Fish picker.

If you recogonize the reference in the title of this post, I'll give you a cookie. A good one. Not that oatmeal rasin shit. We're talking the mall-foodcourt-unhealthy-as-cancer-type cookie. Anyway just a few things to bring you all up to speed on me and my goings-on. I'm actually doing a short post today. What the hell right? To make it even more succinct we're rocking the bulleted points.

• I have not eaten in since 4:09-ish last Sunday. Nada (Spanish for 'nothing'). A few potato chips out of habit, but I quickly stopped myself. Why this supermodel-esq turn? Do I feel unpretty? Am I fasting for religious purposes? No (Spanish for 'no'). I just haven't been hungry in as long as I can remember. So I didn't eat. Strangely (alarmingly) I'm still not hungry. But at least I don't have to worry about twosies as often.

• I bought a trenchcoat to shoot people in. Wait, not like Colombine or anything. Wow, that sentence sounds pretty anti-social. I'm pretty sure I have a file at the FBI on that sentence alone. (Or not. Are we still worried about high school kids shooting people? Or is it only if they're Muslim? The people we fear jumps around alot.) Anyway, it's just to play paintball this weekend in. I figure all the movie badasses have trenchcoats they bust their guns out of, why not me? WHY NOT ME?!

• If you have the time, I recommend Jesus Christ; Vampire Hunter and Six String Samurai for bad/whacked out movie night. The first one just because the title is so appealing, and I've read good things about it. The second one has actual merit as a movie in addition to being so bad it's good.

• I'm pretty sure Dane Cook is going to sue me for stealing his "why not me" bit. But what are you gonna do right? I might even get to meet him. Or his lawyer. I could be two degrees of Dane Cook.
  

So that's what's up with me at the moment. And it really wasn't as short as I had imagined. Anyway, right now I have to clean El Casa Guapos, because Rob is bringing no less than 4 girls from camp back here tomorrow. I better get half credit damn it.

- Scott

Fight The Power!

I had a bit of trouble with the title. I don't know if you noticed, it was subtle (and now I've changed it, but I like this intro). In any case the body of this one is stellar. I've come to a revelation about movies, and it is this: that their purpose is tri-fold. First, to sell you things. Secondly, for you to show off all the cool seating positions you've learned to your date/fellow movie goers. And finally, to entertain you. Note that this is last, it's also the only one that I'm totally ok with.

It's the first that really pisses me off. I've been going to a lot of movies lately, and what I can no longer stand are the "cinematic commercials" they sit us down and FORCE us to watch. They dim the lights and like cattle (or some animal that gets quiet when they turn the lights out) we become silent and watch commercials that we usually mute at home. If it weren't for my weakness for the Fantanas I would have spoken out a long time ago. That damn Sophia Fanta (the one who likes Grape) I hate the commercials before movies but would probably watch 15 minutes of them just to see her... But be strong Scott, damn the commercials!

And that's what I've been trying to do. Ever since I heard someone 'shhhh' another person over talking during a commercial, for the last few months I've made a point of yelling "BOO commercials!" (ask around, it's true) any time they come on. The time has come to rise up my blog brothers and sisters. I will personally pay a dollar to anyone who also shouts their dislike of commercials at movies while they're running.

In other news, I had to write a bio for my school to print up and distribute to new students. I had another before this one, but it was largely based on Highlander, and I thought that the bit about "taking the head of my greatest enemy" might have sent up a few red flags. So here's the one I actually had them print. This is what they're distributing to new students to welcome them to the school, and no one proof-reads my stuff. I love my position, without further ado:

"Born in 1985, Scott displays a wisdom that stretches far beyond his years. He is currently working as a coal miner and going to school full time. Despite these commitments, he still has time to water his Aloe Vera plant, perform monologues from the movie Flashdance, and mentor new students. Feel free to ask him to share some of his hard earned, earthy wisdom; you'll be glad you did."

I.
Can't.
Wait.
For an administrator to read that.

- Scott

So you think you can harmonica.

I seriously wish I played harmonica. There's no situation in which the harmonica sounds out of place. If you're sad, play some blues. If you're traveling, play one of those harmonica interludes you hear as they do the pioneer wagoning montage. If you're happy, play any of the five Blues Traveler singles. But know ahead of time that you'll only make one album and promptly dissapear off the face of the earth, later to be noticed again because you're no longer morbidly obese. I guess the only time it would actually be inappropriate is if you were at the funeral of a man who died from choking on a harmonica. And even then it's more of an ironic thing.

The worst part of it is that when you play "air harmonica" you either look like you're blowing on you just-painted fingernails (and I have Vietnamese women do that for me) or Mr. Peepers eating an apple.

