Ninja-son

I just finished watching the Friday the 13th remake. This movie was amazing. My wife asked me what I was watching and my response was "The new Friday the 13th. It's awful." But even with that realization, I kept watching... and watching.

So Jason is back and still terrorizing kids who want nothing more than to smoke weed, play beer pong, get drunk, have sex (more on that in a minute), and take douche to a new level. The plot revolves around Clay who is searching for his sister who disappeared while camping near Crystal Lake. Unbeknownst to him, his sister (Whitney) is being held hostage by Jason because she kind of looks like Jason's beloved mother. In his travels Clay is introduced to a troupe of rich douchebags heading out to daddy's lake house. You can pretty much guess the rest of the story. Almost everyone dies and almost all the girls have a boob shot. Regardless of the carnage and nudity, I have three grievances with this cinematic epic.

1. The locals. During his door-to-door campaign of finding his sister, Clay meets an old lady who tells him his sister is dead. She says when people go missing around Crystal Lake, they are never found again. She goes on to say that "He just wants to be left alone, like the rest of us." The next local is a tow truck driver who tries to help one of the douchebags get away, but when he sees Jason he drives off. To the locals, Jason is like a pesky neighborhood dog. Just don't bother him, let him kill hormone-addled teens, and all will be good.

2. The boobs. Aside from seeing a set of implants within the first five minutes, then watching a girl wakeboard topless, there is only one other scene where the bra comes off and that scene tries to ruin boobs for everyone. As assumed, a hot girl is drunk and drags king douchbag into a bedroom where they immediately begin a chivalrous round of foreplay. Once that five seconds is out of the way, Bree (SFW photo here, NSFW phot here) drops the bra and is greeted with the best line in cinematic history. King douche, Trent, tells her "Oh wow! Your tits are stupendous!" But wait, it gets better. He goes on to say "You have perfect nipple placement." What is the criteria for nipple placement? I'd like to know if I have perfect nipple placement as well, but I'm not sure where I can go to get this documented. To top off the entire almost-porn scene, Trent calls Bree "dude" before they both finish up. Who are these script writers? I'm looking for a job and I think I can put one word after another. I think I may even be able to do it better, dude.

3. The ninja. Jason has become an expert in everything. He can move quickly and silently through dense forest. He can climb up to the roof with no problem. He can get from the tool shed to the house in under two seconds without a sound. He can appear in an empty room (always behind you) without you knowing. He can hit you with an ax from 50 feet away while you are running. He can shoot an arrow through your eye from 200 yards away while you are driving a speed boat in the middle of the lake. So this begs the question, what martial arts program is he enrolled in? He is the best ninja I've ever seen. He's missing the katana sword and nunchucks, but other than that he is ready to battle Jackie Chan in Rush Hour 11.

The rest of the movie is filled with dips in the retard pool as well, but those were the big three that I can't shake.

Here's a quick breakdown of everything else wrong with this movie, but not wrong enough to warrant its own section:

1. When did Jason become a miner? He has some serious tunneling skills with the network he's built under Camp Crystal Lake.

2. With Whitney as his prisoner, what did he feed her? Where is his bathroom?

3. After calling the police at the lakehouse and reporting MULTIPLE MURDERS with a pyscho on the loose, the police send one guy to take care of it. Really Crystal Lake Police Dept?! One guy?!

4. After rescuing Whitney, Clay is trying to help her escape through Jason's underground labyrinth. They pop out of one tunnel into an overturned bus. Clay gets out only to be greeted by silent ninja Jason who promptly slams Clay's face through two bus windows leaving him unconscious. But within a couple minutes he's back up and running with ONE scratch on his face. Clay must be a ninja too!

All in all, if you're looking for a softcore porn that has intermittent killings in it, this will be right up your tunnel.

