Thursday, March 29, 2007

Fighting Nun and I have had an ongoing argument about Grindhouse for a good two weeks now, that has pretty much devolved into the following:

"She has a machine gun! For a Leg! Awesome." (followed by large squeal of excitement)"She has a machine gun. For a leg." (followed by large eye roll)"But, but, but, Machine gun. Leg." (followed by a big pout)."Machine gun. Leg." (followed by large head shake and another eye roll for effect.)

Where he sees schlocky and tacky I see outright awesomeness, which should pretty much tell you everything you need to know about our relationship.

First of all, I think I've made my feelings about Tarantino known over and over again. Secondly I really liked Sin City for a number of reasons so Robert Rodriguez gets a pass from me. Thirdly, I like the idea of two pulpy shorts put together into a long feature. Fourthly, Freddie Rodriguez doesn't get enough work so I'm all for seeing him in something like this. Fifthly, Rose McGowan (who we have lovingly named Jersey Chick for years) with a machine gun. For a leg. A MACHINE GUN. For a Leg. Don't you people get it?!?!?!

And lastly, and this may seem like an odd reason for wanting to watch a movie, but Josh Brolin's hair. I saw that mane in the trailer (which I sadly can't find a picture of), reminiscent of Kurt Russel's pseudo-mullet in Big Trouble in Little China and I wondered in amazement if it might have lines in the movie. Seriously, does that coif have its own SAG card? Josh's hair reminds me of that Robot Chicken bit where William Shatner goes to sleep and his hair comes off his head and turns out to be an international super spy and it gets a medal but then goes back home on top of William Shatner's head before his alarm goes off and then he wakes up and the medal falls off and The Shat's all "Why... does this... keep happening to me?" Yeah. Josh Brolin's hair is like that. It's most likely taken a life of its own, goes by the name of Fernando, and has opened a chain of ballroom dancing studios. I bet that hair even calls Diane Lane "Toots."

So yeah. I want to see Grindhouse. For the thrill, the gore, the machine gun leg, for the mane. Now if I can only convince Fighting Nun.

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

O.k., here's the thing. I should know better. I really should. This movie could be a steaming pile. No I take that back, is almost positively a steaming pile. I'm sure of that deep down. To be a Will Ferrell vehicle is to be the same jokes recycled over and over again. I get that. After having seen School for Scoundrels, It's obvious that Will Heder has the one look, that "What an Idiot" scouly look he perfected in Napolean Dynamite, and that's all he knows how to use. I get that too. Will Arnett deserves better than to play the same character over and over again. That? I also get.

But does that stop me from wanting to see this movie? No. Does the trailer for this movie make me giggle like a school girl? Yes. Yes it does. Repeatedly, and with vigor. It's a figure skating movie!!! I can't not watch it!!! I have a long and storied tradition of watching most anything pertaining to figure skating. When Fighting Nun's out of the house, I have watched most of Ice Princess. Twice. ( I can never catch it at the beginning, otherwise I would watch it entirely.) And I know exactly what you're going to say; "Michelle. Tractenberg. Yeech. Seek Therapy." And believe me, after the rotting turd that was the last three season of Buffy, I get that. I seriously get that. And Yet. "Flying Shrimp." Hee. I have seen Ice Castles new fewer than twenty times ("We forgot about the roses." Swoon!!!) I had a fleeting, yet very palpable crush on D.B. Sweeney for about 3 months in my teens. ("I got better.") I have seen John Hancock's Champions on Ice. Twice. (I know!) Once I was even sober. (I.know.) And I know I've mentioned frying a TV for a certain French Figure Skating superstar (Phillipe!!!! Eeeeeeee!!!).

