MS Paint WONDER

My Co-worker (the non-retarded one) told me I was a chef.
She sent me this:



Yeah, that's pretty much AWESOME.

Chinless Man of the Week

Matthew Goode

Notable for being possibly the only good bit about Woody Allen's schlobfest Matchpoint, Matthew Goode will soon be gracing the silver screen as Ozymandius in Zack Snyder's adaptation of Watchmen (!!!), bringing his chinless glory to millions of comic book nerds across the globe. And yes, we must forgive him his role in Chasing Liberty, for surely his dashing good looks and impressive height of 6'2" can earn him a dignified place among the other esteemed gentlemen on this list. Yes? Goode.

Daily Haiku for April 28, 2008

We got some cookies.

The co-workers swooped in;

they* didn't stand a chance.

Word of the Day

omnologist- (n.) A person with extensive knowledge in many areas, or with a formidable collection of general knowledge. An expert in many fields. One who seems to know everything.

"Britta."





*the cookies

Co-Worker Theatre Presents: The Zinger

Me:
(reading the news and finding interest in the ways of the world)
Did y'all hear that Japan ran out of butter?

Cubie #1:
(stares at me incredulously)
Ran OUT of BUTTER?!

Me:
(nods)
Yeah, it's on CNN, BBC and Reuters.

Cubie #1:
How does a country run out of butter?

Me:
Well, they're saying that since the price of grains and cattle feed is so expensive, the cows aren't producing as much as they should and butter production is delayed.

Cubie #1:
What the hell do COWS have to do with butter?!

Me:
(long pause)
Well...cows make milk you see...

Can you say "Schadenfreude"?

A Riddle.

Q: What do Byron "Buster" Bluth and Charlie Bucket have in common?




A: High-fastening pants.

So I'm TOTALLY live-blogging American Idol

Shaddup...it's Andrew Lloyd Weber night. That's my excuse.
Here we go:

Syesha Mercado-

“One Rock ‘n’ Roll Too Many”

Good performance. Messed the first line, came in late, but quickly recovered from these issues. Needs to be braver about those high notes. She has them, can use them. Grow a spine, kiddo! If I voted, she’d have my vote right now, if only for the fact she chose from Starlight Express.

Jason Castro-

“Memory”

Seriously?! MEMORY?! Why? Who let this kid choose and keep that choice? Why not throw the kid “Love Changes Everything”? He could have KILLED that song, or maybe even “Close Every Door To Me”. Not MEMORY! Double-you tee eff, get him off the stage. Especially since he bungled the ending and kept it low, butchering the best opportunity to show some balls strength.

Paula Abdul- how many strokes has she had? Is that what’s going on with her? She can’t possibly be drunk/narcotocized EVERY week (not like I watch every week, that’s what entertainment blogs are for)

Brooke White-

“You Must Love Me”

No, I don’t think I must. This girl…this girl, something about her faux-modesty and doe-eyes annoys me. Yes, she can sing…if you think a hissing tire with a nail stuck in it sounds harmonious. Yeah, she can carry a tune like a ton of bricks. She sounded dull, flat and bored with the very song she was trying to sound sad, upset and pleading.

UPDATE: I might feel bad if this is true, but is something wrong with her face? Like, she only speaks/sings out of one side of it and it’s really disturbing…like she’s a leering, baby-stealing nanny sitting by herself in the park.

David Archuleta-

“Think of Me”

Kid has an excellent career singing over Disney credits. Unless the apocalypse comes and pop-music decides this kid is the second coming of Peabo Bryson, I can’t see him being supremely successful on the whole. Kudos for the re-imagining, it was a nice take on a very well-known and getting tired tune. I liked it, but…Peabo Bryson.

Carly Smithson-

“Jesus Christ Superstar”

Like getting hit in the face with a bag full of AWESOME followed by a one-two punch of SWEETJEEBUS.

Honestly, live-blogging this, I don’t know how or who is going to follow that.

