And I'm back!

So, my eye problem has not quite resolved itself, but I think I can get by and type something up. So...yay!

Finishing my review on Middlemarch... (Yeah, I realize I'm a couple centuries late.)

Read it. Yeah. That's my review. I think a lot of people in this day and age believe that reading for pleasure is meant to be easy. They believe, for some weird reason, that reading should be a passive activity; it shouldn't be taxing, or require any sort of cognitive recognition. I know people who put down a book if they find themselves looking words up in the Dictionary. Someone I know said this: It is good to increase your knowledge, but reading for pleasure should be just that--pleasure.

Frankly put, that is bullshit. And anyone who thinks this is wrong. Sorry, but you are. And it's attitudes like that that lead to novels like Fifty Shades of Grey or all of these insipid Jane Austen knock-offs. Or full grown adults reading young adult novels without any sense of, well, slumming it. If the words "Oh my God, Hunger Games is the best book I've read in ages," come out of the mouth of anyone over the age of perhaps sixteen, you might want to scale it up a bit.

Seriously. Adults have great literature. Try it some time.

The Hunger Games is very entertaining. But it's fluff. Sheer, cotton candy fluff. And I think it's totally OK to read like that sometimes. But to say that reading for pleasure should be a thing of intellectual passivity is, in my opinion, completely irresponsible. Reading shouldn't always be easy, and the idea that learning takes the pleasure out of something is just nonsensical.

Middlemarch is not really a novel full of words you won't understand. English hasn't changed that much in the last couple of hundred years, so unless your vocabulary is particularly poor the problem with reading this novel won't be with the language. It is, rather, written in a grammatical style largely unfamiliar to us (well, not unfamiliar as we've all read novels from that period, even if only for school) and perhaps a verbose for our tastes. It seems almost dispassionate to us because of different ideas of propriety; even sex scenes (which exist...see Fanny Hill for an example) were, in our estimation, not particularly titillating. For the time, of course...well, that's a different thing entirely.

In the future, we'll be thought of as prudes. I can almost guarantee it. Especially Americans.

But Middlemarch is, despite the general differences in sensibility, a very easy novel to understand and empathize with. It's a novel of characters instead of plot, and the town of Middlemarch is as much a character as anyone else. People's pasts come to haunt them, people make bad marriages, prove themselves worthy of the person they love, and discuss the politics of the day. In fact, you can learn a very nice history lesson if you look up the Reform Act or the Catholic Question. Looking up Wellington and Peel and Grey will provide you not only with an education, but give you a historical and political foundation absolutely necessary to understanding this novel.

You can ignore it, of course, but I don't recommend that. I recommend getting an idea of the politics because it'll make reading the book that much easier for you.

Dorothea starts out as a character you almost want to shake, but she ends up being a character you root for in every way. She makes the romantic choice and you cheer for her because we are a romantic people. And perhaps you don't understand why making that decision is so difficult, or why so many people would have a problem with it (or you understand, but cannot sympathize with because of our modern sensibilities), but you understand her decision and that's what matters. She is kind and giving and thinks only of the betterment of others, and you want her to be happy. And ultimately, George Eliot (a woman, remember, and not a dude and yes it matters) gives the reader what they want.

It is a novel of characters, as I said, and all of the characters evoke feelings. You hate the ones you're meant to hate, like the ones you're meant to like, and feel a strange sympathy for the characters for whom you are meant to feel a strange sympathy. Eliot makes the reader feel what she wants them to feel, and that is the hallmark of a wonderful writer. This is a true slice of life novel. You really come to understand what life in a small English village in the early 19th century is actually like. There are no murders or explosions or alien invasions or destructive wars or explosions (it had to be said again). It isn't Hollywood fodder, unless you're a big fan of Austen or Bronte movies (forgive the lack of umlaut, please, my laptop doesn't let me type it) already.

If you are...read it. READ IT.

READ THE DAMN NOVEL!

(You might need a Dictionary. Sorry if that means it's not a fun read.)

I have a lot of opinions. Sorry. (No, I'm not.)

Next time, a review of Abigail Gibbs' The Dark Heroine, which I picked up upon hearing the story of its publication and don't like perhaps as much as I was told I should...

Apologies

Sorry for the absence. This is the first time in a few days that I can stand to look at the bright screen of a computer. I seem to have damaged my right eye and computers make it worse...so I've abstained from the internet for a time.

I'll be back with a real post soon. Probably a review of a movie or of a book.

Actually, I'll put my feelings on Middlemarch into words and type it up. For now, however, I will leave you with a teaser of my opinion....

Rosamond Vincy sucks.

That is all.

Beautiful Words Everyone Should Read

I came across this article just now and the thoughts it contains are absolutely some of the best insights on the BBC's Sherlock and strong female characters, and strong females in general. It actually moved me to tears for a moment, and I just wanted to share with with the universe.

PLEASE GO READ THIS ARTICLE!

Why Molly Hooper is the One Who Counts

It is beautiful.

Blog Time!

So, on a brief note, I saw Man of Steel again because my friends wanted to...and it actually improves a bit on a second watching. The tornado scene still seems pretty dumb, but knowing it was coming allowed me to look for any thematic continuity to that moment, and there is definitely more there than I originally thought. Not much, but more than my original assessment. So...good job, Man of Steel. Also, I saw the Wayne Enterprises Easter egg this time! So...yay me!

Anyway, on to the details of today.

Honestly, my life is boring. I wish I were interesting enough to write a blog about cool people in history or stuff. Oh well. I haven't seen a movie recently and I'm still reading Middlemarch...

Actually, I've been looking for my next book. I have a queue about ten books long, but I tend to add to that list more than I shorten it...so...I am always on the lookout for new books.

WHY ARE THERE SO MANY PRIDE AND PREJUDICE STORIES?! And why are so many of them craptascular fantasy fulfillment? It's stuff like this that makes me hate fan-fiction. Yes, I am one of those writers who hates fan-fiction. When someone writes something, they are creating a product. It's intellectual property: that world, those characters, and that story all belong to that writer. In essence, a writer is an inventor. Like all inventors, they are inspired by earlier inventions (obviously, Harry Potter has links to Lord of the Rings), but this is a product all their own.

When someone writes fan-fiction, that person is stealing someone's property. It is no different than stealing the design for the television and writing it off as your own. It is not making improvements, it is not designing a similar piece of technology but using something different to power it...it's stealing something and presenting it as your own.

