The girl I knew from 1990...

Back from a nice, long, blurry week. It's not the alcohol per se, more the structure of my days. No, rather the distinct lack of structure. It was the normality and routine of going to school that used to (and in a few, all too short months will again) regulate my posting. It was just a part of my habit. Post, go to school, check for comments in classes, reply, rinse and repeat. Then I graduated, moved home. Posting got harder. But still possible. I had hockey. It reminded me that it was Monday, time for the Crush of the Week. The COTW comment checking led to other postings, and so on.

Now I've played my last game of the season, and I'm fresh out of routines. It's oddly liberating to live as if you're on vacation in your hometown. And now that my friends have rejoined me, it's even better. Or I should say, worthwhile at all. It turns out there are things to do, just none that seem fun alone. But I digress (is it digressing when it's the topic I started on? In any case I'm digressing now)... on to the point of today's post (bolded in case you're skimming and don't want to read my two paragraph rant):

Hannah Roberts. The name probably doesn't mean anything to you, but it's one of my memories from living in Chicago. Actually I remember the first and last names of several of the people I went to Preschool with. (Peter Pan Preschool in fact, I wonder if this is the occasion that my personal rantings would be better left for...) And some that I enjoyed kindergarten with as well.

I was feeling a bit nostalgic for my original house in Naperville two days ago, so I decided to Google map it. For whatever reason, I remember the address of every house I've ever lived in, every phone number I could ever have been reached at, and quite a bit of other crap. My memory isn't quite photographic... but I do alright. So, seeing first house, I decided to "walk" to the places I remembered. I found Ellsworth, and then it struck me that there's a way I could casually get in touch with those people again. And that way was Facebook.

So, I searched for the people I remembered, minus those who were complete tools in kindergarten/preschool, and to my great surprise I was actually right, first try. I asked them if they went to the schools at the times that I did, and all of them had. I did narrow it down a bit. For instance the Hannah Roberts I knew wasn't black. Cross her off the list. Nor was she four years younger than me, etc. And I did bias the results to favor those still in the Chicago area, but it worked.

If you're of a demographic where you can still use Facebook, I suggest you look up people like this. It's pretty fun. And how often do you get to say "So... what have you been up to for the last 16 years? Do you still have that kick-ass black and white backpack? **Do jou take off your face and hands before you go to bed? And if so, are you some kinda robot? And if so, what kind of powers do you have? Do you use them for good, or for awesome? Would you like to join forces? I just happen to be the greatest criminal mind of our time.**"

- Scott

** Only actually sent once. Bonus points for her actually getting it.

The French loved me!

I'm not talking about Rob here either. I don't know how many of you have seen/read the Da Vinci Code, but I suggest you all go out and watch it. Not because I thought it was a great movie, but because it's the subject of today's post, and it'll just make it that much more interesting. I also suggest you get fitted with a catheter, because that's one loooooong movie*. But do see it, because I don't think you're reget it. Plus the Pope banned it, which makes it all the more desirable because it's now forbidden.

Anyway, much of the plot rests on these pyramids at the Louvre. I don't think I'm giving anything away by saying that, but they're featured prominently at the beginning and the end of the movie. Which made the movie even more enjoyable for me, as it strongly recalled memories of a time when I was solving a mystery in that very location. The mystery of: how-large-a-scene-I-can-make-without-actually-saying-anything. Turns out pretty large. And it involves those two underground pyramids that together form the fulcrum of the plot in the Da Vinci Code. Take a look (and click for the larger version of both).

Here's a small picture in case you don't know what it usually looks like. Can you guess what I did?

To the left of the shot: a tour group, in the center: myself, and in the right third: a horrified French boy**.

My expression is intentionally pained as at that moment I was calling to my friends for help. Yes I know that's saying something, but it was astonishing how fast I went from pretending to be stuck to actually being pinned between the two pyramids. It kind of hurt. By this time the crowd (sadly off camera), was getting a little too big and I was worried that I was going to draw the attention of some angry, uniformed, security personelle. So I forcibly removed my head from betwixt the two sharp points (not reccomended), and tried to blend. As I was 1.) just finished attracting attention to myself and 2.) dressed like the Jolly Green Giant's bastard son on vacation I failed extravagantly in my attempt.

In a way, I feel mine is the more important contribution to the lore surrounding the pyramids. I'm sure you can agree.

- Scott

* Odd that I could sit through all three Lord of the Rings movies and be completly rapt with attention pointing out when the movie cribs a line directly from the books, but three-ish hours of a mystery that's more or less solved in the first half hour (even if you didn't read it) makes me antsy.

** I knew he was French because I heard him speaking (in French), to an adult (mom?), about what a ridiculous sight he had just seen (presumably). Unless the kid is named Bean, it's his first language.

The Me Team.

"In 2006 a crack commando unit... well actually it was just one guy going commando... was sent to prision by a debt collection agency for a crime he didn't commit. This man promptly talked his way through the situation, but was chased by the rogue collection agency to the Los Angeles underground. Today, still wanted by the kneebreakers, he survives as a soldier of fortune. GameCube, XBOX, PS2, and the next generation. If you have a problem, no walkthrough can help, and if you can find him, maybe you can hire the Me Team."

It's true. I'm getting Me Team T-shirts and everything. The other part is true too. I moved from Springfield in a hurry. I left forwarding addresses for everybody that should have needed one and I had the Springfield post office forward stuff to my new address. Inexplicably, months after I paid my final bill, returned my digital cable box/remote, and canceled my cable/internet, what should arrive at my house but a bill. For $35.00. "Umm.... what the hell?" Was my first thought. I looked through it and apparently there were a few days before they acutally did shut off my cable, and I was being charged for them. Nevermind that I had been living somewhere else by the time they got around to shutting it off.

I could see that my best option was to just pay the bill. Which I did. About two weeks ago. Sadly, yesterday, I get a letter from the "We'll take your credit out to the woodshed and rape it repeatedly, and if that doesn't work we'll break your friggin' kneecaps and not give you any pizza" collection agency. Great. I decided I would call them too and make them understand how charming and not at fault I am. As it turns out, they were prepared for this. It's nigh impossible to talk to a human being. However, at every pause they offer to take down your credit card number and have done with it right there. I haven't gotten through to them, so these shady bastards are still after me. Damn it. I never even had a late movie rental before this.

Oh well, I'm going to go price a few black vans.

- Scott

She's got motion, motion, motion. A Crush Potion (for me).

How influential are the commentators on my blog? Do I put stock in your words, or are you just the frosting on the delicious word cake I bake each week? Good questions. Well apparently the answer for today is that I do. Because I hadn't planned to do Kristin Kreuk this week, but after Rob said it, it was like telling me not to think of the elephant. I was flipping through the Rolodex of Fine Women I keep in my head, just above the Lazy Susan of Excuses for Breaking Things (Ex. "Clearly I saved someone's life. Such flimsy construction... the next person to hang from this gutter might not have been so agile. I could easily see them breaking their necks. You're welcome."), and though the rolodex is full of other women it kept sticking on her. So, thanks to that implanted suggestion, here we are. I hope you're happy, punk.

I intend to bang out another post today, so let's get down to business:

Name: Kristin Nicole Kreuk. (Note: her middle name is only probably Nicole. I don't know what it really is, but in the english speaking world female middle names are usually "Ann" or "Nicole". I'm giving her the benefit of the doubt here.)

Why we care: How about the absolutely impossible feat of playing a half-asian version of Lana Lang (who is supposed to be a xenophobic, midwestern, red headed cheerleader), without one negative word from Superman fanboi's the internet over, she's also really hot. In fact those two are explicitly related as the producers couldn't have gotten away taking such a blatant dump on the chest of the original cannon without inserting such a lovely girl. Not to mention her lovely cameo in EuroTrip, which despite the fact that the movie itself is of questionable cinematic value, has never not made me laugh heartily when I watch it.

Scott... he's just so swell: Thanks. Although never say "swell" again. Who are you the Beev? (Editors note: No. No I am not.) Anyway, I decided that Kristin, like LaLa, is one of those girls who can't truly be captured by still photography. I wonder if anyone really can. Anyway what she really needs is what she's got. Motion, motion, motion. Check it out. Though I reccomend you mute the voice over guy, who sounds like he's desperately trying to hold in a bong hit, and just listen to the dulcet voices of Allison Mack (worthy of her own Crush of the Week) and Kristin Kreuk.

- Scott

"I'll gladly post Tuesday, for a week off today"

Not really. I hope to post tonight. But there are suddenly no less than 35 people vying for my attention in town. Whisking me away from my home on adventures like some collective version of Gandalf. But don't think I'm out of idea, just steam --by the time I crash down on my bed anyway. Also I don't usually post under the influence. And lots of mead has flown my way this week. When former teachers are bartending, you just have to show up and order fufu drinks don't you?