David Cook-

“Music of the Night”

Gerard Butler did it better, and that’s REALLY saying something. Nice outfit, Kiefer, what is this, 1988?

HAHAHAHA….and that longing gaze at the camera following “…let you BEEEE!” HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH….jeebus christo. “Touch me, trust me/ savour each sensation” who told him how to pronounce that? Kid, if you sing musical theatre, try to stick to ANYTHING Adam Pascal has done. Stay away from ALW. Much love, the Theatre Nerds.

Randy…”amazing”? Really?

Oh god, now they’re recapping. Lord Weber, I apologize on behalf of the Americans who completely muffed up your music.

Chinless Man of the Week

Michael Vartan

We might have Drew Barrymore to thank for this deliciously weak-chinned gent. Clocking in at a respectable 6ft., Michael Vartan won many a lady's heart as the tasty High School Teacher of a crush in Never Been Kissed, went on to become engaged to Jennifer Garner, tread the mythological waters of made-for-TV-movies and now holds down for the erstwhile series Big Shots. Aside from these achievements he's not only devilishly handsome but also spent his childhood summers memorizing Star Wars. Need there be another Chinless Man after Mr. Vartan? The answer, of course, is a straggled,"Yes!" while we concede this most illustrious honor of being the Chinless Man of the Week for April 21, 2008! Congrats, and welcome, Mr. Vartan.

(not so) Daily Haiku for April 17, 2008

Supermex: I ate

it. Now for the kidneys to

kick into first gear.

Word of the Day

roister- (v.) to act in a swaggering, boisterous, or uproarious manner.

"Rallying the rabble, Reginald roisterously regaled and roused the revolutionaries."

"To-morrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of to-day?"

Which is a worse situation: either a) having oodles of creativity bursting to be scored/written/orchestrated/spewed forth from your mighty pen/typed with your diligent keyboard/etc. and yet be lacking the time and place in which to do so; or b) having ample time with which to create genius, yet be lacking in the creativity you so desire to have?

I currently find myself suffering from the latter (option “b”) and am therefore spewing forth whatever nonsense I can think to write about. In this particular instance I find that I have writer’s block to write about which therefore completely eschews the theory and universal definition of said writer’s block. Perhaps in this rambling diatribe I will run out of things to say about writer’s block and will therefore fully succumb to the mind-racking numbness the affliction invariably leads to. I hope not, that would be awful. It would be a little like that page in Goodnight, Moon that is completely blank and only reads in the bottom corner, “Goodnight, nobody,” The sheer overwhelming crush of nothingness brought about by a simple case of writer’s block which, in a way, could be representative of existentialism on the whole.

Existentialism is the idea that our destinies are mapped out completely by us, the persons, with deities having little or no control over the whole thing; the idea of absolute nothingness, full existence, and eternal freedom.

Originally that whole idea seemed a little bleak, the idea that we truly are the masters of our own destiny and fate, that there are no great puppet strings controlling our actions and helping us along, that we are alone. But then I began to really think about it: the existentialist has nothing to fear. Whatever is going to happen will happen as they accept the consequences of their own actions. In a way, an accepting existentialist is possibly the most at peace person in all of creation. Say what you will, but while others are busy questioning whether or not they led a good and wholesome life, whether they truly abolished that original sin, whether those seventy-two virgins will be ready and willing whence they go wherever they will go, whether they achieved the sought approval from a higher power, I imagine the true existentialist does something sort of like this:

He sits back in his leather deskchair, feet propped up on his desk and arms crossed behind his head. Perhaps a mug of coffee sits near the mousepad, 4chan/b/ on the monitor as his lazy eyes roll towards the worrying nips that surround him. An all-knowing smirk crosses his lips and he briefly ponders the eternal question of “heaven or hell?” before the blip of thought fades into nothingness. Slowly, he lifts his legs from the desk and leans forward grasping the mug with one free hand, bringing towards his nose he deeply inhales enjoying the aroma of a well-made mug of coffee. He sips experimentally, it is delicious. Calmly, our existentialist replaces the mug on his desk, leans back and props his feet up once again as his cubicle mate glares at him from a cluttered corner.