Paraphrasing is still plagiarism. Changing a few words and passing it off as your own is still plagiarism. Even attributing a quote to its original creator is plagiarism if you don't properly site the work. Writing a little "World and characters are a product of 'Author's Name'" doesn't make up for the fact that you are essentially committing a form of concept plagiarism. You are not creating anything; you are stealing it from someone else and presenting it as your own.

I get the idea that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. By all means, take what you love about the stories you've read and make it your own. You love Harry Potter? What about it do you love? Take those things and work them into a world and characters of your own. Be a real writer! If you can write fan-fiction, you can write your own stuff. Don't ride the coattails of someone else's greatness; be great on your own!

But please, for the love of God, don't write 50 Shades of Grey (or is it Gray)! Even if EL James did exactly that when she wrote it, that shit is just nasty. And poorly written. Actually, it's nasty BECAUSE it's poorly written...not because of the BDSM. I don't judge my friends based on their kink level.

I admit...I am guilty of having written fan-fiction in my day. But I moved passed it. I became better than some cheap knock-off of my favorite stuff; I wrote my own favorite stuff. OK, so I am a self-deprecating author and my stuff is definitely not my favorite, but you know what I mean. If you write fan-fiction just for the enjoyment of it...won't you enjoy writing your own stuff even more? Wouldn't that feel better than working with someone else's toys?

I don't judge people who write fan-fiction. In fact, I try not to judge anyone who writes at all. The more writers in the world, the better. But people who only write fan-fiction...please stretch your writing muscles and write your own stuff! Nothing will help you grow as a writer more than creating your own world with your own characters and your own stories.

 I promise you that.

Happy Tesla Day!

I wanted to write a whole big thing about Nikola Tesla and that douchebag Edison, but the Oatmeal beat me to it and did it much better, so...

Nikola Tesla is Better than Us!

Let us celebrate how much this man gave to the world, and how much we owe to him. It's a shame that he will never know how much he means to us, as he died fucking penniless! Nikola Tesla was a visionary (albeit a crazy one), and the American people spat on him in their ignorance. I wish I could say we would treat him better now, but the CEOs of the world are still stomping all over the greatest minds of our era...so perhaps not.

Nikola Tesla...I wish we had treated you with the respect you deserve! Happy Birthday, you wonderful, wonderful man!

A weekend of kids movies

So...

The shortest review in the history of reviews...

Monsters University is exactly what you would expect it to be. In fact, if you haven't seen it, you could probably guess what is going to happen just by the name and what happened in Monsters Inc....

But that doesn't mean it isn't good. It just isn't as good as the original. There's a lot of laughs, a few tears, the requisite 'oh GODS, will everything be OK' moment and then the 'OK, not perfect...but at least they're friends' ending. Nathan Fillion is himself, and it's definitely worth a few giggles to picture him doing the voice acting for this. And if you went to college...well, you'll see what I mean.

Should you see it? Yeah, but only if you're a real Disney/Pixar fan and seeing Sully and Mike on the screen is enough for you.

AND ONE MORE.

I much preferred Despicable Me 2. This might be because I love the minions far too much to be healthy, and they seemed to realize that everyone else did, too. DM2 is a far more minion-heavy story, so...yay! Also, though I've heard the complaint that this was far too kiddy to be enjoyable, I must say that this was such an adorably cute movie. There were quite a few jokes that only adults would get (a chicken popping out of Gru's shirt Alien-style and the minions singing 'I'll Be There' by Boyz 2 Men being a couple of examples), and all the things that made the first movie so endearing are there in spades.

Is this a kids' movie? Oh hell yes. But it's cute, funny, and silly, and it doesn't pretend to be anything but what it is. And that makes is fine by me. 

Honestly? See this movie if you are a fan of kids stuff. If you aren't...don't see it.

And Stuart going "bee-doh bee-doh bee-doh" is one of the cutest things ever. So there. 

Happy Fourth of July!

So...I was going to write another whole thing about a great American hero...but then the fireworks gave me a ferocious headache and I just don't have the energy to write up a whole thing, so...

Happy Birfmas, America!

Actually, as a brief factoid, the Declaration of Independence was actually voted into reality on July 2nd, after what I can only imagine was a booze-filled night of bargaining, debating, and outright threats. It was ANNOUNCED on the 4th of July and, for some reason, that's the day we chose to celebrate our independence. And, truth be told, it wasn't signed all at once, either. The delegates trickled in for the next few months and signed it as they could.

What? You think the British just let a room full of traitors sit around and sign shit? That was the entirety of America's leadership, for God's sake.

Anyway, John Adams actually believed we would celebrate on the 2nd. But John Adams wasn't exactly known for being a people person...

Truthfully, we should probably celebrate the 19th of October a bit more. 'Cause if the British hadn't surrendered at Yorktown, the Declaration wouldn't have meant shit. You know...I think I'm going to throw a Surrender Party every Oct. 19th to celebrate Lord Cornwallis waving the white flag at Yorktown. I think it should be a thing.

But I did it first. So...keep that in mind.

Happy 4th, everyone!

An American Hero

So...it's almost the 4th of July here in SE Mordor, so I've decided to write a blog about an American hero. I'll probably write one tomorrow, but I decided to start a little early and post one now.

Now, given that I wanted to write a detailed history of the life and times of one of my favorite people, I set about going through my bookmarks (of which there are...probably thousands) and came across this doozy that I'd forgotten I had. And I realized that it was better than anything I was going to write, and I should just give up.

And then I realized that I could type an intro and bow out, linking everyone to the article and letting them feel the glory that is a fricken hilarious history of one of my favorite people...this guy:

No, no...not Lincoln. Yeah, we all know Lincoln is constantly at the top of those Presidential Ranking Lists weird people like myself like to peruse. But no, his is not the interesting history I want to link you to today.

Look to the left. No, not your left...Lincoln's left. Or, rather, his right...but our left in the picture. That, my friends, is Allan Pinkerton. He saved Lincoln's life before the war even began (and wasn't THAT an adventure?!) and is an admitted source/inspiration for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes books. He created the FBI before the government got around to it, and his organization gave us the term Private Eye. But...you know...this guy is funnier than I am. So I'm just going to link you to the article and sit back while you enjoy.

