High above in its mountainous fortress, the Beast watched and plotted. Little did I know it had me it its sights, stalking me, awaiting only the right moment to spring its trap. I had ventured into its domain, a slight the Beast would not abide.
Too late I heard it move; too late did I sense the attack. I raised my hands in defense, but the Beast coiled and struck true, its talons clawing deeply into the exposed flesh of my face.
Then, victorious in its conquest, the Beast slinked away, to wait and plot its next attack.
But my scars remain, and may never heal. Forever they shall attest to the fated night when I became the hunted.
TRANSLATION: I was watching TV on the lower bunk of the bunkbed in the office of our apartment. The cats normally call the top bunk home, and occasionally jump to the lower bunk to get down. K2, aka Maggie, aka Fatpants, decided to jump down. I heard her rustling up above, and shifted slightly in my place. The son-of-a-bitch misjudged her landing and ended up landing claws-first directly on the left side of my face.
So yes, I've got some pretty sweet scars. If anyone asks, I got attacked by a jungle cat.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Sucks For You!
One of those moments happened at lunch today. You know, the kind where it's so incredibly awkward and embarassing for someone, the kind that we never ever want to happen to ourselves? Thankfully, it didn't happen to me. And it didn't happen to Ismael, or PH, who were also present. It didn't even happen to the esteemed Mr. Utah, oddly enough, though it seemed exactly the type of thing that would happen to him. On a regular basis.
The scene - myself, Ismael, PH, and another law school acquaintance were eating lunch at a downtown restaurant. All of us are criminal defense lawyers, to some extent. So, naturally, the topic of conversation came around to DA's whom we just can't stand. Our acquaintance began a rant about a particular DA that he'd had problems with recently, going so far as to call him an "asshole." That was the point where I looked up.
Lo and behold, that very same DA was sitting just a few tables away.
"He's here!" I gasped, as subtly as I could. The conversation didn't quite stop, but soon everyone realized that not only was the DA right there, but that he had probably heard a good portion of the rant directed at him.
As a young criminal defense attorney trying desperately to get treated with respect by the local DA's, I can't think of a much more horrifying thing to happen.
Except, perhaps, if it was a judge.
Oh well. At least it didn't happen to me.
The scene - myself, Ismael, PH, and another law school acquaintance were eating lunch at a downtown restaurant. All of us are criminal defense lawyers, to some extent. So, naturally, the topic of conversation came around to DA's whom we just can't stand. Our acquaintance began a rant about a particular DA that he'd had problems with recently, going so far as to call him an "asshole." That was the point where I looked up.
Lo and behold, that very same DA was sitting just a few tables away.
"He's here!" I gasped, as subtly as I could. The conversation didn't quite stop, but soon everyone realized that not only was the DA right there, but that he had probably heard a good portion of the rant directed at him.
As a young criminal defense attorney trying desperately to get treated with respect by the local DA's, I can't think of a much more horrifying thing to happen.
Except, perhaps, if it was a judge.
Oh well. At least it didn't happen to me.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
I've Gotta Have More Googly Eyes
The legendary Christopher Walken hosted Saturday Night Live for the 100th time last weekend. As usual, he managed to make it funny. Here's my favorite sketch, entitled "Indoor Gardening Tips from a Man Who's Very Scared of Plants":
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Geek Out
I attended the Oddyssey Convention ("OddCon ")this weekend in Madison, a three day event at the Radisson where geeks united to discuss super-geeky shit. Much of it was geared towards writers - novelists, screenwriters, poets, etc., while the rest was for fans of the sci fi/fantasy media. Being an both an aspiring writer and a big fan, I found plenty to enjoy.
The main reason I went is that my favorite author, George R.R. Martin, was the headlining guest. For those of you who've never heard of him, George is the author of the "A Song of Ice and Fire" series. Simply put, it's fucking awesome. Basically historical/fantasy fiction along the lines of Tolkien but with a decidedly humanistic approach, rather than the standard elves, dwarves, and wizards that most Tolkien-esque writers have adopted in his wake. There is some magic involved, but mostly at the fringes. Martin's books are wonderfully complex, especially if you enjoy a good amount of political intrigue, as well as copious amounts of blood, sex, death, cursing, and glory. They are quite long and increasingly bloated, but the most engaging and compelling story I've read in awhile. So getting to see him up close and personal was pretty cool.
Beyond that, I was once again faced with the (comforting) knowledge that I will never reach the astronomical levels of geekdom reached by a select few. For instance, to be a supergeek, as a man I would have to either (a) stop shaving and grow a Santa Claus-esque beard, (b) stop getting my hair cut, allowing myself a long, flowing ponytail, and (c) gain approximately 300 lbs. To become a supergeek woman, one would follow step (c), never comb her hair, ever again, obtain a set of face-swallowing, 7 inch thick bifocals, and possibly step (a), at your discretion.
The main reason I went is that my favorite author, George R.R. Martin, was the headlining guest. For those of you who've never heard of him, George is the author of the "A Song of Ice and Fire" series. Simply put, it's fucking awesome. Basically historical/fantasy fiction along the lines of Tolkien but with a decidedly humanistic approach, rather than the standard elves, dwarves, and wizards that most Tolkien-esque writers have adopted in his wake. There is some magic involved, but mostly at the fringes. Martin's books are wonderfully complex, especially if you enjoy a good amount of political intrigue, as well as copious amounts of blood, sex, death, cursing, and glory. They are quite long and increasingly bloated, but the most engaging and compelling story I've read in awhile. So getting to see him up close and personal was pretty cool.
Beyond that, I was once again faced with the (comforting) knowledge that I will never reach the astronomical levels of geekdom reached by a select few. For instance, to be a supergeek, as a man I would have to either (a) stop shaving and grow a Santa Claus-esque beard, (b) stop getting my hair cut, allowing myself a long, flowing ponytail, and (c) gain approximately 300 lbs. To become a supergeek woman, one would follow step (c), never comb her hair, ever again, obtain a set of face-swallowing, 7 inch thick bifocals, and possibly step (a), at your discretion.
