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MissMelisshttp://www.missmeliss.com

Journey to the Center of the Tomb of the Dragon Emperor

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It’s completely geeky to admit it, but I have a thing for Brendan Fraser, even if his website is woefully out of date. It’s even more neglected than this blog has been lately. Dusty, cobwebby, and sort of forgotten, but still nice to visit from time to time. Anyway, true confessions time: He’d totally be on my freebie list. If I had one. Which I don’t.

Needless to say, this summer has been a feast of Fraser at the movies, what with Disney giving us a new version of Journey to the Center of the Earth, which was cute, but a bit too short and not terribly well written (well, I had to see it. I’m a Jules Verne fan too.), and The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor which also needed some script help, I thought (the prologue was long enough that for a while I thought it was a short film called “Exposition.”), and Rachel Weisz has been replaced by Maria Bello (who brought a fresh interpretation of Evelyn), which was disappointing at first, but then wasn’t, after all, but it was still a great escapist romp.

We saw Journey…, the same weekend we saw Mamma Mia. The same day, even, and we saw The Mummy last night at Studio Movie Grill, combining it with dinner. (Their turkey burgers with sweet potato fries are really good, btw.) I was surprised that The Dark Knight was still selling out shows, and that Step Brothers was sold out – it’s on my list of “movies I would gouge my eyes out before paying to see,” after all, but I recognize that many people like sophomoric humor. I don’t. I never have. I don’t like slapstick, and I also don’t like animation. A lot. Especially animated slapstick.

In any case, the theaters were full for both Fraser films, and our fellow audience members were into both films. Last night, especially. I like it when a film can make the audience respond with cheers and laughter, when it really is engaging enough to trigger the willful suspense of disbelief and when you find yourself applauding at the end, even though you KNOW it’s a film and no one can hear you.

This isn’t a review, so much as a ramble, and one of the topics I wanted to address is that my affection for Fraser’s work has to do with his finesse at playing against type. We expect someone who looks like him to be a perfect action hero, but he brings just enough silly that his performance becomes, not a pale imitation of folks like Harrison Ford (as Indiana Jones), but an homage to them. He has this great knack of being just a little bit bimbo-esque but with intelligence in his eyes.

And yet, he also has range. Go rent Gods and Monsters or The Quiet American if you don’t believe me.

In any case, I’d recommend Journey to the Center of the Earth for the tween crowd and their parents, and The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor for pretty much anyone, and I’m not just saying that because I really like the setting of Shanghai in the ’40s, either.

Summer Rain

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I woke this morning to a sky that was just beginning to cloud over, and two dogs who were begging to dash outside for their morning business. They came in much sooner than I expected, and when I looked outside to see if there was an animal that might have scared them, I noticed fading rain drops on the porch and picnic table.

The sky, was still predominantly blue, however.

Ten minutes later, the blue had been replaced by thick grey, and thunder was rumbling in the distance. I love thunderstorms. They invigorate me more than even the best coffee sipped at the coolest cafe. I may be a fire-sign (Leo) but water is my element. I am LEO hear me…splash!

There’s something especially magical about a summer rainstorm. Even when you live in a place where it rains frequently, warm rain is special, and freeing in much the same way that running through sprinklers is. It touches the kernel of childhood innocence in all of us.

Rain and thunder, to me, are as musical and inspiring as any symphony, and as accessible as any pop song, but when you combine rain with music? Sheer brilliance.

Just watch:

Marcy’s Playground

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While my husband insists upon calling my “Word Lounge” the “Abode of Writeyness,” it actually has another moniker that dates back to January when I bought some weight equipment.

As someone who doesn’t keep “normal” hours, and doesn’t particularly like group exercise anyway, I determined that I needed some form of strength training in addition to the walking and dance warmups and calisthenics I was already doing, I found a weight machine that only cost $200, and I’ve been using it fairly regularly ever since.

The brand listed on all the documentation is some sports-equipment-y name I can never remember, but the name MARCY is stamped in friendly orange letters on the seat back.

Can you blame me, then, for thinking of the room as “Marcy’s Playground?”

I Hate Summer!

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Temperatures over 100 should be illegal. Actually, I’m not fond of anything over 90, but when it’s not humid, I can deal. Still, I’m not a fan of summer because:

  1. I don’t like to sweat without exertion to earn it. It gives me acne breakouts that make me look even more like a twelve-year-old than I generally do.
  2. I become lethargic.
  3. The dogs become even more lethargic than I do.
  4. Ever since having LASIK six years ago, I’m very sensitive to bright light.
  5. The bugs from outside try to come inside. I hate bugs.
  6. Since I’m long past school days, those long summer evenings just mean I don’t want to ease into my evening routine. I stay up too late, and then I don’t function well in the morning.
  7. I am constantly reminded how near the beach we don’t live. I miss the ocean. The shark toy in the pool doesn’t help.

On the other hand, summer does bring my birthday and Shark Week, though not in that order.

You’re Gonna Need a Bigger Boat

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It’s that time of year again, when the sun seems to be so close it’s cruel, and the temperatures are so hot that economy of movement is a necessity rather than mere laziness. It’s the week that my month starts (other people may celebrate their birthdays for a single day, but I lay claim to the entire MONTH of August…though I share it happily enough).

