We may or may not be getting out of the hospital today. I am waiting on a report. In the meantime, my computer is not able to go online, and thus any writing is the result of impromptu material generated on the screen at the hospital. It is much harder to create material this way.
Given my logistical issues and the notion that brevity is the soul of wit, I introduce a new concept here: one sentence movie reviews.
In this age of high speed high octane fuel paced living, people don't have time to read an informed and well written report on all the films out there that might or might not be worth viewing. Thus, as a public service, I put forth these not quite haiku reviews. Please note, in some cases, I haven't seen the movie.
Wall-E: It takes a robot to save a village.
Finding Nemo: It's the Odyssey for fish.
Star Trek 5, Star Trek TNG: Either Rebellion or Nemesis: If you film it, they will come.
The Greatest Story Ever Told: Well yes, but not by you.
Troy: Orlando Bloom does for Greeks and the people of Illium what he did for elves and pirates.
Beowulf: Not enough mead or Angelina Jolie to satiate fans of either.
Quantum of Solace: Because when people think James Bond, the first thing that comes to mind is a measurement used in physics.
So fire up the microwave and try coming up with your own one sentence movie reviews. It's fun, free and decidedly more creative than what's coming out of Hollywood these days.
Here's hoping Paul and I are back home soon.
Showing posts with label James Bond. Show all posts
Showing posts with label James Bond. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Friday, May 23, 2008
Something So Very Y
It's that little something we girls don't have.
For such a small chromosome, it carries a lot of information. There's the usual stuff like testosterone and all the equipment that is required for maleness, and then there's the hardwiring that makes guys feel uncomfortable with pastel colors, arty films and light dinners that are salad and soup. These unspoken extras that come with the transfer of a Y chromosome from Man to conceived man, are part of a world that we as women, lacking that essential "Y"ness, can't quite grasp.
This otherness is best explained by example. The Y ensures that men eschew the mall, buy things in bulk like three 20 quart bottles of Ragu packaged together and can listen to sports other than baseball on the radio without the assistance of chemical stimulants.
Y also carries with it, the secrets of the humor of the three stooges, successful war strategies for games online, and how to watch movies about people on submarines with enthusiasm. People with Y chromosomes bought Iron Man comic books before the movie was even considered.
Lest anyone think I'm stereotyping, I have been told, by those in the Y club, that I'd make a pretty good candidate if I weren't a girl. I'm more comfortable at a football stadium than an art museum and have been apparently, though I'm not admitting anything, witnessed to accidentally nod off at a symphony but never a ball game.
Still, the Y chromosome carries with it unknown elements. Free radical personality traits that latch onto perfectly reasonable males and thus render individuals incomprehensible to those lacking this essential bit of DNA sequencing with Yness before maturation, perhaps the most confusing of all.
A young Y owning human can wear the same shirt to bed he wore for the day and then come down saying "I'm dressed." still wearing the same wardrobe. A young Y can come home with a bad grade and five minutes after snack ask, "Can I go see a movie tonight? It's the opening for the latest...insert summer blockbuster Y movie here of your choice" A young Y is puzzled that bacon is not served daily, or that women folk get irritated when the carton of orange juice is put back in the refrigerator with a measurable two teaspoons left. "I put the juice away Mom." they volunteer helpfully.
Still, we love these genetically different creatures of the same genotype. They remove mice and mow the lawns and even hall screaming toddlers off to bed. They offer to grill food and have been known to organize games of Capture the flag and sometimes the sub movies are watchable. I go upstairs to turn off the stereo of my oldest Y offspring. It is blaring James Bond instrumentals for the Trombone. Walking in, I see his sleeping form and smile. Turning off the stereo, I spot a large three gallon bottle of Deer Park in the middle of the floor.
I shouldn't be surprised. This has happened before. We have had discussions about leaving large vats of H20 in the middle of the room when he has his own private bathroom with a working sink just five feet away.
"Y son? Y?" is all I can think.
For such a small chromosome, it carries a lot of information. There's the usual stuff like testosterone and all the equipment that is required for maleness, and then there's the hardwiring that makes guys feel uncomfortable with pastel colors, arty films and light dinners that are salad and soup. These unspoken extras that come with the transfer of a Y chromosome from Man to conceived man, are part of a world that we as women, lacking that essential "Y"ness, can't quite grasp.
This otherness is best explained by example. The Y ensures that men eschew the mall, buy things in bulk like three 20 quart bottles of Ragu packaged together and can listen to sports other than baseball on the radio without the assistance of chemical stimulants.
