Dr. Strange: A Very Professional and Not At All Fangirly Review

You guys, Precocious Daughter and I saw Doctor Strange yesterday.

And my brain just stopped working.

There was a slight bit of drama around this, as we had planned to see it on opening weekend all along, but then her father invited her to see it with him. And I realized for the nth time that my ex still has the power to disrupt my well-being simply by challenging my personal vow to take the high road where it comes to PDaughter and her dad maintaining a close relationship.

Translation: I was not going to block his invitation, I was angry and depressed at being shut out of this experience, and I got extremely drunk in an attempt to cope with the self-loathing that comes with remaining psychologically dependent on the largesse of my ex-spouse.

Long story short: Once I acquiesced and said PDaughter should see Doctor Strange with her dad, he capitulated and said she should see it with me.

So he got the strategic upper hand, but fuck him, I got to take my kid to the movies.

Oh, read on.

PDaughter and I are not huge fans of 3D, believing that seeing movies in that format is generally not worth the extra cost, the annoyance of wearing those cheap-ass glasses, or the vague headache one has to endure just for a couple of "oooh, it's poking out of the screen at me" moments. But. I'd read several reviews stating that the 3D effects in this particular movie were worth the investment, and also at our local theatre, the 3D auditorium features extra-wide, reclining leather seats. So I shelled out $32.00 for two tickets to a 3D showing.

Because Benedict Cumberbatch, duh.

Election? What election? *qlunq*

I'll cut to the chase: You guys, Doctor Strange is so good.

Yes, the 3D was worth the extra cost. And I've never said that about a movie before. The special effects in this movie are spectacular and actually make sense in the context of the plot - after all, Doctor Strange is a sorcerer who knows how to bend space and time. Totally 3D-worthy stuff, and so well done.

Benedict Cumberbatch takes on an American accent, and does a solid B+ job. He did say "die-mension" at one point instead of "dimension," and he did say "We haven't a moment to lose" once, which is not an American construction by any means. But he did manage to say "asshole" without a) turning it into "arsehole" or b) stretching it into a bogus-sounding "aaaasshooooole." Good on you. Well done.

His whole performance is terrific, in fact. He's funny. He's a really funny guy on talk shows and such (and of course he just hosted "Saturday Night Live"), but in movies he's almost always The Serious Actor. So the fact that the script gave him quips and one-liners, and he nailed them, was a treat.

Chiwetel Ejiofor plays Mordo, a master sorcerer who helps teach Doctor Strange the ways of magic. Pretty funny when you realize these two last acted together in Twelve Years a Slave, when the whole "master" dynamic was way different, knowwhatimean?

It's been paragraphs since I posted a photo.
Here's one of the super-adorable Cumberbatch & Son.

 One of my favorite characters in the move was the Cloak of Levitation or, as I began to think of it immediately, Cloakey. If you don't understand how a freaking cape can be a believable character, trust me. Doctor Strange and Cloakey have got it going on.

Mads Mikkelsen is a most excellent villain, even though his eye makeup makes him look kinda like a fourth-place finisher on "RuPaul's Drag Race." Mads Mikkelsen is awesome. He totally needs to be a Bond villain.

Oh wait, he already was. Hello, Le Chiffre.

This is the first Marvel Universe movie I've seen since the first Iron Man movie came out. All the succeeding sequels and permutations and handsome-actor-smirkfests were just superhero overload for me. Literally the only thing they could have done to entice me another Marvel film was to cast Benedict Cumberbatch in it.

Smart move, Marvel.

Oh and it's got lots of fighting and a big scary inter-dimensional being and stuff, too. And of course, the obligatory post-credits scene that sets up the next movie (hint: it's a crossover with another Marvel Universe character! Oooh!)

8.5/10, would sit in comfy recliner and drool over Benedict Cumberbatch again.

Stuff, Part 2: Now That's the Stuff

So yesterday I told you about how I was going to have a garage sale.

Way looking forward to that.

But it turns out that instead I have a guardian angel.

The amazing Hawk, loyal Drunkard, talented artist, creator of my amazing Facebook cover page, and super-mega-ultra-Dad, gave me a wonderful alternative to watching strangers judge my stuff and offer me pittances for it.

