Bulk Rate Verb Tenses

Otherwise Entitled

When Spam Email and A French Teacher Collide

OR

Add Inches to Your Conjugation!

Today's best spam email on my Gmail account is brought to us by one un-anonymous spammer, Liz Donne.

Liz writes:

Fw: Hows it been going?

L0 w and reasonable aPr !ces.

Valid for
24 hrs.
That flight attendant is not missing playing below the bridge at this exact moment.
Donna's daughter hasn't practiced playing yet.
Do you practice driving in London?
I don't miss jumping for three or four weeks.
Were those science teachers missing walking a few days ago?
I am not enjoying skiing among the trees at the moment.
Hasn't Buddy ever liked swimming?
Haven't you disliked reading?

Goodbye,
Liz Donne

I swear to God I had almost that exact list of sentences to translate for my final exam in French IV on irregular verb tenses. I expect Liz will soon write back, detailing my pronunciation faults and will make fun of the fact that I always pluralize nouns when I'm unsure of their gender. Y'know, just to complete the high school French experience.

The main question I have here is: What is she selling? There's no link. There's no questioning of my manhood, or even any mention of hot lesbian action. She's like the worst spam emailer of all time.

I do enjoy her statement that the pr!ces are both L0w and reasonable, though. I do love me some low prices on complicated verb conjugation.

Anatomy of a Horror Flick

A couple nights back, in my continuing effort to see every movie Blockbuster has ever stocked in the New Release section, I watched The Cave. Absolutely horrible. The only thing it has going for it is that I didn't technically see it until 2006, which means it didn't get to be listed as the Worst Movie of 2005 on my Big Movie Roundup. The whole thing is an utter mess and entirely unlikable.

But it did get me thinking (during the movie, which is a very bad sign) exactly why was I so offended by this piece of crap? And since I came up with a lot of reasons, I now present a rambling manifesto on what makes a good scary movie. (I love making sweeping uninformed pronunciations about things I know nothing about. Makes me feel extra special.)

The primary problem with The Cave is what's usually wrong with all really bad horror movies - they equate "Some Thing That is Scary" with "Something Scary."

Don't give up on my madness yet, I'm going somewhere here.

In the movie, the Thing that is Scary are these huge bat-like humanoids that fly around sightless in a cave. Yes, in general, giant bat-humans with Alien-type teeth are scary, in that empirical "anything that can disembowel you in the dark is scary" sort of way. But that does not mean that a movie about them will be scary. Or interesting.

To put it another way - Alien was not a scary movie because the creature was Scary (which it rightfully was). Alien was scary because the atmosphere in the ship, the interaction of the crew, and the resultant hunting that followed all combined together to create something creepy and realistic and stunningly scary.

The Cave starts with a Scary Thing, puts a bunch of people together that you don't really care about and has them get picked off one-by-one, expecting that the bats will do all the work for them, scare-wise. This is a colossal miscalculation on several levels - you only get flashes of the monsters initially and they aren't so much scary as just teeth, there is no sense of what they are or what they can do, all you know that they like to kill humans. It's not so much menace as it is just, y'know, violent.

Maybe the problem I really have is that there is a level of promise that you can almost see hidden behind the movie - the claustrophobia of being trapped miles underground in total blackness, the actually almost plausible concept of a closed ecosystem evolving in a bizarre manner, the resulting "infection" storyline - all the parts are there to be a much better movie than what resulted.

Instead of compelling dialogue and interesting character dynamics, though, you get stale lines and stereotypes that hurt the brain. Instead of ratcheting tension from dark and claustrophobic caves you have lighting everywhere and gigantic expanses and entirely gratuitous waterslides. Which I guess is a function of the action-movie side of things, but that doesn't make the movie any less bad.

I will admit, action-horror is a genre in itself and it's unfair to compare it to the more straight-up conventional horror, like say The Blair Witch or The Ring. This is your Alien, your Predator, or your AlienVsPredator (blech) type film, but still, the same rules still apply. You have to either make something directly relatable (tap into a real life fear - lost in the woods in Blair Witch), cohesive and atmospheric enough to work (implausible but still crazy scary like The Ring), or tensionally scary and frightening all the way through (Alien, Predator, or, in a different but similar way, The Grudge) to make me care. I need something to hang my horror on in a movie, and a bat with big teeth is not going to cut it.

