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A little bit of sugar, a little bit of salt.
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To link to this blog from blog posts/comments, use [blog Noisy_Introvert], from anywhere else use http://personals.girlfriendsmag.com/blog/Noisy_Introvert, and to read it remotely use the  feed.
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| The worst movie character of all time |
Dec 15, 2007 11:36 pm
10120 Views |
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It's late, but it's Saturday night, so I'm allowed to still be up. I probably would have gone to bed an hour ago, but Aliens came on TV, and as is so often the case, I got sucked in. Goddamn this movie rocks. Okay, it's a slow start, with a lot of moody set up that may be overly expository. But once the marines are introduced, it's non-stop awesomeness. (If you are a pussy like "that tubby bitch" Roger Ebert, as my good friend the Bakes refers to him, you may even find the action too intense for your delicate stomach. While he gave it 3.5 stars, he famously wined about the film that "This movie made me feel bad." Stick with Nemo, Ebert.)
The movie is almost perfectly cast. Paul Reiser is totally oily as Burke, the Company man who sabotages the rescue mission (personally, he never quite shook the stink of this role). Michael Biehn is just the right mix of cocky and considerate as the dreamy Corporal Hicks. Bill Paxton... ah, Paxton! In a movie full of great lines, he utters the best one perfectly: "Seventeen days? Hey man, I don't wanna rain on your parade, but we're not gonna last seventeen hours!" And then there's the tough chick, Vasquez. For awhile I used "Vasquez" if I ever got a high score on a video game. "Hey Vasquez, you ever been mistaken for a man?" [while she's doing chin ups] "No. Have you?" Awesome. Not to mention the Sarge ("Look into my eye!").
And then, there's NEWT. The single most annoying character in the history of cinema. Holy mother of FUCK that kid is terrible. Remember this line? "They mostly come at night.... Mostly." PUNCH! When she screams that high-pitched little squeak, I want to shove an alien sock puppet down her throat. I want to take off and nuke the kid from orbit. (It's the only way to be sure.)
I mean, I get what Cameron is trying to do here – he wants to elevate the movie from your average mindless blood and guts action-horror flick, by adding depth and pathos to the characters. NEWT is only there to humanize Ripley. But it's Sigourney fucking Weaver, man. She doesn't need any help from this cardboard cut-out. She might as well be acting opposite a fern. And why the hell did Cameron name her "NEWT"? I just keep thinking of that annoying frickin centaur from the old Hercules cartoons. [Weird coincidence as I believe bad_patti referenced the same character today on mplsboy's blog.]
Oh man, she is squeaking again in the background as I type this. PUNCH! JEEZ! Quit wrecking everything!!!
There is one moment of serene redemption (not enough to justify her prolonged amount of screen time) for this shrill freakin guinea pig, and that is the line delivered by Ripley during the final showdown with the alien back on the ship. Remember when she gets all suited up in that robotic machine used for loading stuff, and she thumps onto the screen and says formidably, "Get away from her YOU BITCH!" Yaaaaaaah!!! That was awesome. But I still hate that little kid.
So, who do you think is the worst movie character of all time? (Don't say Jar-Jar. Unless you absolutely cannot stand it and you feel you have to say it. Actually, the little kid would be a better candidate. Annakin the Mannequin, we used to call him. I hated that kid too.) |
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| Something I've been meaning to ask you all |
Dec 12, 2007 9:57 am
14644 Views |
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What is the point of one-ply toilet paper?
I bought some last month. I don't know, maybe it was on sale, or maybe that's all they had left. I don't remember. But I'll tell you what. I'm not buying it again. Seriously, you might as well try wiping your ass with a postage stamp made of phyllo pastry.
Some folks might suggest it is a green alternative - some sort of means of reducing use. But those folks have likely not tried drying their asses with one-ply and experiencing the rapid soak-through rate, with the end result being a hand dampened with the scent of your own pee.
It's fucking gross!
In the end, you just end up using twice as much of the stuff anyway. One-ply is pointless. |
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67 Comments
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| Reverse body dysmorphic disorder |
Dec 10, 2007 9:45 am
12425 Views |
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So, I still have not shed the love pounds (goddammit) and at this point, I'm just like, fuckit, might as well wait til January and then rejoin my best friends Valerie Bertinelli and Kirstie Alley in the microwave menu methodology.
I am trying really hard not to freak out too much about my weight. A certain amount of freaking is natural and constant: like the Taos Hum, there is always a low-level obsession running in the background. It would be weird if it ever stopped.
My current weight is not unfamiliar to me. I have been here many, many times, although over the past two years, I had managed to maintain my weight at about 20-25 pounds less than where I am. Even at that weight, I felt like I needed to shed another 10 or 15, but I felt okay for the most part, like I could pass for "average" on the streets of the city.
