One need only look at his first three films 'Pi', 'Requiem For a Dream', and 'The Fountain'; to realize that Darren Aronofsky has never been the type of film maker to enter a project with box office seats in mind. 'The Wrestler', his latest transcendent creation is likely to receive much of the same initial criticism for walking off the beaten path of entertaining Hollywood Fare. Its 16mm pseudo-documentary style will feel like an overly used gimick of budgetary limitations to the critics bent on blindly following their so-named job descriptions. It is an indie, arthouse, film festival kind of film that is slowly paced, deeply saddening, and at times uncomfortable. In spite of which I will dare to say that not one gritty frame is wasted in this master work that tells the poignant story of a professional wrestler, wrestling with his personal life in the back nine holes of a career long past its prime.
Although it may seem obvious in hind sight, Aronofsky cast Mickey Rourke as the protagonist, Randy 'The Ram' a professional wrestler with an actual and metaphorical failing heart. Aronofsky cinematically places us so deep in his shoes, that we can smell the sweat and feel the aching warn out body parts. We spend half of the movie in a hand-held documentary-esce follow technique that literally follows Randy 'The Ram' through every crumbling part of his athletically taped togethered once glamorous life. Like the film's impactful hour and 45 minute run-time, Rourke is lean and muscular having gained 35 pounds for the role. The parallels between Rourke's career and Randy's bring a truth, and for audience members familiar with Rourke's career, an a priori truth. Not since 'Rumble Fish' have I felt Rourke so close to home as a character admired from a distance yet deeply troubled and self-conciously self-loathing in close quarters. He is at his best here, multi-faceted and affecting from his humorous charm entertaining customers from behind a deli counter to tangible moments of of deep regret. He fills the frame for 95% of the film to our benefit as he goes after the part with the kind of gusto that endures self-mutilation, digs deep into the depths of emotional truth, and carries the audience with the charisma to leave us emotionally bouyant enough to empathize with his flawed persona.
Rourke is well supported; Marisa Tomei equally goes for broke stripping away her Hollywood image and her clothes to play a stripper named Cassidy. She bests predecessors like Elizabeth Berkley, Demi Moore, and Darryl Hannah in humanizing the pole dancing struggle. Her struggle isn't in shedding her clothes or making ends meat. It is in maintaining her professionalism; keeping a distance while providing fantasy as a service. Evan Rachel Wood is great as Randy's neglected daughter. She brings the right amount of reluctance behind the defense mechanisms to show us how much she wants a relationship with her father but justifiably distrusts.
The film is great! It's definitely academy award potential great, not that it begs for that kind of validation. I'm not sure if it's film school curriculum great, but its merits definitely hold lessons for film makers and actors everywhere. He has transported us into the hallway tunnel of an underground wrestling match about to begin. Although staged, the performance is a labor of love for its gladiators. Like one of these wrestling matches, the brutality of his film is real and a thrill. Sadism becomes masochism with the presence of empathy. I would not recommend this film unless you are prepared to wrestle with your emotional attachment to Rourke's transformation into Randy 'The Ram'.
ding ding
-MM
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Living in the Momentous
I just returned from a long trip to visit with friends and family for Thanksgiving.
While driving from the place I used to call home to what I currently call home, I got temporarily stranded in an insignificant truck stop of a little town called Buttonwillow. I put myself up in the cheapest motel room I could find while I waited for morning to purchase a new tire. What I found enlightening was that my one night stay in temporary living quarters was whatever I made of it. While the state of my situation was completely out of my control, the state of my mind was open to the fabrication of my choosing.
My situation was frustrating. I was stuck in a tiny town that I didn't want to be in, with nothing to do. There were 8 channels on TV. The smell of cigarette smoke loomed in the air and the connect-the-dot cigarette burns on the thin race car covered comfortor was an in-my-face reminder of how anti-luxurious my accidental vacation was going to be.
However, my mind was free to visit the past. I often find it hard not to indulge in the sweet nostalgia of happier times long let go. Through this lens, the picture of the present in its anti-climactic-lackluster charm is overshadowed by the older sibling of precedence. Likewise, the past is equally cheated of its truth. In the place of unbiased history, stands the saccharine imposter of wishful thinking, shaking hands and kissing babies on its campaign to impeach the present's potential for greatness. Out of a lifetime of previous moments that could have just as easily been sour shadowy comparisons to the relatively further past, we pick and choose our shiny favorites to look upon with flowery eulogies over their passing greatness. When compared to the best of the past, of course your momentary motel room is dingy.
All too often we ignore the present to plan for better times and greater accomplishments that lay down the road. We bury our bitter distaste of current events with resolute projections of where we would rather be. It's an easy bargain that we make with ourselves in order to accept the unwanted. "Better days are just ahead", we say in a Little Orphan Annie view of Sunnier horizons. Optimism is only a cheap cover up for the existence of pessimism.
Instead I discovered that in this moment of life caught between my past and my future, I was free to live beyond the big picture, in a nomadic state of anything goes. A gyspy of the mind I was free to roam the entire landscape of my known experiences to provide my current moment whatever context I deemed necessary. I was still stuck in a motel room, but I was free to utilize this time to realize that I wasn't stuck at all. This moment became "Blog-worthy" and enlightening.
We often find ourselves literally, or metaphorically stranded with flat tires in moments not of our choosing. Being the sculptors of our own reality, we are free to dwell in the past that we have left behind us or live as pioneers of the future destinations that lay before us. We can wallow in the half-empty beer glasses of buttonwillow motel room moments, or we can realize the full potential of each savory second of life. Knowing that your mind orchestrates the symphony of your perspective makes all the difference between living in the moment, and living in the momentous.
Check out's at 10:00,
MM
While driving from the place I used to call home to what I currently call home, I got temporarily stranded in an insignificant truck stop of a little town called Buttonwillow. I put myself up in the cheapest motel room I could find while I waited for morning to purchase a new tire. What I found enlightening was that my one night stay in temporary living quarters was whatever I made of it. While the state of my situation was completely out of my control, the state of my mind was open to the fabrication of my choosing.
My situation was frustrating. I was stuck in a tiny town that I didn't want to be in, with nothing to do. There were 8 channels on TV. The smell of cigarette smoke loomed in the air and the connect-the-dot cigarette burns on the thin race car covered comfortor was an in-my-face reminder of how anti-luxurious my accidental vacation was going to be.
However, my mind was free to visit the past. I often find it hard not to indulge in the sweet nostalgia of happier times long let go. Through this lens, the picture of the present in its anti-climactic-lackluster charm is overshadowed by the older sibling of precedence. Likewise, the past is equally cheated of its truth. In the place of unbiased history, stands the saccharine imposter of wishful thinking, shaking hands and kissing babies on its campaign to impeach the present's potential for greatness. Out of a lifetime of previous moments that could have just as easily been sour shadowy comparisons to the relatively further past, we pick and choose our shiny favorites to look upon with flowery eulogies over their passing greatness. When compared to the best of the past, of course your momentary motel room is dingy.
All too often we ignore the present to plan for better times and greater accomplishments that lay down the road. We bury our bitter distaste of current events with resolute projections of where we would rather be. It's an easy bargain that we make with ourselves in order to accept the unwanted. "Better days are just ahead", we say in a Little Orphan Annie view of Sunnier horizons. Optimism is only a cheap cover up for the existence of pessimism.
Instead I discovered that in this moment of life caught between my past and my future, I was free to live beyond the big picture, in a nomadic state of anything goes. A gyspy of the mind I was free to roam the entire landscape of my known experiences to provide my current moment whatever context I deemed necessary. I was still stuck in a motel room, but I was free to utilize this time to realize that I wasn't stuck at all. This moment became "Blog-worthy" and enlightening.
We often find ourselves literally, or metaphorically stranded with flat tires in moments not of our choosing. Being the sculptors of our own reality, we are free to dwell in the past that we have left behind us or live as pioneers of the future destinations that lay before us. We can wallow in the half-empty beer glasses of buttonwillow motel room moments, or we can realize the full potential of each savory second of life. Knowing that your mind orchestrates the symphony of your perspective makes all the difference between living in the moment, and living in the momentous.
Check out's at 10:00,
MM
Monday, November 24, 2008
Of Pros(e) and Con(text)s
As a matter of speaking,
I have recently become obsessed with dialogue. Specifically, It concerns me that the communicative process is surprisingly more intrinsically argumentative than I thought. The natural paradigm surrounding the nature of prose, is that it is ordinary, unpoetic and informal. I thought of it as the way we exchange "so what do you do", "where do you live" small talk at a Christmas party. What shifted my view is that I have noticed that the simplest of statements we make, even at their most insignificant, possess the context of our entire lives. They are actually pros or cons on the omnipresent pro-con list of life choices, deceptively dressed as casual language.
For me, it is now evident that each and every discussionary assertion that we make holds the hidden values of who we individually are. A statement's credibility, how it is taken, the meaning surrounding the statement itself is nothing without taking the speaker into account. This becomes significant because all human action has an intent. While it is obvious when you think about someone selling a car, getting you to vote for a proposition, or choosing a faith, the most unimportant statements like what kind of turkey you bought, how you fixed your broken tail light on your car, or what you said to a friend, are in actuality argumentative cases meant to justify or validate the decisions that we have made. Out of the 12 different types of deli meats at various prices, you spend a little extra because your preference is for (x). You could take your car to your dealership, hire a mechanic, or do it yourself, but you chose (x) because it best suits you. A listener is left with the choice to agree or disagree. "I love the smoked pepper turkey at Whole Foods", or "They have better prices at..." be they casual, are approvals or disapprovals.
