Date Archives July 2008

Fucking a corpse…to death

First there was The Mummy. It was hardly high art, but it was good at what it was intended to be–a fun popcorn flick and a delivery system for hot, hot mostly-naked Arnold Vosloo.

Then came The Mummy Returns. Less fun, but somehow Arnold Vosloo was even hotter in this movie, so all was forgiven. At this point, watching Brendan Fraser flail around haplessly has gotten quite old. “Help, I’m ineffective! Someone call in geriatric Elvis to finish this guy off!”

Next was the spin-off, The Scorpion King. What a piece of crap.

So the franchise died, as well it should have. Pop culture sensations very rarely have the momentum to live through multiple iterations of badly-written, pushed-to-release-to-capitalize-on-the-only-actual-success movies.

Have you ever owned a t-shirt so long it went from cool to uncool and right back into cool? Franchises often revive themselves this way, and the last few years have been all about reviving already-owned properties than risking money on a new venture; the Transformers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Battlestar Galactica, and even the X-Files have seen their day dragged out from the closet and into the sun, some more wildly successful than others.

In a recent issue of Wired, Scott Brown developed a Nostalgorithm for pop culture sensations.


Where L= probability of lameness. “Translated crudely from the calculus, this simply means pop properties have expiration dates, like Lunchables or Tom Cruise. And fan love doesn’t steadily decline — it plummets as exposure (E) reaches an unhealthy level….But as Noah points out, non-awesome pop objects are primed to become awesome again. While what’s old is eventually new again, it takes about a generation (tgen = 20 years) for kids to pick up what their parents discarded.”

Although I failed calculus for myriad reasons, including but by no means limited to 7am classes, inept teaching assistants, no grades counted other than two tests, a basic lack of caring on my part and Unreal Tournament, to the best of my ability, I have figured that the prime release date for a Mummy revival (if one is EVER appropriate, which is debatable) is 2021…not summer 2008.

Apparently studio execs liked Unreal Tournament even more than I did, and ‘The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor’ is set to release this weekend. Unbeknownst to any historians, the Egyptians weren’t the only cultural group who grooved on mummies, oh no. The Chinese got in on that action, starting with a terrible foot-binding accident, and that explains why an archaeologist with a primary focus on Egypt is muddling around China when an Emperor rises from the dead to start a quest for world domination. When he’s done, the whole planet will be known as One China. And they’ll ALWAYS get the Olympics. And that’s just unacceptable to Our Bumbling Hero.

Now that we’ve started bastardizing living cultures, let’s keep this mummy train rolling. I’d like to pitch *my* movie idea, called ‘The Mummy: Curse of the Liger Czar’. It will be set fifty years in the future. Brendan Fraser has accidentally locked himself into a frozen dairy case, thus fulfilling a prophecy made by his mother when he was but a lad–“If you keep making that stupid face, it will freeze that way.” Thanks to the global warming caused by Al Gore, it becomes too expensive to continue to enjoy delicious frozen treats, and the power is disconnected to Fraser’s freezer case, loosing his powers of stupidity onto the world. By coincidence, his clothing style happens to be back in fashion, so no one believes him when he says he is from the past. He discovers that his now-geriatric wife (who never really went to all that much trouble to find him and now looks like a mummy herself) has been kidnapped by a risen Russian Czar to be his wrinkly bride, and that this same Russian Czar also has control over legions of what were previously dismissed as mythological creatures, which are wreaking havoc worldwide. He also runs into a smolderingly hot twenty-five year-old who claims to be his son, but neither the looks nor the timeline fits. Fraser sets off in a rage to find his pancake-boob wife because she’s got some ‘splainin to do. Hilarity ensues.

…What? It can’t be worse than what’s coming out tomorrow!


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The first rule of Fight Club…

On Friday (just Friday, not phoriday), I met up with agentdanak, strand, and two other delightful fellows to see The X Files: I Want to Believe. At some point during the dinner beforehand, there was some lively discussion that could possibly paint a negative picture of me.

Just so these don’t turn into vicious rumors that come back to haunt me on the campaign trail: Yes, when I was in junior high, my mom sent me to a Lutheran bible camp. Yes, while I was there, I got into a slap-fight with another girl. Yes, she did indeed turn the other cheek, displaying her Christian nature.

But only because I slapped the first cheek so hard.

And then I slapped the other one.

