Boston

My brother Michael recently took a job in Boston, or as the locals call it Baaaaaaaaaaaahston. He was originally stationed in Austin. So basically he’s leaving the capitol of the “Lone Star State” to go to the capitol of the “We're Shaped Like a Crazy Boot by the Bay State.” Austin to Boston. It rhymes. And he planned it that way.

But not right away. He actually had to go to training for two months to learn how to spell Massachusetts. Though, to help him out, it can also be abbreviated MA, which is what he will now be calling our mom.

So, to have a little laugh at his expense, I'd like to give him a little history lesson, let him know what he's getting into.

Though, before we start, I have to state something that I know you’re thinking. Yes, “More Than a Feeling” is a great song. Wrong Boston. (If you don't get that joke, you're too young to be reading this website.)


Boston was one of the first original colonial cities, as more and more refugees stumbled off boats and into "bahs." It was there that they would get "wicked pissah" and talk about revolution. It was in one of these bahs that someone took the first shot heard around the world, or something like that.

Boston is the site of the Revolutionary catalyst known affectionately as The Boston Massacre. Though it wasn't exactly a massacre, but really 5 people randomly killed in a mob of ragtag fanatics. A “massacre” should be reserved for that grey area between multiple homicide and genocide, not five people. It should be renamed “The Boston Unfortunate Incident.” Around 5 people died in the celebration of the Boston victory in the ALCS.

Speaking of parties, Boston is also home of the famous "Boston Tea Party," appropriately named… sort of. They got the Boston and the tea part right, but throwing a bunch of crates into the bay isn't exactly my idea of a paaaaaar-tay.

“One if by land, two if by sea” was the high tech lantern warning method of colonial times. A little simpler than the color-coded system we use today to indicate how screwed we are at the moment. Unrecorded, however, was the third message, “three if by air,” in case the British were performing stealth paratrooper drops in the kill zone to secure a perimeter in order to land their UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter fleets. Sorry, Tom Clancy wrote that last part.

Fortunately for early Bostonians, the British took the “sea-nic” route and Paul Revere had plenty of time to clippity clop through the towns, tapping people on the shoulder and saying, “Excuse me, dear sir, but I do believe the British might be headed in this general direction. Might wanna be on the lookout for that.”

After the war, the city of Boston grew as the British turned their red coats into comfy woolen socks. Errr… sox. Those come in handy too because apparently it’s cold up there, or so Michael was told a million times. I’m sure he was unaware of the climate difference. And he has to change his clocks. Err… clox.

Not a whole lot happened after that. Something about Ben Franklin.

Speaking of Bens, isn’t Ben Affleck from Boston? Michael could be rubbing elbows with THE star of Gigli. Wicked sick.

Democratic Presidential nominee John Kerry didn’t take the White House, so maybe Michael can room with him, you know… if the whole girl room mate thing doesn’t work out. Think of the potential hilarity that would ensue. It would be like a sitcom.


KERRY sits in the kitchen wrestling with a bottle of Heinz ketchup.
Enter MICHAEL.
Crowd applauds
KERRY: I never could figure out how to use these darned things. Forget it (he sets it down). I concede.
Pause for laughter
MICHAEL: Here, let me help you with that? Did you try shaking it?
KERRY: Of course.
MICHAEL: Did you trying hitting on the 57?
KERRY: Yeah.
MICHAEL: Did you try the old "Flip Flop?"
Pause for laughter
KERRY: So what did you do today?
MICHAEL: Just went out, walked around a little. I ran into Ben Affleck though.
KERRY: Wow, did you get his autograph?
MICHAEL: No, but I gave him mine.
Pause for laughter
KERRY: No way!
MICHAEL: Way! It was wicked awesome. He was standing there signing stuff and I walked up and handed him my autograph instead. And I said, “How 'bout them apples!”
Pause for laughter
MICHAEL: Well, I better get going, I have a date tonight.
Pause for laughter
Extra pause for continuing laughter
KERRY: Oh yeah, what are you two doing?
MICHAEL: We’re going to get chow-duh.
KERRY: Chow-duh?
MICHAEL: Yes, chow-duh.
KERRY: I like chow-duh.
MICHAEL: I’ve never really had chow-duh.
KERRY: It’s good that chow-duh.
MICHAEL: Well, people here do like their chow-duh.
KERRY: So when are you going to get chow-duh?
MICHAEL: Now, duh.
Pause for laughter
MICHAEL exits.
Fin.

Snoring

It's about 1 a.m. and I'm in a hotel lobby. I'm straddling the border of Texas and New Mexico for a friend's wedding. A combination of my ongoing battle with insomnia and one of the groomsmen sonorous snoring has kept me up for about three hours. I'm sure there was a time change in there somewhere too.

His snoring is like a pig grunt that lasts for far too long. It just keeps going, returning after a few seconds of agonizaning silence while waiting for the next one. The incessant nose rattling seems to be rattling my brain.

I tried rolling him over, but that only prolongs the inevitable for a minute or two. I've tried covering my head with a pillow, but that only muffles the sound, and now instead of it resonating in the room it echoes in my skull. I even contemplated sleeping in the car, but when I went out to get my book I could see my breath and a layer of frost had gathered. I decided against it.

I pray for a horrific nightmare; because then I would at least be sleeping. I would take a dream about falling, drowning, and spiders all rolled into one over that torture chamber I was lying in.

As I lay there for hours, tossing and turning in the cacophony, here are some of the miscellaneous thoughts I had:


SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE

I've decided that trying to sleep is futile, so I've given up and started to read in the lobby. The desk clerk is keeping a watchful eye on me to make sure I don't steal any potted plants along with the towels and soaps.


SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE

I've had experience with losing sleep before. My brother has a problem with grinding his teeth while he sleeps. It's a constant clacking and gnashing sound. When he saw a doctor to correct it, the quack just gave him a mouthpiece to wear that made him look like a retarded football player. I don't see how that was going to solve anything, other than maybe keeping his molars from disappearing into a fine powder. That's like giving a person with seizures a padded helmet and saying, "Yeah, that'll do." Forget the reason WHY it might be happening, just prevent them from hurting themselves any more.

The term he used for it was bruxing. To me it didn't sound like a very good euphemism for grinding away one's teeth. It sounded like a synonym for beating someone over the head.

brux (brks) intr.v. to beat someone mercilessly with a blunt object

My brother blames our former orthodontist, Dr. Winkleman, with the horrible alignment of his teeth. To this day he hates him with a passion. Sometimes I'll bring Winkleman up in conversation, just to get a rise out of him.

He clenches his fists and says through his worn down, uneven teeth, "If I ever see that guy on the street..." I imagine he would receive the bruxing of a lifetime.


SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE

I wondered what snoring sounds like in France. I mean, I know it would sound the same to my ears, but sometimes they have these crazy pronunciations for the most basic things.

Like a frog here in the good ole U.S. of A. says "Ribbit ribbit." But I've read somewhere that the French think it has a different sounding croak. It probably sounds a little more posh.

It was then that I realized that a frog is a derogatory name for a French person and I had stumbled into my own unintentional metaphor.


SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE

It's about 3:40 and the other groomsman has started replying with snores of his own.

I've decided to occupy my time by amusing myself instead of plotting their demise. I started joining in the band, drumming to the beat of their rhythmic breathing. I tried balancing a pillow on my foot for as long as I could. I even said "Snore if you're gay" out loud a few times, then chuckling to myself a few seconds later.


SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE

I wondered who would win in a fight between all the former presidents.
My best bet would be Abraham Lincoln. I read somewhere that he was an amateur boxer before the whole emancipation thing. Plus he probably had the reach with his size.

But a giant brawl of presidents while they were in office would be a different story.
All of them slightly past their prime, making a mark on their country before retiring. I don't know who would win in this situation.
I would have to put my money on President Garfield, because no one would expect it.


SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE

I finally dozed off around 5 a.m. (new time), my body surrendering to fatigue and boredom. The snoring woke me up a few more times, but just to remind me that I couldn't enjoy a good sleep.

Graduation

I graduated from college today. I’ve been going to school since I could barely walk. And then not walk. And then sorta walk again. It’s finally over. No more formal education for me. Me learned good.

This morning, when I woke up with the sun, the only thing I was excited about was the nap I would eventually take later. The brief thought of lying back down and sleeping “just a few more minutes” crossed my mind, but I remembered that this wasn’t class. It was the official ceremony to end all class… forever.

I took a shower, using my chemistry skills to carefully concoct the perfect mixture of hot and cold. I operated on auto-pilot, rinsing and scrubbing without thinking, my mind wandering to 9th grade biology. At some point we learned the important muscles of the body, but I bet I couldn’t name any right then. Instead I just hummed “the hip bone is connected to the arm bone,” not caring that in my deliriousness I had created a monster.

I dried off and went into my room, finding my prosthetic leg propped up against the wall, prepared from the night before. I chuckled to myself about the old adage, “We all put our pants on one leg at a time.” I thought, “Yeah, but I put one leg in, then the other one in eight hours later.” As I finished cinching up my tie, I reminisced about the last time I had worn it on my first “real” interview, hiking from door to door with Jered, the local representative for wheelchair basketball. I slipped on my gown and wondered who had come up with the idea for a square hat. It was probably some random guy who laughs every time he thinks how ridiculous we all look in our pictures.

When we arrived at the arena, there was a very organized system consisting of a town crier screaming which way graduates should be headed. I saw a few people looking at their hands, making L shapes with their fingers to decide which way left was.

