StarkRavingMatt

2007-03-12T22:59:00.000-07:00

...These are a few of my favorite gifs.

Haven't blogged in a while. Been a busy guy - got a dog, bought some crispy geometrical cereal, and learned how to properly plug a flat tire. On top of that, I stare a computer all day at work...so I'm rarely in a mood to stare at one when I come home. Though, I do happily stare at the idiot box. I'm not sure if there's much difference.

Still, I have neglected los blog. Therefore I am whipping out a meaty new post, dedicated to the art of the ANIMATED GIF. I love a good animated gif, and I hope that you do too. This is my list of my current Top 5 Favorite Gifs. (I'd love to credit the creators of some of these, so if you know, drop me a line)..

5) Hitler is not funny. Neither are watermelons. Combine the two and you've got comedy gold:

4) I found this on my friend Jessi's profile. Get down, Jean Claude, get down:

3) This makes me laugh for real hard. I'm sure it's from some video or game that came out 2 years ago, and I'm only now finding this nugget...but I care not. Look at that mean ass bunny!

2) It might be slightly blasphemous to a trekkie like myself, but good god, I could stare at Riker for hours (I found this posted by Seb on my friend Taylor's myspace page):

1) Afro ninja attacked by floating Cosby head shooting lazers from eyes. You had me at hello.

And here are some runners-up:
meow
TNG variation
Iron Brian
mo naked hoes
spin kick
moustache

2007-01-16T22:39:00.000-08:00

Hey 2006, fuck to you!

This year, I resolved to start my year without a New Year's Resolution. But now that it's the 15th of the month, I'm starting to think that perhaps I started off on the wrong foot, and I've now decided to put forth a Middle-of-January's Resolution. I need to thoroughly remove the residue of 2006 from my life. In fact, I had some serious beefs (what is the plural of beef - beefes? beeves?) with 2006, and I'd like to air them before I tread any further into '07. This is almost a Costanza-esque airing of grievances, but mostly it's just bitching and moaning. Here goes:

• This was the year of the "may" instead of "can" correction people. You know these assholes. Ask a simple "can I" question, and they respond with a "yes you MAAAAY" totally overemphasizing the 'may', calling attention to your improper English. There's a lady at the bank who does this to me every time I ask for a checking deposit slip. In 2007, I resolve to create a new word that this bitch cannot correct: "Hi, crambledank I get a checking deposit slip?" Also, I'm sick of you high-falutin' turds who are doing "well" as opposed to "good". I realize the adjective/adverb conflict that's going on in your brain when I say "I'm good"...but suck it up. Good is a fantastic word, with it's creamy double-vowel center, flanked by two big, meaty consonants.

• 2006 dished out a number of debilitating illnesses in a mere 365 days. From the stomach virus in April that had me convinced I would soon vomit up my own spleen, to the flu that caused me to spend this past New Years Eve alone and wheezing. In 2007, I resolve to stock up on vitamin C and Vick's Vapor Rub, to wash my hands with lye and bleach regularly, and to stop licking doorknobs. It's a disgusting habit, I know.

• The most fun I'd ever had was being in a bona fide rock band. And one of the biggest letdowns was seeing it all implode just as we were gaining momentum. And I'm happily blaming the year of '06 for that. 2006 presented The Cheap Seats with douche bag booking guys, douche bag club owners, douche bag van rental guys, douche bag dudes from other bands, and other general douches with whom we had to deal (like that "millionaire" bigot who cornered Nick and I after a Va Beach show so he could share his beliefs on how Mexicans were making his town "smell bad"). In 2007, I resolve to sell my amplifier, and play only songs about bloody noses and girls lost at sea...on a harp. (I should note that I/we did manage to make a lot of new friends, meet some very un-douchey people, and have plenty of good times, but that's not as fun to detail in a blog.)

• In 2006, my car was viciously attacked by a tree while driving back to work from lunch. I was happily motoring along, hands at 10 and 2, not disturbing any trees, shrubs, or foliage, when something violently struck the rear end of my innocent import. This bloodthirsty tree did approximately $1700 worth of damage, which my insurance company refused to cover. In 2007, I resolve to write the National Arbor Day Foundation informing them that they're cheerleaders for a bunch of violent and vengeful bullies who like to wreak havoc by ferociously hurtling their heavy and dense bodies upon our unsuspecting homes, vehicles, and on occasion our own persons.

• It wasn't me. Really, '06 was behind that whole trend of sending really weird and inappropriate myspace messages/comments. I realize they've caused a degree of awkwardness between us, but I'm content to let 2006 take the fall if you are. In 2007, I resolve to install a breathalyzer on my computer.

