Sometimes I'm an ASS

Sometimes my ignorance shines through, exploding in a foux pas of epic proportions. This happened yesterday, though, thankfully, it was in the safety of my own home.
Over the summer, New York got a new governor because our old one, Eliot Spitzer, was revealed to be a pedophile. Oops! Stepping up to fill the position was David A. Patterson, a quality politician working hard (though falling short) to fix New York’s budget.
The other day, Governor Patterson was giving a televised speech when I remarked, “Damn, that guy is squinty.” Both of my parents turned to me, silent and stunned. “You’re joking, right?” my dad asked. My mom remained silent for a little longer before saying, “He’s blind.”
Oops!
I couldn’t stop laughing for about fifteen minutes straight. I felt like such a jerk. I had no idea that our governor is legally blind. The whole process of his instatement happened so quickly, I hardly had a chance to learn his physical biological record. Still, how did I not know this? I suppose I could have been a little more on top of things. I’m now obsessive about watching the news, not just because the DNC national convention is happening but because apparently there’s been talk of Governor Patterson’s eye operation.

"What once was lost has now been found..."

Myapologies for not posting these past couple of days but I've been on a miniature quest for lost relics of unquantifiable value.

I'm usually pretty good at finding things quickly. It's rare that I misplace something longer than a few days. In fact, my friends usually recruit me to find objects in their own rooms that they have misplaced. Thus, I've been a bit out of sorts in trying to find my string lights
as well as - I later discovered was misplaced - my passport. I wracked my brain and tore it apart trying desperately to think of where these items could be before reverting to a tactic I had never thought worked. I thought hard about where I had left it last. My criticism of this has
always been “Well, if I could remember where I had it last, it wouldn't be lost.” Also, I had already done this and was still unable to find what I was looking for. Yet I tried again, reverse remembering why I had put it where I had (a shelf under a canvas box), what it actually looked like and why I would have thought to move it. IT WORKED!

My passport I had moved to a more secure location. I remembered this first then recalled that I had put it inside my money belt then inside... my trunk!

One down. One to go.

With the string lights, this process did not work. I had not seen these things since January. The last place I could picture them was in another state. Finding them really consisted of looking in the one place I hadn't. I hadn't checked this place yet because it was dusty and difficult to reach. Of course, this is where I found my string lights. Go figure. I guess this means my skills of detection are back.

"There's something lost that can't be found..."

I began sorting through all my junk to find the good stuff that’s coming with me to school. With the miraculous wonders that are space bags, I managed to fit all my bedding into a neat little cube.
During the excavation of my room, I was unable to find a set of string lights that I absolutely love. This saddens me as 1) those string light are the perfect level of light for watching movies, and 2) I CAN’T FIND THEM! I hate it when I can’t find something in a small space, like a drawer or my room. It should be there, wherever you left it, yet that spot always manages to hide behind some random materialization of antimatter. There are some typical items that get sucked into this vortex; keys and socks especially, as well as phone numbers, tools, and other items. Apparently we can add string lights to that list.

Mild Fuzz

This morning I popped open the grill and torched all my flash cards and notes from my G.R.E. review. It was SO satisfying to see the source of my summer’s frustration go up in flames. It brought back memories of my first academically destructive bon fire. Closely following were my memories of a bon fire that was put to a stop by the fuzz. Actually, it was more like ambitious campus security officers but for the sake of this story, it was the fuzz.
I and some friends had been destroying all evidence of the classes that had made our semesters a living hell with a cleansing fire in the long-jump pit behind our dorm. Out of nowhere, we were ambushed on both sides by two public safety vehicles. That meant that all two of the public safety officers on duty were on our butts. I think it was the shuttle bus driver who called us in. What a square! Anyway, one of them was so excited to bust us while the other thought we were hilarious. The one who wanted to bust us wanted all of our names, but I stepped forward and gave my name, explaining that the whole thing had been my idea (which it was) and that he didn’t need to know who anyone else was. It was kind of a Jedi moment; “You don’t need to know their names.” This made the guy really angry since he knew we weren’t afraid. He called in the situation in to H.Q. (i.e. the public safety office). The person who answers also thinks we’re hilarious and gives no validation to the dude who wants to bust us.
Long story short, in spite of the fact that I gave some lip to the public safety officer who wanted us reported (my argument was that the paper was “biodegradable” and, thus, not litter), we were doing nothing wrong as a) it was our own property being destroyed and, b) eagle scouts couldn’t have built and put out a fire any better if Smokey the Bear was guiding them every step of the way.
By keeping my cool, I managed to keep me and my friends from being reported to their respective deans and having our parents called. For once I was the hero and it was all thanks to the confidence granted by a controlled dose of pyromania. Jedi mind tricks helped, too.