At the top of the stairs was a holding pen for all the graduates. I remarked to a few people “nice gown” on my way to the sign that read “BS JOUR.” I shook my head and thought, “You have no idea.”
Huddled among my people, we stood around discussing how none of us had jobs and the outlook was a collective “It doesn’t look good.” I elected to keep quiet. But I realized that everyone talked like me, over exaggerating and over describing everything. It saddened me to think that in just a few years, their creativity would be deadened by dry newspaper reporting.
These were the remaining writers in the department, one of the final classes to graduate with a degree in journalism from Texas A&M before it was replaced with Bachelor of Science in Puppetry or a BA in Manure Cultivation. Our line was significantly smaller and I noticed a few had “line envy.” We got a final pep talk from a seasoned professor of ours, who was now in the same jobless boat.

On the way down the endless flights of stairs, I thought about P.E. and how I was exerting more effort now than I ever did then. A “workout” consisted of pushing a bowling pin across the floor on bread carts, protecting it from a barrage of foam balls. Or it was sweet talking the appointed classmate into slipping me a few extra Popsicle sticks that signified a lap around the track. But at that point I had fallen considerably behind in the processional and had to jog to catch up in time to emerge onto the floor of the arena.

Everyone immediately whipped out their cell phones, calling their parents to find out where each other were seated. The entire throng of grads was waving their arms, spinning in confused circles. It would have looked strange if it wasn’t for the circular arena of well-wishers also waving wildly on their phones. When my mom called me, I sighed knowing I would soon be one of the wavers.
“Where are you seated?” she asked.
“In between the Lees and the Lins,” I said.
“I don’t see you,” she said.
“I’m the one not waving,” I thought to myself. But the ceremony had started, so the conversation ended before I could cause any more confusion.

The ceremony consisted of a lot of standing. Then sitting. Then some more standing. Then a WHOLE LOT of sitting. A few times I wished I had taken Peter up on the Gameboy offer. Tetris would have made the morning a little more bearable. I tried counting the people in the various sections of the program, comparing and contrasting out of sheer boredom. But I was never good at math, so I always lost count. I never really mastered my multiplication tables either. 6 times 7 always comes out, “hold on a second.”


Finally, after much yawning and staring into space, it was my turn to walk the plank/stage. It was like the world’s worst fashion show, everyone wearing relatively the same thing, sporting the awkward square hat.

When you get to the podium, you pronounce your name for the speaker, who then repeats it immediately into the microphone. I thought about feeding him a fake name like Jeffrey Danger Leins, but I pictured my mom’s angered face and decided against it.

As soon as he called my name, the entire arena disappeared. Lightning could have struck the other side of the court and I wouldn’t have noticed until I reached the other side of the stage. I concentrated on shaking hands with my right and receiving the diploma with my left. All I could hear in my head was my own voice saying, “Say thank you” to reply correctly to the congratulations from the line of hand shakers. One guy said “Welcome to the Association” (the Assoc. of Former Students). This threw me off and I had to fumble not to say, “You too.”

The girl in front of me took off down the court, not hesitating as the usher pointed towards her seat. She just bombed past her, not looking back, headed for sweet freedom. I envied her.

It wasn’t long after that the ceremony was over. The walk in was an organized stroll up the aisles to plenty of fanfare and flashbulbs. The walk out was a sudden mad dash for the door, every grad for themselves. My “after-hours” education (bar-administered) had taught me well enough about handling myself in a crowd and soon I was breathing fresh air again.

Then it was all over. I had graduated. I didn’t feel any different. I felt a little tired, I guess. But it felt good to be done. Forever.

List-Eater 2: The Video

You remember the list eater from this post.
Well, here's a hilarious video of the List-Eater and the reactions to her craziness.
listeater.wmv

(Now with an updated, working link.)

Disturbingly Hilarious: Part 2

You may remember this post:
http://jeffleins.blogspot.com/2004/08/disturbingly-hilarious.html
It's an upper torso pillow for women to cuddle with.

Well, I recently found out they have a new product, for men:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/4092345.stm



A lap pillow for men to sleep on.

I know what I want for Christmas!

List-Eater

(I’m not making this up)
I’m a week from graduating from Texas A&M University. I walked to the MSC the other day to pick up my cap and gown, nostalgic tears welling up in my eyes. And through those imaginary tears I saw tents by Kyle Field, full of people waiting in line for tickets to the Cotton Bowl on January 1. It’s like a little makeshift campground by the ticket booth of hardcore fans jockeying for a seat at the big game.

What I didn’t know is that the next day a hungry beast would roll into that tent village and disrupt the settlement, not only with her earthquake-inducing steps, but with her insatiable gaping mouth.
A student, a senior here at A&M, ATE the roll-call list. She cut in front of the line, and when asked to move, she suddenly shoved the list into her mouth. According to onlookers, she acted as if completely on instinct, snatching the paper and cramming without remorse. The list-eater claims she “didn’t swallow,” so you may interpret that in your own form of hilarity.

When a collective “WHAT THE F*CK ARE YOU DOING” took hold of the now angry mob, the list-leviathan gurgled she didn’t have to wait because she was “right with God.”
Coach Franchione was there handing out donuts to the loyal fans. The donuts became ammunition as the list-eater was pelted with them in retaliation for being a fat bitch. No word on whether she ate those too.
She was, however, sold tickets to the game, despite them being sold out days before. No word on whether she ate those too.

According to KBTX, she’s now filing assault charges against one guy who grabbed her wrist and face during the incident. And she reported death threats to campus police. Students nearby were yelling “Beat the Hell Outta the List-Eater!”

Her name wasn’t released on the news, but it’s Janie Elaine Lagrone. Let me know if you want her cell phone number, I may or may not have it. I dunno, maybe I ate it.

Final Jeopardy

Ken Jennings lost today in his 75th game on the TV quiz show Jeopardy. He won 74 consecutive games before ending the streak that started on June 2. Jennings won $2,520,700 over the stretch, averaging about $34k a game.

The previous record for most number of wins was 7 games. Ken not only shattered that record, but also broke the daily haul mark, winning $75,000 in one game over the previous $52,000. I’ll take ridiculous for 300, Alex.

Nancy Zerg finally bested him after he missed two daily double questions and the final jeopardy question. The final clue was “Most of this firm's 70,000 seasonal white-collar employees work only four months a year.” The correct answer was H&R Block. Well, “What is H&R Block?” to be exact. He answered, “What is Federal Express?” My question is this. What were you thinking, Ken?! Everyone knows that.

Besides, Jeopardy is for light-weights and wimps. Let’s see you go on a real game show, Ken. How about trying your hand at DOUBLE DARE? That’s right. You haven’t competed until you’re hamming it up with the one and only Marc Summers. Can you handle the physical challenges? I think not. You’re no trivia champion. You haven’t earned your two and a half million until you’ve run full speed on a giant hamster wheel or crawled through a kiddy pool of green slime to “grab that flag!” I dare you to go on a real game show, Ken. Nay, I DOUBLE dare you. Perhaps, I may even venture to go as far as to say that I, Jeff Leins, TRIPLE... DOG... DARE YOU to go into that obstacle course and emerge a real winner.

Because Ken... you’re not a real winner until you do. Not to me. And not to America.

Second Interview? Not Exactly.

Until recently, I thought an interview was when a series of questions were asked and answered. The dictionary defines it as “a conversation where facts and statements are elicited from another.” I’d even been interviewed before for various organizational or minimum wage positions. And each one consisted of sitting and answering. Answering and sitting.

So when I went to my latest job interview I expected a fair to ample amount of sitting. And answering. Unfortunately, not only was I sorely mistaken, but I forbidden to do either of them. But let me start from the beginning.

I’ve been on the job hunt for a few months now. I’ve been carefully polishing my resume, my cover letter, and even my new snazzy shoes. But not unlike Elmer Fudd, that hunt had proven unsuccessful thus far. Until a week ago, when I got a letter saying I’m actually qualified for something. Knowing this was only partially true, I still couldn’t believe the letter didn’t contain the gentle let-down I’ve become accustomed to by now. I even showed it a few people, making sure I was reading it correctly. “That ‘Call for an interview’ line means what I think it does, right?”

After a series of phone calls, I had my time and place. Needless to say, I was excited. Everyone knew I was going to an interview. I’d find people on the street and shout at them, “I got an interview!” And once the stranger and I high-fived, rejoiced, and embraced, I’d skip to the next unsuspecting well-wisher.
As I drove to Houston, I prepared myself mentally. I practiced in my head my answers, not knowing at the time that I wouldn’t need them.

I got all dressed up in my suit, looking distinguished and hirable. I’d post pictures, but I don’t think anyone is prepared for the swooning that would ensue.


The first interview lasted 5 minutes.
In all fairness, there was actually sitting and answering involved in this first one. But I’m not convinced it wasn’t based entirely on first impressions and judgment of my sweet tie.

So I got a second interview. Sweet, right? My excitement level jumped to unmanageable proportions. So did my nervousness.
I was told to dress in business casual and to come in from 10:30-8:30. Eight thirty? Well, ok, pal. Sounds great.
I had no idea; I’d never done this before. This was unexplored, uncharted territory for me. Too bad Magellan wasn’t there to say, “What the hell? That’s pretty strange. And I’ve been around the world.” But apparently he’s dead. And Ponce De Leon is unreachable.

I get there at about 10, anxious for a day of sitting and answering. The interviewer comes out and tells me we’re going out in “the field.”
“Great,” I think, wishing I knew where that was. Maybe it’s just shop talk for an office where we’ll close the daily deal or two. Maybe it’s a football field and we’re gonna discuss my qualifications while we toss the pigskin. Maybe we’re headed to Narnia where we’ll frolic among the land of the magical. I could only be so lucky.

Instead he drives us out to a nearby neighborhood and starts to get out. I looked around, confused at the lack of office buildings and board rooms. He grabs his “field bag” which I came to find out rather quickly was filled with coupon books. COUPON BOOKS!

