Jumper: Or Crappy Movies You Can Tell A Guy Wrote

You know, we ladies get a lot of flack for our so called "Chick Flicks". And I'll agree, a lot of that criticism is fair.

Then again, I do have a vagina, so I do enjoy a number of those movies (e.g. Music and Lyrics). I will not pretend that they are great cinema, but they are occasionally an enjoyable cinematic diversions. (And no, I do not make any guy I date go to see them, just like I'm not going to watch some stupid f*ing football game with you).

Likewise, though guys deny it, there is a similar species of film that exists for the less-fair sex. I'll call them "Man Flicks" for lack of a better term. Sure, guys try to camouflage them as something else, but they are guy relationship films. High Fidelity is an example of the best, and most honest of the form, the rest being thinly veiled action/sci-fi films and whatnot that are really just guy wish fulfillment. This is the only logical explanation for the film Jumper.

How do I figure? Well, first of all the film is 88 minutes in length and is ostensibly about this war between so called "Jumpers" who can teleport and the "Paladins" that have been around hunting them since the 13th century. The Paladins hunt the Jumpers because "only God should be able to be all places" or some such nonsense. Based on this flimsy, though action heavy premis, this movie should be full of unmitigated awesomeness. It should be all Samuel L. Jackson with his Mace Windu mojo going as the head Paladin. It should be the awesomeness of a centuries old war where we have people who teleport and then people with electro-whips who hunt the teleporters down. Yes, it should be unmitigated awesomeness.

What have we got instead? A guy date movie. The first 10 minutes of the film are devoted to Hayden Christansen (I don't even remember his character's name) liking an unattainable girl who's nice to him and then getting the crap beaten out of him by her boyfriend. Cut to the future where Hayden is a bank robbing douchebag who uses his power to hop to London to bang chicks. But you know, his heart is still in Ann Arbor with that girl from high school. (sigh).

This reminds me of something Robert A. Heinlein once wrote: "Men are more sentimental than women. It blurs their thinking.

Anyway, so after a ton of time wasted on that opening scene, Mace er I mean, Samuel L. shows up to bring the fight to douchebag, who was previously unaware that there were other people like him and even less aware that there is a group of people devoted to his extinction. And after a proper whooping by Samuel L. what does Hayden decide to do? Does he lay lo and try to figure out who is after him? Does he does any sort of investigation or attempt to protect himself?

No. He decides that now would be a good time to track down his childhood sweetheart. And then he takes her to Italy - by PLANE - he doesn't teleport or anything. And then we spend about 20 or so minutes of the film wandering around Italy with them, where he pretends to be unable to teleport and that he earns his money in "banking" as opposed to robbing banks. (sigh). And yeah, it's just as boring as it sounds. I love Italy; I hated watching them ruin it. Where is the ass kicking I ask you? I even went to the bathroom during this part of the film. Belatedly, because they are so out in the open, the Paladins show up to catch Hayden, and then his boring lies to his girly girl begin to compound.

Now some of you may now be saying that this story line was interjected to appeal to female viewers. Not so I say. Why? Because then the relationship falls into the archetypal male relationship complaints, namely, "sure she's hot and I dig her, but why does she have to talk so much"? By talking I mean she begins to ask where he gets his money, and wants to know what's going on, and doesn't want him to lie to her, and why are they running, yada yada yada.

Gentlemen, I can assure you, this would not happen.

1) If you have a lot of unexplained money, I don't care where it comes from.
As long as not junkies are going to show up at my/your/our house, and I'm not going to get shot, I don't care where you get your money. In fact, don't tell me - I don't want to become an accessory to the crime (unless of course you marry me, and then in federal court our communications will be privileged and I can't be forced to testify against you). But in general, don't tell me - just keep the diamonds coming.

2) Seriously, you can teleport? I really don't care about anything else. Why didn't you just f*ing tell me sooner? Just teleport me somewhere awesome. Now. Oh come on. Ok, sure, people are after you, but you can TELEPORT. I can just see myself at brunch with the girls: "my boyfriend's a brain surgeon blah blah blah". Oh yeah, mine can teleport.

Honestly, we are not going to have your normal relationship problems.

Me, My Greek Chorus, and I: More Things That Thag and I Think Are Funny (and no one else does)

Longtime readers may remember my alter ego Thag.

Thag is my id, that internal voice that says, "no, don't calmly reboot your computer, hit it while cursing loudly until it works". Thag is also entirely responsible for my puerile sense of humor, and therefore, ultimately responsible for this post.



