Lost Blueprint

LOST BLUEPRINT: Serious, slanted, fictional journalism


LuLu LaRue With Your Movie Review

by LuLu LaRue
Movie Reviewer

Movie: "Derailed"

OK, if you don't want to know the ending of this movie, stop reading.

This movie is so dumb I had to wait to the end just to see how dumb a movie it could possibly be. Why is there enough money in the world to make dumb movies and not enough money in the world to fund the public school system?

This movie is about one big con. But the con artists are not too bright because they just run the same con over and over in the exact same places. Yeah, I know. What kind of dumbass con artist do you have to be when you decide to do the same thing in the same place? I thought the point of running a con on someone was to get away with something and then get the hell outta dodge.

Anyway, Rachel Green is the bait and some guy I've seen a million times before and is supposed to be French is the lead con guy and a rapper guy is the other con guy. They set up seemingly rich businessmen. Rachel seduces them to a cheesy hotel room and then French guy breaks in and does some DeNiro-In-"Taxi" thing and then French guy terrorizes and blackmails the businessman until the businessman forks over $120,000.

They have the routine down pat, so apparently they've done this many times by the time they meet up with Clive Owen, who, though he plays a doofus, is still really hot. What the con artists don't get is that Clive is not a man to be fucked with and so he seeks his revenge.

Seeking revenge means going to the exact same place where he met Rachel Green in the first place and then following her around while she hangs with some other doofus businessman doing the exact same things she did with Clive.

Clive ends up killing everyone, with a spectacular fuck you for the French guy in the laundry room of a prison at the end, and also gets all his money back. It's a good thing he got all that money back in the end, too, because his daughter has some form of diabetes that requires major moola in order to treat. Lucky they have that subplot in the movie because then we can excuse Clive for breaking out into terminator mode and blowing everyone away.

In addition to con artists who remain firmly planted in their comfort zones, this movie also has other annoying inconsistencies. For example, how does an advertising executive that works all the time and lives out in some swank suburb suddenly learn how to not only hold a gun like a professional assasin, but to use it as though it is second nature for him? Does anger allow a person to suddenly become an adept gun handler?

Also, while Clive is sitting next to Rachel on the Metra on their commute into the Loop, he thanks her for paying for his ticket and says something along the lines of, "I'll pay you back. There's an ATM in Union." At first I wondered where Union was because they clearly showed a Metra train pulling into the Loop. But then I realized he meant "Union" as in "Union Station." This annoyed the hell out of me. What Chicagoan calls Union Station "Union"?

If you're looking for a con movie, don't get this one. Get "House of Games" or "The Spanish Prisoner" or "Nine Queens."


Summer is Coming

by Prissy McMouth
Behavior Commentator

Summer is coming to Chicago and that means: tourists.

Here's a helpful guide on how to make the most of your summer without becoming so annoyed with visitors to the city that you end up incarcerated under trumped up manslaughter charges:

1. Understanding is key. You must understand that most tourists have no idea what they're doing. For example, when they walk out of a revolving door and immediately stop, they are more than likely unaware of the logic behind a revolving door, which is, of course, to keep people revolving through it.

When you find yourself taking your turn stepping out of a revolving door only to crash headlong into the pastel-shirted back of a person decked out in camera accessories and American Girl bags, I suggest a path of nonviolence and smug annoyance. Grunt as loudly and as closely to the tourist's ear and then mumble under your breath. You could try a curt, "Oh. My. Gawd!" Either way, you want to let them know they've made a horrific mistake without being specific about what that mistake was. That way they'll be nervous and on edge and perhaps not return to town.

2. When encountering a group of tourists walking four abreast down the street during rush and/or lunch hour, consider this an opportunity to hone your Red Rover skills.

Choose the space between the two people who are walking closest together, pick up your pace, and ram through the line with all the gusto of a pro football player flying into the end zone. I would suggest saying something quaint at this point. My experience has shown that "The promenade's on Mackinac Island, motherfuckers," works effectively.