You see, what I got myself into was a day of “in the field” unpaid work as a door-to-door salesman peddling coupon books to the unsuspecting suburbanites. Of course I didn’t know this until we were actually out there. I’m standing there in my polished shoes because I didn’t know that business casual meant running shoes. But Jered switches to his cross trainers, he’s prepared. That makes one of us. Though he did have the upper hand, knowing what the hell we were doing ahead of time. It was then that I realized I wasn’t going to be doing a lot of sitting or answering.
I kind of just followed behind him, like a puppy that follows you home. Except we went to every home on the block. Three times.

Here’s the only thing I learned all day. Door to door salesmen go to each house three times, unless it’s marked as a definite Yes or No. They carry a notepad and if they make a sale or get rejected, they mark it so they don’t go back. But if you’re busy or not home, they’ll be back. So they make the rounds three consecutive times, at least.

So I trudged around and around the block, all the while thinking, “NOOOOO! GET ME OUT OF HERE! AHHHHHHHH!” My foot slowly becoming a giant festering blister with each step.

After one pass of all the houses, Jered was nice enough to drive me to my house to change my shoes. I pleaded with my dad to rescue me from the terrible day I was having, but I eventually plodded back to the car, hanging my head in shame and exhaustion.

Even though I did all the walking, I wasn’t really allowed to make any sales or even interject, as I wasn’t an employee. All I could do was muster a weak smile if anyone shot me a glance.

The actual “job” consisted of five steps.
1. The introduction. This consisted of reassuring them that we weren’t from the church.
2. The pitch. Jered would tell them that we were there to support the local wheelchair basketball team. This was mostly true, but still just a setup to pull in that commission.
3. The presentation. Once he explained why we were there, then it was time to pull out the coupon book and hand it to them. Once you have it in your hand, you’re in trouble. Now he’s got you thumbing through it with him, checking out the deals. He doesn’t take it back so easily.
4. The closing. “So how many extras would you like to get today?” Not “Would you like to buy that one in your hand?” But rather an assumptive stab at trying to sell multiple bound and bundled wasted trees.
5. The rehash. The final attempt at pushing the product, followed by a guilt trip reminder of the cause they refused to support, just to show them we care.

I know what I don’t care about. I don’t care that you get two free oil changes. I don’t care that you can get a free 30 minute massage. I don’t care that you can save money at Astroworld or Mountasia or Jim's Taxidermy and Funeral Home.


At one point in the terrible trek, a thirteen year old rode by us on his bike, leading a posse of menacing pre-teen terrors. Once he realized we were door-to-door salesmen, he started in about how we weren’t wanted. I thought about saying, “You’re telling me, kid,” but I found myself defending us.
“It benefits wheelchair basketball,” I said, thinking that would deter him a little.
Nope. A response just encouraged him. “Wheelchair basketball? So what. No one likes wheelchair basketball.”
Ignoring him, we moved on down the street, resisting the urge to push his bike over to end the incessant badgering.

On the next pass, hours later, he made his mistake.
“What happened to your leg? You get in a fight or something?”
I tried to ignore him, but finally Jered stepped up and said, “It’s a prosthetic. It’s a fake leg. Leave him alone.”
“Whatever, I don’t believe you,” the future failure in life replied.
So I did what I needed to do. I had Jered hit me in the leg with an umbrella.
But still they were skeptical, so he did it a few more times.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Little Timmy the Terrible said.
That’s when I lifted my leg above my head.

So terrified by the sight, he dropped his bike and bolted in the other direction, his gang close at his heels. He ran the entire way home. I laughed hard enough to forget that I was bleeding in multiple places from the walking.

I’m pretty embarrassed about the whole affair though, since everyone knew I was interviewing. I just reply to mini-interviews about how it went with, “They offered me a job, but I didn’t take it. It’s not what I want to do.” That being an understated truth, of course. In fact, it was one of the worst experiences of my life. If only I could have just sat and answered.

Thanksgiving Tradition

Thanksgiving with the Leins family has never been anything fancy. There’s no ceremonial cutting of the turkey or pilgrim decorations or anything silly like that. But it’s always traditional, for the most part.

We gather around a long dining room table and pass things in circles. There’s football and small talk and pumpkin pie. There’s a traditional prayer over a traditional turkey around a traditional table.
For the past few years, the Leins family has broken bread with the Collins family for Thanksgiving. They’re friends of the family through my sister and we just keep getting invited back. And each time you can expect certain things. Mini traditions, if you will.

For example, my sister loves noodles. She’s not really a big noodle-eater the other 364 days of the year, but for some reason these noodles are special. These noodles have that magic ingredient that makes her gobble them up like she hasn’t eaten since the last noodle offering. But what makes it a tradition is that every year, without fail, she gets some lame comment about her noodle fetish during dinner. In my head I’m thinking, “Wait for it. Waaaaait for iiiiiiit.” Then it comes, usually from Bradley, the youngest of the Collins clan. “You sure love your noodles, Kristen.” Ah, there it is. And just under 2 minutes, a new record. And we all laugh because we’ve never heard it before and it never gets old. Never. It never ever gets old even though we’ve heard it every year for at least half a decade. Still hilarious and clever. Never gets old.

But there’s one tradition that makes it Thanksgiving. Every year, right before we caravan over to the Collins household, there is this anticipation in the air. It’s not that excited anticipation that buzzes during Christmas Eve, but a hanging uneasiness as we all think to ourselves, “What’s gonna happen this year?”
That’s the best part for me. I sit quietly back and wait for outbursts that I know are coming. They aren’t unexpected, just unprovoked. It’s like a precarious game of Jenga, you just never know when it’s going to topple and Mr. Collins is going to lose it on the closest family member.

You see, the Collins family is an odd bunch. I wouldn’t call them dysfunctional, because there’s no pregnant teenager or adopted wheelchair Somali slave. But it’s more of the opposite. It’s more of a super strictness that makes me half-expect to see them break into song about their age in true Von Trapp fashion.

Mr. Collins, the circus master of our Thanksgiving troupe, sits at the helm of the table, pretending his high-backed chair is a throne, barking orders at anyone who will listen. He’s the kind of dad that never really coached sports for their kid, but was right there to yell at the coach or the official or the mom whose turn it was to bring snacks. Ahhh, vicarious participation. Coach Collins is a lawyer. Though I’ve never really seen him in the courtroom, I imagine it like the scene from A Few Good Men where Tom Cruise and Jack Nicholson have it out about the truth. Only they’ve combined Tom and Jack into one incredibly angry part and he’s just lacing into people. I’m not really scared of him, just like I’m not scared of steam engines or balloons or anything else full of hot air. In fact, I appreciate his wild antics because it literally brings something interesting to the table.

Though usually taking the brunt of his verbal abuse is his wife. She has that quiet sophistication that everyone wishes he had, so we could all eat in peace. Mrs. Collins is a school principal, though you’d never know it with all the deprecation she endures when she’s trying to take the traditional Thanksgiving pictures. “Just take the picture already, dear,” Ray Collins Sr. will huff at her in front of everyone. She aims to please, making special arrangements or lending a helping hand, one that compliments her husband’s iron fist.

The twins are Kristen’s age, Lianne and Raymond, obviously not identical.
Lianne used to be a feisty little brat, folding her arms and giving icy stares where she deemed necessary. But maturity and freedom from parental tyranny the last few years has allowed her to become laid back enough to enjoy a little mockery from my brother and me. She’s a smart kid though, valedictorian and all. Though she can’t be all that intelligent, choosing voluntarily to go to the University of Texas.

Raymond, the other twin, used to be a really quiet guy. Bashful from years of neglect, I felt for this barely middle child. Though recently this calm, quiet nerd has given way to a full on cowboy. Texas Tech will do that to a poor innocent lad. He’s like some kind of horse whisperer or something, wrangling wild stallions with lassoes and keeping a stable in the country. As a strictly suburban Texan, I cringe at the thought of him upholding the stereotypes. This year should be interesting too since, in the last year, Raymond took quite a spill off a bull he was riding and broke his arm. Not a mechanical bull with the padding all around, but a real life raging bull. That crazy kid.

And then there’s Bradley. The baby of the family, he’s escaped some of the discipline that keeps the others from talking non-stop. He chatters on about anything and everything, as long as there’s someone within earshot. Sports are his favorite subject, as he’s dabbled in most of them and picked up how to scream at the TV from his father. I’ve inadvertently become his favorite and he latches onto me as soon as I break the threshold of the front door, prattling on about one of the games scheduled for the day. And somehow he graduated to the “grown-up” table at the same time as me, despite me being five or six years his senior. So he’s still right there, giggling and babbling. Unfortunately he’s six inches taller than me, so I’m dwarfed in his adolescent shadow, wondering who’s following who now. They grow up so fast.

Dinner consists of the usual round the table discussion about life and success in the past year, catching up on all the happenings of the various children. I usually sit next to my brother, slouching down in my chair and hoping no one directs a question at me. Just pass me the cranberry sauce. That sweet lump of reddish purple mass still shaped like the can. Hand it to me now, so that I can eat it quickly before Bradley can say, “You sure love your cranberry sauce.” And we’ll laugh and laugh. Because it never gets old.

So this Turkey Day I’m already in preparation mode, thinking to myself, “Here it comes.” But I’ll know it’s really Thanksgiving when I hear that first outburst from across the house. After all, it’s tradition.

Crazy Baby Head

Name Changes

I look at people going to med school and I realize that is definitely not for me.
They go to school for years and years and spend tons of money, just to get a couple of letters added to their name. A Dr there, a p, h, and d there. An m. d. over here. All so they can practice medicine. Practice. Reassuring isn’t it?
Well, I don’t plan on spending that kind of time. Instead, I’m heading to the courthouse for a name change. That’ll spice things up a bit, without rigorous schooling and burdensome debt.
And when people ask me what I want to be when I graduate I’ll say, “Spanish Conquistador and Conqueror of Far Away Lands.”
They’ll cock their head to the side and say, “Interesting…”
And I’ll respond, “And that’s just my first name.”

