It is my strong opinion that Spirited Away was a better Disney movie than most Disney movies. It was fun, wildly imaginative, and quirky; something that disney movies haven't been since roughly... Alladin (not counting Pixar films). I was putting off seeing it because I knew, through reviews and word of mouth, that it would be good; there was no excitement or "I wonder if I'll like it," thrill. If that's the worst thing I can say about a movie, than it certainly gets my seal of approval. One thing to note though, it's not for really young kids. They'd probably be frightened. Hell, I was frightened. But let's face it, I'm a huge wussy.
P.S. I need to write myself a reminder to buy more sticky notes. I have no idea where to write it.
3/29/2004
3/28/2004
OK, I'm feeling a little better now. Today kind of brightened my mood a bit, just because it was warm and sunshiny and all that crap. I'm still bummed though. Things could be better. It's all about the mood.
Hey, let's check the want ads today!
Boom Truck Operator
Alright you prehistoric screw-heads. See this? This is my boom truck!
Awake Overnight Staff
The second I find an overnight job that doesn't require me to be awake, I'm taking it.
Application Developer
This must be the guy who makes the forms you fill out when you apply for a job.
Auto Dismantler
Sounds like an easy job. Hell, my van practically does that by itself.
Job Developer
This one just blew my mind.
Anticipated Vacancies
Sure, you can send your resume, but how long until you become an "anticipated vacancy?"
Town Planner
OK, now I think the Wal-Mart should go here, right next to town hall.
Hey, let's check the want ads today!
Boom Truck Operator
Alright you prehistoric screw-heads. See this? This is my boom truck!
Awake Overnight Staff
The second I find an overnight job that doesn't require me to be awake, I'm taking it.
Application Developer
This must be the guy who makes the forms you fill out when you apply for a job.
Auto Dismantler
Sounds like an easy job. Hell, my van practically does that by itself.
Job Developer
This one just blew my mind.
Anticipated Vacancies
Sure, you can send your resume, but how long until you become an "anticipated vacancy?"
Town Planner
OK, now I think the Wal-Mart should go here, right next to town hall.
3/27/2004
Tonight it finally struck me how fucking depressed I am.
My sister, who always has the best of intentions, told me I should go out to a restaurant with her and her friends. Me, who always does the stupidest things, said yes.
So we all met at a loud, crowded, smoky, hot, and uncomfortable establishment; you know, the kind of place people go to be “Social,” even though they can’t hear each other above the crowd and the music. I don't see the appeal of places like that. It's hard to socialize when you're all choking and screaming.
I sat sideways in my uncomfortable metal chair because of the cyst on my back that the doctor had liberated the day before. I kept feeling under the back of my shirt, certain that it the blood had soaked through the bandage again.
Sister and friends reminisced about their grade school teachers, high school classes, in-jokes, and rumor mills; none of which I was ever a part of, nor could I even fake interest in.
I looked around the room. I was equally curious and horrified at the thought of seeing someone I knew. I didn’t want to have to explain that I’ve moved back in with my parents after a miserable year in my own apartment, and that I was now unemployed and basically staying in my room all day.
I nursed my soupy margarita and cringed every time I took a sip. Alcohol always aggravates my already prevalent stomach problems. Think of it as never being drunk, but always being hung over.
So there I sat, half in my chair, choking down a bitter drink that burned my throat and stomach, trying to hide my face from imaginary people that I didn’t want to see, and listening to everyone else talk and laugh while I dwelled on how much I hated my current living situation. Right about then was when I thought, “Wow, I’m fucking miserable.”
Oddly enough, this was an average Friday night for me.
My sister, who always has the best of intentions, told me I should go out to a restaurant with her and her friends. Me, who always does the stupidest things, said yes.
So we all met at a loud, crowded, smoky, hot, and uncomfortable establishment; you know, the kind of place people go to be “Social,” even though they can’t hear each other above the crowd and the music. I don't see the appeal of places like that. It's hard to socialize when you're all choking and screaming.
I sat sideways in my uncomfortable metal chair because of the cyst on my back that the doctor had liberated the day before. I kept feeling under the back of my shirt, certain that it the blood had soaked through the bandage again.