Muttering quietly, the cubicle mate shuffles about cardboard coffee cups, folders and printouts. His monitor displays spreadsheets, matrices and word documents as his printer never ceases production. The Existentialist passing him a quiet glance before closing his eyes and humming quietly, “que sera sera, whatever will be…”

In my mind’s eye, our existentialist is wearing fitted pants, pointed boots and waistcoat, his sleeves rolled smugly halfway up his forearms, perhaps a bit of stubble grows on his face. Whereas the cubicle mate, working tirelessly through life to appease some higher ups wears something resembling Leo Bloom’s accountant’s uniform.

So, back to Goodnight, Moon and that page that troubles me so…”Goodnight, nobody,” As holyjuan.com pointed out, who is nobody? On the blank page there exists no “person,” so who is it? Asking this I am straying from my original point, so I’ll just get to that now in examining that page as purely existential fare: perhaps nobody is the existentialist; the person who had no one to answer to but himself and therefore failed to create any discernible identity within the confines of societal expectation. This is the sort of scary existentialist I had originally imagined when the philosophy was first introduced: the existentialist who, under all circumstances, fails to be. But now I realize that there are two kinds of existentialist: the nobodies- those without identity simple wafting through time until they have exhausted their purposeless life, and the somebodies- those who, understanding the lack of previously mentioned puppet strings, become their own Puppetmasters. Current society would tend to call them atheists as your standard existentialist, in upholding the credo of the philosophy, does not believe in a higher power, but these are the people who, when looking into the void and understanding the nothingness achieve something from it by embracing the pure and simple fact that they exist.

In as much, writer’s block may be seen as a basal form of existentialism in that the hypothetical block represents a Nothingness, a barrier beyond which someone cannot succeed, create and be. As with existentialism, there are differing approaches to writer’s block; you can give up and try another day, or you can keep trudging through until you have a philosophical argument on the screen before you. Either way, however, the end question is almost always the same: how do you finish?

Like this.

Reviews of Movies You've Already Seen: Batman- Mask of the Phantasm

Last night the roommate and I decided to battle the mid-week malaise by firing up one of the two movies Netflix had so kindly placed in our mail slot. Might I say that one of the greatest pleasures Netflix offers is a game I like to play called:

The rules are as follows:

1. Log-in to your Netflix account

1a. Should you not currently possess a Netflix account, get one (I recommend the 3 DVD deal-io for the simple reason that that is what I use and when have you ever known me to steer you in the wrong…wait, no… better rethink that question.). Once you have procured a Netflix account, return to step 1 [above].

2. Add a whole bunch of movies into your queue. I suggest first rating films you’ve seen and adding almost anything the algorithm says you would enjoy.
3. Enter your queue and shuffle things around a bit. You wouldn’t want to receive three films of the same ilk, now would you? Trust me, even Twyker can get old after a time, not to mention the off-chance that the algorithm suggested you rent all American Pie movies back to back. If so, my condolences to your family.
4. Await the fun!

So, ANYWAYS, yesterday arrived Batman-Mask of the Phantasm and 3:10 To Yuma, both of which seemed to be aching for a view, but as the roommate and I were in dire need of fighting the aforementioned mid-week malaise we popped Batman- Mask of the Phantasm into ye olde DVD player(e); a good choice.

The film starts off promisingly enough with a choral version of the ubiquitous Batman: The Animated Series theme song. The world of Bruce Timm is deliciously foreboding as we sweep through the streets of Gotham just in time to see the Dark Knight kicking the ever-loving bajeesus out of some baddies. Off to a good start, yo.

Now, as most of us have probably not seen this film in about fifteen years, let me pause to remind of its premise. The tagline tells us that “The Dark Knight fights to save Gotham city from its deadliest enemy”; which I automatically assumed to be pollution. Poised and ready to witness the Batman turn Gotham green I dimmed the lights in our apartment so as to help the cause. APPARENTLY that’s not was this film is about, but whatever.

