Friday, November 13, 2009

Missy Aggravation

After some delay, another update of what people have been Googling to arrive at this blog.

For one, the Five Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique. For another, that belt choke sex thing. But if the Google searcher was looking for the legislature type of bill, then I have to say that I can't remember my AP U.S. Government class.
What you said.
Number one hit!
I assume they meant Turkey the country and not turkey the bird. But I wish it was the bird. I would watch that pageant.
Like, all of them?
No. Not at all.
And then there are the search hits related to Paranormal Activity.
Previous search result updates.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Ha Ha — This Company’s Name

Today, a variation on the usual theme of making fun of the names of unfortunate people: making fun of the names of unfortunate companies, especially when the words comprising these names run together in entertaining ways.

First up is the DVD case for Hausu, that amazing Japanese horror movie that I blogged about sometime back. It never go a proper stateside release, so I had to go to an online company to find a version of it that I could play on an American DVD player. That company has a decent enough name, Gotta See DVDs.

gotta_seed_VDs

However, waking up one morning and noticing the case on my desk, run together as a URL, I misread the company name as Gotta Seed VDs. It was a little disconcerting.

Perhaps that one wouldn’t be obvious to everyone. Here’s one that’s a little clearer, from Spencer. It’s the name of a pool company — as in the splish-splashy kind, not the green felt kind.

poo_life

Oh, of all the times to condense a doubled letter down to just one. More like the candy bar in the pool scene from Caddyshack, right?

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Oswald the Vengeful Rabbit

So since the game actually made it onto Gawker — and not just the Gawker family’s game blog, Kotaku — I suppose I should write something about Epic Mickey, a slightly twisted Disney video game that has me more excited about the round-eared one than I’ve been since I was a kid.

Disney has a long history with video games, going back to a 1981 Game & Watch title, Mickey Mouse. My earliest Disney game memory — and likely that of many people who will read this blog — is 1987 NES title, Mickey Mouscapade, which had Mickey and his ladyfriend hopping Mario-style through various levels, shooting stars (for some reason), fighting villains like the evil queen from Snow White (for some reason) and finally rescuing Alice from Alice in Wonderland (for some reason).


Mickey Mouscapade was great fun at the time, but, in retrospect, the game kind of sucked, even for a first-generation NES title. Easily the worst part was the play control; Minnie follows Mickey around, jumping slightly after he jumps and landing slightly behind where he lands. This resulted in Mickey successfully leaping over those bottomless pits that so often dot the landscape of platformer-style video games but Minnie falling in and plummeting to her death, causing Mickey as well to die (again, for some reason.) Regardless, Mickey definitely has a place in my fond memories of playing video games.

Epic Mickey looks different. Rather than stick Mickey and his Disney cohorts in a bright, shining universe with smiles on every rock, tree and cloud — you know, like where Mario has been living for the last twenty years — the game’s designers have tried to grow Mickey up a bit. Mickey’s new world is a little dark, a little steampunky. Take, for instance, this nightmarish half-robot version of Donald Duck.


Not exactly the same waterfowl that hugs the kiddies at Disneyland, is it? Gaze also at this trippy concept art.


If the in-game graphics of Epic Mickey come close to matching what’s above, then we’ll be in for a treat.

What has me most excited about this game, however, is the news that its big bad will be Oswald the Lucky Rabbit, a character Walt Disney and Ub Iwerks debuted in 1927, a year before the suspiciously similar-looking Mickey Mouse stole the spotlight.





Money disputes prompted Disney and Iwerks to eventually leave Universal Studios, which maintained ownership of Oswald until 2006. Wikipedia explains that as part of a deal between Disney and NBC Universal, the former traded the latter sportscaster Al Michaels for Oswald. Michaels now workings alongside John Madden at NBC, and Disney finally got the rights to a bunch of old Oswald the Lucky Rabbit cartoon shorts. (I have to wonder how Michaels must feel about this trade. “You, sir, are basically worth the same as an obscure cartoon character that few remember and who looks basically like our current mascot.” Wikipedia notes that Michaels at least publicly had the sense to make a joke about the trade: “Oswald is definitely worth more than a fourth-round draft choice. I’m going to be a trivia answer someday.”) In any case, Oswald is back — and presumably pissed for having been shoved aside for some many years while Mickey lived the good life, being all recognizable even to people who don’t own TVs or have access to movie theaters.


