scratchframe

Things That Actually Happen Through the Power of Breakdancing in “Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo.”

2009-09-13T03:49:00.000-07:00

- Total strangers fall in love

- People who used to be in love but aren’t any more fall in love again.

- The language barrier is destroyed

- Kids stay off the streets

- Kids learn about working together

- Kids learn a valuable work ethic

- The elderly are confused and threatened

- Every race joins together

- Bulldozers are stopped dead in their tracks and eventually forced backwards

- A man learns the Art of Seduction

- A man defies every law of physics and the will of God by breakdancing on the walls and ceiling

- Some poor bastard who can’t breakdance gets a parking ticket and no one seems to care because the meter maid CAN breakdance.

- $200,000 is raised

- It takes a broken leg two days to heal

- Neon colors come across as macho

- The differences between two rival street gangs are put aside for the common good of the community… of course, since those differences were all based completely around breakdancing, this one sort of negates itself.

- City Hall is effectively fought and conquered

- Out-of-touch parents transcend the Generation Gap to approve of their daughter’s lifestyle

- A mime has street cred

- Lemonade is mixed and sold in the funkiest way possible

- There’s gang warfare without blood being spilt or anyone ever actually touching each other

- A man in a wheelchair gains the ability to walk again

- A dead man comes back to life.

- What?

- Yes. A dead man’s heart begins beating again and he comes back to life. The catch: he immediately starts dancing when he returns from the dead.

- Small price, some would say, but we never actually learn how he feels about dancing in a place as seemingly inappropriate as an OR. It’s possible the experience was even more uncomfortable than cardiac arrest.

- And for that matter, if the guy was going under the knife in the first place, he probably had a weak heart to begin with, so wouldn’t dancing endanger his fragile, ill-gotten life even further? Wouldn’t his relieved family and friends resent this behavior? Couldn’t it be viewed as reckless and selfish after getting a second chance on the mortal coil? It’s like choking nearly to death, having someone open your windpipe again through the Heimlich maneuver, and then immediately fitting as much peanut butter into your mouth as physically possible before you can even say “Thank you.”

- Or what if the return from the brink of oblivion was a Faustian example of immortality at a price and this man now has no choice but to Electric Boogaloo for all eternity? Would it really be worth it? Only if you consider that the man will be ahead of the curve when breakdancing comes back in style in the 2030s, right alongside the epic relaunch of the Teddy Ruxpin empire.

Sun Burns! Just Like Our Blog... The 'Reader' The Better!

2009-06-22T22:30:00.000-07:00

The sun has been an idol of worship since the very hairy beginnings of the human race. After all, who could resist the charms of that portly gold sphere hovering so handsomely above us? Like Dom Deluise, pre-diet John Popper, and Santa Claus all rolled up into one bright, shining, celestial body. One must never forget that without the life giving force of the sun our ancestors could never have crawled out from the oceans, developed the capacity for thought and communication, and then created such important universal contributions as the VH1 network and squeezable mayonaise.
For these innumerable reasons mankind has sought various ways to give thanks to this fiery galactic anchor point throughout the centuries. From elaborate tribal dances to blood soaked, dagger filled, human sacrifices. Though each of these offerings of gratitude have their merits they all share one common flaw: Dreary Time Consumption. Let's face it, who really has the clock ticks to spare in the information age to construct an Aztec-like Mesoamerican pyramid complete with sacrificial altar, let alone hunt down a reliable virgin willing to give their life for a questionably effective gift to the sun? I'm sorry but what worked in Tenochtitlan does not work in 21st Century Western civilization. To quote a popular Dr. Scholl's commercial, that's just not " gellin' ". And if you ain't ' gellin' ', well brother then you ain't making sense if you catch my drift.
Thus I propose a mode of thanksgiving for the great yellow colossus more suited to the modern man (or woman): sit idly by and allow it to pummel you with skin searing UV rays. I mean in the end isn't a sun burn just the sun's way of giving you a hug? A blistering, carcinogenic, hug? Sure it is! And the beautiful part is that the only thing this method of thanks requires of you is total apathy. Sweet, sweet, apathy. Aside from that you must remember everyone likes affection, and that includes stars at the center of solar systems. So why not lay back and let the ol' gas ball nuzzle in close for a little while. In the end you'll get a tan, and maybe a few fluid filled blisters to poke around with, while our great circular oven in the sky will feel emotionally satisfied and content with continuing to provide you and I light and warmth. If you were so inclined to look the phrase 'win-win situation' up in the dictionary you probably wouldn't find anything except for the individual definitions of the words 'win' and 'situation'. However, using the power of the human mind you could then deduce that allowing the sun to burn you is literally the definition of a 'win-win situation' for everyone involved.
So stop sending our nuclear pal the same tired, old, hallmark cards you send him every year and try going out and just doing nothing for a while with a significant portion of your skin exposed. I think my man Sunny can take care of the rest. ;)

