Emma Stone & Kat Dennings Do the Do as Gilbert Gottfried Recounts the Old Testament

I haven't used this blog space for journaling purposes (lest one counts this recent oddity), and haven't planned to. The last time I journaled was... in 2008, when I returned to Rotten Tomatoes' now-extinct "Vine", I think? I had previously abandoned Rotten Tomatoes (after a post saying something like "Don't worry friends, I'm not abandoning you!") in '07, after founding WeToldYouWhattoDream. This blog's priorly dated reviews (y'know, the impulsive yet meticulous, poorly composed ones) are transcribed from my RT journal, "Have Some Cake" (also temporarily titled, for a short time, "Mind If I Drive?") - once the 25th most-viewed journal on the fully customizable Vine but now, thanks to IGN and Flixster, apparently, just a bland "profile" where every entry is categorized by the films I rated along with it. That 2008 return that lasted about 10 entries (if that) was under the handle "Dazed n' Confused" (or was it "Kid Flux", after both my FFXI character and "Æon"? It's all about as jumbled in my memory as the sentences in this paragraph...) with a journal entitled "If I Could I Would", purposed to provide an outlet for idle thought and a connection back to the friends I had left (not unlike my more successful return to the aforementioned Final Fantasy MMORPG after which I completed some unfinished business with some old acquaintances - good times). Actually, to branch from that parenthetical, I journaled about two years ago regarding that return on a blog called "Kiddoe's Quest". Yeah, that's just about the nerdiest thing I've ever done.

INTERJECTORY NOTE: Links have been added after a little Google-digging. "Have Some Cake" was under the name "ModernHipp18", which was conjured on a whim when I didn't think RT would really become a thing for me. In spite of a lack of sentimental meaning, due to familiarity the name has since been shortened to "Mod Hip" for forum community implementation.

Where am I going with all this? Through my characteristically narcissistic long-windedness I'm starting to lose the buzz attained from a pitcher of lime-aided Michelob Ultra at Naples, FL's Hurricane Grill just an hour ago (we were pleased our favorite server Jenna was there... no disrespect to our other very friendly server, Dan).

Oh yeah, well, while I haven't used this space for journaling, haven't planned to and, honestly, still don't really plan to again (but now that I'm breaking the ice...), I'm just kinda feeling it today. Sure, I could spout off incoherently on one of my forums, but as you can see (if you're somehow still reading... maybe to get to the good stuff "promised" by my purposefully strange yet still traffic-baiting post title) I'm feeling even more verbose than usual regarding two of this day's events. Let's (finally) cut to the chase and delve in, shall we?

Last night I dreamed (and I know no one cares about anyone else's dreams... "Dude, it was sooo weird!!"... but this one's somewhat of a doozy) the fourth vivid dream in a row of my most recent cycle of vivid dreams. As in many other such dreams, I was attending a film cooked up by my subconscious (often these films are called by familiar titles, for example the other night I went for a theatrical rewatch of "The Tree of Life" only to find... well, I don't even remember anymore... but dude, it was sooo weird). It was a five-part anthology from writer/director Rob Zombie following the isolated exploits of a hapless midwestern trio in their efforts to quell a zombie insurrection as culled by a sinister tribe of sorceresses. Jesse Eisenberg, prone to trap doors, emerged the leader through a wyrd and unseen method of selection. Emma Stone and Kat Dennings handled whatever they needed to at any given moment, I suppose. I was more aware of their presence than their actions as far as the bulk of the plot... until the anthology's epilogical final chapter.

Now, I'm not even too crazy about Emma Stone and Kat Dennings. They're fine, easy-to-look-at actresses at varying forms of Hollywood rise, and that's cool. Not that I'm complaining for being graced with the following subconscious events, not in the least, but after I woke up I wondered to myself, "Why couldn't they have been Milla Jovovich and Kate Beckinsale? I mean, throw me a bone here... at least make one of them Rachel McAdams." Similar dreams have occurred in the past in which I've fantasized about celebrities I don't typically sexualize (and even that's a strong term, as I don't really even think of Milla or Kate in that sort of way - at a certain point a mystery must be preserved, y'know?). Once I dreamed Reese Witherspoon, an actress I was not at the time fond of, was stationed in the crow's nest of a pirate ship I had stowed away on... and that sparked a temporary real life crush I couldn't really put my finger on. I actually wrote about that somewhere on "Have Some Cake", if you're somehow curious enough and in the mood to dig. Anyway...

Kat invites Emma to her papa's old farm. Papa's been dead since the zombie attacks began, so the place is of great sentimental importance to Kat, who reveals to Emma she's going to get it operational again with new cattle, new steeds and the same dedication ol' Pa was able to give it before she was even born - before he came down ill (previously she had, on occasion, gotten all angsty about having cared for the old man's ailments for so long only for him to get zombie-chomped). The two girls, now in a dilapidated barn, are both wearing jean bottoms of varying lengths and rugged white tops with no bras beneath. Kat also reveals that Emma has come to mean a lot to her over the course of their adventures... and begins to kiss her.

