Pssssssssssst! Hey . . . . you. Are they gone? You know, all those relentless poopie fanatics. I was hoping to shake the majority of those thoughtless, uncultured minions off my trail with an extended hiatus. All the e-mails, letters, and comments were becoming too overwhelming. I mean really, who has time to respond to all that shit?
Well, now that it appears to be just us select few again , let me say the majority of the reason behind Mr. Poopie's glorious return is due to my Dad, and of course the Amazing Cheasty Pants, who by the way, was the only person who begged me to come back. And by beg, I mean she sent me endless e-mails pleading for me to once again grace blog-land with my all-knowing voice of reason. As part of her elaborate plans of coercion, she sent pictures of herself in mid air, pictures of her friends in mid air, pictures of random Central American foliage, food, and even poetry. Yes, poetry. She begged, pleaded, implored, and groveled. After witnessing enough of her rueful antics, I figured I would bestow her some clemency. Although, I think I would have never tired of all the Nicaraguan beer I received.
The truth is, I've been reading voraciously, writing a book, and doing lots of homework for school. Yeah, you heard me . . . . . . . school. I suppose it's time for me to finish school and secure my Masters so that I can join the elite 9.4% of the populace to have accomplished the same. Let's face it, as much as I'd like to, I can't rub people for ever.
To say that things have slowed down in the massage business would be an understatement. Although, the industry leading, luxury resort conglomerate I work for caters to the affluent, we have begun to feel the effects of our ever weakening economy. Consequently, Mr. Poopie has had a lot more time to do other things like reading and pondering why certain people are allowed to procreate. Also, to be even more forthcoming, there wasn't a whole lot I felt impelled to talk about that wasn't already being shoved down our throats by mass media. Economy, blah blah, Obama, blah blah blah, Iran and nuclear-blah blah, bad peanut butter-blah.
One thing I do feel relatively inspired to discuss, besides boobies of course, is all this ubiquitous discussion about steroids and baseball. Helloooooooo, am I the only person on the planet that knew these fools were juicing? The commissioner of baseball has the cojones to act like he didn't know what was going on, and worse yet, the gall to say he's going to consider distributing punishment. I have a couple of problems with this entire A-Rod steroid saga. For those of you who live in a shell, or Cambodia for that matter, there were some random, supposedly anonymous, drug testing done back in 2003 to get an idea of how many baseball players were taking steroids. We won't address why an "anonymous" test involved actual "names" to begin with, but some how, the list of those positive tests has leaked, and of course A-Roid (as he's been so appropriately named) was at the top of that list. Keep in mind that performance enhancing drugs were not illegal in baseball at the time. (reason number one, the results should be thrown away and this entire fiasco forgotten)
The second problem I have with all this, is that congress has been involved with the witch hunt to find out who has been taking PED's, which inevitably has led to some athletes to lie under oath, which in turn has put their freedom in jeopardy. By no means am I siding with the players, or condoning the use of banned substances, I just feel that all this is a huge waste of time and money. Implement better testing and move forward. No need to drudge up a bunch of meaningless tests, dirty syringes, (who keeps this shit?) and DNA samples that ultimately aren't going to solve the problem, but only confirm what we already suspected in the first place.
Congress? Why are my tax paying dollars being used to out athletes who we already know used steroids, when there is a 1100 page stimulus package that I know the majority of them haven't dedicated the time to read? I'm sorry, but Congress needs to stay out of baseball. I think the sport is completely capable of cleaning things up without the help of a large bureaucratic counsel of geriatric law makers. Figure out how to balance the budget, save Michael Jackson's face from falling off, then worry about sports. It's only a matter of time before the spot light turns to football. Which, by the way, is where they should have been looking all along. Hee-hee, Schamone!
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
8 mile
Well, I think it's pretty obvious who the Dumb ass of the week is. Unquestionably, the award is bestowed to Plaxico Buress, a wide receiver for the New York Giants football team.
