My buddy Jason is getting married soon, and his bachelor party is tonight. Would you believe that this will be the first time I've ever gone to one of these? (Don't everybody leap to say "yes" so quickly; you'll hurt my feelings.)
It'll be good to hang out with some friends I haven't seen in a while. However, I'm sure this will be nothing like the bachelor parties you see on TV and in the movies. Of course, that's definitely a good thing. The impending party tonight has me thinking about one of the better movies from last year: The Hangover.
I went to see it because I figured I could stand to shut off my brain for a couple of hours, and I thought this would be something along the lines of Dude, Where's My Car? or SuperBad. I was pleasantly shocked to find that The Hangover is suprisingly smart, well-written and the acting is top-notch. Zach Galifianakis, Bradley Cooper and Ed Helms play off each other remarkably well, and keep the audience laughing and fascinated for the whole time.
Later, I realized that The Hangover is more than just a well-written and excellently performed buddy comedy about a bachelor party gone horribly, horribly wrong. I felt I'd seen this story somewhere before, but couldn't quite put my finger on it. Later, I realized where I'd seen it, and that made me laugh myself silly all over again...
The Hangover is a modern retelling of The Wizard of Oz.
Now bear with me, readers; I've given this a good deal of consideration. (This goes to show the weird places my mind goes to when I get lost in my own thoughts.) Anybody who hasn't seen The Hangover yet, be forewarned: spoilers ahead.
First we meet Alan, played brilliantly by Zach Galifianakis. He is the Scarecrow. Just listen to him talk for 30 seconds, and you will agree that he definitely needs a brain. Even his unkempt hair and beard look like the straw that is poking out everywhere in the Scarecrow's body.
Next, we go to a school where we encounter Phil, brought to life by Bradley Cooper acting like...well...Bradley Cooper. He is the Tin Man. You can hear in his smug, cynical ramblings that he needs a heart. He swipes his students' field trip money to add to his gambling funds, and refuses to help a kid who wants to ask him a question. Phil even jokes about leaving his wife and son, and never returning from Las Vegas. The silvery gray vest he wears symbolizes the Tin Man's hollow metal chest.
Third, we meet the hapless Stu, played by The Daily Show's Ed Helms. Stu is absolutely the Cowardly Lion. You can't help but feel bad for this poor schmuck, being picked apart by his soulless harpy of a girlfriend, Melissa. If anybody needed courage, it is Stu, who doesn't have the cojones to stand up to Melissa or dump her.
After a wild night, which nobody can remember at all, Stu wakes up to find, to his horror, that he is missing a tooth. This is a perfect metaphor for the Lion's lack of courage: he's toothless.
Doug, who is missing for most of the movie, is Dorothy. He just wants to get home.
After our reluctant heroes go through many trials and tribulations in Las Vegas, (what better location exists to portray the magical and terrifying land of Oz?) they are ordered to return a misplaced $80,000 to Mr. Chow, who apparently has Doug held hostage. The guys band together and hit the Blackjack tables to win the money. In true Hollywood fashion, they win big and give Mr. Chow the cash. He releases Doug, but there's one problem: it's the wrong Doug.
Mr. Chow is now revealed to be the Wizard of Oz: a supposedly powerful man who does not truly come through with what the heroes are expecting of him. But then, thanks to an offhand comment by the other Doug, the fellows realize that Doug was on the roof of the Caesar's Palace hotel, mere yards from where they slept, the whole time. This is even alluded to early in the movie, when we see the mattress that Doug threw off the roof, in an attempt to signal somebody on the ground.
After Doug (the original Doug) is rescued, everybody heads back home, and we realize that our heroes had everything they thought they needed, from the very beginning: Alan had the brains to count cards and take the Bellagio Casino for $80,000 at the Blackjack table; Phil has a heart when he realizes at the wedding just how much he missed his wife and son; Stu shows his courage when he finally mans up and dumps Melissa.
And as for Doug? Well, as Glinda the Good Witch said in The Wizard of Oz, "You had the power to go home all along!" Dorothy just had to click the heels of her Ruby Slippers together and say "There's no place like home." The Ruby Slippers are presented to us in The Hangover in the form of the silver 1969 Mercedes 280SE Convertible they borrowed from Doug's soon-to-be father in law. (In the original book of The Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum, Dorothy wore Silver Slippers, not Ruby Slippers.)
There are many more parallels to The Wizard of Oz that pop up in The Hangover, but I think this shows with plenty of certainty that there is a definite correlation between these two excellent movies. The next time you watch The Hangover, I hope you spot some of these similarities, and that it adds to your enjoyment of a very funny, clever and well-acted film. And to those of you who plan on going to Sin City, remember these two famous phrases:
"There's no place like home."
--Judy Garland as Dorothy, The Wizard of Oz
"Remember, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Except for herpes. That shit'll come back with you."
--Jeffrey Tambor as Sid, The Hangover
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
This is an office, not an Applebee's!
I will admit this right off the bat: a lot of the time at work, I can be a grumpy bastard.
There are several things about my office that annoy me. Among these are the unnecessarily long training sessions, computer systems that seem designed to spike my blood pressure, and the rare occasion that I am instructed to take Tech Support calls instead of doing my normal work. (If I wanted to do Tech Support, I'd work in Tech Support.)
However, at the place I go to pay the rent, one of the top events that makes the bile rise in my throat is the way the managers celebrate birthdays and anniversaries of employment. Any time that somebody has been with the company for a number of full years, or if their birthday is that day or during the coming weekend, a dozen managers show up with balloons and bellow out: "Attention everyone! We have a birthday/anniversary on the floor! Mr./Ms. So-And-So!"