That aside, I've recently been taken in by the new "reality" series So You Think You Can Dance. If the title wasn't bad enough, add to that the show airing on Fox. It's a pretty vicious double whammy. And often a funny one. I enjoy making fun of modern dance to start with, Parish School of dance gave me some great material for that (now they've produced some other great material). But this show (despite no offering of porn stars) might just be even better fodder. I really enjoy my theories about dancers.

For one, I wonder if, before dance audtions and performances, the dancers ever get really drunk. Like to give them the edge. I know it makes me a better dancer, I can remember one night in particular when I was busting some pretty great moves. Moves I could never have thought of, and/or attempted sober. But there is a fine line to this liquidy talent, I think we've all seen the girl in the bar who's convinced that the sexiest thing ever is to throw her arms in the air and swing them wildly around yelling 'Whooooo'. At any point before that, you're golden.

I also enjoy anytime when the contestants break out 'Jazz Hands'. Ah, the Jazz Hands, is there any better body part/style of music juxtaposition?I think not. I mean, the Goth Torso and the Classical Pelvis just never really caught on. Although the Celtic Elbow had a breif run of popularity in the mid 1800's. Anglo elbows notwithstanding all pale in comparison to the mighty jazz hands. But if you think of a better one let me know. For now, I'm off to corrupt some young minds at the Bobby Mo' open house.

- Scott

Dinner with Heather

If you're like me, and pray you are, you frequently make up backgrounds and characteristics for people you meet. Entirely construct/guess their tastes and personality. Apparently Rob and Josh do this as well, because we spent a really kick ass dinner today as we wildly conjectured (now a verb) about our waitress. It started innocently enough as she laughed a fake, fake laugh at my seating preferance which was deadpanned: "First available". It happened to be an empty restaurant. Sure it's funny, but it's filler funny. Just rolling along between the good stuff. She - on entirely the wrong beat - decided to laugh as though it was hilarious.

This is probably the quickest way to lose standing in my eyes. If you don't laugh, I'm actually spur-ed on. It means that I can't sit back and coast though this, I have to bring my A-game. This lady laughed when I was saying unfunny stuff like when she brought our drinks and I used the word "kat-sup". This was shortly after I announced my theory on her 'tip laughing' and a potentially failed acting career. You ain't winning no Oscar's lady. At some point we started wondering things about her. And then betting on which one of us was right. The first one cropped up casually, what her favorite Disney move was. I went with Aladin, Josh went the Snow White route, and Rob picked something random like the Little Mermaid. We actually asked her. I was right. I'm not so sure whether or not she was creeped out at this point, but my celebration probably didn't help things.

The next round (as she brought us straws) we found out the results of her high school sports status. Josh one this one with his disarmingly accurate 1-2 years in Volleyball guess. Then, wanting to break this tie (I have heard Josh doesn't like to leave things unfinished) the last time she came around we went into the 'lightning round'. Which was simply what CD she last listened to, or what CDs she listens to in heavy rotation. When J asked her the question her answer just about KILLED us: "I don't know... I don't listen to Heavy Rotation (TM) CD's." Made my night. But sadly, no one won the contest as we weren't right about the CD choices. I had Skynnard, Josh went with Guns 'N Roses, and I think Rob went with early nineties power pop. When she gave the answer we were all pretty disappointed because we could have got it if we took closer note of the shaved back of her head. That's right. It was Slipknot. We let her go after that, but I highly advocate posing personal questions about your waiters and betting on the outcomes. It really does pass a dinner nicely.

- Scott

Wotcher!

Ok, a few confessions. Yes I did go to the midnight release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Even geekier, I finished it like the day after I bought it. For a 642 page book, this is truly an act of nerdity. However I don't think it's anywhere near as nerdy as my unwelcome attraction to one Nymphadora Tonks. I was just having a discussion about it. With myself. I said "Way to fall in love with a fictitious character, self. Because that really has possibilities, that's going places." Still, she's my favorite girl from the books. And if JK Rowling would just write me in to the final chapter, I'm pretty sure I could hook that up.

Anyway, I think now (like Tim thought yesterday) is a good time for a picture post. I'm feeling lazy, and having just gotten back to school, is the right and proper way for me to feel. And maybe a little sadness, but that's because I didn't like the ending of Half-Blood Prince. Quite the downer, very much like The Two Towers or The Empire Strikes Back. As a pick me up, here's some of my favorite stuff, namely pictures of me!

I feel I really captured the moment here. Jacob waxing philosophical, Stephen being exuberent and Rob laying his A-Game on Molly. Hear that Ro? Yeah. Stole my post AND macked on another woman. Where did we find this guy?


