The Forgotten - - A review by Trey Raley
This movie is one of the most appropriately named movies of all time.
I think the writers were sitting around and trying to figure out a great name for this movie. One writer says to the other, “OK, what is this movie really about, I mean, what is the message of this movie?” The other writer responded, “I’ve forgotten.” Thus the name. Apparently that wasn’t the only thing forgotten in this instant classic case of a shitty movie.
During the course of this movie I had forgotten a lot of things. I forgot what the point of it was, I forgot why I decided to watch this movie, and worst of all, I had forgotten how cool it was when Julianne Moore was banging Dirk Diggler in Boogie Nights and I got to see her boobies.
A movie must be pretty bad in order for me to forget that.
Which makes me think: you got to see her boobs, almost all of Heather Graham, and of course Dirk Diggler’s huge man meat, but you never get to see what William H Macy is packing.
Then again you do get to see him in the buff in The Cooler. It wasn’t a pretty site. I wish I could forget that. But on the bright side you get to see Maria Bello nude, so I guess it kinda evens out.
But then that makes me think, "how come they didn’t show any boobs in Coyote Ugly"? I would have enjoyed seeing Piper Perabo’s boobs. Then again there was a movie that I’ve forgotten where Piper Perabo is in love with another girl and you get to see her boobs, but then she kills herself at the end of that movie. Of course she was in "Cheaper By The Dozen" with Hilary Duff. I wouldn’t mind seeing her naked.
Wait... what movie was I talking about? I don’t know, I’ve forgotten. Whatever movie it was it was as random and incoherent (nice plug huh) as this review. I wouldn’t recommend this kind of movie for anyone.
After having failed a test last month, one which I had successfully passed over a year ago, I returned to the thriving metropolis of Statesville, NC, to resubmerge myself in the computerized testing center, hoping, praying, and gesticulating that the second time would be the charm.
And as luck would have it (it would have to be luck due to my horrific study skills) I passed.
Now to mail off the results to the beauracratic powers that be to receive legal certification so that stage 2 of life and career may blossom into fruition.
3 more weeks.
3 more weeks of 5 hour, one-way drives.
3 more weeks of being alone.
3 more weeks of sporadic familial visits.
3 more weeks til freedom, a new beginning, an opportunity.
King Kong - - A review by Trey Raley
I have to stand up and applaud.
Finally there was a movie in 2005 that had the balls to tackle a hot button topic and finally help break the barriers and open the world's eyes.
Finally a movie that explores tolerance in a world that lacks the ability to see things outside their shallow views of morality and normalcy.
And I'm not talking about that movie about those queer cowboys. I'm talking about the much more serious message that King Kong provides about the world intolerance of different species relationships.
I think the world finally has come to accept the fact that people are homosexual because they are too ugly to have anyone from the opposite sex actually find them attractive (see Ellen Degeneres).
But what about the people who are even too ugly for their own sex? Sure, it's easy to attack Billy Bob for having sex with a sheep, or look at me funny when I open-mouth kiss my cats, but who is to judge?
When you have three teeth and you have to call your father "Uncle Dad", who else is Billy Bob going to have sex with? Especially if he is an only child. Sometimes it is hard to accept these alternative lifestyles if we have not been in those person's shoes.
That, I think, is the clear message that this movie is trying to tackle. A big topic for a big gorilla.
The story is about a big ape that is on an island where there are no other gorillas for him to have relations with. The closest things are the natives that are so ugly that Colin Farrell wouldn't even have sex with them.
Then, all of a sudden, he meets this hot chick (Naomi Watts) and he immediately wants to bang her. The hot chick is a little reluctant because their first date does not go that well.
You know, typical first date stuff, like having to fight three Tyrannosaurus Rex's, and stuff like that.
But eventually, she comes around, and they develop a relationship with each other. But then all of Naomi's friends try to cock block the gorilla by trying to pull her off of the island. Basically like when you meet a girl at a bar and her friends pull the old "We came together and we are leaving together" bit at the end of the night.
