Adventures with Princess Cliché: Part 1

Once upon a time there was a cliché. Not the one I just used, but a princess locked in a tower in the middle of a forest, alone, with an evil stepmother keeping her inside. A spell was cast over this tower. This tall tower made of steel. Any attempt to jump out of the window or crash through the door was thwarted by a tiny garden gnome who had been enchanted to life by the evil stepmother. He held a giant fork and spoke in German. He stood at the tower day and night, humming train songs and clanking on the fork singing the blues. The princess would always hum a long getting to know the songs the longer she stayed trapped. Not knowing how to speak German, the Princess made up her own words to the tunes:

At vulnerable moments she wailed:
“Trapped up inside,
Of the rusty old tin.
Won’t someone find me,
And save me from this.
But I’ll keep surviving,
Through rain, sleet, and snow,
Because my prince is coming,
A man I don’t know.”

At moments of rage she screamed:
“If I were a snake,
I’d slide right through the rail.
I’d bite that damn gnome,
And I’d poison that wench.
But since I am trapped,
Forver I’ll sing,
Songs sung in German,
That don’t mean a thing.”

In those rare moments of joy she cooed:
“I’ve got sunshine
Glowing from my skin,
And when it is dark,
It lights up this den.
Even when I cry,
My tears turn to love.
My eyes turn to stars,
And I feel warmth
up above.”

Days within this cold tower dragged on. Where 24 hours felt like years, and months felt like eternities. Nearing her 19th birthday, the princess grew restless and made a plan to escape. One night, while the gnome moaned his moody blues, she grabbed a loaf of bread, a compass, a flask full of water and a warm jacket and attempted to open the 2nd story window, on the opposite side of where the gnome sat. In an old brown dress, all drab and stringy, the princess lifted the skirt to her knees and slowly, right to left, lifted her legs over the ledge and jumped. She fell for what seemed like more than an hour. When she finally landed she found herself on a boat in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.



“Ahoy ther me lady!” bellowed a man to her left.

She jumped with surprise and saw a one-eyed pirate, parakeet and all, smiling his toothy grin and looking straight at her.

“Squawk! Ther me Lady!” the parakeet repeated.

“What the hell is all of this?” she cried, obviously confused and a bit scared.

“No need to get mouthy. You are aboard Captain Cardioid’s ship. And I just so happen to be the one in which they call Captain. Nice to meetcher! And this here is Pogue. Say Hello Pogue!”

“Sqquuuuuaaaawwwk, Hello Pogue!” cried the parakeet.

“Um, I don’t understand. I was just in a tower a. . . and I jumped and now I’m here on this ship and it all just doesn’t make sense. And the garden gnome, the one who speaks German, he was singing his songs as he always does and I just, I, don’t understand it one bit!”

“Wee bit hysterical ther Miss,” the captain said, and quietly he said, “And a wee bit nutty too, huh, Pogue?” he said to the parakeet, making his eyes twist around and swirling his finger by his temple, making the sign for crazy.

“Squuuuuaaaaawwwwkkkkk, a wee bit nutty!!!”

“Stop it! I am not crazy!” the princess exclaimed, stamping her foot. “If I’m so crazy, then tell me, how did I arrive on this ship?”

“That’s easy lass, you were just, well, you were just. Umm. And then you. . wait. Well you came from . . . wait, no. Daggum. Pogue! How much rum did I drink today?”
“Squuuuaaawwwkkkk, the rum is all gone!”

“No Pogue, no. Wh . . Why is the rum gone? Nevermind that. Thar is your
answer lady. I be’s a drunken sailor and have lost track of me mind.”

The princess stared at the Captain, her eyes narrowed and eyebrows high.
“I’m not buying that for one second Captain! First off, you are NOT a sailor, you are a pirate—“

“Arrrrrrrgggghhhh!!!” interrupted the Captain, “I be no such thing you vicious shedevil!”

“Oh yeah?” she replied, “Well, what is the meaning of that?” she said pointing at a black flag with a white skull and crossbones and the word ‘Pirate’ written across the bottom blowing from the back of the ship.”

“Argh, the lady has caught the Captain in a lie, but I be’s a poor drunk pirate. I forget me place.” A sound jumped from the Captain’s throat, something that sounded like a small yelp or a failed attempt at a fake hiccup.