This weekend the local Boy Scouts...uh, council? pack? troupe?...are having their community garage sale. And Hawk - who has, get this, four sons who have all been Scouts - has volunteered to pick up anything and everything I might want to get rid of and contribute it to the sale.

YAAAAASSSSS.

See also: W00t.

I love the idea of raising money for some great kids. I love the idea of my things going to new homes. I really love the idea of being able to sleep in on Saturday.

I'll be in my blanket fort if you need me.

And so, instead of posting pictures of my stuff, as I mentioned last night, I get to post something fun.

How about a list? Lists are fun.

This one is called "Top 10 Things the New Hamburglar Makes Me Feel."

Have you seen the new Hamburglar?

Robble fucking robble.

What up, McDonald's?

Next up: The new Grimace.

So yeah. Top Ten Things the New Hamburglar Makes Me Feel.

1. Fedora is on point.

2. Horizontal stripes...such couture cred.

3. Um. McStubble.

4. Can I wear your mask?

5. Red pleather gloves leave no tell-tale fingerprints on anything.

6. That is one goddamn lucky hamburger you're holding.

7. Your tie is cheeseburger-patterned. I want to nibble them all.

8. What did you do to make your coat so wrinkly, baby?

9. Imma wipe that smirk off your face with a flimsy paper napkin.

10. I do believe you just deep-fried my cherry pie.

All that and a sesame-seed bun.

Well, that was a lot more fun than obsessing over a freaking garage sale.

Thanks, Hawk.

Guest Post, From an Unexpected Source!

Today I'm thrilled to present a guest post from one of my favorite people.

Mmmmmmmmm. But no.

It comes from my very own Drummer Boy.

Because it turns out he's smokin' hot and a brilliant musician and a talented and funny writer. What he sees in a cipher like me, I swear I'll never know.

Turns out I'm Homer in this equation.

Anyway, yesterday he rather sheepishly told me he had written something. I asked if I could read it, and he graciously obliged. When it turned out I really, really liked his story, I asked if I could feature it as a guest post on my blog. And here we are.

There are two things you should know about Drummer Boy.

First, he's not a "word person." He'll be the first to admit that he doesn't pay attention to the lyrics of songs. Which I guess is why he's not impressed with the fact that I know all words to Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited by heart. Yet I know from our long online conversations that he is eloquent and literate and witty. So I don't really know why he doesn't consider himself a word person.

Second, he looks like Jeff Bridges. Specifically, like Jeff Bridges as The Dude in The Big Lebowski. That's not just my opinion; he works in retail, and people ask him all the time if they can take his picture, just because he looks like The Dude. On Halloween he went to work dressed as The Dude and caused a minor sensation.

Not Drummer Boy, but an incredible simulation.

So without further ado, here's the harrowing tale of my sweetie's brush with death. I hope you enjoy it.

If I Had a Paperclip...

 

I left my window open a crack when I went to bed last night, and in the early hours of the morning I was awoken by the feeling of something crawling on my left shin. 

I instinctively attempted to crush the assailant with the heel of my right foot. A couple of swats, yet I still felt this beast at my leg. I arose to deal with the matter, and by the light of Larry, Curly, and Moe, (who had been left running...obviously), I could see that my assailant was a giant black ant. Big, like the kind of ant a survivalist would love to find and chow on while lost in the wilderness.

Big.

So I jump into action, swat the offender from my leg and onto the bed, leap from bed to turn on the light, and say my goodbyes to the ant. I then proceed to line up my cocked-back fingernail to administer the thump-of-death. 

I thump him once, and he lives. 

Twice, and he is still alive. 

A third thumping bounces him from the bed and onto the floor. I get him in my sights and crush him with my right heel. Only, when I lift my foot, there he is, injured, but hobbling feverishly toward me. 

Pictured: Feverish hobbling.

He's heading right for me! He's pissed off! I tried to kill him, and he's coming for vengeance.

I know now that this is a fight to the death; it's either him or me. So, with the fluidity of a Ninja, I swoop down and grab one of my Dude house slippers, and come overhead of the ant...WHAM!!!

