Death and Destruction

Recently as I was lying comatose ("Comatose... coma-toes to-'er head" "Shut up!") I thought about all the things I wanted to do before I died. And all the things I hadn't done. But then, realizing how unrelentingly cliche this was, I thought of another better topic: all the thing I intend not to do before I die.

Now this list could be fairly obvious. For instance, most people wouldn't say they wanted to contract AIDS. Though, to be fair, for awhile I was very into RENT and I thought that I'd like nothing better than to be an artist with HIV dramatically living out my last days in an orgy of bohemian lifestyles. So there really aren't absolutes. But the thing I realized that I never want to do was different.

I had always considered climbing Mount Everest. Seems like a fun weekend. But it dawned on me that after all the people who died or were disfigured as a result of that mountain, climbing it successfully would be the worst thing I could do. Think about it. After that nothing I could do would be as impressive.

"Hey, I just finished Zelda in 12 hours!"
"So what, it's not like you climbed Everest again."

And if I died, the topic of discussion at my funeral wouldn't be directly centered on how great I was. It'd be all about how ironic it was that I could survive Everest but I just couldn't see that bus coming. Or about what a survivor I am, yet to be taken in such a strange way, by suffocation as a result of a large housecat settling over my nose and mouth as I slept, seems cruel and ironic.

So, essentially, I refuse to climb Everest as it would skew my legacy forever. Cross one off the list.

- Scott

Healed at last! Healed at last! Thank Lordy, healed at last!

Two days ago I finally went to the doctor. I once again apologize to all of manhood for betraying our order and seeking medical attention. But I felt better and my mom had scheduled a chiropractic appointment and a doctor's appointment. The knuckle cracker really did more for me. A few bone pops and I felt pretty good. Though while I'm on her elaborate table I can't help but feeling like I'm a secret agent and she's an assassin trying to kill me with spine jabs, attempted neck breaks, and attacks upon my hips. Occasionally she pokes needles into my skin and connects them to electricity under the auspices of a proceedure to boost my immune system, all the while I refuse to give her information or even acknowledge our little duel.

Anyway at the doctors (after surviving the assassin) I was informed that despite feeling like I could run a mile I was:

1.) Running a 101.5° temperature
2.) Still sick
3.) Riddled with a particularly nasty sinus infection.

"Yeah, and I just faced down an attempt on my life too," said I. This is why new people often don't "get" me.

Current Status: Still recovering.

Current Status With the Ladies*: They all still want me.

- Scott

* Watch that thing I linked. It's reminicent of how I wrote this post.

What's the time?

It's time to get ill. And apparently, unlike those brothers out there flakin and perpetratin', but scared to kick reality, I know what time it is.

Ok, I'm loopy. Just wanted to update my constituents.

- Scott

P.S. All of this was meant to mean "I've been flu-sick since Saturday night. And frankly I still feel like shit."

Panic at the Post-Post-Secondary Educational Facility

Lately I've been having a lot of the same conversation. You've been there. A situation where everyone asks you the same question, and you answer it the same way. Basically you're in the social equivalent of a cold war. Each side keeping up appearences, following procedure, making a symbolic gesture, but underneath both sides want it to escalate or just end. It's like when you go home after being away for college/work/life in general. Everyone wants to feign interest in your activities, knowing full well that if anything monumental had happened they'd already have heard and gossiped about it. It goes something like this:

Psuedo-Interested Party: Hi! Where have you been? What have you been up to?
Completely Dispassionate Responder: Oh you know, not bad. It's good to get away from it... blah blah blah.

Pseudo-Interested Party 2: How has school/work/life in general been?
Increasingly Dispassionate Responder: Not too shabby. It's been fine/alright/third non-commital answer.

Pseudo-Interested Party 3: How are you? Tell me, how has school/work/life been?
Formerly Dispassionate Responder who has just hit his breaking point: I'm quitting school. Journalism is lame, dying, and frankly: unenfuckingjoyable. I have a bachelor's degree and no more tolerance for education. I'm tired of languishing in the stuffy halls of academia when I could be doing things that interest me and possibly making some sweet, sweet cash on the outside. "The outside!" Did I just say that? You see?! I subconsiously associate it with prision. So that's how school has been. ARE YOU HAPPY? IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED? IS IT, YOU DIRTY BITCH?!

At this point some panic sets in. I firmly believe I could say exactly what's written above and the next words out of the Pseudo-Interested Party's mouth would be (as they always have been) something implying the following: "You're not going to school anymore?! Well that's ok... if you're willing to be a FAILURE! Not everyone has to be successful."

Apparently there's a built in panic when you tell people that you aren't going to do it anymore, and that further you have no intention of continuing in the area at all. Sure I'll stick it out through the semester, but I'm not wasting another six months on something for which I harbor a mounting contempt.

So, this is my formal announcement of my intention to withdraw from the school of journalism. It's been fun (to mock), but I think I'm better suited to other pursuits. Suggestions?

- Scott

P.S. If you'd like to know why I'm withdrawing from the field read the companion post below.

Selected Scenes Supporting Sundering Scott's Second Secondary Schoolin'

Because sometimes aliteration is irrestible. And so damned easy. Anyway this is a companion post answering a few questions you might have about the above. I think the best way to explain why journalism and I go together like babies and barbed wire is to give a few examples of things I've done, things that have been remarked upon, and in one case receiving a most noble branding.

1. You should probably read this post: I hate you so (effing) much. In addition I once wrote an assignment where every other line rhymed.
   
   
2. Allegedly I accuse people of murders. To be fair, I only do this when every piece of evidence has already been established and the person in question is certainly the murderer. But apparently a judge has to say it before I can publish it. Libel lawsuits. Bah.
   
   
3. The professor apparently did not find this as funny as I do. The article was about the reburial of Juan Peron, former President of Argentina, husband to Madonna. The picture was of brawling political factions hitting each other with rocks, bats, and rubber bullets as the casket is being moved. The headline I wrote was: Don't Riot For Me, Argentina. The professor was "Tempted to fail the assignment just for that."
   
   
4. "Great minds discuss ideas. Average minds discuss events. Small minds discuss people, right? So basically by making our stories constantly about people it essentially means that either we're a bit slow or we're writing for people who really shouldn't bother reading." I was a called an elitist for that, but it's where I was going anyway.
   
   
5. Finally, my favorite: we were debating what a medium sized, failing paper should do to make money and stay in the business of good reporting. My reply was something along the lines of:
   
   "Well we constantly hear how much good reporting costs, so you can't really have good reporting until you're making money. So plan for that five years down the road. In the mean time you have to orchestrate a scheme wherein you're in bed with advertisers. You write stories that happen to mention some product or service that happen to buy ad space in your papers. Now the public is dumb, but eventually they'll catch on. When you feel like they are getting close, that's when you put phase two into effect. Essentially you have the higher-ups of the newspaper and the product you're advertising work together. The newspaper will send a patsy reporter to "discover" some minor, mildly unacceptable issue with the product in question. The seller of said product will have planted this issue, and as such will be able to clean it up in record time. The exposé will cast off suspicions of bias, while the company whose product you sell will get some free press and will receive a follow up article about how competently they solved the problem."
   
   The professor replied: "Scott, that violated every article of the Society of Professional Journalists Code of Ethics. You may be the most unethical person I've ever taught." But it would have worked damn it.
   

- Scott

Simple Pleasures

Good news. I'm back to posting. That's something you can all be thankful for, even now with your kitchens festering with the remains of last Thursday's meal. I took a much needed vacation from everything that wasn't absolutely essential and as it turns out that means the Wonder Blog from time to time. But don't think I came back without new post material. I was thinking of you the whole time. (Incidentally, that last line makes it sound like I was cheating on my blog with a pen and notepad. And now I'm trying to smooth things over.) Anyway on to the post proper:

/start post

Just this weekend I had some automotive fun*. Unfortunately it came at the cost of a massive interstate accident, but there's always a silver lining to every cloud; you can't blame yourself when you're so completely surrounded by the lining that the cloud doesn't affect you. Coming back from my second viewing of Bond we were stuck in the thick of interstate traffic. The bridge to Illinois just ahead and a promising looking road to our right, we decided to shoot the moon and get out of the gridlock.