“Well, if you’re so drunk Captain Cardioid, then let me smell your breath.”

“Pogue, this nutter lass is a strange one indeed.”
“Squuuaawwwwk, strange one indeed!”

“Just let me and then we can settle this here and now, and get back to the more important business of how the hell I wound up on your ship.”
With her arms crossed and pursed lips, the princess waited for a reply from the now nervous Captain.

He walked closer to her as she now noticed the wooden rod posing as the Captain’s right leg. He waddled as he trudged closer to the princess, step, clomp, step, clomp, he opened his mouth, but before a large breath could be blown a loud ‘BANG’ interrupted the interrogation and shook the entire ship. Strips of wood and large waves of water flew across the deck.

“AAARRRGGGHHH matey!” screamed the Captain as he and the parakeet dove to the floor. “Man the cannons Pogue! We are under attack!”
“Squuuuuaaaaawwwwkkkk, under attack!”

“Whar is the nutter lass?”

Overboard, in the green waters below, the princess was being tossed back in forth in the waves of the Mediterranean. “Help!” she cried as she gulped a large mass of salty sea water. Being overtaken by the sea, the princess began to sink into the depths of the pristine waters. She sank, for what seemed like 2 hours. Everything went black.

When she awoke, drenched and coughing uncontrollably, the princess found herself , not in a steel tower guarded by a German gnome, or on a ship with a pirate going through an identity crisis, no, the princess was somewhere entirely different.

“Are you ready to rock??” exclaimed an unidentified voice.
Rubbing her head and sitting upright, the princess looked around, “Uh . . Where am I?”

To Be Continued . . .

Anarchist Hippies Want to Save Your Babies!

I've never thought past 18 until I was forced to. I remember as a young girl I would ask myself, “I wonder what it would be like to be 18-years-old. What will I look like? Where will I be?” and most importantly, “Will I be dating Brad Pitt?” I kind of already knew the answer to that last question, but as a child, 18 was the age I thought about. I didn’t much think about life past 18. I mean 21 was a passing thought. The legal drinking age is always a pivotal moment in a young person’s life. But as a little girl, I cared not a thing about the perks of legal alcohol consumption. No, I just wanted a good-looking boyfriend and to not be fat or unattractive at 18. Because that’s where life ends and begins when it comes to future aspirations.

The adult life just seems like some comical myth. Something you know has the possibility of fleshing out, but not really. Reaching that age is like climbing Mt. Everest, fucking impossible. Oh, the naivety of youth.


Maybe this is why 23 is such a strange stage to be at. I’ve passed both of those age mile markers of 18 mph and 21 mph. And now the road isn’t even a road any more its more of a wide open freeway; no lanes, no signs, no speed limit, just a chaotic exclamation point of twisting and turning and shouts of “What are you doing after you graduate?” and “What are you going to do with your life?” and “Hey! You’re getting old!”

But am I really getting old? I mean in the grand scheme of things I’d say I’m pretty young, unless I’m about to die in the next few minutes, otherwise I am pretty old because my pre-determined lifespan is a sad timeline of 23 years. It’s even weird to tell people my age because I've never thought I’d make it to this point. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m at a fantastic stage of life. Some would say my peak. I say, screw those encompassing the “some” who think they can equate your life to the opinions that they so surely mark as truth. Yeah buddy, I’m talking to you who has already passed their peak at 21, my peak is my demise, so fuck you. I don’t want to hear your sad loathsome bullshit about what I need to do, what you’re saying is what YOU need to do, so fucking do it. And leave me be.

I’m starting to get the feeling that this free spirited, take life as it comes at me way of life isn’t just some 3 year phase I’ve been going through, I’m thinking it’s a permanent fixture. I think my friend (use that term loosely) Matt said it best in one of his Facebook posts, “It’s really difficult to rewire a brain.” I’ve been called a “hippie” so many times over the past two years I can’t even keep up with who said it to me. But I don’t understand that evaluation at all. I looked up the definition of the term on Dictionary.com and here is what it said:


Hippie = [hip. Eee] a person, esp. of the late 1960s, who rejected established institutions and values and sought spontaneity, direct personal relations expressing love, and expanded consciousness, often expressed externally in the wearing of casual, folksy clothing and of beads, headbands, used garments, etc.
Oh shit. That’s kind of true. . . . . I did grow up in 60s and I wear head bands, like, alllll the time. I’m not being sarcastic, man. No way.