But Kong is persistent, and eventually wins the girl over. And right before Kong seals the deal he gets shot down....literally!
Sort of like when you get the girl home and one thing is leading to another and she asks if you have a condom, and you don't.
The story itself is great, but what is even more impressive again, is the message. It is clear that Kong falling in love with a human was not a choice, he just didn't have any other options.
Sometimes a person loves whoever loves them back, even if that person is not the same species. Billy Bob doesn't choose to have sex with a sheep, but the sheep is the only thing that would allow him to have sex with it.
People do not become unattractive to other humans, they are born that way, and that is why we need to follow the deep meaning of this epic film and start a new revolution of acceptance for different species relationships. Hopefully this great film will help open the floodgates of tolerance for these hideously unattractive humans that are forced to explore alternative lifestyle to live a fuller, happier life.
On a side note, now that Kong is dead, if Naomi Watts wants a giant, hairy man that smells kind of funny and enjoys throwing his own feces, I live in Raleigh, NC.
Dancefloor - 1, Kevin - 0
There's a reason my wife doesn't let me go out unsupervised.
For whatever reason, my wife happened to be out of town for the weekend. And on this fateful Friday, I had been coerced to going out after work. (Actually, the plan had been to head to the local comedy club for a few beers and a few laughs after work)
The problem with the aforementioned plan as that the group that was going had all decided to leave work early and get a jumpstart on the night. Luckily there was a mexican cantina across the street from the office. Only God knows how many beers, margaritas, and shooters were ingested. And trust me when I say that the complimentary chips and salsa really don't do that much for the sake of alcohol absorption. This was when it was decided that I would leave my car in the parking lot.
We made our way to the comedy club and ordered more brew, and I'm pretty sure that there was at least one funny comedian, but don't hold me to that.
Luckily, I had a ride back to my neck of the woods and would not have to deal with retrieving my vehicle on this particular night. Unluckily, we weren't quite done with the night's events. Someone said that they wanted to go dancing. Under other circumstances, this would mean prowling for loose women and trying to, at least hint at, sleeping with them. But being married, I really had no business being in a dance club.
But, as has been stated before, once the dance beat hits my inebriated body, I can't help but try out some moves. The problem with this is that I was attempting moves that had not been anywhere near popular since the '80's. And if you can read between the lines, that meant that I was working myself into a breakdancing frenzy.
The music was on and appropriate for such a venture, and my mind told my body that it was indeed ON! Not wanting to waste time pop-lockin', spinnin', or breakin', I immediately go for the gold. I hop up and drop down, into the mesmerizing ministrations of "the worm". And all was good. I was the center of attention. I was a crowd pleaser. And then I hopped back up.
I turned to face the few people that were left from our after work outing, and all was smiles. But then I saw those smile turn to looks of disgust and horror, and for the life of me, could not determine why.
Apparently, doing the worm whilst extremely intoxicated somehow impairs judgment, mobility, and basic reasoning skills. On one of the down movements, my chin made full contact with the dance floor. Literally splitting it open. And when I hopped back up and turned to my friends, the blood just started flowing, creating a DNA piece of artwork on the white t-shirt I was wearing.
Gary, being the most sober one of us all, herded me to the bathroom to get cleaned up. And that's when I saw the devastation that I had incurred. Now, being mind numbingly drunk and seeing the sight of a split open chin coupled with copious amounts of blood now congealing on my shirt, what was I to do? What anyone else in my position would do: begin to vomit....violently. Luckily, Gary has a good sense of direction, and he steered me to the nearest trashcan/sink/toilet/urinal (I don't really remember which it was.
Now outside of physically harming myself and publicly humiliating myself, I didn't think it could get any worse.
But I was wrong.
Due to my awesome breakdancing skills we were now being thrown out of the club.
Even after explaining the situation to the bouncer with no neck, we were still tossed. I guess even though there was no fight, there was enough blood spilled to constitute a fight, and the management didn't want to present the wrong image to the rest of the general public.
