Let's continue to get this over with

In my last post, I set the stage for a night of intrigue and woe. I assure you, at least one of those will continue to be involved in tonight's post.

For those of you who don't remember and/or can't scroll down to the next post, here's a basic outline of what we've got so far:

• I meet a girl.
• She seems nice.
• We go to the theater.
• She brings a vodka Red Bull.
• She tries to interact with the actors.
• I am mortified.
• I am still on this date.

Yeah, at the end of the theater thing, she was apologizing and, weirdly, trying to clean up? If that's her drunk habit, maybe she's not a terrible roommate. That seems like a solid gig.

"No, man, just one more layer of grout. I'm cool, man. I'm cooooooBLURGHL."

One thing I did NOT mention is that she apparently went into Anne Bonny's dressing room and was apologizing. Anne Bonny being one of the nicest people ever was apparently pretty gracious. I found this out several weeks later during one of the early recountings of this tale. It adds something to it, I guess? (Mostly, it adds that I apparently can't tell when somebody is drunk.)

Anyhoo, we finally get outside the theater. I suggest that we get a drink- I know a nice place in walking/driving distance that does very good cocktails and has a solid ambiance. Also, it's a public place where people will likely be less concerned about a girl affecting a southern accent and trying to do her best Scarlett O'Hara impression. Despite being, you know, blonde and not Vivien Leigh.

Note: We do not consider Vivien Leigh to be in any way insane. Please don't smash that glass in our faces, Ms. Leigh.

She... mumbles something and starts walking? Well, okay, I got her out here, so I suppose I should get her back home. Maybe we can get that drink. (You may have noticed that I think a drink will somehow fix things. I still have apparently managed to not pick up on how sloshed this girl is. You could probably sell her at a 7-11, she's so sloshed.)

WOCKA WOCKA. That's right, puns are back.

She starts walking around the block. I assume that we're going back to my car so either drive us to the bar or drive her home. She is surprisingly quick for someone so inebriated and in heels (okay, fine, wedges. What am I, the shoe guru? The shoe-ru?)

"Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. Just like a good pair of pumps."

We arrive at my car. I unlock it with my fob, making a nice series of beeps. She keeps on walking.

"Hey, um, this is my car? How about that drink?"

"NO IT'S NOT."

"I'm pretty sure it is? I made it beep and everything."

By this point, she's about fifty feet ahead of me and may have responded, but I can't tell. I proceed to give my car another couple of beeps to lock it and walk after her.

Around this time is when we enter the morose part of the evening. She stops on a street corner, turns to me, and says, "We have done nothing." Well, slurs. Text doesn't really convey how bad this is. I remember it as how Robot Chicken portrays Lindsay Lohan.

She says this a few times, and we keep walking. The thing about the area where we are is that there are lots of old-timey churches. Historical churches, you see. And what do historical churches have? Well, they have historical cemeteries. You may see where this is going.

She picks one in particular and says, "In that cemetery... there is a maaaan... who fought in the American Revolution... who served... on the Continental Congressss... who was the governorrrrr.... of South Carolina..." I'm not sure why she's channeling Lou Gehrig, but whatever. I nod and smile and inquire again about that drink we were going to have before we found a bunch of dead old white guys.

"We have done nothing," she continues. "This man only lived to be 35, and he did all of these things. We have done nothing." She seems to think that she's saying something particularly profound. I'm not particularly impressed and am beginning to wonder what I've gotten myself into.

That's right. It wasn't the vodka Red Bull, nor was it the general what-the-fuckery in the theater that set off any red flags. This isn't even setting anything off that hard- it's just making some part of me kiiinda think that maaaaaaaaybe there's a slight possibility that I should have gone for another night.

At this point, I guess she notices that I'm a bit blasé about this whole thing. She decides that she's going to show me this dude's mausoleum. I'm sure it's a perfectly lovely mausoleum, but I'm not overly interested in graveyards on the best of days, much less in the middle of the night. She, however, is intent on getting in. Thankfully, the gate is locked.


And then she notices the ghost tour. Using a surprising degree of reasoning, she surmises that the ghost tour had to have gotten in somehow. Since this door is locked, there must be another door which must be UNlocked.

"Good show, drunk brain."

Great, she's off. She's already through the gate trying to glom onto a ghost tour. Because, you know, the guides haven't been trained to deal with folks who just appear and try to get a free ghost tour. I explain this to her (following it up, of course, with, "How about we get that drink?"), and it seems like she's responding! Unfortunately, responding seems to mean crouching down in a somewhat shadowy portion of the cemetery to (I can only imagine) wait out the ghost tours. Because there's nothing suspicious about a blonde lady in a pastel sun dress squatting by a tree in a cemetery. You see that all the time around these parts! It's just some local color!