But I also looked up the definition of anarchist partially because it’s pretty much the opposite of hippie (at least I thought) and because it’s just random and the third definition of this term kind of sounds similar to the definition of the hippie:
Anarchist = a person who promotes disorder or excites revolt against any established rule, law, or custom.
The key difference between the anarchist and the hippie: rejection and revolution. It’s debatable whether these two terms are interchangeable.

So, I’m a Hippie-third-definition-Anarchist, but let’s check out the meaning of bipolar. I’ve gotten that staple a couple times. Let’s see what the bipolar personality really means.

Bipolar disorder = an affective disorder characterized by periods of mania alternating with periods of depression, usually interspersed with relatively long intervals of normal mood.

Holy shit son, I think this is me. Maybe I’m in my manic stage right now. Who the hell knows? But I’ll take this deduction and use it as my own.

Jessica: The hippie-third definition anarchist-bipolar girl. That’s got a nice ring to it. I think she’d make one hell of a super hero. Wearing a peace sign cape, saving your baby, and then throwing it on the floor whilst head banging to a Dead Kennedy’s record. Oh yes, my future is bright indeed.


So, what is my point in all this? There is no point. I’m just rattling on because I got inspired to write after watching James Franco masterfully portray Allen Ginsberg in the film Howl. I’m sitting at a bar called The Manhattan Café in Athens, Georgia, alone and sipping a cup of Kahlua and coffee just because I can and because I’m old enough to do that and most importantly because that’s what I enjoy. Drinking hot alcoholic beverages and doing things on my own. Oh, the things I wish I could do but I don’t do. How does one erase F.E.A.R. and just D.O.? Maybe that’s what life at 23 will be about. Erasing fear and replacing it with action. I know one action that will be immediate. Cup of Kahlua number two. Let’s get it pumping. Oh and I know, I’m just so Hawaiian because I opt for Kahlua instead of Bailey’s. You don’t have to tell me. I already know. Did you also know my favorite fruit is Pineapple? I’m so authentically Hawaiian.

The 23-year-old Hawaiian hippie third definition anarchist bipolar girl: She wants to be your friend, won’t you let her??

Read Howl. It's cool. Bye Bye.

What Liz Lemon wants

Is it strange that Liz Lemon and I want the same thing in a man?

"No! It’s okay! I don’t want to hurt you. But I’ll tell you what I do want.
I want someone who will be monogamous and nice to his mother.
And I want someone who likes musicals but knows to shut his mouth when I'm watching Lost.
And I want someone who thinks being really into cars is lame and strip clubs are gross.
I want someone who will actually empty the dishwasher instead of taking out forks as needed--like I do.
I want someone with clean hands and feet and beefy forearms like a damn Disney prince.
And I want him to genuinely like me, even when I'm old.
That's what I want."

I saw this last night on 30 Rock. Tina Fey is such a funny lady. The only question that remains is Why the hell did Date Night suck so bad?

T

CHANGE: Not a blog about Obama.

Do you ever get the feeling that you are doing the same things over and over and over and over again? Your life becomes an epic battle to stay away from change because change is hard and it's unpredictable, so you resist it.

Curiously enough, the only way to break yourself from a life of redundancy is to accept change, to not try to fight it, because in the end, we do get older, our lives do change, and once you hit your 20's this realization comes barreling head first into your mind. It racks at your brain, and all of a sudden you start romanticizing the past. The days when your only worries were watching the next re-run of Rugrats and making sure you hid the Dunkaroo's from your brother so he couldn't get the last pack.



Nostalgia is great, but it's also a trap, because we tend to forget the things we didn't like about being a kid. The rules, waking up painfully early to catch the bus, the rules. We forget that we had no freedom, it was merely a dream. We longed for the day when mom and dad wouldn't be able to tell us that we CAN'T do that. And until that point, the gleam of rebellion shone red and bright in our eyes.

These days, I find myself falling victim to grandiose memories of simpler times, but can we honestly say that as a kid things were simple?

