tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1321434834832072542024-03-06T00:14:16.483-08:00Bagels & Soxdon't think of them as spoilers-- think of me as your mystical guide through the world of movieskelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.comBlogger52125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-52988595449227763522013-09-24T19:08:00.000-07:002013-09-25T10:45:20.173-07:00Tuesday Throwdown: Coraline vs. ParanormanIt's a double-header, ladies and gentlemen! For my inaugural post I thought I'd do movies that I know inside and out, both formidable films in their own right:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVq3Ib0EnXYBmEMKHBpUTFLY0RR9mn78-EMcifqDLQW0uaF_WUYSkqsXTXj5Z9Uv5B7BnWu7tRkZWiOSQQMjVz0fJF36RqKMpEuU9FWdzcMKOYn_12a2FRIt9YG1l2EsxONd-d8yxcDqqV/s1600/coranorman+posters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVq3Ib0EnXYBmEMKHBpUTFLY0RR9mn78-EMcifqDLQW0uaF_WUYSkqsXTXj5Z9Uv5B7BnWu7tRkZWiOSQQMjVz0fJF36RqKMpEuU9FWdzcMKOYn_12a2FRIt9YG1l2EsxONd-d8yxcDqqV/s320/coranorman+posters.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>CORALINE (2008)</b></span> vs. <span style="font-size: large;"><b>PARANORMAN (2012)</b></span></div>
<br />
Before we get into the real meat of the showdown here, a little bit of backstory on our contenders:<br />
<br />
<b>CORALINE:</b> Based on the Neil Gaiman book of the same name, wherein a bored little girl moves to a drippy new town and a drippier apartment building with her drippy botanist parents and some weird, obnoxious neighbors, and discovers a door in one room of her building that leads to a fantastical alternate version of her life and all the people in it, where everything is made just for her and everyone wants to entertain and love her, and everything is orchestrated by the chipper and mysterious Other Mother. This can't possibly go wrong. <br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>PARANORMAN:</b> A lonely little boy who can talk to ghosts discovers that he might be the only one who can keep an evil witch's 300-year-old curse from obliterating his tourist-trap town (which, incidentally, is famous for the colonial-era hanging of the same witch), and discovers some ugly secrets about human nature. <br />
<br />
Even outside of the obvious (both psychedelic stop-motion features produced by Laika), they're pretty similar, as<br />
<ul>
<li>they're both about kids who feel pretty lonely and neglected, who have this other kinda sweet well-meaning kid following them around all the time trying to be pals</li>
<li>they both have well-written, well-designed villains that are ACTUALLY SCARY</li>
<li>they both have a compelling cast of secondary and tertiary characters, several of which (on both counts) do not actually exist </li>
<li>I saw both of them at least four times in theaters (6 for Paranorman), and bought both of them the day they were released on DVD </li>
<li>they're both NOT movies to take your small children to (seriously, every time I saw either at the theater, there were harried parents scrambling out of the theater clutching their screaming toddlers. PARENTS: "ANIMATED" DOES NOT AUTOMATICALLY MEAN "KID'S MOVIE". DO SOME RESEARCH IF YOU WANT YOUR KIDS TO STAY NIGHTMARE-FREE. JESUS.)</li>
<li>They're both completely gorgeous. Feasts for the eyes. </li>
</ul>
But, even with this pretty long list of similarities, the movies themselves are wholly different animals, and they're raring to get this fight started, so without further ado, <i>LET'S GET READY TO RUMBLE!</i><br />
<br />
This TUESDAY THROWDOWN will consist of THREE ROUNDS:<br />
ROUND 1: THE HEROES<br />
ROUND 2: THE VILLAINS <br />
ROUND 3: SUPPORTING CAST<br />
and the FINAL SHOWDOWN, where the scores will be tallied, other factors taken into consideration, and a WINNER decided!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>ROUND 1: THE HEROES</b></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRaSyvQXLD8M2erjK1Su6mCwqddSxp5xn5QqnuLtOJrjxtZPflkM__8f2W3IVICsI3_Xl4hrNmr7vvKNx15TvM99hwu01dt5VF4dvKvYupEV-WwlrreZrzTCAOSUrnfzncG3zEC0-RSoYL/s1600/coranorman+characters.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRaSyvQXLD8M2erjK1Su6mCwqddSxp5xn5QqnuLtOJrjxtZPflkM__8f2W3IVICsI3_Xl4hrNmr7vvKNx15TvM99hwu01dt5VF4dvKvYupEV-WwlrreZrzTCAOSUrnfzncG3zEC0-RSoYL/s320/coranorman+characters.png" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
<b>CORALINE</b>'s titular character, Coraline Jones, is. . . well, kind of a shit, at least for most of the movie. Which is sort of great, because as we all know, kids around her age (I think she's around 11, the same age as Norman? It's never stated in-movie) are typically pretty self-absorbed, and she's being thrown into a whole new place, with new people she doesn't like and this weird slug-hugging kid who won't leave her alone, and her parents can't seem to be bothered with her. On the other hand, she's pretty unnecessarily mean to Wybie (whose full name, which he seems pretty embarrassed about, is "Wyborn"; she uses this to mock him <i>just moments after meeting him</i>, sneering, "Oh, I definitely heard someone calling you, <i>Why-Were-You-Born</i>"), and the refreshing novelty of seeing a realistically bratty kid in the role of protagonist doesn't really stop you from wanting to smack her, or cringing because you personally remember acting like that and it's something you'd really rather not think about.<br />
<br />
She does get better, though, once she starts wising up (surprisingly fast) to the Other Mother's schemes, and she steps up when her parents are taken. Turns out when Coraline isn't putting all of her energy into raising her parents' blood pressure and making the neighborhood kids cry, she's actually pretty smart (dare I say wily?), and in the end she outwits the Other Mother, gets her parents back, sets free all the souls of previous kids taken in by the OthMoth (the souls, by the way, being the first indicator that this wasn't a kid's movie, with permanently horrified faces etched in a silent scream and of course the buttons for eyes), AND gets a new cat out of the deal while learning a pretty standard lesson about Appreciating What You Have and Being Careful What You Wish For. <br />
<br />
Points Breakdown:<br />
+1 for realism (bratty, smart, but also not afraid to admit when she's scared)<br />
+2 for smarts<br />
+3 for buckling down and getting shit done when she needed to<br />
+1 for being from PONTIAC MICHIGAN REPRESENT<br />
-1 because <i>oh my God Coraline the kid hates his name and you don't even know him what is your PROBLEM</i><br />
Coraline's Score: 7<br />
<br />
<b>PARANORMAN</b>'s titular character, Norman Babcock, is a kid you really just want to hug. He's a sweet kid and a good kid, but not so <i>impossibly </i>good as to practically be a saint like most child protagonists. Which is, can I say? SO NICE. With a family that's well past the point of tactfulness about his "gifts" (the bit at the beginning where his dad, upon being told that Grandma wants the heat turned up, screams "HOW MANY TIMES DO WE HAVE TO TELL YOU, NORMAN? YOUR GRANDMOTHER IS <i>DEAD</i>!" in his son's face comes to mind), a dedicated school bully and a nonexistent social life, you'd expect him to be written as kind of an insufferable little asshole. But he isn't! He's lonely and mopey, sure, but he's also smart, and he cares about people's feelings, and he'd honestly rather not have this whole <i>seeing-dead-people-and-also-animals thing </i>to deal with if it's going to get him shit and cause everybody around him trouble.<br />
<br />
When we meet Norman he's starting to see some weird stuff around town and at school (objectively weirder than the stuff he usually sees), and this creepy uncle he hasn't ever been allowed to see following him around and then dying and showing up <i>as a ghost</i> in the boys' room at school, yelling about <i>destinies </i>and <i>the witch's curse</i> and how <i>Norman's the only one who can stop it</i>, and any other kid would probably freak out and run, but Norman figures, <i>hey, makes as much sense as anything else in my life</i>, and he decides to go with it. He's terrified, but he doesn't ask for help, or expect it. He just gets shit done. And at the end he teaches himself a really nice (and pretty different from most "kids' movie" lessons) lesson about how it's okay, and easy, to be angry and hate people for treating you like crap, but there are <i>good people and good things in the world too, and it's important to remember that.</i><br />
<br />
Also, did I mention you just want to hug him? Because really.<br />
<br />
Points Breakdown:<br />
+1 for realism (sarcastic, mopey, but smart and endearing, and also not afraid to admit when he's scared)<br />
+2 for not letting being scared stop him from doing what knows he has to do <br />
+1 for being a sweetie<br />
+3 for not only sympathizing with the big bad, but teaching her and himself a huge lesson<br />
+1 for dealing with all the crap heaped on him and still being a well-adjusted, pretty optimistic individual<br />
Norman's Score: 8<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>ROUND 2: THE VILLAINS</b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRd26pj_c_RJcjDsQxGkkW42MXrFZBMnx8gkpIjslx369YtFqnVmhgpwfUY5Hg20FT6sFHhAtYcDMNkz1rFjZfL9xSDjBA8-1MgjJA81scnwIbZTWX-vu2Hg8Rv3R90YnGxYXYB8mUztrM/s1600/coranorman+villains.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRd26pj_c_RJcjDsQxGkkW42MXrFZBMnx8gkpIjslx369YtFqnVmhgpwfUY5Hg20FT6sFHhAtYcDMNkz1rFjZfL9xSDjBA8-1MgjJA81scnwIbZTWX-vu2Hg8Rv3R90YnGxYXYB8mUztrM/s320/coranorman+villains.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
(Let it be known that I am a sucker for a sympathetic villain and good character design, and that both of these movies <i>fully deliver</i>.)<br />
<br />
<b>CORALINE: </b><i>The "Other Mother" (or, the Beldam)</i><br />
The Other Mother, unlike <b>PARANORMAN</b>'s Agatha, is straight-up evil. Sure, you maybe feel a <i>little</i> bad for her, but that kinda gets balanced out by her being cunning, manipulative, and overall downright terrifying (and by that scene about 2/3s of the way through where you see the remains of her other victims, mentioned above). You're not sure where she comes from, who she is, if she's ever really existed, or if she even really exists now. Throughout the movie she warps from a spot-on replica of Coraline's sweet (if snippy) Real Mother, to a cracked, hunched, furious Black Widow; all of her illusions and affections are a means to an end (ie, Coraline coming to stay with the Other Mother forever, symbolized by sewing the iconic buttons into her eyes), and when her schemes begin unraveling, her ugly starts coming out. Not used to the competition, she flails farther and farther out in an attempt to win Coraline <i>one way or the other. </i><br />
<br />
Points Breakdown:<br />
+3 for being legit terrifying<br />
+1 for ambiguity (you're never sure if she wants Coraline as a companion or as, say, dinner)<br />
+1 for being a formidable female villain with smarts and cunning<br />
+2 for excellent character design/theme<br />
Other Mother's Score: 7<br />
<br />
<b>PARANORMAN:</b> <i>Agatha Prenderghast (Aggie for short, or, The Witch)</i><br />
I am also a sucker for a well done kid villain, and Aggie is probably my favorite movie villain ever. She's just so good. She gets a full origin story in the span of about thirty seconds, is sympathetic, and is also pretty damn scary. This is the first time in 300 years that she's gotten to wreak the mayhem and vengeance she promised her small town when they hanged her for "consorting with the dead" (oh, by the way? Agatha is related to Norman through his mom's side of the family, and shares aforementioned creepy uncle's last name), and she isn't going back in the ground without a fight. She spends most of the movie in the sky, as a swirling green-and-purple cloud in the shape of a stereotypical witch's face, but in the climax of the movie, she is a commanding presence: snarling, feral, hurling lightning at Norman and throwing him into trees, cracking the ground open and rearranging the world, splitting in twos and threes as she tries not to listen to him. Aggie, though <i>only eleven</i>, is a formidable villain in her own right. And even better, she gets redeemed at the end.<br />
<br />
Points Breakdown:<br />
+3 for, again, <i>legit scary</i><br />
+3 for <i>impeccable </i>character design<br />
+1 for being a commanding female villain with smarts and cunning (plus a bonus point for only being eleven years old)<br />
+2 for good backstory<br />
+2 for kicking everybody's asses all over the place and <i>actually making her aggressors the villains </i>(the zombies, not discussed)<br />
+1 for character redemption/moral<br />
Aggie's Score: 13<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">ROUND THREE: SUPPORTING CAST</span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDL3kTAR82ZLl5zYOuguyTu8wL94qtH4HOdXG29xAMJ2eYB9WsmsKDH0mCqIIakSkpmhI68mt3xrcl-ieqqVETUGJYCc7hpJnQpmtCTS89o_aPc2MEzLV-onh-Kn7aGjGLlZqdB7KcluxM/s1600/coranorman+friends.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDL3kTAR82ZLl5zYOuguyTu8wL94qtH4HOdXG29xAMJ2eYB9WsmsKDH0mCqIIakSkpmhI68mt3xrcl-ieqqVETUGJYCc7hpJnQpmtCTS89o_aPc2MEzLV-onh-Kn7aGjGLlZqdB7KcluxM/s320/coranorman+friends.png" width="320" /></a></div>
(The supporting casts are fairly big on both counts and this is already a pretty long post, so this section will be [relatively] shorter.)<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>CORALINE: Supporting Cast</b></div>
<b>WYBIE:</b> To be frank, Real Wybie kinda sucks. He's super into slugs and thinks Coraline is a witch when he first meets her (immediately after running her down on his motorbike while wearing an awful skull mask<i> in the rain</i>), and also doesn't believe Coraline when she tells him about the Other Mother and that whole business. Other Wybie is pretty cool though, as he talks a lot less (read: not at all) and tries to save her despite being created, and slowly destroyed, by the Other Mother.<br />
<b>CORALINE'S PARENTS:</b> Coraline's Real Parents are pretty boring, at least by kid standards, but they are realistic parents. Her mom's moods range from "a little stressed but trying to compromise" to "oh my God I'm going to <i>throw this kid out the window</i>", and her dad is pretty chill. You find yourself liking them a lot. And it doesn't hurt that Coraline's dad is the guy from They Might Be Giants.<br />
<b>MS. SPINK and MS. FORCIBLE: </b>SO COOL! Both versions! Real Spink and Forcible are retired actresses with a thing for Scottish terriers (living and dead) and showing each other up; Other Spink and Other Forcible are sassy young performers quoting Shakespeare as they leap through the air. Not much development, but they're fun. At least, until they turn into big screeching piles of saltwater taffy. Still! Fun!<br />
<b>MR. BOBINSKY:</b> For a retired circus performer who spends his days teaching mice to play the TV, Mr B is surprisingly creepy! (/<i>sarcasm</i>) Other Mr. B is also creepy but at least wears a suit instead of a dirty singlet. He would get a pass if he didn't turn into <i>an actual pile of rats</i> later. (Not a kid's movie!)<br />
<b>THE CAT:</b> Sarcastic cryptic cat voiced by Keith David! What else can I say. A+.<br />
<br />
8 points for the supporting cast of <b>CORALINE</b>, some of whom suck but most of whom are great, or at least interesting to look at!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>PARANORMAN: Supporting Cast</b></div>
<b>NEIL:</b> Neil is great. He gets beat up probably just as much about Norman, but it doesn't really bug him. He sticks up for Norman a couple times, and stands by him when no one else will! He's a remarkably secure little boy who's pretty happy with his place in life; there's a scene where Norman is asking Neil why people pick on him so much, and Neil responds matter-of-factly, almost <i>happily</i>, with, "Because I'm fat, and my allergies make my eyes leak, and I sweat when I walk too fast, and I have a lunchbox with a kitten on it. Oh! And I have irritable bowl syndrome. I guess there's a whole bunch of stuff!" Neil is great.<br />
<b>MITCH and COURTNEY:</b> Neil's older brother Mitch might be stupid, but he's sweet, and he's probably the only movie brother I've ever seen who is a jock AND treats his uncool little brother well. He's also gay, and not defined by it, so that's cool! Norman's older sister Courtney is, unfortunately, a dick, but she does love her little brother and steps up when it's needed.<br />
<b>NORMAN'S PARENTS:</b> I like Mr. and Mrs. Babcock. They're stereotypically different (Norman's dad is kind of a "just your average guy" "man's man" kinda dad, while his mom is flaky and a vague sort of hippie) but it's believable, and while they both want the best for their kid, they want different things, and they're both kind of at their wit's end as to what to do about it. <br />
<b>NORMAN'S GRANDMA:</b> The first ghost Norman talks to in the movie, Norman's paternal grandmother doesn't resent Norman for keeping her from the afterlife because he needs her. She gives him strength! And she's voiced by the lovely Elaine Stritch, queen of my heart.<br />
<br />
10 points for the supporting cast of <b>PARANORMAN</b>, all of whom are great with no exceptions.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">THE FINAL SHOWDOWN</span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Score So Far: CORALINE, 22; PARANORMAN, 31</div>
<br />
<b>BOTH MOVIES</b> RECEIVE:<br />
1 point for being visually stunning<br />
2 points for not underestimating kids, and for treating them like real people<br />
1 point for having rich casts of characters<br />
<br />
<b>CORALINE </b>GETS:<br />
2 points for inventing Wybie, who was not in the book, and receiving Neil Gaiman's blessing<br />
-1 point for making up bad Michigander slang<br />
<br />
<b>PARANORMAN </b>GETS:<br />
1 point for a breakdancing bully<br />
1 point for John Goodman (Norman's creepy uncle)<br />
1 point for a lightning-themed villain<br />
1 point because <i>I just love this movie so so so much</i> <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>FINAL TALLY: CORALINE, 27; PARANORMAN, 38 </b></span><br />
<i>Paranorman </i>obviously wins, but don't let that stop you from seeing <i>Coraline </i>if you haven't already! They're both great movies, and both totally worth seeing.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I hope you all enjoyed my first post as an official movie blogger! I'll see you all Friday, when I break down <i>Pretty In Pink</i> from the perspective of James Spader.kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-41405966743239030862013-09-15T22:39:00.004-07:002013-09-17T18:08:39.522-07:00An Exciting and Extremely Important AnnouncementHello readers!<br />
<br />
First off, I'd like to apologize for the sad state of my blog for the last, oh, two years. I've run out of stories, can't use my tablet until I get my own computer again, and just haven't really felt like I've had anything terribly interesting to say in general.<br />
<br />
However that is all about to change, kind of, as I've decided to turn B&S into a MOVIE [/pop culturey things when it suits] BLOG!<br />
<br />
(I mean it was like 70% of the way there before anyway, but now it's official.)<br />
<br />
I want to keep writing, and the one big topic I find I never run out of things to say about is pop culture. This is good news because it means that:<br />
<br />
-I will be updating more! Starting next week, I will be updating Tuesdays and Fridays. If I get into the swing of it soon enough I'll add a third day and probably some specials.<br />
-I will never run out of topics, as my thirst for pop culture is as vast and boundless as the black reaches of space<br />
<br />
So readers, if there are still any of you left, I will see you on Tuesday with a fresh new review (and possibly a new blog title and layout WE SHALL SEE).<br />
<br />
Sleep well and DON'T BREATHE UNTILNEXT TUESDAY! kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-84523947994318178702013-01-26T10:23:00.000-08:002013-01-26T13:43:47.876-08:00HANSEL AND GRETEL: WITCH HUNTERS (or, Bodices Do Not Qualify As Activewear)<b>WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD! </b>(sort of? I mean like 70% of the plot is in the title)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9mCKheEoZU-oLAvPTTXB9sigoi_SOyQVX9V5IV9huOy2h4gqoI88N6zEh-ZSAmEcPB_G8KYWKUHOoYXwkRR6BgMaoPVg2br179EQbFfdjp3C3tC0_VjcH4EiQzkPjiA0WQjjCqi-me2zY/s1600/HANSEL+AND+GRETEL,+WITCH+HUNTERS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9mCKheEoZU-oLAvPTTXB9sigoi_SOyQVX9V5IV9huOy2h4gqoI88N6zEh-ZSAmEcPB_G8KYWKUHOoYXwkRR6BgMaoPVg2br179EQbFfdjp3C3tC0_VjcH4EiQzkPjiA0WQjjCqi-me2zY/s320/HANSEL+AND+GRETEL,+WITCH+HUNTERS.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<br />
<b>HANSEL AND GRETEL: WITCH HUNTERS</b> was, as I put it to Steve and Jon while we walked out of the theater, "<i>a delightfully stupid romp</i>". It's a silly mindless action flick that isn't terribly period- or region-faithful, but let's be honest here, you didn't buy a ticket for <b>HANSEL AND GRETEL: WITCH HUNTERS</b> because you wanted a movie for the ages. No, you wanted to watch Hawkeye shoot witches in the face with a comically oversized gun, wear leather pants, and say the word "fuck" a lot; because someone told you there was surprise!nudity; and because you want to watch Jean Grey (Famke Janssen, also of <a href="http://bagelsnsox.blogspot.com/2010/07/angry-ghost-husbands-are-why-famke.html" target="_blank"><i>Abusive Ghost Husbands</i></a> fame) explode heads with magic. Which are all fine, fine things, to be sure, and perfectly acceptable reasons to go see a movie.<br />
<br />
There were a lot of things I liked about <b>HANSEL AND GRETEL: WITCH HUNTERS</b>. I liked that everyone at least <i>attempted </i>some sort of general European accent, except for the title characters. I liked that Hansel's <i>entire weakness</i> is that he has diabetes, and has to <i>stop kicking ass </i>every couple hours to give himself a shot. I liked the costume design, and that the witches all looked very unique, but not silly or cartoony. I liked the overwhelming Tarantino-ness (although let it be said that I am not a Tarantino fan) of all the kills (because apparently zapping someone with magic isn't ridiculous enough on its own, people need to <i>actually explode</i> like water balloons filled with red corn syrup). I liked the sheer cheesiness and half-assedness of the obligatory romantic plotline. For most of the movie I was barking out laughter and flapping my hands incredulously like a child. Generally speaking, I enjoyed this movie to the point of screamy, breathless giggles. <br />
<br />
The only thing I didn't like, funnily enough, was Gretel. Or, you know, approximately 50% of <b>HANSEL AND GRETEL: WITCH HUNTERS.</b><br />
<br />
Okay, so I wasn't exactly expecting anything thoughtful or progressive from this movie, and I wasn't expecting to see <i>"FEMINISM!"</i> spelled out in fireworks in every frame. This is a movie that is <b><i>ENTIRELY ABOUT SHOOTING WITCHES WITH A BIG STUPID GUN UNTIL THEY LITERALLY EXPLODE</i></b>, it's not exactly a thinking man's film. I mean, the director didn't even care enough to give the role of Hansel to Jensen Ackles (Dean Winchester on <i>Supernatural</i>, who no offense to Jeremy Renner would have done way better and had way more fun with it).<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mdcdt0UsiT1r4noq0o3_500.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mdcdt0UsiT1r4noq0o3_500.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">He's still pretty upset about it.</span></div>
<br />
But I at least expected Gretel to be able to hold her own. Apparently I was asking too much.<br />
<br />
The first half hour (or so) gives you the standard fairytale; Hansel and Gretel get left in the woods (for some reason), come across a candy house, eat the candy house (because they're stupid kids who have never been told about paedophiles), get trapped by a witch, and commit their first witchicide by shoving the witch into her own oven. Then we get a very stylish and speedy montage explaining that <b>HANSEL AND GRETEL</b> have been totally bad-ass <b>WITCH HUNTERS</b> ever since. <br />
<br />
We are then introduced to a nice little village full of Fachwerkhausen (which I squealed at, because I love Fachwerkhausen). The mayor of said village announces that he has hired <b>HANSEL AND GRETEL: WITCH HUNTERS</b> to hunt witches and bring back kidnapped children, not necessarily in that order. The sheriff, understandably, takes issue with this, and Gretel asserts her dominance.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://25.media.tumblr.com/e99748d34a99b9d51a93a362148a2e64/tumblr_mh8dakcLf01rdi6uao3_250.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://25.media.tumblr.com/e99748d34a99b9d51a93a362148a2e64/tumblr_mh8dakcLf01rdi6uao3_250.gif" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">With her face.</span></div>
<br />
Basically, we are given to understand that it's <b>HANSEL <u><i>AND</i></u><i> </i>GRETEL: WITCH HUNTERS</b>, and not, say, <b>HANSEL AND HIS LOVELY ASSISTANT GRETEL: WITCH HUNTERS</b>, or even perhaps <b>HANSEL: WITCH HUNTER AND HIS ANNOYING KID SISTER GRETEL, ISN'T SHE ADORABLE</b>. It's the two of them, it's always been the two of them, and we are assured that Gretel is perfectly self-sufficient and just as adept at this whole witch-hunting business as her brother. <br />
<br />
Which turns out to be almost entirely untrue when you actually see Gretel fighting a witch. For having spent a full quarter (and then some) of the movie assuring you that she's more than qualified to handle herself, Gretel sure gets her ass handed to her a lot, by nearly every adversary she faces.<br />
<br />
Let's take inventory here:<br />
<br />
<b>-She spends most of the movie either on the ground, screaming "HANSEL", getting hit/kicked in the face, unconscious, being held against her will, being choked, or some combination of the above. </b><br />
<br />
<b>-She lets herself get captured and thrown into a cage, which, aside from being total rookie mistakes for a seasoned witch hunter, puts her on the same vulnerability level as the frightened children in the other cages. </b><br />
<br />
<b>-Rather than try to escape, she just. . . stays in the cage. And cries.</b><br />
<br />
<b>-When a troll grabs her (and she has mentioned killing trolls before) and takes her somewhere, she just goes with him. And does what he asks. And doesn't try to escape.</b><br />
<br />
<b>-The whole reason Gretel even matters in this story is an accident of birth. She has something, that she can't control, which is necessary to the plot. That's it. </b><br />
<br />
<b>-When she gets attacked by a group of perfectly mortal men, she barely fights back.</b><br />
<br />
<b>-For the climax of the movie, she is chained to a rock (which she, AGAIN, LETS HAPPEN) shouting "HANSEL, HANSEL" until someone comes and unlocks one of her cuffs, and then she just kind of stands there, swings weakly, and gets punched a lot. </b><br />
<br />
There's also this <i>lovely </i>little scene where Gretel gets knocked out, and <b>a teenage boy takes her unconscious body to his room, and not only draws quite detailed pictures of her, but also gropes her chest. </b>HAHA! HOW CHARMINGLY AWKWARD AND RELATABLE AND <i>NOT AT ALL DISTURBING</i>! TEENAGE BOYS, AM I RIGHT? And she CATCHES HIM DOING IT, and for some reason, he's<i> still alive </i>at the end of the movie. Whatever. <br />
<br />
I don't get it. Why waste all this time assuring us what a capable, fiery powerhouse this chick is, if you're just going to immediately undo all of it? <i>Why even bother?</i> If you want to make a stupid action movie, what sense does it even make to turn your heroine into one of your weakest characters? Why not just leave her as she is? How does that make your movie <i>any better</i>? I really just don't get it.<br />
<br />
Not to mention, IT'S <b>BORING</b>. The whole rescue-the-princess, feisty-girl-who-still-needs-a-man's-help-to-get-out-of-every-jam thing? It's been done to death, AND IT'S NOT EVEN RELEVANT ANYMORE! Even Disney knows better. It's OLD. We want something BETTER, something NEW, something we can ACTUALLY RELATE TO. <br />
<br />
(Although, to be perfectly honest, I knew there was going to be a problem as soon as I saw she was wearing a leather bodice. Guess what? Bodices, particularly LEATHER ones, are not comfortable. You can't run in them, you can't fight in them, you <i>certainly </i>can't climb trees in them. In fact, you really can't do much of anything in them except sit quietly somewhere and try not to think about how much you resemble a tube steak. <br />
