When I tell people I've had over 50 different jobs they often look at me like I have a goiter. They're kind of disgusted, but intrigued, and would probably poke me with a stick if they had a stick. So, here's a stick, poke away you fiends.
Like I said, I've had a lot of different jobs, all of which were hilarious/humiliating in some way. It might take me a while to list them all here. Look for updates randomly...
Monday, December 27, 2010
The Paperboy
When I was about 12 years old I moved from Brooklyn to Staten Island for some reason. I was totally heartbroken - I lost all my friends, and access to good pizza. Soon enough though, I got accustomed to this new life in Staten Island, this life in "suburbia". I made new friends. One of these new friends offered me a job helping him with a paper route. My first job ever. Huzzah.
Initially I only helped him on Sundays. The Sunday edition would be thrown from the back of a moving truck either directly at us while we stood there waiting, or at some immovable object somewhere in the neighborhood. Every Sunday we would go looking for this secret stash of newspapers if we missed the delivery.
The giant stacks of papers were never in the same spot. One day they would be gently stacked against a particular tree. Another day they would be hurled halfway to the shoreline or positioned strategically in the middle of mud puddles for some reason. Where ever they were, it was our job at 5am every Sunday morning to find them, haul them back to the garage, put them together, and deliver them to the loyal Staten Island Advance subscribers on our route.
Somehow my buddy commandeered a shopping cart to aid us in this endeavour. I still, to this day, have no idea where or how he got this thing, he refuses to tell me even after almost twenty years later. I have no idea why he is so secretive about the origin of this shopping cart. Did he pry it from the cold, dead fingers of some vagrant he found decomposing in the marsh? Did he trade his virginity to the local supermarket manager in exchange for a shiny new shopping cart?! Frankly, after so long, I'm growing bored of this mystery.
Anyway, hauling these gigantic stacks of newspapers back to our garage was a chore in and of itself even with the shopping cart. Those bitches were heavy as hell, and usually covered in plastic, which was inturn covered in one or more of the following: mud, water, dog/animal urine, unidentified liquids.
We had about 200 houses on our route, all within the confines of the Captain's Quarter's townhome community. We'd finish around 10am, after which he would hand me a twenty dollar bill, and we would immediately ride our bikes to the shopping center, and spend all our money on comics and chicken parm heros.
Eventually my buddy, who was two years older than me, got a real job and I took over the route alone. Now I had to deliver papers 7 days a week. On days I couldn't deliver the papers, one of the other kids in the neighborhood would do it for ten bucks a day.
I never really made any money after my friend gave me the route. I'm not sure how he made money doing this. Most people would "tip" at the end of the week when I would come around to collect their subscription payments. The tip would often be words of encouragement or warnings to keep the newspaper out of the rain. Rarely would it actually be money. Cheap bastards. I think I made two dollars one week.
Initially I only helped him on Sundays. The Sunday edition would be thrown from the back of a moving truck either directly at us while we stood there waiting, or at some immovable object somewhere in the neighborhood. Every Sunday we would go looking for this secret stash of newspapers if we missed the delivery.
The giant stacks of papers were never in the same spot. One day they would be gently stacked against a particular tree. Another day they would be hurled halfway to the shoreline or positioned strategically in the middle of mud puddles for some reason. Where ever they were, it was our job at 5am every Sunday morning to find them, haul them back to the garage, put them together, and deliver them to the loyal Staten Island Advance subscribers on our route.
Somehow my buddy commandeered a shopping cart to aid us in this endeavour. I still, to this day, have no idea where or how he got this thing, he refuses to tell me even after almost twenty years later. I have no idea why he is so secretive about the origin of this shopping cart. Did he pry it from the cold, dead fingers of some vagrant he found decomposing in the marsh? Did he trade his virginity to the local supermarket manager in exchange for a shiny new shopping cart?! Frankly, after so long, I'm growing bored of this mystery.
Anyway, hauling these gigantic stacks of newspapers back to our garage was a chore in and of itself even with the shopping cart. Those bitches were heavy as hell, and usually covered in plastic, which was inturn covered in one or more of the following: mud, water, dog/animal urine, unidentified liquids.
We had about 200 houses on our route, all within the confines of the Captain's Quarter's townhome community. We'd finish around 10am, after which he would hand me a twenty dollar bill, and we would immediately ride our bikes to the shopping center, and spend all our money on comics and chicken parm heros.
Eventually my buddy, who was two years older than me, got a real job and I took over the route alone. Now I had to deliver papers 7 days a week. On days I couldn't deliver the papers, one of the other kids in the neighborhood would do it for ten bucks a day.
