Being a member of the ‘computer’ generation, I don’t need no stinkin’ theatrical release to watch The Dark Knight. I just found it on youtube. Here’s the part where I write a serious review of the movie, even though I don’t know how to do that exact task, because I’m not good at paying attention to things that are put in front of me. LOL ADD.

THEME

Let’s begin with the obvious. What was the overall theme, metaphorically speaking, of The Dark Knight? I wouldn’t know because I fell asleep. But I did see those old Batman movies and their themes always had something to do with frequent punning, which also happens to be the themes of all 007 movies. Therefore, the theme of The Dark Knight is probably ‘Don’t do bad things or Batman will scrape your face off.’ Wait. That’s not a pun, is it? And maybe I don’t actually have a good grasp of the world ‘theme.’ Moving on…

SET AND COSTUMES

Oh man, they sucked. They didn’t just suck, they suuuuuuuuuuucked. First of all, why is everyone bowing at the altar of Christopher Nolan and his dark vision for Batman anyway? ‘Oh, Christopher Nolan is soooo brilliant!’ ‘Let’s just worship Christopher Nolan and sell our souls to the devil for the chance to touch the hem of his dark, dark pants!’ ‘I wish both of my parents were dead and Christopher Nolan would adopt me and my siblings!’ These are things I hear in my own household everyday, y’all. Every. Day. But after I watched The Dark Knight, I was gleefully reminded of how easily the mighty may fall. Nolan must have been experimenting with some wackjob timeframe for this particular movie, because the costumes and green screen backdrops all have a early 20th century feel. Which is cool, I guess, if you’re going to give some back story, but Mr. Nolan couldn’t be bothered. Good luck getting that Oscar, chump.

PLOT

Definitely the weirdest part of the movie was trying to follow the plot. It was all over the place. One minute we’re watching a bunch of kids dancing highly choreographed numbers in the middle of New York, the next we’re in medieval England. Maybe I couldn’t follow because I’m not a rocket scientist. Or maybe because I was drunk. Either way, does not compute. For example, check this out this scene where Batman mobilizes his fellow Batmen in a strike against Joseph Pulitzer and William Randolph Hearst:

It doesn’t make sense, right? Is it me? I *get* that they’re trying to give a realistic portrayal of what life in Gotham (NYC) is really like, and I *get* that spontaneous choreographed street dancing is just part of the gritty day-to-day life in the mean city. Kudos for getting that part right. But, HELLOOOOO, where’s the Batmobile? Or any cars for that matter? And why is EVERYONE wearing a vest? Is this the new Batman costume? Are all those guys Robins? I NEED ANSWERS, CHRISTOPHER NOLAN!

PERFORMANCES

Everyone’s all agog with the late Heath Ledger’s performance. Me, not so much. But more on him in a minute. The true downfall of the entire movie, in my opinion, was Mr. Christian Bale’s ATROCIOUS re-imagining of Bruce Wayne. Gone is the gruff, debonair, reclusive playboy. In is his place is this thickly-Brooklyn-accented song and dance man who can’t walk two blogs without bustin’ a move. Here is a dialect-accurate excerpt from his dialogue:

“Pulitzer and Hoist have to respect the rights of the woiking boys of New Ywoik!”

Wowza. He must be using what they call ‘method acting.’ And who are all these other little Batmen? And where are their masks? And, ps, they suck at catching bad guys…they aren’t even trying! Seriously, this is probably the worst movie I’ve ever seen in my entire life. And I’ve seen Xanadu.

On to Mr. Heath Ledger. Oscar schmoscar. I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but I’ll just pretend that rule doesn’t exist when I say this fool did NOT deliver an Oscar worthy performance in The Dark Knight. I’d stake my youngest child on that fact. Seriously. Someone come and get her if he wins that Oscar. But he won’t. Because his Joker was so ridiculously unbelievable that the Oscar folks would have to be high out of their minds to give him an award for it. I keep seeing reviews using the words ‘mesmerizing’ and ‘psychotic’ and ‘Dear God above, was Heath Ledger actually your son return to earth and we blew it again?’ But when I watch this clip of The Joker teaching everyone The Joker Dance I just see a charming bloke faking his way through medieval society. (looks up to heaven) Where’s the angst, Mr. Ledger?

