Wednesday, June 20, 2012

Let the games begin...

Alright, everyone, this is going to be a simple little post, detailing the past week and how I've been feeling lately. Might I start off with the fact that, for an hour and thirty minutes, I was working out? More like a healthy exercise, which caused me to sweat profusely. Afterwards, I took a refreshingly hot-and-cold shower in one of those bathtub/shower combinations. Then, dripping from the shower, I hobbled over to my bedroom and told my mother some useful nutritional facts about which foods help specific needs of the human body. For instance, flaxseeds and sweet potatoes are wrinkle defenders, just as doughnuts and French fries decrease one's chances of conceiving a child. Interestingly useful, yes? I, then, dried my hair to a silky smooth and decided it was time to spend quality time with my baby brother, who is now coming up with witty sentences. Innocent childishness is probably the cause of it. Dutifully, I spent nearly an hour with him, without breaks, and one could be confident in assuming I felt relieved and accomplished for doing so. I must add that my calves are extremely tight, most likely from the steady work-out routine I've been practicing. Each step I take is just another slightly-painful clench for my entire leg. My calves are the only section which feels effected by my extraneous exercise schedule. (Extraneous? That sounds about right.) Unfortunately, my thighs have been feelings a bit...softer than what I'd expect. Perhaps it's my low self-esteem acting up again. One may wonder, why the sudden urge to increase my exercise dosage? Well, my friends, later this August, I'll be venturing to Walt Disney World once again. Henceforth, I would like--rather, love--to look stunning when I depart for the magical land. Same as last year, I have made a sort of resolution to meet a perfect stranger and engage in a "summer fling". Preferably with an older man. That's right, a man. I'm sick of these immature boys. It's almost impossible to find one who has actually heard of The Artist. More like, impossible. There is one, but he finds me to be immature for his tastes. How ironic. That would be considered irony, correct? The last guy I've been with was [censured], and that was nearly three weeks ago. While that may not be that long for the average girl, the fact that it was the only guy I've ever been with, intimately, it's rather sad. No sex was involved, I can assure you, for that would be utterly tragic if there was. You can see why I am quite anxious to meet someone in the foreign and whimsical land of Walt Disney World. The fact that he is there, alone, is enough to sweep me off my feet. Again, an older man would suffice.

I feel I am getting off course. Yes, my day thus far. After playing with my little brother, I sat down on my leather loveseat and prepared for my lunch-slash-dinner. For a "first course", a delicious salad with avocado, mango salsa, and cucumbers. The ideal summer treat. Following typical procedure, I finished only a slight more than half of it, preparing for my entree, which I would feast upon an hour later. Today, just as any other day, I was pleased to see a plate full of sautéed vegetables, which included colorful zucchini, eggplant, squash, red and green peppers, red potatoes, mushrooms, and sun-dried tomatoes. Oh, how scrumptious. My mother is quite the chef, believe it or not. And no, I cannot cook anything but eggs. And, may I say, I cook them to perfection. Oh, I forgot to mention: I had a small glass of gin-and-tonic. Instead of tonic water, which is full of carbonated gunk and high-fructose corn syrup, I substituted Perrier sparkling water. And a lemon. Now, doesn't that all sound delightful? It sure was. I am proud to say that I did not fall asleep after my expectedly-tasty cuisine, as I usually do, rather I willed myself to write this very post. Actually, no, I willed myself to begin a certain "project" that I must complete over the summer, as part of the annual request of my "boss". I figured writing this was much more amusing. Aren't you benefiting from this impromptu decision? You bet you are.

Moving on. This won't be a cheerful post on how my life has been. More like a weekly review of the movies I've seen over the past few days. There have quite a lot. (My grandmother just came up to give me my yearly allowance for finishing a job well-done over the past year. I feel so special.) Again, the past five days, I've been with my father, celebrating my graduation I suppose, and we have seen an impressive amount of movies over this weekend. Expect a bundle more for the next two months to come. Do not expect, however, a review for each and every one. I'm trying, fellas, honest! For now, I hope you will be satisfied with what I have now.

