The Ex-Guber on Tumblr

A constant feed from my Tumblr blog, where I have now parked myself after realizing I'm not enjoying Blogger that much.

Thursday, June 29, 2006

You Will Believe A Man Can Fly (and Make Women Wet)

Fly, Badass, Fly!

Before you ask, it's tough to compare the new one to the old one because of the advances in technology. For example, in the original Christoper Reeves version the mere fact that they could make him look like he can fly was incredible? Now? Supes goes all out (and looks a whole lot better than when Neo took to the skies). In the past, he deflected bullets. Now, he deflects the entire magazine of a gattling gun AND a 9mm in the EYE.

So how do you compare it? Well, the new one has improved on Lex Luthor, that's for sure. I always found it hard to take the Gene Hackman Lex seriously because he was surrounded by absolute morons, making the bad guys look like an updated version of the Three Stooges. Kevin Spacey's Lex and goons may still have the comedic element (which, in my opinion, works better this time) but now Lex is really evil.

I like.

The story is steeped in the same traditions as the first two to the point that even the opening credits are the same (well, except for the cool CGI planet wizardry).

So here's the main question: how was the new Superman himself? Brandon Routh? Well, one thing's for sure - he's hot.

Now, I'm not saying this from personal observation. No matter how in tune I am with my feminine side I can't visually see another male as hot. Cool, yes. Hot, fuck no. But I have been told by many reliable sources that he is hot. Super hot. Hell, it was the first thing my girlfriend said about the movie, to the point where I knew she was thinking, "if they really did CGI his 'package' to look smaller, imagine how big it really is..."

(Come on. It's Superman. Why shouldn't Superman have a Superdick?)

But as great a Superman he was, his hottness is what, to me, proved to be his weakness. Why?
But he don't look geekyBecause as Clark Kent, he couldn't hide it.

He just couldn't. Christoper Reeve did such a good job of playing Clark Kent you could believe that nobody noticed that Clark and Supes had the same build, same weight, same facial features, etc. Brandon just can't hide it. That's the only flaw for me when it came to the new Superman. Supes wasn't the problem. It was Clark. Clark just wasn't... Clark enough. Superman? Superman was a badass. But why nobody bothered scribbling glasses on his pictures to discover the truth is beyond me.

I also think this is the first time I've seen a guy on screen since Brad Pitt who has the ability to make women unanimously, all over the world, salivate from more than one orifice.

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

As of Yesterday...

Wrote this yesterday but didn't get a chance to post it till now:


As of this moment, I am 26 years, 3 hours and 13 minutes old. I'm writing this at home, in bed, in the hopes of posting it later today when I'm on-line. My fingers, palms and arms ache, all simultaneously, from practising too much on my guitar which you can blame on the current playlist in my car which includes, amongst other things, 'Master of Puppets' by Metallica, Satriani's 'Satch Boogie', Stevie Ray Vaughan's 'Texas Flood' and other guitarists that I could never possibly dream of playing at the same speed with the same tone and same amount of soul.

You see, I've been listening to these carpal tunnel syndrome inducing bands for the past few weeks which has made me put the metronome on my computer at 160-180 BPM's in a vain attempt to play all my exercises and scales at this speed which hasn't helped matters much. I've also been practising the solo for AC/DC's 'Shook Me All Night Long' like a dog so that we could play it last weekend at the French Fest thing. Two days before the gig all the bends in the solo ripped the usual hardened skin on the tips of my fingers right off (most guitarists' finger tips are devoid of sensation after a couple years), leaving me with fresh, virginal skin which is NOT the best thing to have when you play guitar.

Needless to say, any 'rock' faces I may have pulled during the solo was not me trying to look cool (and it's very doubtful that pulling near-orgasmic faces whilst playing guitar could ever be construed as truly cool) but a visual representation of the absolute agony I was enduring trying to bend those fucking strings. And I still fucked it up.

But enough about the guitar (it hurts my fingers just to fuckin' type, godammit!) and back to the whole '26' thing. Yes. It's my birthday. I'm 26 years old. What does that mean? It means I've passed the halfway line. I'm no longer in the 18-25 demographic where maturity is optional. I'm no longer an almost-adult by any scale of measurement.

Do I feel more like an adult? Hard to say. I'm sat in boxer shorts and an old Beastie Boys t-shirt from the 'In The Round' tour and I don't own a pair of 'sensible' trousers that fit. The fact that my waistline is constantly growing is a sure sign of adulthood (my mother always used to say that after 21 you no longer grow vertically but horizontally) but I do not have sensible hair, my jeans sag and I won't be caught dead with my shirt tucked in.

