Modern cartoons don’t have the heat of old cartoons. I think that every time I see another crappy trailer on TV or before a feature. Crappy animation, crappy story telling and crappy acting.
Of course, you could argue that I, Steven Rogers, does not watch kids’ cartoons. I don’t have time for that shit. But some of my friends love them. Especially the Pixar films. I don’t get it. I don’t get Pixar and why they are so popular and wonderful. I mean who gives a rat’s arse about a fucking rat, or some stupid toy or some stupid car? I don’t.
I recently purchased the new Yeah Yeah Yeah’s album. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. They seem to have lost their old punk-styles, and developed a more generic, synthesizer sound. How dull and predictable. Rec didn’t think so. She thought it was marvellous.
‘Don’t type that. I never said it was marvellous Steve, I said it was really good. Don’t put words into my mouth.’ She was lying next to me, apparently reading the morning paper. She knew I would probably use the following words in my review of their album: “shit”, “popular” and “boring”.
‘Is this like your whole “Kings of Leon” thing? ‘Cos they are massively popular now?’
‘No, no, no. No. It’s not like that. You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Of course not. I wouldn’t understand how your opinions on things are based on the opinions of others? Right. Sure.’
‘Oh hey,’ she continued, ‘there is a documentary about a metal band form Baghdad showing this week in town? It could be good.”
I made a face. She didn’t look at me.
‘Is that your pretty face Steve? God I hope not.’
A few hours later, she picked me up from the comic book store down the road - new Green Lanterns, a new Robin, a one about Zombies (genius) and some Superman stuff. I had called her because it was spitting a little, and I didn’t want to walk home in the rain and YES I DON’T HAVE A CAR.
Okay?
‘Thanks Rec my sweet dear,’ I said, jumping into the back so I could lay out the comics as I opened up each one. She looked over her shoulder.
‘You know its only a few hundred meters home?’ I ignored her. I wish she didn’t fucking interrupt me when I was reading my comics. Fuck.
I started reading the first one, Ah Hal Jordan, you are spectacular. I finished it and then grabbed another. Something was wrong. We were in a car park.
‘Where are we?’ I asked. She looked at me, and said, with measured controlled,
‘We are at the movies.’
‘No, Rec, no, fuck off. Please no. I don’t want to go to a movie about stupid fucking metal. I won’t go. I refuse to go.’ She got out of the car and started walking away; I quickly jumped out and followed her. She locked the car with that beep beep sound.
We quickly reached the box office, and I grabbed her arm, with all the manliness I could muster.
‘No, no. I will not watch this film.’ I looked around; metal heads everywhere, all wearing the individualistic uniforms of black on black on black. Fucking losers.
‘These people are so fucked. I mean, look at that fat one, wearing a grey cardigan over an ice hockey top. Who fucking dresses like that? Is he trying to be ironic? Look at his glasses too…’
‘Steve,’ Rec cut me off, ‘I am seeing this film now. Are you coming in with me?’
‘No.’
‘Fine, meet you out here in 2 hours.’
‘What? No. Well…give me your car keys at least? So I can get my comics.’
She came up to me, brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, and gave me an almighty kiss. I kissed back – what else could I do? This was nice. This was very…
‘Fuck you,’ she said and turned to walk inside.
‘Well, what am I SUPPOSED TO DO FOR 2 HOURS?’
Rec shrugged her shoulders without turning around.
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