Lunch time is now a mere half hour long.
Up until now I've been enjoying hour long lunch breaks. At my old branch, this left me with plenty of time to drive home for lunch where I would make a quick sandwich or two, inhale them, then hop in the car to get back to work. These days, a 45 minute commute makes such a feat impossible.
So what have I been doing with my daily hours off work? Well, I generally pack a lunch. It's certainly cheaper than hitting a drive-thru each day. Besides, the only nearby drive-thru is attached to a McDonald's. You can only survive on McNuggets and McCheeseburgers for so long.
Eating in the break room is a quick and simple matter. Usually I have leftovers from the previous night's dinner or I nuke a couple of hot dogs. This usually means I'm able to eat within a time frame of roughly fifteen minutes.
The rest of my hour is spent sipping on water and reading whatever book I happen to be reading that week. But in a quiet room with only my thoughts and a silent book to entertain me, that hour sometimes seems to drag on. And there are a lot of days that I'm just tempted to lay my head down on the table and fall asleep.
That will no longer be a temptation.
With half hour lunch breaks, I eat in half the time I'm there, then get a few pages read before heading back to work. It's not nearly enough time to even begin feeling fatigued.
So while many of my co-workers may be complaining about the shortened lunches, I am rejoicing.
Another perk: The extra 2 and a half hours added on to my work schedule means a day each week that I'll be going home early. Pretty freakin' sweet if you ask me.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Life Story: Chapter Thirty
So the numerous physicians that I was forced to continually visit finally came to the conclusion that my problem was in fact psychological. If only they'd listened to me in the first place. Then I wouldn't have had to know the discomfort of radioactive fluid being pumped into my veins followed by a cramped scan in a large machine.
It was determined that I was suffering from some sort of eating disorder, most likely anorexia nervosa. Statistically, most of the people who are diagnosed with the disease are girls. Roughly 90-95% of cases are girls. So that could have something to do with the fact that I was not diagnosed right away. Usually the onset of the disease hits around age 17. So not only was I the wrong gender, but I was too young. The human mind is a tricky thing.
So thanks to this new psychological disease, I was sent to the first in a series of psychologists. Honestly I don't remember these first few people. I saw school counselors. I saw non-profit therapists. Finally I saw Debra.
Debra was the therapist that I would end up seeing for the next few years. She was a counselor that specialized in adolescent eating disorder cases. Every other week or so, she would have me come into her office and open up about what was going on in my life. Sometimes these sessions would turn into family sessions.
Something that was typical of my time at her office was when I would weigh myself on her scales. She would have me weigh in just to see if I was making any progress in gaining weight. Much of the time my pounds stayed pretty stable. Sometimes I'd go up one or two, and sometimes I'd go down.
During this time there was a lot of forcing myself to eat. Thus I became a much pickier eater than I had been in the past. I even got spoiled by that fact. My grandmother would even cook special food for me at family get togethers, just to make sure I would eat.
So things were stable for a while. But I wasn't over it just yet.
It was determined that I was suffering from some sort of eating disorder, most likely anorexia nervosa. Statistically, most of the people who are diagnosed with the disease are girls. Roughly 90-95% of cases are girls. So that could have something to do with the fact that I was not diagnosed right away. Usually the onset of the disease hits around age 17. So not only was I the wrong gender, but I was too young. The human mind is a tricky thing.
So thanks to this new psychological disease, I was sent to the first in a series of psychologists. Honestly I don't remember these first few people. I saw school counselors. I saw non-profit therapists. Finally I saw Debra.
Debra was the therapist that I would end up seeing for the next few years. She was a counselor that specialized in adolescent eating disorder cases. Every other week or so, she would have me come into her office and open up about what was going on in my life. Sometimes these sessions would turn into family sessions.
Something that was typical of my time at her office was when I would weigh myself on her scales. She would have me weigh in just to see if I was making any progress in gaining weight. Much of the time my pounds stayed pretty stable. Sometimes I'd go up one or two, and sometimes I'd go down.
During this time there was a lot of forcing myself to eat. Thus I became a much pickier eater than I had been in the past. I even got spoiled by that fact. My grandmother would even cook special food for me at family get togethers, just to make sure I would eat.
So things were stable for a while. But I wasn't over it just yet.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Toys
When one thinks of toys, usually a child's plaything comes to mind. That could mean dolls or action figures or tea sets or Legos or any number of things.