Sister and friends reminisced about their grade school teachers, high school classes, in-jokes, and rumor mills; none of which I was ever a part of, nor could I even fake interest in.
I looked around the room. I was equally curious and horrified at the thought of seeing someone I knew. I didn’t want to have to explain that I’ve moved back in with my parents after a miserable year in my own apartment, and that I was now unemployed and basically staying in my room all day.
I nursed my soupy margarita and cringed every time I took a sip. Alcohol always aggravates my already prevalent stomach problems. Think of it as never being drunk, but always being hung over.
So there I sat, half in my chair, choking down a bitter drink that burned my throat and stomach, trying to hide my face from imaginary people that I didn’t want to see, and listening to everyone else talk and laugh while I dwelled on how much I hated my current living situation. Right about then was when I thought, “Wow, I’m fucking miserable.”
Oddly enough, this was an average Friday night for me.
3/22/2004
Bad days are 90% attitude, which is why most bad days aren’t one long string of horrific accidents and tragedies, but erratic little annoying things that put you in a bad mood.
Today was a bad day. No one died. No limbs were broken. Aliens did not overtake the planet. But, on the “Suck-o-Meter,” today was really up there.
Like I said, sometimes it’s just a bunch of little things.
The day started bright and early when a team of construction workers, armed with latest in high tech noise-making equipment, decided that the street in front of my house needed to be fucked with. I tried my best to cover my head with a pillow, more to suffocate myself than block the noise, but it was no use. They were apparently scraping away the asphalt layer by layer; kind of strip mining for a gas line. It was a real chorus.
I got an e-mail from a certain company whom I was very excited to have an “interview” at last week. Now, when I say “interview” I mean they called me in, and when I got there they said they were too busy to conduct a formal interview, so they quickly scanned through my portfolio, asked no questions and answered no questions, and told me I would have to talk to the creative director, who was also busy and couldn’t see me today. I tried to contact the creative director via the e-mail address they gave me. That was last Tuesday. No one bothered to reply until Thursday night. “Second interviews won’t be for at least a few weeks,” they said. “And going forward, we’re only going to pursue people with 5-10 years of experience. Thanks for coming in.”
“But… I never had a first interview…” I replied.
Today I got a final letter saying, in so many words, “Tough shit.”
So, with that victory under my belt, I began my daily (for the last three months anyway) job hunt. I was running out of design companies to force-feed my resume to, so today I broke down and started applying for administrative assistant jobs. Talk about depressing.
“Anonymous company seeks brainless drone to do menial tasks and try and act pleasant to irate customers and other stupid people.”
And let me just say that they first person who tells me I'm "overqualified" is going to get a boot to the ass.
Next thing I know it’s lunch; so I pile up a baloney sandwich with all the fixings, which included dairy products such as cheese and mayo. “No problem,” I thought. “Just another occasion for these wonderful Lactaid pills!” Of course, after I had eaten the sandwich, I realized I had forgotten the lactose pills. “No problem,” I though. “I’ve had dairy plenty of times without Lactaid pills. Of course, that was quite a while ago. But I don’t think… uh oh… (cue running to bathroom followed by unholy noises).
A few more resumes and trips to the bathroom later it was already dinner time. My, how time flies when you’re fucking miserable. I was feeling much better at this point, and it was suggested that we order pizza. I was OK with this, because I KNEW I’d remember my Lactaid this time. It always works for me as long as I remember it.
As was our usual arrangement, my parents paid for the pizza and I drove pickup. When I got to the pizza place no one was at the counter. I waited. I wandered around the side, into the kitchen, looking for another human being, wondering if there had been a bomb scare or something.
It’s hard to point out the obvious without sounding like a jerk. That’s, do doubt, why the girl I found cleaning the oven gave me a dirty look when I interrupted her task and said, “Shouldn’t someone be at the counter?”
On the ride home I had a pleasant surprise when I came to a screeching halt to avoid hitting an animal sitting in the middle of the road. I had thought it was a dog, but it turned out to be a possum. It had already been hit too. There was blood everywhere. It was still stunned, that’s why it was wobbling around in the middle of the road.
