Zach Oooh!n
There is no unhappiness like the misery of sighting land (and work) again after a cheerful, careless voyage.***83***
I'd just like to state for the record that there are an equal number of heartaches caused by women with domination/pure meanness issues as there are by men with commitment/pure-meanness issues. That concludes it, for now.
Moving on.
So, Hannibal. Hannibal, Missouri. Sort of a good idea, in a way. Sort of. One thing I've always known/believed about Missouri is that it's a half/half state. Half very charming, cool, progressive (don't notice John Ashcroft), and interesting. Other half. Other half. Other half different. I can't say trashy. Yes, I can. Trashy trashy trashy. Just looking and acting and talking and moving all very dirtballish and oafish and just fascinatingly out there. Half of this half are the people who keep the KKK, NASCAR, NRA, and the PAX channel on TV in business. Never will you see a more diverse culture than that of Missouri. Hannibal is a nice enough place, kept alive entirely by Mark Twain and themed shops/restaurants (I can't help but recommend the Mark Twain Diner in Downtown Hannibal, which was just awesome enough to get my full frugal seal of approval)/junk stores/caves/boats. Everything. Mark Twain, I'm sure, would be devastated to see what his image and brilliance has spawned. As commercial as a town can be whilst still trying to maintain a "homey" atmosphere. Every "museum" had a gift shop that specialized in nothing; Twain's books were sold in equal number to rubber vomit, Tolkien biographies, and cheap harmonicas. It seems that Twain's image (or his quotables) are stuck on everything: even the local punks couldn't help but do their skating and all-around tomfoolery in the shadow of a statue of Huck and Tom. I did quite enjoy a tour they give of the cave that much of Tom Sawyer is based in; I'll try not to mention that the tour lasted an hour and cost a staggering Twelve Dollars (oops).
Thank god I was with some great people, or it would have been a disaster. I watched the Angels and Twins get to the ALCS (how fucking awesome can it get?!?!?) and then the Cardinals win (Good God almighty, how low can the NL go?) and then Matt Damon on Saturday Night Live (good to see that guy from Late Night With Zach got a job with his charmingly ethnocentric "I'm just keeding" routine) which was funny in an "I'm obsessed with the dude" way. Seriously, it doesn't get any better than watching Matt Damon on TV with theRy and her family (most of whom were long since retired to their beds, but they were there in spirit) and knowing that I'll never have to go back to Hannibal again.
Speaking of Hannibal, I also saw Red Dragon last night. I won't bore you with a review. Only say. Only say that it was pretty damn good for a popcorn movie, and that I can't wait to see Emily Watson and PSHoffman in Punch Drunk Love. Watson is great as a blind woman who falls for the Red Dragon who is played by an equally great (if a bit British) Ralph Fienes. Or is it Ray. Or is it Fiennes. Anyway, a damn fine movie. Although the woman behind us takes the cake as the all-time worst theatre-going fouler, as she managed to
a. talk through the movie
b. cough a lot
c. shake her popcorn
d. chomp on the ice from her drink (all 40+ pieces of them)
e. shift her larger-than-seat ass a lot thus putting her knee up against my seat and shaking me
and last but certainly not least f. Put her empty popcorn bag on the seat next to Ry. I had to triple-take on that to believe it, and by then she had reached her hand over and picked it up and put it on the ground. She actually put her fucking garbage on the seat next to us, without even checking if there was a jacket or a purse or some other personal item that we might not want soiled by her greasy, stubby finger mess.
Go you Angels! (or you Twins! as long as somebody beats the fucking Cardinals and their Rabid, beastly, disgusting fan club) Go you Bears! Go you!
Next five: "Colour" by Waxwing; "Our Love" by Rhett Miller; "Sylvia" by creeper lagoon***84***; "Shit, that isn't the first time I've been right about a woman (but I wish I wasn't) by Zach Oooh!n feat. Lois Lane and the Motown Five; and song five on the new Maserati CD.
in the stereo: Maserati
***83***- Mark Twain from a letter to Will Bowen (prior to sailing on Quaker City)
***84***It's really not a happy song, just in case you were wondering
There is no unhappiness like the misery of sighting land (and work) again after a cheerful, careless voyage.***83***
I'd just like to state for the record that there are an equal number of heartaches caused by women with domination/pure meanness issues as there are by men with commitment/pure-meanness issues. That concludes it, for now.