These managers, to whom we look for leadership and advice, then all start to sing.
Together.
If it's a birthday, it goes:
Happy happy birthday, today's your special day
Happy happy birthday, that's why we're here to say
Happy happy birthday, may all your dreams come truuuuuuueeeee.....
Happy happy birthday, from all of us to you!
Ick.
And as saccharine as that song is, it can't even hold a candle (Ha! Candle! Get it?! No? Moving on...) to the Anniversary song, sung to the William Tell Overture, with lyrics that seem written by Rain Man:
Happy Anniversary, Happy Anniversary, Happy Anniversary, Haaaaappy Anniversary.
Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy Anniversary,
Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy Anniversarreeeee!
I hate this.
My coworkers are very aware of my dislike for this corporate celebratory nonsense, and understand why I immediately reach for my headphones to drown them out with Metal or Techno music any time I see someone carrying balloons. However, one of them remarked to me the other day that she hates hearing me complain about this irritating distraction from...you know...work. I've been on the phone with clients before, who have to wait until this off-key bellowing is finished before I can continue with actually doing my job.
She can't stand my bad attitude about what is "supposed to be a celebration." Okay, she's a good person, I like working with her, and she has a point. I'll admit that grouchy curmudgeons are annoying. But do you know what's worse, in my opinion? Chipper, happy-slappy optimists who go around all day vomiting sunshine, insisting that everyone act as if we live in a sugary fairy land, filled with puppies, kittens and unicorns that fart rainbows.
And to those of you who think I'm making a big deal out of nothing, and that a few songs once in a great while are not something to get stressed out over: let's do a little math, shall we?
I crunched the numbers on the people who dwell in my workplace. There are 83 within immediate earshot. That means 83 birthdays and 83 anniversaries a year. That's 166 celebratory songs in a year where there are about 253 working days (52 weeks x 5 days a week, minus 7 paid holidays.)
That means, on any given day, there is a 65.6% chance (That's nearly 2 out of every 3 days at work) that I will have to listen to an off-key, ear-splitting rendition of a song that makes me want to take an ice pick to my eardrums.
And several times a month, it is the birthday and/or anniversary of several people at once. Like last week, when the denizens of my cube farm celebrated 6 anniversaries and 1 birthday, within the space of 10 minutes.
Go to YouTube, search for the video "Happy Anniversary!!!" submitted by ViddyBarbarino, and play it 6 times, back-to-back. See if that doesn't make you willing to listen to some other song, any other song, just to get it to stop.
So yes, I am a grumpy bastard. I like being angry about things that anger me. To sum it up, I leave you with a quote by Aldous Huxley, from his excellent novel Brave New World...
"I reserve the right to be unhappy."
There are several things about my office that annoy me. Among these are the unnecessarily long training sessions, computer systems that seem designed to spike my blood pressure, and the rare occasion that I am instructed to take Tech Support calls instead of doing my normal work. (If I wanted to do Tech Support, I'd work in Tech Support.)
However, at the place I go to pay the rent, one of the top events that makes the bile rise in my throat is the way the managers celebrate birthdays and anniversaries of employment. Any time that somebody has been with the company for a number of full years, or if their birthday is that day or during the coming weekend, a dozen managers show up with balloons and bellow out: "Attention everyone! We have a birthday/anniversary on the floor! Mr./Ms. So-And-So!"
These managers, to whom we look for leadership and advice, then all start to sing.
Together.
If it's a birthday, it goes:
Happy happy birthday, today's your special day
Happy happy birthday, that's why we're here to say
Happy happy birthday, may all your dreams come truuuuuuueeeee.....
Happy happy birthday, from all of us to you!
Ick.
And as saccharine as that song is, it can't even hold a candle (Ha! Candle! Get it?! No? Moving on...) to the Anniversary song, sung to the William Tell Overture, with lyrics that seem written by Rain Man:
Happy Anniversary, Happy Anniversary, Happy Anniversary, Haaaaappy Anniversary.
Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy Anniversary,
Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy Anniversarreeeee!
I hate this.
My coworkers are very aware of my dislike for this corporate celebratory nonsense, and understand why I immediately reach for my headphones to drown them out with Metal or Techno music any time I see someone carrying balloons. However, one of them remarked to me the other day that she hates hearing me complain about this irritating distraction from...you know...work. I've been on the phone with clients before, who have to wait until this off-key bellowing is finished before I can continue with actually doing my job.
She can't stand my bad attitude about what is "supposed to be a celebration." Okay, she's a good person, I like working with her, and she has a point. I'll admit that grouchy curmudgeons are annoying. But do you know what's worse, in my opinion? Chipper, happy-slappy optimists who go around all day vomiting sunshine, insisting that everyone act as if we live in a sugary fairy land, filled with puppies, kittens and unicorns that fart rainbows.
And to those of you who think I'm making a big deal out of nothing, and that a few songs once in a great while are not something to get stressed out over: let's do a little math, shall we?
I crunched the numbers on the people who dwell in my workplace. There are 83 within immediate earshot. That means 83 birthdays and 83 anniversaries a year. That's 166 celebratory songs in a year where there are about 253 working days (52 weeks x 5 days a week, minus 7 paid holidays.)
That means, on any given day, there is a 65.6% chance (That's nearly 2 out of every 3 days at work) that I will have to listen to an off-key, ear-splitting rendition of a song that makes me want to take an ice pick to my eardrums.
And several times a month, it is the birthday and/or anniversary of several people at once. Like last week, when the denizens of my cube farm celebrated 6 anniversaries and 1 birthday, within the space of 10 minutes.