I run my own business now, true, but it's a business of music and movies. Some people worry a lot about age. I don't think I do. I become more experienced over time, true, but I remember when I was a kid and making a vow not to forget what fun it is thinking and acting like a child, and I'd like to think I'm still a jackass. Albeit a more responsible one. I don't know. All I do know is I'm busy. Busy as a bee. Bee-like. Working with no pay (yet) which has it's own rewards but enough pains to sometimes make you forget what the rewards actually are.

Sometimes I miss the clockwork timing of the monthly pay cheque and the free time on the internet I used to have back in my old job. Remember how I used to blog a whole lot more back then? Now I hardly ever have time to check my e-mail, and instead of my usual rants and random links to disturbing ferret-love any of you readers who still log in are instead treated to pictures (you know what they say - 'a picture speaks a thousand words' - so technically I've given you fuckers a novel). Then I remember all the other crap that goes with the regular job and thank God I've got enough support to keep me going through these rough start-up months. It's tiring, true, it's working me to the bone, but there's a light at the end of the tunnel.

(Either that or evil pilot fish are playing tricks with me.)

(...what are pilot fish doing in the tunnel?)

(How the fuck should I know? Can we get out of these goddamn brackets and get back to the plot?)

(What plot?)

(Fuck off! I'm writing!)

(Ooohh... sorry, Mr. Grisham...)

(Fucking Gemini split personality...)

What was the reason for all this? This rambling and writing of random thoughts? Just to ramble I guess. It's been so long since I wrote a paragraph on this blog and I miss it.

(You miss typing your mental vomit so that random perverts searching for 'Japanese Love Monkeys' and accidentally stumble upon your blog can spend five minutes reading it and wondering how lonely you must be deep inside?)

(Fuck off, bitch-dick!)

(...)

(...what the FUCK is a bitch-dick?)

Thursday, June 8, 2006

Aaarghh!!!

Godammit! Godammitgodammitgodammitgodammit! Fuck! Shit! Ass! Bitch! Minge! Quim! And other such utterances! Loud noises!!! LOUD NOISES!!!!

No, that did not make me feel better.

I have just returned from trying to become a licensed film producer and distributor. And to do so is more infuriating than anything I have ever encountered.

Firstly, I have to fill in two forms, both RM$2 each. No biggie there.

Then, I have to start up a Sdn Bhd company (or PLC, as you english speaking people would say) with a minimum paid up capital of RM$50,000.

That's right. RM$50,000. With a fucking company secretary and all that other bollocks. All this after I've just received my company, FYI Films, as sole proprietorship.

Fuck. Beans.

Then, I have to pay a deposit of RM$1000 for each license together with a total monthly fee of RM$500.
All this, for the privilege of legally producing and distributing my movie by myself. Bearing in mind the cost of the movie was roughly RM$10,000, including the purchase of a decent 3CCD camera.

Fuck. BEANS.

And they say they want to help the local film industry. How exactly doesthis make it easier for me to show my fucking movie!? How, in the name of all things bright and fucking beautiful does this insanely ludicrous form of registration aid me in any fucking way?!

(Although, it has to be said, the guy I talked to was really nice and helpful. But still not helpful enough to loan me RM$50,000).

Grunt. Grunt. Grunt.

Ok. Calm now.

...

NO. I'm not calm. I'm reaching the furthest depths of my sanity to stop me from going to the hardware store in Uptown and buying a crossbow to go all medieval on people's asses. Add to this the fact that I've hadone hour of sleep so far because my mom wanted to drag me to some goddamn 'free' massage table bollocks (that, for some insane reason, involves singing) which was obviously a con to get people to buy these stupid RM$8,000 beds and I've got work to do till 2am tonight andCitibank's legal department is on my fucking ass like a rash.

Yes. Citibank. You warned me, and it happened. Of course, it wouldn't have happened if I was still in Grey, but since I left I've skipped my monthly payments seeing that I need every penny I can scrape, beg and borrow just to feed me, my car and my nicotine addiction. I've got the money coming soon, but not soon enough. Now their legal department is on my ass. Just greatAnd I tried to call back and I can't get through.
Fuck. Beans. Indeed.

Tomorrow I meet with the GSC people about the screening. I fear this may turn into the non-screening. Keep your fingers crossed for me people. I am having a truly horrific day.

Bean-fuckery.