Alex's Journal
[Most Recent Entries]
[Calendar View]
[Friends]
Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
Alex's LiveJournal:
[ << Previous 20 ]
| Friday, November 12th, 2010 | | 12:30 am |
You and whose army?
“The proper place for a gun is in the hands of a child,” huffs Kony as he leans forward, his snug uniform pulling up at the sleeves. He rubs his smooth hands together vigorously, rests his bare wrists against the front of the chair, and continues. “The key, you see, is to take them while they’re young, before they’ve formed an attachment to their parents. Then, they’re yours. They never doubt you, never run from you, and they never disobey you.” “Never?” Joseph Kony is a bold man, but this is a bold claim to make. I look at him skeptically. Kony slides backward in his chair, pausing a moment before parting his lips. It’s been a long time since anyone dared to challenge him, but I’m a special case. My outsider status, my handwritten press badge, and (maybe most of all) my pale skin make me immune to retribution. His angry eyes focus, then a forced smile crosses his lips. “You may test this theory when you inspect my army later,” he replies, baring his white teeth. “And let me tell you one more thing. A child soldier does not fear death,” he yelps jovially. It’s clear Kony loves making shocking statements, especially to puzzled Europeans who happen to have traveled to his corner of the world. “Is that so?” I try to remain unimpressed. “They don’t understand death like we do. I am their father and I explain how the world works. In my world, everybody kills and nobody dies.” “And they believe you?” “When you want a new home,” says Kony, sliding forward in his chair again, “you can buy one from someone else, or you can build one from the foundation up. That’s how I build mine, brick by brick from the earth, all from my hand. God made Adam and Eve out of dust, you know.” “And they still defied him,” I say, proud of myself. Kony laughs, but not as heartily as the last time. I sense that my presence is really bothering him. This is his world, a realm where a lithe intellectual wisecrack has no place except between his lips. He leans the backwards-facing chair just enough to grab a plastic container of toothpicks. He pulls one out and jams it between his teeth before offering me one. I politely decline. “Uganda is not the Garden of Eden,” he says finally. “Do you remember the games you played as a child?” He shifts his weight in the chair. “Perhaps you fought the Russians on the playground.” I nod. “It’s no different here. They carry light arms and live ammunition, but the game is the same. And let me tell you, killing is just as much fun for them as it was for you when you shot those Russians on the playground.” “I would always turn them over to the UN,” I say. It’s witty but wimpy. It won’t challenge Kony’s machismo. His chuckle is genuine this time. “Don’t worry, my friend,” he bellows, slapping his knee. “You won’t have to worry about the UN here.” Now at ease, Kony is ready for some sharper questioning. “Why children?” I ask. “I know they’re malleable, but can they really kill?” “To be honest, they shoot like shit,” he says, still smiling. A teenaged member of his entourage hands him a cup of water and makes sure to laugh. Kony does not drink the water. “But even so,” he continues, “you should see how the enemy shoots when they see they are fighting against kids. They don’t know what to do!” Kony sees the look of horror on my face and puffs himself up. To him, the situation is not a moral dilemma, and that, unfortunately, makes him the stronger man. “And you have to pay an army of men,” he remarks coldly. “An army of boys is much more reasonable.” “How do you pay them?” I ask, already knowing the answer. “With what they can take,” he replied matter-of-factly. “I reward them if they take more children.” “What do you reward them with?” “The blessing of the Good Lord. My children are very religious.” He places his hands together in mock prayer and glances skyward. His conviction is self-serving, but part of me thinks it’s genuine, or at least hopes that it is. A religious fanatic is a misguided monster, the sort of villain that one might be able to relate to and still condemn. Unfortunately, I’ve spent twenty minutes with Joseph Kony and I’m still no closer to understanding him. I left Uganda that night, and as the plane flew away, I felt the dirty taint of foreignness wash from my conscience. After catching a connection in Lagos, I slept peacefully through the night and awoke to a sunrise landing at Heathrow, the events of the past few days fading already. As I stepped off the plane, a boy with hair the color of mine pointed his index finger at me and took aim. | | Wednesday, April 28th, 2010 | | 2:16 am |
