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January 31, 2005
Your Nominees, Please
Thanks to a lot of awesomeness on the part of people who are not me, unless you count my awesome ability to make a giant and, I fear, permanent ass-groove on the couch this weekend, Change for a Five is closer to being ready than I ever could have hoped. Not to mention being better than I could have envisioned.
What I need from you is, sites that you think we should suggest for donations. Comment away, my politically aware friends!
Posted by hilatron at 12:34 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
January 25, 2005
Rock the Tote
I used to think that it was being able to stay up late, or drive, or dress in the latest fashions with aplomb, but recently I have determined that the ultimate symbol of adulthood is the free tote bag. Lately, I can't turn sideways without someone offering me a canvas confection adorned with someone's corporate logo.
It all started a few years ago, with a bag I got by cadging film festival passes from work and pretending to be a movie scout, but that was just a charade, and besides, I was way more interested in the light-up pen for writing notes in a dark theater. I couldn't have known that my fun game of pretend would snowball like it has, cotton duck spilling out of every closet. A tote bag for my five-year college reunion; a tote bag for my company's 25th anniversary. In response to some well-meant donation: a tote bag. To solicit the printing business of my "small crafts company," hah hah: a tote bag. I get carded, not to determine whether I'm old enough to drink, but to confirm that I've reached the Age of the Tote Bag, the better to pepper me with totes for ever more far-fetched reasons. This morning on my way to work, I turned down a free tote bag from the Not Quite 29 and Able to Walk Upright Club, sidestepped the offer of a Blizzard Special Snow-Schlep Tote for the woman about town, and fled from a gang of roving P.R. representatives, piled high with assorted bags, who threatened to lasso me with their nylon canvas strapping.
And the sad thing is, they have my number. Lately I need to do a lot of toting: Dad homework. Craft projects. Book, pen, paper, cell phone, portable music device. Gum, concealer, lip balm, keys. Hairbrush. Wallet. Lunch. Hostess gifts. Shoes that aren't for walking. I am in so deep I actually bought a damn tote bag (it's a really nice one, though). I get spam offering personalized tote bags. I suppose it's just as well that I'm allowing myself to sink gently into physical disrepair, because think of the gym and all the toting that it implies. I fear a future where I need to carry one, two, three, four, ever more tote bags everywhere I go, where I give them special duties and keep them lined up by the door, filled with their respective junk, waiting to leap into duty and degrade my posture. Remember when you used to associate getting older with being free? Now, instead of being encumbered by rules and restrictions, we all march on, totes slung this way and that with all our very important things in them, the better to be grown up.
Oh well. I may list to the side but I truck onwards anyway, promoting my alma mater or my philanthropic prowess or some screen printer in Iowa. Perhaps I could interest you in a tote bag? They come in very handy, you know. I think I have one or two extra to get you started.
Posted by hilatron at 11:54 AM | Comments (10) | TrackBack
January 18, 2005
I am Jack's cry for help.
So, uh, this Change for a Five thing...it's not going to happen by Inauguration Day. If I were coldly rational, I would probably just say that it's not going to happen, full stop, and get on with the 50 million other things I have to/want to/need to do. But I'm not ready to give up on the idea just yet. I don't want to do that thing we do, where we get all fired up for awhile and then it just peters out and we all go back to getting screwed without really thinking about it.
So, I am asking for two things: your forbearance, because it's been two and half damn months already, and what am I, going to wait until the end of Bush's second term, or what? Second, I am asking for help. I need all kinds of help, because I just can't be in charge of running another website by myself, not with the Dad crap and the Crafty Robot crap and the poor Leisure Agency getting hopelessly neglected as it is, and all the other crap that I can't even keep all the to-do lists updated on. Some of the help I could use is:
-Someone to help with graphics and design
-Someone(s) to help with suggesting places to make donations
-Someone to help as, I guess, a co-project manager, or some crap, to set goals. I am okay with deadlines but I am feeling frankly somewhat floppy and overwhelmed in the face of getting this thing rolling.
So, that's that. E-mail me if you would be able to take on some of this woohaw. Sorry, y'all, that I did not manage to get this together yet, but, you know, life. It has lots of stuff in it!
