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