I know it's very cliche and obvious to complain about driving problems in LA, but I simply cannot keep this hostility inside. It is my purpose to flood the world with my negativity. You're welcome.
I honestly cannot drive any distance in this twit capitol without blaring my horn at some A.D.D.-prone yahoo who is obliviously contributing to the slowing down of society. Just now, on a one mile trip back from Best Buy to my home - a five minute drive - I had to honk at two such morons. The first was probably the most common type of offender: while waiting to make an unprotected left turn, the driver sat there in the intersection after the light turned yellow and the oncoming traffic slowed to a stop, until I gave a good long honk. He or she (probably she) finally jolted back from her daydream of unicorns or monkeys clapping or whatever retards think about these days, and zipped through the now-red light, leaving me stuck until the next green.
I would say this happens over half the time I'm behind someone making a left hand turn. It's especially common when there is an actual left hand turn arrow - the arrow turns green, and the lead car just sits there. Often times the cars behind the first car don't even notice; I've been like five cars back and have to be the one to lean on the horn. Is it so much to ask that drivers stay alert long enough to register the changing colors of the flashy lights before their eyes? Life is short, people! Hurry up!
When I got home, there was an elderly woman in a Volvo who had turned her car so that she was pointing at the driveway to my building, but she wasn't actually in it. Instead, her car was just sitting there perpendicularly, effectively blocking the driveway and the opposite flow of traffic simultaneously. It looked like she had attempted to put her car into the driveway, but stopped just short of actually doing so. I waited about seven seconds or so before I gave her a solid beep too, which she responded to by jolting her 80-something year-old head up like it was D-Day again. Then her car lurched forward and out of the way, bumping up against the curb violently as I zoomed around her.
I think elderly peoples' licenses should be automatically revoked after a certain age. Why wait for them to prove that they've become incompetent at handling an automobile, like that geriatric who mowed down those people at the Santa Monica farmers market a few years ago? In addition, it would be great if there was a system by which you could have your license suspended based on how many times people honk at you. Three honks, you don't drive for a week. That seems fair. That's all I need, is for there to be a system to incentivize my honking.
I'd also like to revive my dream of getting to have three missiles a year that I can fire from my car at other vehicles or pedestrians, but one step at a time.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Cast Off
I went to see THE WOLFMAN last night. In addition to being a generally crappy movie, the filmmakers committed perhaps the worst example of the worst sin in filmmaking I can remember seeing: they completely miscast the lead role.
The protagonist of the movie is an American who goes to London to see his British father, played by Sir Anthony Hopkins, and investigates the mysterious death of his brother. The American is played by Benecio del Toro. Benecio del Toro is a great actor. I loved him in TRAFFIC and FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS. But here's the thing: he's a fucking Mexican. His facial features are that of a Mexican man. When he speaks, it is with a tinge of a Mexican accent. Now granted, he could play parts other than Mexicans - like, say, a Spaniard, or an Italian. He played Che Guavara not long ago; Che was Argentinian. You know what absolutely doesn't work for him though? Playing the American son of Sir Anthony Hopkins.
I mean, at minute four of the movie, when this relationship is established, I just asked myself, "Wait, Benecio del Toro is supposed to be Anthony Hopkins' son? How is that possible?" And then the whole rest of the movie, I couldn't stop thinking about it. It just bothered me. How could the makers of this film commit such a huge oversight, trying to establish that the fundamental relationship of the movie is between two people who have no business even being on the same continent? It was like watching a movie where Tom Hanks says "Ah, here's my long lost identical twin brother: Don Cheadle."
Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad. But it was definitely worse than the last glaringly horrible bit of casting that stood out to me, which was Kate Bosworth as Lois Lane in SUPERMAN RETURNS. She was like 22 in that movie. It was comical how someone who looked like a babysitter was supposed to be a bigshot newspaper reporter. You'll also notice how that role effectively killed her career.
I hope for Benecio's sake he doesn't suffer the same fate at the hands of the imbeciles who blew $150 million on THE WOLFMAN.