While they don't seem to be argumentative, we stamp the experiences of our lives with directives about how and why. From opening statement to closing argument, the brand of coffee that we individually prefer to stimulate our personal existence with, is a presentation of potential leadership.
We only think that these minor conversations are without assertion, because we are not bothered if people disagree. We regard these choices as personal because we don't take the reactions of our listener's personal. We are free to be indifferent about our differences as long as they are weak in their magnitude. It is as though we metaphysically populate the crowded subway of philosophical space each with our own stops and destinations. Along this journey, we do not mind eachother, as long as we are not jabbing elbows into eachother's minds. You can have your smoked pepper turkey, but don't encroach upon my political propositions.
In conversation, we devour each other's experiences as offerings to our personal lists of pros and cons. The unintrusive informality of prose merely makes each other's individual contexts digestible.
Pro or Con?
-MM
I have recently become obsessed with dialogue. Specifically, It concerns me that the communicative process is surprisingly more intrinsically argumentative than I thought. The natural paradigm surrounding the nature of prose, is that it is ordinary, unpoetic and informal. I thought of it as the way we exchange "so what do you do", "where do you live" small talk at a Christmas party. What shifted my view is that I have noticed that the simplest of statements we make, even at their most insignificant, possess the context of our entire lives. They are actually pros or cons on the omnipresent pro-con list of life choices, deceptively dressed as casual language.
For me, it is now evident that each and every discussionary assertion that we make holds the hidden values of who we individually are. A statement's credibility, how it is taken, the meaning surrounding the statement itself is nothing without taking the speaker into account. This becomes significant because all human action has an intent. While it is obvious when you think about someone selling a car, getting you to vote for a proposition, or choosing a faith, the most unimportant statements like what kind of turkey you bought, how you fixed your broken tail light on your car, or what you said to a friend, are in actuality argumentative cases meant to justify or validate the decisions that we have made. Out of the 12 different types of deli meats at various prices, you spend a little extra because your preference is for (x). You could take your car to your dealership, hire a mechanic, or do it yourself, but you chose (x) because it best suits you. A listener is left with the choice to agree or disagree. "I love the smoked pepper turkey at Whole Foods", or "They have better prices at..." be they casual, are approvals or disapprovals.
While they don't seem to be argumentative, we stamp the experiences of our lives with directives about how and why. From opening statement to closing argument, the brand of coffee that we individually prefer to stimulate our personal existence with, is a presentation of potential leadership.
We only think that these minor conversations are without assertion, because we are not bothered if people disagree. We regard these choices as personal because we don't take the reactions of our listener's personal. We are free to be indifferent about our differences as long as they are weak in their magnitude. It is as though we metaphysically populate the crowded subway of philosophical space each with our own stops and destinations. Along this journey, we do not mind eachother, as long as we are not jabbing elbows into eachother's minds. You can have your smoked pepper turkey, but don't encroach upon my political propositions.
In conversation, we devour each other's experiences as offerings to our personal lists of pros and cons. The unintrusive informality of prose merely makes each other's individual contexts digestible.
Pro or Con?
-MM
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Mating and Dating in the Land of Hollys with Wood
Mating and dating is tough, but mating and dating in Hollywood is a completely different story.
The ripples of Seinfeld, Friends, Sex & the City, and Entourage have already shifted our culture into a self-obsessive perpetually-on-the-prowl-for-something-better gear. Now take the most attractive, most powerful, most notable, most self-obsessive of our society and lock them behind the red roped world that is Hollywood, West Hollywood, and Beverly Hills. Now make them feel like all their actions are public knowledge because the countless scavenging paparazzi are feeding the countless gossip columnists the fodder of famous folly. You will have concocted a potent potion that people are powerless to repulse. Side effects may include: anxiety, hunger, reduced appetite, attentive deficiency disorder, and an overall inability to hold a long-term relationship.
Like an ancient greek festival of the seasons, everything revolves around "Wood". The erect phallic representation of societal achievement embodied by the male constituents who have acrued the most wealth, power, fame, or combination of the three. Like a castle, Wood presides over his kingdom of caste with a supreme sense of self-entitlement. He spends his night at court, where the bottles of servitude flow at his disposal. Lands and titles are traded and negotiated over grey geese and wine. Court is kept busy with ladies-in-waiting, waiting for the dowry of promise to bestowe upon them lands and titles of their own.
Most of these ladies that adorn the halls of wood seem to go by the name "Holly". Holly is an actor, a model, a socialite, or a combination of the three. Either way, Holly is Hot. The hotter the better, the harder for Wood to handle, and the more likely that Wood will burn with passion. That is until completely consumed by Holly's Hotness until all that remains of Wood are the wasted coals of desperate desire. Holly loves Tiffany's or whatever other gifts Wood can expel.
Courtship is difficult in the land of Holly and Wood because of abundance. It is overpopulated by the extremely gorgeous, wealthy, and socially intelligent. Its citizens are physically overstimulated by the genetically endowed and the surgically perfected until they are barely stimulated at all. This overabundance leads to the pursuit of perfection which becomes the plight of its princes. This refined taste leaves the savoring of subtlety ever-present like the effervescent tickle of a freshly poured fine champaign.
Courtship is difficult because its players are well practiced in games of the heart. Partners are pawns in the well performed playing of heart strings. The music of seduction is amusing to the difficult to amuse. They dance to the rythm of finding someone new, as though spun by the DJ's of dissatisfying joy. Ex's and Ex-ex's are tallied on lists of accomplished conquerings like resume's for the ultimate blow job of gratification.
Courtship is difficult because nights at court are intoxicating. Fuzzy navels and red headed sluts blur into one kamikaze sexual escapade after another until they all blur into one vague one-night-standing ovation. Drunk with self-congratulatory personal achievements of brief temporary betrothal lead to stumbling into the beds of bedfellows that will soon sober to the lack of sufficiency.
Yet, despite the difficulties of courtship in the supreme court of appealing people, there are the rare jems of the archeological mating ritual that grant us completion. The cathartic orgasm that follows the foreplay of the elite is a mountainous erruption that makes all the build up worth while. The long perilous road to this volcanic anamoly is the reason for the nursery ryhme that tells tales of fairy god mothers, princes, and frogs. The happy ending where King marrys Queen is the true presider and decider, the oppulant church of the romantically faithful. It is the epic lord of the rings, and perhaps nothing more than a fairy tale, in a land full of Hollys with Wood.
The End
-MM
The ripples of Seinfeld, Friends, Sex & the City, and Entourage have already shifted our culture into a self-obsessive perpetually-on-the-prowl-for-something-better gear. Now take the most attractive, most powerful, most notable, most self-obsessive of our society and lock them behind the red roped world that is Hollywood, West Hollywood, and Beverly Hills. Now make them feel like all their actions are public knowledge because the countless scavenging paparazzi are feeding the countless gossip columnists the fodder of famous folly. You will have concocted a potent potion that people are powerless to repulse. Side effects may include: anxiety, hunger, reduced appetite, attentive deficiency disorder, and an overall inability to hold a long-term relationship.
Like an ancient greek festival of the seasons, everything revolves around "Wood". The erect phallic representation of societal achievement embodied by the male constituents who have acrued the most wealth, power, fame, or combination of the three. Like a castle, Wood presides over his kingdom of caste with a supreme sense of self-entitlement. He spends his night at court, where the bottles of servitude flow at his disposal. Lands and titles are traded and negotiated over grey geese and wine. Court is kept busy with ladies-in-waiting, waiting for the dowry of promise to bestowe upon them lands and titles of their own.
Most of these ladies that adorn the halls of wood seem to go by the name "Holly". Holly is an actor, a model, a socialite, or a combination of the three. Either way, Holly is Hot. The hotter the better, the harder for Wood to handle, and the more likely that Wood will burn with passion. That is until completely consumed by Holly's Hotness until all that remains of Wood are the wasted coals of desperate desire. Holly loves Tiffany's or whatever other gifts Wood can expel.
Courtship is difficult in the land of Holly and Wood because of abundance. It is overpopulated by the extremely gorgeous, wealthy, and socially intelligent. Its citizens are physically overstimulated by the genetically endowed and the surgically perfected until they are barely stimulated at all. This overabundance leads to the pursuit of perfection which becomes the plight of its princes. This refined taste leaves the savoring of subtlety ever-present like the effervescent tickle of a freshly poured fine champaign.
Courtship is difficult because its players are well practiced in games of the heart. Partners are pawns in the well performed playing of heart strings. The music of seduction is amusing to the difficult to amuse. They dance to the rythm of finding someone new, as though spun by the DJ's of dissatisfying joy. Ex's and Ex-ex's are tallied on lists of accomplished conquerings like resume's for the ultimate blow job of gratification.
Courtship is difficult because nights at court are intoxicating. Fuzzy navels and red headed sluts blur into one kamikaze sexual escapade after another until they all blur into one vague one-night-standing ovation. Drunk with self-congratulatory personal achievements of brief temporary betrothal lead to stumbling into the beds of bedfellows that will soon sober to the lack of sufficiency.
