Let's Call Tall, Slender, Attractive Females "Avatars"

I think the Hollywood has come to the conclusion that Americans are pretty much whatever the entertainment industry dictates them to be. Formulas have become rote in the process of movies. Placing script to celluloid is the science of money-making, surefire economics.

I’ve observed this insult and slander to the American movie-going population for some time, and have established my own perception for the base process.

With ease, I can be a Hollywood producer: “OK, the script is fairly romantic, so let’s make sure to market it toward woman. First, let’s choose a male character with medium acting talent and some homosexual men for comedic influence and enhanced femininity to the overall essence. Then, insert any famous, age-indeterminable actress (Sandra Bullock, Julia Roberts and Emma Stone). Have them (the actor and actress, not Sandra Bullock, Stone and Roberts) fall in love (complete with a love-developing montage and Hall and Oates), deal with a conflict that pushes the two apart and then pair them back together through incredible strife. Or, give the girl a terminal illness.

I can imagine directors or producers looking over a script and deciding whether to give the girl cancer or jam some seemingly insurmountable barrier between the her and the lead actor. “Screw it Max, I can’t think of any variation of the guy effing something up irreparably, just give her SARS.” Insert a soundtrack that features the work of Damien Rice and I just made a tragic romance . . . Action!

It’s hard to decipher what movies are theater-worthy; previews never give you much beside a fake adrenaline rush. Considering I’m on a fixed income, debating whether or not to hit the AMC is a heated discussion of merits. And all we have to rely on is a preview and the dubious tomatometer.

For example, I had no idea that Avatar was an enhanced re-enactment of Pocahontas, the previews just flashed 300 million and James Cameron films over and over. My thoughts on Avatar? You know a film is bad if the only debate your friends have after the 300 million dollar movie is: “Do you think the Avatar females were hot?” Those same friends now call hot, tall girls “Avatars,” so you can see what conclusion they reached. Of course, that doesn’t say much about my friends’ intelligence, but it doesn’t say much about the quality of the film either. Investing 300 million on perfecting special effects basically screams: “Well, the storyline is shit, but we’ll enhance graphics to such a level that no one in the audience gives a fuck. Get me James Cameron!”

People talk to me about and refer me to various movies (as if I listen to their recommendations). I trust myself; and I’ve developed a dependable formula to determine whether a movie is going to be an audio/visual atrocity. I’ll share it with you in hopes that you can prevent Hollywood trickery. Here it is:

• Read the quote attributions. If the critics who praised the film are well-known, aka potential friends with someone involved with the movie or not above accepting large bags of Franklins to stamp their names and upward thumbs on a movie (Ebert and Roeper), it’s going to suck.

• If no-name newspapers and reviewers are featured in the preview, bad. Don’t trust any movie that derives its reviews from the local newspapers in Sandusky, Ohio.

• If after viewing the trailer you find yourself more confused about what the movie is, unable to decipher the genre or determine exactly who the main characters are, don’t watch it.

• If less time is spent on showing clips from the movie and more on just hyping it with zooming critic’s praise and voice-overs “Since the beginning of time . . . a big city boy and a country girl had nothing in common . . . Jennifer Lopez is . . .” you can probably cross that one out.

• Transgender comedies will always flop, especially if they include Rob Schneider.

• My number one litmus test, how many different trailers does the movie have? If the answer is one, or the answer is many that feature different sequences of the same scenes, you just saw all of the good parts, no need to waste two hours.

(That’s my biggest fear, a movie that is better in trailer form. I always feel used after paying to see those films, picturing some Hollywood executive laughing at me while he pets his Siamese cat).

Follow those and you can’t go wrong. Only you can prevent Hollywood trickery.



-Mozart

How much do I hate the YMCA? Let me count the ways

It’s pretty well known by my people that I hate my gym as much as Elizabeth Wurtzel hates herself when she’s off Prozac. Most people are aware of and may have even attended the chain I detest, the YMCA. Cheap to attend (it is free for me), the YMCA has sucked the marrow from nearly all of its 20 million plus members. Those who have avoided the marrow sucking are part of the increasing over-ninety population of the YMCA membership, mainly because they have no marrow left to suck out.

To put you into my perspective, I’ll give you my breakdown of a routine YMCA experience. I walk in past the homely volunteers who uncannily blend in with the dull surroundings of the YMCA décor and I steal a quick glance at the Pool o’ Child’s Urine to my left. I pace toward the gym and dodge running children, predominantly Asian, and look in to see who’s balling it up on the courts. The usual, Team Knee Brace, whose collective favorite basketball players are now all retired coaches, are neck in neck with Team Yao Ming, whose favorite player needs a knee brace. I reach the doors to the weight room, after I pass the all-white black-belts executing karate moves. I make a mental note to never depend on these folks if there is an all-out YMCA brawl (considering I will probably be the origin of this brawl, I will take out the supposed black belts first to make myself appear intimidating).