As a kid, I had plenty of toys to play with. GI Joe action figures that I seriously mistreated. I would have the Cobra forces capture a few Joes at a time and then torture them for information. Using an Erector Set, I would fashion a large torture device, to which I would attach a magnifying glass. Then the poor GI Joe victim would be "tied up" under the magnifying glass, which would then focus the light of the sun on the helpless action figure. I melted several soldiers that way. It's probably good that none of this came up in any counseling sessions. I'd have just turned into another over medicated kid who wouldn't be able to use the imagination he was given. My friends and I certainly did have some crazy imaginations. But don't worry, we never hurt any of the non-toys.
I also had a lot of the He-Man figures, but no harm done to them. In fact, they're still packed away in a box in my closet. And of course there were the Legos. I loved to build things. It didn't mean that I wanted to be an architect when I grew up. It was just fun.
As we grow up, our toys tend to evolve. And it depends on the kind of person we grow into that determines the kind of toys we like to play with. I can only speak for the guys out there. And really I can only speak for myself. But I'm just saying, I have no idea what kind of toys the girls still spend their time with as grown-ups.
A lot of guys like technological gadgets for their toys. They like the flashy new TVs or the iPhones or the Blackberrys. I fall into that category somewhat. I don't play with the water guns or the action figures so much these days. But I love a video game.
My Dad's ideas of toys, for the most part, were new gadgets to use in the kitchen. The man loved to cook and he loved finding new ways to do things. I remember kitchen gadgets always being the go to Christmas gift when I couldn't think of anything else. And for the most part, he may have used them once or twice and then they'd be forgotten. Maybe that should tell me that he didn't really like all those kitchen gadgets.
And then there are the guys who collect the traditional toys. These are the guys that scour E-Bay for the GI Joes that I treated so carelessly. These toys that I once played with are now collector's items, worth crazy amounts of money. These are the guys that go out and buy brand new action figures and never take them out of the box. If they're out of the box, they're no longer in mint condition, and that diminishes their value.
So what do you play with?
As a kid, I had plenty of toys to play with. GI Joe action figures that I seriously mistreated. I would have the Cobra forces capture a few Joes at a time and then torture them for information. Using an Erector Set, I would fashion a large torture device, to which I would attach a magnifying glass. Then the poor GI Joe victim would be "tied up" under the magnifying glass, which would then focus the light of the sun on the helpless action figure. I melted several soldiers that way. It's probably good that none of this came up in any counseling sessions. I'd have just turned into another over medicated kid who wouldn't be able to use the imagination he was given. My friends and I certainly did have some crazy imaginations. But don't worry, we never hurt any of the non-toys.
I also had a lot of the He-Man figures, but no harm done to them. In fact, they're still packed away in a box in my closet. And of course there were the Legos. I loved to build things. It didn't mean that I wanted to be an architect when I grew up. It was just fun.
As we grow up, our toys tend to evolve. And it depends on the kind of person we grow into that determines the kind of toys we like to play with. I can only speak for the guys out there. And really I can only speak for myself. But I'm just saying, I have no idea what kind of toys the girls still spend their time with as grown-ups.
A lot of guys like technological gadgets for their toys. They like the flashy new TVs or the iPhones or the Blackberrys. I fall into that category somewhat. I don't play with the water guns or the action figures so much these days. But I love a video game.
My Dad's ideas of toys, for the most part, were new gadgets to use in the kitchen. The man loved to cook and he loved finding new ways to do things. I remember kitchen gadgets always being the go to Christmas gift when I couldn't think of anything else. And for the most part, he may have used them once or twice and then they'd be forgotten. Maybe that should tell me that he didn't really like all those kitchen gadgets.
And then there are the guys who collect the traditional toys. These are the guys that scour E-Bay for the GI Joes that I treated so carelessly. These toys that I once played with are now collector's items, worth crazy amounts of money. These are the guys that go out and buy brand new action figures and never take them out of the box. If they're out of the box, they're no longer in mint condition, and that diminishes their value.
So what do you play with?
Saturday, June 27, 2009
They Said That It Couldn't Be Done
When I first moved into my apartment I debated whether or not to have a spare key made in case of emergencies. I reasoned that there was no possible way that such an emergency would come up, since the door to my apartment could only be locked by a key from the outside. Logic dictates that if I had my key to lock the door, I would still have it to unlock it.
Thursday night, I found a way.
It was a typical Thursday evening. I was tired after a long day of putting up with mind-numbing crap at work. But the previous night, I had been gently reminded by the Wake Forest police that the tags on my car had expired. And they're from another state, which is a carnal sin, in and of itself. I took it under advisement and knew that I would need to jump online and renew my tags if I wanted to continue to drive around semi-legally.
