Batman Begins to get really, really, HOT.

Having finally seen the film, as most of you who have come within 20 feet (cyber or actual) of me know... I now feel qualified to officially weigh in on the "drool factors" of the various professional hot people who have played Batman. Sure, some people find it more functional to comment on the quality of the movies, or the horrific culture of beauty and fame from whence bad comic book movies come, but everyone's already done that, and this site is about what I want.

Without further ado:

Adam West: Not worth my time. Oldish, pot bellied, looked like my high-school math teacher.

Michael Keaton: His official motto was, I think, "Hey, at least I'm not Adam West!" There is something terrible and wrong about casting a comedic actor as a smoove and cunning billionaire playboy. Would someone kindly explain to me what all the uber-boobed babes in these movies would want with Mr. Mom? Too old and too "pretty okay looking for an old guy". His voice, however, was the best so far. He gets the "sexy batman voice award" because he didn't have to force it an octave lower to sound menacing. Overall... A major casting flaw perpetrated, no doubt, by the usually infallible Tim Burton. Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice!

Val Kilmer: Vast improvement over Johnny Dangerously. You want brooding, disturbed, dapper... volatile... who better than the man that could pass on the street for Jim Morrison? Only thing hotter would have been if they could have gotten Jim Morrison. Okay, maybe not. But Kilmer's lips are to die for, and that's all you can see when he's in that Batman mask.... and am I imagining things, or did we get to see alot of shots of his Batbutt in that one?

George Clooney: A gigantic hiccup in the greater Hollywood hit-making machine. Sort of like it got drunk, passed out, and woke up in bed with some nobody J. Crew model... rather than an actual actor. Clooney is one of these men that I am supposed to think is gorgeous, but can't seem to give much of a crap about. Probably because he has no personality in real life.

Christian Bale: Jackpot. This kid is golden. I have long been a lobbyist for this actor. He is immaculately gorgeous, has a perfect nose, and TAH DAH! He can act. His face also, though attractive, allows for a sort of menace that not a single one of the other Bats had. He does, however, get the Batvoice rasberry award for trying way too damn hard to sound scary. I couldn't tell at times if he was talking or burping. This small flaw is made up for ten-fold, however, when we get to see him all bruised-lookin' and without a shirt. Rock on, Hollyweird. You finally figured out what chicks dig.*

*I would like to add as a sidenote that I fully support the casting of a pretty boy in the role of the Scarecrow. I have mentioned this on other blogs, but there's something so disturbing about really being attracted to the most hideous character in the film. That's a priceless mindf*ck (pardon me).

Anyway, loved this film, except for Katie Holmes who I think is a wretched actress -- entirely too cute and cushy to play this role...

So there you have it. Want movie reviews? Go someplace else! Want professional hotness reviews? The Peeling Onion knows all...

One un-job, please.

I suppose I would like to have a real job, but I figure that this carries with it the very REAL risk that I may be forced to do real work.

When I am forced to do work, I become agitated, irritable... like some silver-backed Gorrilla... but less grey... and much smaller. I sort of furrow my brow, grunt to myself, and in lieu of pounding my chest, I sort of clunk office supplies around, or handle other work-related objects gruffly. I'm fairly sure I'm much too old to be having temper tantrums, but for some reason, this doesn't stop me. In my old age, I have mastered the art of making sure I'm the only one who knows I'm having a temper tantrum.

So I started to wonder what my dream job would be. Get paid, do no work... Found out that it's nearly impossible to contemplate anymore. The adult mind levels too many practical considerations against real imagination. Best I could do? Writer. I would like to be paid to sit in a room typing my opinions of things all day. No matter how great this sounds, though, there's got to be something even better. Writing is, afterall, an arduous task, and there was a time in my life that I said I wanted to be a belly dancer (more exactly, "boobie dancer," but I was three, and MEANT belly dancer).

Where has that ambition gone? Why can't I be a belly dancer? Bad knees? Smoker's cough? Maybe just lack of imagination. Whatever happened to suspension of disbelief?

So let's have it folks: What is your dream job? And not just the best one you're qualified to have. I'm talkin' boobie dancin'.

More Poemetry

I suppose "poemetry" is something like "telemetry" or "telepathy."

