Thursday nights staring at the television screen watching C.S.I. with a beer after a long day at the muffler shop. That’s why this one is so perfect and creepy.
I like how the babies in this one have settled for adoption. Those lucky bastards probably a double meaning, but I’ll let it go don’t seem appreciative. The one on the right even looks sort of “ho hum” about the whole thing. “Cool, I’m alive and all, but couldn’t I have real parents?” [rests head on hand and stares off into space]
The same theme that T.C.M. hit on with hers is in this one “what” suddenly being a statement, but has the twist of morbid guilt. A solid combination. It has the added bonus of providing a deadline for you to abort painlessly. Why did they pick such an unattractively posed almost frightening child? And that hair? Try avoiding a head-on collision staring at that young mug. I dare you. I don’t dare you; that’s unsafe; even with miles of cleared field in every direction around these things.
I feel odd saying it, but the excitement on the kid’s face in this one makes me sort of want to flick him in the forehead. What is he looking so forward to? Does he share my fascination with double-wides? Is he that big a fan of middle management if he makes it that high up the economic ladder? Or is it because he has two doting parents off camera that tried for months to have him before his mother’s monthly visitor was finally late? P.L.A.A.’s target market doesn’t seem to share that situation. To be completely honest, the kid scares me a bit; too damien-esque, I think.
Here we have a third-grader learning to use Photoshop in order to prove a point ha. It’s also aggressive as hell. What happened to the soft sell approach, P.L.A.A.? Do you think yelling at soon-to-be-knocked-up preteens is the best route? …Ok, Okay… lay off a second. Easy. Fine, but it didn’t stop them from smoking, is all I mean. You know better than I… Because your evolutionary timeline is easily summed up before the midnight mass, that’s why! Can I finish?… thank you…
This one would be more effective if I didn’t picture a head twice as big as a body floating in embryonic goo with a Joker-like grin on its face. I think they’re also missing a comma somewhere, but it’s already proven that the pro-life crowd is grammatically retarded and completely infatuated with exclamation points.
So the Durex broke? No worries, we’ve got you covered. The kid looks just as confused as his daddy did when you told him you were keeping the baby. Before he ducked out of town to go back to his wife, that is. I guess “Some miracles come with a second job and a tiny apartment in the dank corner of the city!” wouldn’t fit.
in case you forgot »
Wednesday, February 13th, 2008
I figure I’ve probably mentioned it I dig redundancy, but I have to reiterate that I work in a department where the male population hovers around one depending on how good the episode of “project runway” was the night before. I point this out because that day of obligation is upon us. Were the ratio less saturated with estrogen, I can’t imagine a meeting would be interrupted to discuss how I was celebrating the forthcoming bullshittiest of bullshit holidays. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what happened on Monday afternoon.
In order to set the stage, you have to know two things:
1. This was the first weekly status meeting among my subset the three of us labeled “creative services” of the department in about two weeks. I was out with the cough still going strong this morn, thanks for the last one and the one before was reduced to a project listing. It was somewhat important to organize thoughts and determine priorities.
2. I have an aversion to the fourteenth of February like most have to sidewalk vomit. In a lot of ways, I’d rather be single on this annual shitstink than in the throws of romantic bliss. Anything and everything that is stereotypically done on this occasion should be done spontaneously throughout the year. Because we’re too stupid or selfish for such things, everyone has to rush into proving their devotion by doing everything everyone else is doing.
It’s impossible to get dinner reservations, assorted gift-oriented business see: diamonds advertisements flood the television, radio, and, I guess, facebook referenced in the image above, and executives of Hallmark piss paper money. I have my doubts that St. Valentine was the patron saint of guilty obligation and gold necklaces, but the celebration doesn’t seem to point to anything else and we both know I’m not looking that up. Valentine’s is a celebration of love like chronic bronchitis is a celebration of the miraculous respiratory system.
Anyway, here we are on Monday you know, if time-travel were theoretically possible, and I’m trying not to break out in coughing fit while running through my list I say list, but really it was two things of projects currently on my figurative plate. We’re discussing some sponsored graphic when suddenly, with as much warning as a stroke, there’s a conversational cliff dive toward tomorrow’s planned happenings.
I relay my intentions which are none of your business, but picture tickets for a cruise or a receipt for Sprewell’s yacht tucked into a fortune cookie, or something equally romantic and they are immediately laughed at. They in celebration of a manufactured retail holiday are, apparently, sub-par the standards of my two immediate coworkers. This set me on the defensive. My powers of romance are globally renowned as being a model for wooing and these two weren’t much appreciating them.
One suggested, on the cheap, a coupon book. You know the type: one free massage, one free candle lit dinner, one free “you’re right” card (who needs compromise when your lady’s content in her rightness), et al. When I responded discouragingly “I may be from W.I., but even I have my limits on cheese.”, there was a shift toward more monetarily lofty suggestions. These included an appetizer/cocktail tour, an expensive I think the word they used was “special;” same diff dinner, a trivia night at Brits, and others.
While I sat there, I got more and more annoyed with every superficial stab into the delicate face of romanticism and pretty much tuned out. That is, until they brought the lumberjack-styled chainsaw out for romanticism’s gory decapitation. At one point, noticing my disinterested posture and involuntary scowl, one of them said, “I know it sucks, but you just have to do it.” If that’s not a commentary on the state of materialistic emotional displays, I don’t know what is.
The rest of the day was a wash because I couldn’t stop my head from churning over how the hell we’ve reached this point it happens more than I’d like to admit. I couldn’t really stop myself I’m not known for my self-control from commenting on the ridiculous aside to my meeting when I got to girlfriend’s house just after work.
Proving she’s probably the coolest person alive I say “probably” because, if the Right is right (ha), Jesus would have to be an infant about now; it took him forty years to figure out his shit last time and they’re planning on a quick end to things; basically, she’s only trumped by the return of the Son of God, s’all I mean she laughed with me at some of the suggestions and genuinely seemed to find the situation just as retarded as I did.
The decision to be with her was justified, reaffirmed, and made stronger simultaneously. There’s no way I could, even with a $50-per-plate dinner and a few hundred dollars in diamonds or gold, illustrate how “the shiz” she is on one day or night, considering I still have to work despite Thursday’s “importance”. Maybe I’m wrong, but I might as well avoid the crowds and keep her smiling, content, and entertained the other 365 days leap year, yo this year. Well… at least the vast majority of them.