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Oh, and a final note, don't even try to spring a twist at the end unless you've earned it, for serious. Nothing raises my ire faster than an undeserved parting shot. In other words, I have seen The Sixth Sense, and you sir, are no Sixth Sense.

Movies that I forever hate due to just such an offense - Fallen, Ghost Ship, and The Cave just to name three.

Ranting for the Sake of Ranting

Two unrelated and almost purposely obtuse rants on things that annoy me today:

• Okay, how many times in the past week have I seen (usually in reality TV show interviews) someone say "Well, I know I did my best, so I feel fine," immediately after losing/getting kicked off/being rejected/etc? Approximately 1,000,000 times by my count. How is this comforting to people? "I did my absolute best and I totally got smoked! Score!" That is not something to be proud of, that your best was not good enough. That is crushing! Vow to get better. Make up an excuse, blame a judge, the media, or God. Heck, freak out in the middle of the interview all mad-scientist/Bond villain and declare that You'll Destroy Them All and One Day You'll See, You'll All See Mwha Ha ha. But whatever you do, please don't accept your mediocrity in front of a TV viewing audience. It makes me sad.

• Yes, I got a haircut. I'm glad that you can see that, I'm crazy narcissistic like that. But here's the thing - coming up to me and saying "Hey, you got a haircut!" drives me insane. Tell me you like it, tell me you hate it, tell me it makes my forehead look a mile long and my head like a half-crushed walnut, whatever, just don't stop with the declarative. I see what you're doing, don't think I'm stupid. You're trying to gauge what I think of it so that you can respond in kind. If I say "Yeah, I love it," you can paste a fake smile on your face and go right along. Or if I say "Eh, yeah, what can you do?" you're free to give in to your baser urges and comfort "oh, it'll grow out, it's not that bad."
  
  No No No! Quit hedging to see what I think, just grow a pair and tell me. As it stands right now, you remember that line in Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy where Ford came up with a theory that people keep stating the obvious because they have to constantly talk to keep their brain functioning? That's what I'm thinking when you're* all "Your hair is different today! And will you look at that sky? It's blue!"

*(PS - By you, I mean all those other people. Not you. You know I love you. Always and forever. You complete me, baby.)

There's No Shame on the Internet

As last night was a Monday night after an exhausting day of working on what was technically a holiday, I was not exactly inclined to do much of anything. Basically I walked through the door, stripped out of my work clothes and changed into my pajamas. Threw something into the oven for dinner, then collapsed on the couch. Again, being Monday, there's not even a damn thing on television to watch, so me and Roommate Frank opted to watch M. Night Shyamalan's The Village, because he had never seen it before, and I love me that horrible movie.

Seriously, yeah I'll admit straight up that the movie is horrible. Sucktastic. L-to-the-izz-ame, as it were. But I can't get enough Bryce Dallas Howard and Joaquin Phoenix's character is just so damn cute. And yeah, okay, the movie does still freak me out a bit, despite the fact that I know exactly what happens. Sue me, I'm a little girl like that.

So we start watching the movie and it is sufficiently creepy. Made moreso by the fact that it's really windy outside, so there are these really loud noises coming from our patio, as all my sundry chairs and plants outside roll around in the wind. We pause the movie for a moment to lock the sliding glass door and for Roommate Frank to double-check the lock on the front door. Because we are awesome.

Movie continues, as do the sounds from outside. Roommate Frank becomes convinced that M. Night Shyamalan is out on our patio trying to make the movie scarier than it actually is. I do not technically disagree with him.

Movie ends, Frank bemoans how horrible the entire thing was. Again, I do not disagree. But sadly, to tell the truth, I am still a little on edge from the whole thing. That shit is scary, yo. What?! Don't judge me! Yet.

There's another loud noise from the patio.

