The following questions were posed to me by one Vomit_Maggots. If you would like me to pose questions to you, feel free to beg.
1. You meet someone, maybe on the internet, maybe in real life, and you hang out some. Maybe even make out some. Then blammo, Ignore City. You're feeling a little played by it. What's your next move?
Oh, that's a good one. What would I do? Would I not surmise that I was being ignored until a week and two voice mails later? Or would I plug the domain name part of his email address into the trusty ol' IE, glean his home address from the contact page, and drive two hours to his house -- where, quiet as a kitten, I would sneak into his bedroom while he slumbered, pull back the covers, then proceed to draw dotted lines with a bright red marker across each of his toes........ The next morning when he awoke, the words "Look Down" would glare from his chest in the bathroom mirror. Dumbfounded, he would look down, seeing the marks at the base of each toe, with a note on his feet, "Ten little indians almost ran off in the night - better call me, fucker."
That's what I would do.
Oh, wait. Nope. I'd be smarting a week later when I realized I'd been hoodwinked.
2. I have just hit you with some Priori Incantatem action. What comes out of your wand?
The two part Hoodoo whammy I put on the neighbors. One part pairs of Most Sensitive Eardrum Sets for all off them, and one part army of trained monkey cymbal players.
3. You are at Horror Find, and Bruce Campbell wants to hook up. You go to his room, but he gets so wasted he passes out. You are still awake. What do you do?
In this situation, I don't feel that stripping a passed out person's body then placing it in compromising positions specifically for photo opportunity would be immoral. Afterall, no one would believe me otherwise.
But I would not sell the photos. Maybe a trip to Office Max for a few poster prints -- but definitely no selling.
Also, um... I might squeeze his cheeks around to make his lips look like they were speaking, while doing a horrible attempt at ventriloquism.
4. I have used a variation on this before, but deal with it: you are given charge to re-write one book. What do you choose, and how would you do it?
Aw, geez. I saw your other version of this -- the "which movie would you redo". And I thought to myself, "SECONDS!!!!" So of course you go and ask me about a book.
I generally have a problem with endings. There are so many novels that have had me tightly in their grasp then inadvertently dropped me into a filthy pit with their ill-conceived ending... but rather than change any ending, I'd have to go with the book that roused my enthusiasm most (prior to reading). That is... ugh, now I can't even think of the name. Was it "Black House"? The sequel to "Talisman"?
I'd rework the WHOLE DAMNED THING.
For starters, it would have *something* to do with the first book. Secondly, it wouldn't Hoover my ass.
5. Are you going to do Nano with me this year, like, for real?
"Hey, Angela, there's this awesome writing challenge we can do. You write 50,000 words in one month! It's the end of October, so I figured we can do it in December."
(Cut to three days later) "Uh, Paul, this writing challenge is for the month of November. Period. No December about it. That's a day from now."
Since I have adequate notification on this year's, I will be typing my fingers bloody with you all of November. I pro-mise. You see that? Pro-mise.
I saw a news clip this morning which revealed that Ricky Martin likes to give golden showers.
Oh, my. There's something I wish I could erase from my brain. So now, whenever I pass one of his "songs" on the radio, there will be a groan in my belly and visions of urine-drenched groupies dancing in my head. Are such revelations really necessary?
And oh my God...
I miss Buffy.
Mon, Jan. 9th, 2006, 07:36 am
**I will be diligent to give vague references rather than direct spoilers*
However, from the point when the hero is besieged to the ending is fabulously done. And that's an understatement. The other two-thirds I had some issue with.
One of the things I liked about Cabin Fever was the sense of what was to come. Sure, the pace wasn't consistent, a barrel-full of cliches, and sometimes the wavering between horror and horror-comedy was a bit off -- but it was fun, I definitely enjoyed myself. An enormous plus was that it ended with an anxious look to a future of even better things from Mr Roth.
While I'm glad he didn't rehash Fever, I miss the gory humor. The standard for cinematic gore, to me, somewhat coincides with the proverbial rule list for a new actress showing her nude body. If it's important to the script, heightens the intensity, the character deserves it, the director figured out a way to make blood geyser from a wall -- which would look really cool, or it's over the top, or simply done in an intentionally cheesy/funny/or a cheer-rousing manner, then gore is good. By the bucket load.