The weight came back on over six months or so, from February to September. It was gradual at first, and I tried to contain my panic. Normally, fluctuating weight would not bother me so much, except for the fact I had maintained this lower weight for such a prolonged period of time that I'd almost accepted that this could be permanent. I even got rid of the fat clothes (goddammit).
The funny thing is, sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and I think, "Hmmmm, curvy, but not outrageously overweight. You're okay." (Of course sometimes it doesn't go quite so well...) But yeah, generally, I know I'm not at my best, but I am not despondent over how I appear.
But THEN. I see pictures of myself from some recent social event, or ones that the Dawg took of me when we were out galivanting in Brooklyn or whatever. And I'm totally horrified. I mean, okay, there's that whole cliché about the camera adding 10 pounds or whatever, but I don't think that's what it is. I just feel like, geez, this is what I must really look like to the rest of the world. And that's when the real panic sets in.
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| Google primer |
Dec 9, 2007 10:44 am
11498 Views |
I have a minor pet peeve about people who are conversing in an online environment and don't make the most of the wonders of the Goog when they don't understand a reference being made. I alluded to this in what I hope was a gentle admonishment in a comment to good, good whole wheat Shreddie (page 2 of comments).
I get that my irritability may (likely) be a result of my impatient nature, mixed with the desire to at least appear to be all-knowing (though often I will settle for just passingly familiar) about any given subject that arises in casual conversation. It's all vanity.
But I mean, come on guys. If someone uses an acronym you've never heard of, or says you remind them of some name you've never heard of, or seems to be quoting something, possibly lyrics, possibly something from a movie... it's SO EASY to just go to the Almighty Goog and find out what they're talking about so you can reply in context rather than derailing the groovy pace of the convo to ask, "Uh, what do you mean by PDA?" (just for example, no offense to anyone who didn't know what PDA was).
It's different if you're in a live conversation, of course. But here we all are, enjoying the benefits of online conversation where we can take the time to consider our responses carefully, including a couple extra minutes to ensure we know what the fuck we are talking about. I consult Google before posting comments or blogs about 50% of the time! This is why I appear to all of you to be a priestess of pop culture. Do you seriously think I remembered how to spell Koyaanisqatsi or what Lisa said to Homer 16 years ago, or indeed that it was 16 years ago that she said it???
Well anyway, like I said, I recognize that this could be part of my own sickness, and that maybe it's just not important enough to y'all to take a time out to get the facts straight, or you don't mind waiting for the answer to your question "Dude, WTF are you talking about?" So, I try not to get all bitchy about it. But I'm just sayin. Google makes it easy to know everything!
The two secrets to optimal Googling
Here are my two number one tips on maximizing Google efficiency:
1. Use of quotes. When someone has made a reference that seems like maybe it could be a song lyric or movie quote, put the whole thing in quotes and the Goog will search on that string of characters instead of looking for content that possesses each of these keywords though not necessarily in the order they appear in your search format.
2. Click on "cached". This is the big tip that I often pass on to work colleagues who are not so internet savvy. When a website appears in your search results, there is usually a link in small print that says "Cached". If you click on this link, it will take you to the page in question, but with a difference: all of the keywords you used in your search will be highlighted, so you can scroll very quickly through a lot of content to find the relevant information. I love this feature and use it ALL THE TIME.
So there you have it. The keys to the kingdom. The totally-not-forbidden, available-to-everyone fruit from the Tree of Google Knowledge. (Yes, it's true, we're all naked. Don't you prefer knowing? I mean, check us out!)
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| Koyaaniscakesi |
Dec 4, 2007 10:30 am
10000 Views |
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The relative stillness, and the sunshine, and the proximity of fresh air, even if I cannot get at it from behind my plexy prison, warms my gooey insides. It is such a relief to be alone, though I fear what fate may hold in store. I am still tense from the exertion a few minutes ago of holding completely still and stifling my sugary aroma as best I could when I spotted a stray dog off in the distance. He pissed on a tree and went on his hairy, disgusting way. I can’t believe I haven’t been run over yet, truthfully. Some baker up there likes me.
How did I get here? This morning I was in the chilly display case, tuning out that foo-foo lemon meringue diva bitch, all frothy and delectable, while I commiserated with the other seasonal offerings left over from the big rush. It’s the day after Thanksgiving and the bastards didn’t even mark us down. Our chances of being chosen, saddled as we were with plastic turkeys, beautifully hand-crafted but now tragically-outdated cornucopias, and one truly embarrassing cake shaped like a pilgrim with a big shiny belt buckle made of sugary granite, were dwindling with the sands through the hour glass.