... You should see the other guy.

Today I faced the G.R.E. It was a blood bath. I WON! Suck it G.R.E.! At the end of the exam, when you’re given the choice to cancel your score or view it, I learned that I did better than I thought I would. I’m pretty proud of myself.
This weekend I’m burning my study notes and flash cards. Fire, I bleive (and as my friends have learned), is very clensing.

Testing my Patience

This is it. Tomorrow is D-Day. Tomorrow I take the G.R.E.
I’m not too worried. Really, I’m not. It’s not because I think I’ll do exceptionally well, in fact, I have no idea how I’ll do. I just know it’s going to do me no good to worry. Also, I’ve already conceived the worst possible outcome of the exam. That would be that I completely fail and don’t get into my top choices of grad school programs in the United States. This doesn’t bother me that much since my second choice of schools is actually in Canada and they don’t require the G.R.E. for admission because the colder the climate, the warmer your heart. Also, there are two reasons I don’t think this would actually happen. 1) My complete failure on the G.R.E. isn’t sufficient reason for a school to turn me down as the G.R.E. merely tests one's ability to take the G.R.E.. My academic record speaks for itself. I completely bombed my S.A.T.s and still got into one of the best schools in the country because the admissions office was able to look beyond that score and knew I wouldn’t be a risk. 2) Based on the rules of probability, since I’ve already conceived this possibility it is that much less likely to happen out of all other possible outcomes.
After the four hour ordeal, I plan to treat myself with tea, shopping and a healthy dose of psychotherapy.
See you on the flip side.

Chévere: *

A few moments ago I viewed something truly amazing.

While watching Mythbusters (one of the best shows on television) on TLC, a channel aired in English, I saw a commercial in Spanish. The commercial was a car commercial for Infinity and, more importantly, there was nothing distinctly Latino about it. It was not “targeting” a consumer group with a gimmick in any way other than the language in which it was spoken. The man in the commercial wasn't driving to a quinceañera or through el barrio. It was the same commercial that would have been used in English. The only difference was the voice over.

I don't know if airing this commercial on TLC was an accident but I'd like to hope it wasn't. If it wasn't, infinity is presuming that people who speak Spanish watch English speaking channels. It takes note not of a non-English speaking population in the United States, but of a bilingual one, an ever growing one that will soon, I believe, make our nation virtually a bilingual one. With actors like James Roday, one of the stars of Psych, (whose real name is James Rodriguez), coming forward as Latino is a good example of the growing importance of a Latino presence in media.

This excites me for two reasons. 1) Way to go Infinity for not using a gimmick. Those “cultural gimmicks” are the reason I couldn't stand some of the earlier McDonalds “I'm lovin' it” adds, as they clearly and specifically targeted an “urban” audience (read: black/ African-American) or “general” audience (read: white). 2) Infinity and TLC recognize that language is not a barrier; it's a bridge.

Let's face it, Mythbusters is awesome, no matter what language you speak. But then, this could have all been an accident.

*Chévere: old-school Newyorican** word for cool, fantastic

** Newyorican: a New Yorker of Puertorrican decent.

It's the simple things in life: Part II

Some things in this wold make no sense. If you recall, I began to explore this in my previous post. Granted, some of those nonsensical things are a good source of frustration others, however, bring pin sized gifts of whimsy to our lives. Like Nicolas Cage.