So I surfed the World Wide Web and navigated my way into the Virginia DMV's online home where I began the process of renewing my registration. Alas, to do so would require my registration number and vehicle identification number, both of which could be found on my current registration. The current registration, of course, could be found in the glove compartment of my car.
I grabbed my keys off the coffee table, slipped on some flip-flops, and headed out the door. Now, I don't live in the fanciest of apartments, but it is still open to invasion from nosy ne'er-do-wells. I generally don't leave the place without locking up. So I turned the key without a second thought and headed down to the parking lot.
I got in the car and opened the glove compartment and immediately knew that finding my registration would be a job of work. This thing hadn't been cleaned out in months, possibly years. I had just been continually stuffing things into it. Small papers and cards that I knew would be important to me at some point, but by placing them inside I could forget they existed until that time came. So I set my keys down on the seat beside me and began to discard all those old things that meant little or nothing to me anymore. There were a lot of old insurance cards, previous registration cards, those garters that I had caught at my last three weddings, and... score!... a book of stamps!
I finally found my latest version of the car's registration then headed back inside. As I boarded the elevator I noticed something strange. Well, really, I noticed the lack of something. There was no jingling sound coming from my pocket. I closed my eyes as a wave of nausea overtook me. I got back off the elevator and went back to the car. The short walk from the building to my car felt like miles and I was praying the entire time that just once I went against my nature and shut the car door without locking it first. There on the passenger seat was my one and only set of keys. And of course the door was locked.
So I walked back inside, the walk of a man who feels utterly defeated. I slowly made my way back to my apartment, again, hoping that I was remembering things wrong. Maybe I hadn't locked my apartment after all. Because through that door was hope. Inside that apartment was my wallet. A wallet which contained a spare key to my car. If I could only get to that wallet, all of my problems (of the moment) would be solved! But that door, too, was locked.
I began playing different scenarios in my head. I would be forced to sleep in the hallway and wait for the property manager or the maintenance man to show up the next day. It's not as if I could call anyone, my phone was also locked safely in my apartment. I thought about walking to the Greenehouse. It's literally right up the road from my place. But on foot, in the early summer North Carolina heat and humidity, it seemed light years away.
From there I decided to knock on doors. The first three I pounded on were empty. Either no one was living behind them or no one was home. That or they were more afraid of meeting their neighbors than I am. I finally knocked on the door of my next-door-neighbor to the right. Nice guy, works nights, so I felt pretty bad when he said he'd just woken up. I knew that it wasn't my knock that woke him, he was already awake (so he said), but I still felt bad about bothering him. He told me where Maintenance Man (who henceforth shall be known as M&M) lived. I apologized again for disturbing him and made my way to the third floor.
But no one was home there either.
Back in 213, my neighbor let me hang out until he could get someone on his cell phone. You may be asking why I didn't just call someone using his phone. Well, I was going to, but his phone book was only good for Raleigh and did not cover Wake Forest or Youngsville, the only places I would know anyone. And finding the Greenes' number would have done me no good since, that very day, they had changed their home number. Some funny joke, huh?
Luckily my neighbor had M&M's number in his cell. So he left a voice mail and we waited for him to call back. Another stroke of luck is that we only had to wait about ten minutes before M&M called back. M&M said he'd meet me in the parking lot. Since I didn't have power windows, he felt like he could get one of them down and then I'd be able to retrieve my keys. Well that didn't work. M&M took me upstairs where he got the spare key from the leasing office. M&M provided this story with a happy ending.
He let me back into my apartment. I got my spare key and my cell phone (just in case) and went back to my car. And the rest of my keys were still sitting there, waiting for my triumphant return.
Now, it's been two days since the incident. The question remains, why have I still not had a spare key made? I'm such a dummy.
Thursday night, I found a way.
It was a typical Thursday evening. I was tired after a long day of putting up with mind-numbing crap at work. But the previous night, I had been gently reminded by the Wake Forest police that the tags on my car had expired. And they're from another state, which is a carnal sin, in and of itself. I took it under advisement and knew that I would need to jump online and renew my tags if I wanted to continue to drive around semi-legally.
So I surfed the World Wide Web and navigated my way into the Virginia DMV's online home where I began the process of renewing my registration. Alas, to do so would require my registration number and vehicle identification number, both of which could be found on my current registration. The current registration, of course, could be found in the glove compartment of my car.
I grabbed my keys off the coffee table, slipped on some flip-flops, and headed out the door. Now, I don't live in the fanciest of apartments, but it is still open to invasion from nosy ne'er-do-wells. I generally don't leave the place without locking up. So I turned the key without a second thought and headed down to the parking lot.