Go to YouTube, search for the video "Happy Anniversary!!!" submitted by ViddyBarbarino, and play it 6 times, back-to-back. See if that doesn't make you willing to listen to some other song, any other song, just to get it to stop.
So yes, I am a grumpy bastard. I like being angry about things that anger me. To sum it up, I leave you with a quote by Aldous Huxley, from his excellent novel Brave New World...
"I reserve the right to be unhappy."
Thursday, July 15, 2010
My Day of "Dreckoning"
I have just completed one of the most excruciating tasks of my life.
I have read Twilight.
Even admitting to this makes me feel as if I should hand in my Y chromosome. Those of you who know me are well aware that I have a very strong disdain for this book series that I refer to as The Wacky Adventures of Emo McSparkleVamp and His Furry Friends.
The day I realized I was officially too old for MTV was the day of the 2009 MTV Movie Awards, when the award for Best Movie (voted on by the viewers) went to: not Iron Man nor The Dark Knight, but Twilight. I decided at that exact moment that if this was what the MTV-watching public decided was "cool," then I no longer wished to be a member of the MTV-watching public. My abhorrence for MTV's tastes has recently been reinforced by the Best Movie award for 2010 going to the sequel, New Moon.
I have given my reasons for despising Twilight before, on multiple occasions. So why, you may ask, would I willingly read the first volume of something I have already proclaimed to loathe with the fiery passion of a thousand suns?
About 2 weeks ago, I was expressing my dislike of Twilight to the latest person who was willing to listen: Renne, the sister of my girlfriend Roxanne. Finally, Roxanne had heard enough and called me out on it. She asked how I could possibly talk about this book series, let alone hate it, if I had never even made the effort to read any of it.
I had to admit, she had a good point. I'd been tempted to give Twilight a try before, but always shied away; mainly because almost anybody I knew that had read it warned me not to bother; it was little more than Fan Fiction, and third-rate Fan Fiction at that. But I finally felt that I could no longer express an opinion on something I had not experienced myself. So I borrowed a copy from a friend. (He couldn't even finish it himself.)
Well, I have now read the full 498 pages of this opus, and I can speak with definite authority. This book is, for want of a better term...
Crap.
There are a number of reasons that I can now hate Twilight in peace. Let's journey into it, shall we?
1. This book is sappier than a Vermont Maple Syrup Festival. It should have been written on pancakes, not pages. I rolled my eyes so much at the flowery teen-diary prose, it nearly gave me a migraine. I almost wish it did; that would have distracted me from the painful writing.
2. The main character, Bella, is a vapid, luke-warm, nearly brain-dead martyr. She has absolutely no faith in herself, and believes with every fiber of her being that she is plain, boring and worthless. And with how much she jabbers on about that, it's hard to disagree.
Bella eagerly volunteers herself into situations that she knows for a fact will make her miserable, since being unhappy seems to be the only thing that makes her happy. Moving to a town she hates was her idea, hanging out with people she doesn't even like was her idea, and refusing to believe that anyone could see any good in her was her idea. She even mentions that once, she ate dirt on a dare. Good Lord, woman! Have some self-respect!
This girl intentionally makes herself miserable so that she has an excuse to mope around with a storm cloud over her head that matches the clouds that seemingly cover Forks, Washington, 364 days a year. (I live in Seattle, people. It's not that gray.) She also seems to be incredulous that anyone, let alone 3 or 4 different guys, could be romantically interested in her. It's the Woody Allen theory. "I don't like myself, so if you like me, there must be something wrong with you." (For the record, I've never much liked Woody Allen either.)
3. Bella goes on and on and on and ON about how pretty Edward is (That's the vampire, in case any of you have been living under a rock for the last decade.) She compares him to a marble statue, an angel, a Pagan god, and will not stop GUSHING over how pretty he is. We GET it. He's PRETTY. MOVE THE HELL ON.
4. Nothing HAPPENS for the first half of the book. On the rare occasion that something more that teen angst actually occurs, it seems completely out of place and tacked-on, just to show Edward off as a super-pretty super-hero. He saves her from a car accident that comes out of nowhere and goes away just as fast. He saves her from being attacked in a situation that nobody who lived in a community of more than 500 people would ever get themselves into.
5. This book is teaching an entire generation of impressionable young girls that this is what a healthy relationship is supposed to look like: "Ohh, the really really really pretty boy who treats me like crap isn't here today! Waahh!" (If you think I'm exaggerating, read Chapter 1, and then the third paragraph of Chapter 2.)
Edward, or as he's known by many of my friends, "Sullen Cullen," is getting Bella involved in a textbook example of an abusive relationship. He stares at her constantly, alternating between desire and revulsion. He follows her. He alternately brings her in close and then pushes her away, just to keep her interested. At one point, he disconnects her car battery so that she can't leave home. He shows off how strong he is to her and actually tells her that he could kill her with a simple move of his hand. He intentionally drives at insane speeds with her in the car, despite knowing that it scares her to no end. And the coup de grace:
He. Watches. Her. SLEEP.
This is before they have even started their relationship! Sullen Cullen actually tells this girl that he spends all night, every night, perched outside her bedroom window, watching her sleep! This just sprinted out of Creepy, pole-vaulted over Icky, and landed smack dab in the middle of Unacceptable. The reason he gives for this? There's nothing else in town to do.
6. And finally, this is probably the most shallow reason to hate Twilight, but it's also the reason that rings the most true for why this book series is crap. When these "Vampires" are exposed to sunlight, do they die? No. Do they burst into flames? No. Are they physically weakened in any way? Nope. Then what happens?