If you haven't heard already, numb nuts took a loaded weapon to a nightclub, and accidentally shot his stupid ass self in the leg. Right. In. The. Leg. I think I may have to repeat this for the sake of clarity; this man entered a night club with a LOADED weapon concealed in the waistline of his PANTS. And the only reason, he got caught for doing so illegally, was the minute fact that the gun accidentally discharged while in his trousers. And I thought this sort of thing only happened to fictional characters like Cheddar Bob.
What I think is even more asinine than the actual act of shooting himself in the leg, is that he is pleading not guilty to charges of criminal possession of a weapon, (basically carrying a weapon without a license) and carrying ammunition for said weapon. Both by the way, are Class C felonies, for which fuck face could be sentenced to 3 1/2 to 15 years in jail if convicted. Gee I wonder what the defense is going to use as their strategy; It wasn't me? Having to receive hospitalization for a gunshot wound from the very weapon you were carrying seems like very incriminating evidence to the contrary. a) You can't successfully shoot yourself in the leg without a gun and b) For you to receive a gunshot wound from the aforementioned weapon, there has to be the presence of ammunition. Guilty as charged, on both accounts.
I am sick and tired of hearing about these professional athletes with weapons in night clubs. How are they even allowed to bring firearms into nightclubs to begin with? If you're so worried about your safety, then hire a damn bodyguard or hang out with the offensive linemen. I'm pretty certain they could stop a bullet or two. Or here's a brilliant idea, If you're supposed to be recovering from an injury, how about not even going out to a fucking club to begin with? How bout that? Ass clown.
I don't think there should be any leniency because he's a professional athlete either. If anything, he should be prosecuted even more harshly for thinking he was above the law. I'm usually not one to desire ill towards my fellow man, but I gotta say, I hope he goes to jail. If for nothing else, just for being a dumb ass.
If you haven't heard already, numb nuts took a loaded weapon to a nightclub, and accidentally shot his stupid ass self in the leg. Right. In. The. Leg. I think I may have to repeat this for the sake of clarity; this man entered a night club with a LOADED weapon concealed in the waistline of his PANTS. And the only reason, he got caught for doing so illegally, was the minute fact that the gun accidentally discharged while in his trousers. And I thought this sort of thing only happened to fictional characters like Cheddar Bob.
What I think is even more asinine than the actual act of shooting himself in the leg, is that he is pleading not guilty to charges of criminal possession of a weapon, (basically carrying a weapon without a license) and carrying ammunition for said weapon. Both by the way, are Class C felonies, for which fuck face could be sentenced to 3 1/2 to 15 years in jail if convicted. Gee I wonder what the defense is going to use as their strategy; It wasn't me? Having to receive hospitalization for a gunshot wound from the very weapon you were carrying seems like very incriminating evidence to the contrary. a) You can't successfully shoot yourself in the leg without a gun and b) For you to receive a gunshot wound from the aforementioned weapon, there has to be the presence of ammunition. Guilty as charged, on both accounts.
I am sick and tired of hearing about these professional athletes with weapons in night clubs. How are they even allowed to bring firearms into nightclubs to begin with? If you're so worried about your safety, then hire a damn bodyguard or hang out with the offensive linemen. I'm pretty certain they could stop a bullet or two. Or here's a brilliant idea, If you're supposed to be recovering from an injury, how about not even going out to a fucking club to begin with? How bout that? Ass clown.
I don't think there should be any leniency because he's a professional athlete either. If anything, he should be prosecuted even more harshly for thinking he was above the law. I'm usually not one to desire ill towards my fellow man, but I gotta say, I hope he goes to jail. If for nothing else, just for being a dumb ass.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Quantum of Solace
I really wanted to love this movie. I was so excited to see it, that being let down was the farthest thing from my mind, even after I had discovered they weren't going to keep the same director as it's immediate predecessor, Casino Royale, which was brilliant, edgy, and refreshing. So much so, that I never resist watching it over and over again when the opportunity arises. The director got it right, the casting was spot on, and the actors stepped up to the plate. Most importantly, Daniel Craig hit a home run.
