My Thoughts On Avatar

March 22, 2010 39 Comments read Everything is Terrible, Movies, Reviews

Obviously, I’m late to the party on this, but when has timeliness or lack thereof ever stopped me from writing a blog post before?

Given that the movie was such a phenomeon, and certain people kept riding my case about not having seen it yet, and stories started cropping up about people being severely depressed after seeing the movie because they were longing to visit Pandora, and then there’s the epic crazy of people who believe they were Na’vi in a past life, I became intrigued and decided I ought to at least see the movie and discover firsthand what all of the fuss was about.

I also decided to hedge my bets by sucking down a couple martinis beforehand.

…I didn’t drink enough. I hated this movie. Loathed it. Involuntarily rolled my eyes, huffed, and squirmed in my seat like a three-year-old for at least the last hour and a half.

I don’t even begin to be qualified to talk about race as it pertains to this movie, save for the way it was handled made me feel unsettled, blah blah blah, shameful caricature of native peoples, blah blah blah, so smart but too stupid to save themselves and need a white man to do it but in every other respect they’re better than evil white people, blah blah blah anti-colonialism, blah blah blah, so everything I touch on is going to be purely superficial.

First things first: All of you people who are depressed after watching this movie, detached from reality, considering suicide, all because you cannot experience Pandora firsthand–allow me to rear my hand back and slap you with the fury of a thousand burning suns. Do you really feel lost, depressed, deeply sad because you won’t wake up some morning in a nightmare world where everything wants to kill you? Is all you need to be happy just some shit that lights up? Listen up, assholes: There’s nothing on Pandora that you can’t get with $50 and a trip to Spencer Gifts.

^{Holy shit, it’s like I’m on Pandora!}

Now, let’s take a peek into James Cameron’s brain.

“Hmm. The last really big overblown movie I made that sold a shitload of tickets involved a jillion dollars worth of CGI, had an obnoxious on-again off-again romance, had something REALLY big that got destroyed in a vast expanse of terrain inhospitable to human life that allowed for no outsider rescue, and ran about an hour longer than any other movie in the theater. What if I did that again, only in outer space? Outer space is also vast. And included a reprisal role for Paul Reiser’s character in ‘Aliens’, the evil one who was only interested in profit and military benefits, regardless of human cost? Hmm. What else could be really, really big? Pseudo-environmentalism is pretty hot, what about a really big blade of grass? No, that’s not right, too ‘Honey I Shrunk The Kids’. A big meadow? No, too ‘Little House on the Prairie’. Wait. Yes. A BIG TREE. Lord of the Rings had big trees and made an asston of money. People like big trees. The Giving Tree, now that’s a tree with staying power. A big tree that’s also an ecosystem and here comes Paul Reiser in the vast expanse of space to destroy this really big tree in the name of profits and break up the romance. Making this movie will cost at least a jillion and a half dollars in CGI and can’t be cut much below three hours. I also want to include a strong anti-corporate message. Can we get Coke and McDonalds on the phone for sponsorship dollars? God, I am such a genius. I bet I can get people to buy the same movie over and over again forever.”

^{James Cameron’s next project: Clifford The Big Red Dog Gets Killed}

For as ‘advanced’ and in tune with nature as the Na’vi are supposed to be, women are portrayed to be as shallow as ever. Ladies, is your intended a pretty ugly dude? It’s perfectly fine to pair up with a more attractive guy especially if your excuse is that you see a person’s soul. We all know that attractive people have the most attractive souls, even when they’re double-crossing liars with bad intentions. Whoops, I guess you’re not as good at soul-soothsaying as you thought! You should cast this beautiful man away until he pimps his ride, at which point it’s acceptable to take him back because you want to be seen riding bitch on that impressive vehicle.

^{“Yeaaaaah, holla atcha boy!”}

Speaking of the ladies, why do non-mammalian creatures have breasts? What must their function be? Wouldn’t they get in the way of all the bow-hunting they do, especially if they’re merely decorative? There’s a lesson to learn in this: Even if you hate everything, you don’t hate boobies. Or hula hoops.

^{I got nothin. Did you really think I was going to google image search boobs for you?}

Verdict: Predictable, boring, too long, but it does have boobs. D+

An Open Letter to Skechers

March 18, 2010 49 Comments read Everything is Terrible

This is the fax that I actually sent to Skechers Customer Service today. Any bets on whether I get a pair of replacement shoes?

To whom it may concern,

I purchased a pair of D’lite Raptures (Style#11469) on December 19th, 2009. They quickly became my daily-wear shoe, as I find them light and comfortable, which is important as I average five miles of walking per day. However, within the last week, one of the shoes has developed an enormous hole on the upper stitching along a seam, a hole so gargantuan that it can easily accommodate two fingers, though three are as of yet right out. I know what you must be thinking, that surely my monstrous gorilla feet caused undue pressure on the sides of the shoe and thus the seam had no choice but to burst open—a five pound sack of shoe with ten pounds of foot crammed into it, a veritable thunder lizard foot packed into an airy shoe, and that the outcome was as inevitable as taxes and even death, should science fail and robot bodies not become readily available by the time the cheese eventually settles into my heart. I assure you this is not the case. My feet have been described as dainty, petite, and even smelling of a spring morn. Sonnets may have been composed about my feet; I’m unsure as I’m not around other people twenty-four hours a day and it is possible that someone has dedicated a portion of their off time thoughtfully considering my feet and their place in the universe. I do know that someone on Myspace has offered me one hundred dollars American in the hopes of having a ‘go’ at my feet, and although my disgust at the offer is palpable as I would never defile my delicate tootsies in that manner, I do believe it speaks volumes about their general appeal. My feet would be the superstars of the foot world if only they weren’t hopelessly attached to an unattractive cankle. Therefore, the trouble must indeed lie with the shoe.

