November 8, 2010

What Happened After the Scene Ended: Cast Away

This is the second in a recurring series where I fill you, my wonderful and insatiable readers, in on what happened just after the end of certain scenes in popular motion pictures.  I know these things because... well, because I made them up.  Just play the embedded video and then scroll on to see what happened next.

(Previous WHATSE Entry: Braveheart)

This Week's WHATSE Feature:  Cast Away











November 4, 2010

Not Reel-y That Cool: Leaping Away from an Explosion

This is the first in yet another recurring series, kiddies.  This time, we're taking a look at things that seem oh-so-cool in the movies, but upon reflection, would actually suck in real life.

This Week's NRTC Feature: Leaping Away from an Explosion


Stallone did it.  Van Damme, too.  Willis had a couple really good ones, especially in Die Hard.  Statham has become a modern savant at it.  The Millennium Falcon did an iconic spaceship version of it.  Arnold practically built his fortune around it.

But as awesome as it would seem to try this out for yourself and hurl through the air (preferably in slow-motion) just out of the reach of an expanding ball of fire and doom, in real life it would not be nearly as cool.  Allow me to list a few reasons why...

1. You would probably die.


That's the tricky thing about explosions.  They're deadly.  Rarely does someone plant a bomb inside an enemy's car with the aim of watching it explode and then running out to yell, "You got SERVED!", and then laughing about the whole thing together afterward and going to Denny's or Pottery Barn or something.

No.  Explosions = huge eruptions of flame and pointy things = death. 

2. If you did manage to evade death, you'd probably have a lot of shrapnel embedded in or around the area of your ass.


Remember in Forrest Gump when he's carrying one of his wounded buddies out of the jungle in Vietnam and gets shot in the butt-ocks and yells out, "Somethin' BIT me!"  Well, unless the explosion you're leaping away from happens spontaneously in a completely open and debris-free area, you're going to have some uber-hot shrapnel targeting the softer parts of your hide.  So unless you're doing battle with a wizard or something, the explosion will have originated within some sort of container whose outer parts will soon be making their way toward you, and quickly.

The problem, therefore, with pulling an Arnold on one of these fiery blasts is that it's akin to trying to outrun a bullet.  You may well have been a champion long jumper in high school, but you don't have the luxury of an additional explosive force pushing you along.  Unless you're on steroids.  Or are Usain Bolt.  It's simple physics, friends.

3. Fire is really hot.


Have you ever burned your hand on an iron or coffee pot, even just for an instant, and had to endure that lingering pain for the next day or so, where anything even remotely warm makes you relive the burn all over again, like Rambo with his crazy 'Nam flashbacks in First Blood?  Image that, but 100 times worse, and all over your body.  If you survived, you'd be taking cold showers for a month.

4. Unless you're super buff, you could wind up very embarrassed.


So let's say you actually do have an action movie hero moment and survive your close encounter with the explode-y kind, and it was one of those awesome ones where the fireball actually wraps around you JUST as you leap into the area of safety (a la the Millennium Falcon example mentioned above).  Even if you do come out relatively unscathed, health-wise, there's a very good chance your wardrobe won't be so lucky.

Unless you're the Hulk, your clothes don't remain unharmed if you go through something like that.  And if you're not in the best shape ever, it could be extremely embarrassing when the news crews arrive and broadcast you in all of your doughy, pixelated glory. And honestly, you're never really prepared for such a thing.  Because when you're hurtling through the air in an effort to avoid a flame-soaked demise, you're probably not thinking things like, "Did I make sure to wear clean underwear today?" or "Man, I really shouldn't have let my gym membership expire."

5. Also, if you jumped prematurely, you could wind up very embarrassed. 







6. You would probably die.

I've listed this reason already, yes, but I feel it's extremely important, so I'm going to say it again.  You would probably not survive a 40-yard dash against an explosion.  Explosions are not nice creatures.  They're like bears crossed with barracudas, only on fire and really angry about how bad Spiderman 3 turned out.

So.  Leaping away from an explosion.  Reel-y cool in the movies, but definitely a source of pain, embarrassment, and misery in real life.

November 1, 2010

Let's Get It (Pige)On

When the pigeons start turning on you, it's a sign that things are taking a turn for the worse.

This past January, Girlfriend (pre-move to NYC) was in town for the first time for a visit over New Year's.  I threw a great party at my old apartment, and in the following days, I took her around the city and showed her the usual awesome New-York-in-winter sights like the big tree at Rockefeller Center and Central Park covered in snow and the like.

One afternoon, we took a walk to one of my favorite wintertime places, Bryant Park, where they have shops, a bar/restaurant, and an ice rink set up for the pleasure of everyone who likes to get drunk and fall down on ice and break a tibia or two.  It's actually a really cool sight, as evidenced by the pictures below.



