...when you're reading only one.
Here's James Wolcott's terrific, spoiler-free review of V for Vendetta. It sounds like something I wouldn't want to miss even if I weren't such a big geek.
On the other hand, I've heard Harry Knowles (of Ain't It Cool News) didn't like it. No matter. I'd honestly rather know whether this movie works for people unfamiliar with the source material, rather than people who know the ins and outs of the comic before the credits roll.
I'm so seeing this.
Monday, February 27, 2006
...when you're reading only one.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Those are among the words of wisdom a very drunk Mike shared with us shortly after I painted a big orange eye on his forehead.
After he wiped the eye (and the paint) on Jessica's new sweater (this will come back to haunt him, you can be sure), he also said:
"Fan that fart with a ferret."
"You jesters, you fools, you bees that sting me in my anus"
and, in Spanish: "The dog ate the big car," "My vagina is very big," and "Her asshole is red."
What with the bees, I can only imagine the condition of his asshole. I hope he's not allergic.
Perhaps most poignantly, he told us: "Just onions."
We'll take that to heart, Mike. You smeary orange bastid.
P.S. This is a signal that the Mardi Gras party was a success, by the way. Laissez les bon temps roulez!
Friday, February 24, 2006
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Stealing JtB's M.O.:
Hey shitwit, the fact that I'm trying to sleep on this wobbly fucking train car isn't a signal for you to park yourself right over me and start with the blah blahs and yadda yaddas. I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT YOUR FUCKING IPOD, and if you continue to yammer on about your adventures with said object, I'll crank it up to full and cram it so far up your ass you'll hear a new chapter of The DaVinci Code every time you fart.
You're lucky I don't travel with a machete. You came this close to hemorrhaging from the sheer force of my hate.
(Vegas recap soon, honest!)
Friday, February 17, 2006
01001000 01101111 01110111 00100000 01100011 01101111 01101111 01101100 00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00111111
01010010 01101111 01100010
01010100 01101000 01100001 01101110 01111000 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01010011 01101000 01101100 01100001 01100010 01100001 01101101 00100000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01000011 01101111 01101101 01101001 01100011 01110011 00100000 01000011 01100001 01110110 01100101 00101110
Does this seem ridiculous to you?
''My family and I are deeply sorry for everything Vice President Cheney and his family have had to deal with,'' Harry Whittington said in his first comments since being shot on a South Texas ranch six days earlier.
If I am ever shot in the face, there will be no apology forthcoming.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Friday, February 10, 2006
Jim’s cousin got us into Light, a high-end nightclub at the Bellagio. They opened up our own escalator to let us up, to give you an idea of our first impression. Then they brought us to a table (through a dance floor that included platforms with poles, if the mood struck you and you had two X chromosomes). We had two servers, a guy in a shirt and tie and a girl named Katie in a bustier and garters. They told us we were comped two bottles, so we chose a bottle of Grey Goose vodka and Bombay Sapphire gin. They brought out carafes full of mixers and mixed us whatever we wanted.
A big guy came over and introduced himself. His name was CJ, and he had our backs. Yes, we had our own bodyguard. Jim the Bastard has a picture of him with Sara/Suzie that I took here. He’s ginormous. The first time I tried to take their picture, I didn’t leave enough room for his head.
If we’d paid for it, it would’ve cost around $800. But lemme tell ya, it was priceless.
Okay. Here’s the goddamn deal.
I’ve been drinking since like 7:15. It’s now 4:30 in the morning (almost) and nothing but gin and tonic has passed my lips (aside from a delicious goddamn meal at Fix and one screwdriver mistakenly poured for me. And while I may post this at 8 or so in the morning, I’m writing it at 4:30 and am not changing a gorram word. (Yes, sometimes I think in Firefly. Deal.)
Had wonderful, comped food from Jim’s cousin. I can’t articulate how good it was. Kobe beef. $65 a plate. Knock your feet off good. This is at the Bellagio.
Next, drinks at Caramel. Also comped. Got drunker there.
Then, Light, an awesome nightclub. Were comped two bottles of liquor – gin and vodka. Most people drank vodka. Up to me and Jim the bastard to drink gin. Oh, gin.
Did not finish bottle of G. JtB left at about the halfway point, about 2 hours ago. Eventually, just me and JtB’s friend, Johnny Airplanes, still there. Stayed til about 4. Left the club. Hit the head before cab ride. Propositioned by two hookers (from a team of three). Really nice looking. Let ‘em dangle, walked on. (The line between virtue, stupidity and plain old cheapness is blurry.) Took a cab to Hilton. Blogged instead of sleeping. I’m a goddamn idiot.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
As you may know, I’m in Vegas for a few days for the SHOT Show, a outdoors and shooting sports industry convention. It’s busy and huge, and I may not have much time to blog. But check out Jim the Bastard’s site for the mulletwatch and other events of note.
I'll report in when I can. On a personal note, so far the craps tables have not been kind. But the guy making crepes at the Paris buffet? So friendly I nearly split in deux.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
A quick story before I leave for Vegas.
This weekend, Kathy & I met up with our friends Mike and Jessica (see, Mike – here’s your name!) in NYC. It was raining, so we hopped a cab from their hotel to the restaurant (Sushi Samba, where we had a delicious meal and dropped quite a bit of money doing it – but I’m getting ahead of myself).
I got in the cab in the front seat. The cabbie—a wiry latino guy wearing a bandana with skulls on it—quickly moved a backpack on the seat and said “hold on, hold on, watch the bag.” After the bag was set in the foot area, I got into the car. We started moving. Here’s a little play of our exchange.
Cabbie: I didn’t mean to yell, I just didn’t want it to go boom, y’know?
Cabbie: It’s not a bomb or nothing, I’m not a terrorist, no way. I’ve got a license for it.
Me: Sure, I understand.
What I understood was that there was a loaded gun at my feet.
So we drive around a bit – Mapquest gave us the wrong address – when the windows start to fog. I crack mine open a bit. The cabbie turns on the defogger and tells me to roll up the window, rain was getting in. I say (although a little voice tells me there’s risk in this joke, but what the hell): “I wouldn’t want to make a man moist.”
The cabbie stops the cab. “What’d you say?” The driver fishes for the cab license and shows me the picture. “Look here, look here – what do you see?”
I get a brief look at the cabbie’s picture, under the name Valentine. I’m not sure what I see.
“That’s right, all woman.”
Holy crap. I get it now. I’ve insulted this woman. I’ve insulted this woman, and she’s got a gun.
She says “You want a squeeze? Your wife is here, or else I’d tell you to feel ’em,” indicating her breasts. “I made a guy feel ‘em once – he made the same mistake. His girlfriend was in the car, and she kept quiet, but I know he got hell later.”
Mike, Jessica & Kathy are cracking up in the back. Me, I’m just mortified.
Val assured me it was okay, and there were no hard feelings. Then she started telling us about people having sex behind her cab. “I think they were trying to shock me,” she said. “I just pushed the mirror away.” She was really friendly and chatty, especially considering my mistake.
She let us off at the restaurant, I paid her, and we’ll never see her again. But I don’t expect to hear the end of this anytime soon.