Anyway, I do have some partially completed posts out there. And two of them took a left turn to serious (as much so as I can muster) introspection. Bulleted list of what's to come (possibly tonight, they'll have the date started on them when I post, so it'll appear to have posted from a couple of days ago.

• Bathrooms. Public/private.
  
• Questioning my own thinking. I'm at the age where I start to realize when I seriously inspect my motives how old some of my assumptions are. When the last time you gave any thought to an issue you were 15, maybe it's time to go over it again.
  
• Capture the Flag. Too awesome.
  
• Getting busted by the man. And laughing my way through it.
  
• Art School Confidential, my opinions.
  

See? Content! Sorry I've gotten so summer'd up. I'll get back to posting... after the skiing. See you then kids.

- Scott

In the tiki, tiki, tiki, tiki, tiki crush...

If you know what the title is referencing, God have mercy on your soul for the clossal amount of time you've spent in quasi-rides at themeparks. Apparently my muscular, if bruised, thigh wasn't the comment generator I had anticipated. But looking back, I can understand why. I mean laying eyes on the thing is like looking into the open Arc of the Covenant. It'll melt your face... with lust. And it's hard to type in that condition. Not to mention the immeadiate need for reconstructive plastic surgery. Just be thankful your entire body didn't melt.

Something that I'm thankful for is Podcasting. Specifically video podcasting, which is where our Crush o' the Week comes from. (What I have to incorporate a gimmick into the title every week?) If you've got a heart that aches, weary from the weight of the world, a soul that can't find its redemption, and a desire for swank tiki bar settings and a lovely woman wiggling around in them, then I have the remedy. Her name is... in the ingredients section.

Name: She's actress Beatrice Fastwater. And children matter to her. But she's also known as Lala. The saucy minx that shimmys in the intro to the "hhwhildly successful, popular, popular podcast known as Tiki Bar TV."

Her Crush Worthy Charms: Besides all of the obvious*, such as her being really hot, or existing in that aether between being just a pretty, grinning, airhead and... well not. The way she plays it hasn't annoyed me yet, as ditsy girls often will. In fact, it's charming as hell! Anyway, besides those things, she represents, according to Wikipedia, "the mythical attractive lush."

And she built the Drinkbot. "An automatic robot, based on science!" To see her grin as she says even the most ridiculous of lines... ah. But I digress. Anyway, she built the Drinkbot, which though it was innocent enough at first, quickly became obsessed with the human concept of love. And as such is clearly the origin of the entire Cylon robotic faction. But Lala is still darling, if you don't believe me watch it for yourself below.

Scott's Gifts of Delicious Lala: Not only can you watch the lithe form of Lala dancing her lascivious lambada of lust, you can also click on the woefully tiny picture of the Tiki Goddess to see a delightfully full sized collage from several episodes. I'm a prince among robots I tell you. Enjoy the movie.

- Scott

* Which I go on to state regardless of having just called them obvious.

Slappers and Thigh High's

Here's a line I deleted from Monday's post: "A cold steak covering the puck shaped bruise on my leg, I bravely return to complete my duty, and indeed, my promise of posting Lucy Liu comparison shots." I don't need your sympathy. Unless it includes sympathy makeouts. In which case, I'm all for (some of) your sympathies.

It wouldn't have been an entirely accurate quote anyway. It was several steaks. Because when you're this hot, they cook themselves, baby. At least, when they're in contact with my bare flesh. It's kind of inconvenient, but I keep some seasonings nearby and enjoy a nice leg-steak dinner.

Anyway I just thought I should share with you the extent of my daring, my dedication to my team, and all-around manliness by showing you what I willingly dove in front of to prevent a goal. I don't recall who shot it, but they have one hell of a slapper*. Pics below.

Fortunately, my legs are removable for easy photography. Seriously, that gam looks a bit disembodied. And look at that bruise. Do you see anything odd about it? Any certain detail that seems unlikely? Well, how about a closer look.

My sexy leg in 16:9. Click for a larger, if blurrier, shot.

See that odd crosshatching pattern inside the bruise? Through my thick hockey socks (thigh highs, with garters... I feel so naughty in them) and through my hockey pants, the puck hit hard enough to leave the imprint of the grips on its sides. These grips:

So you can imagine how hard it had to hit for those to have any effect. It was my first game since I'd been promoted to the good line, and I was all about being hardcore so after it happened, and after my initial reaction of clapping my hand against it, I just kept on skating. Sadly we lost 10-3. But even so, I stopped the goal when we were at 2-2. It still counts as helpful/awesome. And reguardless, you all get a nice photoshoot of my legs. Don't think I don't know what keeps you comming back. Come for the raw sex appeal, stay for the stories.

- Scott


* English slang for whore. Good to know.

Speaker for the Dead, err Class

Ok. I'd like to apologize for that last post. The one that started out with swearing and proceeded to liberally scatter four, and sometimes five, letter words throughout. I'll tear back the veil of secrecy around the post for a moment and reveal that I was angry. Hard to believe I know, but trust me. Despite my cool exterior, my polite prose, and the calm way in which I expressed myself, I was somewhat dissatisfied with the overall situation.

So dissatisfied in fact, that I decided that I would go the route of 60 seconds of garbage, then an abrupt "Godblessamerica, thankyou." And walk off stage. However as I read what I had written, I couldn't stand saying it aloud. And I ended up thinking of all the people it would dissapoint. So I rewrote it, incorporating verbatim a few of their demands, but also enough tom foolery that I could stomach it. However I did make my feelings known in an email, after a pissy call from the "Useless Appendix" woman demanding she see my speech. I meant to say it to her, but she wouldn't answer her phone. Here's what I wrote.

After much stress given the small amount of time I had to rewrite an entire speech, I've completed a new one. Its somewhat shorter, but I think it's more "we" centric. Oops. Let me rephrase. "We" think it's more "we" centric. Designed by committee.

Anyway I don't have anymore time to work on it. I need to relax. This is my graduation day. Oh no, I've just been my centric. Oh well. I guess I'm just human after all. If this speech is not to your liking I suggest you get someone else. I'll not be writing it again.

- Scott

And so I was ready to give the speech. I thought of listing the things that wouldn't be in this speech, but I was given a marvelous introduction by one of my former professors, and all the anger dissipated. By the time he finished all I could think was "Hunh, apparently I'm a hell of a guy."

So I went up and did the speech I'm posting in the comments. But I prefaced it with this:

"I'd like to thank Mr. Frye for that lovely introduction. And for not sharing as much as he could have." At this point I gestured to the woman providing a sign language translation of everything said on the microphone. "And the translator for being here. Because not only is it very considerate, but I get to see my words." I paused a second to let her almost finish with that sentence (although I was more or less guessing) and then continued "Those are my words."

"Watch her hands." Pause. "Awesome." Imitating her: "This means awesome." All the while she's giving me disgusted looks. But you can't expect me not to enjoy that kind of thing.

For Ro's sake I'll post the speech and my final comment on it in the comments section. How delightfully named it turns out to be.

- Scott

"If Darwin has anything to shout about, the Crushes will survive us all without any doubt."

"The world today seems absolutely crackers,
with nuclear bombs to blow us all sky high,
there's fools and idiots sitting on the triggers,
it's depressing, and its senseless, and that's why...

I like Chinese."

It's true. I do. Besides that whole "they're still commies" bit, it's a lovely country that's contributed alot. The food, the karate, about 5% of the dialog in Firefly, and most importantly, this post's Crush of the Most Honorable Xing Qi. (Which means "week" for the Chinese impaired. And also for those too slow to spot a pattern in my bolded bolded text within this segment.)

Abrupt and harsh transistion to bulleted points in 3... 2.. 1.

Name: Lucy Liu.

Deserving of this honor... why?: I didn't like Lucy Liu. At all. She was loud, bitchy, and far too hard assed to interest me. Like a less hated Michelle Rodriguez. (I'm considering doing anti-crushes on weeks when I'm just not feeling it. And she would be the first on a very long list.) The only parts she ever plays are those of the fem fatale. "I know karate, I'm here to eat with chop sticks and kick ass... and I'm all out of chop sticks." That's her part more or less. Then we're treated to an hour and a half of a 90 pound woman suspended on wires, blatantly disreguarding Newtonian Physics.