This sort of thing thrills me: a fictional universe with a long history pulling an obscure also-ran from its archives and giving him or her a chance to shine once again. It doesn’t happen often enough, though I suppose superhero comics do it pretty well. Who would have expected Batman’s Jason “Robin No. Two” Todd to be resurrected from the dead? To draw an example from a different form of pop culture, the new Melrose Place wins points for me — even though I haven’t watched it — for bringing back Laura Leighton’s character from the original series, Sydney Andrews, even though she too was once dead as a doornail. It’s fan service, I guess, but it’s something that really clicks with the geeks who know a given universe inside and out. (“They thought of that! That’s what I think of! I feel validated!”) It’s good to know that the people in charge of a given franchise know at least enough about it to appease the experts.

I don’t know how well the game Epic Mickey will be received, but it gets points from me for rescuing Oswald the Lucky Rabbit from obscurity. And I look forward to beating the crap out of him at the end of the game.

A closing thought: Mickey Mousecapade’s control issues notwithstanding, I do think that the -capade suffix needs to be used more often.

Monday, November 09, 2009

Titles for Ten Movies That Sound More Interesting Than Ninja Assassin

You see, because Ninja Assassin isn’t technically redundant, but it sure seems like it should be.

1. Ninja Doctor

2. Ninja Secretary

3. Ninja Plumber

4. Ninja Pastry Chef

5. Ninja Crossing Guard

6. Ninja Prime Minister

7. Ninja Surrogate Mother

8. Ninja President of the P.T.A.

9. Ninja Competitive Ballroom Dancer

10. Ninja Conductor of the London Philharmonic

I would have put Ninja Schoolgirl on the list, but Japan already makes about thirty versions of this movie a year.

Sunday, November 08, 2009

The Ghost in the Sink

Halloween may have come and gone, but the ghosts linger — specifically in the bubbles in the soaking dishes in my kitchen sink. This is one is less scary if you pretend the mouth hole is actually a big round nose. I cannot suggest anything that the two smaller holes could be aside from nipples. Soapy ghost nipples.

bubble ghost

And I swear I will stop blogging about ghosts.

Saturday, November 07, 2009

Drew Versus the Bamboo — Or, The Hitler Mustache of Dirtiness

Two activities have come to comprise much of what I do with my day: disposing of the vast amount of bamboo in my overgrown jungle of backyard and then recovering from the physical exertion involved in the previous item. I don’t mind the work. It’s a type of labor I haven’t had much reason to perform in the past few years. However, it does have a few side effects that I could leave without, foremost among them how dirty it makes me. I don’t mean to sound like some delicate flower, but I could do without coating my extremities in a sort of filth that’s plausibly seen more moons and seasons and U.S. presidents than I have. These bamboo stalks, some of them are twenty feet tall. And they have branches. And every branch creates a nice place for dead leaves as associated other rot to accumulate. When I start knocking these plants down, the vast storages of mulch-waiting-to-happen all end up on me.

On Thursday, I woke up and immediately got to work, shaking and cracking and pushing and chopping. I actually worked straight past lunch without so much as taking a bathroom break. When I finally did, I looked in the mirror and immediately thought “Damn, I have to shave.” Which was an odd thought to have, since I had actually shaved fairly recently. Then I looked more closely. Nope. Dirt. It was dirt I was seeing on my face, caked on to stubble and forming a pretend little Hitler mustache of dirtiness. I was so repulsed-but-amused by this that I photographed it for everyone else could enjoy my filth.

filthy_drew

The following shower was one of the better ones of my life so far, if only because I may have never been dirtier and may have never been able to benefit so much from hot water and soap.

I took a follow-up picture to prove that I don’t still look like a bum.

clean_drew

The moral of the story: Bamboo is the worst stuff ever. Don’t ever plant it.