Also, while I generally don't condone taking certain people and holding them up for public ridicule, there was one woman there who was so beyond geeky, so fantastically nauseating, so blissfully obnoxious that I can't not mention her. She had it all - the frizzed-out tuft of hair, the 7 inch thick bifocals, and the 200 lbs of extra blubber. She also wore the same outfit all three days. But more than that, she always sat right in the front (occasionally on the floor rather than chairs), spoke very slowly and in a nasal voice approximating that of Towelie, and constantly blurted out ridiculously stupid comments and questions. And since she was right in the front, she kept interrupting the panelists. By the second day, both fans and panelists alike cringed when they saw her enter the room. At one point, when she asked a blatantly stupid question, a panelist appropriately replied, "That's a stupid question." One of the other panelists tried to soften it, backpedaling for the guy, but he insisted, "No. It's stupid. I'm not going to answer it." Then, on the final day, she gave an absolutely perfect comment to close out the weekend. A panel was talking about multi-book storytelling, and one author referred to something as being "like juggling alligators." Then this woman opined, in her disturbingly shrill voice, "The thing about alligators is, you never know if...you've got them the way...um, wait, if they've got you...um..." And then the awkward trail-off into the oblivion of retardedness.
Perhaps she was mentally ill, and if so, I apologize. But if not, she owed everyone else at the convention an apology for inflicting her presence on what was otherwise a pretty fun weekend.
Still, enduring the atrocious hairstyles, facial hair and outfits was worth it, if only to indulge my inner geek for a little while.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
How About a Little Less Insulting My Profession, A Little More "Shut the Hell Up"
Wisconsinites are retarded. Gableman? A justice of the Wisconsin Supreme Court?
You've got to be fucking kidding me.
I grew up in this state. I know the population is comprised mostly of rural, conservative people. I've always tried to be open-minded. My friends in high school were mostly of this ilk. On many a Friday night I found myself attending county fairs, stock car races, and smoke-filled local taverns because that's what my friends were into. I didn't hunt, I didn't fish, I didn't drive a pickup truck, I didn't listen to either country or heavy metal music, I didn't smoke, and I didn't drink. Needless to say, I didn't fit in at all.
But the people who did do all of those things were my friends and their friends and their families and my family. They are good, intelligent people.
Yet I know they're the same idiots who just elected Mike Fucking Gableman to the supreme court.
I've already tried not to feel better than these people. I've always been a couple steps ahead academically, but I tried to check my arrogant, elitist nature at the door when thinking about my home town and its inhabitants.
But no. Fuck that. I'm better than them. If only because I know better than to vote for Mike Gableman.
Forget the fact that he's just another bag of hot air who avoids the tough questions by pivoting back to his talking points. Forget the fact that he doesn't have nearly the requisite intellectual chops to be qualified for the SUPREME COURT. No, what galls me about this fucker is the fear-mongering tactics he used to win, specifically by dragging my profession through the mud. Criminal defense attorneys are not criminals. In the criminal justice system, we play just as important a role as the prosecutors who pronounce themselves "protectors of the public." See, we're the ones defending the down-trodden. Gableman's attacks (and don't even start with the fact that most of the ads came from independant groups, because you know he sanctioned them) equated criminals with evildoers and defense attorneys as agents of the Beast. Cocksucker.
I just love when he goes on and on about how he's not some "judicial activist" like Butler, that he would "uphold the plain language of the law." Then, at the same time, he rants about how Butler used to set criminals free by using "technicalities." Ooooh, technicalities. You know what a technicality is? In this context, a technicality is when a defense attorney asserts a defendant's constitutional right, like the right of every citizen to be free from an unreasonable search and seizure, or the right to confront one's accusers in court, or the right against self-incrimination. A "technicality" is the equivalent of "upholding the plain language of the law" when applied to criminal defendants. Gasp, shudder.
The sad thing is, it's not Gableman's fault. It's the fault of the citizens of Wisconsin who fall for such tactics. More likely than not, it's the fault of my old friends, their friends, their families, and my family. So, as our constitutional rights get increasingly eroded by justices who claim to "uphold the plain language of the law," all the while advancing one political agenda, I know whom to thank.
You've got to be fucking kidding me.
I grew up in this state. I know the population is comprised mostly of rural, conservative people. I've always tried to be open-minded. My friends in high school were mostly of this ilk. On many a Friday night I found myself attending county fairs, stock car races, and smoke-filled local taverns because that's what my friends were into. I didn't hunt, I didn't fish, I didn't drive a pickup truck, I didn't listen to either country or heavy metal music, I didn't smoke, and I didn't drink. Needless to say, I didn't fit in at all.
But the people who did do all of those things were my friends and their friends and their families and my family. They are good, intelligent people.
Yet I know they're the same idiots who just elected Mike Fucking Gableman to the supreme court.
I've already tried not to feel better than these people. I've always been a couple steps ahead academically, but I tried to check my arrogant, elitist nature at the door when thinking about my home town and its inhabitants.
But no. Fuck that. I'm better than them. If only because I know better than to vote for Mike Gableman.
Forget the fact that he's just another bag of hot air who avoids the tough questions by pivoting back to his talking points. Forget the fact that he doesn't have nearly the requisite intellectual chops to be qualified for the SUPREME COURT. No, what galls me about this fucker is the fear-mongering tactics he used to win, specifically by dragging my profession through the mud. Criminal defense attorneys are not criminals. In the criminal justice system, we play just as important a role as the prosecutors who pronounce themselves "protectors of the public." See, we're the ones defending the down-trodden. Gableman's attacks (and don't even start with the fact that most of the ads came from independant groups, because you know he sanctioned them) equated criminals with evildoers and defense attorneys as agents of the Beast. Cocksucker.
I just love when he goes on and on about how he's not some "judicial activist" like Butler, that he would "uphold the plain language of the law." Then, at the same time, he rants about how Butler used to set criminals free by using "technicalities." Ooooh, technicalities. You know what a technicality is? In this context, a technicality is when a defense attorney asserts a defendant's constitutional right, like the right of every citizen to be free from an unreasonable search and seizure, or the right to confront one's accusers in court, or the right against self-incrimination. A "technicality" is the equivalent of "upholding the plain language of the law" when applied to criminal defendants. Gasp, shudder.
The sad thing is, it's not Gableman's fault. It's the fault of the citizens of Wisconsin who fall for such tactics. More likely than not, it's the fault of my old friends, their friends, their families, and my family. So, as our constitutional rights get increasingly eroded by justices who claim to "uphold the plain language of the law," all the while advancing one political agenda, I know whom to thank.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The Importance of Grammar
Today I observed the following bumper sticker on a car window:
"Bad-ass boys ride bad ass toys!"
At first glance, this may seem like a perfectly innocuous attempt at male bravado. However, upon closer inspection, a serious flaw becomes apparent.
Now, by no means am I a grammar Nazi. Being part-black myself, I understand the occasional need to completely eviscerate the English language. Still, I have to take issue with this particular statement. Let me break it down for you:
"Bad-ass" is an excellent word, by all accounts. Often used to describe the kung fu stylings of Chuck Norris, the latest Vin Diesel movie, and Acts of Favre. However, to be used as intended in the above bumper sticker, it NEEDS a hyphen. When the hyphen is omitted, the original intent of the sentence can be completely subverted.
