Had my brain insulted tonight...

I take a foreign film class. One of the students (who didn't attend, keep in mind) requested we view a "Bollywood" film. For those who don't know, India's movie industry is HUGE, though you never hear anything about it in the United States. Anyway, Bollywood films are usually big production numbers, with lots of singing and dancing -- kind of a throwback to the '40s and '50s, where most movies were big musicals. I've never seen any of them before. After tonight, I realize I was better off for that. The movie we watched tonight was Bollywood Queen.

It was FUCKING HORRIBLE.

Let me repeat that. This movie was FUCKING HORRIBLE. It easily cracked my top ten worst movies I've actually seen through to the end, and I've seen Summer of Sam, Love, Van Helsing, Twister, Hulk, Speed 2, Batman & Robin and The Big Hit. So you know it's in good company. What can I tell you about it? It's Romeo & Juliet. Again. Except Juliet is Indian and Romeo is a chav. An ugly one, at that. Their families own competing sweatshop knockoff clothing factories, as if the whole racial divide thing wasn't blatant enough. "Oh no, will they ever end up together?" Gee, I wonder. This was one of those movies where you could tell exactly what was going to happen after watching it for about 2 minutes and 17 seconds. You could almost set your watch by when each plot point will be hammered into your head in the most blatant way possible.

There are also lots of musical numbers. The WORST musical numbers I have EVER SEEN. Each one looked like it was filmed in 1986, except they were better at lip-synching in 1986. I expected George Michael to pop out wearing a "Choose Life" t-shirt. The best part of the movie? It was only 80 minutes. Don't ever watch this unless you liked any of those teen movies with 3 generic words in the title. If you did, well, just shoot yourself, then. There's much better mindless entertainment out there. This does not count in that category. You know what the worst part is? The girl who requested it wasn't even there tonight. Maybe she knew something the rest of us didn't.

0 out of 4 stars.

Nothing to see here... Move along.

Well, actually, I lied.

I love this almost as much as Samoas. It's pretty cool that more than one person has told me that I sound exactly like the guy laying on the couch. At least I have this saved somewhere easily accessible now, so I don't have to keep looking it up.

Happy Friday. Leaving now.

I hate "Truth" with a passion.

You know those stupid "Truth" commercials? The ones where they tell you that tobacco companies want your soul? The ones where they tell you that tobacco executives kill kittens for fun? Apparently they're claiming that it's working. I don't buy it, personally. Want to know why kids smoke? Because it makes them look cool. Because it's forbidden. Because their parents hate it. Commercials like these "Truth" ones only reinforce the behaviors that will force kids to cigarettes. Want to make a great anti-smoking commercial? First, get the dorkiest kid you can find. Give him a trucker hat that says "Smoking rocks!" or something like that, since we all know that wearing a trucker hat is like wearing a time machine to 2002, when that damn fad ended. Then show him having a caring and loving relationship with his parents, sharing quality bonding time out on the porch, smoking away the evening with mom and dad, the three of them laughing and joking with one another. I wouldn't want to smoke after seeing that. I guarantee you this will drive kids away from cigarettes better than any commerical telling them that smoking will give them cancer and the tobacco companies lied about it 30 years before they were born. Get me a job at an ad agency, please.

All I know is that every time I see one of these "Truth" ads, I want to go out and buy a pack of Lucky Strikes or unfiltered Marlboro Reds immediately. And I don't even smoke. If only I was somehow able to walk up on one of those self-righteous little punks filming the commercials, my life would be complete. I figure it would be fun to say, outrun him, or maybe hoist him up over my head, then light up immediately afterwards. I guarantee you I'd look cooler than he ever could while doing it, too. Then I'd tell the gathered crowd about how tobacco companies are being forced to fund these commericals that profess that they're the devil incarnate. Shows how messed up America's legal system is.