I'm not sure who it was that first thought, “Nick Cage; now there's an action star!” I have to say to that person, THANK YOU, whoever you are, for bringing joy to my life. It kind of makes me feel like I could some day be an action star. Also, as was pointed out to me by an extremely intuitive friend of mine, whoever thought the format of Proper Noun Adjective for a film title is a genius and should be rewarded.

Work It Out

Since starting to go to the gym this summer, I’ve come to appreciate that people go to the gym for many different reasons. Some people are trying to lose weight, some are training for a sport of some kind, others are just trying to keep active and healthy. Then there is the rare breed of gym patron: the T.V. watchers. Yes, I’m talking of course of those who use the treadmill or whatever other cardio machine, it would seem, in order to watch television. Don’t you have a t.v. at home? Wouldn’t it waste less time and resources if you had stayed home on your couch as you would have gotten the same amount of exercise as you are at the gym? I suppose there is the possibility that said individuals don’t have television sets and are just trying to catch up on current events. There’s also the need to get out and about rather than become a shut-in. There is one woman, though, whom I’ve seen on several occasions actually engaging with the show that she’s watching, getting angry at chefs for giving poor instructions or disagreeing with talk show hosts. To her I would say, if you’re going to get combative about it, just stay home. She has some serious issues to work out.

Traffic Update

My driving lessons with Pa have been progressing. Today was my fourth time driving with my dad since I got my learners permit. He dared to suggest I actually try to drive on actual roads in the Bronx. What is he, CRAZY? As soon as putting my foot on the gas, I would have instantaneously crapped my pants. No, no. I decided to keep to the conveniently constructed driving course at the Whitestone Cinemas. Allow me to explain just how massive the parking lot to this place is; it used to be a drive-in theater with THREE SCREENS. There are no less than five stop signs and four speed bumps. What kind of extreme parking are they expecting to go on here? Not that I mind. This works really well to set up many different driving situations. There is some random company there, though. In addition to the few matinee movie-goers we encounter at 10 in the morning, yesterday there were two fire trucks testing their hoses and ladders. Today there was some random dude sitting on the side of the road eating pancakes.
What makes the experience a bit more enjoyable and makes me feel like less of a looser for not knowing how to drive is that there are ALWAYS other people learning how to drive there. It’s kind of a rite of passage for anyone who grew up here; when you learn to drive, you go to the Whitestone.
I was particularly proud of myself for being able to parallel park today. We used giant plastic garbage bins as stand-ins for cars. Granted, my dad was shouting instructions at me from outside the car, but I did it! I’m thinking next week I’ll be ready for real, honest to God, New York City roads.

Made for Comfort

I find myself in a bit of an awkward situation. My parents want me to be dating a friend of mine. There are several issues I have with this. 1) Eeew. I don’t like the idea of my parents being involved in my romantic life. 2) I’m not physically attracted to this person. 3) It’s not just my parents. Apparently my other friend’s mom and a couple of my friends think we should be together.
It’s rather frustrating that this thought had been planted in my head. This person whom my parents want me to be with (we’ll call him Person X) is actually someone I used to practically be in-love with. He had a girlfriend at the time, so I never pursued him. We remained good friends but never anything more. When I went away to school absence made my heart grow fonder. I always looked forward to seeing him whenever I could when I was home telling myself that there was no point in wanting him. About a year and a half ago, I learned that he had broken up with his girlfriend a few months prior. This reawakened my crush came back with a vengeance. I stewed in this until we saw each other again later that year. What I found when we finally saw each other again, though, was that I was no longer attracted to him. Was it because I could finally go after him? Or was it his recently receding hair line? I’m guessing it was the superficial latter reason as nothing else about him had changed.
Further frustration comes when I try to understand why I’m no longer attracted to him. I don’t want to believe I’m as shallow as I think I am (though I probably am), so I wonder if maybe it has something to do with how hard I worked to get over him. I think about how comfortable I am with him and get even more frustrated; it would be really convenient for me to like him. He fits my life like an old shoe. But I’m not sure I’m ready for an old shoe in my life yet. I do so love stilettos.

