Those who know me know that I’m not one to go out of my way to cause trouble or discord. And there really is no reason now to express my dissatisfaction with the movie Up” especially since it’s not even on the screen, except that I feel like something should be said, albeit after the fact.
If you really truly love Up and aren’t interested in hearing it dissed, go back to what you were doing. Sorry I bothered you. If, however, you also have a niggling feeling that this movie wasn’t worth the Uproar, read on.
My name is Shelly, and I didn’t like Up for the following reasons:
1) There are two females in the whole film. One is dead, and the other is a speechless, flightless bird named “Kevin.” Okay? As far as we are given to know, the entire pack of dogs is male.
2) A propos of the dog pack: If the villain can create a collar that allows dogs to talk, if he can figure out a way for male dogs to reproduce, this man is a flippin’ genius. Why does he need to spend years, decades, hidden in this Brazilian forest just so he can find a bird no one believes existed? (All right, he’s a madman and has to regain his ruined reputation. Still.)
3) A propos of the villain, Muntz: He is exceedingly nasty. He wants to kill Russel and Mr. Fredrickson. He doesn’t of course; no, they kill him instead, watching as he falls to earth from a great height. I mean airplane height.
4) A propos of the airplane: I know the film is fantasy, but fantasy should still maintain a certain verisimilitude. Here is a decrepit old man who has to use a stair lift in his house, but who, in the face of adversity, gains the strength and agility of a near-superhero: able to cling to the side of a moving plane like Spider-Man; duel like Captain Jack Sparrow; and hold on to a rope with one hand and a boy with the other. (Like, I don’t know—Homer Simpson?)
5) And finally, a' propos of Homer Simpson, Up wasn't funny.
Okay, that’s the end of the rant. (Cosmo didn't like the movie either, btw.) The animation was jaw-dropping fantastic. The balloons were gorgeous. Thanks for listening.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
When the Big Dog is Away by Kayla
Basically, I don’t have to do anything and everyone still loves me!
Chase the ball? Are you kidding? When The Billy throws it for me it’s magic, it’s cosmic, it’s a force as pure as gravity, but when Shelly throws it? Pfft. I’ll chase it, sure, but why bring it back when I can stop and sniff? She doesn’t seem to understand the dog’s bicameral brain: Billy throws the ball, and Shelly feeds me biscuits.
Hey, speaking of biscuits? Shelly bought me these things in a box with a medium-sized dog on it. I ask you, do I look medium? That’s why I ask for three or more. Shelly pretends she doesn’t know what I mean when I keep looking at the top of the fridge—does she think I’ll give up that easily? I have a whole repertoire for this: the deep rumble (not a growl; that’s totally different, and I save that for when I’m in the house and see women pushing strollers down the sidewalk), the short breathy woof, and then, if she’s still trying to make her coffee or eat breakfast, the full-out bark. I don’t mind this little performance; it’s our thing now. Something special I save for her.
Here’s a good trick: Sometimes, when Shelly gets this wacky idea that she can leash me up, I bite on the leash and pull pull pull! Too fun. She tried to dominate me when I was a pup—you know, pushing me down to expose my belly, biting the side of my face, talking in a low, loud, no-nonsense voice. It was just confusing then; I was like, whoa, who died and made you alpha bitch? But it’s good for a laugh now. “No!” she says. Cracks me up every time.
Big Dog is back from wherever. Whew! Finally, I can get some exercise.
Chase the ball? Are you kidding? When The Billy throws it for me it’s magic, it’s cosmic, it’s a force as pure as gravity, but when Shelly throws it? Pfft. I’ll chase it, sure, but why bring it back when I can stop and sniff? She doesn’t seem to understand the dog’s bicameral brain: Billy throws the ball, and Shelly feeds me biscuits.
Hey, speaking of biscuits? Shelly bought me these things in a box with a medium-sized dog on it. I ask you, do I look medium? That’s why I ask for three or more. Shelly pretends she doesn’t know what I mean when I keep looking at the top of the fridge—does she think I’ll give up that easily? I have a whole repertoire for this: the deep rumble (not a growl; that’s totally different, and I save that for when I’m in the house and see women pushing strollers down the sidewalk), the short breathy woof, and then, if she’s still trying to make her coffee or eat breakfast, the full-out bark. I don’t mind this little performance; it’s our thing now. Something special I save for her.