I got in the car and opened the glove compartment and immediately knew that finding my registration would be a job of work. This thing hadn't been cleaned out in months, possibly years. I had just been continually stuffing things into it. Small papers and cards that I knew would be important to me at some point, but by placing them inside I could forget they existed until that time came. So I set my keys down on the seat beside me and began to discard all those old things that meant little or nothing to me anymore. There were a lot of old insurance cards, previous registration cards, those garters that I had caught at my last three weddings, and... score!... a book of stamps!
I finally found my latest version of the car's registration then headed back inside. As I boarded the elevator I noticed something strange. Well, really, I noticed the lack of something. There was no jingling sound coming from my pocket. I closed my eyes as a wave of nausea overtook me. I got back off the elevator and went back to the car. The short walk from the building to my car felt like miles and I was praying the entire time that just once I went against my nature and shut the car door without locking it first. There on the passenger seat was my one and only set of keys. And of course the door was locked.
So I walked back inside, the walk of a man who feels utterly defeated. I slowly made my way back to my apartment, again, hoping that I was remembering things wrong. Maybe I hadn't locked my apartment after all. Because through that door was hope. Inside that apartment was my wallet. A wallet which contained a spare key to my car. If I could only get to that wallet, all of my problems (of the moment) would be solved! But that door, too, was locked.
I began playing different scenarios in my head. I would be forced to sleep in the hallway and wait for the property manager or the maintenance man to show up the next day. It's not as if I could call anyone, my phone was also locked safely in my apartment. I thought about walking to the Greenehouse. It's literally right up the road from my place. But on foot, in the early summer North Carolina heat and humidity, it seemed light years away.
From there I decided to knock on doors. The first three I pounded on were empty. Either no one was living behind them or no one was home. That or they were more afraid of meeting their neighbors than I am. I finally knocked on the door of my next-door-neighbor to the right. Nice guy, works nights, so I felt pretty bad when he said he'd just woken up. I knew that it wasn't my knock that woke him, he was already awake (so he said), but I still felt bad about bothering him. He told me where Maintenance Man (who henceforth shall be known as M&M) lived. I apologized again for disturbing him and made my way to the third floor.
But no one was home there either.
Back in 213, my neighbor let me hang out until he could get someone on his cell phone. You may be asking why I didn't just call someone using his phone. Well, I was going to, but his phone book was only good for Raleigh and did not cover Wake Forest or Youngsville, the only places I would know anyone. And finding the Greenes' number would have done me no good since, that very day, they had changed their home number. Some funny joke, huh?
Luckily my neighbor had M&M's number in his cell. So he left a voice mail and we waited for him to call back. Another stroke of luck is that we only had to wait about ten minutes before M&M called back. M&M said he'd meet me in the parking lot. Since I didn't have power windows, he felt like he could get one of them down and then I'd be able to retrieve my keys. Well that didn't work. M&M took me upstairs where he got the spare key from the leasing office. M&M provided this story with a happy ending.
He let me back into my apartment. I got my spare key and my cell phone (just in case) and went back to my car. And the rest of my keys were still sitting there, waiting for my triumphant return.
Now, it's been two days since the incident. The question remains, why have I still not had a spare key made? I'm such a dummy.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Question of the Week: Cure
By controlling medical research funds, you are in the position to guarantee that a cure will be found in 15 years for any disease you choose. Unfortunately, no progress on any others would be made during that period. Would you target one disease?
No I wouldn't. What if researchers are only five years away from a cure for cancer, but I've decided that all they're gonna work on is athlete's foot? Fifteen years from now, no one will have itchy feet, but cancer will still have claimed millions of lives.
*Question of the Week comes from The Book of Questions by Gregory Stock, Ph.D.
No I wouldn't. What if researchers are only five years away from a cure for cancer, but I've decided that all they're gonna work on is athlete's foot? Fifteen years from now, no one will have itchy feet, but cancer will still have claimed millions of lives.
*Question of the Week comes from The Book of Questions by Gregory Stock, Ph.D.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Urge
Something happened to me that's never happened before. Yesterday as I was driving to work I felt an odd urge. It was an urge that I have felt before, but I usually don't follow it. I just ignore these random things and logically push them away by busying myself with the things I need to do at the time.
As I was driving I felt the strong desire to start singing old hymns. So I turned off the CD that I was listening to and just began to sing. It's been a long time since I've attended a church that asks its congregation to thumb through the old hymnals to sing number 336. And so, for the most part, I'm only able to remember the first and most popular verses.
