Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Worst Movie Ever: Episode 1
No, not Star Wars Episode 1, though that certainly ranks up there somewhere (The fact that Ray Park is Darth Maul off sets the balance there, evens out our favorite Gungan). Seeing as how TV just really isn't my thing, and I need a new form of 'homework' as far as writing goes, I've decided to begin this series of Worst Movies. It was a serious task to try and figure out which one to write about first and also the system by which I plan to gauge the horror of each whether it being the EBCO Factor (Eye's Being Clawed Out Factor) or the BB Complex (Bleeding Brain). I eventually settled on a tamer yet no less appropriate form to measure my results. It is the ALW Ratio (Chances of me choosing to watch an Andrew Lloyd Webber Musical Movie marathon rather than the movie compared to). Though this system may not be as statistically mathematical as others may be (four or five stars, pish, what a cop out) it is no less accurate. That being said on to my first column of worst movie.
It has been said that Jennifer Lopez is a great actress. Unfortunately most those that said it never so much as set foot in an acting class to remind the rest of the students about their school Spirit Week! Such a statement is proven false when you compound her 'skill' with the plotless Monster in Law. Yes, I will concede, I have seen it and it has made a little of me die inside. I will play devil's advocate and admit that there were a few points of hilarity, ones where I nearly gave a chuckle. But let's be honest folks, the main reason why we would watch this is to make out. If there is anyone that chooses to watch this on their own, I pray for you.
The premise of the movie is to introduce Jlo's fiance (Michael Vartan) and his mother (Jane Fonda). While JLo and her husband to be are blissfully happy with each other, once she meets her soon-to-be-mother-in-law, an age old battle over Vartan explodes. On the one hand, he's JLo's, while on the other, Fonda is playing the over-protective mother. And yes, this goes on for at least an hour, maybe two. Lost those brain cells right quick.
In any case, I have dug for a meaningful plotline in this debacle and have yet to encounter one, I tried to understand the choppy screenplay and was almost as confused as when I saw the first Incredible Hulk, and let's be honest, I'm just not a fan of Jane Fonda. Prove me wrong if you will, but here is my standing. Now for the verdict. By analysis, let it be known that this movie reaches a ALW Ratio of 0.65, or 65% chance of me choosing to rather watch Andrew Lloyd Webber. Yeah, it's that bad, but thus are my results, and that is where is stand. Stay tuned for my next installment, and let's explore the jems of the horrific filmaking world.
It has been said that Jennifer Lopez is a great actress. Unfortunately most those that said it never so much as set foot in an acting class to remind the rest of the students about their school Spirit Week! Such a statement is proven false when you compound her 'skill' with the plotless Monster in Law. Yes, I will concede, I have seen it and it has made a little of me die inside. I will play devil's advocate and admit that there were a few points of hilarity, ones where I nearly gave a chuckle. But let's be honest folks, the main reason why we would watch this is to make out. If there is anyone that chooses to watch this on their own, I pray for you.
The premise of the movie is to introduce Jlo's fiance (Michael Vartan) and his mother (Jane Fonda). While JLo and her husband to be are blissfully happy with each other, once she meets her soon-to-be-mother-in-law, an age old battle over Vartan explodes. On the one hand, he's JLo's, while on the other, Fonda is playing the over-protective mother. And yes, this goes on for at least an hour, maybe two. Lost those brain cells right quick.
In any case, I have dug for a meaningful plotline in this debacle and have yet to encounter one, I tried to understand the choppy screenplay and was almost as confused as when I saw the first Incredible Hulk, and let's be honest, I'm just not a fan of Jane Fonda. Prove me wrong if you will, but here is my standing. Now for the verdict. By analysis, let it be known that this movie reaches a ALW Ratio of 0.65, or 65% chance of me choosing to rather watch Andrew Lloyd Webber. Yeah, it's that bad, but thus are my results, and that is where is stand. Stay tuned for my next installment, and let's explore the jems of the horrific filmaking world.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
The Door
This was in connection with another paper that I was asked to write about my door. The emphasis was on descriptive vocabluary, to see how vivid a picture we could paint. I normally don't write like this, because it almost gives one a headache to digest a great deal of detail, but I think this is a fair balance. I hope you enjoy :)
Thresholds of Life and Opportunity
Life is about choices. Choices made on the thresholds of opportunity. And something I do every day is symbolic of that relationship I have with life in general. My life is filled with doors opening and closing, but there is one that is very special to me. My front door is the portal to opportunity and a recorded cassette of memory. It has raised me, among other things, and I have grown to know it very well. Its voice, its face, its past, and I know it so well, I can almost tell you its future. The two of us have grown and developed together, and I wish to share some of what my door means to me.