And worse, if her character isn't Shaolin trained, we get to hear her deliver alternately aloof or oughtright bitchy lines. Her track record as an assassin, dominatrix (I can't be tied down with a girl that wants me tied up...), and all around hardcore man hating shrew. However, thanks to a delightful little movie called Lucky Number Slevin, if you'll forgive the horrible pun, I changed my mind.

The producers must have been out of their minds. They gave her a role that didn't fit either of the parts Asian women are allowed to portray. They are, of course, as follows:

1.) The Me So Horny!!! Some like to call this one the China Doll, but I prefer this term. If you're the publisher of a scholarly journal, feel free to adopt it. Pretty self explanitory. Submissive, exotic, randy. That's it.

2.) The Dragon Lady. Equally randy, but also deadly. She might play the Me So Horny part, but only so she can kill or maim you.

Instead of these types, she just played a hot girl who lives next door. They didn't even saddle her with the obilgatory Super Asian Name, like three of her previous characters O-Ren Ishii, Jin Ping, and Ling Woo. She was just Lindsey. And she was quirky, and nice, and hot. The way I likes em. So for taking that role, she gets to be the crush of the week.

Scott Bonus:

For future reference,

. .

On the left, Bitchy Lucy. Note the chain and leather pants. Not to mention the "I'm going to kick you in the balls and then say something annoying in the flattest voice imaginable" face.

On the right, "Oh, honey you're so brave. Despite that they broke your nose I'll still sleep with you to make you feel better. By the way, when did you steal Doug Funny's wardrobe?" Clearly the nice version.


- Scott

Censored.

Those motherfucking c*#ts! Ok, let's do a little experiment. Say you're a college I've attended for a few years and graduation is comming up. You ask me to be the speaker. You give me no parameters for what to say or how to say it. When I ask I receive the stock answer "I'm sure whatever you come up with will be fine." Having asked me who you've known for a few years, you should know what to expect. Alright then. I'll do it.

A certain uniform pressure from everone expecting you to write something good causes the speech in question becomes a bitch to write. The desire to write something that lives up to the *ahem* high level of professionalism demonstrated daily at the Wonder Blog, along with a delightful speech by Stephen Colbert spuring you on, you put in a week's worth of thinking and writing. Mostly in panicked spurts. When you watch TV, you feel guilty. When you order a grappling hook off the internet, you think you should have spent that time working on your speech. Even simple pleasures like getting drunk in the afternoon seem somehow irresponsible in light of the work you're not doing.

So when you finally get the speech done they inform you, haughtily, that they want to approve your speech before you do it. ...Fine. You drive to the school, drop off a few copies, and then relax. It's done. Or so you think. About four hours later you get a call from a nay-saying hag from the school, one whose job has never been made clear to me. She seems to be a appendix, serving no beneficial purpose to the school, but having the ability to become inflamed and ruin everyone's fun. She is a joyless, gossip of a woman, who passive aggressively demands thinsg as she hides behind the mantle of corporate office speak. For instance, one of her criticisms was that she "knows I'm a very 'I' oriented person" but I "need to have some 'we' oriented thoughts in this speech. You were selected to represent your class." To which I considered replying: "Ok, I'll get wasted and show up half an hour late bitching about how much I hate this college. That would be as representative as I can possibly imagine."

So, the day before graduation two *deleted* ...let's say... women, are asking me to rewrite my entire speech. I have a plan. What I'm going to do is... On second thought, I shouldn't talk about it beforehand. I don't want to be shut down (again) before I have a mic in front of me. Too many people read this blog. But I'll tell you what the new speech can't include.

• Any reference, sarcastic or otherwise, to "Galactic Lord Xenu"
• No speculation on whether or not Tom Cruise has yet purchased an "anti-psychologist playpen" for his daughter.
• Speech must not start with "what up?"
• If possible remove any references to your being chosen as graduation speaker as a "serious error in judgement"
• "Other personal ranting on Peter Pan primary school that would be better left for a separate occasion." (And just when the fuck might that be?)
• No "shout outs" to "peeps" (even as a light hearted reference to why I had a hard time writing the speech)
  
• No including the word "drunk"
  
• No referencing what your future plans are. (Even if it is used as an example within the "be flexible" thesis of the speech).
• No having any jokes of any kind. After all, as I was informed by the shrill purposeless harpy "I just want you to know that very important people from Chicago will be at this graduation, and you need to think about how you want to present yourself to them." (And I would care about this... why. They aren't important to me in the least. If you were banking on my reverance you're greatly overdrawn.)
  

Now they give me some parameters. Here's a paragraph of the kind of propagandic bullshit I'm supposed to (but have no intention to) write.

"Make them feel good about what they have learned at RMC--professionalism, real world skills, team work, and whatever--and confident that they can and will succeed and that it will be more important than ever that they give something back, be it to the college, their community, or society at large. "

In short. F that noise. If I even half believed any part of the above I'd have likely written it in the first place. Instead I wrote a brief bit of well wishery that wouldn't have been as boring or stereotypical as what they'd have me do now. As a result, I'm going to keep my comments breif. As in, 60 seconds of the most generic "we" based drivel I can come up with. Then sit back down. Thanks alot assholes.

- Scott

The gAy-Team.

Driving back from the hockey game last night was really my inspiration for the Crush o' the Week, odd though it may sound. I've been watching a lot of film noir lately (which translated as "black films" equally applies to my collection of Waynes Brothers movies) and I couldn't help recogonizing that I was basically driving through a scene. Big car, morally flexible driver, an environment that looks like it just stopped raining, an abundance of fog, and well placed lights casting sharply constasted shadows through the fog.

It was such a good setup I had to monologue a little. Casting about for a topic I settled on locker room taboos. You see, I had just come from a locker room. Post hockey game, lots of guys like to take showers. This is fine. However what's not as fine is just dropping trou and marching bare assed around the room to the shower.

In my high school days, showering after a game carried with it the same prerequisite as plans formulated by rag-tag special ops groups; the almighty distraction. Maybe someone sets off a MacGyvered together flash bomb, fakes a sudden case of pancreatitis, or announces to the room at large that they are gay and at this moment have decided to come out of the closet. During the beating, you slip (with boxers and a towel covering your genitals) to the shower.

Is this too much to ask? I've got about four guys on my team who will just remove all their clothes and saunter languidly to the showers. AND THEY SOMETIMES STOP FOR CONVERSATION! I'm all for nudity. But it has to fall into one of two categories. 1.) Comic, as in my ongoing appearances at people's homes buck naked. Or 2.) Sexy. As in my ongoing appearances at people's homes buck naked. This falls into neither category. In fact, if I cared to categorize it, it would fall under Horrible Nudity Crossing My Field Of Vision As I Lay Witty Comments About Our Opponents On The Rest Of The Team.

In short. Please be ashamed of your body. Thanks.

- Scott

I should be allowed to share my crushes, I should be allowed to crush...

"And I should be allowed to blurt the merest lusting if by random whim one occured to me..."

Happily this is the case. And I have a lovely forum in which to blurt it. Today's Crush of the Smoky Film-Noir Week came to me unexpectedly, like a Tarintino Romantic Comedy. I was at a flick. V for Vendetta. The masked hero punches a few buttons on a juke box and all of a sudden I was surrounded by a fog of sultry female vocals. At that point she was all smoky lyrics floating from the theater speakers, but I knew what she must look like. And she didn't dissapoint. Curves that would make Picasso reconsider his cubist period, and legs that seem to flirt independently of their owner. I could tell she was trouble. The kind you wake up as a speed bump for. Not to mention she had been dead for six years. But I digress...

The dame's details:

Name: Julie London

Her feminine wiles: She was married to the guy from Dragnet. The stiff one. Dark hair. How did a guy like that end up with a girl like her? Jazz music. Helping guys get laid since the early 20th century. She's also got a wide repertoire of songs that are delightful to listen to when you're drunk and in a smoke filled piano bar. One of these songs is the most blantly sexual, without true overt references I've ever heard in my life. Excerpt:

Go slow, oooooh honey, take it easy on the curves;
When love is slow, oooooh honey, what a tonic for my nerves.
Go slow, oooooh honey, we've got such a lot of time;
When love is slow, oooooh honey, how the mercury does climb.

My manly response: If it's a bit odd that I'm crushing on a woman who was born in the 20's so be it. It should be noted however, that I'm really after Julie London circa the late 1940's to early 50's. Its the kind of thing you wish Dr. Who was a close personal friend for. Still, it's nice that I can look at the entire arc of her life and see how long that beauty of hers lingered. It wasn't gone in a puff of Hollywood's demands for conformity (Hilary Duff... I'm looking at you...). And she was a good looking broad long into her middle age. Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to drink some scotch and listen to Cry Me A River. The Julie London version. Once I'm sloshed I'll go run over that Justin Timberlake taint for naming a song the same thing.