Can you imagine McDonald's having to run "we want you to be a fatass because we hate you" commercials? That's pretty much what's going on, and the "Truth" people have the gall to complain that the tobacco companies won't continue to fund them, since they'll have met the terms of the settlement very soon. I guess they're just ticked because their cash cow is running out soon, but I can't be happier that I'll never have to sit through another ad telling me what common sense has already told me. I think we all know that smoking will give you cancer by now. This has entered the realm of common sense. If we have to run ads like that, we should start running some that explain how you may not want to jump out into freeway traffic, since people tend to get killed by cars traveling at 80 mph hitting them. May as well run those Anti-McDonald's ones, too, since people don't seem to understand that eating foods with massive fat and calorie counts and not exercising will make you fat. Who knew?

I am noticing an alarming trend already.

It seems I like to end my blog entries with some kind of little closing zinger one-liner type thing. I'm realizing that all of them so far have sucked. It's like I'm writing an essay for some lame class and I need that clever finish so the teacher will realize that I only phoned in 95% of the paper and thus award me a B- instead of a C+. God, I'm even boring myself here. Going to bed now. Won't sleep, but bed is more comfortable than computer chair.

I promise to get better at this whole blog thing and not use closing one-liners.

Insomnia isn't particularly fun. Neither are dreams.

Genetics are a funny thing. My dad can fall asleep as long as he can keep his eyes shut for 10 continuous seconds. My mom sleeps for about 27 minutes a night total, and that's in the recliner in front of the TV. Guess whose sleep genes I inherited? Lucky me. Strangely enough, you get me in a car or an airplane and I will fall asleep almost instantly, regardless of what's going on. Not cool when I'm driving, but I haven't killed myself yet, so I guess I rock at sleepdriving. Good thing my commute to work is only 12 minutes. Yes, I have it down to that much of a science. This is my life, and somehow you're stuck reading about it.

Anyway, on the subject of sleep, dreams are strange. Especially when they're my dreams. Keep in mind that I don't dream much, because dreams require one to enter REM sleep, which means you have to sleep continuously for a few hours, not wake up every 42 minutes or so. Yes, I have it down to that much of a science. Anyway, last night was one of those rare nights where I actually had a dream. Being the lucky guy that I am, the dream sucked. I don't remember much, but I do remember very vividly part of the fingernail on my thumb just coming off. It was like a door on a hinge, and it just kind of got yanked out, leaving this open square space where it looked like someone had just taken an x-acto knife and cut it out. It didn't hurt or anything, but I remember trying to find some way to keep the gaping hole in my thumb from getting infected, but there was no gauze or anything like that, as there never is in dreams. Whenever you need something in a dream, you will never, ever be able to find it. I hate that. Anyway, my subconscious, not being content with me simply having a mutilated thumb, decides to start throwing fun stuff at me in the dream. When I say fun, I mean stuff that sucks. People kept asking me to hold stuff, none of it clean, most of it drippy, nasty stuff, like wet nasty trash bags or rotten vegetables. After that somebody pushed me into a dirty pool. Stupid crap like that. After the pool thing I woke up to my alarm, which had apparently been going off for a solid 20 minutes. Great way to start the day. A day which, apparently, is still continuing.

I'm still trying to figure out what the hell that dream means. I've heard that when your teeth fall out in a dream, that means you have a fear of getting older, or something like that. Gee, what does having a mutilated thumbnail that you're petrified of getting infected signify, other than mental instability? If it's really bad, please don't tell me.

The devil has arrived at my doorstep...

And he looks suspiciously like this:



Yeah. Girl Scout Cookies have arrived, and I have a definite weakness for them. I'm downright pathetic when it comes to these things, to be totally honest. I simply cannot control myself. I feel like a crack fiend wondering when his next hit is coming after I've opened the box. It's not a matter of whether or not I will be eating another, it's a matter of whether or not I'll be eating the whole damn box of Samoas (Caramel Delites, if you have a politically correct Girl Scout Cookie supplier) right then and there. I know how many calories and how much fat is in each of these things. (Note: it's a LOT for such a tiny cookie.) Yet I continue to double fist them. I feel so pathetic. It's okay, though, because I figure I can get fat off of them and sue like those McDonald's dumbasses. It could work, if only because this is a list of the ingredients of a Samoa cookie, taken directly from the baker's website. Take note of the items colored in Samoa-box purple...