For example, let's examine the phrase "bad ass toys." In this context, "bad" acts as an adjective. Without the hyphen, the word "ass" is not connected to "bad;" instead, it becomes part of the object of the sentence - "ass toys."
For a man, association in any way with "ass toys" is generally not helpful when attempting to construct a macho image. Even worse, the adjective "bad" implies that not only is an ass toy in use, but the toy itself is of poor quality or craftsmanship.
And use of the verb "ride" indicates that not only does the man possess a shoddy butt plug, but confirms that he rides it.
Proper pronunciation of the phrase thus changes from what the man intended:
"Bad-ass boys ride bad-ass toys!"
to
"Bad-ass boys ride bad ass toys!"
This, my friends, is the importance of grammar.
Also, the car was a piece of shit.
"Bad-ass boys ride bad ass toys!"
At first glance, this may seem like a perfectly innocuous attempt at male bravado. However, upon closer inspection, a serious flaw becomes apparent.
Now, by no means am I a grammar Nazi. Being part-black myself, I understand the occasional need to completely eviscerate the English language. Still, I have to take issue with this particular statement. Let me break it down for you:
"Bad-ass" is an excellent word, by all accounts. Often used to describe the kung fu stylings of Chuck Norris, the latest Vin Diesel movie, and Acts of Favre. However, to be used as intended in the above bumper sticker, it NEEDS a hyphen. When the hyphen is omitted, the original intent of the sentence can be completely subverted.
For example, let's examine the phrase "bad ass toys." In this context, "bad" acts as an adjective. Without the hyphen, the word "ass" is not connected to "bad;" instead, it becomes part of the object of the sentence - "ass toys."
For a man, association in any way with "ass toys" is generally not helpful when attempting to construct a macho image. Even worse, the adjective "bad" implies that not only is an ass toy in use, but the toy itself is of poor quality or craftsmanship.
And use of the verb "ride" indicates that not only does the man possess a shoddy butt plug, but confirms that he rides it.
Proper pronunciation of the phrase thus changes from what the man intended:
"Bad-ass boys ride bad-ass toys!"
to
"Bad-ass boys ride bad ass toys!"
This, my friends, is the importance of grammar.
Also, the car was a piece of shit.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Let Them Watch Horrifically Boring Crap
Let's get right to this bitch, shall we? Movie review the whateverth:
Marie Antoinette
First of all, yes, I did watch Marie Antoinette. Yes, I still have a penis. And no, it hasn't withered and died as a result of watching this movie. It did, however, give me some funny looks during the show, as if to say, "Dude, really?" I just kinda shrugged, and that was that.
Second of all, there will be no spoilers in this review. Not because I want to spare those of you who wish to see it from discovering what happens, but because nothing actually happens. I mean, I'd love to give away all the plot twists, except there is no plot. Not even one straight line of plot. Not even the slightest hint of a plot.
Now, for those of you who might someday have even the slightest desire to watch this movie, here's what I suggest you do instead. Take your average piece of toilet paper. One-ply, two-ply, quilted, doesn't matter, just rip off a square. Now, take a piece of tape, and tape that sucker to your wall. Get a nice, comfy chair, and pull it about five feet from that square of toilet paper. Now, settle in for the next two hours, and stare at that piece of toilet paper. If you happen to notice anything about it, anything at all, you will have far surpassed the viewing experience of watching Marie Antoinette.
You think I'm kidding? Right then. I will now describe for you the entire movie, frame by frame:
- Girl in dress
- Girl in carriage
- Girl meets Patches O'Houlihan (aka Louix XIV). For some reason, Patches doesn't throw any wrenches at her. He mostly stands there, terribly miscast
- Girl meets Molly Fucking Shannon in a powdered wig
- Girl goes to France
- Girl meets her husband, Max Fischer (aka Louis XVI). Max makes no attempt at acting
- Girl marries Max Fischer, becomes princess
- Girl dances
- Girl gets new dresses
- ....nothing
- Girl eats dinner
- Girl looks forlorn
- Max is terribly awkward
- Patches gets it on with Yelena from XXX
- Idle gossip
- Max is too lame to have sex with Girl
- Patches croaks
- Girl looks forlorn
- Girl gets new dresses
- Girl eats many pastries
- Idle gossip
- Girl builds peasant village
- France has an army?
- Girl contemplates buying oak trees
- Girl does it with soldier
- Girl looks forlorn
- Soldier has completely non sequitur scene atop a hill with explosions in background
- Max Fischer mumbles a bit
- Peasants surround Versailles
- Empty room
Fin.
I kept watching, waiting for something to happen. Occasionally there would be some bizarre and terribly stupid line that would hook my interest again. My girl hit it right on the head - a kind of morbid curiousity kept us both watching. Normally I'm not one to slow down for car wrecks, but with this I kind of felt like I needed the full experience to properly appreciate it. So I watched it all, in all its car wreck glory. Kind of a slow-motion, 122 minute car wreck where none of the cars actually collide with anything, and in fact there are not even any cars present.
And that about covers it.
My Score: D
Recommendation: Only if you like pretty dresses and hate the needless distractions of plotting, characterization, drama, humor, themes, events, and things that happen
Marie Antoinette
First of all, yes, I did watch Marie Antoinette. Yes, I still have a penis. And no, it hasn't withered and died as a result of watching this movie. It did, however, give me some funny looks during the show, as if to say, "Dude, really?" I just kinda shrugged, and that was that.
Second of all, there will be no spoilers in this review. Not because I want to spare those of you who wish to see it from discovering what happens, but because nothing actually happens. I mean, I'd love to give away all the plot twists, except there is no plot. Not even one straight line of plot. Not even the slightest hint of a plot.
Now, for those of you who might someday have even the slightest desire to watch this movie, here's what I suggest you do instead. Take your average piece of toilet paper. One-ply, two-ply, quilted, doesn't matter, just rip off a square. Now, take a piece of tape, and tape that sucker to your wall. Get a nice, comfy chair, and pull it about five feet from that square of toilet paper. Now, settle in for the next two hours, and stare at that piece of toilet paper. If you happen to notice anything about it, anything at all, you will have far surpassed the viewing experience of watching Marie Antoinette.