…Vote Mellzah! Slapmatch Victor 1995!

I believe in Harvey Dent

A couple of weeks ago, I picked up Batman R.I.P #678, even though I should know better than to start something in the middle of an arc by now. I read it, but absolutely nothing made sense; it was like somewhere along the way DC decided to parody itself and published the Cracked! magazine version of Batman. Equally nonsensical was this ad in the middle:

Oh yes, that will come in handy when I go to the dealer’s lot and buy myself a goddamned Batmobile. Why am I even considering test driving any other vehicle when Batmobiles are now available to the general public? Why wasn’t I informed that we could all buy Batmobiles? WHO DROPPED THE DAMN BALL ON THIS ONE?

None of this dampens my enthusiasm for The Dark Knight, which I *will* see in an IMAX theater just as soon as I can get tickets for a decent hour. I’d set up Fandango to send me an email when opening night Dark Knight IMAX tickets were available, and Fandango failed me. Subsequently, they can go shove their handpuppets into the darkest area of their bodies. If they film it and put it on youtube, they might win me back.


They should really be releasing this movie in porno theaters so I don’t have to worry about going to prison when I touch myself in public.



Comedy last night was sublime, the polar opposite of the last time I was there. The only exception was the headliner, a guy going by the name of ‘Rusty’ whose schtick was basically “Hey, I’m a big fat guy who thinks getting put in the drunk tank is awesome and I hate fat chicks because they’re like, all up in my shit.”

Swell, dude. You’re the whole package, the real deal. What kind of ass do you think you’re going to pull when you’ve got bosoms that put Pamela Anderson to shame? This just in: Angelina Jolie Ditching Brad Pitt For Biggest Loser On Earth As She Needs Help Nursing Her Newborns. Next time, why don’t you try telling some jokes instead of presuming anyone gives a shit about your Halo score? How the fuck is this guy a headliner when there were great comics like Heneghen present?

The wheels on the bus go round and round…but for a limited time.

On Saturday I figured I’d break in my bus pass* and head to Kent Cornucopia Days, which is a local street fair/carnival/etc with a decent-size parade AND dragon boat races on Lake Meridian. Before I left, I decided to check the bus schedule to see how late I could be out if I decided I wanted to get schnockered in the beer garden. As it turns out, the last bus runs at 7pm. 7. I couldn’t believe it. On weekdays, it’s the same. There are some awful days at work where I could conceivably miss the last bus home, the only bus that runs to my area. It makes it really hard to embrace public transit with a 7pm curfew–what am I, eight years old?

It’s only a four mile walk to Kent station, but considerably longer to Lake Meridian, so I decided to pass on the boat races. The street fair was pretty typical, nothing all that special. The food vendors were the exact same ones from Bellevue’s 4th of July, and I was hot, hungry, and a little crabby, but still could not bring myself to support the inappropriately named ‘Margarita Village’ and its deceitful non-alcoholic beverages. I actually lucked out, as I wandered past a brand-spanking new martini bar called ‘Shindig’ and immediately fell in love. Downtown Kent is tying very hard to revitalize and with the addition of Kent Station, more upscale independent businesses like Shindig, and potentially even the new Thunderbirds arena, it looks like things are falling into place. At the very least, I’ll proclaim their revitalizing efforts more successful than Kenosha’s, which added a trolley to nowhere and that’s about it.

A little buzzed, I decided to walk and check out the midway. It was more than a little disconcerting to have a battallion of police officers checking bags, patting people down, and demanding that youths pull up their pants–this last one in particular is a movement I could get behind (pardon the pun) if not for my steadfast belief that people should be able to wear their clothes in whatever manner they’d like, regardless of how stupid I might think it looks. Also, I’m not quite certain when our police force became preoccupied with the waistlines of pants, but I’m pretty sure their time could be better spent.

My life is one of contradictions–I love carnivals, but I hate clowns. I love sideshow art, but I hate degrading people**. I love fly-by-night thrill rides, but I hate dying in fiery explosions*** and betting my life on the scientific weight-calculations of the drunk.

Speaking of carnival art:


I love that they painted in ‘KAZAM’. I expect Batman to show up shortly with a ‘POW’ and a ‘WHAM’ and a ‘BAM’ and a ‘THANK YOU MA’AM’.


I feel like they went above and beyond with the art on this one. Look at the drinky chicken!


