The little things...

There's something about Sunday. I wake up feeling like doing absolutely nothing but eating pancakes and watching movies, mostly to calm the anxiety of starting another new week the next day. So I woke up today, put on a pair of sweat pants and an old basketball jersey.

I made my cozy little comfort breakfast and proceeded to watch 'The Number 23.'




The movie is pretty nonsensical, far-fetched, and almost unwatchable after the first 15 minutes. Basically, the main character becomes obsessed with the number 23, and goes crazy turning his entire life and the world into a big math problem where everything equals 23. EVERYTHING is 23.

I've probably stretched this little story on for too long, but the point is that, being that I was pretty bored, I went to the bathroom in the middle of the movie without fear of missing anything remotely important or entertaining.




So I'm standing at the bathroom mirror washing my hands, and of course I happen to look at my reflection. Who doesn't? I'm still wearing my college basketball jersey that I had put on earlier in the morning.

What number is on the jersey?

23.

Spoooooooky, right?

Nope, instead of being creeped out I laughed hysterically to myself for 15 minutes, which is actually just about as much time as anyone should spend watching this ridiculously lame movie. But I thought the coincidence was funny.

Also, for those that don't know, Rhona Mitra (a badass better known as the original Lara Croft, Tomb raider) is one of my favorite actresses, and really, the only reason I continued watching Jim Carrey narrate his life in the slowest, most painfully monotone voice possible, was because I heard that she was in the movie. But beware, America, she is only onscreen for 5 minutes. Literally 5 minutes, and you have to watch 75 minutes of garbage just to get to it.





Please don't waste your time.

I am a randomized playlist...

I keep seeing this commercial for Lethal Weapon 4. I've had absolutely zero interest in actually watching the movie, especially after seeing Mel Gibson and Danny Glover scream and crash their police car into a plate glass window for the seventeenth time in a four hour span. However, there's a clever line that keeps playing in my head. Some faceless female character asks Mel Gibson if he goes out looking for trouble, to which he replies:

"No. Trouble pretty much always knows where I am."




Mel, I have the same problem!

Sometimes you just have to throw up your hands in defeat and let trouble handcuff you then beat you silly.

Speaking of trouble, I was in a terrible mood the other night, and actually feared that my wildly hormonal mood swings were a symptom of being inexplicably pregnant. After reminding myself that pregnancy usually involves sex with a man and/or a turkey baster, I decided I was probably not with-child, but in desperate need of chocolate and a cocktail.

At any rate, my utter irritation usually leads to writing. This was the result, later to be dubbed The Human Experiment:

"Briefcase in hand, he strolled to the car dreaming of semi trucks careening out of control on the freeway. He had twisted revelations that we are no different from the fauna and the savage beasts. He sits toiling away in a cubicle maze wearing sky blue neckties with pinstripes and polished leather shoes, worrying about reports and deadlines, and 401Ks for the retirement beach homes in Boca Raton one day when he's too old to surf and terrified of UV rays. Timelessly, the waves crash against the sand and consume a little bit of the shore, take a fraction of his sanity in their wake. Typing, editing, dying inside. Entangled in the great American dream, the great human nightmare. The complete and utter lie we tell ourselves over soy lattes and buttery croissants.

He was simply a slave to safety and convention. Loving his gadgets and his wi-fi. Drinking bottled water and buying organic food, free-range chicken and whole grains. It seems so asinine once you spell it out, discover the less we depend on each other and the more we rely on trivialities.

People judge you based on your diploma, or your resume, or the fact that you’re a cashier at Starbucks instead of a young executive climbing the corporate ladder like a trained chimpanzee. When did we become so shallow, our egos growing with the promise of power, of money? Money and power somehow became synonymous in this materialistic world of Malibu Barbies and plastic suitors. We are all so commercialized and factory-made, rigid from assembly-line production and quick fixes. Here we are dry-cleaning shirts and pressing pants, wearing make-up and high heels to compensate for a complete lack of sincerity."



In other news, today my mother decided it would be cute to dress my dog in a string of pearls. Accordingly, the dog has been jingling around the house like one of The Golden Girls off her meds. A dog should NEVER be wearing pearls, it's just wrong.

Insomnia, Bad Movies, and Free Lobster...