Clearly, Mr. Nolan doesn’t know what the hellz he’s doing when it comes to making movies. Clearly, I am the only one on earth who sees through his charade. And in conclusion, I clearly deserve that Oscar for pointing out the farcicalness of all this Batmania. The end.

And oh yeah, I give it four stars.

*****

Here’s the story of invention camp, herefortowith called IC, and how we came to send our son and about $176 of our dollars in its direction:

1. The not-young man in the picture is named Dr. Forrest Bird. The dr. part is not an honorary title or jive-talkin’ nickname. He is an actual doctor, as well as an actual world famous inventor.

2. This is the Bird Aviation Museum, which was opened with much fanfare and hubbub last year. The Bird Aviation Museum hosted it’s first IC this year. The camp sold out, with many, many children on the waiting list to participate.

3. This is Charlie. He wants to be an inventor when he grows up.

4. This is me, clearly. I am the richest duck in Sandpoint and I have no problem whatsoever shelling out my hard earned (Will’s) moneybags to help my children realize their dreams

So Charlie went to invention camp, which was incredibly cool. No, he didn’t create a teleportation device. He and his buddy created A LEVITATIONAL DEVICE. BEHOLD:

It’s just a prototype, they assured us. That’s why it didn’t work. He also created a roller-coaster, an amusement park ride, a super cushioned car that safely housed an egg during a demolition derby, and made me a smoothie with his muscle-power:

So it was pretty much the best week of his life, EVAH. EV-to-the-ER.

So I reworked the plot and now I’ve got to go and actually write the chapters that fit in with the new plot. Ugggghhhhh. I don’t want to do it. I really don’t want to do it. But it has to be done.

I wish I had a word for the role that my husband plays in this process. The best word I have is ‘doubter.’ Like when I finished, I thought I had something great. He doubted it. Not because he doesn’t think I’m capable of something great, but because what he had read thus far didn’t meet the greatness mark. Part of me becoming a writer is teaching him how to be a critic without crushing my soul. He’s coming along. We’re on the same page today (heh) because he sent me to these videos.

This is Mr. Ira Glass, the creator of This American Life, talking to some unknown personage about the craft of creating a story. But it’s not the creating the story part that gets me in the gut. It’s the part about how much crap you create before you are good enough to make the story you know you want to make. Thanks, Mr. Ira Glass. I needed to hear this. If you only listen to one, listen to the third one.

*I wrote a novel. It’s not great yet.

You know I’m a sucker for ANTM. Also, BNTM, ANTM but the A is for Australia, and Project Runway. Except that I exempt Project Runway for reality tv trashing because Project Runway features genuinely talented people who do fantastical things with scissors and fabric and also candy wrappers. And Project Runway seems to attract interesting people who are funny enough to make me laugh and smart enough to make me envy them. But enough about my obsession with gay fashion designers.

The crazy thing about these shows is not just that people are so eager to become famous, or are so willing to confess all things about themselves into a soulless camera, or even that they’ve deluded themselves into thinking that winning a televised competition is inherently a good thing, although these are all very kooky aspects of reality television. No…the craziest thing is the reality-speak that has arisen from these shows. The best, of course is the ‘I’m not here to make friends’ speech, which makes me think it would be totally awesome if there was, in fact, a show that just revolved around strangers becoming friends. Maybe they could make friendship bracelets and braid each other’s hair and the boys could get matching tattoos and call each other ‘brah.’ That is what boys do when they are friends with each other, isn’t it?

So this reality speak prompts me to wonder: Are kids who have grown up watching reality shows speaking into phantom cameras, justifying their actions to an audience who isn’t there, practicing huffy eye rolling and otherwise ridiculous gestures for when the time comes that they get to make the pronouncement ‘I’m not here to make friends?’ Probably not. Except, look at how easy people ease into these camera-in-your-face shows. And how readily they lock themselves into the confession rooms to vent about their problems. Their REALLY BIG EARTH-SHATTERING problems. Like how that one girl better ‘watch herself ‘cuz she’s gettin’ on my last nerve.’ Or how, shock of all shocks, some people aren’t cleaning up after themselves in the house. These are things that are worthy of alone time with a video camera.