Cody

Get In Get Out

2009-04-17T01:14:00.000-07:00

The defining moment of the scratchframe blog is finally here! Elliot is posting his first entry (and apparently typing in the third person).

I (that didn't last long) held off this glorious occasion until I had an appropriate reason to comment on my particular area of expertise: “misadventures on the dating scene.” Unfortunately, my writing as of late has mostly consisted of updating my status on facebook, and as clever and witty as those statements are, my once fierce command of the English language has greatly diminished. Please forgive me if the following passage isn’t up to the exceptional standards generally expected from my work.

I recently completed a short movie called Get In Get Out (check out the trailer). In many ways, it’s the best work I’ve ever done. It took me over a year to write, about a month to prepare, a day to shoot and a week to edit and finish. The movie isn’t groundbreaking. It doesn’t explore any new themes or deserve any visual storytelling medals. It simply tells a concise story and manages to be fairly entertaining. At this point, that is enough to make me happy, and proud.

The real thrill of the movie for me lies in the fact that it is the first project I’ve ever done based directly on my own life experiences. The movie is about a guy who sweet-talks his way up to a girl’s apartment and has second thoughts about his sexual ambitions. I don’t know if anyone else has ever gone through this experience, but I have many times and for me it rings true. And that made my job as director much easier and more enjoyable.

Two strangers face off amongst a sea of narrow dinner tables, white linen, busy waiters and fellow Chicagoans. Implacable instrumental music plays softly behind quiet chatter. Small candles light the short dark room. The menu is the main topic of conversation. “What are you looking at?” The guy says as cleverly as such a mundane statement can possibly sound. “I don’t know. How about you?” She replies, a little too quickly. These people are clearly not meant for each other. At least that’s clear to everyone else in this trendy Italian ristorante, but these two have more important thoughts on their mind: sex for the first time in months, ex-lovers to spite, insecurities to squash, friends to compete with, and the list goes on.

By the third or maybe the fourth date an unspoken understanding is reached: “I get to fuck you whenever we hang out and you get to feel better about yourself.” The mismatched duo carries on this way for several weeks until the sex gets old or the self-image returns to normal. The break-up is as banal as the relationship itself. The only thing more pitiful is the excuse used by the unhappy party, “I’m just not ready for another relationship yet.” These easy words never penetrate the thick layer of pride protecting the heart. Days, weeks and years go by as the cycle continues until both are lucky enough to find true love or dumb enough to marry someone for one of the shitty reasons mentioned above.

No wonder the divorce rate in this country is currently over 50%.

Do yourself a favor, get in and get out!

What Roger Ebert And His Liberal Critic Pals Won't Tell You About 'Milk'! (A Work of Satire)