<br />
You know who wouldn't wear a restricting leather bodice? Gretel. Who is also wearing pants (which was generally frowned upon at the time), and therefore obviously going with function over acceptable style, but <i>apparently </i>draws the line at a full range of torso motion. Meanwhile, Hansel's over here wearing chaps and a sleeveless vest so he can shoot better and he's still a lousy shot, <i>what's the deal with that</i>. <br />
<br />
Male costume designers and directors of period action movies, take a note: <i>BODICES AND CORSETS ARE NOT ACTIVEWEAR</i>. Do not put your heroine in pants and <i>also a bodice</i>. I don't care if their boobs look better, just don't do it. Put them in a <i>regular shirt</i>. If you put your heroine in a bodice, you better put some petticoats and an overdress on her and call that girl a carriage, because she is not running anywhere anytime soon.)<br />
<br />
I wanted to love Gretel. I was so excited that we were gonna finally have a sexy, bad-ass, don't-take-shit-from-anyone firecracker heroine who handled her business and didn't need a man to save her. Instead, what we got was the same tired old weepy, wimpy damsel-in-distress, who couldn't even break out of a cage without help from her beefy male counterpart. And I cannot help but feel personally insulted. I feel like I was tricked out of half of the movie, as well as ridiculed. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4l95D4hLfnO_Ee7AHkS-c35W77DRP9DFQ6d4voir0YCFmX0PtYYTW1HYXu0ttn0bHxO2Vn8BcDQXF35PG8fIF7k6jR5zlFiz1xU66fwPKeLskwC9oN2edAg8GfUMDp3jDeRdjuwovauoP/s1600/hansel_and_gretel_witch_hunters_2013-1920x10801.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4l95D4hLfnO_Ee7AHkS-c35W77DRP9DFQ6d4voir0YCFmX0PtYYTW1HYXu0ttn0bHxO2Vn8BcDQXF35PG8fIF7k6jR5zlFiz1xU66fwPKeLskwC9oN2edAg8GfUMDp3jDeRdjuwovauoP/s320/hansel_and_gretel_witch_hunters_2013-1920x10801.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Look, okay, bottom line: if you want a silly action movie that doesn't have much plot, that doesn't make you any more thoughtful or any better of a person, but is still fun to watch with friends, <i><b>I enthusiastically endorse this movie!</b></i> It's <i>good campy fun</i>. Famke Janssen is great, Jeremy Renner is unintentionally hilarious. It's minimally scary, and the gore quotient is so unrealistic as to be laughable. This is just a fun movie, and I did really enjoy it. So if you haven't seen it yet, and it sounds like your thing, you really should. <br />
<br />
Just don't expect to root for Gretel. At the end of the day, it would have been better as just <b>HANSEL: WITCH HUNTER.</b> kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-3065751352005643182012-09-08T10:21:00.000-07:002012-09-08T11:28:42.729-07:00Say Anything, I'm disappointed in you.I make no secret of my unconditional love and affection for the band Say Anything.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4XW6Jh7SZeVIMRYjpRe0LI6XQUyQjq5KnPjxUEEY-HSYmroCtmBgpaSUL16ggWQCn6SRIYd-5RvYeHnvTGS2iLFwB2Gj_kOO9DmTl35tFMEAIMeZFyz5RUsZ7rSbx7inyFbNEhws75Vac/s1600/say+anything.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726125157160695554" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4XW6Jh7SZeVIMRYjpRe0LI6XQUyQjq5KnPjxUEEY-HSYmroCtmBgpaSUL16ggWQCn6SRIYd-5RvYeHnvTGS2iLFwB2Gj_kOO9DmTl35tFMEAIMeZFyz5RUsZ7rSbx7inyFbNEhws75Vac/s320/say+anything.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 213px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">I mean, just look at them.</span></div>
<br />
I've listened to all of their albums (with the exception of the newest, and in any case I'll be getting to that soon) at least thirty times each.<br />
Max Bemis is the reason I found what is now one of my favorite albums (<span style="font-style: italic;">Razia's Shadow: A Musical</span>; he plays Barayas the Spider, but I won't get into that right now).<br />
I have two Say Anything tattoos:<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiizKI9l5L6NVelnYWBsyg7WkVAFbtd0YXmct0aL3ehmURWxjv64Lh71bByEHMtGCqz_LLQO5o_62_vL57MTeNv-NtwSoGRdFFhQF6Wz-_8Z_GdPzQUPo0WIpTjMWzZtTWU-G7YBcM1JkEB/s1600/IMG000366.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726128426398576354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiizKI9l5L6NVelnYWBsyg7WkVAFbtd0YXmct0aL3ehmURWxjv64Lh71bByEHMtGCqz_LLQO5o_62_vL57MTeNv-NtwSoGRdFFhQF6Wz-_8Z_GdPzQUPo0WIpTjMWzZtTWU-G7YBcM1JkEB/s320/IMG000366.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxj4naNpQpio_vKH_EekJacK7QchbtRoCEJngPgGPYgqRpHy-7HvUthllqAjxkZMlkX7hZMfxDb0ZGoDCVjLtbQC7UcMvpZ7HzzUKVWRQPhLVwaY_IZobob_9GeXRs07rtyXIXO686i-2h/s1600/camera+dump+076.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726129348910415938" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxj4naNpQpio_vKH_EekJacK7QchbtRoCEJngPgGPYgqRpHy-7HvUthllqAjxkZMlkX7hZMfxDb0ZGoDCVjLtbQC7UcMvpZ7HzzUKVWRQPhLVwaY_IZobob_9GeXRs07rtyXIXO686i-2h/s320/camera+dump+076.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">I'm not fantastic with pain tolerance, as evidenced by the buggy eyes.</span></div>
<br />
the second one of which is the name of the song they wrote <i>specifically for me</i> and a huge part of why I made it through my pregnancy/adoption <span style="font-style: italic;">at all</span>.<br />
<br />
It's not even close to an exaggeration to say that Say Anything is my favorite band.<br />
<br />
There are a few reasons for this, the main one being that when I listen to music, I listen to the lyrics. The way Max Bemis writes is the way I think. He talks about all the same topics, but puts his own vulgar, eloquent, self-deprecating spin on them. It's not flowery; it's a bald, in-your-face statement that the darkest part of you instantly relates to. It hits and it hurts. It's obscene and poetic at the same time. (These, incidentally, are all the same reasons why I love Stephen King.)<br />
<br />
And a big part of it, for me, <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> the self-deprecation. Every song is written in the tone of someone who is incredibly insecure, but doesn't want to come off as whiny. Every angry song has an equal hit at itself. It all measures out. That's what sets them apart from your stereotypical "emo" or alternative group. It's also what I want to talk about here.<br />
<br />
The first SA album I got into was <span style="font-style: italic;">Is A Real Boy</span>. There's a song on there (that was in my "Favorite Songs" rotation for a couple months) called "Admit It!" that discusses a specific brand of narcissist/sociopath that I was intimately familiar with.<br />
<br />
The real reason I liked this song is that, following this lengthy diatribe against this group, Max turns the mic on himself:<br />
<br />
<blockquote>
Well let me tell you this: I am <span style="font-style: italic;">shamelessly </span>self-involved.<br />
I spend hours in front of the mirror making my hair elegantly disheveled.<br />
I worry about how this album will sound, because I believe it will determine the amount of sex I will have in the future.<br />
I self-medicate with drugs and alcohol to treat my extreme social anxiety. </blockquote>
<br />
and everything after that, is directed at himself as well as the people he hates. Everything is doled out in equal measure. There's no elitism in it; it plainly states, <span style="font-style: italic;">I hate this, but I'm no better, and I'm certainly not immune to it. </span>It demonstrates a self-awareness most people don't have.<br />
<br />
Their self-titled album (the latest one before <i>Anarchy, My Dear</i>, which came out in March) is my favorite. Favorite songs, favorite SA album, favorite album in general. It starts off with the usual piss and vinegar, but it's more humorous than actually angry. The 6th song, "Mara and Me", stops in the middle, and Max says,<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Wait a second-- I can't write the same damn song over and over again.<br />
I can't define myself through irony and self-deprecation.<br />
I can't deny myself being alive through my alienation.</blockquote>
<br />
Immediately after that, the song picks up the pace and it becomes a completely different album. It's not upbeat, but it's not angry. It explores a lot and is wildly different from anything they did before.<br />
<br />
So, after being so completely in love with their last album, you can imagine my excitement when I found out that a new one was coming out in just a few days. The day it went on sale, David and I drove to the mall, braved the Hot Topic, and bought it. I opened it on the way out to the parking lot, because I just wanted to look at it. A new Say Anything album, full of brand new songs I'd never heard before, in my hands, about to rain its undoubtedly lovely poetry upon my eager ears.<br />
<br />
We put it in the CD player. . .<br />
<br />
and were almost immediately disappointed.<br />
<br />
Disclaimer: I really, really didn't want to write this post. I did not want to write this post SO MUCH that it has been sitting, unfinished, in my post drafts since early March. I tried to be forgiving and open-minded and I thought that maybe this new album needed time to grow on me. I wanted to give it a fair chance.<br />
<br />
Well, after six months, I think what I've given it is much more than fair. So even though it hurts me immensely, I'm going to say it.<br />
<br />
It sucks.<br />
<br />
It's like everything Max learned during the last album was just suddenly forgotten. He's still bitter, but all that self-awareness and eloquence is gone, and all of that completely unwarranted bile is being launched directly at <i>you,</i> the listener, the <i>person who bought this CD</i>. It's forty-five minutes of being screamed at because you have a stupid haircut and wear stupid clothes and listen to Rihanna, probably.<br />
<br />
Does that sound pleasant? If it does, I should probably go a little bit further here. The first song, "Burn A Miracle", is a five-minute vehicle for the phrase "burn a miracle" to turn into the phrase "burn America". No reasoning, no wittiness, just screaming "burn America" over and over again. There's a song called "Sheep", which I shouldn't even really need to explain. Most of the songs AT LEAST make mention of the fact that Max was made fun of/bullied/scorned as a kid, and at most are completely about it, and all of them are delivered with the charm and wit of a child in Target throwing a fit because they're all out of the Iron Man masks and he has to get a Captain America mask instead. The songs that aren't just spite-volcanos spewing out hate lava, because there are a couple, are wooden ballads with no emotion behind them. They're like me trying to write journals now;<i> "I'm sad. Sometimes I'm not happy. This happened today."</i><br />
<br />
It's just. . . <i>awful</i>. Angry, empty, <i>awful</i>. And entitled, <i>Jesus </i>is it <i>entitled</i>. And it's being <i>directed at the listener.</i><br />
<br />
What the hell happened, Say Anything? I thought we made a breakthrough last time. You had a song about a <i>myth</i>, for God's sake! There was a song about how cool Max's wife was, and how she makes him feel like a little kid <i>but in a good way</i>! Everything was wonderful and peachy and we were all having a good time, and then somebody got dumped, or got shit kicked on their shoes, or got cut off in traffic, I don't know, and you had to go and ruin everything by making this just <i>awful</i>, because I can't think of another word for it, <i>awful </i>fucking record with little to no redeemable qualities. Here's a tip, if you're screaming at someone for forty-five minutes, it should be because you have a point to make, because you love them.<br />
<br />
Or in the case of this post, <i>both</i>, because I love you guys and <i>GODDAMNIT YOU'RE BETTER THAN THIS</i>. <br />
<br />
Please don't do this again, Say Anything. I can forgive you because we've got history, but please don't hurt me like this again. I don't think my little heart can take it. <br />
<blockquote>
</blockquote>
kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-31910559354002324442012-04-15T00:36:00.004-07:002012-04-15T22:12:05.636-07:00Foodin' Ain't Easy (or, Masochism In The Kitchen)When I met David, he was a reclusive nerd who ate Wendy's almost every day of the week and only left his apartment for work. And he was far, <span style="font-style: italic;">far </span>too thin. I love food (like, really, I don't think you understand how much I love food), so I saw David's eating habits as a sort of project.<br /><br />With only a few months' tutelage, David was not only leaving his apartment more, but he was actually eating three meals a day, and had gained ten pounds. We became FoodNetwork aficionados. For Valentine's Day we made Rahmschnitzel (and again for his parents only three days later). Over the next year we made French onion soup, miso soup, scallop pot pie, turkey pot pie, cherry pie, blueberry pie, all kinds of pie, raclette*, and sushi.<br /><br />I turned David into a foodie. It's the best.<br /><br />We're pretty much obsessed with sushi, and we've recently gotten hooked on this thing they serve at sushi places called Tuna Tataki. It's seared tuna in (depending on where you get it) a ponzu sauce, or tataki sauce, or, like in the recipe we used, soy-ginger-lime sauce.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnv2OCB7BH4kOdCEI_69O6BWjc73hD7O6MzG3EsziFm-oJ_or0Vg0XBJ6b4083Yn3XBxFQMEHYEGKpe-opOJ2Y7mMTTizaUXbVd-nSqHgyil9HbKBcdL56KiGozmz0w-1nIN1XLaCAicZ0/s1600/TunaTataki.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnv2OCB7BH4kOdCEI_69O6BWjc73hD7O6MzG3EsziFm-oJ_or0Vg0XBJ6b4083Yn3XBxFQMEHYEGKpe-opOJ2Y7mMTTizaUXbVd-nSqHgyil9HbKBcdL56KiGozmz0w-1nIN1XLaCAicZ0/s320/TunaTataki.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730309439109485058" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">LOOK AT THIS. IT'S BEAUTIFUL.</span><br /></div><br />But it's (predictably) expensive at sushi restaurants, and in any case, they don't give you nearly enough. At least, not enough for people who eat like fat kids. So the other day, we decided to make it.<br /><br />We bought a beautiful tuna steak, and while David was in class I was supposed to get the rest of the ingredients. I thought it would be boring to do alone, so I called Jon and asked if he wanted to go on a foodventure.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjgMf91PbdOFA18ZEoarE1p1DOyDzjxUoPsX5GdTzkdse9dBy4c1jJjzuTNft8oM7ngglL0NKIDm1POPHgglUJ5kH7CxtiQhhYTNhds-imqLFfDQ4KUf2oxI9vdrGo3rc6nyw006Tuvn6t/s1600/FOODVENTURE%2521.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 278px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjgMf91PbdOFA18ZEoarE1p1DOyDzjxUoPsX5GdTzkdse9dBy4c1jJjzuTNft8oM7ngglL0NKIDm1POPHgglUJ5kH7CxtiQhhYTNhds-imqLFfDQ4KUf2oxI9vdrGo3rc6nyw006Tuvn6t/s320/FOODVENTURE%2521.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730369147545862690" border="0" /></a><br />We went to Kroger and knocked off most of the ingredient list, even though it took forever because they hid the peanut oil and the sesame seeds. When we finally found both of them (after walking around the whole store twice saying "SOOO-SA-MEE SADS",) they were hella expensive. Jon talked me into buying the sesame seeds at the little Asian market across the street, because they would be less expensive and I'd get more of them.<br /><br />Because who couldn't use more sesame seeds, am I right?<br /><br />I had driven by [the store] a bunch of times, but never gone in. It really doesn't look like much; it's a really small storefront and the windows are covered by flattened boxes. "Dubious", is the word I was looking for. But I trusted Jon, so I followed him in.<br /><br />[This store] is a small, badly lit, dingy, creepy place with only two shelves. The shelves are sparsely stocked with jars full of unidentifiable goos, and cardboard boxes labeled with permanent marker. There is no music, and there is only one person working there. The big bag of sesame seeds I got was indeed cheap, but it was covered in some weird sticky residue I'd rather not know the origin of. On the way out, Jon called my attention to a small green box labeled "Placenta soap". It didn't say where the placenta was <span style="font-style: italic;">from</span>, but to be perfectly honest I don't think that detail would've swayed me much.<br /><br />That pretty much did it for me.<br /><br />I hustled our asses out the door, and once we were in the car, I spent a good ten minutes shouting at Jon (who thought it was <span style="font-style: italic;">extremely </span>funny) about how I was never setting foot in that store again, and how ridiculous it was that I even <span style="font-style: italic;">had </span>to <span style="font-style: italic;">explain </span>to someone why I didn't want to patron a store that peddles placenta goods (of indeterminate <span style="font-style: italic;">or </span>determinate origin, it really makes no difference to me).<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqebyB6m6ksfYKmZJxqUul2rqWeWQlR824LlGJKUQ9SO0uF9-EHcY7yv9YcWcTj-Lkn-CD4kSktZW1uF8YqWE4QSiGQHDtvjAUqTnOfVJEz7AgFy4e3rNTNELmNmzCDtY5OpIRjeYK4-fo/s1600/PLACENTA+GOODS.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 176px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqebyB6m6ksfYKmZJxqUul2rqWeWQlR824LlGJKUQ9SO0uF9-EHcY7yv9YcWcTj-Lkn-CD4kSktZW1uF8YqWE4QSiGQHDtvjAUqTnOfVJEz7AgFy4e3rNTNELmNmzCDtY5OpIRjeYK4-fo/s320/PLACENTA+GOODS.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730318115346841010" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">In case any of you had any doubts as to the veracity of this claim.</span><br /></div><br />I dropped Jon back at his house and went home to get started on the prep.<br /><br />The first thing I had to do was mince a shallot. I had never touched or seen a shallot before, but I figured, they're just like, small onions, right? Can't be too difficult. Onions are my area of expertise, after all.<br /><br />If you're not familiar with shallots, let me explain a shallot to you. You know how when you cut onions (and if you don't, you've seen it in pretty much every movie or show), you cry? It's because the smell that wafts out gets all up in your tear ducts and bites something <span style="font-style: italic;">fierce</span>. Big onions are bad enough, but shallots are about six times the bite in about 1/3 of the package.<br /><br />As if it wasn't bad enough to be sobbing and stinging over the counter, temporarily blind, with a very sharp knife in my hands, Mason, who loves to try and get involved in Mumma's cooking, came up and started meowling and trying to climb up me to get to what <span style="font-style: italic;">he </span>was under the impression was some very tasty Krab (imitation crab, hence the K).<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQRIwpsvTnJ6JqAi1dr4uGkVV42w9KmLCqjdKDagLXiSko-XnPdZFZMTFugyQIYSSwOozJ_mU9FvVYK72YYfyzL7TueHlTDtBTeyA9CiPvqKKdZHo0Wtz8cx6tvgHjFdtyoLVS5l30wGgz/s1600/FUCK+OFF+I+CAN%2527T+DRAW+KNIVES.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 228px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQRIwpsvTnJ6JqAi1dr4uGkVV42w9KmLCqjdKDagLXiSko-XnPdZFZMTFugyQIYSSwOozJ_mU9FvVYK72YYfyzL7TueHlTDtBTeyA9CiPvqKKdZHo0Wtz8cx6tvgHjFdtyoLVS5l30wGgz/s320/FUCK+OFF+I+CAN%2527T+DRAW+KNIVES.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731474080130720898" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">SO I CAN'T DRAW KNIVES. LIKE YOU'RE SO PERFECT YOURSELF.</span><br /></div><br />This went on for several minutes (because mincing takes a little while) with Mason becoming increasingly attentive and more devious in his attempts to get TASTY TASTY KWAB, alternately taking swipes at my hands and jumping up onto the counter, and at one point sinking all of his front claws into my bottom. I wasn't pleased about that.<br /><br />Finally I let him smell it.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo_keFGfHaY2id12TOD0_EHliO0oJZg4NBvzjDRukYYREt0QV8Q4JF9mmMtwnCEm4LYfcMLgJlN4DMUwxtlNwtwIq22ZKCrMvwES1-K46C44NjbKht2_I5QvUrM9WOCKBK6vXY783z1jPz/s1600/GET+THAT+AWAY+FROM+MY+FACE..bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 228px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo_keFGfHaY2id12TOD0_EHliO0oJZg4NBvzjDRukYYREt0QV8Q4JF9mmMtwnCEm4LYfcMLgJlN4DMUwxtlNwtwIq22ZKCrMvwES1-K46C44NjbKht2_I5QvUrM9WOCKBK6vXY783z1jPz/s320/GET+THAT+AWAY+FROM+MY+FACE..bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731822926583462898" border="0" /></a><br />Once that was finished (and I had spent a good five minutes in the bathroom with a wet paper towel over my eyes), I turned to the ginger. Which, as it turns out, was not as easy as I thought it would be.<br /><br />Have any of you ever seen a ginger root? I feel like I've heard it called "a hand of ginger", but that could also be completely wrong. This is what ginger root looks like:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYQRE1juMD_jx9gD_foARNyX-D-qsveuG5F9rtxPiwfrB2ctAK8jDnr4CsrQifm6N0ptDVUuddVHRuEvIJMlr0zY2oZhRtSvbClQV6MP34vIIsIbkje4Y9Ey45ioQ6c7QIgiYRKzobbYKX/s1600/ginger.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYQRE1juMD_jx9gD_foARNyX-D-qsveuG5F9rtxPiwfrB2ctAK8jDnr4CsrQifm6N0ptDVUuddVHRuEvIJMlr0zY2oZhRtSvbClQV6MP34vIIsIbkje4Y9Ey45ioQ6c7QIgiYRKzobbYKX/s320/ginger.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730325197237622498" border="0" /></a>Yes, there is a plant that grows that looks like a mangled Muppet hand. And we grind it up and eat it and put it in lotions. You're rubbing mangled Muppet on yourself. How does that make you feel?<br /><br />It's not fantastically easy to peel, ginger root. You might not have guessed that; conversely, you might be a <span style="font-style: italic;">person with eyes</span>. There are all these weird, frustrating knobblies that confound your standard vegetable peeler with an infuriating sort of indifference. You have to cut the knobblies off, and if you're feeling adventurous (like I was), you can cut those down and peel them too.<br /><br />And there <span style="font-style: italic;">is </span>the stringiness, which makes it harder. You know how with, say, a potato, when you see a brown spot under the meat, you can dig it out? Forget it. Ginger roots are nothing <span style="font-style: italic;">but</span> sub-dermal colors.<br /><br />Peeling ginger roots is like playing with your first pocketknife. You think you're really smart and you know exactly what you're doing, but you <span style="font-style: italic;">don't</span>, and you're bound to get a lot of cuts and scratches in the process, and things are probably going to get thrown. Unintentionally.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiORuukHbmqAFDNc-rJshEWRQTSgp8MjpF_98fdeCGqQ8klfNd1xw24kbjHTY2L7wO6zJiSwaa39rL72wfxqNB6-AS1hpr6kzojDWL4UCVMiMVw9aZmy-tP6-iSy8jI7HMcgU59sE0EApuk/s1600/OH+COME+ON.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiORuukHbmqAFDNc-rJshEWRQTSgp8MjpF_98fdeCGqQ8klfNd1xw24kbjHTY2L7wO6zJiSwaa39rL72wfxqNB6-AS1hpr6kzojDWL4UCVMiMVw9aZmy-tP6-iSy8jI7HMcgU59sE0EApuk/s320/OH+COME+ON.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731833193902456754" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">If you're as lucky as me, you'll get to pour lime juice in those cuts and scratches later! Yay!</span><br /></div><br />Ginger roots are fucking <span style="font-style: italic;">obnoxious</span>, is the <span style="font-style: italic;">core theme</span> of what I am getting at here.<br /><br />Then I got to take all that peeled ginger, and grate it with a cheese grater, which made my fingers even worse. Then I got to pour lime juice all over my raw-meat fingers, and all over those little cuts and scratches from peeling ginger and my wonderful, annoying kitten! Yay! And I'd been standing for about two hours, so my heels, accustomed to being snugged up in a blanket or kicked up on a couch, felt completely flat, and my thighs and butt hurt, and I was just a very grumpy Kelli in general.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoqYx3ZxbL8mkNW80IvnZZwPZ7eX441ZcA3haWFYItiPmigPIndKgdklW2TfAnlD86PgGyodSU8IZTOF-htNxKsbm1XwhPpU7XBGveuVSwXr3C4q6KYGDsL8Z_5IU6Vn1oJHv6ySw1GqmK/s1600/SULK.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoqYx3ZxbL8mkNW80IvnZZwPZ7eX441ZcA3haWFYItiPmigPIndKgdklW2TfAnlD86PgGyodSU8IZTOF-htNxKsbm1XwhPpU7XBGveuVSwXr3C4q6KYGDsL8Z_5IU6Vn1oJHv6ySw1GqmK/s320/SULK.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731838224911247970" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">I'm going to start using this as a reaction to things.</span><br /></div><br />And then, after all these really dumb things, David showed up, and made everything better, and we made delicious delicious tuna tataki, and then we ate that delicious delicious tuna tataki, and I had a much better night watching the worst season of Top Model <span style="font-style: italic;">ever, </span>with my wonderful foodie boyfriend.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjujfnANEBAMRkqepGPv3juJYmezvTbzqI7mbnCJ4qD3P_fLaaM8nDe22buRexKM8Kl_AIN-k4kjOZtD2Bvvl2irz_QC2M1Dyx6Pf8atAqRcSist3RKVx4qbGi_8VAJvKb61SRS4CRPo-lK/s1600/YUMMY+TOONA.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 273px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjujfnANEBAMRkqepGPv3juJYmezvTbzqI7mbnCJ4qD3P_fLaaM8nDe22buRexKM8Kl_AIN-k4kjOZtD2Bvvl2irz_QC2M1Dyx6Pf8atAqRcSist3RKVx4qbGi_8VAJvKb61SRS4CRPo-lK/s320/YUMMY+TOONA.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5731852211865683954" border="0" /></a>And that is the story of Kelli's Tuna Tataki Foodventure! Thank you all for reading. :]<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><br />*Remember <a href="http://bagelsnsox.blogspot.com/2010/12/ive-figured-out-what-im-doing-with-rest.html">when I said I was getting a raclette oven</a>? WELL I GOT ONE. FOR CHRISTMAS. IT'S EVERYTHING I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE. </span>kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-5343509065877181582012-02-24T13:51:00.009-08:002012-03-12T14:16:10.485-07:00Faith and Star Wars<span style="font-weight: bold;">**If religion is one of your "hot-button issues", I invite you to stay, but will certainly understand if you choose not to read further. I welcome comments! </span><br /><br />I have never been an incredibly religious person. I grew up mostly Catholic but was born, and can't remember being, Baptist, and in middle school I started going to a Presbyterian church; but I have never identified closely with any particular sect. In high school I went through a phase where I was really into Christian rock, but that was about as deep as I got.<br /><br />For a long time I was just kind of told that there was a God, that He was good and He cared about me, and all those other Sunday school cliches, and I accepted it without question. It didn't really do much to govern my life. I mean, Catholic school kids were just as bad as public school kids, only they got routine forgiveness checks. So even in a school where we started every morning with a prayer (and when we got a new principal, an assembly in the hall to hold hands and sing), God wasn't really as present as everyone tells you He is supposed to be. He just kind of floated in the background, a forgotten fact, but a fact nonetheless, at least to us kids.<br /><br />I accepted it without question, up to a point in junior year when "some shit went down", as the kids say, and I went through what is routinely termed "a crisis of faith". I don't know that it was much of a crisis, but I asked all the usual questions:<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Is there a God?<br />If there is, why does He let crappy things happen to me?<br />If God cares about everyone, why does everyone get hurt?<br />Does he get so caught up in worrying about other people's problems that He has to let some people slip through the cracks?</span><br /><br />and one of my own:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Am I happy believing that God exists?</span><br style="font-style: italic;"><br />Because that seemed to be the biggest thing, to me. Everyone I knew who believed in God seemed to be really happy about it all the time. It made them more sure of themselves, and they emanated this happy glow when they thought about God, or talked about God. They seemed to know exactly what they were doing, and if they didn't, God would handle it. I'd <span style="font-style: italic;">never </span>felt like that. And there were other people, who I didn't know so well, who I'd really only <span style="font-style: italic;">heard </span>about, who were always angry, and thought that God hated everyone, and were always citing "the wrath of God". Believing in God seemed to only make these people really <span style="font-style: italic;">angry</span>, and that just didn't hold with what I thought I knew, or felt, about God.