Moving on.
So, Hannibal. Hannibal, Missouri. Sort of a good idea, in a way. Sort of. One thing I've always known/believed about Missouri is that it's a half/half state. Half very charming, cool, progressive (don't notice John Ashcroft), and interesting. Other half. Other half. Other half different. I can't say trashy. Yes, I can. Trashy trashy trashy. Just looking and acting and talking and moving all very dirtballish and oafish and just fascinatingly out there. Half of this half are the people who keep the KKK, NASCAR, NRA, and the PAX channel on TV in business. Never will you see a more diverse culture than that of Missouri. Hannibal is a nice enough place, kept alive entirely by Mark Twain and themed shops/restaurants (I can't help but recommend the Mark Twain Diner in Downtown Hannibal, which was just awesome enough to get my full frugal seal of approval)/junk stores/caves/boats. Everything. Mark Twain, I'm sure, would be devastated to see what his image and brilliance has spawned. As commercial as a town can be whilst still trying to maintain a "homey" atmosphere. Every "museum" had a gift shop that specialized in nothing; Twain's books were sold in equal number to rubber vomit, Tolkien biographies, and cheap harmonicas. It seems that Twain's image (or his quotables) are stuck on everything: even the local punks couldn't help but do their skating and all-around tomfoolery in the shadow of a statue of Huck and Tom. I did quite enjoy a tour they give of the cave that much of Tom Sawyer is based in; I'll try not to mention that the tour lasted an hour and cost a staggering Twelve Dollars (oops).
Thank god I was with some great people, or it would have been a disaster. I watched the Angels and Twins get to the ALCS (how fucking awesome can it get?!?!?) and then the Cardinals win (Good God almighty, how low can the NL go?) and then Matt Damon on Saturday Night Live (good to see that guy from Late Night With Zach got a job with his charmingly ethnocentric "I'm just keeding" routine) which was funny in an "I'm obsessed with the dude" way. Seriously, it doesn't get any better than watching Matt Damon on TV with theRy and her family (most of whom were long since retired to their beds, but they were there in spirit) and knowing that I'll never have to go back to Hannibal again.
Speaking of Hannibal, I also saw Red Dragon last night. I won't bore you with a review. Only say. Only say that it was pretty damn good for a popcorn movie, and that I can't wait to see Emily Watson and PSHoffman in Punch Drunk Love. Watson is great as a blind woman who falls for the Red Dragon who is played by an equally great (if a bit British) Ralph Fienes. Or is it Ray. Or is it Fiennes. Anyway, a damn fine movie. Although the woman behind us takes the cake as the all-time worst theatre-going fouler, as she managed to
a. talk through the movie
b. cough a lot
c. shake her popcorn
d. chomp on the ice from her drink (all 40+ pieces of them)
e. shift her larger-than-seat ass a lot thus putting her knee up against my seat and shaking me
and last but certainly not least f. Put her empty popcorn bag on the seat next to Ry. I had to triple-take on that to believe it, and by then she had reached her hand over and picked it up and put it on the ground. She actually put her fucking garbage on the seat next to us, without even checking if there was a jacket or a purse or some other personal item that we might not want soiled by her greasy, stubby finger mess.
Go you Angels! (or you Twins! as long as somebody beats the fucking Cardinals and their Rabid, beastly, disgusting fan club) Go you Bears! Go you!
Next five: "Colour" by Waxwing; "Our Love" by Rhett Miller; "Sylvia" by creeper lagoon***84***; "Shit, that isn't the first time I've been right about a woman (but I wish I wasn't) by Zach Oooh!n feat. Lois Lane and the Motown Five; and song five on the new Maserati CD.
in the stereo: Maserati
***83***- Mark Twain from a letter to Will Bowen (prior to sailing on Quaker City)
***84***It's really not a happy song, just in case you were wondering
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