Quantum of Solace needed to be an equally hard hit line drive, but fizzled embarrassingly short of the outfield like a pop fly. Even the opening song was out of place for this movie. Madonna was criticized for her theme song in Die Another Day, to the point where it was left off the movie score entirely. I was amazed to find out that Alecia Keys was on this collaborative piece of crap with Jack White, that was extremely difficult to listen to. It was a rough start from the beginning my friends.
The bond girl was a perfect choice, the pouty Olga Kurylenko, who was in Hitman. However, her part was transparently staged and it seems as though they were trying to make her something the movie did not require her to be (a sniveling head case with daddy issues). Unfortunately, her part could have been extracted all together and we would have never noticed. Speaking of which, 007 didn't even seem remotely attracted to one of the hottest Bond girl's ever, although she was so notably distracted by her own childish antics, that I doubt she would have noticed being hit on anyway. They also tried too hard to make Bond this cold hearted killer on a vengeful rampage of retribution, but never once did he ever show any true emotion toward the woman who's death he was avenging. Actually, he couldn't have been more cavalier about her nonexistence. Is that irony?
On a positive note, all the action sequences were seamlessly executed and very exciting. I enjoyed all of them except for the end when the characters found themselves in some fuel cell powered hotel, (without any people in it mind you) going up in flames, in the middle of a remote desert in Bolivia. Lame. And to top it all off, the main villain in the movie could have very well been an angry Deer Park executive with desires to monopolize the world's water sources. Gee, so eerily sinister. No! You mean to tell me that we will all have to . . . . no, don't make me say it . . . . I refuse . . . . .have to . . . .have to . . . .BUY our water from YOU and no one else? Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! Bitch please, can't I just get a ridiculously insane Eastern European villain with female issues and penis envy to build an over sized laser, and want nothing more than to disintegrate largely populated areas for no apparent reason other than his own maniacal amusement?
Even after all of the problems I had with this movie, it still wasn't awful. I guess that says something in itself. As a matter of fact, I'm going to go watch it again. I want to be sure my initial assessment was right. I mean, even I miss a few details from time to time. Besides, I really want to believe that it wasn't as bad as I thought. I'm hoping my expectations were just too high, and that after seeing it again, without being as critical, that I will enjoy it more. You know, sometimes movies have to grow on you. So, with all those things in mind, I think I'll give it another try. Perhaps I shall be the one needing a quantum of solace after watching it again, but let's hope not.
Quantum of Solace needed to be an equally hard hit line drive, but fizzled embarrassingly short of the outfield like a pop fly. Even the opening song was out of place for this movie. Madonna was criticized for her theme song in Die Another Day, to the point where it was left off the movie score entirely. I was amazed to find out that Alecia Keys was on this collaborative piece of crap with Jack White, that was extremely difficult to listen to. It was a rough start from the beginning my friends.
The bond girl was a perfect choice, the pouty Olga Kurylenko, who was in Hitman. However, her part was transparently staged and it seems as though they were trying to make her something the movie did not require her to be (a sniveling head case with daddy issues). Unfortunately, her part could have been extracted all together and we would have never noticed. Speaking of which, 007 didn't even seem remotely attracted to one of the hottest Bond girl's ever, although she was so notably distracted by her own childish antics, that I doubt she would have noticed being hit on anyway. They also tried too hard to make Bond this cold hearted killer on a vengeful rampage of retribution, but never once did he ever show any true emotion toward the woman who's death he was avenging. Actually, he couldn't have been more cavalier about her nonexistence. Is that irony?