- Scott

A lotta ho's hope you choke and stay broke...

Tangential lyrics from an obscure rapper whose only song I've ever heard is a mix of a hillbilly and a black man rapping together are the best way to title a post I think. Just ask Cara. It's also customary to start a post with a long and grammatically dubious sentence.

But that's not what I'm here to talk about. On Tuesday night, around 8:30 PM Central time, I nearly died. And not the kind of nearly died where someone almost hit me in traffic or one of those instances where you later find out he really did have a gun. No, no. This was mortal peril.

I was eating a steak. Not just some T-bone either; it was the most delicious Chateaubriand I've ever had. And also the most deadly. I was slicing it in cross sections and devouring it. However the steak being somewhat wider in the middle, this quickly became a problem. I ended up slicing a piece so large (I was somewhat drunk, quite hungry, and very tired at this point) that I was having a hard time just chewing it. But the meat was medium rare, and I thought I could get away with swallowing it. I was wrong.

Suddenly I was choking. Full on, couldn't breathe choking. What nobody tells you is that it hurts. Alot. A piece of meat as wide as your palm wedged into your thoat is not a pleasant sensation. That's the first thing you focus on. The next is if you have any time to accept this situation and figure a way out of it without betraying your cool exterior. You have none. "Well," your panicked mind reasons, "perhaps I can still breathe through my nose. I'll just route around the problem." No joy. Odd squealing noises that draw the attention of your dining party, but that's it. Finally the punching of your own chest. Now people begin to spring into action, but on your final self-heimlich the offending meat is expelled, tactfully into a napkin.

In conclusion, if you're going to be dining in Carlyle, Illinois, I reccomend Patrick's on the square, and chewing your food thoroughly.

- Scott

P.S. My wonderful Photo Blog is updated again.

10 Grand, 90 more and I'll infringe on a candy bar.

I would just like to throw up a quick post commemorating this blog's 10,000th hit. I'm sure it actually happened many months ago, but this is the 10,000th hit that I've noticed. It's pretty astonishing; either 10,000 individual people have come here and read of my grandeur or a somewhat smaller number have come back several times. Or the band 10,000 Maniacs has visited my blog once. If so I wish they would have commented. I mean, what with visiting my site and sucking down bandwidth like a blue whale gulps down plankton, come on would one comment have killed you? (And if so, could it have killed Natalie Merchant?)

I'd like to thank the following people for this high honor:

• My family; I couldn't have done it without you. Literally. You're prerequisites for my existence.
  
• The internet.
  
• The faceless thousands, and faceful few who have visited my blog.
  
• The photographer responsible for this Wham! album cover. I look at it and draw strength enough to go on living.
  
• God. Who has graciously decided not to smite me from the face of the earth, in spite (or perhaps because) of what I've posted here. Looking back the tsunami jokes could have been put on hold a month. Also, I have to think he gets a kick out of the Crush of the Week segment. I mean, I'm really just complimenting some of his finer work.
  

But seriously, thanks everyone for comming back so many times. It's very hard for me to resist the temptation to turn honest sentiments into some kind of farcical rant, but I'm sincere in my appreciation for all the times you've typed my ridiculous URL into that address bar and hit enter. Those who use RSS feeds are also thanked, but slightly less so.

- Scott

Too tired. Something with crush in it. Clever.

Hey there. Let me apologize as I am very, very tired from the double whammy of working out and hockey. Why I did this is a mystery. Ok... not so much as mystery as a result of my not knowing what day it is. Apparently it's Monday. Not a day to exert myself unnecessarily, but I'm somewhat rejuvenated by my new Ruttin' Crush of the Gorram Week. How so? Well I think Michael Rapaport* said it best in (another Natalie Portman movie) Beautiful Girls:

[Crushes] are beautiful girls... A beautiful girl can make you dizzy, like you've been drinking Jack and Coke all morning. She can make you feel high; full of the single greatest commodity known to man - promise. Promise of a better day. Promise of a greater hope. Promise of a new tomorrow. This particular ore can be found in the gait of a beautiful girl. In her smile, in her soul, the way she makes every rotten little thing about life seem like it's going to be okay. The [crushes], [fair readers]? That's all they are. Bottled promise. Scenes from a brand new day. Hope dancing in stiletto heels.**

Enough referential ridiculousness. Time to get down to fake business.

Nombre: Morena Baccarin.

Bonus de encantos: She's Brazilian. I don't know why that's so great. But I keep seeing beautiful women and finding out where they're from and the answer is invariably "Brazil." The country seems to have the opposite effect of the "brain drain" going on. Brain drain being the effect of smart people leaving their home countries to come to America. Well they have a full scale "model/actress drain" going on. Herself being a small, but lovely, part of the movement.

Not to mention her name means "brunette" in Spanish. Not especially imaginative of her parents, but it works. Because she's brunette. As you can see. Don't look at me like that, some of you wondered. And all other things aside, she replaced Rebecca Gayheart who foolishly didn't take part in Firefly. I'm all for keeping Rebecca Gayheart from acting in my TV shows. I think Earth 2 should be example enough for everyone on that front.

Bonus de Guapo: Technically 'guapo' translates as 'good looking' or 'ladies man' (not to mention brave) but I think we can reasonably infer that this word is the closest Spanish can come to a translation of Scott Gresham. Anyway, I give her points for being only one third as stuck up as she seemed to be based on her Firefly commentaries. Bully for her.

- Scott

* Excellent last name.
** Damn Taking Back Sunday for using this in their lame song. I would have used it anyway. It's a great monologue, which I came to independently from your single. And also damn the collective 'you' for trying to pilfer my Sunday. I took it fair and square. You and your shitty band can write a song about *that*. And don't include any monologues from movies I might someday quote.

Let's Sexy Engrish!

I apologize if any of you have already seen the video in question, but I would be doing a disservice to the readers of Bufford the Wonder Blog, and indeed, the internet if I didn't share this with you. I'll not say much about it at first as I want you to experience it as I did; knowing very little about it. However I'll tell you that it's an instructional video from Japan that seems geared toward Japanese men trying to hook up with English speaking women. Watch the whole thing. It's worth it. Oh, and so very not safe for work.

First of all, we here at the Wonder Blog would like to apologize for the sexual nature of this video. No doubt many of you are scared for life. However we do not apologize for posting it, because if you can't laugh at the actor's 180 from semi-real porno set up to Junior High Cheerleaders at a pep-rally... you just aren't human.

I think someone dramatically mistranslated "cockpit." Seriously. I'll admit I often giggle at the word, however I know I'm being childish. Makes me wonder what's going to happen when the producers of this video learn the word 'booby trap'. My guess is it will be used to describe a bra. Or perhaps, hands.

Not to mention the hilariousness of the awkward Japanese man saying "This is dick," and vigorously grabbing his penis for emphasis. And his "GD, you can say 'cock' too!" I don't think there's anything that can really be said about the rest of it except that I desperately need to go to Japan. The Engrish alone would be worth the cost of the trip. And believe that I would come back with a trove of this kind of thing. I would be the Marco Polo of the interwebs returning, not with spices, but hilarious poorly translated items that make "All Your Base Are Belong To Us" look like this sign. And my legacy would be cemented.

- Scott

P.S. "Blowing job." That is all.

Hans and Franz never saw this comming.

I never pictured myself as the kind of guy who goes to a gym. For any reason. Really when you're built like this, naturally, who needs to spend time in such a place? So you can imagine my surprise that I now find myself there a couple of times a week. Largely this is the fault of boredom. I've so little to do in Jerseyville, this is my recourse. But I'm glad, because it's allowed me a few revelations that I believe will revolutionize the work out industry.

First of all, I can bench alot. I regularly lift an intimidating 90 pounds. Which I rationalize is roughly the equivalent of 1000 iPods. That's alot! If you measure it in music I could be lifting as much as 1,000,000 individual songs. However, the actual weights I add to the bar to make it weigh 90 pounds are embarrassingly small. So what I propose is less dense 5, 10, and 25 pound weights. In fact, they should be made mostly of air. And have the same imposing look as the fifty pounders. And if possible display an impressive number on the side.

Secondly, treadmills. Every other treadmill should be broken. As it is, I go and I take one that's in the middle, or to the side, or wherever seems least likely to get some old woman next to me. But without fail I always get one. Always. Then I can't focus on anything but their heartrate and speed. As a strapping young lad I have to have the heartrate lower, and the speed higher. Regardless of what I was doing before.