And the worst part is that I still watch. I eat that stuff up like it’s a carne guisada taco smothered in cheese, or perhaps a chorizo and egg breakfast taco, with a Dr Pepper on the side. I’m hungry.

I don’t, however, watch The Coreys. God love The Coreys. Only because it’s just heartbreakingly awful to see formerly famous people whore themselves out for the sake of becoming famous again. And there’s no competition or prizes…come ON. Who am I supposed to root for? Hint: the bandanna and the army patch.

Back to the original video up there. ‘I’m not here to make friends,’ they say. They are there to hook up with Flava Flav and to impress Tyra Banks and to not get eliminated and have to return to their lives of enormous normalcy and therefore shame. And you can’t blame them for that, can you?

In an interview with the Las Vegas Sun, Sen. John McCain, R-Ariz., was asked by columnist Jon Ralston why he didn’t choose Gov. Jim Gibbons to chair his Nevada campaign.

“I appreciate his support,” McCain said. “As you know, the lieutenant governor is our chairman.”

Why snub the governor? Ralston asked.

“I didn’t mean to snub him,. I’ve known the lieutenant governor for 15 years and we’ve been good friends,” McCain said. “I didn’t intend to snub him. There are other states where the governor is not the chairman.”

Maybe it’s the governor’s approval rating and you are running from him like you are from the president? Asked Ralston in a question McCain clearly found loaded.

Said McCain, chuckling, “And I stopped beating my wife just a couple of weeks ago.”

Apparently this highlarious barb was met with awkward silence and/or the gasps of thousands of indignant slash mortified white women.

For realz? For realz. I can’t count the number of times my husband has joked about beating me or starving me to death or drowning me in a pool of lime jello or breaking my legs and then tying me down to a bed of red Texas fire ants. ALL THE TIME, Y’ALL. You don’t see me getting all uppity about it, do you? I can hold my own with my own jokes of killing him with a dull chainsaw or hiring a bereted French assassin who is still very stealthy in spite of his flamboyant beret.

A sense of humor is a sign of a healthy marriage, is it not? And joking about spousal abuse is a sign of a guy who thinks it’s funny to joke about spousal abuse, I guess. It wouldn’t have been funny coming from the late Mr. Ike Turner. It would have been creepy and probably not true. I guess it’s not funny coming from your presumptive Republican nominee for the office of the president of the United States, either. But there’s no need for hushed gasps or indignant pointing of fingers. Here, for Mr. McCain’s future reference, are a couple of issues I suggest that he avoid joking about:

spousal abuse, oh wait…my bad
date rape
rape
rape in prison
AIDS, county jail rape, and other places where rapes occur
child pornography
murdering your wife because she pissed you off
murdering your wife for her money
murdering your wife
murder
torture that is secretly condoned by the United States government
war
taxes
Black people
issues
politics
lime jello

I hope I helped, Senator McCain. Let’s just see if you can keep your silly noggin out of trouble next time.

I was not having sex when I was 16. I was also not having ‘boyfriends’ or ‘kissing’ or ‘dates’ when I was 16 either, so whatevs. Which was a good thing, because I was always a little behind in my understanding of reproductive processes. This is what happens when you spend your 5th grade very special heath class giggling and making jokes rather than paying attention. And why I was quite befuddled by the purpose of feminine hygiene products which were not pads and how they worked.

So when I was 16 I had a few boys who were my friends, not call on the phone friends, but hang out and make jokes in the classroom friends, and a couple of good girl girlfriends who liked to laugh and sing and giggle like me. They were the ones who told me in euphamistic terms how the feminine hygiene products which are not pads worked. I forbid them from discussing matters in my presence ever again.

One of these friends was named Patty. She was a nut. She’s still a nut. She’s a nut in Germany serving the United States Air Force or Army, I always forget. When we were 16 we started saying the following phrase ‘Bebbies having bebbies. Don’t know nuthin’ ’bout no love.’ And then we’d assume grandmotherly African American personas who spent their days carping about all the youngins getting pregnant.