More scenes from the Blogaversary. Thought I'd toss a few up. Don't think I didn't catch the bird as I took it. Having snuck a few in myself it's the kind of thing I'm quite an expert on.


And we get to the freak pictures. Here I am making the guy in the bad Dumbledore costume feel awkward. I don't feel bad though. He was scaring the normal people. Normal being situational mind you.


Ah, an expression as good as "Pensive Potter". Look at the grace and elegance I portray as I pretend to read. At this point I was on page 4. A scant 24 hours later I would be finished. How the time flies.


And finally, here it is, my Reading Rainbow Colation. Liberals, Republicans, Women. There's no group too ridiculous for us to allow. Even more farcical we continued to sit and read in this position even after the picture was taken. For like five minutes. Eventually I decided it was just too 'Brady' and broke it up.

All in all, another awesome time that Rob was only at because he lives with me.



- Scott

Of good parties and bad movies

First of all, sorry for not posting in the last forever or so. However I'm impressed you could all supress the undoubtedly overwhelming desperation for new Scott-material for so long. I mean it's been like five days. You must be going nuts at this point. So let Dr. Scott perscribe a healthy dose of Sco-loft, and get you back into better spirits. Here goes, starting at the beginning: le par-tay.

The first ever blog based celebration went off quite well. What with games, and food, and shenanigans. I will say however that I brought things down a bit when I lost at Mafia and then started cussing at the person who brought about my demise. But I contend that I was so deeply into the character of my mafia persona, I couldn't distinguish reality from the game. Also, sorry Molly. Threatening to kill you in real life might have been a bit extreme. And I'll admit it. My bad.

Moving right along, the rest of the night was pretty hilarious, especially when it became like 2:00 AM and people didn't want to drive back to their homes. So I had no less than 10 people sleeping at my place. Given that I live in a 1,000 sq foot apartment in theory everyone should have had their own one hundred feet of personal space. Somehow it didn't really work out like that. I'm at a loss to figure out why, but all signs point to shoddy math. Computer Science majors don't need math right? As a sidebar: my hatred of computer sciences (which isn't to say I'm not good at them, I currently have a 3.91 GPA) is part of the reason I'm going into writing, ideally comedy writing.

Anyway, after the party I came back to J-ville and saw Fantastic Four then promptly wished I hadn't. I loved the comic books, and even the Saturday morning cartoon. But the movie didn't really do them justice. But it wasn't so bad that I couldn't watch it, nor was it so bad that there were several unintentionally hilarious scenes. For that, I watched another movie. A movie so bad it prompted the first weekly "Bad Movie Night", a movie called "Bury Me An Angel". Even the tagline for this movie is hilariously awful: "A howling hellcat humping a hot steel hog on a roaring rampage of revenge". I think now would be a great time for a movie montage of ridiculous scenes from the "film".

I so thoroughly ripped apart this movie, I think I deserve my own satellite of love. Basically the plot of the film is that the alleged biker "woman" - who in close up shots more closely resembles a post-op tranny, which nicely compliments her lower-than-yours voice and oddly mannish frame - is on a quest to avenge her brother whose head you can see bleeding in the top right of my collage. Funny that it's even there at all considering in the special effects shot it was blown off. There's the things obligatory to all biker movies including the bar fight (in this case the most ILLOGICAL bar fight of all time. Seriously, people who were friends sitting on the other side of the bar just turned and started fighting each other. Then the run-in with the inept "Yosemite Sam" Sherif who absolutely cracked everyone up with his high pitched voice shouting "What in the cornbread hell is going on here". Finally there's the doubly obligatory hippy psychic/satanist/wise Indian figure who surprisingly advocates peace and the fact that she's not flammable.

All in all I give it a 10/10 for hilarity but minus several billion for the HALF HOUR CROSS COUNTRY BIKE SCENE. Next week's film? Death Race: 2000!


- Scott

Junk in her trunk...

Quick story before I review the Top 5 posts of the 2004/2005 Blog Year. Yesterday I was driving to my newspaper meeting - being as I'm the editor, I figured it would be a nice thing to show up. However on my merry way to the college I was rocking out to some happening track on my iPod. I forget which... I really have no idea... it could have been any of them. Zepplin, Linkin Park, the Carpenters. Ok, fine I do remember. It was Bon Jovi (literally french for "Good" Jovi) and the song was "Livin' on a Prayer" which I am, baby.

