Thursday, July 19, 2012

Was "The Dark Knight" a better movie than "The Dark Knight Rises?"

That isn’t a fair question at all.
All three Nolan Batman movies work together. It’s an epic in the truest definition of the word.
There’s the shocking beginning, the smart and speedy middle, and the harrowing conclusion. And these movies both break the rules and follow them to a capital T.
Had DKR been the movie before DK, you’d hear the same complaints. “Nolan couldn’t keep up with himself.” “There’s no way he could have reached the impossibly high bar he set for himself with the last movie.” “This chapter is too Hollywood.”
The problem isn’t Nolan. It’s human perception. And we’re wired to look for discrepancies. Molded and trained to criticism.
Seeing as DKR hasn’t even released yet, I’m not going to spoil anything. Instead, I’ll say that it relies heavily on the stories told in the preceding movies. Although all movies could work independently, they are so much stronger as a unit. There are, as far as I can look, no lose ends dangling from the end of this story because of the last movie. Every shot seems painstakingly thought out, and every tiny conclusion has a firm basis in one of the many central themes and story arcs from the entire saga.
No, it isn’t flawless, but only because nothing is flawless.
Besides, flaws are what makes things truly beautiful.
Anyone can argue until their last breath that one of the movies is better than the others, or the end wasn’t what they wanted. But expecting anything is the true mistake, not Nolan’s. 
You can’t look at the movies individually, because even if they’re all telling the same story, they really aren’t. DKR is the conclusion, taking the pieces of the first two chapters and conforming them into a crescendo of light, color, and fire. That is the purpose of this movie. To take what has been done, make it rise, explode, and end.
The second movie wasn’t given the same task, and therefor can’t be rated on the same scale.
So as people keep asking me if it was the best one, or if it holds a candle to its predecessors, I can only tell them that the more I reflect, the more I love it. Because it made me realize what a wonderfully complicated yet elegantly simple story it has all become. And for that, I love this trilogy.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Holy heroes, Batman!

For months, I’ve been planning on going to Dallas Comic-Con for one reason: Meet Batman. Meet Adam West.
All of my friends know I’m a Batman fanatic. I love it all. The campy 60’s stuff. The dark Nolan stuff. The Frank Miller comics. Tim Burton’s fantastic take. Even Joel Schumacher’s butchery still gets me excited.
But no one really understands how deep my love goes. And even I can’t really explain why, even with so many Batmans and so many different styles, Adam West’s Batman and Burt Ward’s Robin mean so much to me.
Was it because I just loved the show while I was a kid? Or perhaps it was because after watching it at night during the summer, my dad would take us to go get root beer floats?
How my sister and I played Batman and Robin all the time.
How we referred to every black sports car as a Batmobile.
How my first car, a black sports car, was a Batmobile in my mind.
Or maybe it’s because I was picked on as a kid, and I always could escape into my fantasies where I was a special crime fighter who would fight alongside the caped crusader.
Regardless, my happiest childhood memories involve the Dark Knight (even if he wasn’t that dark all of the time).
So as Comic-Con came closer and closer, I got nervous. Because I really WAS going to meet Adam West. And then at the last minute, Burt Ward got added to the roster. And then I really got twisted in my guts.
I couldn’t handle that! I couldn’t really  meet these men who molded my childhood almost twenty years before I was even born. I’d lose my shit.
Well, I met them both today as a 29 year old woman but really as a nine year old girl. And despite all of my best efforts, I cried a little and blurted out, “You’re my hero,” and “I watched your show every day after school,” and “I’m so excited to meet you.”
And they’re both such sweet men. They smiled and thanked me and shook my hand and signed my poster. And I held onto that poster for hours today, never letting go.
It was the best. Meeting them was THE BEST! And they’ll never know how much that brief interaction meant to me. Hell, I barely understand it.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

What's my name again?

I go by my middle name. Always have.

It's not unheard of for anyone to go by their middle name. However, it's much more rare for a woman to versus a man.

But as I collect years, I discover more and more ways that going by my middle name is a gigantic cluster fuck of shit.