Maybe I was cooling down, getting off it. Not anymore. Now I'm in a pissing contest with this lady. I ran an extra two songs (how I measure time) just because this middle aged lady thought she was going to be at 3.5 speed and 140 heartrate. Pfft. I'll show her! I kicked it up to 4.0 and managed to keep a nice steady 133 bpm. Hers just kept climbing. A derisive faux-laugh and I got triumphantly disembarked the treadmill.

Finally, when I use a machine where you set a pin in a certain amount of weight, I always make sure to set it to a ridiculous amount after I finish. I do this very discreetly, and only if someone is clearly waiting to use it after me. When this is the case, I take an adjacent machine, whether or not I can use it, and watch them either try to use mine and marvel at my strength, or adjust it to their shameful lower setting. So if there were machines that did this automatically they would save me literally minutes from my workout.

I've also come to the conclusion that I am the pettiest person ever to enter the Wellness Center. But hey, somebody has to be right?

- Scott

There are many crushes. And they have a plan.

Be sure to take a trip through my Saturday below, but before you do check out this today's Fracking Beautiful Crush o' the Week. Previously on BattleCrush Galactica:

The Crushes were created by Scott.
They Rebelled.
They Evolved.
They look, and feel really hot.
Some are programmed to believe they are really hot.
There are many crushes... And they have a plan.

Crush in question: Tricia Helfer

Charm Bonus: Where to begin? Victoria's Secret model turned hot sex robot? I think that's a good start. But what about the hook up potential? Is it gone, is it in the realm of impossibility? What kind of guys does she like, perhaps swarthy Eurotrash bespectacled by expensive sun glasses? No! "I've always been into good old North American guys," says she! Hey, I'm good, I'm somewhat old, and I'm all kinds of North American. She scored some points there. Plus we've got another Canadian on our hands. And did I mention the part where she's a sex robot?

Scott Bonus: SEX. ROBOT.

- Scott

P.S. Just say it a little. Sex robot. Roll that around in your mouth. Shout it with a gutteral urgency. Whisper it frantically. Tolkien had "cellar door" I have "sex robot."

"Baby, we'll be up $0.95 by midnight!"

Last Saturday I had two options, stay in town and hang with old friends, or be dragged along with similarly old friends to Alton where drinking would ensue. I was going to hang out here, but to be honest drinking and the opportunity for random occurrences is a temptation that's always held a lot of sway with me. Plus the ladies in question practically begged me to come, so what choice did I have? I felt a little guilty, but I went. As it turned out I'm glad I did.

It gave me the opportunity to get aquianted with my new cell phone (a SLVR) and its features (a CMRA, err camera that is). As a result, the rest of this story will be told in photo essay fashion.

"I can't talk to you; I'm with Scott Gresham. Yeah. The Scott Gresham."


He thought he somehow looked old in this picture. Fear not good Nathan, you don't look old. Just ridiculous.


Two beers in, someone reminded me I was the designated driver. This was my reaction.

I was also randomly in support of a little gambling. Having tossed back a few, everyone believed this to be a grand idea. Marvelous in its simplicity and practicality. Through some conservative betting, a bluff here, a feint there, I managed to wrangle for myself the whopping total of $0.95 more than I walked in with.

He's so mysterious! And now, rich!


Amanda did alright too (20.00). Here's she's cashing out. Beginner's luck.


The Pimp and his Ladies of the Night. And in the middle, our earnings. Mine is in Amanda's cupped hand (change). Having earned this money, it was time to spend it. To the dive bar!


Amanda just tasted something awful. Probably regrets that purchase.


Now him too! It tasted so bad, Nathan became depressed. Recogonizing that the situation was rapidly spinning out of control, I took a page from Dr. Tiki's book and solved his problems with a special drink.


"Special drink? That's just beer!" you say. Nay! Tis the Largest Beer in the LAND! Never doubt the cheering effects of the LBitL!


If that wasn't enough, I reminded him of boobs. And he was happy. And I reminded Amanda that good lighting increases the effectiveness of boobs. This is known as the Shadow Clevage Theorem. And she too was happy once more*.

* While I'm not above this type of photography, actually it was a drunken Julie who took this one, and bitch slapped the phone to the floor when I wanted take a group shot with her in it. Sassy minx.

And all was well with the world.

That was my night. I left out the part about getting back into town†† (see comments). Because I wanted to draw more attention to the fact that from now on this kind of pithy, hard hitting reporting about my Saturday nights can be found at my Moblog. Which is the place where the pictures from my camera are automatically uploaded. The last picture had been up five mintues before some random perv complimented the attractiveness of the Ladies. So you know it' s good.

- Scott

*tap, tap* Are you seriously handing this to me?

So, I got a call the other day. It was Tuesday. I could tell because the Gilmore Girls was (were?) on. I note this only because it's so damned typical of how I know what day it is, that is to say, if I know what day it is. Not working, no school, no schedual. It's alright. Except sometimes I show up places and nothing is open. These times are called "Sundays" and they tend to get in the way.

Anyway "the call," I was out on that hoss of a bike "The Yellow Dart" and I pulled off because my phone was ringing. Probably one of the fans I thinks to myself. Technically I was right. It was my former college, the old alma matter calling me up. At first this was a somewhat worrying proposition. What are they going to say, I missed a credit somewhere? I have to come back?

Hardly. They wan't me to be the freakin' graduation speaker. At my graduation. Me. So, I have to come up with a graduation speech. Which is a little daunting, but mostly just fun. Timmy did a very nice one, so I feel there is a standard to maintain. For this reason more than any other, I've decided that shouting "STERN RULES," flashing my impressive genitals, and running away will not be sufficient. I've already got some delicious things in mind, but I am, of course, always open to suggestions. So feel free to suggest away. I wouldn't mind the help.

- Scott

P.S. My school has clearly gone mad.

P.P.S. Today's picture of Emma was deemed too hot for the Wonder Blog. We're talking wardrobe malfunction. Yeah. Click for the full size to see what I mean. Be warned, it's pretty intense.

Worst. Teaser. Ever.

Ok Tim, you wanted to know what beef I had with the Eragon movie. So I'm going to lay it out point by point as I watch the trailer. It's times like this that having two monitors really works out. Because other than this kind of thing, it's really just so I can brag about having two monitors. Anyway here we go:

Complaints:

• Gedwey Ignasia on his hand: looks dumb.

• The voice over guy: they got the cheapest one of the five. Even the Disney voice over guy gets paid better than this tool. His voice isn't anywhere near graveley enough to be a great movie trailer voice over artist.

• What the voice over guy (VOG) is saying. All of it. Starting with "In 2006, get ready for an adventure beyond anything the world has ever known." Sentences like that make me want to hurt someone (specifically the writer who penned it, but also the VOG, and hell... even a key grip). Is it really beyond anything the world has ever known? Yes. For those parts of the world who have forgotten Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, The Wheel of Time series, and liberal doses of Star Wars.
  

• Next, "Fox has..." that's all you needed to say to lose me.

• Director's commentary: "These days there's a great appetite for fantasy. There have been a number of series as of late that have prepared the audience to take those journies." Translation: Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings made money. If we make something pretty much like that, maybe no one will notice it's different. (Which they might not, they're very similar.)
  

• Ed Speleers: Does not look like Eragon. That is all.
  

• Joss Stone: First of all she was called a "sensation." Anytime someone uses the term "sensation" I cringe. Only the biggest tools say "sensation." It's one of those words I can't stand. Secondly, Joss Stone? Doubya Tee Eff, mates?

• That said, might be alright. But I'm worried.
  

- Scott

Crush into me, love.

So, this week's entry is likely to stir controversy. I'm fine with this. You can't deny our love any longer! I don't care what the government says! In just four days the lovely lady featured on this week's edition of Scott's Illicit Crush o' the Week will be officially "of age." At least in Illinois. I'll save you some time and the math: on Saturday, April 15, 2006 Emma Watson will be, drumroll please: 17 years old.

"But Scott, doesn't she have to be eighteen?" I'm glad you asked, voice in my head. I was worried about that too. So I checked it out on my handy pocket index of legal ages of consent. Then I found it online so people can check for themselves. The law, supporting my perfectly legal and honest hooking up with Emma Watson endeavour*, is as follows: "whereas the accused is 17 years of age at the time of the p..." you know, just check out this chart. And click here for the full law.

Now, down to brass tacks:

Name: Emma "Hermione" Watson

Charm Bonus: Umm, chello? She's freaking Hermione. Which means English. Which means hot. And her in that field of invitingly soft grasses and flowers? Come on. Not to mention, only a minor for five more days. Better act fast Tim, she's not going to interest you much longer.

