"Cowboys and Aliens", Hate, Vests, and Judgement.

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<SPOILERS FOLLOW>

That's right bubbies, it's time for my review of "Cowboys & Indians", the fifth-grade film class project by little Johnny Favereau, so gather around the glowing god-box and drink in the word.

I really, really wanted to like this movie. I mean, c'mon: The second-best James Bond (Sean = #1, forever) and Han Fucking Solo in a WESTERN? With space aliens? How could this possibly go wrong?

Let's see. How about plot holes bigger than the canyons lovingly shot by the DoP/Cinematographer (whatever) Matthew Libatique? (No seriously, I really, really like this guy's eye. He knows color, spacing, depth of field and other technical-sounding words).

Plot hole numero ein:

So there are these space asshats that come down, stealing people to "learn their weaknesses" all while mining gold. Gold happens to be one of the most abundant resources in the galaxy. Let me repeat that statement and cite a reference:

one of the MOST ABUNDANT RESOURCES IN THE GALAXY. For instance, in our own solar system, there is a honking great asteroid named Eros (the goddess of screwing until your brains leak into a pail or something) that has 20 BILLION METRIC TONNES of gold alone. It's about the size of Bellevue. I honestly don't think there are 20 billion tonnes of Bellevue in Bellevue. Here's  a reference in abstrat 'cause I'm too cheap to pay for the actual article: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/sci/tech/401227.stm

SOOOOOO - OK, the space fratboys can do interstellar travel, they like the gold...fine, right...but why go to the hassle of landing in a gravity well and dealing with aborigines (Daniel Craig, apparently...shut it, Tracy) when all they have to do is grind up a rock? The energy differential alone...It's physics and economics people. Try and keep up.

Plot chasm nummer ni:

So the sort-of ill-defined love interest (The uber yummy Olivia Wilde...seriously, yummy. She'd be even better if she ate a sandwich every now and again....C'mon Olivia...Just one philly, for me?) is some kind of hot Charles Bronson analogue, creepily enough, and is well, revenging up her people that can somehow regenerate or something because they seem to be some kind of energy people... but she has to blow them up with a suicide vest? really?

So she got here somehow (not discussed) and needs the help of yokels. Hell, we're only a hundred years separated from the cowboys and I can't think of a single thing I would need them for, up to and including cattle rape. (well, maybe that cute holstien over there....yeah, you....hey gurrl).

Plot canyon suuji tri:

Clancy Brown dies. That in and of itself is reason enough to sue the studio. YOU DON'T KILL CLANCY, HE KILLS YOU. Wait...never mind that's Sam Jackson. Moving on

So there were plotting inconsistencies. There were also symbolic....issues. Not issues as a symbol (Wait, maybe I got it wrong, maybe the issues were rather meta...maybe...I'll think about it) but issues with the symbols:

The Chiricahua (seriously folks. We've done these people wrong.) were helping us 'cause WE'RE THE INDIANS TOO...<simper><smarm> Fuck you.

A hummingbird is a spirit guide? OK, why? what precise interpretation of the Hummingbird Story are we talking about here? Hummingbird as the Totem of the Return to Purity? OK, wrong culture. Close though (Hopi) Wait...Fuck you. How about the Sun Manifest? nope....that's the Aztec. Another big fuck you.

and so on and so forth....

The acting.

The most important part of the movie was that Olivia Wilde doesn't show the goods. I want my damn money back for that tease. You get an above-the-butt back shot. The same one in the preview. COME ON.....

Harrison Ford. Sir, we need to talk. You used to be a good actor. You were never going to be great. These are facts. There are very few of even the greats that can make it past Social Security age and even pretend to be a bad-ass. You cannot. You come off as "moderately grumpy jerkalope".  Please retire. Please. For the children

Daniel Craig. Adequate. See, Mr Ford? This is how bad-ass is done. You shut the hell up, squint a bit....and then kick some ass (note the complete lack of hip-breaking? well, maybe someone else's hip...never mind) Bunny got all kinds of squishy over how he looks in a vest. So I hate him.

