I am a waste of space. Stranded in a college city that's quiet in its summer lull. I'm making $45 a week at a restaurant that has no customers. I'm using that $45 to pay the chiropractor to fix my back pain from the customerless, thus tipless, restaurant. I'm endlessly marking almost everything I own for a garage sale that might give me enough money to get out of here. My fiancee is going to New Orleans with camp friends, and I'm going to intrude at camp itself, hoping to find a sense of productivity or usefulness. Again, without any pay. I haven't even thought about how much gas money I will need to get there.
I'm always hungry, yet I don't realize I haven't eaten since the morning until it's already 9 pm, and then it's just awkward to eat. I need a sport to become obsessed with. Perhaps that would make my weight loss feel slightly more healthy.
Meanwhile, during this stretch of severe pessimism, the sun keeps shining, the grass is green, the plants are colorful, and I remain inside, pricing my possessions. I'm used to living my summer outside. Yet, I lack the motivation to step outdoors when there aren't any kids to play with, buildings to paint, and campfires to dance around.
What a depressing post.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Transformers Two: Return of the Hottie
The thrilling scene is set with Mikayla astride a motorcycle, languidly lounging with ass cheeks subtly slipping out her shorts and breasts grazing the hard metal of a glossy machine. Though twisted into an unpractical position for painting a motorcycle, she is able to flawlessly finish her pink airbrush design. On cue, Boyfriend Sam calls and listens to her threats of break-up, if he doesn’t buy her a new pony and kiss her passionately later that afternoon. Sam Witwicky is leaving for college today and Mikayla can’t join him, because her father needs an airbrush goddess to keep his mechanical shop running while he is never there.
Meanwhile the Decepticons are tearing up the Interstate, killing thousands of unsuspecting evening commuters. The general public does not catch on to the evidence of extraterrestrial invasion, or the death of said thousands, because the U.S. government is skilled at deception (ironic link to the enemy’s name?) and the thousand-plus commuters were not main characters. The U.S. military, complete with big guns for insecure boys and extra epic entrance music, works night and day to figure out what these giant robots want on Earth. With most natural resources sucked dry and growing unemployment, the Decepticons can’t be looking for job security. The U.S. mighty forces remain stumped, however, because their women officers are only telephone dispatchers who tend to blow things up when given a bigger paycheck.
The fate of baby Earth rests in the clumsy hands of Mr. Sam Witwicky, who is merely trying to be a good college man. Thinking that he no longer has to save people he’s never met, Sam moves into his new giant dorm room, with towel-clad freshman girls outside his door and a pot dealer down the hall. Really, he’s arrived at a typical American University. (Except the two that I attended had neither the room dimensions, nor the universally perfect body proportions of every female student.) Unfortunately, Sam must leave this educational haven, where it’s always a party, nobody’s broke, and homework doesn’t exist, to save the world. After suffering alien-symbol hallucinations, which he claims are unrelated to the availability of drugs at school, Sam joins the Autobots with Mikayla at his side—although she must always remain behind him and never lead the way. Girlfriend Mikayla forgives Sam for making out with a robot woman, who is strangely the only alien robot who can disguise herself in the form of a human rather than the form of a transportation vessel, and agrees to flaunt herself all the way to Egypt with him.
As the Decepticons destroy Optimus Prime, the key to Earth’s defense, and use the Matrix key to unlock the Sun Harvester, which will suck energy from the Sun into an Egyptian pyramid and regurgitate it into energy for the enemy, Sam and Mikayla run…a lot. I believe the stage directions for the leading lady included: run hard…let your boobs flop...act as if Sam is pulling you…and DO NOT get your white pants dirty. After bleaching her perfect pants every twenty yards, screaming “Sam!” every ten yards, and declaring her love for her dying boyfriend, Mikayla fulfills her role as the sultry sex object. Sam, however, must go to Prime Robo Heaven, where the elder Robots send him back with heroic merit to complete his mission. (I really hope that when I die, a half-robot/half-Hebrew Paul with Ashton Kutcher’s voice pretends that I’m being sent back to Earth to fulfill a bad-ass mission, but then says, “Just kidding!,” snaps a Polaroid shot of the two of us, and invites me into the Pearly Gates for chocolate cookies and campfire music. Oh, and the good guys better be called Christicons. That’s my heaven, but I’m digressing…)
Anyways, after all his sweaty hard work, Sam does not succeed in reviving Optimus Prime, and some old Robot who first sent him on his mission admits that he could have just combined his parts with Optimus’ to reenergize him instead. As with all Good Vs. Evil epics—especially ones involving the U.S. of A, the good side does triumph over the bad dude and his sniveling sidekick, though it’s often hard to tell which is which in combat, despite the intentional black appearance of the bad guys. Producers of Transformers (Return of the Fallen) made sure to keep cultural and social expectations intact, by placing camels in one of the Egyptian scenes, including unnecessary swearing (the f-bomb is excusable during dire situations), and throwing in an irrelevant man-thong scene for adolescent American humor.