• I've never received more spam than I did in 2006. Good lord, that's a whole lotta spam. Believe it or not, though, I'm not miffed. I kinda like the occasional "break down walls with your johnson" advertisement. I'm just proposing that 2007 spammers be a little more creative in their attempts, like the ones I get from some entity called Premier Pharmacy. Every week a different sales rep writes to me to let me know about the specials. To date, here are the reps who've contacted me: Mealtime B. Woody, Settable O. Theorist, Eats H. Nostradamus, Diaries Q. Utilitarianism, Bucketed U. Uninvited, and (my personal favorite), Dovetails V. Butternut. I swear to God, I did not make these up. In 2007, I resolve to break down walls with my johnson with just a little help from Dovetails V. Butternut.

Yup, 2006 was balls, but 2007 already smells like a winner. I think I have a decent resolution going. Maybe I'll update it again soon. According to the Chinese calendar, I've got time...the Eastern calendar's new year doesn't start for another few weeks. Plus, according to the Chinese zodiac, this is the year of the pig (which is okay), but according to my own personal zodiac, this is the year of the Eagle-headed Cyborg Mantis. He promises that '07 will rule hardcore, and I'm inclined to believe every word he says. Happy Middle-of-January.

2007-01-07T14:32:00.000-08:00

Just One Channel

Up until December 3rd, my high speed internet and cable account was under my brother's name. This is because he once lived with me in my Southside home until the stench of unwashed Stereolab t-shirts was more than I could endure. (Actually, I think he moved out because he learned that I was secretly planning to stuff his pillow with the massive clumps of red hair left in the drain after his marathon showers). But really man, if you ever want to return, you're welcome - just as long as you maintain a completely shaven status.

Right, so he used to live with me. Us. My roommate and I. And because he was a newbie to Richmond at the time, we used his name to sign up for our Comcast service, thinking we could get a new customer promotional deal. I think we did, but it expired after a few short months, and we were eventually selling our kidneys to pay for high speed boobies.

So when my superbrohossbeast moved out of Richmond entirely, he naturally completed all the change of address forms and informed the billing people at Comcast that he'd no longer be here. And so my roomie and I were forced to cancel service, then get a brand-spankin' new contract started. And with a brand-spankin' new contract surely comes a bitchin' promotional discount deal, right? WRONG. Here are the offers we were presented:

10 boring channels (PAX was surprisingly included) for $9.95

or

100+ channels for $120.00

That's it. No other alternatives. So immediately we started looking over those 100+ channels to see what kind of goodies we could expect. There's a surprisingly high concentration of cable channels geared towards middle-aged women and the fine people of our Hispanic culture. This would be especially appealing if I was Latino and female. But since I am neither, Lifetime, Lifetime-Espanol, Oxygen, Oxygen-Espanol, WE, and WE-Espanol are channels that I will probably never ever watch.

My gut reaction was to ask if we could just pick some channels we'd like, and pay individually per channel. No dice. In fact, this got quite a laugh from the Comcast ladies. I'm sorry you old bags, I'm not versed in the rules and regulations of cable acquisition. I watch it, that's about it.

But I did take the time to fill out one of those little Comcast Customer Comment Cards (or a "CCCC"). I pitched my idea of pay-per-channel. In the event that they take me up on the idea, here are the channels I would like to order (most of which are not real, but I'm sure Comcast could make these happen):

Channel 36 - BallzTV:

Nothing but jiggling scrotums all the time with a soundtrack provided by Yoko Ono. Why? Unwanted houseguests. Got some uninvited shitheads who won't leave? Just put this on, crank it up, and stare longingly at BallzTV. They'll go away, I promise.

Ch'krak Shevkal (That's Klingon for Channel Awesome):
All Star Trek, all the time. Mostly episodes of TNG, but an occasional episode of the original series during work hours, and some interspersed episodes of the other series when there's a crossover. Like on Enterprise when Commander Riker pulled up a holodeck recreation of Captain Archer to determine what his predecessor might do when confronted with a difficult decision. I wish I had a holodeck. I wish I was a Starfleet officer.

Channel 3 - Old People Falling Down:
Take all the America's Funniest Home Videos, Maximum Exposure, and similar shocking home video shows, and edit out anything that doesn't involve some unexpected bodily injury befalling our elderly citizens, and let the good times roll. I like it when the old people fall off the dock trying to get into some dumpy little boat. Broken hips + near drowning = Matt cackling like a hyena.

Channel 999 - The How Its Made Channel:
Ever wonder how a combination lock is made? Or how a moon pie gets coated perfectly in chocolate? Or how a cheez puff gets puffed? Yeah, me neither. But there's a real show like this on The Science Channel, and its wicked interesting to watch it all happen. So why not dedicate an entire channel to it?