3. Tourists stare up. For this, you can't quite blame them. Chicago's skyline is quite possibly one of the top ten most gorgeous works of art ever created. Bitter, cynical urbanites have been known to experience knee melting at the sight of it. However, one should never come to a dead stop anywhere where there are other pedestrians who have places to go. If you find yourself encountering a staring tourist, simply pull out your handy Wack-A-Mole mallet and bop the tourist about the face and chest with it. Make sure there are no police officers around.

Have a great summer and don't litter.


A Note from the Editorial Board

Given that many irate letters from The Readership have flooded the Lost Blueprint office, the Editorial Board has decided to make public its internal staffing "situation."

As you know, there have been few posts to Lost Blueprint over the last two weeks. This is because the columnists have been feebly trying to protest what they claim are lousy wages (or, as Razz Trumble points out, no wages). The protest led to a revolt, which led to a squashing of the revolt, which led to U.N. peacekeepers being called in. After food, shelter, and medical care were distributed throughout Lost Blueprint Land, diplomatic measures were employed. The Editorial Board and the columnists have reached an agreement wherein the columnists will have their pictures posted and all job-related expenses paid. We should point out at this juncture that sniffing glue and smoking kind bud are not job-related expenses (a-HUM, Mr. McGee and Mr. Lamont). In addition, beer is also not a job-related expense (Mr. Trumble); nor is really expensive, clown-colored makeup (Ms. McMouth).

In accordance with our agreement, here are the pictures of our esteemed columnists:

The Editorial Board appreciates the comments and suggestions of The Readership and we hope you were not too horribly traumatized by the absence of humorous and witty commentary you have all come to expect from Lost Blueprint columns. As many of you said, the lack of updates on Lost Blueprint have caused you to admit yourselves to psychiatric wards and we only hope you did so voluntarily and can thus leave at any time you wish.

With all due respect and regard,
The Lost Blueprint Editorial Board


Horrors in the Nail Polish Factory

by PhD McGee
Conspiracy Theorist

After thoroughly reviewing the evidence and inhaling enormous quantities of glue, I have realized the ugly underbelly of one aspect of the cosmetics industry: prisoners of nail polish factories.

You don't really think all those cool names come from some marketing executive with an ear to the street do you? That is so ridiculous I can't even believe you would think that. What's really happening is that hordes of very small people with large hands are trapped in warehouses where they stand for days, pushing cartoon-big wooden spoons around huge vats of colored goo that will eventually end up being poured into pretty glass containers and shipped to places like beauty parlors and cosmetic stores and grocery stores with aisles labeled "women's interest." The names of the polishes are the trappees' subversive attempts to seek rescue.

How do I know this? Because I pay attention, people. To wit: Skinny Dipn in Lake Michigan, Mrs. O'Leary's BBQ, Windy City Pretty, Marooned on the Magnificent Mile. These are the names of some of the nail polishes that are currently being sold at retailers. And these are only the Chicago references. My super spidey sense tells me that these are the cries for help from the Chicago nail polish factories (housed, I assume, in the stockyards that are allegedly no longer in use).

The list given above clearly states the following: Help! We were almost drowned in the lake when we tried to establish a union (Skinny Dipn in Lake Michigan). Then they tried to burn us alive or else they were trying to grill steak and missed the grill and threw the matches on our assembly line (Mrs. O'Leary's BBQ). We are windburned from the winter air rushing through the cracks in the walls (Windy City Pretty). We are trapped inside a doorless airplane hangar and there are so many pictures of the 1985 Chicago Bears that we can't even think straight anymore (Marooned on the Magnificent Mile).

It's not just Chicago, people. This is A WORLDWIDE EPIDEMIC. There are people trapped in nail polish factories ALL OVER: England, Spain, Australia . . . it never ends. We must contact the U.N. Of course, the U.N. may be in on it.

One last thought: it's quite possible the small people with large hands may not be in the factories at all. They may very well be in the nail polish bottles themselves! We are going to need swift and decisive action.

I am not making this up.


