Departed Dreams

Finally watched The Departed last night. It's been on the movie list in the back of my mind for a bit of a while now, especially since my brother showed me the original Chinese version, Internal Affairs. The latter is actually a trilogy, the first movie of which The Departed is based on, plot point for plot point. TD is a little more fleshed out, since I guess the makers of it didn't want to leave it open for sequels, but key events are almost exactly the same. Internal Affairs is in some ways a little more subtle, as in that scene of immense tension when both "moles" are unknowingly fighting each other undercover, the police agent working with the criminals employs Morse code to communicate with the other cops. In TD, however, it's all about texting, texting, as if phone lines couldn't possibly be traced.

To be sure, I found TD to be a lot more engaging, though fans of IA find it weaker. Maybe it was just all the accents flying around that piqued me, as well as the racist historical undertones. Those Irish men were awesome, even though they were violent gangsters. I wasn't convinced by Jack Nicholson's occasional Boston accent, even though he tried hard to make it seem as though his character slipped into it when angry or trying to be intimidating. I loved Damon, though, and his total racist dipshit attitude coupled with that laughably respectable voice.

Dang yo, I was looking up stuff about CCA again, and this time I actually read up more thoroughly on their transfer requirements. They're much more extensive than CCA would have you believe at first glance, especially with their crap about "oh, we don't require you to take a certain number of units to transfer, just maybe take some English, some art, you know." I mean, I'm still going to go for it, fuck yeah, sounds much better than the money-whoring Academy of Art (sorry, AoA friends), but I've just realized it's actually going to be kind've difficult. I guess what will happen is I won't have done most of the transferable classes they recommend, but I might still get in and just take said classes there to complete my degree. Or something. I'll figure it out.

I dreamed last night of delivering a package, and the street I walked down was the street on which my half-sister lived. I happened to glance at her house as I went by, and saw her and her mother and someone else sitting on a blanket in the front yard. I looked away before they saw me and hurried past. There was so much more in my dreams last night, but most of it escapes me now. I remember the light was almost blue-tinted, though still bright, like on a cold morning.

At another point, I was in a vast auditorium, standing with hundreds of other students in our gowns and caps, waiting to take our diplomas. We were graduating high school at last, and, thinking it would be a quick thing, I hadn't told my mom about it. I got my diploma almost right away, crumpled it slightly, and felt an awful sadness that no one was there with me to celebrate.

Too Close To Starlight

Holy jesus crap, you guys, guess who I saw?? Ty fuckin Segall! Walked right into Toy Boat with a couple friends (cute ones). I was trying to solve an alphabet riddle that my coworker gave me, so I was a bit distracted, not to mention completely unprepared. It wasn't till I got a look at his shoes as he was walking out that it finally hit me who he was and I felt a certain ridiculous sort of despair at having missed my chance. What chance, you say? Well, and how would I know, since I didn't even take it? At the very least I should've asked how to pronounce his last name. I know he's playing another show next weekend with some other cool bands. Eh, Kate? One more time, girlie?? Pleeeeeease?

You might wonder why I recognized his shoes before I recognized him. I tell yas, we were standing thiiiiis close to him at the show after his band was done, and believe me, I gave him a very full and complete once-twice-three times over. So there. Nyeah!

Overlooked Sarcasm

I think it's kinda funny and pretty awesome that the three of us (me, Allison, Kate) are all friends on blogger like we were on LJ. I'm pretty sure almost no one else reads what I write now, just like then.

To bring up work again, the other day I was trying to help this family of mother, father, daughter. The father asked me if we had "rebbing." I thought he just had an extremely thick accent, and he had to repeat himself a few times. I floundered for about a minute before I realized he was saying "red bean." Then I also realized he had barely any accent when he said "What's so hard to understand about that??" as if he were asking me and his family, in order to include all present in acknowledging my shocking stupidity. I actually didn't try to hide my anger when I sarcastically replied, "I'm sorry sir, I didn't get it." Allow me to lay it out:
1. The cafe/ice cream parlor I work at is pretty much the whitest place in the neighborhood. We do not carry red bean ice cream.
2. We do not carry so many ice creams that it would be impossible to find what you're looking for. At least look before you ask.
3. If I can't understand you, please help me out by speaking up or enunciating properly.

As far as school goes, my education seems to be going in a positive direction, at least as far as I'm concerned. I wish I could hurry up and get to the more advanced classes already, but I don't want to miss anything. I don't mind dicking around too much in the meantime.

"But We Unleashed A Lion"

Suuuuuu, first day of fall semester.

