Movie Reviews

Frighteningly, I managed to score 3 decent movies in arrow last night. This breaks my streak of mediocre to crappy movie picks.

First up was The Resurrected, a 1990’s horror piece with all the cheese you could possibly want. Based on Lovecraft’s The Case of Charles Dexter Ward, it has possibly the most stereotypical opening: a thunderstorm at night outside a castle-looking insane asylum.

It only gets more cliched from there. The modernized Sam Spade is sitting in his office when The Damsel In Distress shows up to have him investigate her Mad Scientist husband.

Next up, I caught The Shrine. It, too, starts out with a cliche  with a standard Investigative Reporter with her equally standard Intern go to Czechoslovakia to investigate a student’s disappearance, dragging along their photographer who is, of course, the reporter’s Reluctant, But Protective Boyfriend. Their investigation leads them to a secretive village with cult-ish villagers who tell them to leave.

Unlike The Resurrected, the clichés end before the movie does. If you suffer through the horrible stereotypes, the plot takes a twist about 15 minutes from the end that saves it from being just another waste of brain cells.

Why yes, I am thinking of you, Midnight Meat Train (Now there was an idiotic movie).

Finally is Serial Killing 101. At this point, I should mention that my new dark comedy standard is Tucker and Dale Versus Evil. It used to be Burn After Reading, which took over from Fargo. All that to say my standards are pretty high for dark comedy.

While nowhere near that caliber, Serial Killing 101 does not disappoint. Like Burn After Reading, it starts out slow. One Netflix reviewer said he almost turned it off after 15 minutes, but was glad he stuck it out. I second that.

The premise is that in order to impress a hot-but-slightly-goth chick in his senior-year career class, the protagonist claims he wants to be a serial killer. This, of course, does not amuse his teacher, who sends him off to the psychologist. Meanwhile, the girl turns out to want to be killed by a famous serial killer so that she too will be famous.

Insert about 15 minutes of idiotic fantasy scenes that try way too hard to be funny. Kind of like American Psycho.

Unlike that particular waste of celluloid, this movie eventually hits its stride with the protagonist’s first attempts at serial killing and the introduction of an actual serial killer.

All in all, it made for a great late-night replacement for Coast To Coast AM, which was being hosted by someone other than Noorey. Even Lump liked them. Or maybe not, since she just slept through them.

Well, that was exciting.

Looking forward to a nice Sunday dinner of fall-apart chicken and loaded mashed potatoes, I put the potato chunks on to boil and adjourn to the bedroom to fold some whites.  

The whites till aren't folded.

They aren't folded, because the smoke detector quickly sounded.  I trotted off to the kitchen to silence it, wondering how on earth a pot of potatoes could possibly put off enough steam in 3 minutes to set off a smoke detector.

Answer:  it can't.

What can set off a smoke detector in 3 minutes is turning on the wrong burner.  The one under the dog bowl.  Also known as the one next to the tote of clean baby dishes.  A number of thoughts crossed my mind.

1)  Where's a pot lid?

2)  That's not a pot.

3)  That's too big for baking soda.

As a prepper (of the CDC/FEMA variety, not the "UN's coming to get me" variety), I of course have smoke detectors in every room and fire extinguishers in all high-risk areas.  Using a fire extinguisher has been on my bucket list for years.  I was rather disappointed a week ago when I missed a chance at work.  It has been crossed off my bucket list.

I have never understood fire extinguisher training.  I still don't.  The things are about idiot proof.  I sprayed the fire liberally, then remembered that it was a single-use dry chemical extinguisher, which made me wonder if it works if you squeeze it twice.  That curiosity (combined with the fact that it really was quite fun) and the handy excuse that I couldn't be quite sure it was all the way out led me to give it an extra squeeze.  It does, in fact, work twice.

"In those moments where you're not quite sure if the undead are really dead, don't get all stingy with your bullets. I mean, one more clean shot to the head, and this lady could have avoided becoming a human Happy Meal." - Columbus

Having been there, done that, now,  I feel qualified to deliver four points of advice:

1)  Have smoke detectors.

2)  Have fire extinguishers.

