Tuesday, March 27

sweet diesel

In Boston, a regular traveler on the orange line complained of a stench at one of the stations, sort of a sulphur smell.

In response a representative of MBTA said on FOX 25:

The only thing I smelled was the scent of sweet and reliable transit service.

Worth an entire entry? Oh yeahhhh....

In other news:
-Got a new Chevy Prizm

Friday, March 9

memorial to squeaky

Ass shot of Squeaky
My nice little 2001 Chevy Prizm will totaled, and I have until noon tomorrow to clean the rest of my stuff out. The pic is from last year's New Hampshire trip when Dan and I visited Maria, went to Middle Earth Music Hall, and explored Hanover.

Highlights of my time with Squeaky
(yes, I know how lame that sounds)
August 2005- March 2007:
-Tony the Russian, who we bought the car from. It was like shopping with Boris Badenov
-Visiting the Alternate Universe Tim Guy
-Salem, third trip.
-Mine and Dan's third anniversary/ Valentine's Day in Newport at the Cheeky Monkey
-The New Hampshire trip
-Elroy-watching trips in Boxboro
-Salem, fourth trip
-Mall rats

Wednesday, March 7

Yesterday, car accident. Today, productive English major-ly doings and a discussion with an imaginary dog about symbolism in The Great Gatsby.

So, accident. I was driving on Route 44 when the other car pulled out of the Hess Station (a particularly brilliant move, considering that they could have easily went on the side street, through the red light)

Monday, March 5

helping Gramps cross the street in his seashell bra

Blogger finally got me, and I now have to sign in with my gmail account, which is a shame because my original blogger user name was sonicpumpkin. Once again I'm in the Whipple computer lab, only this time after a failed attempt at taking a walk. Too cold for my fingers and whatnot.

Earlier today, Dan and I watched Hercules Versus the Moon Men, another one of those 50 Sci-Fi "Classics". Hercules reminds me of the Brawny Paper Towel guy, only in a leather mini skirt. No, really. It's about as manly as a mini skirt gets, but still, it is a mini skirt. Last night while I worked on a shirt, I watched part of Teenagers from Outer Space, forgetting that the DVD cuts off just as we're about to find out what injustices Thor (the evil alien) will subject Derek (the good alien who abhors communism and wants a family) and Betty to, and whether or not Gramps finally crosses the street.

So after that, I watched Voyage to the Planet of Prehistoric Women in it's entirety, featuring Robot John as Robot John and fossilized idol. The seashell bra wearing prehistoric women of Venus worship various prehistoric things, like Ptera the Pterodactyl and the "God of the Fire Mountain." I can just imagine the thought process there. Hmmm, what sort of religion would prehistoric women have? Well, what sort of prehistoric things exist? Yes. Somehow, the movie manages to have a corny falling in love with the natives type storyline, even though the astronauts/ cosmonauts never actually see, meet, or verify the existence of the natives. In the end, and no I don't care that I'm giving away the end to my non-readership, the astronauts leave with almost no evidence, and none of their provisions, but like a small pox infested blanket inadvertently leave their mark on the prehistoric women in the form of Robot John/ SCIENCE!, a new religion to replace Ptera.

It freakin' weirded my out when I learned that the director, Peter Bogdonovich, also directed The Cat's Meow, which I saw recently.

Friday, March 2

oh great and wise thesaurus....

Due to Dan's pestering, I watched Beowulf and Grendel last night. The film makers went the route of bludgeoning the audience with the idea that maybe, just maybe, Grendel's not all bad, it's the Danes. This didn't work too well, because one can't play the relativism card and still show Grendel bowling with skulls. The filmmakers, to further their ineffective attempt at showing Grendel as a sweet, misunderstood troll also included a crazy witch, who doubles as a brazen whore and tries to shock Beowulf/ the audience with her dirty stories. Also, where's the logic in making a Grendel sex scene (as if one were needed) longer than a Beowulf sex scene?

Last night my project group for Tolkien class gave our presentation. People who weren't us (Prof Z and Frondo Story Guy) said we did a good job, which I take to mean that at least I won't fail. My hands were shaking like a drug addicts, due to some combination of nerves and caffeine.

Right now I'm in the Whipple computer lab because my mass media class was canceled, and I had to drive all the way here. I should probably use up some of RIC's paper while I'm here, but I also feel like I should just leave and look for a job at some place where the employers aren't blue hair hating jerks. I'm sick of being a nice person and have made a decision to flick off more campus police and work on a Billy Idol sneer to throw at people when people give me that "look at that blue haired freak/ downfall of society and corrupter of the youth" look.

Kellye, The Anchor's "roving reporter" asked me the question of the week on Monday, and I ended up in the February 27 issue, with a picture that makes me look like my mom.

Labels: , , ,