Saw this floating around Facebook, thought it was worth sharing with everybody.
Merry Christmas! Have a happy and safe holiday weekend.
Month: December 2011 (page 2 of 5)
Every now and again, life catches me off-guard. It’s times like these I need to turn to contributions from you, the audience. If you’ve ever read the Opinions section of the local newspaper, or the comments of an article on the Huffington Post, you know that sometimes the readers contribute just as much as the established writers. Thus, I present to you the Crank File.
Today’s Crank File entry comes to us courtesy of Monica A. Flink. Enjoy!
The month of December for me is normally a flurry of gift purchasing and creating profanities that make the ears of Baby Jesus and anyone else in a five mile radius bleed to describe the bitch that just took my parking space. But while I am busy roasting some jerk’s chestnuts over an open fire when he got the last Xbox 360 complete with Fable III, I find myself thinking of previous Christmases, previous years not spent quite so upset and stressed out, when the only problem on my to do list was being good for twenty four consecutive days.
Bet you wished you hadn’t cut me off now, numb nuts.
Aside from brief stints of nearly burning down the house by using a friend’s hair, I was generally a good kid, and as such got exactly what I wanted for Christmas. And what did every red-blooded, American, white, upper-middle-class child want for Christmas? Barbie, of course. I had all kinds of these dolls, from the ones with glow-in-the-dark dresses to the one year that I had obviously sacrificed a goat to the right deity because I was presented with the Happy Holidays Barbie, completely resplendent in her green velvet gown and perfect platinum curls.
Barbie was my best friend for many years, especially years when I had no friends at all. Not because I was smelly or disfigured, but because there were no girls in the neighborhood my age and I was a pretty damn weird kid. But she was the best. She never got mad at me for liking the same boys she did, who would turn out to be gay as adults anyway. She always wanted to play what I wanted to play. Most importantly, Barbie made me bisexual.
It’s the cast of The L Word, with less drama.
When most groups protest Barbie, especially the ones made in the 80’s, the main argument is that Barbie projects an unreachable stereotype. That no girl can be that beautiful, that thin, that boob-tastic, that plastic perfect. And that showing girls that pillar of consummate femininity was going to make them stressed out, anorexic basket cases who were always going to strive for perfection and look down upon those who did not reach that standard. Yet nobody protests airbrushing…
I never really had that problem, mostly because I had no hopes of ever looking like Barbie. Dumpy redheads who had never gotten Midge doll rarely thought of themselves as Barbie wanna-bes. Besides, I was my own woman, and I told Barbie so while we were busy training to be fighter pilots on Mars, or singing opera for the masses in Sydney.
If anyone had known how I was playing with my Barbies, I’m pretty certain that they would have started protesting for that reason too. Normally, Barbie and I had male dates. She liked GI Joe, and I liked He-Man, which was perfect because Barbie was into guys who were so manly that they sweated testosterone and bullets, while I was into men who were slightly homoerotic and imaginary. We went out on dates together, went to parties, even got married so Barbie and Joe could express their physical love before Joe went back to the front lines (or the kid from up the street discovered that I had stolen his GI Joe again).
But sometimes, Barbie and I just wanted to hang out together. Which is fine, all girls like to hang out with their girlfriends. I probably played with Barbies longer than other girls, but that’s okay in my opinion because my story lines, and believe me, my epic Barbie sessions held in the unused back office of my parent’s basement on brown shag carpeting had story lines, matured even when the medium did not.
It was one of these days, when GI Joe had gone back to war, and He-Man had gone off to fight magical evil somewhere else, that Barbie, her pal Barbie and I were sitting around together, talking about what we were going to wear to Barbie’s wedding. Barbie, being the naïve virgin that she was, let the conversation segue into kissing, and how she thought she was doing it wrong. Her friend Barbie was a woman of the world, as I was I at the ripe old age of ten, and we told her that she had to practice if she was going to give Joe the kiss of his life when he returned home.
Barbie even offered to show Barbie how it was done. The air was fraught with sexual tension as they stared into eachother’s blue eyes, mouths split apart in matching hot pink grins, before they leaned forward and pressed their mouths together to practice. In that moment, I realized that it was not odd looking to see two women kissing. But these were thoughts I kept to myself. I only vaguely realized that it had something to do with being called “gay” and that was something I avoided at all costs, having an older, wiser, more malicious sister in the house with me who would say anything to get me to leave her alone.
We’ll get there soon enough Barbie, soon enough.
I knew that I still liked boys, or I would have never tried to kiss the dreamy Jonathan on the playground nearly every day. Something about Barbie and Barbie sharing a sweet, gentle kiss, maybe with a little light petting, seemed okay to me though. It would be nearly ten years later before I realized that I was open to playing for both teams. Yet who knew in the years in between, when I would see a beautiful woman and wonder what her body looked like, or found myself wanting to be close to a lady who was particularly charming, that it had come from those afternoons in the basement, exploring with Barbie.