This kiss takes Emma by surprise - she can't quite figure out if she likes this - but of course, this is the dream of a 26-year-old heterosexual male... she returns smooch-volley to see if more will help make up her mind. The two get heavier and heavier with one another, ambling backwards through the barn, kicking up hay, before finding themselves in a small, central paddock. At this point Kat begins to lift Emma's shirt. She can see, however, apart from the underboob, a simultaneous excitement and trepidation in Emma's eyes, and pauses a moment. The two are gazing intently in to one another, and I realize... I've seen this before. "Oh, yeah," my subconscious seems to recall, "This was the last promotional photographe released; I saw it on /film!" Ha, dreams.

So what happened next? Choose your own adventure, mate, my blasted cell phone woke me up with a text message. If it hadn't, this might breach the ground of softcore fan pornography (involving sweaty skin, tightening clothes and words like "pressed" and "sheathed", and the term "sex" standing in for any given noun referring to a vagina). Thankfully it was an important text message, but really, considering the deep nature of REM sleep in which the bulk of your dreams apparently take place within a relatively short period of time, maybe the shirt-lift and the hotly aroused yet torturously unsure expression exchange was as far as I would have gotten even without the phone. I'm willing to bet if you've made it this far you'd rather finish the story in another way than reading my words, anyhow.

In describing the dream to fellow Reel Timer Deepayan Sengupta, whom I hope is exceedingly offended I dared use his name on a public weblog in indirect relation to Emma Stone's naughty bits, it was decided that Milla Jovovich and Kate Beckinsale would star in the sequel anthology, in which the lighter haired one pays a visit to the barn, and, in Deep-Deep's words, "find their old passions overwhelming them again... but are the zombies truly gone?" We also decided the films, considering a recent Stone hit, should be called "Fuckin' A".

And now for something completely different. Running in circles. Running in circles. That's what the people sitting behind me at the aforementioned dinner tonight were doing. I didn't catch every word as I was, of course, carrying on my own conversation with my own partner and our daughter, but they - two men and a woman - seemed to have come to discuss a marital hang-up (problems conceiving, methinks).

Woman: "I just don't see why we can't make it happen."
Man: "There's a God reason for that."
Woman: "But he said he spoke with God and didn't get a clear answer."
Man: "Maybe it just wasn't his listening time."
Woman: "What do we do?"
Man: "Do you pray?"
Woman: "Every night!"
Man: "You can't fall asleep while you pray." (NOTE: What?)
Woman: "We don't! We pray together."
Man: "Praying in a group is best."
Woman: "What do we do??"
Man: "You have to ask God. Ask Him why He has placed this delay in His plan for you. Because you're married, He'll answer you, and everything will be fine."

You get the picture. Insanity running in circles. Creating fictional solutions to real issues and preaching them like you're the be-all, end-all of philosophical knowledge ("philosophical" being the quoted man's term of choice) even though you can't even figure out whose "plan" you're talking about. I was reminded of an old, Bible-quote-as-Facebook-status-posting acquaintance who has been on several "missions" to third world countries in effort to convert locals (with secondary efforts to rub trousers with fecund mission group members, no doubt). This then got me thinking regretfully back on how I never joined the Peace Corps like I had talked so much about doing in 2005 and 2006. I had attended a recruitment meeting and everything, but I allowed an extended family member's concerned disapproval excuse me from further pursuit. I doubt I was ready for such an undertaking at that time, anyway (I remember a key concern for my living conditions being whether there'd be a place to plug in my iPod), but if I wanted to rectify my failure to follow through I couldn't, seeing as I now have a family to look after.

As the evening went on, I quoted one of my favorite "Meaning of Life" scenes ("Do all philosophers have an 's' in them?"), which felt appropriate given the restaurant setting and the nearby discussion, and gorged on "Obscenely Loaded Fries" (with extra ranch, cheddar and jalapeño) and a monterey chicken quesadilla.

We watched "The Invention of Lying" today. What a piece of crap. I'll be posting my paragraph blurb tomorrow for better specifics, but I'll suffice to say it's mostly a waste of time. That said, it does have a flash of cleverness or two, one actually in the vein of the above-referenced Monty Python masterpiece feature, in which Ricky Gervais - the only person in his society capable of overt dishonesty - descends from his apartment with laws scrawled on the insides of pizza boxes and proceeds to dictate them to an utterly awed crowd. This is this society's first glimpse of religion, seeing as everything prior to that point had been based upon firm historical fact.

So with this scene fresh in the ol' noggin, what did I do coming home from the restaurant riddled with our booth neighbors' confounded rationale? What else - I impersonated Gilbert Gottfried. It came out of nowhere, and I'm convinced I can only pull it off while tipsy. The improvised Gottfried-esque stand-up routine was as follows (mind you, it is imperative this be read in an enthusiastic Gottfried voice):

"So this Moses guy, he was crazy, right? This Moses, he says, 'Hey Jews' - that's what he says, he says, 'Hey Jews, I freed you from Egypt and the Pharaoh and the whosie-whatsit, now I'm peacing out for a little to climb this mountain, see you in three weeks or something." So Moses he climbs the mountain, and three weeks or something later, he comes back and he's he's carrying on, "A burning bush spoke to me! I swear to you, I was right there... smoking a jay... I dropped the goods and somehow miraculously this bush just sets aflame... and it starts talking to me, it was the damnedest thing! So I'm thinking and I'm thinking, and I put the pieces together to determine, well, this bush is obviously God. Long story short I got these two stones, scribbled some shit on them and now you have to live your lives to their letters, sound fair? Alright, let's go, on to the next desert."

I hope that wasn't too anticlimactic for you.

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