Assorted musings from an inebriated Kim Jong Il
I was born on a holy mountain With a comet in the twilight sky And a rainbow shining out my ass I shit only diamonds And the KGB uses my piss As a truth agent. I won a gold medal in ejaculation And a silver in the 100 meter freestyle But only because I slipped Michael Phelps steroids I am the ghost of James Dean Giving a handjob to the ghost of Marlon Brando In a scene written by the ghost of Ernest Hemingway I am Jean-Luc from that cafe in Paris I am your new stepdad, the one who lets you smoke in the house I am a riddle, wrapped inside an enigma, rolled inside Adriana Lima I am best friends with the lead singer of Train But only because he could really use a good wingman And because we both hate Jason Mraz. I bat .875 and I hit with power to both fields I gave Barry Bonds the cream, but not the clear And I gave Jillian Barberie a screaming case of genital herpes I am all 25 of People Magazine's Hottest People Under 25 The King of the Internet And the best friend you'll ever have So why can't I get some fucking Cinemax in this country? | | Wednesday, December 16th, 2009 | | 8:20 pm |
An Elegant Beast
In a world full of pigs, you'd live by cliche; Oinking and squealing and stooling away. You'd shit on the floor, And piss on your kin; 'Cause in a world full of pigs, nobody wins. You'd be slaughtered for meat, While your children were fed; Teeth grinding away on the newly dead. You'd see family on Christmas, And watch network TV; Shedding a tear at the finale of "Glee". You'd cling to your gun, While you languished in debt; Maxing your plastic on cheap cigarettes. You'd buy half the poor, With a shiny gold calf; And get them to murder the other half. You'd put a ring through your snout, And sulk and rebel; Making life for your peers a living hell. You'd treat your depression, With a spoon and a fork; Slowly transforming from pig into pork. You'd dump out your trash, And then choke on the smog; A pathetic, corpulent, castrated hog. You'd shit and you'd breed and you'd date and you'd buy, You'd scheme and you'd hope and you'd dream and you'd die. To strive for the most, By doing the least; Such is the life of an elegant beast. | | Tuesday, November 10th, 2009 | | 8:19 pm |
Thoughts on a Nietzschean Cockfight
I sit ringside, clutching a cardboard ticket in my sweaty right fist. My hands trace the thin lining in my coat pockets as I crush the once-sturdy paper into one-thousand little folds. I'm usually not this jittery, but tonight is a special occasion. Tonight is the night when Tonya Harding, my beloved pudgy pugilist, boxes for the world title against the indomitable Leila Ali. They said Tonya couldn't win, that she was an asthmatic fraud who relied on brawn rather than brains, that she couldn't pull it off without cheating, that she should make haste to the comfort of her double-wide and spend the rest of her life quietly ducking the gauche incivilities of social mobility. And that was in 1994! I pray my deleterious Delilah just doesn't get the crap knocked out of her tonight. I would not want that... or maybe I would. Deep down, every guy loves seeing a chick getting beat up, especially one he really, really likes. Round one. The voluptuous bimbo totes the ring card about blocking the view of my goddess, shrouding her face behind a pair of neon blue hotpants. The hateful little whore moves away and I see Tonya sitting on a stool, chewing a piece of green gum. Spearmint, perhaps? It would only figure that we share a favorite. Then she spits. I am ecstatic. Leila Ali stands in her corner, nose in the air, strutting about as if she is too talented to be troubled by, or rather, reduced to, fighting a pseudo-celebrity in a cheap exploitive sideshow of a match. Dear old dad may have been the greatest, Leila, but you're about to meet #2 and she has beaten better women-- with a hubcap. In this Geek Show, my dear, you are the chicken. The bell rings and the two fighters make the awkward dance to the center of the ring to engage in one last display of pleasantries before the pounding begins. Tonya touches gloves, looks Leila Ali straight in the eye, firms her bicep, braces her shoulder, and... takes a hard jab to the face. Ouch. The pummeling continues as the champion turns round one into a modernist horrorshow, painting a skilled but technical portrait of hooks, uppercuts, jabs, and illegal headbutts on the canvas of Tonya's face. Inside I am seething with the injustice of it all. Everybody hates the smartest kid in the