Speaking from personal experience, my childhood was happy but trying. I broke the rules and made my parents' life a living hell for the better half of my youth. I won't go into details of all the familial terrorism I bestowed upon my kinfolk, but I will say that to this day, I'm still surprised at how much love and support they offered me despite all of my immature and just plain dumb misdeeds.

And that brings up another point: Wishing to be a kid again is a wish for ignorance. What's that saying? Ignorance is bliss? In a way, I agree. To unlearn everything I've learned over the past 10 years would take a big weight off of my shoulders. All of the things I've seen and experienced, and that one moment I had after I graduated high school and came to terms with my mortality-- Oh to be invincible for just one more day.

But as euphoric as I'm sure I'd feel, I'd also be losing sight of something that's more important than youth, or play time, or those chocolate cupcakes that look like mud with green and white gummy worms sticking out of them (yumm!)-- I'd be losing sight of the things that really matter in this world. Family, friends, forgiveness, altruism-- love.



Obviously I'm recounting my childhood only through distant memories, but I don't think children can really appreciate any of these things because they are faultlessly self-absorbed. They are learning the basics, and I don't know if I'd want to give everything up and learn it all over again.

I appreciate childhood for what it stands for, and it is a moment in time that is brief, but something that you can always think back to to make yourself smile. But, I made a decision a while back to embrace change, and to keep learning, so I guess that's what I'll do until the end because, well, that's really all we can do.

But if I ever came across one of those fancy schmancy hot tub time machine's, I can't say I wouldn't be curious. Though I'd probably go back to the 50s or 60s-- catching Miles Davis live and in his element . . . is it possible to be nostalgic about a time period before you were born. Damn. I might have just discredited all of the above.

Forgive me. I'm still learning.

Kicking Ass never looked so Innocent: A movie review for Matthew Vaughn's Kick Ass

So what comprises a great superhero movie?

Some would say, a satiating adaptation of comic book "x" with an even helping of action and suspense. Others would say just a fun escape with the weightlessness of flight like Superman with the agility of webslinging like Spiderman.
And still others want the more serious life lesson-type superhero movie that takes a political stance, i.e. Watchmen.

Kick Ass, the newest action hero movie to hit the big screen comprises all of the above, but takes it up a notch. With an R-rating, Nicholas Cage in one of his most humorous roles to date and a 13-year-old, Atlanta-born star named Chloe Moretz, the film takes a tired genre, and adds color where dark shadows usually descend.

To be honest, I really despised the notion of Kick Ass when I viewed the trailers. Blame it on the video editor, but what I saw in the previews, another wannabe superhero movie with no name stars and bad costumes, was not anything like what I watched while sitting in the theater.

With a Coca Cola to my left and some peanut M&M's to my right, I found myself chuckling at the way Cage portrayed Damon Macready, a vengeful, but loving father, as he trains his daughter to take a gun shot to the chest.

Try to paint this picture in your head: A grown man aiming a 9mm directly at his young daughter with a smile spread across his face. It's reckless, maybe a bit sadistic, but why am I laughing? I think the lunacy of it all is what makes this scene, and every scene of Kick Ass so shamelessly enduring.

(I'll go ahead and flash a spoiler alert here. If you don't want the scenes to be ruined for you, Do NOT continue reading. You have been warned!)





Now, where was I? Oh yeah.

And what about the scene where the film's main character, an unremarkable comic-obsessed high school dweeb named Dave Lizewski (played by newcomer Aaron Johnson) decides to clean up his neighborhood by putting on a green and yellow costume, and ends up getting stabbed in the gut during his first fore' into the world of super heroism. Ouch.

Kick Ass is graphic. Blood sprays across the screen about as much as the bad, flashy spandex costumes do.

We get kicks in the face. Shot guns through the cheek. Swords through the chest. Brass knuckles up the chin. Severed limbs. Bursting heads. Burning bodies. Must I go on?

And the culprit behind much of these killings isn't an emo-inspired McLovin' villain, or a bad Batman impersonating Damon Macready, superhero name Big Daddy. The real distributor of all things Kick Ass is Mindy Macready, the daughter of Big Daddy, a.k.a. Hit Girl, flashing her short purple wig and a bright pink belt full of deadly weapons. She is the epitome of girl power in miniature form.




