On a positive note, all the action sequences were seamlessly executed and very exciting. I enjoyed all of them except for the end when the characters found themselves in some fuel cell powered hotel, (without any people in it mind you) going up in flames, in the middle of a remote desert in Bolivia. Lame. And to top it all off, the main villain in the movie could have very well been an angry Deer Park executive with desires to monopolize the world's water sources. Gee, so eerily sinister. No! You mean to tell me that we will all have to . . . . no, don't make me say it . . . . I refuse . . . . .have to . . . .have to . . . .BUY our water from YOU and no one else? Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo! Bitch please, can't I just get a ridiculously insane Eastern European villain with female issues and penis envy to build an over sized laser, and want nothing more than to disintegrate largely populated areas for no apparent reason other than his own maniacal amusement?
Even after all of the problems I had with this movie, it still wasn't awful. I guess that says something in itself. As a matter of fact, I'm going to go watch it again. I want to be sure my initial assessment was right. I mean, even I miss a few details from time to time. Besides, I really want to believe that it wasn't as bad as I thought. I'm hoping my expectations were just too high, and that after seeing it again, without being as critical, that I will enjoy it more. You know, sometimes movies have to grow on you. So, with all those things in mind, I think I'll give it another try. Perhaps I shall be the one needing a quantum of solace after watching it again, but let's hope not.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Interview With A Vampire
Well, against my better judgement, I finally succumbed to my sister's relentless pleading to read Twilight. I hope that she doesn't read this, (I feel that my honesty might crush her entirely) but here is what I thought about it in a nutshell; it was okay.
I feel that the story took entirely way too long to develop, and when the suspense had finally peaked, reaching the long awaited climax, much was left to be desired. Kind of like when you finally get to kiss your beautiful date at the end of a exquisite night, you disappointingly discover that a vacuum cleaner, or a Saint Bernard would be a better kisser. The story ended pretty much as ordinarily as it had begun, which after all that had transpired was a bit disappointing and left me with no overwhelming desire to want to read the other three that follow. Granted, I'm not a pubescent female teen, I still feel that a love story with dangerous vampires would have left me a little more satisfied. Of course, the allure of vampires being the only reason I even agreed to read a love story to begin with. And to pacify my sister's groveling pleas, obviously.
I don't mean to be entirely nit picky, but I think the writing wasn't that impressive either. I mean, if I'm going to spend my time reading 500 pages of anything, especially a book that has received as much praise as this one has, I generally prefer for the author to have superior writing skills to mine. Call me old fashioned, but I like authors to either spark my imagination, elicit thought, or keep me entranced with intrigue or suspense. And from time to time, I'm not against a chuckle or two. Not that I think I'm some great writer by any stretch of the imagination, but I suspect that I could have possibly written something comparable, at the very least, a little juicier.
Anyway, it wasn't a bad book by any means. It was a relatively fresh perspective on a subject that Ann Rice has had her fangs sunk into for as long as I can remember. I suppose I just expected more considering how popular the series has become, and how much my 39 year old sister insisted that I read them. I did have to take into consideration that all of her previous reading recommendations up to this point have been more than solid. So, I won't be holding this one against her. After all, unlike Edward . . . . . . . she's only human.
I feel that the story took entirely way too long to develop, and when the suspense had finally peaked, reaching the long awaited climax, much was left to be desired. Kind of like when you finally get to kiss your beautiful date at the end of a exquisite night, you disappointingly discover that a vacuum cleaner, or a Saint Bernard would be a better kisser. The story ended pretty much as ordinarily as it had begun, which after all that had transpired was a bit disappointing and left me with no overwhelming desire to want to read the other three that follow. Granted, I'm not a pubescent female teen, I still feel that a love story with dangerous vampires would have left me a little more satisfied. Of course, the allure of vampires being the only reason I even agreed to read a love story to begin with. And to pacify my sister's groveling pleas, obviously.
I don't mean to be entirely nit picky, but I think the writing wasn't that impressive either. I mean, if I'm going to spend my time reading 500 pages of anything, especially a book that has received as much praise as this one has, I generally prefer for the author to have superior writing skills to mine. Call me old fashioned, but I like authors to either spark my imagination, elicit thought, or keep me entranced with intrigue or suspense. And from time to time, I'm not against a chuckle or two. Not that I think I'm some great writer by any stretch of the imagination, but I suspect that I could have possibly written something comparable, at the very least, a little juicier.