It's figure skating!!! And yes, I'm quite aware that Blades of Glory is a figure skating parody, but if there's been one sport that's been deserving of a parody movie, it's got to be Figure Skating. As much as I love the sport, it has just been itching to be poked fun at. Between the 'scandals' and the 'stereotypes', and the all the glitter and some of the worst costumes involving sequins and leotards this side of ballroom dancing, it needs a movie that makes light of it. So yeah, I'm in. I'll probably have to wait til it comes out on cable, because there is no way Fighting Nun is even remotely interested in this one. The trailer comes on, my eyes go wide and and the giggle starts and Fighting Nun just groans, which are just as frequent as his eye rolls. I got to say. Fighting Nun, you should really see a doctor.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

So I don't talk much about Fighting Nun and myself on here, other than to recap a random conversation or five (heh.), but I don't talk much about the relationship itself, because everything is pretty good, and in blogdom good = boring. Nothing to see here. Move Along. It just works, we're done here.

But I will talk about it now, just briefly. So we're running up on our tenth anniversary, not of marriage mind you, but the anniversary of when we met and started dating. Ten years I've been with this guy. And they've all been great. The other day Fighting Nun sent me this e-card, which was utterly cute and adorable, asking me to marry him. The answer is yes. I'd do it again, a thousand times. Happily. Without any regret.

We've been married for close to seven years now, and we're not renewing our vows or anything, but it's nice to know that without any objections on either side, we'd both happily do it all over again. Fighting Nun, I love you. You're my best friend and my partner in crime, you're my rock and I'm yours . Here's to another ten years, and another ten years after that and many more to come.

Before I get started, I just want to let you know that I know exactly what you're going to say. "Bloody Munchkin. Can I call you munchkin? Here's the the thing. It's girl scout cookies. There is nothing inherently wrong, bad, evil or otherwise about the sweet little innocent girl scout cookie." To which I say: Wrong!!! You sir are sad and wrong if you are so disillusioned not to see the evilness deep down in the core of the cookies.

I understand where you are coming from. It's hard at first to understand dastardly machinations behind the cookies, or the girl scouts themselves for that matter. Which is part of the cookies' Machiavellianingenuity. It's just a box of cookies, see. Just a simple box of cookies, and the profits go to the local girl scout troop and what's more sweet and all-American than supporting your girl scouts, see? Nothing more, nothing less. It's devious in its simplicity really.And they make it so easy, don't they? They've got eight boxes and given that you only get to pick the cookies out once a year, you've streamlined your decision making into a nice hierarchy, the hierarchy being: Tag-alongs, Somoas, Thin Mints, everything else, so when you get to the selection process, it's all rather easy. You got Somoas? I'll take a box of those. Done. Easy. It's gotten to the point that you've even memorized your significant other's Girl Scout Cookie Hierarchy (from now on deemed the GSCH) which reads as follows: Thin Mints and Somoas (both weighed equally), the little shortbread ones, everything else. You have both hierarchies at the ready in the event that there needs to be a compromise or the nice girl scouts don't have the oh so delectable cookie that you want.

But they always have the ones you want, don't they? If not, you can go down the block to the other girl scout cookie table stationed outside the nearest pizza parlor or the other grocery store or whatever and buy what their selling, because, at this point in time? They are unavoidable aren't they? The tables stationed at every turn, the angelic faces looking up at you from behind the table of cookies, so pristine, so innocent, with their little merit badges and their little hats. You can't say no. Oh, you've tried, and failed miserably, but you can't say no. So you buy the one box. That's all you need really. But then the next day? They find you again, badges polished to a pristine shine, all the girls with smiles and that look that says 'You don't want to rob me of my innocence and crush all my girl scout loving dreams do you?" with eyes batting, using their best puppy dog look. So another box it is then. It gets to the point that you're worried they'll tackle you at any given turn if you don't buy a box (maybe two?) of their delectable cookies that only come out once a year. "Oh Please Mr. Won't you please help the girl scouts?" So you've bought another box and then put a check mark next to another cookie listed on the GSCH. There's nothing wrong with that.