As I look back on my childhood during the holidays, I remember Barbie teaching me a lot of things. She taught me that it was okay to live in shithole artist apartments in my early twenties because she had never had more than a shoebox home in the basement. She taught me that I could be anything I wanted, from a spokesmodel to a rocket scientist (it was obvious Barbie never saw my grades in math). She taught me that I wanted to create stories and share them with the world, because being princesses from the planet Cromrock was too awesome to not share. But above all, Barbie taught me that it was okay to be bisexual, and that she was one of the most precious gifts I had ever been given.
Got something for the Crank File? Email me here.
I’m very heartened by a few of the things I’ve been seeing in the form of trailers. The Hunger Games looks like it’s being faithful to its excellent source material, Men In Black 3 is promising a return to some of the original deadpan and quirky humor that made the first film so much fun (we’ll see if it delivers), and of course The Hobbit. Singing Dwarves. ‘Nuff said, Peter Jackson, shut up and take my money.
In the midst of all this, The Dark Knight Rises. As much as the trailer featured a smoldering Anne Hathaway, eerie chanting, a glimpse of Gotham during peacetime and the goddamn Batwing, most geeks just want to talk about Bane. Specifically, his voice.
Word round the nerdy campfire is that he was particularly muffled during the seven minute prologue sequence some audiences saw in IMAX theatres before Mission Impossible 4. And while his line to Batman in the trailer is clear – if you’re paying attention – people want director Christopher Nolan to fix Bane’s voice in post. The Hollywood Reporter, however, tells us Nolan will do no such thing.
This is hardly surprising to me. Chris Nolan gave us Memento and Inception. I won’t go into too much detail about Nolan’s earlier work as I’m saving that for the last ICFN of 2011, and my original review of Inception is still available. And remember that cage match I had between Inception and Ocean’s Eleven? Good times. But I’m wandering off-topic. My point is, even in work like The Prestige, Nolan as a writer & director does not make decisions lightly. Let’s consider, for a moment, why he’d choose Bane and go so far as to make these apparent design choices.
Remember how in The Dark Knight, the Joker rarely attempts to deal with Batman in a direct physical confrontation? He uses assault rifles and rocket launchers, goons and attack dogs, head games and innocent people. He never really seems interested in outright killing Batman, opting instead to try and dismantle the man’s faith and motivations. Physicality was about the last thing on anybody’s mind other than the notion that Batman would paste the Joker about seven different ways if it weren’t for his one rule.
Bane, on the other hand, is an extremely physical character. Rather than being divorced from his mind and his will, his body is an extension of it. He’s entirely single-minded and very driven, much like Batman. The substances pumped into him, via head-tubes in the comics and his mask in this upcoming film, allow his body to match the speed and power of his mind. Batman will always be limited by what his body can do and how much punishment it can take. Bane exceeds those limits, and he can and will push Batman past them.
Enter Christopher Nolan. What do you do after you pit Batman against an entirely cerebral opponent? You up the stakes, of course, by making his next foe not only cunning and ruthless but also a powerhouse. You don’t want to tip your hand too soon, though. You have to maintain the mystery. You can’t let the ending of your saga be a foregone conclusion. Maybe Bane will kill Batman. Maybe he’s not the same Bane from the comics for a very specific reason, one that ties into your first Batman film and one of the aspects of a fascinating character born out of the animated series. How do you keep people from taking too many guesses?
Remember, theatricality and deception can be powerful tools.
In addition to encouraging audience members to keep up with you rather than simply pandering to them, conveying Bane’s voice in a realistically muffled way adds a layer of obfuscation to Nolan’s work. It not only makes the character more mysterious and menacing, it gives the public at large and the cynical critics of the Internet in particular something to consider, gripe about and worry over. It distracts them from bigger questions. It waters their enthusiasm. It keeps them off-balance.
I’m not saying Nolan specifically made this choice on purpose to mess with people on the Internet, but at this point, I can’t put it past him. He’s enjoyed so much success so far and done it in such a cerebral way that people can’t help themselves. They’ll go to great lengths to seek out, analyze and ultimately downplay even the tiniest aspects of his work. Nobody can be this brilliant, you see. Nobody can outsmart the Internet. Nobody’s allowed to be this successful without creating a bomb. Remember that bit in the original Spider-Man where Osborn tells Peter that people love seeing a hero fall almost as much as they like seeing them succeed? Nolan’s a hero to many. To set him up for a fall this way can be cathartic. It would mean that everybody is fallible, and if he falls, other film-makers can rise to take his place, even from the relative obscurity of the Internet.
