Superman Returns. Then he has a bagel. Then he mopes. Then he...

...debates whether the film has serious pacing issues. And it does. My God. I thought he was never going to save anybody. In fact, I didn't even think we'd get through the impossibly boring opening credits. It would have been better if they just gave us a dark screen to look at. Much better. It wouldn't have faked me out three times before we actually get to Earth.

And on Earth, does he move islands to form the words "I'm Back, Bitches!" in the sea? Does he fly backwards around the world, reversing its rotation so he never needed to miss those five years? Does he find Lois Lane for some super "Welcome Back" sex? No. He looks for an apartment, he gets his job back.

Superman has always battled with irrelevance. He's so powerful it almost doesn't matter what you throw against him he's going to shrug it off and then sit you down for a lesson about farmland morality. So I'll at least say that when Luthor comes up with his diabolical plot for the movie I was impressed that it had me thinking "what the hell is he going to do about this one?!" Unfortunately the way he solves the problem is to ignore all the rules about kryptonite (which apparently works for him the way gravity works for Wile E. Coyote; only taking effect when noticed).

If only this was the extent of their blatant disreguard for established Superman lore I could forgive them. After all, Smallville is just as guilty. But it's not. So I'm going to nerd out a bit and list things the movie got horribly, horribly wrong.

1. The wing ripping off the plane he was saving. Worst. Blunder. Ever. Not only would he have known that it was a horribly poor place to try to stop the tail spin (push near the cockpit Superdouche!) his tactile teleknesis would have held the structural integrity of the plane intact. This is a well known, if seldom directly addressed, power of Superman's. As seen in the below image from World's Finest # 86, National Comics, Jan.-Feb. 1957.
   
   
   

   Clearly such a power must exist, otherwise the buildings he's holding on two hands like he's carting two boxes of pizzas would crumble from the ridiculous strain being placed on them from an angle they weren't designed to be supported. Super-strength alone wouldn't have allowed him to do this. So, the plane should have stayed in tact. Strike one, Bryan Singer.
   
   
2. Super... asthma? SPOILER ALERT. Well it's a fairly obvious spoiler anyway. I have a hard time accepting the alleged super-love-child of Superman and Lois Lane would have asthma. I realize that his powers will develop over time, just as his father's did, and that as a half Kryptonian he will be of slightly different physiology. However, I refused to believe that he would be so fragile in his youth that, while kryptonite has little discernable effect on him, pollen smacks him down. (Maybe it just hasn't been explained yet that when you finally see the kryptonite you're supposed to be stricken). Strike two, Singer.
   
   
3. Several instances of failed super-hypnosis. Another of Superman's lesser known powers, Super-hypnosis, allows him to live as Clark Kent without anyone suspecting him of being Superman. In fact, people don't believe that Superman has any other identity. This is because, in part, Superman subliminally sends out powerful hypnotic suggestions to maintain this illusion. In fact, it's so effective that when the Lex of the comics finally found out that Clark was Superman, he refused to believe it.
   
   Despite this, several times in the movie it was implied that people suspected Clark. First it was Lois with her new boyfriend Cyclops. Though they played it off as a joke. This is completely possible; it would seem ridiculous. However when his super-bastard looks from the TV, showing Superman, to Clark it's pretty obvious the four-year-old just made the connection that must not be made. You could chalk it up to his parentage, but his other powers haven't developed, why should super hypno-resistance? And I call this one, strike three.
   
   

My nerdery aside, I did enjoy the movie. A possible DVD purchase? No. Probably not. As much as I'd like to fast forward through the boring bits, I still don't feel the need to own it. Even his super-heroics were kind of blah. As Joe, of Joe Loves Crappy Movies, said:

The problems Superman faces are on an epic level but his solutions aren’t exciting, they’re functional. He catches the globe. He carries the plane. He lifts up the boat. This is Superman for Christ’s sake. I’m not saying he should punch the plane to make it stop its fall to earth, but it’s pathetic that our hero is given little to do beyond fly, lift, and hold.