I, of course, squat down next to her. After about five minutes of prodding, she finally decides that maybe we should leave. FINALLY. Let's get out of her and get that dri- THE EXIT IS NOT IN THAT DIRECTION.

Yep. She went for the mausoleum. She gives a few more tearful "We have done nothing"s while caressing the friggin' mausoleum. And, yes, caress is probably the best verb for what she did to it.

Emma Stone, you wouldn't run into graveyards on the first date, would you? That's really a third date sort of thing.

To her credit, when we leave the cemetery (which, of course, really knocks out any credit she could get), she apologizes and explains that it's the anniversary of one of her friends' deaths and that she's pretty sad because of it. Well, that makes a lot of sense. HOW ABOUT THAT DRINK, HAHA?

We step out of the cemetery onto the street, and while I'm getting my bearings to figure out how to get back to my car and get us to the bar, she sees an Irish pub and is off like a shot. I take a quick look for Nately's whore before I trundle off after her. We get some drinks, have a seat, and the conversation begins! What sort of conversation, you ask? Well (BULLET TIME):

• "I don't need men. I just need a vibrator." I give what I think is a sound rebuttal to this, but nothing doing.
• There was something about a monkey/devil on your back? This gets important later. FORESHADOWING, DEAR READERS.
• She does this weird sort of reverse CPR thing where she tries to give me water by kissing me? I mean, words just fail.

Okay, fine, the bullet time really wasn't necessary. But, hey, we're talking, and things (I think) are going pretty great. (These are actual thoughts at the time. Let it never be said that I don't think the best of people.) Hey, we're even talking about Archer again! She identifies as Lana.

Lana, for those of you who don't watch Archer, looks like this:


They also make jokes about her hands. They're apparently really big. My date, on the other hand, has average sized hands for a skinny pale blonde. Let's see... skinny, pale, Archer character... oh, Cheryl.

For those of you who don't see the mistake coming, here's a good image for Cheryl.


Yeah. And, of course, I think it's a good idea to mention this in a joking tone, because banter.

Then she has a hand around my neck.

Let's review. She talked in the theater. She ran into a cemetery. She is currently choking me in a public place. Geez, what part of any of this sounds like "pretty great?" How do you even react to that?

Well, I know now, and apparently my reaction is to put on my best, "Really? What do you think you're actually doing?" face and stare. I can stare for a good long time.

Emma Stone, you are my spirit animal for this date.

Eventually, she lets go, and she heads to the bathroom. I have now made a critical error in turning my back to her return route. On a normal date, this would not be a critical error. I mean, who stares at the angle from which his or her date will return from the restroom? Creepers, that's who, and I gave that up in first year of med school high school.

Did you know they can forcibly remove you from a delivery room?

On this date, though, this is a mistake. Apparently taking my lack of eye contact as a sign of weakness, she comes up behind me, throws her arms around me, says, "How's this for the devil on your back?" (LIKE I SAID, FORESHADOWING), and tries to go Mike Tyson on my ear. Again, I do my best nonplussed stare. After she lets go, I drive her home and the date is pretty much over. There was some weirdness back at her place that, honestly, would probably make David Lynch say, "That's a bit fucked up." But we won't go into that, because it's late and I'm tired.

Anyway, you'd think I'd maybe give the classic "Oh, yeah, I'll totally call you" and then not call, right? This was certainly a shitshow. No reason to go back for-

Oh. Yeah. This is an idiot we're talking about. I figured that, hey, it was an off night. If we were to start on a level playing field (i.e., both of us sober), then things might be a bit more reasonable. She was a nice girl, after all, and we seemed to get along. Maybe if we picked a venue that wasn't so specialized (because, I mean, who knows how to behave in theaters anymore? Do they even exist in this era of Xanga and Myspace?) things could go well.

Well, despite my attempts at securing a second date, because I don't get the whole "pattern recognition" thing, I was rebuffed. Why, you ask?

Well, near as I can tell...

"Say, Olga, where is the gun I left on the mantle?" -Anton Chekov

No love for Speedos? Good riddance.

Okay, let's get this over with

I said I'd talk about this months ago, and I haven't yet. And I'm sorry for that.

Yes, most of you have heard about this. In fact, I think that pretty much my entire readership has heard about this. But, hey, I'm going to tell the story again, because it's sorta darkly funny.

Wacky fun!

Yep. That's right. I'm about to tell you the story of...

The Worst Date Ever: PART 1 (of hopefully 2)

Some of you may think I'm kidding. I mean, I didn't get punched in the face by a possibly ex-boyfriend, so it's got that going for it. But, really, that's not the fault of the date (well, not necessarily). That's the boyfriend working out some issues that he should maybe be talking out after several stiff drinks in a setting in which he doesn't have to drive and has a lovely person to whom he can talk.

Like, um, this fellow? Strawberries help with the healing?