I say let Bane be a bit muffled, a little hard to understand. Make the audience work to fully understand every aspect of the work in front of them. It made Memento and Inception such brilliant works, after all, why not apply the same mentality to a comic book movie? Likewise, if you know the Internet’s going to be going through your work, even a two-minute trailer, with a fine-toothed comb looking for nits to pick, why not give them a cause for concern? Let them blow up over something relatively insignificant rather than ruminate on plot and motivational points. Because, let’s face it, even if Bane ends up losing a word or two to idiots in the cinemas who are too busy stuffing their faces with overpriced popcorn to pay attention, when they inevitably buy the Blu-ray combo pack they’ll just turn the subtitles on. Problem solved.
Looking back over what I just wrote, I might be coming off as a Nolan fanboy and my argument may be dismissed on those grounds. So be it. Such dismissals don’t address what I’m trying to say, which is that Bane is going to be an effective villain, an excellent counterpoint to the Joker, and I for one am really looking forward to discerning every word that comes out of that mask. Incidentally, you notice how the tubes are arranged in such a way to resemble skeletal hands prying his mouth open? I dig that.
Let me hear your thoughts on this. I’m curious. Do you still think Nolan is worthy of our trust? Is he pulling a fast one on the Internet so he can blow them out of the water in 2012?
With the holidays going on, I should have ample opportunity to play some Commander, and not just with my family. Let’s take a quick look at where my decks are, and what the future has in store.
[mtg_card]Sharuum[/mtg_card] is a deck I don’t break out often against the family. My brother-in-law also plays Sharuum and has fallen into a similar pattern. I think it’s because my sister has a passionate hatred for blue decks in general, and control decks in particular.
This is why I will be refraining from playing my [mtg_card]Arcanis[/mtg_card] deck unless we’re doing Emperor, that neat mono-color variant for five players or I’m on her team for something. With its wizards, control methods and other nasty surprises, it may be best if it’s only seen rarely at the family gaming table.
Now [mtg_card]Karrthus[/mtg_card], he’s a commander unconcerned with control and counterspells. No blue whatsoever in his deck. The goal there is simply to pump out the strongest, nastiest and most numerous dragons as quickly as possible. He’s somewhat more friendly for the family gaming environment. For the most part.
[mtg_card]Sedris[/mtg_card] may need more tweaking and refinement. The combination of shambling undead hordes, spectres with nasty discard effects and some nasty removal methods is effective, but it could use a trim and a few methods for speeding things up. I simply need to play it more.
[mtg_card]Ghave[/mtg_card] is another commander who may need to warm the bench a bit unless there are particular circumstances. His saproling shenanigans have gotten me in hot water. While it’s good to have a commander that is notoriously hard to kill who spreads that longevity to the deck, it does make for some longer games as you explain the order in which you’re dispensing with whatever your opponent just threw at you. Not exactly the sort of gameplay the family’s into.
The latest addition to my elite squad of commanders is actually [mtg_card]Zedruu[/mtg_card], perhaps the kindest of them all. Originally the deck she commands was going to be headed by [mtg_card]Numot[/mtg_card], but the more I thought about combining [mtg_card]Jhoira of the Ghitu[/mtg_card]’s general delay tactics with [mtg_card]Akroma, Angel of Wrath[/mtg_card] and a few of her sisters, the more I realized Zedruu’s generosity would benefit both me and my fellow players. At least until I have a few of those archangels in play. So far she seems fun, but considering how my sister regards timey-wimey shenanigans, that may not last.
In the very near future, though, I think I’ll be putting together a deck that will go over much better around the family gaming table. The idea is born from my sister & brother-in-law’s deck featuring [mtg_card]Darien[/mtg_card] and a whole slew of soldiers. The idea is to do something similar with elves. Not only is it a compliment to their deck’s flavor, it allows us to ally easily and with [mtg_card]Mayael[/mtg_card] as a commander, it eschews the nastier colors of blue and black in favor of archers, warriors and druids in great number. Her Naya-friendly colors also allow me to use some of the cards from Ajani’s deck I had to set aside when assembling Sedris and revamping Ghave. It’s an intriguing prospect. Like writing to reach a meager word count or hurtling towards a deadline, working with restrictions can be a good thing.
“Sport.”
No response.
“Sport.”
“Mmmmmf.”
Skeeter blinked. He hated it when his best friend acted this way. They’d been show dogs together for years. It was how they’d been raised. Training, grooming, shows, repeat. But lately, the pressure seemed to have been getting to Sport.
“Sport, knock it off. The humans are watching.”
“Eh? Fuck ’em. They wanted tricks, right? I got their trick right here.”
Skeeter maintained his position. His master had told him to sit, so he sat. He was a good dog. They rewarded good dogs. He wasn’t sure what they did to dogs who rolled onto their backs after getting their jaws wrapped around the neck of a bottle of beer.
