I was lucky enough to hit record on a classic film the other day - Howard the Duck. A few days later I plopped in front of the televesion with my favorite microwave lasagna and zoomed through this gem. I remember that folks were really excited about this film. It was a George Lucas-produced piece which, coming off the heels of Return of the Jedi, was a big deal. It also featured Lea Thompson, who was incredible in Back to the Future.
Despite the catchy plot of "humanoid duck comes to Earth an befriends a punk rock chick," Howard the Duck was a bomb. It lost something like $21 million based on the domestic box office. The website Box Office Mojo suggests it broke even on the worldwide release - maybe foreign-language dubbing did something for the themes. Moreso this was a huge studio picture with a lot of names behind it that failed to deliver.
Personally, I thought the movie was great. I still think it's great. If for no other reason that there a numerous references and innuendo about the possibility of a male alien duck and a human woman having a sexual relationship. If Howard and Beverly had sealed the deal, the movie would habe been on the AFI top 100 list, guaranteed.
I think they should remake this movie. I read somewhere that Weird Science is being remade. If we are that bankrupt for new ideas, then Howard the Duck should should be at the top of development cycles.
Here's my updated cast list:
Voice of Howard: Zach Braff - this jerkoff needs a hit, big time. And he's already played an anthropomorphic dinner-bird in Chicken Little. Strangely enough, the cute-faced asshole's biggest hit was Chicken Little. Maybe the world isn't ready for Zach Braff's face.
Beverly Switzer: Anna Farris or Julia Stiles - we can debate this, most likely there is even a better choice. I'm imagining in this role an actress who thinks she's street, but has no collateral to back it up. However, the studio wants someone that can potentially open a movie.
Phil Blumburtt: Rainn Wilson - this is a no-brainer. Tim Robbins' costume design (especially the glasses) even looks like Rainn Wilson circa now. Maybe someone has a time machine. If so, they should go back in time and fire the executive who authorized Garden State.
Dr. Walter Jenning: Jeffrey Jones. He may be the only person who can play his roles; definitely a niche actor. Too bad he was arrested in 2003 for possession of child pornography. However, I do think Hollywood has the compassion to forgive that. My second choice for Dr. Jenning is Tom Sizemore.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Friday, September 28, 2007
International news
Here are a two of this week's (un)surprising articles. Feel free to stop after you get through the headlines and subheads.
FYI: I think writing newspaper headlines would be an incredible freelance career. The personal growth that one would get from writing such encaptioning phrases could be amazing. The pay is probably a mess, though.
Switched
BBC News
AP via Yahoo! News
FYI: I think writing newspaper headlines would be an incredible freelance career. The personal growth that one would get from writing such encaptioning phrases could be amazing. The pay is probably a mess, though.
Switched
BBC News
AP via Yahoo! News
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Sticks and oil
My friend Beard and I recently started dining at a fondue restaurant called Geja's. For some reason, even in my many years in Chicago, this establishment escaped my eating itinerary until recently. That's especially curious since it has a number of elements that I find particularly interesting: hot oil, skewers, meats, chocolate, onions, and an unhelpful waitstaff.
The last time we went to Geja's, our waiter was a cross between Danny DeVito and Tatu from Fantasy Island. He also sounded just like -- or was doing an impression of -- Truman Capote. I do have to give him credit, as he was able to put meat or veggies onto a skewer, dip them in cooking oil, stir the mix, and remove appropriately cooked food.
We were not able to come nearly as close.
At one point, while fishing for a potato in a vat of boiling oil, and simultaneously trying to remember if the cooking time for chicken was 2 or 3 minutes (it was 3), I realized that the table was too high. I couldn't get the proper angle to stir the pot effectively.
Beard was also having difficulty, too. We were a mess. I looked around the restaurant and no one else was even flinching. Apparently, they had either been instructed by someone who was willing to divulge a dipping secret OR we were monkeys in an experiment. At this point in our lives, calling us monkeys would be a compliment.
After ruining several skewers and eating some undercooked chicken, dessert came.
I LOVE DESSERT.
The chocolate fondue had a layer of alcohol on top that was lit on fire. We were given marshmallows and our waiter told us to cook them over the fire. Getting caught up in the moment, I interpreted his instructions as, "submerge the marshmallows in the chocolate with the alcohol-induced flame." This became a problem instantly, as the marshmallow caught on fire. Unfortunately, attempting to blow out the ignited marshmallow just spewed fire in Beard's direction. And in the direction of several other tables of people competently eating their dessert.
In addition to the ill-fated marshmallows, a couple of other dipping options were provided. Here's what doesn't taste good dipped in chocolate: chocolate covered pineapple; chocolate covered honeydew melon.