The protagonist of the movie is an American who goes to London to see his British father, played by Sir Anthony Hopkins, and investigates the mysterious death of his brother. The American is played by Benecio del Toro. Benecio del Toro is a great actor. I loved him in TRAFFIC and FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS. But here's the thing: he's a fucking Mexican. His facial features are that of a Mexican man. When he speaks, it is with a tinge of a Mexican accent. Now granted, he could play parts other than Mexicans - like, say, a Spaniard, or an Italian. He played Che Guavara not long ago; Che was Argentinian. You know what absolutely doesn't work for him though? Playing the American son of Sir Anthony Hopkins.
I mean, at minute four of the movie, when this relationship is established, I just asked myself, "Wait, Benecio del Toro is supposed to be Anthony Hopkins' son? How is that possible?" And then the whole rest of the movie, I couldn't stop thinking about it. It just bothered me. How could the makers of this film commit such a huge oversight, trying to establish that the fundamental relationship of the movie is between two people who have no business even being on the same continent? It was like watching a movie where Tom Hanks says "Ah, here's my long lost identical twin brother: Don Cheadle."
Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad. But it was definitely worse than the last glaringly horrible bit of casting that stood out to me, which was Kate Bosworth as Lois Lane in SUPERMAN RETURNS. She was like 22 in that movie. It was comical how someone who looked like a babysitter was supposed to be a bigshot newspaper reporter. You'll also notice how that role effectively killed her career.
I hope for Benecio's sake he doesn't suffer the same fate at the hands of the imbeciles who blew $150 million on THE WOLFMAN.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
A Beneficial Day
This little vignette isn't so much a kvetch as just kind of an amusing episode from my weekend. I guess I could try and shape it as some sort of complaint, but it didn't build up frustration inside me like other postings have. Oh well. It's my blog, right? Excuse the fuck outta me if I color outside the lines a little.
My friend Jonas, who lives in my building, asked if I wanted to go to a benefit concert of some sort today featuring a world music singer he apparently met one time. He said she comped him two tickets, which were ordinarily $30. I didn't have anything better to do, so off we went.
When we were in the car, Jonas told me the concert was being held at a house in Beverly Hills. This struck me as a little odd, but not unfathomable given some of the mansions in BH. "What's this a benefit concert for?" I asked. "I don't know, probably Haiti," he said.
But when we got to the address, it was a fairly normal sized house. The front door was closed, and there was no sign of any people anywhere. I thought we must have been at the wrong place...how could this be the venue for a concert?
A moment later an elderly couple walked up. Jonas asked them if they were going to the benefit concert. They said they were, and we let them ring the doorbell, then trailed them inside when another elderly woman opened the door. She introduced herself to us, which I quickly discovered would happen a lot over the next hour. We were then shown inside what I determined to be the Most Jewish House I Had Ever Seen.
Now, I've been in a lot of Jewish homes. Between my grandparents and all of their friends, I know what to expect when I walk into a Hebrew Home. This one took the cake. It was like a synagogue on steroids. Menorahs, statues of rabbis, framed torah portions on the wall...I mean, this place had mezuzahs hanging in every door of the house! I noted that had I not been a Jew myself, I would be about a hundred times more weirded out.
We were introduced to the owner of the house: a Jewish man in his 80's named Maurice, who at one point gripped me firmly by the elbow and ordered Jonas to take his hand out of his pocket. Then we were shown into a room where there was tea and a table with a buffet spread of fruit and pastries. There were probably about five other people in the house besides me and Jonas. I couldn't help but wonder: where the fuck was I?
Over the course of the next hour, people started trickling in. Most of them were over 60, and just about every single one of them introduced him- or herself to me. Apparently they were all related to the girl who was performing. It started to dawn on me that I had basically been duped into attending a glorified family function. Jonas was just as confused as I was; neither of us had anticipated this kind of a scene.
After an hour of mingling with geriatric Jews, drinking complimentary Diet Coke, and studying the labels of the bar mitzvah VHS home movies on the bookshelf, the 35 or so people at the "concert" were summoned into the living room, where folding chairs had been set up. The performer was introduced, and a pretty girl about my age came in and performed about 45 minutes of world music. In case you don't know, world music is basically Spanish vocal exercises set to classical guitar and hand drums. It was fine, but not really my cup of scotch, especially when she kept imploring everybody to get up and dance. It was an inappropriate demand, given both the venue and median age of her audience.