I backed up and went around it, hoping that it would be out of it’s misery soon without being run over again. I had lost my appetite; which was fine because my pan pizza had toppled off the seat onto the floor of the van when I stopped.
It's just the little things. Arg.
Today was a bad day. No one died. No limbs were broken. Aliens did not overtake the planet. But, on the “Suck-o-Meter,” today was really up there.
Like I said, sometimes it’s just a bunch of little things.
The day started bright and early when a team of construction workers, armed with latest in high tech noise-making equipment, decided that the street in front of my house needed to be fucked with. I tried my best to cover my head with a pillow, more to suffocate myself than block the noise, but it was no use. They were apparently scraping away the asphalt layer by layer; kind of strip mining for a gas line. It was a real chorus.
I got an e-mail from a certain company whom I was very excited to have an “interview” at last week. Now, when I say “interview” I mean they called me in, and when I got there they said they were too busy to conduct a formal interview, so they quickly scanned through my portfolio, asked no questions and answered no questions, and told me I would have to talk to the creative director, who was also busy and couldn’t see me today. I tried to contact the creative director via the e-mail address they gave me. That was last Tuesday. No one bothered to reply until Thursday night. “Second interviews won’t be for at least a few weeks,” they said. “And going forward, we’re only going to pursue people with 5-10 years of experience. Thanks for coming in.”
“But… I never had a first interview…” I replied.
Today I got a final letter saying, in so many words, “Tough shit.”
So, with that victory under my belt, I began my daily (for the last three months anyway) job hunt. I was running out of design companies to force-feed my resume to, so today I broke down and started applying for administrative assistant jobs. Talk about depressing.
“Anonymous company seeks brainless drone to do menial tasks and try and act pleasant to irate customers and other stupid people.”
And let me just say that they first person who tells me I'm "overqualified" is going to get a boot to the ass.
Next thing I know it’s lunch; so I pile up a baloney sandwich with all the fixings, which included dairy products such as cheese and mayo. “No problem,” I thought. “Just another occasion for these wonderful Lactaid pills!” Of course, after I had eaten the sandwich, I realized I had forgotten the lactose pills. “No problem,” I though. “I’ve had dairy plenty of times without Lactaid pills. Of course, that was quite a while ago. But I don’t think… uh oh… (cue running to bathroom followed by unholy noises).
A few more resumes and trips to the bathroom later it was already dinner time. My, how time flies when you’re fucking miserable. I was feeling much better at this point, and it was suggested that we order pizza. I was OK with this, because I KNEW I’d remember my Lactaid this time. It always works for me as long as I remember it.
As was our usual arrangement, my parents paid for the pizza and I drove pickup. When I got to the pizza place no one was at the counter. I waited. I wandered around the side, into the kitchen, looking for another human being, wondering if there had been a bomb scare or something.
It’s hard to point out the obvious without sounding like a jerk. That’s, do doubt, why the girl I found cleaning the oven gave me a dirty look when I interrupted her task and said, “Shouldn’t someone be at the counter?”
On the ride home I had a pleasant surprise when I came to a screeching halt to avoid hitting an animal sitting in the middle of the road. I had thought it was a dog, but it turned out to be a possum. It had already been hit too. There was blood everywhere. It was still stunned, that’s why it was wobbling around in the middle of the road.
I backed up and went around it, hoping that it would be out of it’s misery soon without being run over again. I had lost my appetite; which was fine because my pan pizza had toppled off the seat onto the floor of the van when I stopped.
It's just the little things. Arg.
3/17/2004
I think it’s funny that the fact that I don’t like wrestling has not kept me from watching five Wrestlemanias. (Wrestlemanii?). In one way or another I have managed to watch 25% of all Wrestlemanias ever filmed. I have seen The Undertaker go from zombie, to biker, and back to zombie. I have seen three generations of fat Asian men find their calling in a profession other than sumo wrestling. I have seen Stone Cold Steve Austin go from brash young upstart to battered old man with a serious drinking problem. I have seen all of these things, yet you cannot fathom the immensity of the fuck I do not give.