So I would begin to sing a song. Then I'd get to the end of the first verse or make it through the chorus just once, and I'd be forced to move on. I pulled out a little Old Rugged Cross, In the Garden, and Holy, Holy, Holy. But then I got to my very favorite hymn of all time: It Is Well With My Soul.
The lyrics were written by a man named Horatio Spafford. Spafford wrote the song after a series of tragedies in his life. His son was killed in the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, which also destroyed his law practice. Only two years later, while crossing the Atlantic, the ship containing his wife and four daughters collided with a sailing vessel and sank. Though his wife survived, all of his children were lost. Not long after, he traveled across the ocean to join his wife. When passing near the area that became his daughters' resting place, he was inspired to write the words of that great hymn.
The song reminds us that in any circumstance in our lives, we can find peace. No matter what is going on, in good times and in bad, our souls can find rest when we go to the proper source. Relying on Christ as our strength gives us the ability to say it is well with our soul, no matter what.
So I sang through a few verses of this song and then I couldn't go on. It wasn't because I had forgotten the fourth verse. I was crying. At first my voice just began to shake a little and I tripped over the lyrics. Before I knew it I had no voice and tears were streaming down my cheeks.
At first I wasn't exactly sure what to do. I was driving and trying to see through tear-filled eyes. So I did the only logical thing I could think of. I prayed. I prayed hard. God had placed an urge on my heart that morning. And for once I decided not to be stubborn and just go with it. And through that, God put a crack in some of the walls I've spent so long building up.
It's good to know that He is still there to reach out to me, even when I neglect to reach out to Him. I just hope that next time I feel His push, I follow it, rather than ignore it.
As I was driving I felt the strong desire to start singing old hymns. So I turned off the CD that I was listening to and just began to sing. It's been a long time since I've attended a church that asks its congregation to thumb through the old hymnals to sing number 336. And so, for the most part, I'm only able to remember the first and most popular verses.
So I would begin to sing a song. Then I'd get to the end of the first verse or make it through the chorus just once, and I'd be forced to move on. I pulled out a little Old Rugged Cross, In the Garden, and Holy, Holy, Holy. But then I got to my very favorite hymn of all time: It Is Well With My Soul.
The lyrics were written by a man named Horatio Spafford. Spafford wrote the song after a series of tragedies in his life. His son was killed in the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, which also destroyed his law practice. Only two years later, while crossing the Atlantic, the ship containing his wife and four daughters collided with a sailing vessel and sank. Though his wife survived, all of his children were lost. Not long after, he traveled across the ocean to join his wife. When passing near the area that became his daughters' resting place, he was inspired to write the words of that great hymn.
The song reminds us that in any circumstance in our lives, we can find peace. No matter what is going on, in good times and in bad, our souls can find rest when we go to the proper source. Relying on Christ as our strength gives us the ability to say it is well with our soul, no matter what.
So I sang through a few verses of this song and then I couldn't go on. It wasn't because I had forgotten the fourth verse. I was crying. At first my voice just began to shake a little and I tripped over the lyrics. Before I knew it I had no voice and tears were streaming down my cheeks.
At first I wasn't exactly sure what to do. I was driving and trying to see through tear-filled eyes. So I did the only logical thing I could think of. I prayed. I prayed hard. God had placed an urge on my heart that morning. And for once I decided not to be stubborn and just go with it. And through that, God put a crack in some of the walls I've spent so long building up.
It's good to know that He is still there to reach out to me, even when I neglect to reach out to Him. I just hope that next time I feel His push, I follow it, rather than ignore it.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Revenge of the Fallen
Two years have gone by since Transformers introduced us to the awesomeness of childhood playthings becoming a life-sized reality on the big screen. Two years in anticipation, waiting for the inevitable sequel, hoping against hope that a part two would be equal its predecessor in the category of all things awesome. I will try to keep this as spoiler-free as possible, but be warned, a few bits of information not revealed by the trailers may be thrown in here and there.
All of that culminated last night as I was among the possible millions in this country who stayed up late to catch the midnight release of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen. It was a last minute decision to see the movie at midnight last night, and even that was a difficult one to make. Yes, I was looking forward to this movie about as much as I had anticipated The Dark Knight last summer. But with it being the middle of the week, and with the burden of a full-time job, I assumed I would need to wait at least a few days before finally seeing the new film.
That wasn’t the case as Nicole suggested that I go with Kevin and their oldest son, Bryce, to the midnight showing. Now, I love going to the theater, especially when it’s overcrowded. The people-watching possibilities are limitless. And thanks to the fact that school is out for the summer, there was no end of adolescent fanboys hanging out with groups of girls modeling the latest in hookerwear. Though we had pre-paid for our tickets, we were forced to wait in line until we got the okay to enter the viewing rooms. After a roughly half hour wait, we were allowed to wade our way through all the teenagers flaunting their new-found freedom from chaperones and curfews. Like cattle being led to the slaughter, we were ushered into our theater to finally see the sequel to greatness.