2008-12-06T23:04:00.001-08:00

What I would like to discuss today is a groundbreaking new film titled 'Milk' directed by the artsy-fartsiest of auteurs Gus Van Sant. Let me begin with a spoiler alert...this movie has nothing to do with the dairy industry whatsoever. (I know! Right?) In fact not a single frame contains a cow of any sort. As most of you will agree I see this as yet another shining example of Hollywood's liberal terror assault on middle America. To call a film 'Milk' implies the most wholesome and comforting of content which viewers will not only find entertaining but life affirming. Using such a staple of the American diet as your namesake asks your audience to recall long summer nights spent whittling hickory on their back porch with Pappy, happily chewing on a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie with a tall cool glass of the chalky white stuff at their side. Instead of being whisked away on this nostalgic jaunt down memory lane the first thing I was confronted with in Mr. Sant's so-called film was the passionate snogging of two bonafied penis carrying members of the male gender. That's right! The homo-murder machine stalks us even in the darkest of movie theaters. Needless to say I was tempted to leave the cinematech right then and there, but dared not for fear that the raging erection I had acquired due to the appearance of some totally stacked hot chick in the trailer right before might be misconstrued as some sign that I enjoyed watching the soft, suple, lips of James Franco gently pressed against the stern, chizzled, face of Sean Penn.
Sprinkled throughout this sodomy laden fairy ballet is yet another example of why Democracy doesn't work. Gay man is elected to office...chaos ensues. It's as simple as that. When will America sit back and take a little lesson from failed gay city states in antiquity? What happened when all those phallace gripping philsophers in Greece created a Democracy under the rule of its citizenry? An even bigger and (according to Oliver Stone) even gayer empire led by Alexander the Great pounded them (surely from behind) into submission. So watch out America, because the minute we let our guard down France is going to come in and prance all over us.
In conclusion I award 'Milk' 4 stars because it still does not corrupt the youth of this country nearly as much as that wizard Harry Potter and his harem of pagan friends.

On Dogs In Borders

2008-10-05T11:22:00.000-07:00

Imagine you're browsing in a Borders and you're minding your own business, perhaps sipping on a reasonably-priced iced coffee or thumbing idly through a coffee table book about the dying graffiti culture in Oklahoma, when suddenly you smell something in the air: dander... fur flying... the faintest hint of some sort of animal musk... there's something inhuman in the store. What little lizard instinct remains in the back of your brain rears back with horror. Fight or flight, motherfucker!, it screams inarticulately, There's a predator in your vicinity, asshole! And the moment you suspect your well-being is jeopardized, you hear a low growl behind you. Too late. You turn to regard your doom. There is a dog in Borders.

Is this a sure sign of the end of times, the reclaiming of the earth by the beasts, a sick side-effect of a diseased economy? Where on this planet would one be blindsided by a canine in a store regarded for its atmosphere, intelligence, and high standards? Did they foolishly build a Borders on the outskirts of Death Valley, where starving animals siege the vestiges of civilization, blind to the imaginary boundaries of man? Or could this scene be playing out in the wild and wiley Ozark Mountains in Missouri, where high standards inherent to a business or corporation are slowly whittled down by the ignorance and lethargy of the locals until people eventually go to their bookstore to go hunting for coyotes or rattlers rather than a further appreciation of the works of T.S. Eliot? Perhaps this is a Borders in the poorest, most dilapidated swamps of rural Florida, where desperate folk sick vicious attack dogs on themselves to reap insurance payoffs so they can spend the rest of their stunted, underpriveleged lives going on Borders shopping sprees with two mauled arms and a head permanenty cocked to the right?

No, dear reader, this collision of animal and shopper takes place in none other than the Borders in Century City Shoppingtown, Beverly Hills' mall chante; a winding sun-kissed collection of stores so high-class and expensive you'd be lucky not to go bankrupt just looking at the directory. A mall that caters to the elite, wealthy, and socially-retarded by allowing them to tag their hyper, yippy, yappy, fluffy, rage-fueled little trophy-dogs along into stores that normally would, you know, frown upon, like, creatures and stuff being inside since, you know, animals can sometimes, uhm, piss and shit and bite and bark and freak out and generally introduce chaos into a retail environment that thrives on structure, order, beaurocracy, and there not being piss and shit everywhere.

So, in summation, these stores must SEVERELY LOWER their standards in attempt to meet the RIDICULOUSLY HIGH standards of their most entitled patrons. Are you following this? If your nose or ears are bleeding, please take a moment to dab them with gauze and then let's continue.

Borders, in particular, is a surprising victim to the L.A. belief/custom that reality and common sense can be warped in service to the rich. One, because no boutique or fashion store has ever pretended to have a brain; Stephen Hawking, for example, will never be featured on the cover of a Hollister catalogue, shirtless or otherwise. Borders, on the other hand, sells books... so it absolutely has to preserve the vestige of some intellectualism. It relies on the presumption that you can come in and get your literaty rocks off without a spoiled-rotten Yorkiedoodle or Labrachoodle or Screwyoutoodle conversely getting theirs off by humping your leg.