<br /><br />Whether they were happy or angry, they were stirred up about it. They were emotional; it rocked them. I never felt <span style="font-style: italic;">rocked</span>. So maybe, by the transitive property or something, I didn't <span style="font-style: italic;">really </span>believe in God.<br /><br />I went to camp that summer feeling annoyed and disappointed, and my answer ended up finding me, in the form of my favorite camp counselor, David (total coincidence, not the same David). I told him I wasn't sure what to believe in anymore, and that I felt like kind of a faker at services, and he looked at me and said, very simply, "You don't <span style="font-style: italic;">have </span>to believe any of this, you know. You can believe whatever you want, as long as it makes you happy and as long as it makes you a better person."<br /><br />I left feeling lighter and happier. To this day, it is the best advice I have ever gotten about religion or faith or God.<br /><br />Here's what I believe, at 22 and having dealt with, well, a lot of things:<br />1) I believe that there is a God.<br />2) I believe that it is more important to be a <span style="font-style: italic;">good </span>person, or a <span style="font-style: italic;">happy </span>person, than a godly one or even a remotely religious one; I believe that it is more important to do what is right by <span style="font-style: italic;">your own personal standards</span> than to align yourself with any sort of side or sect or faction.<br />3) I believe that you should be tolerant and respectful of everyone.<br /><br />My version of God, because I think everyone who thinks of God thinks of Him differently, is a lot like the Force (or that midichlorian biology BS, if you saw <span style="font-style: italic;">Phantom Menace</span> first); it exists in everyone, if only even a tiny bit.<br /><br />My views on religion, which are what I really wanted to focus on here, are related to that analogy:<br />Some people don't believe in the Force. Some do. Jedi and Sith are two sides of the same coin; the Force is strong in both of them and they are both given the same opportunities to use it, yet one turns out good and one turns out evil. It manifests in different ways <span style="font-style: italic;">depending on the person who uses it.</span><br /><br />I'm not fantastic at dealing in theology (I am quite acquainted with the Bible, but somehow I never feel all that qualified to use it; not to mention, it always bothers me when people cite things rather than tell you what they're actually getting at), so I'll use another analogy here.<br /><br />A few years ago, when I first started playing Dungeons and Dragons, my mom was worried. Her only experience with D&D was when my dad and his friends played it, and they got way too into it, to where it [at least <span style="font-style: italic;">looked </span>like it] bordered on obsession.. My mom thought it was some sort of cult or Satan-worship thing, because her only point of reference wasn't a very good one. (My aunt and uncle, for the same exact reason, worried about Kirsten playing.) I talked to Mom about it, and told her it was basically just a bunch of friends sitting around a table to roll dice and eat chips (not to mention, Al's dad would be home the <span style="font-style: italic;">whole time</span>, geez Mom), but she still worried, and didn't really understand, until we finally had a session at my house and she got to see it firsthand.<br /><br />After that session I sat her down and kind of talked her through the game, and she got to see how it really worked, and why I had so much fun with it. I explained to her that D&D (like video games, or literature, or faith or religion) wasn't an inherently bad thing; it just depended on who was playing it and how they played it. It should be good, and it should be fun, but some people take it too far.<br /><br />In other words, my whole piece here boils down to a very simple philosophy when it comes to religion: Hate the player, not the game.kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-11333818531038818422012-02-24T04:24:00.011-08:002012-02-24T12:45:28.156-08:00Encyclopedia Kelli and the Problem With BoysMost of my life I have been what my parents call (and I really hate this term, dear reader, so you better be happy) "boy-crazy".<br /><br />My mother thinks that this is because my parents got divorced when I was four and my father moved to a different state when I was eight. (She likes to remind me of this particularly when something stupid happens in my love life. Which is all the time.) For the record, I do not agree with her. I think that has more to do with my narcissism than anything else.<br /><br />But there's definitely a pattern, though I don't know if it's necessarily a "daddy issues" pattern (I suffered a mild form of <span style="font-style: italic;">hate-seizure</span> from typing those words out), that's plagued me since I was first old enough to start liking boys; I start off liking/dating someone I think is a really nice guy, who over the course of our relationship is revealed to be <span style="font-style: italic;">completely screwed up</span>.<br /><br />This cycle has mercifully (seemingly) been broken by David. (I say "<span style="font-style: italic;">seemingly</span>" because if David's going to turn out to be screwed up, having not known about it for a year is going to make it <span style="font-style: italic;">exponentially larger</span>, like killing gardeners and keeping them in that room in his house with all the Christmas decorations (I'm sorry, sweetie, for the record, <span style="font-weight: bold;">I don't think you kill gardeners</span>, but one must be prepared for anything).)<br /><br />Prior to David, this awful trend had been going on for about nine years. <span style="font-style: italic;">Exactly </span>nine years, actually.<br /><br />In eighth grade, I got my first boyfriend. He was a boy I met up at the library, which was a popular hangout for kids from my school, and he seemed perfectly nice. He even gave me my first kiss, and this really nice talking picture frame. Then I found out that he was a smoker (at thirteen years old, that's a dealbreaker), that he had failed out of ninth grade, and had an unhealthy fondness for starting fights with people. He also mooned three of the girls from my class.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">(Kyle, I don't know if you read these; you're a cool guy, and I'm glad we're sort-of-friends, but you can't deny that <span style="font-style: italic;">all of the above</span> is true.)</span><br /><br />This continued into high school. My first high-school boyfriend (which has its own sort of significance, at least for girls) was a creepy goth kid who I didn't realize was creepy until about a month into dating, and may have actually been retarded. The one after that was George, a Korean violin player who <span style="font-style: italic;">punched trees</span> when he was angry, who I "went out with" for a month, and who still, to this day, <span style="font-style: italic;">eight years later</span>, pops up from time to time to ask me "where we went wrong".<br /><br />After that things went downhill rather quickly.<br /><br />There was Andrew, who I dated for a year and a half and turned out to be an incredibly aggressive porn addict (and who actuallywent to prison for two years long after we dated, but that's a story for. . . never, at least not on this blog).<br /><br />Then there was Steve, the disappearing act,<br />then Ryan, the sociopath with rage issues,<br />then Steve (same Steve), the disappearing <span style="font-style: italic;">junkie</span>,<br />then Justin, the emotionally unavailable bodybuilder,<br /><br />and then Zack.<br />Zack doesn't need an explanation.<br /><br />Like I said, this cycle has very recently been broken by a genuinely sweet guy (who turned out to be a genuinely sweet guy), but for the longest time this same story played out in front of me again, and again, and <span style="font-style: italic;">again</span>. It was <span style="font-style: italic;">far past</span> enough to make anyone want to throw up their hands and proclaim, "I'm done. No more dating for me."<br /><br />And everyone around them would get it. They'd nod, and say, "Sure. I mean, if you don't want to get eaten by alligators, you don't dive into the alligator pit at the zoo. Makes sense."<br /><br />So why, you might be asking yourself, did I keep trying? Why did I keep steadfastly convincing myself that this time would be better, this <span style="font-style: italic;">guy </span>would be better, even after it turned out he was sleeping with my friends?<br /><br />One word: normalcy.<br /><br />Even as a very small child I got along better with boys than girls. I think this was because I spent what seemed like a lot of time at my dad's house, where he lived with his best friend until I was eight. I wore overalls and hung out with boys (well, men) on Tuesdays and the weekends, and even though I didn't understand much of what was going on (because I was six), I could see that maybe other little girls were different than me.<br /><br />In second grade, before I moved to St. Valentine's, I had two best friends, Michael and Darnell. We had a club, and Michael was the president. He named me Secretary (my mother later told me, when I was much older, that this was because his father had had an affair with his secretary; as you can imagine, this BLEW MY MIND), and Darnell was Vice President. We felt very important, going about our club duties with an air of superiority. It was, after all, very special to have two friends on permanent reserve to help you pass out cupcakes on your birthday.<br /><br />One day on the playground, another little girl in my class ran up to where I was playing under the monkey bars (under, never on: I was afraid of heights), patiently waiting for Michael and Darnell to return from being sternly lectured by a teacher about rubbing dirt on other students, and said, in a very presumptuous way, "You're friends with <span style="font-style: italic;">boys</span>?"<br />"Yeah!" I said enthusiastically. I mean, we were in <span>second grade</span>. Surely we were all mature enough to be friends with the opposite gender. "Boys are fun."<br />Her nose wrinkled. "Do you like them?"<br />"Well, yeah. I guess." I was confused. You were supposed to like your friends, weren't you?<br />"No no NO," she shouted. "I mean do you want to MARRY one of them? Girls are supposed to want to get married!"<br />I thought about it for a minute. Marrying someone was a big deal in second grade. Almost all the girls in our class were married. It didn't really mean much except that you held hands sometimes, and gave each other your chocolate milk if you didn't want it. "Sure."<br />She waggled her finger in my face in a shame-on-you sort of way. "You gotta marry one of them!"<br />Then she ran away, and I went back to pulling up bunches of grass, thinking about what she'd said. Girls were supposed to get married to boys, and that made sense. Boys were fun. They had the coolest lunchboxes and the funnest toys. I thought very hard about which one of them had the best lunches to trade, and when Michael and Darnell came back to sit with me I said "Hey Darnell, do you want to get married?"<br />"Okay," he said, rubbing his nose on his sleeve.<br /><br />It was so simple, so <span style="font-style: italic;">elegant</span>, and it stuck with me when I moved to my next school. Girls were supposed to like boys. Girls were supposed to want to <span style="font-style: italic;">marry </span>boys. As a weird, gawky little girl who preferred reading and Star Wars to makeup and dresses, it was very clear to me that if I wanted other kids to like me, I was going to have to be normal in SOME way. Boys were the obvious answer.<br /><br />Most of my life, I have been operating under that idea. Even as I got older, and it got more pushed back in my head and became completely subconscious, it sort of governed the way I went about my relationships with people. If you were a girl, boys were supposed to like you; if boys <span style="font-style: italic;">didn't</span> like you, and you didn't like boys ("or girls, or <span style="font-style: italic;">some</span>body, at least", as it became during high school), there was something wrong with you. You were <span style="font-style: italic;">weird</span>.<br /><br />So there you have it. It's really stupid, right? Under this cool, quirky facade has always beaten the heart of an eight-year-old girl who just didn't want people to think she was weird.<br /><span style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Buttons"><span onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);FormatbarButton('richeditorframe', this, 3);ButtonMouseDown(this);" class=" on down" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_Bold" title="Bold"></span></span><br />(If you made it to the end of this exceptionally long and drawn-out post, congratulations: you have won the title of <span style="font-weight: bold;">**Bestest Reader Ever**</span>, and you get a <span style="font-style: italic;">prize</span>. Here is a picture of me in fourth grade.)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinNXTbKtT99ZK5Btm-GsVrk2NNlw8rDHu6u0i9tQstdXL6Zuvp5QT7bDBc-lkgYP2IaOIVFHfXFdm1t-B1R28nczIjipSPTXC-A24U_J6_wrFGGUr3uapxxqQu6s4JCBs1W4QclC4mT4Mn/s1600/me+in+fourth+grade.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 174px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinNXTbKtT99ZK5Btm-GsVrk2NNlw8rDHu6u0i9tQstdXL6Zuvp5QT7bDBc-lkgYP2IaOIVFHfXFdm1t-B1R28nczIjipSPTXC-A24U_J6_wrFGGUr3uapxxqQu6s4JCBs1W4QclC4mT4Mn/s320/me+in+fourth+grade.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712745620935764354" border="0" /></a>Nice, right?<br /></div><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><br />**It is worth noting that Steve has cleaned up a lot and remains one of my very good friends. </span></span>kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-55281855326069421102012-01-12T20:45:00.000-08:002012-01-28T20:02:55.823-08:00The Nuclear Flaming Bees: A Kid's Story<span style="font-weight: bold;">Before I tell you this story, I need to publicly thank Matt Flynn (Big Fat Matt) for being so darn excited about my blog, and making me feel guilty for not updating more. Matt, I needed that. Thank you. :]</span><br /><br /><br /><br />This is a story I have been hearing from my dad since I was old enough to properly register things I heard. I've had questions about some of the details, but my mom fully corroborates its veracity* (if not without a small sigh and a shake of the head), so I have to either believe that it's true, or that my parents have been playing a <span style="font-style: italic;">very </span>stupid prank on me for twenty years.<br /><br />I'd prefer to believe it's true, for obvious reasons.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >THE STORY OF THE NUCLEAR FLAMING BEES </span><br /><br />Way back before I was born, my parents (who were not yet my parents) and a bunch of their friends attempted to go camping on Lake Michigan. I say "attempted" because they set off really late in the day and neglected to phone ahead to any campgrounds to hold a spot (and, oh yeah, it was a weekend near the end of summer so<span style="font-style: italic;"> everyone in the world was camping</span>), and by the time they actually got to Lake Michigan at around 10:30 at night, every campground was full.<br /><br />Except one, which was suspiciously empty. However, everyone was exhausted, and no one thought to point out just then how <span style="font-style: italic;">weird </span>it was that a campground <span style="font-style: italic;">right on Lake Michigan</span> was almost completely empty at the peak of camping season.<br /><br />And honestly, if they had, someone else probably would've just told them to shut up.<br /><br />Anyway, like I said, they were all really tired (20-somethings apparently didn't stay up until 5 am in those days, because there was no Internet), so they set up their tents without a second thought and drifted off to sleep. . .<br /><br />. . . and were rudely awoken (probably with shouts of "F**K WHAT IS HAPPENING") at six the next morning by the soothing sounds of a blaring klaxon, and an amplified voice burbling the words:<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> "THIS IS A . . . . . . . OF THE. . . . . . . NUCLEAR POWER FACILITY."</span><br /><br />Yes, they had apparently parked their tents and food and frail<span style="font-style: italic;">, radioactivity-sensitive</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">human bodies</span> across the way from a <span style="font-style: italic;">nuclear power plant</span>. Remember, those actually used to be a thing.<br /><br />Once the initial shock wore off (and the reason they were the only people at this campground had suddenly been made perfectly clear), my parents and their friends conferred and decided that, rather than hoof it around the coast again only to be told that no, sorry, no one had packed up and left in the last six hours so they were still S.O.L., they would make the best of it here. After all, it was still a campsite, right? There was water, and there were trees, and they were still sleeping on the ground, and wasn't that what camping was all about?<br /><br />Yes. I know. Like I said, you <span style="font-style: italic;">need to remember</span> that nuclear power plants <span style="font-style: italic;">used to be a thing</span>.<br /><br />After breakfast they decided to go for a swim in the Lake. All my Michigan readers-- which is to say, with one possibly notable exception, <span style="font-style: italic;">all of you</span>-- have you ever <span style="font-style: italic;">been </span>in Lake Michigan? It's like, <span style="font-style: italic;">really cold</span>, right? Like, winter-in-Michigan-and-it's-not-even-winter cold?<br /><br />Well on this day, in 1980-mumble, when a nuclear power facility stood on one of its shores, Lake Michigan was as warm as a bowl of takeout Panera soup. There was a lot of skeptical toe-dipping, and after about half an hour of<span style="font-style: italic;"> "</span>You <span style="font-style: italic;">go in." </span><span style="font-style: italic;">"I'm not going in, </span>you <span style="font-style: italic;">go in"</span>, the only person brave enough to wade into the water and take a decent swim was my dad's friend Nick, a great big man who has looked exactly like a lion (with a mane and scruffy beard to fit) for as far back as I can remember. This earned him the name Nuclear Nick, which stuck, but I'm sure he's okay with that.<br /><br />This wasn't really a necessary part of the story, but that's how I always heard it and I like having it in there.<br /><br />Later, after their swim-- or rather, Nick's swim and their spectating-- they returned to their campsite and were just beginning to scarf down on some lunch when they heard a loud angry buzzing, like a motorcycle, coming from fairly close by. They looked for the source of the noise, and down by one of their feet they saw (and my dad always tells this part the same) "a hole in the ground, and next to it, a cicada wasp as <span style="font-style: italic;">big as your thumb</span>."<br /><br />Then he holds up his thumb and waggles it, in case anyone had any doubts about the size.<br /><br />With a sinking feeling, because wasps are not known to be solitary creatures, they looked around and saw dozens more of these holes, many of them with huge wasps in or around them.<br /><br />Now, if this were me or almost anyone I know, I wouldn't have cared how long I'd been planning this trip, or how long it would take to find another campground or get home; my shit would be in the car and I'd be <span style="font-style: italic;">gone</span>. There would be literally <span style="font-style: italic;">no time</span> between seeing all those bees and me driving away. Whoever was with me could stay there and figure it out for themselves.<br /><br />As you might have guessed, these guys did not fall into that camp. That night, the men hatched a plan. I don't know what the women were doing; I assume they were either asleep, or telling the men what a terrible idea this was. I can tell you that if my mom was awake she was probably rolling her eyes so hard she got permanent retinal damage, so if she was awake, shame on you, Dad, Nick, Mark, and Kurt if you were there. Shame on you for making my mom need glasses.<br /><br />Anyway, they hatched a plan, and the plan went like this:<br /><br />Cicada wasps make tunnels in the ground. Each hole is an entrance to one of those tunnels, which in turn leads to all other tunnels. If you did it at night, when the wasps were all drowsy and in their tunnels, you could squirt some lighter fluid into a couple holes, drop a match in one, and <span style="font-style: italic;">poof</span>! No more bees.<br /><br />The plan worked pretty well. . .<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8s6OJ9usvMhxMRKOpFbuUAOVdh9t5YYeuPSXQV-p-0JIMRhN4aLxTmJa01gHne_tW2p_mqe_5PTY8R2fMXbaNNATf-zGWqWHniGmMIqnEjBfHNJzqN_zriSVk4_YtrupBn5zsxEP3kjhi/s1600/getting+ready+to+light+the+bees.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 236px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8s6OJ9usvMhxMRKOpFbuUAOVdh9t5YYeuPSXQV-p-0JIMRhN4aLxTmJa01gHne_tW2p_mqe_5PTY8R2fMXbaNNATf-zGWqWHniGmMIqnEjBfHNJzqN_zriSVk4_YtrupBn5zsxEP3kjhi/s320/getting+ready+to+light+the+bees.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702898804382834722" border="0" /></a>. . . up to a point.<br /><br />Because this did not kill the bees. It just made them really pissed off. And on fire.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIXTLSrBUFhDrD29U1LA1Cd8m3mbkwb-DBtMpcI7viwC9t_hfZoTntOTF-auc_BMrXyZ8sjtQ4D_NchT1KOJxVGwIFfd6DG2ICoJm_ubt2rx7I-qFq0b2IcaJ1oMQtKcgiaJECfSiX5OHA/s1600/THE+BEES+ARE+LIT.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 236px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIXTLSrBUFhDrD29U1LA1Cd8m3mbkwb-DBtMpcI7viwC9t_hfZoTntOTF-auc_BMrXyZ8sjtQ4D_NchT1KOJxVGwIFfd6DG2ICoJm_ubt2rx7I-qFq0b2IcaJ1oMQtKcgiaJECfSiX5OHA/s320/THE+BEES+ARE+LIT.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702899270159822578" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">(I had a lot of fun drawing this one.)<br /></span></div><br />They rose out of their holes in a fiery swarm, each giant bee made even larger by the ball of blue flame engulfing it, collectively buzzing like a gang of bikers (the bikes, not the actual bikers).<br /><br />This could have ended really badly, but the fire seemed to disorient the bees just enough that they didn't go for the campers, or the tents-- they just flew up and into the night, their angered buzzing growing more distant as the distinctly <span style="font-style: italic;">Gygaxian</span> form disappeared over the trees. As they watched the bees retreating, presumably never to return, my dad put his arm around my mom and thought,<br /><br />"This is gonna be a really cool story to tell my daughter."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />THE END</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">*In one final attempt to find out if this was in fact a true story, or if by telling this I would just be pulling the same elaborate prank on my readers that my parents played on me, I verified it with my mom before posting this. She swears it's true. Mom, I'm trusting you here; you better not tell me it was a lie when you're on your deathbed. Dad, that goes for you as well. </span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">**If he was there. I've always heard this story with Kurt in it, and besides, I couldn't deprive you all of Kurt's hair, which is FACTUALLY ACCURATE and really fun to draw</span></span>.kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-33745498882339099822011-11-10T19:06:00.000-08:002011-11-10T20:18:01.348-08:00CONTAIN YOUR EXCITEMENT!<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzXlfPaiMNASLrZaJhVd0m3OEDNsDMnxzoeXdZGWRXRZYuOhG-emJB3S6PZAVuNRmjaF6QziQzZL_HLX8d2bg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br />THANKS FOR VISITING MY DUMB BLOG, I'M GONNA GO DO THIS BONKERS PUZZLE NOWkelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-59551380326982133832011-11-01T14:07:00.001-07:002011-11-02T18:10:22.100-07:00A Nice Little Halloween Story.On Halloween a couple of years ago, I went out trick-or-treating with some friends in my friend Heather's neighborhood. I was eighteen at the time, and I was not ashamed. Everyone in our group had fantastic costumes. Don't judge me.<br /><br />For reasons <a href="http://youtu.be/iEEmUdkTyJ0">that I'm sure made sense at the time</a>, this is how I (and the other three people in our group) dressed up:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjePkLdEIoWyG9g4VeOKN91E6cEU8dFKwJ5MdGwoe6XOH_CmfUofBqCUcsXE0b3jw7ex2d1Y293XtnLDYkJ3awIhRmU31qgvYfaRMh07Cng12AIAqNqYiTtt88aOvzm2O1OXTZ9uTKgwMIF/s1600/banana+man+costume.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 303px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjePkLdEIoWyG9g4VeOKN91E6cEU8dFKwJ5MdGwoe6XOH_CmfUofBqCUcsXE0b3jw7ex2d1Y293XtnLDYkJ3awIhRmU31qgvYfaRMh07Cng12AIAqNqYiTtt88aOvzm2O1OXTZ9uTKgwMIF/s320/banana+man+costume.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670570515011309506" border="0" /></a><br />And yes, that was how my hair was cut at the time. Things were different then.<br /><br />The people in Heather's neighborhood were used to older kids trick-or-treating, and consequently got really into their decorating and costumes. There were skeletons and weird scarecrows on almost every porch, and lights strung from every tree. I was fine with all those houses, even the ones where people jumped out of fake coffins on their lawn.<br /><br />The only house I had a problem with the last house on our route. It wasn't lit up or decorated in the front at all; the back was a different story.<br /><br />All the houses in that subdivision had detached garages that were in the backyard. The garage of this particular house was open, and had flashing strobe lights. The <span style="font-style: italic;">Halloween </span>theme was playing from a hidden stereo. There was (fake, but it was Halloween and I was scared) blood splattered all over the walls of the mostly empty garage.<br /><br />In front of the garage stood (a guy dressed as, but again, it was Halloween and I was scared) Michael Myers. He was looking straight at us.<br /><br />Next to him was a small table with a bowl of candy on it.<br /><br />Everyone else in our group laughed and thought this was really fun and hilarious, and ran up the driveway to grab some candy. When RJ, the only guy with us, noticed I was still standing out at the sidewalk, my eyes bugging out, he came back and asked me what was wrong.<br /><br />I just shook my head and squeaked.<br /><br />"There's candy back there, come on!"<br /><br />"NONONO.I'MNOTGOINGBACKTHERE." I'd never seen <span style="font-style: italic;">Halloween</span>, but I was pretty sure that anyone walking up to Michael Myers expecting to get candy out of it was akin to ripping one's shirt open, pointing out their heart and shouting "PLEASE STAB ME."<br /><br />Also, did I <span style="font-style: italic;">mention </span>it was Halloween? Isn't that like, the guy's <span style="font-style: italic;">one workday</span> out of the year?<br /><br />RJ sighed. "Kelli, I feel like I shouldn't have to tell you this, but that's not actually Michael Myers. That's just a guy dressed up as Michael Myers."<br /><br />I shook my head again, more forcefully this time."DOESN'TMATTER."<br /><br />RJ rolled his eyes and made a face, and said, "Okay, fine. Stay here." He jogged into the backyard, right up to the guy. He didn't even take any candy. At this point our other friends were on their way back, chatting enthusiastically about the experience.<br /><br />I watched RJ as he talked to Michael Myers, who appeared to either be listening very closely or about to kill him. Then, to my horror, RJ pointed out to the front yard, directly at me.<br /><br />I started flapping my arms and shaking my head frantically and mouthing "NO NO NO NO", which was probably a bad idea. In any case it did no good, because RJ started heading back towards me, and Michael Myers was following him.<br /><br />"Why did you do that?" I hissed at RJ.<br />"To get you candy!" he answered, grinning. It was such a punchable grin.