So did 15 other cars. We were a mighty caravan, carving a swath of light through the dark countryside. However, mighty though we were, apparently there wasn't one GPS navigation system among us. Otherwise we might have forseen what became inevitable.

Following the caravan, we were perhaps the 8th or 9th car from the front, with several behind. The roads kept getting worse and worse. And eventually we were on a one lane dirt path between cornfields, but everyone behind the first driver (who I suspect was laughing madly) was so sure that our Magellan of the Highway could get us where we were going that nobody turned back.

...Until the one lane road came to an abrupt end in a marsh. Then pictures like the below:

The Panic: "Why are we stopping?"

The Abort: "How the hell are we going to turn around?"

The Do-It-To-Them-Before-They-Do-It-To-Us: "Use the shoulder, before they get here!"

And then we drove several miles back across the country side to find a different (workable) route. It remained hilarious.

- Scott

* This reminds me of my other favorite anti-social car behavior which you can read about below.

Simple Pleasures Continued

You know, it really is the simple things that amuse me the most. Sure, I could go to the movies. But what I like even better is driving around the parking lot and waiting. Waiting for my moment. For that golden opportunity when one of the primo spots opens up near the front of a line, right next to the theater entrance. I then take that spot. But our story, dear readers, does not end here.

Instead, I orchestrate a masterful deception. Everyone in the car gets out and walks to the theater and back. On the way back, we appear as a group just heading to the car. I make a big show of taking out my keys. When I see a car hovering like a jackyl at a carcass I know it's time.

Everyone gets in the car. We buckle up. I put the car in reverse and back out. I get so far out of the spot that I force the car who's waiting to backup too. At this point I'm completely out of the spot, facing down the lane, ready to drive off into the night. ...But I don't drive off. I pull back in. And the schmuck who thought he was going to get a spot? Infuriated.

And then I laugh and laugh. Rinse and repeat as desired. The above post reminded me of it. You should all give it a shot sometime if you're ever (somehow) early for a movie when the lot is packed.

- Scott

The Wonder Blog

Well it's official. We've taken that step together. A serious commitment that, if properly maintained, will last a lifetime and provide enduring gratification. I think you can guess where this is heading. There's really only one conclusion that makes sense.

That's right. I've registered a domain.

thewonderblog.com

I can rest easy in the knowledge that I will never be forced to say aloud "g-money-dope-fly" again.

- Scott

P.S. Tell your friends.

Top (five) of the Pops

Wow, if I knew those ridiculous camera phone pictures I took a month ago were going to stir such good discussion I would have hopped off my lazy ass and posted them sooner. But timing is everything and I guess that was their time. Who knows. Anyway, things have calmed down a spell here in wacky (read: rigid) journalism land. What does that mean for you? Postage of course. Not the 39¢ kind. The priceless kind.

Top Five:

1.) The greatest thing ever. This relates directly to number three on my bottom five. It is, in fact, what I believe Rumsfeld was attempting to do. Unfortunately we missed exactly what happened to the hippy. But it was such a stealthy blow I have no doubt that he was bleeding internally, and completely unconsious of it.

2.) Franklin, you old hound. America The Book on founding fathers and why they'd be unelectable today: Franklin. "He loved the ladies. Loved 'em. Old, young, fat, thin, whatever. Couldn't get enough. Just loved 'em." In addition, I choose to believe this is why he had to do so damned much in his little planner. You try to juggle women. You need time management.

3.) V for Congressman. I won't say I knew it would happen. But I will say I hoped it would happen. I just wish I could be there today when it all goes down. (Also that I had the costume.)

4.) 30 minutes or it's late because we were discussing the "big questions and stuff..." An aside about weed for a second children, shall we? I have to say, I'm dissapointed. Pot smokers have grown increasingly lazy. And I don't mean as a result of the drug. I mean as a group. I don't want to get into an "In my day..." type thing. Because it's clearly far too early for that. But I will say that having it delivered to your home is nothing like what people in my generation had to go through. A personal example of mine you can read here. Also, nobody knows how to roll anything anymore except Europeans, and they're doing it to smoke their own cigarettes (which is about as cool as whittling.)

5.) Election Wrap-up Vid. I thought about not posting this. I don't need to gloat. I don't want to be that guy. However, most of it I hadn't seen, and because I think the kids of today need to know how to roll a blunt, and who better to show them than Donald Rumsfeld.

Bottom Five:

1.) I, for one, welcome our new robot overlords. Hopefully I'll be given a cushy position within the new robo-administration. Like Baltar got. Except I'd request two #6's three #8's and no Xena Warrior Princesses.

2.) Wal-Mart: Nothing gets by them. An accidental slip, sure. But was the slip not noticing the Nazi implication, or was it that too many of us heard about it. Alles klar, Herr Kommissar?

3.) Rummy subtly responding to (what can only be) a grad student. He's clearly been trained in the art of the Kung Fu - Fuck You.

4.) More terrifying reasons for a low approval rate. The more I think about it, the more I'm glad that there are people storming the capital in V costumes right now.

5.) Another "hell-in-a-handbasket" story. Because they're plentiful and the more we hear about it the more we hate it. Does that help? Who knows. But it definitely belongs on the Bottom Five.

- Scott

The world today seems absolutely crackers...

Random thought of the day: Kama Sutra Cookie Cutters. The tag-line practically writes itself. "The best fucking cookies you've ever had..."

Random real-life product of the day: The 9/11 Commission Report. Why is it interesting? Because someone decided it needed a little pizzaz. That there was a better way to tell the story. That words are just too abstract. This person made the report into a comic book. The result is shown below.

They wisely edited out the Blam! next to the building.


Strangely, I'm reminded of those picto-bibles from childhood more than anything.

Also is that Saddam in the last panel? Are they implying that he gave Al-Queada weapons of mass destruction himself? That he literally handed them over? Are they going to have to retcon this section now that we know the Saddam story-arc turned out differently? Who can say? Am I ending this post playing the question game?

- Scott?

"Think the drink through."

Dragging my feet on the election story I'm covering, which is due by 8:00 a.m. tomorrow, I'm looking for any excuse to do something else. I had a beer. Made myself a sandwich (from my delicious deli fixin's I pick up weekly). Had a beer with my sandwich. Then enjoyed another beer.

Then I wanted dessert. I went to the Bailey's Irish Cream to pour myself a nightcap and stopped. "Oh God, I'll be too drunk to write."

...and then I laughed and laughed. Because we all know that as a whole, writers are a sober, clean and virtuous folk.

If you'll excuse me, I'm going to fill this mug again.

- Scott

Just a minute ladies, I'm questing.

And I thought I had privacy problems in Springfield... Today I was just minding my own business, sitting at my computer, clad only in boxers and one ripped sock. I was dressed like this because I was... you know what, it's not even worth explaining, suffice it to say my front door is dangerous and I was hot because I broke the handle off my radiator and was too lazy to find a wrench.

So sitting there in relative undress, wearing headphones I hear a beating sound. It mostly sounds like the wind, so I ignore it. There is also a demolition going on next door, so these kinds of sounds are fairly normal. But they were coming in bursts of three and starting to get fairly annoying. Had I not been playing a game and talking to people over Ventrillo (audio chat) I might have walked over to the window and told them my opinion on their intelligence, hygiene, and questioned the chastity of their mothers. As it was, I sat there in my red and white skull boxers and one sock.

All of a sudden a voice that was far too clear to be muffled by doors, windows or walls called out far too loudly, far to close to me, "Barr real-estate." As the three women rounded the corner, I pulled off my headphones and looked over at them. As they were reeling from the shockwaves of lust that were no-doubt washing over them I gave them the very non-chalant upward head nod, and said something charming. I believe it was "Just a second, I have to kill this orc."

I proceeded to kill the orc in what, I'm sure, they considered a very diciplined layering of flexible ad-hoc strategy. They proceeded to pine for me. I think they also toured my apartment, I couldn't be sure as I was running back to Lakeshire to try to escape some damned Kobolds that had aggro'd me.

I answered a few questions the girls asked about living here (allegedly they were on a leasing tour) and they lingered for perhaps five minutes before they reluctantly left, dragging their feet all the way.

I'm pretty sure the realty lady winked at me on the way out. And they say you'll never get laid playing World of Warcraft... pfft.

- Scott

Three milligrams of blogging, stat!

Walking into the emergency room, I shook my head and sighed.