And that sums it up nicely. However I will laud the supporting cast. Kevin Spacey finally manages to do what Gene Hackman could never do which was to make Lex Luthor seem evil, rather than somebody's old coot uncle. And Sam Huntington has come a long way from the little rainforest brat in Jungle-2-Jungle. He was hilariously perfect as Jimmy Olsen, and I give him alot of credit for that.

And... that's what I thought.

- Scott

P.S. I had to listen to the Firewater song "So long, Superman" about five times after seeing the movie and actually hearing Lex Luthor say those words. I reccomend it to everyone.

girlFriends With ancillary Benefits

Don't worry, this blog isn't about to turn into a sickening "Scott and His Girlfriend" cutesy wootsey xanga-esque affair. I just noticed something that I thought was interesting. And I chose you to share it with. Feel loved people. Loved. H'ok, here goes.

So the girl is out of town for a few days. It's the first time I've found myself in this situation. I'm dating someone, so I really only need to be presentable to them. And they're not here. So then... awesome! Yesterday I think I had on about four shades of brown. None of them worked together. At all. Also, I haven't shaved since three days before she left. I look like a hobo. It's great.

I mean, my half-assed appearence is, of course, several orders of magnitude above that of the average person's, but still. I'm making no effort. I've often cited the Weezer song "No One Else" as an ideal for girlfriends. Most importantly (in this context) "when I'm away she puts her makeup on the shelf." I had no idea, however, that I intended for it to work both ways. Sure, I could shave, put on matching clothes, wear socks, look hot. But let's be honest. If I did that it would just lead to sex. Even if I didn't intend it, some girl would jump me on the way to my car. Nothing I could do about it.

This is really better for everyone.

- Scott

P.S. I promise not to become Alex Albrecht and mention my lady friend all the time. In fact, no more mentions for a week. Nay, a week and a half!

I think I remember how this works...

It's that time again. "To make fun of people who wear fanny packs?" "To rage against the machine?" No, and no. The time at the tone will be Crush o' the Week o' Clock. It's been too long friends. And I have much to report; float trips, apartments, backwoods boys. It's been fun. And, oddly, productive. Which has been seriously confusing me. It seems that laziness conforms nicely to the formula "it's so *blank* it's *opposite of blank*." I wasn't trying to do anything this summer. But somehow I've accomplished a few things. One of which is the subject of today's post (at Rowela's request.) So without further ado Beeeeeeep. (That was the tone.)

Name: Megan C. I like to call her Meg C. Both because I'll take whatever reference to the Spice Girls I can get, and because I put her in my cell phone that way. Besides I'm not sure if I want the whole internet to be able to track her down. And last names aid in that more than anything less than a social security number.

Why she's awesome: Well, she's dating me for one. That's right ladies, I'm taken. But chin up, there's always cloning. Anyway, she's dating me. And generally that'll rank you right up there in my awesomeness book. Just under 'paying me to look pretty'. Because in that case there's payment. But dating me is a very close second.

However, these are things about me, and right now I'm supposed to be describing why she's so great. So I'll get to it. First of all, she conforms nicely to the Ozma song "Coffee Shop Girl" here's a lyrics dump.

Her name is Meg but her name tag says "Megan".

She takes her coffee black and she's a vegan.

All true. That nuance about her name and it's abbrev? Dead on. Her coffee preference? Also correct (mostly). In fact the song goes on and on in a fashion that pretty accurately describes her, but those are the two most succinct lines. Technically she's a vegetarian, not a vegan, but close enough. See? There's a song about her. Pretty awesome no?

All this is not to mention her good taste in movies, books, and music. She even read Ender's Game, which for the record, is one of the sexiest things a girl can do. Even if it's just to humor me. Perhaps especially if it's just to humor me. I could go on and on. But I'll cap this portion with the fact that she wears this shirt, and wears it quite well.