Early in the day, I was almost defaced by the grimy paws of a tiny errant monster. I saw it waddling towards me, hands outstretched like Baby Frankenstein. As it approached, it was like some 3D horror movie, those dirty, disgusting hands, covered in snot and spit and Cheerio dust and god knows what else, zeroing in on me, about to leave a mark that would suely dissuade potential buyers from taking a chance on a seasonal harvest-themed cake selling for full fucking price the day after the season ended. Just as all hope seemed lost, its mother swooped down and whisked it away, and the thing let out a caterwaul that could be heard several aisles away. I know because the brat would Not. Shut. Up.
From there it was an emotional rollercoaster, as it so often is: people wandering by, trying not to look like they were interested, slowing as they passed and letting their eyes run up and down the length of our display case. Sickos.
One time I managed to make it about 20 feet from the bakery. Some big fat jerkoff picked me up – fucking one-handed, oh, what a superstar, WATCH IT, ASSHOLE!!! – and brought me to a grocery cart. His girlfriend, who I’m sure dresses up in thigh high leather boots and a studded collar at night, told him there was a fridge full of leftover cake and pie at home and to forget about it. Whoa that guy was whipped. He slunk away all dejected, and left me in a freezer next to a frickin shrimp ring. UM, THANKS. Jeeeeeeeez. Fortunately (I guess) Stockton the stocky stockboy found me and returned me to the cattle call.
There was this one girl. She’d been casing the display for twenty or thirty minutes. She’d get nearby, start chewing on her thumb, stare at each of us, look around self-consciously, and then wander away. By her third go-round, even Diva Meringue was bitching about how she needed to shit or get off the pot.
I knew her type. She was maybe 20 pounds overweight. Still pretty, but on the verge of crossing the line from average/curvy to just plain fat. Some guys would already classify her that way. You could see it in her eyes, this glassy emptiness. She was looking at us, but not seeing us, as if we might hold the key to the fulfillment she was seeking, but part of her knew we only could only offer fullness. Her struggle was epic, and yet ordinary. It was almost heartbreaking. Part of me wanted to send her home with some Rolos and a self-help book, but what can I say, deep down we are all hard-wired for self-preservation. Or in my case self-immolation. I concentrated on the orange and yellow icing flowers and sugary green leaves decorating my top side, willing them to appear brighter, more tantalizing.
And finally it worked. The fourth time she approached, it was with speed and determination. She walked right up to us, reached down and grabbed all seven pounds of me, and hurried up to the cashier before she could change her mind. She didn’t even have me bagged, just kept right on going, out into the sunshine, out into freedom, where a world of possibilities lay open to her. She was single-minded in her focus, moving quickly through the streets of San Francisco, glancing at me every once in awhile. As she waited for her train, I could tell she wanted to sneak a finger under the plastic lid, but she didn’t dare, as that would blow her cover. This cake was not for her, are you kidding? What kind of disgusting pig would people think she was? No, no, she was going to a belated Thanksgiving party, of course.
As she sat on the train, her resolve was starting to waver. I could feel it. She was looking at some teenaged girls, carefree, beautiful… thin. In fact, my crap-ass luck, every frickin woman on our car was a size 2, I swear. If I’d had a head I would have shaken it. When she got off the train, her pace was nowhere near as determined as the triumphant gait she’d assumed after breaking me out. Now she dawdled and dithered and shuffled her feet. Eventually she stopped in front of a car. She put me down on the road as she fumbled for her keys, and opened the car door. Hesitation, misery, anxiety, conflict… I mean, what is the big hairy ass deal, anyway? It’s not like you have to eat me all in one sitting or anything. I will keep.
Not that I haven’t seen this before: the mixture of gluttonous lust, hopeful longing, and abject terror in the eyes of those who look upon me. I seem to possess strange powers over humans.
But now I’m alone in this parking lot. She never did put me in the car. She took one last look at me and drove away, presumably to the closest Dairy Queen drive-thru. We all gotta do what we gotta do to try and put our lives back in balance. I wish her well, even though the bitch abandoned me to the winos and dawgs. |
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| The name has changed; the format remains the same |
Nov 30, 2007 6:34 am
9302 Views |
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Hello faithful blogstars!
Yes it's true, First Impressions has finally been retired, along with the technically incorrect tagline of "It's a double entendre, get it?" (I remain begrudgingly grateful to for pointing this out to me.)
I was never really big on that blog title anyway – I just kinda tossed it out there pretty quickly without a lot of thought, and now that I've been here well over a year and my impressions of you all and your impressions of me (all) are waaaay past the firsties stage, well it seemed the time for a change was nigh.