Christopher Nolan's impressive adaptation - I am referring to the extraordinary Dark Knight trilogy the complex director has composed. I call him "complex" because he has written every screenplay for the new Batman saga, as well as directed them. But more than that, he was the primary mind behind the fascinatingly difficult Inception, which was most-deservedly nominated for Best Picture in the year where ten were nominated once again, though notably left out of the Best Director race. I must briefly say that Inception may be one of the most remarkable films of the decade, dare I say the absolute most. Not because it was hard to understand, that would be too easy, but because it was so unthinkably ingenious. Dreams inside of dreams? Who else to eloquently create a story around the interesting concept? Anyway, as for the new Batman, starring Christian Bale as the mysterious caped crusader, it was a truly brilliant feat on Christopher Nolan's part. After a detrimental disaster, with George Clooney as the star of that ridiculous flop, the Batman film franchise was thought to be ruined. Along came Christopher Nolan, with the assumably-impressive Memento to carry as proof he could do this. He transformed the franchise from a bright-and-dandy comic-book story to the ominous and realistic tale of a man with a dark past. He decided to take the story of Batman and warp it into something that could feasibly occur in the fictional city of Gotham. He created a poignant saga of a disturbed individual who becomes a hero in the process of healing his wounds. Christian Bale is uncharacteristically cast as such a hero, portraying this Batman with genuine, human feeling. Unlike his predecessors, he plays Batman as a human being, not a comic book character with all those goofy, daunting moments. Before his pretentious Oscar win last year, I actually became fond of Christian Bale, solely for this role. I was close to watching American Psycho, which I stopped watching right before he killed someone with an ax, but up until then I was in the midst of a great performance. In addition to this one, as Batman. As I've mentioned, Christopher Nolan adapted the tale of Batman to something that could actually be considered feasible, to add to the intention of creating a drama without the label of "superhero movie". To do this, he made The Scarecrow into a criminal psychologist who uses a scary mask resembling a scarecrow and "psycho gas" to subdue his victims. Also, he had District Attorney Harvey Dent be physically misshapen by a fire to literally burn half of his face, hence the title "Two-Face". Unfortunately, for a viewer such as myself, he was not so successful in modernizing The Joker. What was a timeless and sensational performance in Tim Burton's Batman by Jack Nicholson was shamelessly forgotten because of Christopher Nolan's creation. I'm sure you all know who was behind the hideous mask of his perception of The Joker. Yes, yes, the late Heath Ledger, who received a god-damn Oscar for his "efforts". Oh, haven't you heard? I despise Heath Ledger's performance of The Joker. It was awful. That does not even begin to describe how I feel about his performance, for it has been an endless debate between myself and those who admire his portrayal. Allow me to give you the condensed version: Heath Ledger was utterly terrible as The Joker, turning a devious villain into a disgusting maggot of a being. The actor's purposely-altered speech makes him sound like a bit of a retard. I never use that term, but that is just what describes him. The make-up is mostly to blame, as it is what causes me to perceive this new Joker as a revolting mess, from his sweaty face-paint to his disturbing facial scars. Of course, it was the director's fault for directing him to act in this specific way, no actor would dare ad-lib here. Especially a has-been like Heath Ledger was. Furthermore, and my father agrees with this, Heath Ledger received that posthumous Oscar because he killed himself, not because it was an Oscar-worthy performance. Oh, did I upset some of you by saying he killed himself? Well, he did. Nobody overdoses accidentally. It's unheard of! Anyway, despite that grotesque performance, the new Joker had many insights that would stir up an engrossing debate on the issue of whether government is beneficial to society or detrimental to it. Is government truly trying to cleanse the nation of crime, or is it merely diverting our attention from the woes of it by instating pseudo-heroic bills that will only delay certain nefarious acts long enough for the public to find something new to protest against? Is the government involved in questionable relations with organized crime? Christopher Nolan nudges at these topics throughout the saga by illustrating the tale of Batman in stages that are the effects of injustices in politics, therefore shedding some light on the current issues that reflect our society. Quite a leap from the foolish glory celebrated in the previous comic-book Batman installments.