Channel 78 - Boobies TV:
Needs no explanation.

Channel 324 - KCC (Karate Chop Channel):

This channel would demonstrate how to properly karate chop various objects throughout your day, whether those objects be unsuspecting people, disappointing DVD rentals, or giant blocks of cheese. If you need to know how to karate chop it - this is your channel. The most watched show on this channel will probably be "Neck Chops with Chan" where an unassuming, small Asian man proceeds to karate chop the necks of anyone and everyone. Much like the way Emeril's "BAM, kick it up a notch!" phrase briefly swept our unfortunate nation, Chan's catch phrase of "NECK CHOP, choppin' up a neck!" will catch on in similar fashion.

So that's it. Get on it, Comcast. If I had those channels, I'd be content. Or, if you wanted to just compile the themes of all these channels into one 24-hour-a-day show where Captain Jean Luc Picard zips around the galaxy with his balls hanging out, karate chopping hot, topless alien women, then showing them how to manufacture combination locks and moonpies, all to a soundtrack by Europe (just for balance), I would only need that one channel. Oh, and if he had sex with these hot alien gals, I could cancel my internet service as well.

I'm gonna go write my congressman.

2007-01-07T14:27:00.000-08:00

Dune. What the fuck? The book. The Conclusion. (part 3)

It sucks too.

2006-12-21T01:30:00.001-08:00

Why I Won't Ever Eat Another Office Holiday Treat

If you're a member of the working class America, then at this time of year you've probably been inundated by an influx of cookies, brownies, pastries, and assorted treats around the office. And this supply of baked goods seems to only spawn more. Eventually there's a sea of delectable dainties, and (if you're anything like me) you'll find yourself wondering if the jellied ones might stick to the ceiling if you threw 'em hard enough. (Or passing cars or naked rear ends).

This has certainly been the case at my place of work, and surprisingly enough, most of these treats have come from our customers. I say "surprisingly" because from what I gather, all our customers are unhappy. Well, I'm sure they aren't all unhappy, but I really only hear about the unhappy ones. That seems to be the way it goes with customer satisfaction. You typically only hear from the people who are pissed and driven.

Regardless, even if we have legions of satisfied customers, there are a fair number of these angry folks out there who have a bone to pick with my employer. Since that's one of my only points-of-reference on that end of things, they appear to be our customer base...at least to me.

As I'm scarfing down one of the aforementioned delectable, cream filled something-or-anothers, my brain began recalling some of the irate customers of late. I began wondering how irate they really were. Then I began recalling some of my own irritated experiences with retailers...one in particular:

ME: "But your giant sign says 'no more late fees'. What's the deal?"

Blockbuster KID: "It isn't a late fee. It's a 'restocking fee'."

ME: "Putting a DVD back on the shelf is 'restocking'? And there's a charge for this? You guys put movies back on the shelf every single day. I'm sure that's part of the job description, right? Give it back, I'll restock it. I have opposable thumbs."

Blockbuster KID: "Sir, you've had (giggling) Children of Dune out now for almost 2 months. This is just our policy."

ME: "Have you seen it? That's about how long that movie is. Look, we both know that this movie is being returned later than you'd like. This is a goddamned late fee."

Blockbuster KID: "Okay. But you still owe it."

ME: "Fine. But I'm writing a check. And in the memo section I'm going to write 'Blockbuster sells heroin to children and doesn't care about black people.'"

Okay maybe I overreacted just a teensy bit...but that's still a late fee.

Anyway, what I'm getting to is this - with all these disgruntled consumers, how easy (and evil) it would be to exact some revenge upon those retailers whom you believe did you wrong. I would hope that people aren't that vengeful, but I've heard weirder stories. Seriously, think about it - weirdos put razors in candy at Halloween, and they aren't even going for revenge. Give them something to be pissed about, and you're asking for death by holiday pastry.

Sure, they'll deliver the treats cheerily enough, with a big, warm smile on their face. Or maybe that tin of goodies is supposed to be their way to make amends. But be warned! Those are dangerous danishes. Even if they aren't looking to inflict serious harm, who knows what horrors await within. Eclairs filled with shaving cream. Cookies flavored with oregano, boogers, and dirt. Peanut butter fudge made from one part peanut butter, two parts turd.

Perhaps they simply baked those rice krispie treats while suffering from the worst head cold ever. There's a reason the krispies are a bit shinier than usual.

Sound paranoid? Maybe, but think back to the last shitty experience you had with a retailer. Now think of that uppity schmuck who told you why you weren't getting what you paid for. Now think of him/her biting into a chocolate truffle only to find a rotten cherry tomato in the middle. Hell yes, kinda makes you grin, right?