Case in point: Jane's Addiction's "Ritual de lo Habitual". Everyone knows it, everyone's heard it, most people were sick of it by the time they were 18. Recently, however, I decided to revisit it, and have been listening obsessively ever since. This is a fine album. Had I not begun to research poetry, though, I would never have noticed how fine.

Three Days: The most overplayed song in high school from this album. It was everyone's favorite song for, I suppose, mention of candles and incense, and possibly for it's extreme length, which meant infinitely less "getting up to mess with the stereo" for stoned teenagers.

What I'd never noticed was WHY the song is so long. As I listen to it now, I hear this: Starts out with that droning, almost medatitive intro... ritualistic overtones, then builds and builds into a total dervish almost imperceptibly with a constant, or at least recurring drumbeat and bassline that can only be described as "tribal". The tribal element comes up over and over and over in the album... "Habitually," perhaps? "Classic Girl" has a very similar drumbeat, for example.

I'm not a music critic, and I am probably doing a very poor job of explaning why I'm so impressed with these connections.

It has something to do with this, though: T.S. Eliot said that art exists as a substitute for religion, Joseph Campbell called artists, poets in particular, modern-day shaman. Kearouac was forever on about the divinity of fellow writers and friends who were obsessed with ideas as he was. So there's one question. To what degree is spirituality involved in art or the act of being an artist?

I started listening, essentially, to this entire album, as I would read a poem: Searching for common threads, connections to the title, images and sounds that stood out... clues, clues, clues... and discovered it to basically be an aural book of poetry. I would NEVER have come across this had I not learned how to enjoy poetry. So that's the second question: Is proper understanding of one artform sufficient to appreciate them all? If so, what does that say about the interconnectedness, and apparent irrelevance of preference of one form over another?

This is a little deeper than I'd normally get, but this issue is really preoccupying me. Ignore my clumsy wording; my brain is going a mile a minute.

I like stuff... and words.

I have been completely lazy... Didn't even change my quote o' the day. I have an ongoing life issue with this. No matter what the situation is, if I find something new, I obsess over it, ravage it, carry it around everywhere, talk about it constantly, then... Abandon it entirely to the overgrowth. I don't know why I do it. Maybe I have idea ADD.

The latest fad in my brain is reduction. No, not reduction OF my brain, but rather the "fad" I seem to see all around me propounding that the answer to everything is to minimize. We should have less things, we should have less people, we should have less and less in smaller and smaller sizes.

(Or, if you're talking cell phones and electronics, we should have more and more in smaller sizes... That's the one area where my theory breaks down. I think even the nomadic tribes of Himalayas have camera phones... Got a wrong number call from the Amazon...)

I have this theory that simpler is NOT always better. Humans have such a rich, layered inner life that it is marginally ridiculous to ask them to give up the material possessions in which it manifests itself. I'm a big consumer, it's true. I have even developed a sentimental attachment to my truck, but what gets me is that this trend towards subsistence living doesn't stop at material goods.

Even poetry has fallen into this trap. While there are still (thank god) lovely poets out there plugging away at oozing, gorgeous pieces overbrimming with delicious language and images,
there is a great push towards rigorous minimalism a la William Carlos Williams.

What in the HELL kind of poem is "The Red Wheelbarrow" anyway? I'd papercut him to death with it, were he not already dead... *deep breath* As you can see, I'm not a huge fan. I respect the man, sure. But what is art if not florid? It's a methodological stance, I suppose... A matter of preference. In this case, however, I prefer not to read W.C. Williams.

I prefer the indulgence, abandonment, and all my trifling knick-knacks. Everyone else can throw theirs away if they want, but I'm keeping mine. And I'm gonna name the stupid truck.

No Quitter.

I am a smoker. I will have to quit someday, but today is not that day.

I would love to get my hands on the self-important, meddling yahoos that made people think the Ramsey/Hennepin County smoking bans were a good idea. I am not an advocate of cancer, nor do I think that a lack of evidence supporting the dangers of second hand smoke is synonymous with it necessarily being good for you, BUT...