Is it reasonable for a shoe to wear out in under three months? Are these shoes perhaps designed for someone with a more sedentary lifestyle, as foot accessories, akin to a tiny dog in a purse (It is my understanding that those, too, wear out during walking)?

If you should read this letter and feel compassion for my wonderful feet attached to the unattractive cankle attached to the bloated calf attached to the dimpled knee (the picture only gets worse as you look higher, like staring at a hideous burning sun) and want to replace their beloved D’lite Raptures, they wear a size 5.5 and would be ever so grateful.

Thank you most sincerely for your time,

Mellzah Dildarian (address here)

I also included a picture of the damaged shoe and the attractive, sad foot, as demonstrated by a sadface drawn in MS paint and the word ‘NOOOOOOO!’ circling its head. *I* would give me a new pair of shoes. Maybe even twelve pair.

Update: It has been four years and still no response. I haven’t given up waiting, though. Surely those shoes are coming any day now.

Do you take each other to fight zombies?

March 16, 2010 45 Comments read Everything is Terrible

Compounded by the loss of an hour due to daylight savings, a group of friends awoke extra early on Sunday morning to drive to Chehalis for a friend’s wedding. It took me a while to get ready, as I have two basic modes of dress: schlub and whore. Now, when one is attending a wedding, dressing like a schlub is not acceptable, so whore it would have to be. I’m jealous of the girls who can do casual dresses, who can dress nicely without looking too dressed up–it’s a skill that I simply do not have. I ended up wearing this dress with some heels, the girls I went with were a little more casual.

The theme of the wedding: zombies. The ceremony was short and sweet, sans the metaphors about love and marriage which the bride and groom did not want, referencing lovecraftian horror and asking them to fight the zombies of daily life as tattooed hero and heroine, and aiding one another in not becoming zombies by taking the time to have joy in the small things.

It was after the wedding that the trouble started–for me, anyway. That’s when my latent freak magnet powers kicked in.

She approached me from across the room; hair bleached to within an inch of screaming and falling out, skin tanned into crocodile leather, voice gravelly from years of smoking, drinking, and gargling rocks. She complimented me, saying I looked beautiful, and I felt badly for judging her mere moments before. She then inquired if I was married, and I told her I wasn’t. When will I learn that the answer is ALWAYS yes? Yes, I have a husband! Yes, I have a boyfriend! Yes, I already have plans for that day! Yes, I’ve already eaten! Yes, I am familiar with whatever story you are going to tell!

But no, I had to answer in the negative. I am a fool, a moron, a wretch incapable of learning, and the next lesson was soon to begin as she grabbed my wrist in her steely talon and dragged me over toward two single relatives. “Boys, this is Melissa. She is single and SEXY.” One look at their faces and it was evident that they were not in agreement with The Claw about my perceived level of attractiveness, and they weren’t even going to attempt to fake it for politeness’ sake. It was clear from my posture, from my facial expressions, from the very awkward small talk I was trying to make with The Claw standing over my shoulder that I had not put her up to this introduction, that I was not looking to trap them into InstaMarriage or leap on them and crush them with my monstrous thighs while making wildebeest noises, but still they wanted to take no chances by interacting with me.

My eyes widened into those of a trapped animal as she then grabbed the wrist she was still clasping in iron fingers and forced it up to shake the reluctant hand of one of the pair. The other, who clearly did not get the memo that ‘schlub’ was not appropriate wedding attire, made a face, rolled his eyes at me, grabbed his beer, and walked away without speaking a single word to me. My friends all stood, watching this exchange in increasing horror: I was now a spectacle. The single saving grace was that The Claw had released me when I shook Remaining Douchebag’s hand, and after thirty more seconds of the most stilted conversation in the history of man, moreso than even those had by the progenitors of language when both participants did not know the same words, I was able to flee back to the people who witnessed the entire awful scene.

We eventually decided to go outside and visit with the bride’s dogs, who were shut in the room underneath the porch. A child watched us go in and started insistently banging on the door and peering through a crack at us, demanding to be let in. Someone told him there were no children allowed–when he asked why, I told him it was because children are stinky. We collapsed into laughter and he ran off indignantly, only to return a minute later with the withering comeback of “No! YOU are stinky!”. He then ran off to tell his mom on us, returned again and shouted “HEY! I have something to tell you! Kids don’t stink no worser than adults do!” and THEN his mom attempted to peer in through the crack, demanding to know who was inside.

…as it turned out, his mom was the wedding guest whom we had come to refer to as the Cave Troll—the one with the permastoned face and carabiners hanging in her ears with plastic skulls dangling from said carabiners, what looked like a butt tattooed on her back dangling from a pentagram, vomit tattooed on her right upper arm, knee-high buckled boots straight out of Hot Topic paired with a sequined dress so tacky it had to have shipped from the Pyramid collection…and who REEKED of B.O. No, child, it is my sad duty to inform you that not all adults stink–just your mom. And hobos.