Ingredients: SUGAR, PARTIALLY HYDROGENATED VEGETABLE OIL, (SOYBEAN, COTTONSEED, AND/OR COCONUT AND/OR PALM KERNEL), CORN SYRUP, HEROIN, ENRICHED FLOUR [WHEAT FLOUR, NIACIN, REDUCED IRON, THIAMINE, MONONITRATE (VITAMIN B1), RIBOFLAVIN (VITAMIN B2), FOLIC ACID], COCONUT, OXYCONTIN, SWEETENED CONDENSED WHOLE MILK (WHOLE MILK, SUCROSE), NICOTINE, SORBITOL, CONTAINS TWO PERCENT OR LESS OF COCOA, GLYCERINE, SALT, DEXTROSE, INVERT SUGAR, COCOA POWDER (PROCESSED WITH ALKALI), NATURAL AND ARTIFICIAL FLAVORS, CORNSTARCH, SOY LECITHIN, CARRAGEENAN, CRACK, LEAVENING (BAKING SODA, MONOCALCIUM PHOSPHATE, METHAMPHETAMINES).

This goes a long way to explaining why I would still eat a half dozen of these things after dropping them on the floor at work. And my work floor is just dirty linoleum that the cleaning people never bother to touch, except to walk on. I did this yesterday, and keep in mind that I am a complete germophobe. You could say I had a "moment of clarity" as I was wiping off a Samoa, prepping it for consumption. Now I know how a junkie feels when he's digging through the trash. They need a support group for Samoa eaters. I need an intervention. Or a lawyer. Or both. I really don't know what I'm going to do when I run out of these things. It's a long wait until next year's delivery...

If you'll excuse me, it's been about 7 minutes since my last cookie.

The profile section and I have issues.

I just don't like it. At all. Instead of being able to give witty, sarcastic answers, it seems to want to force you into giving itemized lists. Don't even try to write a sentence that uses a comma, either. No dice. I'm debating whether to give in and just put some things I like in there or leave it as is, with dull, lifeless, vaguely sarcastic answers. Chances are it'll stay as it is. That'll keep the riffraff from locating me. I can only imagine some of the e-mails I'd get...

"OMG u like jeff bukcley he is soooooooo deep i luv him 2 bad hes dead now!!!1!!!1!11!!!"

Of course, I'd rather that than one of those people lured into behavior that would pretty much guarantee that I would beat them to death with their own limbs (after I've conveniently ripped them out of their sockets, mind you) were our exchanges made face to face. People seem to think the anonymity of the internet allows them to send stuff like...

"Bjork is pretentious garbage. You're a pretentious ass. How do I know? Because you like Bjork, that's how I know. I bet even your mother hates you for being such a pretentious ass. She's ugly too, and you are too. When I say 'she' I mean both your mother and Bjork. That's right, buddy. You suck! And you're gay! Screw you, man!"

See, definitely not what I'm looking for, proper spelling and grammar or not. If I want to listen to something like that I'll go play Counterstrike or Halo 2 online. Of course, that's likely to end up in the comments section sooner or later anyway, when someone other than me has read this page. I'm not counting on that happening any time soon, though. Whenever it does, maybe I'll get correspondence from all the cool Jeff Buckley and Björk fans who can write a coherent sentence and maintain some semblance of civility. It'd be nice. Not gonna happen while the profile thing remains as it is, unfortunately. Yes, all of the world's problems can be blamed on the profile section. At least all the mildly annoying ones.

What is the world coming to? (Yes, this is about Hunter S. Thompson.)

I'm really confused right now. Hunter S. Thompson shot and killed himself last night, and my mind is a little boggled. I mean, part of me really, really hopes it was accidental, but in the end it doesn't matter what the reason was, does it? He's gone, and something in the collective subconscious of our country is missing because of it. There are few truly unique voices in this world, and his was certainly one of the most unique. Somebody on one of the message boards I frequent mentioned that it seems fitting he killed himself, since nothing else on this earth could do the job. Still, this just doesn't make any sense to me whatsoever.