Frank: [lying on the couch] Jason! Make M. Night Shyamalan go away!
Jason: [in as patronizing a tone as possible] Now Frank, you know full well that M. Night Shyamalan is just a make-believe story that people tell to scare little kids. See?
[Jason goes to pull the curtain aside to show that there is no one on the patio. He pulls it open, and SEES SOMEONE STANDING RIGHT THERE LOOKING AT HIM!]
Jason: GAHHHH! [Bounds backwards three feet while screaming like a little girl.]
Frank: What?!
Jason's Brain: Calm down you fool! You realize that was just your reflection in the glass door, right? Way to freak-the-fuck-out over what is practically your own shadow. You are the lamest lame who ever lamed. Frank officially thinks you've lost your mind. But maybe you can still pull this out.
Jason: Ha. Ha. Good one, right? Had you going there! Heh. [pause] Heh. Aren't I a good actor?
Frank: [Inquisitive head tilt] Huh?
Jason: Okay, yeah, I just freaked out over my own reflection.
Frank: Ha ha. 'Mo.
Jason: Hate Crime!

This week shall hereunto be referred to as Jason's Mondo Week of Embarrassing Scenarios.

All Signs Point to Haircut

Okay, so my hair is crazy long. Well, not by any normal standards, but by Jason's Hair Standards it's running as long as it's ever been in the past 5 years or so. This means it is not quite in my eyes, but if I try I can actually see the beginnings of the hair in my field of vision. I cannot handle long hair, as anyone who knew me in high school knows. I look like a really unfortunate sheepdog when my hair gets long. An ugly sheepdog.

I keep meaning to go to the barber/salon/Supercuts and let them do the same damage they always do, but I am easily distracted by things like movies, or video games, or lying on the couch insulting my roommate for being lazy (while I'm watching an infomercial because the remote control is just out of my reach). With such a super busy schedule things have just spiraled out of control, hair-wise.

Problem is, I absolutely cannot stand long hair. On my forehead or in my eyes, it drives me nuts. Thus, in my state of long-haired-ness I have devised a system to keep my hair out of the way when I'm at home. It involves my red SMU ear warming headband (given to me by the lovely Devon) carefully placed just above my hairline with all the hair collected inside its elasticity, effectively freeing me from any potential hair distractions while I'm slowing vegetating away to nothing on the couch.

Its the perfect solution, except with my hair being as long as it is now, my hair actually spills out over the top of the headband. So it sort of flops out, giving off a look not unsimilar to a stalk of broccoli or a particularly poofy fern, perched on the top of my head. Which my roommate is exceedingly quick to mock. But whatever, if I listened to things that Frank told me, I would have died long ago, probably of alcohol-poisoning or in a gay orchestra riot.

So last night I am watching Grey's Anatomy and Red Eye with Devon and getting my laundry done, basically your normal, very productive Sunday night. I am of course wearing the headband, because it is what I do when I am at home and also because I think it only polite to show people how much you appreciate any gifts they give you by using them as much as possible. Even if you're using them in ways not necessarily intended by God or man.

Not really thinking of much of anything, I run out to the laundry room to retrieve all the clothes from the dryer (aside: for once this is not a story of pain in the laundry room; actually the laundry room has been very good to me lately) on a commercial break. With record pace, I collect my clothes and head on back home. As I hit my hallway I pass by two very nice girls who are having a discussion.

Girl One: [holding a garbage bag] So where, again?
Girl Two: I'm not sure. We've got to get to that dumpster. [Notices Jason. Surprised eyes at the hair. Recovers nicely.] Oh hi. Excuse me. I'm your new neighbor. Any idea how we take the trash out? [Another discreet glance at his hair. Seriously, she's got some remarkable poise in the face of someone who looks completely out of their damn mind.]
Jason: [awkward (that goes without saying, right?)] Oh. Right. Yes. You have to go down to that gate and walk all the way around, unless you want to drive. They stopped picking up at the door last week.
Girl Two: Right I heard that. Drag. Well, cool, thanks, I'm your new next door neighbor, [yeah like I can remember her name through my embarrassment]. Nice to meet you.
Jason: Hi, Jason. [tries to point to himself, but fails, as he is holding a giant tub full of clothes. Almost drops it, but recovers.] Me. I mean, I'm Jason. My name. It's. Jason.
Jason's Brain: SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!
Jason: Nice to meet you too. [awkward pause]
Girl Two: [Another glance at the hair, which has taken on a whole new look, after the near drop of the tub. There are random strands of hair now in Jason's face, along with the whole vegetable top look.] Cool. Well. Later.

[She goes to shake his hand, but thinks better of it when he attempts to shift the tub again and almost bites it. Girls One & Two ride off into the night, Jason runs back into his apartment, where Devon proceeds to point and laugh at him for 15 minutes straight. Which he entirely deserves.]