This should make for an interesting traditional Thanksgiving 20 questions session.

All Dogs Go To Heaven?

Where do you take a dead animal when it dies? I mean, with fish, lizards, and kittens, you could just flush ‘em down the toilet, but what about the rest of the animal kingdom? I would assume a veterinarian, but at that point it’s pretty much a lost cause. Maybe they got a little doggy furnace in the back. Or a door that opens into the Chinese kitchen next door. Either way, if a dog got hit by a car, I’d feel a little strange carrying him in draped over my arms saying, “Yeah, um, where do you want this?”

And what about big animals, like horses? That’s a big hunk of carcass to be draggin’ around by the hooves, waiting for a representative from Elmer’s. Either way I’d probably just beat it over and over and over and over and over and over.

Morbid huh? Yeah, well, I’m a sick individual.

My Professors - Final Semester

Last installment of "Make Fun of Jeff's Profs."

First is my journalism professor. My ONLY journalism course and the unfortunate reason for actually having to take another semester seriously. And though I still have one more course, I FEEL like a journalist already. I mean, just yesterday I tried to interview someone right after their family died in a fiery car crash and had no moral objections whatsoever.
The class is Media Writing II, the sequel to a terrible course that I felt captured the essence of a department that was in the midst of cancellation.
My professor is Dr. Starr, a man who doesn't live up to his name. His name should be Dr. Windbag. Slightly more accurate, and I think it has a nice ring to it. Almost Presidential.
Needless to say, he's boring, long-winded, and tells stories that actually numb my mind. Like I sat on it funny and when class ends, there's a tingling sensation to remind me that I can still think.
Although I suppose it could be worse. I could have a teacher that actually tries to teach and take grades. So far I'm happy to "report" that I have learned nothing.

Next is my creative writing course.
I wish I could go unnoticed in this class, but the room is the size of my new walk-in closet and I accidentally opened my mouth the first week and impressed this hack. If you don't know what a hack is, it's someone who once was great and now just says, "Hey, remember that one thing I did a while back?" Though I suppose that might be giving him too much credit.
He rambles on for several minutes, trying to construct little speeches like he was writing them. Though also to impress the overwhelming majority of the class, which is made up of freshman and sophomore girls, who write poetry in little diaries.
My finger-twiddling doesn't seem to distract the rest of them, as I lean helpless against the back wall, hoping that he won't venture for another opinion from me.
Here's an opinion, we studied "The Great Gatsby" 6 years ago, and it wasn't that fantastic then.

Next is my Criminology professor. She's strict and stern, like a true woman of the law, crackin' down on wrong-doers. As a friend of mine pointed out, she looks like the teacher from "The Magic School Bus." And she DOES have a striking resemblence to Ms. Frizzle. Other than that, she lectures, she teaches, and except when she tried to sing "Bad Boys," she does an OK job.

Finally, there is my Literature and Film professor. This class has the potential to be the bigger waste of my time at A&M. 5 films and the literature they are based on, all the same director. The same one. A guy who died 30 years ago. Not different interpretations of film adaptations. Just the same yahoo making boring black and white movies.
The professor is the epitome of the word pretentious. Never heard the first person tense used so often. Sometimes when I'm tired of hearing how brilliant he is, I just tune him out and let the waves of arrogance wash over me. Ahh, the warm feeling of some terrible professor's ego, ticking away the minutes of his captive audience.
The best part is that he doesn't find it at all strange that he literally pauses a movie every 5 frames just to sit and ponder what the director was trying to convey. I'd love to see him gaze in wonderment at such masterpieces as Harry Potter or Daredevil, both adaptations of "literature." Unfortunately I'd have to send his secretary a formal notice with the recommendations, since he's above corresponding with lowly students.

So it looks like it going to be a long semester of classes I have little to no interest in. Sounds familiar.
At least it's the last one.

Cuddle Parties?

http://www.cuddleparty.com/

See for yourself.
Sigh.
Who are these people?

Third Greatest Invention

Ok, so some of you are new to the Miscellaneous Thoughts, so I'll recap the Greatest Inventions thus far:
1. The Kleenex Box
2. The Spork

And now for the unveiling of the third greatest invention of all time:
Tagless shirts.

So I was going through my drawer, selecting an undershirt to wear for the day, and it dawned on me that the idea of tagless is relatively new. Why it took so long for the t-shirt companies to come up with this, I have no idea. But it is here. And it is glorious.

Tagless. A concept so brilliant, so revolutionary, that it belongs in the pantheon of great ideas, such as the Kleenex box and the spork. And although it is relatively new, I believe that it will stand the test of time and mature into a truly inspirational concept worthy of such praise.

Hanes launched the tagless t-shirt in 2002, along with a new era in comfortable clothing.
I imagine the summit where the tagless development was created like the Manhattan Project. The highest experts in the field of textiles and various departments of attire, in a dark room underground in some undisclosed location, sitting around a huge circular conference table. Everything done in a clandestine manner, as to not alert the evil Fruit of the Loom of their plans for t-shirt domination. It was there that tagless was born.

And tagless will forever be remembered, as it sits at the number three spot in the most important inventions ever devised by the human mind. Hanes, we salute you.

Disturbingly Hilarious

The suit shirt is a nice touch, you know, instead of pajamas.

And in case you don't understand what the characters say, it reads: "PATHETICALLY ALONE?"

Blockbuster Rant - Day 5

This is installment 5 of 5. The final rant. So if you're starting from this point, please learn your number system.

Late Fees:
Ahhh, late fees. The unfortunate necessity of renting movies out to thousands of people. Without late fees, due dates mean about as much as my “Have a nice night” comment as they head out the door.
Of course, Blockbuster doesn’t call them “late fees.” They’re called “Extended Viewing Fees.” Or when we explain it to the irate customer, its referred to as “a balance on your account.” That’s the idea, confuse them with silly euphemisms. But these little “punishment payments” can be fun. Not for them. But for me.
I find it all amusing, usually. It’s my little way of reversing the stupidity and attitude I get from every other customer. A final “screw you” to everyone incapable of meeting a noon deadline.
Plus, it’s like a game. How will they react?

No one ever thinks it’s their fault. I’ve heard the same excuses more times than I could’ve ever counted.
“No way. I know I turned those in on time,” they usually say, accompanied by the hands to hips motion.

My ideal reply would go something like this:
“Touché, sir. I hadn’t thought of that.
Well, after a second glance at your electronic history, I have come to the conclusion that one of you is lying. And since you phrased your complaint so eloquently and convincingly, I have to assume that the computer is the one who isn’t being honest. It says here precisely when the movie was checked in and when it was due, but that HAS to be incorrect, what with all the mistakes computers are making these days. It couldn’t be you that was wrong to try to weasel out of paying the late fee that you have accumulated, because that wouldn’t make any sense. Let me just take that off of here for…
Wait a second… AHA! You almost had me convinced. You sly devil, you. That’ll be 4.06.”

Actually the best part about telling them they have late fees is to see the look of horror and shock sweep across their face. You can almost see the anger rise up. It’s so great. Which is why I always make sure I’m not doing anything else when I break the news to them about their little faux pas.
And when I tell them, I like to throw a question mark on the end. “You have a 4.06 balance on your accountQUESTION MARK”
This way its like I’m saying, “How did that get there?” Like I’m on their side. I’m on your team, buddy, don’t get mad at me. Same team, pal. There’s no I in team. We’re all friends here, rightQUESTION MARK You can’t get mad.

But they do.

They always do.

“What do you mean I have a late fee? I turned that in on time. I remember because I was on my way to drop the kids off at soccer practice and I put in the slot both at the same time. And I remember the time because I looked at the positioning of the sun and…”
To me it sounds like this: “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.”

I explain what I can do for them. I can cut it in half or take it off if it’s a small amount, but I like to see what they’re willing to say or do. I, for once, hold all the power. And now that little crack they made about my blue polo doesn’t seem so funny, does it?

Then the manager strides over, takes a look at the rental history, and cuts them a deal. It’s like good cop, bad cop. I sweat them out a little under the bright light, then he comes in and smoothes it over.

Speaking of cops, I made an off-duty cop pay his late fee one time. I felt like Tim Robbins in Shawshank Redemption. I was like, “Take that!”
I wanted so bad to be wearing blue blockers, so that I could pull them down slowly and look over the top of them.
“Excuse me, I’m gonna need to see your Blockbuster card and identification, sir.”
He pulls it out, hands it over.
“Do you know that these movies are late?”
He stammers out an excuse.
“Wait here while I check the computer.”
I take half a step to the left and check out the history.
“I’m gonna have to charge you a late fee, sir. These movies were entirely too late. If they were a few hours late, I might have given you a warning, but this was just too far overdue.”
He nods slowly in agreement and hangs his head in shame.
“Sign here, please. And next time have these in on time. Good day.”

But after the manager is done cutting the deal or forcing payment, he leaves to go handle something else and I’m left with the pissed off customer. My sheepish expression and nervous laugh isn’t going to calm the raging football coach in front of me. And I have to collect the money while he tsks, sighs, and grumbles the whole time. I’m not exactly stern or menacing either, so he just takes it all out on me. It’s like a midget repo man.

So, I tell you what, why don’t I just call you when they’re going to be late.

