Indiana Jones

I've been meaning for the last week and a half to rant about how much I hated the new Indiana Jones movie. I think I'll finally get around to it.

First off, I firmly believe that George Lucas should be tied up and beaten severely with the all of his new movies. I am thinking both the giant film canisters and the DVD cases should be used. No one should be allowed to continue to make movies and live after what he has done to Star Wars and Indiana Jones.

When I try to think of ridiculous Indiana Jones moments, there is always one that comes to mind. The Temple of Doom. The three main characters are in a plane that is about to crash with no parachutes. They take an inflatable raft and jump out of the plane. The raft inflates, which slows the fall. Then the raft falls onto a mountain, where the characters miraculously slide down without incurring harm. Finally, the raft flies off of a cliff. The characters survive and the boat even lands right side up. It's remarkably terrible.

Now think of that moment as a flavorable bit of cheese. Imagine a delicious sandwich with a slice of pepperjack or provolone cheese melting on it. It adds a little character and flavor, but does not necessarily dominate the entire sensation of the sandwich.

Now take another mental image. Picture a giant plate of either grated Parmesan cheese with nothing else (make sure you imagine the strong Parmesan smell), or a giant cube of that fakish rubbery American cheese. Picture the one that icks you out a little more and then picture someone handing that to you for dinner. That's it. Just a big chunk of not very good cheese at all. Eat it! Now! That's what the new film is like. You take a big mouthful, and it just tastes like vomit in your mouth, and you beg to stop and spit it out, and you are told, no forced, to chew and swallow. Now another bite and another...for 2 and 1/2 hours.

It was that bad. Whether it was nuclear blasts and refrigerators, or the Cirque Du Soleil of giant killer ants, it wasn't even comically bad. It was just bad.

And aliens? Really?

Really?

Anyway, they know that anyone who went to go see that movie must be retarded, because they made sure they reitterated their nonsensical plot of aliens over and over and over again as if it was being stated for the first time so that the mentally challenged viewers might understand.

And really? Aliens? I don't even think it would be wise to engage on my rant on the ideological implications that have occurred by switching the original plots and artifacts in the first three Indiana Jones movies with aliens. But trust me, it was bad.

Sorry, I'm a workaholic

I've been doing some thinking, and I'm wondering why we don't treat all addict with the same respect we show alcoholics. An alcoholic can turn down a drink with a simple, "Sorry, I'm an alcoholic" (and the person who offers the drink feels really bad). Why can't I say to my boss when she gives me more work, "Sorry, I'm a workaholic." (She might even feel bad about trying to make me do work.)

How about some videos?

Want to really waste your time today? Great, it's Friday and it's movie time!

So you liked that one? How about this sequel?

You need more? Then how about the stunning conclusion?

Okay, that's enough fun for now. But don't worry, I can bore you more later!

So Apparently I'm a Golfer Now...

...and I'm even wearing the goofy pants to prove it. It all started when I took a golfing class in college. I was a joke. The class would pretend to be teeing up at the range, but in all reality would be watching my mad swinging in every direction. It was horribly embarrassing. Eventually though, with some patience on my instructor's part and some strong attempts on my side, I became decent on the driving range. And then the semester ended.
A year and a half later, I'm at this wedding when the groom's brother recognizes me. "The really bad golfer!" Soon everyone in attendance is staring at me as if I had walked in trying to golf right there. Not fair, I was minding my own business, it isn't as though I went to the wedding in goofy pants and golf cleats. Weak sauce.
Okay, so now we will go forward another year or so. My father and my boyfriend have begun to golf together. My dad feels it is necessary to say to Cam that I golf, because sure, I took a class in college. (I took that class because I had to take some athletic credit and I figured golf wouldn't require me being embarrassed by being the last picked for some team sport. Athletics aren't really my thing.) Suddenly Cam is excited because now I can join them as well. Next thing I know, we are looking at women's golf clubs. One sale comes along, and suddenly I have a bag full of everything I need and no good excuse to hide.
So, it all comes to yesterday, where I donned the silly checkered pants and grabbed my shiny clubs. Good/bad news, a golf instructor was there in our foursome. I got tips that annoyed the hell out of me, but also made me better. It was a long course and I managed to totally bogey a hole, which is a start. Of course, there was that nasty incident on hole 9 when I threw a golf club up in the air and about 15 feet behind me. Eh, I'm learning.