Scott Bonus: For this section I'll point out all the subtle appearances of Megan on the Wonder Blog thus far. I'm sure dedicated readers have already picked up on these cameos but I want everyone to be on the trolley.

Appearance #1: Wotcher! Post. If you look closely you'll notice her four photos down sitting in a chair reading Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. In the fifth panel you can see her mugging directly to camera, cementing her place in official Wonder Blog cannon.

Appearance #2: Second Happiest Place on Earth post. Once again, true to form, she appears four pictuers down, sitting on a bench.

As I've demonstrated, this is not a newly fabricated character to fill a void, but one who has been there all along, but was only recently featured prominently. And I'm glad she was. Because her backstory is pretty awesome. (She just got back from Italy.)

- Scott

Don't truck with me, buddy.

H'ok. So I'm hanging out in my car at the BP station across from Lambert International Airport in St. Louis. The little bastard made a wretched beeping noise, so I decide to find out what it wanted. After asking verbally and being rebuffed I decided that a more digital approach was in order. So I used my digit to hit the "what the hell do you want button" and it informed me I had a few voice messages. Fine. I begin to listen to them when all of a sudden my world is, quite literally, rocked.

Looking back I can see what the source of this world rock-ation quite clearly. And it's a Penske truck, for all intents and purposes moshing with mine. Angered (because I was only a few seconds into my first message... and I got hit by a truck) I jumped out of my mom's van to 1.) assess the damage and 2.) give the idiot who hit me while I was parked a piece of my mind and all of the bill for repairs.

However he didn't seem interested in my plight. My first hint was that the bastard just kept driving. And when he got out of his truck, he made for the gas station. Whatever he was buying, I'm sure it wasn't a product for his teeth. All eight of them by my count. Really they should be considered half of eight teeth. They were pretty worn down and where they weren't yellow they were a plaque-ish shade of brown, but that's neither here nor there.

"Hey buddy, can I talk to you for a second?" I said as I approached, he doggedly refusing to look in my direction at all.

"About what?" he said with a sneer and a hostility that screamed 'I know exactly what.'

"The weather. And if we have time, you hitting my car." I said with a tone that said 'Don't screw with me; I'm smarter than you.'

"Where?"

"Come." When we reached my car I point emphatically at the newly blackened and scraped rear bumper and the dislodged sensor. "Pretty much in this reigon here." (Internal monologue "not so much here, or here, but riiight here").

"I didn't feel anything."

"Well I did." So had my witness. Or saw at least. Point - Scott.

"Well I don't know what you expect me to do about it."

("You could just pay for the damages with that bundle you must save on dental hygene.") This, however, I only thought. I would've said it, but having already been sarcastic in response to his dickish faux-ignorance I didn't want things to get out of hand.

"I think the best course of action would be to trade insurance information."

"I don't have insurance."

"So you're uninsured." (Great.)

"No, I have insurance."

At this I had to blink twice before proceeding. Some people count to ten. I animatedly blink, as though what you said was impossible to comprehend, letting you simmer in the ridiculousness ofthe statement. Although this guy smelled as though he'd already been making his own gravy for quite a while, so the tactic had no immeadiate effect.

I soon learned several things; that driving was, inexplicably, his career; that the Penske truck he was driving around the corner of the gas station when he clipped me was a rental from his company; and that he had no intention of being helpful at all. It was shortly after this point that he drove away. After refusing to provide even the most basic of contact information. He gave a name, but wouldn't verify it with I.D. He gave a company name, but wouldn't give me a card. And a phone number to a number that might be disconnected. Then he drove away, amid my protests. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to take camera-phone pictures. Of everything. Of him even. The dick.

So far everything about this man is a dead-end. I doubt insurance will be able to squeeze anything out of him or his fly-by-night company. But I can have my fun. If anyone is bored the individual in question is:

Nick Palazzolo

It is only as a public service that I announce to the world that he is officially a dick.

