Well, once again I'm back here. And if we assume that my words don't have a chance to mean anything unless you read them, that means that you've come again.
WELL, I TELL YE THERE'LL BE NO BUTTER IN- Oh. Okay. I guess that was a bit of an overreaction.
Of course, since this is early in the month and I'm therefore out of practice, tonight was once again a night of writer's block. Do I write about the couple yelling on the street about how she never says she loves him or her parents and that's why he won't apologize? Of course not- that would just be awkward. What about how I voted today and felt cheap because I voted for one guy because his name sounded like a pizza place that I went to once? Well, that would just be trigger warning central and cause all sort of chagrin and bashfulness.
"BECAUSE THERE WILL BE NO CHAGRIN AND BASHFULNESS ON THE NIGHT. AND THAT GOES FOR EVERYBODY-THERE WILL BE NO CHAGRIN OR BASHFULNESS ON THE NIGHT." Sir Ian, what are you doing here? You're wonderful, but you're stealing my show.
I could talk about trivia, but I believe that I've already promised to never do that except for the times in which I already have. There's still the list of worst possible means of delivering a break up message, but I just finished a two-parter, and I wasn't pleased with how it went. As such, I have once again consulted the sage and wonderful Kookaburra (name changed to protect the not entirely innocent, but who really is innocent these days, really?)...
... No, I'm not above shameless self-promotion like that), but back to the point I was getting to before the ellipsis, I have consulted the brave and inimitable Kookaburra, and it has been declared that I shall write about a topic I have not undertaken before this very night. I know some of you are a bit surprised. You object, saying, "But you've talked about everything! Nazi zombies, beards, crazy landladies, THE LADIES, potatoes, everything!" Ah, but it was made clear to me tonight that there remains at least one topic into which I have not delved, nor have I devoted to it my ample (and supple) assets.
That topic, of course, is the Vikings.
Images will be courtesy of this tall glass of water. If you haven't read her stuff, it's worth checking out of the library or possibly using as a gag gift for an open-minded compatriot.
Okay, fine, that last bit was a lie. I devoted many assets to the Vikings in the 6th grade for Ms. Berry's social studies class, and it resulted in my obligatory middle school B for the year. I couldn't find the images I wanted through the school's parental blocks (which was silly, because most of those sites were fine, but nooooooo, they hadn't been properly vetted by whoever the fuck does that for public school systems).
If only I had titled my presentation "The Very Virile Viking." Good enough for USA Today's Bestseller list? Good enough for 6th grade social studies. Not that I'm bitter or anything.
And, yeah, we've got Thor (and his sequel, now with less Branagh), but where is the Viking, really? I mean, the last non-comic book movie I can recall about Vikings was The 13th Warrior, which I never even saw, so I can't even confirm that it HAD Vikings. (However, it DID have Antonio Banderas, who is almost an adequate substitute, at least for camp value.) I don't really get the Scandinavian Sanction going on in Hollywood right now (new ideas for the name welcome as long as they are placed under the sole purview of Yours Truly, Copyright Regaling the Asylum 2013, All Rights Restricted To This Blog Unless Substantial Sums Surrendered Subsequent to Said Stealing, Because Like I Said, Alliteration Is Awesome (but assonance is less so)).
Let's talk about it, shall we? Adorable. As if you had any say in the matter.
1. Star power.
Well, there are admittedly Viking CHARACTERS out there. Thank goodness, because if they weren't around, I don't know how we'd manage to fight off the Frost Giants and protect the Rainbow Bridge. I'm rubbish at wielding a seax effectively.
As opposed to the Very Virile Viking, now in orange.
There's obviously Chris Hemsworth (of so much Thor fame), but there's also Alexander Skarsgard (because even with an International keyboard setup, I can't make that friggin' circle over the a. It would make talking about Angstroms so much simpler, since, you know, I do that so often, what with being a scientist and just generally getting to throw around circles over a's like that), who looks like the first Very Virile Viking, but with doe-ier eyes and probably more personality. While we've got Alexander, we might as well snag Stellan, who might not win any beauty contests but could portray some variety of Viking warrior king (because they had kings, right? Of course they did. Who did that not-quite-failing report in 6th grade, after all!) with an intensity to match... um... a troll? A troll hunter? Sure. Yes. That sounds right. There weren't Grendel hunters since the great post-Heorot hunt of... um... Helm's Deep? So it'd have to be trolls. And everybody knows that there are trolls up there- Disney World said so! Not just Disney World- Epcot, AKA educational Disney World with beer.
If you can't trust God's golf ball, who can you trust?
So, yes. There's star power. BUT IS IT ENOUGH?
No. It's never enough. These are fucking Vikings. What sort of question is that? Go into a corner and think about what you've just said for a little bit.
2. Writing
Okay. You've got me. You need a story. You need dialog. You need some sort of believable character arc that these folks can go through and grow as people.
Like this guy who can. Um. Take off those chains?
Okay, aside time. I actually read that book years ago, because wouldn't you? Okay, maybe you wouldn't. However, apparently books have trailers now, and I've hopefully embedded the trailer for VIKING UNCHAINED BY SANDRA HILL IN THIS VERY ENTRY. Exciting, I know. Take a gander.