So basically, this “Ghost of Christmas Future” dude (aka The Phantasm, even though we never hear the character referred to as such) starts showing up all mask and long flowing cape complete with magical-voodoo-make-you-disappear fog and killing the various mob bosses in Gotham (seemingly a recent development as the only mob bosses setup so far in the Animated Universe were Arnold Stromwell and Rupert Thorne…maaaaybe Tony “Boss” Zucco if you absolutely must split hairs) who have apparently wronged said Phantasm in some way. The catch is- donning a mask and cape, witnesses of the crimes mistake the Phantasm for Batman and thus a smear campaign begins (again) against Gotham's Greatest Defender.

Enter random love interest for Bruce Wayne in the guise Andrea Beaumont- girlfriend/fiancé from Bruce Wayne’s youth…wait, what? FIANCÉ? Our Bruce Wayne?! Clearly, I did not remember this portion of the film when I was ten years old. But anyways, she shows up and starts messing with Mr. Wayne’s mentality, calling into question the very reasons he pursues his midnights quests.

So things proceed along undulating nicely between love interest, chase scenes, a fight with the Phantasm and the Batman getting shot at in a construction site (a scene I definitely remember being concerned about as a child and now find myself going, “Holy hell, Spiderman III totally ripped off of Batman:MotP. Wtf.”) during which we are treating to varying flashbacks recounting how a young and dashing Bruce Wayne met said Andrea Beaumont, their courtship, Alfred’s approval and the following dénouement of the relationship involving a giant ol’ rock, Daddy Beaumont’s mob ties and an unscarred Joker…wait…Joker?! Oh hells yeah, this just got good. Good and confusing as we now try to figure out exactly who Gotham’s deadliest enemy is. Pollution? A corrupt infrastructure? This Phantasm cat? Or The Joker?

Not wanting to spoil any film noir surprises you may have in store for you (whatever you do, don't look to the left. DON'T DO IT! I told you not to.), I will simply fast forward to a part of the film I was strangely/happily intrigued by. The Joker, being hidden away so nicely, has taken up residence at the abandoned Gotham World’s Fair (I’m guessing the site is about fifteen years old based on that fact that Brucie met Andrea in college and they attended the World’s Fair in one amusing flashback) all on his lonesome. Seemingly for no better reason than Harley Quinn is tucked away in Arkham and all other villains have fled the Gotham city limits, the Joker has decided to pack the twenty miles of tunnels running underneath the fair grounds full of TNT. Now, I ask you, why would anyone do that? I mean, I know he’s the Joker and crazier than Naomi Campbell on an airplane, but c’mon…who packs twenty miles of tunnels with full-on eff-your-shit-up dynamite and then tells Batman that he has done so?! Definitely not your best work, Clown Prince of Crime (which was, I might add, your turning a Christmas Tree into a rocket and busting out of the loony-bin. CLASSIC!).

But I digress, Batman: MotP most definitely stood the test of time as a well-written, awesomely animated Bruce Timm production. If you are a Batman fan and have not yet seen this, shame on you; but if you have seen it then congratulations, let’s go buy some beer and watch cartoons together.

P.S. Eff you, Starman.

Chinless Man of the Week

Chris Wall


There seems to be a musician-themed tangent to our recent Chinless Men, but really now...who's complaining? Chris Wall, ladies and gents! The weakly be-chinned frontman of the Bournemouth born 'n' bred band Air Traffic. Look at him; perched with delicate balance atop that guitar case, tickling those ivories with talented delight whilst fully aware of the glory his profile is casting upon that fish-eye lens. Tasty. Whether he's wailing into a microphone, bashfully being interviewed, or composing catchy hooks involving a chorus of cacophonous kazoos, Chris Wall is quickly reaching the higher ranks of our Chinless Men of the Week.

Daily Haiku for April 7, 2008

Oh sweet jeebus child

That really took three hours?

Effective time kill!