Oh yeah and Keith Carradine is in it for some reason. He..... heheh.... he... snicker... kinda chokes (Yeah, I know that was his dad. I just had to) on the role of sheriff. It's probably not his fault. I mean if I got the crap exposition and watery lines he was handed, I'd phone it in as well.

Sam Rockwell - Y U NO GET MORE WORK? and more screen time? I had no idea why his character was there. none at all. And I didn't care. Because he's awesome. Yes, I am a tad "the gay" for him. Leave it alone.

In summary -

John Favreau marks time until The Avengers, Olivia Wilde shows nary a boob, Harrison Ford is turning into a boob, Daniel Craig needs to get back on the James Bond wagon, Sam Rockwell....you keep on doing what you're doing.

YAWN! I've wasted more time writing this than I have thinking about "Cowboys and Aliens" which kind of sums it all up.

A White, Blank Page and a Burning Rage

Hi folks - Just a quick rant about one of the few things I take seriously: Linguistics.

Last week IO9 (I know, "you mean that bastion of socio-political and scientific journalism; IO9?". Yeah them. shaddup) had a post on how swearing actually stresses the brain, and cited the original paper FOUND HERE.

Journalists out there: IF YOU DON'T FUCKING UNDERSTAND THE SCIENCE; DON'T REPORT ON IT UNTIL YOU ASK SOMEONE WHO DOES WHAT IT ALL MEANS...........whew.....pant.....pant.....gasp.....pant

Everyone, please read the paper. Please. It is fascinating and light enough to where my readers who don't have a linguistic focused education can pretty easily follow the bouncing ball.

Essentially, the premise is that what and how you speak effects your brain. (Umm, this is inaccurate, but close enough for this specific conversation). And refutes Pinker's postulation (I love alliteration) to the contrary (It is decidedly pro Whorf)(Not the Star trek guy, the Linguist. never mind)

ANWAY, read the paper and let me know in the comments what conclusions YOU draw from it, Especially that part about 2/3 of the way down that actually talks about the cingulate gyrus' activity in relation to swearing. Neat-O

Thanks,

Pete B.

PS - my apologies to Mumford and Sons for the title of this post.

Oh, India, Aladdin, Value of Raita, and Flatulence.

What follows is the true story of what happened. It is tasteless and should not be read by anyone with a functional sense of humor. 



The other night, The Bunny had a "lady date" (suspicious...) with a friend of hers and purportedly went to see the Broadway version of "Aladdin". 


Lady Dates: Ladies, you realize that, to men, "going out with the girls" or "having a girls night" are totally acceptable activities, and raises no suspicions, while "Lady Dates" are an immediate red flag? You are either lying, plotting, or getting our most prurient hopes up? All of which are unacceptable (OK, depending on with whom you are going on the lady date. If the other lady is even remotely good-looking, then it's suspicious. If she looks like John Madden in a skirt, off you go. we're fine)


That same evening her parents took me out to Indian food: "Oh, India" in Crossroads...

GO.

EAT.

THERE. 

Oh, India is a halal-compliant buffet restaurant that serves generically Northern Indian/Pakistani style food. Their goat biryani is proof enough for me that God exists, loves us, and wants us to be happy. (And they don't charge extra for raita. Go to your local Indian joint and try to get extra raita. go. HA! can't be done, can it? Even if you offer money. Seriously, people from India listen up: Raita is good and all; but it is not more precious than rubies. What will you do if we honkies learn to make it? Think about the economy.)

Aladdin, on the other hand, we all know and either love or despise. Personally, I like it quite a bit. Robin Williams as the genie, Gilbert Gottfried as the parrot, etc etc etc. But then again due to the chip inserted into my head by Micheal Eisner, I have to like it or they start with the shocks. They hurt.

