Gosh darn it and golly gee, I've had an interesting weekend so far!! I was loving every minute of it until I let myself be suckered into sitting through the atrocity that was High School Musical 3. But we'll get to that later.
I went to a costume party Friday night. That was rather interesting. There's a basic protocol for that sort of thing: If you see someone you know, you absolutely have to hug them hello and good-bye even if you secretly hate them. You must also compliment their costume, and you DO NOT EVER, EVER, EVER ask them, "But what ARE you?!" Not if you want a spot in their will. Even though it is an insult and a threat to your own personal morality, it is in your best interest to lie when asked if you like someone's costume. "No, you do not look like a slut in your Playboy Bunny costume. No, I swear. It's totally fine. You look cute." Come on, people. Are we really that far gone that we believe such outrageous lies?! I guess we are, since there are people who are actually going to vote for McCain.
Revolutionary that I am, I took the liberty of not dancing at the aforementioned costume party. I don't dance. I just don't. Never have, never will. I hate dancing more than I hate Rent, which you give you an idea of just how very much I loathe dancing. I didn't not rotate my hips one single time at this party, I promise you. I was as stiff as Sarah Palin's beauty queen grin. I think maybe I should change my name to the Immobile Goat. But I digress. Let's backtrack a little. As soon as I walked through the door to this groovy shindig, I certain friend who shall remain nameless practically dove on me and announced, "OH MY GOD, YOU'RE HOT!!" Um, thanks. I guess I am. Thanks for noticing. Two hours later, as I was standing in a crush of people and not even swaying my hips, said friend once again bounded up to me and said, "Don't waste the hotness, shake your ass!" No, that's really okay. I'll just stay right here and watch these Gossip Girl wannabes grind on eachother. I'm fine, I promise. I think maybe I'll keep the hotness to myself for tonight.
And now on to the reason why I actually came here to blog tonight. I can hardly bare to type these words, but I actually saw HSM 3 tonight. While waiting on line amongst ten thousand little girls quickly being roped into the traps of corporate America, I heard someone scream, "HE'S GOT A GUN!" Indeed there was someone a few feet infront of me that was exercising his right to bear arms. My heart started pounding, but our loyal police force was there in seconds to cart this young hooligan away. At that point, wasn't aware of the fact that I would have been better off if he had shot me.
So I soldiered on bravely into the theatre and plunked down in my seat, a tad bewildered as to what I was actually doing there. If there was any justice in the world a meteorite would have hit the building and killed us all in a blinding blaze of glory, but there is no such miracle to speak of. Instead, I sat there and endured two unending hours of my personal circle of hell. It was the longest two hours of my life. And I sat through Legally Blonde, folks. I cannot even begin to list my grievances with this film. Oh wait, yes I can:
1. The whole thing was basically a series of shots of Zac Efron's sweaty face and body, which provoked the animatronic little girls in the theatre to start squealing like pigs. Oh, please. Over the course of the movie, Sir Efron removed an article of clothing exactly four times, and those little darlings just ate it up. (I still haven't forgotten their gasps and shrieks of extreme terror when their Lord and Savior said, "Kiss my ass" in the sad big-screen adaptation of Hairspray. Oh, how I hate that movie. Really, people, was there any real reason for John Travolta to look and sound like he swallowed Carol Channing?)
2. That sweet little tart Gabriella wore either a skirt or dress for approximately 97% of the movie. Whenever the characters came home (and may I point out that everyone in this movie had really nice houses, how convenient), their mother would be in the kitchen, dutifully preparing a meal for her husband and male children. Thank-you, Disney, for setting the American feminist movement back fifty years.
3. I have to point out that the most painful part of the movie was Zac's big angry eleven o'clock number entitled "Scream." Funny, that's what I wanted to do throughout the whole movie, but never more than during this number. I think they were aiming for a sort of no holds barred-screw the world-I'm running things now kinda thing. What they got was a series of shots of Efron running screaming through the halls of East High, including a particular gem where he's climbing all over the production equipment, briefly evoking memories of the stripper scene from Rent. It's this year's Bet On It, and we all know how that ended up.
That's all I dare say right now, lest the billion screaming HSM fans come to give me what I apparently deserve. I don't know. Maybe I just don't "get it." I don't know about you, but I'd take the story of rape, suicide, and abortion that is my poor, fated Spring Awakening over this corporate drivel any day. But that's just me. Oh, well. Until next time, friends. In the meantime, I'll be sitting here waiting for HSM 4: Ryan finally admits he's gay.