Yet, despite the difficulties of courtship in the supreme court of appealing people, there are the rare jems of the archeological mating ritual that grant us completion. The cathartic orgasm that follows the foreplay of the elite is a mountainous erruption that makes all the build up worth while. The long perilous road to this volcanic anamoly is the reason for the nursery ryhme that tells tales of fairy god mothers, princes, and frogs. The happy ending where King marrys Queen is the true presider and decider, the oppulant church of the romantically faithful. It is the epic lord of the rings, and perhaps nothing more than a fairy tale, in a land full of Hollys with Wood.
The End
-MM
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Zac and Miri make a Vulgar Juvanile Fantasy About What Sex Must Be Like
FADE IN
INT. WEST LA MOVIE THEATER - NIGHT
Establishing Shot, A friend and I are in A Dark Theater as the movie is about to start. CU: my hands fumble with a bag of wasabi peas that I bought at the counter. MCU: my friend looks at me with a scrunchy nosed tight browed face that questions why on earth I would choose such an inappropriate snack. OS: I shrug my shoulders in an 'I don't know, fuck it' sort of way.
KEVIN SMITH, 38, Established Director begins telling me a story through picture and sound.
KEVIN SMITH
So, I haven't had a successful movie in years.
ME
What are you talking about? Jay and Silent Bob must have made a killing at the Box Office, plus Clerks II had to have done pretty good.
KEVIN SMITH
That's not what I mean. I'm best known for my Grungy suprisingly fresh comedies that offer a close examination of human interaction off the beaten path of the glamorous hollywood cinematic style.
ME
Wow Kevin, that sounds a lot more like me talking, than you, but continue.
KEVIN SMITH
Well, as of late, I really admire Judd Apatow's work. He's managed to reach a level of comedic box office popularity that I was never quite able to achieve.
ME
I guess the idiosyncratic dialogue reminds me of you, but yours is usually self-indulgent and interjects all your extremely witty observations about society and the world into a conversation that doesn't quite feel appropriate nor real nor pertinant to the story. No, don't look at me like that, I love it. That's what makes you, well, you. If I want Judd Apatow, I go see his stuff. He's just garnered more box office success because his films are more easily digestable to a broader audience. His dialogue is funny, but the actors deliver a better performance because 1. they're more talented than Ben Affleck and 2. the societal observations that Judd Apatow inserts are in the subtext instead of in the exposition. Fuck, now I'm starting to sound more like you!
KEVIN SMITH
Nah, It's cool. I can appreciate you poking fun of my shit to illustrate your point. But see, you forgot the witty idiosyncratic quip that makes me clever as fuck, and the vulgar cursing that makes it sound real.
ME
Well, I sincerely apologize for this entire farce. My attempt to write a clever review couldn't possibly do you justice. It's just that this movie I'm watching doesn't quite feel like you, not that there's anything wrong with evolving. It's just that Zac and Miri are making me realize a lot of things about you as a director, Me as a filmmaker, and well film making in general.
KEVIN SMITH
Dude, there's nothing wrong with that. That's great, I'm glad to oblige. That's what a film is supposed to do right?
ME
Yes. But it's not intentional, and you're definitely not gonna like what I'm seeing and realizing.
KEVIN SMITH
Really? I wanted this movie to go closer to the core of what made Chasing Amy So great. It's a real human romance. The porno storyline was just a great scenario that gave us the opportunity to have a lot of fun like Mallrats and Clerks. It was the Studios that wanted a believable story favoring Seth Rogan and Elizabeth Banks as leads because they wanted to appeal to the Judd Apatow demographic and ensure the kind of Box Office numbers they've been getting.
ME
Well it was a success in that regard. I enjoyed it and my friend loved it. At one point (can't spoil it) I was obnoxiously convulsing with laughter and screaming at the top of my lungs. That is until I got embarrassed about the noises I was making and had to be self-conscious enough to be polite to the other patrons. I liked it, I really did.
KEVIN SMITH
So...What's the problem then homedog? Lay it on me.
ME
I was turned off because It was so Juvenile and farty. I get that you write for an audience and it made for some great scenes. The sexual obsession was actually really fun. But it was the romance part that lost me. It was a 17 year old perspective of idealized love. It was lacking in experience and understanding in its sexuality. It definitely suggests that true love should be something between two people which are essentially best friends, which I agree with. However I couldn't buy the 'I love you cuz your my best friend, but I hope things don't get wierd when we start having sex' thing. The main sex scene made a case for the intimate eye contact of missionary over 'anal' with a constipated recognizable porn star (Who was pretty good btw). It's just that the treatment exposited more about your immaturatity in sexual relationships than it did about your maturity as a film maker. To illustrate my point, at the opposite end of the spectrum are movies like Closer, Mo' Better Blues, and The Dreamers. Still those are dramas. But Judd Apatow's superbad was at least consious of it's own lack of sexual maturity.
A film is so telling about the director and the writer. Sexual relationships leave a filmmaker so naked and intimate with the audience. Your film presented more about the masturbation technique of the 'double dutch rudder' than the sexuality of best friends falling in love. Like a porno, Zac and Miri is a Vulgar juvanile fantasy about what sex must be like. I got off, but there's no relationship there.
FADE OUT
-MM
INT. WEST LA MOVIE THEATER - NIGHT
Establishing Shot, A friend and I are in A Dark Theater as the movie is about to start. CU: my hands fumble with a bag of wasabi peas that I bought at the counter. MCU: my friend looks at me with a scrunchy nosed tight browed face that questions why on earth I would choose such an inappropriate snack. OS: I shrug my shoulders in an 'I don't know, fuck it' sort of way.
KEVIN SMITH, 38, Established Director begins telling me a story through picture and sound.
KEVIN SMITH
So, I haven't had a successful movie in years.
ME
What are you talking about? Jay and Silent Bob must have made a killing at the Box Office, plus Clerks II had to have done pretty good.
KEVIN SMITH
That's not what I mean. I'm best known for my Grungy suprisingly fresh comedies that offer a close examination of human interaction off the beaten path of the glamorous hollywood cinematic style.
ME
Wow Kevin, that sounds a lot more like me talking, than you, but continue.
KEVIN SMITH
Well, as of late, I really admire Judd Apatow's work. He's managed to reach a level of comedic box office popularity that I was never quite able to achieve.
ME
I guess the idiosyncratic dialogue reminds me of you, but yours is usually self-indulgent and interjects all your extremely witty observations about society and the world into a conversation that doesn't quite feel appropriate nor real nor pertinant to the story. No, don't look at me like that, I love it. That's what makes you, well, you. If I want Judd Apatow, I go see his stuff. He's just garnered more box office success because his films are more easily digestable to a broader audience. His dialogue is funny, but the actors deliver a better performance because 1. they're more talented than Ben Affleck and 2. the societal observations that Judd Apatow inserts are in the subtext instead of in the exposition. Fuck, now I'm starting to sound more like you!
KEVIN SMITH
Nah, It's cool. I can appreciate you poking fun of my shit to illustrate your point. But see, you forgot the witty idiosyncratic quip that makes me clever as fuck, and the vulgar cursing that makes it sound real.
ME
Well, I sincerely apologize for this entire farce. My attempt to write a clever review couldn't possibly do you justice. It's just that this movie I'm watching doesn't quite feel like you, not that there's anything wrong with evolving. It's just that Zac and Miri are making me realize a lot of things about you as a director, Me as a filmmaker, and well film making in general.
KEVIN SMITH
Dude, there's nothing wrong with that. That's great, I'm glad to oblige. That's what a film is supposed to do right?
ME
Yes. But it's not intentional, and you're definitely not gonna like what I'm seeing and realizing.
KEVIN SMITH
Really? I wanted this movie to go closer to the core of what made Chasing Amy So great. It's a real human romance. The porno storyline was just a great scenario that gave us the opportunity to have a lot of fun like Mallrats and Clerks. It was the Studios that wanted a believable story favoring Seth Rogan and Elizabeth Banks as leads because they wanted to appeal to the Judd Apatow demographic and ensure the kind of Box Office numbers they've been getting.
ME
Well it was a success in that regard. I enjoyed it and my friend loved it. At one point (can't spoil it) I was obnoxiously convulsing with laughter and screaming at the top of my lungs. That is until I got embarrassed about the noises I was making and had to be self-conscious enough to be polite to the other patrons. I liked it, I really did.
KEVIN SMITH
So...What's the problem then homedog? Lay it on me.
ME
I was turned off because It was so Juvenile and farty. I get that you write for an audience and it made for some great scenes. The sexual obsession was actually really fun. But it was the romance part that lost me. It was a 17 year old perspective of idealized love. It was lacking in experience and understanding in its sexuality. It definitely suggests that true love should be something between two people which are essentially best friends, which I agree with. However I couldn't buy the 'I love you cuz your my best friend, but I hope things don't get wierd when we start having sex' thing. The main sex scene made a case for the intimate eye contact of missionary over 'anal' with a constipated recognizable porn star (Who was pretty good btw). It's just that the treatment exposited more about your immaturatity in sexual relationships than it did about your maturity as a film maker. To illustrate my point, at the opposite end of the spectrum are movies like Closer, Mo' Better Blues, and The Dreamers. Still those are dramas. But Judd Apatow's superbad was at least consious of it's own lack of sexual maturity.