They GLOW and SPARKLE.
Call me a purist if you must, but there are certain rules when it comes to the lore of Vampires. Some rules can be bent, some can be broken.
Vampirism is a disease, not a curse? (Example: I Am Legend by Richard Matheson) Fine.
Holy symbols do not repel Vampires? (Example: Interview With the Vampire by Anne Rice) Sure.
But there is one rule that is gospel, and is universal for nearly all bloodsucking creatures of the night:
Vampire + sunlight = bursting into flame, reduction to ash, and death. The only exception is Dracula himself, and he is still physically weakened by sunlight.
Besides being true to the Vampire mythos, the idea of becoming shiny in daylight flies entirely in the face of the natural laws of evolution. Not only does this "glitter factor" completely destroy any ability to camouflage oneself in one's surroundings, it immediately identifies one as a predator! You don't hear cheetahs roaring into the plains at full volume; that would scare away prey!
The best way I've found to express it is the following: Sparkling and glowing in sunlight isn't a sign that you're a Vampire; it's a sign that you're David Bowie.
Quite simply, this is a book that should serve only as a cautionary tale for what happens when you try to pass off a truly terrible and entirely forgettable romance novel as an icon of pop culture. The fact that Stephenie Meyer has become rich and famous by cranking out 5 volumes of this dreck is absolutely beyond belief. And now that I have jumped on this nearly 500-page grenade of mediocrity for you, dear readers, I feel the need to cleanse my palate. Maybe some John Steinbeck will wash this unpleasant taste out of my mind.
I have read Twilight.
Even admitting to this makes me feel as if I should hand in my Y chromosome. Those of you who know me are well aware that I have a very strong disdain for this book series that I refer to as The Wacky Adventures of Emo McSparkleVamp and His Furry Friends.
The day I realized I was officially too old for MTV was the day of the 2009 MTV Movie Awards, when the award for Best Movie (voted on by the viewers) went to: not Iron Man nor The Dark Knight, but Twilight. I decided at that exact moment that if this was what the MTV-watching public decided was "cool," then I no longer wished to be a member of the MTV-watching public. My abhorrence for MTV's tastes has recently been reinforced by the Best Movie award for 2010 going to the sequel, New Moon.
I have given my reasons for despising Twilight before, on multiple occasions. So why, you may ask, would I willingly read the first volume of something I have already proclaimed to loathe with the fiery passion of a thousand suns?
About 2 weeks ago, I was expressing my dislike of Twilight to the latest person who was willing to listen: Renne, the sister of my girlfriend Roxanne. Finally, Roxanne had heard enough and called me out on it. She asked how I could possibly talk about this book series, let alone hate it, if I had never even made the effort to read any of it.
I had to admit, she had a good point. I'd been tempted to give Twilight a try before, but always shied away; mainly because almost anybody I knew that had read it warned me not to bother; it was little more than Fan Fiction, and third-rate Fan Fiction at that. But I finally felt that I could no longer express an opinion on something I had not experienced myself. So I borrowed a copy from a friend. (He couldn't even finish it himself.)
Well, I have now read the full 498 pages of this opus, and I can speak with definite authority. This book is, for want of a better term...
Crap.
There are a number of reasons that I can now hate Twilight in peace. Let's journey into it, shall we?
1. This book is sappier than a Vermont Maple Syrup Festival. It should have been written on pancakes, not pages. I rolled my eyes so much at the flowery teen-diary prose, it nearly gave me a migraine. I almost wish it did; that would have distracted me from the painful writing.
2. The main character, Bella, is a vapid, luke-warm, nearly brain-dead martyr. She has absolutely no faith in herself, and believes with every fiber of her being that she is plain, boring and worthless. And with how much she jabbers on about that, it's hard to disagree.
Bella eagerly volunteers herself into situations that she knows for a fact will make her miserable, since being unhappy seems to be the only thing that makes her happy. Moving to a town she hates was her idea, hanging out with people she doesn't even like was her idea, and refusing to believe that anyone could see any good in her was her idea. She even mentions that once, she ate dirt on a dare. Good Lord, woman! Have some self-respect!
This girl intentionally makes herself miserable so that she has an excuse to mope around with a storm cloud over her head that matches the clouds that seemingly cover Forks, Washington, 364 days a year. (I live in Seattle, people. It's not that gray.) She also seems to be incredulous that anyone, let alone 3 or 4 different guys, could be romantically interested in her. It's the Woody Allen theory. "I don't like myself, so if you like me, there must be something wrong with you." (For the record, I've never much liked Woody Allen either.)
3. Bella goes on and on and on and ON about how pretty Edward is (That's the vampire, in case any of you have been living under a rock for the last decade.) She compares him to a marble statue, an angel, a Pagan god, and will not stop GUSHING over how pretty he is. We GET it. He's PRETTY. MOVE THE HELL ON.
4. Nothing HAPPENS for the first half of the book. On the rare occasion that something more that teen angst actually occurs, it seems completely out of place and tacked-on, just to show Edward off as a super-pretty super-hero. He saves her from a car accident that comes out of nowhere and goes away just as fast. He saves her from being attacked in a situation that nobody who lived in a community of more than 500 people would ever get themselves into.
5. This book is teaching an entire generation of impressionable young girls that this is what a healthy relationship is supposed to look like: "Ohh, the really really really pretty boy who treats me like crap isn't here today! Waahh!" (If you think I'm exaggerating, read Chapter 1, and then the third paragraph of Chapter 2.)
