Guns n' Thangs

Today I went shooting with my dad, his friend, and his friend's son.

I'd never gone before, despite the enjoyment my dad and brother get from it. They even go out to our neighbor's plot of land they use as a shooting range on a semi-regular basis, but for whatever reason (perhaps that perpetual laziness of mine, which grip I have to shake off every day to be a semi-functioning human being) I never acted on my dad's suggestion that I go with them sometime.

I was excited and, I won't lie, a wee bit nervous as we rumbled down the woodsy road and bone-dry creek bed toward the range. The last time I'd shot a gun was in our backyard with a little pistol my dad had and thought I might like to try out. It looked like a toy. It felt like a toy in my hands. If someone had painted it neon orange I would have thought it a squirt gun. But when I pulled that trigger and a sonic boom rang my ears like church bells and sent the world spiraling around me, I quickly made a leap to the opposite conclusion.

On the way there we stopped at a gun store, grabbed a nice paper target and some earplugs, and got on our way once again. I liked that place (the employees were such characters with their camo and drawls) but I didn't at the same time. The walls were lined with all kinds of taxidermy, casting their shadows on you as you walked up and down the aisles, their dying expressions erased and placed with ones of blank solemnity.

Creepy.

We pulled into the stretch of ground and started unloading the sleek weapons. It's a really pretty piece of property actually, and because they hardly do anything with it its got a really nice rustic feel with its slightly dilapidated barn and knotted rope swaying from a high tree branch. I love my own house, don't get me wrong, but the surrounding land is overrun with dead plants, spiky plants, itchy plants, and bugs. (And every time I run into one of the cobwebs, whether or not its the third one in two feet, I do a unique little dance which involves flailing wildly, smacking people in the five-foot vicinity and bellowing "Gerreroffmee!")

So after we set up the target and everything I actually got to take a shot at shooting. (...I'm so clever with puns.)
Boy, were those things loud. I hated sticking the little orange earplugs in, because sticking things in one's ear is rarely a pleasant sensation, but it was necessary for sure. It was super fun, though-- I loved the feel of the shotgun in my hands as opposed to the pistols, and strangely enough, the recoil felt GOOD against my shoulder. My dad said I'd really enjoy skeet shooting, and if I get the chance I definitely want to give it a go.

It was a bit awkward, though, because my dad's friend's son was my age and so we were together for a couple minutes while our dads shot, and he was uncanny in his impression of a lamp. Or a brick wall. Or something else that doesn't speak, because he was unbearably silent. Any attempt I gave at conversation sputtered and nosedived, because whether or not it was a yes-no question he'd give a one-word response and say nothing else.
"So what school do you go to?"
"---- school."
...
"So have you ever been shooting before?"
"No."
...

So long for now, fellers!
~Elizabeth

Wookie Cookies!

As it turns out, there are plenty of OYANers in Kentucky.

Which is just epic epicness.

So after some foruming and PMing and dilly-dalling in various decision-making processes, we finally agreed to have a gathering for an afternoon last Saturday. (Of course, we didn't actually make plans for any activities with which to amuse ourselves during the course of said afternoon. Time just has a way of slipping quickly enough on its own at these kinds of get-togethers.)

I was fizzing with that kind of feathery nervous excitement that brushes up against the insides of your stomach as we pulled in, OYAN T-shirt donned, Dalek key chain clipped obnoxiously in sight on my messenger bag. It was a warming sight, all- Alexis with her allegiant frying pan firmly in hand, Esther and Adrienne and a motley of other quirky writing folk I knew only by way of keyboards and computer monitors. We made good comradeship immediately, and formed a little talking-circle thing; we would talk for half an hour, move ten yards, talk for another half an hour, drift a little bit... I believe it took us forty-five minutes to get from the parked cars to the picnic table, and they were hardly a front-yard-in-suburbia away from each other.

Alexis also brought a chocolatey wonder she called a Wookie Cookie, and it truly lived up to the epicness of its title.

So basically, all day, we explored the tiny perimeter of the lakeside and rambled endlessly on the thoughts that go whizzing in their blinking spaceships through our kinky writers' brains.

There was some excellent tree-climbing to be accomplished there as well, and being the half-monkey people have insinuated me to be it was hearty, knee-scraping fun.
* * * * *
Now that school has started, all those hours that went piddling on by and trailed half hearted clouds of dust in their wake are absolutely brimming with busy-work. For instance, added to my already staggering load, this week I have a creative writing assignment to write a 500-word story with a twist ending.

Calvin is unparalleled in his profound wisdom.
I am not worthy.

I mean, really, truer words have never been spoken.
How does one go about plucking a twist ending from the air on command?!
And assuming one does get that far, how do you compress it into five hundred words?

~Elizabeth

P.S. I discovered a new word today!

pet·ti·fog

 [pet-ee-fog, -fawg]

verb (used without object), pet·ti·fogged, pet·ti·fog·ging.