A film is so telling about the director and the writer. Sexual relationships leave a filmmaker so naked and intimate with the audience. Your film presented more about the masturbation technique of the 'double dutch rudder' than the sexuality of best friends falling in love. Like a porno, Zac and Miri is a Vulgar juvanile fantasy about what sex must be like. I got off, but there's no relationship there.
FADE OUT
-MM
Sunday, November 9, 2008
The smallest gestures apparently matter of fact
Last night we were at a club.
While ordering our drinks from the bar, my friend Julian asked the bar-tender if there was a girl that worked there from Sacramento. Julian turned and told me that the last time we had been there, he met a girl who worked there that knew Paul Edwards (An old friend from college who passed through the revolving door of our lives). I responded with one of my typical canned "No Shit?" responses. The bartender pointed to the tall blonde dispenser of inebrated celebration and said "she did". Julian said, "Hey, aren't you from Sacramento?" She looked at us and screamed "OH MY GOD!!!! Hold on, come over here! Do you know that Paul is my boyfriend now? Do you know that we've been together for _______ (insert period of time)! I owe it all to you!!!"
Apparently, Julian had been making the typical casual bar talk with her. He had asked her where she was from and if she knew Paul. Now I know Julian very well. He is not the type of person to make such casual talk with alterior motives. While I was next to him cowering behind a bush stalking prey, he was getting to know the person that was pouring his drink. 99% of the time ordering a drink is a brief casual business exchange that is best kept brief and casual. But Julian's anamolous small gesture of sincerity made Tracy (The tall glass of blonde bartender) think about Paul (Our old revolving door friend). She texted him that distant night ages ago. Apparently, according to Tracy, they had always been attracted to eachother but had always been with other people. And being the respectful of the 'sanctity of relationships' people that Tracy and Paul are, nothing ever came of it. Julian's smallest gesture of genuine sincerity apparently mattered.
Last night Tracy told us that when she texted him, it was the first time these overly attractive people were not "in a relationship" status. Thanks to Julian making Tracy think of Paul, Tracy and Paul are currently "in a relationship status" with eachother. She told us that Paul had never told anyone "I Love You" before. But he had recently just said it to her. He also told his best friend that he was in love with her and was going to move to LA for her.
All too often, we're too preoccupied by our phones, or unconcerned with brief interactions that we figure won't really matter. Who could have known that asking someone where she was from and if she knew a mutual person could be the catalyst to love.
So the Fact of the Matter is...
That what doesn't happen is fiction.
The choices that we make are the substance and matter of what becomes fact.
The tiniest microcosmic momments of the soul choosing action are your 'will' making what will be.
Julian's genuine effort for conversation, interwove the thread of Tracy's life together with the thread of Paul's timeline. We are the tailors of our own destiny, weaving the fabric of space and time itself. The connections that we make define whether the universe will resemble the finest taffeta silk while the ones that we break unravel us all into a tattered wool sweater hanging in the thrift store of God's closet.
So make the extra effort for your fellow man...
Because apparently even the smallest gestures matter.
And that is a fact.
So...Where are you from,
-MM
While ordering our drinks from the bar, my friend Julian asked the bar-tender if there was a girl that worked there from Sacramento. Julian turned and told me that the last time we had been there, he met a girl who worked there that knew Paul Edwards (An old friend from college who passed through the revolving door of our lives). I responded with one of my typical canned "No Shit?" responses. The bartender pointed to the tall blonde dispenser of inebrated celebration and said "she did". Julian said, "Hey, aren't you from Sacramento?" She looked at us and screamed "OH MY GOD!!!! Hold on, come over here! Do you know that Paul is my boyfriend now? Do you know that we've been together for _______ (insert period of time)! I owe it all to you!!!"
Apparently, Julian had been making the typical casual bar talk with her. He had asked her where she was from and if she knew Paul. Now I know Julian very well. He is not the type of person to make such casual talk with alterior motives. While I was next to him cowering behind a bush stalking prey, he was getting to know the person that was pouring his drink. 99% of the time ordering a drink is a brief casual business exchange that is best kept brief and casual. But Julian's anamolous small gesture of sincerity made Tracy (The tall glass of blonde bartender) think about Paul (Our old revolving door friend). She texted him that distant night ages ago. Apparently, according to Tracy, they had always been attracted to eachother but had always been with other people. And being the respectful of the 'sanctity of relationships' people that Tracy and Paul are, nothing ever came of it. Julian's smallest gesture of genuine sincerity apparently mattered.
Last night Tracy told us that when she texted him, it was the first time these overly attractive people were not "in a relationship" status. Thanks to Julian making Tracy think of Paul, Tracy and Paul are currently "in a relationship status" with eachother. She told us that Paul had never told anyone "I Love You" before. But he had recently just said it to her. He also told his best friend that he was in love with her and was going to move to LA for her.
All too often, we're too preoccupied by our phones, or unconcerned with brief interactions that we figure won't really matter. Who could have known that asking someone where she was from and if she knew a mutual person could be the catalyst to love.
So the Fact of the Matter is...
That what doesn't happen is fiction.
The choices that we make are the substance and matter of what becomes fact.
The tiniest microcosmic momments of the soul choosing action are your 'will' making what will be.
Julian's genuine effort for conversation, interwove the thread of Tracy's life together with the thread of Paul's timeline. We are the tailors of our own destiny, weaving the fabric of space and time itself. The connections that we make define whether the universe will resemble the finest taffeta silk while the ones that we break unravel us all into a tattered wool sweater hanging in the thrift store of God's closet.
So make the extra effort for your fellow man...
Because apparently even the smallest gestures matter.
And that is a fact.
So...Where are you from,
-MM
Friday, November 7, 2008
The Loneliest City in America
Perhaps it is the dim blue glow painting the room with the gloomiest of spectrums. Perhaps it is the fact that the blues band laying the soundtrack of my momment of introversion followed the origins of Rock & Roll with a No Diggity cover(No doubt). Perhaps it is the fact that I'm sitting at a table with friends who have nothing to say to eachother and would much rather clack away at their phones to talk to distant lonelier people not here. Perhaps it is the Charming New Zealand TV personality that just told me that LA is the lonliest city in America. Perhaps it is the fact that dispite being out, I would much rather sit here and clack notes into my phone, But LA definitely feels like the loneliest city in America.
Dripping from the red ropes that corall the cool and shun the tourists is the bitter irony that a city so fully populated with people all sharing the exact same "I moved here for my career" story, crammed into tiny inclusive lounge tables in small exclusive lounges, would be so distant, lonely, and disconnected from eachother.
I asked her why this was the loneliest city. She said because unlike the various other US cities she had recently been to, it was rare to be having a conversation with me because most everyone else is always dressed in a sort of I don't care about you attitude. I thought to myself that "I've got somewhere better to be" always goes quite well with my marc jacobs suit. Anyway, She suddenly froze for a split second before collecting herself as her eyes became studded with stars. She went on to explain in her own words how exhausting it can be for a woman to be constantly judged so instantly here. I turned to observe that the wave of self-conciousness had been lightly brushed onto her by the aloof gaze of the in-famous lauren conrad. I went on to explain to her and her husband that the exciting tour of the stars that is finding your self hob(s)nobbing with celebrities celebrating their own recognizability, quickly becomes a highschool lunch room with bottle service. Soon you realize that everyone else knows eachother and you're the new kid with a bad case of social plague that nobody wants to touch. They both laughed, but I never find it funny.
The other day someone brought up the fact that everyone in this town has a little dog because this town is so lonely. At the time I was too embarrassed to mention that I had a little dog. At the present, I wish he was here. I want the sight of my importance on his face and his dependance on my attention in his waggily tail to fill my glass to the brim. If he were here, each lick on my face would whisper into my ear that I matter. No one ever seems to remember me. If they do, they don't really care to make any sort of genuine effort. For all guys, I'm disregarded as being pretty much useless to them. For girls, I'm just as unimportant and clout-less. I have friends but everyone is so busy that making time for each other comes with great effort and planning. I can't go anywhere without girls, and girls can't get in if they bring me. Everyone is stuck in traffic alone in their car, angry at everyone else for contributing to their delay. Everyone knows "someone", that they don't really know as well as they'de like. Everyone famous is isolated and can't really trust the people around them. Everyone new, doesn't know anyone and doesn't understand why nobody is friendly. Everyone is surrounded by people to talk to but clacking away at their phones to lonelier people that aren't there. If a connection is made, it is intense, passionate, and brief. Every night the people that meet eachother firmly believe they just met their new best friend, only to later meet someone else or pretend that their unresponsive text messages doesn't really hurt. I joke about it, but I say that when meeting girls in LA I have to assume the worst because the market is over-saturated and they'll meet someone better tomorrow. I hate to be such a depressing winnie the pooh character, but they're playing the blues in blue mood lighting, I can't help myself. It's quite possible that I romanticize the nostalgia of the past and gaze wishfully into the future while wollowing in the half empty glass of the present, but I miss my friends back home and fantasize about making my film about lonely LA.
So here I sit. In a club surrounded by people. Alone. Clacking away at my phone. Listening to the blues.
An empty vessel with no passengers, in the loneliest city in America.
All aboard,
-MM
Dripping from the red ropes that corall the cool and shun the tourists is the bitter irony that a city so fully populated with people all sharing the exact same "I moved here for my career" story, crammed into tiny inclusive lounge tables in small exclusive lounges, would be so distant, lonely, and disconnected from eachother.