When she was done, this snotty gay guy got up to "say a few words" about the cause the show was put on for. He whined about independent artists not getting enough support from record companies (or something), then patted himself on the back for devoting his life to doing just that. Then he told everyone he understood that we had all paid $30 to see the show (except for Jonas and I), but any more money we could spare would greatly benefit this performer's burgeoning career. That was it.
"So wait," I said, turning to Jonas. "The benefit concert is just to benefit the artist?"
"I guess so," he said.
"Normally that's just called a concert," I said. We tried to slip out quickly, but ran into the performer herself on the way to the front door. I had to stand around awkwardly while Jonas exchanged tedious small talk with her. Then we made our getaway, following a girl out the front door, which I closed behind me.
"Oh great," the girl muttered. "You locked me out!" We turned around. Apparently, she had designs on going back inside. "Uh, I'm...sorry," I stammered. "We'll wait and make sure you get back in," Jonas offered.
"It's okay. I'll be fine," she sighed, ringing the doorbell.
"Are you sure?" I asked. Never before have I asked that question having been so positive that the person would be fine, as well caring so little if she actually would be.
"Yeah," she said. Jonas and I stared at her for a couple seconds longer, then shrugged, turned and walked off. It was a fitting end to a supremely awkward experience.
My friend Jonas, who lives in my building, asked if I wanted to go to a benefit concert of some sort today featuring a world music singer he apparently met one time. He said she comped him two tickets, which were ordinarily $30. I didn't have anything better to do, so off we went.
When we were in the car, Jonas told me the concert was being held at a house in Beverly Hills. This struck me as a little odd, but not unfathomable given some of the mansions in BH. "What's this a benefit concert for?" I asked. "I don't know, probably Haiti," he said.
But when we got to the address, it was a fairly normal sized house. The front door was closed, and there was no sign of any people anywhere. I thought we must have been at the wrong place...how could this be the venue for a concert?
A moment later an elderly couple walked up. Jonas asked them if they were going to the benefit concert. They said they were, and we let them ring the doorbell, then trailed them inside when another elderly woman opened the door. She introduced herself to us, which I quickly discovered would happen a lot over the next hour. We were then shown inside what I determined to be the Most Jewish House I Had Ever Seen.
Now, I've been in a lot of Jewish homes. Between my grandparents and all of their friends, I know what to expect when I walk into a Hebrew Home. This one took the cake. It was like a synagogue on steroids. Menorahs, statues of rabbis, framed torah portions on the wall...I mean, this place had mezuzahs hanging in every door of the house! I noted that had I not been a Jew myself, I would be about a hundred times more weirded out.
We were introduced to the owner of the house: a Jewish man in his 80's named Maurice, who at one point gripped me firmly by the elbow and ordered Jonas to take his hand out of his pocket. Then we were shown into a room where there was tea and a table with a buffet spread of fruit and pastries. There were probably about five other people in the house besides me and Jonas. I couldn't help but wonder: where the fuck was I?
Over the course of the next hour, people started trickling in. Most of them were over 60, and just about every single one of them introduced him- or herself to me. Apparently they were all related to the girl who was performing. It started to dawn on me that I had basically been duped into attending a glorified family function. Jonas was just as confused as I was; neither of us had anticipated this kind of a scene.
After an hour of mingling with geriatric Jews, drinking complimentary Diet Coke, and studying the labels of the bar mitzvah VHS home movies on the bookshelf, the 35 or so people at the "concert" were summoned into the living room, where folding chairs had been set up. The performer was introduced, and a pretty girl about my age came in and performed about 45 minutes of world music. In case you don't know, world music is basically Spanish vocal exercises set to classical guitar and hand drums. It was fine, but not really my cup of scotch, especially when she kept imploring everybody to get up and dance. It was an inappropriate demand, given both the venue and median age of her audience.