Word of the Day

apace- (adv.) with speed; quickly; swiftly.

"Algernon's apostatic atheism adhered with accumulated apace."

Reviews of Movies You’ve Already Seen: Starman

Seriously, what the hell. I don’t even know where to begin with this movie. How about the high-hopes I had for it? I mean, Marion Ravenwood and The Dude, together. Life (supposedly) cannot get much better than that, right? WRONG. So freaking wrong I can’t even begin. Not even the glory of the 34 year old wrangler wearing Jeff Bridges is able to keep this movie from being the massive amount of suck that it is.

A brief synopsis: Karen Allen’s husband is dead; she’s drunk and watching videos of the aforementioned dead husband (played adorably by the aforementioned 34 yr old Jeff Bridges). She’s also wearing underwear and what I assume is the aforementioned dead husband’s flannel shirt.

Meanwhile, in the atmosphere: the Starman’s spaceship has been fired upon and disabled by the friendly US Military, forcing him to crash just outside of Karen Allen’s house where she has passed out dead drunk after downing what I further assume was her seventh bottle of prison hooch (why a bottle? Because she’s a classy lady, yo.).

Eventually the Starman gets into the house and begins rooting through her belongings, during the course of which he locates a lock of the aforementioned dead husband’s hair (because that’s not creepy). Sampling the DNA held within he begins to morph into a very naked and very cute 34 year old Jeff Bridges (see: TRON). One would think this would please me. Nope, sorry- this movie is so bad that not even a barely clothed Jeff Bridges in his prime can save it. And gentlemen, don’t even think Karen Allen in her skivvies will help your cause as she seems to be acting under the very prescient influence of one Lindsey Lohan (a rather impressive feat considering li’l Lohan was not even a money-encrusted twinkle in her mother’s eye in 1984).

So, now that Jeff Bridges is nakers and Karen Allen is freaking out, somehow he convinces her that he must reach Winslow, AZ in three(3) days...OR DIE!!!1!11one!! Aaaannd, that’s about where I stopped watching. A quick jaunt over to imdb.com told me that somehow along their journey of approx. 1,806 miles (1.2 days), the Starman saves Karen Allen from the baddies, they fall in love and he even manages to get her knocked up; so that sounds cool in a not at all cool sort of way.

Let’s see what a reviewer on imdb had to say:

“The achingly gorgeous Karen Allen and the sublime Jeff Bridges star in this story of love and innocence. A magical movie, with a poignant, otherworldly score sees John Carpenter direct a movie outside his usual genre. Well, all the planets came into alignment for this one, as it is a heart warming emotionally involving ride from start to finish.

This would be one of my 10 "Desert Island" movies.

-andrew.harrison"

You know what, andrew.harrison? Fuck you, that movie was bloody awful.

Permanecer sentados, por favor.

Pop quiz, hot shot: It’s Thursday night, 6pm. The Nurse has the night off and all three of the little roommates are bored. WHAT DO YOU DO!?!?!?

Go to Disneyland, duh.

Here’s a tip: if you ever find yourself living within 15 miles of the Magic Kingdom and you don’t own an Annual Passport, you my friend are retarded. I don’t care if you harbor an unbridled hatred of the amusement park that borders on the psychotically commitable. Get one, get it now. It WILL come in handy at some point; whether it be with wayward familial visitors requesting a visit, or simply boredom on any given night. Still hate the idea? Go to DCA first, head to the Wharf area and gulp down however many frosty Karl Strauss brews your wallet can handle. It’ll dull the searingly unbearable pain that is High School Musical 2: School's Out, I promise.

Still not impressed? Well, just limp that credit card over to Uva Bar or the House of Blues and continue to drink until the saccharine pain fades away. There, now you’re ready to join me- the sober one who enjoys the park while intoxicated (huzzah!) and while not.