But there is something wrong with that. Something you've forgotten about: Pre-orders. That schlubby guy at work, with the two kids and a look of despair readily apparent on his face, remember him? Yeah, remember how back in January he came by with the little order form, and you put your name down for a box of Tag-alongs because the guy just looked so brow-beaten, which brow-beaten dad is almost as Machiavellian as the innocent puppy dog eyed girl scouts themselves because it's a pity buy, all "Would you please? It's for my daughter *sigh*. I really appreciate it (eyes down-turned in resignation)." and you're like Ah, Poor Bastard and then you buy a pity box. So next thing you know, you're up to your eyeballs in girl scout cookies, with all the cookies on your GSCH checked off and then some. You don't even like the do-si-does (doesn't mean you won't eat them though, heh) but did you buy them? Yes you did.

And it's not just that the acquiring of multiple boxes in as many ways is as possible is what's wrong with the Girl Scout cookies. The thing that's the most wrong with girl scout cookies? Is that you can polish off a sleeve of thin mints in less than five minutes and not even think twice about it. You know this about yourself because Fighting Nun timed you and you both were beguiled by this information, because that, along with knowing that your significant other, conditions permitting, can clear a room with just one air biscuit, you've lost a little bit more of your relationship innocence. There comes a point in every relationship where you start knowing things about the other person that you wish to God you didn't, but now you know them and you can't un-know them and neither of you knows where to go from there. Knowing that the woman you married might hold the world record for the most girl scout cookies consumed in five minutes might be one of those things I'm guessing.

So do you see now? How Girl Scout Cookies are a beguiling evil the likes of which the world has ever known? Do you see how they must be stopped at all costs? Do you see now? Do you, do you? Don't you want to help me rid the world of this evil. We'll get started right after I polish off this box of tag-alongs.

Dude. Just Dude. It's come to this? Really??? Was life really so tough that you've had to become a makeshift Seacrest to a bunch of no talent hacks? Were the royaltiies off Fly just not enough to make ends meet? Is your monthly hair gel expense reaching limits so absurd that you've had to resort to this, the hosting of The Search for the Next Doll? Dude, you totally lost me.

Truth be told, you lost me somewhere around that Extra gig and maybe sometime during your guest judge appearance on American Idol. Which, just because you were on that show doesn't mean you get to be Ryan Seacrest's proxy. God knows one Ryan Seacrest is more than enough, and yet you had to go and recreate your career in his image? That's wrong.

Why must you desperately cleave to the last seconds of your 15 minutes by forcing yourself on the American public in the most obtrusive and random ways? Dude, Sugar Ray's second album was titled 14:59. It's like, back then you had a clue, that your popularity is fleeting, you're going to enjoy it while it lasts, which I appreciated. But now, it's like you don't get your own joke. You enjoyed the spotlight once. Stop stalking it now. It's considering a restraining order.

Just quit it. For at least a half a decade. No hosting gigs, no attempts at being Ryan Seacrest, no guest appearances. Just leave my TV for awhile. Not forever, just until you find something meaningful to do, or at least something that won't make me utter "Just. Give. It. Up." You seem like a pretty decent, centered dude, and I still like your band's first album, which makes the abomination of you showing up in random and totally undeserving places that much more bad and wrong.

Thanks;

The Bloody Munchkin

P.S. Ease up on the hair gel, just a little bit. You're headed into Hellraiser territory. Just thought you'd like to know.

Friday, March 09, 2007

So, I'm not sure if it's blatantly obvious (although I'm kind of convinced that it is) that I'm a bit neurotic and that my neuroses have a tendency to manifest themselves in odd way, like say, by anthromorphizing all the socks in the sock drawer, or having long, rambling rants about, oh, I don't know, just about ANYTHING!!! And I realize that the things I tend to get worked up about have absolutely no baring on anything ever. And my Salongate '07 is probably no exception. And yet, I find myself irked by the situation just the same. Here's the thing... I always go to Sabrina. Always. I've been going to her going on three years now and I'm fiercely loyal. Like fiercely. I now live a good hour + drive away from the salon and yet I will still go to her. I mean, it's only a 12 minute drive from my work over the bridge to the salon. Going home sucks, but yet I still go to her because in the 6+ years I've lived in the bay area. Sabrina and one other stylist (who used to work at the same salon, but moved away) are the only ones to truly get what I'm going for. Since Sabrina, I've had my hair cut by only one other girl there and that's because Sabrina was sick that day and I couldn't reschedule. I heart Sabrina. I like that we watch the same trashy t.v., I like that she rides a motorcycle. I like that she's tattooed and punky and sassy. And I like that after our time together, I come out looking fab. I tip well. Everything is good. It's a nice routine. I don't like it when my routine gets thrown off. End of Story.