When she was done, this snotty gay guy got up to "say a few words" about the cause the show was put on for. He whined about independent artists not getting enough support from record companies (or something), then patted himself on the back for devoting his life to doing just that. Then he told everyone he understood that we had all paid $30 to see the show (except for Jonas and I), but any more money we could spare would greatly benefit this performer's burgeoning career. That was it.
"So wait," I said, turning to Jonas. "The benefit concert is just to benefit the artist?"
"I guess so," he said.
"Normally that's just called a concert," I said. We tried to slip out quickly, but ran into the performer herself on the way to the front door. I had to stand around awkwardly while Jonas exchanged tedious small talk with her. Then we made our getaway, following a girl out the front door, which I closed behind me.
"Oh great," the girl muttered. "You locked me out!" We turned around. Apparently, she had designs on going back inside. "Uh, I'm...sorry," I stammered. "We'll wait and make sure you get back in," Jonas offered.
"It's okay. I'll be fine," she sighed, ringing the doorbell.
"Are you sure?" I asked. Never before have I asked that question having been so positive that the person would be fine, as well caring so little if she actually would be.
"Yeah," she said. Jonas and I stared at her for a couple seconds longer, then shrugged, turned and walked off. It was a fitting end to a supremely awkward experience.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Dancing Douche
I went to a concert last night. It must be a law of the universe that at every concert, there is one douchebag who absolutely must dance and scream ten times more demonstratively than anyone else there, just to make sure everyone knows how passionate they are about the music. How it just gets inside them and fills them up with an exuberance no one else could possibly understand. Another law of the universe is that these people must always be standing right next to me.
It's not like I was at a U2 show, or some artist that this guy was a lifelong fan of or anything. It was just a three person band at a bar featuring an electric guitar virtuoso named Tim Reynolds. But this guy was behaving like he was in Jesus Christ's audience. Jumping up and down, waving his arms around in hippie formations, screaming lame-isms at the top of his lungs like "IT IS ON! IT IS ON!!!" or "GOOD TO SEE YOU SIR! GOOD TO SEE YOU!!!" when the performer predictably said "Good to see you all tonight."
He made it borderline impossible for me to focus on watching the show. At one point, he waved his arms around directly in my face. "Bro," I said to him, "Try and keep it contained a little bit." When that song ended, he apologized to me. "I don't mean to be bumping into you, man. I'm just kind of a spaz, and I enjoy me the shit outta some shredding guitar!"
"Yeah," I said. "The thing is, you kind of are bumping into me a lot."
"Well, it's a concert. There's plenty of room, I'm just having a good time."
"There's not plenty of room. It's pretty crowded. I'm just saying, take it down a notch," I requested.
"Just calm down," a girl nearby chimed in, piggybacking on my complaint. My confidence grew that I had the crowd on my side. But then he got a little indignant. "It's a concert, man," he argued.
"I know it's a concert," I replied. "But you're the only one here who's jumping around and bumping into me."
"I don't care if I'm the only one. Just enjoy the show, man. Just enjoy the show," he suggested to me.
"I'm trying to enjoy the show. Believe me, I'm trying," I said.
"Okay. I don't mean to intrude on you having a good time," he said with more than a hint of sarcasm.
"I appreciate it." That was pretty much the end of that. After this conversation, he toned down his dancing idiocy about 25%, which was enough for me to ignore him, for the most part. Which leads me to the important conclusion that, more often than not, you should confront douchebags when their douchiness is spoiling your fun. Otherwise you'll just stew in your anger, and their unacceptable behavior will continue to go unchecked.
It's not like I was at a U2 show, or some artist that this guy was a lifelong fan of or anything. It was just a three person band at a bar featuring an electric guitar virtuoso named Tim Reynolds. But this guy was behaving like he was in Jesus Christ's audience. Jumping up and down, waving his arms around in hippie formations, screaming lame-isms at the top of his lungs like "IT IS ON! IT IS ON!!!" or "GOOD TO SEE YOU SIR! GOOD TO SEE YOU!!!" when the performer predictably said "Good to see you all tonight."