I never really made any money after my friend gave me the route. I'm not sure how he made money doing this. Most people would "tip" at the end of the week when I would come around to collect their subscription payments. The tip would often be words of encouragement or warnings to keep the newspaper out of the rain. Rarely would it actually be money. Cheap bastards. I think I made two dollars one week.
Finally I had enough, and one day I just stopped delivering the papers. I didn't call the regional manager to let him know. I left huge piles of newspapers to rot on the street corners for weeks. I remember watching the piles grow as I commuted to school.
 |
| No, really. |
I never heard anything about it, never got a call. I have no idea what happened to all of those papers or who took over the route and after literally a few days, I forgot I ever had this job in the first place.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Nuisance Log Part 3 - Warm Brown Water
I love coffee. I mean, I freaking love coffee, can't go a day without it. I drink it usually first thing in the morning after getting dressed. If I don't get it first thing in the morning or reasonably thereafter my day is ruined beyond repair, and all hell will most certainly spill forth upon this earth.
Usually I make my own coffee at home, carefully, lovingly, using the finest beans I can afford, measuring precisely, adding just the right amount of cream and sugar. Sometimes hazelnut flavored cream is incorporated for a subtle note of praline nuttiness. The end result is a thick, dark, fragrant, hot mug of deliciousness. Guaranteed to jump start your day, like a pleasant, rich, sweet slap-in-the-face.
Sometimes I travel, which removes me from my home coffee laboratory. I am left to crawl begging and desperate from my hotel room to the nearest coffee shop, praying that what they have to offer will be a quality substitute. I prefer a local coffee shop over a Starbucks any day simply because of the consistent quality of the java from these establishments. Starbucks tends to burn their coffee, and it all tastes vaguely of kerosene for some reason.
Sometimes there are no coffee shops nearby. I will steadfastly scour the area looking for one, sometimes driving miles out of my way, enduring traffic jams, hostile neighborhoods, packs of wild animals. Dunkin Donuts is often my sanctuary in the cataclysmic zoo that is the American cityscape. There seems to be a Dunkin Donuts in every city I visit, and more often than not there are several of them strategically scattered around. Their coffee is always fresh, even at 3am on a Tuesday. Not very strong, but there is nothing like a "large hazelnut with cream and sugar."
Sometimes I spend an hour driving around looking for a coffee shop or a Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts only to have my spirits crushed and my plans cancelled. At this point I will resort to emergency tactics, which often bring me to the first gas station I see. This is the beginning of the end.
I frantically burst into the gas station market, and there, floating like a steaming oasis in the middle of the floor are various pots of coffee. My initial reaction is always the same: salvation at last! I rush over, knocking people out of the way, hockey-checking the rotating sunglasses kiosk, diving for that little styrofoam cup of morning sunshine. Panic stricken, I pour that black gold into my cup, find the piss-warm cream bottle laying on its side and dispense a generous dollop, and shovel in several scoops of sugar.
I pay the man.
I get back in my car.
I let the scalding coffee cool off for a few minutes.
Finally, after what seems like eons, I take a sip.
Warm brown french vanilla flavored water.
I toss the abomination out my car window aiming for the bus shelter full of commuters, vengeance in my eyes, an audible growl on my lips. I head back to the hotel at mach 4, breaking all known traffic laws, hurling obscenities at anything within earshot: people, animals, children, religious leaders, veterans of foreign wars, orange traffic cones, more commuters in bus shelters, etc.
I collapse in a heap of myself on the floor of my hotel room, broken, crestfallen, reaching to the ceiling with a claw-like hand. I manage to drag myself to the window, and there, shining like a beacon of victory, next to "Pams Flapjack Palace" a sign: "House of Java," behind the hotel on the street I didn't notice before.
Usually I make my own coffee at home, carefully, lovingly, using the finest beans I can afford, measuring precisely, adding just the right amount of cream and sugar. Sometimes hazelnut flavored cream is incorporated for a subtle note of praline nuttiness. The end result is a thick, dark, fragrant, hot mug of deliciousness. Guaranteed to jump start your day, like a pleasant, rich, sweet slap-in-the-face.
Sometimes I travel, which removes me from my home coffee laboratory. I am left to crawl begging and desperate from my hotel room to the nearest coffee shop, praying that what they have to offer will be a quality substitute. I prefer a local coffee shop over a Starbucks any day simply because of the consistent quality of the java from these establishments. Starbucks tends to burn their coffee, and it all tastes vaguely of kerosene for some reason.
Sometimes there are no coffee shops nearby. I will steadfastly scour the area looking for one, sometimes driving miles out of my way, enduring traffic jams, hostile neighborhoods, packs of wild animals. Dunkin Donuts is often my sanctuary in the cataclysmic zoo that is the American cityscape. There seems to be a Dunkin Donuts in every city I visit, and more often than not there are several of them strategically scattered around. Their coffee is always fresh, even at 3am on a Tuesday. Not very strong, but there is nothing like a "large hazelnut with cream and sugar."
