grrgoyl: (Default)
I've decided I'm running for office. And the only item on my agenda will be putting some kind of cap on these political TV ads. I'M SICK TO DEATH OF THEM. And I suspect I'm not the only one.

I can't stand the smear campaigns. Just because your opponent may or may not have done these horrible things you claim is not a reason to vote for you.

Our local news has a "truth test" you can read on their website to learn what is truth and what is exagerration (or outright lie). As you'd expect, every statement has a little bit of truth to it, but most are just taken out of context.

My point is, if we need a third party "truth test" to know what to believe, how on earth can we trust any of these people in Washington?

~*~

So what's new? I'm still biking, which isn't NEW, I suppose. I've gotten so hard core that not only do I swallow bugs now, I chew first. I think of it as a little protein bite (these are very tiny bugs, like gnats. I'm not talking horseflies). The good news is with the colder weather, the protein bites have become much fewer and further between.

I never thought of myself as a rage fanatic, but I've noticed I can't seem to leave the house without making at least one enemy. Mostly these are pedestrians, or even other bikers, who simply can't grasp the concept of using only one side of the path. I have stories that could fill hours, but no one wants to hear them I'm sure.

Occasionally my warpath extends to motorists. Not often, since my contact with them is limited to crossing one intersection to get to the park. But sometimes that 100-foot stretch is all I need.

One morning I had had a perfectly lovely ride (on Thursdays I don't start work until 10 a.m., so I get to go out early and be all smug in front of the poor schleps commuting to their 9-5). I was waiting to cross the intersection to head home. The light turned red, when suddenly this huge ass pickup truck literally screeched to a halt in a full straddle across the crosswalk. As the light was solidly red 10 seconds before he arrived, I can only wonder what the hell he was doing that he didn't notice. I'm willing to bet texting illegally.

I crossed, giving him a sarcastic little salute. That was all I was planning on doing, I swear, until my reptile brain took over, turned my vision white, and lifted my hand to smack the front of his vehicle as I passed.

I've done this once before. It was also a huge ass pickup (universally shitty drivers?) but that one had the sense to realize he was in the wrong and do nothing. This guy, however, laid on his horn and didn't stop until I was out of sight (I stopped to flip him my middle finger before moving on). Perhaps he thought his big, manly truck could be damaged by a girl slapping it?

I know I can't claim total innocence here. Like I said, I honestly wasn't planning on doing anything more than wave angrily. But it just isn't right. If someone came to a stop stretched diagonally across two lanes, people would get a little upset (they just wouldn't have the luxury of acting on it like I did). Cyclists get to use a very tiny percentage of the road as it is, and even that isn't safe from assholes like this guy.

But I've put two and two together. The one thing shared in common between everyone who angers me, be it pedestrians, cyclists, motorists, other shoppers in a store, neighbors, movie theater audiences, is this: They act inconsiderately, like they're the only ones on the planet. Ironically as our population explosion continues, people are behaving more selfishly, not less. It's about courtesy. It's about manners. It's about civility. These are becoming quaint antique concepts, like brunch and cotillions. Perhaps I was born in the wrong time. Perhaps I should be living on a remote mountainside. Perhaps I will someday.

~*~

Speaking of remote mountainsides (ha!), I went biking this weekend again with Gerry after a very long hiatus (his schedule, not mine). I thought I was done for the season, but he asked and I couldn't resist.

We went to Green Mountain trail, which is as unremote as you can get and still be in the "mountains" (technically the foothills). It's a popular spot for quick rides because it's close to civilization and a fairly short loop (about 10 miles, though you have to work for it in places).

It was a lot of work going up, since Gerry insisted on ignoring all the easy-looking sloping singletrack and sticking to doubletrack strewn with loose, exceedingly treacherous rocks (where the term "rockdonculous" was coined). Bleah. But we went the long way around the hill on the way back, down some crazy fun hard-packed singletrack that propelled this trail straight to the top of my list of favorites (well, before the list consisted solely of the Audubon Loop, so take that for what it's worth).