Let's not even go into the fact that Borders also has a coffee shop that sells beverages and foodstuffs and that having wildlife anywhere near their inventory would result in the automatic lowering of a letter-grade... *shout-out!* just like three absences for a class at Columbia College Chicago! *end shout-out!* How do these men and women get so far ahead in life without a basic enough understanding of how the world works to know that, no, you fucking absolutely canNOT have your dog shed and pee in the same place where food is prepared, no matter how many calendars it's modelled for?

The best part of watching these dumbkopfs try to maintain their feelings of entitlement and composure through the store while these ludicrous animals run around their legs is that they always seem to feel, perhaps through obligation, that they have to visit the section on dog books. To let the world know that they are experts, yes, on the little hairy things at the end of their rhinestone leashes, for look at how long they're standing in front of these books on the topic and staring at the titles! They could teach graduate-level classes on... matching the pictures on the covers to the titles, I guess.

Funny. If they ever actually bothered to open one or do a bit of research outside of "OHHH, Lauria at the beauty shop said a Golden Pugraschnausadoodle is just the cutest little dickens," they'd know that their multi-million dollar designer dog probably has bones so weak and brittle that their legs will collapse under own weight before their extravagant second birthday party. Or they'd learn about how many millions of worthy dogs languish in shelters while they're paying to have new dogs fucking imagineered. Or, hell, they could stumble upon a Thesaurus and learn a whole new word that fits the definition of their multi-breed investment: MUTT.

In the meantime, though, welcome to Century City Borders. How may I help you? Oh... I see. Where did you say it is? Over in Politics and Government? Well, your dog is certainly very critical of the new Bob Woodward book, isn't she? Ha ha... what? Oh. He, of course. So, will you be needing some cleaning supplies? We have paper towels in the restrooms... well, we don't actually offer that, uh, service at the store, madame, it's actually expected that the owner clean up after their own... what's that? Uh huh. Uh huh... yes. Uh huh. Sure. I'll get on it right away. Have a great day and thanks for shopping at Borders. Thanks a bunch.

Party Tips For An Economic Slowdown

2008-09-25T06:41:00.000-07:00

If the 'Grapes of Wrath' has taught us anything surely it is that the sheer determination of the human spirit to party down will overcome even the most crippling of economic situations. Not even the dust bowl could stop the Joad family from going on a hilariously wild cross country road trip the likes of which were hardly ever seen again until Tom Green and Co. took off back in 2000 to retrieve a pornographic video tape before it could destroy a healthy young relationship. So if you're like me and there is more old shirt buttons in your pocket than actual money do not fret, you can still rock the Casbah without shame or guilt simply by following these helpful party tips!

1. Medical Waste Bins Are A Treasure Trove of Party Supplies: Within each of these bio-hazardously wonderful red bags are soiled latex gloves for ballons, bloody tissues for whacky party gags, and used hypodermic needles for your friends with substance abuse problems!

2. Invite Homeless People To Your Party and Call It a Charity Ball: By taking advantage of a few of the less violent street people in your neighborhood everyone is a winner. They can stay warm for a few hours, you collect tax free cover charges, and your friends get to brag to their co-workers about attending a fancy ball!...no one has to know it was in your mom's fruit cellar.

3. Hire Children As Your Wait Staff: Children are the robots of the future today. Their low food consumption and ignorance concerning contemporary labor laws and fair wages make them the ideal servant for any social event. Be sure to humiliate and imprison one of them to set an example for the others!

4. Try Serving Plastic Food For Hors Dourves: Personally I think it is a bit of a waste to stuff peoples faces with delicious and expensive food that is only going to end up at the bottom of the toilet bowl. However, if you serve plastic food to your guests no one consumes anything, and all of your goofy actor friends will have a great time staying 'in character ' pretending to eat. Plus you don't have to worry about lawsuits steming from the ingestion of rotten food because this year the leftover 'Spookey Egg Salad' you turned into 'Jingle-Bell Salad' won't go bad between Halloween and Christmas!

5. Take a Page From the Hill-Billy Play Book and Make Your Own Alcohol: Sure store bought liquor is both legal and slightly tastey, but who wants to spend $25 on getting drunk when a gallon of wood varnish, a dash of paint thinner, and a hint of cinnamon will accomplish the same thing at half the price!