Sometimes I spend an hour driving around looking for a coffee shop or a Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts only to have my spirits crushed and my plans cancelled. At this point I will resort to emergency tactics, which often bring me to the first gas station I see. This is the beginning of the end.
I frantically burst into the gas station market, and there, floating like a steaming oasis in the middle of the floor are various pots of coffee. My initial reaction is always the same: salvation at last! I rush over, knocking people out of the way, hockey-checking the rotating sunglasses kiosk, diving for that little styrofoam cup of morning sunshine. Panic stricken, I pour that black gold into my cup, find the piss-warm cream bottle laying on its side and dispense a generous dollop, and shovel in several scoops of sugar.
I pay the man.
I get back in my car.
I let the scalding coffee cool off for a few minutes.
Finally, after what seems like eons, I take a sip.
Warm brown french vanilla flavored water.
I toss the abomination out my car window aiming for the bus shelter full of commuters, vengeance in my eyes, an audible growl on my lips. I head back to the hotel at mach 4, breaking all known traffic laws, hurling obscenities at anything within earshot: people, animals, children, religious leaders, veterans of foreign wars, orange traffic cones, more commuters in bus shelters, etc.
I collapse in a heap of myself on the floor of my hotel room, broken, crestfallen, reaching to the ceiling with a claw-like hand. I manage to drag myself to the window, and there, shining like a beacon of victory, next to "Pams Flapjack Palace" a sign: "House of Java," behind the hotel on the street I didn't notice before.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
So Much Fun
We recently found a letter from a child named Porry Din, or Perry Dun, or something illegible, addressed to someone named "Joe". After several minutes spent reading this letter outloud and laughing uncontrollably I decided to tackle the logic behind the letter. First, since I can't for some reason upload an image of the actual letter from this computer, here is a word-for-word reproduction.
Dear JOE,
Hi I am 9 years oldI like living in aparmes it is so fun. I like playing outside so much because it is so fun. I like playing outside with friends. It is so fun playing with friends friends are so fun to have arownd because it is so fun. I like playing outside with friends.
by perny duo (?!?!)
So, apparently:
1. Porry likes living in Aparmes. (Apartments? Parmesans?)
2. Aparmes are so fun to him.
3. Porry also likes playing outside, which is, again, so fun.
4. He continues by saying that playing with friends is so fun.
5. Elaborating on this idea, he assures us that friends are so fun to have around because, cryptically, it is so fun.
Thus:
- if Aparmes are so fun,
- playing outside is so fun, and
- playing with FRIENDS outside is so fun, then logically
- playing with friends in general is so fun.
We can also imply that playing WITH Aparmes is so fun, however, what exactly is an Aparmes?! Here are some suggestions:
- Apartments, since he lives in one.
- A chicken or eggplant parmesan sandwich, which I would happily live inside of.
- A permy: maybe someone addicted to getting their hair permed?
- A derogatory term for people from Parma, Italy.
- A mythological Greco-Roman god, possibly of chicken parmesan sandwiches.
In the end we are left questioning the effectiveness of the American education system, and laughing spastically at an adorably hilarious and ridiculous 9 year old. I wonder if he spends his days sorting things into two neat little lists: what is so much fun and what is not so much fun. I would like to see his "what is not so much fun" list. Inferring his tastes and mirroring his style, I believe it would look something like this:
Dear DAVE,
Hi I am 9 years oldI hate living in Newurk it is not so much fun. I hate playing inside so much because it is not so fun. I hate playing inside with kitchen utensils. It is not so fun playing with kitchen utensils kitchen utensils are not so fun to have arownd because it is not so fun. I hate playing inside with kitchen utensils.
by Parry Dur
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Flying Banana, Salamander Slide Show, Office Tent, Ghostbusters!!
I'm really bored at work right now. I'm looking around the room, and everyone I work with seems pretty bored too. It's 11pm, we're all really tired, and it's generally really slow. We've run out of conversation for the night.
I keep thinking of ways to interact with these people. Most of my ideas are terrible, and I would probably become a social outcast if I actually attempted any of this. Here are my ideas:
1) There is a large bunch of over-ripe bananas on my desk for some reason. I have no idea where these came from, or if anyone is going to eat them. Kristen is sitting directly across the room from me, staring off into space. Something inside my brain is telling me to heave one of these smushy bananas at her, immediately, and with terrific force.
