"I don't know what this vehicle is!"
"What?"
"I don't know your license plate number!"
"Well, neither do I, you didn't give me one."
"I don't know your license number."
"You mean my old one?"
Blank stare.
"It's _ _ _ - _ _ _"
"That's not your VIN number!"
"No, that's my old license number"
"You didn't give me your VIN nimber."
"That's like 46 freakin digits."
"This is your license."
"My old one."
"Okay."
"But, that's an Oregon plate."
"Well, this is California."
"Yes, I'm aware of that."
"What is your license number?"
"Oh, for christ's sake!"
"I can't help you."
It's 7:30 in the morning and I am sitting on a cold concrete step waiting in line so I can wait in another line to get a number to wait in one of 4 separate queues next to people who don't shower so I can get yelled at while I am missing hours of work which subsequently leads to a smaller paycheck. Yes, for those of you who have been to the California DMV, you should be having some damn uncomfortable flashbacks right about now. I have been to the DMV 6 times in the past year to get my license and registration. A process so involved, painful and mystifying, it makes exorcisms look like...well, something simple and clean like a game of candyland or chutes and ladders. but as is, it's more like getting a labotomy with a rusty nail from someone taking instructions from a quadripalegic speaking in Aramaic. With slightly more paperwork.
I can understand why we have so many illegal citizens in this country. They don't want to deal with the DMV. Hell, if my job didn't require it, I might just let my license expire and my tags rot so I wouldn't have to step a toe on that cheap stained carpet ever again. Plus, there's always the added humiliation of getting your picture taken after you've been verbally beaten and mentally crushed. That kind of mind frame always lends the visage of a drowned rat.
And there are ways the DMV could actually be efficient. They've all got computers. They're always clicking away on them and probably playing everquest with the troll running the license picture station while you sit there fiddling with your papers that never have the right documentation. But they never use these computers to look up information on you. I had to yell at the idiot working on my stuff for 5 minutes before he would even look at my name. But he keeps saying that he won't do it because sometimes the names are typed in wrong and this isn't the best way to do it and why don't I have my license plates. And finally the assmonkey types my name in and Voila! there is all the information he needs. And he hands over my plates and smiles at me. the bastard.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Oh man, this is not my week.
Once again, I have succeeded in failing miserably. First, there was Hitch on Tuesday. A fantastic failure. Then this monstrosity fills up my Tuesday evening when I could have been drawing or painting or dissecting my own eyeball and had more fun. Lets forget the food was drenched in oil and the vegetable plate inexplicably had bacon in it. And let's forget that it was 2 hours too long, no, let's make that 3. Let's just remember that it sucked. Immensely. Huge amounts of sucking.
Write that down.
But it is solely my fault. There were a bunch of people in the audience that enjoyed themselves. Most of them were hopped up on martinis and probably had lost most of their brain cells to overdoses of peroxide. And some idiot girl decided to bring a damn infant who cooed and half-talked through the entire goddamn thing. There are several places children should not be, and in my vicinity is one of them.
Back to the fact that it was my fault. Let me get this one thing straight...I HATE AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION. I HATE when people ask a question and expect everyone to answer. It's self-important enough to think that so many people want to hear what you have to say, but it's goddamn egomanical to think that all those people would actually like to talk to you. I HATE clapping and hooting and yelling "bravo/a" if nothing special has been done. I HATE encores and clapping until your hands are numb for some band to come back out that has already been playing for you. Why don't they just stand there and say "look, we've been up here for an hour, we're going to take a ten minute break so we can give you a couple last songs that will make a good last impression." See, nice, civilized, and no need to take part in any sort of group chant.
I think the best showcase for the immorality of the audience participation is presented in Donnie Darko when Patrick Swayze (in his best role ever!) represents the moral majority as a depressive pedophiliac running a kiddie porn ring. Donnie sums up my views exactly when he says "I think you are the fucking antichrist" and Swayze just shakes his poofy little head and we want to see Donnie kick his ass.
I also HATE puns. Should puns really be an acceptable form of humor? I vote to outlaw them. Or to put them on restrictive use. Perhaps you should only be able to use them in small doses, like alcohol. And no punning while driving. The entire show was littered with puns...bad ones. Like (a girl was named Helen) "she doesn't know what the helen her name was". Is your stomach turning? Do you feel nauseous? That was the bad effect of the pun. Or was it the dinner which still has me feeling sick.
Alas, I have spewed my vitriol over this page. Think I'll go read a little Anne Carson to battle the effects of dinner theater on my embittered mind. G'nite all, and have the courage to make better choices than I do.
Remember: Good decisions come from experience, experience comes from bad decisions. So this better damn well pay off good.
Write that down.