<br />"I DIDN'T WANT CANDY RJ I WAS PERFECTLY FINE"<br /><br />I squeaked and shut up. Michael Myers's agonizingly slow steps had finally come to a stop merely a foot in front of me. I stared up at him, my mouth clamped shut in abject horror, thinking two things:<br />1) If I escaped from this somehow unharmed, I was never going trick-or-treating again, and<br />2) If I was going to die, I was at the very least taking RJ with me.<br />The rest of my group stood in a cluster a few feet away, giggling.<br /><br />Michael Myers then very slowly leaned down, his face just inches from mine. Moments passed. Minutes, even. Possibly hours.<br /><br />Then he held out the candy bowl.<br /><br />Now slightly confused in addition to terrified, I reached up and very carefully plucked two pieces from the bowl. "Th-thank you," I squeaked.<br /><br />"Happy Halloween," Michael Myers said, his voice muffled by the mask.<br /><br />Then I turned on my heel and sprinted all the way back to Heather's house, not caring one bit if anyone made fun of me the next day.kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-49380036345710940012011-10-03T10:08:00.000-07:002011-10-04T16:05:09.916-07:00The Dumbest Thing That Has Happened To Me Today<span style="font-size:78%;">I would like to take this opportunity to apologize for the sudden WALL OF TEXT posts as of late. However, this is a <span style="font-style: italic;">really stupid</span> story, and I promise you won't regret reading it. If for some reason you do, though, feel free to send me hate mail. Also, to break up the monotony a little bit, I took some pictures of me reenacting some of my more. . . <span style="font-style: italic;">potent </span>reactions. </span><br /><br />-------------------------------------<br /><br />For those of you that don't know, before this semester I got a letter stating that I was on academic dismissal. I'm not particularly embarrassed or ashamed of this anymore; oh, I was at first, but if I didn't make mistakes, I wouldn't learn how to fix them. Also it was because I had no idea what I was going to do with my life, but I thought I wanted to do something with art, so I didn't see much point in going to school (and I stopped going to classes for a while because I was sad, but that's a story for another time. Or maybe it isn't).<br /><br />But I took the appropriate actions-- I wrote a letter for the dean, I got approval from a counselor to come back, and I went to see Dr. Daiek. Not to mention I had a shiny new career goal I wanted to pursue, and I wanted to get on that as soon as I could. Everything was set for my fall classes, including the mandatory learning skills course.<br /><br />I didn't really mind having to take a learning skills course. I figured it would help me out, since obviously I had issues with studying, and I heard part of the class dealt with planning out your major and transfer guide. I was actually kind of excited about it.<br /><br />The class met once a week, for an hour, and was "taught" (and I use that word loosely) by a teacher I will henceforth refer to as Professor I. Care. There were about fifteen other people in this class, and they had all been doing poorly in their classes for a myriad of reasons, almost <span style="font-style: italic;">none</span> of them being "they're stupid".<br /><br />The first day I was pretty optimistic. She handed out a lot of worksheets that we were asked not to hand in. We drew up a list of expectations for ourselves, our families, and our teachers, and discussed them. A lot of people (myself included) had a problem with teachers not really caring about their students or getting to know them, or making exceptions when there were extenuating circumstances. Professor I. Care sympathized with us, saying that she knew how that was and she had vowed she wouldn't be the same. She played a lot of videos from motivational speakers, and a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=45mMioJ5szc">Nike commercial</a>. I left feeling like I was finally getting something done.<br /><br />The next few weeks were a little different. Professor I. Care was still understanding and sympathetic, but in that patronizing, shaming way that made us feel like we were stupid even though she was telling us we weren't.<br /><br />Two weeks ago, my growing disinterest turned to complete disdain. The theme of the day was "paradigm shifts". She explained to us that none of us were making our own decisions; that the decisions we made were really <span style="font-style: italic;">other people's </span>decisions that we <span style="font-style: italic;">thought </span>we were making for ourselves. We were all robots, <span style="font-style: italic;">programmed </span>by those around us to make decisions we would <span style="font-style: italic;">never </span>make if we <span style="font-style: italic;">really thought about it</span>. Apparently. But it was okay, because we didn't know better, and she was now going to teach us how to make our own decisions.<br /><br />This was a <span style="font-style: italic;">mandatory class</span>. I need to stress that. We HAD TO TAKE THIS CLASS in order to get a grade and be off academic dismissal.<br /><br />Naturally, having made a fair amount of big decisions that had nothing to do with anyone else, this pissed me off. She passed around a worksheet on the subject, and the questions (and my answers) went as follows.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: courier new;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Consider a BIG DECISION you have made recently. </span><span style="font-family: courier new;font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: courier new;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Giving up my son for adoption</span><span style="font-family: courier new;font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: courier new;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >What are 2 factors you considered when you made this decision?</span><span style="font-family: courier new;font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: courier new;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Financial stability/my own fitness as a parent</span><span style="font-family: courier new;font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: courier new;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Now THINK. What assumptions about YOURSELF may have played a part in your decision?</span><span style="font-family: courier new;font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: courier new;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >That I wouldn't have gone back to school or gotten a career if I'd kept him, and wouldn't have been able to support him/give him a good life</span><span style="font-family: courier new;font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: courier new;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Now THINK AGAIN. Is there SOMEONE or SOMETHING subconsciously taking part in your decision-making? </span><span style="font-family: courier new;font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: courier new;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Uh, no</span><span style="font-family: courier new;font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: courier new;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >In other words, now that you REALLY THINK about it, who or what else influenced this decision?</span><span style="font-family: courier new;font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: courier new;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Nothing, unless you count "money"</span><span style="font-family: courier new;font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: courier new;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Is this really your OWN decision, now that you REALLY THINK about it?</span><span style="font-family: courier new;font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: courier new;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >YES IT WAS ENTIRELY MY DECISION YOU HACK</span><br /><br />At this point I didn't really have many nice things to say about the class. But still, I thought maybe she was just used to these teaching methods working on everybody else, or something. I wasn't happy about it, but I didn't really hold it against her personally.<br /><br />The next week I went back, and a counselor made appointments with everyone in our class to get them set up with two-year plans and transfer and career guides. After we made our counseling appointment, we had to make an appointment with Professor I. Care. Due to a random system that involved everyone jumping in front of me and another girl, I was the last person to make an appointment.<br /><br />Professor I. Care looked up at me like she'd never seen me before.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her:</span> "What's your name again?"<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> "Kelli Renas."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her:</span> "Romnas?"<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> "RENAS. R-E-N-A-S."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">He</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">r:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(shaking her head)</span> "Oh wow, I don't know why I didn't know that. Okay, when did you want to have your appointment?"<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span>"Do you have anything on a Monday?"<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her:</span> "Sure. What time are your classes?"<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> "I don't have any classes on Monday. That's why I--"<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her:</span> "Well that's STUPID. What days are your classes, we'll do it then."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(a little annoyed, because I don't want to have an appointment on a day when I have classes, also because I just listened to her fill up every possible Tuesday and Thursday time) </span>"Tuesday and Thursday, 8-10 AM and 3:30-5 PM."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(writes down "3:30" in her book) </span>"Now what was your name again?"<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(more than a little annoyed)</span> "I have CLASS at 3:30."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(incredulous) </span>"Well I can't possibly do anything before that, I teach until 3:30."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQOf9QrsxItAdZ3cuMbKzbFw9_c0BWKYW8DaNspEzppJyVoWpAGyHrQu8o_VJte3ncN3n1Ql211_oCpTIO61o2qxjTEwQKcEP56du5W37yF-vZsezmukx5alsmGhqmBOHxZ3XZHL-7TPza/s1600/IMG000673.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQOf9QrsxItAdZ3cuMbKzbFw9_c0BWKYW8DaNspEzppJyVoWpAGyHrQu8o_VJte3ncN3n1Ql211_oCpTIO61o2qxjTEwQKcEP56du5W37yF-vZsezmukx5alsmGhqmBOHxZ3XZHL-7TPza/s320/IMG000673.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659358900720332402" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" >I MAY ACTUALLY BE HAVING AN ANEURYSM</span><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Me: </span><span style="font-style: italic;">(baffled)</span> "I <span style="font-style: italic;">KNOW</span>, THAT'S WHY I SAID MONDAY."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her:</span> "Okay, we'll do Monday. How's 9:30?"<br />I took my slip and left.<br /><br />So today at 9:30, armed with my transcripts, two transfer guides, a full plan for the next year (after which I'd have my associates'), and the knowledge that this was going to be a fully <span style="font-style: italic;">annoying </span>experience, I went to my appointment with Professor I. Care.<br /><br />When I knocked on the door, she turned around and pointed at the folder in my hand. "What's that?"<br />"It's all the stuff you told us to bring," I said.<br />"I didn't tell you to bring anything." Then a light went on in her head. "OH! You're my 9:30 appointment! Oh my God, it's so early for me. Okay, go sign in at the front desk."<br /><br />After being pointed to three different front desks, I finally managed to sign in, and when I got back, she was working on an email. "We still have one minute before our appointment technically starts, so just let me finish this," she said.<br /><br />I stayed quiet, thinking, <span style="font-style: italic;">You told me to show up 15 minutes early</span>. . .<br /><br />She finished her email (at 9:3<span style="font-style: italic;">2</span>) and grabbed my folder to look through the things I'd brought.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her:</span> "So you didn't bring a signed registration form?"<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(blinks)</span> "A what?"<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her:</span> "A signed registration form. Did you even <span style="font-style: italic;">read </span>this?"<br /><br />She took out the list of things to bring, which I'd marked up with a red pen to notate what I had, and tapped "signed registration form", at the bottom and in a different area than the list. I shook my head, almost certain that it wasn't on the list the night before.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her:</span> "Now you have to go back over to the counseling office. Well, that's fine. We have to meet again in a little while anyway."<span style="font-style: italic;"> (looks over my transfer guides to WSU College of Liberal Arts and Sciences)</span> "You know a Gen Ed degree won't get you a job, right?"<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span>"Excuse me?"<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her: </span>"No one anywhere is going to hire you with a Gen Ed degree. Did your counselor not tell you that?"<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(stab of annoyance)</span> "I'm not <span style="font-style: italic;">going </span>there to <span style="font-style: italic;">get </span>a Gen Ed degree. We printed that one off because they don't have a pre-law undergrad program."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her: </span>"Oh! I notice you only got a 2.0 in English 101. . . " <span style="font-style: italic;">(makes sympathetic face) </span>"Have some trouble with the writing? We can put you in a remedial class, if you need the help. WSU only accepts people with perfect writing, which<span style="font-style: italic;"> (in a commiserating tone)</span> I think is just terrible, but if you need the help--"<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span>"My writing is fine, actually. I skipped a bunch of classes. I got A's on everything I handed in."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her:</span> "Oh. Hmm. . . I notice you're taking kind of a heavy course load this semester."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> "Not really. Just Biology and English 2."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her:</span> "Biology, that's a lot of <span style="font-style: italic;">memorizing </span>stuff. Is that okay for you? Are you having any <span style="font-style: italic;">trouble</span> with that?"<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> "No, I'm not."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her:</span> "Have you had any tests yet?"<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> "Yes. We've had one. I got an A on it. I have an A in this class."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her:</span> "Oh. Huh. What about Math 113? I see you have that this semester."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> "I dropped it."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(makes understanding face)</span> "Was it too hard? Do we need to maybe drop you down to Math 053 to bump up that comprehension?"<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(not even bothering to keep the irritation out of my voice anymore)</span> "No, I can <span style="font-style: italic;">comprehend </span>it just fine. It was an 8-10 PM class and I was worried I'd skip."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(nodding) </span>"8-10 AM? Yeah, I have trouble getting up that early too."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> "No, 8-10 <span style="font-style: italic;">PM</span>."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her: </span>"You mean 8-10 <span style="font-style: italic;">AM</span>."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU2KR8whb3RiULSZpV_QWaOe-Zee4WM0uD5U5pbefDnlPClif21sEJ3hqA9rDRclB9uQGtOm8qQd_OI1wMjRQ0e58F37TyaxlHliWcRBqjW3k_9bG9PEhW5i2cnsy1pjUDfBxj9isZUtwZ/s1600/IMG000671.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU2KR8whb3RiULSZpV_QWaOe-Zee4WM0uD5U5pbefDnlPClif21sEJ3hqA9rDRclB9uQGtOm8qQd_OI1wMjRQ0e58F37TyaxlHliWcRBqjW3k_9bG9PEhW5i2cnsy1pjUDfBxj9isZUtwZ/s320/IMG000671.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659357086791133346" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Me:</span> "<span style="font-style: italic;">NO</span>, I mean, 8-10 <span style="font-style: italic;">PM</span>. AT <span style="font-style: italic;">NIGHT</span>."<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Her:</span> "Oh my gosh, who would <span style="font-style: italic;">ever </span>schedule a class at 10 PM? I couldn't learn anything, my brain is <span style="font-style: italic;">fried </span>by then."<br />She grinned. I was not having any of it.<br /><br />She scheduled another appointment for the end of October ("What's your name again? Romnas?" "RENAS.") and told me I needed to have my signed registration guide with me then, because apparently I <span style="font-style: italic;">didn't actually need it</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">today</span>, and I followed her out to the lobby so she could make copies of all my paperwork.<br /><br />"You know, it's <span style="font-style: italic;">crazy</span>," she said as she put my transcripts through the copier, "you're really one of the most prepared students I've ever had. I don't think anyone has ever had a course of action this thought out!" She handed me back all my paperwork."See you on the 31st!"<br /><br />I made this face:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizWa9vrI_H67vXXIxfXU0uUONuD93NRr5DO-Ga-VvsLjMEqGcKKiH_1unZQiaL7Y-pHGGmowsCfNCSVrRrfrW-kzioyd43YASbIg65opHhyZsTQRkt8Fm1BRnYTaSjExl9wdIC87zROVQu/s1600/IMG000670.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizWa9vrI_H67vXXIxfXU0uUONuD93NRr5DO-Ga-VvsLjMEqGcKKiH_1unZQiaL7Y-pHGGmowsCfNCSVrRrfrW-kzioyd43YASbIg65opHhyZsTQRkt8Fm1BRnYTaSjExl9wdIC87zROVQu/s320/IMG000670.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659354312217506322" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">The face of someone who <span style="font-style: italic;">isn't</span> harboring a secret burning desire to punch something.</span><br /><br /></div>and then I left and got breakfast, secure in the knowledge that nothing dumber could possibly happen to me today.<br /><br />I was right.kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-14135039638577979702011-09-06T13:35:00.000-07:002011-09-06T13:54:49.219-07:00Why I Ruin Everything I Touch: An Essay<em>On the first day of my Comp class we were given an article and told to write 750 words relating to it. The words"tangentally related" were used, and somehow "750 words related to an article by Cathy Davidson on the modern classroom" turned into "1,020+ words on why I write all over everything I touch". </em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Today I found out that I had, in fact, misunderstood my teacher's use of the word "tangentally", and therefore I would be an idiot to turn this in, but I just liked it so much that I wanted you guys to see it. So, here you are:</em><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>1,020+ Words On Why I Write All Over Everything</strong></div><br /><div align="center"></div>While I was reading Dr. Davidson’s article, I found myself editing it; I was underlining sentences and whole paragraphs, writing my thoughts in the margins, and occasionally drawing little cartoons to illustrate a point. At some point, a thought occurred to me: While most students my age, or people in general, would hate to come across contradictions and other grammatical errors in a scholarly text, I was loving it, and secretly hoping to stumble across more. This is a habit you’ll probably see a lot of in this class, if the first day is any indication, and it’s a habit that I picked up from being a literary magazine editor in high school.<br /><br />At Churchill, we had a group called “Phaeton” (which we were told meant “one who sets the world on fire”, but I don’t think anyone ever bothered to check; also, I don’t think anyone outside the group knew how to spell it) whose purpose was to collect poetry and short stories from the rest of the school, and whittle this typically huge mass down to a nice small book of student writing to be sold in the last few weeks of the school year. It was run by my favorite teacher, Mr. Wood, who had a unibrow and thought it was his best feature. It wasn’t.*<br /><br />There were about twelve editors in total, and I was one of two head editors. Being a head editor didn’t mean a whole lot from the outside, but it meant that Mr. Wood, who had the final say, trusted our input a little more.<br /><br />Every week, we got a Phaeton Packet, sometimes five pages, sometimes thirty, full of student submissions. Predictably, there was a lot of bad breakup poetry, super-dark, Goth-y, “BLOOD ON THE WALLS” poetry, and, most upsettingly, flat-out plagiarism of popular poems or songs. But hidden somewhere under that were usually one or two gems, written by quiet and clever people.<br /><br />Mondays were Packet days. Phaeton met to discuss the previous weeks Packet, vote on what moved forward and what was thrown out, and at the end of the meeting everyone got a new Packet. I was always particularly excited about this, because I’d finished whatever book I was reading over the weekend and needed something to do in class besides, you know, class work. As soon as the Packet was in my hands, I’d sit down with my purple pen, quivering in anticipation of not only the great works I was bound to find, but the mountain of<em> sheer terrible</em> I’d have to cross to get to them. A lot of the other editors hated Packet days for this exact reason. I loved them. I <em>loved</em> drawing little cartoons and crossing things out and covering entire pages with the word “<em>NO</em>” in feverish haste (which would sometimes be my review; “I just wrote ‘NO’ all over this one”). I walked into my Phaeton meetings proudly, with my Packet in hand, looking like it had been snatched by a graffiti artist and passed around to all of his friends (who were all, incidentally, also graffiti artists), knowing that I had done my homework.<br /><br />After a while, this peculiar method of involved reading became hardwired into my way of thinking. My teachers didn’t like it, because it meant that novels they handed out in class always ended up ruined, and my friends didn’t like it, because when they asked to borrow a book, they usually didn’t want to see drawings of fish wearing glasses (for reasons only known to myself) all over certain pages.<br /><br />Now, however, people seem to find it quirky and endearing. For example, when what I shall refer to as “The Great <em>Twilight</em> Craze of Aught-Eight” was taking place, I picked up a copy of the first book. (This is another thing I do; I try to give every book, and every TV show, a chance. I’ve ended up liking some pretty weird things.) After reading about five pages I realized I wasn’t going to get through it, at least not without hating myself for it, and I was <em>angry</em>. I had defended this book and told people not to knock it until they’d tried it, and now I wasn’t going to get to properly try it.<br /><br />This wasn’t just another bad book I could give up on. This was now a matter of <em>pride</em>. After a few days, in which I repeatedly picked up my copy of <em>Twilight</em>, only to put it down again, cursing and spitting like a cat, I decided that the only way I was going to make it to the end was to Phaetonize it.<br /><br />I was surprised at how easy it was to read <em>Twilight</em> when I was able to write incredulous statements in the margins, draw a little lightning bolt and write “*<em>CRACK</em>*”over Edward Cullen’s name every time it was mentioned in full (which was a lot, let me tell you), and replace the words “brilliant surgeon” with “brilliant sturgeon”, and a picture of a giant fish wearing a lab coat. I actually felt sad when the book ended; it had been so much fun. If everyone read <em>Twilight</em> this way, no one could possibly hate Stephenie Meyer.<br /><br />I had thought that my friends would be suitably appalled to hear that I’d read <em>Twilight</em>. It was, after all, widely regarded as a trashy and awful book. I was right, at least at first: Upon telling my friends what I’d done, their eyes would widen and they would ask, “Why would you DO that?” in a tone that suggested I’d casually told them I’d been eating starfish in my spare time. But they would inevitably ask me how I’d finished it, and when I told them, their expressions would turn from disgust to delight, and they’d ask if they could borrow it. They said it would be the reading equivalent of watching Mystery Science Theater 3000 (which was, of course, quite flattering).<br /><br />For me, writing all over everything in an attempt to understand it is, optimistically, a comprehension tool, and pessimistically, a coping mechanism. It's how I relate to things. So in conclusion, I would like to apologize in advance for the amount of editing I am almost certain to do to everything I can get my hands on this semester. I assure you, I take absolutely no joy in it.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><em><span style="font-size:78%;">*Please note that this doesn't mean I think Mr. Wood's "eyesbrow" isn't a good feature. It is his defining feature in all my drawings of him! I just think there are many better ones than just that.</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:78%;">YES I HAD A CRUSH ON MR. WOOD, SHUT UP. </span></em>kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-24605072280649840172011-08-29T02:44:00.000-07:002011-10-04T16:07:36.437-07:00Movie Monday: Scary Movies That DON'T Keep Me Up All NightIn an effort to get back into some sort of schedule with this blog, I'm resurrecting Movie Monday*! Yes, I am fully aware that by the time this is posted it will no longer be Monday. But I started it on Monday, and that's what's important, right?<br /><br />*If you don't remember <a href="http://bagelsnsox.blogspot.com/2010/07/movie-monday.html">Movie Monday</a>, that's okay, because I only did it once and it was like a year ago.<br /><br />This week's edition: Scary Movies That DON'T Keep Me Up All Night!<br /><br />I told you guys a while ago (around the last time I did Movie Monday) that I have this really terrible and idiotic tendency to <a href="http://bagelsnsox.blogspot.com/2010/07/angry-ghost-husbands-are-why-famke.html">watch scary movies on cable</a>, because I come in at a weird time and think they look silly. Then I get nightmares, and it's hard for me to do basic things like shower and go to the bathroom without being terrified that things are going to come out of the mirror or the drain or the toilet (thanks for that, <span style="font-style: italic;">Dreamcatcher</span>). It's not even just movies; a couple of weeks ago I accidentally saw the end of the <span style="font-style: italic;">Paranormal Activity 3</span> trailer and since then I've been sleeping with the light on.<br /><br />I know. It's stupid. Believe me, I'm aware.<br /><br />Fortunately, I've found a handful of movies which can [in some cases, <span style="font-style: italic;">technically</span>] be classified as "horror", that DON'T inhibit bodily functions like peeing and sleep! In fact, they're actually pretty fun. Let's take a look.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiIHPwZyhJo3gayE5QRgQHa-5D60D7_DPQZ8LQc_O9YTMwplmAF-uzAR1K970e0XgzvTQtB3lNWo1YaWSfDw6u1u77YxrhVwY1Md4Ef6Xm04KQTATb6EuHjXAipD_YnFGJ7YdXsqjPrVG4/s1600/The+Frighteners.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 235px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiIHPwZyhJo3gayE5QRgQHa-5D60D7_DPQZ8LQc_O9YTMwplmAF-uzAR1K970e0XgzvTQtB3lNWo1YaWSfDw6u1u77YxrhVwY1Md4Ef6Xm04KQTATb6EuHjXAipD_YnFGJ7YdXsqjPrVG4/s320/The+Frighteners.