2) Someone I don't know is sitting at our conference table watching ESPN. I am tempted to sit across from him at the table and begin an impromptu "meeting". He's been sitting there for hours now, in silence. I think I have time to prepare a Powerpoint slide show on something ridiculous, like the ecology of salamanders living in the Pacific Northwest. I will have handouts, and afterwards, I will ask for his input. I will limit my presentation to 20 minutes. I will keep a straight face throughout, and repeatedly make clear to him the importance of this information.
3) We have a large tent stashed in the back room for some reason. This sucker is HUGE, military grade, holds like 15 people or something like that. I want to set this bitch up right here in the office, then climb in, take a nap.
4) I want to start singing the Ghostbusters theme song, loudly, in its entirety, even the creepy weirdo lyrics that no one remembers.
I won't actually do any of these things because it is time for dinner.
Someone took the bananas off my desk while I was in the bathroom, which is pretty strange because it was an unnecessarily large bunch of over-ripe bananas and now they are missing.
I keep thinking of ways to interact with these people. Most of my ideas are terrible, and I would probably become a social outcast if I actually attempted any of this. Here are my ideas:
1) There is a large bunch of over-ripe bananas on my desk for some reason. I have no idea where these came from, or if anyone is going to eat them. Kristen is sitting directly across the room from me, staring off into space. Something inside my brain is telling me to heave one of these smushy bananas at her, immediately, and with terrific force.
2) Someone I don't know is sitting at our conference table watching ESPN. I am tempted to sit across from him at the table and begin an impromptu "meeting". He's been sitting there for hours now, in silence. I think I have time to prepare a Powerpoint slide show on something ridiculous, like the ecology of salamanders living in the Pacific Northwest. I will have handouts, and afterwards, I will ask for his input. I will limit my presentation to 20 minutes. I will keep a straight face throughout, and repeatedly make clear to him the importance of this information.
3) We have a large tent stashed in the back room for some reason. This sucker is HUGE, military grade, holds like 15 people or something like that. I want to set this bitch up right here in the office, then climb in, take a nap.
4) I want to start singing the Ghostbusters theme song, loudly, in its entirety, even the creepy weirdo lyrics that no one remembers.
I won't actually do any of these things because it is time for dinner.
Someone took the bananas off my desk while I was in the bathroom, which is pretty strange because it was an unnecessarily large bunch of over-ripe bananas and now they are missing.
Nuisance Log Part 2 - I Hate Wires and String
I haven't added to the Nuisance Log since December of last year for some reason. Honestly, there was so much that bothered me that I felt a better way to deal with it all was to go totally ape-shit, throw things violently at walls, curse a lot, and, as usual, shake my fist at the heavens. The last thing I wanted to do was find some creative outlet for my emotions, like a blog or something - there was a dire need for some unbridled outward pouring of anger, mostly directed towards inanimate objects (because I don't hurt animals, and fighting people would send me to jail).
And here I am, returning finally to this Nuisance Log with the long-awaited Part 2. My subject this time around is my supreme hatred of wires, string, yarn, and all things that get knotted and tangled. It totally drives me berzerk.
The other day I was in a passenger terminal at an airport waiting for my flight. The flight was delayed for several hours, so I was all ready pissed off that I had to spend the afternoon sitting in a smelly passenger terminal. I pulled my iPod out to listen to some tunes only to find that the whole iPod/headphone assembly had congealed into a tangled mess of wires, velcro, and strings.
I had stowed everything neatly and methodically the night before to avoid this situation. I positioned all of my wires and electronics and stringed things in such a way as to avoid other wires and stringed things. I carried my bag lovingly, delicately, like a birthday cake fresh from the bakery, to avoid any jostling of its contents.
Apparently, none of these precautions were of any use whatsoever. I might as well have just tossed everything in there haphazardly and started doing spastic jumping jacks.
The inside of my backpack must have gone through a cyclone or something - everything had come undone and knotted around everything else in my bag. My headphones were wrapped and knotted around themselves and my toiletry bag; the iPod armband had unvelcroed itself and reattached somehow to a pair of socks; my laptop charger was also knotted around itself several times, and the whole mess of wires was intertwined in an intricate, shitty dance of wires, velcro, string, yarn, and shoelaces somehow. Shoelaces?!
In a fit of pure, scarlet rage I yanked everything out of there. It was all balled up, so everthing emptied out onto the terminal floor with one good pull. I spent about twenty seconds trying to untangle the mess before I got frustrated to the point of no return to sanity. My next step was to reach for my trusty Gerber multitool with the wire-clipping attachment. Yup, time to say goodby to my fancy Bose headphones, the shoelaces that magically appeared in my bag (I swear I didn't pack any spare shoelaces), and that lone-wolf sock that just didn't jive with the others in my checked bag and had to be sequestered in my carry-on.