Anyhoo, this is a pretty impressive look at how terrible I am at seeing giant red flags throughout a date that was epically bad solely due to the date itself and not extrinsic factors like ex-boyfriends with strong right hooks.

But before we get to that, we need some background. Several weeks prior to the date in question, this girl and I are paired up in a (rather bullshit) assignment. The joys of med school. But, hey, we drive out to the assignment together, there's some playful banter, and she seems nice enough. We both even like Archer!

Wrong show, Simon. This is why we can't ever go back to Arizona.

This girl seems pretty great. We start texting after the assignment, and she continues to seem pretty great. (Note: Firefox continues to think that "texting" is not a real word. You, dear browser, can take your red squiggly lines and go run them across your motherboard or whatever it is that browsers use. I don't know computers. Maybe it's a config page? I don't know.) After a few days, I figure that, yes, the time is ripe for me to begin maneuvers towards the goal of a date. My friend Anne Bonny is doing a murder mystery dinner theater show. She's about to leave town. It's one of her last shows. And, oh, what's this, somehow I've "come into a couple of tickets" (my preferred method of saying, "I BOUGHT TICKETS AND YOU SHOULD COME WITH ME," as it involves less shouting). She agrees, and I'm feeling pretty proud of myself. Things are coming together pretty well.

Goooooooooooood...

This ends the background.

The evening arrives, and I head towards her place to pick her up so we can go to the theater. Like you do. Well, we're both running a bit behind schedule, and when I get to her place, she's still getting ready. I play with her absolutely adorable golden retriever (who was just all up on me), and she emerges. She says, "Man, I really need a Red Bull." I have several thoughts about this. One is, "Well, it's your house, and there's nothing I can or should do about it. By all means, have a Red Bull!" Another is, "Wow, she must have had a long day. By all means, she should have a Red Bull!" Still another is, "Red Bull is sorta gross, but it gets the job done, and she must enjoy it. By all means, have a Red Bull!"

It gives you wings. In her case, it was one of those literal Bible angels.

She grabs a cup. Well, I don't know why she couldn't just use the can. The can would probably fit into a cupholder better, and that cup is awfully big. I don't know that it'll fit into a cuphold-

Oh.

She reaches for the vodka. In hindsight, this should have been the first red flag. But since I'm only 700 words in, I think we all know that I didn't see it.

But, hey, we head that way, chatting somewhat along the way, and get to the theater. Yeah, we're a bit late, but Anne Bonny has saved us a table right up front and some scripts. Yeah, this is one of those shows that has a bit of audience participation. Only in the second act, though- Acts 1 and 3 are your conventional sit quietly and enjoy the show sort of theater. They even say, "We're sure you're funny, but keep the heckling to yourself and let the actors do their job," before the show. A veteran of SEVERAL high school theater productions (and the token science roommate in the apartment of theater majors during my senior year in college), I tend to wonder why they would even need to give this warning. I mean, you don't talk in the theater. Special hell and all that. Isn't that right, Shepherd?

"You're goddamned right."

 Well, we're not twenty minutes into the production when my date starts... interacting with the actors. That doesn't give a fully accurate picture of the situation. See, they're riffing a bit around the audience, since our tables are pretty much the stage in this venue. It's all quite funny. And then she starts trying to get in on the fun.

I am mortified. I keep expecting the actors to give a cutting remark and put her in her place (i.e., the audience), and then we can all move on. They don't. Act 1 ends.

My date starts trying to take drink orders from audience members. She starts accosting them on their way to the bathroom.

I am not prepared for this sort of anarchy.

Anne Bonny comes up to my table and says something to the effect of, "Hey, man, could you get your date to, um, shut up?" I apologize effusively, explaining that it's our first date, and if I'd had any idea of how much she would violate basic tenets of theater etiquette, I would not have brought her. Anne Bonny's boss comes up to my table and says something to the effect of, "Hey, man, I don't really know you, but could you get your date to, um, shut up?" Anne Bonny and I both apologize effusively, explaining that it's our first date, and if I'd had any idea of how much she would bring massive amounts of insanity to this humble venue, I would not have brought her. Apologies are going all around. My date isn't really here for any of this. I don't think it has occurred to me that any of these problems have anything to do with the vodka red bull or the red wine we've had at the theater.

The problem is not solved.

Act 2 starts. Crowd participation, right? Well, SCRIPTED crowd participation. I'm psyched. My date tries to interject again. I just do a firm grab of the upper arm with a bit of a "No" look on my face. She responds by, a.) pouting, and b.) saying that she's too "high energy" for me.

Let's pause for a moment. I've done male beauty pageants. I've gotten up in front of people and spoken scripted gibberish (quite sexually at times, at that). I wear a Speedo for funsies!

