This movie is pissing me off to no end; and I haven’t even seen it! 

The tag line: We Were Warned.  Yeah.  So?  Being warned about the end of the world when you have no control over what happens is like being tied to a concrete chair and warned that someone is going to hit you in the face.  Guess what?  Can’t do much about that, can you?  But you were warned. 

If you haven’t read up on why the date of 2012 is significant, you can look it up or just rest assured that the Mayan calendar ends on December 21, 2012.  This apparently signals the end of the world.  My thoughts?  Maybe the Mayans just decided that this was a long way off and they could call it a day.  Considering they haven’t really been a seat of power for the last few centuries, I think they made the right choice.  Hell, I don’t even buy a new calendar for the current year until, like, February, so I’ll cut them a little slack.

John Cusack, why?  Just, why?  I know you’ve gotta eat too, but did you really need this interchangeable part?

I hate this movie and won’t see it, but here’s someone who has and they hate it too.

See you on December 22, 2012.  I’ll be starting my Christmas shopping.

Subway, Don’t be a dick.

Really?  You had to play it like that?

Gingers of the Month: Fast Food Edition

While I was holed up in a secret government prison on the outskirts of Toledo for the last three months for alleged crimes that I can neither confirm nor deny at this time, I was not permitted internet access, a word processor or clean socks.  Therefore, I will make this month a 3-for-1 with the gingers!

For one reason or another, executives who are responsible for pairing fries, sodas and burgers on a “value meal” that have resulted in my not being able to get ripped like Jesus have also undeniably agreed that they need red-headed spokespeople to sell those products to children.  While the rest of the world may scoff and threaten to burn us at the stake for being witches, they will invite also quickly us (in parody form, of course) to cook food for and eat with their children.  Sure, some chains don’t follow this wise trend, but we’re talking about successful burger joints!  The biggest three in the world are here with their freckled faces smiling proudly.

Ladies First: Wendy’s (6,700)

How much would it suck to be one of Dave Thomas’ other kids? 
“So your dad is Dave Thomas, huh?”
“Yeah, yeah he is.”
“So are you…”
“No, that’s my sister.  Obviously his favorite.”

Melinda Lou “Wendy” Thomas was actually Dave Thomas’ fourth child for whom the chain is named and who’s face appears on the trademark sign.  Thomas chose Wendy as his favorite child for reasons unknown to scholars, but many believe that he believed Wendy was the least likely to “turn gay.” 

It’s Good to be King: The Burger King (11,200 locations)

The king, like so much many of regal blood  before him, proudly displays his crimson locks beneath a heavy, heavy crown.  I know that he looks happy, shiny and a bit creepy, but there is solace in those eyes.  Dealing with all those people “having it their way” and knowing that “it takes two hands to handle a Whopper” really start taking their toll.

Not only that, but the King has been dropped from the advertising that is named for him on several occasions.  Sure, he goes back to the days when the fledging franchise was known as Insta-Burger King.  There he sat on his bun of power, doling out wisdom and justice while lesser lords in cushy offices decided that a subservient chicken death march or Buffy the Vampire Slayer were better spokespeople for the brand. 

Patience paid off for the King, however, as he has come back to enlighten a new generation with his slick, unwavering hair and smile.  Oh, who am I kidding?  That face just says, “Here comes a rapin’.”

Send in the Clowns: Ronald McDonald (31,000 locations)

What more is there to say?  Number 1 restaurant in the world, more recognizable than Jesus, and responsible for fewer deaths than only Philip Morris, Ronald McDonald has stood the test of time and persuaded generations of youngsters that Happy Meals would bring them joy and a future of solid arteries.

Ronald can speak 31 languages which comes in equally handy when conversing with the children of the diverse nations in which his restaurants are located as it is when trolling the backstreets of third world bazaars looking for a fix.  Originally played by everyone’s favorite centurian-celebrating weather man, Willard Scott, the corporation dropped the merry meteorologist when he got fat and wanted to portray a fit and healthy clown that children could aspire to be like.  Unfortunately, after decades of Big Macs and super sized fries, most end up looking like Grimmace.

Welcome to the club, now get back to the heat lamps; lunch rush is about to start.

Jaw Dropping Roller Coaster

 The first standup roller coaster that I ever ventured on was King’s Island’s King Cobra.  It is now defunct because people kept falling out and dying.  Seems like a good reason.  This tempting of gravity and physics hasn’t stopped other theme parks from retaining their standup coasters.

Riddler's Revenge

Among those that soldier on is Six Flags Magic Mountain. This was my first time at the park and, with Kat and her brother, was bound and determined to ride as many roller coasters as possible.  With X2 and Tetsu (both are bitchin’) out of the way, we made our way to the upper right hand side of the park and got in line for Riddler’s Revenge.  It is the counterpart to Batman: The Ride.  Both coasters put you vertical with the Riddler standing you on your feet and Batman suspending you with your tootsies dangling.  This distinction is important.