Did I mention I didn’t understand how tampons worked? Just clearing that up…

So quote good times end quote, for me, at the age of 16, consisted of me speaking with a funny voice and singing broadway style songs incessantly with my equally not cool friends. Which, by the way, ended up being the BEST BIRTH CONTROL ever invented and I highly recommend it for all you 16 year old girls reading this blog right now. PS - if you are 16 and reading this blog then I must be the coolest not-quite-32 year old on the block. Email me so we can be bffs, kay? Mkay!

I read about all these pregnant teenagers with a certain degree of befuddlement and mild curiosity. Because I was very much a kid when I was 16, and all my friends were kids, and safe sex talks were as lost on me as they’d be on an old timey rocking chair on the front porch of a Cracker Barrel. Irrelevant.
Now I look back and I’m very glad that I wasn’t the girl at the parties with the illegally procured alcohol, and that I wasn’t friends with those boys and girls. The ‘bad’ kids, who weren’t actually bad, but doing exactly what was expected of them by their peers and parents.

And I certainly don’t judge those hapless, pregnant girls out there. I feel sorry for them. My sister got pregnant when she was 16. It’s been a long, hard road for her. But she managed. In the end, we all manage, don’t we? Silly girls who don’t pay attention to biological processes, not-slutty but sexually active girls who find themselves in a pickle…it usually all works itself out, doesn’t it? It does in my world.

And here, for your viewing pleasure, is exactly everything I knew and understood about the human reproductive cycle when I was 16. In song.

Summer Agenda, 2008

1. Sleep in everyday.
2. Get through the 2nd draft of my story.
3. Do 100 push ups. This is the loftiest and least attainable goal of all.
4. Take weekly field trips to various educational and exciting locations around North Idaho.
5. Take naps.
6. Read.
7. Walk two miles everyday.
8. Sleep in everyday.

Ambitious, I know. I hate to bring this up, because all the working moms out there might actually reach through their monitors and strangle my freckly neck, but staying home in the summer has its own unique sets of problems. Namely boredom and restlessness. I, of course, am not one to suffer from these problems, as you can see from my long and interesting list of things I’ll be doing this summer. Here’s the second, and more interesting part of my list.

Things I’ll do this summer, this time with feeling:

1. Plan out healthy meals that also taste good, even if no one else in the family agrees how good they are.
2. Service our two little money-making candy machines. Wallow in quarters daily.
3. That’s it. This did not warrant a second list at all, did it?

No. It didn’t. I’ll just stop while I’m ahead, then.

****
I’m back. Usually surrounded by the neighborhood crew, she was alone, for once, jumping in her long Sunday church dress with her Easter sandals nicely tucked under her tricycle, which also served as her stepladder onto the trampoline. Time to come home. Time to get out of the mild Idaho sun.

When we first moved here, everyone asked us how we were enjoying the weather, “Big difference, huh?” they’d say. And we’d agree. But the biggest difference between South Texas and North Idaho has nothing to do with the pretty fall colors or lovely white winters. It’s summer that’s so mind- blowingly different. My childhood Texas summers are clouded with memories of cold, cold air conditioning and the cartoons on the USA network, at least during the summers we had cable. Outside games, when tolerable, were played in the evenings, if at all. If you were lucky enough to get to a pool, you were blessed. The rest of us just cowered under our window units or central air and kept our shades pulled tight and screamed at whoever was stupid enough to open the door and let the air out.

My last summer at home before marrying Will was spent without central air. It was easily the most miserable summer of my life. It was sticky, Africa hot. The one window unit was in the living room, and if I wanted to sleep privately or speak with my hot, but not literally hot boyfriend named Will without siblings dangling on me, I had to suffer it out in the airless back bedroom. Miserable. So, let me tell you, dear reader, wherever you are, I don’t take these lovely North Idaho summer days for granted. The mere fact that one may walk three times around the neighborhood without having a dropping dead heat stroke is a gift, A GIFT I TELL YOU. And we don’t take it lightly.

Here are a few of summery type pictures, taken over the last few days. More will come. There’s much, much more to do before fall rolls around again.

Ben Affleck: Let me just stick…my head…here we go…say cheese!

Scared African child: I’m going to lean back just a little…can someone grab on to my chest and pull me away from this big-headed balloon man?

Happy African child: Shut up and smile. This disembodied floating white head is giving us money.