So...Allan Pinkerton: Bad Ass

ENJOY!

I'll probably post about a Founding Father tomorrow. You know, since they're kind of important to there being a nation here in the first place.

Brief Update on Middlemarch

So...I am some two-hundred pages into Middlemarch and, as expected, my opinions of the various characters have changed somewhat.

I am still ambivalent toward Tertius Lydgate (or, since I can't read numbers in Latin without translating them, Third Lydgate), whose general belief in his own superiority seems to color every action he takes. He cannot abide by the notion that he has to play by the rules of small-town England, and while that is something I can very much sympathize with (I know I hate having to deal with people who absolutely will not do things any other way but their own), the idea that he is willing to let his reputation and his standing in this society be diminished out of a ridiculously misplaced sense of pride...It seems silly. He has to know that the only way he's going to advance in a small town is to get on the good side of as many people as possible...but, no. He seems to believe that the inherent superiority of his medical skills (which...they are, indeed, superior) and his learning in general should be enough to get him everything he wants. Silly man. He's going to come to a very unhappy end, I think.

Now, a character of whom I had initially formed a bad opinion: Dorothea. I find I like her much more now that I understand her better. And while I still think she made a horrid decision in choosing to marry Casaubon, I find I am more forgiving of her youth and stubbornness. She was very young, and very much of the opinion that she could be of true use and do true good in helping Casaubon write his magnum opus. Dorothea's choice to spurn the "finer things in life" comes not from some sense of inherent superiority in denial of these things, but rather from the opinion that the time, effort, and money required to indulge in these niceties are better spent doing good and bettering one's mind. Her lack of aestheticism seems to stem from a belief in her own ignorance with regard to beauty and the appreciation thereof, whereas before it seemed a product of her own indifference to the beauties of the world. Dorothea is a truly nonjudgmental individual, except it seems of herself. She wanted so much to be of use to someone, and Casaubon's great work seemed to her the way she could contribute to the world (and, in the process, expand her horizons and lessen her own ignorance). And now that she is married, all of those hopes and dreams seem to be collapsing by the wayside. Casaubon does not want her help; in fact, he doesn't seem to be doing anything at all, much less writing the paradigm shifting opus we've been led to believe is his life's work. His own fear of criticism has effectively unmanned him, and while that is pitiable in and of itself, watching Dorothea come to this realization of him and realizing what a mistake she has made in marrying him (and more, still struggling to find some measure of faith in him and in his work, and to somehow shift the burden of fault unto her own shoulders)...is almost heartbreaking. She needs someone who appreciates her mind (which is not nearly as unenlightened as she thinks it is) and her giving nature; someone who will allow her to be of use to him and to everyone else. Man do I hope she finds that. I think she will...she seems to be a favorite of the author's. In fact, I think it will be young Ladislaw. No one tell me if I am right.

The final character about whom I wish to write: Fred Vincy. Oh Fred...when will you realize that you can't spend your life waiting for someone else to take care of you? Fred lives his whole life with the expectation that everything will be OK; that someone will swoop in and take care of everything, and undo every mistake he has ever made. I think Mary Garth (who is actually growing into one of my favorite characters, along with the rest of her family, even as the Vincy family sinks ever down...except for Fred) has the right of him: he means well, but he is very irresponsible and flighty. He always seem to be waiting for rescue. In fact, he seems to believe that his presumed inheritance from Uncle Featherstone will change everything; that Mary will suddenly love him and marry him, and that all of his problems will go away. Poor boy. He needs to do something...to accept responsibility for himself. To be a person upon whom others can rely instead of one who relies on others. This business with the debt...it's all well and good to be sorry, but his irresponsibility has cost the Garths all the extra money they had, and their son's apprenticeship. His fecklessness has cost the Garths dearly. And poor Caleb Garth; he takes the responsibility unto himself when all he did was trust an irresponsible young man. And Fred. I feel sorry for him because his sorrow is so genuine and his attempt to fix the problem definitely backfired on him, but he really needs to learn to be a better person. No, not a better person...a more reliable person. A person whose only pursuit in life isn't pleasure, but understands the responsibilities inherent in being a grown up. I hope he does learn it, because Mary Garth is such a solid, wonderful, even-headed woman and I think she would be good for Fred. 

So these are my opinions thusfar. I shall continue to update everyone as these opinions grow and change! 

Uh...Solemn Anniversary to you, Gettysburg!

So, 150 years ago today, the Battle of Gettysburg began. It is the single bloodiest battle in American history (on US soil), lasting three days and culminating in what is famously referred to as Pickett's Charge. Gettysburg is considered the high-water mark of the Confederacy and Robert E. Lee's best chance to win the war. It is not his last chance, it is not his only chance, but it was his best.

To the men who died today, and for the next two days, your deaths are not forgotten, and they are most certainly not in vain.

I have a hard time writing much more than this. I could give you a detailed description of this battle. I could draw diagrams and scan them into the computer, but I don't think anyone really wants to read me tell you all about troop and cannon movements. And, truthfully, the history here affects me greatly. I cannot go to the cemetery there; it gives me a headache, and I find myself hearing screams whenever I close my eyes.

It is a dark period in our history; a period of blood and divisive politics. A period in which brother fought brother, and our nation was divided in a way I hope it is never divided again. And I admit that the political situation in which we found ourselves has me worried that something equally horrible will happen. Perhaps not a deadly, all-out war that will kill hundreds of thousands of Americans...but something equally horrible. After all, we're doomed to repeat our history...especially as we never seem to learn from it.

Anyway, I don't want to pontificate today...But here is a list of books I recommend for anyone who might want to read about The Civil War. (Keep in mind that not even historians are free from bias, and one must read these books remembering

Battle Cry of Freedom by James McPherson
The Civil War: A Narrative by Shelby Foote
The Diary of Mary Chestnut by, you guessed it, Mary Chestnut
Team of Rivals by Doris Kearns Goodwin
Mosby's Raiders by Jeffry D. Wert (I am biased toward Mosby...)
Confederates in the Attic: Dispatches from the Unfinished Civil War by Tony Horwitz (This book...is odd, admittedly, in that it is about Southerners who forget the war is over.)