Finally, as oil seeped out of our pores and I lamented requesting additional pieces of pound cake (delicious), I flagged down the smartest looking waiter. He looked like Brian Bosworth, for those of you who remember "the Bos'."
I asked him if there were any stories of casualties or food mishaps and he got an idiot's grin and started nodding his head "yes."
He told us two stories:
1. Patrons sometimes think that the boiling oil is too hot and they pour ice water into it. If you've ever been in a chemistry lab OR a kitchen before, you know that oil and water don't mix. He said that when you pour ice water into boiling oil, the oil shoots up and sometimes touches the fringes of the curtains they have around the booths.
These fringes are highly flammable and tend to send a booth up in flames very quickly.
2. He then told us that a man brought his fiancée to Geja's to break up with her. Why someone would choose such a romantic restaurant to end a relationship deserved what happened next. The fiancée took a pot of boiling oil and threw it in the dude's face.
SHE THREW IT IN HIS FACE.
To give you some perspective, water boils at 100°C/212°F. Oil boils at 175°C /345°F.
The nature of our organic skin is that it's mainly hydrophobic (water repellent). This is why water doesn't seep into our pores and puff us up every time we jump in a pool.
There's an old adage, "like dissolves like." What this means is that inorganic solvents (like water) dissolve inorganic solutes. Organic solvents dissolve organic solutes.
This is why water and oil are immiscible.
However, our skin is organic, as is oil. This meant that at the moment the gentleman decided to break off his engagement during dinner, the delicate fabric covering his muscles, bones, tendons and organs was right next to something that could turn it to jelly.
Now that you've had the science lesson, here's where we left off: angry fiancée threw boiling oil in his face. It took him a 1/1000 of a second to close his eyes, and 1/100 of a second for his eyelids to burn like Napoleon's cock did when he had syphilis.
Then his face started to melt.
For a moment, I bet she wondered if she wasn't better off being single. Sure, planning the wedding had been fun, but there was something about her independence that was withering away. And as the cops were called she couldn't help but think that maybe this was a blessing in disguise.
Speaking of blessings, G-d bless the patron who tried to help the screaming now-single guy by throwing water in his face, subsequently igniting the curtains above their heads. Did anyone eating a plate of beef, chicken, and shellfish ever realize that they had walked into a veritable kill zone? Would that stop them from putting grapes into cheese during the appetizer portion?
Probably not.
All in all, the man had third degree burns over his face and neck and his ex-fiancée had an apartment full of engagement gifts that she probably got to keep.
I wonder if anyone gave them a fondue pot.
The last time we went to Geja's, our waiter was a cross between Danny DeVito and Tatu from Fantasy Island. He also sounded just like -- or was doing an impression of -- Truman Capote. I do have to give him credit, as he was able to put meat or veggies onto a skewer, dip them in cooking oil, stir the mix, and remove appropriately cooked food.
We were not able to come nearly as close.
At one point, while fishing for a potato in a vat of boiling oil, and simultaneously trying to remember if the cooking time for chicken was 2 or 3 minutes (it was 3), I realized that the table was too high. I couldn't get the proper angle to stir the pot effectively.
Beard was also having difficulty, too. We were a mess. I looked around the restaurant and no one else was even flinching. Apparently, they had either been instructed by someone who was willing to divulge a dipping secret OR we were monkeys in an experiment. At this point in our lives, calling us monkeys would be a compliment.
After ruining several skewers and eating some undercooked chicken, dessert came.
I LOVE DESSERT.
The chocolate fondue had a layer of alcohol on top that was lit on fire. We were given marshmallows and our waiter told us to cook them over the fire. Getting caught up in the moment, I interpreted his instructions as, "submerge the marshmallows in the chocolate with the alcohol-induced flame." This became a problem instantly, as the marshmallow caught on fire. Unfortunately, attempting to blow out the ignited marshmallow just spewed fire in Beard's direction. And in the direction of several other tables of people competently eating their dessert.
In addition to the ill-fated marshmallows, a couple of other dipping options were provided. Here's what doesn't taste good dipped in chocolate: chocolate covered pineapple; chocolate covered honeydew melon.
Finally, as oil seeped out of our pores and I lamented requesting additional pieces of pound cake (delicious), I flagged down the smartest looking waiter. He looked like Brian Bosworth, for those of you who remember "the Bos'."
I asked him if there were any stories of casualties or food mishaps and he got an idiot's grin and started nodding his head "yes."