Read it and weep

Recently, a friend and I were discussing our love of books. This is not to say that we enjoy reading, which we do, but that we absolutely love the qualities of books as objects. Everything about a book is absolutely wonderful: the spine, the smell, the weight, the binding and the sheets of paper with a multitude of variation in type face. To hold a book in your hands and turn the pages is one of the most soothing sensations in the world. I remember when digital books first became available; people were able to download novels and news papers onto their palm pilots. For a little while people were saying that because of this, books would become out-moded, that they would eventually be replace by this new digitized form. That really upset me. I tried to imagine a world without book shops or even the massive conglomerates, or a room with a shelf of neatly lines data pads. What kind of a future was that? One without dust or paper cuts, I suppose. Fortunately that didn’t happen. I think those few who actually purchased the program to download a copy of Huckleberry Finn or whatever other of the few books available in 1999, realized a) that the font of their palm pilots was too small, b) they looked like a crazy person staring at an electronic devise on which they weren’t playing a video game, and c) it just wasn’t as satisfying as physically turning a page, dog-earing it or lovingly placing a book mark (which I collect) on the page you know you’ll come back to. Books are sacred, precious, and I hope that never changes.

Driving me up a wall

Like many other fathers of daughters, I think my dad stopped knowing what to do with me the day I started wearing a bra. He really has no idea how to interact with me in any normal every day situation. He either treats me like a toddler or a potential rape victim. There exists no in between where I'm a real person. There used to be only one way we could ever bond: action movies. I love action movies, as does he, and watching one together is one of the few ways we're able to be in each other's company for several hours in a row. With my new driving permit, though, I've found a new way for us to interact together: driving.

Since I got my permit last week, my dad has been teaching me to drive. He's pretty good at it. He's a post man, so he actually drives a truck for a living every day. He's the person who taught me mom to drive when they were first dating. It's one of the few times, I've noticed, that he's able to treat me as a novice, as a normal person rather than a role. It's nice. Maybe we'll both grow through this experience.

Weep not for the memories

Do you ever relive memories? I do. Constantly. With as graphic an imagination as I have, it’s a bit more intense than a flash back. Sometimes they can be good, fun even, like when I recall some shenanigan with my friends or when I first heard a good joke. Usually, though, it’s something embarrassing that I would rather never remember until the end of my days. It’s always something mundane that triggers it, and object or a sound. Sometimes it’s nothing at all, the memory just works its way from the inner most reaches of my mind to the forefront, like an obnoxious patron bustling its way to the front of the line, busting onto the scene like a diva. I begin to experience the memory with pain, physically cringe at the recollection, moan in pain and frustration, mutter the words that could have altered the situation in my favor. (This becomes a little awkward if I’m in public or other people happen to be around.) Rapidly, every detail of the experience will come rushing back to me. The episode will then play over and over in my head like a scratched record. It takes a little while for the memories to die down, and just when I think I’ve put them back in their rightful place, they pop back up for the rest of the day.
Skeletons in my closet are one thing, but these phantoms in my brain will never be exercised.

There goes the neighborhood

There are very few white people who are ever in my neighborhood. The most common kind of white person you’ll see around here is the odd cop or fire fighter as well the occasional social worker. They all live somewhere else, of course. Those that live here are mostly crack heads and a few Morman missionaries. All of these people are male and single. Thus, imagine the community’s surprise when a white family moved in down the street. As wrong and politically incorrect as it is, it has become a mutual pass time among all my neighbors to collect and pass on information about them amongst ourselves. It’s kind of like a game. I was finally able to add my bit to the vat of gossip when I overheard the father of this family talking on his cell phone. Apparently, he has what sounds like a Scandinavian accent. That only gives me more questions than answers.
I think of them as pioneers; the White Younger family of 2008. Free at last, free at last.