Also, please meet my super-ego, who I like to call Happy Robot Face.




______________________________________________
Alec Baldwin,
CANC-er Doctor
Before he was on 30 Rock, Alec Baldwin (the only Baldwin that counts) was one of the greatest SNL hosts of all time. My favorite skit from the late 90's featured Alec describing to an entertainment report how he prepared for his role as a doctor on a popular (fictional) soap. Alec waxed on and on about the fact that he studied with real doctors to prepare for his role. When they cut to a scene from the soap, Alec pronounced every medical term incorrectly. For example "Sir, I hate to tell you this, but you have a tumor. That's right, it's CANC-er. It could be be-NIG, it could be mall-egg-NANT.




Be-NIG or mall-egg-Nant. That's HIGH-larious.








You are both idiots.




Tobias Funke,
ah-NAL-ra-PIST
Ah Arrested Development. It makes me sad to no end that there were only three seasons of what I believe to be the funniest show ever. Especially when one considers that oh, Home Improvement was on for 8 seasons and Everybody Loves Raymond was on for 9. Middle America just doesn't appreciate great comedy, and perhaps such people do not deserve better. I digress.

So one of the best moments on Arrested Development (and there are many) occurred when Tobias Funke, the closeted psychiatrist, has new business cards made. Thinking he is being clever with his job title, Tobias decides to combine "Analyst" and "Therapist" to form "Analrapist" (which is of course Anal Rapist). For some reason, I find mispronouncing words hilarious. The zinger is when Tobias's daughter, Maeby, throws in "Yeah, Dad nearly went to jail for that one."



ah-NAL-rapist. So funny...can't...stop...laughing....







It's a good thing breathing is an autonomic function, otherwise you two would be in a world of hurt. I know you won't get that joke, but what I'm saying is you two are so stupid you can barely breathe.



ShamWow!
Who doesn't need 8 assorted size imitation chamois?! I can't think of anyone. In fact, since I wish never to buy paper towels again, I think 8 ShamWows are perfectly in order. And at only $20, what a bargain! If you don't believe me, go to the website for the man wearing a headset to tell you more.




ShamWow - the name says it all.








Woe that my existence is shackled to the likes of you two.

Adventures in Boredom: A Recent Conversation Between Me And Tiny

Tiny is of course my steadfast and loyal roommate, and like the Borg, she is one of two (EZ being two).

Me: I think we need a waffle iron.

Tiny: Why?

Me: To make waffles for brunch and stuff.

Tiny: Are we going to be making brunch?

Me: Totally.

Tiny: I'm not sure we have room for a waffle iron.

Me: Of course we do. We'll just stick it in that cabinet where we put the other appliances.

Tiny: That cabinet is pretty full. Can you make waffles without the iron?

Me: No. Those are called pancakes.

13 Year Old Me Sends A Letter to My Valentine

Dear Mr. Darcy,

I just thought, it being Valentine's Day* and all, that perhaps I would jot you a quick note and let you know I've had a crush on you since forever. Your haughty demeanor and stubborn pride - which only after a number of trials will I realize is tempered by affection for your sister and friends - makes me all swooney.

It also doesn't hurt that you are rich and have a sweet country estate. And if I may be so bold to add, you look good in breeches - that is not easy feat in this day and age. I don't care if one does play polo, it can look a bit gay, but you manage to pull it off. You also work that cravat thing, because really, under normal circumstances, if I were going out with a guy who wore a fluffy scarf all the time, people might have a few questions (that whole David Bowie androgeny thing is so over, I don't care if he is married to Iman).

Unfortunately, you are an impossible model of manhood. I mean, who asks somebody to marry them after one ball and a few turns around the parlor? If this were the current state of affairs, we would have no need for Rodger Lodge, The Bachelor, Flavor of Love, I Love New York, and perhaps ultimately, Cheaters. Also, you write letters comprised of complete sentences with narry an emoticon to be found. I can't imagine what it's like to convey emotion solely through tone and word choice, rather than a smiley face at the end of a sentence. I'd like to imagine that even if you had text messaging, you would spell words completely and that you would never, ever resort to an 11:30 p.m. booty call text. Or that at least if you did, it would be way classy.

Anyway, just thought you'd like to know that I think you are way hot and if you were real, I would totally ask you to go out with me.