The Odd Couple - Who might they be? Why, none other than the hilarious duo of Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau. Now, I've seen more than a few of their cinematic encounters, including the adorably delightful Out to Sea and the Grumpy Old Men sequential, so it is always a treat to see them on the screen together. This past weekend, I have seen two (nearly three) of their meetings, and they include The Front Page, about a newspaper man who is covering a hot murder case while attempting to abandon this career to get married to his girl; The Fortune Cookie, a timeless Billy Wilder classic about insurance fraud, which gave Walter Matthau his one and only Oscar, most-deservedly mind you; and The Odd Couple, which was supposed to be another classic considering this is one of the pair's most famous films. Of the latter film, the plot was so ideal, destined for my entertainment: two complete opposites who must share an apartment based on each circumstances. Jack Lemmon plays the finicky, stiff neat-freak who must move in with his nasty slob of a pal, played by Walter Matthau, after he gets separated from his wife. Absolutely ideal, especially knowing who's playing whom. (That's right, whom.) Sadly, it was not meant to be, for Neil Simon drafted a dull drag of a picture. All that hype for Neil Simon being some hot-shot screenwriter is baloney, utter baloney. My father and I wasted a good twenty-seven minutes on this production. A sad waste of time, and I regret calling it a waste. The other two films, that I finished from beginning to end, were a much better treat of the eyes. (Treat of the eyes?) Let's start with the first one mentioned, which was also directed by the great Billy Wilder. It portrays the dauntless conquest of Hildy Johnson, played by Jack Lemmon, as he writes the story of a lifetime while also escaping this life of journalism. Clearly, it was a conquest made in vain. His ruthless boss, played expertly by Walter Matthau, orchestrates the entire film as he lures Hildy into staying a newspaper man. Because once you're in that business, you're as sure as the ink in the paper. (Solid metaphor?) Hildy's girl is played by a young, beautiful Susan Sarandon, before she hit the big time, in a role that could be played by anyone. But I was sure glad it was her. It was an overall decent movie, though it went over and over the plot, giving off a repeated feeling to the audience, which indicates that it should have been made a whole lot shorter. Either way, it was a decent picture. As for the next Billy Wilder film, here we have an absolute cinematic gem. (I sure love that term, don't I?) This marks one of the first films depicting the deceit of victims of minor injuries who exaggerate their pain into a lawsuit. Here, however, it is the lawyer who is behind the scheme, and who better to portray a sly, deceitful criminal than Walter Matthau, with his deviously revolting bulldog grin. It is without a question that he received an Best Supporting Oscar for his performance, for he is truly a skilled actor worthy of such an honor. (Unlike that differently-disgusting Heath Ledger. The greatest Joker ever? Please.)
The film itself is yet another flawless production of the incredibly talented Billy Wilder, as well as his dictation of his fine actors. Watching this, it is no wonder that he and Jack Lemmon collaborated on so many pictures, for the two appear to complement one another gloriously. While Billy Wilder creates an additional seam in the fabric of cinematic genius (me and my metaphors), Jack Lemmon delivers wonderful performance after wonderful performance. Brilliant. Add Walter Matthau in the mix, alongside his real-life friend Jack Lemmon, and you have an even more precious film. Realizing what magic the three made together, as well as on their own, truly makes their absence devastating. Just now, I watched Walter Matthau's salute to Jack Lemmon at the American Film Institute's Lifetime Achievement Ceremony, witnessing the genuine friendship between the two actors. Watching those clips, Oscar acceptance speeches and all, as well as their films, truly brings tears to my eyes. I think to myself, "Boy, what would it be like to have dinner with one of them? That would sure be swell." I'll wrap this up right now and say that you wouldn't want to make the mistake of missing a film of the delightful Odd Couple.
"It's hard enough to write a good drama, it's much harder to write a good comedy, and it's hardest of all to write a drama with comedy. Which is what life is." --Jack Lemmon

I think that just about does it for now. I was going to elaborate into the various other movies I've watched these past few days, but then thought to myself, "No, Dallas is on at nine." Yes, I am victim to the soap opera full of backstabbing and where the dialogue is laced with the passionate "Now, listen to me, god-dammit", or a form of it. I decided to watch it because I was curious to see exactly what this huge phenomenon was all about. "Who Shot J.R.?" Even those who've never watched the show have heard of that! So, I decided to tune in every Wednesday night at nine to see what all the fuss is about. Turns out, it's all about financial conniving and trickery, though the corny pseudo-serious acting is there. Despite my lukewarm interest, I continue to watch it because I enjoy the idea of having a show to watch on-the-dot every week. It gives me a sexual thrill. What's wrong with me?