"I'd be better off dying after seeing the end of Battlestar Galactica," I thought. Immeadiately following that thought was another. "What, that's going to be your last thought? Or this is? Damn it, think of something good."

But that's jumping into the story in the middle. And as much as I love Tarantino, I think it's better to explain exactly what happened first. (Also, I once wrote a really scathing paper on Faulker's disjointed chronology in A Rose for Emily* and we all know my stance on hypocrisy. I'm against it. For everyone else.)

It was Friday night and after a lovely few hours destroying that which threatens the fair citizens of the Alliance, and I decided that catching up on The Office/BSG that I had downloaded from iTunes would be a lovely way to cap off the night. And it would have.

But it was not to be. All of a sudden my heart felt like it was trying to kick its way out of my chest. Then, more alarmingly, it felt like it decided take a nap after the failed escape attempt. I jumped out of my chair and flipped the eff out. But I recovered (kind of) and allowed myself to be distracted by some more well-written sci-fi escapism.

...Until the second one. Just as strong, this time accompanied with the unnerving sensation of dizzyness and a slight (imagined?) numbness to the left side. I was convinced that I was going to die, and to be honest I was kind of pissed off about it. Here I was just enjoying my show...

Anyway I got my girlfriend to give me a ride and that about catches you up. I mosey'd on in. They hooked me up to an EKG, asked me repeatedly what street drugs I'm on (just Horse), and had me recount what I'd eaten and drunk that day. As it turned out, I'd had a lot of caffine. I never really thought about it as I was consuming it, but the ridiculously large latte, the tea, and the soda I'd had amounted to quite a lot. Coupled with a few hours of inactivity and a pretty vicious cold, I had a recipe for an unsatisfied heart. (I now believe that he was just taking his frusteration out on my ribs.)

So I ask you this, Yes. If the owner of a lonely heart is much better than the owner of a broken heart, how does that compare to the owner of a fitfully palpitating heart? I like to think it's the best of the lot.

- Scott

P.S. Don't worry, I'm fine. I was just overworked/needed rest/third generic "you're not really sick" doctor advice. And lay off the caffine... blah blah blah.

*I chose this angle because the teacher in question went on and on about how great it was. I proved, convincingly that it wasn't. It was my highest grade on a paper in that class (99/100).

I'd rather blog, I'd rather blog than do my work...

Vincent: I've got a threshold, Jules, I've got a threshold for the abuse that I'll take and right now I'm a racecar, man, and you got me in the red. I'm just saying, I'm just saying it's fucking dangerous to have a racecar in the fucking red, that's all. I might blow.

Jules: Oh, you ready to blow? Well I'm a mushroom-cloud-laying motherfucker, motherfucker! Everytime my fingers touch brain I'm Superfly TNT, I'm the Guns of the Navarone. In fact, what the fuck am I doing in the back? You're the motherfucker who should be on brain detail! We're fucking switching, I'm washing the windows and you're picking up this nigger's skull.

As it happens, I describe myself as a mushroom-cloud-laying motherfucker once or twice a day anyway, but at the moment the lines of dialogue apply in their more literal senses. I know I've mentioned it before. But frankly, it's just as true now, if not moreso, than the last time I posted. As a result, I want to blow everything off. And in the spirit of interpretive dance (and song*), here's a video that tells my story.

I'm the dude in the red. At the beginning (which for me, is now) he's in Journalism Graduate school. He's awesome, but unappreciated. At the end, he mocks the shortsighted fools who attempted to impose their arbitrary, rigid style on him.

Annd... cue film.



- Scott

* the song, incidentally, is one of my favorites ever.

Overheard in New York

I have always loved Overheard. It's the kind of project I wish I had started. Unfortunately Overheard in Jerseyville would be a mix of hog feed prices, subtle racism, and discussion about the economy of the community being bolstered by meth production. Which actually sounds like a decent topic the way I just presented...

But that's neither here nor there. What I've always liked best about Overheard in New York is not the quotes, funny though they may be. No, it's the descriptions of the people talking. You see alot of "Jewess" or "Thug Teen" but occasionally they get more elaborate. And I love it.

So in the spirit of Overheard in New York (and considering the awesomely good news at the bottom of this post which you should definitely read), I humbly present quotes from some of my favorite blogs that are Overhear-able, along with the title Overheard title of the person in question (based solely on the quote in question).
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Impossibly pretentious indie music-snob:There are shades of Queen all over the album and I think you're crazy for not hearing it.

Impossibly pretentious indie music-snob: For heaven's sake, the title track is essentially "Killer Queen" with a pared-down "Bohemian" structure, only if Freddie Mercury were from Arizona.
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Ranting sage... who might be on to something: What if the government grew weed, and paid hippies in weed to do various tasks. Its like a self replicating currency... and Hippies will do ANYTHING for weed. No more hazzard pay for those jobs no one wants: Hippies will do it. You want a housekeeper? Contract one from a government Hippie-Aid company, you pay the government a quarter what you normally would pay someone, and that will translate into top quality pot for the Hippy. Its a sure thing... almost as good as monkey butlers.
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Dichotomous Emo Kid: After a lot of drinking and sobbing incoherently about nothing in particular, I've decided that life is too short for hang-ups. From now on, I'm going to care even less about what you fuckers think about me. I'm that independent. Granted, I'll still care about what you think in general. But goddamn it, I've grown too soft, worrying about if I'm held in high regard by certain people. No more! You're all swine, figuratively! But I still love you!
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Animal lover: I woke up this morning to one whiny puppy and one grouchy husband. The two are not mutually exclusive as many a woman wishes.
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But why post this now Scott?: The reason I do this is simple: I've finally acheived a small measure of immortality with a quote on the actual OHNY blog. Check it out here.

Interestingly, avid readers of the Wonder Blog might surmise who the two attractive nerds in question actually are. But I leave the comments open to speculation.

- Scott

A rebuke.

Damn you football. I always think that there's some medieval epic on TV in the other room when I hear your soaring, brass heavy, themes. And there never is. Just football. The laziest sport of them all. Two minutes of setup for thirty seconds of action, followed by two assholes describing ad nasuem what just happened, statistics, and the last 30 years of the sport while we wait for them to set it back up for another thirty seconds.

From now on, when I hear a strong, brass heavy, theme there had damned well better be something to do with swords going on. And the undead. In fact, it had better be Army of Darkness. Do you hear me Fox network? DO YOU?!

- Scott

Five Easy Postings

It's that time of the week when I've got some 'splaining to do. The new Top 5/Bottom 5 is up, not to mention a new Crush o' the Week, so I'd better get to it.

Top Five:

1. If you're within 500 miles of Basil Thai, I command you to go there and have the Peanut Sauce Lover entree. It's fantastic and so damned filling I had it for lunch and skipped dinner.
   
2. I don't know if you get down like this... but combining South Park and World of Warcraft is the best idea since antiseptics (thank you Donnie Darko). You can watch the full episode here. I don't know why, but on some level it bothers me that there are a huge number of people who would be confused by this episode. Or who don't know what an MMORPG is. Or who don't realize that there are people exactly like this, and that I've fought with them on the planes of Karana.
   
3. I wish I were making this up. I doubly wish that it wasn't a Fox News article. But apparently the Muslim world has created knock-off versions of western products like Coca-Cola (Mecca-Cola), Burger King (Beurger-King), and Fulla (Burkha Barbie). They're wonderful parodies, a shame they're real.
   
4. That's right people. A Dark Crystal sequel. I know, it might be a bastardization, but I'm going to see it regardless, so I might as well be excited.
   
5. As lothe as I am to use the term steam-punk, it definitely applies and this laptop looks so good I don't really mind. As a bonus it's actually a functioning laptop.
   

Bottom Five:

1. The title pretty much sums it up.
   
2. Once again, the title says it all. But I will say that this is yet another tiny incremental step toward a frightening future. But if things really do get that bad, I'll at least be able to be a "people's champion" style bandit. So I'll have that consolation.
   
3. This should have been on the Top Five, but it represents a negative concept (and I filled out the Top Five pretty quickly this week) so it's on the bottom. But watch it. It's hilarious.
   