The simple answer is that I have friends, or friends who have friends, who are into wrestling. I don’t think any less of them for it, but wrestling is, by and large, pretty stupid. If you’ve never watched it, imagine a cheesy daytime soap opera where everyone is jacked, half naked, and stupid as a cinder block. Now imagine that all the drama and all the conflicts can only be solved by pretending to beat each other senseless. Sprinkle in some redneck announcers, overly dramatic entrances, and some finely toned women (some of whom are hot, most of whom are… well… men), and you’ve got wrestling.
But I’m not above it all. As much as it doesn’t appeal to me, I can’t help but occasionally shout at the TV, “OH! THAT HAD TO HURT!” when a wrestler gets piledriven into the concrete. (piledrived?) Sometimes, and just for a little while, my baser instincts come out and I start to enjoy it, and that makes me very, very afraid.
The simple answer is that I have friends, or friends who have friends, who are into wrestling. I don’t think any less of them for it, but wrestling is, by and large, pretty stupid. If you’ve never watched it, imagine a cheesy daytime soap opera where everyone is jacked, half naked, and stupid as a cinder block. Now imagine that all the drama and all the conflicts can only be solved by pretending to beat each other senseless. Sprinkle in some redneck announcers, overly dramatic entrances, and some finely toned women (some of whom are hot, most of whom are… well… men), and you’ve got wrestling.
But I’m not above it all. As much as it doesn’t appeal to me, I can’t help but occasionally shout at the TV, “OH! THAT HAD TO HURT!” when a wrestler gets piledriven into the concrete. (piledrived?) Sometimes, and just for a little while, my baser instincts come out and I start to enjoy it, and that makes me very, very afraid.
3/15/2004
3/13/2004
3/12/2004
There are certain films you should not watch with your parents. Now that I’m living at home again, I’m usually finding that out after the fact. Tonight’s example? Once Upon a Time in Mexico.
Having first made the bitter mistake of watching Desperado with my folks a few years back, I certainly should have learned my lesson. I mean, they enjoy the occasional bloody action flick more than the average set of parents, but Desperado really pushed their limits. Seeing Antonio Banderas straddling a naked Selma Hayek mid-movie certainly didn’t help the situation.
I rented Once Upon a Time in Mexico knowing that a) my dad and I would be the only ones watching it, and b) it was boob free.
We sat down and began chuckling at Johnny Depp’s excellent performance, cringing at some unbelievable action sequences, and otherwise enjoying the film. What soon struck me was how incredibly violent the movie was. Not just the explosive gun battles but things like the flesh-free post surgery victim, no less than three empty eye sockets, and more than excessive detail to… squishy… sound effects.
My dad is a tough guy though. He’s seen the best of the best and is a particularly avid fan of the Alien films. He wasn’t even offended the other day when I ran into the room and shouted, “Holy living fuck! I got an interview at Atari!” (I was excited). But I could tell that this movie pushed his limits… repeatedly. When it was over, there was an uncomfortable silence, followed by his trademark “Well, that was different.” (Which is how he says he hated a movie). My face was red. Short of a zombie movie or a porno, I couldn’t have picked a more graphic film.
Don’t get me wrong, I rather liked the movie. It just REALLY should have been something to watch on my own.
Having first made the bitter mistake of watching Desperado with my folks a few years back, I certainly should have learned my lesson. I mean, they enjoy the occasional bloody action flick more than the average set of parents, but Desperado really pushed their limits. Seeing Antonio Banderas straddling a naked Selma Hayek mid-movie certainly didn’t help the situation.
I rented Once Upon a Time in Mexico knowing that a) my dad and I would be the only ones watching it, and b) it was boob free.
We sat down and began chuckling at Johnny Depp’s excellent performance, cringing at some unbelievable action sequences, and otherwise enjoying the film. What soon struck me was how incredibly violent the movie was. Not just the explosive gun battles but things like the flesh-free post surgery victim, no less than three empty eye sockets, and more than excessive detail to… squishy… sound effects.
My dad is a tough guy though. He’s seen the best of the best and is a particularly avid fan of the Alien films. He wasn’t even offended the other day when I ran into the room and shouted, “Holy living fuck! I got an interview at Atari!” (I was excited). But I could tell that this movie pushed his limits… repeatedly. When it was over, there was an uncomfortable silence, followed by his trademark “Well, that was different.” (Which is how he says he hated a movie). My face was red. Short of a zombie movie or a porno, I couldn’t have picked a more graphic film.