Edward, or as he's known by many of my friends, "Sullen Cullen," is getting Bella involved in a textbook example of an abusive relationship. He stares at her constantly, alternating between desire and revulsion. He follows her. He alternately brings her in close and then pushes her away, just to keep her interested. At one point, he disconnects her car battery so that she can't leave home. He shows off how strong he is to her and actually tells her that he could kill her with a simple move of his hand. He intentionally drives at insane speeds with her in the car, despite knowing that it scares her to no end. And the coup de grace:
He. Watches. Her. SLEEP.
This is before they have even started their relationship! Sullen Cullen actually tells this girl that he spends all night, every night, perched outside her bedroom window, watching her sleep! This just sprinted out of Creepy, pole-vaulted over Icky, and landed smack dab in the middle of Unacceptable. The reason he gives for this? There's nothing else in town to do.
6. And finally, this is probably the most shallow reason to hate Twilight, but it's also the reason that rings the most true for why this book series is crap. When these "Vampires" are exposed to sunlight, do they die? No. Do they burst into flames? No. Are they physically weakened in any way? Nope. Then what happens?
They GLOW and SPARKLE.
Call me a purist if you must, but there are certain rules when it comes to the lore of Vampires. Some rules can be bent, some can be broken.
Vampirism is a disease, not a curse? (Example: I Am Legend by Richard Matheson) Fine.
Holy symbols do not repel Vampires? (Example: Interview With the Vampire by Anne Rice) Sure.
But there is one rule that is gospel, and is universal for nearly all bloodsucking creatures of the night:
Vampire + sunlight = bursting into flame, reduction to ash, and death. The only exception is Dracula himself, and he is still physically weakened by sunlight.
Besides being true to the Vampire mythos, the idea of becoming shiny in daylight flies entirely in the face of the natural laws of evolution. Not only does this "glitter factor" completely destroy any ability to camouflage oneself in one's surroundings, it immediately identifies one as a predator! You don't hear cheetahs roaring into the plains at full volume; that would scare away prey!
The best way I've found to express it is the following: Sparkling and glowing in sunlight isn't a sign that you're a Vampire; it's a sign that you're David Bowie.
Quite simply, this is a book that should serve only as a cautionary tale for what happens when you try to pass off a truly terrible and entirely forgettable romance novel as an icon of pop culture. The fact that Stephenie Meyer has become rich and famous by cranking out 5 volumes of this dreck is absolutely beyond belief. And now that I have jumped on this nearly 500-page grenade of mediocrity for you, dear readers, I feel the need to cleanse my palate. Maybe some John Steinbeck will wash this unpleasant taste out of my mind.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Hell on Wheels
Sorry it's been so long, faithful readers (I'm not sure if the plural is even necessary.) Work has been insane, thanks to the new iPhone; my personal life has been deliriously happy and busy, thanks to my girlfriend; and I simply need to take the time to let my mind go to the weird places that kept me single for so long. That said, it's time for a new post!
I got a chance to reconnect with a friend I haven't seen for a couple of years. My buddy Jeff, who I first met discussing literature in a B. Dalton, is back in my neck of the woods, and has taken to skating at the Lynnwood Bowl & Skate, a mere 4 blocks from my apartment.
He always invites all of his friends to join him, so I figured "why not?"
"Why not" is rarely a wise thing to think. Sadly, we don't learn why not until after we receive a harsh lesson.
I got to the Bowl & Skate, met up with Jeff and met his friends. We paid our admission, walked in and I immediately realized that the average age of about 95% of the skaters was...and this is a conservative estimate...13.
You ever get that feeling that you've suddenly become the "creepy old guy?"
Right here. How ya doin'?
My next unsettling moment comes when I exchange my shoes for the rental skates. I wear a size 15 shoe. They only carry up to 14. Fortunately, they fit, but I get the sensation that my toenails are about to slice through this 40-year-old shoe leather like a machete through a coed in a slasher movie.
Jeff and all of his friends have professional-style Roller Derby skates with interchangeable wheels and custom trucks. I have what looks like a pair of work boots with Tonka trucks glued to the soles and numbers etched onto the heels.
Next comes the first big challenge: standing up. But...I don't fall. I stand without a problem, and say "I'm still up; that's a good sign."
I should have known better.
The next big challenge is, of course, moving. That is to say, moving in a direction other than straight down. It's this moment that I realize: the last time I actually laced up a pair of roller skates, half these kids hadn't even been born yet. My most recent experience at a roller rink was after the last day of my Senior year of High School, in 1998. And I wasn't a very strong skater even then. But...I don't fall.
As I'm bobbling towards the benches and the actual skating floor, a girl who can't be older than 12 looks at me and says: "I like your beard."
Huh?
What exactly am I supposed to say to that? "Thanks, I grew it myself?" Of course, I'm 1 of maybe a dozen people in the building who's even capable of producing enough facial hair to make a beard, so I suppose this must be a compliment. I tell her "thank you" and keep moving.
A few fumbles and false starts later (I use football terms to maintain some semblance of masculinity during this awkward event,) I have bumbled my way over to the actual rink, off the carpet, and onto the hardwood. Of course, I immediately start to lose my balance and flail about like a spastic circus clown. But...I don't fall.
I am able to slowly but surely figure out how to use my right big toe as a means of propelling myself, make it to the wall and scoot along the floor at a moderately respectable speed. I try not to notice the crowds of preteens moving faster and more gracefully than I could do even if I'd lived on roller skates since high school. But...I don't fall.