He's still coming! Again I strike him, yet still he comes. He's closing in now, a mere fifteen, maybe eighteen inches away, and coming fast. He kind of looks like the Terminator when he was just a torso, crawling, pursuing, pulling himself as best he could. This ant is coming for me. So for a third time I smash him with my house-slipper-o-death from above.

A moment of silence, please.

This time he dies. The ant dies. He not only dies, he is dismembered. There is a tiny line of broken pieces laying there that used to be an ant. 

I wanted to take the pieces and stick them on a toothpick, or a paperclip. I would display the ant's dismembered body at the opening of my window for all other ants to see.

The hum-ant-ity.

THIS!!! This is what awaits you if you dare enter my lair! I will crush all that try to invade my domain! And the house-slipper-o-death from above is not one, but two! Two slippers-o-death that will crush you!

That is what I would do, if I had a paperclip.

Beware, ant-bastards.

I love this.

If I awoke to an ant on me, I'd probably just scream.

Sometimes words fail me.

Confidential to Drummer Boy: Squee.

This Post Has (Almost) Everything I Love

Guys.

Remember in 2012, when the remains of King Richard III were found under a freaking parking lot?

He looks rather peeved about being dumped unceremoniously
in the ground, as well a freaking King of England should.

Well, today he got a royal re-burying. Check this out: His remains were positively identified thanks to DNA from a living descendant. But this relative isn't just any relative: He's a cabinet-maker, so he made the goddamn coffin Richard finally got to have after 530 years.

How cool is that?

And then, something happened that I now demand be duplicated at my own funeral (in approximately 80 years): Benedict Cumberbatch read a poem written specially for the occasion.

It would totally be worth it to be an unnoticed heap of bones for 500 years if Benedict Cumberbatch showed up to read me a poem at the end of it all.

The poem, by the way, is gorgeous. It was written by Britain's poet laureate, Carol Ann Duffy, who turns out to be pretty good at this kind of thing.

Have you ever read/seen Shakespeare's Richard III? You know: "Now is the winter of our discontent," "A horse, my kingdom for a horse," and my personal favorite, "Dispute not with her; she is lunatic."

Seriously, if you've never read it or it's been a while, go here and have at it.

Oh yeah, and watch this about 50 times.





I love everything about this story. Someone should write a play about it. Or at least a sonnet. Or an episode of "Sherlock."

Definitely going to watch the video a few more times.

In a Mood. Not in THE Mood. That Would Be a Good Thing.

I'm in a mood today.

Today was a snow day here in North Texas. Actually, it was a "millions of tiny pellets of ice descending from the sky to bond with the concrete" day, which is what typically happens during a Texas winter.

Winter in Texas is a real dick.

Anyway, the schools were closed, and I wasn't about to get on the freeway with a bunch of clueless drivers. Since we had advance notice of the bad weather, I had my work computer at home so I could remotely connect to my company network and pretty much work normally.

That's the theory, anyway. In reality, connecting remotely is a painful, frustrating, inefficient process hamstrung by a network infrastructure that has remained static while demand for connectivity has grown threefold.

In layman's terms, this.

So I made a game effort to get some work done, but there were lots of things I simply couldn't accomplish, and the things I absolutely had to do left me feeling tired and drained.

Which brings me to the fact that I spent today feeling tired and drained, and I don't think it's entirely because of the limitations of my computin' machine. I didn't feel particularly well today - it's possible that if today hadn't been a snow day, I might have called in sick anyway.

Sick-sick, not Ferris-sick.

I feel run down and lethargic. I took two naps today, and not the awww-yeah-lazy-time kind of naps - the I-think-I'm-gonna-need-to-be-unconscious-for-a-while kind. The not so fun kind.

I'm pretty sure I'm not sick, but I did get my period this morning. And by "this morning," I mean I've been having raging PMS for at least two weeks now - including anxiety, irritability, sleeping problems, and boobs that feel as if they've been replaced by twin water balloons full of pain - and the actual menses finally decided to make an appearance today.