4. This man is banning Fahrenheit 451. Worse, I'm sure the irony is absolutely lost on him as he's never read it.
   
5. Bush might be the most strategicly stupid human being in the world. His allegedly unintentional inability to speak gives him two advantages. One: it gives his spin people time to work and the opportunity to say "Oh the president misspoke, what he meant was..." And two: he never has to commit to anything. He has the built-in excuse of being flustered or vague. His position is always revisible. Another bonus: he can pretend to be a man of the people, not some intellectual like the Dem's.

And that's the Top/Bottom Five.

- Scott

Mo' bloggin'.

I was recently standing in front of one of my largest classes defending a title I put on an infographic that said "Mo' Freshmen." The professor warned that it may be considered offensive. Bah. I went on "But it's true, there are mo' freshmen!" I (pretend to) have no idea where that man is coming from sometimes.

Anway the "mo'" in my title doesn't refer to more, but to mobile. I haven't updated my Moblog in what seems like ages. I haven't completed the photodump from my phone to my computer because I suspect that my phone is a USB 1.1 connection, or a USB 2.0 running at Full Speed rather than High Speed. To translate from Nerd: the transfer is painfully slow.

But in the past three(ish) days I've snapped three pictures that I think warrant posting. Without further tapdancing:

I'm everywhere*. The one in the back has my shirt on. Well, not my shirt. But one I own. We're also sporting the very trendy "I'm afraid to get my hair cut" do. Which led to an odd moment of walking through Borders and having my girlfriend point out that it looks like I'm on the cover of a Gay Men's magazine (not that I don't have the body for it).


"Absolut Awkward."

I think I should start a side-blog where I review bathrooms. Because I have very strong opinions about the layout and design of John's around the world. This one is perhaps the worst. There's no way to wash your hands without rubbing elbows with the guy taking a leak. There just isn't. And if you angle to the left to avoid contact, you inadvertantly align yourself to be hunched over, leaning towards a urinating man. Forget waterboarding, this should be the torture method of choice.

And finally...

Talk about not knowing your audience.

That bottom line says "Please re-think(sic) abortion." Being one myself, I have to say that most of the people that this poster appeals to do not need to consider abortion. Forget for a second the built-in LOTR birth control, the very idea that Galadriel is going to convince a die-hard pro-choicer is quite possibly the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. What could the thought process possibly be? "Well, I've always supported a woman's right to choose, but she is the weilder of Nenya, the ring of water, and she managed to turn down the One Ring... hmm, she might just be right."

Seriously.

- Scott

* Though technically it could also be Ed Speelers.

So. Busy. Must. Post...

Recently I've felt like I'm stretched to my limit. I'm ridiculously busy; between classes, girlfriends, and work I'm like a postal worker on speed. And like that postal worker I'm savoring the thought of going a little crazy. Though, to be fair, I don't intend to shoot anyone. But if I could actually fire bullets into abstract concepts I'd be going through clips like Fiddy.

Basically this is my "Civil War Letter Home"-style post to let you know that things are hellish on the front. I know not what kind of hardtack I'll be eating (either raman or Life cereal), nor when I might seek repreive from the ravages of academia. But I take solace in knowing that, like Cincinattus, when my campaign is over I'll have my farm (blog) to return to. Unless those fucking Plebians start with me, because so help me Gods...

Anyway I just wanted all you away from the fighting to know that I'm hanging in there... at least for now.

- Scott

P.S. If you'd like a better idea of where I'm at, stress-wise, watch this short, informational film. (The highest quality I could find too. So don't blame me.)

I hate you so much.

Ever been in a pissing contest*? I, through no fault of my own, sometimes find myself in them. Most recently I seem to have entered into a game of passive agressive torts with one of my teachers. This unfortunate woman has exactly no sense of humor. Word play? She hates it. And, my god, should you think of bending any rule of political correctness you'll find yourself face face with royalty in the form of an Ice Queen faster than you can say "those damn, filthy Eskimos."

Icy, we'll call her Icy, is the kind of writer (and human being) that is dry, exacting and devoid of all color. Both in the melanin and metaphorical senses of the word. As such I believe it is my duty to occasionally turn in something a little different. And by "occasionally," I mean in every article I have to write. And by "a little different" I mean I plan to teach her a lesson through the art of the horrible pun.

Here are three examples and her reactions.

Example 1:

• Headline for story about Heterosexual Society: A Gay Old Time.

• Reaction: Gave me a D, wrote that "offensive wisecracks are better kept to yourself."Challenge accepted.

Example 2:

• She went on and on about how we should mention that the City Council came from a soup kitchen just before the meeting. So... I did.

• An apron clad Champaign City Council met Tuesday night, fresh from serving at TIMES Center soup kitchen. At the meeting however, it was debate rather than soup, that was stirred. The deliberations centered on how to set the tax levy in a prosperous year like 2006: do they add some beef to the stew to fatten up as much as possible for potential “lean years” or do they "water down the broth" and give the tax payers a break?

• Reaction: She unexpectedly circled the paragraph and wrote "good."
  

Example 3:

• Today was the midterm exam. I took most of it at the computer where I typed up a few answers. One of the questions asked me to rewrite the lead of a story about American Indians. ...So I did.

• Tuesday night, five American Indian journalists had a powwow of sorts with university professors to discuss the role of American Indians in the news media and combat unfair stereotypes.

• Reaction: I'm thinking a lynch mob, but I just turned it in five hours ago, so I don't know.
  

- Scott

*Inexplicably my girlfriend has never heard the term "Getting into a pissing contest with him." It's pretty common isn't it?

To Future Employers

After my last post, I had some discreet advice thurst upon me. Mostly to the effect that it shows some failure of work ethic and that it could come back to haunt me, etc. And while I am grateful for their concern, I have no desire to maintain yet another facade for the world. Randall Munroe, who produces the geek-fabulous webcomic xkcd, said it best with the below comic (he draws them in his spare time at work... at NASA*).

That pretty much sums it up. If you have a minute read though xkcd it really is a great, often hilarious (to nerds) webcomic.

- Scott

* Friggin NASA!

Terror in the Workplace

Today marks a first for me. I'm at work and I'm blogging. Just call me Rob French. Part of me is afraid that I'll get caught and fired, but I'm slightly embarassed to admit that it looks more like I'm doing work right now than in the previous half hour of reading 15 Minute Lunch and fighting valiantly against laughing aloud. It might have been that fear that contributed so much to what just happened.

But I think a little exposition is in order before we get to today's post-worthy nugget. Sometimes I take breaks. I'm only human, and I work better under the 10/5 rule anyway. (Ten minutes of work: five minutes of play. Rinse and repeat.) One of these breaks coincided with a visit to the office's magnificently appointed bathroom. I have to say, as cans go, this one is top notch.

Its heyday was clearly in the 1940's (also when the last redecorating went on), but it's still one of the classier John' s I've encountered*. To give you a general idea of just how classy I mean follow me through this: picture a normal men's room. Now picture floor to ceiling dividers between the urinals. Now imagine that they're made of solid, two inch marble that comes out far enough to obscure even the fattest man that might be urinating next to you. That's how classy. You can actually violate the Man Law article stating that there must be at least one empty urinal between you and the next man because you're practically in a seperate room.

In anycase, I was not so much there to use bathroom as I was to hide in a stall listening to music and playing Block Breaker Deluxe on my cell phone. It was quite a comfortable arrangement and an inconspicuous way to kill a few minutes.

Or it was, until one of my bosses walked in. I have no less than seven and I knew it was the stern one by his tight assed, over-polished shoes. Reflexively I turned down the volume on the iPod afraid he hear it and know I'm there. Would he have cared? Who knows. But the fact is, that dude makes me nervous. Plus, I'm hiding. By definition I don't want my location to be known. I certainly don't want him to know that I'm sitting, pants-up on the toilet playing a cellphone game. So I'm somewhat tense but I'd resolved to go back to playing my game when the cell phone explodes in my hand into a flurry of light, sound and vibration:

"CALL CONNECTED THROUGH THE NSA...(vibration)... COMPLETE TRANSMISSION THROUGH THE NSA...(burst of three audible vibrations)... SUSPENDING YOUR RIGHTS FOR THE DURATION OF THE PERMENANT WAR."

I screamed like a woman. A woman who had just seen IT for the first time whose boyfriend hid in her closet in a clown suit and jumped out at midnight saying "Beep Beep." I screamed like that woman. At the same time I flailed my arms and knocked my iPod off the shelf it was sitting on (I told you they were nice bathrooms) and nearly into the toilet. I caught it by the upper right corner. I didn't know what else to do so I answered the phone and politely informed the caller it wasn't a good time. I neglected to mention that her call very nearly caused the only instance of a man sitting on a toilet and yet still shitting his pants in history.