The timing is weird to me since I had just read his latest article on ESPN's Page 2 on Friday, after going quite a while without reading anything of his. He was talking about starting a sports league that was a combination of golf and skeet shooting. Sounded like fun. He was discussing this idea with Bill Murray over the phone at 3am. And Bill Murray was right there with him. I know I would be if Hunter S. Thompson called me at 3am. Or if Bill Murray did, for that matter.

ESPN's Page 2 has lifted their draconian "Insider Only" access on some of HST's archive articles written for them, so check them out while you still can. There's some terrific stuff there. Mahalo.

The internet is now complete.

Well. I guess I now have a blog. The internet shall never want for anything more. What worries me, though, is this marks the fourth in an ever-increasing, ever-disturbing series of things that I seem to have copied my buddy Matt in doing. First it was lifting weights. Granted, he invited me along in the first place, so it was solicited. It's not like I woke up one day and said, "hey, Matt works out. I think I'll do that, too." Now we only work out together once a week, if that. I work out solo the rest of the time, up to 4 times a week. Scary. It's become one of my things, but still, he did it first, so that automatically makes me less cool for it, even if I look like a superhero now. And no, smartass, not Robin.

Second in my list of copyitude (I'm making up new words here, people) was getting an iPod. I had wanted one for quite a while, but could never really justify the expense to myself. He got and iPod Mini for his girlfriend for Valentine's Day and that was that. This was made even better by the fact that he bought her a Virgin Mobile Player first. I can remember him declaring that, "iPod is just a brand name. This thing is cheaper and better. Who needs an iPod?" Well, his girlfriend's fateful Virgin Mobile Player was a complete piece of crap that broke no less than 3 times before it finally got returned to Best Buy about a week later (and was not the first to be returned, according to the "Geek Squad" guy behind the counter.) Anyway, he gets her a nifty iPod Mini, discovers iTunes, buys himself a 20gig iPod the next week. I bring some MP3 discs over since he doesn't feel like ripping all of his CDs (at least, that's the story I'm giving the RIAA) and I mess around with the iPod. Predictably, the next day I am at the mobile counter of Best Buy (I still hate the fact that they put MP3 players with cell phones, it just feels wrong -- but that's a rant for another time) debating whether to get a 40 gig or 60 gig iPod Photo. Being the completely insane person I am when it comes to (A) music and (B) electronic gadgets, I go for the 60 gig, and my bank account weeps quietly in the corner. So now I have an iPod which can whup any other iPod's ass, but Matt beat me to it by a day. Still, I can show album covers while songs are playing and solitaire is a lot easier to tell what's going on with the color screen and all. I also have 23 days worth of continuous music (provided the battery lasts) and the thing's not even half full yet. It's good to be me. Maybe I'll even put a photo or two on this thing. Maybe.

Third? Achewood. Normally, I'm the guy who HATES web comics. Yet, I love this one. I even have one of the characters as my AIM icon. I'd use Roast Beef, since he shares more of my world view, but Ray looks cooler, and that's all that should matter when choosing an AIM icon. There's a declaration for you. I have spoken. The comic is good, but so much is character based (like all good comedy) that you need to start from the beginning. I'll warn you now, it takes a while to pick up. Once Ray and Roast Beef take over, it gets really good, though. Anyway, this marks the first time Matt has found something on the internet before me, cause normally he sucks at the internet. Then again, his blog predates mine, so he must not suck at the internet too much. Or I'm just a sorry, unoriginal thing. Definitely not that.

Which brings me to the last thing. Blog. Not sure anyone will care what I have to say, but it should be fun to type in whatever I want, unfettered. Too bad I'm actually going to do my best to use proper spelling and punctuation, which segregates me from approximately 98% of the internet at this point. This post thing actually has a spell checker, so there's really no excuse. I mean, seriously. Have you read some of the blogs on this site? Go ahead and click that Next Blog button in the top right corner. Do it and weep. The internet is in serious need of an editor. I'm not that editor, but you get my point...

Looks like I've made my entire first post about Matt. I'm scaring myself. Maybe Matt should be scared, thinking I'm going to be all Jennifer Jason Leigh in Single White Female or something. Maybe I will. Just maybe. I have been working out, after all.