Sunday, June 28, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
I mention this because our trivia team (J, G, M, Y, K, K, and H) won first place last night. There was a small argument about how much to bet for our last question, but we decided to go all the way. At least, the person who wrote the wager decided. But it payed off. Meow Zedong! Go big or go home!
Oh, and apparently trivia hosts enjoy small pictures of our mascot, Meow Zedong.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Last night I surfed the web to my fullest extent, using all my resources to find free episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer online. I know, lame. But it is summer and that is just what I do. Besides watch iCarly and sew, apparently. Try as I might, I could not find seasons four through seven anywhere. Looks like I'm going to have to expend energy walking or driving somewhere, or even restarting my Netflix (or sneaking onto my parents') to watch those elusive episodes. Unfortunately, I don't think I want them that bad. Pardon my digression. The point is that I have been craving some vampire slayage lately. While perusing channels today I happened upon our rather newly acquired HBO channels (for free!) and two minutes before it starts, I find the movie: Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Nuff said.
So, of course I watched it. I heated up some leftover mac n' cheese, poured some iced tea and settled down to, well, a rather bogus movie (to use the vernacular of the day, which happens to be 1992). I could blabber about differences, draw up a Venn diagram, but I know no one wants to read that. Basically, Joss Whedon is a genius and somehow turned a pretty comical concept into a kick ass TV series. The keys to this transformation, I believe, are dropping Donald Sutherland (or rather, killing him), changing the actress, and most importantly COMPLETELY redesigning the vampires. Sure, getting rid of the creepy Watcher (Sutherland) who I think betrayed her in the end- it's all a bit fuzzy, and I finished watching it less than an hour ago- was a wise choice but the success lies in the last two components.
Sarah Michelle Gellar is amazing. You believe that she could take down any demony bad guy and still make somewhat witty remarks while doing it. You even don't mind that she's dumb, a trait too many TV characters make a weakness and not an endearing character flaw. You want to be her, or her friend, and you even want to hang out in the library with her and the Scooby gang. She works.
The vampires are of course key to the success of the show. Making them almost goofy with pointy ears and lame hissing sounds perhaps led to the lack-luster ratings on the silver screen. Of course, adding a lion roar and squishing their faces when they "vamp-up" always seemed a bit comical to me, but I wouldn't want to meet any of them in a dark alley. The Pee Wee Herman look-alike from the movie, however...let's just say he got his arm ripped off by a non-slayer. Not so tough.
This brings me back to Twilight. Within the teen romance snow globe that is the "twiverse," vampires that sparkle, don't have to be invited in (uh, he watched her sleep... for months), have color changing eyes like Del Sol nail polish, and who can't be killed by anything except another vampire (or possibly a werewolf that isn't really a werewolf) may seem almost normal. within the gaze of Edward Cullen, all logic and sense melts away. I know because it happened to me. But simply watching this video (top) shows just how much of a creeper he really is. It's quite sad that nearly all of America- or the entire world- thinks he's the perfect guy.
These books, which I enjoyed along with everyone else, display some of the worst gender roles I've seen since I don't know, Wuthering Heights. Bella is the classic damsel, only twice as clumsy and three times as stupid. She fell in love with a vampire. Not just any vamp either, but an overbearing, overprotective, bordering on abusive, sparkling maniac. The fact that so many teens worship him as a character and Robert Pattinson, who represents all the unwashed creepy awkward kids you ignored in high school, is ridiculous.
To sum up, I wish Buffy were still on the air so that these now vampire obsessed teens and tweens could be exposed to a true heroine and positive role model, and not some lusty brown-eyed girl who constantly underestimates her own beauty and falls for the first guy who treats her like sh*t.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Indeed. My idle hands are no longer the devil's playthings, as creepy as that sounds, because they are now busy (not with 24-hour blogging, I'm afraid) with the construction of a quilt. I shudder at the domesticity. Two days ago, fleeing the constant chaos of the main floor (more specifically the kitchen), I retreated to my room. I took a step or two in and remembered there was nothing interesting waiting for me. I had the Internet, of course, a TV and a Bill Bryson book (though lately I've been losing my interest. more on that later). All overused and under-stimulating. A quick glance around my room alerted me to the fact that I had been living in a dump for the past month. Seriously. I had been (and still am) living in the discount shopping cart at the front of the grocery store. You know, the one that always has Easter candy and broken candles or 2 dollar DVDs. Of the many things I noticed, a pile of t-shirts caught my eye. I had set them aside at the beginning of the summer due to limited drawer space upon the reentry of my
person 1: Oh, hey. You went to Centennial. Remember that crazy Dr. Bartley? What a troll.
person 2 (aka IMPOSTOR): Uh, yeah.
1: ...and the salt on the football field. Man what a prank. Hey, who did you have for physics?
2: Actually, I just bought the t-shirt at a secondhand store.
1: What? So you lied to me?
2: only in the loosest sense of the word.