This was painted on the side of the ‘Ghost Pirate’ ride–I, for one, appreciate the extra effort it took for them to paint in the blood from the hearty face-kicking that the pirate delivered.



Then, as it was getting darker and I’d neglected to bring a flashlight, I started the long walk home. Talk about anticlimactic! Goddamned bus system. (There, it’s full circle!)

*I have since realized that showing my card to bus drivers on buses without swiper mechanisms makes me feel stupid. Like, really stupid. Like the world’s lamest FBI agent, trying to commandeer a bus. **Well, based off of physical conditions that are beyond their control. Other people, I have no problem degrading, and maybe even enjoy it. A lot. ***Ok, to be fair, I only think I would hate this. As an atheist, it’s in my best interests to live as long as possible, because if there’s no god, I lose. And if there is a god, I *so* lose. So fiery explosions = bad.

Badgers Can’t Be Choosers

Photo by GermanCityGirl.

Eddie Izzard recently played the Paramount in Seattle. I rarely stay abreast of performances coming to town, and almost exclusively rely on my network of informed friends to pass along show information and anything else that I can’t be arsed to look up. This is how I found out about John Waters lecturing at Benaroya, for example. It serves a twofold purpose; they would like an opportunity to demonstrate the mobile computing capabilities of their iPhones, and secondly, I don’t have to expend a single drop of energy while they twaddle around with their gadget. Everyone leaves happy.

Well, they FAILED ME this time. The first I heard of the show was when someone posted to seattle trying in vain to get three extra tickets. I sighed and thought “Gee, wouldn’t it be nice to go to that show? Ah well.” I then shook my fist in everyone’s general direction for failing me. Yes, you. Then, I promptly forgot all about it, as I am wont to do.

On Friday morning, v1c1ous sent me a text message asking if I had any plans, and would I like to go to Eddie Izzard with him. Hell + yes.

The order of business that day looked something like this: slack off, slack off, free slurpee, slack off, cut out early, prettify, buy bus pass from my Seagro schmuckythecat, meet v1c1ous and co for delicious frosty beverages, Eddie Izzard, profit.

Or rather, that’s what it was supposed to look like. It actually went like this: slack off, oh hey almost time for lunch and free slurpee, boy am I hungr–FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. GODDAMNIT. FUCK. SHIT. CLUSTERFUCK. GOATROPE. leave work late, slap on another layer of deodorant, leave the apartment looking like shit, meet schmuckythecat late, get fucked by Mapquest, get totally lost and frustrated and misdirected by a group of leather bears on Capitol Hill, Seattle’s building numbering system can totally go fuck itself and I would like to go back in time and hit each and every one of the founders with a sledgehammer straight to the face, stay lost, send increasingly frustrated text messages to v1c1ous, circle the same block about 6 times, and very nearly miss the show.

Eddie Izzard is a delightful, delightful man. I never cease to be impressed at how he can go off on a comedic tangent for an extended period of time and immediately pick up exactly where he left off with no “Um…um, now where was I? Dinosaur Church? No, no, I did that one. Oh wait, yes, man-skirts, um, kilts!” like so, so many comedians do. By the end of his show, my face hurt from smiling! You may interpret this one of two ways: I was amused once or twice and my usually dour face was unused to the exertion, or Eddie was really goddamn funny. I’ll give you a hint. It’s the latter. I’ll be sending him a bill shortly for the extra lines that he specifically is responsible for carving into my face. So, thank you again, Sean! I would also like to thank Sean’s girlfriend, who was unable to attend. And Jesus. But no thanks to the leather bears who hang around outside of The Cuff.

On the way home, my body informed me that in no uncertain terms, it was pissed off that I hadn’t eaten yet, and as I was down to chicken ramen at home, I ended up in the grocery store wandering the aisles like a moron, deep in the throes of the ‘so hungry, nothing sounds good’ trance. Have you ever gone to the grocery store hungry and come home with a bunch of weird shit? When I got home, I realized that I had come home with: a frozen curry dinner, a swirly toothbrush, six bran muffins (? I hate bran muffins), cinnamon bears, toilet cleaner, squirty salad dressing (and no lettuce?!?), and a lady-bodybuilder magazine (I have no idea).

Every time I shove one of those awful muffins down my face-hole, I repeat the mantra that I am not allowed to shop whilst hungry ever again.