He made it borderline impossible for me to focus on watching the show. At one point, he waved his arms around directly in my face. "Bro," I said to him, "Try and keep it contained a little bit." When that song ended, he apologized to me. "I don't mean to be bumping into you, man. I'm just kind of a spaz, and I enjoy me the shit outta some shredding guitar!"
"Yeah," I said. "The thing is, you kind of are bumping into me a lot."
"Well, it's a concert. There's plenty of room, I'm just having a good time."
"There's not plenty of room. It's pretty crowded. I'm just saying, take it down a notch," I requested.
"Just calm down," a girl nearby chimed in, piggybacking on my complaint. My confidence grew that I had the crowd on my side. But then he got a little indignant. "It's a concert, man," he argued.
"I know it's a concert," I replied. "But you're the only one here who's jumping around and bumping into me."
"I don't care if I'm the only one. Just enjoy the show, man. Just enjoy the show," he suggested to me.
"I'm trying to enjoy the show. Believe me, I'm trying," I said.
"Okay. I don't mean to intrude on you having a good time," he said with more than a hint of sarcasm.
"I appreciate it." That was pretty much the end of that. After this conversation, he toned down his dancing idiocy about 25%, which was enough for me to ignore him, for the most part. Which leads me to the important conclusion that, more often than not, you should confront douchebags when their douchiness is spoiling your fun. Otherwise you'll just stew in your anger, and their unacceptable behavior will continue to go unchecked.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Seriously, I'm Still Getting a Phone Book?
I just came home to find the new phone book sitting not only outside my door, but the doors of everyone else on my floor of my building. I took it inside and immediately threw it in the recycling bin. I mean, honestly, who uses a phone book anymore? If you open up a dictionary and look up the word "antiquated," you will see a picture of a phone book. (In fact, you might also see a picture of a dictionary, but the phone book is probably slightly more obsolete.) They don't even show people using phone books in movies anymore; you see people on pay phones more often.
I have no idea how the phone book company stays in business. Who is still advertising in them? I wouldn't know, because I haven't opened one in literally over five years. The phone book's primary users must be strictly old people, i.e., those who are frightened of the internet, and change in general. If they could only get over their phobia of technology, they would realize that every number in that cumbersome, inky book is just a click away. They wouldn't have to put any additional undue stress on their lower backs picking up that heavy directory - not to mention the strain on their eyeballs searching for those tiny listings. You have so little time left, old people - don't hasten your demise!
All I hear all day long is how we as a society should be more environmentally conscious. Go green and such. Hell, Obama's State of the Union address last night designated a big chunk towards the importance of clean energy, and the United States leading the world in climate change, blah blah blah. How about this for an idea: STOP LEAVING 2,000 PAGE BOOKS OF WORTHLESS PAPER OUTSIDE EVERY SINGLE CITIZEN'S DOOR EVERY YEAR!!!
And if geriatrics absolutely must have their phone books, then how about if the phone company asks people if they want one? That way, they don't have to go to the trouble of distributing the Most Useless Object I Can Imagine to 300 million people. Don't just assume that I don't have an online connection, or am a 6-year old who needs assistance reaching the cookie jar. Both of those are long shots.
I have no idea how the phone book company stays in business. Who is still advertising in them? I wouldn't know, because I haven't opened one in literally over five years. The phone book's primary users must be strictly old people, i.e., those who are frightened of the internet, and change in general. If they could only get over their phobia of technology, they would realize that every number in that cumbersome, inky book is just a click away. They wouldn't have to put any additional undue stress on their lower backs picking up that heavy directory - not to mention the strain on their eyeballs searching for those tiny listings. You have so little time left, old people - don't hasten your demise!
All I hear all day long is how we as a society should be more environmentally conscious. Go green and such. Hell, Obama's State of the Union address last night designated a big chunk towards the importance of clean energy, and the United States leading the world in climate change, blah blah blah. How about this for an idea: STOP LEAVING 2,000 PAGE BOOKS OF WORTHLESS PAPER OUTSIDE EVERY SINGLE CITIZEN'S DOOR EVERY YEAR!!!