I started snipping away, giggling, on the floor of the passenger terminal. I reduced my Bose headphones to a neat pile of tiny wire fragments, the shoelaces became nothing more than a pleasant mound of fuzz, the sock was mutilated beyond recognition. I sat on the floor admiring my destruction. I had effectively lightened my load, relieved all stress, and inched ever closer to becoming a full-time mental patient.
And here I am, returning finally to this Nuisance Log with the long-awaited Part 2. My subject this time around is my supreme hatred of wires, string, yarn, and all things that get knotted and tangled. It totally drives me berzerk.
The other day I was in a passenger terminal at an airport waiting for my flight. The flight was delayed for several hours, so I was all ready pissed off that I had to spend the afternoon sitting in a smelly passenger terminal. I pulled my iPod out to listen to some tunes only to find that the whole iPod/headphone assembly had congealed into a tangled mess of wires, velcro, and strings.
I had stowed everything neatly and methodically the night before to avoid this situation. I positioned all of my wires and electronics and stringed things in such a way as to avoid other wires and stringed things. I carried my bag lovingly, delicately, like a birthday cake fresh from the bakery, to avoid any jostling of its contents.
Apparently, none of these precautions were of any use whatsoever. I might as well have just tossed everything in there haphazardly and started doing spastic jumping jacks.
The inside of my backpack must have gone through a cyclone or something - everything had come undone and knotted around everything else in my bag. My headphones were wrapped and knotted around themselves and my toiletry bag; the iPod armband had unvelcroed itself and reattached somehow to a pair of socks; my laptop charger was also knotted around itself several times, and the whole mess of wires was intertwined in an intricate, shitty dance of wires, velcro, string, yarn, and shoelaces somehow. Shoelaces?!
In a fit of pure, scarlet rage I yanked everything out of there. It was all balled up, so everthing emptied out onto the terminal floor with one good pull. I spent about twenty seconds trying to untangle the mess before I got frustrated to the point of no return to sanity. My next step was to reach for my trusty Gerber multitool with the wire-clipping attachment. Yup, time to say goodby to my fancy Bose headphones, the shoelaces that magically appeared in my bag (I swear I didn't pack any spare shoelaces), and that lone-wolf sock that just didn't jive with the others in my checked bag and had to be sequestered in my carry-on.
I started snipping away, giggling, on the floor of the passenger terminal. I reduced my Bose headphones to a neat pile of tiny wire fragments, the shoelaces became nothing more than a pleasant mound of fuzz, the sock was mutilated beyond recognition. I sat on the floor admiring my destruction. I had effectively lightened my load, relieved all stress, and inched ever closer to becoming a full-time mental patient.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Movie Review: Cloverfield
I had no idea what to expect with this movie. I knew it was mostly shot with a hand-held camera, and I was kind of wary of this. However, the movie plays out so naturally that I was visibly shaking from all the action and afterward I noticed I had chewed all my fingernails. Apart from practically giving me an anxiety attack, this movie satisfied my urgent craving for a good action movie and scared the crap out of me for some reason. I still can't figure out what was so terrifying about this movie - maybe it's the utter realism, the fact that once again my hometown is destroyed, or my innate fear of giant, slobbering reptile-like space mutants.
J.J. Abrams really has a penchant for subtlety and mysterious material - this movie leaves a lot of questions for the viewer. Rather than tell the story from some vague perspective up in the sky or something, we are right there on the ground with the "common folk", piecing things together for ourselves. We don't know why things are happening, we barely even see what is causing all the mayhem until the very end of the movie.
Cloverfield - IMDb
Movie Review: The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
You would think a movie about Jesse James would be full of action, drama, suspense, violence. Think again. This movie offers very little to Western fans. There are moments where some stuff explodes, but somehow this movie removes the fun from these scenes - instead of "Kablooeey!!", you get "boom, fizzle, whimper". Most of the movie revolves around watching Casey Afleck's character Robert Ford stare blankly out of a dirty window. Unless you have endless patience and an extreme thirst for subdued, whispering dialogue skip this movie. Maybe I need to watch it again? Meh, too long and boring. I gotta say, the cinematography is great, the film is artfully captured.
The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford - IMDb
The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford - IMDb
Movie Review: Blazing Saddles
If you don't laugh out loud during the entirety of this film, there is something wrong with you and you need to have your mental health evaluated immediately. I only write this because I care about you.
This is by far, in my opinion, Mel Brooks' best work, incorporating all of his usual deft with slapstick and nonsense, mixing in a little social commentary, and of course, some amazing song and dance routines.
And remember, "Mongo only pawn in game of life."
Blazing Saddles - IMDb
This is by far, in my opinion, Mel Brooks' best work, incorporating all of his usual deft with slapstick and nonsense, mixing in a little social commentary, and of course, some amazing song and dance routines.