In an all out brawl between Tarantino's Beatrix Kiddo and Kick Ass' Hit Girl, I'd stay on the fence (while covering my self in body armor.)

But this is why Kick Ass is such a psychotic film. When a 13-year-old girl is the bearer of all things deadly, the audience may wonder whether they should be rooting for this little cutie, or if they should be appalled and praying that the child can find her Barbie stash, drop the switchblades, and head outside for a tea party.

I actually don't give a shit. Movies are fantasy. Fantasies are fun. And Kick Ass is a great film to escape with. Just don't take your kids.

Putting the moral integrity of the film aside, another reason Matthew Vaughn's film works is because the plot is so engrossed in today's virtual, highly connected culture. If a young high school do-gooder were to attempt a life of crime fighting, I honestly believe this is how it would go down.

Someone would snap a photo or video the new hero, post it on Youtube, then BAM! Super hero Super stardom. If it worked for the annoying blonde gay dude who was upset about how the public was treating Britney, then it would definitely work for someone who is actually trying to make a difference in the world.

Kick Ass is a testament to the digital age. Exposing its shortcomings and making it painfully obvious that no matter if we like it or not, this is the direction we are headed, so let's make the most of it.

So, if you're looking for a good time at the movies without the little kiddies-- give Kick Ass a chance. It shocked the hell out of me, maybe it will do the same for you. Don't let that guy from Superbad dissuade you, he's actually kind of funny.

8.0/10


A not so bad trailer.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9zLsdBEsr90

Ben and Jerry must be overweight hippies

Do you work at a job where you feel a little guilty? Say, your job description has you doing something a bit immoral, or something seemingly immoral, but you do it any way just because, well, times are tough and you gotta' get paid some how.

That's how I look at my part-time job at Ben and Jerry's. I mean, these guys are great. Good ol' Ben and crazy dude, Jerry. They got together one cloudy afternoon, holed up in their living room in the 70s, smoking a bong and thinking about what they're going to do with their lives and then all of a sudden . . . EPIPHANY!

It's hot outside. It's the summer time. We're a little stoned. We've got the munchies. We want something cold to eat. BINGO! Let's start an ice cream franchise! And by God did they ever.

Now-a-days, Ben and Jerry's is a world renowned ice cream company where its customers are willing to shovel out big bucks for just a couple of scoops of Cherry Garcia in a sugar cone and for most people there is absolutely nothing wrong with treating yourself to a sweet treat on a hot summer day, but after working at one of the franchise's scoop shops for about a year, I've noticed a trend in Ben and Jerry customers.



Here's how I break down the variety of patrons.

First off, you've got the kids.
These are your everyday, commonplace rugrats who are spoiled beyond belief by their University memorabilia-wearing parents.

For example: Three little blonde-headed runts walk into the shop with their guardians. When I say walk, I actually mean sprinting at lightning speed through the entrance and not slowing down until they reach the front of the ice cream dip cases. With wide eyes and savory mouths, the children gawk at the ice cream spectrum of 30 flavors, ranging from your basic chocolate to the uniquely cinnamon sweetness of Oatmeal Cookie Chunk. But kids seem to not care about the uncommon flavors--they go straight for a vanilla cone with rainbow sprinkles. But when little Johnny orders chocolate and little Suzie gets strawberry all hell breaks loose on the spoiled platinum bunch. Little Johnny cries because Suzie got the pink ice cream and now he wants the pink ice cream, and while little Suzie laps up the remaining drops of pink shake at the bottom of the cup, little Johnny throws his chocolate cone on the ground with a SPLAT!, leaving a chocolate milk lake with little rainbow colored logs floating pitifully on the tiled shop floor.
All I do is look straight ahead. No amusement whatsoever.

And of course little Johnny gets a new ice cream. This time it's a little bit of chocolate and a little bit of strawberry. Either you are damn good at what you do little Johnny, or you were just never taught discipline. I'm going with the latter.

I see this kind of thing every day. It brings me back to the same conclusion every time-- I never want to reproduce.

The next run of the mill customer to grace Ben and Jerry's with their patronage are the sorority armies. These ladies are peculiar, but easy to spot.