Monday, November 02, 2009

The Legend of the Incest-Preventing Fairy

Before Halloween, Mental Floss put up a post titled “Five Scary Places and the Legends Behind Them.” Pretty tame stuff, in the way that a lot of old “scary” stuff doesn’t do much for us jaded types who have so much gore and bloodshed at our fingertips. One, however, stood out, because in addition to being old scary — that is, lame scary — it also exemplifies the sort of simple-minded, buck-toothed, barefoot style of storytelling employed by our ancestors to explain anything they didn’t understand.

Here, according to Mental Floss’s Miss Cellania, is the legend of Serbia’s famous Djavolja Varos. (“Devil’s Town” in English. It’s located between Devil’s Gully and Hell’s Gully, in case you’re passing through the area as you read this.) A quick preface: The location in question isn’t so much a town as it is a series a pointy rocks. Enjoy!

The story goes that the devil placed a curse on the local waters and those who drank it forgot their ancestry. This led to a wedding between brother and sister. A fairy tried to stop the marriage, but the couple refused. The fairy was left with no choice but to turn them into stone, along with all the wedding guests.
And this is how Serbians at some point saw fit to explain pointy rocks. Can we please examine what all has to accepted in order to make this story work?
  1. The devil has nothing better to do than make forget who their parents are.
  2. Even a temporary lapse in the understanding of familial relationships would result in siblings jumping into bed with each other.
  3. In addition to a devil that poisons the local well, Serbia also has fairies.
  4. One particular fairy was somehow saddled with the unusual duty of preventing incest.
  5. Not being able to do so, she did the next best thing: zapping everyone in a moderate radius into stone, which fairies can do.
  6. Finally, this story explains rock formations that basically look like stalagmites: pointy slender spikes sticking up from the ground. No arms, no legs, no confused wedding guest expressions.
That’s a lot of fucking salt to be swallowed. That’s the goddamn Dead Sea.

Before you think I’m bagging on Serbians, know this: I actually love the logic that underlies these kind of stories. And it goes without saying that as I type this now, there’s someone in some isolated part of my homeland who tells a similar story — devil, amnesia water, fairies, incest — to explain magnets.

Saturday, October 31, 2009

Transparent Holiday Greetings

For those who may be spending Halloween night at home, like I am, I thought I’d provide a momentary distraction: Muppet ghosts covering “I’m Looking Through You,” from the Vincent Price-hosted October 1976 episode of The Muppet Show.



I’m not sure if child me would have loved this or been terrified or the first and then the second.

(Via The Retroist.)

Fleeing a Haunted House

I had a nightmare Wednesday night, after I’d spent a few hours Magic Erasering the walls of my old bedroom to the point that my fingertip started bleeding. This ended the cleaning session, as the blood negated much of the erasers’ magic. It also may have planted the seeds for the bad dream. The narrative is simple: Much as I had in real life, I was standing in an empty version of my old bedroom, staring at plain white walls and rubbing the eraser in circles until every muscle in my arm ached. Unlike the actual version of events, I soon noticed that my fingers had actually started to pass through the wall itself — then wrists and then elbows. Around the time my face would have entered the now permeable drywall, I woke up. I’m not sure if dream me’s panicked yelling translated to any noise in waking life.

It stuck with me, this awful little movie that my brain invented without my permission. The next day — my last ever at the old address — I kept thinking about it, especially when I was standing in front of some vast expanse of white, sponging and essentially setting myself up for a reenactment of “Wacky Wall Washing.” Dreams don’t necessarily mean anything, I say, but that doesn’t mean that random images flashing in the night can’t be considered in the context of what happens during the daylight. For example, the night before the dream I watched TCM’s showing of The Haunting — the good 1963 version with Julie Harris. I’d seen it before, but I think I enjoyed it more the second time through, possibly because part of me related to Eleanor’s simultaneous attraction and repulsion to Hill House. Eleanor feared it because it was populated with ghosts, and I had come to hate my house for its oppressive stench of nostalgia. (Not helping the haunted house movie comparisons: The fact that my last few days cleaning it involved dodging spiders of every conceivable variety as they literally came out of the woodwork, all while the usually windy weather caused a spectral slamming of all the doors inside. Cue string section’s jump scene score.) I never thought I’d come to hate the old house: I loved it for a long time, and I have a lot of nice memories there. However, most of those memories involve people who aren’t around anymore. Just existing inside those walls had become a little painful, especially walking from one room to the next and thinking “This is where this happened. That is where that happened.” And then there’s the fact that the house itself is falling apart. In addition to being impossible to keep clean, the wood and metal that make up the house itself are decaying, almost as if collective memories were condensing inside, dripping down the walls and rotting through the walls.