There are also the Official Records of the Civil War, which you can actually find online. It is every piece of official correspondence from the Civil War. Quite fascinating. And the various memoirs, letters, recollections, and newspapers from the period. Grant, Lee, Mosby, Robert Gould Shaw (that guy Ferris Bueller played in Glory), etc. all have memoirs of some sort. The New York Times released a book not long ago comprised entirely of every article from The New York Times during the Civil War. Harpers Weekly is also available online, though you do have to pay for it...sorry.

This is a fascinating war. Read about it. You'll realize just how little we've moved on in the ensuing years, and just how much the American psyche is a divided one...and just how much those divisions have followed us down through the centuries...perhaps all the way from Jamestown.

Tell me that isn't important.

So.

I admit that I have nothing of import to say. I'd meant to see Monsters University this weekend and tell you fine folk of internet land how good it was, but then the weather happened and I ended up with a weekend-long migraine So, sorry Pixar...we'll have to postpone our date until later this week. Of course, I'll have to see Despicable Me 2, as well...so two reviews por toi.

But I do feel as if I should write something, so...

Middlemarch.

It's considered one of the greatest English novels of all time and its author, George Eliot, is similarly considered one of the greatest English novelists.

George Eliot, for those of you who've been living under a rock for the last couple centuries, is also a woman. Which makes her a bit of an inspiration to me, as an aspiring authoress. (For those who don't know...which is, OK, everyone...I do have a novel written. I'm honest-to-God editing it with a friend right now, and have come to terms with the fact that I will practically have to re-write it from scratch.)

Her great work is, of course, Middlemarch, her "study of provincial life". It's a...sort of soap opera for a small, provincial (and fictional) English town in pre-Reform Bill (1832) English. When you think of the drawing room dramas of BBC fame...this is their Mama. And quite probably their Grandma, Great-Grandma, and their Great-Aunt, too.

Now, I've always been an Austen girl. When I get started on Austen, I can go on and on and on forever. In fact, maybe I'll take the time to type out what I feel about Fitzwilliam Darcy when I have a couple of hours to kill. But despite being an Austenite through and through, I find that I really am enjoying my first read-through of Middlemarch.

My favorite character so far is Fred Vincy, who's the sort of well-meaning, but irresponsible scholar whose choices get him into a sort of a pickle. He isn't as self-righteous as some of the other main characters, and the Romantic in me enjoys the fact that he's in love with the "plain" woman that no one else seems to appreciate even though she's got a good heart and speaks straight. I admit I got curious and had to look up the end of his storyline, and it pleases me that his ending is the most satisfactory of pretty much anyone in the novel. I like this.

So...more on this as I read it. Right now, Dorothea's idiotic decision to marry a pedantic scholar is bugging the hell out of me, and Lydgate's self-righteous belief in his own superiority is something I hope bites him in the ass.

I...am going to end this post because I can't get over the fact that the History Channel just told me about Lobster-on-a-stick and I literally cannot concentrate on Middlemarch anymore. It's just...

Oh Lord, bread pudding-on-a-stick...WHERE IS THIS PLACE?!

The Problem with Superman (aka a defense of Neck Snapping)

OK, so I saw Man of Steel a while ago. In fact, I saw it the weekend it came out, so I'm actually discussing it a couple weeks late, but frankly...I don't care. Also, spoilers.

Now, the movie was...adequate. Henry Cavill was delicious. Seriously...

Look at that. Gorgeous. So it was well worth it to me to shell out the money required to see this movie. I've loved him since The Count of Monte Cristo, in which he played Albert. Now THAT movie was disgusting, but whatever. He was adorable. And even more so in The Tudors, all the more because he got the most beautiful costumes and because I could stare at the screen and hope beyond hope that he and Jonathan Rhys Meyers would be shirtless on the same screen. Alas...

Now, on from this brief reminder that I am a full-blooded female. Henry Cavill was awesome. 

The rest of the movie...meh. It wasn't horrible, but considering as the movie is fricken Superman, I wanted so much more from it. I wanted, and I acknowledge that this was probably asking too much, another Dark Knight. Batman got the serious treatment, and I was hoping that Superman would, too. And...yeah, this Superman was quite serious. But it wasn't a serious treatment. No...Man of Steel was just a good, old-fashioned action flick...with a guy in a red cape and an S on his chest. (No, excuse me, hope.)

Now, despite what some of my friends think, a red-headed Lois Lane did not ruin the movie. In fact, Amy Adams was quite brilliant in a role that really had almost nothing going for it. People asked why she went out into the freezing cold and whatnot...well, she's an investigative reporter. That's kind of what she does. So that's probably not the problem with her character. No...the problem with Lois Lane is the problem with every human character in this movie: who they hell are they? There's no development, there's no history...they're just kind of there, reacting to the plot. And with Lois...well, I felt like the writers decided that LOIS NEEDS TO BE IN THIS MOVIE! So she just kept getting pulled along for the ride.

And do not get me started on that kiss. It was just so damned forced. Blech.

OK, so the acting wasn't the problem. The effects weren't the problem. Russel Crowe definitely wasn't the problem, and neither was the (*drool*) beautiful Henry...

Nope. Definitely the script. The secondary characters were basically just cardboard cutouts to fulfill the necessities of the plot. Whatever Kevin Costner was doing just felt weird. And I really hope Jenny isn't supposed to be Jimmy...but I'm going to let that one go since there was nothing to indicate that she's supposed to be Jimmy Olsen except that she was there and her name was Jenny. I had to call the army dude Stabler because I actually had no idea who he was. Scientist dude...who's actually pretty important to the Super Universe...well, yeah...

Zod was created to defend his people. But that's as far as they go to develop him and the Kryptonians. There's this theme there about choice, which is something that Clark gets because he grows up on Earth and whatnot...and Kryptonians have no choice and blah blah blah. It actually ends up working to the disadvantage of the Kryptonians, since "this is their destiny, this is who they are and what they're meant to do and be" and that is all they needed to do to develop those characters. There's a great line about morality and Superman's weakness, but they didn't go anywhere with that. Of course, they could go somewhere with that whole theme in further movies, but that doesn't make this one any good. 

The problem with movies is that, unlike books, there has to be closure in each outing. Books have to have some closure, of course, but a series of books will answer one question while bringing up fifty more and there's an overarching story that won't end until the last book. It's why Lord of the Rings took so much work to make; and why I remember so many people complaining about the end Fellowship of the Ring, which had a very abrupt ending... 