Here they are, in order:
Batman Begins
Mirror Mirror
The Front Page
Wild Hogs
The Dark Knight
Underworld: Awakening
Superman Returns
The Fortune Cookie
L.A. Confidential

Thursday, June 7, 2012

Enormously Exciting Announcement

Wow. That title is a mouthful. A mouthful of words. This is more of yet another trailer-promotion than it is an announcement. Unless you are unaware of Quentin Tarantino's upcoming modern classic Django Unchained, then this is no announcement. (Boy, I hope I phrased that sentence properly. I don't want no double-negatives in here. It hurts to even joke about it.) The following trailer is that of Quentin Tarantino's upcoming modern classic, dare I say it again, starring the ever-impressive Leonardo DiCaprio and Christoph Waltz. Oh, boy, we done going to have us a mighty fine piece of cinema here. Just watch.

While it may not appear to be Quentin Tarantino's usual film, with it taking place in the Old West and all, it does have his distinctive theme of vengeance. Admit it, you are just dancing awkwardly with anxiety to see this sure-masterpiece yourself, aren't you?

DC Diaries

Greetings, everyone. Let me start by saying that this post is long overdue, and henceforth requires a thousand apologies to you. Lately, I just have not been myself. Ask around, they will concur with that statement. I know my personal life never graces this blog, and I mean never, and should not at all affect me from writing my usual film material. Unfortunately, it does affect me tremendously. At the moment, I've been emotionally distracted (with what, I will not share) and cannot seem to focus on anything. That being said, I don't want to force myself to write something just because I haven't in a while. If I did, can you imagine the rubbish I would produce? Furthermore, I will not be making anymore promises with any future posts, for it would pressure me into resenting its publication. Therefore, hang in there, baby. The following is a little diary I wrote when I was in Washington D.C. for Memorial Day Weekend. As I said, long overdue. Please enjoy my not-at-all personal vacation antics.

Saturday, May 26, 2012

I've come to the resolution that I will record my days in Washington D.C. Did I mention? I'm going to the nation's capital for Memorial Day weekend. How patriotic of me. Don't go following me there, I've had enough bad experiences with obsessed admirers. Anyway, right now, as I have decided to compose a small diary, I am on the road to my destination. It's a three-hour drive, in a car full of noise, so I might as well occupy my time by ranting. But, no, I won't rant. That's too crass for my taste. (That didn't stop me before. Enjoying my comments so far?) You're probably pitying me for being trapped in such a loud vehicle. Allow me to paint a picture: my mother's husband making pointless comments that are made all the more aggravating by the sheer lack of necessity for them; my brother hopelessly agreeing with everything he says; and my mother's incessant coughing. That last one isn't too obnoxious because she can't help it. In fact, despite my utter intolerance for sickly bodily sounds, hers are not unbearable. I just feel really sorry for her, especially of late, for she is, once again, accepting the horrible treatment of her husband and son. It's truly sad, but that's her choice, unfortunately. Moving on, I won't get too personal with my possibly non-existent emotional trouble. Some trouble. Not.

As I was saying, to drown out the mind-numbing ambiance of the car, I have the relief of my iPod, of which is credited to the late genius Steve Jobs. Worth attributing to, I think. What's on my playlist, you may wonder? Lately, I've been listening to vintage rock of the 1960s and 1970s, particularly The Doors and The Beatles. Within this nostalgic mix are so-called "one-hit wonders" such as Venus by Shocking Blue and House of the Rising Sun by The Animals. I believe watching Forrest Gump aroused this crave of classic rock. (I noticed I used the word "nostalgic" to describe my playlist, which is misleading since I was not around at the time they were initially popular.) 96 Tears by ? & The Mysterians just came on. I've always recognized this song from various films, just had no one to attribute it to. Now I do. Listening to these groovy tunes ignites a desire to smoke a cigarette for some odd reason. And, no, not an illegal cigarette, otherwise known as marijuana. Will the government investigate me because I mentioned marijuana? Twice? I have nothing to hide. (Love Street by The Doors. I'll be letting you know which songs come on at the exact moment they do.) This music just flows through my body, releasing all my inhibitions and stress. Here is the coveted stress-reliever for those thightly-wound people of the world. As I listen to it, my eyes shut on a reflex and my body may or may not ebb with the soft melody. With louder music, my body also corresponds with the harder beats. (Pictures of Matchstick Men by Status Quo.) One would make the confident supposition that I will be exploring the historic sights of our nation's capital. What naivety. I've seen what people come to see, well more than once. I've done the double-decker bus tour twice, the tour of the Capitol twice, roamed through museums. Yada yada yada. It is unbearably crowded with people who have never seen the remarkable artifacts, so I'll let them ravage in peace. Meanwhile, my mother and I will explore the beautiful city of Georgetown. (A Hard Day's Night by The Beatles.) It's true, we've seen parts of Georgetown already, but there is always something new to discover. Another pleasure of this quaintly modern city is the delicacy of cuisine. Food. Have you ever noticed that the term "food" has such a greedy, hungry connotation, fitting only those who are overweight? I prefer to use the term "cuisine" whenever possible. (People are Strange by The Doors.) Here in Georgetown, the cuisine is absolutely scrumptious, and so varied. Rest assured I will try to remember to take pictures of my meals and post them here. Not to make you envious, oh no, but to show just how delectable they are.

