You’re killing me, Smalls!

April 2, 2010 29 Comments read Attractions, California, Everything is Terrible, Pacific, Travel, USA, West

On Saturday, we made a group outing to Six Flags Magic Mountain–my dad and I started off from San Diego proper, we picked up my brother at a park & ride in Oceanside, and then we picked up my dad’s sexy mysterious latin luvvah (as he requested to be called; forthwith he will be referred to as ‘J’, but whenever you see ‘J’, feel free to substitute it for ‘sexy mysterious latin luvvah’ in your mind) at a park & ride in orange county. It’s a long trip to Magic Mountain, and so we discussed a variety of topics, like that chick with the tattooed forehead who is on the news, and dissected Lady GaGa lyrics, and generally mocked people and had a good time.

We had already bought our tickets and parking pass online, so we drove right in. It wasn’t until AFTER we got into the park that the announcement was made that due to wind, pretty well every ride that any roller coaster fan would want to ride was closed, but that we were free to enjoy the rest of the park OR just go home–it didn’t matter because they already had our money and weren’t planning on letting it go. We got in line for the ‘Terminator: Salvation’ ride, which wasn’t actually a new ride–they’d rebranded a coaster that was already there. Within five minutes of getting in line for this ride, an announcement was made that the ride was experiencing technical difficulties but that they’d get around to working on it ‘as soon as they could’. We decided to wait instead of getting out of line–twenty minutes later, they started up the ride again. During that twenty minutes, we were bombarded with commercials from the TV displays in line because unfortunately THOSE never stop working. J and I also got to see the girl in front of us in line carefully popping pimples on her boyfriend’s face. Romance is dead.

^{I do not find this sign funny in an ironic sense but perhaps I will, years down the line.}

After approximately two hours in line, we were ushered into a room where they played a seriously lame video about machines coming for the human stronghold that was Six Flags. By this point, I am seriously sick of waiting and did not have even a second of patience to do anything other than mock the video. We were then herded into another room with terminator torsos while the video screamed at us to GO GO GO GO THE MACHINES ARE AFTER US.