Posted by hilatron at 10:33 PM | Comments (7) | TrackBack
January 16, 2005
Dance, Robot, Dance
I have realized that I told a lie in my previous entry, where I said I have never won anything. This is not true. Imagine this, if you will: it is the spring of 1987. I am attending a school dance in all my dorky fifth-grade outcast glory, wearing - if I recall correctly - an agonizingly selected dip-dyed crinkled gauze skirt in shades of magenta and orange, an oversized pink t-shirt, and one of those fake leather hip belts. Despite my haute couture, I was, let's say, not the most socially successful eleven-year-old. I watched some of the cool kids slow-dance, looking sheepish, while the worldly sixth-graders took advantage of the opportunity to act blase about the whole thing. I was dissatisfied, as I was during most social events throughout pre- and teenagerhood, by the lack of any momentous events. No boys magically noticed my charms, and I did not suddenly acquire breakdancing skills; it was entirely unlike the movies and I was vaguely unhappy about this fact.
But then - then! One of the coolest of the sixth-grade girls announced that there would be a dance contest. I prepared myself to fade into the background, as was only fitting for a low-tier social being such as myself. And then I heard it - the opening strains of "Walk Like An Egyptian." Whoa. This was it. I'm not sure that I actually said aloud "I OWN this mutha," but that was the general idea. Dancing to the Bangles hit? Hell, I'd done that a million times, in my living room, during the many weeks the song had appeared in the Top 20 Countdown. I knew this was my moment. I moved to the front, and I danced like the Red freaking Shoes. I shook it, all right. I shimmied. I vamped. I did that stupid arm thing they did in the video. I was on fire.
And still and all, I didn't expect anything to happen - I mean, I wasn't one of the cool kids; us lower beings didn't get such recognition. But. Somehow - maybe the dirt on the social hierarchy didn't get transmitted from grade to grade - after a breathless pause for the judges to confer, the imposingly popular and stylish sixth-grade clique doing the judging called my name.
This wasn't a fairy tale. I didn't get first prize, of course - who could expect such a thing? I came in second. But even so, I'll always treasure that ultimate expression of acceptance, the true judgment of talent rather than popularity - the LP single of "Mandolin Rain" by Bruce Hornsby and the Range. Ah, yes. I am indeed a winner.
Posted by hilatron at 11:48 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
January 13, 2005
Honor to serve
Because I'm a damn fool, I thought I'd volunteer for a time-consuming project in January - hey, who needs a break ever? So I am serving on the panel of The Diarist Awards for 4th Quarter 2004. Nominations are open through Saturday - send me something interesting to read! And don't nominate me, because I am ineligible and I will cry because I NEVER WIN ANYTHING NOT EVEN A RAFFLE.
Posted by hilatron at 09:48 AM | Comments (6)
January 09, 2005
REVIEW: Resident Evil: Apocalypse
I decided to start writing movie reviews again for no readily apparent reason. Here:
Resident Evil: Apocalypse
Dir: Alexander Witt, Writer: Paul W.S. Anderson, Starring: Milla Jovovich
Years of dedicated study have led me to believe that transforming a video game into an actual good movie would take a genius, and unfortunately for us, neither writer Paul W.S. Anderson nor director Alexander Witt is it. They bring us a film version of the popular zombie-killing extravaganza that is clunky and awkward, attempting to find a compromise between action-horror film and laundry list of recognizable (and thus marketable) icons from the game.
RE:A opens with a catchy credits sequence that fills us in on the events of the last film, and then wastes no time setting up its premise: the bustling metropolis of Raccoon City becomes infected with the deadly T virus, which turns its victims into the usual flesh-eating zombies. Thus the usual Heartless Authorities build a wall around the city, leaving just one exit, and begin evacuating the citizens; but, of course, the virus breaks out in the crowd and the Authorities, being Heartless, close the gate and seal everyone, civilians and cops included, into Raccoon City to await their shambling undead fate.
You will of course have already noted that your typical action-horror requirement to suspend disbelief or logic or the very laws of storytelling itself is going to get a real workout here. Several questions spring immediately to mind: why is the government allowing the head of Umbrella Corp., the Heartless Commercial Entity originally responsible for the T virus, to orchestrate this evacuation? Is it really a good idea to have just the one exit there, what with the giant panicky mob and such? How'd that wall get built so fast? Why does no one try, say, climbing a ladder once the H.A.s close the gate? And so on. My migraine and I assure you, however, that if you allow such questions to trouble you throughout the movie, you will become cranky like a reanimated flesh-eating police dog.
