Half-Assed Movie Review: Inception

This movie blew my fucking mind.

Symbolism, plot holes, Juno's scarves and the inability to believe Leonardo DiCaprio capable of being any manner of parent to small children aside - this is one of the most mind-rippingly beautiful movies I've seen in a considerable age.

I can't remember the last time I've cared to know how a movie was made. Well done, Nolan. Thank you for making me care again. For sewing up the hole in my heart with zero-gravity fight scenes and Joseph Gordon Levitt in a tie.




Disclaimer:
This review is more half-assed than usual since it just came out and I don't want to be guilty of doing a "he's dead the whole time" bit of douchebaggery, so that's all I'm saying.

Except this - it's difficult to make the name Arthur hot. And yet...

"I can no longer sit back and allow the international Communist conspiracy to sap and impurify all of our precious bodily fluids"

I'm not blogging because my mother told me to. Really, I'm not. It's more that before now, I've been afraid of Russian spies reading my shit and taking my online internet secrets straight to the Motherland. I'm not having that.

But now it appears we're safe.

Listen Russia - we're all sorry that the good ol' days have gone softly into the night. They were good times. I get this. Great music, fabulous clothes, no one knew smoking was bad for you...and espionage everywhere. Like a fad. Everyone's the Third Man. I mostly blame this on the hats. How is it possible not to be up to something when you look like this:

Well the days of looking both stylish AND sinister are over.

Now people look like this:
That's your secret agent pool. What could you possibly learn from that? Is there a camera hidden somewhere in his man-tote so he can record everyone's bad shoes? I'll tell you right now, footwear has never been more important to this nation and its political leanings. And I didn't even need to go into deep cover to figure that out. But you should pay me anyway. Euros. Swiss account. And I'll know it if it's just a couple $100 euro bills on top of a pile of rubles, so don't even try it.

Do svidaniya.

Oh hi.

The sun is finally shining...and magically I feel like blogging again. I wonder if there is a correlation. Eh. Chances are there's more of a correlation between the urge to blog and the ice cold vodka/soda at my side. With lime. Extra lime. The lime-e-ist.

So it's fitting that I'm back to gripe about shit, but I really must. Mainly because there's a girl who rides her cruiser around town wearing an English saddle equestrian helmet. I've been annoyed by this for - literally - months.

I think she's convinced it looks cute. But I need to somehow convince her that it does not. Recommendations on how to do so tactfully are welcome. Most disturbing of all, I have to wonder...is it not a style choice? Does she perhaps think she's riding a horse? Because it's very possible that there's a bigger issue to confront here. The case against "it's cute" is much easier to prosecute than "it's a horse". It's all very Israeli/Palestinian conflictish between adjectives and nouns these days. Conflicts are vogue.

If only the word "vogue" was still vogue. Sigh.

I've had to leave my home because the air is stagnant and I was overheating (thanks to an out of shape bike ride 10 miles home). So now I'm across the street at the Bye and Bye - a severely vegetarian hipster bar filled with bike-related art that Dave Chappelle once showed up at on a random Wednesday night. That fact will keep me coming randomly forever in the hopes that something that cool will happen again. I am prepared for disappointment.

Summer is taking forever to get to Oregon and I resent it. I have mint plants that need harvesting to go into lemon things! I have sundresses to wear that allow Vitamin D to reach non-essential patches of skin! I have lawn chairs to park in the grass for half-naked hippie heckling! I have a BBQ just sitting there WAITING for me to under-cook meats on! There's a lot to do! Yet another reason why this place is bunk. It's all a lie.

Back to my being annoyed by how people adorn themselves. I'm thinking of doing something about it. I'm not telling you what because right now that's a secret...but I promise it wont...probably...get me arrested or sued. I just can't sit idly by and watch a chick walk past me with a raccoon tail sticking out of the ass of her jeans. This aggression will not stand.

Sorry...went a bit "Dude" on you there.

Be that as it may, I need a hobby anyway, so this will be a good thing. I also think maybe I should start writing something. This doesn't count. But we all know how I don't end up doing things, so don't get your hopes up. Or get them up. Someone needs to be optimistic for the rest of us.

Summer is Here.

Things I've been doing while not blogging...

Watching other people judge other people's facial hair.

Posing for pictures with them.

Cave conquering.









Lava stare contests.








Cultural cinematic absorption.










Seeking out play to accompany the work. ..in an attempt to keep from being dull.

(Also...snow in June. JUNE)




Learning shit about wine.





Geography lessons.

Following white rabbits with empty promises into strange shrubbery.
And then just napping for a bit.

Then waking up to find crop circle sunburns all over the extremities.

Finally.

Buckets for the Motherfuckin' Cure

So maybe you can tell by the title that I'm listening to Naughty by Nature and maybe you can't, but the fact of the matter is...Kentucky Fried Chicken is using pink buckets of fried chicken to cure cancer. Science has finally come full circle.

