Monday, October 17

More 'genitals' per minute

It was too nice to stay inside last night, so we went to the drive-in to see Waiting and, if we felt like staying, Into the Blue. Both were mostly about sex organs.

Waiting had its funny moments, but was mostly bereft of a point, which is fine for mindless comedies. I laughed at Dane Cook's fake piercings. I enjoyed Monty and his mom's exchange of insults, and Serena and Monty's fight. Mitch's tell-off is immacuate. And I was shocked and appalled that I had to see testicles, though I don't recall seeing any breasts. Wait, can that be right? This movie must not be American.

At the end, Andy Milonakis and the kid who plays the other gangsta kid perform a rap song/video over the credits that is probably the most depraved, offensive thing I've heard in a long time. I can't find the lyrics anywhere, but I remember quite a bit about killing a woman and depositing sperm on her black eye or something. I don't remember exactly what they said, but it was pretty bad.

It was disturbing and such things always make me wonder how much of a feminist I can be with such a dark sense of humor that leaves nothing sacred. Can I laugh at such things because they're ridiculous and hyperbolic, or should such things never be on the table as joke fodder because they desensitize me and others to the reality of misogyny? It would be a clear-cut decision if I knew the intentions of the writers (which is the flimsy rationale for why my friends and I can make dark, offensive jokes: We don't actually condone the things we joke about; we laugh out of sheer cynical irony), but I don't, and I suspect that Andy Milonakis and his friend aren't members of their local NOW. Anyway, my laughter waned during the credits, but sustained through much of the feature. To their credit, the characters said the word "genitals" more than in any movie I can recall ever seeing.

We stayed for probably half of Into the Blue, which was an infomercial for how bubbly Jessica Alba's ass is. Look how it tries to make its way to the surface when she's underwater! Look! She waxes! In addition, it was an infomercial for why Paul Walker should go back to Savannah and never act again, because he reminds me of stupid, cocky — albeit handsome — rednecks I grew up loathing.

So these young beach bums go treasure hunting, find lots of drugs, swim around with the camera in their crotches, etc. I figure guns and thick-accented bad guys got involved after we left.

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Today has been equally gorgeous outside. I feel bad for the Kids in the Northeast, who have endured rain for more than a week. Patrick tells me not only has it rained non-stop, but his quadrant of Syracuse has E. coli and they're under a boiling order. Jebus!

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My mom called and told me she has bought herself and my dad tickets to see Elton John here in November. She wanted Phil and me to come along, but I have to work. Then she wanted just Phil to come, but he declined. So they might be coming up here and spending the night. It'll be my dad's first time in the apartment. I can't wait until he sees the hole in the ceiling and the broken shower tiles and all the other shit that the maintenance people have not fixed since we moved here.

The people who run this place are so frustrating (I'm being polite). Today I stopped by to get a pass for the fitness room (they charge us a $25 fee to get access to a room with a treadmill, an elliptical machine, and a bicycle machine) so I can move my fat ass around and it took the lady 45 minutes to enter my name into their little computer program and give me a keycard. While I was there, she answered about eight phone calls, including one in which she specified her lunch order ("Girl, get me a kid's meal. I had gastric bypass surgery so I can't eat a lot. I'll nibble on that all day. What they got for sides? Mmm hmm. Mmm hmm. Okay, get me some green beans — not green peas! — but green beans, some fish, and mashed potatoes. Mmm hmm) and another in which she gave directions to a prospective tenant, rolling her eyes to me the whole time.

She kept saying, "I've only done this twice, so berr with me" (yes, you read "berr" correctly; that's how she said it) and staring slackjawed at the computer as it prompted her for my name and unit number.

"What's your name?"

Goddammit, it's on the check. "Lindsey."

"Okay, L-Y-N-Z ... is that I or Y?"

"Um, it's L-I-N-D-S-E-Y."

"Oh, girl, I was spelling it like a man would spell it!" Har har har.

I've never met a man named Lindsey (I know they exist, though), and I certainly don't know of one who would spell it "Lynzy." The only Lindseys who spell their name like that are Suicide Girls.

Then my helpful leasing consultant couldn't figure out how to activate a new card, so she waited for another consultant to get back from lunch and get off the phone to ask her for help.

I finally — with two giant brains on the case — got the key. But it won't be activated until later tonight. But guess what this fat ass will be doing later tonight? Nah, don't guess. I'll tell you: Drinking a cocktail and watching "That '70s Show" on Blockbuster's DVDs. I'm a thrill a minute!

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