WHY WOULD YOU NOT READ THIS? I mean, the trailer is a train wreck of terrible awesome. The concept is something I could only DREAM of coming up with on a night where I'm in rare form. AND SHE HAS A FRIGGIN' SERIES AROUND SIMILAR CONCEPTS.
Maybe this aside has shown you something. Namely, Viking movies don't need real plot. There are Vikings. They go fuck shit up. Maybe they become Navy SEALS. I'd watch that. Hell, I already watched Navy SEALS, and that was pretty terrible. Throw Vikings into it? I'd watch it again in a heartbeat.
3. Music. Duh.
Let me tell you about Othello. Okay, fine, let's narrow that down. Let me tell you about a particular film version of Othello. Okay, fine, that's too esoteric and boring. My point is that it sucked.
Oh, you wanted more? Okay, okay, okay. There were some pretty solid actors (Anthony Hopkins, Bob Hoskins, and probably somebody else, but who cares because we've got Othello and Iago taken care of) and a legit script (some guy named Shakespeare who I guess has done some okay stuff before sorta, but he's no Sandra Hill).
But who is, really?
It was terrible. Just terrible. A big part of that was that a.) the mic setup was abysmal, so you couldn't hear them half the time, and b.) there was no music. Music is important, guys.
How is he even playing the guitar with that cannon hand?
But for a Viking movie? Man, you need some pretty amazing music, don't you?
That's why we have Viking metal. Okay, again, probably not the right term, but I'm told by sources that are in fact people (or so their words claim) that there are entire groups of people devoted to playing songs about Vikings. Since I can't name a single one, they must not be that popular, which means that the right to their music are probably super cheap. This, in turn, leaves more money for badass Viking fights between Alexander Skarsgard and Chris Hemsworth over the troll's beautiful daughter, played of course by Christina Hendricks.
Because, see, she's wearing a hat like one that was in a book about a girl outsmarting a troll. Very Viking.
See, afterwards, though, they all learn a valuable lesson about how Mrs. Hendricks is, like, her own person and isn't just a prize to be won. Then there's a high five as they all go to pillage the New World and leave a colony that will die out until some Italian fuck gets sent by the Spanish to discover Syphilis. While guitars shred in the background to guttural stylings of bearded men, of course (and, hey, they can even be in the movie). We could even call it The Norse King's Daughte-
DAMN YOU, SANDRA HILL!
lundi 4 novembre 2013
Pardon me for a moment. I have to watch some videos that I've been waiting for since Halloween (get it together, Internet). I also need to participate in the annual "freeze your freaking oversized butt off" in my apartment (now in its third year). While I do that, (and freak out at my watch falling slightly and thinking it might be a roach Palmetto bug (jeepers! Identifying information! HIPAA won't like that!) when really it's just gravity (go fuck yourself, Newton) being a straight up prick) take heart in the fact that five Frenchmen took a llama out in Bourdeaux. I've never been to Bourdeaux, but the fact that people snitched on the llama-crew clearly means that the city deserves stitches.
Because animal theft is the new pot.
Okay, one down, one to go. I can finish this first, though.
Or, okay, fine, I could if I knew what I was going to talk about. My usual sources are down for the night, so this might get a tad bit ugly. I even went ahead and took a look at some of last year's late Novemblog posts, and they're downright inspired. I mean, they're utter freaking madness, but it's real madness. None of this "Ha ha I'm so random I'm going to quote The Perks of Being a Wallflower now" bullshit.
With all credit to Randall Monroe. This is comic number 16, as evidenced by the graph paper. He does XKCD. I don't really know any better way to give credit for this. If you're upset, Randall, let me know, and I'll do what I can to make this right. Even if it means bearing your math child. ... Well, that escalated quickly.
Additionally, fuck you, fly. You die at my hand, because it's too cold for your shenanigans. Hell, it's too cold for MY shenanigans. It's too cold for all the eggs we've got in our fridge (capacity for 72 at this point. I believe that the actual figure is more like 50. I DO NOT BUY THESE EGGS. HOW DID WE GET SO MANY.). And yes, sometimes I like to ignore the punctuation that might follow more readily from diagramming sentences (you're welcome, 3rd- maybe 10th? grade English and Dad) in favor of going with the punctuation that follows the tone and intended delivery.
Of course, then we get into arguments about whether or not the playwright deserves any real say in the play itself beyond the basic text. I've heard it argued that the only playwright who really put in enough thought to stage direction is Tennessee Williams, but I've read Summer and Smoke- nobody wants any part of that.
They are clearly confused/suffering from Stockholm syndrome. I was going to make a joke about Ibsen, but he's from Norway and was pretty dull the last time I read him. Oh, culture.
It is getting extraordinarily tempting to throw in the towel, but thankfully I took a look at some of my EARLY Novemblog posts, too. They're chock full of writer's block (BECAUSE ONLY ONE PERSON GETS IT AT A TIME. YOU'RE WELCOME, ALL OTHER WRITERS. TIME TO WORK ON THAT NOVEL.) and also beards. Of which I have a full one now. Because, you know, testosterone and aging and receptors and follicles and transcription factors and the next thing you know your son is playing for money in a pinchback suit and listening to some big out of town Jasper talking about horse race gambling. Make your blood boil! Well, I should say.