When it was our turn, we found the three of us occupying most of our car with one spot open for a straggler.  I always feel bad for the stragglers who are either there by themselves or are the loveless one of a group who can’t get anyone to ride with them.  A rail-thin guy in his late 40’s, early 50’s slid into the standing seat beside me, filling our car completely. 

Going upside down on the first loop, I felt something solid him my arm that was pinned down by the padding of the car.  I looked down, didn’t see anything and thought little of it until we pulled back into the station with the characteristic lurch of a roller coaster. 

“Make sure not to step on those, please,” the guy beside me said, pointing near my brother-in-law’s feet.  There, sitting at the base of the car was an upper set of teeth!  I put two and two together and realized that I’d been struck in the arm by his false teeth! 

He made jokes about it happening on another coaster Déjà vu earlier in the day.  All I could think was how much more appropriate it would have been if that roller coaster had been the second one to have lost his teeth.  Then I began to wonder, why didn’t he have Polident or keep his mouth closed?  What if this had been a roller coaster with no floor?  Why hadn’t he put them in his pocket?  WTF, man?  Those are your teeth!

Despite being “air-bitten”, I made out better than Kat who, upon seeing them at her feet, could focus on nothing else the entire ride.  At least I didn’t notice a set of dentures shimmying back and forth at my feet.

Film: 500 Days of Summer

When an office posts flyers that say “Walk-In Hours – 3p.m. – 6 p.m.”, one would reasonably believe that someone will be in the office till 6 p.m.  So when I arrived at Pepperdine University’s Career Center for resume assistance at 5:20 p.m. and no one was there, I was not pleased.  When I asked the only person left in the office if the Career folks had knocked off early, she said that yes, in the summer they often left around 5 p.m. 

Really?  Then why does it say until 6 on all these flyers and boards they have all over the campus?

Well, it’s summer, so…

I was aware of the calendar season.  I had just driven 30 minutes north in a car without AC through 90 degree heat and would now be driving an hour back to Long Beach.  Driving is a subjective term when using the 405 to get anywhere during rush hour.  Sitting and exercising my clutch leg is a better description. 

I was in a foul mood when I got home at 6:30.  My lovely wife then asked if I wanted to go see a movie that started in 15 minutes and took 25 to get to the theater.  Despite (perhaps because of) a final in two days, I readily agreed, hoping that it would shake the funk I was in.

500 Days of Summer is, as the narrator informs you very early, a story about a boy and a girl.  It is not, however, a love story.  The boy, Tom (played masterfully by Joseph Gordon Levitt) is drawn to the girl, (a normally distant and emotionally-guarded Zooey Deschanel) the new secretary in his greeting card writing office.  The two are connected through music; first by one of the best songs in the world, The Smiths’ There is a Light That Never Goes Out, and later by each other’s choices at a local Karaoke bar.  They later hook up and everything is great.

But, as Tom’s sage-like little sister tells him, just because a girl likes the same weird stuff that you do doesn’t make her your soul mate. 

The greatness of the movie is in the telling.  Rather than a linear storyline where we witness the arc of the relationship, the narrative is told by jumping back and forth between the good times early on and the obvious distance that occurs later, on the downward slope.  These scenes are often placed back to back for maximum contrast with the days’ numbers telling us where we are. 

Using such a method allows the viewer to see the truth in most relationships reflected in that of Tom and Summer.  Unlike many Hollywood tales, nothing dramatic occurs between the two.  Instead, the actual occurrence of drifting that so many of us have experienced takes place.  What happens to drive apart these two, seemingly happy and loving people isn’t a drunken one night stand or a fight about who’s family to visit during Christmas.  What happens is life.  Circumstances and feelings change.  Suddenly, one person realizes what has been bubbling under the surface without their knowledge.  The other person’s quirks become annoying habits.  Their once funny jokes become labors of tolerance.  All the little stuff that fell to the background behind that shiny infatuation comes into focus and the cosmic contrast knob is turned all the way up.

It just isn’t working and you have to decide whether to continue with that in the back of your head or to call it quits and deal with the emotions of the other person.  It is heart wrenching to see Tom as he is informed of Summer’s intent to end their relationship.  Like so many of us, you can see he knows that things are not going well, but he refuses to admit it to himself.  It is also easy to identify with his feelings as he wants to soldier on, to work to make it better and to hold on to the one he loves that just, through no fault of his own, does not love him back. 

While those paragraphs may make this seem like a real downer of a movie, I found it both charming and playful.  The actors were all well-cast and played their parts to full believability.  It likely helped that the story is one which nearly anyone can identify with. 

The only part of the story that I don’t buy was the setting.  The film did not have an LA feel to it.  The gloomy skies, the torrents of rain, and the fact that you never saw any of the characters driving (they seemingly walked everywhere; WTF?!) gave it a very East Coast feel.  Even the architectural focus of the film was more suited to the other side of the continent.  The heavy Roman and Greek accents, the wide use of stone and the pivotal point involving the ONLY Art Nevua building in LA made the film’s references to the City of Angels feel out of place. 