Although I’m happy at the new place, where I’ve been living for almost a week, I will still miss the old one. That house had character, as everyone who visited had noted. (I imagine now that these friends used character to mean “dust,” “an odd floorplan,” “mismatched paint,” “no apparent living room,” “hardwood floors that are rapidly softening.”) The house was more of a character than anyone who ever lived in it. The day before the move, I told Aly that I felt like it wouldn’t happen — somehow, it would end up that we had to stay, because the house itself wanted us there, because the house wasn’t done with us. Just the fact that I started imagining that the old place had agency is probably a sign that it was time to get out, but I think these thoughts are especially telling when considered alongside a dream in which the house itself absorbed me into the walls.

Too many movie characters who go traipsing about in haunted houses never get out in time. Instead of running out while the front door still opens, they go deeper, into gloomy basements or dusty attics where evil things live, as we all know. I suppose I should be happy that I’m out now, sitting in a new place where all the ghosts were presumably packed up by the previous tenant. It’s an inappropriately beautiful October 31, and as I write this my bedroom is lit by a late afternoon glow the likes of which I would have never seen from my desk in my old bedroom.

empty_bedroom2222

I don’t care if the sentient, villainous house shows up in dreams again, because at least I know now that I’ll be waking up surrounded by new, more trustworthy walls.

Friday, October 30, 2009

Exclamations From Fortunate Writers

“Hey! This movie script just writes itself!”

“Hey! This harlequin romance novel just writes itself!”

“Hey! This kiss-ass profile of the local minor celebrity that no one cares about just writes itself!”

“Hey! This grocery list just writes itself!”

“Hey! This epic poem about Golda Meir just writes itself!”

“Hey! These bawdy limericks about Mr. Cramlock just write themselves!

“Hey! This whodunit set among a robot community living near the docks of a steampunk version of turn-of-the-century San Francisco just writes itself!”

“Hey! This Sonic the Hedgehog slash fiction just writes itself!”

“Hey! This living will in which I’m stiffing that one awful daughter just writes itself!”

“Hey! This passive-aggressive letter to the owner of that one cat with the continence problems just writes itself!”

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

Squishy Fishy, Part Two

I have a friend, whose name I’m declining to mention, who works in Washington D.C. for a member of congress, whose name I’m also declining to mention. This friend occasionally reads my blog and happened to do so this morning, when she learned of the awful squishy fishy toilet seat. The following email describes the resulting action:

I was reading your blog this morning, the post about your new toilet seat, right as [NAME OF CONGRESS PERSON] walked in and said “Is that a toilet seat with fish on it?” Not really knowing what to say, I went with “Um, yeah, it is. Uh....” Because what really do you say when your boss, a member of congress, asks about a cushioned decorated toilet seat on your screen? At this point, the office had to come over and look at what I was reading. Could have been worse, I guess?
I’m just pleased to know that my blog has distracted an elected official, however briefly. Perhaps I can convince this congress member to pass anti-cushioned toilet seat legislation?

Squishy Fishy — A Short Rant About a Toilet Seat

Upon moving into our new place, Aly and I discovered that the toilet seat, which had always been up during walkthroughs, had fish embroidered into the top of the lid. This struck us as strange, as the lid and seat look fairly new while the guy who previously lived in this unit did so alone — no kids, no ichthyologist girlfriend, no halfwit brother who might see the design and clap his chubby hands saying “Fishies! Fishies!” Aly and I presume that the cleaning crew, after doing what they could with this toilet, closed the lid, like polite people do, finally allowing us new tenants to gaze upon the seat that should not be. However, the unwelcomed fish design, looking like something a six-year-old might have created with a handful of stickers and too little parental supervision, was the least of our objections, as we would soon learn.

awful toilet seat

Upon returning the lid to the up position so as to hide the stupid-looking fish, I found that the toilet seat itself was cushioned, by which I mean that component itself was not made of either porcelain or hard plastic but instead foam rubber. (I guess, then, the toilet seat itself is a cushion.) Short of a body embedded in the wall, this is one of the nastiest surprises I could imagine in a new house. The mere thought of a toilet seat with a squishy texture repulses me. Spongy textures have no place near wherever human waste is being expelled.