And if geriatrics absolutely must have their phone books, then how about if the phone company asks people if they want one? That way, they don't have to go to the trouble of distributing the Most Useless Object I Can Imagine to 300 million people. Don't just assume that I don't have an online connection, or am a 6-year old who needs assistance reaching the cookie jar. Both of those are long shots.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Constructive Criticism
This is an actual email I sent the author of a book on writing horror movies I recently bought.
From: Ethan Furman
Subject: Constructive Criticism
Date: January 9, 2010 1:09:01 PM PST
To: devin@moviepartners.com
Dear Mr. Watson,
After reading 95 pages of your book "Horror Screenwriting: the nature of fear," I have decided not to continue, because it is terrible. I hung with it for awhile there, but I can't struggle any further with this frustrating tripe. Your book claims to be specific to horror writing - that's why I bought it - yet you spend so much time regurgitating the painstaking basics that are covered in any of the other 7,000 books on basic screenwriting that exist. Oh, there's different types of screenwriting software I should use? You mean I shouldn't be using Microsoft Word at this point? Thanks for the tip. I should have characters with backstories and personal obstacles to overcome? That's genius. Ohhhhh, my dialogue should be concise and sound like how people talk, not rambling and without any contractions? Here I was, writing the whole thing in German.
The last chapter I read is titled "Writing Effective Screams." Now, that's something I would actually be interested in reading about that is specific to the horror movie genre. How do you write an effective scream? Do you write it as dialogue, or do you just describe it in the narrative? Gee, I wish I knew...but guess what isn't covered in this chapter? Yes, amazingly you go 20 pages without even touching on the subject of how to write screams in horror screenplays. Instead, you go on and on dissecting two drafts of a scene you wrote for your own low budget movie - your one credit, according to IMDB, which hasn't even been released yet. I like how you don't even alert the reader to the fact that it's from your own script, you just describe it as "a scene." And I thought M. Night Shyamalan was the master of cinematic masturbation. Jesus, the pages of my book are still sticky with your script-spooge.
And why are you providing scene examples from movies like "12 Monkeys"?! "12 Monkeys" is a great movie, but it's a futuristic psychological thriller. It's not a screwball comedy, it's not a historical war drama, and it's not a horror movie. Did you run out of horror films to reference? Have you ever seen any horror films? You should check them out, they have a whole section on Netflix. Next time you write a book, you should do a little research to provide examples that are relevant, instead of just writing down scenes from your favorite movies. What, no "Swingers" references? Vegas baby, Vegas!
As you can probably tell, I'm a little annoyed that I spent $25 on your flimsy excuse for a guidebook - almost double what actual books cost. I suppose it's partially my bad for being so trusting and not Googling you before I bought the book. I would appreciate it if you refunded at least half of my money...but I guess I'd be satisfied if you just told me the best way to write a scream. Then at least I wouldn't feel completely ripped off.
Best,
Ethan Furman
From: Ethan Furman
Subject: Constructive Criticism
Date: January 9, 2010 1:09:01 PM PST
To: devin@moviepartners.com
Dear Mr. Watson,
After reading 95 pages of your book "Horror Screenwriting: the nature of fear," I have decided not to continue, because it is terrible. I hung with it for awhile there, but I can't struggle any further with this frustrating tripe. Your book claims to be specific to horror writing - that's why I bought it - yet you spend so much time regurgitating the painstaking basics that are covered in any of the other 7,000 books on basic screenwriting that exist. Oh, there's different types of screenwriting software I should use? You mean I shouldn't be using Microsoft Word at this point? Thanks for the tip. I should have characters with backstories and personal obstacles to overcome? That's genius. Ohhhhh, my dialogue should be concise and sound like how people talk, not rambling and without any contractions? Here I was, writing the whole thing in German.
The last chapter I read is titled "Writing Effective Screams." Now, that's something I would actually be interested in reading about that is specific to the horror movie genre. How do you write an effective scream? Do you write it as dialogue, or do you just describe it in the narrative? Gee, I wish I knew...but guess what isn't covered in this chapter? Yes, amazingly you go 20 pages without even touching on the subject of how to write screams in horror screenplays. Instead, you go on and on dissecting two drafts of a scene you wrote for your own low budget movie - your one credit, according to IMDB, which hasn't even been released yet. I like how you don't even alert the reader to the fact that it's from your own script, you just describe it as "a scene." And I thought M. Night Shyamalan was the master of cinematic masturbation. Jesus, the pages of my book are still sticky with your script-spooge.
