April Showers bring May Horrors

Ahhhh spring. The time has finally come for Wyomingites everywhere to shake off the suffering of cabin fever and dig out those flip flops hidden beneath all the carharts in the back of the closet. Before everyone goes gung-ho though, I must for my own sanity share a few insights I've recently had.

Let's begin with Uncle Lester. You know those things you call legs, the appendages that resemble the clammy, white, underside of a fish? Perhaps opt for a few sessions in a stand up booth this year before you drag out the neon bike shorts and Hawaiian shirts. Oh and no more of this action:

Overweight lady I saw in DQ earlier, for the love of Jesus, I don't care what the latest Fergie song says about rocking those lady lumps. If you insist on eating five brownie earthquakes in one sitting, please hide your cottage cheese thighs with a sensibly cut pair of capris. I don't care that you finally found a thong that compliments the shading on your white trash stamp or how 'toned' your stomach rolls are getting, stop scarring children for life and leave that site for your one and only who won't shy away from those oversized love handles.

You're not escaping either kids. Do you realize how hard it is to finish a six mile run high? I swear to the heavens of hippies above, if I get choked out by another reefer cloud while I'm jogging by the river, I will beat you with my Reeboks and distribute your weed to dying cancer patients in California (and by dying cancer patients, I mean people who paid Jorge 20 bucks on the boardwalk for a medicinal marijuana card).

Oh and genetic contributors of these little monsters, just because the weather took a turn for the best does not mean you can cancel the babysitter. The sunshine cannot tell your children to stop skateboarding into traffic, to stray away from jump roping in a snake pit, or to hold off on having experimental sex with the older kid from down the block. Remember parents you opted out of the coat hanger and adoption papaers, so deal with the little tykes like the adults you claim to be.

With these few wishes met, I can walk around my block drinking Andre Cold Duck with Lilly at three in the morning with a tad more peace of mind and hope in humanity.

Exploring the 90's with Daniel Day Lewis

After surviving the aftermath of my cadbury egg/redbull binge, I dusted off a piece of technology someone born after '98 will never know the joys of; something the SAT's would compare to 8-tracks. That's right I unearthed my VCR.

What prompted my hunt for audio visual cables? Twenty minutes of PS I Love You. A movie that makes me cry 5 minutes in and then doesn't let up when I repeatedly scream uncle through tears deserves to be burned (I would suggest catrastion, but let's skip the gory details and just agree that you can't take away something rom-coms never had). Childhood memories resurfaced while I ripped the white, yellow, and red cables out the back of my DVD player. I remember trying to record gem tv shows on the Animal Planet such as the Jeff Corwin experience. I could never remember what button to press to skip recording the commercials (sound familiar TiVo bastards). Was it the pause button? Maybe just stop all together and start the record when the show came on again? Recording was sheer art. Resuming operations at the exact moment the show started again created such an adrenaline rush in my 10 year old heart. The best part of recording with the VCR was how sneaky I felt ordering a Pay-Per-View movie and then never having to pay again! I watched Fern Gully no less than a thousand times.

Let's look at the durability of VHS vs DVD as well. For one VHS make way better weapons. I never worried about breaking my copy of The Little Mermaid when I hurled it at my younger brother's blonde head for transforming all my Barbies into GI-dikes. If the tape wasn't put back in it's case directly after viewing, fine. My blue heeler could chew on that black cassette for hours and when I put it back in, it would play. I remember even crushing a few with my iddy bitty jellied feet on accident (side note, tried googling "kids wearing jellies," totally feel like a perve now). A little duct tape meant the movie was as good as new. What have you got DVD's? Hmmm? A thin plastic film that scratches at the sight of dust, a casing that cracks when dropped repeatedly on sharp objects? I will give you a tie on one aspect, water resistance. The reason for the tie stems from the fact that I have yet to submerge a VHS in my bathtub to see what it can sustain. This screams potential infomercial, but not until I get my hands on a bowling ball.

Now that my entertainment system had been modified, I dug out the video that had been haunting my dreams ever since 10th grade. The Michael Mann masterpiece that had Daniel Day Lewis and him trekking through the woods for two weeks skinning Peter Rabbit's relatives and roasting him over an open flame; None other than "Should've swept the academies with it's 40 million dollar budget" Last of the Mohicans.

Only someone with a labotomy could deny the feelings this widow's peak stirs within the heart... and loins. To this day I cannot watch this feature length without becoming covered from head to toe with goosebumps. I don't lay the entire blame on Day-Lewis' rippling physique of muscle, some must be properly distributed to the score. This film wins top place in my book for hands down LeBron James-esque soundtrack domination. A few years ago I commandeered my friend Shawn's stereo for two hours with Randy Edelman's melodies as we drove through the Black Hills. Not only was he able to tolerate it, but the epic violins ended up leading us straight to a wolf sanctuary.

*My Top 10 Scores*

1. Last of the Mohicans

2. Road to Perdition

3. Shutter Island

4-10. Yet to be determined. No other scores have infected my brain to the very core like these.

Last in this blog but certainly not least, everyone must take notice of the battle wound visual effects. Mann made sure they weren't overly gorey or overly gravitational force defying (ahem Robert Rodriguez). Take a look at this still. It's a sculted beauty by Evan Campbell who you may or may not recognize as one of the masterminds behind many of John Carpenter's films.

How many hours do you think this appliance took to create? Two hours... Ten hours... 4 days? How much time do you think it gets in the film? Don't worry I counted. One, maybe one and a half seconds if you stretch it, out of a two hour movie. It brought back theatre days when my title included props master. I spent an entire week learning to write in caligraphy and use old english pens to create a poem used for one scene. My friends thought I was crazy when I excitedly pointed out the numerous things I'd ceated on stage. To them such a small part of the show meant nothing and I was simply distracting them from oogling stage actors, but to me it was weeks of preparation and dedication, something I had accomplished. All those folks out there who spend hours thrifting for the perfect set pieces, or sewing yard long gathers in gowns, and yes even you fluffers, I commend you. Your work does not go unnoticed.

Forget the sentiment, when it comes down to brass tax, The Last of the Mohicans is just a gateway for worse things. After this I'll be rewinding Men of Honor, then giggling over The Princess Diaries, then drooling over Kostner in For Love of the Game, and before you know it I'm watching that sob story Bridges of Madison County cursing out that stupid French whore for not following her heart. If I haven't left my apartment by tomorrow, someone please come looking for me... or at least bring me a VCR head cleaner and some Cadbury eggs (sustinance). Try Sam's Club. The rate I devour those things, I'll need those chocolate heaven morsels in bulk. Hell just get me a rabbit.