I asked her why this was the loneliest city. She said because unlike the various other US cities she had recently been to, it was rare to be having a conversation with me because most everyone else is always dressed in a sort of I don't care about you attitude. I thought to myself that "I've got somewhere better to be" always goes quite well with my marc jacobs suit. Anyway, She suddenly froze for a split second before collecting herself as her eyes became studded with stars. She went on to explain in her own words how exhausting it can be for a woman to be constantly judged so instantly here. I turned to observe that the wave of self-conciousness had been lightly brushed onto her by the aloof gaze of the in-famous lauren conrad. I went on to explain to her and her husband that the exciting tour of the stars that is finding your self hob(s)nobbing with celebrities celebrating their own recognizability, quickly becomes a highschool lunch room with bottle service. Soon you realize that everyone else knows eachother and you're the new kid with a bad case of social plague that nobody wants to touch. They both laughed, but I never find it funny.
The other day someone brought up the fact that everyone in this town has a little dog because this town is so lonely. At the time I was too embarrassed to mention that I had a little dog. At the present, I wish he was here. I want the sight of my importance on his face and his dependance on my attention in his waggily tail to fill my glass to the brim. If he were here, each lick on my face would whisper into my ear that I matter. No one ever seems to remember me. If they do, they don't really care to make any sort of genuine effort. For all guys, I'm disregarded as being pretty much useless to them. For girls, I'm just as unimportant and clout-less. I have friends but everyone is so busy that making time for each other comes with great effort and planning. I can't go anywhere without girls, and girls can't get in if they bring me. Everyone is stuck in traffic alone in their car, angry at everyone else for contributing to their delay. Everyone knows "someone", that they don't really know as well as they'de like. Everyone famous is isolated and can't really trust the people around them. Everyone new, doesn't know anyone and doesn't understand why nobody is friendly. Everyone is surrounded by people to talk to but clacking away at their phones to lonelier people that aren't there. If a connection is made, it is intense, passionate, and brief. Every night the people that meet eachother firmly believe they just met their new best friend, only to later meet someone else or pretend that their unresponsive text messages doesn't really hurt. I joke about it, but I say that when meeting girls in LA I have to assume the worst because the market is over-saturated and they'll meet someone better tomorrow. I hate to be such a depressing winnie the pooh character, but they're playing the blues in blue mood lighting, I can't help myself. It's quite possible that I romanticize the nostalgia of the past and gaze wishfully into the future while wollowing in the half empty glass of the present, but I miss my friends back home and fantasize about making my film about lonely LA.
So here I sit. In a club surrounded by people. Alone. Clacking away at my phone. Listening to the blues.
An empty vessel with no passengers, in the loneliest city in America.
All aboard,
-MM
Thursday, November 6, 2008
God is not a bouncer
God is not a bouncer,
So please stop telling me that I'm not on the list.
If I have to read one more overzealous republican profess the condemnation of The United States of America because Barack Obama is our new president, there is something that I'm going to lose that I am not going to be able to get back. Let me clarify that I'm not against republicans, I've said that voting shouldn't be like rooting for a sports team. I consider myself a wishy washy middle of the road confused by politics Independant. I took an extensive political survey which rudely called me a centrist. That is until Barack Obama became one of my choices. I will vote for remarkable any time it's on the ballot no matter what color state his gang is. The thing is, I'm sick of people using hate and religion together to make a nonsensical argument. Seriously the flood of "We're all going to hell", "Now we're all socialists", and the countless other hateful remarks that range from racism to placism to religious finger shaking is driving my sensibilities into a maddening blood vescular explosion. Most of it I can brush off my shoulder as ignorance and disappointment. However, there is only so much rationalization that I can afford the ugly hatefulness. Obama is not the anti-christ and your theological bullying makes you sound intellectually lazy. Most of everything I hear is obtuse over simplifications incited by the fear mongers. Using God in your argument is an argumentative fallacy, not to mention arrogant and disrespectful to the idea of God. So stop preaching. I respect those who have reacted with the "Let's see what happens" or "Let's hope for the best" kind of response. The undertones of skepticism are expected and understandable. But the witch hunters and prophetic proclaimers need to open their minds and stop spreading the stupid. Posting prayers for me? Really? Hidden beneath the clever cloak of concern for my well being, is the intrusive judgement that shakes its head in disapproval. Your false prayers are merely more scare tactics.
I'm sorry,
but heaven doesn't have a guest list,
because God is not a bouncer.
-MM
So please stop telling me that I'm not on the list.
If I have to read one more overzealous republican profess the condemnation of The United States of America because Barack Obama is our new president, there is something that I'm going to lose that I am not going to be able to get back. Let me clarify that I'm not against republicans, I've said that voting shouldn't be like rooting for a sports team. I consider myself a wishy washy middle of the road confused by politics Independant. I took an extensive political survey which rudely called me a centrist. That is until Barack Obama became one of my choices. I will vote for remarkable any time it's on the ballot no matter what color state his gang is. The thing is, I'm sick of people using hate and religion together to make a nonsensical argument. Seriously the flood of "We're all going to hell", "Now we're all socialists", and the countless other hateful remarks that range from racism to placism to religious finger shaking is driving my sensibilities into a maddening blood vescular explosion. Most of it I can brush off my shoulder as ignorance and disappointment. However, there is only so much rationalization that I can afford the ugly hatefulness. Obama is not the anti-christ and your theological bullying makes you sound intellectually lazy. Most of everything I hear is obtuse over simplifications incited by the fear mongers. Using God in your argument is an argumentative fallacy, not to mention arrogant and disrespectful to the idea of God. So stop preaching. I respect those who have reacted with the "Let's see what happens" or "Let's hope for the best" kind of response. The undertones of skepticism are expected and understandable. But the witch hunters and prophetic proclaimers need to open their minds and stop spreading the stupid. Posting prayers for me? Really? Hidden beneath the clever cloak of concern for my well being, is the intrusive judgement that shakes its head in disapproval. Your false prayers are merely more scare tactics.
I'm sorry,
but heaven doesn't have a guest list,
because God is not a bouncer.
-MM
Picture a thousand words
Slapped in the face with a steaming hot cup of literary expression,
I am completely perplexed as to why I have not taken the time to enjoy the wonderous journey that is blogger.com
Perhaps it is my intellectual apathy, or perhaps it is the distracting roadside accident that is celebrity gossip, but my internet activity passed over blogger like a first born son.
Mostly I am re-newedly intrigued by the magnificence that is the written word. Unrespectfully wielded, a word is a blunt instrument. Or vague. A bad string of words can be a cluttered bedroom that a bomb of laundry just rendered me incapable of finding the polaroid photo of you and your idea on vacation in Europe. Whereas a proper collection of words is a Renoir, giving me your impression of the world as a neatly wrapped gift. Like carefully intentional strokes upon canvas, words can be an artful arrangement of color. Words can become an image. A snapshot within my imagination. They are the crafty construction of mental space. They are the architecture of thought that give form to the function.
Today I have thoroughly enjoyed the collection of words eloquently crafted into pictures of the mind. Unbeknownst to me, blogger.com has been an art museum of processed human experience so sneakily hiding from my eyes right below my nose.
I am astounded by the capacity to express within a forum for communication that is meant to express the human capacities.
And for the words to express my own grattitude, I am at a loss.
But do me a favor and picture a thousand words.
Word,
-MM
Where have you been all my life?
Yes,
I'm talking to you internet. I mean, I knew you were there, but we've never been so intimate. I find you're interest in my ideas sexy. The sleek sihlouette of your ever present attentiveness sends my pheromones into a flurry of self-obsessive lust and adoration. What am I ever to do without you from this point forward.
We are one! You get me. You really really get me. It's weird you know. That we've known each other all this time and never knew that we, and by we, I mean "I" could share so much.
I feel like you're always going to be there for me. Whenever I need you, there you are.
It's so comforting to have your ear, your eyes, your shoulder. The knowledge that my thoughts are not lost into nothingness, but rather potentially read makes them so much more vital and real. What was once a falling tree in a lonely forest, is now a letter in a bottle afloat in the limitless ocean of human filtered reality.
The lonely prison padded walls of my skull have been given a doorway to sanity. That is if you can call Tom Hanks talking to a volleyball, sanity. And for this gift, I thank you internet.
You are the perfect companion. I used to have to make coffee dates and pretend that I cared about the droll happenings of every day life as seen through other people, just to share the tiny snippet of my own thoughts that they perchance might care to hear. But you! You are tireless. You listen to every word, every letter, while holding the full contextualized history of my everything in your long short term memorization. You are the open lid on my skull, seeping filtered thought coffee into the universe. You are the perfect pillow talk companion that enjoys my nudity. You are the warm embrace of an old friend. You are the free therapist that listens to my ramblings. You are my internet. And I love you for being you, Just the way you are.
So stay cool. Don't change over summer. And KIT
-MM
The Campaign of Terror needs to stop *
Original Post: Oct 27, 2008
Top 5 things to be scared of:
1. Black people
2. Foreign people/specifically middle eastern/more specifically with scary names like hussein
3. Gay people
4. Socialist (Commy bastards!)
5. Education (aka elitism)
STOP!!!!!!