Kick Push Kick Push

I was all about skating during high school and college. My friends and I read CCS like a bible, had an ongoing feud with the small town police force, and found out that the local campus cop was actually pretty awesome. We would hit the stairs at the college, the curb at the post office, the gaps at the bank, the ledge at the grocery store, the ramp's at Jeff's house... The entire town would turn into our skatepark until the police showed up and told us to move on.

While I definitely have scars to prove I lived the kick-push lifestyle (I even have my 10-year-old board in the garage), I haven't skated in seven years. With all this recent free time I've thought about how great summers were as a high schooler living in a small town where everything was accessible via my deck, four wheels, and constant "ca-kunk, ca-kunk, ca-kunk, ca-kunk" soundtrack. So how does a 29-year-old (with no health insurance and terrible balance) go about getting back into skating? Should I just go down to a skatepark and begin eating shit in front of all the 12-year-olds? Should I practice my ollies in the garage for awhile? I am 100% without a skater group, but maybe if I just start kicking around my suburb I'll meet up with some other unemployed, uninsured, nostalgic skaters.

A big reason for this flood of nostalgia is Lupe Fiasco. I mean, aside from my lack of hip-hop skills, I'm pretty much just like him. We both wear glasses. We both like skateboards. We both fell and hit our face. We both got harassed by the cops. We both had girlfriends who skated (or attempted to). With all these similarities I think getting back on the board should be no problem. And once I'm back on the board I think starting a hip-hop career should be no problem.

So should I start skating again? Anyone out there want to start a posse with me?

1 in a 1,000

I'm positive that 100% of everyone I know looks at me as the coolest, most awesomely un-anxious person to ever walk the planet. But under this Hulk-like exterior sits a retarded pool of anxieties. I worry about more unimportant stuff than a six-year-old trapped in a well with no voice and only half a juice box left as rations.

One of my latest anxiety-fueled sleepless nights was triggered by this stupid movie:



While the movie itself didn't scare me when I first saw it, the idea of this happening has wreaked havoc on two outdoorsy trips since. While I was vacationing on the Oregon coast in a rented cabin I was triple checking doors, strategically hiding an ax behind the refrigerator (because, come on, what crazy-eyed hood-wearing psycho is going to check behind the fridge for an ax?), and forcing myself to stay awake in order to protect the people I was traveling with. I like the idea of my anxiety-ridden ass chock full of zero defensive training going up against a trio of crazies.

At the end of the week we all survivied, no one broke in.

My second bout of retardation happened in Colorado while staying in another cabin near the Crystal River. The place was very rustic and pretty awesome all around, except for the fact that I was sleeping on a futon directly next to a door that barely locked. Before I left on this trip I was asked what the chances of being murdered were at the cabin. I took a moment and thought about it. I was trying to come up with a number that wouldn't make me sound paranoid. So I said, "1 in 1,000."

This was not the answer my friend was looking for. So he said, "Out of every 1,000 people who stay at that cabin, at least one of them is murdered? Really?" Ok, so hearing it back made it seem bad so I upped it to 1 in 100,000. This was still not good enough though. He wasn't taking anything less than 1 in 1,000,000. While hearing that statistic (that we made up on the spot while drinking beer) made me feel better at the time, it did little for me while rolling around on a futon in the middle of the mountains.

So what's the point of all this? I think if I dip into this retarded pool every week and let everyone else know about it maybe I'll stop swimming in it all together.

On the other side of this coin, what if I start worrying about what everyone is going to think of me telling them about what I think? I need to go blog about this blog on another blog before the anxiety gets out of control.

Rose Boy Don't Care Bout You!!

Rose Boy! ROSE BOY!!! Look at me! I've cultivated this rosa berberifolia for you! It's beauty does not match yours, but I hope you will find it sufficient! I need you to come back and see my Transformers collection! It is more than meets the eye! I promise! I PROMISE! ROSE BOOOOOYYYYYYYY!!!! WHY WON'T YOU LOOK AT ME!!????

p.s. Sweet Keyboard Cat Tattoo.