You think I'm kidding? Right then. I will now describe for you the entire movie, frame by frame:
- Girl in dress
- Girl in carriage
- Girl meets Patches O'Houlihan (aka Louix XIV). For some reason, Patches doesn't throw any wrenches at her. He mostly stands there, terribly miscast
- Girl meets Molly Fucking Shannon in a powdered wig
- Girl goes to France
- Girl meets her husband, Max Fischer (aka Louis XVI). Max makes no attempt at acting
- Girl marries Max Fischer, becomes princess
- Girl dances
- Girl gets new dresses
- ....nothing
- Girl eats dinner
- Girl looks forlorn
- Max is terribly awkward
- Patches gets it on with Yelena from XXX
- Idle gossip
- Max is too lame to have sex with Girl
- Patches croaks
- Girl looks forlorn
- Girl gets new dresses
- Girl eats many pastries
- Idle gossip
- Girl builds peasant village
- France has an army?
- Girl contemplates buying oak trees
- Girl does it with soldier
- Girl looks forlorn
- Soldier has completely non sequitur scene atop a hill with explosions in background
- Max Fischer mumbles a bit
- Peasants surround Versailles
- Empty room
Fin.
I kept watching, waiting for something to happen. Occasionally there would be some bizarre and terribly stupid line that would hook my interest again. My girl hit it right on the head - a kind of morbid curiousity kept us both watching. Normally I'm not one to slow down for car wrecks, but with this I kind of felt like I needed the full experience to properly appreciate it. So I watched it all, in all its car wreck glory. Kind of a slow-motion, 122 minute car wreck where none of the cars actually collide with anything, and in fact there are not even any cars present.
And that about covers it.
My Score: D
Recommendation: Only if you like pretty dresses and hate the needless distractions of plotting, characterization, drama, humor, themes, events, and things that happen
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Trifecta, Part II
That sound you hear is the crowd, still cheering. In my head, of course, because no one actually comes to watch my soccer games. But whatever. Point is, Monday night I got my second straight hat trick. We played a pretty decent team, who scored the first goal. We didn't have any of our usual scorers (except me, apparently). I proceeded to score the next THREE goals of the game. It was fucking ridiculous. Not to mention our goalie, "Spiderman," who was blocking goals Matrix-style at the back. Absolutely monstrous.
We ended up winning 6-1, but I prefer this statistic: I outscored the other team 3-1.
Sometimes pimpin' is easy.
We ended up winning 6-1, but I prefer this statistic: I outscored the other team 3-1.
Sometimes pimpin' is easy.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
For Realz
Walking down King Street today, saw an object lying on the sidewalk. Red, cylindrical, maybe 8 inches long by one inch wide. Got a little closer. Took another look.
It was a fucking vibrator.
Swear to God.
It was a fucking vibrator.
Swear to God.
Saturday, March 01, 2008
Trifecta
I'm not what one would call a "talented" soccer player. Simply put, I don't have skillz. I never have. Soccer has been my main sport for awhile now, since sophomore year of high school, when I first started playing. Prior to that I had tried just about every sport, with varying degrees of success. Basically, I was pretty athletic, though not particularly skilled at anything. Soccer ended up being a good fit, because I could run fast and wasn't afraid to be aggressive. So I became a defensive specialist, where my job was mostly to stop the other team's offense. And I was good at it. I became team captain, and even went all-conference my senior year.
After high school, I played on some summer recreational leagues, and tried indoor soccer a couple times. Indoor wasn't my thing, because there were fewer players on the field at a time, which meant everyone had to play offense and defense. So I played, and even scored a couple times from sheer luck. But sooner or later I lost interest.
However, I started playing again this past year in an effort to get in better shape (and as an outlet for aggression/competitiveness). As I said, I still wasn't very 'skilled,' which limited my effectiveness. But I've gotten better with each game, and more comfortable trying to play offense. My teams often struggled due to a lack of players, making us play 5-on-6 (or worse) a lot of the time. We had some pretty good players, but having to play all 50 minutes with no substitutes really wears on you, no matter how good you are. For this session, however, our team suddenly has more people. We also imported one player who appears to be the equivalent of Superman, who can score from anywhere on anyone. So things have really picked up. We won our first two games against pretty good teams.
Last night we had our third game. It started out horribly. The other team had a guy (#13, for future reference) that was like the Anti-Superman, with all the powers of Superman, only using his powers for evil, since he played for the other team. For the first half, none of us played all that well, and #13 led them to a 4-1 lead. In particular, I blew some serious goats, including shanking a wide open shot from a couple feet away on a beautiful pass from Superman. That was a great feeling. Again, I felt like my complete lack of technical proficiency had come back to haunt me.
But the second half was another story. When I entered the game, we were down 4-2. Our goalie, hereafter known as Spiderman (due to his quickness, sticky fingers, and general spider-like mutations) was keeping us in the game with some pretty ridiculous saves. He had directed us to gang up on #13, which I made a point to do in the second half. But first, I got down toward the goal, and Superman set me up for another shot. This time I blasted it right into the goalie's face. Frankly, I was surprised they didn't call me for a dangerous ball, because it really was. But the shot, which careened off the goalie's face and into the goal, counted, bringing us to within one goal. Then, about a minute later, I stole the ball from someone, dribbled it the length of the field (pitch, if you're a purist), beat their last defender and drilled another goal to tie the game.
Let me tell you, scoring is an awesome feeling. The whole game stops, the defeated goalie has to retrieve the ball, and you get to do a victory trot back to your half of the pitch. I don't often get to enjoy that feeling, but getting it twice in a minute was amazing. Not to mention shocking.
I left the game shortly afterward, and soon we were losing again. We had one player who, through seeming frustration, would not leave the game, no matter how tired he became. #13 went on a spree, and soon they were up 7-4. Then Superman returned to the game and got us another goal to bring it to 7-5. I returned to the game, and once again made it my mission to shut down #13. I got my chance pretty quickly, when he got the ball at mid-field, one-on-one against me. If he beat me, then he would have had an open run against Spiderman, who, though awesome, would have been hard-pressed to stop #13 without any assistance. Fortunately, I ate that fucker up. I stole the ball, passed it off, and someone else passed to another person who scored.
Not long after, I had another opportunity. Someone kicked it toward #13, but a little past him, so he would have to run to it. I beat him there, drilled the ball away, and once again someone dished it off to someone else who scored. And just like that, we were tied again, and we had all the momentum.
If I remember correctly, the next thing to happen was our tiebreaker. We had a bunch of people on offense trying to make something happen, and I was one of them. Someone passed me the ball, and I had a fairly decent opening, so I fired another shot. The goalie charged at it, but the ball ricocheted off one of the other opponents' shoulder, dropped over the goalie's head, and into the goal.
That's right -- three goals for the Viceman. I don't know how to explain that. But it happened, I swear to God.