Don’t get me wrong, I rather liked the movie. It just REALLY should have been something to watch on my own.
3/11/2004
As a personal rule I would never cause harm to a dog. That said, if the Windows XP "Search" dog were a real dog, I would have kicked him by now. It would be fine if he just fetched my slippers or did tricks, but he's telling me he can find files on my computer, and he can't find shit. In real life he'd be the kind of dog that keeps smacking into glass doors.
3/10/2004
I keep renting Asian action films hoping that one of these days one of them won’t make me want smack myself in the head with a hammer.
Tonight’s feature fud was The Returner. What we have in The Returner, aside from none good English, was ten minutes of stylish, relatively cool action sequences spliced into 110 minutes of heartbreakingly boring movie. This larger chunk of the film consisted of overacting, half-assed science fiction, and smaller derivative actions sequences ripped from other movies... better movies..
What seems to be common in the contemporary Asian action film is the mishmash of languages. There were at least three. There may have been more, but only two were actually mentioned, and I speak the third. What really hurts me though is that the people who spoke English were blatantly not English speakers. Ask any Japanese person, who does not know a single word in English, to say, “Space-Time Continuum,” and you’ll know what I mean.
“Hello, we’re your main characters. You may remember us from such films as The Professional and The Matrix.”
Just imagine how bad the movie would be to make me say, "You know, I really miss the deep plots and witty dialogue of John Woo."
Arg. Now I’m just pissed off.
Tonight’s feature fud was The Returner. What we have in The Returner, aside from none good English, was ten minutes of stylish, relatively cool action sequences spliced into 110 minutes of heartbreakingly boring movie. This larger chunk of the film consisted of overacting, half-assed science fiction, and smaller derivative actions sequences ripped from other movies... better movies..
What seems to be common in the contemporary Asian action film is the mishmash of languages. There were at least three. There may have been more, but only two were actually mentioned, and I speak the third. What really hurts me though is that the people who spoke English were blatantly not English speakers. Ask any Japanese person, who does not know a single word in English, to say, “Space-Time Continuum,” and you’ll know what I mean.
“Hello, we’re your main characters. You may remember us from such films as The Professional and The Matrix.”
Just imagine how bad the movie would be to make me say, "You know, I really miss the deep plots and witty dialogue of John Woo."
Arg. Now I’m just pissed off.
3/09/2004
3/08/2004
It’s light again and I may have another chance to run. The sheriff’s going to have to act fast if he wants to catch me. The fact that I’m not swinging from the gallows right now says volumes about how poorly organized the town posse is. If my luck holds I can steal a horse at the edge of town and be across the Mexican border before they even realize I’m not home. If I can just get across the border I’ll be home free.
I have to wait, the enlisted men will go home in about half an hour, leaving only the deputy in charge until the sheriff comes into the office ten minutes later. I know this because I’ve always studied their schedule, afraid that I might someday need to know when to run. Today is that day.
I have only enough time to reflect on what got me here; where I made that bad decision that sent my whole world tumbling. Let me tell you about how I became a criminal.
I was at the mall. I always knew that if I was going to start a criminal career, no matter what kind, it was going to be at the mall. My mother was with me, she was offering to buy me some clothes for my birthday, so I could pick them out and she’d pay for them. Pretty sweet deal. Unfortunately, I trusted my fashion sense even less than hers, so I decided I would wait on new clothes until I could get the fashion advice of my sister.
On our way out of JCPenny (she always wanted to park near JCPenny), we saw a stack of catalogs near the door. We scanned the pile. No price tags, no signs. She had a coupon for a free catalog, but apparently they were all free. She took one. I grabbed one and thumbed through it. It had the men’s clothing selection, I could take it home and do some research on what was fashionable. I grabbed one and stuck it in my bag of books.
We left the store and got in our car. Something was tugging at the back of my mind, but I couldn’t say what the feeling was. I had started the engine and, on impulse, took a look at my new JCPenny catalog. Then I saw it, in the upper right corner of the cover. $5.