Yours Truly,

Ms. Laaw-yuhr


P.S. I really prefer for you to be played by Colin Firth rather than Matthew MacFayden, although I'm not going to hate on Matthew.



*My Friend has renamed the holiday Singles Awareness Day

My Own PostSecret

If I weren't studying,
I'd be going to the PostSecret event
in Baltimore
on Valentine's Day.

Six Degrees of Separation From Not Even A Little Fame

Fall 2008 Ready-to-Wear
Marc by Marc Jacobs - Backstage

The yellow piece of fabric in the right corner of this photo is my sister.




Photo by Greg Kessler found here.

Rumors of my Demise Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

Apparently, as someone recently said to me, I am to be congratulated for not being dead.

Last Thursday what began as a throat tickle became a SUPERFLU and a sinus infection and pneumonia by Sunday morning.

In the intervening period it was my roommate, EZ's birthday, and I had volunteered to cook a Mardi Gras themed menu on Saturday night. It was a hellagood menu if I do say so myself as we served the following (I have links to all of the recipes used)

1) Hurricanes - made of fresh juice, much of which Tiny squeezed herself, andnot from some shitty mix
2) Fried (sorta) Green Tomatoes with Ranch dressing - I added in some panko sushi flakes to the breadcrumb mixture in the recipe
3) Shrimp and Grits - just use instant grits, seriously. Also I used hot sauce and prosciutto in lieu of tasso.
4) King Cake, ordered from Gambino's in New Orleans
5) Cheesecake stuffed chocolate dipped strawberries - my own sort of hodge podge invention of chocolate covered strawberries + filling comprised of one package of creamcheese, 2 tablespoons of powdered sugar, teaspoon of vanilla, then dip the end in graham cracker crumbs

However, by Saturday I was feeling really icky. Fortunately Tiny assisted by Big N filled in on doing most of the prep work and making the strawberries, so that a few hours before the party I took some cold medicine and pulled myself together enough to get it together. Upon reflection it's pretty clear that I got really sick during the party - not so good since I made food for 25 people - and can't really remember most of the people I talked to that night. I don't remember much, but I know that I left the party early and then during the night my fever must have been really high because I had the chills, and logically took a hot shower or five to warm up and all was well except that I think I took about 14 advil oh and my throat swelled closed. I felt pretty crummy, but everyone went dancing and, you know, I thought I could tough it out.

On Sunday morning my Steven Segal persona gave in, and I text messaged EZ (didn't have the energy to knock on his door) to see if he was going to church because maybe perhaps I needed to go to the ER and I was hoping he could ask some friends which one would be best. Knowing I must be on death's door to have sent such a message, everyone began to appear in my room and Big N took one look at me and declared that I had pneumonia.

EZ was nice enough to take me to the hospital and I was in no position to argue, and fortunately the ER must not have been very busy as I was pretty much able to get right in. The triage nurse was a complete snippy bitch to me and said "well, I think you just have the flu but we have to treat it like you might have pneumonia." He started to rush me to x-ray and shot off down the corridor, but since I couldn't really breathe, I couldn't keep up and he had to double back for me and then he was considerably nicer and seem to realize I wasn't full of shit.

The X-rays revealed that I did in fact have pneumonia and the unusual location of it (top of the lungs) freaked the ER doctor out because that's where TB likes to linger. So because they thought I might have TB I was immediately put in my own isolation room in the ER. From that point on, everyone who came into my room had to put on this duckbilled face mask so that infection didn't spread. I was afraid that if I had TB, everyone at the party would also have TB, making me the Typhoid Mary of the gay party circuit.

Long story long, it's really fortunate that they thought I had TB as that meant I got private room in the ER and eventually in the hospital. Especially since there was a lady in a diaper wandering around the ER that scared me. The not so good part of thinking I had TB was that I had to cough up goo into a specimen container to be taken to the lab and I had to provide three viable samples that would all come back negative. Sadly, my throat was swollen, so this proved difficult.

Three days and many IVs of antibiotics later I was declared TB free and released and aside from a nasty cough I am doing much better. As I was taking a walk yesterday I was having a coughing fit and this guy leans out his window and yells to me "Baby, you need to get you some lemon tea." Can't argue with logic like that.

The moral of this story: if you think you're sick you should maybe not cook for people because you might have some weird infection eventually becoming a social pariah. Yeah, this really isn't a good story or a good lesson, I just thought I would catch everyone up on the reason why I haven't written in a while.

Also, you can make our same sweet recipes for your own party.