He told us two stories:
1. Patrons sometimes think that the boiling oil is too hot and they pour ice water into it. If you've ever been in a chemistry lab OR a kitchen before, you know that oil and water don't mix. He said that when you pour ice water into boiling oil, the oil shoots up and sometimes touches the fringes of the curtains they have around the booths.
These fringes are highly flammable and tend to send a booth up in flames very quickly.
2. He then told us that a man brought his fiancée to Geja's to break up with her. Why someone would choose such a romantic restaurant to end a relationship deserved what happened next. The fiancée took a pot of boiling oil and threw it in the dude's face.
SHE THREW IT IN HIS FACE.
To give you some perspective, water boils at 100°C/212°F. Oil boils at 175°C /345°F.
The nature of our organic skin is that it's mainly hydrophobic (water repellent). This is why water doesn't seep into our pores and puff us up every time we jump in a pool.
There's an old adage, "like dissolves like." What this means is that inorganic solvents (like water) dissolve inorganic solutes. Organic solvents dissolve organic solutes.
This is why water and oil are immiscible.
However, our skin is organic, as is oil. This meant that at the moment the gentleman decided to break off his engagement during dinner, the delicate fabric covering his muscles, bones, tendons and organs was right next to something that could turn it to jelly.
Now that you've had the science lesson, here's where we left off: angry fiancée threw boiling oil in his face. It took him a 1/1000 of a second to close his eyes, and 1/100 of a second for his eyelids to burn like Napoleon's cock did when he had syphilis.
Then his face started to melt.
For a moment, I bet she wondered if she wasn't better off being single. Sure, planning the wedding had been fun, but there was something about her independence that was withering away. And as the cops were called she couldn't help but think that maybe this was a blessing in disguise.
Speaking of blessings, G-d bless the patron who tried to help the screaming now-single guy by throwing water in his face, subsequently igniting the curtains above their heads. Did anyone eating a plate of beef, chicken, and shellfish ever realize that they had walked into a veritable kill zone? Would that stop them from putting grapes into cheese during the appetizer portion?
Probably not.
All in all, the man had third degree burns over his face and neck and his ex-fiancée had an apartment full of engagement gifts that she probably got to keep.
I wonder if anyone gave them a fondue pot.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Personal space
The following is a letter to the individual who has the garage parking spot directly across from me. This is the same person who often uses the leftover space in his stall to park his genital-compensating Harley-Davidson motorcycle. Subsequently, due to matters of area and volume, his motorcycle is often half parked in my spot.
Dear Dickface,
Perhaps you think this is the parking lot at a high school football game, but brother, you need to step up the etiquette. I know you've got the cash and you want to flash it to all the ladies and I'm with you on that. As much I like mixing it up and getting loud, let it be known my voice is pretty soft right now. Please, Dickface, get out of my fucking spot.
We all know you're rich, with your Mercury Sable co-parked in your spot and your wife's Ford Escape in the adjacent one. We get it; you've been lucky in life. But maybe there was a time when you could only afford one spot for your three vehicles - I bet then you would have freaked out if someone moved in on your precious auto pen
Maybe you don't think too much of my Toyota. Maybe you don't care that I pay a lot to have that 50 square feet of concrete garage. Maybe your condo is just a weekend retreat for you and your wife? Maybe it's not even your wife. Maybe you're an alien or a centaur or a dragon.
I don't presume to know you, although I do presume you understand the idea of property boundaries. In my closet there are a bunch of guest sheets and pillows that would LOVE a new home. How about I wedge the bin in your front door? Would that be okay, Dickface?
The answer to that question is no. Let's make this work. I'm a lover not a fighter. But I will write an email to the condo association and cite all of the rules you are breaking: 1) having more than one vehicle in a parking spot; 2) using your spot for storage (I see the extra SUV seat you have against the support column); 3) being in another tenants fucking spot.
You want that unenforceable $25/day association penalty assessed on you? Do you, moneybags?
Chew on that.
Best,
Justin
Dear Dickface,
Perhaps you think this is the parking lot at a high school football game, but brother, you need to step up the etiquette. I know you've got the cash and you want to flash it to all the ladies and I'm with you on that. As much I like mixing it up and getting loud, let it be known my voice is pretty soft right now. Please, Dickface, get out of my fucking spot.
We all know you're rich, with your Mercury Sable co-parked in your spot and your wife's Ford Escape in the adjacent one. We get it; you've been lucky in life. But maybe there was a time when you could only afford one spot for your three vehicles - I bet then you would have freaked out if someone moved in on your precious auto pen
Maybe you don't think too much of my Toyota. Maybe you don't care that I pay a lot to have that 50 square feet of concrete garage. Maybe your condo is just a weekend retreat for you and your wife? Maybe it's not even your wife. Maybe you're an alien or a centaur or a dragon.