And participate in limbo contests in it! It's, um, for the aerodynamics?

Saying you're too "high energy" for me had better mean you're one of those man-child-techno-god-cloud-things from Star Trek. These are some strong words you're coming up with to try to excuse talking in the theater.

I whisper to her that they had asked me to get her to stop talking in the theater, which is something they had brought up in the ground rules before the show.

Well, she continues to pout. She ignores her whole script. This almost means that I have to leave my part out. (Thankfully, the actor prompts his way into my part, since there is some plot relevant info that comes up in my lines. I have quite a ball as an utter stoner in a room of tourists.) She makes a paper airplane (which she claims she wasn't going to throw) that I take away to prevent her from possibly throwing, what with her being so high energy and all. She takes the paper airplane and begins to tear it up. (The paper airplane was our menu, by the way. I hope they didn't want it back.)

I'm having a reasonably good time as long as I ignore what my date is doing. It was, of course, a wonderful show, and I was glad to get to see it. We talked to the cast a little bit after the show, my date apologized (somewhat slurredly- I don't think I had put together how much she had had to drink yet at this point in the evening).

Now, I know what you're probably thinking: "Hey, man, that wasn't an incredibly terrible date. You were sort of a dick to a free spirit, bro, and then you got pissed that she was hurt? How dare you insult such a delicate flower thusly!" And to that I say, "Hahahaha. HAHAHAHAHA. HAHAHAHAAHA."

See, it's adorable that you think that. It's not entirely wrong, at this point, either. See, this is (as I said before) part 1. It's late, and I need to get some sleep, so this post doesn't really embody all the things that were awful about this date. Most of those come in tomorrow's post. This is like the first hour of a horror movie where we're setting up the character dynamics and giving you some anticipatory scares. We're right around where the quarterback and the cheerleader kick the nerd out of the tent to engage in some premarital hankie pankie. Tomorrow is where both of them die in creative in vaguely karmic ways, there's blood everywhere, and the nerd finally recited that ancient Gypsy campfire curse that sent the killer back to whatever hellish place from whence it came... OR DID HE!

Not if there's going to be thirty sequels he didn't.

An Era Recommences

Glasses? Check. Bourbon? Check. I feel like there was something else? Check? I guess?

Oh, yeah. That's what it was. Leviathan by Mastodon? Check. You're welcome, Mom.

WHITE! WHALE!

Yes, yes, it's that time of year again. That time of year when the god-forsaken shorts are put away and we act like civilized human beings again, at least until it rains/snows/gets really cold/gets unseasonably hot/gets unseasonably cold/gets seasonably cold, because this is warm country, and we all go freaking nanners again. Nanners. It's a thing. Look it up. Okay, fine, you might not find it in a reputable dictionary, but in the ol' internal dictionary o' nonsense (which doesn't listen to your outdated rules regarding italics or capitalization, because it beats its own druhoom, thank you very malch), it's totally there.

With all due credit to Me & Mr. Right Now

Another sip of the ol' bourbon. Okay, it's probably not THAT old, but it's cheap and drinkable, and in that respect, I approve.

Before I get too far and forget, I do want to share a certain something, because it is freaking amazing.

I have strong hopes that this will work. I was thoroughly amused, and, boy howdy, I needed it. Therein lies a yarn. But before that yarn begins, I need to acquaint the new folks with our ground rules here. Yes, all one of the new folks. I'm not made of viewership. Readership? Bloggership? (Note to self: New video game mixing Frogger and Battleship called Bloggership. PATENT PENDING.)

Anyway, for those of you who weren't here last year, it's November, and that means it's NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month for the acronymally-challenged. And, yes, it's an acronym and not an abbreviation. There are rules about these things. If you break them, I will mutter to myself and look like a crazy person, which, strangely enough, also is involved in the upcoming yarn.). Since I don't have the next great American novel the world isn't ready for my next great American novel, we go ahead and meet the requirements with blog posts. It has been dubbed... Novemblog. Well, that's what it was last year. This year, it's Novemblog 2: Novemblog Harder. (Alternatively: Novemblog 2: Eclectic Blogaloo.) For 30 days, I will post at least 1,667 words rambling through a topic of my choosing. If you peruse last year's showing, some of it gets pretty fucked up (see: November 30, 2012, or perhaps December 1, depending on when I finished that post). As a point of reference, we currently stand at 427 words. Or, if you like, four hundred and twenty-seven words.

That, dear reader, is what we call "padding." Apparently, so is this. Who knew?

Promises to keep and miles to go before we sleep.

Anyhoo, on to the yarn.

When I was in 8th grade (or, rather, the summer after I finished 8th grade), I went to nerd camp. Nerd camp, honestly, is a bit of a strong word for it, but we'll go with it. I took a fantasy literature course. Yep. Let that sink in, ladies.