And why are you providing scene examples from movies like "12 Monkeys"?! "12 Monkeys" is a great movie, but it's a futuristic psychological thriller. It's not a screwball comedy, it's not a historical war drama, and it's not a horror movie. Did you run out of horror films to reference? Have you ever seen any horror films? You should check them out, they have a whole section on Netflix. Next time you write a book, you should do a little research to provide examples that are relevant, instead of just writing down scenes from your favorite movies. What, no "Swingers" references? Vegas baby, Vegas!
As you can probably tell, I'm a little annoyed that I spent $25 on your flimsy excuse for a guidebook - almost double what actual books cost. I suppose it's partially my bad for being so trusting and not Googling you before I bought the book. I would appreciate it if you refunded at least half of my money...but I guess I'd be satisfied if you just told me the best way to write a scream. Then at least I wouldn't feel completely ripped off.
Best,
Ethan Furman
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Exercise is a Big Ripoff
Man, I can't stand exercise. The whole thing is some sort of scam, a backroom deal reached between God and major gym chains. Let me get this straight: I work out diligently the whole year (well, somewhat diligently), doing things I hate - the elliptical, Perfect Pushups, crunches, etc. - purely so I can achieve a minimal level of physical fitness: lungs that don't collapse after jogging a mile, a body that isn't embarrassing to expose on a public beach...only to have everything completely erased when I take it easy for a week or two over the holidays?
In preparation to get back into the swing of things tomorrow, as the first post-hollidays week gets underway, I just looked in the mirror. I almost threw up. I went outside to throw the football around today to take a break from the games and get some blood pumping. I was winded in under ten minutes...and almost threw up. I'm pasty. I'm flabby. I'm tired and cranky. What complete bullshit that you can let yourself go so quickly, so easily, after doing so well to be good the whole rest of the year. There's no end to the misery of keeping in shape. You just have to do it all the time until you die, or else be branded an unhealthy, hideous freak.
Is it so much to ask that I can take a break from the painful monotony that is working out and stuff my fat face with fried cheese, chocolate pudding and unhealthy quantities of mead and grog for a couple weeks? Why doesn't my body come equipped with some sort of backup metabolic generator that can kick in and start burning extra calories for a little while, just till I get back on track? Why isn't there a pill I can purchase that staves off this rapid deterioration my physique is going through before my very eyes? Isn't this 2010 now? Isn't this the future? Isn't stuff like that supposed to exist by now? Why am I still having to drag myself to a gym and spend time and energy making myself healthier? And if I have to go, why can't I just be beamed there by now?
Again: Bullshit.
In preparation to get back into the swing of things tomorrow, as the first post-hollidays week gets underway, I just looked in the mirror. I almost threw up. I went outside to throw the football around today to take a break from the games and get some blood pumping. I was winded in under ten minutes...and almost threw up. I'm pasty. I'm flabby. I'm tired and cranky. What complete bullshit that you can let yourself go so quickly, so easily, after doing so well to be good the whole rest of the year. There's no end to the misery of keeping in shape. You just have to do it all the time until you die, or else be branded an unhealthy, hideous freak.
Is it so much to ask that I can take a break from the painful monotony that is working out and stuff my fat face with fried cheese, chocolate pudding and unhealthy quantities of mead and grog for a couple weeks? Why doesn't my body come equipped with some sort of backup metabolic generator that can kick in and start burning extra calories for a little while, just till I get back on track? Why isn't there a pill I can purchase that staves off this rapid deterioration my physique is going through before my very eyes? Isn't this 2010 now? Isn't this the future? Isn't stuff like that supposed to exist by now? Why am I still having to drag myself to a gym and spend time and energy making myself healthier? And if I have to go, why can't I just be beamed there by now?
Again: Bullshit.
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