Over the course of the next hour, I make several slow but steady laps around the wall of the skating rink, stopping to rest on the benches for a few minutes after each lap.
Then...the DJ announces that for the next song, everyone is to skate clockwise around the rink, instead of counterclockwise. I decide to give it a try, and head out for another lap.
I make it to the first wall and start working my way along it.
I fall. Hard.
My foot stumbles against the wood, my skates stop moving and my body doesn't know to stop with them. Thanks loads, Newton.
My left elbow slams into the concrete wall on the way down, I land on my right knee and wrist. My first thought is: "And...I'm...hurt. Ow, SHIT."
And here's where I learn the biggest difference between being a kid who gets hurt, and being an adult who gets hurt. As a kid, I can get up. As an adult, I can get up, but I don't want to. But I manage to drag myself to my feet, say "screw it," and limp off the floor to a chair. (Do you have any idea how hard it is to limp on skates?)
Fortunately, I'm not hurt bad, just a little banged around. I've got a sore right wrist, a tender knee, a bruised left elbow and a severely battered ego.
But the night doesn't end there. After my pain subsides a little, I say to myself, "I'll be damned if I'm leaving tonight because I fell and got hurt. I'm getting out there, doing at least one more full lap, and then I can limp away with my head held high." (But not too high; these skates make me 6'7" and the doorways could take my head off.)
So I drag myself out to the floor, skate around (very carefully,) make it a full lap without a problem, and tell Jeff that I've got to go, I'm picking Roxanne up from work in a bit. Fortunately, this is true. Why bother coming up with a lie when the truth makes a perfectly good excuse?
So I may not be a very good skater, even a mediocre one. But you know what? I think I'm going to go back and do it again some time. I only live 4 blocks away, it's great exercise, it doesn't cost much, and Jeff and his friends are a hoot! Next chance I get, I'm going to head down to the Lynnwood Bowl and Skate, and strap on a pair.
And I'll put some skates on, too.
I got a chance to reconnect with a friend I haven't seen for a couple of years. My buddy Jeff, who I first met discussing literature in a B. Dalton, is back in my neck of the woods, and has taken to skating at the Lynnwood Bowl & Skate, a mere 4 blocks from my apartment.
He always invites all of his friends to join him, so I figured "why not?"
"Why not" is rarely a wise thing to think. Sadly, we don't learn why not until after we receive a harsh lesson.
I got to the Bowl & Skate, met up with Jeff and met his friends. We paid our admission, walked in and I immediately realized that the average age of about 95% of the skaters was...and this is a conservative estimate...13.
You ever get that feeling that you've suddenly become the "creepy old guy?"
Right here. How ya doin'?
My next unsettling moment comes when I exchange my shoes for the rental skates. I wear a size 15 shoe. They only carry up to 14. Fortunately, they fit, but I get the sensation that my toenails are about to slice through this 40-year-old shoe leather like a machete through a coed in a slasher movie.
Jeff and all of his friends have professional-style Roller Derby skates with interchangeable wheels and custom trucks. I have what looks like a pair of work boots with Tonka trucks glued to the soles and numbers etched onto the heels.
Next comes the first big challenge: standing up. But...I don't fall. I stand without a problem, and say "I'm still up; that's a good sign."
I should have known better.
The next big challenge is, of course, moving. That is to say, moving in a direction other than straight down. It's this moment that I realize: the last time I actually laced up a pair of roller skates, half these kids hadn't even been born yet. My most recent experience at a roller rink was after the last day of my Senior year of High School, in 1998. And I wasn't a very strong skater even then. But...I don't fall.
As I'm bobbling towards the benches and the actual skating floor, a girl who can't be older than 12 looks at me and says: "I like your beard."
Huh?
What exactly am I supposed to say to that? "Thanks, I grew it myself?" Of course, I'm 1 of maybe a dozen people in the building who's even capable of producing enough facial hair to make a beard, so I suppose this must be a compliment. I tell her "thank you" and keep moving.
A few fumbles and false starts later (I use football terms to maintain some semblance of masculinity during this awkward event,) I have bumbled my way over to the actual rink, off the carpet, and onto the hardwood. Of course, I immediately start to lose my balance and flail about like a spastic circus clown. But...I don't fall.
I am able to slowly but surely figure out how to use my right big toe as a means of propelling myself, make it to the wall and scoot along the floor at a moderately respectable speed. I try not to notice the crowds of preteens moving faster and more gracefully than I could do even if I'd lived on roller skates since high school. But...I don't fall.
Over the course of the next hour, I make several slow but steady laps around the wall of the skating rink, stopping to rest on the benches for a few minutes after each lap.
Then...the DJ announces that for the next song, everyone is to skate clockwise around the rink, instead of counterclockwise. I decide to give it a try, and head out for another lap.
I make it to the first wall and start working my way along it.
I fall. Hard.
My foot stumbles against the wood, my skates stop moving and my body doesn't know to stop with them. Thanks loads, Newton.
My left elbow slams into the concrete wall on the way down, I land on my right knee and wrist. My first thought is: "And...I'm...hurt. Ow, SHIT."
And here's where I learn the biggest difference between being a kid who gets hurt, and being an adult who gets hurt. As a kid, I can get up. As an adult, I can get up, but I don't want to. But I manage to drag myself to my feet, say "screw it," and limp off the floor to a chair. (Do you have any idea how hard it is to limp on skates?)
Fortunately, I'm not hurt bad, just a little banged around. I've got a sore right wrist, a tender knee, a bruised left elbow and a severely battered ego.