The first two-thirds is interspersed with both intensity-raising gore (good) and brutal for the sake of being brutal (bad). Pity is, sometimes they were nearly hand-in-hand. There are brilliant shots -- particularly, a slow pan of wince-some instruments amid a backdrop of gut-wrenching wails -- that immediately detour into... oh, what's the word... ah, yes, "Hardcore" mini-travesties.
Another problem I had, and I cannot believe I'm saying this, was the sheer volume of bare breasts. As vaguely as is humanly possible: the bare breasts are an important aspect to the second third of the film. However, there are so many breasts before that point, the reasoning behind the characters embarking towards the second third is pretty freaking muddled. Where a viewer should've been able to say, "OOOOOH! Well, YEAH, I totally understand the urge to follow bare breasts wherever they go," I was instead thinking, "Wow. The actresses in Eastern Europe must be pretty liberal."
But the biggest problem was the title. If I go to see a horror film entitled, "The Outhouse", I kinda guess that the gritty is going to transpire at The Outhouse. So the whole time the cast is in The Bedroom, or on The Road, or Fucking in the Wilderness, I'm all about them getting to The Outhouse. This film was called The Hostel. They're on a train, in a club -- and my brain was, "Are they there yet? Are they there yet?"
Inevitably, once they got there, it wasn't nearly as shocking as it could have been, since the anticipation had been overwhelming from the get-go. The great plot was, I think, hindered by this anticipation factor. If the entire film had taken place at the hostel, then the title would be understandable. As is, it's a spoiler.
-- There is (I mean, it CAN'T be anything but this) a delicious reference to Better Off Dead. Yay!
-- Hoffman stole the show.
I don't have a rating scale, but I will surely see it again :)
Mon, Dec. 19th, 2005, 06:47 am
Kill the Poor
I feel greedy whenever I look at my new(er) car. Its deep green paint wasn't available in the late 70's nor '91, so the car sits, polished and rustless, like a diamond in a rough driveway previously cursed with anachronisms.
There is more than a fragment of my brain that craves for everything to be so pretty. Wood floors that gleam in the sunshine, tile in the bathroom that looks like tile -- not because I took extra care in peeling off the self-adhesive protection and then arranging each of the cheapest nice-looking linoleum squares -- but because the ceramic boasts its realness from between the lines of mortar with an awesomely sparkling shine.
I want bookcases instead of book piles, bills paid instead of bills due, waking up chipper rather than these mornings full of groans.
I would sell a part of my liver, but would I sell my soul?
Somehow, I believe I have managed to break a carpal or two. Leading me to reflect upon previous encounters with broken bones:
1 -- I was standing on a swing, when the school bell rang. My foot reached down to the pavement, and then something happened. Maybe there was a knot in the swing's chain that suddenly righted itself, or someone gave the swing a push -- all I recall is the horrible snapping that sounded from my ankle as my body did a 180, and my foot remain glued, in place, to the asphalt.
Ended up limping home in shock. Only to be further shocked when my father felt no medical attention was required. For the next ten hours I watched my ankle form into a blackened purple melon while he tiraded on about how whiny I was for not "walking it off".
Then my mother came home.
Horrified at the sight of it, she asked what the doctors had said about my ankle. My father then explained, in his high-handed manner, that "only sprains swell". Causing my mother to decree the following, "You are going to take her to the doctor -- and you're going to HOPE it's not broken, or so help me, yours will be when you return."
No one can quite put a man in his place like an irrate mother.
2 -- Index and ring finger broken, middle finger severely stubbed.
Apparently, I'm not very good at making friends on a basketball team.
The entirety of the team encircled me. Someone said something snotty... so I said a whole hell of a lot of snotty things back. Then someone threw a basketball at me as hard as they could. In that split second, I thought it'd be too cool if I made a crisp catch. Turns out, I'm not very adept at catching basketballs, either.
The scene boiled to me knocking the pitcher to the ground and kicking her (well, I couldn't make a fist). Her friend ran at me from behind, and I swung a knuckle sandwich in her direction. The fact that I hadn't gotten my glasses yet enters in here, because I was aiming for her nose, but connected with her throat.
I cannot even begin to repeat for you the godawful sounds a person makes when knuckled in the throat.
So.. my hand might hurt, but at least there's less drama.
There are a great many reasons why I luv my Sean.
Here's one of them:
Serenity is number two at the box office!