So from now on, Matt won't be eating your truffles, cookies, danishes, eclairs, sandies, fudges, cakes, pies, brownies, or any other flim flams you cooked up for your business associates. Sorry, I'm sure they're fantastic, but that cream filling might burn a hole right through my tongue. Happy holidays, I'm going to go induce vomiting.

2006-12-08T23:10:00.000-08:00

My Unique Purchase Order Number

I don't frequently order supplies, products, or equipment at work. So when I'm faced with the responsibility of doing so, its typically an awkward process.

When I had to call up a supplier of sign-display-type items and place an order for about a hundred or so acrylic stands, I was surprised at how smoothly the exchange went. That is, until I was asked for the "PO Number".

ME: "Uh, well, how would I know what that would be?"

HER: "Its your own number, sir. Its so your accounting department can keep track of what your shipping and receiving department might get."

ME: "Oh, so I should ask one of those departments first?"

HER: "Well, you could do that, because you might have a set way that PO numbers get assigned."

ME: "Okay, I'll call you back."

So, after searching for both the people who I thought could answer my question about how we write up Purchase Order numbers, I was finally informed that they were both out for lunch. Well, I needed these damn acrylic holders, so I called the company back:

ME: "Well, I'm not any further with the PO number than I was before."

HER: "Okay, well do you want me to just leave it blank?"

ME: "Well, I guess I might need it. There's a lot of shipping and receiving going on here this time of year, and I guess if I assigned it a PO number I could probably...hopefully track it down easier."

HER: "Well, that's the idea. So what's your PO number?"

ME: "Does it have be a number? Can I use letters too?"

HER: "Sure, letters are fine, along with any punctuation and/or characters found on a standard keyboard."

And so I gave her a PO number, completed the sale, and in a few days a big box of acrylic sign holders showed up on our dock. On the box's label my unique PO number assured me that this box was for me. It read:

Ship to:
Matt at Richmond Camera

Purchase order number:
Pickle-hooray! 333 Beanchowder & thingstuff 82dogs@lazers.corn 26

2006-11-21T21:56:00.000-08:00

FALL! When the solid fecal matter is introduced to the oscillating cooling machine.

Inevitably, this is the time of year I experience drama, drama, and more drama. I'm not sure if there's a little biological switch that flips somewhere deep within me, or if the onset of cooler weather just mysteriously inspires it, but I can always count on Autumn to be brimming with drama.

I'm not referring to good drama, either. Typically this is the type of commotion that frustrates, angers, and confuses me and those involved. Good drama, for the record, might be the kind you experience after you see a high school friend stripping at the local "adult ballet" - or if you told your boss to get bent after landing a super bitchin' job working for Williams Street - or the kind of drama you find in a show like Lawn Order. This is not the kind of drama to which I refer.

No no, this is the "what the hell is wrong with me?" or the "please don't punch me in the face" or the "no doctor, I don't drink EVERYday" or the "wow, I botched that one, didn't I, girl I really like?" type of drama. It usually sneaks up on me, seeps in around my shoes, and before I know it, I'm knee-deep in a big, stinky vat of what I love to call "unnecessary bullshit."

For the longest time I thought maybe I was just a "seasonal drama queen". I'll hide away until people start to cool off, then like an attention-hungry crisis fairy, I flit around sprinkling fuss dust, making all kinds of trouble.

On a less-fantasy based level, there could be some validity to this theory. Fall and Winter are the seasons of hibernation, cold weather, and more importantly...death. All the colors fade, the leaves fall, and old people freeze in their sleep when they forget to refill their oil furnaces. As opposed to the invigorating Spring, full of new life and horrible pastel button downs from Old Navy, Winter is cold, bleak, and that time for many so many aspects of nature to take their dirt nap. It's a little sad, and it makes us feel a bit lonely. Therefore, I think our natural response is to seek some heartwarming, personal interaction.

Call me morbid, but personally, I hate the warmer months. Not because I dislike the replenishing warm weather, but mostly because of people's overreaction to it. The sun is out and the weather's "pleasant" (an opinion not embraced by yours truly), and suddenly everyone is a busy body, feeling as if they have to "get out there and enjoy this weather!". So out they go, frolicking like Cirque de Soleil rejects, oblivious to most everyone else around them. This causes me a great deal of angst and tension, given that when I have to run errands or do other day-to-day activities during the summer months, I'm battling a regime of half-naked wackos, high on sunlight, armed with frisbees, convertibles, and sports bras.

(As a sidenote, ladies: I do enjoy your sports bras, short shorts, and other summertime apparel. But your shirtless, flip-flop wearing boyfriend carrying the beer koozies and innertubes needs to get a fucking life).