Did you know you're supposed to sign all legal documents (that means checks, too) with your first name? Even if you go by your middle? Sure, it sounds easy to you first-namers. But trust me, it isn't.

My driver's license. My passport. My social security card that I signed when I was eight years old. All proudly display my middle and last name in my spiky scrawl. Not my first and last and certainly not all three names.

My checks don't even have my first name on them. I've been paying my taxes and/or bills with those checks for over 10 years. The electric company and the IRS had no problems taking them.

But now that I want to contribute to my retirement, my middle name doesn't cut it. And the bank is throwing a hissy fit because my first name appears nowhere on my check.

It's me, I swear! I've got a quarter of a century of shit with my name, face, and signature on it to prove I am who I say I am. There's my Wet 'n' Wild season pass from when I was 10. There's my first driver's license when I was 15. I have countless friendship documents from elementary school that proudly feature my name and school photo. I have the title to my car. Two passports. Credit cards without my first name mentioned.

What do you want from me? I'll give you anything.

Except for a check with my first name on it.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

The beard is gone.

Every winter, Cooter Brown grows a scraggly beard. I made a gif of the removal, but Facebook doesn't allow for gifs. So it shall live here.

Monday, March 12, 2012

Isn't that Pinteresting?

Pinterest is the latest social Internet sensation where everybody (read: mostly women) post cutesy things that make them giggle with glee.

It's also the latest thing to fill me with hate.

I tried to like it, I really did. I gave it an honest go. But the sugary sweetness of it all just left me bitter. I can only take so many exclamations of "yum," so many "things I must try," and insane examples of nail art.

Pinterest makes you follow tons of people upon signing. There is no way around this. So all of those dumbasses on Facebook that you won't unfriend (but won't pay attention to either) are assaulting you on Pinterest with their love of toned tummies (despite their out-of-shape profile photos), beachside lounge chairs (in their "Places I Want To Go" boards), and pictures of cake balls.

Oh God, there are so many cake balls.

I hate cake balls.

And it's all so ... cute. Where's the sarcasm? The bitterness? The clever comedy? 

I love me some DIY, don't get me wrong, but I really can't take another lampshade made out of ribbons. It isn't cute! It looks like shit! Why are you saying it's cute and that you want to try it and it'll look good in your child's bedroom ... when you have kids someday ... by the way you're not dating anyone and I don't think you've been shopping at the sperm bank,  have you?

That's the other thing. Why are there so many posts from childless, single people about their weddings and children's outfits? I find that really creepy. If you have a secret when-I-get-married book, cool. Fine. Stuff it under your bed or hide it in your closet where it belongs. Don't put it on Pinterest where everyone you knew in high school can now see it.

And judge you. And know that I am fucking judging you. I'm not even going to fake nice about that.

Oh, and add to all of this that Pinterest is basically a legal nightmare with copyright responsibility. But I won't even get into that. I'm just going to listen to another one of my clients ask me how they can increase online interactions within their preferred customer base using Pinterest.

While I stab myself with a pin under the table. So I feel something other than anger.

Monday, December 26, 2011

My parents have been divorced for over 20 years.

Of those 20 years, my mom has been with her husband for at least 18. My dad has had a few partners, but his current partner has been around for a decade.
They just got engaged.
And for some reason, it weirds me out.
It seriously weirds me out.
Mom getting married didn’t bother me one bit. It felt like the thing to do. It felt normal. Her husband already felt like a dad to me.
But Dad getting married?
Maybe it’s because I’m older now. Maybe it’s because I’m married myself. Maybe it’s just because I found out about the engagement after everyone else.
Yeah, that has to be it. I feel left out. Not included. Cast aside.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

One carries keys. One carries people. Guess which is worth more.

This is the value of my car according to Kelly Blue Book.
This is the value of a fucking purse.
Can someone tell me why a purse is worth $3,634.99 MORE than a car? A FUCKIN PURSE! Just for the record, they're the same color. So that's not the reason. I mean, does the purse have a power seat and a rear defroster? I didn't think so. Or an MP3 player? Or fucking wheels?

To quote an internet meme:
I don't want to live on this planet anymore.