So fun was had by all. 

Bunny got home very, very late for a school night (again, suspicious) and woke me up to tell me all about it. 

At this point, I think it is best that I tell you what happened before it gets blown all out-of-proportion by the press:

Here is what happened:

Dramatis Personae:

Pete: stunningly handsome hero of the play, lying peacefully asleep in the bower of his lady-love. 

Bunny: Beautiful lady-love, stumbling in after a night of carousing

SCENE I - Exactly thus:

Bunny still hasn't told me who the other jerks are, so I should leave them out of the play.

Bunny <Enter Left>: I had the best time! blah blah blah blah (The hero drifting towards consciousness isn't actually paying attention)

Pete: wstfzzl? (in a manly baritone, of course.)

Bunny: We had Talarico's Pizza and saw Aladdin and it was AWESOME!

Pete: Nice. 

Other Guy #1: Tell him about Genie!

Pete: Who the fuck are you? 

Other Guy #2: Ignore us, we aren't really here

Pete: <suspicion and the result of eating several plates of delicious Indian food too fast building> Well....OK then

Bunny: <getting into bed and getting into snuggling position> blah blah blah < Pete dropping back off>

Pete: Huh?

Bunny: The songs were amazing! Genie was played by some really huge black guy with an amazing voice and Parrot was this little guy, which lent a somewhat homoerotic subtext to the entire show...

Pete: <Singing> I can show you the world....<yawn>

FRRRRAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaapppp <falls asleep mid-flatulence> <wakes up again> frrraAAAAAPhhweet. parp. parp. 

Bunny: HAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAH (It has been noted that her sense of humor s about that of a seven-year-old boy)

It is at this point that I finally realize that we are meant for each other.

Later, a review of "Cowboys and Aliens", starring me. (I wasn't in the movie, the review stars me. never mind)

My Previous Post

Hi All,

Pete here, writing as myself and not doing schtick. My girlfriend, Kat upbraided me this afternoon about the quality of my previous post; and I am forced to agree. Typically, when I write poorly, I will edit whatever I screwed up. But this time I am not. I want it to stand as a reminder to all of us, mainly me, that my inane attempts at "learning how to write by just doing it" can at times end in failure.

I promise that my next post will return to the silly antics that made you read what I have to say to begin with.

Thanks,

Pete B.

Footnotes, Literature, Fine Beer, and Bodysnatchers.

Recently, your intrepid hero went to a party¹ and, in a state of cold-medicine-enhanced inebriation, inflicted himself on the population at large.

The result of this (semi-restrained) debauch is that I now have to convince an actual history professor that I was simply being hyperbolic when I said that I would write an academic paper on James Joyce and his probable drug use. He was drunk as well (and insufferably East-Coast) and made the mistake of believing a single word I said. Poor bastard⁴.

So several thoughts are bouncing around my poor, besieged cerebrum:

1. History is the proud papa of most of the "hard sciences"⁶.
2. Lit people, and by extension, all "soft sciences" people are weird (more below.)(not below, below⁷. below here)
3. As you may have read in my previous blog, I get a sick, tight sort of pleasure screwing with psychologists/therapists, especially female mental-health pros. I know, I know, to the psych world out there it screams out some nonsense about insecurities and self-image. But to the rest of us, it's just good, clean fun. No actual people⁸ get hurt.

The mess that I am in happened after we were listening to some chicks at the party clucking like hens about Jane Austen. We quickly derailed the conversation with REAL literature (Joyce) and how you can't understand Ulysses or Finnegan's Wake unless you have taken the good drugs. This lead to speculation on Joyce's choices (heheheheh) of drug, hallucinogenic or otherwise.

At this point I pronounced with the assuredness and wisdom that comes from drinking too many Miller High-Lifes that Joyce did the drugs, I will prove it and publish a paper!

Fuck.

The professor seems to believe that I will actually do this.