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646502259439265378" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Frighteners</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Starring Michael J. Fox, Chi McBride, Andie MacDowell, and A Horse</span><br /></div><br />*Fun fact: The cover is way scarier than the actual movie.<br /><br />The Frighteners stars Michael J. Fox as a con man who can<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>see ghosts (not to be confused with <span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><a href="http://bagelsnsox.blogspot.com/2011/04/questionable-relationship-models-for.html">Dr. James Harvey</a>, who is a regular con man <span style="font-style: italic;">pretending </span>he can see ghosts). His wife died as a result of something he may or may not have done. Meanwhile, there's a malevolent Gary Busey ghost (I guess that's him on the cover? Huh.) going around killing people because he didn't get to finish killing people when he was alive. There's numbers involved, and a crazy guy with religious tattoos who keeps trying to kill Michael J. Fox, and Chi McBride is a swinging 70's ghost.<br /><br />It's a pretty fun movie, but it's just scary enough to give you a thrill, and Gary Busey is genuinely freaky. If you can find it for less than ten bucks (which, trust me, is not that hard), you should definitely pick it up.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrHIBm-LixkzE2zFJf0D6EQC7TrxYQjPKnQl0YFBaeciCpPo7AHdhJ4UGTaN4d852ILXGhiSl3VErEhgWsvs5iSePxaHQL7BvgqcM2Kl0fDm4XrOg2iVyIxv3VJrEgoDF_FFqZ66GCaOMf/s1600/event+horizon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrHIBm-LixkzE2zFJf0D6EQC7TrxYQjPKnQl0YFBaeciCpPo7AHdhJ4UGTaN4d852ILXGhiSl3VErEhgWsvs5iSePxaHQL7BvgqcM2Kl0fDm4XrOg2iVyIxv3VJrEgoDF_FFqZ66GCaOMf/s320/event+horizon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646501455914897234" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Event Horizon</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Starring Morpheus and Dr. Alan Grant</span><br /></div><br />This movie is definitely scary, and definitely not for everyone. I wasn't okay watching it the first time, but once I knew when the freaky parts were coming, I thought it was kind of hilarious. Apparently Sam Neill went through a stint where he was the villain in every terrible B horror movie? When did this happen?<br /><br />The plot is basically <span style="font-style: italic;">A Wrinkle In Time</span>, except that it's A Wrinkle In <span style="font-style: italic;">Space</span>, and in between the folds of that wrinkle are <span style="font-style: italic;">SPACE HELL</span>. The ship is <span style="font-style: italic;">clearly </span>constructed to be evil, with spiked walls and a big spinny death ball, and there's lots of gut-ripping and intestiney eye-explodey action. Even though Dr. Alan Grant kicks precisely <span style="font-style: italic;">zero </span>raptors in the face, it's good fun, provided you can stand blood (or you have someone around to poke you when you should cover your eyes).<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLtUUO6L0eCqO0xCsn-bHDQfXBhAcY15DLipxEAdNeQTk8YUWkZM7VwS3taxcM4bEkuqoqQe9PPgdUCiP3mZLJBYqL3WcsSUakBmZuLvVxsnRWDLpwrXDdwjKP4Zn2lOiVP5aYBQ-CwlfD/s1600/scream+poster.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLtUUO6L0eCqO0xCsn-bHDQfXBhAcY15DLipxEAdNeQTk8YUWkZM7VwS3taxcM4bEkuqoqQe9PPgdUCiP3mZLJBYqL3WcsSUakBmZuLvVxsnRWDLpwrXDdwjKP4Zn2lOiVP5aYBQ-CwlfD/s320/scream+poster.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646505498770149026" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Scream Series</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Starring Neve Campbell, Courtney Cox, Jamie Kennedy, and David Arquette's Moustache.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">NOT Drew Barrymore, like the poster would have you believe.</span><br /></div><br />The Scream series is probably my favorite movie series ever. I really shouldn't even have to tell you what they're about, but I will anyway, because I love you.<br /><br />A guy in one of those douchey (now totally iconic) ghost masks and cloaks runs around killing everybody involved with Sidney Prescott (Neve Campbell), whose mother (and this is important, but I'm not sure why) was brutally murdered a year before the first movie.<br /><br />It's a horror movie that's also a parody of horror movies, a while before that sort of thing was popular. It's also endlessly quotable, with an awesome cast*, a whole lot of silly, bloody fun without being too gory or nightmarish. I own the trilogy, and I'm proud to say I've watched it maybe twelve times in its entirety. It never gets old.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">*Except for Skeet Ulrich, anyway. He's not nearly as clean or handsome in the movie as he is on the poster, and I have <span style="font-style: italic;">no idea where the hell that goatee came from. </span><br /></span><br />The most recent installment, Scre4m (don't blame me for that, it is <span style="font-style: italic;">on the poster</span>), also didn't disappoint. I actually got upset when I found out it wouldn't be coming out on DVD until October.<br /><br />I think everyone should see these movies at least once. If you feel like watching them with me, give me a shout and I'll hook you up.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIOG-6Pn_WpHPLUWRQNc2ID159Hmyq0zJUJOwC5UqK2iSQYlBOKrKp4ZFvaS2zjm0FJpsjP2-upYc5YiL-c0ZhqXPFWWE8VuxJ9qAMlvJmB-SOOpO73k54N64HpuXh_QgKHahjlWIrqKDs/s1600/fright+night.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIOG-6Pn_WpHPLUWRQNc2ID159Hmyq0zJUJOwC5UqK2iSQYlBOKrKp4ZFvaS2zjm0FJpsjP2-upYc5YiL-c0ZhqXPFWWE8VuxJ9qAMlvJmB-SOOpO73k54N64HpuXh_QgKHahjlWIrqKDs/s320/fright+night.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646512379603428386" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Fright Night</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Starring Anton Yelchin, David Tennant, Colin Farrell, Christopher Mintz-Plasse, and </span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:180%;" >OH YEAH DID I MENTION DAVID TENNANT</span><br /></div><br />This movie was the whole reason I decided to resurrect (HA, BECAUSE VAMPIRES?!) Movie Monday. The other movies helped, but really I just wanted to geek out about <span style="font-style: italic;">Fright Night</span>.<br /><br />I saw it this past Saturday, which I think was the day after it came out. I wish I'd had the foresight to look it up on <a href="http://www.imdb.com/">IMDb</a> beforehand, because then I could've actually been watching the movie instead of spending about a third of it with my face behind my hands and my thumbs in my ears*.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">*This is known as "Assuming the Position". I invented it. </span><br /><br />A thrilling remake of the 1985 Chris Sarandon movie, Fright Night stars Anton Yelchin as Charlie Brewster (which sounds a lot like Charlie Bartlett, right? But that's a theory for another time), a teenage kid fumbling with his newfound popularity and sexy girlfriend. Charlie's old nerdy friend Ed (BETCHA CAN'T GUESS WHO PLAYS HIM) thinks that the guy who recently moved in next to Charlie is a vampire, and tries to enlist Charlie's help to expose and/or defeat him.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">***SPOILER ALERT: HE'S TOTALLY A VAMPIRE***</span><br /><br />David Tennant, AKA THE DOCTOR pops up fairly early, although he's not immediately recognizable-- see if you can spot him in the above poster-- and he's definitely less than helpful.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibKVD3URXvg3mEvZ0LBpp8dvGJAvNVGHf06DtkdBQ0QqQH7cdcA5UAmP6mUkQ8u5wyiodDT_p4E_0U2W9HoQneYYI3w195-_iHu0jBy-692hSCGV7cXRXYYUdOB7CaHAmvt7BxLlv_wsRa/s1600/play+me+a+song%252C+bitch..jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibKVD3URXvg3mEvZ0LBpp8dvGJAvNVGHf06DtkdBQ0QqQH7cdcA5UAmP6mUkQ8u5wyiodDT_p4E_0U2W9HoQneYYI3w195-_iHu0jBy-692hSCGV7cXRXYYUdOB7CaHAmvt7BxLlv_wsRa/s320/play+me+a+song%252C+bitch..jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5646515655905036210" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">"Oh I'll kill your vampire, all right. But first, play me 'Stairway To Heaven'."*<br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:78%;">*This might not actually be from Fright Night</span><br /></div><br />It's less horror and more exhilarating thrills and campy fun, while staying just scary enough to keep you on the edge of your seat. I'm definitely going to see it again.<br /><br />And not just to look at David Tennant shirtless. Probably.kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-90496031300942784262011-07-10T16:47:00.001-07:002011-11-07T11:48:02.533-08:00Rarely Explored, But Universally Acknowledged, Social Archetypes (Essay 2)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSz0nreUeqDPMxy0b9X5MTQ525BUm-KQkmKMuhyphenhyphen-454KateJsJPQkGyEQd2gMyABYC7qIqRwiCFpPpb_AYCb0WhdWxB56qJhkbtOimqnM3oC99z7NjOABpFecB6HHvzxFmm_miTPv1_8FV/s1600/Dr+Kelli+PhD+psychology.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSz0nreUeqDPMxy0b9X5MTQ525BUm-KQkmKMuhyphenhyphen-454KateJsJPQkGyEQd2gMyABYC7qIqRwiCFpPpb_AYCb0WhdWxB56qJhkbtOimqnM3oC99z7NjOABpFecB6HHvzxFmm_miTPv1_8FV/s320/Dr+Kelli+PhD+psychology.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634161675453647794" border="0" /></a>(This entry is Part 2 in a series. Here is the link to <a href="http://bagelsnsox.blogspot.com/2010/09/rarely-explored-but-universally.html">Part 1</a>, which is much longer, but equally hilarious. It also features <span style="font-style: italic;">extremely dumb</span> pictures of me.)<br /><br />Due to length, this essay has been broken up into two shorter essays. I'm sure you will not complain at having to read less.<br /><br />In this entry, we will discuss:<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The Nervous Talker,</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />That Guy With An iPhone</span>.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5t34ow-6GvHebri8mxAuGoSnzkv4qVPosnWtz8C0ukTPQYUIf5roTskTE3x5dVTMq3IOu9akc-xSSa0W1ubUT9B-h2Q9wPUKtc1Ve9r_cwHCJ0lwVEkGP04VJNs7eiYmNHDUdNlZpmJ0L/s1600/nervous+talker.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5t34ow-6GvHebri8mxAuGoSnzkv4qVPosnWtz8C0ukTPQYUIf5roTskTE3x5dVTMq3IOu9akc-xSSa0W1ubUT9B-h2Q9wPUKtc1Ve9r_cwHCJ0lwVEkGP04VJNs7eiYmNHDUdNlZpmJ0L/s320/nervous+talker.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634162084995172098" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Nervous Talker</span><br /></div><br />It's the season for grad parties and family reunions, which are the Nervous Talker's domain. The Nervous Talker is almost always female, and will <span style="font-style: italic;">always </span>be seen clinging to her significant other with a vice-like death-grip. You better not be planning on talking to anyone else for the rest of the party, because once you start a conversation with the Nervous Talker, you're not getting out of it until she is good and satisfied.<br /><br />Another hallmark of the Nervous Talker is the tendency to <span style="font-style: italic;">completely embarrass</span> her significant other. In an attempt to show how well she knows him and how good she is for him (and therefore prove herself as an ideal mate to any doubting family members), she issues a series of jibes accompanied by a lot of exaggerated elbowing and nervous grins. The result is quite the opposite of what she intends, however, as seen by the following examples:<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">"</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Tell </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">me about it! </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">This </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">guy here didn't pack enough </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">underwear </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">for our </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">trip</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">! I was like, I </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">told </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">you a </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">billion </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">times, </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">make sure you pack enough underwear</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">, and of course </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">what </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">does he do? He </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">doesn't pack enough underwear</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">!"</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">*a direct quote</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">"I </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">know</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">! When </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">he </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">grew a </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">beard</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">, I was like, you </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">look </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">like a </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">terrorist</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">. </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Shave that off</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">!" </span><span style="font-style: italic;">*another direct quote</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">"I </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">hear </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">you! I can't get </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">this </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">one to stop </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">dragging his feet</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> and </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">commit </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">already! I'm like, we've </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">been </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">together for a </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">YEAR </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">already, we might as well just </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">move in together</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">, but he's just being </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">such a baby</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">! Mom </span><span style="font-style: italic;">[to significant other's mom, who is shocked to hear herself being addressed so]</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">, can you knock some sense into him?"</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAp9WkCbIMKfjb4PZ7_Jb8dBRAoXjdP9-yw_WUCV42B02A9NOhW3gVx74kLCl6kjOL9Vb0PVay6ecRBujbExzd0DWCxBRbHmPLbqSEOS1dNV_K1iW0ETbYP1Jl4zbwV_ENw4ZLTgsmkAyO/s1600/That+Guy+With+An+iPhone.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 278px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAp9WkCbIMKfjb4PZ7_Jb8dBRAoXjdP9-yw_WUCV42B02A9NOhW3gVx74kLCl6kjOL9Vb0PVay6ecRBujbExzd0DWCxBRbHmPLbqSEOS1dNV_K1iW0ETbYP1Jl4zbwV_ENw4ZLTgsmkAyO/s320/That+Guy+With+An+iPhone.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634563461733740450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">That Guy With An iPhone</span><br /></div><br />This guy just got an iPhone, and boy is he excited about it. And why shouldn't he be? The apps are crazy. You can chat with people in real face-time, or whatever that's called. You can surf the Internet wherever you go, and that means you can watch all the YouTube videos you could ever dream of! What kind of friend would he be if he didn't share all of that with you?<br /><br />No friend at all, that's what kind!<br /><br />Have you seen the latest viral video mash-up of Deathnote and Spongebob Squarepants? No? Well, say no more. You're watching it right now, sir! Never mind that the quality is awful, or you can't hear anything because you're at a party trying to socialize with people, and never mind that you have no idea what Deathnote is, you are watching all seven minutes and twenty-nine seconds of this video. And what's this? There are <span style="font-style: italic;">eight more videos</span> in the series? I didn't know that! Let's hope they're all as funny as the first, because we're watching those when this video is finished!<br /><br />Are you worried about being bored at this party? Guy With An iPhone precludes all possibility of boredom by anticipating your worry and providing hours and hours of entertainment on a tiny, shaky screen, all without even being asked!<br />Play this game!<br />Look at his Twitter app, just look how many followers he has!<br />Read political blogs! The possibilities are endless.<br /><br />Until the battery dies, anyway.kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-87498196606061440852011-06-09T17:53:00.001-07:002011-06-09T17:59:20.334-07:00The White Swan and the Black Cat<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxa62mK71rjPSCac9uz7DR60yErj0aCa6Qh5aj7WCvcTDTg7q8yh5FGbKUG-YqjeU5-UZFfyLBUGiuXPdDuZ_b8g621spY_S3MrBYUaKaSR2lmmy8kx7tnNwW-KkuMGiLIR2dg9rTYPljW/s1600/diva+corey.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxa62mK71rjPSCac9uz7DR60yErj0aCa6Qh5aj7WCvcTDTg7q8yh5FGbKUG-YqjeU5-UZFfyLBUGiuXPdDuZ_b8g621spY_S3MrBYUaKaSR2lmmy8kx7tnNwW-KkuMGiLIR2dg9rTYPljW/s320/diva+corey.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616389195340231890" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Xo5DIpxismX69nbj_mVu_z63uJ3g3jdN0jNsl4NRRcultAicacmgt_LeEDKu1F1ZSQJzWyoaRKdVzajGjeiEfIXISVgtfdx3kXg4uF6DvEaG455Ztq9cKOMFmP-bv7ED9fWQWgIa9iw_/s1600/diva+corey+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 172px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Xo5DIpxismX69nbj_mVu_z63uJ3g3jdN0jNsl4NRRcultAicacmgt_LeEDKu1F1ZSQJzWyoaRKdVzajGjeiEfIXISVgtfdx3kXg4uF6DvEaG455Ztq9cKOMFmP-bv7ED9fWQWgIa9iw_/s320/diva+corey+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616389059160496194" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3_XkLco_qOt-8_PcxqqrmVpWNxLs3WtUYcD4npkXE9fUSgVxHdRbUDRD4g7zbIfF14aOeI_UGX0WoP9ExTgdLv0U7dzUh4hBmd8UFh6cCU-mSyZfl5N5vsVgnVvixnrMBmRCehcmQlF94/s1600/diva+corey+3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3_XkLco_qOt-8_PcxqqrmVpWNxLs3WtUYcD4npkXE9fUSgVxHdRbUDRD4g7zbIfF14aOeI_UGX0WoP9ExTgdLv0U7dzUh4hBmd8UFh6cCU-mSyZfl5N5vsVgnVvixnrMBmRCehcmQlF94/s320/diva+corey+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616388029721129890" border="0" /></a>I WAS PERFECT, AND <span style="font-style: italic;">YOU RUINED EVERYTHING</span>kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-14593002412935039872011-05-20T15:39:00.000-07:002011-05-31T10:36:25.801-07:00The New Baby.For the last two years or so I've wanted a kitten. I think it has a lot to do with Blakey, and wanting to raise something, but I also just really like cats, and Corey seems very lonely most of the time. But every time I've asked my mom (yes, I live at home, and I'm perfectly happy with this arrangement), she's said the same thing: no, not right now, we already have a baby.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwGGrc7MVe0KE26LkWf8mAWLGOD_Rpd5o7XCuwpf1dSVsUCNGWg8tuOSVs3sWZUuPkHRudE30dISiVjZqAA7blj_l3GPq0S021AIrpIivPXaiUpoIk0JScEtxDsbiiFHGe-0js50jO2P1P/s1600/corey+the+baby.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwGGrc7MVe0KE26LkWf8mAWLGOD_Rpd5o7XCuwpf1dSVsUCNGWg8tuOSVs3sWZUuPkHRudE30dISiVjZqAA7blj_l3GPq0S021AIrpIivPXaiUpoIk0JScEtxDsbiiFHGe-0js50jO2P1P/s320/corey+the+baby.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612019437249841330" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">See above: "baby".<br /></span></div><br />But I finally wore her down, and two weeks ago, I got my wish. We now have a kitten in the house.<br /><br />This is Mason.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS7jb1hPdntHgpXYNi26T6MFSEVgPUppzRFkrbjhlsTuIYwH6R6NiPaS_qkq6wHdtGEkJ9KuhyphenhyphenT1Hrq38uecRsQTARQbMmU2c4LveZOtNRtn2OdRZe61JRw14qU5m1CCIm5RhMU4sVYW07/s1600/mason+paint.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS7jb1hPdntHgpXYNi26T6MFSEVgPUppzRFkrbjhlsTuIYwH6R6NiPaS_qkq6wHdtGEkJ9KuhyphenhyphenT1Hrq38uecRsQTARQbMmU2c4LveZOtNRtn2OdRZe61JRw14qU5m1CCIm5RhMU4sVYW07/s320/mason+paint.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612019974152435778" border="0" /></a><br />He is covered in very soft black fluff. Except for his face and his feet, he is also sparsely covered in white and gray hairs, which make him look like he is wearing very smart gray pants with little black dress shoes. All of his facial features are black, except for his big green eyes, which ALWAYS look surprised.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAnLbFq-tUdWgZqrgjHNM0ZvUF-ojBqDujdveGmBvOa0tPpEDv93ji1FLnMlVZOr-3jzoJc8VnMVPc8Min6i8g-oHLK1nrGMgJnVJ49SbWdrnvNwtPRXLwMlZKVUEeJPCdqNP7ZRVhLc9G/s1600/DSCN0971.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAnLbFq-tUdWgZqrgjHNM0ZvUF-ojBqDujdveGmBvOa0tPpEDv93ji1FLnMlVZOr-3jzoJc8VnMVPc8Min6i8g-oHLK1nrGMgJnVJ49SbWdrnvNwtPRXLwMlZKVUEeJPCdqNP7ZRVhLc9G/s320/DSCN0971.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612023773657499554" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSXwj0e1orqF8nZNrm1nShRrPj9HZgLW9J9jO2VPO2vDKvZMPcYBL09PVgMmT-1iyts8Nv-lQStaIt3Q7r-LbPK-ACgv2xPqta6075aYpC53tXWNOH83kpq1i_iUEIqxWRL8HYxnyiQXcd/s1600/DSCN0972.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSXwj0e1orqF8nZNrm1nShRrPj9HZgLW9J9jO2VPO2vDKvZMPcYBL09PVgMmT-1iyts8Nv-lQStaIt3Q7r-LbPK-ACgv2xPqta6075aYpC53tXWNOH83kpq1i_iUEIqxWRL8HYxnyiQXcd/s320/DSCN0972.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612023542852972898" border="0" /></a><br />His feet, in addition to being stylish spats, are also ridiculously flat, which makes him look very silly when he runs.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAlRf4bCG1bJYhXhgETIql5OoNWO9I6Y_OVeSagSL7dvhkfTqXDV_RQiGkzTXHlwrJliny19Pgvre8CBJ2TQ6BJfqXm_34uTzqm6P9fFwDsrhiR4BEQZvXMJDX1sUj88Td5xrRNxGKYdmX/s1600/mason+running+paint.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAlRf4bCG1bJYhXhgETIql5OoNWO9I6Y_OVeSagSL7dvhkfTqXDV_RQiGkzTXHlwrJliny19Pgvre8CBJ2TQ6BJfqXm_34uTzqm6P9fFwDsrhiR4BEQZvXMJDX1sUj88Td5xrRNxGKYdmX/s320/mason+running+paint.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612028480728062066" border="0" /></a><br />Mason is an excessively affectionate cat. He is also very sociable and curious about the world around him, particularly his new big brother.<br /><br />Bear in mind that for seven years, we have been a strictly one-animal home. Whenever our neighbors invite their yappy little wiener dog inside our house, Corey just sits on top of the stairs and looks at them with a faint look of distaste. Up until about three weeks ago, Corey hadn't seen another cat since he was a few weeks old, and certainly <span style="font-style: italic;">never </span>one in his house. His first interaction with another cat was with Shauna's cat Kino, and they just skirted around and hissed at each other the whole time.<br /><br />So, you can imagine how Corey takes it when little tiny Mason, who is <span style="font-style: italic;">literally 1/1oth</span> of Corey's size, rambles up to him and wants to play.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw2l2KZnYCWQAJOuEgp3tXoquoNqrw5pmjix5xlIJCUXW5-ii6jIpEEhz6ELBm0gZCVz1PO5VYyr44h0DA4qBUQCuyGkRa-VPToSiv6sw18ccN5QCvMBUXOBODvQKhS0dXSVH9jf-hg0Tf/s1600/mason+and+corey+paint.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw2l2KZnYCWQAJOuEgp3tXoquoNqrw5pmjix5xlIJCUXW5-ii6jIpEEhz6ELBm0gZCVz1PO5VYyr44h0DA4qBUQCuyGkRa-VPToSiv6sw18ccN5QCvMBUXOBODvQKhS0dXSVH9jf-hg0Tf/s320/mason+and+corey+paint.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612020949789911410" border="0" /></a><br />Mason is persistent, though. He follows Corey around all day. He tries to give Corey baths. He jumps on Corey's back when he wants to play. He tries to eat out of the same bowl and drink the same water and sit on the same chair as his cool new big brother.<br /><br />Corey is. . . not adjusting as well.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQxBYAEjfanQpE6byPQ0fwObonRVjhJpi4HjnFlnxLOji-xwLv-qlqan59q5yaaUJC290Dnc_zb4g2avEjamlcixwGO7ao5IAYitquImpchVi0OIuvtf3SWmBRRVVxJlPMRGcCQmIoKAV_/s1600/mason+and+corey+paint+2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQxBYAEjfanQpE6byPQ0fwObonRVjhJpi4HjnFlnxLOji-xwLv-qlqan59q5yaaUJC290Dnc_zb4g2avEjamlcixwGO7ao5IAYitquImpchVi0OIuvtf3SWmBRRVVxJlPMRGcCQmIoKAV_/s320/mason+and+corey+paint+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612935305884859682" border="0" /></a>kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-3408154077256775332011-05-01T20:37:00.000-07:002011-05-05T18:27:32.267-07:00I hate birds.When I was little, my dad used to take me to Hines Park to feed the ducks and geese. Getting all dressed up in my rain boots to squish around by the creeks and ponds to feed bits of bread to quacking ducks was my favorite thing to do.<br /><br />It stopped being my favorite thing to do the day that an ornery goose bit me on the face because I had run out of bread.<br /><br />My dad kicked it, and it flew away, squawking. Ever since then I have had a deep fear of birds.<br /><br />They're just so. . . <span style="font-style: italic;">foreign</span>. Their DNA is so far removed from our own that I can't even relate to them. You can't <span style="font-style: italic;">read </span>a bird. They are like tiny, feathery dinosaurs, and that is TERRIFYING to me.<br /><br />Oh yes, I like tiny, fluffy, hoppy birds. They're cute to look at. So long as they're not within a foot of any part of my body, I'm fine with tiny birds.<br /><br />It's the <span style="font-style: italic;">big </span>ones I seem to have a problem with.<br /><br />My boyfriend in tenth grade had a bird-- a big, loud cockatoo named Spanky that used to belong to his brother. For the longest time we all thought Spanky was a boy, mostly because Lee (the brother) had never really bothered to check. And anyway, how exactly do you check something like that on a bird?<br /><br />You know what, never mind. I'm okay not knowing.<br /><br />Spanky was out of his cage a lot, which really bothered me, particularly because there was a <span style="font-style: italic;">baby </span>and two other pets in the house (a lizard, I think, and a big, beefy, totally bad-ass cat named Frisket). He couldn't fly, so he would just walk around slowly, staring intently at people with his head cocked to one side, like he was thinking about which veins to sever.<br /><br />Everybody else seemed to be okay with this, so no matter how much I begged Andrew to just put Spanky in his damn cage when I was over, he would always just laugh and say I had nothing to be afraid of. Occasionally he would pick Spanky up and kind of <span style="font-style: italic;">launch </span>him at me, thinking it was hilarious to watch me freak out. What a swell guy.<br /><br />One night, about a week before Christmas, I went over to Andrew's house to help him decorate the tree. While he was assembling the actual tree part, I went into the living room, where Spanky's cage was. The hatch was closed, so I felt safe enough to sit down on the couch (as far away from the cage as I could be) and watch TV with Andrew's mom.<br /><br />Suddenly, the hatch to Spanky's cage opened, and Spanky hopped out onto the floor, staring at me unblinkingly. It hadn't been locked, just closed.<br /><br />My illusion of safety was shattered.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKPBVl3PhaL2V85kV1atJrw1Gf-0hKT_3mHOYFMccbVXxNeD7KdHDgn4dTkKPVQsSoCph-FrXdaghppLawhzHv02jvMxArhSIYaviZBtSZC9jY2SNzjdCq259IHkMipeESshtGTjLptmiC/s1600/spanky+1.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKPBVl3PhaL2V85kV1atJrw1Gf-0hKT_3mHOYFMccbVXxNeD7KdHDgn4dTkKPVQsSoCph-FrXdaghppLawhzHv02jvMxArhSIYaviZBtSZC9jY2SNzjdCq259IHkMipeESshtGTjLptmiC/s320/spanky+1.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603405760140634162" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbepfSg9P1RrlQmaiD6eFI5cFquY4L8qv7RCWe8ZRmC-q8lYWz_gaCLW0qqb4pI21dSqixxXPB6SJJuOmHNAfqufEuVimUH0fnxwxhtkwrLMyP2U2-ICAwY3c8ZHztcLhRTrhoxGaY5ceE/s1600/spanky+2.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbepfSg9P1RrlQmaiD6eFI5cFquY4L8qv7RCWe8ZRmC-q8lYWz_gaCLW0qqb4pI21dSqixxXPB6SJJuOmHNAfqufEuVimUH0fnxwxhtkwrLMyP2U2-ICAwY3c8ZHztcLhRTrhoxGaY5ceE/s320/spanky+2.