And then the movie began. The months of anticipation was not met with a whimper, but it really wasn’t met with a bang either. We pick up two years after the first film ended. The Autobots are now working with a military division that is hunting down the remaining Decepticons and attempting to rid the Earth of their threat. In the meantime, the Autobots have grown their ranks with a few more visitors that have joined the battle in between stories. But the Decepticons have been at work as well.
Our hero from the first movie, Sam (Shia LeBeouf) is all grown up and heading off to college, leaving behind his protector, Bumblebee, and his unrealistically hot girlfriend Mikaela (Megan Fox). When he comes in contact with a forgotten shard of the All-Spark, he is somehow infected with information that the Decepticons will kill to get. All of this leads to an action-packed adventure that delves into Earth’s ancient past, where we discover that the Transformers have been here before, leaving behind a source of great power that may be vital to the survival of their race.
Like the previous installment, this film continues the theme of sacrifice for the greater good. We see it over and over again in each of our good guys. Optimus Prime sacrifices himself to save Sam. Sam does the same for Prime. Sam’s parents argue with him about whether or not they will stay and fight or run and hide, as Sam tells them. Mikaela shows a great amount of faith in her fella, even when the odds are impossibly stacked against them.
The plot and the action alone made this movie well worth seeing. And for anyone who is as big a fan of Transformers as I have been, it is a must see. However, there are disappointments.
While the movie is a great action flick, there are a lot of elements that have been stripped from other, well-known franchises. A few of the most obvious ones come from Star Wars, Terminator, and Indiana Jones. When you see the movie, you’ll see those influences.
My biggest problem comes with the crudity and the over sexualized mentality of the movie. I can get past the use of certain characters purely for comic relief, that’s not the problem. The problem is when they resort to crude language and humor to break the tension with a cheap laugh. And remember how I said the girls at the theater were modeling their hookerwear? It’s easy to see where they get their fashion sense when Megan Fox is spending all of her screen time fairly scantily clad.
Not that I normally would mind staring at Megan Fox in low-cut tops or short shorts. But I was sitting next to an 11-year-old kid. And as good as the action was and as exciting as the plot may have been, it was hard to enjoy that when the whole time I’m thinking, “He really shouldn’t be seeing this.” I realize that the MPAA has their guidelines that they follow when rating a movie. And it’s not that this particular movie contained anything worse than you would find in any other PG-13 rated film. It just contained so much of it. There was so much sexual innuendo and crude humor that it seemingly pushed the envelope for this range of the rating system.
Maybe my opinion would be a little different and skewed in another direction had I seen it with the guys I went to college with. After all, those are the guys with whom I can sit through Anchorman and laugh hysterically. Seeing this with them, I may have walked away going on and on about how awesome the effects were or how cool it was when such-and-such exploded or how hot Megan Fox actually is. Instead, I walked out with a father and his impressionable young son talking about how inappropriate the content was and how disappointed we were after a huge and exciting build up.
So my opinion? The movie was good. The story was thrilling. The action was exciting. If you liked the first one, you’ll like this one. Just leave the kids at home.
All of that culminated last night as I was among the possible millions in this country who stayed up late to catch the midnight release of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen. It was a last minute decision to see the movie at midnight last night, and even that was a difficult one to make. Yes, I was looking forward to this movie about as much as I had anticipated The Dark Knight last summer. But with it being the middle of the week, and with the burden of a full-time job, I assumed I would need to wait at least a few days before finally seeing the new film.
That wasn’t the case as Nicole suggested that I go with Kevin and their oldest son, Bryce, to the midnight showing. Now, I love going to the theater, especially when it’s overcrowded. The people-watching possibilities are limitless. And thanks to the fact that school is out for the summer, there was no end of adolescent fanboys hanging out with groups of girls modeling the latest in hookerwear. Though we had pre-paid for our tickets, we were forced to wait in line until we got the okay to enter the viewing rooms. After a roughly half hour wait, we were allowed to wade our way through all the teenagers flaunting their new-found freedom from chaperones and curfews. Like cattle being led to the slaughter, we were ushered into our theater to finally see the sequel to greatness.
And then the movie began. The months of anticipation was not met with a whimper, but it really wasn’t met with a bang either. We pick up two years after the first film ended. The Autobots are now working with a military division that is hunting down the remaining Decepticons and attempting to rid the Earth of their threat. In the meantime, the Autobots have grown their ranks with a few more visitors that have joined the battle in between stories. But the Decepticons have been at work as well.
