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

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