- Scott

NachNOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

So rushed for time. Meant to post. Here's a quick discussion point:

Nacho Libre does for comedy what cancer does for living.

- Scott

Back in Brown

Hark! Turn thy eyes to the east? What handsome visage greets thee? It is Scott! Yes, that Scott! Returning from a long, unexpected hiatus. How does this relate to AC/DC? Why would he choose an obvious play on Back in Black for the post title? Well, because he is back. And he's probably wearing brown. It's just kind of a theme with him. Humor it.

So, who's sick of Six Flags? I personally am. But I haven't even been near a computer in about a week. It's been pretty horrible. At first I went through withdrawal. I tried to blog from my cell phone. But it just wasn't the same. I just sent text messages to people. Oh God, it was torture.

But now, I've got the time, the inclination, and the relatives out of my bedroom; let me bring you kids up to speed on what I've done since that super exciting day at Six Flags:

• Went to my cousin's wedding. It was alright. I couldn't help but notice that her dress was ivory. Not quite white. Interesting... However, I think for your wedding you should wear whatever you want. Having an off-white is practically walking down the aisle with a scarlet "A" across your chest.
  
• Debated the subtler points of the Catholic Church. This was actually at the above wedding. I couldn't help but notice the ways in which a mass is more or less a game of Simon, wherein you follow the preist. And if you stand when you were supposed to kneel? Damnation. Also I noticed that the pews were intentionally uncomfortable. Forcing you to 1.) Lean forward on your knees, making you bow to the Lord whether or not you want to, and 2.) Concentrate on how much better it will be to be free of this worldly form. They also had the vaulted ceilings that draw your eyes heavenward, presumably for more reflection on God, but I got distracted because they had painted small triangles above the pulpit on the ceiling and all I could think was that a piece of the Triforce had to be hidden nearby.
  
• Bought alcohol for underage kids. Well Megan, the girl in question, and my brother and his date to the wedding. They "card hard" at 518 East Banquet Center, but they don't bat an eye when you carry off 4 drinks.
  
• Gave my 8 year old cousin one of my old computers. I also built him and his 3 and 4 year old brothers blow guns, taught them how to respond to "You want a piece of me?" (Only answer: "No, I want the whole damn thing!"), and explained PGP encryption so the government doesn't know what you're doing. Although in his case it's pretending to work for the FBI, we didn't quite get to the part about the joys of being a political dissident. There was also a lovely moment where we tricked their mom into beliving he drank vodka. Ah, good times.
  
• Received my grappling hook. At long last. Now I'm actively searching for things to grapple. And for a luchador mask. I have to keep my identity secret as I foil the meth dealers of Jersey County.
  

So that's what's been up. Now I think I'll change the Crush of the Week to someone attractive. Won't that be nice?

- Scott

P.S. I also got hit by a truck. But that's another post.

The second happiest place on Earth.

Boasting more turkey legs per square mile than any other theme park in the world! Sorry about the lack of updates. Although I did appreciate that the anti-Johansson post was getting the attention it deserved. I just need everyone's sizes and fourteen dollars. Then we'll let the world know! (Mousepads and coffee mugs also available.) Anyway, I've been fairly distracted this week. With a little of this and that, but the big thing was our random trip to Six Flags.

It started with a mention that Emily was off work on Tuesday. In my mind this can only mean Six Flags. I said it, people laughed. But when I showed up at 9:00 AM at their houses demanding they get in my car they took it more seriously. We were off.

On arriving at the park we saw all the normal things. The whiny brat kids. The barely controlled youth group all wearing their bright neon green shirts. And finally, my favorite, the ultra-patriotic flag and animal shirt. Not a wolf shirt, but just as good.

Goes nicely with his bird legs.