I once had a sun-worshipping girlfriend tell me "only fat people hate the summer." This made me laugh, not so much because of what she said, but mostly because while she said it she was also spitting out the snowballs with which I had so victoriously pummeled her.

Needless to say, the Fall and Winter is my time to shine. Without having to watch out for stray wiffle balls or grease up with SPF 3000, I find myself interacting, socializing, and otherwise being less like a grumpy old man. My arsenal of nifty jackets is unleashed, and I relish in seeing my breath. And then, like clockwork, the drama ensues.

Now I won't go into the details about this year's cache of turmoil, but it does leave me wondering if I'm just trying to stir it up, or if we're all in this boat together? Maybe we could all collectively agree that the season is making us wacky, and we can embrace it while we share fur coats? (But not real fur coats, that's cruel). Or you could at least give me a season pass, and chalk it up to Matt being an Autumn Wanker. In many ways, its self-defeating. While I'm stirring up all kinds of useless conflict, I can hardly enjoy the bitter cold of the outdoors, the "warm-me-up-hot-stuff" rendezvous, or the sexy new scarf that a certain barista accidentally dipped into my latte.

Fortunately, for me its usually short-lived. By mid-January, when its fantastically cold-as-nuts outside, I've shed all the unnecessary bullshit. I've settled into the weather, found my stride, and I'm pacing myself with healthy doses of good-for-me drama by around Jan. 15th. I used this method when I ran track and cross-country (I still hold a record!), just to get an early lead on the pack. Why can't I apply it the rest of my emotional endeavors? Oh right, I do occasionally forget that I'm supposed to be a grown, mature adult, capable of not applying sports methodology to real life (you read that, Coach Roth?). So, to those of you who shoveled my shit in the cooler months preceding, my sincerest apologies. Come see me after the first of the year...

You'll then find me seated neatly by the fire in a totally sweet, cable-knit sweater, possibly sipping a warm toddy, staring at a female companion clad only in a bearskin rug (this time a real one, because bears can be assholes). Maybe this year I'll even start smoking a pipe, and using phrases like "Bob's your uncle" and "tickety boo".

(As a sidenote, ladies: I also enjoy your sweaters, long johns, and other wintertime apparel. But your boyfriend is still wearing flip-flops. Its November, buddy).

2006-11-02T20:45:00.000-08:00

"Dune. What the fuck? pt. 2"

I did it. I finally conquered the beast. I watched all of David Lynch's steaming pile of Dune. Not that I gained a better understanding of the film, but I gave it the "old college try" (which, in my case, usually ends in a drop-out or two).

I'll begin by stating that there's an absurdly long, introductory monologue accompanied by a hand-drawn storyboard sequence that attempts to set the stage for the events to come. In all of my encounters with Dune, I never saw this. Had I actually experienced this part of the film at least once, I might not have adopted my "what the fuck?" attitude towards the plot and characters, as it does manage to clear up some confusion I previously had. (See part 1). On the other hand, this introduction to the film is so hilariously long (you might want to get a snack), so chock full useless information (like detailing the Great Galactic Clam Chowder Famine), and so unbelievably confusing (way worse than trigonometry), I'm not sure it would have made a difference. Its not even confusing in that dreamlike, excusable David Lynch ala Mulholland Drive sort of way. This opener has got to be at what the Aqua Teen writers were poking fun in "Cybernetic Ghost of Christmas Past From The Future" (seriously, you might want to get a snack).

The opening monologue goes into considerable detail describing our characters' (and their ancestors') historical trials and tribulations. I suppose the intent here is to provide a little background information on how or why certain groups of space people came to be...and how/why they developed some of the mental powers they have and use (The Weirding).

But really, I don't know that the average viewer needs all this superfluous information. For us sci-fi fans, we buy into the ideas of light sabers and warp engines without too much convincing. And the rest of the world can usually be satisfied with a few subtle lines of dialogue, supplying all the details anyone might need. Let me demonstrate by using two characters I've thoughtfully created (yet tragically did not appear in the film)...The Cosmic Witch and The Space Wrangler (ex-spokesperson for Warpspeed Jeans):

Cosmic Witch: "Hey Space Wrangler, you're lookin' good in that feces-&-urine-processing, desert outfit that converts your poop and stuff into drinkable water, allowing you to survive out here for extended periods of time!"

Space Wrangler: "Why thank you, Cosmic Witch. I'm so glad you developed psychic powers so I don't have to tell you how your bald head makes me quiver."