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603406000861959698" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRz9lWrFrILBln21qpIeY6WQjU2Bz7gFtITz2eL7r6-2fBFX9gUO5Zupb-vsHZM2-om2d7FH-bbZKuHBQoAEEjNUZcejNxdkwznp0eB1SDoaSAAe9VLNjqESIb1wlvzisPljcpmGNcewOA/s1600/spanky+3.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRz9lWrFrILBln21qpIeY6WQjU2Bz7gFtITz2eL7r6-2fBFX9gUO5Zupb-vsHZM2-om2d7FH-bbZKuHBQoAEEjNUZcejNxdkwznp0eB1SDoaSAAe9VLNjqESIb1wlvzisPljcpmGNcewOA/s320/spanky+3.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603408527182104994" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhFsOIcN8tIJq-vyRBiKM9rYPX39fKStb0toe89M4OVimBa_ghcBfZ2MfiQJ17pH4FpgcaHdmIkkaH9NP8gEK_aDFyCDKCkwSrJlIFEt0-eSP-UrHtmHbvPevRP31YhiahQhQIZ5dJZ5um/s1600/spanky+4.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhFsOIcN8tIJq-vyRBiKM9rYPX39fKStb0toe89M4OVimBa_ghcBfZ2MfiQJ17pH4FpgcaHdmIkkaH9NP8gEK_aDFyCDKCkwSrJlIFEt0-eSP-UrHtmHbvPevRP31YhiahQhQIZ5dJZ5um/s320/spanky+4.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603406584723467314" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYyb39H0Kl1YAk71ALpvZk9FwLrkt_7v8gRl41lck6UBW6tmzSYXvjsPDtvG_eIlbfwL4aJKOqejpSdU9uRpDpwlPW-zzlRksvwuvtsXc3vLQf5bgZ4hojGiRN5WeHZDfUTG3idrCyZnif/s1600/spanky+6.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYyb39H0Kl1YAk71ALpvZk9FwLrkt_7v8gRl41lck6UBW6tmzSYXvjsPDtvG_eIlbfwL4aJKOqejpSdU9uRpDpwlPW-zzlRksvwuvtsXc3vLQf5bgZ4hojGiRN5WeHZDfUTG3idrCyZnif/s320/spanky+6.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603407048137312370" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhftiJBM1KWs0A49kppuBu0MWOCot2_magqGWafF-gyBJFbbsUUc0llmDjhjRA5TJvWDLAYdI5riY7eySTtS6kxz3iS-hNaCKJ6Wg_H57r07yea_TiiIYTXOdXBsVpEPEzt08PA2_druItt/s1600/spanky+5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhftiJBM1KWs0A49kppuBu0MWOCot2_magqGWafF-gyBJFbbsUUc0llmDjhjRA5TJvWDLAYdI5riY7eySTtS6kxz3iS-hNaCKJ6Wg_H57r07yea_TiiIYTXOdXBsVpEPEzt08PA2_druItt/s320/spanky+5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603406800237921890" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgrHmIERGh27CEFlGGam7rKtUOmpF3TLFMwZECkBGqXv6Fj1oQt7OCN5H3oAagQvc9KCON8ESks-onIakpP-rLxgtrIYUrnVeyHzHo1ApcpZYyZSVsrc7dYwKYVJAY2BsNciHB6y79eMYe/s1600/spanky+7.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgrHmIERGh27CEFlGGam7rKtUOmpF3TLFMwZECkBGqXv6Fj1oQt7OCN5H3oAagQvc9KCON8ESks-onIakpP-rLxgtrIYUrnVeyHzHo1ApcpZYyZSVsrc7dYwKYVJAY2BsNciHB6y79eMYe/s320/spanky+7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603407258073950466" border="0" /></a><br />What you see there is no joke. Spanky got out of his cage, hopped up onto the couch, and <span style="font-style: italic;">leapt at my face.</span><br /><br />I jumped up and started flapping my arms and screaming something along the lines of "OHMYGODTHEREISABIRDONMYFACE GETITOFFGETITOFFGETITOFF", with Spanky hanging from my face, and also flapping and screaming. After about five minutes of this Andrew finally seemed to notice that there was something going on, and came into the living room to find me running around in circles with a gigantic cockatoo attached to my face, and his mom doubled over in her chair laughing.<br /><br />I should mention, his mom never liked me.<br /><br />He yanked Spanky off my face (tearing a chunk out of my cheek in the process, because the bird had such a firm grip) and threw him back in his cage, actually locking the door this time, and that year I got to go to all my family Christmas parties with a big infected-looking bird bite an inch below my eye.<br /><br />The next time Andrew's family took Spanky in to the vet, Andrew explained to her what had happened with me, and she told him that Spanky was actually a girl, and she probably attacked me because she was under the impression that Andrew was her mate.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1sy3Bdde8oL7JyqDHvPzkWayrRSVMqk1lnlrtLUeSN-7B2ifrFHnMdiNYMpjQZgVwXtlTxiInWpL7GumIfP9Hcs9PBWPPJ_Xf_36cnAw1PWXK62_eMg8F3NKnwpRG98ZQJuOGznDJlMlE/s1600/jeffrey+coho+i%2527m+sorry+what.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1sy3Bdde8oL7JyqDHvPzkWayrRSVMqk1lnlrtLUeSN-7B2ifrFHnMdiNYMpjQZgVwXtlTxiInWpL7GumIfP9Hcs9PBWPPJ_Xf_36cnAw1PWXK62_eMg8F3NKnwpRG98ZQJuOGznDJlMlE/s320/jeffrey+coho+i%2527m+sorry+what.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602849024449982082" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">I'm sorry, could you repeat that?<br /></span></div><br />Yep, Spanky thought that Andrew was her mate. Spanky was a bunny-boiler.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Because birds are CRAZY</span>.<br /><br />Actually, I would like to amend that; I have known one nice bird in my life. His name was Phantom, and he was my aunt Debbie's bird. You know what was so great about Phantom? He sat on his perch when company was over, and waited until no one was around to start talking. And even then, he would just say quietly to himself, "Phantom's a <span style="font-style: italic;">pretty </span>bird."<br /><br />Phantom is fine. Every other domesticated bird can go <span style="font-style: italic;">die in a fire.</span>kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-28420646405307658682011-04-20T11:56:00.000-07:002011-10-04T16:13:55.727-07:00Questionable Relationship Models for Children #2: CasperI am not a very entertaining person at my own house, so when my friends come over, we typically watch movies or play Mario Party. I have a huge and diverse collection of movies, particularly of the "family" variety, and sometimes when we're all in a silly mood, we go through all my videotapes from when I was a kid. The other night we decided to watch <span style="font-style: italic;">Casper</span>.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHPHx0rrN3iGqNjmNgY_D1Fi23StrL-mugtwtL44zjPoKGTNWjvzFxb_7YB5lVcqh9knEhIpL4mQ_x-2RAY60sZRJ4EIXJh3roj9QZfJlJZK2h-wcjCtmc2ISU18q_VhjptQI0lnFsCcXW/s1600/casper+cover.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 224px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHPHx0rrN3iGqNjmNgY_D1Fi23StrL-mugtwtL44zjPoKGTNWjvzFxb_7YB5lVcqh9knEhIpL4mQ_x-2RAY60sZRJ4EIXJh3roj9QZfJlJZK2h-wcjCtmc2ISU18q_VhjptQI0lnFsCcXW/s320/casper+cover.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597744287948655298" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">"Smash hit" might be exaggerating a little. "Theatrical" might also.<br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: left;">You might not know this because you are probably a normal person, and haven't seen <span style="font-style: italic;">Casper </span>since you were eight (or ten, if you had a big fat crush on Devon Sawa like I did), but <span style="font-style: italic;">Casper </span>is just<span style="font-style: italic;"> chock full </span>of screwed-up relationships. I'm not even talking about just romantic ones. <span style="font-style: italic;">Every character</span> in this movie is going to have to go through family sessions with their therapist.<br /></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qZZA73mwv0rUhDN0kE0JsPnEU1cZ026J-WvB5qkmtTFwxZ_cEpPa_Ywb8QKlfsgiobT9lb6pMdtm1xyyf24S8p2iGAqTjzoI1b80eHb4YYQxpxXoAFaS9Mzopl2mJ_D7P4bC6eiLaS3p/s1600/dr+james+harvey.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qZZA73mwv0rUhDN0kE0JsPnEU1cZ026J-WvB5qkmtTFwxZ_cEpPa_Ywb8QKlfsgiobT9lb6pMdtm1xyyf24S8p2iGAqTjzoI1b80eHb4YYQxpxXoAFaS9Mzopl2mJ_D7P4bC6eiLaS3p/s320/dr+james+harvey.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597745827450502962" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Luckily, they all have the same therapist!<br /></span></div><br />I won't go into the weird relationships between secondary and tertiary characters (like Billy and that forgettable Popular Chick). I'll just give you the few main ones that stuck out to me.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Kat and Her Dad, Dr. James Harvey</span><br />Here is a classic American story: A grief-stricken widower, saddled with a whip-smart daughter on the brink of womanhood, packs up his life and moves around the country hoping to find his dead wife floating around in someone else's home.<br /><br />Wait, what?<br /><br />Dr. James Harvey is a<span style="font-style: italic;"> traveling ghost therapist</span>. That is his job.<br /><br />In the car on a trip literally across the country (from Santa Fe to coastal Maine), his daughter, Kat, complains a lot about how she doesn't want to move so much, because she just wants to make friends, wahh. That's okay. She's twelve, whatever. We'll just let her whine about wanting to go to her first school dance.<br /><br />But then she starts making cracks about her dad's career, and actually questioning his sanity. She tells him that ghosts, AKA his <span style="font-style: italic;">main source of income</span>, don't exist, and that therefore his quest to find her dead mom is stupid and pointless. (Not to mention kind of traumatizing, when you think about it; her mom just died, and her dad is still insisting that she's out there somewhere, hiding from them.)<br /><br />Surprisingly, Dr. James Harvey takes his daughter's complete disrespect of his life choices pretty well. I mean, she's still in the car when they get to Maine, so we have to assume.<br /><br />When they get to the house, Casper pops up in Kat's room. Kat screams, and her dad comes running. After she manages to get out "UMTHERESAGHOST", he basically pats her on the head with an infuriatingly patronizing smile, and walks around her room opening doors and going, "WHERE'S THE GHOST, KAT? NO GHOST HERE. OH, NO GHOSTS HERE! NOPE. NONE HERE."<br /><br />And then of course he sees Casper and screams. Because that is just what you do when you see Casper, and also, UMTHERESAGHOST.<br /><br />Let's back up a bit.<br /><br />Dr. James Harvey has just admitted that he has <span style="font-style: italic;">never ever</span> seen a ghost before. You know, those things that he specializes in therapizing, and drives around he country taking people's calls and money to fix? He's never seen one before. In fact, until he actually sees Casper,<span style="font-style: italic;"> he doesn't believe they exist</span>. He has been told that this house is haunted by vicious, smelly ghosts. He has been hired to try and help said ghosts because he is widely renowned as a ghost therapist. He is here SPECIFICALLY BECAUSE OF GHOSTS, but when Kat tells him she saw one, he just smiles and goes "Oh, honey. You're so stupid."<br /><br />Summary: Dr. James Harvey is a con man.<br /><br />He's also a troll. "Let's find your dead mom, Kat! I <span style="font-style: italic;">don't actually believe</span> that we'll <span style="font-style: italic;">ever </span>find her, but let's spend a couple of years looking, JUST IN CASE."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT6lTvW_pdBqG2zY51J3rI5Pr4t7U58p111Syr75JZZVdkl4M37wdB_PzVUDQ5EqAoR55nBbR_SRvXhV0Bd0coa4P0o_Ev8Z5T3VlH7VrMpodqbuVxxGQb_yv3uikiLsPTWFFDrDMIPWlW/s1600/family+portrait.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 258px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT6lTvW_pdBqG2zY51J3rI5Pr4t7U58p111Syr75JZZVdkl4M37wdB_PzVUDQ5EqAoR55nBbR_SRvXhV0Bd0coa4P0o_Ev8Z5T3VlH7VrMpodqbuVxxGQb_yv3uikiLsPTWFFDrDMIPWlW/s320/family+portrait.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597753312714472034" border="0" /></a>What a nice, normal, all-American family. And speaking of families. . .<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Casper's Uncles and. . . Well, Everyone</span><br />I'm not totally sure that the three other douchey ghosts who live in Whipstaff Manor are really Casper's uncles, like he says they are. No mention is ever made of his father having any brothers, and even though he knows nothing about his previous life and it really bugs him, he's never bothered to ask them.<br /><br />It might just be because they're jerks.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXwQqtd3eG3fuXXBG0KyhBojgAhZa35iVJGek9QQqKIup1gvBAJ_x-yRM2paybxyhkC1LxKEOxZMDR2AAKBXOOnC4wKr7ml18lEtfImSp8QkW_00_mVhyphenhyphenB4VY3NM-5jtczipWcBU5mW_tt/s1600/casper%2527s+uncles.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 173px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXwQqtd3eG3fuXXBG0KyhBojgAhZa35iVJGek9QQqKIup1gvBAJ_x-yRM2paybxyhkC1LxKEOxZMDR2AAKBXOOnC4wKr7ml18lEtfImSp8QkW_00_mVhyphenhyphenB4VY3NM-5jtczipWcBU5mW_tt/s320/casper%2527s+uncles.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597758089414401650" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">But that doesn't seem likely.<br /></span></div><br />Stinky, Fatso, and Stretch are great big douches to everyone indiscriminately, but they're particularly vile to their bulb-headed "nephew", Casper. They routinely fling him into space, throw fully digested food all over the house he has to clean, and stuff him into tight places when he's annoying them.<br /><br />This is a weird relationship, not really an abusive one, because Casper can leave.<br /><br />Yes. Casper is not tied to the house. He comes and goes as he pleases, and since he doesn't know anything about his life before Kat shows up (and <span style="font-style: italic;">ruins everything</span>), there's no sentimental ties holding him there. He can leave any old time he wants to. He can also become invisible if he wants, so his uncles can't find him. But he doesn't.<br /><br />When Dr. James Harvey and Kat move in, Casper's uncles kind of freak out and go on a rampage to try and get them out of the house. They do attend Dr. James Harvey's therapy sessions (where he seems totally out of his element, and he is, because HE IS A CON MAN), and learn that he has been searching for his dead wife. Naturally, the ghosts know his dead wife, and tell him they can totally hook a brother up.<br /><br />Then they stage an elaborate prank in which the fat uncle dresses up like Jessica Rabbit and makes out with Dr. James Harvey.<br /><br />What a bunch of swell guys.<br /><br />Later on, they decide that they sort of like Dr. James Harvey, because he's so <span style="font-style: italic;">full of life</span> (what with his obsession with death and debilitating loneliness and all), and take him out for a drink. Because as everyone who's besties with a clinically depressed and grieving single dad knows, drinking with ghosts fixing everything. I'm also pretty sure they're at a bar in Mexico, but that's not important.<br /><br />Then they try to kill him.<br /><br />They try to kill their new best friend with guns and javelins and knives. Because he's like, so cool, but he has to <span style="font-style: italic;">live</span>, and that like, totally sucks.<br /><br />He dies (not because of them, but it's not like they try to stop it) and they all fly back to the house with the newly ghostified Dr. James Harvey in tow, and proceed to make fun of Kat for being upset that her dad is now dead.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt93tNWnPfeQJciaXar8rLuho1rfNdQPdSDF4qTm4iGzw82nYcXbbRgGEvHN1PRhT7ZgTz2b4FeyWDErFRNyIP4MAwuS_icXk-LLjOzXUBNn6m1NpwvZgHN_c6y4yyjZyl2sI5f_mG8yjY/s1600/HAHAHA+ORPHAN.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 204px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt93tNWnPfeQJciaXar8rLuho1rfNdQPdSDF4qTm4iGzw82nYcXbbRgGEvHN1PRhT7ZgTz2b4FeyWDErFRNyIP4MAwuS_icXk-LLjOzXUBNn6m1NpwvZgHN_c6y4yyjZyl2sI5f_mG8yjY/s320/HAHAHA+ORPHAN.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597761763800912514" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">HAHAHA LET'S ALL LAUGH AT THE ORPHAN HAHAHA YOUR DAD IS DEAD.</span><br /></div><br /><br /><br />I could seriously go on for <span style="font-style: italic;">hours </span>about what special guys Casper's uncles are, but I really want to get to this next one. I hope you're comfortable, because we're going to be here a while.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Casper and Kat</span><br />Casper is just your average 12-year-old transparent flying kid. He just wants a friend, and every time he tries to make one, they run away screaming because he is a damned, undead soul. How sad.<br /><br />While in the cartoon, he would have <a href="http://www.cracked.com/article_18906_7-shockingly-dark-origins-lovable-childrens-characters.html">just tried to kill himself</a> when his new friends ran away, the movie deviates a little bit and decides that what Casper <span style="font-style: italic;">really </span>needs is therapy.<br /><br />Hey, it's the 90's.<br /><br />While listlessly flipping through channels that all seem to feature people running away from ghosts, Casper stumbles across a tabloid news show feature on Dr. James Harvey (that, by the way, is positively <span style="font-style: italic;">riddled </span>with puns). He kinda perks up at the idea that there are apparently people who specialize in fixing the dead, but he doesn't really get excited until he sees that Dr. Harvey has a totally hot daughter who's his age.<br /><br />Well, who <span style="font-style: italic;">would </span>be his age if he hadn't been <span style="font-style: italic;">dead </span>for the last hundred years.<br /><br />He sets a plan in motion to get the evil blonde lady who owns the house to hire Dr. James Harvey, not because he wants therapy, but because he wants Kat. He could care less about priceless, rare ghost therapy. He just <span style="font-style: italic;">really </span>wants some snarky prepubescent Christina Ricci.<br /><br />Upon discovering that his plan actually worked, Casper goes through one of those cutesy little "what to say to this girl I have a crush on" montages, and decides that the best way to go about introducing himself is to make himself into a pillow and get under her head when she lies down.<br /><br />Nope. Nothing weird here.<br /><br />When Kat finally notices the weird, doting white mass floating around behind her, she, naturally, faints. When she comes to, Casper responds like any normal lovestruck little boy would, and <span style="font-style: italic;">wraps his body around her head, gagging her</span>.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpJoBq22RFYEKlTBWx3q9iDlte-QsMz3S6GOorsctn89aTLbu-cTj80oLfoc1ok4WqlLY3Ur6bOzi7IBNRnCSuEx3d-rDukSakirYKkXuLmUYiZ-Gj9O5KVB1fGN36UZqNX-nlCRFRgm7O/s1600/casper+gag.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpJoBq22RFYEKlTBWx3q9iDlte-QsMz3S6GOorsctn89aTLbu-cTj80oLfoc1ok4WqlLY3Ur6bOzi7IBNRnCSuEx3d-rDukSakirYKkXuLmUYiZ-Gj9O5KVB1fGN36UZqNX-nlCRFRgm7O/s320/casper+gag.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597770897887692690" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Above: How all great relationships start.<br /></span></div><br />Over the next few days, Casper makes all Kat's meals, follows her to school, makes fun of her new school crush, and watches her sleep. He repeatedly whispers "Can I keep you?", which is SOMETHING A SERIAL KILLER WOULD SAY, in her ear while she is falling asleep.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcqtTTRo2xItPTAHRxrr36BZyWAnnJHTSWD4LVih0SbuWW-3hDOn_de4SfFeTmCuuQZEUKZfS3bjFOmgL-B_6woTYxUHls48hdprgFHxtB0yboBixwHoyunxmAgGKEb-g8qzpbLd5vpcJG/s1600/casper+watches+you+sleep.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcqtTTRo2xItPTAHRxrr36BZyWAnnJHTSWD4LVih0SbuWW-3hDOn_de4SfFeTmCuuQZEUKZfS3bjFOmgL-B_6woTYxUHls48hdprgFHxtB0yboBixwHoyunxmAgGKEb-g8qzpbLd5vpcJG/s320/casper+watches+you+sleep.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597771370139954418" border="0" /></a>When Kat refuses to take him to the class Halloween dance, because he is not a real live person, Casper, surprisingly, reacts pretty well.<br /><br />Just kidding! He <span style="font-style: italic;">KIDNAPS </span>her. He pushes her out her bedroom window, swoops down to grab her by the ankle, and while she is <span style="font-style: italic;">KICKING AND SCREAMING "NO"</span>, he flies her out <span style="font-style: italic;">over the ocean</span> and drops her on a lighthouse somewhere <span style="font-style: italic;">so they can talk</span>.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">THESE ARE THINGS MURDERERS DO. </span><br /><br />When Casper finally remembers who he is, he conveniently recalls that his brilliant scientist dad built a machine sometime back in the 1800s to bring him back to life. He gives Kat the responsibility to work the <span style="font-style: italic;">insanely complicated resurrection machine</span> and make him a real boy again.<br /><br />Why? <span style="font-style: italic;">All of his relatives and friends are dead</span>. Except for Kat, that is. Casper wants to be alive again solely so that he can be Kat's boyfriend.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2QhduaHYBxfNTAvwi1m6Wa3J9nD45Sc0zTLYqtE-ugGahhpm1vsbi-pK_iI-Lbh46CaHB70dyA7KL95YsHdPTnrikzoxwesR0-yp25R6Uf9kA_bu6uHc3JxdcyDVJm4hOEVWdD4EXrAkt/s1600/casper+the+rapist.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2QhduaHYBxfNTAvwi1m6Wa3J9nD45Sc0zTLYqtE-ugGahhpm1vsbi-pK_iI-Lbh46CaHB70dyA7KL95YsHdPTnrikzoxwesR0-yp25R6Uf9kA_bu6uHc3JxdcyDVJm4hOEVWdD4EXrAkt/s320/casper+the+rapist.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597773451781830994" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Come on, baby, it'll be easy. And then we can be together. <span style="font-style: italic;">Forever</span>.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Can you imagine the guilt trips he'd send her on if that actually happened? Every time they got into a fight, he'd remind her that she's literally <span style="font-style: italic;">the only reason</span> he's even <span style="font-style: italic;">alive</span>.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Luckily for Kat, her dead dad shows up right then, and Casper decides it would probably better his chances with Kat if he lets her dad live instead of him. So Kat is off the hook, for now.<br /><br />There's not really much more after that, just Casper turning into Devon Sawa for a slow dance with Kat, and they kiss, and then he re-ghostifies and everyone screams and runs away, and Casper and Kat and Dr. James Harvey dance happily.<br /><br />And that's it. That's the end of the movie. There's no resolution at all.<br /><br />Here. I'll give you resolution.<br /><br />Do you <span style="font-style: italic;">really </span>think Kat and Casper's relationship is going to last beyond this at all? She is going to go to school on Monday and be a complete outcast, ant that's only <span style="font-style: italic;">if </span>her and her con man father don't get <span style="font-style: italic;">run out of town</span> first. You know who she's going to blame for that? Casper. Because it is <span style="font-style: italic;">entirely his fault. </span><br /><br />Kat is going to grow up, and Casper is going to stay twelve forever. He's not going to understand when Kat gets her first period, or when she wants to actually try to have a relationship. He's <span style="font-style: italic;">twelve</span>, and a <span style="font-style: italic;">ghost</span>. She'll be like, "Casper, I want to go out on a date," and he'll be like, "D'AWW SHUCKS KAT, LET'S PLAY PIRATES!"<br /><br />Let's face it, they're not staying together. But he is going to be around for her first real boyfriend, and every boyfriend after that. Because he is never going to leave her alone. He is going to watch everything that she does, and guilt her about it. He is going to follow her for the rest of her life, and turn her into a big paranoid blubbering mass of Jell-O.<br /><br />Which is basically what Casper is, actually.<br /><br />And like I said, that's the best-case scenario: that she and her father <span style="font-style: italic;">aren't</span> run out of town with pitchforks and torches. Or exorcised painfully, or sent to an institution, or killed in their sleep, for fraternizing with the <span style="font-style: italic;">reanimated spirits of dead people</span>.<br /><br />But let's be honest, here. When Casper realizes all this, he is probably just going to kill her.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >CASPER</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >The REALLY Friendly Ghost</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5o5uj1XJ74t9e7lf3tOqWR_Of858dQ098KTZiQ-xbpfX59mn4ik4URfe6TpUJrown1Vo24Q1M72eaoJGFhFuwQ7IUXKh7XNayPPTWaYNsWMgkAqAtaraTWzw4FUpCw9oQvd6JMGQPEpN/s1600/EAT+MY+BREAKFAST..jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5o5uj1XJ74t9e7lf3tOqWR_Of858dQ098KTZiQ-xbpfX59mn4ik4URfe6TpUJrown1Vo24Q1M72eaoJGFhFuwQ7IUXKh7XNayPPTWaYNsWMgkAqAtaraTWzw4FUpCw9oQvd6JMGQPEpN/s320/EAT+MY+BREAKFAST..jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597778433558565074" border="0" /></a>"You know, for kids!"<br /></div></div></div>kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-33857715534725154212011-03-27T13:34:00.000-07:002011-03-29T05:15:23.985-07:00What's In My Bag: March 28, 2011The bags I carry, which don't change very often, are usually pretty big, and always full of stuff. This isn't because I'm a soccer mom who lives out of her giant purse, or because I'm a high-maintenance twenty-something who absolutely has to have all her makeup products with her at all times.<br /><br />It's more because I don't really like using my pockets, I tend to pick up a lot of stuff when I'm out, and I forget to empty my purse out until I'm walking into work, wondering why my purse weighs as much as a large baby.<br /><br />A couple months ago my friend <a href="http://metatheatre.tumblr.com/">Kelsey</a> made a video explaining everything she had in her purse. Apparently it's this thing going around Tumblr and various blogs, and I thought it was kind of cool, so I figured I'd do one too.<br /><br />Because of my weird tendency to pick up random stuff while I'm out and just throw it into my purse and forget about it, the contents of my purse are sort of an ever-changing cornucopia of spare change and assorted toys. Today, it looks like this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixoymDt83ShC7bxbMoibNdS8Hy28pZxMyok-N5_qMrBHTABjMJReV2EhyphenhyphenU8ZzpXklUDoF6vOJrNVz9uz2VLGVLKADK5KJLTTShhUCwdABEhOfMGM6iZaDHOmllnHrba_Ttd2_MV2hrGMRM/s1600/what%2527s+in+my+bag.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixoymDt83ShC7bxbMoibNdS8Hy28pZxMyok-N5_qMrBHTABjMJReV2EhyphenhyphenU8ZzpXklUDoF6vOJrNVz9uz2VLGVLKADK5KJLTTShhUCwdABEhOfMGM6iZaDHOmllnHrba_Ttd2_MV2hrGMRM/s320/what%2527s+in+my+bag.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588866557858427138" border="0" /></a><br />That's a condensed version, since everything in my purse, plus my purse, wouldn't fit in the picture. Here is the unabridged version:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ3romzB51cdaLyNWH0QI8xmwmy_fqrmdU64QmOiCf8p9pdhUx60qtwe9d6yrvjg1us0mV7vNTI0AMIxoUpvbZGDnlo8hyphenhyphenHJJgLo3rlta-fn2iuUPDGPoKSOG0ljgWrvAkM8Hl8QtUlAaI/s1600/what%2527s+in+my+bag+2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ3romzB51cdaLyNWH0QI8xmwmy_fqrmdU64QmOiCf8p9pdhUx60qtwe9d6yrvjg1us0mV7vNTI0AMIxoUpvbZGDnlo8hyphenhyphenHJJgLo3rlta-fn2iuUPDGPoKSOG0ljgWrvAkM8Hl8QtUlAaI/s320/what%2527s+in+my+bag+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589460040947122898" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Circle 1:</span><br />- A tiny stuffed manatee<br />His name is Hugh Manatee. You can see why this is essential.<br />-A plush chlamydia microbe<br />David got this for me at Vault of Midnight, the coolest comic store ever. His name is Clammy. He is mostly for throwing at people and shouting "YOU JUST CAUGHT CHLAMYDIA!" Classy, I know.<br />-Mew<br />Also from David, and one of my favorite little things. Plus, who couldn't use a Pokemon in their purse?<br />-Squeezable stress Pokeball<br />I keep forgetting this is in there, and it's always a happy surprise to see it.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Circle 2:</span><br />-Assorted change<br />-A bunch of extra Nerf darts<br />Um. . . these are for my Nerf gun. Which was also in my purse, but I figured I should take it out. You know, for school and stuff.<br />-A litchi hard candy<br />Have you ever had one of these? OMG they're tasty.<br />-A silly pin that has a zombie saying "BRAINS!" on it, in the Obama pop-art style<br />-Trident citrus gum<br />-A little wooden d6<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Circle 3:</span><br />-Pop-out hairbrush<br />What. I have a lot of hair.<br />-Novelty pen, shaped like a purple lipstick,<span style="font-style: italic;"> covered with purple plastic jewels</span><br />Basically the best thing ever.<br />-Schoolcraft College flash drive<br />-A pen and two pencils<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Circle 4:</span><br />-Blistex Lip Medex<br />If you have terribly chapped lips, this will fix them. I promise.