Ultimately, I think the makers of this movie made this film banking on making more in the future. So I wouldn't be surprised to see all this wanton destruction was just the means by which Lex Luthor is brought into the story. The problems of consequence and Superman's trustworthiness, which they sort of glossed over in this movie (with that silly scene at the end that showed the US government still wasn't really sure of him), can be fully addressed with Lex in movie two. So...it's likely that this movie will seem better when it has another one to carry on certain themes.

I think the second one will be better. Because Lex Luthor is a better villain for Superman; a brain to Supe's brawn, so to speak. Someone to call into question Superman's trustworthiness and whether or not he is actually any good for Metropolis. The sort of stuff no one was going to ask when Superman seemed to be the only thing standing between Earth and crazy ass aliens trying to effectively destroy humanity. And we'll just sort of see Man of Steel as a prologue, of sorts...an introduction to Superman.

Also, Supe needs to smile more...because Henry Cavill has the most beautiful smile. 

Now, the real reason I wrote this blog. I read an article earlier today that espoused disappointment in the ultimate fate of Zod and what Superman had to do to get there. You know...

SPOILERS

The fact that Superman sort of snaps Zod's neck, killing him.

It seems that people are up in arms about Superman killing someone. And while there are a lot of problems with this movie (as I just mentioned above), this is absolutely not one of them. In fact, this scene provides one of the truly emotional scenes in the movie. Actually, it provides one of the best characterization scenes in the movie, especially when combined with the line about Superman's mortality being his weakness. Superman was forced to do something awful, to step outside his own moral code and murder someone. And it hurt him deeply to do it, as evidenced by that scream. 

Now, the essay I read condemned this moment in the movie as evidence that Faora was right: Superman's morality was a weakness. And only in giving it up was he able to overcome Zod.

To this I reply: like Batman, Superman has a code that overwhelms all the others. And for Superman, it is this: to defend humanity. To fight for them. Truth, justice, and the American Way and all that (and I mean...Americans totally aren't about shooting first and asking questions later, or anything). In killing Zod, Superman actually upheld his code...at a great personal cost to himself. He took the suffering onto his own shoulders that he might defend the people and planet that he loves so much. 

And more, it's not as if Superman hasn't killed before. Lord...he's killed Metallo, Zod (in both the comics and the '78 movie), at least three criminals in the Phantom Zone, Mxyzptlk at least once...I mean, seriously. Superman kills when he has to in order to defend humanity and the planet Earth. He takes that pain and that guilt unto himself because that is what Superman does.

That's also what Batman does, of course, at the end of The Dark Knight. The problem is that so many people seem to think of Superman as the happy superhero...the light, fluffy bunny superhero who never does anything hard, dark, or even slightly questionable. Which just simply isn't true.

Batman doesn't kill. Well...he has, actually. But that's his one rule. Superman only kills when there's no other choice. You've got to remember, he isn't Bruce Wayne...he of ultimate cleverness and wealth and decidedly human-ish villains. Superman hasn't killed Lex Luthor, but he has killed a being from the 5th Dimension and fellow Kryptonians...AKA people for whom death is the ONLY WAY.

In this movie, it was kill or see that family die. It was his own code or the death of an innocent family. And Superman is totally the kind of person to sacrifice his own moral code to save a group of innocents. That's what makes him so amazing, and why I love Superman so much. He is willing to sacrifice everything--even his own well-being--to keep the innocents safe. And that is what makes hum such a hero.

That's what makes any hero a hero. And it is definitely not what is wrong with Man of Steel. In fact, it's one of the few moments of that movie that they got really, really right. And if they show us the consequences of that choice in the sequel, well...I think Man of Steel will actually get better the more times we watch it instead of worse.

As it stands, it's an OK movie. It's watchable. I'd even go see it again, if only for Henry Cavill being...well, you know. And I'll add it to my collection come Blu-Ray time.

After all, at least it's better than Green Lantern. 

Writing is for winners

I recently wrote a short story that won a site-wide award on the writing community of which I am a part. Now, I choose for personal reasons to keep the majority of that portfolio private (within the confines of said online community, of course), but a number of my loved ones have requested to read this story and I am nothing if not accommodating, so...Here you go, loved ones. Today's post is that short story. Just as a notice, this story does have a nice, pretty copywrite in my name, so...please don't try to steal it. Plagiarism is wrong, people. 

(Also note...this damned blog forced me to type out the whole story because copy and pasting it ruined the formatting, so there might be a couple of typos. Sorry if I missed something.)

My Lord Jesus, Son of God, Savior of Man, this was not the job I chose.

I never meant to line them up, to press them together until sunlight died between them, their bony limbs creaking with the pressure. I never meant to lie to them, to watch them strip naked until their cracked, bruised, broken skin greeted the world in all its abscessed profusion. I never intended to be the one pulling the lever, locking the door, sealing them in. I never thought to steal back my promises, a chance to sluice the dirt and blood and fear from their skin even for a short time. I never planned to give them instead gas and miasmic death.

I did not mean to be a murderer. But it seems I have become one.

My name is Friedrich. In the language of our people, this means peaceful ruler. So it seems I have become a traitor, as well. To my parents, who gave me this name in hopes I might one day live up to it. To myself, for sinking into such depravity. To Germany, for not having the courage to stand up to this monstrous, truculent regime despite the fear in my heart.

My Lord Jesus, there is nothing I can say or do which will cleanse my soul of this sin. I hear them at night. I hear them screaming; I hear them scratching at the door, their desiccated limbs too tired to pound. And then the silence, oh Deliverer. I hear the silence. I have not slept well in months. I do not deserve to sleep.

I am not the one forced to open the door. I do not have to shovel their bodies into a pit or into the ovens. There are others who do that. I'd like to think more odious others, but their tongues are not coated with lies; they do not flip the switch. They do not commit the sin, day in and day out. That is my job, and it is not the job I chose. 

They say Auschwitz is not even the worst of the camps. They say others are worse. I do not believe it. We are all sinners. We are all base creatures, touched by depravity, twisted into grotesques by our choices. 

I know this makes no difference, Lord, but we were suffering. The people of my village were starving, and we were frightened. Our countryside was a graveyard, a spiraling tale of death writ into the very Earth. The air, they said, would never be clean again; it was forever corrupted by the gasses of the Great War, the War to End All Wars. We had lost a generation, and we were frightened. My Lord, I confess I believed You had turned Your back on us; that we would be a Sodom or Gomorrah in this new age.