The two highlights were first coming across a scenic overlook where a memorial plaque sat, dedicated to "Anita Salazar: For cancer warriors and warriors of all dibilitating diseases." Yep, "debilitating" was misspelled. I don't know which broke my heart more, the mistake or not having a camera to show y'all. It's okay, I will certainly return to this trail again.

The second highlight was when a snake crossed our path. Gerry spotted it first, and he must have the eyes of a hawk because it was only about 9 inches long, very tiny. He told me to get it off the trail before someone else ran over it. I was going to, but as soon as it noticed me it turned and coiled threateningly, and it was then I saw the teeny tiny rattle. My first rattler!

I really didn't want to risk it, but Gerry took off his glove and shooed it off. It tried to strike at him -- little guy meant business. But didn't succeed, fortunately, because I've since turned up literature online that says baby rattlers are more dangerous than full-grown snakes because they haven't learned how to control their venom and release it all in one dose (though it's probably less venom than an adult).

Next trip will hopefully be Lair o' the Bear, cuz that trail will hang over my head until I finally get to do it.

~*~

Last but not least, a fairly quickie movie review. ::Ghost Writer:: )

I didn't even bother checking out the bonus features, which normally means I'll be purchasing it and saving them for later, but not in this case. I'm not so far gone with Ewan love to buy everything he does anymore. Not since Phantom Menace.

~*~

Coming soon: Halloween, and my truly kick-ass costume
grrgoyl: (ewan stoli)
Two entries in one week, INORITE? Well, that's because I actually had an adventure on Monday. Furthermore, I hope to have an adventure at least once a week for the rest of the summer.

Biking is slowly getting into my blood. Colorado has been called a mecca for cyclists. Denver was the second American city to institute a bike sharing program for the Democratic National Convention (Bicycling magazine, July 2010). An estimated 10% of Boulder residents commute daily by bike, 20 times the national average (dailycameracom). (By contrast, Blackhawk, CO, a mountain gambling town, just outlawed all biking in the city limits; presumably too many cyclists getting injured by drunks stumbling out of casinos.) We've got miles and miles of open countryside and a big old mountain range. And here I sit (sat), content with hopping across the street to the paved (and usually heavily-populated) path in the park.

Well, Monday all that changed. I'd been checking out ideas on trails.com, and found a few promising parks nearby. The first one I wanted to try was Barr Lake in Brighton, CO, which promised 9.6 miles of unpaved trail around the lake with zero climbing and a technical rating of easy.

It rained all weekend, so by Monday I was chomping at the bit to get outside. Which is totally not like me. Well, the old me.

I really wanted Ryan to go with me. I'm not used to saddling up and disappearing to parts unknown all alone. We did have plans for me to play Wii at his house, but see what I said above about not wanting to sit inside for one more day.

It turns out neither of these plans were to be, since Ryan was up all night drinking Sunday with Chris. You remember Chris, the Olympian-in-training? Yeah. Needless to say this news didn't do much to raise Chris in my esteem. The last thing Ryan needs is another playboy drunk loser, but you try telling him that.

So with disgust I strapped my bike to my trunk and was off.

In my defense, I don't have any experience with the bike rack. Usually Tery handles it. But I was still a little surprised after 15 minutes on the highway to see the rear end of the bike lifting up off the arm of the rack. It was tied on, but it still looked kind of alarming seeing the bike keeling like that.

I pulled off the first exit to adjust it. As I tied it down more forcefully, I nervously eyed the dark clouds overhead and the chilly wind. But Colorado, as I've learned this biking season, is good for threatening lots of storms that never actually hit my location. I've scampered home prematurely more than once, only to have the sun break through the clouds just as I unlock the front door. Damn Colorado.

So I soldiered on.

Ten minutes later, it was doing it again (the bike coming loose, I mean). DAMMIT. I pulled off an exit right where the highway forked and I needed to keep heading east. I pulled into an auto auction parking lot and tightened it down again.

When I went to get back on the highway, I was taken aback to see there was no on-ramp going in the direction I needed, just the direction I had come from. GOD DAMMIT. I had to jump on the highway, exit, turn around, and jump back on.

