Archive | January, 2010

Movie Review of a Film I Haven’t Seen: Avatar

11 Jan

Hey, have you seen Avatar? Damn it. You have, haven’t you? I can tell by that stupid, guilty, blue-skinned look on your face. I don’t hold it against you–Avatar is the second-highest grossing film of all time and it’s weeks away from being pulled from theaters. There must be some reason that so many people have paid to see it.

I, however, have not see Avatar. I just haven’t had time, and what’s worse is, every day that goes by, more and more of my friends go and see it, limiting my pool of people to see it with. I’ll probably end up going some day by myself to the crappy theater down the street. I’ll bring a bar-b-que sandwich, wear some sweatpants, and laugh obnoxiously loud at whatever the hell I want because you know what? I’m watching a movie alone and that’s pretty damn depressing, so I’m going to do whatever I can to cheer myself up.

Changing gears a bit, I feel that since this movie is so prominent in most people’s entertainment-radar, I should say something about it. I should wrap my big, bloggy arms around my readers and carry them to Movie Town City. [Editor’s Note: What the hell does that mean? Please let me delete that.] [Kyle’s Note: Like you deleted your wiener? Lol. Eat me.] [Editor’s Note: I never deleted my genitals and you’re a child.]

All my interaction with Avatar has been through trailers and pictures yielded from a Google™ image search of the words “Avatar,” “James Cameron,” and “Blue people,” so I’ll have to gather whatever basis is required for my review from those.

This guy is real. This is a real guy. His name is Paul Karason and he has a medical condition that makes his skin blue. This is real.

First, I’ll watch a few trailers.


[Cut to montage of Kyle watching Avatar trailers over and over again. Mix in videos of Michael Cera with the cast of Jersey Shore.]

Here are some reviews:

“Riveting.” – Kyle Irion, Kyle at the Movies

“Fantastic.” – Kyle Irion, IronKyle Entertainment, Youtube Division

“The best seven minutes of my life.” – Kyle Irion,

The film (trailer) opens with Corporal Jake Sully (played by Sam Worthington) being propositioned by some senior military officials for an opportunity to “make a fresh start on a new world”–that he’d be “making a difference.” And as we all know, any time someone in a trailer says “make a difference” they actually mean “do something despicable to someone else.” Sully’s character is an idealist–this much is made clear, and it’s easy to see where the lines will be drawn against his morality.

Watching Sam Worthington’s character is kind of comforting, because it reminds me of his last movie, Terminator: Salvation and, more importantly, that I’m not watching that film.

Corporal Sully, along with a team of experts and a small army of Marines, is sent to the planet Pandora to do get some rocks or something–whatever. The planet is inhabited by a strangely attractive people called the Na’vi. They’re all super tall, blue, and ripped as all-get-out.

The fight for Pandora seems fairly one-sided; humanity is sporting exo-skeletons and tanks while the Na’vi are utilizing weapons that mix the American Indian and the Ewok–bows, arrows, spears, and lots of rope ladders. The battles are gripping: involving a lot of jumping and close ups and gritted teeth and a guy with scars on his face.

So many scars.

The special effects for this movie are incredible. At one point, I was sitting there, watching the trailer (like a boss), and when the alien planet of Pandora appeared on the screen, for a moment I thought it was real. I thought that that stuff was real. Am I an idiot? No, surely not. I read books. I’m simply a human with eyeballs. Eyeballs that can see shit. And the shit that was on my screen was flipping fantastic. There was shit all over my screen.

Beneath all the explosions, powerful score, and David vs. Goliath conflict is a love story that is believable and touching. Sully (in his Avatar) is quite a looker to the young female Na’vi, Neytiri.

“Mmm,” Neytiri says when she sees Avatar Sully.

Then later, I’m guessing:

“I might just want to be friends,” Neytiri says when she sees wheel chair Sully.

I don’t know if they actually fall in love or not. Sully isn’t permanently a Na’vi from what I understand, and the thought of a paraplegic making love to a gigantic blue amazon, who dwarfs him in practically every way, makes me a bit uneasy.

And horny.

I can’t wait to see this movie.