Enter into the workout space. Depart from the workout space, take a deep breath and re-enter. In front of you is a collection of exercycles, circuit weights and mechanical weights. Speed past to the free weights and bench area in order to avoid flecks of old man sweat and the White Raven (more on him later). After a short stint on a treadmill, which will inevitably place me into the old cottage cheese zone, named after the scent that emanates from all the cardio equipment due to patron’s lack of or obliviousness to anti-perspirant and deodorant. Then I begin my weight workout. If I’m lucky, my routine will remain unhindered by gaggles of Asians who have no real workout agenda and just take turns trying to top each other on specific machines or socialize in the main workout space because fraternizing is not allowed at the homestead, only math homework.

In between sets I usually take a look around, and always regret doing so. The interior of the YMCA is best described as sterile, which is a pretty apt reflection of the people using the facilities. Smiling is strictly forbidden in the YMCA unless you're Asian or the White Raven, in fact, everyone just looks mad at themselves for being tricked into going to the “Y.” Maybe that’s how it gained its nickname, for all of the why? questions people inevitably ask themselves when they find themselves in the YMCA once more. Why did I come here again? Unless they are holding your child ransom and this is the site of the exchange, there is never an acceptable answer to that question.

About halfway through my workout I like to amuse myself by watching the antics of the White Raven. This man is a volunteer at the YMCA, and he exploits his status by shamelessly macking on every chick in the gym, never factoring in age disparities. His nickname derives from his physical characteristics, which are extremely raven-esque. And yes, he’s white. He usually preys on the unknowing newcomers, because most seasoned “Y” veterans have a White Raven detector. Freakishly ripped for a 40-80 year old, the raven is pretty crafty and subtle with his coquettish intentions, but you can tell the inner raven is quothing “What up whore?”

God forbid you have to go to the bathroom during the workout. If you do find yourself in dire straits, you have two options, the bathroom by the entrance that is further away and wastes precious time because you have to go through the re-entry process or the locker room. The pragmatist chooses the locker room, and regrets his choice immediately. Unless he enjoys feasting his eyes on old man genitalia, which is bountiful in the YMCA male locker room. Then, the locker room is an eye-feast. After leaving that ghastly place, back to the work out, which is certain to be abridged because a) Asians have caught up to your workout routine and it’s going to be about twenty minutes until their done topping each other’s non-Herculean efforts and b) you can't get the ungodly images out of your head.

The next day, you show up in a daze, and wonder why exactly you’re at the YMCA doors again.



-Mozart

The Hungover

There’s something about a night of heavy drinking. People usually enjoy the antic and imbibing. The marathon night of sexual debauchery, the epic pub crawl, the succession of Cuervo shots that had you spinning like a top for the first available vomit receptacle; all of these more or less cover the gamete of an alcohol fueled night. I’m exactly the opposite. I hate drinking. I loathe almost all drinking games, especially beer pong (most inconsequential game on the face of the planet, yet people frequently use it as a source of validation. When you inform me that you are good at beer pong, I immediately have written you off as a) someone who is badly in need of means to justify your existence or b) a non-entity). That’s not to say I drink. I drink until a visor goes over my eye’s like Bender, even though I bear a closer resemblance to Fry (well I guess that is an odd observation to make, because who resembles a robot?). Most of the reason I drink to the point of blackout so often is because I hate being self-aware while doing something I have exponential distaste for. “All alcohol tastes terrible,” decries a surprisingly astute cook at my restaurant. We all know it’s true, but would rather join someone in obvious self-denial than belabor that point. I obliterate myself on a jumble of dark beers, IPAs and my general and offensive coordinator for the night, Jack Daniel’s. Whatever has high alcohol content, I slam unemotionally because I can’t stand to see its contents. It’s my own personal contraband, and I swallow it in mass quantities because I don’t to be caught possessing liquid contraband by my own personal monitor: me.

Why do I drink?

That’s simple. I love being hungover. I adore it. I thrive in its haze and pain. The call for greasy food and the day spent watching hours and hours of TV, lying out on a couch surrounded by the traces of last night’s activities, finished food wrappers and your companions, nothing is a higher form of camaraderie to me. The best part is the stories. People telling me how they climbed up our house’s Ionic column to get into the second story or how they slept on the couch even though their bed is ten feet away. People are more honest when they’re hungover. I always think of hospital patients under heavy sedation when I muse about the inherent honesty and thus brilliant storytelling of those nursing a hangover. Whenever I’ve been sedated, I’ve only been able to articulate through the emotion I feel the person directly personifies. And because those speaking to me while I’m sedated at the hospital are generally my caretakers or my family and friends, I love all of them equally. Having a hangover with others around you is similar, but it’s like commiserating with the other patients who share your room and happen to have been part of the same accident that got you there in the first place. You can’t despise each other because you’re both incapacitated in the same sorry state. Instead, you totally accept the other person. They’ve suffered the same burdens and endured the exact same treatment, so your similarities make interaction so brilliantly honest and articulate.