Cosmic Witch: "That's right, Space Wrangler...you don't have to say it! I know because I can read your dirty mind. Its a skill my type developed back when humans were fighting those nasty robot armies that once enslaved my ancestors."

Space Wrangler: "Well, its pretty cool stuff, Cosmic Witch. What's even cooler is that my species managed to adopt your psychic learnings as well, then use it as a super-sweet weapon when we make certain guttural noises."

Cosmic Witch: "Yes, that is A+ gnarly, Space Wrangler. Lets go eat some spice now. It will prolong our life, allow space travel, and probably be an essential part of the rest of this story..."

END SCENE

There. See how easy that was? Obviously, I'm no screen writer, but that was far easier than the bullshit that opens the film. Did you get all the information you needed, like why they wear those desert suits, why they can read minds and shoot mind bullets, and how essential spice is? Of course you did. Did it stomp all over the plot or add to the already confusing amount of information you're trying to process? No. I'm just here to help, people.

So, "The Weirding", right? Honestly, the quirky, sci-fi dork part of me really wants to embrace it, almost on name alone. For the same reason I think a movie like Zombies vs. Robots would be fantastic, I think "The Weirding" is a home-run idea. But when I really sat and pondered the idea behind it, I realized it sucks. Much like the rest of Dune, there's just too much to it. It doesn't have the beautiful simplicity of "The Force" or good old-fashioned telekinesis. Instead, there's all this complicated extravagance that makes it totally absurd. For example, once Paul (Kyle MacLaughlin's character) teaches the rebels how to harness the power of "The Weirding", they're all outfitted with these little gun module things. (Notice that I said "harness the power" as opposed to "do" or "use" - which might sound hilarious - ie "lets all do The Weirding"). Now, these little gun module things are just about the same size as a handgun, and when we examine the path of how this weapon works, I think they'd be better off carrying pistols. Here's a diagram:

1. brain thinks thought
2. mouth makes guttural noise representing thought
3. sound/thought is transmitted and focused through the module thing
4. module thing is aimed at enemy
5. enemy is finally thwarted

Jesus Christ. How about point lazer gun, then shoot lazer gun. You go home to eat some delicious space spice without breaking a space sweat. Seems like a winner to me.

And that's the problem with this whole disaster of a film. Every aspect of Dune is so convoluted that you're bored with it before it works itself into the plot. I appreciate thoroughness, but I'm already believing that robots once enslaved mankind...so accepting the idea of "The Weirding" without much explanation isn't a stretch. For all I'm concerned, let a character fire lazer beams from his dick. Just let me know that "back in the year 7090, the Lazerwangs perfected the ability to shoot beams of concentrated light from their weiners, ending centuries of abuse and torment the Lazerwangs had previously suffered due to what seemed like a rather silly and meaningless tribal name." Thank you for explaining the Lazerwangs, now we can proceed with the rest of the film. Again, I'm just here to help.

To wrap things up here, Dune really let me down. I should have known, right? I don't know that this movie has many fans. Most people are quick to point out that even Lynch was unhappy with the final version, as were many of the actors. The film wound up being credited to Alan Smithee, a name given in place when a director or producer wishes to disassociate themselves from a work. But the book was a best seller, and is still revered as one of the greatest sci-fi novels of all time. (Though, I'd like to point out that the concepts of "sci-fi" and "novel" are hard for me to marry). Herbert's book was so adored, that even after Lynch's Dune butchered the story, someone came along and created a multi-part series, which I believe aired on the Sci-Fi Channel a few years ago.

Therefore, I'm happy to report, that I will be seeking out the new, revamped, made for television version of Dune (yes, that's right, stay tuned for yet another Dune blog entry). For whatever reason, I haven't given up on the world of Dune quite yet. True, if I really wanted the undiluted version, I should just read the book, which I may have to do eventually. But I'm still holding out for a glorious, stimulating, un-crappy version to greet me on the idiot box.

If anyone out there feels brave enough to conquer what will probably be a horrible waste of several hours in front of a television, I'll provide the popcorn.

If not, it'll just be me and my Lazerwang.

(Dune, what the fuck? Pt. 3 coming soon!)

2006-11-02T16:18:00.000-08:00

"Dune. What the fuck?"

Over the course of my last 25 years, I've managed to watch about 51 minutes of David Lynch's film Dune. Unfortunately, these 51 minutes not been consecutive, and more recently they haven't been while sober. Regardless, I have stitched together a piecemeal comprehension of this film via the 8 to 10 minute segments I could tolerate at a time. Please understand, I'm a big fan of sci-fi, so one could assume that Matt might get into this Oscar-nominated flick. Plus, this film incorporates heavy usage of "rippin' ass guitar", of which I am also a big fan. Prior to recent viewings, I had come to learn that the soundtrack was primarily the product of 80's legends, Toto and noise-maker extaordinaire, Brian Eno. While I'm not the biggest Toto fan, I do have a softspot for prog-god Eno, so I was only more intrigued by Dune upon recent viewings. Granted, they could have done more with the title track, but that's neither here nor there. Actually, it is there...but I'll blame Toto.