Conclusionary Statement:
(Before I get started on my final thoughts, I just want to say that conclusionary isn’t a word.)
At the end of the day, none of that crap matters. I’m not going to leave bitter or lose any sleep over some customer’s frantic antics.
I just laugh it off, like I did with this rant.
Blockbuster wasn’t THAT bad of a job. There are much worse, lowering paying jobs. Like being Richard Simmons’s friend.
Though it would have been even better without customers, but hey, you can’t have everything.

But I’m sure glad I’m done with it all, including this rant.

And don’t forget, next time you’re in a Blockbuster, remember to ask the guy for the “Leins Special.”

Blockbuster Rant - Day 4

The "Do You Have This?" People:

"Do you have that one... with the guy from... um... It came out a few years ago... and it was about this woman who died… Do you have that one?"
"Yes ma'am. We do. Try the drama section. And if it's not there, try comedy or action. Or family. And if it isn't there, try Hollywood Video."

The "do you have this" people are the worst kind of customers. Even worse than the disgusted, disgruntled late fee crowd. Though sometimes the two groups of geniuses overlap in an incestuous way that can only result in retardation of the worst kind.

It's difficult to explain what frustrates me so much about the "do you have this" people. But let me try to capture it for you.
A kid grabs a game box from the shelf and toddles over to the counter and stretches his arms up and slides it towards me.
"Do you have this one?" he asks.
Awww, so cute. I check, just to humor him. Though I know for a fact we don't have any because it's a popular title and there aren't any rental boxes out there. But he REALLY wanted it, so he just had to make sure.
"No, man, we don't have that one. Sorry."
He says ok and snatches it up, running back to pick another one. He returns soon after, clutching another empty game box.
"What about this one?" he whines.
I check again for it, knowing he probably won't rent it even if we do have it.
"Nope, not that one either."
Dejected, he trudges back to the game area, meanwhile undoing a half hours worth of facing and straightening someone probably just did. He repeats this process a few more times, until finally he gives up and runs off, yelling "They didn't have it!!"
Now imagine a GROWN ADULT doing the exact same thing. Lots of them.
That's about how annoying it is.

Though, to be fair, there are some people that are genuinely trying to find a particular movie and had trouble locating it among our many shelves and rows. They're easy to spot though and I try to help them out as best as I can, running through the usual song and dance of the computer search and drop box scavenger hunt.

But some people come in and immediately ask, "Hey, where could I find…"
The door hasn't even swung closed from their entrance and they're already asking where a movie is. Sure, let me get right on that. I mean, I don't have anything else to do. I was just scratching my ass over here any way, while people wait in line to be checked out. And when I'm done picking my nose, I'll remove that finger and type in your request into my computer, because the "first come, first serve" rule doesn't apply to you, does it Speedy Gonzales?

And sometimes I don't even look. I just fake it. I type something in the computer, press enter and a few arrow keys and then I take a step back, lean forward, and squint at the screen, pretending to read.
"Nope, sorry sir, we are all out of that one."
I don't have a clue.
I just know we're probably out of it. I can't be bothered to ACTUALLY look, because that would require effort. Effort that frankly, he hasn't earned.

And another way that I can tell they don't deserve it? When they bring me the cover box.
The cover box is the original movie case that we place in front of the rentals. Oh, and it's also very empty.
I don't know how many times I've had someone bring me the cover box and open it to show me, *gasp*, there's nothing inside!
So when someone carries the cover box all the way from the wall to the register and hands it to me, I just don't know what to do. I probably would have been fired if I just reached across and slapped the shit-eating grin off their face. Plus that would have been a little dramatic.
Usually I just drop my head in defeat and mutter "This is the cover box. Was there anything behind this?"
I can almost see the confusion wash over their face. They're like a deer in headlights. Their eyes dart back and forth, wondering if maybe there WAS something there.
But alas, they were too dumb to notice that when they grabbed that cover box off the shelf that it left a gaping void and clear view of the glaring white wall behind it, obviously meaning there are no copies.

This brings on another volley of equally brilliant questions. Follow up questions to the cardinal query of idiocy.

"But what about in the back?" they ask.
Let me dispel this myth right now. There isn't some secret stash of movies people REALLY want to see hidden underneath the counter. It's not like I'm going to suddenly reach below the register and pull out a copy, throw confetti in the air, and set off a siren, complete with flashing lights and plenty of fanfare. "YOU'RE THE LUCKY CUSTOMER!" I'll yell, as I come from behind the counter to dance a jig of merriment from the sheer excitement of you getting one from the top secret, hidden hoard.

No, instead, the best I can do is rummage through the drop box for them, which I also may or may not fake according to how nicely they asked and, of course, if they are hot.

Another great question that I definitely love to get is "Do you know when it's due back?"
Ok, let's say we DIDN'T have a movie pass that allows you to keep the movie indefinitely. Do you ever bring a movie back right at the exact time it's due? No, it's usually a little early. Or sometimes a little late. Or sometimes never.
But I'm not about to speculate when a movie is going to appear in our store so that you can shift the blame to me, the innocent employee, when it isn't back on time.
We're open tomorrow, and it could be back by then.
BUT, we're also open July 23, 2006. And it might be back by then too.

But my all time favorite is "Can you call me when a copy of it comes in?"
The first time I heard this I thought they were kidding.

This would require a special task force of 1 or 2 employees solely dedicated to double checking returns with a list of desired titles. Then, once the Holy Grail of of DVDs is located, everyone else that has asked for it recently is then bypassed for you, the Very Important Person that was bumped to the top of the list. It'll be like the liver transplant list at your local hospital, only instead of a liver, it'll be Soul Food Season 1: Volume 4 of 5. And once that precious item has been rescued from the hands of the unworthy, a member of the elite task force then rushes over to the red phone to place a call to you, the VIP. Meanwhile the other member of BB-TF1 stands ready, armed with a fully automatic AK-47, loaded, with a hair trigger, in case anyone makes a sudden attack for the movie. It is then placed in a box with fingerprint recognition protection, which is then placed in a glass box guarded by lasers, and finally put inside an air tight vault only to be accessed by two employees with identical keys that must be turned simultaneously.

Because you, sir, are our top priority.

Blockbuster Rant - Day 3

Facing and Straightening:
Another part of my job description was to handle the complex task of facing and straightening. Basically, and see if you can follow me on this because I know it’s complicated, I have to make sure the videos are in line with the cover box so the wall looks nice and clean. I know, it’s an intricate system. Years of development. Took me all summer to master the art of the wall straightening. If I did, in fact, attain the level of skill it takes to mash your hands together with boxes in between.

Then there was putting the returned rentals back on the shelf, or “running them.” (Facing, straightening, running… I know these are all technical terms, but try to follow the jargon.)
The qualification for this involves knowing your alphabet and…um… nope, that’s pretty much it.
Except Blockbuster doesn’t do everything exactly alphabetical when it comes to the wall. It’s like a six year old threw them up there in what he thought was the right order, complete with a jumble in the LMNOP area.

Each day we had to dive into the pile of boxes underneath the drop slot. You open the cabinet door and boxes just spill out onto the floor. Not a good sign when it means you have to open each and every one of them and see if there’s something inside. Kind of like the search for the golden ticket, without the satisfying run through the town afterwards.

And just so we’re not mistaken, the urge to build a fort out of them was there. It took all my willpower to not construct a fortified wall with DVD cases and run a pirate flag up a flag pole.

So I look in every single box to make sure they aren’t empty or they don’t include an AOL CD for 100 free internet hours. Don’t get me wrong, the free hours were nice, but it’s not what I was looking for. Oh, and AOL sucks.

Then I slam little yellow locks home into each one. Again, safe and secure. No one can crack the heavy security mechanism of the … magnet?
Ok, so Blockbuster isn’t exactly Fort Knox, but what did you expect from a place where two of the walls are made entirely of breakable glass? And the entrance is protected by a sensor that accomplishes nothing more than annoying everyone with high pitched beeps. And it’s guarded by a little old lady barely over 5 feet with one of those old people afros.
Don’t underestimate her though, I bet she has some hidden ninja moves, like that crane kick from Karate Kid.

Any way, as I was saying, I check ‘em all in and then I alphabetize. I know, it’s a lot of ordering by letter. Funny how people still can’t figure out where a movie is, isn’t it?

All of the locked and sorted cases go onto a cart. Surprisingly, the carts don’t have that usual one wheel that kind of wobbles out of control. In fact, they’re pretty heavy duty carts for pushing a bunch of movies around. They look like I could push ammo into battle on them. I even heard a rumor someone got killed by one of them in a runaway out-of-control situation, which Blockbuster quickly covered up. But I think that’s just a rumor… Or is it?

Putting the movies back on the shelves was always fun though because it's like a puzzle. You have to figure out where it goes in the crazy order everything is in. And sometimes customers just like to be SO FUNNY and move boxes around to make it that much harder. Those crazy kids and their zany hijinks.

Categories (drama, comedy, etc) are much easier though. You just walk down the row and put them up there. It gives you a chance to check out the selection for the 5 free rentals you get a week. Strange placement though, like Adaptation in the comedy section. Or Batman 3 and 4 under Action, when clearly a new section of “Unintentional Comedies” is necessary.

It wasn’t until I started into the “Family” section that I realized there were lots of movies entitled ____ Saves Christmas. Elmo Saves Christmas. Veggie Tales Saves Christmas. Ernest Saves Christmas. I didn’t realize Christmas was in such peril.
And if it was, my list of heroes would not include Ernest or any of the Sesame Street posse.