The boss walked out of the bathroom, apparently not much of a hand washer that one, and I sat there for a good five minutes before I came out (much of it laughing). I think next week I'll be hiding in the record room. And my phone will be on vibrate.

- Scott

* This line works equally well on a prostitute blog.

Comma Comma Comma Comma Comma Chameleon

I'm a fan of punctuation as much as anyone. I love it. In fact, I love it so much that if I ever time travel and I meet E.E. Cummings, I'll punch that apunctilious "poet" in the face for what he did to my precious periods, commas and semicolons.

But even I will concede that there are places that punctuation does not belong. Namely, on your face. I've always held that this goes without saying, but apparently a large contingent of the garden variety sorority skanks I encounter on a daily basis don't feel the same way. Below is an artist's conception of the kind of "eyebrows" they regularly sport.

The Commabrow. (It should be noted that the "artist" mostly gets by on sizzling good looks.)

I invite anyone with the skill to fix it to clean that up. The inner corner shold be wispier, and there should be about three eyebrow hairs per square inch on the long portion fanning outward in an arch that makes St. Louis's contribution to the shape look meager by compairson. So not only do they look like an over-plucked, punctuation-faced tart, they look perpetually surprised about it. And in general, whoreish makeup should cake the face.

This has to stop. In the interest of bringing that about I'm making an announcement:

People of the world: Spice up your life.

Ahem. Not sure what came over me. Let me try again:

Tweezing women of the world: Your girlscaping is perfectly fine, but leave a realistic eyebrow. Provided you don't look like Bert, nobody will complain.

That is all.

- Scott

A Meteoric Rise

I'm sure you all remember my earlier work in mass media. I was an actor portraying myself in a commercial for Robert Morris College. A humble beginning, but you've got to start somewhere. Although I wanted something better I had no idea that my next job would be the lead in a major motion picture. That's right. Re-read that sentence.

I was writing about the movie Eragon, at the time I thought the trailer was a little hokey. Hell, based on the trailer they could have called it the Neverending Story Vol. 3. But while writing a post tearing it apart I was advised by my agent to stop immediately. Because it came to my attention that I can't make fun of the movie or its any of its inaccuracies because I am actually in the titular role. That's right. I'm playing Eragon.

It happened suddenly, I auditioned, I got the part, they filmed it. You'd think I would remember filming a movie, but as my agent reminded me I was heavily drugged most of the time because I wouldn't agree to sign the NDA. I wanted to blog about it. So they kept slipping me roofies and making me act. It turns out that's what I did with those missing seven months from graduation to grad school.

Kidnapping or not, it was a great experience and I learned a lot (I think). The studio really took care of me. I mean, I even have headshots and everything.

Damn, I'm good looking. I tried to do something with my hair, but they liked it better the way it looks when I just get up from a drug induced stupor. Give the people what they want I say. Especially when they have an army of PA's coercing your conformity.


My facial expression in this scene is directly taken from one I use when brushing my teeth. In fact, I 've taken to shouting 'Brisingr!' when I do. It burns the germs; they don't like it.

So come out and see me on December 15th. I'll be the guy at the theater who looks exactly like the guy on the screen. It'll be hard to miss. I don't know if they'll let me take my bow in, and my leather vest thing is a bit... we'll say "fopish." But I promise to let you pet my dragon (ladies only), and I'll sign things. Maybe even for free.

I'll leave you with a moment of Zen: the fantasticly good, not at all cheesy, wonderfully acted Eragon trailer. Enjoy.

- Scott

I usually don't do this kind of thing...

But I'm making an exception. Enjoy:

Props to Nessa for this.

- Scott

Braff Folds Five

Ok, last week featured an overly long explanation of the Top Five/Bottom Five. This week will be twice as succinct. Or half as long. Come to think of it, I could cut that last sentence... and this one.

Top Five:
1.) This man is an inspiration. He didn't go to college. He worked a job, made money. Saved it. Then spent it all on his world wide wanderlust. Somebody saw the original video, then paid him to repeat the feat with better cameras... and they'd finance it. So he went, what you see is the result. For someone who is considering venturing into the real world once and for all... it's a comfort to see someone else who's just as ridiculous as me.
2.) Seen Garden State? Seen the trailer for The Last Kiss? Know who Zach Braff is? Read this. Love it.
3.) My very educated mother just spelled umlauts, nerd. It just doesn't make sense without Pluto.
4.) Debating what a song means? Check this site. I'm semi-addicted.
5.) Self explanatory.

Bottom Five:
1.) What the crap, Apple?
2.) See #1
3.) Most self-righteous, self-important, annoying people to walk the earth.
4.) Who assigned it? A journalist.
5.) Friends are great, but Battlestar Galactica season premiers happen but once a season.

- Scott

You make me wanna... well, hit you both actually.

Today marks an event of historical note. Never before in the history of the Wonder Blog ®, or Crush of the Week™, have two people been simultaneously featured (with the exception of Rosario Dawson being in the same picture as Scarlett Johansson. But that was because I couldn't bring myself to prominently display that harpy without something to redeem the photo.)

But I just stumbled upon these pictures and it must be done. I've considered both of these... *grudging use of the term* women... before and they both are squarely in the realm of anti-crushes. However I had no pressing reason to post about them, no straw to break this camel's back, no photo to damn them in the eyes of my readers. Not until now. Without further meaningless typing:

Anti-Crush of the Week!

Name(s): Jessica and *heavy sigh* Ashlee Simpson. What a ridiculous spelling of a simple name. I bet they let Jessica name her.

(A few of the) Reasons they've earned my contempt: Well let's start with the obvious. Jessica is a moron. I've heard it spun seventeen ways that it's just her image and she's being ditzy all the way to the bank but let's not kid ourselves, if she could pull that off she wouldn't have had 80% of her role in Dukes of Hazzard cut out. She's a perfect example of a character that put all their attribute points into appearance. INT, WIS, CHA? Nada. And ever since she left Nick, my tolerance for her has gone down faster than her father's eyes when she's wearing a tube top. (Cheap shot, but that guy creeps me out. Also he once said this.)

Now, my real gripe. Ashlee. Remember when you could glance at a picture of Ashlee Simpson and instantly recogonize her (if you answered no to this question, you're either a better person than I, foreign, or both). I do. Those were the halcyon days. But now? I have to flip through my mental rolodex of skinny, annoying female celebrities made generic by plastic surgery before I get even the slightest clue as to who I might be grimacing at (I really hate those types).

Me Bonus: This is a feature I like to use when explaining just why a girl is so great isn't enough. I have to show you. As far as anti-crushes it's hard to decide what to do with it because I really don't to put more of these vapid, ditsy girls on my site. This time it's just a picture to illustrate how thoroughly Ashlee's surgery ruined her appearence.

On the left: A person. On the right: The latest plastic toy to come off the press.


Once again. On the left: Who the hell is that? On the right: That girl who screwed up on SNL.

I wonder if she had to get a new driver's license picture. Seriously.

- Scott

DON'T FORGET!

Nuclear war starts tomorrow, so if you were going to... I don't know maybe pay some rent or tuition: don't. If you were saving your virginity for something... also don't. How do I know this? Well... I think we can trust Overseer Yisrayl Hawkins, don't you? He's from the AHOY*, the American House of Yahweh. When you're naming convention reminds people of a.) Pirates, b.) IHOP, you've set the stage for some entertaining commentary. If you don't believe me, take a look for yourself.

Now if you'll excuse the Overseer, he and Fred Phelps have to get back to ordering the assassinations of some homosexuals. And if they have time before the end of the world, they'll be going to a soldier's funeral with Thank God for IED's signs. And after that... maybe some grab ass.

- Scott

* Ok, so I gave them the name AHOY. But they'd use it if they had been clever enough to think of it themselves. So let's just pretend they do.

Yesterday: A Six Beer day. Today: A two post day.

Ok I'm about to literally run to work because I should have been there a half hour ago, but before I do that I want you to know that I intend to post today. A real post. Longer than this. Probably funnier as well. In the mean time you may enjoy my theme song.