I should also note that I do enjoy most of David Lynch's films. While my brother and other more cinema-savvy cohorts of mine seem to appreciate him on a level I can't, I do recognize his knack for wacky-yet-neato filmmaking. (He also managed to cast Naomi Watts into a role consisting of a topless, lesbian scene, and for that Mr. Lynch has my utmost respect).

Still, with all this going for it, my aforementioned 51 minutes of Dune have done nothing nothing but turn me off. I will proceed to tell you my understanding of this film, which might cast some light on my displeasure in this film. If you want to correct, critique or question me feel free...but here's what I've gathered:

David Lynch's favorite protagonist actor, Kyle MacLachlan (seen here, from a photo shoot regrettably scheduled just after an extensive wrestling match with ferocious shirt-eating monkeys) is the young prince "Paul". He's the son of a duke, played by an actor whom I've seen a billion times before, but about whom I can't recall anything important or groundbreaking (I'm doing my best to avoid IMDB.com as to keep this as sincere and genuinely fresh as possible). I think maybe he played a creepy German terrorist or something similar, but again, it probably wasn't important. So Paul is a bit mystical. He has these dreams, and there are these legends about a messiah-like character who'll save the universe (sound familiar?) to which Paul seems to fit the description. Oh right, and there's this spice. Spice from space. I'll give you a moment - okay? - that would be "space spice". Thanks for playing along.

Christ-like legends and space spice aside, we're in the distant future here folks. And in the distant future, there are always those who wish to cause intergalactic mischief. In this case, Paul's mystic-legendary status won't get him very far when there's a TRAITOR IN HIS MIDST! That's right, there's an asshole plotting against the royal family to which Paul belongs. I know what you're thinking; if there's a traitor, there must be a whole band of space enemies! And you'd be correct. The enemies (ooh, man, they are enemies) collectively consist of a floating fatty (with the worst case of acne I've ever seen):

called"The Baron", an incredibly slim & tan Sting - aka "Feyd-Rautha", another schmuck named "Rabban" (Bluto from the Popeye movie), and a handful of other shitheads who will eventually get their just desserts. The Baron seems to have a thing for Feyd-Rautha (Sting), as he's always promising him the pleasure of slaughtering this group of people or massacring that group of people. Really, though, who wouldn't? At one point, Sting..er...Feyd emerges from his steambath. Uh. Now, I'm about as lady-loving as they come...but for chrisssake...who wouldn't promise the eventual slaughter of an entire race of people to a shimmering, steam-bathed adonis like that? Yeah, you know I'm right.

Moving right along, this traitor I mentioned just happens to be Al from the show Quantum Leap:

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My appreciation (or unappreciation, more accurately) of the actor who played Al (Dean Stockwell) is securely attached to the memory of watching Quantum Leap with my mom. (Note: prepare for a bit of a tangent). I remember religiously watching this shitty excuse for a science fiction show with my mother. Mostly because I enjoyed the time I could spend with my mother, and only slightly because I enjoyed the fact that there was a science-fiction aspect to the show, I think I watched every damn episode. My problem with Quantum Leap doesn't stem from the depressing lack of phaser guns or warp engines, but more that it was touted as a sci-fi hit. In reality, it was just Dr. Sam Beckett (Scott Bakula) leaping around time, having hum-drum, hour-long, Lifetime Channel dramatic relationships. He'd stop a wifebeater from beating, prevent a muderer from murdering, save a puppy, or put on a school play, whatever. Then, finally, he'd leap through a space-time vortex to be whisked away to a new adventure, which was always just perfect for daytime TV. This is probably why my dear mom enjoyed it so much. What I'm getting at is that Al from Quantum Leap is a good way to turn me off as a viewer. Oh right, but lets see - Quantum Leap came well after Dune, so I'm getting my finger-pointing all out of time. No, fuck it, this is the sci-fi genre, and I'm only 25. Dune came out in '84, and I happened to see Quantum Leap before Dune, so David Lynch can suck it. Al, David Lynch, Dr. Sam Beckett - they should all know from their sci-fi, time-leaping experiences that I'm allowed to judge current characters based on future performances. I'm quantum leaping my own opinions here, and anything goes. (In his defense, Scott Bakula redeemed himself just a bit when he took the role of Captain Jonathan Archer on Star Trek: Enterprise...and that, strangely enough brings me back to Dune because guess who plays the sci-fi military stalwart "Gurney Halleck"? That's right, my man, Captain Jean-Luc himself, Patrick Stewart).