I just got this in the mail recently:

Let me tell you something. If I’m one of this nation’s most accomplished women, this country is fucked. This became especially clear when my cereal box informed me that I had not accomplished 18 key goals before I reached the age of 18:


Imagine that. 26 and already washed up!

I’m considering sending in my application and telling the Cambridge people I cured cancer in my sleep, but then forgot how I did it when I huffed paint. I’m also the 2005 International Basket-Weaving Champion, as well as a leading contender for the upcoming Miss America pageant.

America, FUCK YEAH! Comin to save the motherfuckin’ day yeah!

On July 4th, I attempted to social-butterfly my way to as many events as possible, but it was a tough balancing act for me; when you try to see everyone, it’s hard to spend as much time as you’d like with anyone.

After gathering at Jess’ place, we crossed the street to Bell Square Park, where they were having their festival, complete with sad cover bands, dogs in tiny patriotic sweaters, and NO ALCOHOL.

How wrong is it to call your stand ‘Margarita Village’ when you don’t serve alcohol? I’m going to go out on a limb and say pretty goddamned wrong. A few of us kept searching the grounds in disbelief–surely there must be a beer garden cordoned off somewhere! No. This was a completely dry festival. And that, friends, is how I know Bellevue sucks. It was a lovely day, but I personally do not deal well with the proximity of hundreds of screaming children without a drink.

Everyone else felt much the same, and as it was quite a while before the fireworks were due to start, we went back to Jess’ place. On the way there, we spied a short, very steep hill; I’m not certain who first voiced the desire to climb up and roll down, but I’m absolutely not one to say no.

283_19626743939_9553_n  283_19626888939_1969_n

My grandparents used to own a cabin in Eagle River, Wisconsin, next to a very steep hill that went down to the lake (Otter Lake, as I recall). My brother and I used to play a game wherein we’d roll down the hill, making ourselves dizzy. One night, while our parents/grandparents/every adult in the park were drinking and socializing (because that is all there is to do in the evenings), my brother and I and a few other kids decided to push the boundaries and try to stop on the rocks at the very edge. As usual, I went first. I hit my mark on the large, flat rocks, but they were slick with lake-slime and I went flying off the edge and directly into the lake. My parents were slightly less than ecstatic when I trudged into their party, waterlogged with stinky lake water. (Note: This is the same lake where I jumped off of a raft and had a beer bottle go through my foot, AND got smacked in the face with a baseball and have scars on both places to remind me why I should never go outside. I will tell you ALL of my hilarious injury stories later, if you would like to hear them.)


This hill in Bellevue did not end in comparatively soft lake water; this hill ended on cement, making the stakes a little higher in case I wanted to do some more permanent damage to my face. Jess wisely decided to roll after me, to assess if it was more dangerous than he’d first believed. So, in a desperate attempt to feel young as a twenty-six-year-old who is never carded for booze anymore, to the great amusement of everyone around me, I lay down and started my roll. I rolled so fast, it was almost as if someone had shot me downhill with a rocket launcher. As you can see, I’m not bleeding from anywhere, which may only serve to encourage me to do this sort of thing again.

Not long afterward, it was time for me to skedaddle if I was going to make it to gehn and fraxl‘s place before the fireworks started.

I mainly took the below picture to frustrate the latecoming vultures who were circling around, waiting to nab my parking spot. Bellevue’s festivals may be sad, sad affairs, but the buildings are very pretty at twilight. 283_19626893939_2220_n

When I arrived on Capitol Hill, I miraculously for the first time ever found a parking spot without having to circle every surrounding block. This is madness!

By the time I got to the party, everyone was well on their way to drunk land, but had made a ‘bro pact’ not to pass out before midnight.



We went upstairs to watch the fireworks from the roof; deqlan pointed out that Amazon’s headquarters looked like the Lizard Fortress in Heroes of Might and Magic III, and I can’t say I disagree:




After the fireworks were over and we stopped singing ‘America, fuck yeah!’ on the rooftop, we played the sort of asinine games that are only fun when you’re drunk….which may well be the best kind of game. We also learned that if you play ‘hide Nicole’s phone’ over an extended period of time, she will start biting people in order to have it returned, which is less sexy and more painful than you can even imagine.

All in all, it was a fab Fourth, superior to last year only in that I did not end it by vomiting out a car window on the freeway.