The Killing Joke

Just wanted to share with you this cover shot of Heath Ledger as the Joker. I'd probably prefer to have him giving a full-on grin, or at least a smile, but the smirk is appropriate for the somewhat "darker" tone the movie is shooting for. Then again, anyone who thinks the Joker isn't a dark character to begin with hasn't read the comics, so maybe it's more accurate to say The Dark Knight is aiming for a truer representation of the Joker, rather than the absurd or the camp versions we are typically subjected to. We shall see, but until then, feast your eyes on this.

Why can't I think of catchy names like that?

Ryan over at More Rants than Raves has once again birthed a charmingly unique and fascinating idea. While it's not nearly as funny as the DMV picture project, this one has considerably more potential. Sorry unibrow Ryan from the last license. Anyway, he's christened it "The Invisiblog," and since the glass from the broken champagne bottle is still strewn across the docks, you might yet catch the project's maiden voyage as it slips gleefully out to sea.

The premise behind the project is a blog where the host posts only titles, leaving the remainder of the post blank. The post is then (re)constructed through visitor's comments on whatever title they choose. Essentially, it's a sort of group, found-text piece, where subsequent visitors can elaborate and redirect the shape of the original "post," thereby making the blog visitors the actual "bloggers." For instance, today's title (he posts them almost daily) was simply "Aliens," so I left a somewhat incredulous comment where I insist I still believe him, but since he was driving home from a winery at the time, he may have imagined the whole thing. I didn't consult Ryan at all, of course; that's not the nature of the project. But now someone can begin, from reading my comment, to reconstruct what the original post might have been, and should they in turn leave a remark, the invisible post grows from there. So check it out here--if you have even a shred of creativity in your body, you can help write an invisible blog post today.

P.S. For those of you who might recognize the nature of my invisipost, it's based on an actual story. My high school geometry teacher, the vampire Lezot (or so we called him), insisted that he was buzzed by a low flying UFO one night while, you guessed it, driving home from wine tasting. Why he would open himself up to such potential ridicule is beyond me, but the man was a high school math teacher, so I suppose it goes with the territory.

I Rolled a 4 on my Concentration Check

To be honest, I've always been somewhat ambivalent about the whole mainstream appropriation of geek culture. I'm not too concerned, since certain things like role-playing (particularly D&D) remain rather taboo, which allows me the luxury of believing I still know something they don't. To be more specific, I know the sweet joy of rolling a natural twenty when you're just about to be killed by the evil ninja Jubei, and in turn running him through with your own sword; I know the satisfaction of talking your way past a guard by bluffing him into thinking you have even an speck of clout with the local duke; and, of course, there's the mixed feelings about not knowing the touch of a woman for probably too long because of all-night gaming sessions fueled by Dr. Pepper and crippling social anxiety. But I digress...

Of late, World of Warcraft has been running commercials featuring celebrities (a term I bandy about rather loosely, as you'll see) talking about their WoW characters. I realize that they probably have absolutely no idea what the hell they're actually saying, and yes, I do find the idea that you can pay someone enough money to say things in front of a camera that, to them, sound like gibberish to be utterly delicious. So delicious that I could eat it with a spoon. I can only hope that one day I will be in a position where I can decide what these trained chimps/parrots (perhaps a chimparrot? a colorfully plumed but flightless simian?) will say for their camera. I have no doubt that when this day arrives, I will be sitting in a lair, lazily stroking a pug that is sleeping lazily on my lap. Oh, and the pug will be wearing a Yoda costume. But I continue to digress...

I've posted a clip from youtube that splices the two commercials together. Both are fun in their own way, though the second does have William Shatner dressed essentially like a Jedi. You'll see what I mean.

Really? Again!?

I don't know what's wrong with me. I can't bring myself to post for over two weeks, and now I make three posts in the course of an hour (or so). Although, I don't know if these last two even count as posts, since I'm basically just poaching "the funny" (the judges would also have accepted 'bogarting the funny,' 'Winona Rydering the funny' or 'Juno, Alaska' as acceptable alternatives) from another site. Ah well. I never pretended to originality. Anyway, here are my top five favorite bad ice-breakers, once again shamelessly taken from our friends at RADAR online.