1.

to bicker or quibble over trifles or unimportant matters.

2.

to carry on a petty, shifty, or unethical law business.

3.

to practice chicanery of any sort.

The Spider-Man Franchise Has Been Re-Done Seven Times Since You Started Reading This Post

Mystery Science Theater 3000 is one of my favorite TV shows of all time.
Joel's (and later Mike's) solitary march across space on the Satellite of Love is clutching-the-stomach, rib-aching humor, from evil Dr. Forrester and bumbling, square-haired TV's Frank, to the ridiculous invention exchanges, to the snarky little skits and brilliant commentary during the laughably horrible films they were forced to watch in their perpetual suspension above earth.

So when my older brother informed me that MST3K's riff of Manos: Hands of Fate would be shown live in theaters for one night only, I knew I had to go.

There was some uncertainty in whether or not we'd be able to attend this momentous, life-changing film extravaganza, but by seven o'clock that night I was snug in the backseat, irrationally proud of the home-made MST pin on my messenger bag, and jittery with excitement.
As soon as we pulled into the parking lot we knew these were our people.
Super-hero T-shirts, to-the-ankle dreadlocks swaying with every step, pudgy guys at the ticket machine chiding in gravelly frustration, "Twelve dollars? That's retarded!"

The movie was fantastic. There were some tasty little appetite-wetting slides before the previews, reading snippets like "Did You Know? The Spider-Man Franchise has been re-booted seven times since you sat down in this theater!" and "Manos: The Hands of Fate, the worst movie ever made that's not a Transformers movie, is showing tonight! And you payed to see it!"

Then Mike, Bill, and Kevin sauntered on screen from some blessed live stage, and showered viewers across the country with their hilarity. I was laughing so hard it hurt and breath eluded my heaving chest.
Then, around halfway through, the unspeakable happened.

The connection to the live stream failed.

Instantly the theater was a sea of nervous chatter, cell phones illuminating every face. Thunder rolled like crashing boulders outside, muffled in enormous room. Precious, irretrievable minutes slipped.
Four, then five.
A theater attendant entered the room and a strained hush came over immediately as she updated us on the situation, carrying with her also the promise of a free movie ticket to any showing of our choice in the future. That was a tremendously generous compensation and we clapped, but the IMAX screen remained dismally dark.
Eleven minutes, twelve.
My hopes steadily deflated like a forgotten party balloon in the dark shadow of the elephantine error message, mocking the audience with its facade of simplicity.

But then, vibrating to our bones, we heard Bill's booming voice rise out from nowhere like that of some satiric deity and seconds later the screen sputtered back to life. Uproarious applause reigned for a moment or so and we fell back into the rhythm of gleeful, geeky comedy.
I left satisfied, grin stretching and stomach soar from laughter, and with a crisp white ticket in my hand for the Birdemic: Shock and Terror one-night showing in October. 

That movie, the RiffTrax of which I've already viewed, is so indescribably life-altering it's unutterable. No mere mortal can ever comprehend.

"...Such as seals."

~Elizabeth

P.S. RiffTrax is the official reincarnation of MST3K. MST was a full show, and in order to shamelessly mock whatever horrible movie was on set for that episode they had to buy the rights to it.  So they were mostly old "films" (and I use that term loosely) accessible for cheap or nothing at all. But now the guys just do audio files of the commentary, to be played alongside the movie they're "riffing", so no rights are necessary. Thus, they can do all kinds of the modern-day train wrecks of our time like Twilight without shattering their metaphorical piggy bank! Huzzah!

Ghibli Love

~Me Whilst Watching Any Ghibli Film~

(minus the giant mushroom cloud, given I haven't done anything remarkably imbecilic that day)

~Elizabeth

Lake Time!

------->
Epic blogging commence.
------->
So this past weekend my family, my friend Catherine and I went to the lake.
(I did mention this in my previous basically useless post, but redundancy is one of my many skills.)
Cat spent the night the night before, during which epic adventuring sleepover timez we lay limp, draped over random furniture in my room like tossed rag dolls, watching Doctor Who (arguably the best British program about a time-traveling extra-terrestrial on television) and yet another Ghibli masterpiece, Castle in the Sky.
I loved it.
So much.