We had the lead until somebody slipped past and hit a really tricky shot to tie it up again. But our defense held them, and I'm pretty sure Superman hit the next goal, making it 9-8. I came out soon after that, and in the final minutes someone got another goal to ice the game. We won 10-8. It was fucking fantastic. To know that we beat a good team by coming from three goals down - not once, but twice - and to know that I helped lead the charge each time (despite my staggering incompetence in the first half) was an amazing feeling.
Really, who needs actual skills when you've got luck?
After high school, I played on some summer recreational leagues, and tried indoor soccer a couple times. Indoor wasn't my thing, because there were fewer players on the field at a time, which meant everyone had to play offense and defense. So I played, and even scored a couple times from sheer luck. But sooner or later I lost interest.
However, I started playing again this past year in an effort to get in better shape (and as an outlet for aggression/competitiveness). As I said, I still wasn't very 'skilled,' which limited my effectiveness. But I've gotten better with each game, and more comfortable trying to play offense. My teams often struggled due to a lack of players, making us play 5-on-6 (or worse) a lot of the time. We had some pretty good players, but having to play all 50 minutes with no substitutes really wears on you, no matter how good you are. For this session, however, our team suddenly has more people. We also imported one player who appears to be the equivalent of Superman, who can score from anywhere on anyone. So things have really picked up. We won our first two games against pretty good teams.
Last night we had our third game. It started out horribly. The other team had a guy (#13, for future reference) that was like the Anti-Superman, with all the powers of Superman, only using his powers for evil, since he played for the other team. For the first half, none of us played all that well, and #13 led them to a 4-1 lead. In particular, I blew some serious goats, including shanking a wide open shot from a couple feet away on a beautiful pass from Superman. That was a great feeling. Again, I felt like my complete lack of technical proficiency had come back to haunt me.
But the second half was another story. When I entered the game, we were down 4-2. Our goalie, hereafter known as Spiderman (due to his quickness, sticky fingers, and general spider-like mutations) was keeping us in the game with some pretty ridiculous saves. He had directed us to gang up on #13, which I made a point to do in the second half. But first, I got down toward the goal, and Superman set me up for another shot. This time I blasted it right into the goalie's face. Frankly, I was surprised they didn't call me for a dangerous ball, because it really was. But the shot, which careened off the goalie's face and into the goal, counted, bringing us to within one goal. Then, about a minute later, I stole the ball from someone, dribbled it the length of the field (pitch, if you're a purist), beat their last defender and drilled another goal to tie the game.
Let me tell you, scoring is an awesome feeling. The whole game stops, the defeated goalie has to retrieve the ball, and you get to do a victory trot back to your half of the pitch. I don't often get to enjoy that feeling, but getting it twice in a minute was amazing. Not to mention shocking.
I left the game shortly afterward, and soon we were losing again. We had one player who, through seeming frustration, would not leave the game, no matter how tired he became. #13 went on a spree, and soon they were up 7-4. Then Superman returned to the game and got us another goal to bring it to 7-5. I returned to the game, and once again made it my mission to shut down #13. I got my chance pretty quickly, when he got the ball at mid-field, one-on-one against me. If he beat me, then he would have had an open run against Spiderman, who, though awesome, would have been hard-pressed to stop #13 without any assistance. Fortunately, I ate that fucker up. I stole the ball, passed it off, and someone else passed to another person who scored.
Not long after, I had another opportunity. Someone kicked it toward #13, but a little past him, so he would have to run to it. I beat him there, drilled the ball away, and once again someone dished it off to someone else who scored. And just like that, we were tied again, and we had all the momentum.
If I remember correctly, the next thing to happen was our tiebreaker. We had a bunch of people on offense trying to make something happen, and I was one of them. Someone passed me the ball, and I had a fairly decent opening, so I fired another shot. The goalie charged at it, but the ball ricocheted off one of the other opponents' shoulder, dropped over the goalie's head, and into the goal.
That's right -- three goals for the Viceman. I don't know how to explain that. But it happened, I swear to God.
We had the lead until somebody slipped past and hit a really tricky shot to tie it up again. But our defense held them, and I'm pretty sure Superman hit the next goal, making it 9-8. I came out soon after that, and in the final minutes someone got another goal to ice the game. We won 10-8. It was fucking fantastic. To know that we beat a good team by coming from three goals down - not once, but twice - and to know that I helped lead the charge each time (despite my staggering incompetence in the first half) was an amazing feeling.
Really, who needs actual skills when you've got luck?
Thursday, February 21, 2008
FY,T2 - Technology Strikes Back
I could never be a Luddite. (Or neo-Luddite, or whatever is correct - the guys that oppose technology.) I'm not one of those people who would rather have been born in the 1800's, or 1950's, or whatever. I loves me my technologies. As an attorney and an aspiring writer of bad-ass sci-fi/fantasy, I love my laptop to death. I've tried writing on a typewriter before, and it's fun for the first 30 seconds, until you want to rewrite something, and then you pretty much have to scrap the whole project and start over. I love the internets. I love cell phones. I love rocket-guided missiles that can shoot down satellites and filthy Russians. I love laser pointers that drive cats nuts. I love special effects. I love fuel-injected cars. I hate robots, but I like TV shows about blowing robots up.
Still, technology has been biting me in the ass lately with its robotic teeth. Witness my partner in law's account of yesterday, which felt a lot like it must have felt to be a Holocaust victim (if, in fact, such a thing happened).
And more and more, I'm seeing technology that I just don't need or want. For instance, the magical paper towel dispensers that you just wave at and they dispense towels. Or the sinks that you wave at and they dispense water. I know the theory behind each is the reduction of germs, because you don't have to contact these surfaces with your hands. But when I stand in front of these things waving my hands in vain and getting no towels or water, I feel like a fucking retard. I don't know why, but some of these things you either have to wave your hands just right, or else nothing you can do will trigger them. Either way, same result - I stand there unable to perform a ridiculously simple task, just because some toolbag decided we needed to upgrade our hand washing/drying to the point where we can't wash/dry our hands anymore. Keep that shit -- I'll stick with the manual method.
Also, I still can't access any of my bank accounts.
Still, technology has been biting me in the ass lately with its robotic teeth. Witness my partner in law's account of yesterday, which felt a lot like it must have felt to be a Holocaust victim (if, in fact, such a thing happened).
And more and more, I'm seeing technology that I just don't need or want. For instance, the magical paper towel dispensers that you just wave at and they dispense towels. Or the sinks that you wave at and they dispense water. I know the theory behind each is the reduction of germs, because you don't have to contact these surfaces with your hands. But when I stand in front of these things waving my hands in vain and getting no towels or water, I feel like a fucking retard. I don't know why, but some of these things you either have to wave your hands just right, or else nothing you can do will trigger them. Either way, same result - I stand there unable to perform a ridiculously simple task, just because some toolbag decided we needed to upgrade our hand washing/drying to the point where we can't wash/dry our hands anymore. Keep that shit -- I'll stick with the manual method.