"You might recognize me from your window."

"Do you come to this hospital chapel often?"

"Want to hear a joke? Okay, first I have to know if anyone here is Jewish, gay, or a raccoon that's recently been drugged or sodomized."

"Well, well, well. If it isn't the guy who took the last Zima."

"The Muppets are bullshit, and let me tell you why."

Speaking of Self-Help

As the tail end of my previous post seemed to dip into the well of self-help (advertising, at least), I thought I'd pass along some of the more obscure self-help titles out there. You probably won't find them on the shelf at your local Borders, but that's probably a good thing. Here are my top ten favorites, but you can read the other ninety by following this link.


1. Everything You Always Wanted to Know about the Opposite Sex but were Tasered for Asking Previously

2. Shut Up About your Dead Wife! Dating after 60

3. Controlling Your Rage with Arson

4. Anal Only: Raising your Christian Teen as a Technical Virgin

5. Suck it Up: No one in the Sudan has Chronic Fatigue Syndrome

6. The Child of your Field Hockey Coach has Two Mommies

7. YOU: Grimly Eating Lunch Alone in your Car

8. Some Women are Also from Mars: Learning to Love a She-Male

9. I Think Def Leppard is Pretty Rad, Too: Communicating with Today's Teenager

10. So You're Attracted to Grandma

Errata

I've been away from the helm for nearly two weeks now. If you were a dog left in a station wagon on a hot summer afternoon, you'd be attracting vultures by this point. If you were my child (God help you), I imagine you'd be industrious enough to scrounge out sustenance for the duration, but by now child protective services would have unburdened me of the responsibility of fatherhood. I imagine I'd be thrown in prison too, and once it got around that I was in there for neglecting a kid for weeks....well....I just better hope I shiv a guy that first night, or I will emerge, years later, a deeply changed man. And of course, I mean "deeply" in the most anatomical of senses.

Truth be told, of late I have been hit with a deluge of work. Regrettably this work entails grading papers and writing a prospectus for my dissertation, rather than the myriad other labors that stand as considerably more preferable--including, but not limited to: inspections at the tickle factory; finding out how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll pop; fighting, beating, and tagging a hobo for future scientific inquiry; or naming the condiments in your fridge (i.e. Gertie, Duchess of Mustardia). As such, things have been rather tame, but per my obligation to keep this leaky vessel of digital text afloat, I've decided to make a short list of the dire omens that remind us the cosmos is askew and the grand clock of the universe is flashing 12:00.


My fantasy football team remains undefeated. Yeah, I'm just as shocked by this as you are. And no, we're not talking the kind of "fantasy football" where you can have a 12th level half-orc barbarian on your defensive line, though I readily confess that would be sweet. Of course, you'd lose every match, as you would be hit with so many penalties for unnecessary roughness (read: physically tearing limbs from the opponent) that it wouldn't be worth watching unless you are the kind of person that really enjoyed the Rambo trailer. No, I'm referring to an actual fantasy football team. Things have gotten so strange that last week, when I went up against the guy with the next best record in the league, his otherwise superstar quarterback (Payton Manning) and kicker (some guy on the Colts whose last name starts with a V--yes, that's how much I know/care about football) both essentially threw crap at a wall for the duration of their game and allowed me to slip by with another victory. However, we're getting close to the playoffs, so if my center fielder can just continue getting the wicket during the scrum, and my caddie doens't hand me a damn three iron for the penalty kick attempt, I should be okay.


Hollywood has greenlit and already begun casting a live action movie version of Dragonball Z.
I think this one pretty much speaks for itself. If you have no idea what Dragonball Z is, well, you probably also don't know what the hell I was talking about with the whole 12th level half-orc barbarian thing. You've also probably never seen a twenty sided die before in your life; of course, on the other side of the spectrum, I have friends who still carry theirs with them at all times...just in case. Anyway, Dragonball Z is a popular anime show from the 90's that basically involves martial artists from space who can shoot fireballs from their hands, fly, have their otherwise black hair turn platinum blond in a powerup known as going "Super-saiyan," and other such things that will translate splendidly into live action film. This one may very well come to rival Dungeons & Dragons (ironic, I know) and Pop Star as the worst movie I have ever seen in my life.