So don't let the collapse of our finacial system have you feeling blue, just take advantage of my patended penny pinching party tips and save yourself a little green!

Holy Guacamole

2008-09-15T00:28:00.000-07:00

Hey Food Lovers,

Jordan here with a recipe that is sure to cure your end-of-summer blues. Be sure to make this one soon because avocados wont be in your local grocery stores when Jack Frost comes nippin'. Here's what you'll need:

- 2 large avacados

- 1/2 red onion (diced)

- 2 serrano chile peppers (careful with these puppies, they are hot, hot, hot!)

- 1/2 tomato (diced)

- juice of 1/2 a lime

- salt & pepper to taste

- 1 bag of your favorite tortilla chips (I recommend TOSTITOS SCOOPS! ® Tortilla Chips)

- A friend (To help you eat this delicious treat)

Start by combining the diced red onion and serrano in a medium sized bowl. (Londe Tip - Take out the seeds and stems of the pepper to reduce the amount of fire!) Next, cut the avocados in half around the pit, de-pit, and scoop the delectable insides into the bowl. Squeeze the lime juice over the contents of the bowl. (Not only does this add flavor, it helps preserve the avocados so they don't turn brown, yuk!) Add salt and pepper if desired. Mix all of this up with a fork. You can make it as chunky or smooth as you and your loved ones like. Eric loves the chunks, so I give it a light mash.

Put the mixture in the refrigerator for an hour to chill.

Just before you are ready to snack add the diced tomato, give it one last stir, break open your TOSTITOS SCOOPS ® Tortilla Chips, grab that friend we talked about, and dig in!

That's all for now America. Until next time, keep on snackin'!

-Jordan

Dear MOTHER

2008-09-14T12:43:00.001-07:00

**imagine this is all written in wrist blood**

Dear Mother,
I'm leaving you today
Dear Mother,
Have a few last things to say
Dear Mother,
Your scent makes my heart flutter
Dear Mother,
Underneath the covers
Dear Mother,
You never loved me enough
Dear Mother,
I mean REALLY love me enough
Dear Mother,
With your heavy hooded eyes
Dear Mother,
Did you ever truly try?
Dear Mother,
When you wake you won't find Father
Dear Mother,
He's lying dead in the gutter
Dear Mother,
I'm joining Father now
Dear Mother,
with a knife in my wrist and a bullet in his brow
Dear Mother,
I've loved you, always will
Dear Mother,
Hope you choke on all those pills

Notes On A Toothbrush

2008-09-13T19:03:00.000-07:00

I always find it so very hard to part with a toothbrush. After all they are such trusty companions, day and night at the ready to dive head first into the moist black hole in the middle of your face. Never asking much in return except for a little scented paste for which to spruce up their bristles. Hand in hand they stand in the gummy trenches with you, fighting for freedom from the oppression of tooth decay and gingivitis ( the Mussolini and Hitler of your mouth ). Why must we simply just toss them away when their heads become soft and browned with mold? Is hygiene really that much more important of a value than friendship and loyalty? Is hygiene even a value? I don't know the answers to these questions, except for the first one which is of course no. I enjoy the gentle touch of an old toothbrush against my enamel, it's like the mature caress of an aging lover. With it come warm pangs of familiarity and security. You don't get distracted by the vanities of a first time encounter. Will they like what I do? Can I still perform? These questions are put by the wayside when you use a toothbrush who has been scrubbing you for weeks, or months or years. They know every tea stained inch of your chompers, its forever imprinted on the few remaining tufts of bristles that have managed to avoid disintegration. They know every sensitive cavity and snaggle tooth more intimately than anyone else ever possibly could. So when those bullies in the school yard start calling you tar mouth and rot gum because of the horrible oral infections you are prone to just remember that your old friend perched precariously close to the toilet in his trendy Ikea holder still has your back.

GUICY GEE-TAILS OF GEISHA GOINGS-ON

2008-09-12T15:50:00.000-07:00

Good day, celebraholics! Easy Stolze here with your daily supply of celebrahol to keep you functioning for another few hours before the tremors set in again.