And so, in a drunken bloody stupor, I was driven home. But only because I vehemently refused to go to the emergency room to get stitched up. I mean, come on, chicks dig scars right?
And that is why, to this day, I cover my chin in the anonymity of a goatee.
¶ 9:41 PM0 comments
Monday, April 10, 2006
bring the pain
As I was driving through the evening commute, or as I like to call it, navigating the seventh circle of hell, my mind began to wander, pondering days gone by.
I used to live at the beach. Not on the beach, mind you, but in the general vicinity. The little town of Calabash, NC. Just 2 minutes from the South Carolina border. A mere 20 minutes from Myrtle Beach. A hop skip and a jump from Santa Fe Station. We had learned long ago that this was one of the places to be. Decent food, live music, and the Long Island Iced Tea pitchers (discounted during happy hour).
This was prior to marriage, prior to children, prior to any “real responsibility”. And due to the fact that we were living at the beach, we would routinely have visitors. And New Year’s Eve was no exception.
I don’t recall the exact details as to why I was the first one to get to the restaurant, but there I was, sitting alone at a table built for 12, having just placed my order for 4 pitchers of Long Island’s. Of course, by the time the rest of my “party” had arrived, I had already plowed my way through one of the pitchers and was making a concentrated effort on the next one in line as I ignored the evil glances from the patrons unlucky enough to be forced to stand. All the while totally enjoying the space that the large table I was at provided for my multiple pitchers.
Excessive alcoholic beverages and live music are not a good combination for Kevin. Kevin likes to think that he can dance. Kevin also starts talking about himself in the third person. (consider yourself lucky that he hasn’t started using a Mexican accent yet). Bet you didn’t know that I was School of the Arts dance geek, did you? Well, the “dance” and “geek” part of correct. Apparently, when plied with enough alcohol, I think that I have rhythm. And apparently, if viewed by anyone on the same level of intoxication, it appears that way to them as well.
But this particular time of the evening I did not feel like dancing alone. So I grabbed one of my friends, Kelly. All was going smashingly until I got the bright idea to spin Kelly. And spin Kelly I did. Right onto her face. But not noticing my faux paus, I finished that marvel of dance much the same way a matador would spin, raising his arms above his head in triumph. Not really aware of what was going on, my other friends (future wife included) picked Kelly up and ushered us both out in the hopes of avoiding being thrown out of the establishment.
You’ve heard of the blind leading the blind? Well, that’s got to work better than the drunk leading the drunk. I’m fairly certain that Kelly was on the same level of intoxication that I was, but it was my job to hold her up as the remaining friends scrambled to call a cab. But how did I manage to walk out with a full Corona in my hand? Not one to look a gift beer in the mouth, I just whispered a thank you and took a swig as we swayed in the breeze.
Now, I’m not really sure what happened next. Somehow, both the bottle of beer and the drunk girl slipped from my grasp. And then everything seemed to move in slow motion. My head moving back and forth, trying to make a rational decision as to which falling object to make a grab for. Unfortunately for Kelly, I chose the beer. Unfortunately for the beer, I moved too slow. Both crashed to the ground, one with a thud, the other with the unmistakable sound of breaking glass.
This is the point where I think the cab pulled up and it was time to go. Now the friends that were with me obviously aren’t that bright as they once again put me in charge of Kelly and tell me to get her in the cab. This turns out to be a disaster as I can’t tell if the door to the cab is open or shut, yet still persist in trying to throw Kelly into the cab. You guessed it. Another thud. This time, instead of pavement, it’s the steel door of the cab that her head hits.
Of course, the entire story had to be retold to me the following day as my memory of that night seems to be a bit blank. But the best part was after that weekend, once Kelly had gone home. When her father asked her why she had a black eye and was all bruised up. He thought that she had been attacked and it took quite a bit of convincing on her part to assure him that that was not the case.