White & Nerdy

It's scary how much of this song might apply to me.

- Scott

P.S. Lyrics in comments.

*ahem* CRUSH OF THE WEEK!

After a long hiatus, and an even longer period of not wanting to do this particular segment, I've decided to get back in the game. It's only lust after all, and as some of you choose to believe (to make yourselves feel better I suppose) I probably won't be sleeping with most of these women. Let's get down to business shall we?

My Crush ' o the Week
(seriously, she just gets one week)

Name: Kimberly "Alexis" Bledel

Why she's crush worthy: First of all, I have to give props to a girl who masquerades as Alexis when her first name is Kimberly. I know that pain. I've overcome a similar hardship; my first name is Harry. You're forever explaining the origin of that name, why you're called something else, if you mind being called the other name, and what you think of your "real" name. However it's rare that a person can be forced to do that dance with each new aquaintence and remain so ridiculously good looking. In fact I only know of two examples, and I'm the other one.

All of this is not to mention her acting on the Gilmore Girls. If I could choose any girl from any book, film, or TV show to date there is no doubt in my mind it'd be Rory Gilmore. In fact, I'm sure if it ever comes up I'll have answered before the question is even finished*. Even if they follow up "but first, you have to sleep with Delta Burke." For Rory? I'd take the hit. Alexis was also charming in Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. (Yes I watched it. Twice.) And she manages to make the movie tolerable.

Finally, she just seems clean. All the time. It could be her complexion, her demeanor, whatever. But (though we haven't met yet), I bet she always smells good. Mariah Carey, for whatever reason, I'd bet she smells like sourdough. And hooker perfume. Scarlett Johanson? Like old milk. Alexis Bledel? Really, really good. Nothing overpowering, just a hint of flowers. Something light. Something that draws you in closer. Ah she's lovely.

Scott Bonus: I was going to embed the video of her in the video for the (almost insufferable) Less Than Jake song "She's gonna break." However, I can't friggin' stand Less Than Jake anymore. Yes things are different from how they were when you were in high school. I'm glad you could eek out five albums on that concept.

So instead you get to watch this lovely interview on Conan. She's even charming when she's doing whorish product placement for Wendy's... which incidentally worked. So I'm off to get tasty 99¢ Five Piece Chicken Nuggets. Enjoy your video.

- Scott

Top Five Records

...was the name of Rob Gordon's record company in High Fidellity. It's also a good reference for the several records that have been set by my top five section. The most recent addition to the hit parade of touted top five/bottom five records is the longest non-updated list. I hope you really enjoyed the screaming PS3 nerd, Wes Anderson's commercial, scorpion venom, county jail beauty contests and extremely high bridge trolls, because you had a good eight weeks of them.

Now we're back in business, and I'm adding a post to the affair. I've always wanted to better explain my pithy little links, and that's what this segment will do from now on (bonus, I already have a half finished Crush o' the Week lined up for tommrow's posting). So here goes, I'ma explain you why I picked h'waht I picked.

Top Five:

1.) Grad students met up for some drinks, comiseration, and sneering disaprovingly at undergrads. Since we don't know each other that well yet it was reminiscent of the early episodes in a reality show. In a related story, I sometimes worry greatly about the way I perceive the world, but I can't right now because I'm working out who the strongest person to enter into an alliance with would be.

2.) and also 3.) Grad students are, apparently, to expect lots of reading. Sure there's a payoff at the end, but before that we get to deal with looooooong passages of rambling, but erudite descriptions of the state of the media, the horrors of splitting infinitives, and how much better things were before bloggers (Yo.) came along. However you get fun reading. It's long but you should enjoy it. Two is quite possibly the scariest internet story ever told, and Three is a more comical runner up.

4.) "I don't care about The Prime Directive; we gotta go beyond Warp Factor 9 to Warp Factor: Love." If that doesn't sell you on it, there's hilarious nerd dancing as well.

5.) More nerd video editing fun. Just watch it.

Bottom Five:

1.) Self explanitory. Also, my bad.
2.) Goodspeed good Croc Hunter.
3.) Incidentally, the footwear by the name Croc has incured my wrath. They're the only shoe that can go anywhere, do anything, and be completely unacceptable all the while. Sure they're the finest in dish-washable footwear, but they're the worst foot accessory since Jellies.
4.) Girlfriend's 21st birthday, I couldn't feel my NECK. Though my aim was impeccable when the time came.
5.) Seriously, it's just tacky.

- Scott

Incidentally 4 out of 5 dentists recommend this blog.

When I was doing the photo tour of my apartment I noticed something. Those damned garlic chips were still with me. As a guy who prides himself on being appealing to all senses (even your sense of balance) this vampire slaying garlic breath could not be allowed to continue. So when I got to the bathroom, I brushed my teeth, Listerine'd, etc. And I noticed something. How I'd over looked it for so long I've no idea, but the truth of it hit me like a sucker punch from grandma.

What I noticed was this: when I brush my teeth, I look like I'm trying to get the plaque out of my mouth by sheer intimidation. Unfortunately I didn't get any pictures of the original event. But, with your indulgence, here is a reenaction of the event mere moments after it happened. No names, faces*, or toothbrushes were changed.

Here we have a look that says "Look out for me Aquafresh. I killed the Crest Sparkle; he failed me."

Hot bi(cuspid) action. Oh, and an expression of warrior's rage.

I used to have an electric, but I kept biting off the end of it. The free ones from the dentist are much more durable.

And there you have it. One disclaimer: the above was inappropriate for small children. You had them in the room and they saw it? Yeah, they'll probably never brush again. Great parenting.

- Scott

Chez Awesome.

Gaaah! Holy God! Sweet Living Zeus! Apparently the powers that be at the fair University of Illinois Master's Journalism program are very fond of imposing on me (in the words of Senator Ted Stevens) "enromous amounts of material, enormous amounts of material." Sorry for not posting (though not as much as I usually am), I've been swamped with things to do. And after a seven month semi-hibernation period... let's just say that it's going to take more than a double shot espresso to get me going.

However being in action is where I thrive and I've quickly worked my way to the top. Sweet apartment: check. Hot girlfriend: check. Free time for various large-university shenanigans: a qualified check. You've already seen the girlfriend (in fact, some of you are even clammoring for me to take that picture down). You're aquainted with my shenanigans. What you've all been missing out on is the apartment.

Huzzah for old things.

Here we have the very sweet old timey intercom system, and the very useful wall mounted platform where my change, wallet, phone, and pen (Pilot G2-07, all I ever use) get dropped when I breeze in the door.

Three remotes for one T.V. ...the age we live in.

Here's my living room. There's more of it, but that happens to be where I'm standing to take this picture. And at the time, was filled with boxes. Not the most photogenic material, cardboard. Is that a Ghostbusters poster you ask? Why, yes. Yes it is.

A room with a (voyeuristic) view.

Here's the bedroom. I like to sleep with the blinds open. People like to watch me. It's a symbiotic arrangement. But the bedroom itself is pretty spartan; the sole luxuries being the heater, large windows, big closet, fan, night stand, clock radio/CD player, and awesome Ghostbusters comforter. The Ghostbusters bedspread has been with me since I was three. Usually it's flipped over, but for the sake of those who thought it was too funny to hide... there it is. Laid bare.

Somewhere a Mexican Restaurant is making do with two chairs on one side of a booth.

I "procured" that sweet red booth from a Jerseyville Mexican Restaurant. Allegedly the intent was not to discard the benches, but simply put them out behind the building. Seeing them, I immeadiately borrowed my dad's truck and it has moved with me from apartment to apartment ever since.

Dinner for the health conscious.

One more of the kitchen. Meg and I were about to take off for the night, but realized that without food in our bodies the things alcohol was likely to do to us would be at best unplesant. Working from my vast array of foods, seasonings, and cooking supplies Meg managed to whip up a peanut butter and banana feast. "This is pretty much what a four year old would have for dinner," she laughed. Yeah, if that four year old is livin' hard.

More voyeurism. Crowds have begun to gather in the mornings and just before I go to sleep.

This is actually something I've always wanted. A window in the shower. I'm not sure it would be obvious unless I mentioned it, but here you have the view from my shower. Literally. I turn around and this is what I see. And since my apartment is about a block off the Quad, there are always people walking past. It's a good time.

The War Room.