To illustrate the significance of my door to me, the Doors of Ireland seem to be a sufficient parallel. Many find it odd that the doors in Ireland are so many different colors, though there is somewhat an urban legend about it. The story goes that as the Irishmen, after a hard day’s work, would go to the public houses and drown their worries and stress in a grand ol’ pint. Many would have one too many, either out of a great many stresses or the revelry in association with it, but in any case, these drunken men would find it very difficult to find their own door, if they all looked the same, and the result would be waking up in the wrong woman’s bed. To avoid that, their wives painted their doors different colors, to identify them. Great story, though it's not completely reflective of my door. I may be an Irishman, but I have never drank. Instead , to me the Doors of Ireland identify the homes and families of those that are lost, and in connection, so does my door signify the same thing. It is a beacon, with its deep burnt red face, and multiple nicks from bags and bags of Costco and Sam’s Club groceries, enough to feed an army. The brass handle still gleams in the morning sun, and firm though it may be, its nose has become loose and free, threatening to lose itself, but ever persevering to serve my family for another year.
Characteristic of a door well used is the giant magnet, used by my mother to hang all sorts of wreaths and seasonal decorations to signify the coming and sometimes going of yet another age. The aged wood chips away with each chill and warm of the year, and as it grows and shrinks, it loses a bit of itself, almost as we do when we grow. A chip of our face is lost with age, and a wrinkle is all that remains. The only gripes I have about it are the decorated side windows, employed only to give my door class, and serves no other purpose. The angled glass and frosted decorations make it terribly difficult to perform surveillance work when mom and dad are on their way home. Rarely does it ever catch any sunlight to cast rainbows on the wall, seeing as how our home faces north and south, but the limited amount of light it does permit illuminates the foyer enough to create a natural glow about everything. How wonderful it is to keep one’s reality in check, to find that even such a substantial symbol of our lives isn’t perfect either.
Woven in the door's metal fabric are the memoires of years past, both cold ones of long winters and warm ones of humid summers. Snow, maple leaves, and grass clippings live and breathe within the inner workings of my door, creating a unique taste to the air. It changes with the seasons, but there always seems to be a piece of each season that still remains. In winter, the stark metal gives off a smell of sterile honesty. The combination of melting salt and the crisp, frozen air, gives the door a lifeless and almost unwelcoming odor. In spring, it becomes more inviting. Cold wet grass leaves its impression, and it gives it a clean, earthy brown smell, as if it foreshadows the sowing of seeds and reparation of my yard after a long winter. Summer gives my door almost a harsh, open smell of suffering vegetation, almost like the tree leaves are melting, but not burning. To counteract that, one can also pull from my door the distinct and purely American flavor of charcoal and Sweet Baby Rays barbeque sauce, as the many hundreds in my neighborhood have little porch gatherings, celebrating the warm weather for a short time. Lastly, autumn has my most favorite smell of all. With the air quickly getting colder, trapping the savory and wholesome smells of summer, it adds the homey aroma of wood smoke and burning leaves. It's an ever changing smell, and my door seems to adopt a different personality or style with each new day.
Unique to my door are the sounds that are emitted from it. Contrary to popular belief, my door is not silent, deaf, or lifeless. It is not merely a composition of wood and metal, whose sole purpose is to be a source of protection from the elements. It is a source of security, of course, but it is also a reminder of the comings and goings of a happy healthy family. Each time it opens, you hear this great sucking noise, as if a very slimy cork is forcefully removed from a bottle. It also screams its presence, but almost in a singsong kind of way, like a macabre musical with a horrific, high, soprano descant. The only difference is it’s not unsettling in the least bit, in fact, it adds to the feeling of security, knowing that if any intruder comes to invade our private security, we would know in an instant. It takes a bit more of a trained ear to hear the distant memories of times past hidden within the framework of the door. The shouts of excitement from crazy kids shooting burp guns at each other, the shrill barks of a protective border collie, the roaring laughter over a great movie, and the calm collected serenity of one reading a book all combine to create a unique and particular symphony of younger days. As I run my fingers over the framework, I can almost feel the threshold breathe with the house. It’s a steady movement, like an aged and wise animal, standing guard. My door is as smooth as ancient metal can be, and regardless of the warm security of the general atmosphere, it feels cold and oppressive, no matter what time of the year it may be, almost like an emotionless sentry over a royal family. You can also feel the gummy residue of many a wreath, hung for the various holidays, on the face of my door. Running one’s hands over the rest of the framework would be unwise, however, owing to the many rusty nails and old staples from evergreen garlands of Christmases past. Added to the danger of the nails is the splintered wood, almost saying, “Yes I will protect but remember I am a force to be reckoned with.” Ultimately, to the touch, my door is solid and stalwart, ready to stand against any resistance Mother Nature can create.