Actually, that's all that's worth mentioning about that particular character: he's in the movie. He does wind up fighting in the army that Paul eventually leads after The Baron and other aforementioned enemies overthrow Paul's royal family in a bloody invasion. I'm still unsure what the invasion, the fighting, and all the turmoil is really about. I mentioned the "spice" earlier, and I still don't get it. I think its a drug or a poison or supplement that allows space folk to do whatever it is they do in space. It's highly soughtafter, and this planet on which most of the turmoil is occurring happens to be where this space spice is mined.

The spice is mined in the desert, I think, where there are also some big, nasty worms. Living deep in the sand. That jump up to eat you when you're not walking arythmically (seriously).

"Whoa, Sandworms. You hate 'em right? I hate 'em myself!"

However you picture them, they're these giant phallic beasts that seem to wreak havoc on spice mining operations (or do they?) and just about anyone who ventures into the desert without a "thumper" - a rhythmic device that simulates the sound of...well...it's called a thumper, okay?.

Oh snap! I almost forgot about the giant brain that floats around. He's got a vagina for a mouth that spews out reddish smoke, and I'm really not sure why they keep this disgusting fucker around. In a sexier, unrated version, I believe Sting has his way with this brain-monster.

Right, so wrapping things up, there's some big conflict, Paul takes on the new, more space-tastic name of "Muad'Dib", water is a precious commodity (yeah, we thought spice was, right?), Sean Young becomes Paul's hot-space-hookup, and everyone learns how to do "The Weirding". No shit...The Weirding. I could explain that its a way of channeling thoughts into sounds which create destructive energy, but wouldn't we all like to think that it's a supersweet intergalactic space dance? I know I would...

Yeah, so the weirding commences, battle ensues, and then I change the channel to watch that episode of Star Trek where Worf is trapped in some bizarre quantum-reality-shift. Quantum Leap , suck it.

In conclusion, maybe I dislike Dune a bit less than Quantum Leap...which is okay. I've heard that Lynch really didn't like Dune after it was finished, and fans of the book agree that it's a big turd compared to Frank Herbert's novel. The repeated complaint is that there were some essential characters left out of the film that helped fill in some plot holes, etc. I'm not sure who they could have cast to fill in all the gaps, as I can't imagine more characters making this an easier-to-understand movie. Perhaps Whoopi Goldberg could have made an appearence, as this film was lacking the spiritual-token-black-person. They should have cast ex-Police drummer, Stewart Copeland as a good guy who could do battle against Sting's character. They used to duke it out as bandmates, so why would it be any different when they're battling over space spice? Still, having admitted that my distaste for this movie probably stems from the fact that I've only seen a very small portion (seriously, this goddamn movie is like 9 hours long) of the film, I feel a sense of duty to at least give it a start-to-finish shot. I'll update this blog as soon as that happens. In the meantime, I'll stick by my overwhelming feeling of "Dune. What the fuck?"

-Geordi LaForge

2006-11-01T18:00:00.000-08:00

"itchy ass woman vs. bad breath guy"

I'm not sure who would be a worse flying companion: the leather jacket wearing dicknose with bad breath who falls asleep on the lady, prompting her to stick a Listerine Pocket Strip in his piehole - or the squirmy, business-casual woman with a severely itchy ass who forgot her Preparation H.

I'm kinda thinking the hemmoroid sufferer is worse. I mean, sure bad breath is gross, but knowing that the writhing, twisting person next to you is doing so because of a pooper-problem seems a bit worse to me. I mean, what the fuck is wrong with these people's asses that they have to squirm around so damn much? Hopefully this affliction won't ever attack my butt, but goddamn...if it does, I hope I don't annoy the hell out of those around me like these people do. (There's another one of a guy at the movies wiggling around. I'd like to think he was there to see that Steven Segal movie "Under Siege 2: Dark Territory" or a certain Tom Selleck movie set in the outback).

By the way, I felt that I didn't know enough about this godawful affliction, so I took the quiz (and you should too) - http://preph.com/utilities/index.asp

Back to it, both of these morons have a condition for which they should have prepared prior to boarding a crowded plane. The one thing I've learned from these commercials is that we all should start carrying around Listerine Pocket Strips and a tube of Preparation H...not for ourselves, but for those nimrods who forgot about their halitosis and/or piles.

I'd like to see the crossover commercial, where some itchy-assed individual squirms his or her way on to a fellow passenger, and BLOOP...a tube of Prep H right where it belongs.