At 3 o'clock in the morning, a person's base requirements for movies spiral down the drain. You stop being a critic because you are entirely too tired to invest enough energy to change the channel. You watch comedies with siamese twins, period pieces with silly costumes, or a good cop-bad cop, old cop-new cop (red cop-green cop black cop-jew cop) criminal heist gone wrong. If you're truly unlucky and/or temporarily paralyzed, you'll end up with some fairytale-esque teen flick where the ugly duckling becomes the prom queen, the studly quarterback realizes that popularity isn't everything, and we all vomit a little bit in our mouths.

Then 4 o'clock sidles quietly by, and you're plastered to the pillow; glassy-eyed, slack-jawed, and willing to watch anything with pretty colors. As long as it doesn't require too much serious brain activity. Accordingly, this is the dreadful hour that most cable channels air those movies that people went to see in the theater, and upon returning home, told you one of two things, depending on how much they liked you.

"It was pretty good, you should see it," said the person that despises you, secretly wishing you unexpected bankruptcy from paying to see too many horrible movies.

A true friend, however, told you the blatant truth. "Honestly, I'd rather blind myself, cut off my tongue, and go to a strip club on free lobster night, than see that movie again."

While I wouldn't rather maim myself than watch "I Think I Love My Wife" a second time, I'd highly consider a minor flesh wound, or a bad case of diarrhea. There are really only a few reasons (and by this I mean things that are completely absurd) to sit still long enough to make it through this waste of two hours:

*Chris Rock pretending to be an intellectual by wearing glasses, carrying a briefcase, and saying things like "hold my calls."

*The scantily clad and gorgeous Kerry Washington (Nikki Tru...nice name writers, very realistic) settling on a plethora of unacceptable men, i.e. an ex-con, some guy named 'Compassion,' a fat man, and Chris Rock.

*A 2-minute cameo by America's Next Top Model Eva Pigford. (In case you were worried that she had died. Where the hell has she been, anyway?)

*A womanizing and vulgar Steve Buscemi talking about cheating on his wife and having sex with interns (all while donning a reasonably outdated bluetooth headset).

*A Viagra joke that went on, literally and figuratively, for way too long.

All of these points considered, I laughed at Chris Rock getting high and dancing to 'Laffy Taffy.' That was the one and only time I laughed. And while it didn't completely deflect from the ridiculous plot, it did make up for the fact that the term 'nigga ears' was used twice.

By far the climax of this train wreck, was when Richard Cooper (Chris Rock) was reprimanded by his boss for missing an important meeting to do Nikki (Washington) a favor. The boss (Edward Herrmann) tells Cooper that he is on probation and then pauses, clears his throat, creates that air of grandfatherly expertise, and says:

"You know, you can lose a lot of money chasing women. But you will NEVER lose women, chasing money."

At first I thought: how clever, great insight grandpa. And then I slapped myself a few times, blinked, and was offended. Who (in the name of terrible movies everywhere!) said that this was an okay comment?

Damn you, Chris Rock, you can't even make a romantic comedy without being insulting! If it wasn't the notion of two beautiful women fighting over a scrawny nerd in a suit, the glorification of extramarital affairs, promiscuous interns, or comparing life to 'not getting hit by a bus,' then it had to be not so subtly implying that all women are gold diggers. For the love of late-night television, at this point, he is just making bad porn and infomercials look intriguing.

I should start taking sleeping pills.

I am Jack's Words of Wisdom...

**(If you don't know who Jack is, you really need to watch Fight Club)**

Today: Feeling angst, aggression, anxiety for no apparent reason. Maybe it's just Scorpiosity (I'm also in the mood for making up words):

"As the sign associated with sex, death and the Underworld, Scorpio is here to delve beneath the surface of life, discover what is hidden and bring to light what the other signs are too afraid to acknowledge. The ultimate purpose of all that intensity is healing and transformation at the deepest level."

This is what I watch when I feel the need to be inspired...

And/or I am extremely irritated with the world at large...

The following are collective words of wisdom from the greatest modern existentialist of all time (or at least my personal favorite), Chuck Palahniuk/Tyler Durden.