Anyway, it wasn't a bad book by any means. It was a relatively fresh perspective on a subject that Ann Rice has had her fangs sunk into for as long as I can remember. I suppose I just expected more considering how popular the series has become, and how much my 39 year old sister insisted that I read them. I did have to take into consideration that all of her previous reading recommendations up to this point have been more than solid. So, I won't be holding this one against her. After all, unlike Edward . . . . . . . she's only human.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Billy Madison
I looked over to the lane next to mine as I was driving yesterday, to witness one of the more baffling traffic sights one can encounter. (besides motorcyclists being scraped off the pavement of course) I saw this tiny Filipino woman literally compressed between the driver seat and her dangerously encroaching steering wheel like a grilled cheese sandwich. The steering wheel appeared to have the circumference of a hoola hoop in her tiny grasp and she was so tightly packed in the car she looked like a midget in the cockpit of a fighter jet. If that poor woman so much as bumped another car while parking, causing the air bag to deploy, she would undeniably be decapitated. I looked on with a combination of horror, amusement, and surprise, as she drove away, her face literally centimeters from the horn, steering the mammoth wheel as if the captain of an old Spanish sailing ship. I guess sights like these should never really surprise me anymore, it's just that they sort of creep up on you when you're least expecting it. You know, one moment you're riding the subway, momentarily scanning the random crowd of faces, and the next moment a guy's clipping his toe nails . . . . . . . with his teeth. Or you're at the park with your dog and some dude is suspiciously looking around before he takes his underwear off and discards them into the bushes.
Months ago, I was coming home from work taking a back route through a quiet little neighborhood, when I saw a man and his boy exiting a large truck that had just parked in front of a house that I assumed was theirs. As if they had just pulled up to a giant aluminum trough in a public restroom, the little boy, around 3 or so, pulled his pants down and started taking a piss on the street, in front of the truck, his dad, a 3 bedroom 2 bathroom townhouse, me, and the rest of the fucking neighborhood! When the boy was finished, his dad (if you can call him that), came over and practically congratulated the kid before they disappeared into the house. Yes, the house with at least two bathrooms. I mean, they didn't look like they were in a hurry. Their faces carried no signs of desperation, necessity, or worry, akin to people who can't wait a second longer before their bladder explodes. As nonchalant as their emergence on the scene, the public display of urinary transgression was as equally of no concern or consequence. They acted completely normal, as if this were a daily occurrence, (which probably was) as if this were just another trip to the bathroom by a Father and Son at half time, during a Sunday football game. Right when you think you've seen it all.
I began to wonder about my childhood and all the questionable places I had peed. (once on my own leg to quell a jelly fish sting) Hell, I began to sift through all of the adult files as well, including all the accounts of inebriated, piss-poor decision making at sporting events, BBQ's, parties, nightclubs, and tail gaters; not even leaving out any testosterone fueled Dares from intoxicated peers. I'm a guy, after all, my plumbing allows me the freedom to take advantage of certain bladder relieving discretions if you will. If they can be avoided, of course we'd rather not pee in this alley, behind that car, or in the corner of this parking garage, or in the Gatorade bottle I'll have to stare at for the next few hours of our road trip. (So warm in your lap) But if it can't, well as they say, when Nature calls . . . . . you best be answering, because she doesn't like to leave long, detailed messages that take up a lot of space on your answering machine and everybody knows that's rude and inconsiderate and God help you if you haven't called her back in 3 days after you took her to dinner the last time and she invited you in for a night cap, which ended up with you in her bed, making awesomedrunk marathon sex sweet love to her for two hours, but you felt a little weirded out because afterward you noticed she had My Little Ponies every where in her room, the walls adorned with stuffed animals and glitter posters, and you had to stare at the ceiling covered in glowing stars until she fell asleep so you could escape, but you're an asshole for not calling her after the amazing fulfillment of destiny your souls had just shared. Okay, well maybe I'm the only one who says that. Anyway, then I wondered if this is the path that people take who eventually grow up to do some R. Kelly type shit. Just sayin', makes you wonder.