Scott Bonus: Because she's the birthday girl, and I pretty much let beautiful women do whatever they want here on the Wonder Blog, I'm going to be giving her a new picture everyday until her birthday. So keep your eyes open for that. I've got some winners lined out.

- Scott


*Intentionally British spelling, you know, for her sake.

Damn it!

So, apparently I'm very succeptable to marketing. You know those internet banners where it's like "Punch Osama and win a camera"? Well, I do enjoy the punching. So I often do it, only to have to close 1-5 windows as a result. Today I was completely enraptured over a duck game. Hit 20 Ducks To Win!!!

Bring it. The first duck was easy, as was the next, and the proceeding five, however after that they started changing it up on me. Three ducks at once, one duck. Two that just blaze past. It was so fun I played it three times. And then I realized the lie of it all. They're just trying to get me to buy something. (Which was entirely forgettable as all I remember is the ducks. And the chanting "Hit the ducks, hit a duck, duck, duck, DUCK, IF ONLY THEY COULD DODGE MY SWIFT VENGENCE!")

It's the classic bait and switch tactic. Lead with a shiny duck game, then hit them with the limited time offer. This I can't tolerate. Scarcely any better is the current run of inaccurately named television programs. For instance, I can't imagine that Special Victims Unit isn't about crimes against the mentally challenged. And those would be some pretty cold-assed heinous crimes too. I'd watch that show. And I'd even want the perp to go to jail (I always want them caught, but then at the trial I end up rooting for the defense... I don't know why (Exception: rape)).

Another example that I find completely disappointing is Grey's Anatomy. Flipping through the channel listings I was painfully dissapointed not to find a show about the autopsies of (grey) aliens but about some damned chick doctor. It's Ally McBeal with a stethoscope. I want to see hardcore, alien dissection, or even vivisection if they nab a live one.

Finally, there's the show So NoTORious (sic), which should be... well, canceled.

Am I alone in this? I hereby become the founding member of Shows With Interesting Names Must Therefore Be Interesting Council, or SWINMTBIC for short. It's kind of a spin off from my radio group "Girls With Hot Voices Must Also Be Hot Society." Feel free to join either.

- Scott

Mostly Maui Waui man, but it's got some Labrador in it.

So, I've been having misadventures this past month or two. Misadventures only a college graduate who demands a nice long break can have. As you can imagine, at one point or another I was around the "wrong element." Not to be confused with the fifth element, which is Boron. Or love if you watched the Bruce Willis movie. Anyway, this particular element was out to buy some weed.

If you've been paying attention, you know I'm no straight edge kid. I've been known to hit the bottle from time to time. And also to make moonshine. These things are pretty much my limit however. I don't actually have a problem with people seeking the herbal remedy, what I have a problem with is the indignity that they have to go through to get it.

Apparently nobody can just buy weed. There's always an intricate plan to get the weed. In this case they gave the cash to this girl, who looked like she liberally applied glue to her rather rotund body, and was then pinballed around a Hot Topic until she was thoroughly covered in the uniform of the counterculture... of the mall. I think she even had a vinyl Alkaline Trio album stuck to her ass. So she was really going the extra mile. Anyway they gave their cash to this girl, whose Aunt's, friend's, tanning salon attendant can get it from this guy down by the river and in the mean time you have to wait and hope your 75 bucks for two quarter bags is well spent.

That. Is. Ridiculous. But it helped me find something out about myself. Time for a PSA.

- Scott

Crush Test Dummies

H'ok. So, it's that special time of the week where I regale my loyal readers with the scantily clad starlet who has captured my fleeting attention for the next seven days. You know what that means. It's time to play Scott's Big Damn Crush o' the Week. Next week we'll play the "less overt references to canceled television shows" game.

Anyway time to get down to brass tacks with the deets:

Name: Jessica Alba

You know her from: Sin City, where she was the worst stripper of all time (in the sense that she removes no clothing) and also the most memorable (because you didn't even notice that until the forth viewing). She's made a few other notable appearenes such as the lead in Dark Angel, some random chick in Camp Nowhere, and a girl to be lusted after in Idle Hands. Though technically that's the role she always plays.

Charm Bonus: There really isn't one. Sorry. Purely physical attraction this week. I'm fairly sure she doesn't have any other qualities. At the big character creation screen in the sky she poured all her points into looks. At some point she was given the +2 Necklace of Acting and a career was born.

Scott Bonus: This section is to be used for my extended commentary on the lady in question. In the case of J. Alb. I have to wonder what ethnicity she is. Not that I really care. I'd just like to know. Maybe I can get her to take the ACT again and sit next to her to see what she puts on that section. Because we need to make more of her. I suspect she's some lovely mix of races. Because when that happens you always get a good looking kid. It's like our genes are showing off. Each brings their A game to the table.

There are alot of good looking multi-racial people out there. Halle Berry, Mariah Carey, Vin Diesel, Tiger Woods, The Rock, Keanu Reeves... I should really look up some more female examples. Umm... Kristin Kreuk. And I love her boobs. And women!

My point is that the races should continue banging. It seems to be working out.

(But really, what the hell is Jessica?)

- Scott

Soylent faux pas

Enough of that frivolity. Though if you haven't seen it feel free to take a look at the mini-story arc of Scott "The Pimp Hand" Gresham below. I want to talk about something more serious. Much more serious. I want to talk about people. Specifically eating them.

A few weeks ago, Molly and I were driving back from a Gentleman Auction House show we saw in St. Louis. As is usually the case in our conversations, eventually I said something completely innocent and normal, and she freaked out. I believe I said "Do you ever wonder what people tastes like?" To which she replied "What?" I simply elaborated, "I just wonder what a person might taste like. Like cooked up. Not that I particularly want to eat people, it's just that I wonder how they'd taste. I've heard the meat is kind of gamey."

At this point she became very serious and told me to "Never say that to anyone ever again." And completely freaking out like I was going to get taken away for even suggesting it. As if they could be listening right now, and I'd put both of our lives in jeopardy.

But damn it, I'm curious.

The other thing is, if I were eating people, I'd do it in the manner stereotypical of their homelands. For instance, my Asian neighbor? I'm thinking I'd do some teriaki stirfry and spring rolls. If the guy was German, maybe I'd make some bratwurst and sauerkraut. If he was Canadian? I don't know. I'd eat him while watching hockey I guess. From Kenya? While infomercials would promise me I'd get to eat him if I could just spare a few cents, I would never find out if I actually did or not.

I feel I've made my case. Am I right or what? Causal mentions of cannibalism are the height of civilized post-concert conversation. But I'm willing to hear other points of view. Let me know.

- Scott

It ain't easy, but it's necessary.

"So I'm chasin' bitches like Tom chased Jerry." This weekend I have the highlight of anyone's year: The Pimps 'n Ho's Gala Affair. So, in preparation I updated my pimp wardrobe, and stole a feather for my pimp hat, which I've never actually had the opportunity to wear. But it's all money well spent, as I get hardcore ghetto gangsta pictures like these, and you get the opportunity to see a little of my bedroom. Ladies you might want to try to memorize the layout, it'll save time later.

"Do I need to go upside that ho's head? ...Maybe."


"No, just a threat of the pimp hand. Can't damage the goods."


"Yes I believe those is some good ho's."


"Whoa, whoa, whoa. No pictures."


"Now you did it. You gets Tha Pimp Hand™. Next time it'll be a gat, SUCKA!"

There is never a next time. So, that's what my outfit looks like. Part of it anyway. I still have to add an undershirt, a pipe, several gold chains (or one extremely gaudy one), a cane, and pants. That's right. These are pants free pictures. It's layers of depth like that one, that really keep readers comming back to The Wonder Blog.

- Scott

Watch a heel crush, crush.

I had to Google for the lyrics, I thought they were "Watchin' Neil crush, crush" which would have been a better title. Oh well. You get the picture. It's time for the famous Crush o' the Week segment here at Bufford the Wonder Blog.

Name: This week's lucky lady is Anne Hathaway.

You know her from: That annoying Disney movie that you watched anyway. Actually, those three annoying Disney movies you watched anyway (Princess Diaries 1 y 2, Ella Enchanted).

Charm Bonus: She's from New Jersey. I know last week's was geographic as well, but I just have a thing for Jersey girls. I blame Garden State. They're all like that right? Although there is that shirt... I might have to rethink that one. How about this: she's naked in Havoc. Eh? Eh? No? Ok, she's got the same name as Shakespeare's wife. Now that's actor-ey.

Scott Bonus: I've decided that she's just too sultry to reduce down to 175 pixels across, so from now on you can click the picture to see the original, uncompressed version. I'm swell.