So last night: pretty fun. Park was a little crowded for spring break, but seeing as it was around 7:30 by the time we got in the children had dissipated away to the comforting arms of whatever dreamland they call home. While still rampant with overactive teenagers, Disneyland nearing 8pm becomes the home of the teen to twenty-something set, thank the gods; and once the fireworks end you’re almost guaranteed to witness a mass exodus of anything under 5 ft tall…but I digress.

First stop was a food stop as The Nurse had a hankering for the Carnation Café which, sadly, had shuttered its windows for the evening. Next stop? The French Market over in New Orleans Square, a walk through feedateria that the roommates had never been too. For the record, they serve just about everything with chicken, red beans, rice and Tasso ham. Not an overly vegetarian friendly food stop unless you don’t mind sticking to whatever soup du jour decided to let the little animals live to see another day. Last night was Cheddar and Broccoli soup in a sour dough bread bowl. Not bad at all, I say!

As the roommates had never been to French Market (for shame!) it was a new experience for them. Sadly it was getting a tad late into Thor’s day so the usual zydeco/jazz fusion band wasn’t anywhere in sight, nor where the imitation pirates and their randy little accordions (balls.), so we were without Disneytastic entertainment aside from the 9 yr. old girl determined to dance to the music in her head whilst swirling about in her yellow ball gown. I must say, there is something hypnotically upsetting about small girls in cheap wigs and ball gowns…you want to simultaneously laugh and cry all the while applauding the parents for purchasing the Belle costume and avoiding the Hannah Montana wig/head mic combo.

After dinner it was time for Haunted Mansion- the new script seems to have been put into play, and the staff seemed to be enjoying themselves last night. Even the Lurch-esque attendant at the bottom of the stairwell managed an extra special aura of foreboding. We followed this with Big Thunder Mtn. Railway during which the fireworks began blasting the ever-loving jeebus out of the Anaheim atmosphere. Taking advantage of the halted crowds gazing towards the heavens with vacant eyes we dashed our way around the backside of Thunder Mtn., scooted through Fantasyland and hopped into line for the Matterhorn.

Ooooh…the Matterhorn, how my love has been increased ten-fold. Firstly, I adore this attraction. Even as a four year old absolutely terrified by the idea that a large monster with eyes that burned with the fire of Hades was dwelling within that fiberglass skyscraper I loved that fake mountain. But last night made me wish the damn thing was human so my love for it would be justified. First of all, a five minute wait is always a plus. Second of all, single rider seating- no herniated discs and bruised knees for this bunch! Thirdly, the ride stopped. Let me repeat that: STOPPED. As in, while we were on it the Matterhorn ceased running and we were escorted out of the toboggans, along the ridgeline and into the very living bowels of the miniature alp. HOLY HELL I’VE WAITING 24 YEARS FOR THIS DAY. What day? The day I got to go INSIDE the effing Matterhorn. INSIDE. Yeah, that’s right, my life is pretty much 90% fulfilled right now.

I can’t tell you how long I’ve silently prayed to the Amusement Park gods for a ride to breakdown while I was on-board. Hell, I’d be willing to sacrifice tiny adorable animals for the chance to wander around Space Mountain with the lights on. No joke. But yeah, it was super awesome and completely odd. First-of-all, the innards are quite huge, not really surprising, but interesting how the engineers are able to completely screw with ones sense of size and scale and throw you completely off your judgmental rocker. Inside there’s a continual hum of machinery, generators and the like accompanied by the tinge of a greasy, metallic and paintish smell resting just on top of the dust in the air. At some points you can look straight up to the underside of the basketball court where Tinkerbell is de-rigging post air raid. At other places you’re forced into a crouching stoop as you walk underneath the steel track, the only thing separating you from a certain crushing, painful (and wet) death being about four inches of fiberglass, two inches of wood and some paint.