“That’s not a trick you trained on, Sport. You’re misbehaving.”
“Dude, am I talking cat over here? Fuck. Them. I’m sick and tired of doing whatever I’m dogdamn told by these idiots.”
“They do happen to be smarter than us.”
“HA!” The bottle almost slipped from Sport’s mouth. “Your Honor, I object, the obedient slave is showing insufficient evidence. To support my case I submit the sweater he was made to wear last Christmas, the poor state of affairs in our respective food bowls and, oh yeah, the fact that these hairless apes are basically raping their own dogdamn planet for the sake of nebulous concepts like righteousness and profit.”
“Sport, please. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“I’m not the one they named fucking ‘Skeeter’, I have to catch up to you in the embarrassment department.”
Skeeter didn’t respond. He maintained his position. He was a good dog.
“I mean, what the hell does that even mean, anyway? Is it short for ‘moskeeter’ or something? Nevermind the fact you live on the lower east side and your humans are upper middle class socialites, not backwater rednecks. And if they did name you for a tiny insect with an even tinier probosces, they’re insulting you every time they say it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Sport hiccuped. “I’m talking about your dick. You know, the thing you ‘clean’ just about every chance you get.”
If Skeeter had been capable of blushing, he’d have flushed red. “That’s highly inappropriate talk for public, Sport.”
“Bullshit! We’re fucking dogs, they can’t understand us. It’s just yips and barks and tailwags and smells to them. Christ, how do these people communicate using only sound? My mind’s fucking boggled.”
“Sport, you’re drunk.”
“You’re darn tootin’ I am. If these dogdamn morons were capable of meaningful communication with us, and they fucking aren’t nor will they ever be, they’d know I’m sick and tired of this bullshit. And don’t change the subject. These control freaks want you complacent and obedient while they put you down every chance they get by intimating you’re lacking in the between-the-hinds department.”
“They’re mistaken.”
“Of course they fucking are. They don’t think you know that. It’s a big dogdamn joke to them. Look at ’em. Bunch of gawping hat-wearing douchebuckets. HEY!” Sport dropped the bottle, got up on the chair and started barking. “I’M TALKING TO YOU, IDIOTS! YOU FUCKING HUMANS AND YOUR SMELLY-ASS CARS AND YOUR STUPID CLOTHES AND INSIPID BABY-TALKING AT US. FUCK YOU.”
Skeeter sighed. He wanted to lay down, cover his ears. But he was a good dog.
“Fuck! Nothing.” Sport turned in place and sat facing Skeeter. “And here I am sauced on a single beer. It’s what I get for weighing all of twenty pounds.”
“I noticed you’d lost weight. Doesn’t that make your master angry?”
“Not as angry as when I start humping his wife’s leg.”
“Sport! You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Have you fucking seen her? If she were a dog I’d be mounting her twice daily. Not my fault that fucking tool doesn’t. Too busy counting up shit that won’t matter when he gets hit by a bus.”
“That’s a terrible thing to wish on anyone. My brother…”
“Yeah, yeah, I remember, went chasing a stick and got pasted by the crosstown. Not his fault or yours so stop beating yourself up over it. The responsible party is the fucking brat who threw the stick. Yet was he put away for it? Was he punished for murder? No! They just got him another fucking dog. I’m grateful I discovered the appeal of booze. I need another dogdamn beer.”
“Look, Sport, I’m your friend. I’m worried about you. You drink too much and your language is foul.”
“Skeeter, no offense, but what the fuck happened to you? Time was you’d be laughing your tail off at me rolling around with a dogdamn beer bottle in my gob. Something’s changed. Something’s eating you. Let’s hear it.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Oh? Okay.” Sport stood again, barking and howling, which registered in Skeeter’s brain as song. “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, YOU STUPID MOTHERFUUUCKEEEERS…”
“STOP IT! I’ll tell you. They cut me, all right?”
Sport stopped, blinking rheumy eyes at his friend. “They what?”
“You remember Daisy? She had her pups. Beautiful litter. But none of them met the humans’ standards so they determined my breeding potential was insufficient.”
“Skeet, are you telling me they CUT YOUR FUCKING BALLS OFF?”
“Essentially, yes.”
“FUCK. No wonder you’re being such a toolbox. I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“How could you? We haven’t seen each other since spring.”
“You realize this means you have even less reason to do what they tell you.”
“They’ve already robbed me of future pups. What more can they do?”
“They don’t understand us. They never will. So they’re afraid of us. They mitigate that fear by leashing us and making us do tricks and talking at us they way they do their wriggling newborn spawn and toss us bones. As long as we do what we’re told and don’t remind them we have as much power and rights as they do, they’re happy.”
Skeeter thought about it. He was a good dog, and they still had cut him.
So he started singing.
“FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, YOU STUPID MOTHERFUUUCKEEEERS…”
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