But the night doesn't end there. After my pain subsides a little, I say to myself, "I'll be damned if I'm leaving tonight because I fell and got hurt. I'm getting out there, doing at least one more full lap, and then I can limp away with my head held high." (But not too high; these skates make me 6'7" and the doorways could take my head off.)
So I drag myself out to the floor, skate around (very carefully,) make it a full lap without a problem, and tell Jeff that I've got to go, I'm picking Roxanne up from work in a bit. Fortunately, this is true. Why bother coming up with a lie when the truth makes a perfectly good excuse?
So I may not be a very good skater, even a mediocre one. But you know what? I think I'm going to go back and do it again some time. I only live 4 blocks away, it's great exercise, it doesn't cost much, and Jeff and his friends are a hoot! Next chance I get, I'm going to head down to the Lynnwood Bowl and Skate, and strap on a pair.
And I'll put some skates on, too.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Sir, I insist that we meet on the Field of Wackiness!
Have you ever had a "ridiculous fight" with someone? I'm referring to an argument where both parties are willing to admit that the topic of contention is stupid and barely worth fighting about, but neither side is willing to back off.
Well, friends: you can rest easy now, because I have come up with the perfect method to settle these arguments. It's fair, and it's funny. When neither participant is willing to stop fighting over a silly topic, the only way to settle it is to fight in a silly manner.
Yes, that's right; I'm talking about...
Clown Duel.
The origins of Clown Duel are shrouded in mystery, with the haunting strains of Calliope music in the background. When both sides of an argument are willing to state "This fight is stupid," and still choose to fight, one party can simply challenge the other. It can either be verbal ("You realize there's only one way to settle this...Clown Duel.") or it can be physical (a simple squeeze of the opponent's nose and a "Honk honk! Clown Duel!" will suffice.)
Once the challenge has been extended, the offering party (hereafter referred to as Boffo) defers to the challenged party (Bozo.) Bozo can now choose one of the three times and methods of the Clown Duel that is to take place:
1. Rubber Chickens at Dawn (first one to knock off the other's red clown nose is the winner.)
2. Shootout at High Noon (10 paces; Boffo selects either banana cream pies, seltzer bottles or squirting flowers.)
3. Over-sized Inflatable Novelty Boxing Gloves at Sunset (Marquess of Queensbury Rules.)
The secondary rules of Clown Duel are quite simple, and add to both the dignity and hilarity of this noble (albeit whimsical) sport:
1. Proper Clown Regalia is absolutely necessary. This includes, but is not limited to: Rainbow wigs, floppy shoes, oversized and/or spinning bow ties, baggy pants (quick-release suspenders and humorous boxer shorts bring an added touch of class,) "war paint" (clown make-up, either "laughing clown" or "crying clown" is acceptable,) and the traditional "Hobo clown" gear of a bindle, fingerless gloves and a busted top hat. Be creative, but remember: the one required piece of the ensemble is the round, red clown nose.
2. Choose a Second Banana. Each participant must select a Second Banana to assist him in preparing for Clown Duel. A Second Banana will help the participant to dress in his Clown Regalia, don his "war paint," and carry the participant's weapons to the Field of Wackiness. If the dueler refuses to show up or is unable to fight, the Second Banana is chosen to fight in his stead (known as Filling One's Floppy Shoes.)
3. Music Makes the Day. Choose appropriately amusing music for when Clown Duel takes place. "Send In The Clowns," "Sabre Dance in G" or "Make 'Em Laugh" from Singin' in the Rain are all good choices. After Clown Duel has been completed, the "Crying Clown" aria from Il Pagliacci would properly encapsulate the mood.
After Clown Duel is completed, the result is considered the final word on the subject of the argument in question. The winner of Clown Duel has won the argument (providing either participant can even remember what they were fighting about,) and there is to be absolutely no further debate on the ridiculous subject.
So there you have it, gentle readers; the nuanced and sophisticated rules for the noble and goofy activity of Clown Duel. The next time you find yourself trapped in a silly fight, remember that it can all be solved with a few whacks of a rubber chicken. You may feel stupid, but that's kind of the point.
Well, friends: you can rest easy now, because I have come up with the perfect method to settle these arguments. It's fair, and it's funny. When neither participant is willing to stop fighting over a silly topic, the only way to settle it is to fight in a silly manner.
Yes, that's right; I'm talking about...
Clown Duel.
The origins of Clown Duel are shrouded in mystery, with the haunting strains of Calliope music in the background. When both sides of an argument are willing to state "This fight is stupid," and still choose to fight, one party can simply challenge the other. It can either be verbal ("You realize there's only one way to settle this...Clown Duel.") or it can be physical (a simple squeeze of the opponent's nose and a "Honk honk! Clown Duel!" will suffice.)
Once the challenge has been extended, the offering party (hereafter referred to as Boffo) defers to the challenged party (Bozo.) Bozo can now choose one of the three times and methods of the Clown Duel that is to take place:
1. Rubber Chickens at Dawn (first one to knock off the other's red clown nose is the winner.)
2. Shootout at High Noon (10 paces; Boffo selects either banana cream pies, seltzer bottles or squirting flowers.)
3. Over-sized Inflatable Novelty Boxing Gloves at Sunset (Marquess of Queensbury Rules.)
The secondary rules of Clown Duel are quite simple, and add to both the dignity and hilarity of this noble (albeit whimsical) sport:
1. Proper Clown Regalia is absolutely necessary. This includes, but is not limited to: Rainbow wigs, floppy shoes, oversized and/or spinning bow ties, baggy pants (quick-release suspenders and humorous boxer shorts bring an added touch of class,) "war paint" (clown make-up, either "laughing clown" or "crying clown" is acceptable,) and the traditional "Hobo clown" gear of a bindle, fingerless gloves and a busted top hat. Be creative, but remember: the one required piece of the ensemble is the round, red clown nose.