Y also carries with it, the secrets of the humor of the three stooges, successful war strategies for games online, and how to watch movies about people on submarines with enthusiasm. People with Y chromosomes bought Iron Man comic books before the movie was even considered.
Lest anyone think I'm stereotyping, I have been told, by those in the Y club, that I'd make a pretty good candidate if I weren't a girl. I'm more comfortable at a football stadium than an art museum and have been apparently, though I'm not admitting anything, witnessed to accidentally nod off at a symphony but never a ball game.
Still, the Y chromosome carries with it unknown elements. Free radical personality traits that latch onto perfectly reasonable males and thus render individuals incomprehensible to those lacking this essential bit of DNA sequencing with Yness before maturation, perhaps the most confusing of all.
A young Y owning human can wear the same shirt to bed he wore for the day and then come down saying "I'm dressed." still wearing the same wardrobe. A young Y can come home with a bad grade and five minutes after snack ask, "Can I go see a movie tonight? It's the opening for the latest...insert summer blockbuster Y movie here of your choice" A young Y is puzzled that bacon is not served daily, or that women folk get irritated when the carton of orange juice is put back in the refrigerator with a measurable two teaspoons left. "I put the juice away Mom." they volunteer helpfully.
Still, we love these genetically different creatures of the same genotype. They remove mice and mow the lawns and even hall screaming toddlers off to bed. They offer to grill food and have been known to organize games of Capture the flag and sometimes the sub movies are watchable. I go upstairs to turn off the stereo of my oldest Y offspring. It is blaring James Bond instrumentals for the Trombone. Walking in, I see his sleeping form and smile. Turning off the stereo, I spot a large three gallon bottle of Deer Park in the middle of the floor.
I shouldn't be surprised. This has happened before. We have had discussions about leaving large vats of H20 in the middle of the room when he has his own private bathroom with a working sink just five feet away.
"Y son? Y?" is all I can think.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Airport Security Depends
It’s always a cheap shot to talk about the hassles of travel, but when the flight attendant announces that the bathroom on the plane is inoperative ten minutes before boarding, when life hands one something that choice, that absurd, that rich with possibilities...well, I just couldn't resist.
People raced to take care of things and fretted when the stewardess reminded us that drinks would soon be served. It didn’t help the collective mood of the passengers when the pilot asked us to reshuffle seats prior to take off to “balance the load.” Had the co-pilot taken the effect of full bladders into account when considering how the weight needed to be redistributed?
As the plane began its taxi down the runway, preparing to leave ground and reasonable walking distance from working facilities for the next two hours, I heard speculation about what other essential non-essential equipment on the airbus might not be fully operational. Those of us who had decided we had camel kidneys and would grit it out, began to experience flyer’s remorse.
As the news traveled through the back of the plane, the woman next to me who had missed the announcement at the gate asked “What are we supposed to do? Open a window?” I had seen Goldfinger and said, “I hope not.”
The first thirty minutes passed uneventfully, except I was keenly aware of the fact that there was at least 1000 miles to go and 30,000 feet between me and the nearest restroom. Turbulence became an issue, making those of us who chose fortitude over the expedient stress of trying to go through a line longer than the one for security in less than ten minutes, even more regretful. Our agony would be prolonged and exquisite, just as theirs had been intense and brief. As the star bellied sneeches on the plane, they could rightfully gloat at those of us who had none upon thars and we prayed for brisk tail winds and no funny jokes or sneezes that might make sitting in the middle row a bit awkward.
At this juncture, the stewardess, who had overheard the word “bathroom” from our conversations, discovered that we thought the bathroom was broken. “They announced it at our gate ten minutes before boarding.” We explained.
Going back to the front, the stewardess spoke to us all, “Our bathroom is working. They must have gotten the wrong flight number.”
I’ll say. Some other flight has some really good material for a humor column, particularly if it was the flight boarding from DC to Vegas.
Day One of the Erma Bombeck Conference...I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, try www.humor-blogs.com!
People raced to take care of things and fretted when the stewardess reminded us that drinks would soon be served. It didn’t help the collective mood of the passengers when the pilot asked us to reshuffle seats prior to take off to “balance the load.” Had the co-pilot taken the effect of full bladders into account when considering how the weight needed to be redistributed?