Our hero from the first movie, Sam (Shia LeBeouf) is all grown up and heading off to college, leaving behind his protector, Bumblebee, and his unrealistically hot girlfriend Mikaela (Megan Fox). When he comes in contact with a forgotten shard of the All-Spark, he is somehow infected with information that the Decepticons will kill to get. All of this leads to an action-packed adventure that delves into Earth’s ancient past, where we discover that the Transformers have been here before, leaving behind a source of great power that may be vital to the survival of their race.
Like the previous installment, this film continues the theme of sacrifice for the greater good. We see it over and over again in each of our good guys. Optimus Prime sacrifices himself to save Sam. Sam does the same for Prime. Sam’s parents argue with him about whether or not they will stay and fight or run and hide, as Sam tells them. Mikaela shows a great amount of faith in her fella, even when the odds are impossibly stacked against them.
The plot and the action alone made this movie well worth seeing. And for anyone who is as big a fan of Transformers as I have been, it is a must see. However, there are disappointments.
While the movie is a great action flick, there are a lot of elements that have been stripped from other, well-known franchises. A few of the most obvious ones come from Star Wars, Terminator, and Indiana Jones. When you see the movie, you’ll see those influences.
My biggest problem comes with the crudity and the over sexualized mentality of the movie. I can get past the use of certain characters purely for comic relief, that’s not the problem. The problem is when they resort to crude language and humor to break the tension with a cheap laugh. And remember how I said the girls at the theater were modeling their hookerwear? It’s easy to see where they get their fashion sense when Megan Fox is spending all of her screen time fairly scantily clad.
Not that I normally would mind staring at Megan Fox in low-cut tops or short shorts. But I was sitting next to an 11-year-old kid. And as good as the action was and as exciting as the plot may have been, it was hard to enjoy that when the whole time I’m thinking, “He really shouldn’t be seeing this.” I realize that the MPAA has their guidelines that they follow when rating a movie. And it’s not that this particular movie contained anything worse than you would find in any other PG-13 rated film. It just contained so much of it. There was so much sexual innuendo and crude humor that it seemingly pushed the envelope for this range of the rating system.
Maybe my opinion would be a little different and skewed in another direction had I seen it with the guys I went to college with. After all, those are the guys with whom I can sit through Anchorman and laugh hysterically. Seeing this with them, I may have walked away going on and on about how awesome the effects were or how cool it was when such-and-such exploded or how hot Megan Fox actually is. Instead, I walked out with a father and his impressionable young son talking about how inappropriate the content was and how disappointed we were after a huge and exciting build up.
So my opinion? The movie was good. The story was thrilling. The action was exciting. If you liked the first one, you’ll like this one. Just leave the kids at home.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Legends of the Bank Teller - Episode LV
I helped a customer today that I wish I had never seen. I hope that I never see her again.
She wasn't rude or demanding. For all I know, she was just a sweet old lady. And that's part of the problem.
Here's the thing... She was wearing a sleeveless shirt. Now, it was a hot day today. For the most part, I have no problem when women wear sleeveless attire. I mean, it's in the mid-90s outside and the humidity is almost about to jump off the charts. But I think there should really be an age limit.
This woman was, by my best estimations, ancient. Did you ever see There's Something About Mary? You know the shriveled up, over-tanned old lady on that? She looked like a smooth length of silk compared to this old chick.
It was kind of like someone had taken her arms and just pulled her skin off her bones, the way someone would pull on a rubber band, and then it just snapped back. But it didn't go back to its old shape. The skin was still all stretched out, but now it went back to covering the same area as before.
I had the displeasure of helping this woman. And she was a talker. I can be polite to our customers when they want to talk, even though I am not a talker. The elderly folks that come in are, a lot of the time, a lonely crew and a trip to the bank means a chance to talk to someone... anyone. Even if it means they're stuck talking to a jerk like me. Who, meanwhile, cannot wait until they finally shut their traps so I can thank them for banking with us.
So I'm caught in a conversation about whether or not this woman's account has a decent interest rate or not. And while she's talking, all I can think about is how not to throw up while looking at her heavily wrinkled arms. And through my mind is running the feasibility of running for office, simply so I can write legislation making it unlawful for men and women of a certain age to wear sleeveless shirts.
I know, I'm mean. How can you stand to keep reading this stuff?
She wasn't rude or demanding. For all I know, she was just a sweet old lady. And that's part of the problem.
