It’s easy to write a negative movie review; but instead of panning a film that misses the mark – so far I have abstained from commenting on such movies. That’s been the foundational rule of the reviews here at samhilliard.com. However, in the interest of public safety and community wellness, sometimes rules must be broken.

Less than an hour ago, I suffered through 79 minutes of pure, 100 percent unadulterated crap. Any more crappy and the screen would’ve turned brown. Open Water is an awful movie on every level.

The premise, a term used loosely here – take a couple on vacation and separate them from the dive boat. And that’s the whole movie. Looking for a plot twists? Dialog that’s interesting? Characters you don’t want to push down the stairs? A camera that’s held by someone who’s sober? Sorry, please try again.

15 minutes in, I was begging for the sharks to put me out of my misery and eat the couple. The only thing that would make this movie better is a full refund and an apology.

I booed along with several other people during the credits.

Verdict: Open Water = BAD. Don’t see it, don’t rent it, don’t watch it on cable or the Lifetime network.

I’m in the middle of a writing streak and in the interest of finishing the 6th draft by the end of the summer, I’ve placed myself on blogging probation.

Samhilliard.com will return on September 1, 2004 with a new Master Buddhapuss and poll.

Thanks for your patience and support. Any one signed up for the general annoucements mailing list will be notified.

Hopefully this blog makes sense later because presently; everything reads like Sanskrit held upside to a mirror. It was a memorable day, yet at the same time what I had for breakfast escapes me.

For dinner, the Wife and I had a picnic in a park and watched the sun tuck in behind the pine trees. Very cool – most definitely the high point of the day. Spectacular sunsets are one of New Jersey’s greatest natural assets – one of the few commodities they haven’t figured out how to tax out of the state. Well, perhaps next year.

Remember the days before every piece of consumer electronics shipped with a remote control? Oh, you don’t? Well, no worries. Flash back a second to the dark ages – a time and place some people knew as the 1980’s.

At the start of this strange and twisted decade, music came in one media, a large black flat plastic disc called a record, which only played on a turntable. This turntable had a floating arm with a needle at the tip designed to wear and tear the record every time the disc spun.

Visualizing this scene yet, daddio? We’re talking about ancient technology here. These were the days and nights of snorting cocaine, while watching Miami Vice and crying from PacMan elbow. Everyone’s favorite color was a shade of neon. For home entertainment, people played Atari, although, the cool kids all had Coleco. Madonna sold out baseball stadiums. MTV played music videos and Michael Jackson was not white. Yes, strange days indeed.

Flash ahead now to the present day of 64 bit color graphics and 108 inch projector home entertainment system of doom television sets. Madonna stills sells out baseball stadiums.

And that brings us full circle to the ubiquitous remote. Now, I’m not going to claim that I can’t be lazy at times. But when my buddy bought a new window AC unit it came with; get this – a remote control.

How many times does one change the temperature settings on a window AC unit during the day exactly? Is it just too much to stand up and adjust that dial even just once? That’s a bit couch potato style for even my laid back tastes.

Sometimes the laundry backs up to such a ridiculous levels, scattering the clothes across the front lawn and torching them seems better than washing them. If that leap of logic makes sense to you, then welcome to the Bell Jar.

After experimenting with a variety of laundry schedules - once a week, twice a week, once every other week, once a month – a pattern of truths has emerged:

1) Regardless of the height of the clothes pile, laundry takes longer than planned
2) Clothes always get dirty
3) Tragically, cleaning by thermal compaction - a method that failed me so well as a bachelor, fails me as a married man.
4) Buying new underwear instead of doing the laundry upsets the Wife. Perhaps panties would make more sense for instead of boxer shorts.

Excuse me, the buzzer went off. I must attend to the 6th load of the day.

I nearly broke my hand this morning trying to use the toilet, leaving me with just one question. Could not karma wait to deliver such life reaffirming events until after a second cup of coffee? To me this seems a reasonable and just request – but alas the answer was no in this case, for today the gods of karma marched to a more malevolent agenda.

Even before this particular disaster, my hate-hate relationship with the bathroom was legendary. First there was my dislike for the many potential risks: slipping in the shower, toothpaste in eye, death by electric shaver. Second, and perhaps it’s the Y chromosone driving here, but my bathroom tactics always resembled NASCAR pit stops: get in, get out and keep your hands to yourself.

But back to the nearly broken hand. While tending to number 1 this morning, a fly buzzed my head and landed in the window sill – a typical sight during the long, hot summer months. Suddenly there was a tremendous pressure on my first finger. Glancing downwards, I discovered a yellow jacket checking out the real estate.

Self preservation impelled me to slap my own hand with tremendous and precise force. My finger, which absorbed the brunt of my rage and 2 stings, swelled immediately.

Maybe karma was on vacation, but Darwin was at work here. The yellow jacket laid on the tile floor; his body severed in 2 pieces. For the first time in my life I watched an insect writhe in pain until it died - a most satisfying and excruciating death.

Flushing never felt so good.

A terrible tragedy unfolded today, one that requires immediate legislative intervention. For once it doesn’t involve me dropping a case Newcastle Brown Ale on my foot.

Yes, this meance far exceeds my klutziness and inability to walk a straight line while sober.
In Valley Stream, NY, a 3 year old boy died during a matinee showing of Alien Vs. Predator. The cause of death: choking on popcorn.

Forget why a 3 year old was in a PG-13 movie with violent content and adult situations when there’s a dearth of babysitters available during the summer months. Never mind that no refund was issued. Instead, consider the true evil, an evil that lurks behind the counter at every multiplex in this country. Contrary to dogma spewed by corporate robber barons, it’s more than an innocent snack, it’s a dangerous substance. A child was exposed to this substance, one provided by a profiteering movie theater to his unsuspecting parents, with no questions asked. And as a result, that child died.

We must do something to save the children and stop this unchecked lust for blood profits. To prevent further deaths by popcorn at movie theaters, I propose a 7 day waiting period on the purchase and sale. During this waiting period, thorough background checks may be run on the purchaser. Should an applicant be found to be unfit, the clerk will have legal means to refuse the sale. Training and certifications on the proper methods of handling and transportation the substance will be strongly encouraged.

Please help us save the children from the evils of a profiteering industry.

And remember, no matter what the death merchants claim, dangerous substance + child = death.