Are you one, are you two... are you EIGHTY?

Today was my grandmother’s 80th birthday. We think. At least, this year her birthday was today. Officially she was born on August 9th, 1928 but that’s only what her birth certificate says. Like many people born in rural locations, her birth was never actually reported to government officials until someone had to go into town for something. It went something like, “Oh, the mule needs a new shoe and could you tell them we have another baby?” Due to this, the actual date of her birth is debatable. In addition to this, her native home of Puerto Rico has endured many a hurricane. These annual tropical storms destroy many crops but rarely do they do much harm to buildings as people there have learned from experience and build everything out of solid concrete. While buildings aren’t damaged, everything gets flooded, including the basements of government buildings that hold all sorts of records, including births. Thus, when the second copy of her birth certificate was written up, it had to be written from memory of an already disputed date.
I’m fairly certain there’s another unspoken reason my grandmother’s birthday is celebrated on any number of different days in the month of August. There’s an old superstition that jealous rivals and witches will curse you so that some terrible misfortune will befall you on your birthday. If you make your birthday on a different day, you can out smart them. Without getting into too much detail, I’ll simply say that it is plausible that there are people who would want to curse my grandmother. Either way, today she turned 80 and doesn’t look a day over 70, so she’s managed to out-fox all ill-wishers thus far. What can I say? She’s a pretty foxy lady.

Drifting to the next level

Finally, I have my learner’s permit. I got it yesterday on 34th street, Harold Square. I'm not sure why I waited so long to do something so simple. Myabe it was because I didn't want to give part of my soul to the D.M.V.
In addition to making you wait an inordinate amount of time, the D.M.V. sets you up for an odyssey. Fortunately, I wore my Berkenstocks, so I was ready for anything. I got out without any scrapes or bruises but the friend I went with wasn't so luckey. He ended having quite an odyssey. He didn't not get to take the written test at the same time as me because he didn’t have any I.D. with proof of age. Apparently, even though your state I.D. has your birthday on it and counts for all 6 points of identification, it doesn’t actually prove your age to the D.M.V. even though they're the ones who gave it to you! Go figure. If only he had been a member of the Mohawk tribe of Canada and had his membership card and birth certificate. He would have been set. Instead, he called his dad to bring him his passport. And did you know that your permit costs money? Those miserable curs charged me $58! The dumbest charge on my recipt was for "photo documentation retrieval", which consisted of the person giving me my permit to copy and paste the photo taken for state I.D. three years ago. My friend "Jason the Argonot" happened to finished his test and get his number right when their credid card machines went down, so he had to get out of line, go downstairs, finde a cash machine, go back upstairs, get a new number and wait to pay for his permit.
When I came home with the flimsy slip of paper that represented my temporary permit, I wanted to post it on the refrigerator. I haven’t been so proud of a piece of paper since elementary school. I settled for tacking it to my bulletin board.
Now, I embark on the epic search for driving classes. I’m not feeling too daunted. I’m sure my days will look like this-> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N2IWxqvsSY8 in no time.

I'll dress you up in my love

Every now and then I need to play dress up. Not just because it’s fun but because I need to a) clean out my closet, b) figure out if I need anything, and c) figure out ways to rework things I already own into new outfits. Since the beginning of the summer, I’ve gotten rid of four bags of clothes, rediscovered a bent, and realized I need four blouses.
Dressing up really triggers the kind of deep joy, the same kind I had when I dressed up as a child. I think that’s why I’m so good at making costumes for myself and others. I’m able to look at objects and recognize the way the material works and am, thus, able to say, “That’s a skirt,” or “Those can be overalls”. I’m proud to say that I’ve been responsible for at least five other people’s costumes for various occasions. What can I say? It’s a gift.

It hurts so good!