Who knew one could talk so much about their door. Honestly, I’m kind of sick of it, but if you don’t understand a bit more about what my door looks like then don’t tell me, because at that point I’ll feel like I wasted my time, which I know I didn’t. I learned some very important things about my door, and ultimately myself. Again, I draw back to the significance of the Doors of Ireland. Each one unique, each one stands as a symbol of the inhabitants it protects. As we cross these thresholds, one can only wonder what life will bring them, but if we remember the feelings and memories our doors keep, if we remember what they mean, then a better sense of who we are will follow and we will be able to withstand whatever hard times may come our way.
Thresholds of Life and Opportunity
Life is about choices. Choices made on the thresholds of opportunity. And something I do every day is symbolic of that relationship I have with life in general. My life is filled with doors opening and closing, but there is one that is very special to me. My front door is the portal to opportunity and a recorded cassette of memory. It has raised me, among other things, and I have grown to know it very well. Its voice, its face, its past, and I know it so well, I can almost tell you its future. The two of us have grown and developed together, and I wish to share some of what my door means to me.
To illustrate the significance of my door to me, the Doors of Ireland seem to be a sufficient parallel. Many find it odd that the doors in Ireland are so many different colors, though there is somewhat an urban legend about it. The story goes that as the Irishmen, after a hard day’s work, would go to the public houses and drown their worries and stress in a grand ol’ pint. Many would have one too many, either out of a great many stresses or the revelry in association with it, but in any case, these drunken men would find it very difficult to find their own door, if they all looked the same, and the result would be waking up in the wrong woman’s bed. To avoid that, their wives painted their doors different colors, to identify them. Great story, though it's not completely reflective of my door. I may be an Irishman, but I have never drank. Instead , to me the Doors of Ireland identify the homes and families of those that are lost, and in connection, so does my door signify the same thing. It is a beacon, with its deep burnt red face, and multiple nicks from bags and bags of Costco and Sam’s Club groceries, enough to feed an army. The brass handle still gleams in the morning sun, and firm though it may be, its nose has become loose and free, threatening to lose itself, but ever persevering to serve my family for another year.
Characteristic of a door well used is the giant magnet, used by my mother to hang all sorts of wreaths and seasonal decorations to signify the coming and sometimes going of yet another age. The aged wood chips away with each chill and warm of the year, and as it grows and shrinks, it loses a bit of itself, almost as we do when we grow. A chip of our face is lost with age, and a wrinkle is all that remains. The only gripes I have about it are the decorated side windows, employed only to give my door class, and serves no other purpose. The angled glass and frosted decorations make it terribly difficult to perform surveillance work when mom and dad are on their way home. Rarely does it ever catch any sunlight to cast rainbows on the wall, seeing as how our home faces north and south, but the limited amount of light it does permit illuminates the foyer enough to create a natural glow about everything. How wonderful it is to keep one’s reality in check, to find that even such a substantial symbol of our lives isn’t perfect either.
Woven in the door's metal fabric are the memoires of years past, both cold ones of long winters and warm ones of humid summers. Snow, maple leaves, and grass clippings live and breathe within the inner workings of my door, creating a unique taste to the air. It changes with the seasons, but there always seems to be a piece of each season that still remains. In winter, the stark metal gives off a smell of sterile honesty. The combination of melting salt and the crisp, frozen air, gives the door a lifeless and almost unwelcoming odor. In spring, it becomes more inviting. Cold wet grass leaves its impression, and it gives it a clean, earthy brown smell, as if it foreshadows the sowing of seeds and reparation of my yard after a long winter. Summer gives my door almost a harsh, open smell of suffering vegetation, almost like the tree leaves are melting, but not burning. To counteract that, one can also pull from my door the distinct and purely American flavor of charcoal and Sweet Baby Rays barbeque sauce, as the many hundreds in my neighborhood have little porch gatherings, celebrating the warm weather for a short time. Lastly, autumn has my most favorite smell of all. With the air quickly getting colder, trapping the savory and wholesome smells of summer, it adds the homey aroma of wood smoke and burning leaves. It's an ever changing smell, and my door seems to adopt a different personality or style with each new day.
