Fandango this: "Tropic Thunder" review ... and more

Below is a review I posted for Fandango.com. (Fun site, btw. You can make your very own bag puppets, as you can see from the image above. Who wouldn't love that? ... You could tell that's me, right?)

Enjoy.

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Ben Stiller directs himself playing an actor thrust into the role of a director, Robert Downey Jr. playing a guy playing a black guy, Steve Coogan playing the director who needs a little direction, and for good measure, a little Jack Black on the side, which turns out to be the least impressive performance in this movie.

Stiller does his thing — funny, but no surprises. And even RDJr., who delivers a fair share of the film's comedy, doesn't get the biggest laughs here. Tom Cruise's cameo as the fat, bald, hairy, short-tempered behind-the-scenes billionaire fronting the money for the movie-in-a-movie steals the whole show. Every time that guy appeared on screen, he couldn't stop yelling, and I couldn't stop laughing.

With some solid performances from the rest of the supporting cast, including SNL's Bill Hader as Tom Cruise's ultimately spineless No. 2, this movie is a solid hit and totally worth seeing. Just keep in mind the movie-in-a-movie is a war movie. Oh yeah. It's bloody.

Respect the rings

The L.A. Times just had to go and mess with the Olympics logo, didn't they? And not just once — twice mutilated.

Yes, some designer somewhere in the organization came up with their own way of branding this world-wide event steeped in tradition. And it's all just design for the sake of design.

WHY?!

No reason I can think of. I can't see a need for the Olympic rings in the familiar arrangement need to become a stack of colored discs, lined up like a tiny pile of pennies that was pushed to one side. Soooo lame.

But the Times didn't stop there. The LAT Web site's Olympic rings aren't rings at all — the colors appear in thin stripes. Again, I say....
WHY?!

I'm sure others besides LAT have taken it upon themselves to rearrange the rings. But last I heard, logos were supposed to brand stories and packages in an effort to connect elements for the reader, not leave them asking, "What's with the poker chips? Is that an Olympic event now, too?" Not that I've heard...

Part of the reason this really irks me is because this is exactly the sort of thing that gives designers get a bad wrap. There's a reason the Bauhaus school of thought ("Form follows function") is Lesson No. 1. So stuff like this makes it seem like the designer is:

1) An egomaniac.
2) Reaching to fill his/her clip file.
3) Is attempting to justify their own employment, not that I truly blame them in the current economic climate, but...
4) On crack.

Design for design's sake gives the impression that designers don't actually care about content. That all they are concerned with is design, appearances, aesthetics, etc. For some, sadly, this is the case, and usually for Reason No. 1.

I, however, am not a slave to design. I prefer it to enhance the good content, not mask the bad. And when the content doesn't live up to the design, well, I fight for improvements to the content.

Call me crazy... but you'll never call me an egomaniac.

If Google and ESRI ever fell in love and got married...

...it would be scary awesome.

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Dear Google:

You had me at G-mail.

From the moment you unchained me from the shackles of my workplace's inferior web-based e-mail program, I was smitten. But once I unlocked the mysteries of the Google Group, I knew I was in love, and I've been telling the world — well, OK... only the select few deserving of you.

Only the best for my Google.

I know you must love me, too: You give and you give, like a benevolent crack dealer handing out the first few hits for free.

Blogger. Picasa. Google Reader.

You love me. I know you love me. ... Don't you love me?

My friend says she wouldn't be surprised if you were seeing ESRI on the side, working to provide us all with a traffic-free commute into work. That would be just like you, delivering the impossible labeled with simple multi-colored typography.

I have no choice but to assume you're cheating on me. Your blog says "Hello new delectable Google enhancements," but your refusal to be exclusive says "Good-bye whacko."

But I don't care. I love you anyway.

I love your willingness to let me carry around the baggage of 1,000+ unarchived e-mails without judging me. I love the way you keep track of all my favorite blogs so I don't miss anything, and the way you save my own blog writings on an invisible layer until I'm ready to let them stand on their own.