Then the highway forked again. My directions stated only I-76 east, yet there was an exit clearly marked Brighton to the left, my destination. With no certainty at all, I took the exit.

I went three blocks and slowly admitted I had made a mistake. I pulled over across the street from a barren-looking U-Haul storage place and checked my Google Maps. Yes indeedy.

By this point I had to pee really, really badly. Oh, and I also had to re-tighten the motherfucking bike again.

I headed back for the highway. To my relief I spotted a Conoco and stopped to pee. The walls were scrawled with such sentiments as "Fuck Obama" and "Burn ni**er Obama." Lovely. Redneck country. And my pinko, fuel efficient Honda with my Obama/Biden and anti-religious stickers, and my tree-hugging, non-gas-using bike sitting undefended in the parking lot. Fortunately this was a working-class town, not many folk around on a Monday afternoon.

I started to head back to the highway. Would you believe AGAIN no on-ramp for the direction I needed? GOD DAMMIT TO HELL, GODDAMN REDNECKS AND YOUR STUPID REDNECK EXITS.

Once I got going in the right direction, I found the park with no problem. I hadn't lost my bike on the highway and the clouds had finally burned off. Things were looking up!

Well, not for long. After all that time on the road (nearly two hours, I think) I was starving. The only food the park's gift shop offered was a small packet of trail mix (18 grams of fat!!!) which was, nevertheless, delicious. I was a little nervous about the park brochure which advised thorn-resistant tires (I have none...yet). I didn't even think to change out my semi-slicks for my knobbies. Mine is a steep learning curve.

I hit the trail and it seemed pleasant at first -- a nice wide dirt path, the lake to my left, the open fields of the park to my right.

My joy was rather shortlived. The path turned a corner and ran for about a mile behind a dam, not particularly scenic. After that it got worse. First it turned into singletrack (I hate singletrack) for another mile. Then for a quarter of a mile I rode through sharp-looking black shale that ran alongside train tracks. I thought escaping this journey without a flat would really be a miracle, and I found myself very anxious for the trail to end.

I passed three local (redneck) kids walking with their fishing gear, very Norman Rockwell. I passed a very independent puppy, who ignored me and resolutely continued on his determined puppy way towards the road. I saw a deer springing across my path in four effortless bounds and vanish into the underbrush before I could pull out my camera. I saw a flock of geese, who could fly surely, instead laboriously waddling through the tall grass on their way to the lake.

The trail (which was actually a tractor road) became very muddy and treacherous, alternating between huge pools of water and soft sand that swallowed my tires past the rim. Every foot of the way I had to be constantly alert for these pitfalls, far from relaxing, but also three times the workout I expected to get despite no hill climbing.

At least there were no Lance Armstrong wannabe's breathing down my neck or sniping at me for forcing them to apply their brakes.

Finally it was over. I couldn't have been more relieved to see the Nature Center come into view. I hated this trail, and not just because of the conditions. Really not very pretty considering the distance I'd come. Couldn't even see the mountains from here. At least I could cross it off my to-do list.

But it had definitely whet my appetite. It showed me how easy it actually would be to saddle up and disappear to parts unknown, a new part every week. (For the ride home, I figured out my mistake with the rack; I had stuck the arm through the rear fork instead of putting both arms under the main crossbar so they both sat snug in the foam cradle. I drove all the way home without incident.) The trip back, without pit stops and knowing where I was going, was just about 40 minutes and 40 miles. There are tons of places like that, some a little farther, but I would of course get an earlier start.

It's going to be a great summer.

~*~

I came home and watched a movie I'll bet most of the people reading this will never have heard of, never mind get a chance to see. It's been released elsewhere in the world, but leave it to the good old US of A to be dead last. Rumor has it it's tied up in litigation; more cynical sources blame it on the big gay content. I found a bittorrent via my [livejournal.com profile] boy_touching community.