And then he came. 

The enemies were punishing us, he said, for daring to rise above their pitiful hopes for our nation. For daring to possess even the smallest piece of Imperial greatness. We in the villages didn't care about Imperial hopes; we just wanted to eat, and to be proud of our nation. But following the war, "with the stranglehold of Allied reparations upon us", we believed him. 

Stupidly, we believed the lies, and we took them to heart. Germany could be great again, he told us. In his passion, he spun for us a world in which we were supreme, and in which no one would ever need suffer again. There would be food, and there would be clean air and water, and the fear that had stalked us, and the misery, would leave our fertile lands forever. Never again would a German child mewl into the darkness, crying out for a Father or Brother that wasn't there, or for a bite of food that no one could provide. 

I remember reading his book--Mein Kampf--to my family, and their adoring stares as they heard the words only I could read, so naive and frightened and unlearned, and I saw the promise burgeoning in their eyes for the first time. I was so young, a babe in arms when Germany fell to its enemies, but they remembered; they knew a time when Germany had been strong. Where my love came from youthful ambition and untutored, unbridled promise, they truly understood, they had lived, the abjection. And his words stirred in them all the hope it had stirred in me. They mirrored me with their worship, with their adulation; they mirrored me, and it thrived. Their hope stirred in me a sort of filial defensiveness; I became determined to free them from their despondency. Seeing their hope invigorated mine, and together our ungoverned worship soared; our fears diminished and our wills bent to his inexorable authority.

I believed him. And more, I adored him. I believed him our savior come amongst us, and that Germany would truly be the Roman Empire come to Earth once more. A Kingdom, my Lord Jesus, of which you could be proud.

I would do anything for him. 

When he spoke of our enemies--of the Jews and the Poles and the Greeks and Gypsies--I did not stop for even the merest second to think about what he was saying. I was his and I was Germany's, and I would do anything, Savior, to make my land--my home--safe once more. Great once more. And so I tuned out his calls for annihilation, I ignored the niggling doubts and subsumed myself within the overwhelming force of his promise. I deafened my ears and my soul to the depravities of which he spoke with such bellicose glee. Such was my hope for glory that I hardened my heart to these people; in my fervor, I called for their imprisonment. I called for their deaths. I, practically a babe and still in school, donned the blood red Swastika of the Party. And my family, who'd scrimped and saved that I might attend a University, cried for joy when they saw me. Not yet twenty, but a hero to the village; a hero for Germany. 

I did not remember a time when Germany had been great; my life had known only fear. And now I was a hero. Hitler had been my deliverer; he had been my hope, and now I would know greatness. I had been freed. Germany had been freed.

I laughed in malicious delight come the kristallnacht. In fact, I believed it was your righteous condemnation upon the unworthy, upon the traitors and the unrepentant. So I laughed the righteous laugh of the possessed and called for more blood. Oh Lord Christ, I look back at those times and I wonder who that man was. I wonder how a simple...peasant, for lack of a better word, could be twisted into a savage behemoth of hate and fear and violence. I wonder what Hitler did to us. 

And then I remember, my Lord Jesus, that Hitler did nothing but give us an outlet for our disappointments. For our terrors and our hungers and our pains. Every murder, every act of berserker ambition, was a choice made in our own hearts. Hitler just provided us the excuse, gave us the permission we sought to give free reign to our depravities, gave us the lie with which to assuage our crooked souls. 

Jesus, Redeemer of Man, this is the job I chose. I chose this. 

I choose every day to lock starved and haggard innocents into a room. I choose to throw the lock and flip the switch, freeing death to stalk amongst them. I choose to listen to their screams and the sound of the scratching at the door until silence descends upon them forever.

The difference now, Lord Jesus, is that I close my eyes and I feel the weight of my sin upon my shoulders. The difference now is the rending of my soul to bits every time I choose once more to kill. And instead of glorifying Germany. I know in my heart that we are defaming it forever. That we have damned our entire nation, our entire peoples, to Hell. And I am unsure, Judge of Man, if we will ever be redeemed. 

I do not blame Hitler. Others will, for all time, throughout all of history. I save my blame for myself, for my choices, for my willful conceit and self-deluding lies. I somehow awoke one day to realize that I had become Herr Frankenstein's monster, and Hitler had waved the flames of hatred before my eyes. I looked around me and saw only horror; I saw only a bacchanal of fear and degradation, fevered arousal and pitched repletion. I saw only the depths of human viciousness, and our willingness to paint another with our personal sins.

I looked down at myself and saw what I had become, Lord, and it disgusted me. For I had willingly allowed myself to be swayed. I'd reclined, supine, and allowed the wool to be pulled over my eyes. 

I still do not know what awoke me. I do not know what freed me from the stranglehold of Hitler's fearful charisma. I think perhaps it was the sound of the scratching, the sleepless nights, and the eyes of my victims. Oh, the eyes of those broken creatures, shuffling, ambling into the darkness of the chamber. So...hopeless. They were more than half dead already; only their bodies were left standing, some unwilling strength of bone and sinew keeping them tethered to this world. But when they entered, and when I threw the door, they turned. And, in that instant before the darkness took them, I saw that they knew. They knew, and they begged. They begged, oh Messiah, for me to change my mind. One last surge of hope, before I stole it from them forever. 

The begging took its toll, I think. And the scratching. And the long, arduous, sleepless nights, the guilt picking at my devotion. Their hopelessness...it gnawed at me. I saw it, and it reminded me so keenly of my family. Thoughts pricked at my conscience, plaguing me. Hope had become a commodity in Germany, and to feed my loved ones, I had stolen it from these people. I had drained it drop by drop, switch by switch, murder by inglorious murder. For a time, I was able to conquer these pangs of humanity, but as their hope disappeared, so too did my devotion. And finally, one morning, I woke and I was Friedrich once more. I was free of the monster I had been, and I blinked into the morning light with fresh eyes. And the despair that gripped my soul...I knew, in that moment, what I had done. And what I had lost in the delirium of Hitler's phantasmagoria of murder and blood. 

That was when the plan began.

Savior of Man, today I choose something new. Today I meet you, and thought I know you will turn your face from mine and damn me to the fiery depths of Hell, I meet you knowing I have done something worthy. 