But it is solely my fault. There were a bunch of people in the audience that enjoyed themselves. Most of them were hopped up on martinis and probably had lost most of their brain cells to overdoses of peroxide. And some idiot girl decided to bring a damn infant who cooed and half-talked through the entire goddamn thing. There are several places children should not be, and in my vicinity is one of them.
Back to the fact that it was my fault. Let me get this one thing straight...I HATE AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION. I HATE when people ask a question and expect everyone to answer. It's self-important enough to think that so many people want to hear what you have to say, but it's goddamn egomanical to think that all those people would actually like to talk to you. I HATE clapping and hooting and yelling "bravo/a" if nothing special has been done. I HATE encores and clapping until your hands are numb for some band to come back out that has already been playing for you. Why don't they just stand there and say "look, we've been up here for an hour, we're going to take a ten minute break so we can give you a couple last songs that will make a good last impression." See, nice, civilized, and no need to take part in any sort of group chant.
I think the best showcase for the immorality of the audience participation is presented in Donnie Darko when Patrick Swayze (in his best role ever!) represents the moral majority as a depressive pedophiliac running a kiddie porn ring. Donnie sums up my views exactly when he says "I think you are the fucking antichrist" and Swayze just shakes his poofy little head and we want to see Donnie kick his ass.
I also HATE puns. Should puns really be an acceptable form of humor? I vote to outlaw them. Or to put them on restrictive use. Perhaps you should only be able to use them in small doses, like alcohol. And no punning while driving. The entire show was littered with puns...bad ones. Like (a girl was named Helen) "she doesn't know what the helen her name was". Is your stomach turning? Do you feel nauseous? That was the bad effect of the pun. Or was it the dinner which still has me feeling sick.
Alas, I have spewed my vitriol over this page. Think I'll go read a little Anne Carson to battle the effects of dinner theater on my embittered mind. G'nite all, and have the courage to make better choices than I do.
Remember: Good decisions come from experience, experience comes from bad decisions. So this better damn well pay off good.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Hitch: The Movie That Restored My Belief in the Devil
Let’s forget the fact the I actually went to this movie of my own volition and paid for the ticket. Please, I don’t think that I can ever forgive myself and I would rather keep it as a skeleton in my closet than have it out there in the open, peering at people over my shoulder, advertising my idiocy. The only reason I utter this dirty fact into cyberspace is that I hope to save some poor unwitting soul from wasting 2 hours in the hell that I recently escaped. Like an ex-addict AA counselor, I seek to save people from their bad decisions, hopefully before some permanent damage has been done.
Now, It is usually easy to tell the caliber of film you are watching from the previews. This was my favorite part of the movie when I was a kid. It was like having full movies told to you in 30 seconds and that was about as long as my attention span, so I reveled in it. I’d squeeze my candy tight in anticipation and gawk silly-eyed at the screen, my mouth agape in awe. And by the end of the previews, my popcorn would be finished, the sour patch kids on their last legs and half the gallon of soda happily bubbling in my gullet. I was one happy girl.
Then, somewhere along the line, they started sucking. It wasn’t immediate, more like a gradual downfall. Perhaps it was simply my adult self asserting itself and demanding more depth and extended plot to get my blood pumping and cause me to scramble sideways to whisper in my friend’s ear “I’m dying to see that!” But I don’t think it’s adulthood, because every once in a while, I see a preview that inspires me into that same manic frenzy.
This movie was preceded by self-important trash lacking plot lines and acting ability. They were exactly what the film was, cloying and boring.
And back to hell, I mean Hitch. In the grand tradition of movies marketed solely on the strength of the male lead’s popularity status, they completely ignored the women’s acting abilities while casting them to sit in the men’s shadows. Eva Mendes can not act. If they had performed a simple screen test on her they would have discovered that the five minute scene she led in the beginning of the movie would have bombed as fantastically as it did. Or perhaps they did a screen test, but were so distracted by her breasts that they didn’t notice how wooden and rehearsed her lines were. Sure, she’s got that thing that some people have where they are comfortable in front of the camera and essentially play themselves with different dialogue. This is mistaken as acting all the time. How else can you explain why Jennifer Lopez or Drew Barrymore are so highly paid? And Drew is lovely sometimes, but if you’ll watch her performance in Donnie Darko, you’ll see exactly what I mean. I won’t even defend Lopez.
The other chick who’s paired with the overweight accountant. She’s barely even worth mentioning except for the fact that she slightly resembles Cate Blanchett. And the accountant, Kevin James, he’s adorable and does well with what he’s got, which ain’t much. I mean, really, couldn’t they take a sliver out of Will Smith’s millions and hire a decent writer to revamp this script? It’s an interesting idea, but the dialogue is terrible. And when you take the dialogue from a script you ain’t left with nothing much.