::I Love You, Phillip Morris:: )

Of course, the fact that it's taking so ridiculously long to be released Stateside will probably surround the film with unwarranted drama. People are already moaning on the IMDb boards about what crap it is, why is it getting so much attention? Or perhaps they're just using that complaint to hide their homophobia.
grrgoyl: (amelie dog)
Pushing Daisies has arrived from Netflix. This isn't news to [livejournal.com profile] swankyfunk (whose deafening squeeing is what forced me to add it to my queue in the first place), but the show is right up my alley: With influences seemingly ranging from Amelie to Tim Burton to Arrested Development (everyone steals from AD without admitting it), including voice-over narration (I am SUCH a sucker for anything using this) and executive produced by Barry Sonnenfeld (The Tick), what's not to like? The entire cast is perfect, but so far (after three episodes) my favorite is Chi McBride (Emerson Cod). Has all the best lines and facial expressions.

Unfortunately, for all these reasons above Tery wasn't nearly so instantly enamored (I think we lost her the minute the show's premise involved bringing people back from the dead). Which is why I'm glad we have alone time away from each other.

The DVD set (standard as well as high definition) is shamefully bereft of extras. Perhaps I'll wait a bit, see if another version is released. I'm not sure if it's meant as a joke or not, but disc 1 has the FBI warning in 33 different languages (I counted), including Arabic and possibly Sanskrit. Funny!

~*~

I went grocery shopping tonight. The skinny little 16-year-old girl bagging my purchases managed to fit everything into my canvas bags except my douche (I douche sometimes. Deal with it). This she handed to me with a scrunched-up look of disgust on her face, as if it had already been used. In my head I said, "Oh, get over yourself sweetie. I didn't douche when I was 16 either. But someday, believe it or not, there's going to come a time when you feel not-so-fresh."

I instructed her to put my two gallons of milk together in one bag (they were made for me by my sister and are extremely sturdy). After doing so, she then gingerly filled the other bags with two or three items each, like cheese, vitamins and peanut butter in one and frozen pizza and shampoo in the other, staring helplessly at the rest of my items in bewilderment. Honey, the bags can hold two milk gallons. What makes you think you can't load them up with other stuff that isn't milk?

Am I well on my way to being a grouchy senior citizen or what?

~*~

Finally, another quickie movie review. Scenes of a Sexual Nature caught my eye on Netflix because Ewan McGregor is in it, and I somehow was not notified of this. It's a little piece about four or five different relationships that all play out on London's Hampstead Heath. It's like Love, Actually on a tenth of the budget and a sixteenth of the star power.

I just take exception to the title. A more misleading title you're not likely to ever find. There aren't any scenes of a REMOTELY sexual nature in this film. Plenty of talking about it, thinking about it, implying it. Even earned itself a thoroughly undeserved R rating for "sexual content." Bah. Apart from Ewan playing a flirtatious and adorable gay man who, mid eye-batting, starts discussing adoption with his longtime partner, and one pair ALMOST getting it on before the woman comes to her senses and rejects him, it's LIES, ALL LIES. Might have been salvaged with a small part for Rickman, but as there wasn't one, avoid, avoid, avoid.
grrgoyl: (ewan clone)
Ha! I've figured out how to get to the top of the Netflix new release list. Simply add the title to your queue the second you hear a whiff of a rumor that it's coming to video within the next 2 months. Thus I was able to see The Island only a week after its release (or maybe that was just because this isn't a very popular movie. Unlike The 40-year-old Virgin, which currently has a "very long wait." Poopie).

There may be some spoilers ahead, depending on how much you want to see this yourself. I get a headache trying to decide what someone would consider a spoiler, so no cuts.

I had but one reason to see this movie, and that obviously is my beloved Ewan. I thought Tery could appreciate it as well for Scarlett Johansson (who, don't get me wrong, I wouldn't kick out of bed for eating crackers either), but it was hopelessly too futuristic for her tastes (even the Mack trucks look like the Batmobile in this movie). I remember very well the original version, Parts: The Clonus Horror, or at least the MSTified version. I remember it was stupid beyond reckoning, but the MSTie treatment of it was proportionately hilarious. I also remember that was the episode that started my burgeoning (but relatively shortlived) obsession with Michael J. Nelson, he of the wanton writhing in hot pants and bucket hat.

