May 2003

May 30, 2003

Perhaps the most accurate weather report ever.

May 28, 2003
Gelatinous. I have become a gelatinous cube. (shame on you if you get that reference. Minus 30 HP.) This winter past has not been kind... or, rather, I was not kind to myself this past winter, and now I am left to deal with, and accept, the consequences. Consequence, really.

That being, my gut.

So, I've started running. I hate running. Running and I go back a few years. And I hate it. Always have. But I've found few things that shed poundage faster than forcing a little (or a lot. Relatively speaking, here - I'm no marathon runner, goddamnit. For that matter, I'm not really that much of a "runner," at all - my gait falls somewhere between a power walk and a jog. I have trouble lapping the grannies at the track who are talking a lot faster than they're walking. Speaking of which, did you ever notice what a fucking blue streak some ol' ladies will cuss when they think (or, simply don't care if) no one is listening? Jesus! Keep it fucking clean, Gram!) running into your weekly schedule. (a few jobs back, I worked with this Irish guy who pronounced schedule, "shhhhed-dual." Ha. Those fucks.)

Focus. Focus.

So, I've been waking up a wee sore in the morning due to my healthy endeavor. No biggie. Feels kinda good to feel bad knowing that I'm doing some... uh, good.

Today was different. Apparently, my running shoes (whose age I've estimated as a bazillion years old through double blind carbon dating) have lost their groove thang. That is to say, there is no spring in their step. Especially the right shoe. I say this because I spent today hobbling instead of walking, whenever ambulatory movement was required. Simply put, I limped like a gimp.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

I go for a coupla runs to stave off the inevitable fatgut and I end up stiff leggin' it around like a 90 year old with gout and a pole up his arse.

Note to self: Tomorrow, no running. More drinking.

May 21, 2003
Sequels suck.

As a rule, they fucking blow. Precious few stories demand more than 120 cinematic minutes to tell. That's tick-tock-a-plenty, frankly. If a tale requires more time, stick the blasted thing on the small screen, where serials have a nice, solid, hand-in-glove fit. The real reason behind sequels is cake, of course. Sequels put the motherloving business in show business. Any slop that Hollywood chucks up on the screen that shows even a semblance of life (in terms of box office receipts) is a sure-fire bet for a second (and third.. and, possibly, fourth... Fifth? Are you fucking kidding me?) coming. I don't really have a problem with that - I don't have to go see shittier Xeroxes of shitty-to-begin-with flicks. Fine by me. I vote with my fat roll. All $9.50, baby.

No. What jams the proverbial latex-gloved finger up my pipe is when The Evil Empire makes shitty second gen copies of decent, or even friggin great talkies. I wish I had the wherewithal to resist peeking in on characters and stories I really dig (via crap sucking sequels), but I usually fold, pony up the cash, and sit, seething, in a dark theater, as a fine film is soundly trashed by a show-me-the-money shitfest of a follow-up. See: Die Hard. The seminal, sublime 80's action flick that redefined the genre. Make no mistake, this was a great movie. Sure, it was big and silly... it might have been so big and silly that it was actually intended as a satire of action flicks, but it friggin rocked in spite of itself. It was slam-bang, right-on, foot-to-pedal-to-floor fun. Great hero, greater villain, great friggin everything. Michael Kamen's damn score was nearly a character in itself. How jumpin' brilliant to wrap up bits of Christmas carols turned minor-key in the foreboding musical themes? I mean, Christ. Big fan. Big fan.

Die Hard 2: Die Harder? Sucked.

So you see the direction I'm heading here? I'm subtle. Try to keep up.

The Matrix is a nice parallel to Die Hard, in terms of an action film coming outta nowhere and smacking the genre upside its head - leaving a wake of influence behind it that few other flicks could (or even tried to) resist. I didn't know much about The Matrix when I saw it way back in... '99? '00? But it had a similar, visceral, boot-to-the-head impact on me. I was floored. Finally, an American release did chop-socky right. (cause they friggin imported the fight choreographer from China, but, whatever.) No more old school, John Wayne, I-hit-you-now-you-hit-me-just-how-fucking-boring-can-we-make-two-guys-hitting-each-other snoozes. The flick kicked ass left, right, front, center. It was fresh, it was exciting, it had Carrie Anne Moss in black pleather. And, that's an eye-tearing-up-beautiful-type beautiful thing (so damn beautiful). I say she's hot, man. Jesus, even Keanu couldn't suck the life outta that movie. And that's saying about as much as anyone can, really. Ever. I despise that Hawaiian trainwreck of an actor like SB hates Christian Slater. (Heathers and True Romance have earned him enough happy karma to last a lifetime in my book; he's cool wid me.)

I think the first sign of trouble came early for the Matrix sequel(s). It was way back in the day when Sean and I worked together... (beedaloo-beedaloo-beedaloo)

Sean: Whoa. Hey. News about the Matrix sequel.