Looking up "sexy dungeons and dragons" did not yield much in terms of eye candy for the ladies. Sorry, ladies. Next time.

Anyway, we read a fair bit, including some classics (The Hobbit, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Alice in Wonderland) as well as some newer fare (Harry Potter. What, you thought we'd read something else? We were in 8th friggin' grade. We couldn't handle much other fantasy literature. Other fantasy literature couldn't handle us. I think a lot of fantasy literature couldn't handle a four year old (I'm looking at you, vampire werewolf steampunk genre).

Okay, fine, I had to scrounge down a bit to find one that didn't actually look rather hilarious.

But, most importantly, to me, we read Ender's Game. They touted it as something we would all really like, because, see, we were gifted and special, and so were the kids in the book. I remember really enjoying it. Three years later, I read it again for my summer reading for AP English. Once again, I really enjoyed it. Five years after that, I picked up books from the Shadow series (long story short: spinoff/sequels. It makes sense in context?), and I REALLY enjoyed those. Well, until Orson Scott Card started inserting the usual "BABBY MAKES EVERYTHING BETTER. YOU NEED A SPOUSE OF THE OPPOSITE SEX AND LOTS OF BABBY TO BE HAPPY. EVEN IF YOU'RE
GAY."

Some of you think I'm kidding. Read the books.

But otherwise? Good characters, solid plot, complex motivations, the whole shebang.

No. NO. YOU DO NOT GET TO BE THE MASCOT FOR NOVEMBLOG. NO, WILLIAM HUNG.

I heard there was a movie coming out. With Harrison "Where's my family?" Ford and Ben "No! No no no no no no! NO!" Kingsley, no less! I was intrigued for a few minutes... and then I left it. Why?

I really don't like child actors. Some of them are actually solid. Abigail Breslin (also in Ender's Game) is pretty good. Mara Wilson? Yeah, she did well in Matilda. And, hey, she blogs for Cracked now. She does good stuff.

But, let's look at the majority. Jake "YIPPEE Anakin" Lloyd, Spencer "Abigail's SIGNIFICANTLY Less Talented Brother" Breslin, and... you know, other- OH! The kid from Ultraviolet and X-Men 3 who did a passable job in Thank You For Smoking (okay, it was a pretty good job, but I credit that to... well, everyone else in the cast who was amazing).

He's also in Twilight. I'll let you draw your own conclusions.

Anyway, my point is that, with rare exceptions, child actors can't really carry a film. Even when it seems like they do, it's usually because there's a VERY strong ensemble around them.

Maybe you see where this is goi- ENDER'S GAME HAS TO BE CARRIED BY KIDS. It's all about the kids. The kids are the main characters. The main characters are kids. Incredibly gifted kids, yes, but kids. Even if they're going to act like adults, they're kids, and they have to get to a point where that seems natural to them for it to work.

But, okay, fine. I had gotten my lady friend to read it a few weeks ago, and she enjoyed it. We wanted something to do tonight, so we went and saw it. I had a little bit of hope. It was a glimmer, but I thought that it was enough.

I was wrong. Well, sorta.

Before I start really laying into the movie, I will say that the visuals were impressive. The one thing that didn't jive for me was the scale of Battle School. It was too small compared to what they talk about in the books. (And, as we'll say later, scaling was a big problem throughout the movie.) But the Battle Room? The other planets? The desks? The work on Earth? The fantasy mind game? Spot. Fucking. On.

Jeremiah knows what I'm talking about. And he's killed a man. Several, actually. Fuck yeah, Jeremiah.

Also, Ben Kingsley nailed every scene he was in. Sorry. Let me amend that. SIR Ben Kingsley nailed every scene he was in. Harrison Ford did well with what he had, which was unfortunately rather black-and-white-but-mostly-black-because-fuck-that-guy-and-where's-my-family.

But let's go through this, shall we?

1. The kids are too old. Okay, this isn't a huge thing. It's hard to use really young kids for this sort of thing for reasons I've elaborated on above. Heck, it's hard to have kids going through puberty. Trying to deal with any sort of time passage gets wonky. I'll give them a pass on tha-

Oh wait.

2. Time? What is this so called "time?"

Okay, I should elaborate. In the books, Ender comes into Battle School at... let me check... okay, I'm not finding an age readily, but let's say 6 or 7 (Edit: Found an age. He's in Salamander at age 6. Let's say that's 3ish months after he gets into Battle School, so 6). He's supposed to leave Battle School around age 9 or 10. That's time to take classes, learn about leadership, etc. This goes quickly because Ender is so good at what he does. He gets in young, he leaves young. He's Ender friggin' Wiggin.