Unique to my door are the sounds that are emitted from it. Contrary to popular belief, my door is not silent, deaf, or lifeless. It is not merely a composition of wood and metal, whose sole purpose is to be a source of protection from the elements. It is a source of security, of course, but it is also a reminder of the comings and goings of a happy healthy family. Each time it opens, you hear this great sucking noise, as if a very slimy cork is forcefully removed from a bottle. It also screams its presence, but almost in a singsong kind of way, like a macabre musical with a horrific, high, soprano descant. The only difference is it’s not unsettling in the least bit, in fact, it adds to the feeling of security, knowing that if any intruder comes to invade our private security, we would know in an instant. It takes a bit more of a trained ear to hear the distant memories of times past hidden within the framework of the door. The shouts of excitement from crazy kids shooting burp guns at each other, the shrill barks of a protective border collie, the roaring laughter over a great movie, and the calm collected serenity of one reading a book all combine to create a unique and particular symphony of younger days. As I run my fingers over the framework, I can almost feel the threshold breathe with the house. It’s a steady movement, like an aged and wise animal, standing guard. My door is as smooth as ancient metal can be, and regardless of the warm security of the general atmosphere, it feels cold and oppressive, no matter what time of the year it may be, almost like an emotionless sentry over a royal family. You can also feel the gummy residue of many a wreath, hung for the various holidays, on the face of my door. Running one’s hands over the rest of the framework would be unwise, however, owing to the many rusty nails and old staples from evergreen garlands of Christmases past. Added to the danger of the nails is the splintered wood, almost saying, “Yes I will protect but remember I am a force to be reckoned with.” Ultimately, to the touch, my door is solid and stalwart, ready to stand against any resistance Mother Nature can create.
Who knew one could talk so much about their door. Honestly, I’m kind of sick of it, but if you don’t understand a bit more about what my door looks like then don’t tell me, because at that point I’ll feel like I wasted my time, which I know I didn’t. I learned some very important things about my door, and ultimately myself. Again, I draw back to the significance of the Doors of Ireland. Each one unique, each one stands as a symbol of the inhabitants it protects. As we cross these thresholds, one can only wonder what life will bring them, but if we remember the feelings and memories our doors keep, if we remember what they mean, then a better sense of who we are will follow and we will be able to withstand whatever hard times may come our way.
Who'd have thought...
Adam Sandler really isn't that funny. No, like, I'm serious, I just realized it. Huh...
Monday, September 21, 2009
Death match of the century
It has been decided carefully by a professional discussion panel, that the Ultiamte Death Match 2010 must be fought between the two most powerful forces known to common man. The first would be no surpise, being the walking carpet Chewbacca. Pained for finding an appropriate match, we fell on the least likely candidate, and after a display of unmatched prowess and cunning, our second contestant is decidedly the perfect match for our fuzzy beast. That being said, we will introduce our very own Big Bird to fight to the death. May the best misunderstood beast win...
The ABC story
Success!!
All right, I'm excited now. I'll begin with one of my first thoughts, and see where things go from here.
Callings and Creeds
Agent Callings just weren’t his thing. Buttresses soared over his head as great winged creatures, blotting out the sunlight as he walked, gathering his thoughts and trying to digest this new assignment. Callings always caught him in rare form, but this one served both as a source of wonder and uncertainty. Difficult as it was to understand Their reasoning, Alan could begin to feel the rising excitement of a new mission, and just as quickly suppressed it to keep his face from flushing. Emotions were a sign of chaos and rebellion, and he had not worked so hard and for so long to forfeit his position. Finding his own door, Alan slowly but deliberately pushed through the door, with poetic emphasis, and quietly shut it behind him. Grabbing his pristine suitcase, he pensively and reverently threw things together for the three day journey, almost as if he was building a shrine of parting, knowing that before he could venture out, he’d have to appear before Them again to make his Calling official. Holidays were typically the only occasion one of the Sanctuary had to travel, and such were rare, making the prospect of a trip exciting. Ignoring his feeble emotions, Alan moved with quiet determination as he heard a knock on his great oak door, almost as if its source was unsure whether or not it wanted to alert him. Jumping to the door realizing it could be one of the brethren, he swung the door open. Keeping himself composed, he scanned the threshold, and hallway, to find no one there, though there was something that caught his eye. Lurking in the shadows of a great marble pillar stood, or rather hunched, a wizened old man in rags, shaking in his age and muttering under his breath while pointing directly at Alan. “Might I ask who you are,” asked Alan.“Never you mind boy, but I have something of yours.”Obviously confused and a little angry, Alan took a step forward trying to see the old man more fully, wondering what it could possibly be that he took.“Please return it to me now,” Alan said with determined force.“Quite the request boy, but it was you who gave it up.”Realizing the beggar’s words were cryptic in nature, Alan’s eyes narrowed in frustrated misunderstanding. Slightly annoyed, Alan took another few steps towards the old man, to try and reason with him.“Try as you might boy, you won’t wrest it from me, especially if you understand that it has to be fought for and earned, your gift.”Understanding swept across Alan’s face, realizing what this man was, who he was, what he represented.“Vile rebel, get out of here before I call the Statutories and have you hanged!”Wildly the old man spun around and laughed a wicked laugh, a doomed man with nothing left to give. “Xylene and ice, Master Priest!” yelled the beggar, as he ran down the hall cackling and finding his way to the nearest window, flung himself through the curtains and down to a death in the streets. Yelling for the Statutories, Alan ran to the window, and grimaced, not only for the old man’s sake, but also for the very reason Alan didn’t call for the Statutories in the first place. Zeal was often the cause for misplaced hatred and strictness, and Alan, though faithful to the Pact, felt at times, the rebels had a point, and wondered whether or not his faith was well placed…
This was a paper we had to do in english comp. Take the each letter of the alphabet and write a 26 sentance paper using each one once at the beginning with the sentance
All right, I'm excited now. I'll begin with one of my first thoughts, and see where things go from here.