The plot runs something like this: a shady politico and his cohorts plan to destroy the town of Rockridge in order to make room for a new railroad line. The town is in need of a new sheriff, and in an attempt to quicken the destruction of the town, the corrupt politician appoints a...wait for it...black sheriff!! The sheriff turns out to be more than awesome at his job, eventually foiling the evil plot, saving the town, and riding off into the sunset in a limo.
I've heard some people say that this movie is "slow" - this is ridiculous. There are scenes that seem to drag a bit, but this is done on purpose: listen to the dialogue during these scenes, it's freaking hilarious. If you find any part of this movie boring, it's because you, in fact, are boring. Simple and boring. I've literally changed my opinion of people based on their reaction to this movie. Seems shallow, I know, but this is serious business here. Shnitzengruben!! Hahaha.
This is also one of those films that you can return to and find new things that you missed during previous viewings. There is a lot of subtle humor in this film; there is also a lot of not-so-subtle humor in this film.
To me, some of the funniest scenes are towards the end with an outrageous song-and-dance number and a great food fight. Also, look out for tons of classic lines, like "Badges? We don't need no stinkin badges!", "Hey, where the white women at?", and so forth.
Movie Review: Memoirs of a Geisha
When the book a film is based on has better imagery than the film, you know you have problems. This movie was like a crappy soap opera, with poor dialogue, stuffy actors, cheesy close-ups... I didn't enjoy the pace of the film either - it tries to follow the events of the book very closely, while maintaining the 2 1/2 hour length. This makes the movie seem to jump from one event to the next with poor transition and a lot left for the viewer to piece together from shaky dialogue. Some of the sets were really well done, as were the costumes, but there just wasn't enough of either. Read the book, skip the movie, unless you catch it on tv or something.
Memoirs of a Geisha - IMDb
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Movie Review: The Station Agent
Just about everyone calls this a "quiet" film. I guess there isn't a lot of dialogue, few car chases (there is one, kind of) or explosions, hence, it is a "quiet" film. There is a nice contrast between the introverted main character and Joe, the loud-mouthed snack truck guy. The female lead, Olivia, doesn't seem to fit in once the movie gets going - in fact, her entire presence in the film is a downer and I didn't particularly care for the actress all that much. Several other characters wade seamlessly in and out of scenes, the setting is very interesting, the story is intriguing...over all, a nice movie to watch on a crappy day when there is nothing else to do.
The Station Agent - IMDb
The Station Agent - IMDb
Movie Review: Helvetica
This was interesting at first, especially learning just how prolific Helvetica is in everyday life. After about half an hour, though, it's just more of the same. I guess if you're into graphic design or have a fascination with advertising you will thoroughly enjoy this documentary. I really had a hard time focusing on this one because I don't have any interest in either. The people interviewed are interesting and have a strange passion for fonts, which again, is over my head. Definitely worth a viewing, though it drags on after about half an hour.
Helvetica - IMDb
Movie Review: Let The Right One In
This is one of the best vampire flicks I've ever seen. Subtle, simple, heart warming (believe it or not) - It plays out more like a fable than a horror movie. A quiet film that you will have to rewind at certain key parts to fully grasp the scene. Oscar and Eli are a unique pair, and their relationship is bizarre and beautiful to say the least, a bit awkward at times, like all childhood relationships I guess.
I watched this in the dubbed-over english rather than having to endure subtitles - not bad, some of the voice-over work is weird: some characters don't exactly fit the english voices matched to them. I wish there was more expansion on the setting, we don't get to see much of where the action is taking place aside from tight shots of buildings, streets, the school, and wooded areas.
The movie builds up to a shocking climax which, although we see coming from the beginning of the film, will undoubtedly leave you pressing the rewind button again and again.
Let The Right One In - IMDb
Movie Review: Brüno
Definitely does not live up to the hype generated by the previous film based on a Sacha Baron Cohen movie, Borat. Still, Brüno is worth seeing, especially with a group of people that share a similar warped sense of humor. Some scenes are absolutely ridiculous. I definitely laughed out-loud several times which is rare for me... I think the gay stuff was waaaay over the top, but looking back that's kind of what makes it so funny. It's that cringe factor that makes this movie so appealing. It's too short though...i really wanted at least another half hour of this ridiculous film.
Movie Review: Where the Wild Things Are
I will say the film is unique from a design perspective. The monsters are a one-of-a-kind creation and they look amazingly realistic...to the point where you forget that they are fake, essentially just giant muppets. Some of the cinematography is incredibly well shot. All in all, though, the movie keeps the viewer out of the story. We learn very little about the events that transpire, and as the credits rolled I hurried to turn the film off and buy the soundtrack off of iTunes.