However, I did recall a passage in Ulysses where the character buys some soap from a druggist and considers the following:

"Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy then. Why? Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes your character"
-- James Joyce, Ulysses, P81 (Penguin)

The narrator is talking about the chemist (pharmacist) and how, as a result of the drug smells in the air and being a druggist, he a shrunken dude; also, in overtones of self-realization, (the whole point of the book, really) the the narrator is talking about his experiences of getting really, really twisted and the exhaustion of recovering the next day, lather, rinse, repeat.

I have never once spoken with anyone, who has never taken drugs (of any nature), that even begins to comprehend the quote above.

Therefore, as the attitude towards drugs in general was more relaxed in those days, and only through experience (or a really good writing assistant) could an author actually understand how they change you (the better/worse argument will come at a later date), we come to the obvious conclusion that Joyce smoked the kind/chased the dragon/rode the rails/<insert colloquialism here>


Well, that's nice: I wasn't planning on getting in to a literary discussion with you unwashed yokels. But it seems to have turned out that way.

OH! I am no longer scared of space aliens.

For those that do not know me well, I have (had) only one fear. Space fucking aliens. (Those sneaky bastards, kidnapping and raping up the rednecks)

Well at the party I met my "Invasion of the Bodysnatchers" doppelganger.

His name was Pete. He was wearing a hat and was unshaved. He was, like I, built for comfort, not speed. He was wearing a GI Joe t-shirt. We both brought Miller High-Life (THE FUCKING CHAMPAGNE OF BEERS⁹). It creeped Bunny right the fuck out.


So yeah, your hero is simply too tough for the damned bodysnatchers, 'cause as everyone knows, if they make a double, they kill you or something; I survived,  so I am no longer afraid of aliens.



<Ennui enters stage right. Exeunt alles.>

---

¹ - It was billed as a barbecue. People, seriously: If there are not large meat items being slowly cooked via indirect heat and smoke, it is not a barbecue. It is just cooking outside. I will probably post on this subject alone soon².

² - Likely never, as I get kinda distracted by things³.

³ - Let's go ride bikes!

⁴ - I'm sure his parents were married<sup>5

5</sup> - I mean, not to each other, but they were married.

⁶ - Philosophy is their mother, but she's kinda a hoochie: We're not at all sure about Meteorology's father. (At least those of us in Seattle are firmly convinced that Meteorology is the developmentally disabled result of a drunken, sweaty night in Cabo)

⁷ - this is below, below. I am having a blast with the footnotes thing. HA! I just realized, this is a footnote about footnotes. How meta is THAT? Suck it, Lit people.

⁸ - Most psych pros are NOT people, they are simply a biological placeholder for the sum of all their neurosis and "daddy issues". Have you never heard of "Physician, heal thyself"? I swear it's the main reason they get into psych to begin with. Trust me, I dated a psych major and then a full-blown psychiatrist - They were some crazy bitches. TOTALLY worth it in the sack, though. Crazy in the head means crazy in the bed.

⁹ - You know how I know that? IT SAYS SO ON THE GAWD-DAMNED CAN. <- for Zach

Nyqil And A Doughnut Do Not A Breakfast Make. Proof below.

O Prurient Reader,

Your hero in these epistles is dying.

There. I've said it: Dying.

Oh, sure; my honey says in the most unsympathetic, whining, nasal voice one could imagine (like that chick from the '80s show "The Nanny". I'm dying and can't be bothered to look up her name.) that it's "JUST a cold"! Quelle horreur.

(Fran Drescher. Her name, from just a minute ago. )

(By the way, I couldn't remember how to spell "indifference" in French so I looked it up with Google Translate...it's spelled...get this..."indifférence". Damn tricky frogs stealing our words. HA! I bet if I demand it back, the'll surrender it right away. Nah, most likely they'll react with indifference. never mind. I then spent half an hour making the sexy computer chick-voice swear in various languages.)(Again, ADD totally kicks my ass)

Anyway - dying. I am convinced I have the cholera. I am a sweating, snotting wreck (again, no one cares) so some of the symptoms match. This may be my last post, so let's make it a good one.