Here’s a good trick: Sometimes, when Shelly gets this wacky idea that she can leash me up, I bite on the leash and pull pull pull! Too fun. She tried to dominate me when I was a pup—you know, pushing me down to expose my belly, biting the side of my face, talking in a low, loud, no-nonsense voice. It was just confusing then; I was like, whoa, who died and made you alpha bitch? But it’s good for a laugh now. “No!” she says. Cracks me up every time.
Big Dog is back from wherever. Whew! Finally, I can get some exercise.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Nora Roberts: "Ass in the Chair"
"Ass in the chair": This is the dictum by which author Nora Roberts has succeeded in cranking out 182 novels (and selling more than eight million books in 2008, according to the article in The New Yorker, June 22, 2009). “She scoffs at the notion of inspiration, divine or otherwise,” and writes for six to eight hours a day.
Wow. You can’t argue with advice that so obviously brings results (to the tune of sixty-million dollars a year gross, in fact). What advice, I wonder, would she give to an eleven-year-old boy who has taken the “ass in the chair” paradigm to heart, but only to watch way too much TV and play video games? How to get him out of the chair?
I take much of the blame for Cosmo’s sluggification. After all, I chose to order satellite for my new house, knowing full well that it offers Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network. In fact, that was pretty much the reason for getting it, duh. Myself, I could live quite well without a TV. (Except that I’d want to watch The Simpsons seasons on DVD occasionally....)
Just to add another unhealthy and gratuitous layer of frosting (because we know that kids love to lick the frosting off the cupcake and immediately seek out another sweet, unclaimed victim), I bought a recliner. A high-leg recliner, which to me looks more like a normal armchair than the puffy swivel design, but, nonetheless, a recliner. LA-Z-BOY. No doubt the chair—which is so lazy that it’s indifferent to correct spelling—is named after the consumer, but it’s just as plausible that the name itself induces the phenomenon of la-z-ness.
This disinclination for activity has become a bone of contention between Cosmo and his dad, who despairs that C is on the path to becoming a fat and lazy adult incapable of finding or creating something of interest. I certainly don’t want that; neither does Cosmo. But nagging him about reading books (besides the graphic novels he’s already memorized), getting exercise, or finding a hobby, results only in frustration (as most nagging must). Suggestions meet with stubborn resistance.
How to make him responsible? Creative? Interested in stuff? Inspired, even?
Nora? Little help?
As of this writing—I don’t have a clue. But to be honest, I’m not stressing too much. As long as he laughs at SpongeBob, wants to share something from his videogame with me, plays with his dog and friends, or quotes The Simpsons verbatim and at length, he seems happy. And I get to spend time with him. (Okay, maybe it's not quality time—but it is at least quantity time, and that counts for a lot.) I may not know numbers like Nora, but I do know that eleven years old turns to twelve turns to twenty, in a very short time.
Wow. You can’t argue with advice that so obviously brings results (to the tune of sixty-million dollars a year gross, in fact). What advice, I wonder, would she give to an eleven-year-old boy who has taken the “ass in the chair” paradigm to heart, but only to watch way too much TV and play video games? How to get him out of the chair?
I take much of the blame for Cosmo’s sluggification. After all, I chose to order satellite for my new house, knowing full well that it offers Nickelodeon and Cartoon Network. In fact, that was pretty much the reason for getting it, duh. Myself, I could live quite well without a TV. (Except that I’d want to watch The Simpsons seasons on DVD occasionally....)
Just to add another unhealthy and gratuitous layer of frosting (because we know that kids love to lick the frosting off the cupcake and immediately seek out another sweet, unclaimed victim), I bought a recliner. A high-leg recliner, which to me looks more like a normal armchair than the puffy swivel design, but, nonetheless, a recliner. LA-Z-BOY. No doubt the chair—which is so lazy that it’s indifferent to correct spelling—is named after the consumer, but it’s just as plausible that the name itself induces the phenomenon of la-z-ness.
This disinclination for activity has become a bone of contention between Cosmo and his dad, who despairs that C is on the path to becoming a fat and lazy adult incapable of finding or creating something of interest. I certainly don’t want that; neither does Cosmo. But nagging him about reading books (besides the graphic novels he’s already memorized), getting exercise, or finding a hobby, results only in frustration (as most nagging must). Suggestions meet with stubborn resistance.