Also, I still can't access any of my bank accounts.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Throwing Off the Yoke Of Oppression
The transformation is complete - my home is now 150% Charter-free. After years of putting up with Charter's bullshit, Vice has gone satellite, and oh what a wonderful feeling it is. Let's recount the highlights of Charter's reign of terror:
- The first time I had Charter, my payments were made by Charter taking automatic withdrawals from my checking account each month. After a semester of unemployment, my checking account was just about running on empty going into the summer. Then, when I cancelled my service, Charter automatically deducted $90 from my account. Why? There weren't any cancellation fees, or fees for failing to return my shit, or money I owed from previous months. No, it was a "We're going to try to fuck you over and hope you don't watch your account transactions carefully" fee. Naturally, that $90 put me in the red and left me putting everything on my charge card until my summer internship started paying off. My parents were actually floating me their loose change to carry me over for a few weeks. And, of course, Charter couldn't just put the money back in my account. Oh no. For some reason, it took over two months before I saw that money again. Assholes.
- In the fall of 2007, PH decided to get Charter for her apartment, which I was fortunate enough to frequent regularly. After a couple months, Charter determined that PH was late with her payments, and decided to shut off her service completely. Of course, they had been paid in full. PH tried to explain this, to no avail. When they refused to turn the service back on, PH chose to stop paying for realz. As a matter of principle, of course, she never obtained service at that apartment again, and due to Charter's blatant douchebaggery, we struggled through fuzzy antenna television stations and no convenient internet access for about eight months before finally moving out. Assholes.
- After moving to a new apartment, we (reluctantly) signed up with Charter once again, since they basically own Madison. After obtaining cable and internet for reasonable rates for the first six months, the introductory period ended, and the infamous price increases took effect, sending our bill up approximately $30/month. That, of course, was expected. At the same time, however, Charter chose to eliminate the lower levels of internet speeds they previously offered, forcing everyone to receive and pay the correspondingly higher rate for 5mb internet. This increased our bill by an additional $20/month. So, in the course of one month, we went from paying approximately $70/month to paying $120/month with very little change in the actual services we received. Assholes.
- And let's not forget Charter's dicktastic refusal to work out something with the Big Ten Network, thereby depriving Madisonians from the ability to watch BTN-broadcast Badger football (and other sports) from the comfort of their own homes, forcing us into packed sportsbars with limited visibility of the game. Then they had the gall to air ads portraying themselves as the good guy fighting for the viewers, blaming the Big Ten Network for the whole thing. The Big Ten Network may be a steaming pile, but if you fuckers think for one hot second I'm gonna believe you give half a shit about your viewers, think again. Assholes.
Ultimately, the price increase was the last straw. We hit the phone book and did a little research, and decided to switch to TDS. Now we have local phone, internet, satellite TV, and DVR for about $100/month, with a guarantee that prices will not increase in the next 2 years.
Plus, the DVR is amazing. No longer are we slaves to the broadcast times, having to be home and ready to watch at exactly the right moments, having to stop what we're doing at certain intervals or miss what we want to see. One of the most satisfying moments came just half an hour ago, when the Colbert Report began, and I was in the kitchen making myself a gi-fucking-normous bowl of popcorn. I still had a minute of popping left to go when the show began, and as much as I love the popcorn piping hot out of the microwave, I didn't want to miss the opening minutes. Then the realization hit - I didn't have to. I waited, cracked open my popcorn, and poured myself a drink, all while Colbert was up and running. Then I sat down, ate my popcorn, and rewound to the start of the show. Awesome.
Right now I'm watching Ninja Warrior. There's not even any Ninja Warrior on right now.
Of course, TDS could also prove to be complete cockbags. But I'm confident that any type of shit they might pull will pale in comparison to the festering anal wart that is Charter Communications. Goodbye, and good riddance.
- The first time I had Charter, my payments were made by Charter taking automatic withdrawals from my checking account each month. After a semester of unemployment, my checking account was just about running on empty going into the summer. Then, when I cancelled my service, Charter automatically deducted $90 from my account. Why? There weren't any cancellation fees, or fees for failing to return my shit, or money I owed from previous months. No, it was a "We're going to try to fuck you over and hope you don't watch your account transactions carefully" fee. Naturally, that $90 put me in the red and left me putting everything on my charge card until my summer internship started paying off. My parents were actually floating me their loose change to carry me over for a few weeks. And, of course, Charter couldn't just put the money back in my account. Oh no. For some reason, it took over two months before I saw that money again. Assholes.
- In the fall of 2007, PH decided to get Charter for her apartment, which I was fortunate enough to frequent regularly. After a couple months, Charter determined that PH was late with her payments, and decided to shut off her service completely. Of course, they had been paid in full. PH tried to explain this, to no avail. When they refused to turn the service back on, PH chose to stop paying for realz. As a matter of principle, of course, she never obtained service at that apartment again, and due to Charter's blatant douchebaggery, we struggled through fuzzy antenna television stations and no convenient internet access for about eight months before finally moving out. Assholes.
- After moving to a new apartment, we (reluctantly) signed up with Charter once again, since they basically own Madison. After obtaining cable and internet for reasonable rates for the first six months, the introductory period ended, and the infamous price increases took effect, sending our bill up approximately $30/month. That, of course, was expected. At the same time, however, Charter chose to eliminate the lower levels of internet speeds they previously offered, forcing everyone to receive and pay the correspondingly higher rate for 5mb internet. This increased our bill by an additional $20/month. So, in the course of one month, we went from paying approximately $70/month to paying $120/month with very little change in the actual services we received. Assholes.
- And let's not forget Charter's dicktastic refusal to work out something with the Big Ten Network, thereby depriving Madisonians from the ability to watch BTN-broadcast Badger football (and other sports) from the comfort of their own homes, forcing us into packed sportsbars with limited visibility of the game. Then they had the gall to air ads portraying themselves as the good guy fighting for the viewers, blaming the Big Ten Network for the whole thing. The Big Ten Network may be a steaming pile, but if you fuckers think for one hot second I'm gonna believe you give half a shit about your viewers, think again. Assholes.
Ultimately, the price increase was the last straw. We hit the phone book and did a little research, and decided to switch to TDS. Now we have local phone, internet, satellite TV, and DVR for about $100/month, with a guarantee that prices will not increase in the next 2 years.