And, you know, I watch a lot of movies that don't make much sense, so that isn't even the most important thing here. If RE:A had simply skipped through these little foibles with some lighthearted humor, a little wink that, yeah, sure, this is all kind of silly, but we're here to watch Milla Jovovich blow shit up on a motorcycle, okay, then that would have worked fine for me. Unfortunately, the movie is, as I said, clunky, and it's too concerned with setting up its unlikely premise to give us a little nod. We are dragged through the opening like it's a dirty job, but someone's got to suffer through it, and unfortunately this is a trend that will be going strong for the rest of the movie.
In another inexcusable plot-pander, we are introduced to the main characters as a scientist whose daughter is trapped inside Raccoon City tracks them on closed-circuit TV, looking for a suitably badass team to help get her out. And so, we meet Badass Lady Cop, Good Guy Cop Who Will Become Zombie Fodder (c'mon you knew it already), Comic Relief Jive-Talkin' Guy, Ambitious Lady Reporter, and...Different Kind of Good Guy Cops Who Will Become Zombie Fodder, because apparently this imagination-impaired movie couldn't think of any more stereotypes to embody. And of course, there is Alice, played by hottie Milla Jovovich, former head of security for Umbrella Corp., survivor of the last movie, recently reawakened from a Heartless Experimenter-induced slumber and infected with the T virus herself, which thanks to Heartless Experiments gives her superpowers instead of the insatiable lust for human fleeeeeesh. Not a bad deal!
These folks all run into each other in a series of laborious coincidences as, without further ado, and also without joy or bliss, we are treated to 60 minutes or so of set pieces which have the effect of someone shouting dolefully into a bullhorn: "ATTENTION FANBOYS: GET YOUR CHECKLISTS. HERE IS THE 'CHURCH' LEVEL. HERE IS THE 'SCHOOL' LEVEL. HERE ARE THE ZOMBIE DOGS. HERE IS THE 'NEMESIS' BOSS. HERE IS MILLA GETTING HER SHIRT RIPPED. PERHAPS I CAN INTEREST YOU IN PURCHASING THE DVD OR SOME RELATED MERCHANDISE!"
Along the way, we lumber strenuously through several subplots with no sense of pacing or tension, as the important thing here, it becomes ever more abundantly clear, is to just get through this while racking up the requisite number of action points. The people you'd expect die, the usual character violations occur (like leaving a truck door open when any moron would know better, especially if said moron is a Badass Lady Cop on the run from zombies, I mean COME ON), there is the requisite final battle with the standard shocking revelations and terrible betrayals, blah blah, frankly I'm too disenchanted by this point to even bitch about the utterly ridiculous setup of that last big fight. Okay, no I'm not: if you were a Heartless Scientist who had performed a lengthy, costly and totally illegal experiment on human subjects, would you risk destroying at least half of the results of said experiment in an uncontrolled battle royale, just for kicks? Argh, there goes that migraine again.
And after the movie ends...it doesn't. Because we need to see fifteen minutes of setup for Resident Evil: Afterlife, already slated for 2006, presumably in the hopes of getting some of that, you know, storytelling that seems to annoy the filmmakers so much out of the way.
It's not that there wasn't anything cool in this movie. I like badass women with superhuman strength, and even if Milla's sad little I'm-about-to-cry croak does drive me up a tree, she's good at the action stuff when she's not talking. I like hordes of zombie schoolchildren - who doesn't? I liked a lot of things in this movie, but the things themselves do not a movie make, and the makers didn't seem to grasp that the structure - the pacing, the plot, the characters - is what makes a movie fun to watch, not slavish presentation of items that gamers will expect to see.
One and a half gears out of five - it didn't hurt to watch...except for the Question Migraine...but lost points for not even trying to be an actual movie.
Posted by hilatron at 09:32 PM | Comments (6)
January 06, 2005
Beauty Sleep
So in case anyone is wondering why I've been walking around with that glazed look in my eyes (aside from the cold I'm getting over, THANK YOU VERY MUCH GREYHOUND and your nightmarishly unsanitary bathrooms, which are clearly the root cause of my illness: but anyway), in case you have asked yourself "Why is Hilatron so dazed and peevish these days?" I would like to present you with an explanatory timeline. The events presented here occur, with slight variations, nightly. And so:
11:00pm: Hilatron retires, book by her side, glass of water at the ready.
11:03pm: Nightly battle with Murray over best place to sleep: on book or not on book? On Hilatron's head or not on Hilatron's head?
11:30pm: Lights out, num-num, sleepytime for robots and cats. Peace and goodwill, etc.
11:42pm: Hilatron realizes that that water sipped during reading time has gone right through her.
11:46pm: Back in bed, Hilatron becomes aware that she is cold. And also, thirsty.