Transformer Two: all in all, a good flick. I’m not sure why my friends and I were the only ones laughing throughout the whole film; did all other forty-eight viewers take the impending threat to Earth seriously for the entire two hours and twenty-four minutes? Well, despite the sexism, racism, and crumbling plot, I rather enjoyed Transformers. I definitely yelled “Yes!” and thrust my fist into the air multiple times during the film, especially during the actual morph moments. I know my fiancée enjoyed the movie, because his body gravitated towards the edge of his seat, his head leaned forward, his hands nervously pushed his glasses further up his face, and his eyes attempted to open wider than his mouth. On the way home, I longed for my weak Sanguine Ford Focus to morph into a robo-fighting machine and for the passing semi’s to become something more, while my fellow viewers went to sleep dreaming of purring engines and half-naked heroines, running through the desert waving their indestructible American flags.
Meanwhile the Decepticons are tearing up the Interstate, killing thousands of unsuspecting evening commuters. The general public does not catch on to the evidence of extraterrestrial invasion, or the death of said thousands, because the U.S. government is skilled at deception (ironic link to the enemy’s name?) and the thousand-plus commuters were not main characters. The U.S. military, complete with big guns for insecure boys and extra epic entrance music, works night and day to figure out what these giant robots want on Earth. With most natural resources sucked dry and growing unemployment, the Decepticons can’t be looking for job security. The U.S. mighty forces remain stumped, however, because their women officers are only telephone dispatchers who tend to blow things up when given a bigger paycheck.
The fate of baby Earth rests in the clumsy hands of Mr. Sam Witwicky, who is merely trying to be a good college man. Thinking that he no longer has to save people he’s never met, Sam moves into his new giant dorm room, with towel-clad freshman girls outside his door and a pot dealer down the hall. Really, he’s arrived at a typical American University. (Except the two that I attended had neither the room dimensions, nor the universally perfect body proportions of every female student.) Unfortunately, Sam must leave this educational haven, where it’s always a party, nobody’s broke, and homework doesn’t exist, to save the world. After suffering alien-symbol hallucinations, which he claims are unrelated to the availability of drugs at school, Sam joins the Autobots with Mikayla at his side—although she must always remain behind him and never lead the way. Girlfriend Mikayla forgives Sam for making out with a robot woman, who is strangely the only alien robot who can disguise herself in the form of a human rather than the form of a transportation vessel, and agrees to flaunt herself all the way to Egypt with him.
As the Decepticons destroy Optimus Prime, the key to Earth’s defense, and use the Matrix key to unlock the Sun Harvester, which will suck energy from the Sun into an Egyptian pyramid and regurgitate it into energy for the enemy, Sam and Mikayla run…a lot. I believe the stage directions for the leading lady included: run hard…let your boobs flop...act as if Sam is pulling you…and DO NOT get your white pants dirty. After bleaching her perfect pants every twenty yards, screaming “Sam!” every ten yards, and declaring her love for her dying boyfriend, Mikayla fulfills her role as the sultry sex object. Sam, however, must go to Prime Robo Heaven, where the elder Robots send him back with heroic merit to complete his mission. (I really hope that when I die, a half-robot/half-Hebrew Paul with Ashton Kutcher’s voice pretends that I’m being sent back to Earth to fulfill a bad-ass mission, but then says, “Just kidding!,” snaps a Polaroid shot of the two of us, and invites me into the Pearly Gates for chocolate cookies and campfire music. Oh, and the good guys better be called Christicons. That’s my heaven, but I’m digressing…)
Anyways, after all his sweaty hard work, Sam does not succeed in reviving Optimus Prime, and some old Robot who first sent him on his mission admits that he could have just combined his parts with Optimus’ to reenergize him instead. As with all Good Vs. Evil epics—especially ones involving the U.S. of A, the good side does triumph over the bad dude and his sniveling sidekick, though it’s often hard to tell which is which in combat, despite the intentional black appearance of the bad guys. Producers of Transformers (Return of the Fallen) made sure to keep cultural and social expectations intact, by placing camels in one of the Egyptian scenes, including unnecessary swearing (the f-bomb is excusable during dire situations), and throwing in an irrelevant man-thong scene for adolescent American humor.
Transformer Two: all in all, a good flick. I’m not sure why my friends and I were the only ones laughing throughout the whole film; did all other forty-eight viewers take the impending threat to Earth seriously for the entire two hours and twenty-four minutes? Well, despite the sexism, racism, and crumbling plot, I rather enjoyed Transformers. I definitely yelled “Yes!” and thrust my fist into the air multiple times during the film, especially during the actual morph moments. I know my fiancée enjoyed the movie, because his body gravitated towards the edge of his seat, his head leaned forward, his hands nervously pushed his glasses further up his face, and his eyes attempted to open wider than his mouth. On the way home, I longed for my weak Sanguine Ford Focus to morph into a robo-fighting machine and for the passing semi’s to become something more, while my fellow viewers went to sleep dreaming of purring engines and half-naked heroines, running through the desert waving their indestructible American flags.
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