Anyways, with that final spurring from God, I will be going to get my hair cut this afternoon. Rock on.

Wherein I Become a Seething Pile of Emotion

I was going to go back and update that damn mile long list of movies that I saw in 2005 to include the last few days of the year, which were a flurry of cinema (my final tally was 56 movies, up from 53), as there was not much else to do during the break.

I'm not, though, because I realized that I would have a new #1 movie, which would necessitate changing every single number in the post, which is just not on.

So Brokeback Mountain gets a whole (ginormous) entry to itself.

-----------------

Okay first off, the movie itself is excellent. It's beautifully shot and paced. The intro is a bit long, but right. They expanded on the short story perfectly, adding some things that I really dug (Ennis's relationship with his daughter is a good example) without dragging the movie out. The acting is freaking ridiculous - Michelle Williams's performance makes up for every single bad movie ever made by a member of Dawson's Creek, up to and including Varsity Blues, which is saying possibly too much. Heath Ledger (from a goddamn Knight's Tale all jousting to Queen) made me cry. The ending was so completely perfect that it broke me. Each and every one of Anne Hathaway's wigs deserved an acting nomination for how perfectly Texas each one was. I cannot come up with enough good things to say about this movie.

I only have two annoyances. 1) Some of the later scenes were either shot in horrible light or the makeup was completely off, because Jake Gyllenhall looked like his face was melting off. I get that they were trying to age him, but come on people. If I can see the foundation, you know something is off. 2) I love that scene late in the movie where Michelle Williams confronts Heath Ledger about all his fishing trips and her little ploy to prove that he never actually fished (one of the best scenes and almost verbatim from the short story). But in the movie she has seen him and Jake hardcore making out in front of their house. I'm thinking that's a little better evidence than your clever ruse involving fishing lures, watching two guys trying to consume each other's faces on the front yard. But maybe that's just me. As Frank said "Maybe they were just really happy to see their good buddy." Because you know that's how I greet my old cowboy friends.

Anyways, I've gone on way too much about the faults.

There is something more about the story that gets to me, a way that some of the scenes were done that just lodges right inside me. I've already gushed at length about the movie itself, but I'm talking about how they work up the relationship between Jack and Ennis, heck how they show them individually too.

It's a matter that I claim some expertise in - growing up gay (in the South) with the religious stuff drilled in to your DNA that it's all a sin. To say that I feel where Jack and Ennis are coming from is an internet understatement of massive proportions. Ennis particularly - quiet, reserved, focused on the job, morally conflicted, etc.

But it's not even the same thing. When you add in the time period that they're in, it's magnified a million times - I don't deal with 1% of the stigma they're talking about in the 60's. The whole thing is almost too much for me to wrap my head around.

I'm rambling, so we'll cut to the scenes I want to talk about:

• Ennis's nervous waiting when Jack comes to meet him for the first time. Drinking beers, staring out the window all day with that jumpy anticipation. That whole - 'Jack's not that kind of guy, probably just go out to a bar' thing. The whole build up telegraphs his feelings so well that I could feel myself physically tightening up in response. And then the payoff when they actually meet on the steps - when I say the movie broke me, seriously. That much repressed emotion and hotness in one big burst. Ow.
• Jack's short little cruising scene after that first rodeo. So incidental to the rest of the movie, but exactly what it needed to be. Subtle in action, showing everything we need to know about him (overly brash despite his intentions - you get a shot of those guys from across the room and the ending of the movie is practically already laid out in my mind) and his differences from Ennis. He is louder, more physical, miles more direct in his intentions. There is this intense sadness where you know this is not going to work.
• And in that same vein, the corny (yet utterly delicious and perfect and already overused by me) "I wish I knew how to quit you" scene, where Jack is entirely angry at Ennis for ruining what could be perfect (in his mind, at least), but you know it would never work because of how Ennis has been raised and who he is and you feel completely for both of them but it doesn't matter because it's not going to be real and man look at me go on. Repeat after me: This is just a movie.
• We're not even going to get into the ending scenes with Jack's parents and the shirts and the breaking of my poor dorky heart, but it's ridiculous how affecting this whole thing is to me.

So yeah, that was a little uncomfortable, all that emotional spewing all over the internet, but I felt like I should say something, because it did mess with me in a way very few things can these days.