Best Sunrise Ever

by Razz Trumble
Music Guy

While the Pulitzer committee considers the award-winning effort of my Best Concerts Ever (Best Show Ever: Concerts from the Past, 3.22.2006) piece, I got to thinking. It hurt, so I didn’t do it for very long. But before I shut the ole noggin down, I started thinking about other best evers I’ve seen. This of course led me to think about the best burrito ever (Papa Burrito; Champaign, IL; 3 a.m.), the best car ever (my friend Max’s ’65 Ford Mustang that his dad rehabbed), the best road trip ever (next installment).

Then I thought about the best sunrise ever. I’ve seen a lot of sunrises. The sun always happens to be doing its thing when I’m coming home, so I’ve become somewhat of a sunrise expert over the years.

The best sunrise ever had to be the sun rising over Lake Michigan at 5:30 am on a summer morning in Chicago. Me and Max were driving east on Garfield one morning and the sun started peeping out over the horizon and sure enough, in about two seconds, there’s this big orange ball turning the lake green and white and then water blue, nailing the trees along the shore with light so that the leaves looked almost blue like the water and then calming down to their usual green. There is a rustle and general cat-stretching feeling when the sun rises in Chicago, like the city is slowly waking up for the day. Why the rest of the world is not living in Chicago is beyond me. Except if you don’t live in Chicago, don’t move here. I hate tourists.

The next best sunrise ever was in Wisconsin of all places. At a campground. The light came tinkling through the leaves of the trees around our campsite just as the fire went out. It made diamond shapes in the dirt. Once the sun was totally up in the sky we knew we should go to sleep. Kinda like a backwards alarm clock from Mother Nature. Also, the beer was gone.

The next best sunrise ever was at the mighty Grand Canyon. If you don’t believe in god, you should go to the Grand Canyon and watch the sun rise. You’ll be a believer quicker than you would if you listened to the Bible thumpers that preach at you when you open your door to them. In the Grand Canyon, the sun eeks up in the sky and as it does, it throws colors across the canyon wall. It’s like someone’s taking a paint can full of all the colors in the world and splashing it right down the canyon walls. It’s so striking you can hear it—like cards shuffling—and the colors sprint down the walls, whipping by you, and your head spins it is so much sensory overload. And then the sun is up, sitting in the sky like it’s been there forever, filing its nails and ready to get on with the day. The sun in the Grand Canyon doesn’t really care that you are sitting at an overlook, out of breath, unable to walk because you just got knocked around with the biggest, prettiest event that you’ve ever seen. The Grand Canyon doesn’t care about it much either—it already knows it’s gorgeous.


Petition to Eradicate "Obfuscation"

by Buckshot Lamont
Language Lover

While recently compiling an anthology of my essays, I came across my column from this much-maligned but integrity-filled blog, Lost Blueprint (Out of Context, 3.14.06). Upon reaching the section regarding the phrase "eschew obfuscation," I started to realize something.

"Obfuscation," the word, not the meaning, should be outlawed. I do not mean the word should be made illegal and therefore force unknowing users of the word into the much-maligned but not-integrity-filled prison system. I mean, it should literally be outlawed as in, run out of town by drunk cowboys with shotguns. There should probably be someone with a gold star on his chest imitating a sheriff as well. "Obfuscation" is a big word, it will need to be run out of town by a sheriff and a posse. It will also need its own horse. Probably something gray that melts into the shadows. Anyway, I digress. We just want obfuscation out of town, we don't care how it gets there.

I will draw up the petition to have this word outlawed and this is why I think you should sign it: say the word aloud and then let me know how absolutely stupid you feel. Try using it in a sentence. In fact, try using it in a sentence during a conversation with people you are trying to impress:

You: Well, sir, while drawing up the plans to bridge connectivity between the workforce and the technological automatons that will inevitably replace said workforce, we decided to do away with obfuscation and simply tell the people they are unnecessary.
Sir: Do away with what?
You: Obfuscation.
Sir: What?
You: Um . . .
Sir: You're fired, dipshit.

And then where will you be? You'll be one fired automatonless simpleton.

I am sure the intelligent readership of Lost Blueprint can see what I am saying about this. Just send a comment to this post and I will be happy to send you the petition for obfuscation eradication, tentatively titled, "The Petition for Obfuscation Eradication."

Transpose boldly, people.