Months ago, I was coming home from work taking a back route through a quiet little neighborhood, when I saw a man and his boy exiting a large truck that had just parked in front of a house that I assumed was theirs. As if they had just pulled up to a giant aluminum trough in a public restroom, the little boy, around 3 or so, pulled his pants down and started taking a piss on the street, in front of the truck, his dad, a 3 bedroom 2 bathroom townhouse, me, and the rest of the fucking neighborhood! When the boy was finished, his dad (if you can call him that), came over and practically congratulated the kid before they disappeared into the house. Yes, the house with at least two bathrooms. I mean, they didn't look like they were in a hurry. Their faces carried no signs of desperation, necessity, or worry, akin to people who can't wait a second longer before their bladder explodes. As nonchalant as their emergence on the scene, the public display of urinary transgression was as equally of no concern or consequence. They acted completely normal, as if this were a daily occurrence, (which probably was) as if this were just another trip to the bathroom by a Father and Son at half time, during a Sunday football game. Right when you think you've seen it all.
I began to wonder about my childhood and all the questionable places I had peed. (once on my own leg to quell a jelly fish sting) Hell, I began to sift through all of the adult files as well, including all the accounts of inebriated, piss-poor decision making at sporting events, BBQ's, parties, nightclubs, and tail gaters; not even leaving out any testosterone fueled Dares from intoxicated peers. I'm a guy, after all, my plumbing allows me the freedom to take advantage of certain bladder relieving discretions if you will. If they can be avoided, of course we'd rather not pee in this alley, behind that car, or in the corner of this parking garage, or in the Gatorade bottle I'll have to stare at for the next few hours of our road trip. (So warm in your lap) But if it can't, well as they say, when Nature calls . . . . . you best be answering, because she doesn't like to leave long, detailed messages that take up a lot of space on your answering machine and everybody knows that's rude and inconsiderate and God help you if you haven't called her back in 3 days after you took her to dinner the last time and she invited you in for a night cap, which ended up with you in her bed, making awesome
Friday, November 14, 2008
Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang
Haven't felt much like writing lately, so I've been dedicating that time to reading instead. Besides, there are a few books I need to knock out before I'm ready to take on that new Twilight series. I just hope it's as good as I've heard.
On a similar note, I have mixed emotions about reading books before watching the movie, or vice versa. Movies will inevitably leave out chunks of important storyline or will simply fail to live up to the world painted by the imagination. And if you see the movie first, you already know what's going to happen while you read, making intricate endings hollow or anticlimactic. Movie or Book? I'm generally more inclined to read the book first, primarily because after I've seen the movie, there's no way in hell I'm going to be motivated enough to read the book. Especially, if there is more than one. Perfect example, Lord of the Rings. Sure, I had read the Hobbit as a kid, but after watching the three Ring movies, I don't think the books could top it. Particularly since the movie is probably how I would have imagined it anyway. Although, I wouldn't have made Gandolf such a sissy in the movie.
Fightclub was an awesome movie. I thought that reading the book afterwards would be a good idea as well, but I couldn't have been more wrong. Great book, but it's exactly like the movie and no matter how extraordinary your imagination might be, there's no way it would have created a better performance than what the movie and its actors delivered. And for those of you who haven't experienced either, the narrator and Tyler Durden are the same person. Yeah, I'm in that kind of a mood.
I wish I would have read the Harry Potter books before watching the movies, none of which I liked too much by the way. Here is one instance that I think my imagination would have done a way better job of things. I can already hear the grumbles of disagreement, but I found them to be a little too juvenile for my tastes. Not to mention, anyone standing in line dressed up in anything other than normal clothes, waiting for stores to open so they can purchase the next book in the series, isn't typically an indication of anything I want to be a part of. I'm not one to follow the masses anyway. Notably those fanatically adorned with capes and wielding magic wands. Don't get me wrong though, I'd bang a hot sorceress in a heartbeat. I'm just sayin'.