Plus, the DVR is amazing. No longer are we slaves to the broadcast times, having to be home and ready to watch at exactly the right moments, having to stop what we're doing at certain intervals or miss what we want to see. One of the most satisfying moments came just half an hour ago, when the Colbert Report began, and I was in the kitchen making myself a gi-fucking-normous bowl of popcorn. I still had a minute of popping left to go when the show began, and as much as I love the popcorn piping hot out of the microwave, I didn't want to miss the opening minutes. Then the realization hit - I didn't have to. I waited, cracked open my popcorn, and poured myself a drink, all while Colbert was up and running. Then I sat down, ate my popcorn, and rewound to the start of the show. Awesome.
Right now I'm watching Ninja Warrior. There's not even any Ninja Warrior on right now.
Of course, TDS could also prove to be complete cockbags. But I'm confident that any type of shit they might pull will pale in comparison to the festering anal wart that is Charter Communications. Goodbye, and good riddance.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
IRS (Income-Raping Scavengers)
The IRS has decided to rape me. Higher tax bracket my ass. If that's the case, why don't I have any more money than I used to? I haven't been spending any more than I used to. I guess there's a major difference in taxation between "poor" and "slightly less poor."
Now I will have to start making quarterly estimated tax payments in earnest. Something about the "time value of money," so the IRS decides it needs it before I actually make it. Well that's great, considering SPD doesn't pay me until two-three weeks after the case is closed, which is generally three months after I start it. So, to review, here is my taxation/income chronology:
1. I pay the IRS on income I haven't made yet
2. I do the work
3. I get the income on work I did months ago and paid taxes on several months ago
Here's a question - where the fuck is my "time value of money?"
Now I will have to start making quarterly estimated tax payments in earnest. Something about the "time value of money," so the IRS decides it needs it before I actually make it. Well that's great, considering SPD doesn't pay me until two-three weeks after the case is closed, which is generally three months after I start it. So, to review, here is my taxation/income chronology:
1. I pay the IRS on income I haven't made yet
2. I do the work
3. I get the income on work I did months ago and paid taxes on several months ago
Here's a question - where the fuck is my "time value of money?"
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Monsterous
The wait is finally over, folks. After months and months of viral marketing and hype, Cloverfield has come out, and I have seen it.
WARNING: Spoilers ahead.
It was brutal. It was hideous. It was the culmination of all movie monsters - think of everything that frightens you, everything that creeps you out -- this monster had all that and more.
And now, I will reveal it to you.
Here it is, folks, in all it's glory - the Cloverfield monster is:
A giant half-chicken, half-squirrel.
Yeah, I was surprised too.
Sorry I couldn't find a bigger picture. I assume everyone on the internets was simply too afraid to upload anything larger.
That's right, I've seen the monster that tore apart Manhattan. I know what it is.
WARNING: Spoilers ahead.
It was brutal. It was hideous. It was the culmination of all movie monsters - think of everything that frightens you, everything that creeps you out -- this monster had all that and more.
And now, I will reveal it to you.
Here it is, folks, in all it's glory - the Cloverfield monster is:
A giant half-chicken, half-squirrel.
Yeah, I was surprised too.
Sorry I couldn't find a bigger picture. I assume everyone on the internets was simply too afraid to upload anything larger.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Backbone
Goddamnit. Just once I wish I could get a client with some spine. Everybody wants to fight their case, until it's a couple months down the road and they're still sitting in jail, or they're scared of getting a criminal conviction, and no one wants to try the case.
Well I want to try the case! Pussies.
God, get some spine. Stop thinking of yourselves. Face it, you can afford to sacrifice a little freedom and peace of mind for the sake of me getting to go nutty in court.
Well I want to try the case! Pussies.
God, get some spine. Stop thinking of yourselves. Face it, you can afford to sacrifice a little freedom and peace of mind for the sake of me getting to go nutty in court.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Dude, Stop Fucking Calling Me
Look, I know you don't want to go to jail. But you're going to. And there ain't a goddamn thing I can do about it.
Not that I want to, of course. I think you should go to jail. You committed like 10 different crimes, then flipped your shit when you found out the judge wanted you to spend some time in jail. What the fuck did you expect?
Now you want me to try to do the impossible. File the Magic Motion. Convince the judge to put you on house arrest. Never mind the fact that I already asked the judge to put you on house arrest, and in no uncertain terms, he basically gave the legal equivalent of "Fuck you, you lowlife, stupid piece of shit. Rot in jail. Peace!" Remember how, after going on a tirade about how you went on a crime spree, the judge actually apologized for how worked up he got? Guess what? He wasn't apologizing to you. He was apologizing to everyone else in the court that witnessed him showing how he really felt, rather than being objective and level, as a judge is supposed to.
You know why it happened in the first place? Because you're a fuckup, and you fucked up, over and over. Then, after we worked out a sentence where half of your jail time would get stayed if you successfully completed alcohol treatment, then you go and ask him to give you a break on the rest of it. Like yeah, you really got a raw deal. I feel sorry for your sorry ass.
Guess what? You don't want to go to jail? STOP BREAKING THE LAW!
If you call me tomorrow, and I'm there to take the call, this is what I'm going to say:
"I'm sorry, Mr. ______. There's nothing more I can do for you. Take care."
Now, since you're so goddamned dense that you can't take a fucking hint, here's what it means:
"I hope you die. No, seriously. I hope you get pulled over by the police, just for being an asshole. I hope the cop comes up to your window and asks you a question. I hope you look at him and say something retarded, like you always do. And I hope that cop whips out his baton and bashes in your fucking skull. You know why I'd like to see that happen? Because I'm a man who appreciates justice. So fucking die already, you worthless, witless piece of human excrement."
Talk to you tomorrow, pal.
Not that I want to, of course. I think you should go to jail. You committed like 10 different crimes, then flipped your shit when you found out the judge wanted you to spend some time in jail. What the fuck did you expect?
Now you want me to try to do the impossible. File the Magic Motion. Convince the judge to put you on house arrest. Never mind the fact that I already asked the judge to put you on house arrest, and in no uncertain terms, he basically gave the legal equivalent of "Fuck you, you lowlife, stupid piece of shit. Rot in jail. Peace!" Remember how, after going on a tirade about how you went on a crime spree, the judge actually apologized for how worked up he got? Guess what? He wasn't apologizing to you. He was apologizing to everyone else in the court that witnessed him showing how he really felt, rather than being objective and level, as a judge is supposed to.
You know why it happened in the first place? Because you're a fuckup, and you fucked up, over and over. Then, after we worked out a sentence where half of your jail time would get stayed if you successfully completed alcohol treatment, then you go and ask him to give you a break on the rest of it. Like yeah, you really got a raw deal. I feel sorry for your sorry ass.