<br />-Novelty candy hearts bracelet<br />-Dr. Pepper chapstick<br />Because everybody needs to just smell some Dr. Pepper now and again.<br />-Blistex chapstick in tropical citrus<br />I didn't realize I had so much chapstick. Geez.<br />-Hair mascara in blue, purple, and black<br />I think I've used these once, to give Stephanie a coontail in a Denny's. For the record, it looked awesome.<br />-iPod<br /><br />Other things:<br />-Post-It notes in various colors<br />I have this thing about writing nice notes for people, whether I know them or not.<br />-Two light-up jewel stamps<br />The purple one is a chrysanthemum, and the pink one is a really silly pair of lips.<br />-Old license<br />-Nintendo DS charger<br />I'm not sure where my DS is, actually. I guess I know it's not in my purse now. . .<br />-Fat little notebook<br />I constantly have the need to write things down or draw stupid cartoons.<br />-Wallet<br />-Registration for my 2001 Saturn wagon, Randall<br />-Gap "So Pink!" perfume<br />I love this perfume. It smells like grapefruit!<br />-Makeup bag<br />-Burt's Bees hand salve<br />The only thing that gets rid of the awful heat rashes I get at work.<br />-Clip-in cat ears (black)<br />-Self-published comic book Jon got at Vault of Midnight and told me to read, that I forgot about<br /><br />Wow. I <span style="font-style: italic;">really </span>need to clean out my purse.<br /><br />And just where is that Nerf gun? I'm definitely looking at three darts that someone shot at the TV, but <span style="font-style: italic;">where is the gun</span>? Who am I going to throw Clammy at next? When am I going to use that hair mascara? These are questions that need answering. And seriously, everybody could use an awesome coontail.kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-57482681456130657062011-03-25T23:15:00.000-07:002011-03-25T23:37:47.956-07:00My New Hobby (or, A Follow-Up To Last Sunday's "Insomnia" Post)I actually did go out and buy a few boxes of epoxy resin, some molds, cups, Mod Podge (which is so much fun, you don't even know), and various other supplies, and I started experimenting with making my own resin casts! It's a lot of fun and really easy, but resulted in most of the things in my kitchen being <span style="font-style: italic;">very </span>sticky.<br /><br />It sticks to <span style="font-style: italic;">everything</span>.<br /><br />I've been pretty consistent about working on this stuff, too, which is a change for me. A couple of days ago I tore through the house trying to find my jewelry pliers and the three-pound box of broken jewelry parts Chelsea gave me, and pliersed all the charms off of every bracelet and necklace in the box. Yesterday I got the idea to make casts that look like fishbowls, so today David and I went out and got actual molds (instead of just dessert and candy molds), and an assorted pack of polymer clay, and I spent an hour or so cranking out little hand-sculpted recreations of food and aquatic life while we watched <span style="font-style: italic;">The Birdcage</span>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR6tM_A0hnvMzvQoCvvRHiYzXlomvZ1q_759SbAIivJFY-tCQGIaztUP-6mg0jhvvAlDejXFWL3Wg-Z507TfJJJCWk_eNy_xNQwY-Klf7MATRP0U5JC06gPd_N8QmXuENQ6XWBlKrPKWVu/s1600/polymer+fish+1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR6tM_A0hnvMzvQoCvvRHiYzXlomvZ1q_759SbAIivJFY-tCQGIaztUP-6mg0jhvvAlDejXFWL3Wg-Z507TfJJJCWk_eNy_xNQwY-Klf7MATRP0U5JC06gPd_N8QmXuENQ6XWBlKrPKWVu/s320/polymer+fish+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588271835047832466" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXGUuyNXbHlIF9c2j1N1JqkbMT-8X5F_La0RilXq8-QHj0_wn3XqqihegEZvcgmsqZeku2j2-OTmC3MEryaD6jfHkcEAG1UjEC2EFGKg1h2IF8n4vgVQKhRFWsmxMy_gh67dxFUGnTjjrA/s1600/polymer+fish+2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXGUuyNXbHlIF9c2j1N1JqkbMT-8X5F_La0RilXq8-QHj0_wn3XqqihegEZvcgmsqZeku2j2-OTmC3MEryaD6jfHkcEAG1UjEC2EFGKg1h2IF8n4vgVQKhRFWsmxMy_gh67dxFUGnTjjrA/s320/polymer+fish+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5588271584949244226" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Pictured: assorted angelfish, goldfish, a jellyfish, an eel, a sea anemone, chocolate chip cookies, a fried egg (sunny-side-up!), a flower, and a chocolate-covered strawberry.<br /></span></div><br />Tomorrow I will probably make more, and get even more ideas for little tiny clay replicas of things to make. I can already <span style="font-style: italic;">feel </span>my hands getting sludgy. I keep getting new ideas, like I Spy boxes, and aquariums, and tasty food casts.<br /><br />I'm incredibly excited. Share in my excitement! Anyone have any ideas or requests?kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-37399542362583205942011-03-20T02:54:00.001-07:002011-03-20T05:27:55.573-07:00Kelli's Foolproof Process for Irreversible InsomniaI need to stop bringing my laptop up to my room with me at night. This is what happens to me:<br /><br />"checking Facebook real quick before bed" turns into<br />"wait I think I'll check out <a href="http://www.regretsy.com/2010/07/01/things-that-are-not-steampunk-1/">this link Steve posted</a>", which turns into<br />"hey, <a href="http://www.regretsy.com/">Regretsy </a>is pretty silly, I think I'll look at 40+ pages of it", which then turns into<br />"wait, they sell <a href="http://www.aliexpress.com/wholesale?SearchText=resin+flowers&catId=0">resin flowers</a> online to make jewelry with? I guess that's kind of cool, I should check that out on Amazon", which THEN turns into<br />"resin molds? Like, I could actually MAKE my own jewelry?", which, <span style="font-style: italic;">of course</span>, turns into<br />"I guess I'll do a Google search and click on every link until I figure out how I can make my own resin jewelry in my kitchen"<br /><br />and then it's 6:04 in the morning and I'm sitting on the couch eating shredded wheat, watching <span style="font-style: italic;">Rugrats: All Grown Up!</span> on Nickelodeon, and compiling a list of materials (complete with projected costs, which, in case you were wondering, are next to nothing!) I will need to make my own resin jewelry in my kitchen, with my newly acquired knowledge of <span style="font-style: italic;">every single process required to not only do it, but do it SUCCESSFULLY.<br /><br /></span>I've abandoned all hope for sleeping tonight, because now, I am completely wired, with an open Sunday morning in front of me<span style="font-style: italic;">,</span> during which I can set up a workstation, find my heat gun, go to Jo-Ann Fabrics <span style="font-style: italic;">as soon as it effing opens</span> and obtain all my supplies, and have my first batch of pendants cooling before anyone in this house wakes up, and that's <span style="font-style: italic;">including </span>the cat.<br /><br />Oh look, Chuckie is trying out new nicknames, and they're all dorky. Well, that's why he's Chuckie, I guess.<br /><br />This is what happens to me in the middle of the night. Somewhere between one and two AM, I find out about some ridiculous craft that it turns out is incredibly easy to do, and for the next few hours I devote myself to soaking up every detail that I possibly can.<br /><br />It would be great if this could happen somewhere between the hours of one and two <span style="font-style: italic;">PM</span>, but unfortunately my lust for new and ridiculous crafts is an unruly <span style="font-style: italic;">beast </span>who can't be arsed to stop and check the time.<br /><br />Oh well. At least Sunday night is (optimally) an excellent time to get my sleep schedule back in order, just in time to paint things to auction off for charity on Monday. And if I raid my emergency stash of chocolate-covered-espresso beans, I'll be likely to stay awake for all the fantastic plans I decided to make for myself today.<br /><br />Lord help me.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Edit: It is now 8:21 AM, and I have drawn out a plan of action for retrieving supplies, watched several episodes of kids' shows I didn't even know existed, looked at about forty more Regretsy pages, and now know how to make my own silicone mold for casting resin, as well as the pros and cons of using candy molds instead.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I still have not slept.</span>kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-74984168793404638662011-03-14T21:03:00.000-07:002011-11-07T11:48:02.533-08:00I Hate 'Artists'.I typically don't rant on this blog-- I think the last time I did was in that Rent entry, when I explained <a href="http://bagelsnsox.blogspot.com/2010/09/rent-expository-essay.html">how I feel about "performance art"</a>. I don't want to be "that guy" that blogs about how everything everywhere is retarded all the time.<br /><br />But I think just this once, I can get away with it. So here you are. . .<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">BAGELS & SOX PRESENTS<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">"WHY I HATE 'ARTISTS'"</span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">a Tyler Perry production</span><br /></div><br />In my Watercolor class a few days ago, we had midterm critique. This means that everyone brings in the work they've done so far over the semester and give a little presentation on it. Our teacher (whose name is Ellen, for future reference) comments on each piece and then asks if anyone in the class has any comments or suggestions, which they usually don't because no one wants to be the jerk that points out that the flower you painted looks more like a giraffe.<br /><br />We have a split class. Mostly it's Watercolor 1 students (of which I am a part), but there are three or four Watercolor 2 students corralled off in the adjacent room. I always assumed the reason they were separated from us had something to do with their projects being different than ours.<br /><br />Now I'm kind of thinking it's because they're all assholes.<br /><br />So everyone hangs up their projects, and for the first few, no one really comments on them. Everyone claps, Ellen is encouraging, and the students get to sit down without being subjected to any sort of embarrassment. Everything is going smoothly.<br /><br />Then, and I'm not sure exactly what started it, this girl in Watercolor 2 (we'll call her "Crindy") started speaking up.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRprgALpnYoXqCr7wqwpHs1WSKNW0IVFGT2608Seq-yh6oIOi0s3OgPGUHXrmp1hSvBZeuhw1hUBghGt2i19c6TX9mgWkNCN_Oub-4uB-rRJ22N3Sgy6ILjyMTKqNQvucLranlAKeGWhCO/s1600/douchey+artist+chick.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 189px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRprgALpnYoXqCr7wqwpHs1WSKNW0IVFGT2608Seq-yh6oIOi0s3OgPGUHXrmp1hSvBZeuhw1hUBghGt2i19c6TX9mgWkNCN_Oub-4uB-rRJ22N3Sgy6ILjyMTKqNQvucLranlAKeGWhCO/s320/douchey+artist+chick.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585667964019830498" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Above: An artist's rendering of Crindy.<br /></span></div><br />I'm talking interrupting and giving "suggestions" after every piece. And they all sounded <span style="font-style: italic;">exactly </span>like this, which is a direct quote.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"This piece really evokes a <span style="font-weight: bold;">feeling </span>in me, like an <span style="font-weight: bold;">emotion </span>of, I dunno, <span style="font-weight: bold;">fear</span>, and <span style="font-weight: bold;">shadows, </span>I think. I really think you should use more darkness and shadows in your piece, because it will lend it a lot of depth, and when I first started out as an artist, like a <span style="font-weight: bold;">long </span>time ago, I was like, afraid to use a lot of shadows, but then I did, and I was like, <span style="font-weight: bold;">wow</span>, this really evokes a certain <span style="font-weight: bold;">feeling</span>, of like, <span style="font-weight: bold;">depth</span>. Remember that, Ellen?"</span><br /><br />I'm not kidding. Every thirty seconds, a gem like that would come out of Crindy's sweet, <span style="font-style: italic;">deluded</span> mouth.<br /><br />When the first cycle of critiques was over with (we had to do two cycles because we could only hang so much up on the walls at a time), Crindy jumped up and started setting up her projects in the first spot. I was incredibly curious to see what they would look like; she had such an <span style="font-style: italic;">informed opinion</span>, that <span style="font-style: italic;">surely </span>her art would back it up.<br /><br />It didn't.<br /><br />Crindy went first, and she introduced her pieces, which were mostly of people's faces or bodies coming out of some mass of color, by saying:<br />"A lot of times, I just wake up from a really <span style="font-style: italic;">intense </span>dream, and I think, oh my <span style="font-style: italic;">God</span>, this is really <span style="font-style: italic;">meaningful</span>, I should paint this, and I like, sketch it out, and it's just so <span style="font-style: italic;">amazing</span>."<br /><br />She pointed out to our teacher that having a circuitboard (or as she called it, "this computer part I found of my boyfriend's floor") glued to one of her paintings ("with <span style="font-style: italic;">wood glue</span>") was mixed media, because she was supposed to do one mixed media piece. One of the paintings was a log cabin in a scribbly forest, which was supposed to be "<span style="font-style: italic;">deep</span>" and "<span style="font-style: italic;">haunting</span>" but was also, according to Crindy, one of her worst paintings, and she <span style="font-style: italic;">didn't really want anyone to look at it because seriously it's so bad okay PLEASE DON'T LOOK AT IT IT'S TERRIBLE</span>.<br /><br />Then she told us about her <span style="font-style: italic;">favorite </span>piece, which I have replicated<span style="font-style: italic;"> in stunning detail</span> in MS Paint.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFK66oIJNTPXWFpKd9vO-u7B6M1eNRb8kXlp1jrKaksyBkGZuixpPGVSXqmIK6mWzmJGlv8WAnk0cC-VZ5SBnX7AurrX8C2R_ovDHQBLqjTTlvI90Wo2eaFTj70tbL2Aifjri2OdV2W6vs/s1600/artist%2527s+rendering+of+an+artist%2527s+rendering.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 262px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFK66oIJNTPXWFpKd9vO-u7B6M1eNRb8kXlp1jrKaksyBkGZuixpPGVSXqmIK6mWzmJGlv8WAnk0cC-VZ5SBnX7AurrX8C2R_ovDHQBLqjTTlvI90Wo2eaFTj70tbL2Aifjri2OdV2W6vs/s320/artist%2527s+rendering+of+an+artist%2527s+rendering.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585671950825059442" border="0" /></a><br />Crindy introduced this piece with the following speech, which I assure you is a direct quotation.<br /><br />(To ensure that you have a proper understanding of the experience, I will ask you to read this out loud in your best Mira Sorvino (Romy White in "Romy and Michele's High School Reunion") voice, in a <span style="font-style: italic;">whimsical, inspired</span> tone.)<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Okay, so this is my favorite piece. This is me, of course, and I actually sketched this a long time ago, but when I started taking this class I was like, hmm, this would actually be, like, a great painting. Anyway, this is <span style="font-weight: bold;">*REALLY IMPORTANT*</span> to me, because I'm a <span style="font-weight: bold;">Buddhist</span>, and the sun is eclipsing my heart, because it's like it's saying the <span style="font-weight: bold;">universe wastes nothing</span>, and I'm <span style="font-weight: bold;">really </span>into <span style="font-weight: bold;">quantum physics</span>, so I put some of that in there, like, <span style="font-weight: bold;">symbolically</span>, and I'm a <span style="font-weight: bold;">Libra</span>, so I put that in there too. It's also from a dream I had that was really <span style="font-weight: bold;">meaningful </span>to me, like, <span style="font-weight: bold;">wow</span>."</span><br /><br />I have also created a handy map (see below).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEIAKO7M2Pv7VxDNYAa54diGylnpXCr5SdAavww2gIctN03eLsgHq2WxjRQ6D6ktFKe2xDmDezne6i0QHjl9DpkxPRT8-nggDP9Fp9-Dkx-fuYPNP_IlT0eJmRct1rlb8JR4WumDjgrV6a/s1600/artist%2527s+rendering+MAP.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEIAKO7M2Pv7VxDNYAa54diGylnpXCr5SdAavww2gIctN03eLsgHq2WxjRQ6D6ktFKe2xDmDezne6i0QHjl9DpkxPRT8-nggDP9Fp9-Dkx-fuYPNP_IlT0eJmRct1rlb8JR4WumDjgrV6a/s320/artist%2527s+rendering+MAP.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585677558694555538" border="0" /></a><br />She went on quite a bit longer than that, but it was basically more of the same drivel and a lot of stuff about dreams and emotions and <span style="font-style: italic;">haunting</span>, so I'll spare you, but this part here is important: <span style="font-style: italic;">she flat-out admitted that this was a sketch she had done years ago, that she slapped some paint on to complete a grade. And she thinks it is her best work.</span><br /><br />Crindy is, in one big douchey ripped-jeans-over-ripped-nylons-wearing two-tone-haired package, essentially why I, as a general rule, hate people who go out of their way to label themselves as "artists", who have been told all their lives that they're the best artist in their class, and who slap stupid crap together in an attempt to seem deep and interesting while also maintaining a passing grade. These people are intolerable assholes. I am embarrassed every time the limitations of the English language force me to refer to myself as an 'artist', <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">and it's because of people like Crindy</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">.</span><br /><br />Do I draw weird, nonsensical shit sometimes? Absolutely. It's fun. Am I going to tell you it's for any other reason than <span style="font-style: italic;">because </span>I want to draw weird, nonsensical shit and it's fun? Absolutely <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span>.<br /><br />Are some of them talented? Again, absolutely. I would even go so far as to say <span style="font-style: italic;">many </span>of them are talented. But an artist who knows they're talented is like an insanely attractive person that knows they're beautiful and uses it to be a douchebag to everyone around them, and oddly enough, I have never actually heard of anyone who was a talented and accomplished artist ever referring to themselves as an artist.<br /><br />I don't generally refer to myself as an 'artist' because I'm fully aware that there are a lot of people out there who are better and far more deserving of the title. I've never had a gallery show, or won a contest, or anything like that. I've also never <span style="font-style: italic;">suffered </span>for anything I would call "my art". I haven't accomplished anything; I'm still learning. I'm a kid enrolled in a two-year liberal arts program at a community college. I'm no artist.<br /><br />I'm not saying I hate all artists. I admire people like my teacher, who is a wonderful painter, and Phil Parks, a <span style="font-style: italic;">spectacular </span>illustrator. <span style="font-weight: bold;">I applaud truly talented people who put hard work into something they really believe in. They are </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">true artists</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">.</span><br /><br />But people who have everything handed to them, spend all their money on piercings and PBR and ripped skinny jeans, go to school on their parents' dime and wax on about being "starving artists", and <span style="font-style: italic;">glue circuitboards to a watercolor painting in order to fulfill a m</span><span style="font-style: italic;">ixed media requirement</span>, are not artists. They're <span style="font-style: italic;">assholes</span>. Pure and simple.<br /><br />If you disagree, please feel free to say so. It's just an opinion.<br /><br />A really, really <span style="font-style: italic;">strong </span>opinion about people who are an embarrassment to me and everyone else who actually takes art seriously.<br /><br />But again. Just an opinion.<br /></div>kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-905636008049098312011-02-22T15:33:00.000-08:002011-02-26T23:34:31.495-08:00Secret Sunday: My Guilty PleasuresToday's Secret Sunday is brought to you by the letter M, for "My embarrassing, and <span style="font-style: italic;">entirely shameful, </span>guilty pleasures."<br /><br />I hope you all still like me by the end of it.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">***DISCLAIMER: If, upon skimming this before reading it, you have found a. . . <span style="font-weight: bold;">*certain picture</span>*. . . and have decided you no longer want to be my friend, PLEASE NOTE that that is NOT one of the things on this list. Or any list of mine. Except perhaps "Most Fun To Phaeton-ize".***</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;">10: America's Next Top Model<br /></div>Now, I don't watch the new episodes when they're on, and I couldn't tell you what season they're up to now. But every day without fail, I sit down in front of the TV and check two different channels to see if one of the older cycles is replaying. Even if I've already seen it, even if I've only got ten minutes to relax and eat breakfast before school. . . I just need my fix of bitchy twenty-somethings, effeminate makeup artists, and of course, Tyra.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://crushable.com/files/2009/12/tyra-shoulders.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 450px; height: 349px;" src="http://crushable.com/files/2009/12/tyra-shoulders.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;">9: Memes<br /></div>I like memes, even though sometimes I am really confused by them, because they make me feel included. I feel like I'm in on some big inside joke, complete with the weird looks from people because they don't understand what the hell I'm talking about and I sound like one of those big douches who spends all day trolling 4chan. Which, for the record, I don't. . . just the <a href="http://icanhascheezburger.com/">Cheezburger network</a>. All of it. And not even all day! Just for a few hours. Most days.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;">8: Occasionally Wanting To Embody Really, and I Mean <span style="font-style: italic;">Really</span>, Stupid "Scenes"<br /></div>This actually started from Guilty Pleasure #9, when I discovered Scene Wolf, and unearthed an entire world I had never known existed. An entirely ridiculous and hostile world, filled with tight pink pants and plastic diamonds and <a href="http://images.google.com/images?hl=en&safe=off&biw=1280&bih=593&gbv=2&tbs=isch%3A1&sa=1&q=scene+hair&aq=0&aqi=g10&aql=&oq=scene+">girls with terribly over-processed hair.</a> A world I shamefully, secretly, sort of wished I could be a part of.<br /><br />I actually set out to make a scene kid costume right away. I bought cheap extensions and hair mascara, and found all my silly plastic jewelry.<br /><br />Then I was reminded of terrible hipsters, and I put on all the thrift store clothes and hand-me-downs I've accumulated through the years and held a solo late-night photo shoot. Then I found <a href="http://yourscenesucks.com/cybergoth">cybergoths</a>, and within that, "dread falls". (I decided to make my own out of yarn because they looked silly, and they turned out being way more cute than douchey but I'm still kind of embarrassed about it).<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;">7: Downright Awful Chick Flicks and Hilariously Bad Horror Movies<br /></div>There is something just so optimistic about watching awful chick flicks. . . but underneath that is something dark and desperate. I am painfully aware of both. I can honestly enjoy watching movies like <span style="font-style: italic;">The Perfect Man</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Honey</span>, while fully, and <span style="font-style: italic;">viscerally, </span>appreciating my inevitable transformation into a fat, crazy spinster aunt with impossibly high standards and self-esteem so low as to be nonexistent. It is because of this Guilty Pleasure that <span style="font-style: italic;">The Holiday</span> has remained one of my favorite movies to this day.<br /><br />I love bad horror movies. I don't mean movies where the plot is bad but everything else is still scary; I'm talking movies like <span style="font-style: italic;">Killer Klowns from Outer Space</span> (the tagline? "In space, no one can eat ice cream."), <span style="font-style: italic;">Event Horizon</span>, which has <span style="font-style: italic;">really </span>grown on me, and <span style="font-style: italic;">Evolver</span>, which is a movie from the early 90's about a <span style="font-style: italic;">killer laser tag robot</span>. I like bad horror movies because I scare really easily, and they don't scare me.<br /><br />I do own a movie that perfectly combines the two. If you haven't seen <span style="font-style: italic;">Swimfan </span>(a dark, provocative movie about a dark, provocative girl with a dark, provocative secret), please, <span style="font-style: italic;">please </span>do. I'm not gonna say you won't regret it, because that is an outright lie, but it'll be one of those funny regrets you look back on years later and sort of secretly want to reenact.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">6: Talking Like A Bro</span><br /></div>(Huh. I just looked up "bro slang" on Google, and I learned that in Welsh, the plural of "bro" is "broydd". You learn something new every day.)<br />If you are around me after ten PM, immediately after watching an episode of Bad Girls Club, or during one of my Ambien fuzzes, you will notice two things.<br />1) My spelling is<span style="font-style: italic;"> just awful</span>, and<br />2) I am saying a lot of stupid things that you would normally hear being tossed around a frat bar in Ann Arbor.<br />There's a reason this only comes out of me at certain, shall we say, <span style="font-style: italic;">vulnerable </span>times.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;">5: Fanfiction<br /></div>I love fanfiction. There I said it. I <span style="font-style: italic;">love </span>fanfiction. <span style="font-style: italic;">I </span>love fanfiction. I love fan<span style="font-style: italic;">fiction</span>. I am currently mentally writing a fanfiction about myself and a certain charming British reaper.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwDT_eHSPCGGghxkCK0OfBY-UMThKof2T6Es9zbkvtBePNySBZTnyaozW_MSR3M9p2J1iycfGgZHIs9qZIFkmRzqcwavlsP4NYwYP7jrFxbyrR5l65Dgg_02RCkmk3ECyH6V6dM2N0o1J0/s1600/mason.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwDT_eHSPCGGghxkCK0OfBY-UMThKof2T6Es9zbkvtBePNySBZTnyaozW_MSR3M9p2J1iycfGgZHIs9qZIFkmRzqcwavlsP4NYwYP7jrFxbyrR5l65Dgg_02RCkmk3ECyH6V6dM2N0o1J0/s320/mason.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5578251986788553314" border="0" /></a>I would never write it down though. Because then somebody might see it.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">In other news, I've started writing a romantic story about two characters named Pelli and Pason, who happen to be Prim Peapers. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">4: Teen Fiction "Novels"</span><br /></div>I should preface this by assuring you that my favorite authors are Stephen King and Christopher Moore. I can read Shakespeare with no trouble at all. I own a suitably worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. My favorite book is<span style="font-style: italic;"> IT</span>, which I've read 23 times and bought <span style="font-style: italic;">five </span>times because it's gotten ruined or loaned to someone.<br /><br />But I <span style="font-style: italic;">just can't stay away </span>from the Teen Fiction section of Borders.<br /><br />I've been following the <span style="font-style: italic;">Princess Diaries</span> saga since eighth grade, and I keep rereading the last book because I just LOVEITSOMUCHOKAY. Unfortunately, because the series is over, I need to get my fix of prom-obsessed high-school girls somewhere else. I am fully (and also <span style="font-style: italic;">right</span>fully) ashamed to report that the search for that abhorrent fix led me to the <span style="font-style: italic;">Monster High</span> ("where freaky is <span style="font-style: italic;">fabulous</span>") series. . . which thankfully only just started, and therefore only has one book.<br /><br />One terrible, <span style="font-style: italic;">horrible </span>book. That I did <span style="font-style: italic;">not </span>read twice.