Despite the frigid temperatures, Girlfriend and I grabbed lunch from a nearby cafe and sat down to eat and bask in the warm glow of our endearing love for each other.  Quick tip, if you ever want a constantly entertaining dining experience, sit down for a meal in close proximity to an ice rink.  There's really no such thing as seeing "too many" fat people fall down.


It was shaping up to be a great day.  The sun was shining, fat people were falling, I was with my lady, and all was right in the world.  Just us and our food.  And, of course, the pigeons...

Before I go on with my riveting story, a few words about New York's pigeons.


Generally, I have zero problem with them.  They've adapted to NYC life very well, I think.  They do their thing, we do ours, and aside from the occasional, "Hey, I'm gonna poop on your shoulder, guy," incident, there are no issues.  At least they're not seagulls.  Good god, how I hate seagulls.  I'd gladly eat around dozens of pigeons over one seagull any day of the week.  Too often have I been on a beach with my family down in Florida, holding some delicious food item in one hand and chatting with someone on the other hand's side, and some asshole seagull decides that it's earned the right to flap down and steal my delicious treat right out of my fingers.  No one freeloads on a grander scale.  The Tea Partiers should stop focusing on getting Mexicans out of America and start pushing to remove all of the seagulls.  Then those worthless idiots might get my vote.  But I digress.

Back to Bryant Park.  A couple of the pigeons around us were obviously a bit spoiled by the riches of crumbs raining down upon their area like so much manna from heaven.  They would scamper to and fro between our table and a few others, expecting what they'd come to believe to be rightfully theirs.  I felt like the old shopkeep in some 50s movie about a biker gang, just waiting for the hoodlum pigeons to come in and start rabble rousin' or slackin' or whatever the hell old shopkeeps were afraid of kids doing in those days.

I paid them little attention, though, because like I said, pigeons normally know their boundaries when it comes to being around people, and just hang in the shadows until the coast is clear and they're free to flash-gobble up every edible bit of food left on the ground like a swarm of waddling piranha.  And for the most part, these pigeons kept up their end of the bargain and didn't really come too close.

Except for one fat little bastard.


For whatever reason, this one particular pigeon felt like he had dibs on a significant portion of our food.  This pigeon clearly had Socialist ideals.  One second we're sitting there, enjoying our meal, and the next, he's flapping his way over to our table and trying to land on Girlfriend's chair.

Girlfriend was not pleased.  She freaked out a little bit. It was a lot like what happens when confronted with her true arch-nemesis, the spider.  The only thing I could think of being worse at that moment was if somehow the pigeons and the spiders started cross-breeding and produced some kind of mutant Spiderpigeon:


Which is, of course, not to be confused with Spider-pigeon:


Since our fat little friend didn't seem to have a solid grasp on the rules, I shooed him away and we carried on.  But he wasn't through yet.  I had a bad feeling about him, and kept seeing him pop up at the fringes of the group of tables.  Watching.  Studying.  It was like that scene in Jurassic Park when the surly Australian hunter guy realizes that he's being skillfully tracked by the group of raptors just before they attack him and bite him on and around the face.  Except pigeons don't attack.

Usually.

After a while, I'd forgotten about the pigeon and gone back to focusing on my delectable sandwich.


But soon, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him.


A stare-off ensued.









And then, it attacked.


My first instinct was to hide behind Girlfriend and protect the few precious remaining strands of hair I had left on my head.  But partly out of a sense of duty to keep my love safe from any dastardly threat, and partly out of a desire to not look like a 5-year-old girl, I steeled myself for what I knew I had to do, put down my sandwich, and made my decision.

I struck back.


I literally punched a pigeon in the mouth.


Maybe the bird wasn't used to someone standing up to its bullying tactics, but it was stunned.


My karate chop had landed a devastating blow, and the pigeon, knowing it could never survive such a powerful shot to the face again, tucked tail and waddled away.

Girlfriend and I went back to our food.  I tried to think of an awesome, Schwarzenegger-esque line to cap the action, but alas, none came to me.  (In hindsight, I should've gone with, "You made a beak mistake," or, "That was egg-cellent.")  Still, I did my duty, and proved to Girlfriend that she can always feel safe in the presence of birds, as long as I'm around.

Did the experience change me?  Maybe.  Much like those surfers who get attacked by sharks out on the open water, I eventually went back out there, but I always keep my guard up.  I know I shouldn't unfairly stereotype an entire race because of the actions of one rogue terrorist, but I no longer have such a carefree, mutually respectful relationship with the pigeons of New York City.  The world is an unfair place sometimes.

These days, I'll still toss the occasional bit of hot dog bun on the ground to feed a pigeon in need, but knowing that one could strike at any time has left me a little colder, a little less trusting of my winged brethren.  I may never see him again, but if that pigeon ever shows his beak around me or my loved ones again, I'll face him once more.

And this time, it's bird-sonal.