In the movie? He looks about the same age as everyone else. He's downright tall compared to other kids. More than that, he apparently leaves Battle School within months of getting there. He gets a whole tearful reunion with his beloved sister... because he was gone for a couple of months? "OH MY GOD I MISSED YOU SO MUCH WHILE YOU WERE ON STUDY ABROAD: SPACE." "I MISSED YOU TOO! I WAS SO CRANKY UP AT SPACE SCHOOL!"

The whole movie seems to take place over the course of  a semester. It really loses some of the gravitas.

3. Hollywood.

Yes. It's a stereotypical complaint. Yes. I know. Yes. Look. It's true. How do I know? Let me count the ways.

- They give Ender a love interest. Sorta. NOT SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN. It's generally a bit stilted, and, yes, the interactions themselves make some degree of sense, but the subtext is still annoying and wrong.

- They cut out almost every battle scene and two armies (okay, one and a half, since you don't see much of his time with Phoenix in the book). This only exacerbates the weirdness of the angst over a semester away.

- Ender becomes a bit of a Mary Sue. See, in the books, part of the point is that he has to delegate and rely on other people. He's a commander, but he doesn't deal with all of the details and trusts his subordinates to handle their end of the deal. The movie makes him into a bit of a control freak. More importantly, though...

- Everyone gets stupid. EVERYONE. Ender. Bean (who isn't part of Ender's launch toon, but, okay, time constraints, you Hollywood fuckbags). The whole gang.

Thanks for missing the point of the fucking book?

They try to go with the epistolary internal monologue, but it really doesn't work to make Ender look any smarter. And if Ender isn't smart, WHY THE HELL IS HE GETTING PROMOTED? He gets huge promotions in a few months. There isn't nearly enough for us to think he's actually ready for command. Rabble rabble nerd rage.

- More nerd rage- Bonzo Madrid. I get that they tried to meld him with Rose de Nose, but let's see what Ender has to say about Bonzo in the book:

Does he sparkle, too?

"A boy stood there, tall and slender, with beautiful black eyes and slender lips that hinted at refinement. I would follow such beauty, said something inside Ender. I would see as those eyes see."

 Okay, snark aside, Bonzo is clearly some Alexander type. A face people will follow. Yes, he's an ass, but he's an Alexander. Okay, that might be giving him too much credit, but he's got at least some rudimentary skill (outweighed by the massive faults in his leadership style). Who did they get to play Bonzo in this tour de force, you ask?

Why I oughta...

You can't really tell with this picture, because they're both leaning over, but Ender is bent over MUCH more than Bonzo. Again, Ender is supposed to be short. They turned Bonzo, a reasonably menacing figure in the books who tries to kill at least two characters throughout the series, into comic relief. Good job Hollywood.

- They miss the point of the book. Yes, there's the whole issue with the voice (i.e., the kids don't sound as smart as they're supposed to). But there's really one line that sums it up. Major Whatsherface (Anderson? I don't really remember, because the character isn't that important and isn't Harrison Ford) is basically the guidance counselor of Battle School. She goes on some rant about how Graff is being a dick (he is) and how Ender and all the other kids are, well, kids (they are). The problem is that she qualifies is with "just," as in, "He's just a kid." It seems to be played as if we're supposed to sympathize with her and start thinking that Harrison Ford is a bit of a dick (he is).

Look, we've seen American Graffiti. We already know this.

Let's look at the introduction to Ender's Game, shall we? Orson Scott Card-Carrying Dickbag But A Solid Sci Fi Writer talks about how he got a letter from a guidance counselor who HATED Ender's Game. She said that his characterization of the (incredibly gifted) children was incredibly unrealistic.

First off, she's a guidance counselor. I'm sure there are great guidance counselors out there. My school didn't have them.

"Geez, Rob..."

Orson Scott Card, the freaking AUTHOR, says that he wanted to say, "The only reason you don't think gifted children talk this way is because they know better than to talk this way in front of you." Yes, he goes on to say that children are always reinventing themselves but are also inherently oppressed by adults and there's other things that I'm too tired and intoxicated to deal with. But the point remains.

Yes. They're children. They're SMART children. You had them act like normal children in a military school. The only nod to being smart (beyond characters saying, "WOW! HE'S SO SMART!") was a line about how, "This is basic rocket science," which is the sort of terrible science humor that makes me die a little on the inside.

Look, if you want to see Ender's Game, do so. Let me know what you think. I was probably colored by the books (and the Shadow series in particular), and that certainly didn't help matters. Tell me why I'm wrong.

I'm probably mostly pissed because there wasn't a Days of Future Past trailer.

Still furious. But the picture helps.

I sat on the roof

And I kicked off the moss.

For serious, I had to re-enter my password to get in here. So much for "by the end of the week," huh? Well, that's par for course, and I'd hate to leave y'all with nothing but posts of "Waaah I don't know what to write" and "Waaah I don't update enough." There have been happenings. Mostly regarding boards, but there have been some nice travels to the neighbor to the north, and there have been just... just incredible bizarre dates. Well, there was really only one. It was really bizarre. Not the worst I've had (because, hey, there were good times had) but certainly the weirdest.

