synchronicity

Ever since I was introduced to the term in my parapsychology class (I used to smoke a lot of weed), I've been a wholehearted subscriber to the phenomenon of synchronicity. Like most ideas championed by Carl Jung, it just made sense to me. Once I was introduced to the idea, I began seeing instances of synchronicity all the time in my own life and in the world around me, and that's even after I stopped smoking a lot of weed. Today, synchronicity struck once more in the form of the impressively foreheaded and increasingly sexy-fied Christina Ricci.

I've liked Christina since she was in The Addams Family (not in that way because she was just a baby) and have more or less enjoyed her career since. If for no other reason, she's managed to transition from child star to adult actor with out too many bumps in the road or time spent in rehab (though I could be wrong about the rehab thing, it's hard to keep track lately). And in Buffalo '66 she managed to star alongside Vincent Gallo without vomiting or showing visible signs of nausea. She didn't even have to give him a blow job like some other skank. Now if those aren't signs of a true professional, I don't know what are.

But today was a particularly trying day of work in which I actually had to be a manager and man up to my boss about how I thought things were going. I had to conduct meetings and get people to contribute, which they did, and the talk went okay, so I maybe I'm not all that bad at what I do, though I'm still not at all convinced. Luckily, there were Hershey Kisses in the candy dish and these pictures of Ms. Ricci from the Black Snake Moan premier to help replace my self doubt with some good ol' fashioned lust (which is a much better thing to be mulling about, I can assure you). I don't know when Christina got so bangin' (technical term), but I'm sure glad it happened. And wouldn't you know it? When I got home, I found that Cursed, a kinda shitty werewolf movie, was playing on Encore, starring none other than Christina Ricci. I watched it happily over peas and pork chops. The Universe sure is a wacky place.

In un-Christina Ricci-related news, I went to go see Ghost Rider tonight, and it was about as good as it looks in the previews. It definitely could have been worse, especially as comic book movies go. I'd place it better than Ang Lee's Hulk, but a hell of a lot more cheesy than anything else that's come from Marvel recently. The film made me realize a few things:

• Ghost Rider is a Texan who's a motorcycle riding daredevil by day and turns into a fiery skeleton thing in a leather jacket with chains and spikes and stuff at night. Pretty much, he's a hero who appeals to white trash trailer park residents everywhere.
• I'm amazed people don't talk about Eva Mendes's butt more because it's almost as hot as her rack.
  
• Any movie, no matter how shitty (and this one was pretty damn shitty), becomes instantly cooler as soon as Sam Elliot shows up.
  

Seriously, why hasn't this guy gotten some kind of lifetime achievement award yet? Has the academy seen Roadhouse? He played Patrick Swayze's grizzled old mentor who still had a little bit of gas in the tank for a down home, bar burnin' slobber knocker. He drank shitty beer from the bottle and danced with Kelly Lynch. He was a MAN amongst men. Well, except for the beer drinkin' and dancin', he played pretty much the same role in Ghost Rider. Rough, tobacco-juice-spittin', salty, he was a man with a mysterious past who worked as a caretaker in this utterly random cemetery on the edge of nowhere and seemed to know just about everything regarding Ghost Rider's bizarre situation. He'd been there, man, to hell and fuckin' back. He bought the T-shirt and spilled shitty beer on it and used it to wipe the tears from some poor girl's eyes as she watched everything she knew burn to the ground. And he's got the best voice ever. I'm just saying. Academy, get on that shit.