Small quibbles aside, I really enjoyed this movie.  It reinforced just how great the relationship is that I have with my wife and how we are both still funny and loving to each other.  Despite the black cloud over my head when I got home, she made it go away and this film helped me recognize that value more than I might have otherwise.  I’m coming up on 3295 Days of Katherine and feel great about it!

So, I felt like killing this guy…

Ms. Kitty and I had been asleep for roughly an hour, just getting into that good, deep, useful sleep. Then, at 11:30 p.m. on Sunday night, my bedroom was flooded with the sounds of Madonna’s Ray of Light CD.

Was it part of a dream?

Where is it coming from?

I was groggy, confused and furious. I don’t like when people disturb my sleep.

Ms. Kitty pulled back the bedroom curtain to reveal a car idling with its windows down and the stereo bumping just outside of our window. Beginning to pull out of the fog of dreams, I looked out the window, trying to ascertain whether the car belonged to our neighbor who might be pulling in, wasted. No, it wasn’t a Scion.

Being the nerd that I am, I began to try to figure out what car it was by the distinctive transverse sunroof. Then I realized I was pissed.

I walked down the hall to the closet, threw on a shirt and made my way for the back porch. Just as I reached for the handle to the metal screen that separates our home from the dangers of the outside world, ready to issue a pummeling, the owner of the car climbed back in and backed out of the driveway. Fine. He’s gone. I can get back to sleep.

Just as I’m drifting back to Dreamtown, I hear tires on decorative rock and more disco music thumping. Our bedroom is grazed by headlights as the car pulls back to just below our window. I throw off the sheets and run to the back door, shaking with anger.

The guy walked right toward me as I told him flatly, “Turn off your car.”

“I’ll be 30 seconds,” he replied non-chalantly.

“You’ll turn off your car first.”

“Call the cops. I’ll be gone before they get here,” he arrogantly stated. It was true, but that didn’t mean that his car could keep running.

I thought for a moment about the movies I’d seen, where an act leads to a spiraling series of events that leads to vandalism, warnings and dead family members. Would this end up like Boys in the Hood? I heard him complain to my neighbor about “the white guy” that was hassling him.

Then I saw his car; a Nissan Altima. I’m not scared of anyone driving an Altima. F this guy.

It took all I had not to do more than turn the key back toward the steering wheel. Wild ideas of throwing the keys into the street, cranking them forward to fry the starter or using them to fulfill dreams of metal artwork on the hood flooded my mind, but were controlled by the thought that he knows where I live and I don’t know his address.

I lay back down on the bed, shaking with anger as my fight or flight response had only one option and I was preventing it from its natural urgings. The now-silent darkness was broken by his insincere apology surely brought about by the urgings of our neighbor’s upset girlfriend, the cranking of an engine and then his proclamation that “they’ll get over it.”

In fairness, the girlfriend did seem sincere when she apologized through the window and went back inside next door. It didn’t stop me from lying in bed, shaking with fury and resting in hyper-vigilance, awaiting more music to pull up the drive.

What is… just… who…

What is wrong with the Japanese?  They’re actually making this movie?

Halloween ideas.

So, with today’s news of Michael Jackson’s death, does this costume become more or less appropriate?

Happy Father’s Day, From Your Straight B Student

On the way home from work today, I got behind a dark gray Toyota Solara convertible.  Normally, the license plate holders on topless appliances like this have the dealer’s name where they bought the car, that the driver is an alumni of USC (why is it always USC?!) or, in extreme cases LAKERS!!!!

Not this one.  No.  It was personalized. 

Above the plate was: LUV U, DAD!

Below the plate was: from your straight ‘A’ student

A couple things:

1. First of all, how did you get straight A’s if you spell like you’re tweeting?  Maybe the kiosk in the mall charges by the letter and you were an economics major.  If so, good for you.

2. This is the most overcompensating, insecure, asshole license plate frame I’ve ever seen!  Really?!  You need to tell the world that you got straight A’s?  “Oh, I may have just cut you off like an idiot, but at least I did well in school.”  Fuck you.  What did your dad do to you to make you feel so badly that you had to post your transcript on the back side of their car? 

3. Can’t the driver just, I don’t know, tell their dad that they love them without plastering it on the back of their car?  Did their dad leave home, causing them to strive for better grades to prove themselves?  Is this the most effective way they’ve thought of to find their dad; hoping against all hope that he’ll one day pull up behind them at a stoplight and think, “Maybe that illegitimate child I had made straight A’s”?  Then there will be a big moment where they look at eachother through the rear view mirror and see that they have the same eyes. “Dad?” “Junior?”  Then they’ll each hop out of their cars and embrace.  Stepping away, the child will immediately be hit by a bus and the father will steal the car, being that it is far nicer than his.  Serves ‘em both right.

Beauty School Dropout

How is it possible that the only two girls at Subway this afternoon wearing smocks from a local beauty school were the only horrible looking people there? I’m not talking about, “Oh, that’s so unfortunate,” horrible looking, I’m talking about intentional acts such as jet black and purple hair dye, falling face first into a tackle box and elongated ear lobes.
It’s like a mechanic who’s car never runs or an architect who lives in a trailer home.