And although we’ve since removed the horrible thing, I can’t help thinking of a second reason to hate it: Specifically, who would be inclined to buy a cushioned toilet seat aside from somebody who spends such an inordinately long amount of time on the pot that the pressure of standard, firm seat against the rear end had apparently caused discomfort? Personally, I do what I have to do and then continue with my day, but whoever purchased Squishy Fishy clearly suffered from a digestive disorder, possibly from a parasite obtained while abroad or from some sort of voodoo curse. (I’m speculating here, but I’ll bet I’m not far off.) And now I have to wonder exactly how communicable that disease might be, for despite thee new, firm seat in place of the previous one, I am still using the same toilet, for the most part.

If you’re reading this now and I now you socially and you happen to have a seat like this one, please make every effort not to tell me.

In closing, enjoy two more pictures of the house, each fairly unrelated to this post’s topic. First, the pathetic contents of our fridge on the first night in the new place:

pathetic fridge

And, second, what Adam found in the backyard, buried in dead bamboo:

muddy baby doll

There is much to notice in this new place.

Sunday, October 25, 2009

Symbolism?

The move is near complete. I eagerly await an exciting new life on the other side of town.

sojourns chapter four

When moving my bed this morning, I found a single page from a book. Despite being a lame title for any section of any book, Sojourns strikes me as a fitting word for what the next few months shall entail.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

Steve Odor

Finally, now that I’m once again in the swing of posting regularly, I can offer this: a word of the week. I’ve chosen this one based on the fact that I’m currently watching The Wire, after years of hearing nothing but good things about it from everyone whose taste I trust. I’m now in the second season, which takes place largely in the Baltimore port and which makes use of a synonym for longshoreman that I’d never heard before.

stevedore (STEE-vÉ™-dohr) — noun: : one who works at or is responsible for loading and unloading ships in port
Something about this word amuses me, possibly because I imagine a lot of dock workers being named Steve. In fact, there’s probably more than a few stevedores named Steve out there, and every one of them is probably tired of people pointing out the similarity. I’d say it’s in everyone’s best interest not to point it out, because among the many things I have learned from The Wire is that you shouldn’t go around pissing off dock workers. They’ll fuck you up.


Similarities aside, the word stevedore doesn’t seem to have a direct relationship to the name Stephen, which comes from Greek and means “crown” or “garland.” Instead, stevedore comes to English from the Spanish for “one who loads cargo,” estibador — which, also happens to sounds like Estiban, the Spanish version of the name Stephen, and probably makes working life hard for a certain number of Spanish dockworkers. Estibador comes from the verb estibar, “to stow cargo,” which in turn comes from the Latin verb stipare, meaning “pack down” or “press” and related to the English word stiff.

Because I’ll probably never again discuss dockworkers on this blog, I’d also like to point out that looking into stevedore led me to the etymology of longshoreman as well. I’d always wondered exactly how that long fit into the term and why it seemed to imply that these people were long in some way. Not what it means. The word is simply a slight contraction of alongshore, as in “these guys work along the shore.”

One more thought on the second season of The Wire, though not word related: I can’t get over how rough Amy Ryan looks. Yes, she looks better than she did in Gone Baby Gone, but she’s not the ray of sunshine that is Holly Flax from The Office. Amy Ryan, stay cleaned up. We like you that way.

Previous words of the week:
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Friday, October 23, 2009

Demon Boyfriend: My Take on Paranormal Activity

A friend invited me to go see Paranormal Activity today, and I’m glad he did because had he not told me about the good reviews the film has been getting, I would have continued thinking it was just another one of the terrible, un-scary horror movies that have been passing through theaters lately. It’s not. It’s actually quite good and jarred me enough that I think it might stick with me through the night.