- Scott

Snakes on a Blog

Ok, so I'm posting on this topic after it's become pretty established internet lore, but since we're going to start seeing trailers soon, I'd like to mention it before it becomes huge. Since last September or so I've been hearing rumors of a new Sam Jackson movie called "Snakes on a Plane." I couldn't believe it. Just by the name, I knew it was going to be the kind of movie I would be at the 12:00 showing for. But then some crazed netizens got wind of it and the whole thing just kind of exploded. The plot as you can guess, is that... wait for it... snakes, have been released on,that's right kids, a plane. Obviously to kill a mob informant. That goes without saying.

Hilarious enough. But then the nerds who got hold of the name started making promotional materials and it just spiraled out of all control. I think you'd better just see for yourself as words truly do it little justice.

I've already pre-ordered tickets.

Sam Jackson, living proof that type casting works.


One of my favorite fan posters.

My favorite part of this entire story is that New Line decided to shoot for five additional days after principal photography wrapped to bring the movie closer to what we're anticipating. They also bumped it to an R rating so that we get lines like "I want these motherfucking snakes off the motherfucking plane!" or "This is some ELABORATE shit!" and others culled from the fansites like this one. All in all, I think we're in for an interesting summer movie season, and if more film makers acquiesce to fan demands, an interesting period in film. If you'll excuse me I've got to check my car for mother f*cking snakes.

- Scott

Sidebar Shenanigans!

Captain O'Hagan: I swear to God I'm going to pistol whip the next guy who says, "Shenanigans."
Mac: Hey Farva, what's the name of that restaurant you like with all the goofy stuff on the wall and the mozzarella sticks?
Farva: You mean Shenanigans?
Rabbit: Oooooooh.
[as they hand the captain their pistols]

I firmly believe that Super Troopers is my generation's Streetcar Named Desire. I feel that statement is so obvious I don't need to explain the, very solid, underlying logic. Suffice it to say, there is not an inappropriate situation to bust out a quote from the film. Like today, at the outset of my newest sidebar addition: The Crush o' the Week. Because I am constantly falling in and out of superficial love with one actress or another, and the attraction doesn't always warrant a full posting.

So here's the deal. I'll update it each Monday, at the same time as the Top Five/Bottom Five. And they'll each get their own micro-post, explaining why they deserve such high accolades. Like this:

Crush o' The Week Post

Name: Rachel McAdams
You Know Her From: Mean Girls, The Notebook, The Family Stone, Red Eye, and guest appearances in my daydreams.
Charm Bonus: She's Canadian. So she probably needs a green card. Want to become a citizen Rachel? I've got an idea involving a sham marriage, but a real honeymoon. Let me know.

You get the gist. The only down side is that by the very act of seeing actresses in films and harboring frivolous attractions, nothing can ever come of it... except a restraining order. Even if I became famous, and met them, it would create a block. If she's heard of the crush she's likely a bit leery. If not, there's still the guilt I have from knowing random bits of trivia about her. And I just know they'd come up in conversation at some point. "So, Rachel. I'd expect you to be a pretty good driver considering your father drives professionally." From there it would just get weirder. So, knowing full well that any girl in this section has essentially been taken out of the realm of wildest possibility, I introduce "My Crush o' the Week" section.

- Scott

Remember, remember the fifth of November...

...Gunpowder, treason and plot.

I see no reason why gunpowder, treason
should ever be forgot.

That's a fun thing to murmur to yourself while you're standing in line at Chicago Style hotdogs. At least I thought so. Apparently it was kind of creepy to my fellow consumers of questionable comestibles . It's a poem refering to the failed attempt by Guy Fawkes to blow up the Parliment. It's also one of the fun quotes V, the titular (heh heh heh) character from V for Vendetta, bestows upon the audience. He rattles off a bunch of others, including a fantastic two minute aliteration using only the letter v shortly after his introduction.

Overall, I'd reccomend everyone see this movie at some point. If you're the type to wait for DVD, fine. But you are denying yourself something by missing it on the big screen in a room filled with people feeling the same chills you are as a result of the score, the drama, and the action. Not to mention the badass factor. My Heiger Counter (A combination of a Hardcore Meter and a Geiger Counter set for Awesomium particles) actually exploded in a shower of computer generated sparks upon measuring this movie. It's that good.

I read J Fi's review of the movie and I agree; Natalie Portman did a fantastic job. Perhaps her best since Leon/The Professional. But I was particularly blown away by Hugo Weaving (aka Agent Smith/Elrond, son of Earendil) and the level of acting he managed to get out of that Guy Fawkes mask. A tilt of the head, a strategic revelation of the molded plastic eyebrows, the variation in lighting, however they managed it (and I pray not via subtly different masks) somebody deserves some recognition*.

I liked it so much I actually bought two posters from this movie. Go. Now. See it.

| |

On the left, the first one I bought. On the right, the one I caved and decided I couldn't live without. Ah, Natalie Portman. How I love thee.

- Scott

The Dark of the Matinee

I love movies. Alot. Good ones, really bad ones, some of the in-between. Recently I've had the chance to see a few movies that I really enjoyed. The first of which was Failure to Launch not because it was a great romantic comedy, in that regard I think it will be quickly forgotten. Like Along Came Polly; did anyone buy that one on DVD? I thought not. No, I liked Failure because of its parallel to my life and one supporting actress.

As I currently live at home in my post-grad slacking phase, much to the chagrin of my parents, Failure to Launch was particularly funny to me. Almost as funny as my parents ever more desperate campaign to make living at home uncomfortable. It started with some blunt suggestions: "Why don't you just move to Champaign now?" or "Do you have to live here?" To be honest I find it pretty entertaining. So that was nice, but minor compared to the real reason I liked the movie.

Even in black and white, she just gets hotter.

Zooey Deschannel. I had no idea she was even in this movie. Finding her here was like seeing an old flame at a concert, locking eyes across the crowd and reminicing about making sweet love on a golden Sunday afternoon. Or something less dramatic. But it was damn nice. Especially considering how I feverently dislike Sarah Jessica Parker but she seems to be constantly surrounded the actresses I like most. Like in The Family Stone when she had Rachel McAdams and Claire Danes backing her. And when she hugged Zooey and actually touched her with those old man hands... I need to stop this harpy from appearing in movies I want to see solely for their supporting actresses. Because really it has to stop. Suggestions?

- Scott

P.S. I also liked V for Vendetta, but that's the post above.

It's a twista, it's a twista!

After the ass whoopin' Springfield took on Sunday night, I decided that it would be a great time to go up and pay my bills. After all, they were due the next day. On getting there however, I realized that this post-apocalyptic version of Springfield was going to be more of an inconvenience than I had originally thought. This became apparent when every FUCKING ROAD TO ANYWHERE NEAR MY APARTMENT was closed off by some morbidly obese, mustachioed, doughnut munching pig cop standing by his car languidly waving his hand in the direction he wants you to go. This annoyed me. Somewhat.

When I finally got to my apartment I decided to ditch my car and take a tour of the destruction. At this point I should mention that I have a check list for qualifying true post-apocalyptic landscape. First of all there should be no power, no gas, and if possible complete anarchy. Check. Secondly, people should be walking around with no place to go, or standing outside their home looking outward with a primal glimmer of threat in their eyes. Check. Finally, I should get to prance about in a Beyond Thunderdome-esq wonderland of destruction. Check.

So much for the pig that lives in the brick house.

The one of the first things I noticed. This is Rob's building. Otherwise just some windows blown out, but the brick detail work is almost competely gone. Fortunately it fell over in order so they just need to glue it back together and slap it back on the wall. In a related story, I know nothing about how construction works.

The dangers of living with Katie Kaboom.

The townhouse across from mine had a new look to it as well. Something was different. Then it hit me! The roof is... missing. Where could it be?

The roof, the roof, the roof is... on that guy's van.

As I've often said, "Take my spot and pay the price." I found it to be pretty hilarious when the owner of this van tested the engine and it still worked. He drove it to another spot. However the radio was beyond all hope.

The first of many life endangering pictures.

One of the hundreds of snapped telephone poles dangling their telecommunications and power lines dangerously over the roads and walkways. I decided to get a picture with one. Why not? I'm a mayhem tourist. It's what we do.

Feelin' the power between my legs.

Sorry, the sun was too bright to aim a decent shot, but you get the gist. I was later informed that, had there been any power running through those lines I would have been dead or shocked within two feet of it. But hey, it makes for another nice picture. As I was walking along looking for more potential pictures, I saw a telephone pole falling on a group of orphans. Quickly I charged forward, caught the pole with my bare hand, and had them take a picture. As seen below:

Damn it kid, you got sun glare in it. Next time I'm letting the pole fall.