How to make him responsible? Creative? Interested in stuff? Inspired, even?
Nora? Little help?
As of this writing—I don’t have a clue. But to be honest, I’m not stressing too much. As long as he laughs at SpongeBob, wants to share something from his videogame with me, plays with his dog and friends, or quotes The Simpsons verbatim and at length, he seems happy. And I get to spend time with him. (Okay, maybe it's not quality time—but it is at least quantity time, and that counts for a lot.) I may not know numbers like Nora, but I do know that eleven years old turns to twelve turns to twenty, in a very short time.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
I Drive a Truck
(I should start out by giving a shout-out to Andrea, because it's her truck and I hope she's feeling better....)
In the nearly eleven years I’ve lived in Colorado, I’ve relied overmuch on the excuse, “Hey, I grew up in LA, okay?” when people stare wonderingly, maybe even suspiciously, at me because I’ve never hiked a 14er or gone white-water rafting.* I still haven’t done those things, but I feel a bit less like a poser because--are you ready?--I drove a truck, a double-cab, 4x4 Toyota Tundra-or-Something (10 mpg city, 15 mpg highway). I drove most of the way from Leadville (at 10,200 feet, the incorporated town at the highest altitude in the U.S.) to Grand Junction, down winding mountain roads, over the Eagle River Bridge, through Glenwood Canyon, and alongside the mighty Colorado River. Me. I did that.
I don’t know if I need to elaborate for you urbanites, but perhaps some background information would help put this event in perspective. On the Western Slope (west of the Rockies, that is), whenever you’re waiting at a stoplight or parking the car at Barnes and Noble, chances are that when you glance out your side window, you’re about eye-level with your neighbor’s tire. Chances are that the driver is the only occupant, and that he (occasionally, she) doesn’t actually haul hay or construction equipment, but uses the truck to commute to the grocery store or movie theater. (Colorado also does not have a helmet law for motocyclists. I don't know if there's a connection here.)
*Footnotes: a 14er is a mountain peak over fourteen thousand feet, of which Colorado boasts fifty-four. And the reason I’m hesitant to try white-water rafting is not because my brother once broke a tooth on a (California) river trip, but because the idea of sitting exposed to the sun for hours at a time, unable to wander off for a walk when I’m bored or stop at a Starbucks for iced coffee to cop some air-conditioning, does not really appeal to me.
But don’t spread this around, because it might be near heresy....
In the nearly eleven years I’ve lived in Colorado, I’ve relied overmuch on the excuse, “Hey, I grew up in LA, okay?” when people stare wonderingly, maybe even suspiciously, at me because I’ve never hiked a 14er or gone white-water rafting.* I still haven’t done those things, but I feel a bit less like a poser because--are you ready?--I drove a truck, a double-cab, 4x4 Toyota Tundra-or-Something (10 mpg city, 15 mpg highway). I drove most of the way from Leadville (at 10,200 feet, the incorporated town at the highest altitude in the U.S.) to Grand Junction, down winding mountain roads, over the Eagle River Bridge, through Glenwood Canyon, and alongside the mighty Colorado River. Me. I did that.
I don’t know if I need to elaborate for you urbanites, but perhaps some background information would help put this event in perspective. On the Western Slope (west of the Rockies, that is), whenever you’re waiting at a stoplight or parking the car at Barnes and Noble, chances are that when you glance out your side window, you’re about eye-level with your neighbor’s tire. Chances are that the driver is the only occupant, and that he (occasionally, she) doesn’t actually haul hay or construction equipment, but uses the truck to commute to the grocery store or movie theater. (Colorado also does not have a helmet law for motocyclists. I don't know if there's a connection here.)
*Footnotes: a 14er is a mountain peak over fourteen thousand feet, of which Colorado boasts fifty-four. And the reason I’m hesitant to try white-water rafting is not because my brother once broke a tooth on a (California) river trip, but because the idea of sitting exposed to the sun for hours at a time, unable to wander off for a walk when I’m bored or stop at a Starbucks for iced coffee to cop some air-conditioning, does not really appeal to me.
But don’t spread this around, because it might be near heresy....
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