I know I'm behind the times in reporting this...but I really tried to ignore it. The commercials have been running for a while and each time I use diversionary tactics to delude myself that such a thing couldn't/doesn't exist. But I have failed and the most recent accidental viewing...well I can remain silent no longer

The proprietary rights surrounding the stupid thing won't allow me to embed the unappetizing waste of eye space in its entirety, but it can be seen here (for those who are outside of the U.S. or don't have a TV within the U.S.. Or have a DVR).

Yes, that link will take you to the KFC MEDIA PLAYER. Sweet jesus. As you all damn well know, I do Drink for the Cure every year, unless I'm in Europe. I have wonderful, beautiful friends who have both beat and lost to breast cancer. It is a dickbag and I want it to disappear as much as the rest of the world does. But I do not believe driving our fellow Americans to congential heart failure is the way to do accomplish this.

There must be something else we can organize. A car wash. "Wash away breast cancer." Catchy? Bake sale. "Eat away breast cancer." We can use Seinfeld's wife's cookbook to insert vegetables so they're healthy. A spelling bee! "Spell away c-a-n-c-e-r." Ok, so my ideas are not awesome, but are they really worse than pink buckets of chicken?

The exclusivity also boils my balls. There's other cancers in this world you know. There was no city-wide walk to sign up for when my step-dad got lymphoma. No specially marked packages of sunblock to purchase when my step-mom got melanoma. This special treatment is all sorts of unfair. Pink home goods for everyone!

There are people who argue that breast cancer is the main event because of the importance of breasts to our society. But I'd be willing to argue in favor of the ovaries or prostate. Shoot...where would we be without the pancreas? Nowhere. Exactly.

So KFC - stop. You offend me with you buckets of pink saturated fat. Instead of spending the moolah to manufacture such an unappetizing food conveyance, perhaps you should just donate that money to the Komen foundation and be done with it. Don't force your customers to associate cancer with the breast they're currently biting into. It's in poor taste.

As was that last line. And yet, I'm proud of it.

Twi-soft

My girls and I have been doing Sunday Dinner for a couple of years now. Yes it started with the first season of True Blood and me being the only one with HBO at the time. No, I'm not ashamed of either of those facts.

Actually - no it didn't. It started with Flight of the Conchords...and me being the only one with HBO at the time, so shut the hell up.

We don't always watch something. Sometimes we actually go out into the world...and sometimes we just drink limeade cocktails in someone's backyard. But without fail (almost) we ignore the fact that we see each other all the time and hang out on Sundays until stupidly late, drinking and laughing much too much. It's my favorite thing.

But this Sunday...we sank to a new low. And it was awesome. Tonight we watched Twilight: New Moon while simultaneously playing the Rifftrax, eating pierogies and washing it all down with German beer (you see, it was a poorly executed theme). If you don't know what Rifftrax are, then I'm sure you know what Mystery Science Theater 3K is. Well it's those guys, only they don't have a show anymore. They record themselves talking through the movie and then you download the track and play it on your ipod whilst the movie is viewed. It's genius.

Anyway - we made it through the entire movie. And we may or may not have rewound and watched that bit where the underaged/overdeveloped bronze god of modern day musculature tore his shirt off to blot a small cut on no-talent-hack Kristen Stewart's brow three times. Maybe four, it's all a bit fuzzy. But that is not my point. I have now seen two Twilight movies and read one of the books (couldn't get farther than that one) and still, I come away from them perplexed. I don't get why they're so popular. I really don't.

I think about the movies and books that defined the combined romantic ideals of danger and love for me in those formative early teen years...and even how much I loved that gothic vampire stuff (seriously, you don't want to know how many times I watched Brahm Stoker's Dracula. It's where the whole Gary Oldman obsession started). But I'm convinced that if I'd picked up and read Twilight when I was 13, I would've wanted to throw it across the room as much as I did at 29.

First of all - who's all like "I want you. We're connected. Why fight it. I can't live without you." at the creepiest guy in school when you're 17 and the new girl? I think Bella and Edward's fourth conversation was about how much they love each other...with a little "but I may kill you" thrown in to keep things lively. Young people don't move that fast. They have to analyze everything to death with their friends and then send a few vague emails or texts before any big decisions are made.

And what teenager in this day and age gets seduced by Claire de Lune? Come on. I'd be all..."um, you've been alive since before jazz was invented and THIS is what you're rolling with?" Weak.

So with this second book (well...movie...) it goes all sorts of through the roof. Edward is gone, but he comes back as a ghost(?? - not explained) to tell her not to do stupid shit she does anyway. Then she almost kisses a SIXTEEN year old a million times (um, that's a sophomore, friends. Did you think they were hot when you were a senior? Men, don't answer that). And then when she's done stringing the well-built puppy along, she jumps at the chance to marry Edward? At EIGHTEEN?! I mean, she's not even going to try to find a guy that isn't dead? Doesn't she understand that's what college is FOR?

What all of this says to me is that the author, Stephanie Somethingorother, grew up in a cave believing in unicorns with a Victrola, Debussy greatest hits and one worn out VHS copy of Sixteen Candles, without ever meeting any other teenagers.

Regardless... this young man is uncomfortably good looking.

Sorry it's been so long. I've missed you, my pretties.