1: ... (at this point, person 1 slaps/punches person 2 until satisfied and stalks off, newly disappointed in humanity)
So, you see, I could not release these shirts for the good of the general public. It was my civic duty to collect these artifacts of my teenage life and preserve them in a shapeless lump on my window seat. Yesterday, however, I decided their time had come. So I cut em up, and I'm gonna sew em back together again. In an aesthetically pleasing pattern of course. At the very least it gives me something new to do. I even believe this urge to create is my brain's way of trying to save itself from atrophy. According to an article I read in a woman's magazine, crafts support brain growth and create opportunities to problem solve and hone new or semi-used skills. So there you go, brain. I'm trying. We'll see what comes of this...
Friday, June 19, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
In summer watching mode, shows are not prioritized as they are during the school year. For nine months of the year, when all the "good' shows are on, the tivo manages season passes like a TV watcher's personal assistant. Shows may then be watched at leisure and commercials are skipped entirely. During the summer, however, channels are perused again and again, and I find myself watching 48 Hours: Hard Evidence or I become engrossed in an E! THS about the Olsen twins. Again. When I find a show even remotely interesting, which is not very ahrd considering the low summertime standard (past obsessions include, but are not limited to: Dawson's Creek, celebrity poker tournaments, Buffy the vampire slayer and The Price is Right), I normally stay on the same channel and watch through the commercial break. I feel this truly emphasizes the power of boredom, because I would only do this if I were heavily sedated or if the thermostat read over 80 degrees (don't tell my mom, because she'll find a project for me, oh yes she will).
It is during those 30-second segments that I can escape into a tiny, perfect world. If I could live in any commercial, it would be either Garnier Fructis or, of course, Coca Cola. The sheer joy of life depicted in these commercials is almost enough to make me get up off the couch and do something happy. Almost.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
On days like this, it is best to lie, inert, on the closest flat surface. Also helpful would be a drink, itself sweating with condensation and a paperback book about living in Alaska. Or the top of a mountain. Or the inside of a Coca Cola bottle. However, this immobility, no matter how comfortable, always comes with a side of guilt. At least in my family. My mother feels guilty pausing to watch something on TV, yet feels no qualms about farming* on Facebook, probably because it feels more "active." All joking aside, this is a popular rationalization within my family. My father believes he is going faster by taking a shortcut around traffic as long as the car is in motion. I feel it too. I have convinced myself that writing this is more productive than watching iCarly or another episode of Clean House, but is it really?
I know the answer is no, but it still feels like a yes. And now that I've accomplished something today, I'm going to take a well earned break and turn on the tube or read some Bill Bryson. The sad thing about summer is that it will be more than what I did yesterday.
*I love my mother and think fb farming is pretty cute, but also kind of ridiculous. right?
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Summer has always been my favorite season, and I believe it is simply because I forget the parts of summer that make me want to scream, live naked, or scratch myself to the point of drawing blood. Every year during the summer, I go nearly crazy. Every year I sit on my bed, sick of the same posters on my walls and disgusted at how my bare skin sticks to the sheets. I revisit times where I have claimed summer as my favorite season and shake my head sadly. What was I thinking? Sure, I love the beach and my birthday and not having to (or being able to) wear itchy wool sweaters. Yet even as I doubt myself and the answer I put on that internet personality quiz deciding which Jonas brother I should marry, I still feel a connectedness to summer that goes beyond my current discomfort. Somewhere in the back of my mind I have a Beach Boys song playing and a flashy Margaritaville sign hung up on a cranial wall. Because, you see, summer is a season that sticks with you (quite often literally, especially if you have leather seats).
Perhaps it is the memories that keep me in a summer state of mind. Positive memories from a young age have a way of preserving an attached emotional state, the same way the ice cream truck still gets your attention. For me, every summer is like returning to your favorite restaurant as a kid and discovering rats in the kitchen and a bug in your salad. Maybe it hadn’t always been that way. Maybe time had slowly faded the paint job and rats had only recently moved in. Either way, you feel betrayed by your memories and sad to be away from such simple, happy times. But you never lose those feelings. You still remember your tenth birthday party and various family dinners. And so it is with summer. I can never forget the times that made me love it, but as of now, I’m sweating at my keyboard and wishing my houseful of brothers didn’t necessitate a full set of clothes.
This may sound depressing or hateful towards this season but it assuredly is not. I simply remark upon these feelings because I find it truly odd how startled I am at this revelation year after year and how it always seems new to me. I find it odd that somewhere between September 22 and June 21 I forget the heat and the trouble sleeping and the feel of sunburn. I forget about flipping the pillow and standing in front of the refrigerator and the incurable laziness. I forget about upper lip sweat and milk jug condensation and mosquitoes (how could I ever forget? But I do). I forget the fact that I am terrified of my ceiling fan. Petrified. I frequently picture the entire apparatus wobbling out of control and soaring through the air to slice open my neck or abdomen or even remove a limb or two. Mostly, I forget the noise. So much noise. At night, insects are the “music makers,” endlessly rubbing legs or clicking abdomens. Many writers equate this noise to song, often regarding it as symphonic. It’s not. It is cacophony.