This is my cycle now. I hardly ever get a period any more, but when I do, it's a complete fucking diva. It's like the worst houseguest ever, disrupting my schedule, getting on my nerves, and expecting me to be at its beck and call, all so that it can make its grand entrance when it decides the time is right.

It's like "Real Housewives of Perimenopause"
in my ovaries.

So I don't feel great, and I'm not in a great mood. And last night's Oscar telecast didn't help.

I'm supposed to be writing a recap of the show, because I said I would. But the fact is, it was boring. It bored me.

It had its moments.

This. It had this.

But everybody on the internetz has already weighed in on Gorm Gizonga and Neil Patrick Harris in his underwear and the stupid, stupid bit with the predictions in the briefcase. I have nothing to add.

I'm just so grumpy about the whole thing.

How I felt by the end of the night.

So that's left me feeling bitchy, because I wanted to post a fun, witty wrap-up of the Oscars, but I can't. Maybe it's because the show itself was neither funny nor witty, or maybe because I'm not. Either way, I'm irritated.

Sensing a theme here?

With my go-to topic taken from me, I needed something else to write about. My friend Bill the Butcher recently sent me a new guest post, which tickles me to death, but I simply lack the energy to edit it for publication (not that it will need much editing, but I want to format and illustrate Bill's wonderful writing to do it justice, and I can't do that right now). That's also irritating.

I don't know what's wrong with me. I mean, other than the laundry list of things I've just written about. Maybe that's enough.

Oh, and they've already canceled school for tomorrow because more bad weather is coming. Joy.

I'm thinking this would be a very bad time to watch The Shining.

Tomorrow there will be an amazing post in this space.

Most likely it will be Bill the Butcher's and not mine, but I'll take it.

All of you...get off my lawn.

Best Picture Blitz 2015: Battle of the British Geniuses

I have a limited amount of time to summarize all eight nominees for the Best Picture Oscar, so today I'm going to combine two thematically similar contenders.

I'm talking, of course, about American Sniper and Whiplash.

You can't even tell which is which.

Ha ha! No, I'm joshing with you. The intense character-driven drama about music and passion and the hyper-American movie about the trained killer are not the two I'm talking about. Those are yet to come on our journey.

This year there are two Oscar-nominated films that are historical dramas about impaired British scientists and their groundbreaking work: The Theory of Everything, the story of physicist Stephen Hawking, and The Imitation Game, the gripping of tale of mathematician Alan Turing's quest to break the Nazi code with the world's first computer.

Also known as oh my God Eddie Redmayne and Benedict Cumberbatch are amazing.

Who knew science could be so adorable?

I've already written about The Theory of Everything a little bit. I enjoyed this movie more than Precocious Daughter, although we both agreed Mr. Redmayne gave a really excellent performance. It was a finely written movie, but I think it was a bit hampered by the lack of dramatic tension. After all, we all know that Professor Hawking formulated his breakthrough theory before succumbing to ALS. In fact, we all know that Professor Hawking didn't succumb to ALS at all, at least not as of this writing. He's still going strong at age 72.

And still sassy.

Of course, we also know that Alan Turing did in fact invent the machine that cracked the Nazi ENIGMA code. Hmm. Yeah. So there is kind of the problem with historical dramas.

Here's another problem: We have two movies that hinge on the main character's relationship with a strong, intelligent woman, and those parts are still way underwritten. Not that Keira Knightley and Felicity Jones don't give really excellent performances. They do. It's just that they're making the most of parts that simply don't have the depth and complexity of the male leads. Or even of the secondary male characters in their respective films.

Mark Strong as MI6 agent Stewart Menzies
especially blew me away.

I guess I shouldn't complain. I mean, great parts for women are hard to come by, so good parts should be appreciated, right?

I hate even having to rationalize it that way. And the most frustrating part of all is that Felicity Jones gave the stronger performance of the weaker character, and vice versa for Keira Knightley.

They're both too awesome to have to split hairs like that.

But enough venting. Both movies really are very, very good. I'm thinking, though, that being so similar in general subject matter, they may end up splitting the Academy's vote, both for Best Picture and Best Actor. Kind of a shame, but on the other hand, kind of an embarrassment of riches.