I just want the system of peddling fear, blame, and hate to stop buzzing in my ear. People can say whatever they want, but if it's one of those, I just would rather not be subjected to being incited into a state of discontent.
I don't want to be scared of Carbs! I don't want to worry that I might get bird flu. I don't want to break out a pitchfork and a torch and run to the scary house on the top of the hill in an angry mob.
It's disgusting.
Fear Mongering is the most disgusting form of political control. Not to mention a horrible bi-product of our culture that leads to nothing more than people being unhappy. Thinking they're over-weight, needing to compensate your penis, and hating your neighbor are the side effects of steering your sheep-like ass into buying someone else's shit. But it leads to nothing more than hating thy neighbor and ultimately yourself.
I personally choose not to worship fear. If i'm going to worship anything, I hope it is love. Mostly because I'm scared of jesus getting angry at me ;-)
LOL XOXO
As a sentient emotional being blessed with the gift of existence, I would much rather live with hope and love, than in fear. So if you're the scared guy on the plane as we plummet to our deaths.
Please....
'Shhhhhh, Calm down. Stop shouting that we're all going to die!
Have a seat. And hug the person next to you. Because for the next 30 seconds before it's all over, I'm going to need a hug.'
Merrily Merrily Merrily Merrily
Life is but a dream,
-MM
Currently watching:
Primal Fear
Release date: 1998-10-21
Top 5 things to be scared of:
1. Black people
2. Foreign people/specifically middle eastern/more specifically with scary names like hussein
3. Gay people
4. Socialist (Commy bastards!)
5. Education (aka elitism)
STOP!!!!!!
I just want the system of peddling fear, blame, and hate to stop buzzing in my ear. People can say whatever they want, but if it's one of those, I just would rather not be subjected to being incited into a state of discontent.
I don't want to be scared of Carbs! I don't want to worry that I might get bird flu. I don't want to break out a pitchfork and a torch and run to the scary house on the top of the hill in an angry mob.
It's disgusting.
Fear Mongering is the most disgusting form of political control. Not to mention a horrible bi-product of our culture that leads to nothing more than people being unhappy. Thinking they're over-weight, needing to compensate your penis, and hating your neighbor are the side effects of steering your sheep-like ass into buying someone else's shit. But it leads to nothing more than hating thy neighbor and ultimately yourself.
I personally choose not to worship fear. If i'm going to worship anything, I hope it is love. Mostly because I'm scared of jesus getting angry at me ;-)
LOL XOXO
As a sentient emotional being blessed with the gift of existence, I would much rather live with hope and love, than in fear. So if you're the scared guy on the plane as we plummet to our deaths.
Please....
'Shhhhhh, Calm down. Stop shouting that we're all going to die!
Have a seat. And hug the person next to you. Because for the next 30 seconds before it's all over, I'm going to need a hug.'
Merrily Merrily Merrily Merrily
Life is but a dream,
-MM
Currently watching:
Primal Fear
Release date: 1998-10-21
Summer Swimwear Sizzle '08: Swimsuit style tips for tha Ladies! *
Original Post: May 30, 2008
Just a Tip for the Ladies! Summer Fashion '08:
This Summer, there's no better way to hide the fact that your in your late 30's, then dressing like your 8yrs old. The Boldest statement you can make for Summer 08 is 'Look at me I'm ready to run through sprinklers and onto your Slip N Slide in my mock TuTu Two Piece Bikini.
And for Extra Bonus Points throw in a matchy matching late 90's Color Me Badd Plaid pseudo Gangsta Hat
And just in case 'I'm 8 years old and a wannabe Gansta is not enough of a mixed message, then throw in some White Princess Cowboy boots'
I'm at the pool!, but ready for a Rodeo!!!
See, 8yrs Old is the new black which was the New Pink which is bonus points if you do 8yrs old which is the New Black which was the new Pink and is actually pink.
The Pink Mock TuTu with Little white hearts is the highest possible score! Put in your inititials, Game Over! Go trade in your tokens for a plastic paratrooper or a suction cup throwing star
Say it ladies...
I'm 8 in '08!
Holla,
-MM
Currently undefined:
Bikini Summer 2
Release date: 2003-08-19
Just a Tip for the Ladies! Summer Fashion '08:
This Summer, there's no better way to hide the fact that your in your late 30's, then dressing like your 8yrs old. The Boldest statement you can make for Summer 08 is 'Look at me I'm ready to run through sprinklers and onto your Slip N Slide in my mock TuTu Two Piece Bikini.
And for Extra Bonus Points throw in a matchy matching late 90's Color Me Badd Plaid pseudo Gangsta Hat
And just in case 'I'm 8 years old and a wannabe Gansta is not enough of a mixed message, then throw in some White Princess Cowboy boots'
I'm at the pool!, but ready for a Rodeo!!!
See, 8yrs Old is the new black which was the New Pink which is bonus points if you do 8yrs old which is the New Black which was the new Pink and is actually pink.
The Pink Mock TuTu with Little white hearts is the highest possible score! Put in your inititials, Game Over! Go trade in your tokens for a plastic paratrooper or a suction cup throwing star
Say it ladies...
I'm 8 in '08!
Holla,
-MM
Currently undefined:
Bikini Summer 2
Release date: 2003-08-19
I Kick Cupid in the Dome! Valentines Day Rant! *
Original Post: Feb 12, 2008
So,
Everyone knows that Valentine's day is approaching. A single footstep into any Supermarket or commercial retail shop is all you need to be so rudely reminded.
Dear St. Valentine,
I'm genuinely touched by the way you wrote a Love letter to your beloved in prison before being put to death. Truly Romantic of you. Dare I say even pimp, that is if you had been alive to reap the panty dropping benefits of your tragic gesture. However, I am a lil 'peeved' that you come around every February 14th and flaunt your romantic deed. Dude, it's been like 4 or 5 centuries. We get it asshole! You were in love. Stop reminding those of us that are single that we're not. And stop pressuring those of us that are in a relationship, to define the relationship that we are in, with commercially mandated trinkets and chocolates. Get out of my face with your cellophane balloons and your extravagant candies! Get your Jewelry and designer items out of my face! I don't care if I save 15% on a Credit card! I just don't want your 'You' Day Shit!
Don't get me wrong. I love saying I love you to the people that I love lovingly. I just hate having to do it on a specific day and with defined parameters such as chocolates and flowers. I like to send flowers to girls. I hate sending flowers to girls on 'Send Flowers Day' because the act of expression loses all meaning. Sending flowers on any other day is sweet. Sending them on your day is expected. Plus I feel like I have to meet the status quo of Flowers plus chocolates plus dinner so as not to say, 'I don't like you as much as you wish'. If I'm lucky enough to be head over heals write you a Valentine from death row love, the gesture is diminished by the standardization of the day. Plus because everyone is expressing their love on the same day, everyone compares the actions of their significant others. What did you get? Where did you go? What did you do? I guess it's not technically your fault. The industry supported by this holiday is to blame for turning the awesome act of expressing love into a rat race of commercial competition. Maybe I'm jaded because I went all out one year (flower petals, champaign, presents, Sinatra, home made chocolate covered strawberries, flowers, surprises, saranades, etc) only to have the girl be disappointed by the Restaurant Reservation. And maybe what was once a genuinely cool day of celebrating love, has been bastardized into a day of commercial spending.
So Thank You Valentines day Machine! Thank you for intrusively pressuring me to define my relationships. Because I really love choosing between disappointing people and telling lies about my feelings. If I have appropriate feelings for Valentines day, any action I take to express them is expected.
Or maybe I should just stop being bitter.
Regardless, Thanks for reminding me St. Valentine.
You and your roman Greek God Friend need to get out of my face, or I'll kick cupid in the dome!
Happy SinglePeopleSuckDay Everyone
Sincerely,
-MM
Currently watching:
Breathless
Release date: 20 November, 2001
So,
Everyone knows that Valentine's day is approaching. A single footstep into any Supermarket or commercial retail shop is all you need to be so rudely reminded.
Dear St. Valentine,
I'm genuinely touched by the way you wrote a Love letter to your beloved in prison before being put to death. Truly Romantic of you. Dare I say even pimp, that is if you had been alive to reap the panty dropping benefits of your tragic gesture. However, I am a lil 'peeved' that you come around every February 14th and flaunt your romantic deed. Dude, it's been like 4 or 5 centuries. We get it asshole! You were in love. Stop reminding those of us that are single that we're not. And stop pressuring those of us that are in a relationship, to define the relationship that we are in, with commercially mandated trinkets and chocolates. Get out of my face with your cellophane balloons and your extravagant candies! Get your Jewelry and designer items out of my face! I don't care if I save 15% on a Credit card! I just don't want your 'You' Day Shit!
Don't get me wrong. I love saying I love you to the people that I love lovingly. I just hate having to do it on a specific day and with defined parameters such as chocolates and flowers. I like to send flowers to girls. I hate sending flowers to girls on 'Send Flowers Day' because the act of expression loses all meaning. Sending flowers on any other day is sweet. Sending them on your day is expected. Plus I feel like I have to meet the status quo of Flowers plus chocolates plus dinner so as not to say, 'I don't like you as much as you wish'. If I'm lucky enough to be head over heals write you a Valentine from death row love, the gesture is diminished by the standardization of the day. Plus because everyone is expressing their love on the same day, everyone compares the actions of their significant others. What did you get? Where did you go? What did you do? I guess it's not technically your fault. The industry supported by this holiday is to blame for turning the awesome act of expressing love into a rat race of commercial competition. Maybe I'm jaded because I went all out one year (flower petals, champaign, presents, Sinatra, home made chocolate covered strawberries, flowers, surprises, saranades, etc) only to have the girl be disappointed by the Restaurant Reservation. And maybe what was once a genuinely cool day of celebrating love, has been bastardized into a day of commercial spending.