<br /><br />Since then I've picked up the<span style="font-style: italic;"> Pretty Little Liars</span> series. . . and haven't been able to put it down. Fortunately, there is so much to it (eight books and an ongoing TV series) that I can just suck on that vodka-flavored teat for a while and just <span style="font-style: italic;">savor </span>it without resorting to more. . . <span style="font-style: italic;">desperate</span> measures.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.twilightseries.ca/wp-content/uploads/2009/03/twilight-series-500x360.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 360px;" src="http://www.twilightseries.ca/wp-content/uploads/2009/03/twilight-series-500x360.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">We're all counting on you, Pretty Little Liars.<br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">3: Trashy (and I Mean TRAAA-SHY) Reality Shows</span><br /></div>I'm picky about my trashy reality shows. Your Real Housewives can go wife up someone else's house; I have no love for New York; I do not care to <span style="font-style: italic;">keep up</span> with any Kardashians. That said, I'm an absolute <span style="font-style: italic;">sucker </span>for shows like <span style="font-style: italic;">You're Cut Off </span>and <span style="font-style: italic;">Bridezillas</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Rock of Love</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Real Chance of Love</span> are the only exceptions to the "No Celebrity Dating Shows" rule, because come on, they're hilarious. Like <span style="font-style: italic;">you </span>don't secretly watch those too. In your pajamas. Alone. With your cat. And post GIFs from them on Tumblr.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Like you don't.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">2: Tabloid/Fashion Magazines</span><br /></div>This only started recently, but awakened a big girly fire in me. A pink one, full of cotton candy and shirtless boys. In the break room at work, the tables are <span style="font-style: italic;">usually </span>littered with (ahem) "<span style="font-style: italic;">juicy</span>" tabloid rags and style magazines. So I <span style="font-style: italic;">usually </span>peruse them while eating my hot pretzel, two flatbread sandwiches, chips, and hashbrowns all at the same time, because all those processed foods can't satiate my hunger for fashion tips and relationship advice from Wendy Williams.<br /><br />If you should happen to note me looking conspicuously "<span style="font-style: italic;">on-trend</span>"<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>and "<span style="font-style: italic;">of-the-moment</span>". . . well, that's why.<br /><br /><br /><br />And now, a dramatic pause for the guiltiest Guilty Pleasure it is my guilty pleasure to possess. . .<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">1: Bad Girls Club</span><br /></div>This trashy reality show is so awesome, so bad, <span style="font-style: italic;">so unabashedly, quintessentially Trash TV </span>that it gets its own entry <span style="font-style: italic;">outside </span>of the Trashy TV entry. If you don't know what Bad Girls Club is, here is a summary:<br /><br />Seven "bad girls" get sent to LA to live in a house together. There's no goal. Nothing more to it. They don't try and lure you into watching a trashy show by covering it up with <span style="font-style: italic;">morals </span>and <span style="font-style: italic;">group therapy</span>. They just put a whole bunch of bitches in a house together, <span style="font-style: italic;">just to see what happens.</span> Sure, they get sent on trips and stuff, and host events. But that's it. If you want a better summary, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bad_Girls_Club">here you go</a>, but there's<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>literally <span style="font-style: italic;">nothing else </span>to it.<br /><br />And for some reason, <span style="font-style: italic;">I can't get enough of it</span>.<br /><br />It <span style="font-style: italic;">compels </span>me. Every Monday, when I get home from school, you'd best believe I am right there in front of my TV, catching up on last week's drama and waiting for the new episode to come on. This is my third season in. I'm hooked. I've even drawn some of my friends in.<br /><br />And you know what? I'm not sorry. Not one bit. As Muhammad Ali said, ROTATE AND/OR PLAY WIT IT.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://27.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lh9d0moS571qg7cp4o1_500.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 500px; height: 254px;" src="http://27.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lh9d0moS571qg7cp4o1_500.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a>kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-18043189578485231802011-02-01T11:17:00.000-08:002011-10-04T16:17:05.476-07:00My Disnertation.So a few nights ago I watched The Little Mermaid. I was also feeling really guilty about not having updated very much, or drawn very many fantastic cartoons. That combination resulted in this:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp6nwLhEVyO4hSKR2DYa2atK2QHa-zSwHllom6gBG-qNxy2p8P26ouP_sYL0OBhF_8l_O-UpOkq-vF8YV5Sk_k198UcM-9AdGZT7Xe7P5h1ZLN0igb89EFndoQCjfR_orrLRFe8nqDerIJ/s1600/I+YAM+A+MURMD.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 185px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp6nwLhEVyO4hSKR2DYa2atK2QHa-zSwHllom6gBG-qNxy2p8P26ouP_sYL0OBhF_8l_O-UpOkq-vF8YV5Sk_k198UcM-9AdGZT7Xe7P5h1ZLN0igb89EFndoQCjfR_orrLRFe8nqDerIJ/s320/I+YAM+A+MURMD.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568802734914122338" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Hello, fish. You're going to be sushi in about five minutes.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Have you watched that movie anytime recently? It actually holds up really well, and it's just FULL of delightful little treasures! For example, Rene Auberjonois (best known, to me anyway, as Paul Lewiston from <span style="font-style: italic;">Boston Legal</span>) is the voice of the homicidal chef that flies into a rage when he realizes that he did not actually kill that crab.<br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/EcyhVHrmlMU" frameborder="0" height="390" width="480"></iframe><br /><br />Look how happy he is! It's a crying shame that the prince went off and married some <span style="font-style: italic;">bleeding-heart fish liberal</span> and had his catering business shut down for good, leaving poor Chef Louis to invent robotic feet and shake his finger at Bill Shatner for the next twenty years.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnHRVPVPMVI-RNnoDEusfl2GXaUYC638_Gnr_zUr2SvAnzYJOeK9-H6RETsesZzqaOltUVAO4lw9f6vMzaBGWm8WOFbkrS7LjS2oPWG4JrXdOAM41kA6Mf_14fZjb0T2rvpnrCbDf2z_We/s1600/I+CARE+ABOUT+THIS+FIRM..jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnHRVPVPMVI-RNnoDEusfl2GXaUYC638_Gnr_zUr2SvAnzYJOeK9-H6RETsesZzqaOltUVAO4lw9f6vMzaBGWm8WOFbkrS7LjS2oPWG4JrXdOAM41kA6Mf_14fZjb0T2rvpnrCbDf2z_We/s320/I+CARE+ABOUT+THIS+FIRM..jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569341075517267394" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">LISTEN HERE, YOU. I CARED ABOUT THAT SAUTERNE.</span><br /></div><br />I noticed something else, too. I know I'm hardly the first person to point it out, but. . . do people in the Disney world not know what <span style="font-style: italic;">dating </span>is?<br /><br />Let's take a look.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">THE LITTLE MERMAID</span><br />Ariel rescues the handsome and vaguely ethnic Prince Eric from a flaming ship. She then sings to him and disappears. Fast forward to. . . a couple hours later, and she's shouting at her daddy that she loves this guy, and signing away her voice (and presumably her immortal soul, because really, just look at Ursula) so she can sprout legs and marry the prince.<br /><br />Ursula must have also given her a <span style="font-style: italic;">great </span>ass, because Eric, not having the foggiest idea that this little mute cutie has been going around telling all her gal-pals about her <span style="font-style: italic;">human boyfriend</span> and writing <span style="font-style: italic;">MRS. PRINCE ERIC</span> on all her notebooks, decides then and there that he is in love with her.<br /><br />Some other stuff happens, like the ridiculous crab rampage seen above, and Ursula getting pissed off that her plan to extort Ariel's teenage naivete isn't exactly working out to her advantage and turning into Evil Brunette Ariel. . .<br /><br />Who Prince Eric then decides he wants to marry.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_JBkrvuoWp2QkjVm7TqadhkyGABDYsNBZAYN4R5JrlcgmWl9pFnDGkiVypDIrcUcg5om0s4aHjY6Ggv_reUdYKXv68aC8IIudQIbwsG6olPGTlMEDoeaeaeBZM-8_QkKt3CmEl87pgpf/s1600/ariel-upset.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_JBkrvuoWp2QkjVm7TqadhkyGABDYsNBZAYN4R5JrlcgmWl9pFnDGkiVypDIrcUcg5om0s4aHjY6Ggv_reUdYKXv68aC8IIudQIbwsG6olPGTlMEDoeaeaeBZM-8_QkKt3CmEl87pgpf/s320/ariel-upset.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569345976986413362" border="0" /></a>Men.<br /><br />Now, bear in mind that all of this takes place over about a week, maybe less. They don't actually know anything about each other.<br /><br />Granted, Ariel is sixteen and a princess, and we can assume that her social life is, shall we say, <span style="font-style: italic;">hampered </span>by the fact that her father is a <span style="font-style: italic;">NORSE GOD WITH A PITCHFORK THAT SHOOTS LIGHTNING</span>. Any relationship idiocy on her part can be chalked up to the fact that she doesn't get out much, except to that weird little cave with the forks in it, and to hang out with a wimpy fish and a bird with Down's Syndrome.<br /><br />Eric, on the other hand, is a human prince. He has women falling over him left and right, women with wealth and fame and a good deal of intelligence, and he decides to marry this mute chick who washed up naked on a beach. After five minutes.<br /><br />While we're on Disney's idolization of <span style="font-style: italic;">questionable men</span>, let's move on to. . .<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">BEAUTY AND THE BEAST</span><br />Belle, daughter of the village weirdo (read: inventor), <span style="font-style: italic;">really </span>doesn't want to settle down and marry the town meathead. She's deep, because she likes books, and the idea of rubbing hunter feet for the rest of her life doesn't exactly strike her fancy. Conveniently, on the way to the annual <span style="font-style: italic;">science festival</span>, her daddy gets accosted by wolves and has to bunk down in a creepy old <span style="font-style: italic;">castle</span>, which NO ONE IN FRANCE KNOWS IS THERE, for the night. He then is thrown into the dungeon by the film's titular romantic male lead.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlOea78QxOLDK3icl98BxwLmjL61zubO_ui7Zx9snZFT6luahxx8qJ7M3LryZyfACMK5ZcK2KKhdc1020clikJ2uw0cNuBfYTfdUrNoK3cbhpcNKLakOyDpaYvoMCejgrfcizaozdEDXcS/s1600/beast.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 228px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlOea78QxOLDK3icl98BxwLmjL61zubO_ui7Zx9snZFT6luahxx8qJ7M3LryZyfACMK5ZcK2KKhdc1020clikJ2uw0cNuBfYTfdUrNoK3cbhpcNKLakOyDpaYvoMCejgrfcizaozdEDXcS/s320/beast.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569493186899634914" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">How is he still single?!</span><br /></div><br />When Dad doesn't shoot her a Facebook message upon his arrival (or maybe it was just his horse freaking out?), Belle gets worried and goes looking for him. She finds the creepy old castle and Dad's abandoned cart, and just kind of <span style="font-style: italic;">goes inside</span> to get him.<br /><br />Upon realizing there's a hot girl in his castle in addition the admittedly <span style="font-style: italic;">succulent </span>fat guy in his dungeon, the Beast swoops downstairs in a suitably terrifying fashion and totally flips his shit on Belle, who decides that hanging out in the castle under the watchful eye of a cursed prince is totally more exciting than having her books knocked into mud puddles at home, and offers to stay in her father's place.<br /><br />Following a similar train of thought, where:<br />hanging out in a castle under the watchful eye of a cursed prince=hot girl, and<br />having her books knocked into mud puddles=weird old fat guy,<br />the Beast takes her up on this offer. He runs upstairs, looks at his flower, and decides to try and make her fall in love with him. Which she does, over the course of about a week.<br /><br />This is what's known as Stockholm Syndrome. Yeah, you know what's there that wasn't there before, Belle? <span style="font-style: italic;">Blind desperation</span>. And as Jon pointed out, this isn't even romantic on the Beast's part; it's entirely a marriage of convenience.<br /><br />Is this girl a girl?<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Yes</span>.<br />Okay, good. Could I potentially get her to make out with me?<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Yes</span>.<br />Then I get to not be hairy anymore?<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Yes</span>.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">AWESOME</span>.<br /><br />The one thing they have in common is that they're both stuck in this dumb castle with all these dumb talking appliances, and they both agree that chicks should read. You know who else thinks girls should read, is this guy.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://diehipster.files.wordpress.com/2010/01/hipster-beard-pbr.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://diehipster.files.wordpress.com/2010/01/hipster-beard-pbr.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>You want to marry him? He's hairy too! And the great news is, he's likely to <span style="font-style: italic;">stay </span>that way.<br /><br />The Beast hasn't even tried to make nice with other girls in the castle. In fact, it's implied that either there has been <span style="font-style: italic;">no one else there ever</span>, or he killed them all. He decides to marry this girl within five minutes of knowing her, and <span style="font-style: italic;">THREATENING TO KILL HER</span>, so that she can cure him of his terminal hairiness.<br /><br />And Belle? She gets to not marry Gaston, and also be a princess. What a sweetheart deal.<br /><br />And last but not least, we move on to. . .<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">HERCULES</span><br />Hercules is born in, and then consequently stolen from, Mount Olympus by the Lord of the Underworld's creepy sluglike companions, Pain and Panic (read: Bobcat Goldthwait), and made to drink a bottle full of tasty mortalizing juice. He doesn't drink every drop of it though, and for the next seventeen years or so he is a clumsy douchebag who ruins everything for everyone with his mutant strength.<br /><br />On one particularly bad day, after destroying the entire city's livelihood with his stumbly shenanigans, his foster parents fess up to having found him in a <span style="font-style: italic;">mountain</span> when he was a baby, and give him his <span style="font-style: italic;">god necklace</span>. Hercules goes off to find the temple of Zeus, where the statue of Zeus comes to life in what has to be the most terrifying thing Hercules has ever seen.<br /><br />(Unless you really want to watch him sing that Michael Bolton song, you can skip ahead to about 3:27.)<br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/sm9NcUPu6W4" frameborder="0" height="390" width="640"></iframe><br /><br />Yes, that is Rip Torn. And he appears to be hosting an intergalactic kegger!<br /><br />Zeus tells him that if he wants to come back to Mount Olympus, he has to prove himself a hero. Herc goes off to find Danny Devito, who is supposed to be the best trainer in all of Greece, and over the course of the next musical number, Hercules goes from being a shrimpy, dorky man-child to being a <span style="font-style: italic;">big, shiny, buff </span>(what can only be described as a) <span style="font-style: italic;">PALOOKA</span>. All this from singing with a goat and rescuing rag dolls? Somebody let Jenny Craig in on <span style="font-style: italic;">that </span>secret.<br /><br />On his first assignment, Hercules goes to fight a river-god (that's what it's called, right? I haven't seen this in a while) monster-type thing, and meets Meg, its sultry, sarcastic prey. He saves her, she gives him a nickname and some terrible 90's hipster-talk and slinks off.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb2dReQ6yhxBZJALbeonxRUgBYFgXHfEXWdRcwloNsojnzzwirpk8Gz6yTI4mIidxV7jsJj2LURBFmX9CX9sCLysLq8aSGV45D7bhK4Jzt4VwLZhAzuMBmXmfDjYIuvqYMO-PpI2PQB6z7/s1600/a+real+SLICE..jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb2dReQ6yhxBZJALbeonxRUgBYFgXHfEXWdRcwloNsojnzzwirpk8Gz6yTI4mIidxV7jsJj2LURBFmX9CX9sCLysLq8aSGV45D7bhK4Jzt4VwLZhAzuMBmXmfDjYIuvqYMO-PpI2PQB6z7/s320/a+real+SLICE..jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571813104836331314" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">"WAZZAAAAAP."<br /></span></div><br />(Just curious, did that river thing remind anyone else of King JellyJam, from the Goosebumps book <span style="font-style: italic;">The Horror at Camp JellyJam</span>? Just curious.)<br /><br />Oh, and here's something you might want to note: <span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">she's in league with Hades. </span>He owns her soul. She has literally sold her soul to the devil. </span>What a winner.<br /><br />Over the course of the movie (read: the next couple weeks), Hercules beats down every monster in Thebes (read: the world?), much to Hades's dismay. He's on fire! He can't do anything wrong!<br /><br />On a quest from Hades to find Hercules's weakness, Meg decides she's in love with him, and he decides she's in love with her, because they each have found what they wanted in another human being. Meg's found a big, stupid hero who likes kids and is part god, and Herc's found a soulless, sarcastic shrew who keeps him on his toes by being a magnet for every terrible beastie in the world. They don't know <span style="font-style: italic;">anything else</span> about each other.<br /><br />The rest of the movie takes place over the course of about a week. Here is the sped-up synopsis of events:<br />Hades gets, like, SO pissed that Herc and Meg are together.<br />He informs Herc that Meg is working for him, has no soul, and that he'll let her soul go if Herc can go 24 hours without being a, ahem, PALOOKA.<br />Herc is hurt but says, and i quote, "Durrr, okay."<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ3hEfOzth19ZXf24MHV3OjFaxSBxBMfzvmlsm8HIGR34E3822q_04A20jcxDUPjTxFPHgEx4dIukrwkdH1clpsDbFbmXCbOCZ5zq9QAuNxQ3wSQWFnZX8K0uTubWbQvx3b8LWNcf2xCm-/s1600/u+mad+bro.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ3hEfOzth19ZXf24MHV3OjFaxSBxBMfzvmlsm8HIGR34E3822q_04A20jcxDUPjTxFPHgEx4dIukrwkdH1clpsDbFbmXCbOCZ5zq9QAuNxQ3wSQWFnZX8K0uTubWbQvx3b8LWNcf2xCm-/s320/u+mad+bro.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571815440345842482" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;">Look at that face. That is the face of honesty.<br /></span></div><br />All hell breaks out on Mount Olympus when Hades releases his horrible beasties.<br />Meg dies.<br />Hades shows Herc where Meg's soul is (SWIMMING IN A RIVER FULL OF OTHER SWIMMING DEAD PEOPLE) and tells him to go jump in and get her.<br />He does it.<br />He almost dies, but doesn't, because this is a heroic thing to do, and now he's not only a real hero, but part god again.<br /><br />I'll reiterate:<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Stupidly diving into a pool of death to save the only girl he has ever met, who has sold her soul to the devil over something really stupid, who has admitted to following him around trying to find out his weakness so her and her boss can KILL HIM, and who is, by the way, ALREADY DEAD, makes Hercules a hero.</span><br /><br />Not saving children or helping old people cross the street. Saving this dumb broad is what gets him his ticket back into heaven.<br /><br />After punching Hades into his own river of<span style="font-style: italic;"> death-goo</span>, Herc gets Meg's soul back to her body. They make out (gross, right?) and Herc goes to heaven, where he is now allowed to live out the rest of his crazy long life. He then tells Dad that he'd rather stay on Earth with his girlfriend.<br /><br />His girlfriend who only started being his girlfriend five minutes ago.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXO5JZbKzYcYvqMdUkTmJT0zLxQIulVuLi_ciVp21h1KS4UEBnXkTm2QejxVGGYQFtRR421GdZAXERLI9E5wy035mUB7KpfairG9HqPFf8djicsuKAS7zzfkNUPoYPWSP7qvndUyCPhZ8O/s1600/herc+and+meg.jpeg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXO5JZbKzYcYvqMdUkTmJT0zLxQIulVuLi_ciVp21h1KS4UEBnXkTm2QejxVGGYQFtRR421GdZAXERLI9E5wy035mUB7KpfairG9HqPFf8djicsuKAS7zzfkNUPoYPWSP7qvndUyCPhZ8O/s320/herc+and+meg.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5571814120659480482" border="0" /></a><br />Can you imagine the <span style="font-style: italic;">fights </span>they have?<br />"Megara, I am exhausted. You're always talking about <span style="font-style: italic;">slices</span>, is it really so much to ask for, I dunno, a <span style="font-style: italic;">meat pi</span>e or something when I get home from <span style="font-style: italic;">rescuing the world</span>?"<br />"My feet hurt."<br />"Yeah, your feet always hurt. Which is hilarious, because all you do is sit on the couch all day".<br />"Look, I crossed the devil for you, okay? I got you back into the <span style="font-style: italic;">Pantheon of Gods</span>. What more do you want?"<br />"No,<span style="font-style: italic;"> I</span> got me back into the Pantheon of Gods when I <span style="font-style: italic;">killed the devil and brought you back to life</span>. And then I turned them down so I could live with <span style="font-style: italic;">SOME DUMB BROAD WHO DOESN'T EVEN MAKE ME DINNER</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">FOREVER</span>. I CANNOT GO BACK THERE. THAT WAS A ONE-TIME OFFER. WHAT A GREAT BARGAIN."<br />". . . I'm going to stay at Phil's."<br />"YEAH, YOU'RE ALWAYS STAYING AT PHIL'S. You know he's half-<span style="font-style: italic;">GOAT</span>, right? Your babies are gonna be an <span style="font-style: italic;">abomination</span> which I will then be forced to <span style="font-style: italic;">kill</span>."<br />"YOU'RE A MONSTER!"<br /><br /><br /><br />Yeah. I hate Disney relationships.<br /></div></div>kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132143483483207254.post-48609861567653323532011-01-06T23:40:00.000-08:002011-01-07T00:24:46.098-08:00New [Year's] post!Was everybody's New Year celebration fantastico? I know mine sure was. I played this really silly version of Pictionary and watched <span style="font-style: italic;">The Rescuers Down Under</span>, which I have determined is the Disney movie from my childhood that has held up best over the years. I mean, LOOK AT THIS.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY_de5lwL2moDAoKF4-4kYmMlFa_YdBXgGH4kOzzOsNdsRM099MwhpPMn3S5PiON0aRl-0tHVsbMEFxq4KN2Yk9FtU8Ts2olM5zWamLeGylJS_FbnGLGQxkn_Zg7bgz4gILztELl8_Z0PR/s1600/rescuers+down+under.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 254px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY_de5lwL2moDAoKF4-4kYmMlFa_YdBXgGH4kOzzOsNdsRM099MwhpPMn3S5PiON0aRl-0tHVsbMEFxq4KN2Yk9FtU8Ts2olM5zWamLeGylJS_FbnGLGQxkn_Zg7bgz4gILztELl8_Z0PR/s320/rescuers+down+under.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559347701765238898" border="0" /></a><br />That kid is a badass. He is DANGLING from a <span style="font-style: italic;">GIANT GOLDEN EAGLE</span>. OVER A <span style="font-style: italic;">RIVER</span>. And that is a BOB NEWHART MOUSE. Also,<span style="font-style: italic;"> coming soon to Laser Disc</span>? That is some serious business.<br /><br />I don't typically make my resolutions at the very beginning of the New Year; I tend to just kind of come up with more as I go along. Tonight I've got two more resolutions, bringing my total count to. . . three.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_leftdzYz3Q1qf8yek.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 450px; height: 253px;" src="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_leftdzYz3Q1qf8yek.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />My resolutions thus far are:<br />-have at LEAST one Halloween party. Like, actually have one, instead of saying I want to have one for a year and then not doing it, like I do every year.<br />-be more attentive to this blog, and doing silly cartoons and stuff for that more often.<br />-be more honest and open with people.<br /><br />Tonight I'm kicking two of those resolutions in the ASS. So, in my first blog of 2011, here is a list of weird facts about me that most people don't know.<br /><br />-I do everything in odd numbers, and in multiples of seven if I can. I always use seven deodorant swipes under each arm. I use odd numbers of exclamation marks when being emphatic!!! I made three resolutions. And so forth.<br /><br />-I feel really guilty about choosing favorite video game characters, because I don't play video games very much, so I don't feel I deserve to. Dry Bones is my favorite Mario character, but I've never played Mario. I just think he's cute. And even though I play Pokemon, I don't play it religiously, and I've only ever played Diamond. So I don't feel like I'm allowed to like Mudkips as much as I do.<br /><br />-I am absolutely TERRIFIED of centipedes. The hairy ones that crawl really fast in swirly directions? I <span style="font-style: italic;">scream </span>when I see one of those. They freak me out. My hair actually stands up on end. Same with silverfish. *shudder*<br /><br />-I want to write, illustrate, and hopefully publish, a children's book about a kid with German heritage not understanding why it's cool to be German. Seriously. Shut up.<br /><br />-I read terrible teen novels sometimes. I own a copy of the first <span style="font-style: italic;">Monster High</span> book. I own TWO copies of <span style="font-style: italic;">Twilight </span>(although that's because I wanted to review one, and a former friend left her copy in my car and then forgot both I and it existed, and I still haven't read it all the way through because I get sick of it really fast). I have read, and continue to re-read, <span style="font-style: italic;">every single Princess Diaries book that exists</span>. This doesn't mean I like these books (except for Princess Diaries. I love those). I just read them. And own a few. The same goes for silly teen movies, and shows, although I don't own any seasons of dumb teen shows.<br /><br />-I have this weird fascination with picking at things. I don't use my athlete's foot medicine because I like peeling the skin off, which is gross. I tear my nails instead of ever clipping them. I get this weird urge to pop other people's zits, which has led to some weird and hilarious post-relationship conversations with exes.<br /><br />-I hate when people say "That's so meta." On sort of the same note I am seriously considering using the phrase "that's so Raven" in my daily life. Or at least using that to correct people who say "That's so meta."<br /><br />-I don't get back to people when they call or text me. Not because I'm doing anything better, or because I don't want to talk to them; it's because over the last year or so I've developed this weird anxiety about talking to people other than the ones I see every day.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />There you have it. A bunch of weird (and slightly upsetting) facts about me, to kick your dumb year off right. I'll see you guys in a couple days, when school starts and I need something to do in the student lounge between classes.<br /><br />Happy New Year, losers! It's gonna be <span style="font-style: italic;">dawesome</span>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_left48gCkY1qf8yek.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 450px; height: 253px;" src="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_left48gCkY1qf8yek.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a>kelfirehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09012600594512771144noreply@blogger.com1