Today I will not lock the door. Today I will not throw the switch. Today I will open the gates and I will run, and I will watch them run with me. I don't know, my Lord Christ, whether any will get away. I pray with my whole being that at least one will escape, that at least one will make it to the forest and to freedom. Most will die, Lord, this I know. But I pray that a death of their choosing is better than a lie and a gas-filled room. I pray it is a better death than scratching at the door as the air is stolen from their lungs and they slip, choking and terrified, into oblivion. 

This, Judger of Souls, is my confession. I write it because I do not require a Priest to absolve me, though I doubt he would if he could. I do not seek absolution, because I do not deserve it. I only hope that someone will read this and take heart; I hope only that someone, somewhere, will see what is happening to Germany and know that at least one person fought back. That one person chose something new, if only for a brief moment. I hope, most of all, that you steel my soul against the fear. For I am terrified, my Lord Jesus. And though I do not doubt my purpose; I confess it frightens me nonetheless. 

I ask only that you give me the strength to do what I must do. 

There. I am finished. This is the end, Lord Christ. It is time now, to throw the gates. My pistol is loaded; no matter what happens, I will be dead by dawn. I will not allow myself to be taken and killed as a traitor. I hope you will forgive me my pride, but I will not be punished for the one crime I have not committed. 

I pray I see you soon. I know I will not.

This is the job I choose. 

Oh Happy Day!

Down with DOMA!

Congratulations to the LGTBQ community on today's historic decision to guarantee the rights of all our citizens, regardless of sexuality. It's one step closer to a law guaranteeing the protection of gay couples in all states, and across the entirety of this nation.

I want invites to all the parties. Seriously.

But the best part of my day was letting my good friend know that she and her girlfriend are one step closer to getting legally married. The way her face lit up was one of the most heartwarming things I've seen in a long time.

As a straight white female, I enjoy a lot of standing in this nation. In all ways but one (my Paganism), I fit the bill for privilege. And with regard to my faith, any right to believe as I do has been protected since day one. Others have fought for and won my right to vote and my sexual freedoms. And while being a woman still has its disadvantages (earnings being one), I pretty much...have no worried. No one challenges my right to vote, to get married, to worship, to adopt the children with whom I will one day fall deeply in love.

This is not the case for a great number of people in this nation. African Americans still face institutional racism, along with the ever-growing Hispanic population. Hispanics in Arizona are presumed guilty of illegally immigrating to the United States just because their skin is brown. The recently-doomed Section 5 of the Voter Rights Act has been used more than forty times in the past few years to protect voting rights for minorities and just about anyone who isn't a middle-aged white person. Homosexual couples still have no legal right to marry in thirty-two states, and only seventeen states (plus DC) allow same-sex adoptions (despite overwhelming evidence that same-sex families are just as loving, caring, and healthy as families with hetero parents).

Our nation isn't perfect. But today it took a big step toward being the nation all the songs talk about, and the inspirational speeches, and for which that statue in the harbor stands high!

Congratulations, USA. We're getting better.

A Real Post for Today

You know...something that isn't absolutely ridiculous and perhaps offensive (re: definitely offensive to someone). And has something to do with writing/reading/movies...which is ostensibly what this blog is supposed to be about.

I'm a Joss Whedon fan. Have been for as long as I can remember, actually, all the way back to Buffy. My favorite program of his is, of course, Firefly, and I actively worship the ground on which Nathan Fillion walks. So when I heard that he was filming a version of Much Ado About Nothing (aka my second favorite Shakespearean comedy), I knew I had to go see it.

There was only one problem: according to just about every reputable site on movies and movie going, the movie wouldn't be showing ANYWHERE SE of Mount Doom.

You know that scene in Revenge of the Sith where the newly-minted Darth Vader realizes what he has become? I pulled one of those.

I mean, I was ridiculously disappointed that there was a chance I'd have to drive to the damn Shire just to see this damn movie. And it wasn't just because I love Joss Whedon or pretty much every actor appearing in this flick (especially Clark Gregg and Nathan Fillion). I really, really love Much Ado About Nothing. Beatrice and Benedick represent one of my favorite couples in the world, and Dogberry actually makes me laugh out loud. Not to mention that Mumford and Sons thought it was good enough to use it in a song! ("Sigh No More" is the song to which I refer, for you non-music lovers out there.)

And even if it weren't Much Ado. Even if it were Joss Whedon's Taming of the Shrew (not my favorite play, for a number of reasons, though I do love a certain Heath Ledger-starring adaptation involving ten things and hating you), I would have wanted to see this movie. Why, do you ask?

Well, have you SEEN the previews for it? It's beautiful! The camera work is exquisite, the choice to film it in a modern setting but with a certain timeless styling, and of course the (apparently controversial) black and white...well, I knew I had to see it. It's just so damn stylish! Glossy and beautiful and sexy. Did I mention sexy? (I also mentioned I am not a film aficionado, right? I can only tell you what I like.)

You see, I love Shakespeare. But he is not the most easily accessible writer on the planet. There's a reason people seem to think of his works as dry and boring, and a lot of it is because of the style of his writing. In the same way that poets twist the language to their needs, he manipulated English in the most beautiful ways. Macbeth, for example, contains the oldest known printed use of the word assassin. Shakespeare, as far as we know, made that word up! But I digress. Shakespeare= hard, right? Ain't no one can understand that shit. (Or at least that's what people seem to think.)

BUT THIS IS NOT SO! Shakespeare is fancy, of course, and perhaps a bit antiquated (though still, as far as linguists are concerned, Modern in its use), but he is not hard to understand. We just need a visual. We need context, and a deep emotional investment in the characters. And the tendency of stage performers of Shakespeare to deliver these lines as if God has handed them down from on high (and the belief some people have that only someone trained in Shakespeare can do it right)...well, it doesn't really help.

Shakespeare is no different than any other writer. If you say the lines with the right emotional intent, and with the correct physical reflection, people will understand it. "Trained Shakespearean Ack-tors" tend to play up the more abstract nature of stage performances. So much of a stage piece is concept, and the audience being able to interpret the intrinsic meaning of the story.