Have you ever seen a bad movie that tricked you into watching it by macerating about like it’s a good movie? I don’t just mean the blurb on the back or picture on the front of a DVD. It has good actors, an interesting plot, talented writers, and somehow it just falls short. It’s as though someone said to everyone involved with the film, “Here’s a piece of paper. Here’s a set of scissors. Turn this piece of paper into two piece of paper.” Twenty minutes later there’s still one piece of paper and everyone is like, “I really don’t know what happened.”
I think the ultimate example of this is Elizabethtown. I think I could actually write a short book on all the things wrong with this movie. James Cameron makes good films. That’s not an opinion; it’s a fact. One would assume that a project he felt so passionately about would be excellent. The cast wasn’t the worst; Susan Sarandan and Kirsten Dunst are well trained actors who carefully choose most of their roles. They wouldn’t be in a movie that completed sucked? Right? Then there was Orlando Bloom. Okay, I admit he should have been a big red flag, but he’s no Keanu Reeves, so I gave the film a chance. By the end, I decided that it might have made three separate and fairly decent movies; however, all together it was like a circus train on fire in a war zone.

The Fantastic 4: Rise of the Silver Surfer is another example. Somehow they managed to make one of the most fascinating comic book characters (The Silver Surfer) into one of the most frustratingly boring.

On the other hand, some movies that should be awful actually turn out to be amazing. Case in point: Wanted. To quote John Stewart, “By all accounts, this movie should suck.” The previews and plot set it up to be just another flashy, action packed, special affect ridden monstrosity that would rake in a ton of money during the summer movie season. Yet, there was something almost impossible to place, that made it really good. Granted, the cast (Angelina Jolie, Morgan Freeman and James Macavoy) were all excellent actors, but Elizabethtown managed to slip pass the crap radar all the way to cinemas. I think it had something to do with the way it didn’t take itself too seriously. It was almost as if the movie was saying, “I know this is ridiculous and could never happen, but don’t you wish it could?” It owned its own implausibility and dared audiences to take the journey from start to end.

The third film type that manages to evade quality classification is those that are so “bad”, they loop all the way back around the circle to “good”. Wanted was almost like this, but one of the best examples of this is Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, i.e. "Indiana Jones 4". It was so dead-pan, over the top and serious that it ended up being completely hilarious. I found myself guessing the most outrageous direction the plot could go and time and time again found myself being correct. I felt vindicated and entertained. Without a doubt, the films that best demonstrates this quality of film were made in the 1980’s. Earth Girls are Easy, Night of the Comet, anything with Muppets, the list goes on and on for weeks of flicks to satisfy every mood and audience.

Pimp My Convenience Store

Today I remembered a great exchange between me and my friend as we exited Duane Reede.

Friend: Wow! They have a whole liter of water for 99 cents! I should buy that and drag it around with me. It would make thirsty people mad jealous. That shit would be pimpin'.

Me: Totally! Hydration is the new thug look of the summer!

F: (laughing) Oh, you're like a writer for SNL... only funny.

M: Ooo. That was bad.

It's treasures like that one that get me through the day.

Not exactly Jimminy Cricket

Recently I said to a friend

“I think that in the soul of every 20-something woman there is a pubescent boy. Mine is named Frank.”

For a long time, the little sprite inside me that made me love comic books and find words like gaelic funny (because it's gay and lick at the same time!) remained nameless. As ethereal and mischievous as Ariel in Shakespeare's The Tempest, it has been with me since around the time I turned sixteen. Around the time I began to become a woman this little creature hatched from its shell like a deformed velociraptor, the most deadly and awesome of all baby dinosaurs. I didn't realize it at the time, but all the work I put into trying to appear normal feminine during middle school and my freshman year of high school, all that repression was actually sustaining the heat of incubation for my little Jurassic time bomb. I hid him as well as I could, but it's kind of hard to keep a velociraptor under wraps.

Like a little guardian angel, or Hell banished fallen angel, he's there for all the testosterone ridden, angst filled, sex spoofed moments in my life. Every time I watch Boondock Saints or The Punisher, he's there. Every time I rock out to misogynist music, he's there. Every time DC comics publishes a new Batman graphic novel, he's there. Every time I decide not to shower for a couple of days, he's there. He's the inspiration for every Mortal Kombat reference I've ever made. Every time I utter the words, “That's what she said,” he gets bonus points; he's saving them up to mail in for a new dirt bike.