So Thank You Valentines day Machine! Thank you for intrusively pressuring me to define my relationships. Because I really love choosing between disappointing people and telling lies about my feelings. If I have appropriate feelings for Valentines day, any action I take to express them is expected.
Or maybe I should just stop being bitter.
Regardless, Thanks for reminding me St. Valentine.
You and your roman Greek God Friend need to get out of my face, or I'll kick cupid in the dome!
Happy SinglePeopleSuckDay Everyone
Sincerely,
-MM
Currently watching:
Breathless
Release date: 20 November, 2001
St. Patrick's Day and the Love Hate Relationship Between Me and My Liver *
Original Post: March 16, 2005
A day of Green clovers and drunken escapades on a serious mission to celebrate the gift of life by slowly poisoning ourselves with green beer and irish car bombs, St. Patricks day is the pseudo Irish Holiday that has become an Americanized past time full of inebriated debochery. How did we get from a holiday meant to honor the Christian endeavors of a Scottsman turned Irish Catholic Missionary, to a day of green dyed miller lite, green thongs, and guiness holding jaugernauts with Cornbeef and Cabbage in their stomachs on a rampage pub crawl that would make Jim Belushi blush? Who Cares! It's fucken St. Patricks day! The All Irish American excuse to get drunk until you piss yourself. Certain times of year are like claiming temporary insanity. Where Spring break is an excuse to get laid, with the all encompassing argument, 'What did you expect, it was Spring Break?', St. Patty's is a day where you can get away with puking in your friends car.
'Sorry about your car dawg, I don't remember anything after the fourth Irish Car bomb.'
- You
'It's okay don't worry about it, I hope you had a good St. Patty's day.'
- Your friend
It's also a day dreaded by my special friend, my liver. You see, my liver and I have an epic romantic comedy of a Love-Hate relationship that leaves the two of us with more hot and cold swings than a kid with the flu. During the day, my liver pretty much hates my guts (well my guts are always crowding him in there, n shit), and conspires to kill me in 'Et tu Brute' fashion.
Normally it complains, What the fuck man! You go out all night and have a good old time, but look at me! I'm more shrivelled up than beef Jerkey! I look worse than a 3 pack a day 80yr old woman! This is fucked up! No surgery can fix this!'
I typically respond with an understated apology, 'Look, I'm sorry liver. I'll never drink again.' Why do I flat out lie to my liver?
Because as soon as I get drunk, my liver sings a different tune, 'I Luv youuuuuuu Maaaan! No, no no, really, I'm serious. . .I. . .LOVE. . . YOU MAN!' In a scene reminiscent of Edward Norton and Brad Pitt in Fight Club after their first fight, My liver and I get all chummy over a good beer. I honestly respond: 'No Liver, I love you! I'm a LIVER LOVER!!!' We sit and stare at eachother soaking in the momment of alcoholic bliss. That is until I sober up and my liver realizes how badly I punish him.
One day, my liver is going to try to cut it's way out of my body with a little saw, pushing a liver-shaped block out of my abdomen, and it will make its jailbreak escape hiding from search lights as I hunt it down. More than likely It will try to make a break for it, before St. Patrick's Day. This is because St. Patty's is the masochistic equivalent to a Valentines Day with my liver. I festively select gifts for it, from Guiness, to green beer, to Bailey's Irish Creme, to flat out whiskey. I know that my Liver's coy avoidance of the day's adventures will be short lived and will soon join me in a great rendition of 'whiskey your the devil'. Hidden beneath my green shirt on St. Patty's will be a Guinness soaked party extrodinaire of an internal organ singing kareoki and dancing a jig.
On St. Patty's everyone also claims to be Irish as though it gives them a sacred right to be the sloppiest one in the bar, condemning all others for being drunk on their day, but who cares! St. Patrick himself wasn't even born Irish! Such a wonderful day should not be wasted debating ethnic lineage when it could be spent in the celebration of life itself, by poisoning our livers with the nectar of the gods milked from fermented hops. So Happy St. Patty's Day to all. . .and to All. . .a 'Fuck off ye bastard, I'm pisst droonk and coold fancy a plate of bangurs n mash, eh.'
In the words of one of the band UVR:
Talk real slow,
But it feels real fine.
If you gotta puke man,
Go outside. . .
Cuz, Killing myself
Makes me feel Aliiiiiive.
Cheers,
-MM
Currently watching:
The Seventh Seal - Criterion Collection
A day of Green clovers and drunken escapades on a serious mission to celebrate the gift of life by slowly poisoning ourselves with green beer and irish car bombs, St. Patricks day is the pseudo Irish Holiday that has become an Americanized past time full of inebriated debochery. How did we get from a holiday meant to honor the Christian endeavors of a Scottsman turned Irish Catholic Missionary, to a day of green dyed miller lite, green thongs, and guiness holding jaugernauts with Cornbeef and Cabbage in their stomachs on a rampage pub crawl that would make Jim Belushi blush? Who Cares! It's fucken St. Patricks day! The All Irish American excuse to get drunk until you piss yourself. Certain times of year are like claiming temporary insanity. Where Spring break is an excuse to get laid, with the all encompassing argument, 'What did you expect, it was Spring Break?', St. Patty's is a day where you can get away with puking in your friends car.
'Sorry about your car dawg, I don't remember anything after the fourth Irish Car bomb.'
- You
'It's okay don't worry about it, I hope you had a good St. Patty's day.'
- Your friend
It's also a day dreaded by my special friend, my liver. You see, my liver and I have an epic romantic comedy of a Love-Hate relationship that leaves the two of us with more hot and cold swings than a kid with the flu. During the day, my liver pretty much hates my guts (well my guts are always crowding him in there, n shit), and conspires to kill me in 'Et tu Brute' fashion.
Normally it complains, What the fuck man! You go out all night and have a good old time, but look at me! I'm more shrivelled up than beef Jerkey! I look worse than a 3 pack a day 80yr old woman! This is fucked up! No surgery can fix this!'
I typically respond with an understated apology, 'Look, I'm sorry liver. I'll never drink again.' Why do I flat out lie to my liver?
Because as soon as I get drunk, my liver sings a different tune, 'I Luv youuuuuuu Maaaan! No, no no, really, I'm serious. . .I. . .LOVE. . . YOU MAN!' In a scene reminiscent of Edward Norton and Brad Pitt in Fight Club after their first fight, My liver and I get all chummy over a good beer. I honestly respond: 'No Liver, I love you! I'm a LIVER LOVER!!!' We sit and stare at eachother soaking in the momment of alcoholic bliss. That is until I sober up and my liver realizes how badly I punish him.
One day, my liver is going to try to cut it's way out of my body with a little saw, pushing a liver-shaped block out of my abdomen, and it will make its jailbreak escape hiding from search lights as I hunt it down. More than likely It will try to make a break for it, before St. Patrick's Day. This is because St. Patty's is the masochistic equivalent to a Valentines Day with my liver. I festively select gifts for it, from Guiness, to green beer, to Bailey's Irish Creme, to flat out whiskey. I know that my Liver's coy avoidance of the day's adventures will be short lived and will soon join me in a great rendition of 'whiskey your the devil'. Hidden beneath my green shirt on St. Patty's will be a Guinness soaked party extrodinaire of an internal organ singing kareoki and dancing a jig.
On St. Patty's everyone also claims to be Irish as though it gives them a sacred right to be the sloppiest one in the bar, condemning all others for being drunk on their day, but who cares! St. Patrick himself wasn't even born Irish! Such a wonderful day should not be wasted debating ethnic lineage when it could be spent in the celebration of life itself, by poisoning our livers with the nectar of the gods milked from fermented hops. So Happy St. Patty's Day to all. . .and to All. . .a 'Fuck off ye bastard, I'm pisst droonk and coold fancy a plate of bangurs n mash, eh.'
In the words of one of the band UVR:
Talk real slow,
But it feels real fine.
If you gotta puke man,
Go outside. . .
Cuz, Killing myself
Makes me feel Aliiiiiive.
Cheers,
-MM
Currently watching:
The Seventh Seal - Criterion Collection
6 Degrees of myspacation, just became 1 degree of Rupert Murdoch*
Original Post: July 20, 2005
That’s right, Rupert Murdoch the right wing media mogul behind Fox News has turned myspace.com into another sphere of influence in his empire of now multi-media corporate conglomeration. Actually, old Rupert had his company NewsCorp purchase Intermix, the Parent Company of myspace.com for $580million. Though that is some serious Bling Bling, I would have thought the eyes of 18.5 million hipsters between the ages of 16 and 34 would be worth a lot more than that. I mean after all, we are the most sought after target market audience! But what do I know, my idea of business saavy is downloading Death Cab for Cutie’s new album instead of driving to the store, or deciding whether or not to get the #4 combo meal or by the drink separate. Whatever, sweet deal for Tom or not, the point of interest is that myspace has ascended into a new plateau from the underground, to well just. . .the ground.