It was inside this very behemoth of wonder and glory that I tucked my camera away inside my pocket, not wanting to risk confiscation by the hosen-clad employees escorting us through the mountain, so I shall do my best to continue this visual description: If you have ever been inside of a large hanger, a metals and/or plastics workshop, the stockroom of a large retail store, or wandered the bowels of any large arena (Bren-inites, that’ll do), that’s the sort of landscape you can expect. Wooden workbenches line the walls, white boards with various notes hang cock-eyed above them. A few lengths of lockers for the staff’s personal items fill the nooks and crannies, “out-of-order” banners, wooden signs, excess loden-coats, bollards and Disney employee paraphernalia are stuffed into corners and on top of the many boxes of light bulbs, cans of paint and general randomness cluttered against the walkways.

Above, zig-zagging dizzyingly between the enclosed tracks are catwalks that undulate without reason between gray painted steel walkways and awkwardly rambling wooden planks. Inside the Matterhorn it is painfully clear that a full renovation is needed to bring it up to code, yet this ramshackle operation merely adds to the child-like joy the experience offers. The bowels of the Matterhorn are perfectly matched to its rugged exterior, mismatched topiary and rusted steel beams. It is fabulous, and everything I had ever hoped it would be.

Cheerfully, the roommates and I struck up conversation with the employees as to why the ride had stopped functioning.

“We lost a customer” the Fraulein responds. Bewildered, we stare at her for a moment before speaking.

“What do you mean you ‘lost’ a customer?”

“I dunno” the Junge answers, “They just stopped the ride and told us to come get you guys.”

“So, someone jumped out of the line? Or off of the ride? Where did they go?” we ask, incredulously.

The Fraulein and Junge shrug and glance at each other. “I don’t know,’ she finally answers. “He’s around here somewhere.”

The five of us marvel at this fact as the Junge scribbles on a pad of paper. Grinning, he hands over a Re-Admission pass good for any attraction other than Nemo and they send us on our way. Not before we ask them to take a picture, of course.

I believe I was saying "Amy, don't touch my boo-" when this was taken.

As we exit our Alpine Expedition I spot a security guard standing by the tracks. Grinning sweetly I wander over to him and ask once again what happened. He gazes up on top of the mountain before answering me.

“Someone got away,” he states matter-of-factly.

“Did you catch them?” I ask. He looks at me for a moment, before glancing back to the mountain and answering with doubt in his voice.

“I don’t know…” he pauses and looks back to me, “I know as much as you do.”

Smiling, I thank him and wish luck before rejoining the Roommates as we head over to Space Mountain with our golden (greenish white) ticket. Pausing, we look up to the Matterhorn, still grinning from our adventure, and quickly locate a team of employees huddled around the summit. Silently we all tip our hats to the customer who disappeared, each of us somewhat jealous of whatever it is he has seen within the Matterhorn, but pleased with what we got instead.

In short: That was way freakin' cool.

Roqblog No. 2

Rehearsal this week was much improved upon last Tuesday’s fiasco (which I will get to in a moment. Patience, woman!). Firstly, I managed to avoid drinking a bottle and a half of wine the night before which is key. Although oodles of sleep were lacking (as per usual) I feel that the six mugs of green tea throughout the day managed to help me avoid too many vocal issues.

So last Tuesday…imagine if you will every euphonious note the human chords are capable of producing; from the soul stirring chestly rumbles to those heavenly angelic soprano warblings. Now push about two-thirds of those into a rusty, raspy flat region not unlike the Doldrums and you have what was going on with me. In short, not good; not good at all. It was the sort of rehearsal that makes one seriously wish to throw in the proverbial towel and swear to cease from any sort of vocally melodic past-times until the end of her days. But not me! Nay! I am a brave soul who (irresponsibly) drank too much wine, slept too few hours and managed to wholly blow out her voice during her lunch break on the day they were supposed to be doing rough recordings of what it all sounded like in order to nit-pick, critique and trash everything to bits, a.k.a., a day not to suck. Which I did…amazingly so. Hoo-boy, was it ever awful.