Returning in full regalia from uncharted Asia, where they have boys' bands that have never seen a traveling salesman. It was quite a difficult time for the Professor, but as always, with a cool head and a keen eye (cultivated, along with his horse sense, from games of billiards in his youth), he was able to prevail.
Oof. Haven't even hit 700 yet. This could be a long night, dear readers, but let it never be said that ol' so and so welshes on his word.
Although he may Concord grape on it.
Geez. That caption disappeared for a minute. Truly, we have reached a harrowing time. I blame daylight savings time's end. I mean, I guess I do. I don't really know. NOBODY KNOWS. Well, Keanu Reeves might.
Seriously. I feel like I'm just trying to get up after getting the shit stomped out of me. I'm misspelling words left and right, there's no flow developing just yet, Hugo Weaving won't return my calls, and I don't even have one of those snazzy long coats.
I... I was going to include a picture of Agent Smith looking threatening with a caption of, "Why, Mr. Cameron? Why do you persist in calling me, even when I don't return your calls? Why do you do it? Why pick up? Why keep calling?
Do you believe you're calling for something? For more than your amusement? Can you tell me what it is? Do you even know? Is it for dinner?
Or drinks? Perhaps to come and watch the big game? Yes? No? Could it be for help moving? Illusions, Mr.
Anderson. Vagaries of perception. The temporary constructs of a feeble
human intellect trying desperately to justify a blog that is
without meaning or purpose. And all of them as artificial as the Matrix
itself, although only a human mind could invent something as insipid as this blog. You must be able to see it, Mr. Cameron. You must know it by now.
You can't win. It's pointless to keep calling. Why, Mr. Cameron? Why?
Why do you persist?" And then maybe I'd follow it up with something more impressive than lifting a quote from IMDB and switching the words around a little bit and basically just plagiarizing that whole speech for my blog and being a general dick about it.
But then I found something better. Something I hadn't expected. See, in April, GE launched a new medical devices campaign about how they help communication in hospitals. Here's what they came up with.
Yes, I know. I've been going downright video crazy the past few nights. (I only wish that their dialog fed into my word counts, because then all of this would just be a whole lot easier. I can only hope I got a hundred or so from the Matrix quote, AKA cheating, because this is and has been a rough one).
On the one hand, I'm not sure what GE was going for here. The Matrix hasn't been the big thing since 2004 at the latest. Bigger movies with better effects and plots have been made. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy The Matrix a whole lot. I actually think Keanu is a better actor than people give him credit for. Plus, when you hear about how nice of a person he apparently is, you want to give him a hug. Sometimes he looks like he really needs it.
When he's not laughing at our puny "mortality," at least.
And they went with Agent Smith? They actively tried to have a bad guy promote their product? We have enough people out there who are paranoid about the medical device clauses in the ACA Affordable Care Act (word count, suckaz!) because they don't understand what a pacemaker is and why it might be problematic to get a defective batch of them.
But, at the same time, Hugo Weaving! He's Hugo Weaving! Priscilla! V! Megatron! The Red Skull! Elrond!
Okay, he's pretty much universally intimidating (except MAYBE when he's Priscilla, but doesn't he win a few bar fights in that? Plus, he's Australian, and you don't fuck with them. They have Australia on their side, and it doesn't have to put up with your shit.). But when he's Elrond, maybe he gets to share screen time with Lee Pace, who is adorable.
I DON'T CARE THAT IT'S FICTION, IT'S ADORABLE AND THERE IS PIE. YOU CANNOT COMPETE WITH THIS.
Maybe he doesn't, though. I haven't seen the first Hobbit movie. I might be a bit scarred from our four-scene high school production of it, which actually wasn't TOO far fetched for the first three (okay, two and a half) scenes. Then the elves saved them from the goblins (NO) and Bilbo killed Smaug (NO NO NO) because, see, Smaug wasn't eating him because he had a toothache (WHAT NO), and Bilbo convinced him that he was a dentist.
Hold on.
Wait for it.
PATIENCE.
Wait for it...
You might not have guessed, but he's saying, "No," repeatedly. (I think.)
I mean, I'm a little bitter, because I would have been a freaking stellar Gollum. My audition consisted of alternating between creepy old dude and six year old girl. That could have been chilling (or just fucking stupid), but I lost out to a guy who could do a decent Andy Serkis impersonation. I hear he was hell to work with in the show. Tons of respect for most of the cast, though- they just had a shitty script to work with. Also, it was high school, so there's not much to be done. Plus, I got to do quiz bowl and Model UN (which led to the Today Show incident), so I think I came out pretty firmly ahead.
Okay. I should probably pack it in (because, depending on how wordy I can make this last bit, I think I can cruise right past the word limit. Coast would probably be a better word, though. See how it's done?), because I need to make eggs in the morning. Yeah, you thought I was kidding about all the eggs.
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
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'treally 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.
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.
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.