class and despises a reckless show-off. Leila was spoiling the curve for everyone in the arena that evening by delivering a humiliating first-class beatdown to the most gorgeous woman in the room (nigh the world) and taking absolutely no fun in doing so. If you're going to destroy something beautiful, sweetie, at least look alive. The bell sounds and Tonya flounders back to her corner and plops down in her seat like a load of garbage negligently cast from the back end of a dump truck. I now know how the Germans felt at Leningrad. The look in Tonya's freshly swollen eye tells me she knows Leila is a superior fighter, she knows Leila is faster and stronger and braver and angrier and meaner, she knows there is no hope. It is the saddest thing; the day the starving artist finally understands she is no VanGogh and throws her easel in the trash and scans the classified ads for secretarial work; the day the lead guitarist of a middling cover band realizes he will never "make it big" and ends up writing jingles for a local used car dealership;it is the broken look of a failed ne'er-be-champion who finally understands her own mediocrity. I cannot allow this to happen. Not Tonya, not tonight. Round two. The bell sounds and Leila darts across the ring like a vulture eager to pick every fetid morsel of decaying meat off Tonya's corpse. Tonya shrinks back, retreating like a Pole in 1939. Suddenly, however, a new challenger appears. I am no athlete, but I am a competitor like none other and losing is the devil's work. I place all my angst, hate, doubt, remorse, and love into one wild supersonic haymaker. This is no longer about Tonya: this is for Tommy the fat kid in the fifth grade; this is for the missed promotions and the middle managers; this is for Katie The Hellacious Slut who wanted to justbefriends; this is for Kurt Vonnegut and punk rock; this is for eight years of George Bush; this is for every chode, toad, lackey, and player-hating motherfucker who breaks a man's will. My fist howls in rapturous pain as it meets Leila Ali's chin. I go down, spiraling to the ground as my vision fades. That Ali bitch sure hits hard. Her father might be proud of her, after all. As day turns into night and security gathers round with their tazers I gaze upward at my dearest Tonya. Her sweaty neck and wet blonde hair glow in the bright stage lights, accented by the patchwork quilt of welts and bruises all over her always-flawless face. Her blue eyes rejuvenate my spirit even as my flesh fails me. A drop of blood escapes from between her lips as she tearfully mouths "thank you". Life may be cruel, but it has its strange rewards. | | Thursday, July 16th, 2009 | | 2:26 am |
Spam Poetry #1-4
#1)Your favorite weapon against bacterial infections Will go through your girl like a bulldozer. If you aren't a fan, you may unsubscribe; Try your luck. #2)Servicemembers and Veterans: We can help you grow your own beautiful hair. Your crack will fault-free, Tell a friend. #3)Your dream come true: Master, MBA, Even PhD (non accredited). Need mouse to become tiger! #4)List of your mistakes: I didn't receive anything; Wrong verification code. An utter and complete failure, Stop displaying your courage! | | Thursday, June 5th, 2008 | | 3:25 am |
Attaboy
Buddy, Chief, Junior, Sport, Bubba, Sparky, Ace, Kiddo, Chum, Slugger. Shorty, Son, Hoss, Scooter, Champ, Boss. Kemosabe, Tiger, Pal, Buster!  | | Tuesday, May 20th, 2008 | | 12:56 am |
An ode to Beth Ditto
I once loved a fat girl But she proved to be a flake Some lose their friends to drug use I lost mine to cake :(  | | Thursday, April 24th, 2008 | | 5:00 am |
Paul the Pallbearer
Paul the Pallbearer Was a mesomorph terror The strongest man that I've known He bore the weight Of his corpulent mates But he could not carry his own With a shovel in hand Paul spat at the land As he buried another friend Then with a skeleton's grin He quaffed tonic and gin As he awaited his own bitter end So in his sixtieth year With a curse and a tear Paul grew tired of life's methadone He chose opioid bliss The poppies that kiss As he pondered the greatest unknown With his powder platoon And a belt and a spoon Paul did his best to escape But addiction's cold strife Gave no meaning to life Only tremors and blisters and scrapes Cut adrift in a fog Of needles and grog And the world that he had maligned Paul pounded his fist At life's spiritless mist There was no purpose that he could find Said Paul with a sigh "You shit and you die, And lose a bit of yourself with each breath Every woman and man Seeks some greater plan But the only design is in death." So with a click and a flash, Dust, splatter, and ash, A shotgun set old Paul free As his light disappeared 'Twas not death that Paul feared Just his nagging humanity So I sing my friend's ode As I bear his stout load And pray that my burden won't fall Because one day, my mate You'll carry my weight We all have our caskets to haul | | Monday, March 17th, 2008 | | 6:18 pm |