The film actually has a very interesting premise: In the future, a shady company offers the obscenely wealthy the opportunity to buy themselves a clone, suitable for harvesting organs and bearing children for them. The problem is the project was a failure until the clones were allowed to develop sentience, something the clients are not told due to the obvious moral conflict that would create. The clones have no idea of the purpose for their existence, living their lives tranquilly in an underground bunker until they are lured from the general population by winning the lottery, or the chance to go live on The Island. Wacky hijinks ensue when Lincoln (Ewan) accidentally stumbles on the truth and he and Jordan (Scarlett) escape to the outside world, aided by their friend McCord (Steve Buscemi. I'm winking at YOU, [livejournal.com profile] swankyfunk).

There is great potential here to raise all sorts of questions on morality, humanity and what constitutes life, not that director Michael Bay worries his pretty little head with any of that. He opts instead for lots and lots of explosions. I sometimes wonder if he gets tired of making the same movie over and over again. Every Michael Bay movie has the exact same elements: Protracted, dazzlingly expensive car chase scene with maximum destruction of property: check. Someone drawing a gun in slow motion before blasting everything to Kingdom Come: check. Humongous explosion(s) resembling a nuclear holocaust, also in slow motion: check. *sigh* I'm not a big fan of action movies to begin with, and frankly here it's only taking time away from looking at Ewan, something I'm even less a fan of.

But unfortunately for me the few scenes where there is acting involved are so priceless that I will probably have to own this movie. Ewan and Scarlett are among Earth's most beautiful creatures, and I wouldn't have minded scrapping some of the stuff blowing up to make room for more kissing. The sight of her pushing him against a wall (I know the feeling, girlfriend) while he whispers, "I've never done this before" is worth the price alone. The sight of Ewan the clone (who is American) coming face to face with Ewan the client and trying to copy his Scottish accent is worth the price alone. Hell, the sight of Ewan in delicious little rectangular glasses is worth the price alone. (Image Hosted by ImageShack.us) Ditto the sight of Ewan being caught in the men's room with Steve Buscemi in a compromising position. Plus the movie itself is pretty visually stunning, gratuitous fireballs notwithstanding.

3.5 out of 5, and the movie owes almost all of that to Ewan.



Totally unrelated (unless you want to stick with the whole "obsessions" theme), I made myself some Snape/NIN crossover icons, because I think the resemblance to Trent is undeniable:

Image Hosted by ImageShack.us

Image Hosted by ImageShack.us

I wanted one saying "He's a magic man" (you know, Heart), but Tery informs me this would be "queer." Like she's some kind of expert.
grrgoyl: (frank)
I finally got paid today and took my replenished bank balance to my local grocery store immediately, where there were about 20 copies of HBP to choose from. It was all I could do not to hold my pretty aloft right in the store and cackle, "MUWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Whereas I'm sure camping out all night to buy a book can be a fun and exciting adventure, it was just as satisfying for me to not have to wait in a huge line and battle throngs of other fans stampeding towards the shelves. This scenario would probably end badly anyway as I am not of the attitude that little kids should be deferred to, and I just might trample one or two in my selfish haste. My little sister is even smarter -- she's one book behind the rest of the world, so she can leisurely wait for paperback, or bargain bins. There's definitely something to be said for keeping very busy with real life. I am still that busy, but come Sunday afternoon, I'm locking myself in the bedroom for the better part of the day. Although I do want to make the pleasure last, so I doubt I'll be in a hurry to finish it all in one sitting.