There are major flaws in the statistics used to back up the "movement," and if you ask me, having to take out radio adds to get people to come to the cities following said ban is just sad. Take away people's ability to enjoy a beer and a smoke simultaneously and then beg them to come spend money anyway? Pathetic. What cracks me up the most is that after all their huffing and puffing that the ban would have no noticable effect on business revenues, bars and restaraunts are now having to cry poverty.

Here's my take on the situation:

1) There is no way that the amount of non-smokers that would be induced to begin patronizing area bars by a smoking ban could possibly offset the number of stubborn smokers that would be induced to just drink at home... or in Washington County (a stone's throw!).

2) Having worked many years as a waitress, a bartender, and the like, I can say that the primary, regular clientele of most bars are not health fanatics. This includes the people who work there. In fact, I would be willing to bet that unlike in the general population, smokers outnumber non-smokers in the bar and restaraunt industry by at least 2 to 1, if not more.
In this sense, the ban has been effected to serve the needs of the minority rather than the majority, and the activist claims that said ban was intended to protect the employees are largely moot. Most of those employees are pissed that they now have to go outside to smoke, just like the rest of us.

In short, it seems to me the whole thing is just an exercise in testing how much the general population will put with when it comes to the government trying to force them to live healthily. The only law more ridiculous is the seat-belt law. "We are the state government, and we demand that you keep yourself safe." Huh? I will stand firmly behind this law as soon as there is a plague of innocent bystanders being killed because some other person forgot to wear their seatbelt. I firmly believe in seatbelts. I wear mine religiously. But I will also defend steadfastly anyone's right to be an idiot and not wear one without fear of citation. The government is so hard up for money, it's ridiculous. Tax fast food. That stuff's terrible for you. I smoke cigarettes, and I won't even eat that stuff. Caustic.

Good grief. Maybe the mafia will get into "smoke easies" and show the government for chumps yet again. I shan't hold my breath... which I can't do for very long anyway... ;)

I am what's wrong with kids these days.

It is now time for me to talk about my dog. She is a medium-sized, black, fuzzy mutt who answers to the name "Kaela." I spell it with an "ae" because I could never understand, for the life of me, why people persisted in spelling it name "Kayla," when it is obviously derived from Eastern European names like "Mikaela." It's that standard pop-culture butchery of language, and it's excruciating.

"No, people, 'Hooked on Phonics' does NOT work for me."

But now I've gone from pets to pet peeves. Back to the dog.

I don't have kids, so she's it. She has terrible breath and kind of smells in general; she hasn't had a bath in some time. She doesn't like baths, and I don't like giving her baths. We have an accord. I can't stand looking at her wet, pathetic face staring at me like, "why are you doing this to me?"

She also jumps up on people, sleeps on the furniture, goes in and out of the house approximately 20,000 times a day, demands (and gets) treats for simple tasks like peeing, and basically does whatever she wants. She is a very naughty, very adorable, very happy puppy dog, and I am a sucker for a cute face.

But if I allow a creature as submissive as a dog to run the show, what the hell will happen to me when I have actual human babies to take care of? Consider it notice: A few years down the road, when you're in the supermarket watching some poor woman try to control her horrendously ill-behaved children with cookies and caffiene... that's probably me.

Restlessness

For the most part, I am a fairly laid-back person. I am not fond of work or busyness in any way, shape, or form. If I am forced by outside obligations to be in constant motion, I become chronically bitchy and generally unpleasant to be around.

The problem is this: When I finally get my space and my time back -- for example, when school's out for the summer -- I don't know what to do with it. Even if there' s not very much empty space, I set about immediately trying to fill it with things. I am a slave, perhaps, to being a slave. I fear that I may, like some poor, broken circus critter, have come to like my cage.

So, I'm thinking I might just leave the country. Or the state. Or the planet. Move to some lazy place where the cable programming is interesting and/or colorful enough to watch 24 hours a day.

This "rattle" besets me from time to time, and I rarely do anything about it. I want to tell my husband we're gonna buy a conversion van, change our names (and the dog's), and blow this popsicle stand, but where to go?

Maybe to the bar. Ladies' night! Free beer for me!! Woo Hoo!!! Sometimes the postmodern life calls for a postmodern cocktail. I wonder what that might be... the malt beverage, perhaps?

So, what causes this, does this happen to anyone else, and what in the HELL do you do about it?