The Twilight movie might be good, but it has just as much potential, if not more, to suck. It's difficult to make movies with the element of flying in them. You either have to stick entirely with the thought of fantasy, or make it seem realistic enough to correspond with a story that you want people to believe can be real. In either case, the actual physics of flying has to closely mimic the laws that govern flight in our world, otherwise viewers will automatically see the flaws and lose interest. Once you have attained seamlessness in physical action, then you have to look at the acting. There are going to be a slew of teenage actors, and if one of them isn't pulling his or her own weight, then that performance can discredit the entire movie. Happens all the time. Difficult balance I know, but whenever movies depend too much on computer graphics, things generally take a turn for the worse, because in those instances, little attention, if any, is given to actual acting.
Anyway, I could continue this rhetoric for days properly schooling you on movies, but like I said earlier . . . . . . . I'd rather be reading. That is, until I go see Quantum of Solace tonight. And who knows, I just might have to stand in line for a while too, but I'll be sure to leave the tux at home. Of course, only after I crush that shaken martini.
On a similar note, I have mixed emotions about reading books before watching the movie, or vice versa. Movies will inevitably leave out chunks of important storyline or will simply fail to live up to the world painted by the imagination. And if you see the movie first, you already know what's going to happen while you read, making intricate endings hollow or anticlimactic. Movie or Book? I'm generally more inclined to read the book first, primarily because after I've seen the movie, there's no way in hell I'm going to be motivated enough to read the book. Especially, if there is more than one. Perfect example, Lord of the Rings. Sure, I had read the Hobbit as a kid, but after watching the three Ring movies, I don't think the books could top it. Particularly since the movie is probably how I would have imagined it anyway. Although, I wouldn't have made Gandolf such a sissy in the movie.
Fightclub was an awesome movie. I thought that reading the book afterwards would be a good idea as well, but I couldn't have been more wrong. Great book, but it's exactly like the movie and no matter how extraordinary your imagination might be, there's no way it would have created a better performance than what the movie and its actors delivered. And for those of you who haven't experienced either, the narrator and Tyler Durden are the same person. Yeah, I'm in that kind of a mood.
I wish I would have read the Harry Potter books before watching the movies, none of which I liked too much by the way. Here is one instance that I think my imagination would have done a way better job of things. I can already hear the grumbles of disagreement, but I found them to be a little too juvenile for my tastes. Not to mention, anyone standing in line dressed up in anything other than normal clothes, waiting for stores to open so they can purchase the next book in the series, isn't typically an indication of anything I want to be a part of. I'm not one to follow the masses anyway. Notably those fanatically adorned with capes and wielding magic wands. Don't get me wrong though, I'd bang a hot sorceress in a heartbeat. I'm just sayin'.
The Twilight movie might be good, but it has just as much potential, if not more, to suck. It's difficult to make movies with the element of flying in them. You either have to stick entirely with the thought of fantasy, or make it seem realistic enough to correspond with a story that you want people to believe can be real. In either case, the actual physics of flying has to closely mimic the laws that govern flight in our world, otherwise viewers will automatically see the flaws and lose interest. Once you have attained seamlessness in physical action, then you have to look at the acting. There are going to be a slew of teenage actors, and if one of them isn't pulling his or her own weight, then that performance can discredit the entire movie. Happens all the time. Difficult balance I know, but whenever movies depend too much on computer graphics, things generally take a turn for the worse, because in those instances, little attention, if any, is given to actual acting.
Anyway, I could continue this rhetoric for days properly schooling you on movies, but like I said earlier . . . . . . . I'd rather be reading. That is, until I go see Quantum of Solace tonight. And who knows, I just might have to stand in line for a while too, but I'll be sure to leave the tux at home. Of course, only after I crush that shaken martini.
Friday, October 31, 2008
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