Stories for another day, though.

I had hoped to update yesterday, but I didn't get around to it. Yes, I was studying. Deal with it. These are the choices I have made, and you're going to have to accept that. You're lucky I tipsily willed myself to write something tonight. I was about to do a video blog, and that would have just ended terribly.  We should put in a picture here, don't you think?

It was either this or Metapod. So meta.

Anyway, now that that's out of the way (still looks weird to put in double words à la "that that" or "had had"), let's talk about why I should have updated yesterday. Well, there's a simple reason. And that reason is Christina Hendricks, who turned 38 yesterday. But since she is timeless, she really just turned 0 and infinity AT THE SAME TIME yesterday. Can I get a fuck yeah Schrödinger?

"Actually, the whole 'Schrödinger's Cat' thing was just a thought experiment he proposed to make the more currently accepted form of quantum mechanics-" SHUT UP, DIRAC.

Anyway, here's to you, Christina Hendricks. You have a picture of you with a bow and arrow, and that is ridiculously awesome. You can hunt me as the most dangerous game any day of the week, and I will end you, because Christina Hendricks or not, I don't take being hunted lightly. Bring your A-game. And your G-string (HIYO. And sorry, Mom and Dad.)

This even gets to be extra large, because it's the first thing I think I've seen with her NOT in a dress since Firefly.

Anyway, on to what I was going to talk about weeks ago. Shorts. Do you think Christina Hendricks wears shorts? Well, I did some research (by which I mean that I typed "Christina Hendricks shorts" into Google Images), and here's what I found.

She eats uses a bow and arrow (see above).

She eats watermelon and manages to look not like Rorschach eating a can of beans.

She does manage to look like Zoidberg, though. She also has lovely thoughts regarding men.

She looks freaking adorable in her wedding (almost enough for me not to have angry eye daggers at Geoffrey Arend. ALMOST.)

If you don't think that's absolutely friggin' adorable, I will stab you with a rusty cell phone.

But she does NOT wear shorts. She wears skirts, she wears dresses, and she wears pants, but shorts? I have seen NOTHING. NOT A FRIGGIN' THING. This can only lead me to conclude again something that I have known for quite some time.

Shorts are stupid.

No, seriously. They're useful, yes, but only once the temperature has risen beyond the realms of reasonable fashions. If it's in the 70s (low- to mid-30s for all you Centigrade loons out there, and 300s for all those REASONABLE SCIENTIFIC MINDS out there), you can get by with jeans. 80s? Okay, might be getting a bit warm, but you can still deal. Lord knows that if there's a stiff breeze, you'll want the protection. Plus, what if you have to run through a thicket? There are bugs there that will try to give you nasty parasites, and that's just awful.

Who's a cute little Babesia, giving folks malaria like symptoms? You are!

Once it hits the 90s, though, we're out of the realm of fashion. I still wear my wonderful shirts from Express (because I am classy like that), but I give up on any antiperspirant effects once I walk out the door. And, what do you know, I'm wearing shorts at that point. I have decided, "Hey, I can't look good right now, so I might as well try to vent as much heat as possible."

See, I carry a lot of stuff in my pockets. I was actually super stoked a year or two ago when cargo shorts seemed to be back. "More pockets is cool again?" I said, having left an understood gerund at the beginning of the question. "Amazing." But then I remembered that for some reason, my cargo shorts have the corners of the side pockets sewn down. I still don't understand that. Thankfully, I don't need to, because the inseams on all my pairs have worn out, and certain laws prohibit me from wearing them anymore. It's for everyone's good, really.

Even being Batman isn't helping this kid.

Don't get me wrong- shorts have their purpose. It's just a stupid purpose. My parents, to their credit, got me some very nice shorts for my birthday. I've worn them twice (partly because winter decided to summer in Charleston, it seems), but I still can't shake the feeling that I'm wearing (as Batman so eloquently put it) "a small boy's Sunday trousers." I mean, the rules are terrible. Should it be below the knee? Probably not, because Christina would hate it. What about above the knee? Well, how much above the knee is acceptable? And what if I grow a few inches but don't expand in the waist? Can I still wear these? Or not?

These are problems I had. Then, I accepted that shorts are just stupid, and wearing them is an act of surrender to the elements. I'm not ashamed to surrender to them. Sometimes they give us nice days. Sometimes they give us terrible, terrible days as if to say, "HEY FUCKFACE. YEAH. YOU. I'M TALKING TO YOU. GET OFF YOUR GODDAMNED ASS AND GO WORK ON THAT SHIT THAT'S DUE TOMORROW. WHAT, YOU WANTED TO GO WALK OUTSIDE? FUCK YOU. IT'S RAINING NOW. I WILL STRIKE YOU DOWN WITH SOME GODDAMNED LIGHTNING IF YOU DON'T SIT. THE FUCK. DOWN. AND DO YOUR FUCKING WORK. YEAH, YOU BETTER RUN."