Holy shit! We just boosted a couple of JCPenny catalogs!
My mother, reminding me of the coupon she had, knew it wasn’t worth the trouble to return hers. I, however, had no coupon and no excuse.
It all came down to that moment. Would I go back and return the catalog, or would I just forget about it and take it home? This was the fulcrum of my life. I could be a good boy scout and return this crappy catalog of overpriced items or I could become a criminal, and speed away with my stolen goods.
In the end, I became a criminal. Not because of violence in the media or a careless society or a dysfunctional upbringing. I became a criminal because my feet were tired and it was cold out.
I have to wait, the enlisted men will go home in about half an hour, leaving only the deputy in charge until the sheriff comes into the office ten minutes later. I know this because I’ve always studied their schedule, afraid that I might someday need to know when to run. Today is that day.
I have only enough time to reflect on what got me here; where I made that bad decision that sent my whole world tumbling. Let me tell you about how I became a criminal.
I was at the mall. I always knew that if I was going to start a criminal career, no matter what kind, it was going to be at the mall. My mother was with me, she was offering to buy me some clothes for my birthday, so I could pick them out and she’d pay for them. Pretty sweet deal. Unfortunately, I trusted my fashion sense even less than hers, so I decided I would wait on new clothes until I could get the fashion advice of my sister.
On our way out of JCPenny (she always wanted to park near JCPenny), we saw a stack of catalogs near the door. We scanned the pile. No price tags, no signs. She had a coupon for a free catalog, but apparently they were all free. She took one. I grabbed one and thumbed through it. It had the men’s clothing selection, I could take it home and do some research on what was fashionable. I grabbed one and stuck it in my bag of books.
We left the store and got in our car. Something was tugging at the back of my mind, but I couldn’t say what the feeling was. I had started the engine and, on impulse, took a look at my new JCPenny catalog. Then I saw it, in the upper right corner of the cover. $5.
Holy shit! We just boosted a couple of JCPenny catalogs!
My mother, reminding me of the coupon she had, knew it wasn’t worth the trouble to return hers. I, however, had no coupon and no excuse.
It all came down to that moment. Would I go back and return the catalog, or would I just forget about it and take it home? This was the fulcrum of my life. I could be a good boy scout and return this crappy catalog of overpriced items or I could become a criminal, and speed away with my stolen goods.
In the end, I became a criminal. Not because of violence in the media or a careless society or a dysfunctional upbringing. I became a criminal because my feet were tired and it was cold out.
3/07/2004
My arm hurts like a bastard. 15+ years of computer usage and I never got carpal tunnel. 15 minutes of "Captain America and The Avengers," and I'm wondering if I'll ever play the piano again.
Just kidding. I never played the piano. But my arm still hurts.
Much to my surprise, my birthday was today. By "surprise" I mean that my birthday is actually next Friday (the 12th), but for some reason I got cake and presents today. Don't get me wrong, I'll take cake and presents any day of the year, but I began to worry that no one was sure when my birthday really was.
I had a pleasant dinner with my mom, dad, aunt, uncle, sister, and sister's boyfriend. I thought it was just a family gathering, but then after diner the birthday cake and presents were brought out. My aunt was the first to say, "So, which day is your birthday exactly? It wasn't today, was it?"
"No," I said. "It's this friday, the 12th."
I looked around the table, wondering if I might see any facial expressions that said, "Oh shit! It is the 12th." There was only nodding and smiling. I just decided to roll with it and have a good time.
I got a DVD, a computer game, and a good sized chunk of birthday money. The function of birthday money has always been to spend it on something nice for yourself; at least, that's the way I see it. Of course, after being financially castrated by the auto repair guys, I find myself in sizeable credit card debt. I never have any trouble making the monthly payments and then some, but should I use all my birthday money to help chip away at the rather large bill? Where the hell's the fun in that? That's like getting a good book as a present, but you can't read it because you have to use it to keep your shitty desk from wobbling.
Sigh.
Just kidding. I never played the piano. But my arm still hurts.