Little known fact: Every time a “Your mom” joke is told, an inner teenage boy gets his wings.

It was this past semester that I finally named him. After watching Donnie Darko for the first time that I realized that Frank had always been his name, I just didn't know it. I realized this after seeing Frank's Halloween costume and thaught, “That's totally something that my Frank would wear.”

In addition to taking part in all the teenage boy things I do, he also tells me to do things. This summer, he's telling me to go see Death Race, starring his favorite actor/seedy Brit, Jason Statham. I must admit, that request may be one I don't grant, simply because of budget issues. I've told him to settle down, but he just turned up his Marshal Mathers LP.

Scraps of memory

In the past couple of years I’ve cultivated a great love for scrapbooking. I blame my parents for turning me into an incurable pack rat. I’ve been getting better at curbing my collection of scraps and junk, but this fledgling hobby of scrapbooking only encourages it. Now, if I see a paper bag or particularly lovely candy wrapper, I think of how easily those scraps can be glued down into a book. It began last year when my mother came to me with an assignment: to scrapbook for three people leaving her office. I made three scrapbooks in one week. The rest is history.

I think scrapbooks are a good way to keep your crap organized, and we all know how much I love crap and organization. That both can be held in my hands at the same time is a dream come true. The process of making it is also so satisfying. A page needs to not only hold papers and photos but present them in a way that best captures to mood of the event. It's meant to help you remember, but in putting it together you have to litterlally re-member an entire event, like some kind of Frankenstien monster, with pieces and bits dug up from the corners of my suite cases and pockets. It's messy, dirty and time consumeing and I love it.
Right now I’m in the process of compiling all my flat, gluable junk from my semester abroad into the king of all scrapbooks. This puppy will encompass five months, three continents, and more photos than I can count. I’m about half way done. The end result is sure to be monumental and extremely flamable. It’s sure to be one B.F.B. (Big Fuckin’ Book).

What's so funny?

There's no denying it; I am a HUGE fan of Batman. It's more than the character that fascinates me, it's the entire world he exists in. Thus, I was monumentally happy that Christopher Nolan did justice to the hero and world I so loved when he directed Batman Begins. The moment I walked out of the movie theater, I was already anticipating a sequel. Nolan's follow-up, The Dark Knight “delivers”, in every sense of the word. This time, my friends and I emerged from theater shell shocked, asking each other “What just happened?” The world created in the first film is essentially exploded, stretching up and out, busting beyond the boarders of imagination. I felt physically and emotionally exhausted, fully psychologically challenged.

I had actually promised someone I'd wait to see the movie with him, but saw it on opening night instead. I thought about when I saw it again, except I realized that I would be able to watch it a second time as if I had never seen it before, simply because my mind had so much to process the first time.

Completing Nolan's vision are several spectacular actors who have done an amazing job showing the depth and growth of the characters they portray. Gary Oldman as James Gorden and Christian Bale as Bruce Wayne/The Batman were particular strokes of genius in terms of casting. Once in a life time brilliance, however, came in Heath Ledger's part, in the role of The Joker. It was the subtleties in physicality that made his performance; the slight limp, the hunch, the incessant licking of the inside of his mouth, as if the scars on his face had just been cut and he still had the taste of blood in his mouth. Ledger's portrayal of The Joker was every bit as frightening as a psychopath who lives in Nolan's Gotham should be.

Many critics have said much of the same. I believe, however, that the most frightening aspect The Joker's character became a reality after the unfortunate death of Heath Ledger. Once Ledger died, there was no actor to stand for the role. In every interview, The Joker, rather than Ledger, is referred to as not to associate a tragedy with the film. With the absence of someone to represent The Joker, only The Joker can stand for himself, making it as if the character himself is real rather than a part played by an actor. Ledger's performance has a good deal of Oscar buzz surrounding it. It's a little ironic. Almost funny.