Unimpressed African child: Someone just grabbed me off the street and put these African clothes up on me. Do you think that white man can call my mom to come and get me?

Scared African child: He doesn’t have any hands, so uhhh…no probably not.

Happy African child: Maybe he could put a pencil in his mouth and dial your number that way. But I’m not gonna ask him. And I’m not holding the phone to his floating balloon head.

Scared African child: Me, neither. You could become a homeless traveling hobo, for all I care. I’m getting myself far away from White Happy Head.

Unimpressed African child: You Africans suck. I’m not scared of this torsoless fool. Watch this…I’m not even going to smile when they take this picture. ‘Sup camera.

Happy African child: You better smile before Ghosthead takes away our money! SMILE! DO IT!

Unimpressed African child: Only if you promise to hold the phone to Decapitated Man’s head after he dials my number with the pencil in his teeth. Do you promise?

Happy African child: I promise! I promise! Just smile! For the love of God….

*CLICK*

Unimpressed African child: I didn’t have time…will you still…

Scared African child: (crickets chirping, frogs croaking, animated dust devil swirls where he once stood.)

Happy African child: Good luck getting home. I’m outtie.

Ben Affleck: Which one of you lucky babies wants to be my new African child? Anyone? Hellloooo?

Unimpressed African child: See you fools later. I’m taking my chances outside on the mean streets of Calgary. See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya. I mean that literally.

Ben Affleck: You’ll do.

(Picks up Happy African child and cradles him like a baby. Happy African child tries to convey that he is not, in fact, an orphan, but Ben Affleck doesn’t speak African so he doesn’t understand. Also, Happy African child is mightily impressed by Ben Affleck’s ability to carry him without arms, and assumes the white floating happy head is some sort of god or superhero, perhaps one who was blinded by toxic waste, but whose other senses are super-heightened and therefore crazy-powerful. Happy African child decides to take his chances with the Decapitated Superhero. At the very least he could get some cool clothes from Aeropostale out of the deal.

The End.

Dear diary,

1st off, I just wanna thank my precious Lord and Savior for getting me my child porn acquittal. Big ups, Jesus! You my n-word!

2nd of all, I’m gonna just take this opportunity to record my thoughts and feelings after this traumatic time. I never thought all of this could happen to me…I’m just a playa, diary…just a regular baller type playa. I like sex. I like to record myself having sex…so what? I regularly carry a duffel bag full of video tapes of my sexual trysts with 13 year old girls, who doesn’t, diary? Who doesn’t??? I need to get on my knees and thank Jesus some more for his big grace in my life.

*****

Now I’m back. Jesus said that maybe I should lay low and stop talking to him for awhile. Something tells me he’s not really happy about my acquittal. HOLD UP, Diary. I’m gonna go have some words with my precious Lord and Savior. He can’t dis a playa like that. I’M R. KELLY, FOOL!

****

Jesus done turned his white back on me. That’s a’ight diary. He just needs to chill for awhile. No one can hold R. Kelly down. NO ONE! So what did I do to celebrate my acquittal? I did a lot of things. First, I went to my house, I walked up the sidewalk. I opened the door. I walked in the door. I walked into the house. I walked to the refrigerator. I opened the refrigerator door. I got out some juice. I drank some juice from the bottle. The juice tasted rancid. I walked to the pantry where I keep the trash can. I stepped on the thing that opens the lid. I threw the rancid juice bottle in the trash can. I’m gonna go see if Jesus is chill now.

****

Jesus says I should be a Muslim. I said ‘You need to stop buggin,’ Jesus! I didn’t do nothing wrong!’ He said, ‘Yeah, actually, you did. Stop referencing me before I smite thee.’ So I’m gonna be a muslim because I need to have someone to thank when I get my Grammys and Jesus ain’t down with my pedophilic ways. We still friends, though. He just don’t know how important I am yet. I’m the Martin Luther King of today. No! I’m the Jesus of today! I should thank MYSELF for my child porn acquittal! Thank you, R. Kelly! Thank you for clearing your name of the things that you actually did with a 13 year old girl! Praise Je-R. Kelly!

****

A’ight diary. It’s time for me to go get freaky in the bathroom. Peace. I’m out.