Paging Dr. Drew
Masturbation, Nimbus clouds, a day online, regressive tax John McCain, table for one, chase your vodka with Xanax They just shot Mandela in Pretoria Who cares? The side effects are "mild euphoria" A pill-sized thunderbolt for an Olympic god Good for your neighborhood neurotic or Ahmadinejad Take one to kill the dragon, two for jubilee Five if your employment was just transferred to Tennessee Six for platonic friendship, eight for love unrequited Ten to give Jesus Christ attention undivided With sangfroid you'll greet bad news, grinning like a fool You'll meet death in the family with a smirk, a shit, and drool But before you leap into the magick of lobotomy galore Remember, once you've had a few, you'll soon start craving more One pill can quell the trembles, but two fit nicely in your mitt You "stop when you want to," but you'll pop 'em for the "hell of it" You'll go from munching on fava beans and quaffing nice Chianti To knocking over pawn shops and hanging out with John Frusciante They'll mistake your gibberish for Mexican and call the I.N.S. Even the tormented Pete Doherty will giggle "what a mess!" So before you turn into a pill-snorting, toothless, deadbeat dad Remember that amphetamines and booze aren't that bad! | | Sunday, March 2nd, 2008 | | 8:02 am |
| | Wednesday, January 23rd, 2008 | | 10:09 pm |
| | Saturday, December 29th, 2007 | | 7:15 pm |
AARP Special
O Cadillac, O Cadillac, bucolic ride of zen The hottest rod around for eighty-year old men A modern spacious cabin, made from choice polysterene The console holds six cupholders, or your dialysis machine A comfortable interior fashioned from the softest skin of elk A satellite radio permanently tuned to Lawrence Welk It'll race from zero to forty-five on the interstate freeway Then park at an oblique angle at the Old Country Buffet A fifteen-year long warranty on all parts and repairs But when you're eighty-six years old, who the hell cares? If you see them parked at the grocery, expect a price check on rogaine If you see them parked at the polling place, expect a President McCain Made in every single color, so long as it's charcoal gray Take the money out from your mattress and buy a Cadillac today! | | Saturday, November 10th, 2007 | | 8:02 am |
| | Thursday, October 18th, 2007 | | 1:30 am |
Rip off artists
Faced with an unnegotiable deadline, an exhaustive schedule, and a vacuous lack of talent, many college students turn to plagiarism to lessen the burdens of coursework, especially when they are enrolled in a particularly difficult class. Similarly, the class of life is always exceedingly difficult and many people, in particular popular musicians, turn to plagiarism when crunch time nears. Below you will find several examples of musicians who "borrowed" their way to stardom: 1)My Chemical Ripoff -- MCR's "Ghost of You" vs. Jimmy Eat World's "23" Gerard Way and My Chemical Romance put forth a 110% effort during the sessions for their breakthrough album "Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge". By 110%, I mean 100% My Chemical Romance and 10% Jimmy Eat World. Listen to the first fifteen seconds or so of each of the two videos below: 2)Bruce Dickinson Needs Raid -- Papa Roach's "Last Resort" vs. Iron Maiden's "Genghis Khan" Let's be honest, Papa Roach isn't exactly the most captivating, original, popular, or talented band out there, but who can deny the allure of their breakthrough hit, "Last Resort"? Iron Maiden, for one! First, listen to the riff in "Last Resort," then skip to :45 seconds remaining in "Genghis Khan." Whoa, Neo! Deja Vu! Extra points to Papa Roach singer Jacoby Shaddix for declaring that the band was "raised on metal", eliminating any possible chance of a coincidence. 3)Stairway to Purgatory -- Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" vs. Spirit's "Taurus" Mindless Self Indulgence hates Jimmy Page, and maybe you should too. Listen to the famous riff in Stairway to Heaven, then skip to 2:00 remaining in Spirit's single "Taurus". Zep and Spirit used to tour together. Apparently, they shared more than groupies! Defenders of Led Zeppelin point out that both riffs are simple descending chromatic scales. I would like to point out, however, that both riffs are simple descending chromatic scales played at exactly the same tempo, with exactly the same rhythm, with exactly the same instrument. P.S. The lead singer of Spirit went by the stage name "Randy California." Thanks a lot, Chili Peppers! Note: Led Zeppelin was notorious for stealing songs. Watch this video to see more: 4)Come my ripoff, come, come my ripoff -- Crazy Town's "Butterfly" vs. Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Pretty Little Ditty" Most people don't know that the well-known riff in Crazy Town's "Butterfly" is actually taken from an early Red Hot Chili Peppers tune. Fast forward to 1:02 remaining in the Chili Peppers' song to hear the original version. This begs the question, if Crazy Town stole their riff from the Red Hot Chili Peppers, who stole their single title from Spirit, who had their song stolen by Led Zeppelin, does that somehow make Crazy Town the best rock group of all time? Is Shifty Shellshock the best rock singer ever? Suga, baby. 5)Smells Like Vaguely Similar Spirit -- Nirvana's "Come As You Are" vs. Killing Joke's "Eighties" Kurt Cobain loved underground music so much, he just couldn't resist featuring Killing Joke on his breakthrough album "Nevermind" --- by lifting their riff almost exactly! Watch the two videos below to compare the two. Given their ironic choice of band name, however, Killing Joke may have had the last laugh in April 1994. 6)The Remix to Repetition -- Akon's "Don't Matter" vs. R. Kelly's "Ignition" Akon may be a self-made man with four wives and a diamond mine, but there's one thing he can't do -- write an original song. Akon's melody in "don't matter" matches R. Kelly's melody almost exactly. Given Akon's recent "encounter" with a fourteen year old girl, he's well on the way to taking Kelly's throne. 7)Timbaland rolls a natural twenty -- Omarion's "Ice Box" vs. Chrono Trigger "To the Far Away Times" Music mogul Timbaland has been accused of plagiarism before. He frequently takes the melody from Arabic, Bollywood, and even Finnish (yes, Finnish) hit songs and transposes them into R+B singles. This time, Timbaland goes even further, lifting a piano melody from a VIDEO GAME. I'm not sure what level of experience Timbaland has in the realm of writing music, but in the world of Role Playing, he is a level 70 plagiarist! 8)The Queen of Plagiarism -- Avril Lavigne vs. Everyone If you thought she was bad, she just got worse. Many of Avril Lavigne's hits have been, er, influenced by other artists. In the videos below, see Avril "borrow" Peaches' distinct style, "shoplift" a hook from the Rubinoos, and "borrow without giving back" a verse from Athlete's single "El Salvador" (released after Avril's "Complicated", but performed before). Although she may sell millions of albums, she's certainly a far cry from the next "David Bow-wie". AVRIL AND PEACHES AVRIL AND THE RUBINOOS AVRIL AND ATHLETE | | Tuesday, October 9th, 2007 | | 8:57 pm |
| | 5:17 pm |
| | Sunday, September 2nd, 2007 | | 9:33 pm |
Conoces que estas en Mexico
Cuando tu puedes hacer esto: ÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑÑ and <3 to you know who | | Tuesday, July 3rd, 2007 | | 1:34 am |
No Jacket Required
A euphonic Genesis of auditory zeal, A exquisite exhibition of sangfroid sex appeal, A nonpareil selection for your ipod or automobile, Phil Collins, your hairline may recede but your talent never will. Five foot seven with squinty eyes and a personality demure, Mozart, Clapton, and Cobain; compared to him-- mere amateurs! I've had my Phil of snobbish opera and pithy classical ballet, I'll take an orange daquiri and the Tarzan soundtrack anyday. While it's true I enjoy Deathly Cabs and the occasional White Stripe, Can those pasty indie schmucks ever top the epic "In the Air Tonight?" He never wears a jacket, but always dons the finest pair of slacks, Phil once punched Madonna and divorced his wife by fax. He scaled Everest in six hours while backpacking through Nepal, He took a bullet for Ron Reagan, then tore down the Berlin Wall, Phil can hold his breath for ten minutes; he can stop a moving train, He kissed Kirsten Dunst while hanging upside down in the pouring rain. By his kiss, the most frigid feminist will flush her contraceptive pills, By his touch, the most loathsome leper will be cured of every ill, At death, he'll cross into Paradise and slay the hounds of hell, So long as Saint Peter's surname isn't Gabriel. A Su-superman of su-soothing su-suet free of su-sucrose banality, I hope he doesn't lose my number unless, of course, he wants to su-sue me. So take me home, fair troubadour of the adult contemporary chart, Your hidden touch is formulaic, but your formula is art. | | Thursday, May 31st, 2007 | | 4:40 am |
This is why I'm hot.