Guess what? You don't want to go to jail? STOP BREAKING THE LAW!
If you call me tomorrow, and I'm there to take the call, this is what I'm going to say:
"I'm sorry, Mr. ______. There's nothing more I can do for you. Take care."
Now, since you're so goddamned dense that you can't take a fucking hint, here's what it means:
"I hope you die. No, seriously. I hope you get pulled over by the police, just for being an asshole. I hope the cop comes up to your window and asks you a question. I hope you look at him and say something retarded, like you always do. And I hope that cop whips out his baton and bashes in your fucking skull. You know why I'd like to see that happen? Because I'm a man who appreciates justice. So fucking die already, you worthless, witless piece of human excrement."
Talk to you tomorrow, pal.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Resolved: Eat More Fried Food
Of all the things that make a man's life worth living, glory and fried food have to be two of the top five. So what better way to ring in the new year than inviting one's friends over, setting up a 30 quart deep fryer, and frying the shit out of some outrageously good food? 
On the menu for the night: Deep-fried turkey. Deep-fried jalapeno poppers with bacon and cheese. Deep-fried tempura vegetables. And for dessert, deep-fried twinkies. Not to mention PH's ooey, gooey, melt-in-your-mouth, orgasm-inducing chocolate chip cookies which, while not deep fried, were spectacular nonetheless.
Also, note the roaring hippopotamus standing guart atop the candle, watching over the bountiful feast. Bad ass.
Our good friend Mr. Utah made the long, dark voyage from the barren wastelands of the BRF to join us, and his presence was extraordinary as always. First, he devised a phenomenal name for the new firm, "Ismael, Vice, Goliath & Slagathor" (edited to protect our respective last shreds of
anonymity). Second, he whipped out quite possibly the greatest line of the night, and I quote: "I guarantee that in the modern age, Skeletor would get tons of poon." Touchee.
anonymity). Second, he whipped out quite possibly the greatest line of the night, and I quote: "I guarantee that in the modern age, Skeletor would get tons of poon." Touchee.Pictured to the right is Mr. Utah being heinously violated by Mr. Ismael.
Finally, Mr. Ismael now requests that he be henceforth referred to as "The Frymaster."
Hope everyone else's New Years were as sweet as this one.
Friday, December 28, 2007
It's Official
To quote Flight of the Conchords, (in falsetto, singing) "It's business....it's business time!"
The legal supergroup MZRM's two greatest attorneys who still live in Madison will now be joining forces to create a partnership. Or an LLC. Or...one of those things. An L.L.Something. Just like L.L. Cool J. It'll be like Mama Said Knock You Out, At law.
So I don't know much about business. Fuck you.
Anyway, I've got a solid foundation for a client base, and Mr. Ismael is starting his as well. I've got money saved away that I forgot about, thus enabling me to not go broke immediately.
There's a lot to do, obviously. Finding office space. Finding office furniture. Developing a business plan. Developing a secret handshake. And most importantly, coming up with a name.
Community Justice Commandoes at Law, anyone?
The legal supergroup MZRM's two greatest attorneys who still live in Madison will now be joining forces to create a partnership. Or an LLC. Or...one of those things. An L.L.Something. Just like L.L. Cool J. It'll be like Mama Said Knock You Out, At law.
So I don't know much about business. Fuck you.
Anyway, I've got a solid foundation for a client base, and Mr. Ismael is starting his as well. I've got money saved away that I forgot about, thus enabling me to not go broke immediately.
There's a lot to do, obviously. Finding office space. Finding office furniture. Developing a business plan. Developing a secret handshake. And most importantly, coming up with a name.
Community Justice Commandoes at Law, anyone?
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Well I'll Be Damned
I didn't intend this to be a full movie review, but what the hell...
Evan Almighty
To my complete surprise, this movie didn't completely suck. Yeah, I know. It cost like $50,000 billion dollars to make, which is outrageous for a 90 minute comedy. I know, it's got Steve Carrell essentially playing Noah. And yeah, there's a flood. And Wanda Sykes. Re-fucking-diculous, I know.
Still, some of it was pretty good. For one thing, a movie that Steve Carrell signs off on can't be all bad. Logically, some of the writing had to be pretty funny, and.....it was. There were a few good jokes here and there. Also, the sheer absurdity of some the plot made it generally pretty amusing. And, I'll admit, it had some pretty cute moments, and a life-affirming story.
Granted, some of it was just lame. I'm kinda getting sick of the pro-environment plots coming out of some of today's comedies, and this was no exception. Not that I'm anti-environment, but a comedy with a pro-environment agenda bothers me along the lines of Shoot Em Up with an anti-gun policy. No thanks.
Also, there was an extended bit of slapstick humor during the ark-building scenes, where Steve Carrell injured himself in every way known to man, often repeating the same stupid mistake over and over, and often falling over for no apparent reason. I don't mind slapstick, but at least do it intelligently, and with a purpose.
All in all, I kinda liked the movie. Somebody got it for me for Christmas (not on my list), but I enjoyed it. So there.
My score: C+/B-
Recommendation: If you can step outside of your jaded, cynical selves and just try to enjoy it, it's not that bad. If you can't...well, I understand.
Evan Almighty
To my complete surprise, this movie didn't completely suck. Yeah, I know. It cost like $50,000 billion dollars to make, which is outrageous for a 90 minute comedy. I know, it's got Steve Carrell essentially playing Noah. And yeah, there's a flood. And Wanda Sykes. Re-fucking-diculous, I know.
Still, some of it was pretty good. For one thing, a movie that Steve Carrell signs off on can't be all bad. Logically, some of the writing had to be pretty funny, and.....it was. There were a few good jokes here and there. Also, the sheer absurdity of some the plot made it generally pretty amusing. And, I'll admit, it had some pretty cute moments, and a life-affirming story.
Granted, some of it was just lame. I'm kinda getting sick of the pro-environment plots coming out of some of today's comedies, and this was no exception. Not that I'm anti-environment, but a comedy with a pro-environment agenda bothers me along the lines of Shoot Em Up with an anti-gun policy. No thanks.
Also, there was an extended bit of slapstick humor during the ark-building scenes, where Steve Carrell injured himself in every way known to man, often repeating the same stupid mistake over and over, and often falling over for no apparent reason. I don't mind slapstick, but at least do it intelligently, and with a purpose.
All in all, I kinda liked the movie. Somebody got it for me for Christmas (not on my list), but I enjoyed it. So there.
My score: C+/B-
Recommendation: If you can step outside of your jaded, cynical selves and just try to enjoy it, it's not that bad. If you can't...well, I understand.
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