I decided to be lazy and only take a couple classes. I've found that I don't hate myself and other people so much as long as I take it easy. God knows last semester's English class was a fucking nightmare. It was definitely a good idea not to enroll in any summer classes; it gave me a chance to relax, actually see my friends, and work, despite my mother's misgivings.

Honestly, I need to start doing things by my own rules. It can be difficult; going up against my mom has often proven disastrous in the past. But. But but but, I know I'm not really going to be happy unless I can figure most of this shit out on my own.

I just made the most '90s-ish playlist ever. I don't know whether or not it is safe to play at work. Certainly some people will create an uproar; coworkers, customers, you betcha, we got fucking music snobs. It's bad enough to make some shifts really suck, depending on who I have to work with and who decides to come in and comment on the music. Well fuck yous; I am of that decade and the music I remember is cheesy and fucking bitchin!

The Sexual Frustration of Vegetarian Vampires in Lurve

Kate and I decided to rent Twilight. Keep in mind, neither of us has read any of the books, and we're both fairly intelligent, well-read people. Basically our sole reason for renting it was to tear it a new asshole, which we did so much that we missed a lot of the dialogue (though that's not saying much).

H'okay, so, there's this pretty young woman who, of course, just has to move to some shit town with her emotionally distant father (though this guy's acting was actually just bad). Naturally the reader/audience is given the impression that she's a bit of a social outcast, but somehow a whole clique is magically drawn to her and BOOM you have Instant Friends! Of course, the actress sucks so much that what I presume to her social awkwardness comes out as complete indifference to these people who are so desperate to kiss her ass. Then enters Impossibly Hot Guy. I not ashamed to admit that I thought Robert Pattinson was totally hot until I saw this movie. But seriously? If I saw a guy throw up in his mouth at the mere sight of me I would be turned off so instantly. Is that Pattinson's idea of conveying love at first sight? What, did the director tell him, "Okay, I want you to reimagine the first time you ever fell in love and just mutiply that by like a hundred, got it?" Apparently the idea of such intense love makes Pattinson extremely nauseous. And creepy. He was staring at whatsherface harder than a pedophile at a playground.

The whole movie seemed like a bunch of pieces from better works taped shittily together, with no substance running underneath it. Basically a film montage with especially awful effects. I mean, come on, they glitter like fucking diamonds in the sun? What's the point of that? The only reason in that case that they wouldn't want to go into the sun is so regular humans wouldn't catch on. Imagine Edward Cullen at a rave. He would get so much kandi.

Afterward I read this article that discussed the obvious references in the Twilight books to the author's personal beliefs. It mentioned something about her being Mormon, and not believing in premarital sex, etc. Basically, ultra-conservative. Totally explains why Edward won't bang Bella. Not because he's afraid of losing control and suckin' her blood, but because OH NOES they're only seventeen and totally not married. Of course, being a woman, Bella has to tempt Edward constantly because she is the only one who ignites the fire in his loins. Or whatever. The only heat I could see between them was pure lust. They're horny fucking teenagers; you really think one of them being a vampire would change that? They're certainly not in love. They have absolutely nothing in common and don't have any real conversations; these two can't even give off that "soulmates" vibe you get in other romance movies. They just kinda claw at each other like sex addicts in like one scene. I get the feeling the author herself is pretty sexually frustrated by the limits of her religion/life. I know I was feeling that way watching the heavy heavy lust and complete lack of action. Just DO it already!! At least kiss! What, not even some tongue??

One scene that struck both of us as unintentionally hilarious was when all these dumb kids are at the beach hanging out and one of the less-than-minor male characters starts chasing one of the less-than-minor female characters with one of those gigantic long pieces of kelp and I screamed "SEA PENIS!! LET ME SLITHER THROUGH YOUR KELP BEDS!"

Art School = More Cunts. I Mean Artists.

Every time I read a comic with good style and writing, I feel that much more compelled to make my own. In middle school the only comics I read were manga, so of course I wanted to make manga. Yes, I was one of those white kids who kinda wanted to be Japanese, if being Japanese was really like it was represented in the comics (which I suspect now it isn't). I mean, helloooooo their box lunches are like way cooler than American kids' box lunches, for fuck's sake!

My issue with making comics is the same as my issue with writing a story long enough to become a book: I can't keep going. I can't come up with a story that interests me enough to stick with it. ESPECIALLY because drawing all those panels and speech bubbles is such a pain in the ass. The most I could do would be one strip at a time, like a newspaper comic (and we all know how great those are), with characters based on (read, "ripped off") real life. Last night before I was about to pass out (which seems to be the only time I come up with awesome ideas) I kept thinking of funny strips of Kate and me. It was stuff that wasn't actually based on real life events, but wouldn't be too far off the mark. Except now I can't remember most of them, aside from one where we start screaming about free pie.