"WARNING: If you are reading this then this warning is for you. Every word you read of this useless fine print is another second off your life. Don't you have other things to do? Is your life so empty that you honestly can't think of a better way to spend these moments? Or are you so impressed with authority that you give respect and credence to all that claim it? Do you read everything you're supposed to read? Do you think every thing you're supposed to think? Buy what you're told to want? Get out of your apartment. Meet a member of the opposite sex. Stop the excessive shopping and masturbation. Quit your job. Start a fight. Prove you're alive. If you don't claim your humanity you will become a statistic. You have been warned. This is your life and it's ending one minute at a time. Man, I see all this potential, and I see squandering. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need. We're the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War's a spiritual war. Our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. We are consumers. We're the bi-products of a lifestyle obsession. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off. You're not your job. You're not how much money you have in the bank. You're not the car you drive. You're not the contents of your wallet. You're not your fucking khakis. You're the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world. Fuck off with your sofa units and lime green stripe patterns. Reject the basic assumptions of civilization, especially the importance of material possessions.I say never be complete. I say stop being perfect. I say let's evolve, let the chips fall where they may. First you have to give up. First you have to know; not fear, know, that someday you're gonna die. No fear. No distractions. The ability to let that which does not matter truly slide. Without pain, without sacrifice, we would have nothing. It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything. Only after disaster can we be resurrected."

"My eyes are open."

"Sticking feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken."

"You wanna make an omelette, you gotta break some eggs."

"The liberator who destroyed my property has realigned my perception."

"Take some responsibility!"

**(Breathe in...Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh!!!!! Whew, much better.)**

Girls, Women, People...Interrupted.

After watching the movie Girl, Interrupted for the Nth time, a few questions came to mind. Well, the first is more of a statement, which is how much I miss Angelina Jolie before she had 17 babies and stopped being a badass, i.e. became a blonde news reporter in Life or Something Like It. I think I actually cried tears, real tears, after watching that senseless, cliche, and awfully scripted waste of talent. She had so many breakthrough roles, took chances on being an outsider, and being different. The passion she put into those roles really showed on screen, managing to take even mediocre movies and make them compelling.

That being said, I truly love Girl, Interrupted; especially the way in which it tests boundaries, allows for characters to broken and unapologetic. But these people are incredibly likeable, seductive despite their demons, and similar to the novel (a true story) that it was based on, there aren't happy endings; and everyone's loose ends weren't always tied. It leaves you questioning humanity and its intricacies, its eccentricities; the way it lives, breathes, lashes out like a wild animal struggling to survive.

So many doctors still disagree and argue about the concept of mental illness. They found the movie controversial, stereotypical. But you can't take everything at face value, I took this movie for all of its themes, bare portrayals and ideas.

Not to mention Angelina Jolie acted her ass off!

I guess maybe the reason that I enjoyed this movie so intensely is because I've had personal experiences with many people with mental disorders, addictions, and social problems. Sometimes you struggle with the notions of responsibility, blame, misunderstanding, and that's what makes us human. It makes all of the other problems in the world seem so black and white, seem too immense or too small. It is tragic, but it is also reality. People can be so intriguing and yet so damaging.

Due to my melancholy mood, I decided to revisit the movie, fall in love with Angelina all over again, and pay homage to her fantastic performance with a few of my favorite lines:


Susanna: [narrating] Have you ever confused a dream with life? Or stolen something when you had the cash? Have you ever been blue? Or thought your train moving while sitting still? Maybe I was just crazy. Maybe it was the 60's. Or maybe I was just a girl... interrupted.

Lisa: You think your free? I'm free! You don't know what freedom is! I'm free. I can breathe. And you... will choke on your average fuckin' mediocre life!


Susanna: What the fuck are you doing Lisa?
Lisa: Playing the villain, baby, just like you want. I try to give you everything you want.
Susanna: No you don't.
Lisa: You wanted your file, I found you your file. You wanted out, I got you out. You needed money, I found you some. I'm fucking consistent! I told you the truth! I didn't write it down in a fucking book! I told you to your face. And I told Daisy to her face - what everybody knew and wouldn't say, and she killed herself. And I played the fucking villain, just like you wanted.
Susanna: Why would I want that?
Lisa: Because it makes you the good guy, sweet pea.



Georgina: Lisa? Is Daisy really getting out? Lisa: Yeah, she coughed up a big one.
Susanna: But how could - I mean she's... insane.
Lisa: Yeah, well that's what ther-rape-me's all about. That's why fuckin' Freud's picture's on every shrink's wall. He created a fuckin' industry. You lie down, you confess your secrets and you're saved. Ka-ching! The more you confess, the more they think about settin' you free. Susanna: But what if you don't have a secret?
Lisa: Then you're a lifer, like me.


Lisa: You know, there's too many buttons in the world. There's too many buttons and they're just- there's way too many just begging to be pressed. They're just begging to be pressed, you know? They're just - they're just begging to be pressed. And it makes me wonder, it really makes me fucking wonder, why doesn't anyone ever press mine? Why am I so neglected? Why doesn't anyone reach in and rip out the truth and tell me that I'm a fucking whore, or that my parents wish I were dead!
Susanna: Because you're dead already, Lisa!