12:00am: Comforter on bed, Murray bristling with offense in the living room over this interruption. Just two sips of water to stave off thirst - no more peeing tonight! Off to sleep!
The Wee Hours: Josh arrives on the scene and attempts to convince Hilatron to cede 1) some of the 85% of the bed she is occupying, and/or 2) his half of the blankets. Cranky thrashing and glaring through one open eye ensues.
Ten Minutes Later: Hilatron awakens fully and wonders why Josh is sleeping all smooshed over like that, with no blankets. The silly. Also, she has to pee.
Five Minutes Later Still: Back in bed. Josh asleep...and...snoring. Grr. Attempts to convince Josh to roll over on side are futile, due to his dastardly technique of genially saying "Sure" and then promptly going right back to sleep, like, within microseconds, without moving an inch, you've never seen anything like it.
And, Even Later: Josh pummeled into rolling over on his side without ever waking up enough to realize that he should be calling a hotline of some sort. Ha! More sleeping.
3:04am: Hilatron wakes up to realize that she is very very very hot. Stupid comforter. Murray has settled down on the other side of Hilatron from Josh, on top of the comforter which she would like to GET OFF HER RIGHT NOW IT BURNS. Murray very very very heavy; also, sharp.
3:15am: Back from the bathroom, wounds dressed. Josh slept through the whole thing. Murray now reclines at end of bed, lashing tail and looking peevish. Comforter moved. Aaah. Sleepy.
4:00am: Breakfast time for cats! Right? Murray thinks so. Perhaps he can convince others of this important fact. The place to start is by attacking Josh's feet.
4:11am: This does not prove effective, as Josh can bleed profusely, attempt to kick you and kick Hilatron instead, get yelled at, and apologize sincerely, all without waking up and feeding you breakfast. Hmm.
4:15am: Hilatron wonders what that is in her armpit. It is Murray's head. Murray loves Hilatron with a fierce head-butting love, see? Murray knows that Hilatron won't let him go hungry.
4:20am: Hilatron wonders what that crushing weight is on her sternum. It is Murray's front paws. Murray is quite sure that his still-empty bowl is just an oversight, that Hilatron needed perhaps a gentle reminder that it is now dangerously late with the feeding. Murray is just trying to help. Allow him to put a little more weight...right...there. Breathing okay, are you? Oh good.
4:25am: Hilatron wonders what that wet thing is in her ear. It is Murray's nose. Murray was simply attempting to take Hilatron's temperature, you see. He was concerned that she was unwell or perhaps deceased, because what else could possibly delay her for so long?
4:26am: Murray is hurt. Murray wonders what could have gotten into Hilatron, with the shoving him off the bed. Murray will take out his aggression on the end of the blanket, which already resembles macrame gone bad.
5:00am: Hilatron awakens from blissful slumber because something is horribly wrong. What is that thunderous vibration, whence that gale-force wind? Oh, it is Josh. Josh loves Hilatron too, and that is why he has decided to "share" Hilatron's pillow with her. And...he is snoring.
5:01-5:20am: Again with the rolling over procedure.
5:28am: Hilatron moves slightly. Murray, his hurt feelings forgotten, knows that this must mean it is finally time for breakfast! Yes? Murray celebrates by walking back and forth across Hilatron several times, making sure to hit all the important organs along the way, issuing ceremonial *prrrrts* and *squeaks* as needed.
5:29-6:15am: Murray repeats this procedure for all promising movements or whenever Hilatron appears to be breathing, just in case.
6:16am: Hilatron awakens. Josh snores. Murray attempts to sit on Hilatron's head, filled with joyous breakfast love. Hilatron squints at clock with an evil squint. Hilatron says "no fucking way," punches Josh, hugs - not strangles! hugs! - Murray into stillness, returns to sleep.
7:00am: Alarm goes off, beep-beep-beep. Murray, recently so active, is out like a light, trapping Hilatron under the blankets. Beep-beep-beep-beep. Murray cannot imagine what Hilatron means, "Move your ass." Why? What is her problem? Beep-beep-beep. More heaviness and sharpness from Murray. Beep-beep-bee...ah, finally, silence. Hilatron is awake. Hilatron stumbles to fetch her bathrobe, trips over the cat who is hurrying towards the kitchen directly in front of her, hits her head on the doorjamb and falls into a blissful slumber, or "unconsciousness," whatever, just long enough to guarantee she'll be late for work. And the new day begins!
Posted by hilatron at 03:52 PM | Comments (2)