 Are you hot? Take this quiz: 1)What is your rapping style? a)they have STYLES for that? b)unintelligible c)I don't have to rap. 2)How many records can you sell? a)That depends if my father buys a copy b)I'm planning on using podcasting as a viral marketing strategy to win a record deal c)I can sell one million saying nothing on the track. 3)Where are you from? a)Parts Unknown (i.e. suburban Ohio) b)the Internet c)I represent New York. I have got the city on my back. 4)Where do you like to relax? a)Hooters! b)In the Presidential lounge at the faculty club c)In the Midwest, I love to take it slow. When I hit the H, I'll watch you get it on the floor. 5)When your friends get "hyphy", what do you do? a)Get some new friends b)Refer them to the proper drug treatment center c)Take it to the Bay. 6)What is the general consensus on your choice of clothing? a)The only thing you are missing, hipster, is a tattoo of a star b)Hypercolor went out of style in 1996 c)People say I'm fly. They like the way I dress and they like my attire. 7)Why are you hot? a)Because I cannot regulate my body temperature b)Because the competition in this town is rather spotty c)Because I'm fly. 8)Why am I not hot? a)Timely installation of central air conditioning b)Your eyes remained crossed after giving a friend a nasty look in elementary school c)You ain't cause you're not. 9)How much do you typically pay for consumer goods? a)No more than 1/3 of my gross monthly income, minus utilities and my mortgage payment b)I prefer the five finger discount for consumer perishables c)One quap. 10)Where do you usually purchase household items? a)From the classifieds in Better Homes and Gardens (also a GREAT place to find anonymous gay sex) b)the Second Life forums c)I'm into shutting stores down so I can shop. 11)What feedback have you gotten from your record producers? a)More cowbell! b)You've got the touch! c)We hit the studio. They say they like the way I record. 12)How do you prefer to meet new people? a)Via hidden camera in the ladies' restroom b) http://www.plussizeconnection.comc)You'll find me with different women that you (African-Americans) never had. How did you score? Total up your points: Give yourself 3.14159... points for each (a) response Multiply your (b) responses by (3(x^2) + 5(y^5) - 6x + 2) and take the second derivative Divide your (c) responses by 5i, i being the square root of -1. If you scored 50 or more points you are fly! If you scored 40 or more points you are hot! If your score contains irrational numbers, imaginary numbers, or any form of calculus whatsoever, you are a fucking nerd! | | Saturday, May 5th, 2007 | | 12:19 am |
At Least It Was Better Than Hulk (But Not By Much)
In the first of the recent 'Spiderman' excursions, Peter Parker sermonized that "with great power, comes great responsibility." It's the sort of stuffy old adage that might have made Benjamin Franklin smile (when he wasn't conceiving illegitimate children, or disowning his son, of course.) The problem, however, is that the producers of the 'Spiderman' franchise failed to heed their own advice when filming 'Spiderman 3'. This a film that strays from the stoic heroicism of the first two outings, devolving instead into a hilariously petty and passive-aggressive comedy of errors. Want to your favorite superhero look and act like a doting, middle-aged, overbearing mother? Look no further than Spiderman 3! All is well in New York City when the film begins. Peter Parker (Tobey Maguire)has learned to successfully balance careers as a superhero, a freelance reporter, a graduate student in a theoretical physics department, and a sickeningly cute boyfriend to an especially needy fox, Mary-Jane Watson (Kirsten Drunkst). It's amazing he has time to sew new tights. Mary-Jane, meanwhile, has begun her career as a Broadway singer and Peter rushes to the theater to catch her debut. There he spies his former bff, Harry Osbourn (Ozzy Osbourne), giving the both of them surly glances from the balcony. One may recall that Osbourn's distaste for Parker began when the former discovered the latter had killed his father (the eternally creepy Willem Dafoe). Osbourn comes to the theatre armed with a devious and evil plan to exact revenge on Peter -- he sends Mary-Jane a larger bouquet