Thing is, I wonder if going to art school would really get my proverbial ball rolling. It's kind've cool to be in a room full of other weird, arty-type people. One of my friends told me that meeting other artists would be a good way to improve. Of course, with artists, as with most other things, really, there's always that underlying current of competition. I could probably use that kind of motivation, though.

An Open Letter

...to the man who called me a bitch.

I really don't understand your animosity, sir. You come in to my place of work with a large group of adults and a pack of loud, unruly children, all demanding ice cream. I serve you as patiently as I can while you try not to lose your temper at the indecisive ones.

In general, it is an unwritten law that parents are responsible for their children in public places, such as retail stores, doctors' offices, cafes, restaurants, etc. It is also an unwritten law that parents must teach their children not to take things that don't belong to them without permission, that is, steal.

We like to give out little paper umbrellas sometimes to kids, or on a sandwich if we're feeling whimsical. We keep these little paper umbrellas behind a glass where we keep other little things, such as salt and pepper, a bottle of tapatio sauce, or wooden stakes for sandwiches. What usually happens, sir, and this is what I was trying to tell you, is that a child will notice said umbrellas and will ask for one. Or, if the child is too shy, a parent will ask. This is because most parents try to teach their children to have manners. It is possible, sir, believe, I have seen it done with my own eyes, heard their little pleases and thank yous with my own ears.

Frankly, I was rather surprised that you didn't understand the problem when I was protesting against the three or four little boys you were responsible for reaching their dirty hands over the glass and all over every umbrella, trying to grab the right colors. This surprise may have translated badly when I said, "It's just that most people usually ask." The words themselves could easily seem snotty, but my tone was meant to be as neutral as possible, all factors taken into account. And really, your excuse, "They're only five, what do you expect?" was rather weak. By the time a child is five, he should be aware that stealing is not right. Your excuse surprised me even more; surely you were sensible of what was going on? Apparently not. I don't quite understand what's so difficult about the situation I have recounted above. I would assume parents try to teach their children to have respect for other people's property.

I would also assume a good father wouldn't want to raise his sons to think of women as bitches.

Sir, I must say, you are the type of man who makes my reproductive organs shrivel into hard little pits. You do not represent fathers very well, and you especially fail at being a real man. It's a rather hackneyed phrase but really, men like you do make me lose faith in the human race. If you were having a bad day, I don't understand how belittling a young woman like me would make it any better. Does your wife actually like you? Do your children? Are you trying to raise your own special race of assholes? You're doing a fine job, if that be the case.

To close off, if you ever come in to my place of work again while I'm there, I will be sure to give you a demonstration of what a bitch really is. You will need your testicles.

Sincerely,
the Bitch

Barbie's Feet Are Kinda Freaky, Anyway

Something that bugs me often is the sheer amount of obviously insecure people. By which I mean people who are quick to make sure everyone around is made extremely uncomfortable by the depths of their insecurity. You know the type. Women who, when you make them a nice meal, can't help joking about how fattening it is and how much they'll have to work out to make up for it the next day. There's little doubt that, underneath the smile, they're dead serious. Or the men who are prone to complaining bitterly about their own weight or their inability to get a girlfriend. Mostly I've known women who, while seeming to merely acknowledge their flaws, are actually pointing them out, putting up road signs and flashing lights where no one else notices anything. It's been said that if you keep saying "I'm fat I'm fat I'm fat," eventually others will also believe you're fat.

One other thing. Women who wear heels improperly. Very few can pull them off the way they're meant to be done. Many of those few can do it because they've been wearing heels so long they can no longer wear flats. The rest of us, however, are aware heels are hot and make most anyone's legs look shapely and glamorous, but we fail at pulling it off. It makes me cringe inside when I see some woman attempting to stride elegantly down the street and failing even to unbend her knees all the way. You know the walk: pinched toes, the balls of your feet swollen, arches splintering, resulting in a feeble crab walk that is reminiscent of a white person using chopsticks for the very first time. It's the walk of an eighty year-old woman who's had too many children and suffers from the worst sort of arthritis.

The thing is, if you can't do it, don't do it. You can do so much better than those six inch heels. Your pain is not sexy. Accept this, and you just might be able to run away from those potential muggers and rapists.