What must his morning have been like? "Let's see here, button up eagle shirt. Check. Blue blockers. Check. Tiny mustache and contempt for reading. Check and check. Everybody in the car!"

Now if you're going to Six Flags, there are a few things you must remember. 1.) Take nothing seriously. Because you'll be pretty sorely dissapointed. And 2.) Try to arrive on a Tuesday when the forcast warns of rain. If you remember those two things you'll be set up nicely for this.

Apparently the location of the Batcave really is secret.

See that? No lines. And this is for the Batman. The flagship ride of Six Flags. We rode it in the front, repeatedly. Nobody here yet? Fine, let's just stay on it. Kind of a tourture test because it's one hell of a ride, but still. How often do you get the chance? I considered it astronaut training.

After that we were off to Superman: Tower of Power. As seen below.

Paging Dr. Freud.

As symbols of male verility go, Superman is already a pretty potent one. Then they give him this ridiculously phallic ride. Seriously. The homoerotic overtones coming off this shaft thrusting people skyward and back down, all while a heavily muscled spandex clad man looks on, are enough to make anyone a little uncomfortable. Fortunately there was a nearby picture of Lois Lane that I could ogle publicly.

The ride itself is fairly good. You're slowly raised to the top, then at a random moment, in random order you're dropped back toward earth. I'm sorry. That's incorrect. You're propelled toward the Earth. There's no gradual build up of speed as you fall. Zero to Seventy Five miles an hour in not much more than two seconds. It doesn't so much take your stomach as force it into your throat.

Naturally we expirimented with pennies falling at the same speed as us. Some pseudo-zero G can liven up any ride. Until they started checking hands before you go up. I was fast enough to shove my change into the band of my watch, but Barrett got busted. Probably because of all the times he failed to grab his penny again, allowing it to slam back to earth. Sometimes across the park as a result of his slapping them forcebly in an attempt to catch them.

Taken moments before impact.

After the Superman ride, we were moving across the park. I spotted those amazing huge playgrounds parks sometimes have. I had to go down that three story slide. I didn't care. So I promptly began scaling the structure. Once I got to a good vantage point I decided to take a picture. Above you can see everyone chillin' on a bench. And some little girl in a garish orange dress.

Anyway, just after the picture I ran up to the top. Or tried to. Little did I know there was a low beam ahead, and I ran forcefully into it. My neck popped from just under my head down to my shoudlers and I dropped like it was my calling in life. After the stars cleared I realized that I wasn't damaged or paralyzed and continued my quest... Only to be shut down by the slide guard. That rat bastard.
"What do you want?" he asked me.
"A third arm."
"You can't go down the slide."
"Not even if I accompany my cousin Thomas down?!" I said grabbing the little boy who had followed me up.
"No," replied the douche. I sighed, turned to the child and said "Sorry Tommy" and walked back down.

Wait, you mean there's Turkey Legs?!

Where's the exit? Where's the roller coasters? Who knows. The most easily found thing will always be turkey legs. It's park law.

After we had ridden everything (that was open) several times, we decided we'd had enough seven dollar sodas, and that it was perhaps time to go. And that was our day. Which was actually still young so we went shopping! That was, of course, my best textual flamboyantly gay intonation. But that's another story. This one's long enough. And I have more topics to post on.

- Scott

Anti-Crush Numeral Uno

That's right boys and girls. I'm not feeling any strong lecherousness toward any female celebrity this week. At least none that provided tasteful, but attractive pictures. It's a hard gig to land. And this week, none in Hollywood was up to the challenge. So, I'm left with no choice but to rail against the trolls that are constantly in the presence of more attractive women. And are often presented as being attractive themselves! This must stop. And it stops here. Without further ado: Scott's Animosity Filled Anti-Crush of the Weekend. (It's like bizarro world in here today.)