So I get a call from the receptionist the day before yesterday, regarding my 4:30 appointment yesterday, but instead of Sabrina, she rattles off another name (who, for the sake of this essay shall remain nameless, because I feel bad about poo-pooing her in the previous essay, but who I'll call P). I get the voice mail all "That's weird. Maybe she said P by mistake but meant Sabrina." But then I get myself worked up into a tizzy about it all "OMG what if Sabrina left the Salon and totally DID NOT CALL ME to tell me she defected so the salon stuck me with whoever might be a suitable replacement. That totally better not happen." or "Maybe she went on vacation and didn't bother to tell me to reschedule for when she got back." So it became this big puzzler in my brain all day. Why I'd let myself be preoccupied with this, I have no idea, but is it really that surprising? Two words: Sock drawer. So I get there and right in front of me is my girl Bri. That's odd. Why did they say P if Sabrina is here? So then I have to talk to the receptionist, who in the 3 + years I've been going to that salon has only showed me one facet of her personality which I will here to for call her and the personality trait both "Put upon" with whom I have the following conversation:

Me: I have a 4:30Put Upon: Yes with P.Me: Wait. With who? Sabrina right? I always see Sabrina.Put Upon: Says here it's P.Me: But. Sabrina. You know me. I come in. I see Sabrina. I leave. How can I be seeing P? Sabrina. She's right there!Put Upon: She's all booked up. I can reschedule you or you can see P.Me: (A look of befuddlement on my face) But... But... Sabrina.Put Upon: (A terse smile on her face) Reschedule or Smock. (Shoves Smock at me.)Me: (Take smock, walk to changing room in shame and sadness).

As I'm waiting all dejected in their little waiting area, Sabrina spots me all "What're you doing here? You're not on my list." And I explain the situation, apologizing profusely and pouting "I wanted to see Yooouuuuu." to which she cheerily explains that it probably wasn't my fault. They've been having 'issues' she said. 'With the help' she said."And the Scheduling" she said. But I'm still bumming. So I have to deal with P, and her giving me the whole "You should really think about using our way overpriced blah with our other overpriced ble-da-blah because it'll do blah-de-blah-blah to your hair" schpeel which Sabrina has long since tempered, because I ain't buying the blah no matter what the blah-de-blah-blah it'll purportedly do to my hair, because do you have any idea what Fighting Nun will do to ME if I bring blah home, especially when he finds out how much I paid for it??? Yeah, not pretty. And then of course Pulp-Fiction-gate comes up and I don't have much to say after that. So then the haircut finishes, and P does a great job. The hair looks pretty fab, but as far as the whole experience goes, something felt missing. I can't explain it, it just felt... empty somehow. So then I have to deal with Put Upon again while getting rung out and I have to wait until P leaves the register to explain that I want to schedule another appointment with.... shifty eyes to make sure P isn't in hearing range, in low voice ... Sabrina. And now I've got all these weird pangs of anxiety all "Its going to be weird the next time I go in, because if P spots me and realizes I'm seeing Sabrina instead of her, she's going to be all 'Why aren't you seeing me? It's about Pulp Fiction isn't it?' and I'll have to be all 'Don't take this personally but....' and she'll be all mopey and it'll be all awkward.' and it feels all weird now. Thanks oh so much neuroses for kicking in right now. I ever so much appreciate it.

To top it all off, I tried explaining the dilemma to Fighting Nun, all "Awk. Ward. Hello." to which he responded "Just go see Sabrina." followed with an eye roll, which I think he needs to talk to an optometrist about because they happen so frequently as of late that they might get stuck in the back of his head. Anyhoo. So yeah, not a big deal? Of course it isn't. Am I making way more of it than I should be? Hello!! Have you met me?!? Of course I am. But still this whole thing is a bit weird. I mean seriously. Jesus.