In a story that couldn't possibly be more unrelated, I have been amusing myself during the day watching a mini-drama unfold on the bathroom floor. You see, it is hot here (I know, it's hot everywhere. Hear me out). Damn hot, and being in a top-floor condo doesn't help matters one bit. I can only bear to work at the computer (in the loft of the top-floor condo) all day with the aid of a desk fan blowing directly in my face, a swamp cooler pressed against my legs, a frozen wet towel wrapped around my neck, and a spritzer bottle used to liberally soak my face, hair and feet throughout the day. Sure, we have AC, if you count the tiny wall unit downstairs that is only truly effective if you stand directly in front of it. So it isn't unusual to notice the critters sprawled in varying positions of heat exhaustion in the tiled rooms of the house, namely the kitchen and bathroom, where there is some illusion of being cooler. It is QUITE unusual, however, to see them all in the same room, like I did yesterday. Fortunately, I have photographic documentation of this rare event:

Image Hosted by ImageShack.us

"Denial"

This is titled "Denial" because Polo (upper left) sleeps in here, on that exact spot, every day. The other animals do not. Note the look of indignation on her face. Note also that GiddyGiddy (lower right) is the only one who truly doesn't give a shit and looks the least like he's squaring off in a showdown.

::watch the drama unfold!:: )

In vaguely related news, we finally have a new cage for Pepita. A client that owns macaws (which are three times Pepita's size) donated an old cage to make room for a bigger one. Tery got to take it home, quite a coup when you realize this cage is easily worth about $1000. It is nice-looking, but big. We had to drastically rearrange our living room furniture to make room. Here's an idea of how big:

Image Hosted by ImageShack.us

Keep in mind please that Pepita herself is about 6 inches tall. She hasn't got inside it yet. I don't think she's aware that the transition is inevitable, because this thing is so heavy that if we move, it will be included with the purchase of the unit. Of course, if she doesn't use it we could always turn it into a spare closet.

Edit Pt II: Oh yeah! I almost forgot. I had the best dream last night about meeting Ewan McGregor. I shyly approached him with something to autograph. As he signed it, he leaned over and breathed my name into my ear seductively. This naturally affected me, but not as much as the fact that I hadn't told it to him, which meant that he already knew it somehow. *sigh* Then I had to wake up to the sun pounding on my face in a puddle of moisture (sweat! It was sweat!)

Back to sweating my ass off work for me.
grrgoyl: (ewan stoli)
Tery's going to KILL me.

I just bought what will be my fourth leather jacket today. That's the fourth one I currently own. This isn't counting the one I had briefly and sold on eBay to justify the purchase of #3. But if you continue reading, I think you will agree that my progression through the stages is perfectly logical and not at all crazy. I think Tery is beginning to embrace this view less and less, however.

It started in college with my motorcycle jacket. You know, the obligatory rebel uniform:

(ROFL I just HAD to grab this pic. I think you'll agree if this isn't the face of "midlife crisis," I really don't know what is.) I loved this jacket, even had an artist friend of mine paint a portrait of The Cure's Robert Smith on the back. But as I grew, so did my tastes and needs. I still have a jacket like this (sans the portrait) and would consider selling it if not for the fact that they are a dime a dozen on eBay. You can't GIVE this jacket away, it seems.

My second jacket is so boring I won't even picture it. Just your standard, waist-length leather coat, high-quality, dressy, and utterly nondescript. Mostly Tery just wears that one now.

My third and fourth jackets were very similar. I remember watching X-Men for the 10th time and out of the blue just absolutely falling in love with Wolverine's distressed cycling jacket with the orange stripes on the sleeves. All I could find was something similar to this:

For about a week I wrestled with the idea of somehow adding stripes myself, but could find no solution that wouldn't look unutterably tacky and unmistakably homemade. So when I found the same coat with two sexy white stripes on one sleeve, I simply had to upgrade (and managed to sell the first incarnation almost immediately at auction). I found the replacement in an actual store, so had the chance to try it on. My problem with jackets is in order to get a size large enough to zip closed over my enormous bazoombas, the rest of it has to be comically larger as well (I tell you, as soon as I make my first million I'm buying myself a double mastectomy. Although ironically as I keep buying leather jackets, that day gets farther and farther away for me). That was (and is) the problem with this coat. I still love it and wear it often, but am still not entirely 100% satisfied with it.