Which brings me to Will Smith who has essentially come full circle on his acting career and is now starring as an older Fresh Prince. Only, the FP had better screenwriters. There are some chuckle moments here and there. But mostly I found myself gagging and checking for the nearest exit. Half the lines Smith said in earnest had me hiding my groans in the lapel of my jacket. Which has very nice faux fur by the way.
And as for the cinematography, it was about as exciting as a car commercial, you know, one of the local ones with the zoo animals. There were way too many close ups and practically all the shots are singles with one big mug staring back at you. The music was damn lame and oddly enough featured saxophones at the forefront of the entire movie. I hate saxophones, they remind me of the late 80s and Richard Marx and oddly enough my mother, whom I do not hate, but would rather not conjure in a romantic comedy setting.
To be fair, the movie did hit on some accurate points and had some small truths sprinkled here and there, but they were far to few to save this train wreck. Actually, it wasn’t as interesting as an accident, it was more like a flat tire heaped on the unsuspecting public in a desperate bid for some valentine’s revenue.
And walking out of the movie, I felt dirty. Now I’m just going to go stuff this skeleton back in my closet...
Now, It is usually easy to tell the caliber of film you are watching from the previews. This was my favorite part of the movie when I was a kid. It was like having full movies told to you in 30 seconds and that was about as long as my attention span, so I reveled in it. I’d squeeze my candy tight in anticipation and gawk silly-eyed at the screen, my mouth agape in awe. And by the end of the previews, my popcorn would be finished, the sour patch kids on their last legs and half the gallon of soda happily bubbling in my gullet. I was one happy girl.
Then, somewhere along the line, they started sucking. It wasn’t immediate, more like a gradual downfall. Perhaps it was simply my adult self asserting itself and demanding more depth and extended plot to get my blood pumping and cause me to scramble sideways to whisper in my friend’s ear “I’m dying to see that!” But I don’t think it’s adulthood, because every once in a while, I see a preview that inspires me into that same manic frenzy.
This movie was preceded by self-important trash lacking plot lines and acting ability. They were exactly what the film was, cloying and boring.
And back to hell, I mean Hitch. In the grand tradition of movies marketed solely on the strength of the male lead’s popularity status, they completely ignored the women’s acting abilities while casting them to sit in the men’s shadows. Eva Mendes can not act. If they had performed a simple screen test on her they would have discovered that the five minute scene she led in the beginning of the movie would have bombed as fantastically as it did. Or perhaps they did a screen test, but were so distracted by her breasts that they didn’t notice how wooden and rehearsed her lines were. Sure, she’s got that thing that some people have where they are comfortable in front of the camera and essentially play themselves with different dialogue. This is mistaken as acting all the time. How else can you explain why Jennifer Lopez or Drew Barrymore are so highly paid? And Drew is lovely sometimes, but if you’ll watch her performance in Donnie Darko, you’ll see exactly what I mean. I won’t even defend Lopez.
The other chick who’s paired with the overweight accountant. She’s barely even worth mentioning except for the fact that she slightly resembles Cate Blanchett. And the accountant, Kevin James, he’s adorable and does well with what he’s got, which ain’t much. I mean, really, couldn’t they take a sliver out of Will Smith’s millions and hire a decent writer to revamp this script? It’s an interesting idea, but the dialogue is terrible. And when you take the dialogue from a script you ain’t left with nothing much.
Which brings me to Will Smith who has essentially come full circle on his acting career and is now starring as an older Fresh Prince. Only, the FP had better screenwriters. There are some chuckle moments here and there. But mostly I found myself gagging and checking for the nearest exit. Half the lines Smith said in earnest had me hiding my groans in the lapel of my jacket. Which has very nice faux fur by the way.
And as for the cinematography, it was about as exciting as a car commercial, you know, one of the local ones with the zoo animals. There were way too many close ups and practically all the shots are singles with one big mug staring back at you. The music was damn lame and oddly enough featured saxophones at the forefront of the entire movie. I hate saxophones, they remind me of the late 80s and Richard Marx and oddly enough my mother, whom I do not hate, but would rather not conjure in a romantic comedy setting.
To be fair, the movie did hit on some accurate points and had some small truths sprinkled here and there, but they were far to few to save this train wreck. Actually, it wasn’t as interesting as an accident, it was more like a flat tire heaped on the unsuspecting public in a desperate bid for some valentine’s revenue.
And walking out of the movie, I felt dirty. Now I’m just going to go stuff this skeleton back in my closet...
Monday, February 21, 2005
Stormy Weather...just can't get myself together
God, will the rain ever stop. This is like being back in Eugene again. Without the whole ecosystem being ready for the rain. All across southern california, mudslides, tornadoes, flooding, rockslodes, sinkholes eating city workers. Nowhere in there does it say sunshine, warmth or you don't have to wear clothes today because it is damn hot. This is not why I moved down here. I didn't move here to be cold. I didn't want to wake up to find my lanai flooded and have to worry about whether my furniture will suffer from flood damage. And I certainly didn't sign up for no damn tornadoes. Those belong in the middle states where I plan never to visit.