of flowers. While it is unclear whether Osbourn really rubs it in by posting inflammatory messages on Spiderman's facebook wall (d00d im in ur b@se steeling ur gurlz), he does make more of an effort a few days later, when he ambushes Parker in an alleyway. Spiderman, of course, always wins and Osbourn finds himself emerging from a coma in a hospital bed. Parker, who sappily insists on visiting his wayward (and murderous) chum soon discovers that Osbourn has lost his both memory and his testes. Stricken with amnesia that conviently begins and ends with the previous two movies, Osbourn is reduced to "aw shucks" and "u guys are the greatest" when greeted by Mary-Jane and Peter. Osbourn's pussification is complete mid-way through the movie when he invites Mary-Jane to his apartment to cook omlettes, have a good cry, dance around the couch with hairbrushes as microphones, and go antiquing (Only one of those is made up. It may not be the one you think.) With Osbourn reduced to a eunuch, Parker focuses on his own demons. He discovers a black ooze with the power to his character from static to dynamic in an extremely obvious and telegraphed way. He begins treating criminals more roughly, dressing in black, parting his hair over his forehead, and wearing eyeliner. If 'Spiderman' is a coming-of-age story and 'Spiderman 2' is a social commentary on how society treats its heroes, 'Spiderman 3' is the sequel where Spidey goes emo. It is thus no surprise that The Dashboard Confessional wrote the first single off the 'Spiderman 2' soundtrack. More than a marketing ploy, it was clever foreshadowing. While Parker revels in his chemical romance, Osbourn regains his memory when confronted by a peculiar vision of his father. Dafoe, who nearly destroyed the entire city as the Green Goblin, resorts to passive-aggression when crossing from the spirit realm to address his nearly-gay son. "If you REALLY REALLY loved me," he states, "you'd avenge me and kill Spiderman." Osbourn glumly agrees and hatches another hare-brained plot to get even. With jet packs, knifey gadgets, and plastic explosives at his disposal, he elects to ONCE AGAIN TRY TO STEAL SPIDERMAN'S GIRLFRIEND. After tricking Mary-Jane into breaking up with Parker, he meets Spidey at a coffee shop to "give him the talk." Do YOU think he made his father proud? These guys really need the Jerry Springer show. Parker, distraught by his loss, finds solace in inflicting petty slights upon others. He flirts with his landlord's daughter just to make her cook him food, disgraces an adversarial photographer by stealing his girlfriend, forces Mary-Jane to serve him drinks at the bar where she works (without tipping), sprays his uncle's killer with water, teepees his boss's house, and tells Osbourn that "his father would very be disappointed in crybaby like him" (once again only one of these is made up). Admittedly, Tobey Maguire plays an excellent jerk and I remained on his side during each and every petty prank, but this is a far cry from the superhero who stopped a subway car with his feet in the last movie. Meanwhile, the rival photographer, still upset about losing his girlfriend (who was a bit of a bitch and a show off to begin with), turns into Venom and vows to kill Spiderman in order to retaliate against Parker's general dickery. These characters are very, very sensitive, aren't they? In the end, Spiderman and Venom face off in a passive-aggressive showdown. During the brawl, Parker parts his hair forward and Venom slicks his hair back. It's like Conor Obherst taking on Chris Carrabba in an no-holds-barred emo cage match (they even cut themselves during the fight!) I don't need to tell you who wins, but I should point out that everyone has yet another good cry at the end. There are so many tears that Aquaman nearly makes a guest appearance. Overall, 'Spiderman 3' is an excellent film if you don't like action, adventure, rational character development, believable character motives, a plot that makes sense, and good acting. My spider sense is tingling as I eagerly await director Anne Rice's gothic stylings in 'Spiderman 4: Spidey Goes to Hot Topic." final score: ** out of five |
[ << Previous 20 ]
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.1){kind=small}
10's journal