Then along comes Ewan into my content little world wearing this scrumptiousness in Long Way Round:

It was really hard to find any pics at all of it, and they are nearly impossible to make out, but trust me, it is a damn fine jacket. This set me on the eBay road yet again in search of the perfect leather jacket. Damn you, Ewan, but I still love you so. (call me)

Which brings us to #5, just purchased today:

When I first saw this jacket I tried to convince myself it was too big. But over time the measurements magically looked more and more workable to me. I wasn't too thrilled with the gray shoulders, but everything else was exactly what I wanted, and the more I stared at it, the more I started to like the gray. Today the thing was physically pecking at my brain until I HAD to buy it for some relief. I'm going to be smart about it and only try to sell #4 when I am sure #5 will fit okay, but I have high hopes.

Maybe I can pass it off as a Christmas present? : O


Also in news that couldn't possibly be more unrelated, there was a disgusting enormous fly buzzing in the window today. I can tolerate nails on a chalkboard, but a fly buzzing in a window for some reason drives me totally batty. I swatted him easily...he was big and fat and lazy. I couldn't find the body to make sure he was dead in case I needed to put him out of his misery. I went back to work and thought nothing of it. An hour later I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, and the damn fly was walking across my desk, one wing missing, like a creepy zombie fly come back to exact vengeance on me. I swatted him again and made sure to finish the job this time. Ewwwwwwwwwww skeeeeevy.
grrgoyl: (Default)
I went to Hollywood Video last night with but two goals....Young Adam (recommended by [livejournal.com profile] bohemiancharm because of all the Ewan hotness) and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (recommended by everyone else on the planet I know). I went to Hollywood rather than Blockbuster for a couple of reasons: 1) you get the movies for 5 days instead of 2, and given how Blockbuster is shamelessly copying NetFlix with its new online rental program I don't understand why they don't adopt Hollywood's policies as well, cuz who can enjoy a movie with a big clock ticking over their head? and 2) every time I go there the place is a ghost town, and it should be a surprise to no one I am a big fan of seeing as few other people in my day-to-day life as possible.

Alas, that second part was not to be. The one thing Hollywood does not have over Blockbuster is a clearly delineated checkout line (being a ghost town most of the time). There is a large rack of snacks directly in front of the register with no indication of where is the right place to stand. This was only an issue last night as I stood to the left of the rack, waiting behind the woman being helped and a family of outsized breeders (the stack of five children's movies was the giveaway), already bellied up to the counter. After about five minutes I looked to the right of the snacks and realized there was a guy who most certainly was not there before blithely creating his own line. I edged forward nervously, and that's when he noticed me and edged forward himself a lot more aggressively. The lone cashier looked up at us halfway through the breeders' transaction and I briefly hoped she knew I was there first and she would do something to motion me forward as the rightful next person in line. Alas again, her customer service skills weren't nearly that finely honed, and I was relegated to the end of the line. Which didn't stop me from shooting white-hot spears of hate through the back of his head with my eyes. Okay, Mr. Man. If you need to be rude to others to get just a little bit ahead in life, be my guest. You are the one who has to live with yourself. HateHateHateHateHateConsumingHotHateOfAThousandSuns on you. I tried to console myself with the fact that I was holding a steamy Ewan sex rompYoung Adam, which would be enough to brighten anyone's day.

(Of course, Tery rightfully asserts that nothing compares with her Blockbuster story of trying to rent The Butterfly Effect for me the Friday after its release, waiting in the enormous line patiently for her chance to inquire at the desk since the shelves were empty, only to have an especially loutish customer march through the front door and, ignoring the 10 civilized people in line, immediately holler at the counter people, who gave her the sole copy in the return pile behind the desk. I don't want to live in a world where annoying, overbearing people always win, but sadly, I do. I think Tery was given a raincheck for a free copy later, so there was at least a happy ending, sort of.)

So, onto the reviews:

Spotless Mind )

Young Adam )


Love,
Lainey
grrgoyl: (Default)
It looks like someone is answering my Christmas wishes this year (in more ways than one, *winking meaningfully at [livejournal.com profile] mooselet*). Who could ask for more than a movie starring Ewan McGregor and directed by Tim Burton? (well, except for possibly a movie starring Alan Cumming directed by Tim Burton....)

Big Fish


Thanks, Santa!

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