Valerie: Did you enjoy the fresh air Lisa?
Lisa: Yeah I did Val. Thanks.
Valerie: Good, 'cause it's the last time you're leaving the ward.
Lisa: Is that a dare or a double dare?


Susanna: [reading from a book] "Borderline Personality Disorder. An instability of self-image, relationships and mood... uncertain about goals, impulsive in activities that are self-damaging, such as casual sex."
Lisa: I like that.
Susanna: "Social contrariness and a generally pessimistic attitude are often observed." [pauses] Susanna: Well that's me.
Lisa: That's everybody.


Lisa: We are very rare and we are mostly men.
Janet: Lisa thinks she's hot shit cause she's a sociopath.
Cynthia: I'm a sociopath.
Lisa: No, you're a dyke.


Lisa: Take one fuckin' step and I'll jam this in my aorta. [aiming a pen at her neck]
Valerie: Lisa, your aorta is in your chest.
Lisa: Good to know.


Ah, the simple beauty of it all. Well, on a side note I looked up a 'diag-nonsense' of Borderline Personality Disorder. According to the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH), it is this:

"Borderline personality disorder (BPD) is a serious mental illness characterized by pervasive instability in moods, interpersonal relationships, self-image, and behavior. This instability often disrupts family and work life, long-term planning, and the individual's sense of self-identity. Originally thought to be at the "borderline" of psychosis, people with BPD suffer from a disorder of emotion regulation. While a person with depression or bipolar disorder typically endures the same mood for weeks, a person with BPD may experience intense bouts of anger, depression, and anxiety that may last only hours, or at most a day. These may be associated with episodes of impulsive aggression, self-injury, and drug or alcohol abuse. Distortions in cognition and sense of self can lead to frequent changes in long-term goals, career plans, jobs, friendships, gender identity, and values. Sometimes people with BPD view themselves as fundamentally bad, or unworthy. They may feel unfairly misunderstood or mistreated, bored, empty, and have little idea who they are. Such symptoms are most acute when people with BPD feel isolated and lacking in social support, and may result in frantic efforts to avoid being alone."

I don't know about you, but this sounds just like me on my period!


I just think all of these doctors need to stop medicating people and start listening. A good dose of Klonopin will put you to sleep, but when you wake up, things are exactly the same. Being bored, empty, or unsure is not an appropriate reason to pull out a prescription pad. Sometimes we all go a little crazy.








End rant, remove soapbox.




(Angelina, I heart you.)

Saturday Afternoon Movies

Coming to America was on cable yesterday, and it made me wonder...

Why hasn't Eddie Murphy made a good funny movie (no, not Nutty Professor, I don't care what anyone says) since 1988? And where the hell is Arsenio Hall?

He went from Eddie Murphy Raw, to singing, then made Daddy Day Care. I'm sorry but that's like Micheal Jordan winning an NBA championship, going to play baseball, then returning to play basketball, only not very good. You heard it here, Eddie Murphy is the Michael Jordan of comedy.

Back to the Future...or 1985.

I'm not gonna lie, I wasn't a huge fan of the Back to the Future movies, I guess the whole "Family Ties" series didn't sit well enough with me to appreciate watching another 5 or 6 hours of Michael J. Fox. But I've been briefed on them several times, even did the whole behind-the-scenes tour at Universal Studios. I didn't recognize any of the scenery, but I still oohed and ahhhed like a big tourist mo. I rode the 3-D simulator as well, which, if anyone out there has been on this ride since 1987, you know that getting in that thing in 2008 is the equivalent of having someone read you a pop-up storybook. I guess all of this was way 'before my time,' as they say, and by 'they' I mean anyone who was old enough to buy their own ticket when the first movie came out in theaters. Me, I was three, still figuring out that you shouldn't stick legos up your nose or eat paste. But today, I found out that there there was actually a DeLorean Motor Company. They opened in 1975 and actually made DeLorean sports cars! They filed for bankruptcy in 1982 because of lack of demand. I'm thinking to myself: "self, who the *expletive* wouldn't want a DeLorean??!" Personally, I say they were ahead the curve. Now people are paying crazy money to get butterfly doors installed when they could have just had an effing DeLorean. How can one resist this:

Or especially this:

Seriously, bring back the DMC-12. If anyone has one, and will sell it to me, there's some serious money in it for you. I could go as high as five dollars...maaaybe six. Let me know. I like red, but it's negotiable.