Here's the thing... She was wearing a sleeveless shirt. Now, it was a hot day today. For the most part, I have no problem when women wear sleeveless attire. I mean, it's in the mid-90s outside and the humidity is almost about to jump off the charts. But I think there should really be an age limit.
This woman was, by my best estimations, ancient. Did you ever see There's Something About Mary? You know the shriveled up, over-tanned old lady on that? She looked like a smooth length of silk compared to this old chick.
It was kind of like someone had taken her arms and just pulled her skin off her bones, the way someone would pull on a rubber band, and then it just snapped back. But it didn't go back to its old shape. The skin was still all stretched out, but now it went back to covering the same area as before.
I had the displeasure of helping this woman. And she was a talker. I can be polite to our customers when they want to talk, even though I am not a talker. The elderly folks that come in are, a lot of the time, a lonely crew and a trip to the bank means a chance to talk to someone... anyone. Even if it means they're stuck talking to a jerk like me. Who, meanwhile, cannot wait until they finally shut their traps so I can thank them for banking with us.
So I'm caught in a conversation about whether or not this woman's account has a decent interest rate or not. And while she's talking, all I can think about is how not to throw up while looking at her heavily wrinkled arms. And through my mind is running the feasibility of running for office, simply so I can write legislation making it unlawful for men and women of a certain age to wear sleeveless shirts.
I know, I'm mean. How can you stand to keep reading this stuff?
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Vision
Where do you see yourself in five years?
This is the question that is inevitably asked of every college student at one point or another. Some are asked as rising freshmen. Some are asked as exiting graduates. Many are even asked again once they interview for that job they've been working so hard to get.
The question is a loaded one. It's a gauge that people use to determine what sort of drive you have. What sort of vision do you have for your life and what's to come?
I remember being asked this question several times throughout my life. And each time I've heard the question, I remember thinking about how unfair it was.
At 18 years of age, as a freshman just taking those first steps into adulthood, how could I have possibly known what the next five years would bring me? My answer was hopeful. I'd be a college graduate. I'd have a job. Back then, I may have even thought I'd be married, or at least on my way. But in reality, I had no idea.
At 23 years of age, as a college graduate, I still had no idea how to answer that question. I certainly didn't see myself as a grad school drop out working part-time at a bank trying desperately to make ends meet. But my answer at the time was probably roughly the same as it had been five years earlier.
And now, at 29 years of age, all I can safely say is that five years from now, I'll be 34.
I don't think about the future a great deal. Don't confuse that with spontaneity. I may not make long term plans, but I really don't fly by the seat of my pants either. The thing I don't like about plans is that they usually don't work out. I'd much rather live today for today and see what it brings, for better or worse.
So what sort of vision do I have for myself and my future? I don't know. I have goals, but they're not lofty. The goals I set for myself are attainable and, for the most part, within reach. My thought is, if you set yourself up with goals that are too far ahead, then something comes up and you can't reach that goal, you've done nothing but set yourself up for disappointment. I'm definitely not a fan of disappointment.
What about you? Where do you see yourself in five years?
This is the question that is inevitably asked of every college student at one point or another. Some are asked as rising freshmen. Some are asked as exiting graduates. Many are even asked again once they interview for that job they've been working so hard to get.
The question is a loaded one. It's a gauge that people use to determine what sort of drive you have. What sort of vision do you have for your life and what's to come?
I remember being asked this question several times throughout my life. And each time I've heard the question, I remember thinking about how unfair it was.
At 18 years of age, as a freshman just taking those first steps into adulthood, how could I have possibly known what the next five years would bring me? My answer was hopeful. I'd be a college graduate. I'd have a job. Back then, I may have even thought I'd be married, or at least on my way. But in reality, I had no idea.
At 23 years of age, as a college graduate, I still had no idea how to answer that question. I certainly didn't see myself as a grad school drop out working part-time at a bank trying desperately to make ends meet. But my answer at the time was probably roughly the same as it had been five years earlier.
And now, at 29 years of age, all I can safely say is that five years from now, I'll be 34.
I don't think about the future a great deal. Don't confuse that with spontaneity. I may not make long term plans, but I really don't fly by the seat of my pants either. The thing I don't like about plans is that they usually don't work out. I'd much rather live today for today and see what it brings, for better or worse.
So what sort of vision do I have for myself and my future? I don't know. I have goals, but they're not lofty. The goals I set for myself are attainable and, for the most part, within reach. My thought is, if you set yourself up with goals that are too far ahead, then something comes up and you can't reach that goal, you've done nothing but set yourself up for disappointment. I'm definitely not a fan of disappointment.
What about you? Where do you see yourself in five years?
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