At the end of the day, before everything is closed up, the shelves all have to be straightened. Well, we like to get a jump on it early, so we’re not walking around an hour later nitpicking over box placement.
But it always seems that the late night crew manages to mess it all up. An hour’s worth of work can all be undone by a teenager who isn’t sure which movie he wants, so he picks up all the cover boxes and skims the summary. Of course, he never puts it back straight or even in the right place.
It’s like someone throwing a bunch of paperwork on your desk at 4:50. Or a group of 8 slipping in the door right before closing at a restaurant. You almost just want to tell the night owls off just so they won’t ravage the meticulous arrangement.
“It’s my wall. So don’t screw with it, buddy. This wall is third in line behind the Great Wall and that wall with all the Vietnam names, so don’t go messing it all up, pal. Or it’s over. Yeah, that’s right. I’ll cancel your membership. I won’t even think twice about it.”

During the final hour of my tenure at Blockbuster, I almost had my first explosion on a customer. The one thing standing between me and finally being done was one of the dumbest, fattest ladies I have ever had the displeasure of coming in contact with.
This female Jabba the Hutt decided it was a good idea to bring her two young kids into the store at midnight on a school night and let them run amuck.
It was like some evil Dr. Frankenstein took one of the usual late night crew who trashes the place and a customer who asks too many ridiculous questions, and they combined them, like the Planeteers.
But instead of getting a hero that saves the world from pollution, they created an ultra super stupid human being, capable of causing loss of IQ points just by speaking. (And she was about that size too, like they had fused two people together.)
And if that wasn’t enough, she popped out two evil spawns, running rampant through the aisles, mimicking the inane questioning and aptitude for chaos of their massive mother.
Needless to say, I wasn’t happy to see them.

One of the monsters picked up a coupon for Six Flags and said, “Hey! Free tickets to Astroworld!” and shoved it in his pocket. Brilliant. We just keep stacks and stacks of free tickets right by the door, just prime for the taking.

And then he picked up a Passion of the Christ presale card. “Ooh, 7 free rentals and the Passion.”
First of all, I’m surprised his devil hands didn’t melt at merely touching something about Jesus. And second, YOU HAVE TO BUY THAT.
After I mentioned it to the lady that looked like a human melting snowman, she didn’t understand either.
“Um… you have to purchase the card. See this price here at the top, that’s how much the movie, plus the free rentals costs.”
She still didn’t understand. Probably never will. My temper was strained and I had to go to my happy place to keep from drop kicking the kids and taking a titanium appendage to her head.
And when she finally left, I assessed the damage.
Apparently the two grown adults had done more damage than their two siblings.

It was at that point that I lost all faith in humanity.

Blockbuster Rant - Day 2

Suggestive Selling:
Part of the nine step checkout they teach you in nine hour training is this: suggestive selling. This is basically pushing something they didn’t ask for and pretending like they can’t do without it.
At first I didn’t do it. I would not compromise my made-up morals with such filth as promoting passes and peddling products. McDonald’s made the method famous with their “would you like fries with that?” At Blockbuster, it’s just a variation on the same theme.
I thought to myself, “There isn’t suggestive selling in the rest of the world, why should I have to do it?” When you buy a plane ticket to Vermont, they don’t say, “Would you also like a ticket to Oregon with that?”

But soon I started to get the hang of it. That and the added pressure of competition with my coworkers, I sold a few movie passes.

In case you don’t know, Blockbuster has this deal going on where you can pay a flat monthly fee and rent as many movies as you want, with no due dates or late fees. Well, the managers cut the price of them by $10 to get a bunch of people signed up on a trial basis. So I sold a few more passes.
Then they started offering incentives and setting up store contests. And I can’t PASS up some friendly competition. So I sold some more. But I still hated selling them as much as people hated hearing it.

Well, once this punk kid named John started trash talking at the registers, it was on. I brought my ‘A’ game. John and the customers didn’t know what hit ‘em. They’d walk up to the register to ask if we had a movie and they’d walk away with a movie pass and a look of confusion. “What just happened?” they'd think as I mark another one up on Little John.

Soon I got to a point where I could just feel out the suckers. If you’re a college kid strolling up to the counter, dumping pocket change on the counter, you’re probably not going to buy a $25 movie pass. Same with a businessmen in a suit, holding a movie he knew he was going to rent before he even parked his car and in the other hand an American Express Platinum card poised and ready. Yeah, I’m probably going to skip the spiel and you’re getting the Leins Special.

Unfortunately sometimes the suckers are not only gullible enough to buy a pass, but are also financially challenged. Nothing worse than drawing up all the paperwork and getting “Card Declined.” Thanks Pablo, but how about if you come back when you learn that charging it doesn’t send the payment off to magical happy land where you don’t have to worry about it anymore.

However, let’s say you come wandering up to the register holding 3-4 movies, with a puzzled look on your face. And you’re confused, wondering which two you’re taking home. Well, the movies aren’t the only thing that’s about to get taken, my friend.

Like a gazelle that wanders from the pack, you’ve strayed into the kill zone, baby.

I execute my technique to near perfection, starting first by lulling them into a false sense of security. That warm, snuggly feeling I was talking about earlier.
Then I place a harmless question such as, “Have you heard about our movie pass?”
At this point I’m not pitching anything, I’m just wondering if they’ve heard about it already. I’m expecting that ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ Truth is, it doesn’t matter which one they say. They could shout something in Swahili for all I care. It’s a trick question any way and the only correct answer is an immediate “I’m not interested.”

They hesitate for one second, and that trap slams shut around them. They’re then bombarded with rationalities that boggle the mind. They haven’t had to think this hard since the GED.
I’m throwing out prices, comparing, contrasting, wheeling, dealing… If I have to draw a Venn Diagram for these people, I will. And a lot of the time they give in to the inescapable reality that they will save a few dollars. It’s win/win really.

But other times, inside this web of logic, they start to wriggle. And when they don’t want to hear it anymore, out come the excuses.

A memorable quote from a little underrated movie called Boiler Room said this:
“A sale is made on every call you make. Either you sell the client some stock or he sells you a reason he can't.” And while I’m not telemarketing stock options, I sure as hell am not going to lose to some idiot who can’t decide between 2 Fast 2 Furious and You Got Served.

He’ll usually stutter through some poor excuse about “Maybe next time.”
“Next time? Next time! Sir, do you know what John F. Kennedy said to his secret service about riding in a bulletproof car? He said ‘Maybe next time.’ And you know what, sir? JFK is dead. Yeah, dead. All because next time was good enough for him. Well it’s not good enough for me. And it shouldn’t be good enough for you. He also said, ‘Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.’ You know what you can do for your country? Buy a movie pass. The economy needs you. Your country needs you! God bless America!”
And the slightly shorter version is: “If you don’t buy a movie pass, the terrorists have already won.”

Blockbuster Rant - Day 1

The summer is ending and so ends my time as a slave to the juggernaut of movie rentals, Blockbuster. I’ve worked there now for about three months, just basking in the world of just above minimum wage and people with absolutely no taste in movies. Though I don’t want to sound arrogant, like I’ve been slummin’ it with the uncultured folk, it just comes out that way because, well… nevermind, it’s true.
And as I have just completed my final shift as a “Customer Service Representative,” I figured I would share a little about what makes this such a miserable experience. I hope you can see all the comedy that I saw on a daily basis.
Oh, and because there is so much to talk about, I’ll have to stretch it out over a few days. Enjoy.

Basics of My Job

My illustrious title at Blockbuster is “Customer Service Representative.” Which means that first and foremost my job is to make the customer feel all warm and snuggly. The customer is always right, right? Yeah right.

The customer is an idiot. If you saw half the stuff that I see, you’d want to high five me right now, trust me. Try fifty people requesting Whole Ten Yards when
a) we blatantly don’t have any in stock, as those shelves are empty
b) they have already asked at least once since they first walked in the store
and c) this is one of the worst sequels, and dare I say movies ever put on film.
All of this I will cover later, in a segment entitled “The ‘Do You Have This’ People.”

Anything the customer needs, I’m supposed to get. Or at least look for. Anything that can help the customer “Make it a Blockbuster night.” Within limits.

And when I’m not wrapping a warm and welcoming blanket around the tired, poor, and huddled masses of people yearning to rent a movie... I work the register.

Most of the time I dish out the most express checkout you’ll ever see. I like to call it “The Leins Special.”

The Leins Special:
This is basically the get in, get out, no bullshit treatment that everyone wishes they could have everywhere they go. You hand me the movies, I check ‘em out. You hand me the money, I hand you the movies. And you’re out the door. There’s no “Did you find everything ok?” or “Nice weather we’re having” coming from this direction. You unwillingly consented to a nonverbal agreement to have a nonverbal checkout, people.
You don’t really want me to chit chat with you. And I REALLY don’t want to small talk with you. So let’s keep this simple and we’ll both be happy.
Meanwhile, I whip that hand scanner out like I’m drawing a six shooter and pull the trigger as bar codes fly by with the other hand. That little red line flashes out, catching electronic information with each satisfying beep. I’m almost tempted to blow on the end of it when I’m done.
And I slide the magnetic locks from the cases so smoothly, it’s almost graceful. I have the weight of the little yellow locks down so well that I can launch one of them two registers over and land it in the container with all the others. Safe. Secure. The way a little lock should be.
And as they’re handing me the money, my fingers are flashing through the keystrokes on the register.
You see, it’s all about efficiency. And no chatter. Mr. T didn’t tolerate jibber-jabber, and neither do I.
That’s the “Leins Special.”

Which is why when people slow down the process, I’m not happy.

Here’s a tip, just to keep in mind: have your Blockbuster card ready.
That’s all. Nothing special or super secret, just have it ready.
I’m not even asking you to have it on a utility belt or even have it out and in hand like a baton in a relay race, just know where it is, at the very least.
Because what takes the most time at the register is that guy waiting for you to hand him the card. You see, the blockbuster slave can’t do a damn thing until that card is scanned or he finds your name among the thousands and thousands in the database.