From now on, this is where you'll find me cooking up diabolical schemes (and the odd blog posting). ...To be fair it's a lot more menacing when the overhead light is off.

See? Slightly more Batcave-esque.

There's one more feature of the apartment. I don't think it's expressable with mere pictures however. So, for the first time in the history of the Wonder Blog (sort of) you get a video. It would have been a really great one. I think there was take that was really solid. Unfortunately that one take was split over about five seperate videos. And I'm far too lazy to splice them together. So since whatever you were going to watch would be riddled with errors, and all of them expressed the main idea anyway, you get the best outtake reel of them all. Enjoy.

WE'VE GOT MOVIE SIGN!

And that's where I've been lately. If you're ever in Chambanna feel free to stop by.

- Scott

P.S. If you'd like to see a slightly better one, digg this version.

Snakes at the Theater

Ok, this is going to be quick and dirty. But I know my audience and several of you like it that way. At least where reading is concerned. I just got back from the first showing of Snakes on a Plane. And I have this to say: It was phenomonal.

I don't say this in the sense that our extravagantly (rotund) over the top (...and around the sides) theater director used to. But in the "causing a phenomonon" sense. It was unlike any movie experience I've ever been a part of. This must have been what the original screening of the Rocky Horror Picture Show was like... if it was highly anticipated for a year and a half by a rabid fan community.

Walking into the theater, I was giddy with anticipation. The film was showing (as it seems all new films do these days) the day before its official release date, but instead of starting at midnight they bumped it up to 10:00. Presumably to lure a few more people who would otherwise not be there. Steve's frat brother Rob said as we walked in "We could go see WTC." Which was met with disapproval on several levels. "Nah, we're going to see a different plane tragedy. A funny one." (I doubt I'll ever bother with WTC, both because I have no desire to spend $10.00 and two hours of my life on hero porn and because Nicolas Cage tends to annoy me.)

The energy inside was more palpable, more electric than at any event I've ever been to. Sporting events, concerts, religous experiences (and it nearly was one)... they all pale in compairson to the gathering of internet people at the 10:00 Snakes on a Plane in Champaign. They even came in costumes. One guy dressed in a suit and skullcap/goggles. I complimented his ridiculous outfit (as I too have felt the sheer joy that comes with dressing up for a movie) and asked about his 1930's pilot's goggles. He shrugged and explained that he didn't have any real pilot hat. "That's ok," I said, "it's kind of a Snakes on a Bi-plane thing." "The Prequel" Rob added. Such repartee went on all night. We waited anxiously for the movie to start.

And when it did, it did not dissapoint. It was somewhat formulaic early on; i.e. it conforms to the horror movie standard of people not getting killed until they are:

a.) doing drugs
b.) having sex
c.) black
d.) all of the above

But it picked up fast. Every line regarding snakes is going to get laugh as they are all as contrived and ridiculous as the actors could possibly manage. The witness (whom the plot centers on) could not act his way into a community theater production of Grease which makes for hilarious interactions between him and the rest of the cast.

One last piece of good news before I crash for the night and seriously consider revising this post tomorrow: I can assure you this; the line "I'm tired of these MOTHA FUCKIN' snakes on this MOTHA FUCKIN' plane," is on the list.

And cries of joy rang out when it was uttered.

- Scott

P.S. One note, it's just slightly more vicious than I'd like. A few completely unnecessary acts and deaths. So if you were going to go see it, I'd encourage you to. But if not, maybe I'd warn you off it.

A Secret Cabal.

I've often thought that a sufficiently intelligent film maker would just steal from the sheer comedic gold mines that are the Wonder Blog, Not All Who Wander Are Lost, and Rob's Space. I sometimes assumed it would be our very selves a few years down the road when we've become firmly engrained in the public consious as some of the funniest, most attractive, and therefore best people around. However the powers that be have decided that they will cull their rancid harvest from the seeds of comedic genius that grow in our young, fertile ruminations. Specifically this abomination:

I'll spare you if you don't want to watch it.

Synopsis: Robin Williams plays a fake news anchor (basically Jon Stewart) who runs for president as a ratings stunt... and wins.

Now if this seems a mite familiar take a gander at this post from October 2004 over on Tim's blog. Here it is edited to the relevant points:

10.21.2004

Celebration station

Some quick props must be thrown out tonight.

[...]

Props to Jon Stewart for yelling at the stupid people who host Crossfire. If you haven't seen the video or read the transcript yet, I highly recommend it. It's hilarious and he makes some excellent points.

[...]

3 Comments:

Scotty 2 Hotty said...

Damn, I meant to make my next post on Jon Stewart and his solid performance on Crossfire. Oh well, at least it's out there. He was right on through and through. Everytime Jon makes a serious speech he's always insightful, clever, and most importantly honest. We should start electing comedians to public office. Just not Robin Williams, I don't want an improvised 5 1/2 hour State of the Union delivered by a guy in a tuxedo and converse all stars. Robin's ok in small doses. Or when he's doing standup. Other than that...yeah.* - Scott

1:11 PM

Timmy Tapeworm said...

[...]

Scott - I just imagined that improvised State of the Union. After regaining consciousness, I'd have to agree that I would not want to see that ever.* Seeing him on Inside the Actor's Studio is bad enough. And as far as comedians being elected go...I'm voting for a reteaming of Fey/Fallon for President in 2008. And you better believe Tina Fey is going for President. Rroww...

3:52 PM

The message is clear; Hollywood is stealing from us. And we demand a cut (even if it's an abomination like this one.)

- Scott

*Emphasis added.

Confessions of a Terrorist

I was recently driving (well, riding) to a Reel Big Fish concert in St. Louis when our meandering SUV passed a billboard that caught everyone's attention: Confessions of a Terrorist, the sign cryptically stated along with a picture of a stereotypical Arab man, dark eyes peering from beneath his be-kaffiyeh'd head. At the bottom there was a phone number. That was it.

And it. was. hilarious. Not in and of itself. No, not really. But when I started thinking about what kind of things you might hear if you called the number, I nearly wet myself. With your indulgence, I flesh out my one-off gag below:

A pre-recorded stock introduction picks up on the second ring and begins speaking.

A Very Serious, Thick Arabic Accent: Hello, infidel. You have reached the Confessions of a Terrorist audioblog! Stand by for today's confession.

The same voice, though using a much more frivolous tone (bordering on effeminate) then says:

Wednesday, August 2nd.
O.K. Today I was so going to go work out, but Allah be praised, a MacGyver Marathon came on and I spent all day just eating Häagen-Dazs (I'm so bad!) and wishing I could do that stuff. With the ball point pen... suddenly a gun!

*BEEP*

Friday, August 4th.
Todays' is a secret from everyone but my family. Or at least, it has been ever since that acursed day, November 11th, 1992 when the lie told by the animators of the corrupt Western media (may their hands be chopped off) forever linked my name to a lowly, if adorable, monkey! He and his tiny carboosh can go to hell! Damn you Aladdin! Damn you Disney! My name is Abu! And I'm sick of hiding it. It was that day I put a jihad on Disney! I say to them, a shoe is on your head! ...That doesn't translate very well. But it's bad. Trust me.

*BEEP*

Monday, August 7th.
(Poor Dr. Nick impression, laced with heavy Arabic accenting) "hhhHi everybohdy!" Didn't I sound just like him? Today I have a good confession, lots of times when I'm shooting at the planes of the Great Satan, I'm really thinking "This desert air does no favors for my skin." It's horrible, but that's where my head is. Sometimes I think, are they really that much of a "Great" Satan? Sure they're pretty bad, but sometimes I feel like there's a better Satan I could be campaigning against. Anyway, like I was saying, I moisturize like like the Dickens, believe me people talk about all the lotion I go through, but still I crack! It's horrible.

Monday Bonus Confession!!! In my cell we like to call each other "peeps". Like "Hey I need my peeps to help me move this damned huge crate of Sixteen Candles DVD's." It's touches like that that really bring a jihad together.

And... scene.

- Scott

Quick Post

Sorry to be so flighty with the posts lately. Things in the wide world of Scott have been a bit hectic recently. In addition, my brother's computer overheated and will no longer tolerate his large-and-in-charge video card. So I had to give him mine to quell his whining about not being able to play Counterstrike. I recommend everyone experience an online Counterstrike game once in their lives so you can fully understand how awful fetal alcohol syndrome is and what kinds of "adults" it produces.