¶ 7:52 PM1 comments
Time is on your side
It’s taken me about a week to fully digest the “conference” I had with my boss regarding time management. And that’s the nice way of saying it. I had been chastised for being “late”. Late for what, I ask? I don’t do shift work. I do not punch a clock. I am, what is referred to as, a “management employee”. And since I have no direct reports, no people that I manage, what does that leave? The only thing left is for me to manage is myself, my work, and my TIME!
I don’t work in a call center doing shift work, expected to pick up a phone at a certain time every day. Hell, all of the work that I do could be done from home. I have an internet connection, a printer, and a fax line. But every other week, when I once again naively inquire as to the possibility of telecommuting, I am informed that it just wouldn’t be the same if I weren’t in the office. No further explanation given. And I know from the few times that I have worked from home, I am exponentially more productive then when I am forced to deal with the mundane inanities of the workplace. Now, had I been late to a meeting or a conference, I could understand the need for that to be addressed. Any time restrictions that are placed upon me are simply a way of being observed. Making sure I’m a good little cube farmer, cultivating my cube, making sure it gets eight hours of Kevin so that it can grow big and strong. And per usual tactic, when pressed about why this was so important, the blame was shifted to a higher level of management. The old “it’s not me that cares when you come in to work, it’s upper management”. I asked what it mattered as long as the work was getting done. If there were no complaints about the work being accomplished in a timely manner, than why did my shining visage even need to be seen at all? There is no logical answer to that question. But there is a corporate one. Not one that’s written in any employee manual/handbook. Just an unwritten, unspoken rule. If you can’t be physically seen, you can’t possibly be productive. Logically, if the work load is being completed, it shouldn’t matter if it takes 4 hours or 8 hours or even 18 hours. Is the job getting done? Doesn’t matter. Apparently, as long as I show up at a predetermined time every day, without being late, I can basically sit around and look like I’m working without actually getting anything accomplished and all’s well.
I counter with: “I haven’t been to a meeting in 5 years that’s started on time”. At a minimum, every meeting I’ve been to in the last 5 years has started 10 minutes late. Now, 10 minutes doesn’t sound all that bad. But when you compound that 10 minutes by the number of people in the meeting, that adds up quick to a boatload of lost (possible) productivity. But nobody has been sent through the wringer for showing up late to a meeting, at least not that I know about.
I would hate to see what a company looks like when it is run efficiently and fairly. Might even turn a profit and not be forced to downsize every year.
Bathing in Beer World's first beer health spa opens in Czech A family brewery in the Czech Republic has opened the world’s first beer health centre in its cellar. The Chodovar Family brewery in Chodova Plana offers beer baths, beer massages and beer cosmetics.
I guess this is just the best way to advertise a spa and market it towards the male population.
The cellar has seven huge Victorian style baths where visitors can swim in beer while enjoying a pint poured at a bathside bar.
And remember, we don't swim in your toilet, so please don't pee in our pool.
Are you tired of those sissy-ass "friendship" poems that always sound good, but never actually come close to reality? Well, here is a series of promises that actually speak of true friendship:
1. When you are sad -- I will help you get drunk and plot revenge against the sorry bastard who made you sad.
2. When you are blue -- I will try to dislodge whatever is choking you.
3. When you smile -- I will know you finally got laid.
4. When you are scared -- I will rag on you about it every chance I get.
5. When you are worried -- I will tell you horrible stories about how much worse it could be until you quit whining.
6. When you are confused -- I will use little words.
7. When you are sick -- Stay the hell away from me until you are well again. I don't want whatever you have.
8. When you fall -- I will point and laugh at your clumsy ass.
9. This is my oath..... I pledge it to the end. "Why?" you may ask; "because you are my friend".
Remember.......A good friend will help you move.....a REALLY good friend will help you move a body.......( let me know if you ever need me to bring a shovel.) Friendship is like peeing your pants, everyone can see it, but only you can feel the true warmth.
¶ 11:01 AM0 comments
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