As the plane began its taxi down the runway, preparing to leave ground and reasonable walking distance from working facilities for the next two hours, I heard speculation about what other essential non-essential equipment on the airbus might not be fully operational. Those of us who had decided we had camel kidneys and would grit it out, began to experience flyer’s remorse.
As the news traveled through the back of the plane, the woman next to me who had missed the announcement at the gate asked “What are we supposed to do? Open a window?” I had seen Goldfinger and said, “I hope not.”
The first thirty minutes passed uneventfully, except I was keenly aware of the fact that there was at least 1000 miles to go and 30,000 feet between me and the nearest restroom. Turbulence became an issue, making those of us who chose fortitude over the expedient stress of trying to go through a line longer than the one for security in less than ten minutes, even more regretful. Our agony would be prolonged and exquisite, just as theirs had been intense and brief. As the star bellied sneeches on the plane, they could rightfully gloat at those of us who had none upon thars and we prayed for brisk tail winds and no funny jokes or sneezes that might make sitting in the middle row a bit awkward.
At this juncture, the stewardess, who had overheard the word “bathroom” from our conversations, discovered that we thought the bathroom was broken. “They announced it at our gate ten minutes before boarding.” We explained.
Going back to the front, the stewardess spoke to us all, “Our bathroom is working. They must have gotten the wrong flight number.”
I’ll say. Some other flight has some really good material for a humor column, particularly if it was the flight boarding from DC to Vegas.
Day One of the Erma Bombeck Conference...I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, try www.humor-blogs.com!
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Some Superbowl Commercials I'd Like to See
Just in time for Sunday's Game, my contribution to the advertising world. You can pay me 1 MILLION dollars if you like.
For the new Mini-Van: to make it from a Mom Mobile to a Man Mobile. So what is more manly than James Bond I think? Seven James Bonds!
Picture this: A beautiful woman comes out of the local gourmet grocery store, (note to self, product placement for Whole Foods in the ad), she is immediately abducted by the bad guys on Harleys (Three motor cycles buzz by, one grabs the babe and the others scatter the people as they drive off laughing evilly).
Daniel Craig (the most recent Bond, wants to rescue her, so he hops into his latest acquisition from Q, the M-van). Pierce Brosman is sitting in the passenger side, he is smoothing his hair, waiting for Craig. Daulton leans towards the front to say, “Buckle up.” Craig rolls his eyes and Pierce sighs a bit as Lazenby give his fierce soliloquy look to the camera, “They won’t get far, this is a V-8 engine with a lot of kick.”
They peel off after the motor cycles which are weaving through traffic, the woman screaming. They pull up along side. Connery opens the driver side sliding door, “Nice feature, that.” He says as he grabs the girl and sends her into the back.
Craig hands the wheel over to Pierce and scrambles to the back. He reaches over to grab the guy off the motor cycle, punches him in the car and says, “So is this!” as he opens the other side and tosses the bad guy out. The other two bad guys are taken out by the crashing motor cycle that careens into one, causing the other to flip off of his.
The two older bonds shut the doors and Craig grabs a napkin from Dapper Pierce to wipe his bloody hand. "Don't want to stain the leather seats." He says. Lazenby posits, "This new Q Van has everything." Roger Moore in the back says, “I like the stow and go and removable seats.” As he gives an arched eyebrow to the babe. She sighs in his arms.
"Oh James...."
The rest of the Bonds bust out laughing. Fade out.
Bottled water has taken it on the chin lately, what with scandals about some of it being tap water, so it’s time for some damage control. Here’s my offering for Dasani –Coke-cola’s bottled water of note.
Brandi, you know the babe who took off her shirt in celebration, teaching the world about sports bras? She’s hot, she’sweaty, she’s walking dejectedly down a dark hallway from the stadium. A young 7 year old girl with pony tails, wearing a USA soccer shirt comes towards her, holding a Dasani Water.
"Brandi?... Brandi?" She tries to screw up the nerve for an autograph, but instead silently and sincerely holds out her water bottle of Dasani as a gift. Brandi takes the water, obviously fatigued. She chugs it down in one long gulp. She then starts to stagger away, and then turns, “Hey kid.” She says, as she takes off her jersey, “Catch.”
Pony-tailed Girl: "Wow! Thanks Brandi!"
Fade out.
And then there are the 20 second spots, where Exxon Mobil is trying to make itself into a “Green Company.” Or at least put forth the image.
On Environment: Mobil/Exxon: We haven’t had an oil spill that destroyed pristine Alaskan coastlines in over 20 years.