And what’s worse is that some people think it’s funny that their extensive rummage through their purse or fanny pack is taking an excruciatingly long time. It’s like a bad magic trick. There’s shuffling involved and a lot of distracting chatter. And sometimes a rabbit. And finally, in the end they pull it out and say, “Is this your card?”

Though the urge to strangle rises when they finally locate that card and it is, in fact, the wrong card. When they hand me a Randall’s card from their bag after three minutes of digging, I hope my body language screams loud enough for them to hear. Of course, on the outside I just chuckle along with them (at them) as I hand them back their card and a little piece of my dignity.

You want to know why you had to wait in line when you tried to come up to the register? Because the last six people thought that little trick was a knee-slapping hoot.
It wasn’t. And it isn’t. And it never will be.

The rest of the mystery lies in the credit card machine. I never thought a little black box that you swipe your card through could be so difficult to master, but alas, it is quite the enigma for the general public. Most of the time I have to hold their hand and walk them through the two steps of pressing “Yes” to agree to the charges and then swiping the card. I do this all with reassuring words and pats to make them feel like they’re special. Then I give them a lollipop.
I just say, “Press the green button, then swipe your card.” About 75% of the people search frantically for the green button if I don’t point it out in my own condescending manner.
Though I must say, it’s pretty hard, what with the other buttons being various shades of grey. It’s like an Easter egg hunt for these grown adults, because they giggle like schoolchildren when they finally find that green button. Congratulations, you have now mastered the credit card box. Chalk one up for the humans in the battle against machines.


Look for more rants throughout the week!

Catwoman - Don't take my word for it

Some of you are probably tired of hearing me rant and rave about different movies. I've even made a short comment on Catwoman before. So this time, I'll just show you what others thought of this disgrace to cinema.
And in the spirit of cats, I'll include 9 points, for each of its lives. Once this list is over, then we'll never speak of it again. That is, until the Razzie Awards are given out.
(Razzies are the opposite of Oscars. They are awards for worst achievements of the year.)

1. RottenTomatoes.com, a site dedicated to compiling movie reviews from prestigious critics, has Catwoman at an 10% on the tomato meter. That's 105/117 bad reviews, for those people that like fractions. This means, in technical terms, that it royally sucked.
   
   
2. The Internet Movie Database, the leading movie site on the World Wide Web, has the movie with a user rating of 2.4/10, with 501 votes. These are votes from ordinary people, like you and me and that other guy.
   
   Here's a comparison: Battlefield Earth, known for being one of the worst movies ever made, has the exact same score (a 2.4). It is currently ranked at #25 of the BOTTOM 100 movies of all time.
   Dude, Where's my Car? has a 4.6.
   
   
3. Roger Ebert, the most famous film critic, had this to say:
   "What a letdown. The filmmakers have given great thought to photographing Berry, who looks fabulous, and little thought to providing her with a strong character, story, supporting characters or action sequences. In a summer when "Spider-Man 2" represents the state of the art, "Catwoman" is tired and dated."
   
   
4. Terrorists have threatened to kill another hostage unless Halle Berry publicly apologizes for the making of this movie.
   
   
5. For the first night of its release (Friday), it only made $6 million. I know what you're thinking, "$6 million is a lot of money, I wish I had that kind of money, I'd spend it on booze."
   But in box office numbers, this is bad. Especially for a movie that cost $100 million to make! This puts the movie at 3rd for the weekend behind Bourne Supremacy and I, Robot, respectively.
   ($17m for the weekend)
   
   I HOPE YOU'RE SEEING A PATTERN HERE!
   
   
   
6. Here is what other critics had to say about this movie. (I'll give you a hint. They're all negative.)
   
   
7. The Movie Blog, one of the sites I frequent for movie news, had a humorous way of looking at it:
   "Can you imagine the uproar if the new Superman movie was re-worked so that Superman is actually a guy named Eddie Sanchez who works as a dish washer in Toronto, who was given super powers by correctly finishing a crossword puzzle in a newspaper that a Gypsy witch had accidentally sneezed on the day before? People would be PISSED. Rightly so. Whoever came up with the idea of screwing around with Catwoman should be shot. Sorry, "shot" might not be appropriate. I meant beaten… and THEN shot. Someone needs to lose their job over this."
   
   
8. 
   
   Yeah, that's Barbie dressed as Catwoman. Not exactly a comment, but think of the turmoil!
   
   
9. And finally, the most important critics comment on the movie:
   Upon seeing the movie on my um... "computer screen," my dog (Elle) immediately began to growl. Not because it was a cat. But because if anything knows cinema, it's my dog.
   

I, Robot

If you're an avid reader of this website, you'll probably remember me ripping on Will Smith for being forever the Fresh Prince of Bel Air.
Here's a link to that rant/review:
Ali Review

So going into this movie, I was expecting him to be terrible and I was surprised there wasn't a new song of his on the soundtrack.
But I was more surprised that he actually delivers a pretty solid performance. It's not going to get him another Oscar nomination or anything, but it was not too shabby. I guess it could have been a little better though, because let's face it... he's nothing without Carlton.
He does, however, have his usual cheesy one-liners, perfectly packaged for a trailer clip. The movie doesn't include as many wisecracks, as say... Bad Boys or Men in Black, but they're in there and just a word of caution, they may cause eye rolling. There's even his trademark "Aw, hell no!" But a Will Smith movie without that line is like an Arnold movie where he doesn't say "GET DOWN!" It's just not right.

I have to say this movie had potential from the start, based on a novel by brilliant author Isaac Asimov, known for his distrust of robotics.
The story lags a little in parts, sometimes giving way suddenly to an emotional scene like an unprovoked toddler randomly sobbing in a department store. But unlike the kid who you just want to slap senseless (I'm gonna make such a great father), you actually feel for the characters. And the slower scenes shift into a new plot twist, giving it a rollercoaster ride experience.
However, there are a few cliche moments that I won't elaborate on, as to not spoil it. But they're noticeable.

The best aspect, by far, is the computerized special effects. The CG team did an excellent job of incorporating the digital effects and creations into the film, without making it too obvious or overdoing it. There are a few moments of "Whoa" when the effects and the great directing by Alex Proyas combine, such as in the chaotic ending.

Overall, I believe that the movie delivered. It was intended to be a summer popcorn flick, and it was just that. A solid sci-fi thriller. And if you liked Spider-Man 2, you'll like this movie. I don't think you'll be disappointed.
I was entertained, unlike with most of the other summer action flops.

Best movie of the year? No.
Of the summer? Not really.
But it's worth the 2 hours and price of a movie ticket.


On a related note, I don't think humans have anything to worry about for a while.
Here's a side-by-side for comparison of present and future:

Who the Hell is This?

So in the post below this, I got a couple of comments. I kind of expected it, considering its a strange picture.
But what I didn't expect is THIS:



http://www.blogger.com/profile/3854370
38 year old divorced, mother of two. What?! Who the hell is this?!
And why is she posting comments? What the hell is going on?

Sexy Mamaaaaa

Pretty woman, walking down the street
Pretty woman, the kind I like to meet
Pretty woman
I don't believe you, you're not the truth
No one could look as good as you
Mercy

Pretty woman, won't you pardon me
Pretty woman, I couldn't help see
Pretty woman
That you look lovely as can be
Are you lonely just like me
Wow

Pretty woman, stop a while
Pretty woman, talk a while
Pretty woman, gave your smile to me
Pretty woman, yeah yeah yeah
Pretty woman, look my way
Pretty woman, say you'll stay with me
'Cause I need you, I'll trear you right
Come with me baby, be mine tonight

Pretty woman, don't walk on by
Pretty woman, make me cry
Pretty woman, don't walk away, hey...okay
If that's the way it must be, okay
I guess I'll go on home, it's late
There'll be tomorrow nigh, but wait
What do I see
Is she walking back to me
Yeah, she's walking back to me
Oh, oh, Pretty woman

Leins Shipping

I started a company on the side. You know, to make a little extra cash. Check it out.

http://www.leins-akten.de/

Bad summer movies? King Arthur reigns

King Arthur is another terrible Disney “epic” that doesn’t do the true Arthurian legend justice.

I have to give them credit, they got the names right. And a sword got pulled out of a stone somewhere in there. But that’s about it.
Merlin isn’t a bearded wizard with magical powers. In fact, there’s no magic anywhere. Literally and figuratively.
Instead, Disney traded in the magic and myth of the legend, for facts and truth discovered by historians. Come on, who wants to see that?
It’s very unlike Disney, who is accustomed to taking stories and putting an extra spin of fairy tale onto everything, including the mystical, wonderful legend of Pearl Harbor. Maybe they just have a knack for screwing it all up.
But don’t forget all the anachronisms, those were great too.

The movie is just a watered-down Braveheart, though it must be a sin to compare the two. It rips it off right down the battle sequences, complete with a final rallying battle speech atop a pacing horse. Even the blue battle paint is stolen. I kept on waiting for Arthur to yell “FREEEEEEDOM.” Or Lancelot. Or Guinevere. Someone, anyone, scream “freedom,” already.

Ok, so any way, King Arthur is played by a boorish guy no one’s ever heard of (Clive Owen), who fights a few battles. He’s never actually king really, just a leader of a bunch of Pagan characters that ride horses back and forth across the screen.
Even the knights of the round table are watered down, reducing them to a band of squabbling musketeers, not noble, courageous warriors. The knights have wives and children. They aren’t off questing for the Grail or dueling with dragons.

As for the sword in the stone. Yeah, it’s pulled out. But not like the story is usually told, with the beam of light shining ominously and the sudden sounds of singing when it’s extracted. Not like in the Disney animated version, the Sword in the Stone. Which is it, Disney? Huh? Huh?