Let us transfer to another tangent for a moment. For the past week, I've been experiencing several excruciating spasms in my feet. (Strange Days by The Doors.) This has always happened every now and then, which, according to my doctor, is because of my low calcium intake, or something of that nature. However, these feet spasms have become more frequent, spreading throughout my body to my hands, chest, and back. Once I was able to sit up straight in a chair and read until my bottom became sore. Now, I can't sit still for even a half-hour, for my back would begin to constrict and plead for me to lay down. Last night, in particular, I simply had to lay down on my bed, without the strength to get under my plush blanket. And I just fell asleep hard. (Sex and the City 2 reference. Charlotte in Abu Dhabi after her nap. "I slept hard." Okay.) Following my stiff nights, I would awaken to an entire body-sore, from my immobile legs to my aching head. My mother will probably hyper-ventilate when she reads this. Don't worry, it has nothing to do with my nutrition/health habits. (Not to Touch the Earth by The Doors.) After a soothing shower, I feel completely rejuvenated, ready for a three-to-four-hour drive to Washington D.C.

At the moment, we are taking a sharp turn on the highway. My body was literally thrown to the other side of the car. I'm sitting in the spacious back seat, if you need a mental picture. Really? There's no graceful method of turning? (Love Her Madly by The Doors.) My mother is reading a book as we drive, just what I advised her not to do. Reading in a bumpy, chaotic vehicle, made uncomfortable by the recklessness of the driver, will only cause a pounding headache. I guess she'll wait and see. Writing while driving isn't that much better. I'm referring to myself, naturally. I'd better stop for now.

A few hours later...

We arrived at the hotel at 1:00pm, and already we encountered several complications. For the average person, they would be minor mishaps, casually received with indifference. Much as how I reacted. My brother, on the other hand, is a bit of a misanthrope, I'm sorry to say. He immediately began to pout upon hearing that our room wasn't ready yet. In the defense of the hotel, check-in is between noon and 3pm. Anyway, while the room was being prepared, my mother and I (just us two, mind you, how relaxing) went to this organic French cafe I visited last winter with my dad. All I wanted was a very light lunch, a sandwich perhaps, as we were going for Italian that night. (Am I alternating from present to past tense?) And I was more than satisfied with a healthy tar tine, which is much like a sandwich only without the top slice of bread. On this slice of whole-wheat bread, I had avocado, cucumbers, and chickpeas. Deliciously organic and healthy. I felt so hip eating there, like one of those health-freak folks from the West coast. Stereotypes. On our way back to the hotel, the intense heat was starting to affect me. With petty determination, I marched to the room (and, considering how anxious I was to get there, it took a while) and literally slid into the shower. One can imagine how refreshing it was. Afterwards, I dried my hair to a silky smooth, and lied down on the bed. And here I am. Even now, I'm struggling to keep my eyes open as I write this segment. Shoulder spasm.

Later that evening...

What goes well with painful spasms? Why, blisters, of course. I don't know about you, but the word "blister", to me, is just so nasty. Not just the sound of the word itself, but the thing as well. Anyway, the culprit is my new pair of Tommy Hilfiger sandals. (I represent the company's marketing division.) When I was younger, I used to call it "Tommy Hillfinger". There was a point where I called it "Tommy Hitler" too, so whenever people trash-talked Hitler, I thought of the clothing brand and thought, "What's so bad about Tommy Hitler?" Their shoes.