Me: Hey! Whoa! Really? What?

Sean: They're gonna call it... The Matrix... um... Reloaded.

(pause)

Sean: Followed by... The Matrix... ah... huh... Revolutions.

(pause)

Me: Could still be good, you know.

Sean: Right. Right.

Me: Yeah.

(beedaloo-beedaloo-beedaloo)

Having seen the film in question, I'm not so certain it is good. And, I have a sneaking suspicion that it is bad.

When a film is going to be released that I know I will see, I do this silly thing where I avoid all ads, media coverage, reviews, etc. in the hope that I won't shell out megabucks just to sit and think, "Oh yeah! I remember this scene from the trailers I saw, and I know what's going to happen next from those reviews I read, and I know that guy dies from the spoilers I happened upon in that forum, etc."

So, I went into The Matrix Reloaded fairly "cold." Sure, I had seen snippets of commercials (before casting my eyes away from the screen) and overheard a modest amount of advance hype about incredible car chases (before stuffing objects (d'art) into my ear canals), but my exposure was minimal. Like, if The Matrix Reloaded media campaign is SARS, then I'm breathing easy, sweetcakes.

Still, my expectations were relatively high, if solely because of the cinematic achievements that preceded (namely, Carrie Anne Moss in black pleather). I wanted that same buzzy, fun, adrenaline high as before, dammit (and Carrie Anne Moss in black pleather). And I guess I got it... a bit... in drips and drabs. Sure, the big, expensive, action set pieces are breathtaking, but a movie they do not make.

I don't do reviews so good. So, in lieu of a proper critique, here's a laundry list of what sucks about The Matrix Reloaded.

Aaaaaand... begin.

No character development. (As in, none)
Viewing this movie, for the first time in my life, I longed for character development. That... that thing that critics like to drone on about. Character development. I never really understood that. Develop what? Just show shit blowing up and that's good enough for me. Or, it used to be. But, alas, no more. These folks don't change a goddamned whit from Point A to Point B. Neo, who was plagued with self-doubt throughout the first installment, is plagued with self-doubt at the onset of the second, and finishes the film, um, plagued with self-doubt. Great. On the positive side, Carrie Anne Moss, who was plagued by black pleather outfits throughout the first installment, is plagued with a black pleather outfit at the onset of the second, and finishes the film plagued with black pleather outfits. Bully good. I mean to tell you. She's hot.

Morpheus is fat
So, as I understand it, this film picks up right where the last left off, right? So... where exactly are all the McDonalds tucked away in Zion? I didn't see any golden arches, but I sure did see a lot of Larry Fishburne's gut. Note to filmmakers: If one of your principals puts on 20 or 30 pounds, try to minimize the number of scenes where he goes shirtless FOR THE FUCKING LOVE OF GOD. That distracted me through the whole damn movie. Like, a lot.

Matrix sequel or Shakira video - You make the call!
A key shark-jumping moment comes relatively early on, when we find that the primary source of entertainment in Zion is dirty dancing to bad Blue Man Group music. Jesus. Faced with a lifetime of evenings such as this, I'd burrow my way up to one of those fucking sentinels and offer myself to it's steely tentacles, pronto. I don't know when the Wachowski bros. morphed from cutting-edge cyberpunk auteurs to bad, bad, video directors, but somewhere along the way fella, I mean to tell you, it happened.

Ho-hum Kung Fu
Ok, certainly not all ho-hum - there's a few inspired scenes, such as Neo taking on the local Rotary/Agent Smith Club - but overall, the excitement level has taken a serious dip downward. There's something key about fight scenes that Jackie Chan figured out early on (and was reflected in The Matrix) - when hit, show pain. Simple. Makes fight scenes compelling. In the original, when Neo and Agent Smith square off in the subway station, every punch, kick, strike lands with effect because of the actors' reactions. In Reloaded, sure Neo takes some hits, but damn if it ever registers on his (or any of the characters who get smacked around, for the most part) mug(s). Worse still, the fight scenes are mile-away predictable and forced. When Neo goes a-lookin' for the Oracle, the very second he stumbles upon her bodyguard, you know they're gonna rumble. But, frankly, there's no real reason why. When Neo alludes to that, the ruffian states something about "You can only know somebody after you fight them.. blah, blah, blah..." (Note to self: Punch all friends directly in the face, stat.) It's bunk. And the fighting in that scene is particularly yawn-inducing.

Bad use of flash forward
The film kicks off with two "scenes" plucked from Neo's dreams sorta spliced together. We see Carrie Anne Moss (who, resplendent in a black pleather outfit, is hot) assaulting security guardsjumping out a window pursued by agents. Did that sentence make sense? Neither did the editing at the beginning of this flick. Plus, I generally hate when a movie starts with a scene you know is going to be repeated later, likely at the end. Save the end for the fucking end, Bunkie.