2. Choose a Second Banana. Each participant must select a Second Banana to assist him in preparing for Clown Duel. A Second Banana will help the participant to dress in his Clown Regalia, don his "war paint," and carry the participant's weapons to the Field of Wackiness. If the dueler refuses to show up or is unable to fight, the Second Banana is chosen to fight in his stead (known as Filling One's Floppy Shoes.)
3. Music Makes the Day. Choose appropriately amusing music for when Clown Duel takes place. "Send In The Clowns," "Sabre Dance in G" or "Make 'Em Laugh" from Singin' in the Rain are all good choices. After Clown Duel has been completed, the "Crying Clown" aria from Il Pagliacci would properly encapsulate the mood.
After Clown Duel is completed, the result is considered the final word on the subject of the argument in question. The winner of Clown Duel has won the argument (providing either participant can even remember what they were fighting about,) and there is to be absolutely no further debate on the ridiculous subject.
So there you have it, gentle readers; the nuanced and sophisticated rules for the noble and goofy activity of Clown Duel. The next time you find yourself trapped in a silly fight, remember that it can all be solved with a few whacks of a rubber chicken. You may feel stupid, but that's kind of the point.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Usul, we have Nerdsign the likes of which God has not seen...
If you understand the reference in that title, congratulations! You are officially one of us. It's kind of a "You must be this nerdy to read this site" idea. Welcome to the first post of my blog. My name is Avery Vincent, and odds are you're one of my friends that I've coerced into reading the inane, insanely nerdy flotsam that bubbles to the surface of the pop-culture cauldron that is my mind. (Trivia answer: It's a reference to the movie version of Frank Herbert's Dune.)
I plan to update this blog every few days with the latest minutiae that I can't fit into a tweet and is too verbose for a Facebook status update. If you want to follow me on either of those as well, awesome; by all means, do so. Look up "Avery Vincent" on Facebook and/or follow me at twitter.com/averyvincent for smaller updates.
This will hopefully be a repository of the monologues and diatribes that I have cobbled together over my life, as well as the occasional movie/book/album review. I'm a very opinionated person, and I figure this is a good way to get my opinions out there, as opposed to constantly annoying my friends by telling them the same stories ad nauseum, which I have done for far too long as it is.
I am a Geek, and proudly so. I personally differentiate between the terms "Nerd," "Spaz," "Dork" and "Geek." It is possible, and quite common, to be more than one of these at the same time, but there are distinct differences between the groups.
Nerd: Someone of inordinately high intelligence with a particular skill and passion for computers, math and/or science. A Nerd is the kind of person you want as a lab partner or a tutor.
Spaz: Someone with a distinct lack of physical coordination. A Spaz will knock over three things trying to catch the one thing they knocked over first.
Dork: Someone who is completely without any sense of style. If your taste in clothes or music is a constant source of amusement to onlookers, you are a Dork.
Geek: Someone who has what I refer to as "a propensity for casual obsession." A Geek doesn't just kinda like something; he gets insanely into it. If you can recite all the lines from your favorite movie (or any movie, for that matter,) you are a Geek. If you like one song by a band, and then go out and buy 4 albums by that band, learn their entire history and see them in concert 4 times in the next 3 years, you are a Geek.
That, dear readers, is my definition of the subtle (yet distinct) differences between Nerd, Spaz, Dork and Geek. And for now, this would seem to be a good place to stop. Expect more to come soon. Until then, as the late, great George Carlin said: "Farewell, until we meet again. May the forces of evil become confused on the way to your house."
I plan to update this blog every few days with the latest minutiae that I can't fit into a tweet and is too verbose for a Facebook status update. If you want to follow me on either of those as well, awesome; by all means, do so. Look up "Avery Vincent" on Facebook and/or follow me at twitter.com/averyvincent for smaller updates.
This will hopefully be a repository of the monologues and diatribes that I have cobbled together over my life, as well as the occasional movie/book/album review. I'm a very opinionated person, and I figure this is a good way to get my opinions out there, as opposed to constantly annoying my friends by telling them the same stories ad nauseum, which I have done for far too long as it is.
I am a Geek, and proudly so. I personally differentiate between the terms "Nerd," "Spaz," "Dork" and "Geek." It is possible, and quite common, to be more than one of these at the same time, but there are distinct differences between the groups.
Nerd: Someone of inordinately high intelligence with a particular skill and passion for computers, math and/or science. A Nerd is the kind of person you want as a lab partner or a tutor.
Spaz: Someone with a distinct lack of physical coordination. A Spaz will knock over three things trying to catch the one thing they knocked over first.
Dork: Someone who is completely without any sense of style. If your taste in clothes or music is a constant source of amusement to onlookers, you are a Dork.
Geek: Someone who has what I refer to as "a propensity for casual obsession." A Geek doesn't just kinda like something; he gets insanely into it. If you can recite all the lines from your favorite movie (or any movie, for that matter,) you are a Geek. If you like one song by a band, and then go out and buy 4 albums by that band, learn their entire history and see them in concert 4 times in the next 3 years, you are a Geek.
That, dear readers, is my definition of the subtle (yet distinct) differences between Nerd, Spaz, Dork and Geek. And for now, this would seem to be a good place to stop. Expect more to come soon. Until then, as the late, great George Carlin said: "Farewell, until we meet again. May the forces of evil become confused on the way to your house."
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