Walking out of the theater, I formulated a little theory about the film and have decided to share it here. However, if you have any inclination to see Paranormal Activity — and you should, if you appreciate a good scare and Blair Witch-style handheld camerawork doesn’t nauseate you — then I think you should skip this post for now, since I’ll give away much of the film’s plot.

a spooky nothing happening — and oh so effectively

Whether the writer-director intended to do so or not, he created interesting parallels between the film’s big bad — a nameless, shapeless, almost unseen demon — and Micah, one of the film’s two human characters. Essentially, the movie works like this: Katie, the heroine, has been plagued by paranormal activity most of her life, and though her boyfriend, Micah, knows this, he refuses to listen to her when the two discuss how they should remedy their situation. When Katie wants to call an exorcist, he tells her the idea is stupid. When Katie suggests that his decision to video document the strange phenomenon could be what’s angering the demon, he keeps the cameras rolling. And when a psychic explicitly forbids them to attempt to communicate with the demon through an ouija board — doing so could open up a door that can’t be closed, the psychic explains — Micah does so, even after promising Katie that he won’t. In short, Micah is a jerk who doesn’t really seem to have Katie’s best interest at heart.

Which kind of sounds like the demon itself. This entity focuses its attention on Katie — that is, it’s not attached to a particular house but to Katie herself — and like Micah it pretty much does whatever it wants to her, regardless of how she feels. If you view the film as a battle between Micah and the demon over Katie, then the demon has more of a claim to her, as it has been with her a lot longer. It’s not explicitly stated in the film, but it seems like the couple has moved in together fairly recently — and, really, that could be what prompted the recent flare-up in bumps in the night — but Katie and Micah’s relationship still feels fairly tentative; they’re only “engaged to be engaged,” as Micah tells the psychic, and Katie only seems to have recently mentioned to Micah of her invisible friend. Again, I don’t think it’s explicitly stated, but it may well be the case that Katie only told Micah about the demon because of the recent strangeness. Had they been closer or had Micah been less of a dick, Katie might have told him a lot sooner.

Perhaps because he still doesn’t believe Katie, Micah continues to taunt the demon, calling it “worthless” and daring it to show itself. This shitty attitude, in addition to the cameras, makes the demon bolder than it ever was before. It seems appropriate, then, that the film ends with an apparently possessed Katie waking up in the middle of the night and walking downstairs, beyond the view of the camera stationed in the couple’s bedroom. She screams bloody murder and then commits bloody murder when Micah races downstairs to rescue her. (How he plans to do this, given his lack of any demon removal system, is perhaps only known to Micah.) Finally, Katie trudges back up the stairs and tosses Micah’s corpse directly at the camera. We’re given only a close-up of possessed Katie’s contorted face before the screen goes black — blacker, really, since this scene takes place at night — and the non-credits roll. (There’s nothing at the end of the movie aside from copyright info and a note that the events are, despite appearances, fictional.)

It seems especially appropriate that dead Micah gets tossed directly into the thing that pissed the demon off in the first place. The fact that Katie does it — possessed Katie is still Katie, after all — is a nice touch: Even if she’s been completely consumed by this dark entity, she’s finally able to put Micah in his place and punish him for steamrolling her every effort at agency.

Katie had managed to survive her demon-infused life so far on her own. It’s Micah who screwed everything up. Moving in with him made everything worse, but even if she didn’t have to contend with demonic forces pushing and pulling her — sometimes literally — she’d still be an oppressed, suppressed, repressed person if she continued to live with Micah. He’s no demon, but he is a shitty boyfriend, who didn’t hesitate to shove a camera in her face when she asked him not to or infuriated her demon to the point that it completely overwhelmed her. I guess the demon won the fight, in every way possible, but by taking Katie and making her and it one, it totally triumphed over his feeble promise of “engaged to be engaged.” Demon says, “Dude, now I’m in her all the time. Beat that.”

Some women just have bad taste in men.