Much to my surprise, my birthday was today. By "surprise" I mean that my birthday is actually next Friday (the 12th), but for some reason I got cake and presents today. Don't get me wrong, I'll take cake and presents any day of the year, but I began to worry that no one was sure when my birthday really was.
I had a pleasant dinner with my mom, dad, aunt, uncle, sister, and sister's boyfriend. I thought it was just a family gathering, but then after diner the birthday cake and presents were brought out. My aunt was the first to say, "So, which day is your birthday exactly? It wasn't today, was it?"
"No," I said. "It's this friday, the 12th."
I looked around the table, wondering if I might see any facial expressions that said, "Oh shit! It is the 12th." There was only nodding and smiling. I just decided to roll with it and have a good time.
I got a DVD, a computer game, and a good sized chunk of birthday money. The function of birthday money has always been to spend it on something nice for yourself; at least, that's the way I see it. Of course, after being financially castrated by the auto repair guys, I find myself in sizeable credit card debt. I never have any trouble making the monthly payments and then some, but should I use all my birthday money to help chip away at the rather large bill? Where the hell's the fun in that? That's like getting a good book as a present, but you can't read it because you have to use it to keep your shitty desk from wobbling.
Sigh.
3/05/2004
I was lucky enough to stumble across the old “Captain American and the Avengers,” arcade game.
A lot of arcade games from my youth turn out to be a lot less sophisticated than I remember. Honestly, I discovered an old copy of Centipede a while ago and when the game started I just stood there and said, “So am I, like, that little red square?” Fortunately, the Avengers game was just as beautiful as I can remember. They had well drawn characters and really swell hand-painted backgrounds.
The gameplay was the same; easy enough to enjoy yourself, but hard enough to keep you pumping your life savings of quarters into it. The people that made the best games really knew how to get our money.
A funny thing that never caught my attention until now was the fact that everything explodes.
It’s easy to imagine a vending machine exploding after Iron Man hurls it at a villain. It’s not much of a stretch to figure that a barrel must be filled with volatile fluids because it explodes when Captain America throws it across the screen. It’s a little difficult to imagine why each bad guy explodes after you knock him out; I guess it must be all the high tech equipment they’re wearing. But, someone’s got to explain to me why a park bench and a plastic garbage can explode when hit. And I’m not saying that they just go “poof,” in a cloud of dust; they burst into flame with a fiery “WABOOM!” (and if you know the game, you know the letters “WABOOM!” actually appear on the screen).
Oh well.
A lot of arcade games from my youth turn out to be a lot less sophisticated than I remember. Honestly, I discovered an old copy of Centipede a while ago and when the game started I just stood there and said, “So am I, like, that little red square?” Fortunately, the Avengers game was just as beautiful as I can remember. They had well drawn characters and really swell hand-painted backgrounds.
The gameplay was the same; easy enough to enjoy yourself, but hard enough to keep you pumping your life savings of quarters into it. The people that made the best games really knew how to get our money.
A funny thing that never caught my attention until now was the fact that everything explodes.
It’s easy to imagine a vending machine exploding after Iron Man hurls it at a villain. It’s not much of a stretch to figure that a barrel must be filled with volatile fluids because it explodes when Captain America throws it across the screen. It’s a little difficult to imagine why each bad guy explodes after you knock him out; I guess it must be all the high tech equipment they’re wearing. But, someone’s got to explain to me why a park bench and a plastic garbage can explode when hit. And I’m not saying that they just go “poof,” in a cloud of dust; they burst into flame with a fiery “WABOOM!” (and if you know the game, you know the letters “WABOOM!” actually appear on the screen).
Oh well.
3/03/2004
I finally got around to bringing the van into the dealership to have the hood repaired.
As a general rule of thumb, when asking an auto repair technician how much a job will cost, don’t say, “So what’s the damage?” It only confuses them.
I told them that the hood needs a new latch, and as long as they have it, they might as well check the brakes, they’ve been feeling a little spongy.
At 2:30 I got the call.
Me: “Hi there. Yes… Oh… Oh no… Oh no… How much?… Dollars?!”
*Driving around town with your hood tied down by a rope connected to your radiator: Priceless.