The elements are actually Joe Pesci. He makes sure he sounds like Morgan Freeman, though. Yeah, try working THAT through your internal reading voice.

"But, Rob," you may say, "what about GIRLS' shorts?" To which I might say, "It's LADIES' shorts, dude." But, again, you run into the classic problem with women's attire. The pockets. If I'm wearing pants, it's to have pockets. Otherwise, I'd wear a Speedo. Well, unless it's cold or indecent. Okay, fine, I probably wouldn't wear a Speedo, but I have, and there are pictures. It's a sight to see.

Look, ladies don't have great legwear options. There are skirts and dresses, but those can snag on things, and that's never fun. Yes, there are pants and shorts, but they don't have the pocket space you would want, so then they have to carry a purse. I mean, they couldn't fit their wallets into any pockets to begin with (because apparently someone decided that women need wallets the size of a forearm), but that's just more stupidity on manufacturers' parts. So what are they left with? Leggings? Dude, if you're just wearing leggings, you're worse than Der Fledermensch up there.

Impressive, but still horrendous. Amusingly so, though.

But back to shorts. I get that Daisy Duke ruined things for everyone. That doesn't mean I want to see the tips of your pockets. Yes, you may have wonderful legs. You may not. That doesn't particularly matter. You can wear a skirt or a dress that shows off your legs. They'll even do it without showing off your pockets. They won't be quite so weirdly tight, which just seems counter-intuitive to the whole stupid point of shorts. "Hey, I want to cool off, so I'm going to wear something absurdly tight around my hips. Sweat won't even be able to squeeze out past the fabric. That will really help me cool down. Thanks, Target!"

And denim on shorts? Look, there were a lot of poor decisions in the late 80s and early 90s. We shouldn't have to live with them anymore. Denim is the opposite of what you want to stay cool. Durable? Absolutely. Breathable? Not so much.

Anyway, it's still somewhat chilly in Charleston (especially for May), so I'm going to keep wearing my jeans, and they will keep me plenty warm as I study in the library. I don't know that any academic buildings really get the whole "climate control" concept. One day, though. But for kicks (and because I clearly ran out of steam and am AWFUL at endings) here's a blurry picture of Christina in which maybe she was wearing shorts? We can't tell. WE CAN'T TELL.

WHAT SECRETS DOES THAT JACKET HIDE?

I have had something stuck in my craw all day. We do not approve of this. Seriously. It's something in my right tonsillar area, but I can't freaking get it. It's pretty terrible.

You know what else is terrible? How unproductive I was today. Well, okay, it wasn't that bad. I almost broke 1600 on the ol' QBank (there are 2198 questions- I'm down to 1601. My goal is to get two runs with the QBank before test day). I also managed to listen to 5 lectures and get headphones that hopefully won't short out when I'm sweating on the treadmill (NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION IS STILL ON).

Wayne and Garth once again take our world. Also, the TV is advertising the ObamaCare Survival Guide, because apparently doctors won't take care of you i a law is passed that affects how insurance works. Because doctors are always directly involved in that.

You know what else is on? Baggage. It's pretty trashy. It's so trashy that I'd go on with the ol' usual pseudonym. The guy who'd the main contestant rejected a girl who eats scorpions. SHE EATS SCORPIONS. YOU HAVE PEST PROBLEM? SHE EAT. SHE EAT ALL SCORPIONS. I"m just... What is this. And then there was a great closing remark, and I just can't. I can't. I can't.

Let's just read that last bit in a Russian accent. And Jerry Springer, I think you're just adorable.

This show is just adorable. It's so trashy. But what. I just. This is clearly the bourbon talking. It's the good stuff, too. Thanks, Anton and Ajax! (We'll see if I remember the derivation of THAT nickname.)

Anyway, this post is a bit of a cop out, because it's late, and I've been waking up late this week, and I actually have to be up to look at liver slides and the like. It will be... well, I'm not going to lie, it's going to be awful. AWFULLY AMAZING!

These are all lies.

SERIOUSLY WHAT IS THIS BUSINESS IN MY CRAW?

Anyway, yes. Cop out. I need to get to bed. But here's a freaking commitment. I will write a blog post by the end of the week. And it will be about shorts. SHORTS. I know, right? This is going to be AMAZING.

So amazing.

Just like my ability to end a blog post without leaving you unsatisfied.

Get it? Because that's how I end all my blog posts.

There's no joke beyond that.

I'm so sorry.