8 Jan

It is so cold. I am so cold. It is so cold outside that yesterday, at sunrise, I could actually hear the son say “Holy god,” then just turn around and set again. It was another half hour before the sun came back, and when it did, it was wearing a taboggan.

My car has been frozen every morning this week. I’ve resorted to turning it on for ten or so minutes before it’s time to go, then coming out and getting in to drive to work. What do you think my car’s doing while I’m inside my house, watching Today and **joke**? It’s waiting. It’s out there waiting for me. Like some big metal idiot. Other cars drive by, happy with their owners–not mine, though. Mine’s that kid that, while the rest of the soccer team is climbing into their parents’ vehicles, waves off all offers for a ride home because his or her mom is “on the way, don’t worry.” Knowing that I’m doing that to my car fills me with grief.

It’s so cold that my testicles have all but vanished, leaving a sign below my penis that reads “BBL. Too cold. Tryina save sum sperm.”

Yesterday, when I left my house to go to work, it was so cold that the birds were no longer chirping as they usually do. Instead, they were simply sitting in the trees and bitching about how cold it is. The madman that lives in the creek by my house was doing the same. “Old Jiggers is cold,” he would scream, “I need a human to sleep in.” What a kidder.

I haven’t seen my neighbor since yesterday.

Oh wait, yea I did. Jiggers was sleeping in him this morning.

It’s really cold.

My Holiday Roundup

5 Jan

My holidays were a resounding success. Magnificent. Maleficent? No, not maleficent. That was just me using a fancy word that I didn’t quite understand–just like I did on Christmas morning:

“Dig in, Kyle.” My mother said, gesturing over the expanse of food on our counter.

“Mmm,” I said, looking over the glazed chicken. “Paltry!” My mother ran from the room, her face in her hands.

I meant to say poultry, meaning chicken. I actually said paltry, meaning “ridiculously or insultingly small.”

Thanksgiving was a warm, family oriented holiday for me. My family around me, I basked in their glow. We had turkey, stuffing, all the fixings. That night, we were all around the fire, some of us snacking on the last bits of pumpkin pie, some drinking hot chocolate out of mugs, clasped tightly in cold and eager hands.

“Hey everybody, I have an idea,” I say. All the air leaves the room. No one makes eye contact with me. “I have an idea. Grandma,” I gesture toward my grandma. She tries to act like she doesn’t hear me, but her eyes meet mine. I assume that now that it’s obvious my grandma heard me call her name, she’d ask me what my idea is. False.

“Oops! The old bladder’s a-tickin’.” She gets up and shuffles toward the bathroom.

“You old bitch,” I say. I figure if no one is going to listen to me, I might as well live it up.

New Year’s was pretty much run of the mill, though. I drank a flask of whiskey, kissed a dude I haven’t seen since high school, and got in an authentic Real World-style drunken shouting-match with an potted plant about something I can’t quite remember. There was one outstanding moment, however.

“Who you gonna kiss at midnight, Kyle?” My friend Derek asks, his female for the evening in tow.

“Well, who are YOU gonna kiss at midnight, Kyle?” I ask. I am terrifically drunk.

“All right, well this conversation is over,” Derek says, walking away. He comes back moments later with the girl’s best friend. “This is Catrina,” he says. “She thinks you’re really cute.”

“WELL,” I say, swaying as if on a ship, “She has a face that looks like mine.” I pause to point at my face and then hers and then mine again, “And I look like furkin–fuckin’–Shia LeBouf. Why would I want to kiss Shia LeBouf?” I look Catrina up and down. “–Even if he has a set of–” Here was a brilliant flash, a sharp pain at my temple, and the last of my memories from New Year’s Eve.

Happy Holidays, everyone.

My Morning With a Jehovah’s Witness

3 Jan

I lay on the couch, still wearing my clothes from the night before. I had just slipped into a lovely super-powers-awesome-long-hair-guitarist-for-Metallica dream when I was jolted into the waking world by the chiming of a door bell.

“What? Why?” I ask the pile of trash I had mistaken for my friend, Sam. My contacts were blurry and I was still in a sleep-deprived stupor.

