Welcome back to Opinions Vary where the opinions aren’t serious and that is good because they are fucking dreadful. Best is a great word. Because just like “terrorist” and “overrated”, it means absolutely nothing other than what the author intends. And even they don’t know what it means half the time, textually flopping around like a fish out of ontological water.
So I must rise above that ambiguity. I must install a concretized, unassailable definition of “best.” That’s what I must do for this polemic to work. Yes, I must. But I will fail. So when I say The Dark Knight has the best trailer of all time, this is what I mean: I wanted to open a discussion about trailers. Specifically rad ones. And when I thought “dick-stiffening trailer”, the first two-minute advertisement that sprung to mind was the one for TDK.
Opinions Vary: Or How Opinions Can Conform when Book Covers Fly Out the Window of Tow Trucks Operated by Exceedingly Curious Drivers
In Opinions Vary, we deal in opinions that might be a bit off-beat or strange compared to ones held by non-frequenters of this site. But in truth, when it comes to our everyday lives in the real world, we oftentimes harbor conventional opinions that aren’t too far off from those of many people around us. In our own little ways, in our own little lives, we follow the cultural norms, retain common-sense beliefs, and exhibit etiquettes we’ve absorbed from family, friends, educators, and just about anyone else who give us the time of day. These opinions are the tried-and-true sentiments of our social souls; there’s little to nothing individual or unique about them, in and of themselves. What is individual and unique, however, is how we take these opinions on and how we solidify and reinforce them through personal experience. Even if we might ultimately conform to these popular sentiments, these opinions are genuine because how we get them and keep them is what gives each its own variation and an extra vitality that’s dependent on its holder, making it more meaningful and alive. After all, the tried-and-true has to be tried and found to be true in order for it to stay that way for each person.
It’s summer, friends. That can only mean one thing. It’s time for people to shed their long-legged genital containers in lieu of something sexier. More airy. Let the wind-flow, to at least attempt to keep the uncomfortable grime from building up against their sex-parts. ‘Cause while you may have your fetish, I don’t like being tongue-deep in testiclelabial grime when I’m pleasin’ my mates across the Universes.
Some will wear skirts. Some will wear kilts. Some will wear shorts. All of those errant people are incorrect. There is only one path to true ultimate power. Only one path to true ultimate enlightenment. You see, wearing Jorts isn’t just about being comfortable. And sexy. Though it is about both. It’s about the very Fate of Our Universes.
Character actors are the backbone of Hollywood. They do most of the heavy lifting; get little of the pay and almost none of the notoriety. That last one might be a blessing though. Anyway they are the unsung heroes of movies and television. So here’s my shout out to my favorite character actor.
I recently rewatched one of my favorite movies. Then I realized that this particular movie was so similar to another movie, that one could basically be a remake of the other. Lets investigate shall we? We have a group of five young people, all selected for a purpose, and guided by some authority or agency that they cannot fight against to participate in a ritual that, given a conscious choice, they would not take part in. It is only through subtle manipulation of their every action that they inevitable cause the destruction of the world. The movie I am describing is of course the classic 80’s hit, The Breakfast club. The remake? Cabin in the Woods. Hit the jump and follow me down the rabbit hole.
It’s once again that glorious time of year when every week brings a new tent-pole movie that can make a studio’s year as easily as it can break a fan’s heart, that special stretch when restless teenagers want to get out of the house and run-down adults want to get away from their boring lives, so they collectively, one and all, dash through the sun and heat into the dark and cool local cinema. That’s right, friends: It’s the summer blockbuster season (one that seems to start earlier each year, kicked off this time by the new Marvel installment, Captain America: The Winter Soldier). Like the rest of you, I will certainly be there, as I am looking forward to the big-budget entertainment the season typically offers in abundance. I plan to see most if not all of the most anticipated ones, so I can come back here to Omega-Level and discuss their merits and flaws with you fine folks. And I have no doubt that you will do the same too. We will all be there at the movies this summer, except for probably one small difference: I’ll be there when few others are with me at the matinee showings—and this option is something I’d like to trumpet in this week’s OV.
In case you’re a DUMB IDIOT who doesn’t like COOL THINGS, I’m going to let you know that Captain Canada: The Winter Steamboat comes out tomorrow. There’s a variety of reasons to see the movie. Like, it has special effects, and Natalie Portman. What more could you need? But if you’re a pig like me, you’re only in the movie theater for two reasons. To masturbate and eat popcorn. “So, Caff. What are you going to jerk it to?” That’s a great question, Dad. It’s a difficult choice. And I’ve spent some serious time thinking about it. I can’t jerk off to everything, this little pink nub gets tired. Two hours and twelve minutes? Good god. So I’ve decided to divide my heart into a series of segments. Isn’t that what society wants, anyways? Order imposed on emotion? Limits placed on speeds? Fucking bullshit coupons that can’t be stacked at SONIC for all my fucking hot dogs? Isn’t this what It is all about?
Just started new job today. No time to write complete or coherent thought.
When you pick up a novel, you basically know what you’re going to get: some characters, a setting or two, probably some discernible overriding theme—you know, the bare necessities of storytelling. These components are in any narrative concoction; whether it’s good or not is usually all a matter of mixing it up the right way. And there in the middle, moving them all about in some dramatically interesting fashion, is the conflict. Conflict can be a make-or-break element because a story’s clashes and bashes and gnashes propel everything and really make the story come to life. But for me there’s an even more primary conflict attached to this whole process, one that exists outside story itself: summoning the strength to actually pick up the novel to read in the first place. And, if you don’t mind, this conflict is what I’d like to investigate here today.
This is about that time I found out that I had a hairy asshole. I remember it like it was seventeen years ago, which is to say I remember very little about it. It was a balmy summer night (I’m making this up), I was in an AOL chat room trying to cyber with anyone who would let a precocious fourteen year-old with a trigger-scrotum digitally ejaculate on them. Gender, age, ethnicity, religion, political creed, didn’t matter.
(I’m making up about only 40% of this now.)