3)  Check batteries and pressure regularly.

4)  Spring for CO2.  Cleaning powder is a pain, and I will be coughing up mica and calcium stearate dust for a good week.

And remember, kids, anything worth spraying is worth spraying twice.

Late posting

The last couple months have been hectic.  I managed to write a number of posts, but failed to get them posted.  But now, they're here.  I just want to say for the record, they were, in fact, all done ahead of time.

Fatherhood

Once the beloved sprained/pulled/strained/bruised/whatever her ankle, the flight of stairs to our room became an insurmountable obstacle.  The upshot of this was that the Dot and I had the room all to ourselves.

The crib in said room is an old-school steel job with round balusters, giving it a decidedly prison-esque look.  Every time I went to get her, I had to fight the urge to start singing “Folsom Prison Blues.  I did hum “The Wall” by Jim Croce.  I really wanted to hand her a sippy cup to see if she’d drag it across the bars.

Remarkably, a rambunctious toddler and a famously sonorous snorer managed to both get ample sleep in the same room.  Waking up, however was a 3 to 4 step process.  The Dot would wake up, waking me, fidget a while, then—if ignored—would doze back off, at which point, so would I.  Rinse and repeat until the Dot goes >3 minutes of fidgeting.

On the first day, the Dot stood up in her cell, grabbed the bars, and started hopping up and down.  Eventually, I rolled over.  Since she has been alone in her room for a year now, my presence surprised her.  In mid hop.  She landed, cocked her head to the side with a puzzled expression and said in a decidedly inquisitive voice, “Dada?”

It is worth noting that the Dot has had a few communications hang-ups.  Putting the proper inflection together with words is an achievement.  This display of appropriate tone is an accomplishment, and I was exceedingly proud in that moment of her progress.

Or maybe I just thought it was cute.  Really, really cute.  Especially when she then said “DADA!” and started jumping higher.

This morning I was informed by the Beloved that the Dot was disappointed that I wasn’t the one that came to get her.

I have a Daddy’s girl.

The end is near

Well, with the end of the world approaching quickly, it is past time to prepare. The great problem with preparation is, however, figuring out what to prepare for. After watching trends this past year, I have the answer:

An animal uprising.

It started in July, when a Rosenwald, MD woman was kicked in the face by a home invading deer.

In August, a Boy Scout troop leader was attacked by a beaver. Within a month, another two beaver attacks occurred, one on an 83 year old woman, another on two young girls. This demonstrates that the normally cute animals are exhibiting classic predatorial instinct in picking off the old and very young.

On the same day as the Boy Scout beaver attack, another disturbing case indicated that animals are now developing cross-species cooperation as a fox and a boar helped kangaroos escape from the Berlin zoo.

And in the most recent attack, a deer in the throes of the nicotine fits held up two men for their pack of cigarettes.

So how does one prepare for the apocalypse by way of wild animals?

The Grizzly Suit.

Designed by Troy Hurtubise, the Grizzly Suit was made to withstand assault by anything.  He is marketing some of the more proprietary technologies to the military, law enforcement, emergency services and aerospace industries. 

If only Timothy Treadwell had had one. And also not been an idiot.

Christmas 2012

Unfortunately, I’m stuck in the lab this Christmas. While many will be making merry in front of fires, the closest I shall get to a roaring fire is some patient sneaking into the ambulance bay to smoke in defiance of the four—count them, four—signs. That is, however, quite unlikely: since the doors automatically lock behind you, most people are smart enough to go out the front. Most people.

More unfortunately, I will be too late for the dinner provided by the hospital. They don’t seem to remember that there are people who come in to work after 1900. Most people who know me know that on my list of things I like about the holiday season, food ranks 2nd. There are two parts to this: 2a) Good food and 2b) Free food. Occasionally the two come together.

There is, at least, some festivity. Among my gifts are a flashing pink flamingo and a Charlie Brown Christmas tree. I’ve got my Walkman loaded down with Manheim and Kenny G. There is also a batch of homemade fudge to slate my holiday appetite, and there’s usually a few things in the break room that day shift hasn’t completely consumed. Usually.