So you remember that handy-dandy guide I made regarding discussing all things Tarantino? I thought of another rule yesterday which I feel bares mentioning:

13. Try to not get too indignant when someone states they've only seen Pulp Fiction once, like a bajillion years ago, and they don't remember too much of it.Your reaction to that statement shouldn't be "You haven't seen that movie a thousand times?!?!?! You don't have it memorized and can recite it in its entirety on command?!?!?! What!?!?! We so totally can not be friends. I heretofore totally deny you're exsistence." A much as you'd like to react thusly, you should keep such thoughts to yourself. It's not your fault there are some poor pitiable people who don't get the genius of Zed being dead. You shouldn't stick your nose up at them. Instead, you should pity them from a distance and wonder what this world is coming to.

I guess I should explain this one a little bit. Yesterday I got my hair cut. It's usually not a big ordeal. I love my hair stylist. Sabrina is excellent and if you're ever in Redwood Shores and you need a sassy cut, I recommend her highly. I go in every 8 weeks with natty ends and frizzy hair, I gab with her for an hour, I come out looking smoking. It rocks. But somehow yesterday turned into a 'situation'. A hair stylist dilema let's say. Not a full blown fiasco, but an event nonetheless. I'll get to that later. Long story short, I didn't get to see Sabrina. I got handed over to another stylist instead. I wasn't exactly happy with it, especially because I could see Sabrina, punky hair, tattoos and all, not ten feet from me, coloring somebody else's hair and she wasn't going to cut my HAIR. Grrr. But I tried to make the best of it. It went o.k. for the most part. Then we started talking about movies and the genius of Black Snake Moan. "Hello Justin Timberlake." (Her sentiments, not mine). Then I made the mistake of trying to explain the whole Jules/Lazerus theory Fighting Nun had and she gave me a blank stare. She'd only seen Pulp Fiction once, like forever and a day ago, and she really doesn't remember it that well! What!?!?! Really!?!?! I mean, it's Pulp Fiction!?!? Pulp. Fiction.Pulp "What does Marcellus Wallace look like?" Fiction!!! How did you only see it once?!?!?! Jesus.

And, o.k., it's not like I couldn't understand only seeing it once, like ten years ago. The first time I tried to watch Pulp Fiction, I didn't understand it. I was an impressionable college freshman at the time and there were just certain things I wasn't ready for, the needle to the heart sequence being one of them. That first time I was like "There's a lot of things I'll do for Eric Stoltz, but sitting through this scene? Not one of them." and I was out. Like walked out of the theater out. It didn't help that Christopher Walken's famous Watch Monologue was the next scene. Couldn't handle it. Couldn't. And about 2 months later, I watched the ending all "I'm not going to dig it... but fine, second chance here we go." And then... "It's the wallet that says Badass ...." And then I was like "Oh, I get it now, heh." My issues with needle to the heart aside, the movie effing rocks!!!

But not everybody sees it my way. Just like not everybody *cough Fighting Nun cough* understands the awesomeness of The Sandlot, which I realized last night that even after not seeing it in like five years I still have memorized. "I take that back boy. You're not in trouble. You're dead where you stand." James Earl Jones killed it. 'Nuff said. Back to the point. I should probably let this one slide. And I think I did a good job of tempering the indignation at her statement, but sadly I didn't have much else to say after that. "So Black Snake Moan, yeah (trail off to silence)...." It's Pulp Fiction!!! I'm not sure where it stands in the pantheon of pivotal cultural moments, but its pretty high up there!! It's significant!!! Watch it again so we might have something else to talk about. Oh, and learn who Stephen Dorff is!!! Yes, I realize that's partly my fault. When asked what he's been in I could only recall like two movies. Where I could usually rattle off like a ton of movies, I was all "Uh.. He was in Blade and stuff." Blade was the best I could come up with. I couldn't think of Backbeat, Cecil B. Demented, nothing. Blade and Alone in the Dark were it. Oh, and I think I mentioned Feardotcom. (Snerk.) Come on brain!!! You're better than that. At least mention the Aerosmith video where Alicia Silverstone bungies from her belly button ring!!! What's wrong with you. Stoopid brain.