I'm legit going to tear up at the memory of its sheer unsurpassed brilliance, so I think that's a post for another time.
* * * * *
The next day Cat and I squeezed into the backseat along with Wolfie, my German Shepherd who is a perfectly human being thank you and will sit primly in the seat as such, for an hour and a half of blip-blooping DS games, fierce rib-elbowing in the fight to protect the sacredness of the personal bubble, and two-player fruit ninja combat.
Boating was awesome, and tubing especially so. Cat's perpetual face-scrunched, mouth-agape expression of utter horror was hilarious enough, as we bounced and conked heads in unforgiving, bone-bruising harshness, leaning desperately one way or the other in a futile attempt to keep the balance. Many delightedly terrified screams later we wiped out, needless to say, and smacked on the water like skipping stones. We emerged feeling as bruised as fruit in a washing machine, but it was totally worth it.
Then came the jumping rock. Fifteen feet of adrenaline for puny-minded swimmers like ourselves, lurching up into the sky. Challenging us. Mocking us with its immensity.
After several minutes of pacing and undecided facepalming I did manage tap into that puddle of steely nerve of mine, buried deeper than it's almost worth it to expose, and backflipped. I was feeling pretty great about myself, chest all puffed up and smirk in place, until this one guy did some kind of triple-quadruple-backflip-corkscrew-dive thingy without a moment's hesitation.
...
Dang teenagers. They'll do anything as long as it's stupid and risky. (And firmly yanks Elizabeth out of her momentary smugness.)
Later that day Cat and I also decided to go on this cute little nature trail meandering off the main road.
Or should I use its proper moniker, the CrapFest Nature March of Death.
It lead to a dead end, but Catherine was all like, "Ooh, I'm so nature-y and curious like the imp I am, let's see where it goes!". So I'm just plodding along behind her with my frustrated cloud of smoke curling from me and cynical scowl furrowing my whole face.
I was getting cranky, I'll admit.
But then the absurdity of calling the nettle-lined death march of insect bites and dead branches a "nature trail" was enough to make us both laugh hysterically in disbelief.
The meteor shower later that night was stunning. I was in a hazy stupor as I stumbled down to the dock, exhaustion rendering me a blob of weak muscle, but it was definitely worth it to see the streaks of shooting star bleeding through the atmosphere. My mind was admittedly on hiatus most of the time, and only broke back into consciousness after the cries of wonder and delight had gone with the meteors I missed, but even just to watch the night sky all dusted over with pinprick stars was amazing enough.
As we stood to leave we saw the sudden drop in temperature was making mist curl up off the glassy water, like ghosts rising up from the depths. It was beautiful, even to my heavy-lidded eyes.

Kbai, until next time!
~Elizabeth

In Remembrance

I don't have time for a long post right now as we are embarking for the lake very soon, but I figured I'd type something small at any rate.
* * * * *
Well, the Nuzlocke Challenge has delivered its first casualty.
It wasn't an intense battle, tears streaming trails through the grit on my face as I barred my teeth in agony. I didn't avenge the poor creature in a flaming massacre fueled by the low, chest-tightened pain of grief.
The truth is much more pathetic, in several ways.

When the Splash Attack just doesn't cut it anymore.

~KNIVES~
in memoriam

P.S.
Here's the Dream Team as it stands thus far. I have no idea how I shall fit my gyarados, Syren, into this image, but I will manage it somehow. *thrusts sword into air valiantly and stares off into the horizon with blind, emotional courage*

Meanwhile: Another Piece of Crap Joins the Team

Pokemon: a staple of my childhood.
There's a photo of me at around six or seven, curled up on a porch swing and clutching my lime green GameBoy Color, dinked-up Pokemon Crystal cartridge sticking out the back. I spent hours and hours in that virtual world, training up the cutest and quirkiest of the creatures to become deadly killers to carry out my bidding. Countless crime syndicates- Teams Rocket, Aqua, Magma and Glactic- fell under my unbreakable fist of justice.
(You did have to wonder about the gym leaders who devoted their lives to the ancient art of battle, though, when they could be easily vanquished by any adventure-seeking adolescent with a free afternoon.)
I even forced my friend Lindsey to play Pokemon trainer with me at recess. The shadow of the plastic tunnel at the playground became our campsite, the area by the spring-mounted frog and squirrel rides our perilous battleground.
HOW I IMAGINED I LOOKED ENGAGING IN SAID ACTIVITY:

HOW I REALLY LOOKED:
(...Well, I can't do a google search for this, but if you can just imagine a dorky second-grader running around a playground and shouting "I choose you, charizard!" you'll have a pretty good mental image.)
In short, I was unstoppable.
Even now the games encompass so much warm nostalgia when I play them (like hugging a pony), and the gameplay is undeniably addictive. But as somewhat of a veteran player who's completed games from every generation, it does get repetitive. A change of a pixel avatar, some fresh monsters, and a new group of bumbling antagonists to bring down every couple of years isn't exactly a complete overhaul.
Enter the Nuzlocke Challenge.

When I saw this comic I flexed my fingerless-gloves, adjusted my pikachu cap, clipped on my pokeball-holder belt and knew I had to embark on this journey.
I've only just begun, but feel more fierce devotion to my rattata (Tate)

mankey (Petra)

and butterfree (Indigo)

than I ever thought I would for pokemon of such low caliber. I rejoice in every victory and my heart pounds viciously with every attack, although fortunately I've had to move none to my PC box labeled "The Fallen" yet.
I can only hope the remainder of the Challenge will be so carefree.

Good day to you, and may you catch 'em all.

~Elizabeth
Le Cool Trainer I've always been