Currently watching:
Battleship Potemkin
Release date: 24 February, 2004
That’s right, Rupert Murdoch the right wing media mogul behind Fox News has turned myspace.com into another sphere of influence in his empire of now multi-media corporate conglomeration. Actually, old Rupert had his company NewsCorp purchase Intermix, the Parent Company of myspace.com for $580million. Though that is some serious Bling Bling, I would have thought the eyes of 18.5 million hipsters between the ages of 16 and 34 would be worth a lot more than that. I mean after all, we are the most sought after target market audience! But what do I know, my idea of business saavy is downloading Death Cab for Cutie’s new album instead of driving to the store, or deciding whether or not to get the #4 combo meal or by the drink separate. Whatever, sweet deal for Tom or not, the point of interest is that myspace has ascended into a new plateau from the underground, to well just. . .the ground.
Hopefully nothing. . .The best we could wish for is that on our end of things, we won't see any changes in the look and functionality of myspace. Everyone will continue to post bulletins about new pics and pass on personal questionnaires to casual acquaintances. I doubt that NewsCorp is dumb enough to risk losing any portion of its 27 million users with 2 million more signing up each month, by charging money. Perhaps their vested interests will call for advertisements for myspace? But if my parents see a commercial and get on myspace, I’m out. What’s really at stake is the detailed market research information collected by myspace. Rupert not only bought our eyes, but he bought our behavior; which could potentially be up for sale to the highest bidder.
-MM
Subscribe to my blogs
Currently watching:
Battleship Potemkin
Release date: 24 February, 2004
The Global Highschool, Gorilla Marketing, and Six Degrees of Myspacation*
Original Post: June 18, 2005
-MM
Currently watching:
Strangers on a Train (Two-Disc Special Edition)
Release date: 07 September, 2004
I know it's been a long time since I last wrote a blog, but I've been on the move and uninspired. That is of course until I realized that myspace is the mascot for the global highschool where Kobe and a man named Brady are the jocks, where Paris is not the city of the Eiffel Tower but an eye ful of popular 'HOT' girl makin out with a different boyfriend every week in the parking lot, and Bill gates is the resident nerd boasting a 4.0 billion dollar 'A' plus software empire GPA. In the time of Technological Revolution, the Global High Myspacers bridge geographic distances with digital instantaneous conveniences. And what do we do with Multimedia Marvels such as txt messaging, cell phones that shoot video, message boards, blogs, ipods, and webcams? . . . . . . . . . . . .? We use them to avoid the burden of time consuming face time, screen calls, hide behind anonymity, and exercise our God given right to avoid our fellow man. Fucken A right doggie! Of course we deserve the right to maintain our own personal space. But just when we thought the world couldn't get anymore impersonal and disconnected, your space, just suddenly became myspace.com.
And GOD, I mean AOL Time Warner forbid, this blessing of social interaction did not descend from the corporate powers that be, but from our good old friend Tom. Not since Napster has technological innovation gone underground with such charismatic coolness that would make Samuel L. Jackson Strike down upon thee with Great vengeance and Furious Anger. But rather than bringin the Fast and Furious Funk, the record labels have chosen to embrace the world wide web of comments on new pics with bands like the Black Eyed Peas and Coldplay pre-releasing their albums on myspace music. What does that mean? It means score one TD for the Global High Myspacers because Tom tapped into the keg of cultural coolness with an ultra convenient way for us to show off how dope are friends are in a public internet yearbook. So cool in fact, that bands like the Gorillaz can Gorilla Market their new video without any effort. There is no better way to get street cred for your band than having your actual target market fan base sport your new music video on their personal page like a pair of Nike pumps when everyone else is still rockin the LA gear lights.
-MM
Currently watching:
Strangers on a Train (Two-Disc Special Edition)
Release date: 07 September, 2004
I hate dinosaurs a Shameless rant*
For future reference "*" means this is an old blog from myspace that I have chosen to add in no particular order:
Original Post June 3, 2007
I hate Dinosaurs!!!!
I just got out of a meeting, and they might as well have been from another planet. Sometimes you click and sometimes you silently scream inside your head and fantasize about bolting out of the door, leaving a smoky cloud version of yourself in your seat like a roadrunner cartoon. I will refrain from going into too much detail, and will only say that what was to be a friendly business meeting with a potential client has left me so aggrevated, I nearly scratched my own eyes out. The low point of the meeting was when the lady actually told me that she prefers VHS tapes over DVD's because she always accidentally hits the stop button?!? Are you serious? Then don't hit it! Is your horse and buggy parked out back too? Do you prefer it over a car because you don't like hitting the brakes instead of saying 'whooa.'
It's really not their fault for being oldschool. I feel them, I really do. It's gotta be hard to work without opposable thumbs. All things change eventually, and the world moves pretty fast. So at some point you have to realize that you have to change with it. Here, have a beer with my homey Chuck Darwin and evolve by the time I get back.
Thanks :) XO XO
They were so terrible at running a meeting and were pretty rude actually. I couldn't answer a question without someone interrupting, or getting up to check an email. Fuck! You scheduled this shit, couldn't you have checked it before I got here or after the Me shaped smoky roadrunner cloud dissipates? And, No Thank You, for the third time! I don't want coffee! And Yes! I'm sure that I don't want a cup of your Year old Folgers with no cream or sugar, and what appears to be their old logo. Okay, Fine, I'll have one if it'll help get us back to the meeting we already started. Maybe I would have said yes the first time if you had bothered to make it before I came and not in the middle of a Fucken Meeting! I was so confused because the information presented was so jumpy, out of order, and incoherent that I felt like I was watching a student film. They really had absolutely no idea what they were even talking about. I think she was just throwing out words that she's heard before without ever bothering to find out what they mean. 'Internet, Computers, flying cars n stuff. . .'
Plus! Please do not purposely schedule your vendor meetings at the same time so that I know that there's competition. I don't care! Sorry to foil your 1980's business strategy, but my rate is the same. But thanks for making things awkward.
I hate turning down business, but if our initial meeting frustrated me this bad, working together is going to be a bad experience for both of us.
Dinosaurs only belong in two places. Micheal Crichton movies and the museum.
They definitely do not belong on my client list!
I actually wrote this a while back and posted it as a bulletin to my friends, but People kept telling me they read it and thought it was funny, so I thought I would share it with the world.
Currently watching:
Walking With Cavemen
Release date: 17 June, 2003
Original Post June 3, 2007
I hate Dinosaurs!!!!
I just got out of a meeting, and they might as well have been from another planet. Sometimes you click and sometimes you silently scream inside your head and fantasize about bolting out of the door, leaving a smoky cloud version of yourself in your seat like a roadrunner cartoon. I will refrain from going into too much detail, and will only say that what was to be a friendly business meeting with a potential client has left me so aggrevated, I nearly scratched my own eyes out. The low point of the meeting was when the lady actually told me that she prefers VHS tapes over DVD's because she always accidentally hits the stop button?!? Are you serious? Then don't hit it! Is your horse and buggy parked out back too? Do you prefer it over a car because you don't like hitting the brakes instead of saying 'whooa.'
It's really not their fault for being oldschool. I feel them, I really do. It's gotta be hard to work without opposable thumbs. All things change eventually, and the world moves pretty fast. So at some point you have to realize that you have to change with it. Here, have a beer with my homey Chuck Darwin and evolve by the time I get back.
Thanks :) XO XO
They were so terrible at running a meeting and were pretty rude actually. I couldn't answer a question without someone interrupting, or getting up to check an email. Fuck! You scheduled this shit, couldn't you have checked it before I got here or after the Me shaped smoky roadrunner cloud dissipates? And, No Thank You, for the third time! I don't want coffee! And Yes! I'm sure that I don't want a cup of your Year old Folgers with no cream or sugar, and what appears to be their old logo. Okay, Fine, I'll have one if it'll help get us back to the meeting we already started. Maybe I would have said yes the first time if you had bothered to make it before I came and not in the middle of a Fucken Meeting! I was so confused because the information presented was so jumpy, out of order, and incoherent that I felt like I was watching a student film. They really had absolutely no idea what they were even talking about. I think she was just throwing out words that she's heard before without ever bothering to find out what they mean. 'Internet, Computers, flying cars n stuff. . .'
Plus! Please do not purposely schedule your vendor meetings at the same time so that I know that there's competition. I don't care! Sorry to foil your 1980's business strategy, but my rate is the same. But thanks for making things awkward.
I hate turning down business, but if our initial meeting frustrated me this bad, working together is going to be a bad experience for both of us.
Dinosaurs only belong in two places. Micheal Crichton movies and the museum.
They definitely do not belong on my client list!
I actually wrote this a while back and posted it as a bulletin to my friends, but People kept telling me they read it and thought it was funny, so I thought I would share it with the world.
Currently watching:
Walking With Cavemen
Release date: 17 June, 2003
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
The Movemint Begins
I guess the day after the majority of America voted for Change is as good a day as any to officially start my blog page. Though I have been blogging on myspace for several years for the entertainment of personal friends, I hereby join the blog-o-sphere and ignite my beacon voice into the vastness that is the world wide web or rather the evolving network of collective cultural consciousness.
As I join the countless chattering pixelized ones and zeros I quietly whisper into the darkness,
"Hi all...A/S/L"
LOL
-MM
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)