#1 They travel in packs. These girls are like Visa cards, you can't leave home without them. When one walks the others follow (in more ways than one.)
#2 They call frozen yogurt "fro-yo." Nothing steams my nerves more than when someone orders, "One Half-Baked fro-yo in a cup please."
I reply, "Sorry, we are fresh out of the Half-Baked FROZEN YOGURT."
They say, "Oh. My. GAW! No fro-yo! Wellllll, I'll just take an addicted to chocolate shake with skim milk."
And then I think, "Yea, cause' the skim milk is gonna prevent this 1,000 calorie treat comprised of 3 different chocolate ice cream flavors from going straight to your ass."
#3 Generally, sorority girls have a tough time making a decision on what ice cream to purchase so they try a million samples and then end up getting the same thing their other friend just ordered because conformity is cool. But I'm not judging, just observing (we all conform to some degree.)
#4 And for shallow and stereotypical purposes, sorority girls are blonde, caked with makeup and rocking one of their sorority's many date night/fund-raising/bar-hopping/formal dancing t-shirts with some Nike sport shorts and Jesus sandals.

Thank you girls for your business.

With any customer service job, you will always find your regulars. Now this is where the guilt starts to creep in a bit.

The regulars are your every day businessmen, athletes, students and lonely middle-aged men/women. These are the people you see every shift. They come and order (pretty much) the same thing every time.
Example: Tall, skinny, mid-30's Middle Eastern man. Very personable. Tips every time. Orders the large Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough dish without fail.

Tall, long dirty-blonde haired female. First name: Jennifer. Always asks for my name each time I work. Also very personable. Orders the Chocolate Fudge Brownie in a sugar cone time every trip she makes to B&J's.

But not all of the regulars are tall and they're definitely not all skinny. So here's that guilt I've been speaking of.

Let's be honest. Working at an ice cream shop is cute, and it's harmless fun. It's an ideal summer job. But after you've worked at an establishment such as the Ben and Jerry's for longer than six months, you start to notice a lot of people's unhealthy eating habits. And as the masses descend upon your shop, the asses seem to only get wider.

I'm a struggling college student, trying to earn enough cash to support myself after my parents cut the cord, so quitting a job because my morals don't coincide with the job at hand isn't exactly a wise decision in the I-want-to-have-food-on-my-table-tonight-and-for-the-rest-of-my-nights way of looking at things.

So when a party of 3 that looks like the could be cut in half to make a party of 6, come into the store and start sampling every fucking flavor in the freezer, I start to feel bad, because we all know sugar and dairy packed ice cream is the last thing these people need.

There have been so many times when I've wanted to scream, "STOP! Don't you know obesity is an epidemic in this country?" I can't help but feel like I am supporting this scary trend in America. We are known as a country of unhealthy, overweight slobs and every drip of Imagine Whirled Peace that falls on the sweating bellies of these unfortunate people makes me want to jump over the counter and slap the sample stick out of their fat fingers.

It may sound like I'm being harsh, but I'm just being real with it. You are killing yourself by eating this ice cream family of 3 who together weighs close to 900 lbs.

But I am a silent activist. Meaning I will continue to do nothing, even though I know these people are making extremely bad decisions. Because, while they can't stop eating, I want to be able to afford a meal at night. So, I'm just going to apologize up front. I'm sorry for indirectly supporting your bad habits, all of you overweight, bad decision makers of the world. I don't want to see you die of a heart attack, or succumb to the coalescence of all your many health mistakes, but jobs are hard to come by these days, and Ben and Jerry's pays me pretty well for it being a part-time job and all.

It's hard to be a martyr with an economy like this.

And how blissful it is to indulge in a spoonful of that Dulce Almond ice cream.









Geez. Ben. Jerry. You're not setting a very good example.

So it begins

Straight out of bed and into the silicon valley at 3 a.m.

I got bored with the everyday routine, so I hopped in my car and scooted up to Atlanta.

The only time I'm actually calm is when the sun is shining bright and a pedal is beneath my feet. I want to keep driving until I reach a distant shore. West Coast. East Coast. North Pole. South Pole. Take me any damn place, but somewhere I've been before.

I'm satiated only for a minute and then another adventure I seek.

The closest to adventure I've ever reached is a daredevil motorcycle ride to Savannah. Easy riding at 12 a.m. Responsibilities gone and the constellations shining up above. Nothing is sweeter.

Real life begins again tomorrow.