Computer programs that try to guess your interests from the content of your email. While this fits under the "errata" category simply because these programs are always wrong, it's also a happy mistake I look forward to every time I check my email. As many of you have no doubt noticed, Gmail in particular has a column to the right of any email's text that offers services based on the words you or your friend chose in that latest missive. For example, in a recent email Nicholas sent about the whole Golden Compass daemon thing, gmail proffered these two ads, among others: "Uh oh...I'm Emo! Are you Emo? Take the Emo quiz!" and "What's your purpose? A seven step program to find your purpose and change your life." So, when the Don sent me a series of "motivational posters" like this one


Gmail was nice enough to put forth these advertisements: "Life-coach for Mid-life" and "Positive thinking--Get into a Great State of Mind and Make the Most of your Life!" I can't help but love a program that essentially does nothing but provide non sequitors unknowingly. Indeed, that's the very same reason why I like my students so much.

Rambo 47,373,958, Burma 0

Any rational human being should glean little to no sense from the title of my latest blog post. If you know me at all, you will realize that trivialities like that barely give me pause anymore. However, unpacking its rich symbology (thank you, Dr. Robert Langdon of fake Harvard University for bringing this illustrious field to such prominence) is simply too delicious a prospect for me to pass up.

You see, dear friends (he says, leaning closer, as if to impart the dark heart of a conspiracy), there is a final Rambo movie in the making. And I'm not talking about Sly drinking too much rubbing alcohol, having a minor stroke in the middle of the night, banging his head on the headboard and deciding that maybe, in the future, he'll make another. Perhaps after the whole Planet Hollywood thing pans out. No, this movie is due out in May, and already has two scrumptious trailers out, the better (gloriouser? awesomester?) of which I'll link below.

But first, let me set the stage: Rambo has apparently retired to southeast Asia and taken up (what else?) the contemplative life of a blacksmith. This is essential, because it keeps John (Rambo's first name, noob) in touch with the primal elements of male machismo: fire, metal, hitting stuff, and fire. But we need a plot, and so in walks Rita from Dexter and some other do-gooders who want to stop the genocide going on in Burma. Now, I'm no cartographer, but I've heard nastily persistent rumors that "Burma" is now going by "the Union of Myanmar." But as you'll soon hear for yourself, Rambo calls it Burma, so that's good enough for me. Hell, he could call it fucking Candyland or Lumpy Place Estates for all I care. The details are inconsequential here. What matters is that--surprise--the savages that Rita et al went to save people from end up capturing them instead, and so Rambo steps in and, from the look of the trailer, kills every single man, woman, and child in the entire country--which, I might add, has a population of 47,373,958. I'm told this number is as low as it is because the nation is being ravaged by an AIDS epidemic. Tastefully, Sly has decided to set another one upon them in his film, only this one has greasy black hair, a dapper headband, and some as-yet unburned body fat.

I won't go into further details, less because of a desire to leave some surprise as that I've pretty much run out of details. Nevertheless, let me just warn you that this trailer is absurdly violent, but if the Don is indeed correct (my only friend to have served in Iraq), a Jeep mounted .50 cal will indeed make a man explode into hamburger from close range, so maybe it's all legit. Not that John Rambo needs such heavy armament. If this trailer is any indication, he could have done it all with his bare hands. But I'll admit, Burma is a relatively small country. If the Chinese act up, we can give Rambo a spork and team him up with an armored polar bear, and that'll be the end of that. Of course, then we'll have to find someone else to apply lead-based paint to our toys, but I digress.

Be warned, men: as you watch this trailer your Y chromosome will burn hot and bright, like a bar of fired steel, and as the visceral brutality of these scenes hammer that metal again and again, know that Rambo is molding you into the ladle of awesome that he believes you can be. Or perhaps a spice rack of kickass. I bet even Rambo needs one of those.