Guinevere (Keira Knightley) isn’t exactly a lady queen, dressed in flowing white gowns and gold crowns. Instead she’s an axe-wielding warrior with a leather strap across her breasts. She’s a barbarian archer who fights alongside her men in a tooth and nail death rumble. Guinevere barely even speaks to Arthur, much less falls in love with him and then, you know, cheats on him with Lancelot. Apparently there have been some revisions.
Knightley did, however, snag the center of the movie poster, even though she’s easily a secondary character.

Ok, I don’t want to ramble on anymore about how terrible this movie is because I could go on for fortnights. The point is that the story isn’t at all the same, and then to top it all off they went and executed it poorly. I fell asleep immediately after. And awakened to write this on the eve of the morrow. And now I bid good day to you, sir. Or m’lady.

Sunburn

So this weekend I got a sunburn. The searing result of being a red-headed, pale freckled kid with only moderate amounts of sunscreen. I was actually counting on my glaring white skin to reflect the light away, leaving me unscathed, but alas, I am lightly toasted. But I've always been known to be a little too hot, am I right ladies? Ladies...?

Actually, it could have been worse. I'm only red on my shoulders and two tiny patches on my forehead where the hair parts. So just to give you an image, I look like a reject extra from a Braveheart battle scene. But don't think about it too long, the thought of my topless torso has been known to cause nightmares.

And to make matters worse, I am beginning to peel. Yet another side effect of being carelessly under-SPFed. And, speaking of head and shoulders, it makes me look like I have dandruff, or what I like to call skinflakes... each one is unique.
I'm slowly shedding a layer of skin, like a snake or something. Sometimes I'll even break down and (in a wicked witch of the west kind of way) I'll scream "I'm moooooooooollllllllllting!" Though, to be honest, I'm more worried about it revealing my metal endoskeleton. Hey, terminators get sunburn too.

Just because my sunburn barely scratches the surface of being a first degree burn (according to the Boy Scout handbook), that doesn't mean it doesn't smart a little. Ideally, I'd have a team of midgets slathering aloe on my skin. But ever since I saw an oompa loompa, I've been scared of little people.
Or how 'bout razing a rainforest of aloe plants and squeezing them into a giant vat that I can wallow in to soothe my irritated shoulders. Nah, that'll never work, Greenpeace hates it when you try that stuff.

So I'll probably just end up doing nothing. After all, that's how I got burnt in the first place.

Another War is Waged

Disney vs. Michael Moore: A Heavyweight Bout of Documentaries

In this corner we have Michael Moore, a chubby, liberal documentary filmmaker and winner of an Oscar for Bowling for Columbine. He weighs in at about a deuce and a half, because about a third of that is bullshit. But that's ok, because he "sticks it to the man," so you gotta give him credit for that. Don't get me wrong, I'm a fan of his work. You just gotta take it with a grain of salt. Or a spoonful of sugar... Mary Poppins would be proud.

But she wouldn't be supercalifragilisticexpialidociously-proud of Disney, the company that brought her to the silver screen in 1964, the other corner of this proverbial ring. But those were happier times, when Michael Eisner wasn't sabotaging the company with nuggets like "Hey, I think we should get rid of Pixar." You know Pixar, the ones that created Toy Story 1 and 2, Monster's Inc., and Finding Nemo.
And just so I'm not alone on this, here's a quote from this link:

"Michael Eisner's Disney has been a case study in poor corporate governance."

Disney, also a heavyweight in the movie industry, is remembered for their timeless tales of fantasy and sing-a-longs. That is, before they decided to NEVER MAKE A HAND-DRAWN ANIMATION MOVIE EVER AGAIN. Pencils down everyone, your time is up.

But the real test for Disney was about to begin. It faces off against Michael Moore, the corporate crime-stopper.

Ding ding.

Round 1:
Michael Moore's movie is blocked from distribution by Disney
Disney comes out swinging, knocking an astonishing sucker punch to an otherwise unready Moore. This fight could be interesting, folks.
But what's this? Moore responds to the blow, saying Disney only did this to secure "tax breaks in the state of Florida" and other political reasons. Whoa, thems fightin' words.
Disney counters with "It has nothing to do with taking sides, we just don't want to be political."
This has all the makings of history, folks. Someone's ear could get bitten, I can feel it.

Round 2:
The Weinstein brothers buy Michael Moore's film
Moore isn't ready to throw in the towel just yet. The Weinstein brothers (they head up Miramax, a Disney-owned company) buy the movie and make plans to distribute it themselves. (Eventually he ends up with 3 distributors, but let's not get bogged down with details)
Eisner fusses and Disney dances around him, shaking it off. They gotta be seeing stars after that one though.
BAM!
Michael Moore's film wins the prestigious Palme d'Or, the top honors at the Cannes Film Festival in France. That is OUTSTANDING feat, folks, and Disney is really reeling. It's gonna take a lot to recover from that one. Disney is really hurting as this round ends.

Round 3:
Disney has a trick or two up its sleeve, however, as it shows signs of life.
Barely a month after pulling support of Fahrenheit 9/11, Disney decides to back a different film. MoveAmericaForward.org, a conservative site created and dedicated to stopping F911 from being released, has made a movie called "America's Heart and Soul." And guess who's got their back? Disney. They make such a good tag team.
This, of course, coming from a company that doesn't want to be political. Even Pinocchio must be looking at its creator and thinking, "Wow, that is total crap."
Michael Moore attempts to float like a butterfly, but ends up just being fat.

Round 4:
Fahrenheit 9/11 breaks box office records.
Ouch, that has to hurt. Disney is definitely down. They are showing no signs of getting up, people. Knockout!
Someone call Doc (one of the seven dwarves) cause this fight is over.

Winner? Not Disney.

Speaking of Spiderman...

Spider-man India was just released. Here's a picture of the superhero:


Read about it here:
http://www.gothamcomics.com/spiderman_india/

Quote from the above press release:

"Readers of this series will not see the familiar Peter Parker of Queens under the classic Spider-Man mask, but rather a new hero – a young, Indian boy named Pavitr Prabhakar. As Spider-Man, Pavitr leaps around rickshaws and scooters in Indian streets, while swinging from monuments such as the Gateway of India and the Taj Mahal."

No word on whether or not there will be a Spiderman-India movie.

Leaked Spiderman 2 Scene

Exclusive Spiderman 2 scene, only found on "Miscellaneous Thoughts."

The Passion of the Jeff

Since I don't have much to do this summer, I'm going to try to update this site a whole lot more. I'm working my tail off here to provide witty and recent content. In return for my arduous labor you could tag a tiny little comment onto the bottom of each post, if you happen to read it. I know, it's got comments now! Craaaazy.
Thanks to the one person who has posted a comment, besides my own self-deprecating frustrations with the image hosting...
What are cousins for, if not to drop a comment on each other's blogs...

Any way, now there are comments. So after you're done wasting your time slogging through the blog, you can waste a little more to write, "Hey buddy, you suck" or something a little more positive. And don't forget to sign it, so I know who's stalking me.

Chronicles of Riddick-ulous

This movie can be summed up in one word: Riddick-ulous.

It’s just another high-budget, high-action, and highly-lacking summer movie pandering to teen boys taking notes on how to be bad. The movie itself seems to puff out its chest, as it pumps testosterone into a terrible plot and merely muscle-flexing characters. It tries way too hard to be macho and cool, with action sequences that start for no reason at all. It’s Starship Troopers meets Battlefield: Earth. Only with none of the redeeming qualities that S.T. provided and more of the “I could be doing so many other things right now” that B:E passed around. But let’s not forget the intergalactic politics stolen from Star Wars.

The eerie, chilling suspense is gone from the original movie (Pitch Black), and in its place is MORE ACTION. That’s what people want to see, non-stop action. Followed closely by action. And then, you guessed it, action. But even the ass kicking and blowing stuff up isn’t that good. It’s too busy being tedious and familiar to capture even the shortest of action spans only MTV could foster.
However, the plot that does exist is fragmented, splitting into three adventures (or chronicles, if I may be so bold), each with its own nonsensical plot. If you’ve never seen an action movie before, then you might think all of this is cool. But this one isn’t even in the same galaxy as anything memorable.

Riddick (played by Vin Diesel) reprises his role from Pitch Black, where he was an escape convict running from people and creatures that want to kill him. In this movie, he is an escape convict running from people and creatures that want to kill him…
I know. Originality at its finest. It’s pretty sad that the video game based on this movie has a better plot than the movie itself.
And for a starring role, Riddick doesn’t really say much. He only speaks up when it’s time for a typical action-star one liner, packaged perfectly for a trailer. At least with “Ah-nold” movies he had a funny accent. Though Vin did get to keep his muscle tee from Fast and the Furious to strut around in. But instead of driving a Honda Civic, it’s an interplanetary spaceship. But they both have a cool racing fin.

Then there’s the usual blue-eyed, sexy, fit babe (Alexa Davalos) who is there to ask stupid questions and wear tight clothing. But even here she kind of looks like a wrestler or one of those ESPN2 body builders. *Shudders*
Vaako, played by Thandie Newton (pronounced Tandy as in “Thandie Newton isn’t even that hot”), also appears sporadically so the movie doesn’t tip the scales with machismo.

Judi Dench is in it too. You may remember her as winning an Oscar for “Queen Elizabeth” in Shakespeare in Love. Or as “M” from the Bond movies. But in this she just floats around behind the scenes, too old to be mixing it up alongside Riddick. Did I mention she was a Dame in the British Empire? Why is she in this movie? Oh well, I guess we all make mistakes. I know I do. I watched this movie.

So, if you liked Pitch Black, do yourself a favor and watch that again. And if you didn’t like Pitch Black, then do yourself a favor and see Shrek 2. And if... nevermind, just don’t see this.