So yeah, I guess the rule goes like this: For all the poor bastards who haven't seen Pulp Fiction a bajillion times, rent it and give it at least two good run throughs to try and soak in some of its genius. For the rest of us who bask in Pulp Fiction's genius, let's try and not be too hard on the rest of them.

Monday, March 05, 2007

Yeah, what he said. Look, maybe it's not an eleven per say, but it was pretty damn good. I loved it on a lot of different levels, maybe not on the same levels as Fighting Nun, what with the Hot Christina Ricci sex scenes being the main draw for him, but I still loved it nonetheless.First of all, it's visually interesting. Say what you want to say about the movie, but Ricci chain writhing on a couch was really cool to look at, for reasons I can't explain. (Consequently Chain Writhing? My new all-girl goth-metal band name). The whole film I thought was visually beautiful and kind of stunning. Also beautiful and stunning? The soundtrack. I mean, I don't know about the actual soundtrack in actual stores, but if it has the song for which the movie was named, I want it. I want eeet bad. The music was hot and perfect. Loved it. Soundtrack in my grubby little hands now!!! Go-Go Gadget Soundtrack. Really.

It's not that I don't get what critics hate about this movie. I do. At some points it is easy to see that Jackson and Ricci are playing charicitures and not full characters. And just as suddenly, the movie changes course and it shows me something else I wasn't expecting. And yeah, Justin Timberlake was an odd choice as love interest. There were certain moments where I could tell the director went "O.k., give me anxious and nervous" and Timberlake answered back with an expression that said "constipated" or the director went "O.k., give me angry as hell" and Timberlake came back with full fledged bitch face. But yet I give him a pass because the movie just worked some how, either in spite of him or because of him I'm not so sure.

And it's not that I don't get the demoralization argument either. It's hard to let some of Rae's actions slide in the film. I get that, but for a film to truly demoralize women, it would have to demoralize all of them and S. Epatha Merkerson played Angela with such texture and grace even with such a small role like that that I don't see the demoralization at all.

Two interesting side notes that I feel is worth mentioning. First; am I the only one who thinks that "Rae" would be the easiest Goodwill attained Halloween costume ever? A trip to the salvation army for a bad confederate flag shirt and some cut-offs, followed by a trip to the hardware store for some chain, make sure you've got the white panties on underneath. Done. Easiest costume ever!!! It doesn't even require a bra!!!

Secondly, Shortly before we went to see the movie, Fighting Nun came up with this theory that Samuel L. Jackson's character is actually what happened to Jules when he went on the path of the straight and narrow. I laughed it off all, "Ha Ha, Jules plays the blues and ties white women up to his radiator Ha Ha." But after seeing the movie, I can't help but make those comparison. There's that moment where he's looking down at the bible reading and then he looks up at Ricci and I thought to myself "I'm trying Ringo. I'm trying real hard to be the Shepherd." and then later in the movie, Fighting Nun leaned over all "It's the blues guitar that says "Bad ass MotherF****er" and I had trouble containing my giggles. We haven't had that much fun with tangential movie related humor since that time we saw LoTR: RoTK in theaters. You know that scene when Sam is on the Mountain and looks at Frodo and is all "I can't carry the burden for you, but I can carry you," That is the exact scene where Fighting Nun leaned over and whispered "Rudy, Rudy, Rudy." I realize that's a really pivotal scene, but I get the giggles every time. Every Damn Time because Fighting Nun made that joke.

So yeah. Black Snake Moan. I loved it. And I'd see it again. In theatres. Which I might do anyway because Driver's License wants to go see it, and Fighting Nun has absolutely no qualms about slapping down the 10 bucks per ticket to see it again. I told you his Ricci obsession was far reaching.