While basking in the lukewarm heat of Hollyweird hot-spot THE GEISHA ROOM last night, your fearless blogventurer saw none other than IAN HOLM in drag as a geisha waitress, going about and getting people their d.o.'s (drink orders). As your intrepid blogxplorer followed him/her to her car after closing, agressive questioning revealed that it was actually just an Asian waitress after all. When asked if she had any juicy poop on Ian Holm's romantic exploits, she admitted that she did not.

You win this round, Ian Holm.

2008-09-11T15:49:00.000-07:00

So last night Jason and I sat down to a nice quiet evening with Larry Clark and his indelible tale of childhood angst and wacky class bending action entitled 'Wassup Rockers'. Though I found myself immediately turned off by the glaring grammatical error in the title I decided to give Mr. Clark the benefit of the doubt and persevere. Lucky for me I was not disappointed. This film is without question the single greatest children's classic I have ever seen. 'Wassup Rockers' is everything that such wuss-puss crowd pleasers like 'The Goonies' wishes it could be. If nothing else it is contemporary, it deals with issues affecting kids today. I know that when Robert Lewis Stevenson was a child finding pirate gold was probably a very pressing concern, but the only notable pirate booty these days is sitting in a basement in Bangkok in the form of about a million low grade copies of 'The Dark Knight'. Tweens and Teens of this century can't identify with a bunch of wise cracking suburbanites who spend their time spelunking through booby (get your giggles out now)- trapped catacombs while being chased by a scary old lady and her two sexually frustrated sons. They want to see skateboard tricks and punk rock music. They want to see gunshot wounds and affordable 40oz's. They want to see 'Wassup Rockers' and trust me...so do you.
- Cody

UNTITLED (aka Psalm of Disgust)

2008-09-11T00:49:00.000-07:00

Crimson bloodstains, on my fingers
Silver kitchen blade, in my hand
Sheets of linen, around her thin neck
My soul as black as the vomit she chokes on

It is then that I wake up
On my bed in my white-washed tomb
As the demons in the alley shriek
Whilst the dreams I breathed are gone

No one understands
No one comprehends
Damned until the end
Some nights I ask the stars up above
"Why must I be a teenager in Love?"

---jason

Matthew 19:26

2008-09-10T21:18:00.000-07:00

Matthew 19:26
But with God all things are possible

Although we have tried and tried again to make this all work we have tried on our own free will and nothing had been accomplished. As the days draw darker and the hours grow shorter we must all come to acknowledge that the God of the universe is smiling down on us and onto all the regions to where he has placed us. it is only now that he has broken us all up that we have found the strength through him to create such a remarkable bloggery to not only touch each and every one of us but now everybody that follows along with their bouncing blogs.

God Bless you all
~A~

JUICY CELEBRITY GOSSIPS

2008-09-10T20:13:00.000-07:00

Howdy folks,

Easy Stolze here in Tinseltown with the latest celeb poop. Rumor at the local L.A. hang-out where famous people go is that Brad Pitt broke up with Jennifer Aniston and eventually married Angelina Jolie!

On the Q.T. and very Hush Hush!

Maiden Voyage of U.S.S. Blog

2008-09-10T13:17:00.000-07:00

Wipe the anticipatory drool from your lips friends finally a member of scratchframe has posted something of note on our ever popular blog. You may want to get up from whatever dank hole you have yourself hunkered down in so that you may poke your head outside and see if the very heavens are falling down upon you as God's homage to this historic moment. I cannot prepare you thoroughly enough for the bold, revealing and insightful posts that are sure to follow. What dark revelations are to be scribed upon these pages I know not whether the eyes of man are ready to bear. Each one of us has something unique and original to offer the blogosphere that you will only be able to find here at scratchframe.com. My humorous political commentaries, Elliot's misadventures on the dating scene, Jordan's helpful cooking tips, Andy's inspirational Bible passage analysis, Jason's Gothic poetry and scathing social criticisms, and Eric's juicy celebrity gossip. Other blogs may claim to blog half as well as we blog, but I am blogging it to you straight when I say that those blogs do not even come close to the blogmanship we practice on a daily basis. We are blog ninjas who come at you stealthy and quick so that by the time you realize what has happened our opinions have karate-chopped their way deep within your brain and are well on their way to becoming fact. So watch out world, the scratchframe blog has started its engines. @<;)

- Cody