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MOVIE: SPIDERMAN 2 (2004).
Summer, summer, summer. This sequel to the really-super-fun Spiderman is just as super-fun. I mean, the whole gang's back: Aunt May, Mary Jane, Green Goblin's kid. Even Uncle Bob and Norman Osborn return, in the form of hallucinatory flashbacks. As a bonus, there's some silly, campy stuff thrown into the mix, such as the occasional model-hotty squealing "Spiderman!" from the street, and a hilarious sequence where Peter, after having rejected his lonely life as a crimefighter, confidently strides about town to the tune, "Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head." The sequence even ends with a 70's sitcom-style freezeframe.

There's a lot of reluctant-hero introspection, a couple serious conversations between him and Aunt May & Mary Jane, and one weird moment of jesus-ification, proving once again that Sam Raimi & Stan Lee put character first. Doc Octopus is given proper treatment as a tragic character through emphasis on his undying love for his wife, for example. Makes his spiral into madness more significant. But my favorite moment has to be the movie's final shot. You'll see.

So yeah, I didn't trouble myself by asking "Why?", as in "Why does Doctor Octopus need deadly robotic arm prostheses just to perform fusion?" I simply oohed and ahhed before the spectacle. And the model-hottys just kept on screamin'.

Nice Spiderman outfit. Looks uncomfortable.
Yeah, it kinda rides up in the crotch.


 
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We went to see Spiderman 2 at the Arclight last night. There was a giant inflatable Spidey atop the Cineramadome.


Inside, there was a a display of the prop used for one of Doctor Octopus' robotic arms.

 
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We went to Largo tonight for an acoustic solo set by Glen Phillips, of Toad the Wet Sprocket fame. He stunned us with his amazing voice and subtle guitar work. A real musician, finally.


Nicki got starstruck enough to ask him to autograph her CD. "Nicki--I love you madly," he wrote.

 
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We move to the fourth floor at work tomorrow as the team continues to expand. Our pod-bays stand empty and waiting.


Fellow designer Debbie, Kristina, and I will still share a room.

 
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Fellow designer Debbie has been going through Ebay hell, involving fraud, lost packages, and even a claim to a legal service devoted to online auction disputes. After a month and a half of paperwork, her package abruptly arrived. With no grand litigious victory to celebrate, Debbie is left to enjoy the vintage Gucci handbag she bid on so long ago.

 
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We performed a little experiment at work today. Turns out Robert shares the same taste in clothes as former president Bill Clinton.

 
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BOOK: JENNIFER GOVERNMENT (2003).
A mysterious Government agent/femme fatale investigates a Nike marketing stunt involving a planned series of brand awareness-building murders in suburbia. O yes, it's summer--time to read an action movie. That's exactly what this novel, by Australian wise-ass Max Barry, feels like: flashy, absurd, and fast-moving. In his privatized world of capitalism run amuck, people take their company names as their last names (as in Billy NRA, Hack Nike), the USA has grown into a congolmerate of trade-friendly nations, everyone speaks American English no matter where you go, and riots erupt in the streets as a result of open war between two competing points-rewards-program superpowers.

Barry's sharp, literary wit ably prevents this satire from being lumped in with Tom Clancy et. al., even if it isn't quite flexible enough to describe children or adult romance without stumbling into puddles of sentimentality. Otherwise, this Max Barry guy strides along with a lean, nuts-and-bolts confidence that allows him to dodge comparisons to Neal Stephenson while nimbly building toward a huge, flaming fireball of a finish involving the NRA, Nike, Pepsi, Burger King, McDonalds, Mitsui, and, of course, the scrappy Goverment.

He's got a silly blog, too. Can't wait for more.

 
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We took a weekend trip out to Palm Springs for the weekend. On the way were acres and acres of wind farms.


Palm Springs is hot. Like desert-hot. So hot that summer is their off-season.


Lots of old people retire there. The city's streets are named after Greatest Generation-era actors.

 
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Nancy Drew sometimes squares off with a cat across the way named Brooklyn.


They circle and swat at each other, which is how cats say, "I was here first." Brooklyn's owner, incidentally, is Dr. Diamond, a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon who was on one of those Discovery Health Channel documentaries.

 
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