My honey (the soon-to-be single/widowed whiny one from a couple paragraphs ago) is into reading the "Urban Fantasy" genre. For most of our relationship, I looked down at this choice from the lofty heights of patronizing disdain. I mean, if Tolkien was the end-all, be-all for my forefathers, it's good enough for me, right? Right...Typically, my forays into reading fiction tend toward the classics (but not Edith Wharton, that poxy bitch), satire (Terry Pratchett), and HARD Science Fiction. (Kim Stanley Robinson, Charles Stross, &c). Therefore, imagine my heartfelt contempt when she recommended I read a book by some dude named Richard Kadrey about some magician that comes back from Hell and revenges up the joint.

Here is how my near-flawless memory replays the events that lead up to other paragraphs, further down the page:

Bunny (I call her "Bunny" because she's cute and evil): "You should read this, it has all the elements of a noir film and is rather well written. Also, I require snuggling"

Your Hero: <sneer handsomely plastered across his...uh...mouth> "HA! Thou ignorant wench! What would ever possess you to imagine I, consumer of fine literature and computer manuals, would ever descend to your plane to grace such tripe with my attention? No snuggles, it's hot and I'm sweaty. Hey, where's the damn cat?"

Bunny: "Shut up and read it or I, in the manner of my foremothers before me, will withhold all physical affection, in the form of sexy naked time, from you until I have my way. Yeah, it IS kinda hot. I think Moo is over there"

Moo (the cat): "Moo"

So I read the damn book.

So then I enjoyed it.

Damnit.

My snobbish review of Sandman Slim: A Novel

The premise, taken simply, is just as stated above: Magician, Hell, vengeance - hijinks ensue. This is possibly one of the oldest tropes in fiction (Seriously -  Think of the natural evolution from  Aristophanes' "The Frogs", or the myth(s) of Orpheus and Eurydice to today's TV tropes and you get the picture) and usually done rather poorly: Drive Angry would be an example. (Screw you, Nick Cage. This is what you get for well, everything you have ever done to me and mine); but Kadrey manages to bring fresh material to the genre like a good bluesman can inject fresh life into "Walking Blues". Here is an example:

Superlative. Perfection. And if we look and another example, Taj Mahal this time, we definitively demonstrate the concept:

the song is the same, and JUST AS GOOD, but completely different in presentation. See? simple concept. Taj Mahal may not be to your taste, but that's not the point.

Nothing is particularly new, the book in and of itself is a portmanteau of popular cliches from movies and other fantasy books (Bunny fleshed them out for me and will likely come up with examples in the comments, below), but just like the blues, it's not WHAT is played as much as HOW it's played.

The main character, Stark, is the updated equivalent of George Raft's character in Red Light or Bogart in some other movie that I can't remember. (The ghost of Mickey Spillane will haunt me because of this) He escapes from Hell where he was some kind of Spartacus to get vengeance for the death of his one true love. Again, hijinks ensue. I am terrible at this. How the hell do you do a decent review without spoilers? Meh.

Diverting from the typical pulp novel, the secondary characters in the book are not two-dimensional representations of simple concepts only there to further the plot or shout "SYMBOL" at the reader. Nope, they were actually developed to the point where you know why they do what they do and have at least a small amount of empathy for each and every one. Interestingly enough, the one I connect with the most is the shallowest character, Carlos, the bar owner. (I told you, this guy uses tried-and-truisms). I say shallow in that there simply isn't any real exposition. Carlos is. I imagine that to be the point.