Moving on. I would like to note that my mother's incessant cough has reached its peak of extreme irritation. I am in no way blaming her, though I do find it harder to be around her. Because of the cough. I would listen to my tunes, but my head is pounding as it is. (The hell with it. House of the Rising Sun by The Animals.) The remainder of my evening consisted of dinner and a movie. For dinner, we all went to this rustic Italian restaurant. I use the word "rustic" to describe this place because it often is used to describe Italian restaurants. Haven't you noticed? Tonight, there was a special party taking place right next to our table. Like the student of sociology that I am, I studied them quite frequently, deciding whether they were Italian or Jewish. (I was leaning toward Jewish because I find myself attracted to that race. Religion? The men of the party were rather attractive.) I had the veal marsala with a side of gin and tonic. For dessert, a tiny sliver of cheesecake that demanded a slice of Napolean, as the first was much too minuscule.

Our movie for the evening was The Five-Year Engagement, starring the ever-adorable Emily Blunt and the penis guy from Forgetting Sarah Marshall. Let me just say now, for the record: I don't care for Jason Segal, better known as the penis guy. The movie itself was decent, though nothing hilariously special. One would expect much more from a Judd Apatow-produced picture. Then again, what has the guy concocted that was as funny as Knocked Up or Pineapple Express? He produced the latter. The movie in question, The Five-Year Engagement that is, relied far too much on certain jokes. I could tell by the long intervals between certain lines, mostly said by the penis guy or his supposedly-funny sidekick, played by the supposedly-funny Chris Pratt. Indeed, both men were too unfunny to make the entire movie likable. Though Emily Blunt's undeniable likability made the picture what I would call to be "decent". Unfortunately, the casting crew was not as bright when it came to hiring the male lead. Of course, there are always those damned unfortunate incidents when making a movie. Channing Tatum, for example, being cast as the male lead in The Vow, opposite the wonderful Rachel McAdams, was an enormous mistake, in my eyes. While I haven't yet seen that one, I can assure you my overall judgment is already lowered solely because of Channing Tatum. Let the record show that I don't care for Channing Tatum either. Anyway, as for The Five-Year Engagement, most of the laughs were brought on by the transient supporting cast, especially Chris Parnell as the sweater-knitting stay-at-home dad. Finally, the night ends with throwing those forsaken sandals at the wall and falling onto bed. Seriously, I tripped on my way to lay down, falling on the bed, and I just stayed there. Good night, and good luck.

Monday, May 28, 2012

It appears that I have neglected to record my routine for yesterday, that being the twenty-seventh of May. I suppose you could say that I became lazy, what with the immense heat striking me severely. Perhaps I had a bit too many gin and tonics yesterday, as well, and I didn't want to inflict you all with my disturbing, hyper-active state. Anyway, don't fret over me because we all make our own decisions, society has nothing to do with them, nor does my environment. Which are two in the same, if you can believe it! At the moment, we have just left Georgetown and are on our way home. And might I briefly express my relief for this fact. I had my fun, but it's time to get the hell out of here. (What a simple sentence.) Instead of taking the conventional route home, on a major highway preferably, the driver decides to take an "alternative route", which is on some shrubbery, Pulaski highway. (Pulaski highway is a term that describes an unknown, suspicious highway.) The seat belt, as of this moment, is grazing against my upper shoulder, and is becoming rather irritating. Yes, a rash may very well form. Excuse my tinge of irritability, if there is any, for I am simply anxious to get home. Since I cannot endure this trip without my iPod, I am listening to my vintage playlist for what may be the third time. I think I'll go and watch some Desperate Housewives on my glorious MacBook. Oh, haven't you heard? I've started to rewatch the old seasons of the show, back when it was still engrossing and amusing. Why, right now, I'm in the middle of the third season, after the whole hostage-disaster-episode. That, I must say, was one of the highlights of the show, where I found myself in unexplainable tears. When I was younger, of course this episode would trigger some traumatic nerve in me that would summon tears to fall. Now? Why would the death of the annoying, white-trash Nora upset me so much? And Lynette nearly dying? Quite curious. Anyway. I hope you've enjoyed my little summary of my trip to the nation's capital. I guess that's about it. Well, bye.

As for the photos of cuisine from my adventure, I will try to upload them onto here, if I can manage to transfer them from my Blackberry. I had to say the name of my phone for the same reason I say MacBook instead of laptop. Once again, farewell for now.