^{The heads in the foreground? Pimple Popper and her Bepimpled Boyfriend.}

For some reason, they were videotaping the crowd in line and showed us on the monitors as we passed through the door–I sincerely hope they caught my eye-rolling. We all agreed that we should try to enjoy this ride as much as possible, given that it might be the only ride we got on that day. J leaned forward to whisper something snarky to my brother about a larger guy who was struggling to get his lap bar down. Eventually, it was determined that he was too large to ride, and he had to get off and wait for his friends. My heart broke for him. How awful it must be to have waited in that insanely long line for nothing but a dose of shame in front of a watching crowd. I wanted to jump out of line and give the poor guy a hug. After the ride, we decided to get in line for one of the only other operating coasters–Deja Vu. I shit you not, within ten minutes of being in line for this ride, it was announced that it, too, was shut down for mechanical difficulties but that it should be up again soon. Two out of two? Really? What the hell kind of disrepair are you keeping your park in, Six Flags? We again decided to wait (what other line were we going to get into?) and again invested a good two hours in line. We began to get pissed off at the people who had bought Flash Passes, which allowed them to cut to the front of the line, extending our time in line indefinitely. It’s one thing if the whole park is open: then only a few people are getting in front of you in line on any given ride, but when 3/4ths of the park’s rides are shut down, it makes a huge impact and extends the already outrageous wait times. By the time we got off of Deja Vu, the wind had died down and some rides had opened up again. We got in line for Tatsu, and shortly thereafter, my brother pitched a fit about ‘wasting his day’ and decided to get out of line to wait for us. So…he was going to wait JUST as long, only with no ride at the end. I don’t get it either. The line went reasonably quickly, after which we hopped into the line for the Viper which was essentially empty–our theory was that so many people had reached their waiting limit that they’d just given up and gone home. After the Viper, we decided to see if our favorite ride, X2, was open, and it had JUST reopened, so we were also able to walk straight onto that ride. My brother also elected to sit out even the short lines, knowing that if he maintained his hiss fit, he would eventually get what he wanted and we would go home. After X2, he got his wish–we decided to head back to the car, get dinner, and then go home. On the way back to the car, we discussed the supposed gang problem that Magic Mountain has. It’s not in your face but there’s definitely that element where there are people you just wouldn’t ever want to mess with, instinctively. I personally don’t get it–what gang is like “Hey mang, so your initiation is to buy a season pass to magic mountain, mang. We are the funnel cake gang. Our enemies are those churro bitches. They may look tough on the outside, but the inside is all soft, mang. One day, all this turf will be OUR turf. Until 10pm, when they kick us out for the night.” After dinner, we hit the road for the two hour drive home. Or so we thought. Here’s a little foreshadowing for you–the previous day, on our way home from Julian, Discount Tire called to let my dad know that the tires he wanted to buy were backordered until May. My dad said that his need for tires wasn’t that dire, so he would wait. Can you guess what happened next? You’re right! We heard the helicopter-y THUPPATHUPPATHUPPA noise of a flat right as we passed through a not-so-great area of LA. My dad pulled to the side of the highway, but even pulled over as far as he could go, we were not very far away from the rightmost lane. Cars were flying by, rattling the car. My brother stepped out to see what tire had gone, and sure enough, it was the driver-side rear, so there was no way in hell we were going to change that tire. That’s what AAA is for–risking a roadside splattering to change tires. My dad called AAA, let them know where we were, and they said it would be approximately half an hour wait, making it one of the shortest wait times we’d experienced all day. It’s not like we had a choice. We waited while cars and trucks whipped by. I had an urge to go to the bathroom, but I figured I could hold it until we got home–I wasn’t going to venture up the embankment and into an area of LA with which I was unfamiliar by myself, at night, just for a bathroom. When the tow truck driver arrived, he immediately got to work. J and I could see the naked fear in his eyes as he went out onto the highway to jack up the car. And the car went up. And the car went down. And he asked us to put on the parking brake. And take off the parking brake. And roll forward. And the car went up. And the car went down. Clearly he was struggling. Eventually, he came to the window and said there was a lock on the center nut and there was no way for him to get the tire off; we would have to be towed, and he’d go call a tow truck with a crew cab since he couldn’t fit all four of us up with him–the wait would be about an hour. He told us that he’d never had this sort of problem with a tire before, that we were the very first. Lucky us! My dad immediately had a “What are we going to do” panic moment. We panicked silently. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. Five minutes later, the tow truck driver came back to the window and said he had another guy coming who had the tools to get the tire off, and he would be there in about ten minutes. We rejoiced and continued to wait. The second driver came, and the car went up and the car went down. Up. Down. Up. Down. It seemed like they were struggling again, and then it felt like they were kicking the tire to get it to come off. Eventually, the tire was replaced with the spare (which was thankfully a full-size spare, not a doughnut), and we were back on our way. We all sighed in relief and continued the drive home, thankful that the whole ordeal was over. But then, twenty miles later, as we entered Orange County: THUPPATHUPPATHUPPA. “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST,” my dad swore as we pulled over. Verdict: Passenger side rear. We were fucked. We would have to be towed now, it’s not like we carried multiple spares. My dad called AAA. “You again?” “Yeah, another flat. We have to get towed…but where?” Panic creeped into his voice again. The AAA operator explained that since he was paying for the premium package, he could be towed 100 miles, but every mile over 100 was billed at six to ten dollars per mile. Should he get his car towed back to his place? But then wouldn’t he have to get it towed again the next day to a tire dealer? But what tire dealer is open on Sundays? Were we over 100 miles from San Diego? The operator got snippy. “Sir, why don’t I just dispatch a driver and maybe by the time he shows up, you’ll have figured out what you’re going to do.” *click* She didn’t say how long it was going to take. My bladder cramped. My brother sighed and tried to melt through the seat. My dad didn’t specify that we needed a tow truck that could carry four people plus the driver. He called back. The driver who eventually showed? Could not haul all of us. What he decided to do was put the car up on his flatbed with us inside and drive us to the next exit and get us in a safer place to wait for the fourth and final tow truck. As he hooked us up, we all shared a look. This, by far, would be the scariest ride we went on all day. After we were on the flatbed, the driver came back to the window and said “Just honk if you are having any problems, ok?” GEE, OK. My dad kept his hands on the wheel as if that would do any good if we flipped off the side of the flatbed.

The driver passed the first exit. J freaked out. “Where is he taking us, he said the first exit, where are we going?” However, the first exit was to a different highway, which would have done us no good. The driver (who took corners entirely too fast for my liking, what with me all exposed and vulnerable up on a flatbed) eventually dropped us off in a strip mall in front of a taco bell with a gas station down the block on the corner. He told us that the next driver would be around to pick us up in an hour, and at those words, I sprinted down the street to the gas station, ran inside and said “OHGODINEEDTOUSEYOURBATHROOMIWILLBUYSOMETHINGPLEEEEEASE” and the operator pointed me outside and around the corner. I ran back outside, pulled down my pants as I was rushing to the toilet and experienced a moment of truly blessed relief. It was then and ONLY then did I realize there was no toilet paper. Friends, have you ever wiped with paper seat cover? I have. True to my word, I went back inside and bought some aspirin and some gum, at which point J rushed up and said “Melissa, the tow truck driver is here!” I grabbed my stuff and bolted back to the car.

^{My brother was clearly ready to go home by this point.}

The driver was really nice, we all loaded into his cab, and he said he would drop J and Andrew off at the park & ride for J’s car. J would then drive Andrew back to his car, and then meet us at the Bridgestone at Fashion Valley Mall to pick us up and go home. What a frigging day. I don’t know why we’re ever surprised when things like this happen–as soon as three or more of my family members get together, this sort of thing ALWAYS happens. Our last name is synonymous with “WHAT THE FUCK?” Now let us never speak of it again.

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.