This is why I always prefer to be hanging out with those who I spent the night before with, both figuratively and literally. I recognize that their last 12 hours are incredibly similar to my own: heavy drinking, absurd antics and low REM sleep resulting in severe dehydration. One of the crew may have experienced a “this-is-not-my-ceiling” morning, the other a porcelain bed and perhaps one more waking up spooning a 49.5 cent taco. All stories are told with great detail, painting the magnificent art-piece that captures the night before semi-vividly. It’s a brilliant mosaic, each little detail a tiny stone or dulled piece of glass.

Why do I drink?

Because I love to be a part of the story.

For some reason the college Web site Collegehumor.com refuses to embrace the college cultural norm of video sharing, so I was unable to embed this hilarious description of the morning after, a parody on theat annoyingly repetitive "Tonight's going to be a good night" song. I assume that's probably the song title because that's the only intelligible thing they say in the song beside "Mazel Tov." So it could be entitled "Mazel Tov." Ask a female. Anyway, here's the link to it:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bCGmjmazE5c&feature=topvideos

-Mozart

This is the new year

It’s Christmas day and I’m waiting on a text from my girlfriend whilst sitting in my parent’s house. Unlike many college attendees, I’m not visiting my parents for Christmas. I live here, much to their chagrin. It’s understandable, who wants a burnout son enjoying coital activities in the same room where they dressed him as a child? The implications are a bit perverse. Considering that we’ve braced ourselves, or, I should say, I braced her against everything in this room . . . a room which I rarely clean . . . let’s just say there are some sanitary issues about stepping foot into my corner domain. I rent for about $50 a month. I pay my rent direct deposit, from my wallet to my parent’s hands. The catch for my cheap room and board? Driving kids, assisting in cleaning the house and the realization that my “room” is simply our computer/study room with my low-rise bed thrown in.

These are the typical signals for a classic case of burnoutism. Granted, I know I screwed up. I didn’t treat college as vocational training. Why would I? I am unflinchingly solipsistic with a fondness for instant gratification. Just present me the GD fish, I don’t want to learn how to lure and bait. I sexed, scammed and snorted my way through college. College didn’t mean academics for me; I didn’t fall in love with Rousseau or Hass. I couldn’t even associate with Ginsberg, mostly because my college demands homophobia on a grand scale. I did like Whitman though, but more because Clinton gave Whitman’s piece de resistance to his well-stained intern and Whitman made various natural allusions to male genitalia. Seeing as my dude friends were always coming up with inventive ways to refer to the ol’ basket of duplicate eggs and pondsnipe, I figured Whitman’s references were outdated, but still maintained retro hilarity. What did College teach me? I’m not sure. One thing, I know that my belief that feminism is a trite cause is sure to incite uproar when mentioned in any English class.

Don’t mistake these above criticisms, I like my current lifestyle. Little responsibility, my parents are too focused on getting the rest of the family through college to worry about my obvious floundering and I get to revel in my non-accomplishment. I’ve even rationalized my return to my parents and consider my current non-corporate jobs as a refusal to give into the capitalist dogma. To be clear, I’m no Marxist. His theories are totally inapplicable and Marx and Engels are denser than Forche. For those who find that last statement specious, The Communist Manifesto is child’s play, you inappropriately initiated Marxists. Try Das Kapital I, II and III, it’s a solid trilogy. And then read Adam Smith’s The Wealth of Nations in order to translate what can only be described as Max’s form of The Wasteland. Anyway, people have been chiding me for not continuing my writing because somehow they find my depressed tidbits, self-criticisms and sexual anecdotes amusing. Glad that I’m a source of entertainment, your reincarnated Comedian.

Everything is funny, even Rorschach got the joke in the end.



-Mozart

Floundering

There has been a lapse in time, a gaping tear in the space-time continuum that has prevented Butch Cassidy or I from scratching the lens upon your monitor. I could be po-cu and make some sweet pop-culture reference (such as: “We come back to you now, at the turn of the tide.”), but I abstain, realizing that maybe now isn’t the most fitting of times to make LOTR references.

So I’ll take the honest path, and hopefully, that will make all the difference.

Butch and I have been entangled in trifles of love, war and villainy (ßmost lesbian sentence ever). We’ve traveled far and wide, attempting to acculturate ourselves for you, the reader. I’m not insinuating that we were acultural badasses, operating outside of the norm and donning burlap sacks with copies of coprophiliac Dadaist manifestos inscribed on our skin in ash. Quite the opposite really, we’re immersed in culture, steeped in unisex vests and proliferating pseudo-Asian haircuts. We’ve been cloaked in Forks, Washington and wore Uggs on Venice Beach. New York? Well, I loved it, but it was bringing me down. Our travels now endured and hazards overcame, our woman wooed and our beer guzzled, it’s time to return, aged and cultured to perfection.

Heaven and Earth prepare themselves.

-Mozart