On Maintaining Facilities: Mobil/Exxon: We’re better than BP…but not for lack of trying!
On Golden Parachutes for CEO’s : Mobil/Exxon: the middle class’ conglomerrate,only 60 billion in profits last year.
On Price Gauging: Mobil/Exxon: We have suffered recently too, remember gasoline at less than 1.25 a gallon? It wasn’t that long ago.
On respecting people: Mobil/Exxon: We don’t export our extortion to other countries like those other big businesses. All of our exploitation of the worker is done right here in the USA.
Our Moral Center: Mobil/Exxon: We’re less evil than R.J. Reynolds.
And now back to the Super Bowl….GO GIANTS!
for more humor that doesn't cost 1 million dollars per minute, try http://www.humor-blogs.com/!
For the new Mini-Van: to make it from a Mom Mobile to a Man Mobile. So what is more manly than James Bond I think? Seven James Bonds!
Picture this: A beautiful woman comes out of the local gourmet grocery store, (note to self, product placement for Whole Foods in the ad), she is immediately abducted by the bad guys on Harleys (Three motor cycles buzz by, one grabs the babe and the others scatter the people as they drive off laughing evilly).
Daniel Craig (the most recent Bond, wants to rescue her, so he hops into his latest acquisition from Q, the M-van). Pierce Brosman is sitting in the passenger side, he is smoothing his hair, waiting for Craig. Daulton leans towards the front to say, “Buckle up.” Craig rolls his eyes and Pierce sighs a bit as Lazenby give his fierce soliloquy look to the camera, “They won’t get far, this is a V-8 engine with a lot of kick.”
They peel off after the motor cycles which are weaving through traffic, the woman screaming. They pull up along side. Connery opens the driver side sliding door, “Nice feature, that.” He says as he grabs the girl and sends her into the back.
Craig hands the wheel over to Pierce and scrambles to the back. He reaches over to grab the guy off the motor cycle, punches him in the car and says, “So is this!” as he opens the other side and tosses the bad guy out. The other two bad guys are taken out by the crashing motor cycle that careens into one, causing the other to flip off of his.
The two older bonds shut the doors and Craig grabs a napkin from Dapper Pierce to wipe his bloody hand. "Don't want to stain the leather seats." He says. Lazenby posits, "This new Q Van has everything." Roger Moore in the back says, “I like the stow and go and removable seats.” As he gives an arched eyebrow to the babe. She sighs in his arms.
"Oh James...."
The rest of the Bonds bust out laughing. Fade out.
Bottled water has taken it on the chin lately, what with scandals about some of it being tap water, so it’s time for some damage control. Here’s my offering for Dasani –Coke-cola’s bottled water of note.
Brandi, you know the babe who took off her shirt in celebration, teaching the world about sports bras? She’s hot, she’sweaty, she’s walking dejectedly down a dark hallway from the stadium. A young 7 year old girl with pony tails, wearing a USA soccer shirt comes towards her, holding a Dasani Water.
"Brandi?... Brandi?" She tries to screw up the nerve for an autograph, but instead silently and sincerely holds out her water bottle of Dasani as a gift. Brandi takes the water, obviously fatigued. She chugs it down in one long gulp. She then starts to stagger away, and then turns, “Hey kid.” She says, as she takes off her jersey, “Catch.”
Pony-tailed Girl: "Wow! Thanks Brandi!"
Fade out.
And then there are the 20 second spots, where Exxon Mobil is trying to make itself into a “Green Company.” Or at least put forth the image.
On Environment: Mobil/Exxon: We haven’t had an oil spill that destroyed pristine Alaskan coastlines in over 20 years.
On Maintaining Facilities: Mobil/Exxon: We’re better than BP…but not for lack of trying!
On Golden Parachutes for CEO’s : Mobil/Exxon: the middle class’ conglomerrate,only 60 billion in profits last year.
On Price Gauging: Mobil/Exxon: We have suffered recently too, remember gasoline at less than 1.25 a gallon? It wasn’t that long ago.
On respecting people: Mobil/Exxon: We don’t export our extortion to other countries like those other big businesses. All of our exploitation of the worker is done right here in the USA.
Our Moral Center: Mobil/Exxon: We’re less evil than R.J. Reynolds.
And now back to the Super Bowl….GO GIANTS!
for more humor that doesn't cost 1 million dollars per minute, try http://www.humor-blogs.com/!
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