I figured it would hold it's own opening weekend, so I opted to see it this week (do my teeny part to help keep it up).
Sequels or a return to the series *crosses fingers and hopes really hard*
Sun, Oct. 2nd, 2005, 07:32 am
To be sure, there are a great many things in this world that I am not particularly fond of. Today I would award the coveted trophy of Most Acidic Irritant which Drains My Sanity to people who, when exiting a parking lot, don't realize that if they're making a left turn, there is NO REASON ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH that they have to pull out farther than I -- who is making a right turn.
Really. Since I'll be turning into the flow of traffic, I'll be exiting the lot first. So few seem to grasp this. I end up on the verge of turning when my view is suddenly blocked by some half wit babyfactory mismanuvering her Goliath of a van. If it were just a matter of a simple accident, that would be forgivable -- but that's not the case. These people are hellbent on being FIRST. First out of a parking lot. Perhaps I should pity them.
Other Points of Non-Interest:
-- Use the fucking ashtray. That would be the flippable apparatus located beneath the radio -- rather than the deer carcass-strewn ditches and my windshield.
-- Say, why not put your grocery cart in front of you? It's entirely possible, though not likely, that I might have pressing matters to attend to. Having to look at an empty cart that impedes me from loading the conveyer with my groceries while a person roots through their collection of outdated lotto tickets in search of their food stamp card, might just skew my important schedule.
-- So I live in a place where you pump the gas before you pay. Maybe I overlooked the fact that I was in a real city where you have to pay first. Maybe getting on the loudspeaker and tersely bellowing a humiliating explanation of the proper gas/pay procedure to me is overkill.
-- That duct tape wrapped around the severed remains of what used to be the handle is the best knob you're going to get, Mail Lady. Save yourself your little yellow fix-it slips and just damned well deal with it. You can bitch, but I didn't see a thank you note after I removed the hornet's nest. Typical.
They weren't zombies, truly; They were more the 28 Days Later, rabid sort of boogeymen.
I'm not sure how they were unleashed, how there was not even a smattering of whispers of them on the news before they had completely infiltrated ordinary life with their hunger ravenged brains and foaming mouths.
My mother and I were never ones to play in large groups, but it was soon evident that safety in numbers wasn't simply childhood rhetoric. After knocking out the deck steps, and reinforcing the glass door in the basement, our house made a quaint asylum from the infected, with its barely-windowed, cinderblocked first floor. We were quickly joined by various stragglers -- my father among them, because I just might be cursed. A sharp-shooter was also a prominent member... and that's where the trouble started.
I couldn't stand him.
And really, a sharp shooter? We're in a house, not a fucking watchtower. He hadn't shown any more prowess in dispatching the infected than any of the rest of us. Yet, incredibly, everyone was kissing his pompous ass. A skinny hillbilly with a long ass whine slapped on his every word, most likely in the hopes of conjuring some mystique to his sentences.
Things came to a head one day as the twit sat on the couch by my father. Win Dixie came to fancy carrying a mini-crossbow on his person at all times. We were arguing over some minor point, when a young woman who had recently made our acquaintance piped in her opinion that I really shouldn't argue with him -- as he was the only one consistently armed, he was our sole protector.
" -- with a CROSSBOW. He's armed, not even with a full size, but a MINIATURE CROSSBOW. Who kills zombies with a fucking CROSSBOW??" I howled.
And he shot me.
Snug as a bug on my own damned couch, the bastard pierced my ribcage with one of his pygmy-made arrows.
I lived, of course, if only out of the spite to prove my point. Days past and I silently mulled my options. On a food trip one day, I finally was granted revenge. He was on watch while I grabbed cans from a defunct store. Being the sly individual he wasn't, he neglected to disable the first, second and even third and fourth zombies who approached. Confusing his crossbow for a six-shooter, he made his stand little too late. His yells echoed the store, and although I instinctively ran to his aid, I stopped short of entering the melee. "You okay?" I asked, dumbly, as the infected began to close in on him.
"You fucking bitch, help me!" He bellowed.
"Oh! Sure thing!" I enthusiastically replied, as I set down my gun and began patting my body down as if trying to locate something... to apparently no avail, "damn. I can't find any arrows! Plum out! Sorry, buddy. Dumb fuckin' luck, huh?"
I told everyone he put up a valiant fight.
See, I did something nice. I should have a good day for being ultra-kind-woman in my dream.