*All the crazy shit that’s happened to my van: Priceless.
*What I wind up paying when I only brought the van in for a hood latch and “spongy” brakes: $900
Yes, they had a look at my car and, in so many words, told me it’s a miracle that I’m still alive. I sighed and told them that was a matter of opinion.
I wanted to get a new car, right then. $900 was easily three car payments. But since I don’t have a job at the moment, getting a new car would be next to impossible.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
As a general rule of thumb, when asking an auto repair technician how much a job will cost, don’t say, “So what’s the damage?” It only confuses them.
I told them that the hood needs a new latch, and as long as they have it, they might as well check the brakes, they’ve been feeling a little spongy.
At 2:30 I got the call.
Me: “Hi there. Yes… Oh… Oh no… Oh no… How much?… Dollars?!”
*Driving around town with your hood tied down by a rope connected to your radiator: Priceless.
*All the crazy shit that’s happened to my van: Priceless.
*What I wind up paying when I only brought the van in for a hood latch and “spongy” brakes: $900
Yes, they had a look at my car and, in so many words, told me it’s a miracle that I’m still alive. I sighed and told them that was a matter of opinion.
I wanted to get a new car, right then. $900 was easily three car payments. But since I don’t have a job at the moment, getting a new car would be next to impossible.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
3/01/2004
I broke my car again.
It all started when I locked my keys in my car; but not the way normal people lock their keys in their car. I had opened the hood to get the socket wrench to lower the spare (which had shifted and jammed in a weird position) to reach the spare house key on the underside of my car. When that was done I grabbed the magnetic key box, returned the spare, and placed the weird socket wrench thingy back in its’ nook under the hood. Right after I slammed the hood closed, I realized that I left the magnetic key box sitting on top of the engine. I went to the side of the van, reached in the driver’s side, and pulled the lever to pop the hood. Nothing happened. I pulled the lever harder. Nothing moved. I had left the key box very close to the hook of the latch and it was now apparently jamming the mechanism. I pulled and wiggled the lever but to no avail. I tried lifting the hood slightly and trying to open the safety latch with my fingers. Not enough room. It was jammed shut.
So I had just locked my house key in the engine of my car.
That was my last day at the Waltham apartment. All of the keys had to go back and I had to be out of that apartment that day. Shit.
After much prying and wiggling, the lever finally popped and the latch opened. Thank God. I opened the hood, grabbed my key, and slammed the hood closed… slammed the hood closed… slammed the hood closed. The hood wouldn’t close.
I made a few trips around town to whatever service garages might be open. It was the same everywhere. “The latch is broken, you’ll need a new one, but we can’t get to it today.”
Long story short, I made the trip back to New Hampshire with my hood tied closed, the rope looped around the inner latch and the front grill.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
It all started when I locked my keys in my car; but not the way normal people lock their keys in their car. I had opened the hood to get the socket wrench to lower the spare (which had shifted and jammed in a weird position) to reach the spare house key on the underside of my car. When that was done I grabbed the magnetic key box, returned the spare, and placed the weird socket wrench thingy back in its’ nook under the hood. Right after I slammed the hood closed, I realized that I left the magnetic key box sitting on top of the engine. I went to the side of the van, reached in the driver’s side, and pulled the lever to pop the hood. Nothing happened. I pulled the lever harder. Nothing moved. I had left the key box very close to the hook of the latch and it was now apparently jamming the mechanism. I pulled and wiggled the lever but to no avail. I tried lifting the hood slightly and trying to open the safety latch with my fingers. Not enough room. It was jammed shut.
So I had just locked my house key in the engine of my car.
That was my last day at the Waltham apartment. All of the keys had to go back and I had to be out of that apartment that day. Shit.
After much prying and wiggling, the lever finally popped and the latch opened. Thank God. I opened the hood, grabbed my key, and slammed the hood closed… slammed the hood closed… slammed the hood closed. The hood wouldn’t close.
I made a few trips around town to whatever service garages might be open. It was the same everywhere. “The latch is broken, you’ll need a new one, but we can’t get to it today.”
Long story short, I made the trip back to New Hampshire with my hood tied closed, the rope looped around the inner latch and the front grill.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
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