Just had a thought: If I identify with the simplest, least developed character in the book what does that say about me? Am I a shallow caricature? Or does the low-def delivery of a character allow for the injection of imagination and therefore projection of oneself? (FUCKING HELL, I LOVE NYQUIL!!!)


the plot is straightforward and comforting, no real surprises arise: you can time the inevitable twists with a stopwatch. But to further the Blues analogy, you know when the bridge is coming, you're just not 100% where the guitarist is going with it and THAT'S THE POINT. that's what make the book so neat. I really didn't see the thing where the one guy does the thing to the other guy AT ALL. (HA! no spoilers!)

the crisis and denouement will have to wait until you've read it. And you will.

I've also read the second book, Kill the Dead. It's pretty good too.


I think I'm going to pass out for a while.

The Amygdala, Economics, and What I Would Do To Julie Andrews

Today I read an article on one of my feeds that sparked off an actual thought process, for once. (Please note that I don't normally think about things. Most of my friends can attest that I just usually make up my mind about a subject based on conjecture, prejudice, and what the guy I talked to at the bar said.) Instead of working this morning, I was reading my news feeds and came across a Readers'-Digestion (© , me. Just now) on /. (slahdot) about how movie/music pirates are not parasites, dragging down the aforementioned industries. A decent analysis of the German original can be found on  geek.com. Please read it and come back. I'll wait here.....


Back?


Awesome.


Essentially, the matter of the piece suggests that pirates spend WAY more than "honest people", per capita.


However, that's not the interesting thing. What got my poor synapses all angried up was in two parts

1. They're union and I was thinking while drinking coffee, technically a coffee break. My amygdala filed a grievance. (Neuroanatomical jokes? In my blog? It's more common that you think)(I'll explain it for a dollar)(Hint: it's not a pun)
2. Money - The other day, I spent about  39.2 BILLION dollars to watch a movie, "Thor" (Sweet god, it was terrible)(not the point. Sorry, ADD totally kicks my ass) later that week, my dad mentioned that the first time he came to the US (1965) a movie cost 25¢.

TWENTY FIVE FUCKING CENTS?!?! Yup. OK. so that's in "nominal monies" (not adjusted). A 1965 dollar would be $7.02 today. So...um...7 x .25  would be.... um..... carry the two... hold on... I got this.... um.... a buck seventy-five. 


Therefore, we can extrapolate that the price of a movie, adjusted to the value of the dollar today, is right about six times more. Now I'm no economist (see previous post), but Jesus in a Jeep....that's more. (again, I should qualify my previous statement: I am no economist AND I'm a little daft; so when I say "more" it could, in fact, be a LOT more. A professional would have to weigh in, to be sure)


Let's look at that as a percentage of income.


Average income throughout the 60s, per the US Census Bureau: $4,800 Source HERE


Adjusted for 2011 money - $33,700 (about) 


SO as a percentage of income, a movie in 1965 would be: 0.00005% (note the four zeros.)


Today's average income: ($61,521 2008 census, so let's say 62000) $62,000
Movie ticket two weeks ago: $10.50. 
Percentage of Income = 0.00017 -ish percent. (one less zero)


So from THIS we can extrapolate that a movie is three-ish times the financial burden it was 45 years ago.(all figures do not include popcorn. Again, people NOT an economist. And I don't like popcorn).


What do we get for thrice the cheddar? That's too subjective to get into, so I will!


not
a
damn
thing.


I picked 1965 for a couple reasons:

1. I have both documented AND anecdotal evidence of the prices. (My pop, remember?)
2. My favorite American car is the 1965 Lincoln Continental. It's bitchin'
3. SOUND OF FUCKING MUSIC ANYONE?!?!? 

<lascivious aside, avert your eyes> OH Julie Andrews, with that smoking hot baby-dyke haircut and the pinafore, the things I would do to you are.......horrible and wonderful and illegal in most western countries. Your sweet, sweet body pressed against mine and the fields would be alive with the sounds of gettin' it ON </lascivious aside> (sorry, sorry. This happens to me whenever I mention.....her. My honey is coming to terms with it.)

also, "Thunderball" happened. I love that movie. 

I grow bored, more later.