Where the Wild Things Are - IMDb
Enroute
Our flight to Sweden was like something out of a movie, a crappy movie about a crappy plane. We packed into this C130 air-jalopy so tight we couldn't even stand up without toppling over each other or touching one another in hilarious yet inappropriate places. Our belongings were literally hanging off of hooks above our heads, swinging menacingly in the breeze.
We settled into our seats and got a short safety briefing which pretty much boiled down to "Everyone sit down, buckle up, and pray to your respective God/deities." One man sitting near me raised his hand and said that his safety buckle was broken. The man giving the briefing told him to tie it in a knot and to "hang on to something". The only things within arms reach to hang on to were: a) other people desperately clinging to safety themselves, b) any wires, tubing, pipes, cables, or netting nearby, c) your faith in aforementioned God/deities.
I squeezed myself between several women, all of which I was about to REALLY get to know. I introduced myself and told them I was buying them all dinner afterwards, apologizing that there was no time for foreplay. One girl sitting directly opposite me was sitting in such a way that the only comfortable position for either of us was to "scissor" our legs, my leg between hers and vice versa. I became a little uncomfortable at her eagerness for this feat of ergonomics, but couldn't hear an over-enthusiastic word she yelled at me over the roar of the throttling engine. Something about "stud muffins" and "sexy knees."
The engines exploded into action, creating a deafining boom in our ears while the temperature inside the cabin seesawed back and forth between stiflingly hot and Siberia cold. The pilot decided to be extra dramatic with the take-off, giving us little warning before banking sharply one way then the other. Bags went flailing wildly, the girl sitting across from me squealed with pleasure, and I grabbed at the mess of wires behind my head for some stability. I was thrown forward, then backward, then sideways, then back into my seat. When we regained some semblance of calm I noticed a tangled nest of wires in my hand, and hurredly shoved them behind my seat. I hope those weren't important, but if there's a cargo plane out there that is having some trouble with it's landing gear, I sincerely apologize.
We settled into our seats and got a short safety briefing which pretty much boiled down to "Everyone sit down, buckle up, and pray to your respective God/deities." One man sitting near me raised his hand and said that his safety buckle was broken. The man giving the briefing told him to tie it in a knot and to "hang on to something". The only things within arms reach to hang on to were: a) other people desperately clinging to safety themselves, b) any wires, tubing, pipes, cables, or netting nearby, c) your faith in aforementioned God/deities.
I squeezed myself between several women, all of which I was about to REALLY get to know. I introduced myself and told them I was buying them all dinner afterwards, apologizing that there was no time for foreplay. One girl sitting directly opposite me was sitting in such a way that the only comfortable position for either of us was to "scissor" our legs, my leg between hers and vice versa. I became a little uncomfortable at her eagerness for this feat of ergonomics, but couldn't hear an over-enthusiastic word she yelled at me over the roar of the throttling engine. Something about "stud muffins" and "sexy knees."
The engines exploded into action, creating a deafining boom in our ears while the temperature inside the cabin seesawed back and forth between stiflingly hot and Siberia cold. The pilot decided to be extra dramatic with the take-off, giving us little warning before banking sharply one way then the other. Bags went flailing wildly, the girl sitting across from me squealed with pleasure, and I grabbed at the mess of wires behind my head for some stability. I was thrown forward, then backward, then sideways, then back into my seat. When we regained some semblance of calm I noticed a tangled nest of wires in my hand, and hurredly shoved them behind my seat. I hope those weren't important, but if there's a cargo plane out there that is having some trouble with it's landing gear, I sincerely apologize.
Departure
Thanks to the nature of my job, I've been relocated to the middle of nowhere for the next 6 months of my life. I can't exactly say where I am right now, so let's assign a codeword for my present location. How about: Sweden. Whenever I mention Sweden, I am really referring to "the place that shall not be named."
The journey over here was epic to say the least. Not epic, like that ridiculous game of beer pong you played a few weeks ago that ended in naked female jello wrestling, but epic as in long and arduous.
My first attempted departure from home base (California) resulted in being left on the tarmac because of overweight baggage. My travel buddy Amanda had packed 5 pairs of high heels which apparently put her over the weight limit and kept us from boarding the plane. We had to wait until the next flight which left later that afternoon. So, back to our coworkers house for drinks, naps, and lunch.
We finally made it onto the twenty-seat prop plane about 10 hours later - Amanda was thoroughly sloshed at this point, but she turned out to be a happy mess of a drunk rather than a slobbering retard. She sang and danced loudly and without shame as we boarded the plane, and then proceeded to declare that it was a "party plane". To my surprise, the other 10 passengers whole-heartedly agreed and we proceeded to order a round of drinks for everyone. We applauded the stewardess after she completed her safety demonstration, she coyly thanked us, and we were off.