Best movie of the year. Even better than Serenity.

British-isms

Edit: You know, normally when someone writes one of these blowing-off-steam essays, once they've recovered they go back and delete them. Me? I go back, edit for punctuation and grammar, and then leave it up. I should be studied.

Today I have the worst (non-feline related) headache I have had in at least two years. It comes completely out of the blue with no apparent cause and it is ruining my life.

So much so that I missed the first hour of work today because I could literally not compel myself to stand up for more than 5 seconds without feeling violently ill. Thus I flailed at my alarm clock at least 5 times, each time hitting the snooze, completely unable to make the connection that I needed to actually turn the damn thing off.

I did manage to get into work around 9:30, though, because I need me some money and I can't be all slacking off just because my brain is trying to escape my skull by burrowing directly out from between my eyes.

The pain is now at least manageable, the problem now becomes that the things in a normal day which are everyday annoying now become brain-meltingly frustrating, to the point where one more stupid comment is liable to send me snapping into a crazy rage in all colors of the rainbow.

Boss creates a computer problem? Happens basically everyday. Only mildly annoying. Is moreso today with the aforementioned skull pounding, but manageable. The constant chatter and exhortation that I must fix said problem when there is no available solution? Intolerable. Telling me that "there must be something [I] can do" when there totally is not helps no one, especially not my rage.

And then when we get the IT email that indeed it is a corporate-wide server issue and cannot be fixed individually, one should not use the phrase 'well at least someone knows what they're doing around here' unless one wants one's assistant to quit in a blind rage, possibly after deleting every file in the entire office.

Don't tempt me, I'm so on the verge right now.

----------------------

Heh, anyways, aside from that, my stock response for dealing with everyone today has been to respond to any and all attempts at communication with me by tilting my head to the side and saying (in the most British way possible) : "Is that so? Is it really?" and then staring until they go away. Sometimes I rub the bridge of my nose just so, or at least did until my pen leaked blue ink all over my fingers, and I left a huge blue streak across my nose.

Which was even more effective at getting people to leave me alone.

All in all, quite an awesome day. If you will excuse me, I'm going to go lie down in the dark for several days until the pain dissipates, and the blue on my face is no longer noticeable.

Exfoliation

Or How I Officially Became a Gay Man

So Roommate Frank's not so subtle hint that I am turning into a crazy and weather-beaten old man was a Christmas gift of an exfoliation kit that promises to "return [my] skin to a youthful and healthy glow."

Just to be clear, my skin has never been youthful, healthy, or glowing. Unless you're speaking of some time before puberty, which I'm thinking is not exactly what they meant there. But in any case, the allure of nice skin is pretty tempting to someone as pizza-faced as me, so I went ahead with the whole regimen, figuring it is my duty as a proper homosexual to have multiple "products" and "treatments" applied to my "face" in order to "futilely chase my fleeting youth."

The thing is, what they don't tell you on the box, is that exfoliation is just a fancy word for "let's sandpaper your face." Seriously. Only instead of actual sandpaper, they helpfully provide this tube of cream which contains, I swear to God, little grains of aluminum that you're supposed to rub all over your face for "90 to 120 seconds, never staying in one place for too long." Presumably they include that last part because if you did, you would rub straight down to the bone.

Once your face is consistently scoured of all remains of actual skin, they give you the best part of the procedure, a moisturizing lotion which I assume is made from kittens or bunnies or something equally cute and fuzzy, because dear lord it is divine and soft and almost but not quite makes up for the steel wool portion of the day's procedure.

The whole process is like a voluntary torture regimen. "Rip all the skin off my face? Don't mind if I do!" The part that really gets to me is that this is an accepted practice across the globe. People do this all the time. I am mind-boggled over the entire thing, although I suppose I should not be. Diets, high heels, and lifting really heavy things over and over again for no good reason all exist for an exactly similar purpose. I guess I'm just a little behind the times catching up on my masochism-for-beauty events.

And unfortunately? It totally works. I've been using this stuff for nigh onto 11 days now and I literally do have nicer, more glowing skin. Not counting today, where I somehow sprouted a zit of teenage epic proportion just below my lower lip and it looks like I have herpes, but whatever. The rest of my skin around said 'herpes' is absolutely glowing.