I don't presume to know you, although I do presume you understand the idea of property boundaries. In my closet there are a bunch of guest sheets and pillows that would LOVE a new home. How about I wedge the bin in your front door? Would that be okay, Dickface?
The answer to that question is no. Let's make this work. I'm a lover not a fighter. But I will write an email to the condo association and cite all of the rules you are breaking: 1) having more than one vehicle in a parking spot; 2) using your spot for storage (I see the extra SUV seat you have against the support column); 3) being in another tenants fucking spot.
You want that unenforceable $25/day association penalty assessed on you? Do you, moneybags?
Chew on that.
Best,
Justin
Moment in history
Over the past few years most of my friends have decided to go back to school. The percentage is pretty equally split between business school and law school, although there is the occasional public policy or architecture thrown in there.
Breezing through some of their applications I found they looked strangley familiar. GPA, letters of recommendations, essays. From what I remember from undergrad applications, essays invoked a sense of acute literarly turmoil. Were graduate school applications any different? Not really. The prompts were generally the same - effectively yielding another hashmark in the "things never change" column.
Here are a few examples of prompts:
1. If you could have dinner with one person living or dead, who would it be and why?
2. What is a major challenge that you have overcome?
3. If you could time travel to any moment in history, which would you choose and why?
Pretty standard.
Here are my answers:
1. Nostradamus. I just want him to know how high his prediction batting average is.
2. Not being able to breathe underwater.
The third one is a no-brainer.
3. If i could choose any moment in history, I would choose the day that the tribe of proto-men decided to tell a less astute proto-man that it was no longer okay to fuck monkeys and/or apes.
PM1: Hey, Uglusk, can we chat a second?
UG: Sure, what's up?
PM1: Dude, I don't know if you got the email...
UG: What's email?
PM2: Shut the fuck up, Uglusk.
UG: No, seriously, I don't know what email is---
PM1: It doesn't matter. Uglusk, maybe you haven't noticed, but we've all been (stiffles laughter) banging chicks that walk upright.
The proto-men (save Uglusk) howl with laughter.
PM2: It's been like two weeks, man. Every time we ritually group-mate with the skirts in the camp, I look over and you're all up in a primate.
UG: Her name is Karen.
They laugh again.
UG: Fuck all of you. Karen gets me. Maybe I don't connect with the women here. But Karen .... Karen and I know exactly who we are to each other. And fuck email, whatever that is.
The proto-men laugh so hard their bodies convulse. Their convulsions turn to a group movement. They begin to dance.
Breezing through some of their applications I found they looked strangley familiar. GPA, letters of recommendations, essays. From what I remember from undergrad applications, essays invoked a sense of acute literarly turmoil. Were graduate school applications any different? Not really. The prompts were generally the same - effectively yielding another hashmark in the "things never change" column.
Here are a few examples of prompts:
1. If you could have dinner with one person living or dead, who would it be and why?
2. What is a major challenge that you have overcome?
3. If you could time travel to any moment in history, which would you choose and why?
Pretty standard.
Here are my answers:
1. Nostradamus. I just want him to know how high his prediction batting average is.
2. Not being able to breathe underwater.
The third one is a no-brainer.
3. If i could choose any moment in history, I would choose the day that the tribe of proto-men decided to tell a less astute proto-man that it was no longer okay to fuck monkeys and/or apes.
PM1: Hey, Uglusk, can we chat a second?
UG: Sure, what's up?
PM1: Dude, I don't know if you got the email...
UG: What's email?
PM2: Shut the fuck up, Uglusk.
UG: No, seriously, I don't know what email is---
PM1: It doesn't matter. Uglusk, maybe you haven't noticed, but we've all been (stiffles laughter) banging chicks that walk upright.
The proto-men (save Uglusk) howl with laughter.
PM2: It's been like two weeks, man. Every time we ritually group-mate with the skirts in the camp, I look over and you're all up in a primate.
UG: Her name is Karen.
They laugh again.
UG: Fuck all of you. Karen gets me. Maybe I don't connect with the women here. But Karen .... Karen and I know exactly who we are to each other. And fuck email, whatever that is.
The proto-men laugh so hard their bodies convulse. Their convulsions turn to a group movement. They begin to dance.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Hello and hi
In the interest of getting back in the habit of writing, I have severed off my own chunk of the Internet to call my own. I only hope that in the next few weeks, the Internet will run out of space and they'll shut me down. Then I could blame technology.
Right now I can only blame myself.
This is me.
Right now I can only blame myself.
This is me.
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