Our schedule remained unchanged after this, which meant we had to scramble like lunatics to catch our connecting flight from LA to Chicago, and then from Chicago to Virginia. Landing in Virginia we managed to sneak in more drinks, naps and lunch. So far so good. Lots of drinking, napping, and lunching thusfar, little drama, and a nice spattering of hilarious shenanigans courtesy of Amanda.
From Virginia it was off to Germany for a 3 hour layover. We were hustled into a small, cramped terminal that smelled like a poorly maintained truckstop. They did sell fine German beer, so more drinking, napping, and lunching on bizarre German candies.
This is where I start to get vague, sorry for the inconvenience. We had a two day layover enroute to Sweden at another location I will refer to as Portugal. Immediately after we got off the plane we were hustled into several briefings, and then to the warehouse for supplies. This is where I somehow got separated from the group of 300 or so and wound up completely alone at 3am with no idea of where to go. So, naturally, I climbed into the first truck that would stop. Luckily the guy behind the wheel knew where to take me, so it was off to the lodging office for a tent assignment.
No linens, and 2 miles on foot later I found my "bed" and crashed. I had the bottom bunk, which consisted of a bare mattress and a seemingly clean pillow. The air conditioning was on the Antarctic setting, and with no sheets or blankets of any kind I had to rely on my copious chest hair and bath towels to keep me warm. At one point I covered my legs with magazines, the right with Rolling Stone, the left with National Geographic Traveler.
The next morning I still had not found my group and had no instruction as to where I needed to be or when or why. I wandered aimlessly for half the day, taking full advantage of the 3 beer maximum at the bar and stopping several times for iced coffee at the coffee shop. Luckily I happened to bump into some folks I came in with and they filled me in on the plan. 0530 the next morning we were getting out of there, on the first plane to Sweden.
The journey over here was epic to say the least. Not epic, like that ridiculous game of beer pong you played a few weeks ago that ended in naked female jello wrestling, but epic as in long and arduous.
My first attempted departure from home base (California) resulted in being left on the tarmac because of overweight baggage. My travel buddy Amanda had packed 5 pairs of high heels which apparently put her over the weight limit and kept us from boarding the plane. We had to wait until the next flight which left later that afternoon. So, back to our coworkers house for drinks, naps, and lunch.
We finally made it onto the twenty-seat prop plane about 10 hours later - Amanda was thoroughly sloshed at this point, but she turned out to be a happy mess of a drunk rather than a slobbering retard. She sang and danced loudly and without shame as we boarded the plane, and then proceeded to declare that it was a "party plane". To my surprise, the other 10 passengers whole-heartedly agreed and we proceeded to order a round of drinks for everyone. We applauded the stewardess after she completed her safety demonstration, she coyly thanked us, and we were off.
Our schedule remained unchanged after this, which meant we had to scramble like lunatics to catch our connecting flight from LA to Chicago, and then from Chicago to Virginia. Landing in Virginia we managed to sneak in more drinks, naps and lunch. So far so good. Lots of drinking, napping, and lunching thusfar, little drama, and a nice spattering of hilarious shenanigans courtesy of Amanda.
From Virginia it was off to Germany for a 3 hour layover. We were hustled into a small, cramped terminal that smelled like a poorly maintained truckstop. They did sell fine German beer, so more drinking, napping, and lunching on bizarre German candies.
This is where I start to get vague, sorry for the inconvenience. We had a two day layover enroute to Sweden at another location I will refer to as Portugal. Immediately after we got off the plane we were hustled into several briefings, and then to the warehouse for supplies. This is where I somehow got separated from the group of 300 or so and wound up completely alone at 3am with no idea of where to go. So, naturally, I climbed into the first truck that would stop. Luckily the guy behind the wheel knew where to take me, so it was off to the lodging office for a tent assignment.
No linens, and 2 miles on foot later I found my "bed" and crashed. I had the bottom bunk, which consisted of a bare mattress and a seemingly clean pillow. The air conditioning was on the Antarctic setting, and with no sheets or blankets of any kind I had to rely on my copious chest hair and bath towels to keep me warm. At one point I covered my legs with magazines, the right with Rolling Stone, the left with National Geographic Traveler.
The next morning I still had not found my group and had no instruction as to where I needed to be or when or why. I wandered aimlessly for half the day, taking full advantage of the 3 beer maximum at the bar and stopping several times for iced coffee at the coffee shop. Luckily I happened to bump into some folks I came in with and they filled me in on the plan. 0530 the next morning we were getting out of there, on the first plane to Sweden.
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