Callings and Creeds
Agent Callings just weren’t his thing. Buttresses soared over his head as great winged creatures, blotting out the sunlight as he walked, gathering his thoughts and trying to digest this new assignment. Callings always caught him in rare form, but this one served both as a source of wonder and uncertainty. Difficult as it was to understand Their reasoning, Alan could begin to feel the rising excitement of a new mission, and just as quickly suppressed it to keep his face from flushing. Emotions were a sign of chaos and rebellion, and he had not worked so hard and for so long to forfeit his position. Finding his own door, Alan slowly but deliberately pushed through the door, with poetic emphasis, and quietly shut it behind him. Grabbing his pristine suitcase, he pensively and reverently threw things together for the three day journey, almost as if he was building a shrine of parting, knowing that before he could venture out, he’d have to appear before Them again to make his Calling official. Holidays were typically the only occasion one of the Sanctuary had to travel, and such were rare, making the prospect of a trip exciting. Ignoring his feeble emotions, Alan moved with quiet determination as he heard a knock on his great oak door, almost as if its source was unsure whether or not it wanted to alert him. Jumping to the door realizing it could be one of the brethren, he swung the door open. Keeping himself composed, he scanned the threshold, and hallway, to find no one there, though there was something that caught his eye. Lurking in the shadows of a great marble pillar stood, or rather hunched, a wizened old man in rags, shaking in his age and muttering under his breath while pointing directly at Alan. “Might I ask who you are,” asked Alan.“Never you mind boy, but I have something of yours.”Obviously confused and a little angry, Alan took a step forward trying to see the old man more fully, wondering what it could possibly be that he took.“Please return it to me now,” Alan said with determined force.“Quite the request boy, but it was you who gave it up.”Realizing the beggar’s words were cryptic in nature, Alan’s eyes narrowed in frustrated misunderstanding. Slightly annoyed, Alan took another few steps towards the old man, to try and reason with him.“Try as you might boy, you won’t wrest it from me, especially if you understand that it has to be fought for and earned, your gift.”Understanding swept across Alan’s face, realizing what this man was, who he was, what he represented.“Vile rebel, get out of here before I call the Statutories and have you hanged!”Wildly the old man spun around and laughed a wicked laugh, a doomed man with nothing left to give. “Xylene and ice, Master Priest!” yelled the beggar, as he ran down the hall cackling and finding his way to the nearest window, flung himself through the curtains and down to a death in the streets. Yelling for the Statutories, Alan ran to the window, and grimaced, not only for the old man’s sake, but also for the very reason Alan didn’t call for the Statutories in the first place. Zeal was often the cause for misplaced hatred and strictness, and Alan, though faithful to the Pact, felt at times, the rebels had a point, and wondered whether or not his faith was well placed…
This was a paper we had to do in english comp. Take the each letter of the alphabet and write a 26 sentance paper using each one once at the beginning with the sentance
The Test
I was introduced to the blogging world and the amazingness of it, so I decided to do my best to put together something meaningful and thoughtful, as opposed to the normal lunacy usually associated with 'MyFace'. Given that understanding, and knowing that I'll not have too many opportunities to post something witty or clever ;) , my intention is to post my random musings, thoughts and novel ideas for the approval and criticism of friends and family.
So, the truth and point of this, my very first blog post, is to test this out, and see if the world of Blog is a place to be...
So, the truth and point of this, my very first blog post, is to test this out, and see if the world of Blog is a place to be...
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