Human forgetfulness is this season’s saving grace. Perhaps this is true of all seasons. Winter may seem majestic until snow melts in your boots or Jack Frost nips at your nose a little too hard. Spring and autumn have their moments as well, and logically they make sense as someone’s favorite season. Spring brings life and vibrant dewy wild flowers, while autumn throws colors like Jackson Pollock. They don’t boast sunburn or heat exhaustion or poison ivy (a gorgeously itchy plant that rears its head for the summer months). Yet for some reason I cannot switch teams. I am not a winter girl or a spring chick or an autumn babe. I love summer.
As much as I complain about the nasty bits, I truly love these three months. All it takes is a little reminiscing and I pine for summer by October 1st. I remember water balloon fights and the smell of sunscreen. I remember the Fourth of July, summer blockbusters, the cool blast of air conditioning, the healing power of cherry slurpies, beach chairs, sand castles, reading piles of books, unsightly goggle marks, salty hair, and the steady rhythm of flip flops. Memories, both good and annoying, keep summer in my heart. And it’s going to stay there no matter how awful it is now. Maybe this year I’ll write a post-it to myself that says: remember to hate summer. You got 47 mosquito bites.
- position? primal scream. one of Wolverine's specialties (not necessarily Hugh Jackman's because he's good at just about everything) and a frequently used tool in most of the x-men saga. EX. a scrunched I'm-not-gonna-cry-over-my-'dead'-gf-here-because-it's-too-macho-but-i-probably-will-in-the-shower-later-so-no-one-can-hear-me face followed by a bellowing growl towards the sky that says whatever it takes he's gonna get even. So there's the plot.
- weapons? adamantium claws. Which, for those of you who didn't know, are simply plated around bone spikes which he uses in the early parts of the film. They are pretty creepy and no where near as cool or sexy as automatic hand knives (which is saying a lot, because I hate knives. HATE them.)
- attire. here's my favorite part. Of course, the classic wife-beater (which I read cost at least $50 each and they had to keep buying more because he kept ripping them with his huge muscles. sigh) BUT (and I do mean butt) I would like to point out that this man knows how to wear some jeans. It's amazing he could find any that fit over his Serena Williams-like thunder thighs, but they did, and it did not go under appreciated.
- finally, the muscles themselves. My favorite thing to tell people is a fact I learned from an interview with him promoting the movie. In order to get enough protein and keep his metabolism going, he would wake up at three in the morning to eat copious amounts of food, sometimes eating an entire chicken. An ENTIRE chicken. I have no more words
All in all, this movie has more action than plot, but that's all to be expected from a summer blockbuster: lots of explosions, a few mega-hotties and usually a fast car or slutty girl in a bikini. This movie didn't have either of the last two, which is the only reason, I believe, why some people were disappointed. In my mind, Hugh Jackman makes up for any short comings, and I am happy with that. But please, keep in mind how many chickens were killed for the making of this movie. Hopefully that will help you appreciate it a bit more.
Friday, June 12, 2009
It's not as if I can't help it either. As evidenced by my frequent remissions, I am fully capable of stopping if I am in the right state of mind or if I really like my nailpolish. My friend Naomi claims to be in total control of this bad habit, yet doesn't care about the state of her nails. Obviously she does it because she likes it or wants to, which in an odd way every nailbiter does, and does so because she chooses to. In fact, I am ashamed of my stubby nails because I feel like it says "look at me, I can't control myself from being gross." And then of course, I can't help but remember Freud's psychosexual stages and the corresponding "stage" of development (I do not, for the record, agree with Freud): the oral stage. This means theoretically I was understimulated as an infant when breastfeeding so now I am stuck trying to make up for it but putting things in my mouth (in layman's terms).
It makes some sense that I transferred from thumbsucking to biting my nails, and I refuse to ever smoke a cigarette because I fear that is the next logical stage. Which, if that is the case, might cause some minor, tiny, health problems but give me great nails.
I am puzzled by my bad habit because it has uncommon fluxuations. Normally, when people are busy or stressed out, they have a nervous flare up and chew to the quick. I, on the other hand, tend to have worse nails when I'm bored than during finals week. Maybe because my house during the summer is more stressful than college life during finals. That's very likely, in all seriousness.
Hm. maybe I should watch a thriller and let them come back a bit.
I have blogged before, but not seriously. I had an account on xanga that served as a text box for bitching my way through my high school years and also to read the bitchings of my high school friends. It was a great writing experience. AND due to the miracle of the internet, I can now look back on entries from say, the year of Hurricane Katrina and read and entry or ten about how frustrating it is to live with your paternal grandmother or the trials of AP World History (it really did suck). However, this will be different. This blog is for writing, not diary entries.
Oddly, I named this blog my sleeping foot because for some reason the most comfortable seating positions at my keyboard leave me with sleeping appendages. I might need computer chair therapy to repair this tendency. I find that after spending some time writing on my computer, I get up to walk out the door and discover I have tiny ants crawling all over my foot/feet (metaphorically of course, we have a very good pest guy). And so, I begin this foray into blogging. I don't expect anyone to read this, but I expect myself to write it. You are welcome to read along.