All that said, I still think it's worth at least a matinee ticket. I mean, there is a lot of shit blowing up.

P.S. What did all that media avoidance get me? I learned too late that the trailer for Revolutions is tacked on after the credits. Godammit. Not that I'm even going to see the third installment... unless it has, like, Carrie Anne Moss in black pleather outfits.

May 12, 2003
I also like that ad for Metamucil where the park ranger sneaks up to Old Faithful when no one's lookin' and heaves heaping helpings of the product into the "sleeping" geyser.

Later, a tourist asks the very same ranger-guy how Old Faithful stays so regular and the park-guy says, "Ancient Chinese secret." (I'm paraphrasing here. In these ultra PC days, you just couldn't get away with poking fun of the Orientals like that. Kidding, there Spike! Orientals are rugs! These are italics!)

I dig this spot because the braintrusts that dreamt it up apparently weren't deterred by the inference that Joe Ranger was shoveling laxative into a geyser's fucking ass.

That's what I call a lovin' spoonful.

May 4, 2003
I like those Las Vegas tourism ads that end with the tag line, "What happens here, stays here."

Hell of a way to shed that garish, Joe-Pesci-on-a-three-day-coke-bender, City of Sin, Neon Lights, and Bad Suits image.

I'm guessing the first runner up to the winning slogan was, "Vegas, baby: We'll help you hide the body."

May 1, 2003
Fuck it.

I'm preemptively starting May.

Given my tendency to ramble about Christ and other things biblical, you'd likely think I was either a Bible scholar or a pedophile. (Thankfully, I'm neither.) (Um. Just for clarity's sake.) (Really.) (Doth I protest too much?)

That said, I've decided that we are all Job. Not as in Job, Odd - the rotund, smartly-dressed Asian with a penchant for committing statue decapitation by way of razor-rimmed-hat-as-projectile (What the fuck is better than a James Bond villain? What, I ask you? SPEAK UP.) - nay, I speak of biblical Job. The lil guy whose beloved God tore 'im an extra a-hole. It's all a bit fuzzy, but I think the basic story went a little like...

(cue way-back beedaloos)

beedaloo-beedaloo-beedaloo

Satan: Hey, God.

God: Piss off. I'm eating a ham sandwich.

Satan: Finish up then. We gotta talk. I want to make a wager wichoo.

God: The Almighty God, Creator of All Things, The Giver of Life does not gamble, you accursed beast.

Satan: Oh. Ok. I guess you don't want to bet me that I can't torture one of your most devoted servants into turning against you by slaughtering his family, destroying his crops, kicking him di-rectly in the lunch, giving him the ol' her-pez, et cetera, et cetera. No interest? Awright. Bye bye.

God: Now waitasecond.

Satan: Hm?

God: You mean you want to mercilessly rend and tear one of my children, one who adores me above all other things and lives solely to serve me, to itty bitty pieces? Basically, for shits and giggles?

Satan: Well. Yeah. That's pretty much it.

God: Jesus Christ (My Son)! Why the fuck didn't you say so in the first place? I'm in!

(cue returning-to-present-day beedaloos)

beedaloo-beedaloo-beedaloo

What followed next? A shitstorm of treachery, woe, misery and pain was visited upon the head of Job, who had done exactly nil to deserve it. I don't think he ever turned against God, no matter how bad the shit broke, which earned him, like, a Stop and Shop Super Saver Card with a picture of JC on the front. Who can remember these friggin stories? They're written like fucking Chinese riddles.

But. Um. What I was originally getting at, was that the older I get, the more I realize we're all Job. We are all handed more shitesammiches than we could ever possibly eat, as it were. Or, is. Maybe I'm just becoming more accutely aware of what's going on around me (unlikely), but it sure seems like this life is rapidly filling to the fucking brim with bitter, nasty, freeze-dried coffee.

And the hits keep coming.

Mike and I have separated.

This site has never been much of an über-personal journal where I bear my soul like so much dampened laundry on the line. I've mentioned before the reason I write in such a public place is a.) because that's the only way I seem to be able to write with anything approaching regularity, and 2.) I know a couple of my friends laugh at this crap.

The personal stuff is reserved for me, Buddha, and my therapist.

But I know sooner or later (although, it appears to be leaning just slightly towards sooner), I will make mention of the fact that Mike and I are not together, and I guess I figure it's best to just get it out now, rather than face any questions that come in drips and drabs.

I'm ok. Mike's ok. The little girl is ok. We're all going to be ok.

I hope everyone else I know who is dealing with Heavy-Duty Brand troubles is going to be ok, too. We all seem to be wrestling with life right now. And life doesn't seem to know the rules. Cause we keep getting kicked in the lunch.