But your love is not for me alone. I know that now. You must fulfill your destiny. ESRI is your true love, and together you will obliterate the human race. I love you too much to stand in your way. How can I stay mad at you?

I love you.

-designerGina
<3


P.S. - Do you still want me to test out that Google Terminator BETA program I downloaded from you all those months ago? I can. I will. I want to.




(I still love you.)

Pilates for DUMMIES.

... Well, ONE dummy, anyway.

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How I medaled in fitness-ball vaulting

So I started doing Pilates. Yoga. Whatever. Anyway, I have a giant inflatable reddish ball — faded maroon? — as big as the sun in my living room. I'm told by those nice people on the included DVDs this immense crimson-esque orb will help flex my body in completely unnatural but healthy ways, if I but only trust my own stability to a dense foam brick. Rapture!

I really suck at it.

I'm not naturally coordinated, and, well... I fell on my head. Seriously. I got on that giant fuchsia-ish ball thingy, and I fell on my head.

In my defense, I really thought the big red ball was closer to the big leather couch, which I was hoping to use as a balance support to sort of ease my way into a backwards stretch. I was leaning back, arms outstretched to grab hold of the couch... Alas. I misjudged the space. Ouch.

Granted, it wasn't my very first time on the big red ball, but it was the first time I attempted to do anything other than SIT on the big red ball.

But I digress.

As I sat reflecting on what had just happened to me, possibly in shock, a wave of regret passed over me. Regret that no one else was in the apartment when it happened, because the whole scene just HAD to have been freakin' HILARIOUS to witness. Most of my more major vertical challenges have been.

After I had replayed the whole thing in my head a half dozen times, the laughter subsided, and I began to realize that I actually was pretty lucky. Such a bounce off a immense bouncy rosy orb thingy could have resulted in me breaking my neck, and there I would have been: sprawled out there in my living room, inches away from a giant red ball.

The whole experience seems, on its circumference, a definite argument FOR the gym membership, and, perhaps, an equally strong argument AGAINST it. Wouldn't you hate it if your limp mishapen body were discovered sprawled next to a giant red inflatable ball?

"Miss Scarlet did it in the gym with one bounce." Doesn't have a good ring to it, you know?

Although, I'm guessing that at gym, they would at least have the decency to move the ball aside whilst attempting to revive you.

Anyway, the big red ball is currently in time out, as you can see above. I'll stick to the floor exercises until I can achieve a higher level of Zen, or at least a better sense of balance. ... USA!!!

Lost in translation

I know my writing skills often trump my skills as a verbal communicator, but this little scenario takes the cake:

So I go to get my haircut at this salon I kinda like. I haven't really found one particular person there I like, but I've found a couple I don't. And today I found one more.

The instructions I gave were:
1. I want it to be quite a bit shorter; just above the shoulders would be great.
2. I want it thinned out/layered in the back.
3. I don't want to have to spend any time fixing it.

Fortunately for me, #3 has always pretty much been a given mostly because the natural curl in my hair is best left to its own devices. So my first clue should have been that my typically 30-min haircut was taking about three times that long. Granted, I did admit at one point that I don't really get freaked out about my hair, but I didn't expect she would call me on it.

And by the way, no, I'm not keeping it like this.
Enjoy.

P.S. — FEMALE PIRATE COWBOYS RULE! YAR!!!

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You might recognize this entry from my original blog, where it originally appeared in a May 20, 2008, entry. But it never really fit there. So... now it has a home here. Thanks for reading.

Well, looky what we have here... (An introduction)

Yes, I do get out once in awhile. I try stuff. Do things.

Like writing.

I have a few venues at my disposal for writing, but this is the first and only one thus far that I feel I can REALLY be myself. So, even though I hope others will enjoy this blog, it's really only intended for an audience of one.

So as I get out and try stuff and do things, I'll be writing a bit about them here, when I'm so inclined. You're welcome to tag along.

Check, please.

-G