So initially I was going for a classic Simpsons reference – at the end of an old 1991 episode, Marge wonders what lesson can be learned and Lisa philosophizes, "Maybe there is no moral". And then Homer says, "Exactly! It's just a bunch of stuff that happened!!" Well, I have always been fond of the latter quote and thought it might be a good description of the useless crap I write about in my blog, but the phrase had too many characters in it. So I went with the former quote, and used Homer's line as the new tagline.
Feedback from people whose opinion I value suggested the reference might be a bit, erm, highbrow and without the cultural connection, well, the title just felt sort of awkward.
So that night, I was lying in bed, naked (just thought I'd throw that in there for the ratings), and inspiration hit. I enjoy the kettle corn flavour. And "A little bit of sugar, a little bit of salt" seemed a very apt description of the tone of this blog. (Alright, fine, maybe it should be, "A little bit of sugar, a huge amount of salt, sautéed to a lovely shade of char." That would be more accurate, but less appetizing, in my mind.)
So anyway, that's the lengthy, some might say self-indulgent explanation for the name change. I'd love it if you would justify my self-indulgence by giving into your own! How did you come up with your blog title? (Did "My Blog" just come to you or did you really have to think about it?)
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| There are eight million stories in the Caked City |
Nov 29, 2007 2:41 pm
9164 Views |
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... or at least three or four, I hope.
First off, shout-out to new guy for suggesting that there is more to the story of the MacArthur Parking Lot cake. As The Buvvie put it:
There is a story behind that cake. Someone went out and bought that cake with a perfectly decent intention to celebrate a birthday or bring it to a Thanksgiving dinner. Something happened in that parking lot that changed everything. Suddenly the cake became a liability. What to do? What would you do? Has anyone ever abandoned a cake before?
I think it would be a potentially hilarious, or most likely mundane, possibly incredibly stupid writing exercise for any and all who are interested, to spin us the tale of just what exactly happened to that cake before it came into my life and provided me with blog fodder and belly flabber.
I, of course, will be contributing a post, possibly the only one, we shall see. One never knows what will take off in this weird world we practically live in.
And so, as Marie Antoinette might possibly have said if she was Kirsten Dunst and listened to Bow Wow Wow and Aphex Twin,
Let them blog cake!
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21 Comments
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| MacArthur Parking Lot |
Nov 26, 2007 11:42 pm
12478 Views |
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On Friday last, after basking in the turkilicious glow of Thanksgiving done right, the Dawg and I decided to spend the day in San Francisco. Being smug environmental types, we decided to take public transit, and drove his smug hybird to the local BART station in Berkeley.
As we were parking, we saw a most bizarre sight: a 7 pound chocolate cake, decorated with lovely fall colour icing leaves and delicioush chocolatey flakes, sat unattended and uneaten, perfectly intact within its plastic container in the empty parking space next to ours. The Dawg was amused and took a photo with his cell phone (see att.) I gazed at it briefly and longingly and then we tripped off for a day of happy wandering, communing with sea lions at Pier 39, a lovely Italian dinner and getting mildly hazed off half a bottle of red wine.
When we returned to the parking lot six hours later, lo and behold, the cake was still there, in all its resplendent glory! The Dawg laughingly encouraged me to take the cake. On account of my serious icing disorder, I either failed to recognize or chose to ignore the irony in his voice, and happily interpreted his tone literally. I stooped over and hauled that seven pound monstrosity up and carried it over to the car. The Dawg kept laughing, until I opened the back seat and carefully, lovingly sandwiched it amongst all the back seat crap in order to protect it from any travel mishaps. At this point, the Dawg's laughter took on a note of shocked disgust, mixed with affection and perhaps a tinge of fear. I realized I had misread the situation, but at that point I was committed. Plus, you don't understand how delicioush this cake looked!
(As the Dawg graciously pointed out later in an alarming display of fat-enabling, it's possible, this being the Bay Area, that the cake was organic.)
The cake served me well in the days that followed. (I was reminded of an old Simpsons episode and was moved on a couple of occasions to say, "Dawg, I want to be alone with the cake".) There was plenty of icing to see me through and ensure that I always maintained a constant level of queasiness from sugar overload. The Dawg thought the whole thing was hilarious and suggested I should blog about it, but I thought it (I ) was so disgusting that I couldn't possibly admit to it.
This morning, though, I was lying in bed, and I remembered that the BART station was, seriously, I'm not even kidding, called "MacArthur Station", and I knew my desire to write a blog called MacArthur Parking Lot was greater than any slim hold I have on things like dignity and self-respect.
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43 Comments
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To link to this blog from blog posts/comments, use [blog Noisy_Introvert], from anywhere else use http://personals.girlfriendsmag.com/blog/Noisy_Introvert, and to read it remotely use the feed.
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