Adding into that awfulness, the drums gave out (which means that an iBook decided to roll over and die) halfway through a song that was finally sounding good which quickly spiraled the rehearsal into a “let’s play with our peddles and find new settings” session; granted the second bit of that wasn’t so awful, but even so I still felt bad about the whole thing. We did, however, do a quasi-acoustic version of the song tentatively called “Undefended” (we’ll see if that title makes it all the way through) which was kind of fun. As someone who routinely sucks at playing and/or learning to play the guitar (in my defense- it was a right handed acoustic, and I’m no Hendrix, yo.), I’m always amazed by skilled guitarists and their ability to fully understand that wacky instrument. I won’t digress too much on that train of thought simply because I’ll end up rambling like a damned fool, so the end.

Oh yes, and Strum (the guitarist) started playing a song I really hope we get to work on eventually; it was sincere and bittersweet and sounds lovely.

MOVING ON: This past Tuesday was a marked improvement upon that nightmarish session described above. So what if I had some sharps here and there. So what if Fingers (bassist) and Strum kept making faces which made it impossible to take anything seriously. It was fun and full of comraderie-ness, and that’s what this is about yes? Yes…yes it is.

Since we decided to shelve “The Song Whose Name Shall Not Be Mentioned” (seriously, it shan’t because the old title could possibly result in child molestation charges which nobody wants and as I am unable to saddle that tune with a good melody and lyrics a new title has not yet been assigned aside from “The Song Whose Name Shall Not Be Mentioned”) for the time being, focus was given to a livelier tune currently being called (by me) “Am Main”. I’d been having difficulty with the pacing, but after listening to nothing but Shingai Shoniwa’s scratched record vocals I think I finally figured out what it’s supposed to sound like. Now it’s melody tampering time! Both Fingers and Strum seem to like the original melody and chorus, so I have to go back over those and re-evaluate what works and what doesn’t. Fun!

Also got some rough recordings of two other songs which have allowed for some great jumping off points. Currently they’re titled “Undertow” and “Childhood Games”, although the latter title might change later on, but we shall see. ANYWAYS, the recordings are nice to have as I can hear what it sounds like and where I need to work on phrasing, shaping, timing and overall stylization. Hopefully the rooms won’t be so demmed cold from now on and I can avoid all that “Inverse Euphony” that was going on (seriously, what the hell Bomb Shelter? Your employee may be super cute and all, but do I really need to start wearing a scarf? There’s only so much a girl can do with six cups of green tea with lemon and honey before she gets frustrated…and has to pee…a lot).

All-in-all it was good. Starting after the 11^th we’ll be going into bi-weekly rehearsal mode. Most likely one “loud” at the Bomb Shelter and one “quiet” at somebody’s humble home; the “quiet” rehearsals will definitely be helpful as they won’t involve us spending money on a room and feeling pressured to use the time to generally RAWK. This way we’ll be able to really nit-pick the songs and focus on certain bits until everyone is happy. Until then, it’s back to the lyrical writing board and tampering with the “chosen ones”. Ahoy!

Daily Haiku for April 3, 2008

Aaaaand there goes another one.

2 lawyers 1 week

I could make a viral vid.

But who would watch it?

Word of the Day

apostasy- (n.) a total departure of or departure from one's religion, principles, party, cause, etc.

"Agonizingly affluent Abigail Anderson apostasized and agonized antagonistically."

Daily Haiku for April 2, 2008

Seriously guys, much appreciated.

Dear Science: Can you

please make a soda can that

opens quietly?

Word of the Day

oppugn- (v.) to call in question; dispute

"Oliver ostentatiously oppugned Olivia's obvious oracular ovations."

One Quick Note:

I just now noticed that yesterday I reached my 69th post on this, The Blog That Nobody Reads.

APRIL FOOL'S! to me for thinking 69 would happen...AHAHAHHAHAHAHA, I am lonely and sad.
Let's post a haiku, shall we?

Daily Haiku for April 1, 2008

I love my new shoes,

They are so cu-OHDEARGOD!!!!

My feetsies...they cry.

Word of the Day

scintilla- (n.) a minute particle; spark; trace

"Seriously, stop sending stupid scans of scintillic sensuousness. S'not cool, man. S'not cool."