Name: Scarlett Johanson. First of all, we'll start with her name. Scarlette. A small scar. From the Latin scarletus*, meaning "a slash across the face". And that's exactly what she's like. Ignoring the ignominous root word of her name, it's pretentious all on its own. Scarlett Johanson. She sounds like some girl in your high school that's talked about alot because she's having sex with the girl's softball coach. A Google search for "Scarlett Johanson Ugly" comes up with 28,000 results. In short, dumb name.

Why She's Earned My Contempt: Aside from having a bad name, she just isn't attractive. At all. In any sense. Her face looks like it's composed of warm, malleable cheese stretched over a framework of ping-pong balls. Her lips, which curl up into a sneer rather than a smile, outright make me want to punch her, except that I really don't want to come into physical contact with that... thing if I can avoid it. Basically she looks like the kind of girl I'd expect to see working the 3-7AM shift at the local Wal-Mart Supercenter, in the too tight khaki pants and the awkward blue vest covering her misshapen torso.

And despite this, we're expected to adore her! WTF mates? Everyone fawns over her as if she wasn't hideous, and they go on to suggest that she's one of the most attractive women in the world. That loud noise you're hearing is the world scraping the bottom of the barrel on attractive women if she's on the list. I had a lot of respect for Topher Grace, until he went on Conan and talked about kissing her like he enjoyed it. Wash your mouth out Topher... or I'm done with you. What do I need you for? I have a spare. His name is Tim Ryder.

Also, as you can see to the right in the Anti-Crush of the Weekend position, she clings to more attractive celebrities like those small remora fish that attach themselves to the shark's underbelly so as not to be completely worthless. Although in this case, she more or less accentuates her unworthiness. (Also, I didn't to force readers to look directly at her.)

Scott Bonus: If you'd like to make your own Scarlett Johanson bust, presumably to light on fire or drive your car over please follow the simple directions below.

Be the first one on your block to have your own 100% authentic Scarlett Johanson Head.

Then light it on fire and cry out "OPA!"

- Scott

* Though I made "scarletus" up, I decided to google it. Lo and behold, it turns out to be the scientific name of a type of scarab beetle. The universe is just afterall.

It ain't a city in China...

Today, I'd like to revisit something I touched on once, ever so breifly. The subject of tipping. Not at a restaurant, although I believe the Third Rock from the Sun method definitely is an improvement. For those not familiar the TRFTS method consists of piling up the potential tip on the corner of the table. Letting the waiter/waitress see the tip, and explain to them that over the course of the night, that pile will either be added to or subtracted from based on the quality of service and in general how much we like you. It's brilliant. Provides instaneous feedback, rather than leaving the actor/writer, I'm sorry waiter, to wonder where he went wrong.

But that's not what I mean. And until it's a widely accepted social institution, don't do that. I've had nothing but... shall we say, less than amicable experiences with it. And food that tasted distinctly like spit. What I mean today, I've once I alluded to this once before in a brief comment. But I've since refined the concept.

Basically, I think a small amount of money should change hands when somebody does something you like. For instance, Megan recently revealed that she played through The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time. Upon hearing this revelation I was overcome with a strong desire to give her six dollars. I don't know why. Sure, my opinion of her shot up, and therefore she has attained a higher position in the world overall. But without that six dollars I felt that something was missing.

This has come up several times, different people, different reasonings. But when it comes down to it, I just want to go that extra mile. Repurposing an old social convention for my own amusement. It should really catch on. There's only two caveats:

1. The maximum amount of money should be seven dollars. To me this feels like more money than even eight dollars. Maybe even ten. Could be because it's a prime number. Could be because I like the word "seven". So it's really a 1-7 scale. But don't get too hung up on the actual amount. It's really just a gesture. But if you want to really go for it, 7 is pretty money.
   
2. For the equally important reasoning that it might make her feel cheep and prostitution laws, I suggest keeping away from this concept in man/woman relations. Or woman/woman relations. I'd throw the guys in here too, but really, dudes just like money.

Have fun. And get some ones.

- Scott