But on the bright side, I don't have to wash my car. Or even pretend to do anything productive. Because I have the day off. With holiday pay. I love labor laws.
But on the bright side, I don't have to wash my car. Or even pretend to do anything productive. Because I have the day off. With holiday pay. I love labor laws.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Blind in Diego
Well, it turns out that Keri is blind. Well, not completely blind, but certainly not a distance vision champ. And I definitely shouldn't have passed my driver's test vision section. But I could have told you that from the panic attack I had during the test. It turns out though, that each line has the same letters on it and if you can make out one letter from each line and arrange them in the right order, then, voila! you pass. I don't think it bodes well for the pedestrians though.
So I go to the optometrist last wednesday for my first check up in a couple of years and I realise I have been cheating my way through eyes tests. Yes, I squint. I didn't know you weren't supposed to. But apparently people with astigmatism (I guess this is what I have) have football shaped eyes, and if you squish them into the right shape, then you can pass your eyes exams. So I'm thinking the doctor is this nice asian lady, but it's just a facade because 5 minutes alone with her and she's strongarmed me into taking an extra test.
So she puts burning drops in my eyes to dilate my pupils. And instead of leaving me in the nice dark room, she shoves me into their brightly lit glasses showcase room and tells me to find a pair of frames I like. So I'm wandering around like a retard and five minutes later, I've got a splitting headache. Ten minutes later, and I can't see a damn thing closer than fifty feet. So they attack me with paperwork and make me sign things I can't read and hand over my credit card for some pretty nefarious billing. Oh, did I mention that the floor was warped too. So Dr. Bitchy takes me back into the room puts some worse burny crap in my eyes and sends me on my way.
So I head off into the mall which is sinister enough under normal circumstances, but when your blind with a throbbing head, they are quite nightmarish. I ended up staring at a pair of tangerine tights in Nordstroms for about five minutes when some sales lady chases me out of her section by offering to help. So I figure it's about time to head off. Of course, I've convinced myself I can see just fine. So I head out, in the rain, to my car.
It isn't until I'm a few blocks down the road that I realise that all the headlights look like they're run through a star filter. And not only do they all have 8 points of light shooting out, they have relly bad glare. Oh, and I can't see much else. Lucky for me, I only have to take 2 freeways to get home. And I'm halfway there when I accidentally catch a glimpse of my eyes and the frickin iris is almost gone, my pupils are that large. So the whole time I'm driving, I've got pictures in my head of being pulled over for driving like an idiot and getting arrested because they think I'm on e or something.
so, in conclusion, it sucked my ass.the end.
So I go to the optometrist last wednesday for my first check up in a couple of years and I realise I have been cheating my way through eyes tests. Yes, I squint. I didn't know you weren't supposed to. But apparently people with astigmatism (I guess this is what I have) have football shaped eyes, and if you squish them into the right shape, then you can pass your eyes exams. So I'm thinking the doctor is this nice asian lady, but it's just a facade because 5 minutes alone with her and she's strongarmed me into taking an extra test.
So she puts burning drops in my eyes to dilate my pupils. And instead of leaving me in the nice dark room, she shoves me into their brightly lit glasses showcase room and tells me to find a pair of frames I like. So I'm wandering around like a retard and five minutes later, I've got a splitting headache. Ten minutes later, and I can't see a damn thing closer than fifty feet. So they attack me with paperwork and make me sign things I can't read and hand over my credit card for some pretty nefarious billing. Oh, did I mention that the floor was warped too. So Dr. Bitchy takes me back into the room puts some worse burny crap in my eyes and sends me on my way.
So I head off into the mall which is sinister enough under normal circumstances, but when your blind with a throbbing head, they are quite nightmarish. I ended up staring at a pair of tangerine tights in Nordstroms for about five minutes when some sales lady chases me out of her section by offering to help. So I figure it's about time to head off. Of course, I've convinced myself I can see just fine. So I head out, in the rain, to my car.
It isn't until I'm a few blocks down the road that I realise that all the headlights look like they're run through a star filter. And not only do they all have 8 points of light shooting out, they have relly bad glare. Oh, and I can't see much else. Lucky for me, I only have to take 2 freeways to get home. And I'm halfway there when I accidentally catch a glimpse of my eyes and the frickin iris is almost gone, my pupils are that large. So the whole time I'm driving, I've got pictures in my head of being pulled over for driving like an idiot and getting arrested because they think I'm on e or something.
so, in conclusion, it sucked my ass.the end.
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