As if they’re doing it just for me, the Discovery Channel offers their annual tribute to sharks. Yes, Shark week begins tonight with a two-hour Mythbusters extravaganza.

Who can resist?

Lost Pictures

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Somewhere in a box there are pictures of me as a young girl, when my hair was still more gold than brown, and my mother made most of my clothes. I’ve never really cared for pictures of me, but suddenly I want the one of me and a childhood friend in school girl costumes – you know, like when you put the hood of your sweatshirt over your head, and tie the strings under your chin, but slip your arms from the sleeves so that it’s a cape, and your ruler is a ray gun, and the cheap mask leftover from Halloween turns you into Supergirl or Wonder Woman or whatever.

Somewhere in a box there’s a picture of me and a boy my age dressed up like superheroes, with blankets and towels tucked into the collars of our t-shirts.

We were superheros who fought against JAWS because it was the ’70s, when the movie was new enough, scary enough, to keep our young toes on the sand when we went to the beach, and instead of pretending to fight with plastic light sabers (because they didn’t yet exist) we argued about who’s house the radio guy meant when he said, “Coming soon to a theater near YOU!”

Somewhere in a box there are pictures, but in my heads are the movies and the memories and the taste of innocence that lingers at the back of my mouth and the scent of childhood that wafts across my dreams.

Conversations with Fuzzy

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“Lovey!” Fuzzy called in his panicked tone, as he entered the house last night. (It should be noted, however that Fuzzy, aka Stoic!Boy, is a midwesterner, and therefore his panicked tone is only fractionally different from his normal voice.) “Lovey, we need to talk about the car.”

This is not the way to begin a conversation, especially when your wife is a self-identifying Californian with strident Italian relatives, and a history of summering with them at the Jersey shore. (Translation: there is no way in hell I could ever be called Stoic!Gal.)

“What’s wrong?” I asked, my mind rapidly flipping through options. Did we need to find a truck accident lawyer because my generally mild husband finally lost it and attacked the driver of one of the ubiquitous monster-SUVs that block the sun from half our neighborhood. Or worse, had he hit an animal?

“We need to get the tires done, like now. I noticed one has visible steel.”

I refrained from pointing out that car maintenance falls into his purvey. I pay the bills, I do the cooking, and I deal with most home repairs, but the car is his job.

“Okay,” I said. “I thought you’d asked for a quote on new tires a few weeks ago.”

“Well, they never called me back.”

I gave him the sort of death glare that is so often used between committed partners. The one that clearly means, “And you aren’t capable of picking up the phone to follow up???” (The multiple question marks are obligatory.)

“I guess I should call them tomorrow morning,” he said after an excruciatingly long pause in which I practiced the technique I learned when still in mortgages of not talking first once a deal has been offered because the person who speaks first loses.

“Yes,” I said, “I think that would be a good idea, Sweety.”

Approximately seventeen hours later, the car was sporting new tires.

Smallville isn’t the only fictional town in Kansas

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Over the last two and a half weeks, Fuzzy and I have worked our way through the entire too-brief run of Jericho, thanks to the superpass at Blockbuster that allows you to take out a movie, and keep swapping it for other movies and/or games for one monthly fee.

Those who know me will understand why I resisted watching it when it was on: Other than the fact that it conflicted with Project Runway at least some of the time, I have issues with movies and shows that involve people being tired, cold, scared, hungry, dirty, or lacking toilet paper. It is for this reason that I stopped watching Battlestar Galactica, and it is for this reason why the Underworld movies, which premise I like, did not appeal.

I have no problem with dark subjects, blood and guts, or violent scenes as long as they move the plot forward, and as long as they also involve the main characters getting to go home to a warm dinner, a hot bath, and bunny slippers after they’re done saving the world or fighting for injustice.

Nevertheless, once we were fifteen minutes into Jericho, I was wishing we had a living room with surround sound and home theater seating, because I was hooked. It helped, I think, that some of the writers had worked on one of my favorite shows, The West Wing, and that the producer, John Turtletaub was also involved with the National Treasure movies, which I think are lovely escapist entertainment.

So, this post sees me standing corrected. Jericho rocks, and I’m sorry I didn’t watch it when it was actually, you know, on.

Pink Ink.

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I should be blogging about the sexy pink fountain pen that I bought from RichardINK, but I’m so tired, and have written so many words today for work and in my novel, and such, that I’m going to just crash.

However, I will note that among the ink cartridges he sent with the pen was a pink one that I cannot wait to try, and the weight of the pen is really satisfyingly solid without being uncomfortably heavy.

And on that note, I’m going to bed. Yay, bed.

Media Monday: Mamma Mia

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It opened here on Friday, and we saw it on Sunday, and loved it. It’s fluff, but it’s joyful fluff, and reminded me of being seven years old and knowing the lyrics to all of ABBA’s music. I had to be restrained to keep from singing along. (Note: there needs to be a sing-along Mamma Mia in the same vein as the sing-along Sound of Music.)

As we were leaving, Fuzzy said, “So we’re buying this on DVD as soon as it comes out, right?”

As if there’s any question.

P.S. The calendar may say “Tuesday,” but as I haven’t been to bed yet, it’s still “Monday” to me.