Anyway I realize that I'm leaving a void in your lives. Nessa can't live without my pithy and well written "Crush o' the Week" or scathing, merciless, and cleverly named "Anti-crush of the Week". Both of which are returning within the month (probably this week actually.) And that's just one example. Several of you are no doubt yearning for a sidebar update. Yearn no more fair readers! I've a truckload of links, praise worthy individuals and villians (for the bottom five) to dump on you. I'm also spending time writing and editing a post I like to call "The Greatest Story Ever Told" it involves theft... from a zoo. I'll not say more here.

But in the mean time I think you could all use a little Scott fix. So I'll provide it:

1. This song. (Direct MP3 link.) It's the rock cover of the Katamari Damacy theme song. And it is the best thing for your ears since the Q-tip. I've said it before, and I'm sure I'll say it again, but a Japanese man singing "NA-na-na-nah-na-na-na-nah Katamari Damashiiii" to a backdrop of wild J-Pop just... completes me. How it relates to the Scott Fix: the sheer, madcap energy.
   
2. Rob and Elliot. (Link to Scott-esque panel.) The character Rob is occasionally says/does something very much in line with my general demeanor. In the below example it's almost exactly the kind of thing I sometimes say that makes Jake so frusterated. (Well that, and when I make intentional errors like saying "para-diggem" and statements like "Picasso? That chump peaked with Starry Night.") Also we're both good lookin' blonde men.
   

And there you have it. Some Scotty-goodness for your otherwise bleak Monday. You're welcome.

- Scott

What's in a name?

Hey kids, I was a posting dynamo Thursday. If you'd rather believe I've was posting like that all week, feel free. Piece-meal it out in your head so it works out to one a day. Maybe even read them that way. I'll just go ahead and apologize in advance to Rowela.

Anyway sorry about not posting for so long, I've been greatly distracted, which is partially explained below, but what really threw me off was the hunt for a laptop. I needed one, and so went off on an epic quest to procure the perfect lappy. I finally found it in an HP. (The HP dv8327us if you're curious.) I researched it, price compared it, and fell deeply in love with it.

I brought my new beautiful bundle of joy home with me and christened it with a name: Laika*. It turned out to be an ill omen, for like it's namesake the laptop soared briefly... then promptly and unexpectedly experienced catastrophic death. So I did what any lazy HP customer would do: called India. As it turns out you can pretty much just dial any Indian phone number, a friendly technician will answer and give you a false name. It'd be more fun if we got to make up names for them, but that's neither here nor there.

So talking to my new friend Hadji, no doubt sporting a fine Nehru jacket as we chatted about my dilemma, I was guided through the ardous process of testing every mundane thing that might have caused my problem (no drives useable except a small portion of the C:\ drive). I even took the bastard apart, saw that my drives were present, reseated them, and reinstalled Windows. Nada. Best of all Hadji had taken his leave faster than you could say "sim sim salabim" and I was left to my own devices.

Fortunately I knew what to do. When I reinstalled Windows I had the opportunity to rechristen the laptop Sputnik**. And from there on out it worked perfectly. Sort of. I actually put my Computer (Super) Science degree to use and fixed the problem myself in about five mintues. But I think it was because I had given it a name that couldn't fail. As a bonus it also scares Americans in the 1950's.

A final P.S. to this story is that the next day (as per my arrangement with the young Sultan of Bangalore) HP Tech Support called me back to ask if any of their solutions worked and I got to explain to them how to fix it. Apparently it had been a recurring problem. Fixed. By me. We're currently in talks to put me in a commercial.

- Scott

* Because it's going into new computing territory.
** Because it's the first satellite of my mother station (desktop computer).

Horton Hears a Hookah

My brother and I don't usually get along very well. Most people don't pick up on that. (Those who have seen it come to blows, excluded.) I think the reason we're so covert about our squabbles is that they're pretty entertaining to watch, like this one from two nights ago in the kitchen.

Scott: "I do keep a few items of clothing out of centimental value, but I am not a pack rat"

Ross:"Yeah, like your scouts shirt."

Scott:"Yea... how do you know about that"

Ross:"Because I wore it. And sorry man, but I ripped it. Just a little too small you know. Me and Katie like to role play. She was the scout master I was the scout."

Scott:"What a shame you didn't have enough rope for her to do any tricks."

And the other people in the kitchen thought it was funny, just some harmless sibling banter. What they don't know is that the bastard really does take things and use them, often destroying them. I don't say this so you can marvel at how tolerant I am not to have smothered him in his sleep at the earliest opportunity, but so you can understand the context of our getting along yesterday. It was like that Christmas Eve in World War I when the Germans and British stopped shooting at each other, shook hands, and sang carols. Of exactly the same magnitude.

My brother, scamp that he is, had purchased a hookah pipe/bong and while we were getting along we had every intention to spark that thing. Thinking ahead we decided to go out back so the entire house didn't smell like flavored tobacco. Sitting on the back porch in the shade we lit the charcoal atop the foil screen, allowed the sisha tobacco to start to smoke, and passed that toke back and forth for about ten minutes.

Our veritable peace pipe.

For whatever reason we were having a really good time. Taking a hit, blowing deformed smoke rings, and passing it back to the other. We happened to be laughing pretty loudly at some of the ridiculous banter we had going just as our elderly neighbor came out onto her porch. Ross saw her, I only heard her. Apparently she steped out onto her deck, saw the two of us laughing hysterically and taking hits from a bong like device, contorted her face into utter shock (Ross's report) gasped audibly (from roughly 150 yards away) and slammed her door as she huffed back inside.

If we were laughing before that point, afterwards I was in pain because I just couldn't laugh hard enough. It's moments like those that make getting along with a sibling worthwhile. Hell, it even justified the expense and difficulty of hookah smoking. In short, the key to bridging the divde between yourself and your siblings is illicit seeming substances and the distain of the elderly.

- Scott

The Venture Brothers

Apologies for the long time between posts, but recently much of my time has been spent in preparation for grad school. Ok. That's a blatant lie. Except for the breif phone interview today for my assistantship (which I aced) I haven't really been doing much besides spending time with friends and watching the Venture Brothers. At the moment the latter makes for better posting material.

The Venture Brothers, in short, is basically what you would get if Johnny Quest (and crew) were morons. The titular characters, Hank and Dean, have been accurately described as 'idiot Hardy boys.' Couple that with some of the best parody work I've seen and you've got yourself a hum dinger of a series. Take a look at the intro from the second episode of the new season "Hate Floats." I laughed pretty heartily watching 21 go through his "Mars the Bringer of War" spiel... mostly because I've caught myself doing the same thing from time to time. Usually when I'm getting dressed.

It's alaming, but I see more and more of myself in The Monarch with each passing episode. Perhaps not me, per se, but who I'd be if I were a supervillian. Anyway feel free to enjoy the entire episode, it's all there on YouTube. In fact, this post wouldn't have taken so damned long if I hadn't stopped halfway through to watch the entire episode. I've got some more posts to crank out today in pennance for my week long absence, but right now all I want to do is become a costumed henchman. C'est la vie... Now on to less wistful matters.

- Scott

P.S. If you're wondering why their I.D.'s are burned up, you should watch this short explanatory clip.

Vengence is mine sayeth the sticker.

I'm not a generally vengeful person. In fact at times I've been known to shrug off the kinds of things people fully expect me to exact retribution for. In my mind it's all just a big game of sorts. No sense in getting angry over too much (though there are certain exceptions). In fact, one such exception is parking. I can't stand it when people park their cars like a-holes. And I always get even.

For instance, take a look at this site. All of these people deserve to know that they park like idiots. The guy I nailed below perhaps didn't. Rob at least contests that the issue was more with my car's ability to turn. However he crossed me at just the wrong time, and so he got his. And he was crowding the remaining spot. Would it have killed him to straighten his hoopty so that I could actually walk around the back of my car without getting pinched between the two?

The word I would use to describe such an act is "liberating".

I was nice enough to blur the guy's license plate. There's really no need for anyone else to take issue with him. I looked in his car and wondered what I could do to him that life hasn't already. Then I remembered I had a very convienent bumpersticker in my glovebox. I suggest everyone purchases a few. They've changed my life.

But that's just one (sexy, marvelous, resplendant) man's opinion.

- Scott