Film is different. Film takes the onus off of the viewer to interpret and understand the setting and the character's lives. It immerses the viewer on a much deeper level. The camera points us in the right direction, and it allows people to follow the narrative in a much more precise manner than the interpretive nature of the stage. So Shakespeare on film, and especially Shakespeare in a modern setting on film, is probably the best and most relatable way to enjoy the Bard's language.

All that being said, there is a happy ending to this story. Turns out, the local independent theater was showing it (thank you, Gateway, for showing us good films since 1951), and all was saved! I even postponed seeing Monsters University for a whole week to drive across town and view this movie! And let me tell you what...

JOSS WHEDON, I LOVE YOU! PLEASE HAVE MORE SHAKESPEARE PARTIES AT YOUR HOUSE!

Everything that I said above was exactly what I loved about this film. It was beautiful. The music (which, apparently, Joss wrote himself) was perfectly used. It was sexy...or, at least, the people in it were sexy. OK, the movie was sexy, too. And no one had any problem with the language. Not a single person walked out of that theater wondering what anyone had meant. In fact, one eighty-year-old woman commented that "that young man playing Dogberry was quite good", so...there you go, Nathan Fillion! Ladies of all ages love you!

Some people complain that the actors didn't really understand Shakespeare, and that most of them clearly struggled with it. I...disagree. I thought everyone did beautifully. An actor's job is to perform a part, and to make us believe them, sympathize with them, and see them as being a part of their story and their world. It must be organic. And, with Shakespeare, they must do all of this while making sure the viewer understands them just as if they were speaking in a more modern dialect. Did the actors in this movie succeed in this? Absolutely. Did I laugh? Yes. Did I feel Claudio's pain when he thought Hero had been unfaithful to him? Absolutely. Did I think Dogberry was an ass? Oh, yeah.

And was the farce involved in getting Beatrice and Benedick together the absolute funniest thing in the whole movie? Of course. Alexis Denisof hiding behind a branch while Claudio, Don Pedro, and Leonato are cracking up was...perfect. And then working out to impress Beatrice...I had tears in my eyes.

Basically, I saw it. I loved it. I think everyone else on the planet should see it, too. And we should all write Joss Whedon very long letters demanding to be invited to these Shakespeare parties!

Welcome to Beelzebub's, the "Hell"aciously-Famous All-Goat Buffet

Gods, that title makes no sense...Well, it does if you understand just how fucked up my mind really is. (Oh yeah, this is a cursing blog. Sorry. I've never believed that one's erudition is adversely affected by a conscious decision to use a word attached to some societal taboo.)

I've been plagued lately with ads from Christian Mingle. I feel like they are a literal plague on my life, as they tend to sicken me. It's the same with J-Date, Black People Meet (that's the name, right?), or any other dating site for people too cool to date outside their social sphere. Just because it's easier doesn't mean it's better. Man, if there were a 'Pagan writers-who-study-History-and-love-sports' site, I would never have met my significant other, the whiter-than-Tom-Cruise's-teeth, could-be-a-character-on-The-Big-Bang-Theory electrical engineer boyfriend. Did I mention he's also an atheist?

Anyway, this blog is delving far too deeply into my feelings toward exclusivity in one's social circle (which likely developed as a product of living in South East Mordor), so I'll move on to Beelzebub's.

Having been subjected to what felt like a constant stream of Christian Mingle ads, I took to the internet (like you do) and set about gathering a crack team of like-minded snarks to create my own version of Christian Mingle, tentatively called Pagan Pals. Or Pagan Match. We're not sure yet. I'm taking suggestions, of course.

So...Pagan Match! For the Godless Heathen in you! Come find the perfect Satan-Worshiping, baby-eating partner for you. Every wedding will be BYOG (Bring your own goat)!

This, of course, led to someone mentioning that there are several Pagans on Christian Mingle (which, of course, made me picture Torquemada creating an account to look for witches). Shock! HORROR! That Pagans are forced to mingle with the single-deitied! Do they steal the goats?! Master is very angry if we don't have goats for Him. Stealing the goats is bad.

Well, now we have the site! But...with all the goat-heavy wedding cuisine, we obviously need a catering organization! No. Wait. We need a restaurant! AN ALL GOAT WEDDING BUFFET for the Master-loving supplicants amongst us. So Beelzebub's was born.

What about the fly problem, you ask?

Don't worry. Pagans love spiders. We'll get them Pagans some spiders!

All of us are going to Hell for this. And all of this started because of one too many Christian Mingle ads.

See how ridiculous a writer's mind can be? And how amazing friends are?

This was a blog about nothing.

(BEELZEBUB'S GOAT BUFFET IS HELLACIOUSLY GOOD! COME VISIT US SOME TIME AT 666 PANDEMONIUM WAY, GAHENNA!)

In the beginning...

There was blog...and something about being good. I admit that the Bible is not my forte, and it's been years since I picked one up.

I've been told that these things need a focus. Unfortunately, I am not a very focused individual, so I'm not sure how well that's going to turn out. I tend to do what interests me, and on any given day, I'm not entirely sure what that's going to be. I've too much Marianne Dashwood in me, and certainly not enough Elinor...

Oh well. I suppose we'll just have to make it work, won't we?

To introduce myself and this blog, I suppose, is the proper place to be beginning. Yeah, that was a messed up sentence, I know. We'll just have to get over it.

I'm Q. Not the cool Bond Q, though. I'm actually a bit of a Luddite, although I don't necessarily approve of the more negative connotations associated with that term, and the idea of me building exploding pens and shoe phones (or is that Get Smart?) is downright laughable. I am actually surprised I managed to keep my cell-phone intact for over two years before dropping it hard enough to crack the glass. I've been through more computer chargers (whatever they're called) than growing children go through shoes. Oh! I've got one! I'm the person who won't even consider owning a tablet or e-reader because, in my opinion, books belong on paper. The idea of a shelf full of Kindles...is actually kind of funny.

What will I be writing about? Honestly...whatever suits my fancy. Perhaps I'll write about a movie I saw, or a book I read, or even something I wrote. Maybe I'll post a poem I find particularly beautiful and explain why I found it so appealing. I can't promise I'll be the best critic; I'm a historian by training, so I don't necessarily possess the theoretical knowledge necessary to explain why I feel the things I do, but I can promise I'll be honest. And there's a great chance I'll sneak some history in there, because what sort of Professor would I be if I didn't write a lecture or two?

I look forward to writing it all. And hopefully, someone enjoys reading it.