A little harsh. I quickly changed my mind about the glare and decided it made me look even more heroic. As such, I withdrew my threat on the orphan. And gave him some food. Orphans are wild about food. Let me tell ya.

Thank you, loyal subject.

This isn't actually from the tornado. The billboard just bowed down before me when I passed by. They all do that. It's a little destructive, but at least I'm getting some respect. Apparently they revere me as a king. I guess they heard about the orphans.

- Scott

Spring Fling

It's spring. Or it feels like it anyway. About time. Any more of that winter crap and I was going to stick somebody. Fortunately for everyone, I've seen OZ and I know I'm way too pretty to spend time in federal-pound-me-in-the-ass prision. So nobody's getting cut. But not only does spring mean a lessening of my sociopathic tendencies, it means good wind. Fantastically awesome wind in fact.

I care because good wind means I can jump 30-40 feet, and if I'm lucky, maybe get about 12-15 feet off the ground. Also it can mean I get to watch my friends and family members dragged across fields or maybe smashing into other family members. It's wicked hilarious. How do I accomplish this? Is this one of my latent mutant powers. Pfft. Like I'm going to blog about my mutant powers. It's a secret identity for a reason people. Maybe I should just show you:

Damn, I'm dashing.

If I look a bit nervous it's because that was taken on my first attempt, a very windy day. Hence my expression, and all the hockey equipment and shoes I have weighing down the kite while I get ready. I also wore the hockey stuff, so as not to be destroyed if I was lofted high into the air and thrown into trees. Because all over the packaging they basically tell you that you're going to die. Also on the kite surfing (which is what this kite is for) forums I read, they pretty much tell you that if it's your first time to have someone teach you, or you're going to die.

I got jerked around pleanty. But I learned. And now this season I'm graduating up to a larger kite. My current sail is 3 square meters. My next one is going to be 9. Which means I can fly it in less wind, or in the same wind with more dramatic results. Wish me luck.

- Scott

It hurts us, it hurts us!

Breif explanation post:

Below is my penance for the erratic postings of late. Without my my normal schedual of school, home, video games, post, I'm somewhat thrown off. However I resolve to fix this and post nearly every day. Each week I fail so utterly in my attempt to do so I will punish myself as seen below.

I decided, if I'm going to post like I write a Xanga blog, I might as well write like I have a Xanga blog. (And over there they just ask if you have a "Xanga" as though that is a legitimate term for something. God I hate them.)

- Scott

P.S. It made my skin crawl to write like... them. So I don't think I'll be breaking my new posting schedual any time soon.

We'Re GoInG dOwN sUgAr!!!1

today was really kewl. i woke up and took the biggest leak lol. it was like a firehose lol j/k. then later i had a sandwich. i like sandwiches! dewd id rather have a sandwiich then sex some times LOL LOL LOL jk. OMG yall i will be 21 in ONE week. its pretty hard to believe. check out this quiz I just took!!!

8 Firsts.........
First Best Friend: ummm idk, i was too young duh!
First Kiss: somebody <3.....>

First music You Remember Hearing: like i can remember that dumbazz!

First Car: 90 new yorker!


7 Lasts............
Last Time you skipped class: evaryday beeyotch!
Last Alcoholic Drink: i had a sip of a beer once it was nast!

Last Car Ride: ummm.... like every day!
Last Kiss: lots
Last Movie Seen: DOOM... dewd it is like the hottest movie alive!!!!!
Last Phone Call: I called to see what my friends were doing... they were eating sandwiches!@!! hah hah
Last CD Listened To: 50 Cent! that shit is hotttttt


6 Have You Evers...........
Have You Ever Dated One Of Your Best Friends: no, im not gay... duh
Have You Ever Broken The Law: me and my friends sometimes steal... sandwiches!

Have You Ever Been Arrested: no we eat the sandwiches before we get caughtzorz

Have You Ever Skinny Dipped: heck yes!
Have You Ever Been On T.V: just once, it was at a women's rights protest or something. women's rights protest... it sounds like they don't want women to have rights. ROFL! i stood in the crowd and held a sign too. my sign said 'make me a sandwich.' they called me a sexist! but dood, i just LOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE sandwiches!

5 Things.........
5 Things You're Wearing: just boxerz... too big for breef's, if ya know what i mean. hahaha i mint my penis@!
5 Things You've Done Today: woke up, peed (LOL), wrote on XANGA, listend to music, went to school, dumb!, didn't learn hahahaha
5 Things You Can't Live Without: water, KORN, the band hahaha, not food corn, women, yoohoo, and sandwhiches
5 Things You Do When You're Bored: read xanga, me and my friends should be on tv, hahaha, light stuff on fire!, look at porn, watch TV, play doom3
5 Places You've Been: here, there, up, left, right HAHAHA

4 Favorite Things........
1. telling the internet what i did today
2. family guy it is probably the funniest cartoon ever!
3. side boob!
4.

3 People You Can Tell *Almost* Anything To.........
1. fiddy cent
2. grover cleveland
3. drive thru attedants


2 Choices......
1. Black or White: black cuz it's the color of my korn shirt
2. Hot or Cold: hot just like me LOL j/k


1 Thing You Want To Do Before You Die......
eat sandwhices!

ok RAW is on so i'll ttyl

Ah maturity, thou elusive... thing.

Awesome title no? For someone who scored in the 94th percentile on the GRE's verbal and vocabulary portions it's wicked good. And stuff. However for all my verbal prowess, I'm somewhat mathematically gimped. It's not that I'm bad at it. The test confirmed that I solidly kick the crap out of a whopping fourteen percent of the population. I feel like Japanese (and let's face it, probably Mexican) school children are laughing at me right now.

But I'm laughing too. Why you ask. Have I had the time to watch some fantastic comedic television like The Office, Family Guy, or the later seasons of Touched By an Angel? No. Perhaps I've made it to a comedy show. Also no. The truth is I've been being incredibly immature. And I'm having a great time.

Example one:

At a play. A Flea in Her Ear. Not that the production I saw was bad, but the play itself is inherently ridiculous. Couple that with the fact that I passed out at the start of Act One only to reawaken at intermission... I didn't have the best go of it. However, I sobered up (it was Unofficial St. Patrick's Day) and watched the remaining two acts to catch this gem, "He's in there having a great time under the golden shower."

At which point I died laughing. All around me, silence. To which I reply "No one? No? Ok..." and slide down in my seat a little in an attempt to pass out again. I was a lovely theater goer that night.

Example deux:

Dyke Under Fire in BBC Online Row. No real need for explanation here. Although I was under the impression that this practice was stopped sometime after the middle ages. It's 2006 open your minds a little people.

Finally example three:

The riviting follow up story to "Their Back!" as seen below:

- Scott

The Roaming Graduate

I can't imagine a more appropriate title for myself right now. Except maybe roaming lothario. I like that one too. Anyway, I haven't been posting as much as I'd like to because my world is pretty much chaos right now, but I did write an article for publication, and as it somewhat pertains to this I'm going to post it and call it an update. That's right... love me.

Hi kids, it’s your faithful former editor back to tell you about the “real” world. The first thing I can tell you about it is that it’s filled with disease. Seriously. I spent my first week out of college moderately sick, only to recover for the weekend and make the mistake of enjoying my newfound degree a little too thoroughly. Needless to say, I spent the next week sicker than the first one. So protect yourselves. Incidentally, a trip to the chiropractor and some acupuncture actually did make me feel better. (I was really just there for the massage.)

But that’s not the focus of TRG; it should be about the perilous next step after your undergraduate studies. And so it shall be. I have this piece of advice for you: If you’d like to go to a graduate school, apply the same time that you applied to Robert Morris College. That’s just how the deadlines work. You can plan ahead for it. Just think of when you would like to go to grad school, and apply twelve to fourteen months ago. I am exaggerating of course, but only by a month or two.

Now that you have the benefit of this wisdom you can pity me that I did not. After recovering from my two weeks of eyeball-aching, morphine-requesting, bucket-befriending illness I idly decided to check on the requirements for attending the University of Illinois to further my academic pursuits. As it turned out, I had about two days to fill out the applications, write three papers, and beg for letters of recommendation. As another piece of advice, it’s best to politely ask for such a letter as far in advance as possible. It never helps their opinion of you if you ask “Would you consider writing a letter of recommendation, oh and could you do it in the next few minutes?” Not all of you are charming enough to pull this off... but I can't imagine what, despite my charm, they wrote about my time management skills.

So the lesson for this week is simple: apply for grad school today. Not interested? Do it anyway. You’re a freshman in college? Then now is the perfect time. You’re illiterate? Well, there’s always Business classes.

- Scott