Anyway, I'm at a stop light and I notice these girls vibing me in a really weird way. Kind of smiling, maybe a titter of laughter. Now you could chalk it up to my air-drum solo, but I prefer to think they were deep into my style and attractive-ness. The light in our lane - a turn lane - turned green and people started to go. I looked ahead breifly, then back at the girls and continued to throw them my seductive look - having done it in the mirror I can tell you it's pretty effective, seriously I'm just glad Rob didn't walk in when I had succumbed to myself and made out with my reflection. But as I'm throwing them the seducitve look and continuing to rock out to Good Jovi, I become aware of one critical element that I had thus far overlooked: whether or not the car ahead of me had decided to go through the light. It hadn't.

I hit the car pretty hard, just barely having noticed it and slammed on the brakes an instant too late to be effective. Best of all, the girls were laughing so hard by this point they had to stop and wait for the next light with me and the old lady I had just plowed into. So, I get out and do my "Omigosh! I'm so sorry. Are you alright. I can't believe it. Some other statement about my being sorry and hoping that you aren't the type to call the insurance companies" bit. Fortunately (as I might have guessed from her license plate "GRAMMY 86") she was a grandma. I might have alternately guessed that she was the recipient of a 1986 Grammy, but I would have been wrong.

There was no damage to my car and just some minor scratches to hers, its amazing what kind of damage granny cars can sustain and not look any worse from it. I once ran over some mailboxes and had no idea, I also hit Sara T.'s car and pretty well screwed up the front end of it, with no damage to mine. So, Granny-mobiles being the tanks they are, we both went our seperate ways, no harm no foul. But damn, were my chances shot with those girls. At least they laughed.

- Scott

Ready for a Scott lengthed Post?

Great. Alright then... Call me Scottmael. Many days ago, having little or no money in my pocket and very few singe marks on my clothing, I set out to have a fourth of July celebration. All the while neglecting to study for my finals. Despite the perils of being burned alive, and/or failing out of collge, I felt I had to try. And try I did.

I loaded up my vehicle, and with a bad case of "stoned-camera-face" managed to set out into the night. As a side note, how exactly I managed to get in this picture when I'm clearly behind the camera is beyond modern science. Beyond even post-modern science as well, and that's quite a thing.

Anyway, stoned-face driving is hard and hungry work. So shortly thereafter, I decided it was time for some healthy nourishment. When we gave up on that we went to Steak 'N Shake, where I am apparently 6'1. My height varies greatly depending on which convience store I'm at. At Amoco I'm 5'10, at Shell 5'11, and at Steak 'N Shake 6'1. I like to go to all of them in a day and pretend I'm on growth hormones.

It's like the last supper, just with more women, and no one is going to die later. (SPOILER!) But if they did die, they pretty definately wouldn't be back three days later. Oh, and for the hell of it, here's a picture of Henry's chest.

After all the sammiches, shakes, and boobs, it was time to hit the dangerous and winding road once again. Our goal: illegal Missouri fireworks. We got across the border vith our forged papers. Then stealthily and tactfully infiltrated the explosives facility, as you can see below.

If you look close you can see my badass burn from the pipes on my 'hog. I tend to forget which things are hot. Burns like that are good reminders. They're also good for making me just that much tanner. As you can see, they do nothing to affect my maturity level, which is pretty much maxed out as high as it can go. Anyway, fireworks in trunk I sweat bullets as I had to make it through customs with my smuggled cargo. Fortunately all went well. And the very next night we went to see the fireworks in St. Louis.

Sadly, we got there pretty late, and all the best spots for watching them were taken. Moments like this are when my intrepid-ity comes into play. I started scouting around and found a primo location that was completely unoccupied... It was a vendor tent. Apparently the vendor just cleared out. And so, I took it over. Take a look:

We're right between the Arch and the Capitol Building in the middle of Market Street. Perfect location. Perfect view of the fireworks. As you can see I later invaded the neighboring merchant's tent and stole a couple of chairs. Also, a few people followed my lead and popped a squat next to us. I look down on that, because while we're squatters, we're really original squatters. They're poseur squatters, and that's just sad. Despite them, it was a great spot. Check out the view:

Money? Yes I think so. And so patriotic, it makes me wanna enlist. However until we attack a country that makes a good backdrop for my memoirs I think I'll pass. That arching dark thing in the silhouetted in the background is the Arch, Gateway to the West and everpresent challenge to those who have suction cup suits. (I love that guy).

Finally, we had our own celebration in which I used those fireworks I bought in the 4th picture. It was pretty good in spite nearly sending a mortar shell into the master bedroom of a house across the lake... or maybe because of it. I also put the girls to good work and had them go sparkler crazy while I took long-exposure time pictures. The effect is pretty good, but next year? I'm lining up four people and we're spelling four letter words.

- Scott