The trash sat in silence, not awoken by the bell. I stumble to my feet, my legs feeling like jelly. I swing the door open, the frigid wind ripping through my frame. My eyes struggle for a moment to adjust to the brilliant morning light. After a moment, my vision is clear. Before me is an older, well dressed white gentleman and a younger black man, dressed likewise.

“Hello, sir. Thank you for opening the door for us.” I mumbled something that must have resembled “You’re welcome,” because the man smiled graciously and continued speaking. “I’m George McIntosh and this is my son, Evan.” I nod to both of them. “We’re here to talk to you about the Lord.”

“Oprah?” I ask, rubbing my eyes, my voice hoarse from sleep.

“Um, no, J–”

“Jack Nicholson.”

He chuckles politely. “You’re joking. We’re talking about G–”

“Stephen King.” I hold my hand up for a high five. The man gingerly puts his hand up and touches mine. It doesn’t make me feel excited or jacked at all. It makes my hand feel like it just got groped by a passing stranger.

“No, friend.” The older man, George McIntosh, says. “We’re talking about the Lord. We’re talking about Jesus, our personal Lord and Savior.”

I sigh. “Really?” I’m exasperated. “I’ve heard all about him.”

“We understand that, but we’d like to share the message of Jehovah with you.”

Light bulb. “Ah, Jay-Z.”

“What? No.” The older man seems confused. His son is standing behind him, trying to conceal a small grin.

“HOVA.” I grunt. “H to the izzo. V to the izzay.”

“I’m sorry, I–”

“For shizzle my nizzle used to dribble down to VA.” Being able to quote rap songs makes me feel cool. That’s pretty much the expanse of my knowledge on the lyrics of that song, though, so I stop.

“I don’t quite understand your meaning.”

“Nobody does. Those are just nonsense words. They’re like audible candy.”

“Well, I know some words that are not ‘non-sense.'” The old man pulls a brown leather bag from its place at his hip, lifts the large flap at its front and reaches down into it. He pulls out a small book entitled What Does the Bible Really Mean? He then hands me the book. “Here are a number of things that people often misunderstand about the Bible. Here,” he says, pulling back the front cover while I hold it in place. “Here’s the table of contents.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I never know where to find those things.”

“Yes, well, here’s a good question the book raises: What is the true name of God?”


“Warden?” The man seems shocked. “Why, no. Warden?”

“I’m tired,” I say, leaning heavily on the front door. “I don’t have the energy to make smartass comments to you. I don’t, but I really want to. From here on out, I’m shootin’ it straight, okay? I’m not going to frame my insults in witty little remarks or pointed quips. This is your warning.”

“All right, well, I’d like to start by saying–”

“Ugly face.” I say, my face mashed against the door.


“You have an ugly face, and your ‘son’ back there is lucky he’s adopted so he didn’t end up with a face that looks like a door handle.”

“The Lord made us all in his im–”

“God doesn’t care about us. Why would he care about us?”

“Because we’re all special,you see?”

“Last night I drank a jug of wine, ate a sleeve of graham crackers and threw up on a stranger. How ‘special’ is that?”

“Lord in Heaven,” the man says under his breath. “I’d like to pray for you.”

“I appreciate that. I’d pray myself but I don’t think God would recognize my voice.” Contrary to my previous statement, I am plenty witty enough at this moment.

The man winces a bit, then smiles politely. “God loves you.”

“And I love God.” My surly demeanor turns to a smile. “He gave me you.” I reach out and give the man a hug. “He gave me you, old sport.” The man seems rejuvenated. “I’ll see you later–when we meet again in His Kingdom. Glory forever.”

“Absolutely, young man. Absolutely.”

“Light and glory and praise and light,” I say, noticing tears welling in the eyes of the old man.

“Thank you for your kindness,” he says. His son stands behind him, also looking at me graciously.

I stand for a moment, the door half closed. “Damn it,” I say and hand the man the wallet I took from him when we hugged. “Sorry. I will keep the book, though.”

The man stood in a stunned silence, then put the wallet back in his pocket, smiled, and bid me a good day.

“Adios, mofos,” I say and shut the door. I return to the couch and my awesome dream.

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