I recommend them both, but if you only see one, see The Imitation Game. The ensemble cast works better for my money, and the script is a smidge more artful.

Also...Benedict Cumberbatch.

I will not squee, I will not squee.

Squeeeee.

From an abundance of professional admiration, of course.

The Bomb

I'm watching the Golden Globes, so I'm not really crafting a post tonight. But in case you're not watching, I need you to know that this just happened.

Benedict Cumberbatch proved himself the King of the Awards Show Photobomb again.

Lame bit about North Korea + Margaret Cho in Commie drag = meh.

Benny in a white dinner jacket  = priceless.

Other than that, the Globes have been a bit dull so far.

Later.

Mom Jokes For The Win

I made Precocious Daughter laugh twice today.

That gets the Victory Squirrel Dance Pose.

Making your kid laugh is easy-peasy when she's, say, three. Or seven. Or even 12. Try to make a teenager laugh, and you're in "squeeze-another-sequel-out-of-Alien" mode. Difficult, awkward, and embarrassing for all.

So when I scored not just a laugh, but a sincere laugh, off PDaughter for two completely off-the-cuff jokes, I felt pretty damn justifiably pleased with myself. So much so that I thought I'd share them.

Disclaimer: You guys know I love stupid jokes. There's nothing wrong with stupid jokes if they're stupid and funny. Why do you think "Family Guy" is still on the air?

Actually, I have no idea why "Family Guy" is still on the air. Bad example.

Why is his chin a scrotum? WHY?

Joke No. 1:

What's green and stands on one leg?

A phlegmingo!

Joke No. 2:

What do you call the star of BBC's "Sherlock" after a minor car accident?

Been in a fender-bender!

GET IT???

Wocka-wocka!

Yeah, well, my kid thought they were funny, and so did I. So we'll just be over giggling while you chuckle politely at the sophisticated wit of Noel Coward or some goddamn thing.

But really. Go find a teenager and lay these on him/her. You'll thank me when your cred goes crazy high. Yo.

This Is Random

I don't want to think tonight, so I'm going to post some random images.

Virgin lizard.

Penguins in capes.

Duck selfie.

Produce tango.

Pancake-head bunny.

Sometimes it feels good not to think.

Wait, one more.

SMOKIN.

Tomorrow, peeps. I'll be brilliant.

Benedict Cumberbatch Turns Me to Jelly. So Pathetic.

In honor of his 38th birthday, here is a song about Benedict Cumberbatch.

How does this even? *dies*

It's sung to the tune of "Cottleston Pie." If you don't know the song...well, shame on you, first of all. But also, please watch this clip first. It's one of my favorite clips from my second-favorite Muppet, Rowlf the Dog. Take it away, Rowlf.




I love that clip so much.

OK, now here's my song for Benedict Cumberbatch. Sing along. SING ALONG. OK.

Benedict Cumberbatch, Sherlock Holmes guy,

Your birthday's on the 19th of July.

I'd like to hug you and lead you awry...

If you were here I would certainly try.

Benedict, Benedict, you make me sigh

With those sweet heterochromatic eyes.

Ginger or raven or snowy white...

I'd run my hands through your hair every nigh-IGGGHHHHT.

Benedict Cumberbatch, I don't know why

I'm glued to the screen every time you are nigh.

This middle-aged fangirl cannot deny,

Your birthday, Benny, is simply to die.

It's a sickness, honestly.

If you want me to write you a birthday song, let me know. But you'd better be freaking awesome.

Stubs

Here are bunch of stubby little thoughts. They're all too weak to make an entire post out of...out of which to make...whatever. So I'm mashing them all together into one barely adequate post. And I get to throw away all these random scraps of paper with sentence fragments scrawled on them. They're like creepy fortune-cookies written by a marmoset with ADD.

I totally used that simile so I could
use this picture.

1. Obviously, when someone sits on their cellphone and accidentally calls you, it's called a butt-dial. But what if the phone is in their front pocket? I've decided it's called a nut-dial (for guys only, of course; I'm still working on the female version).

2. I realize that there is only a tiny subset of my already tiny body of readers who will get both halves of this comparison. But I'm not going to let that stop me. Does anyone else think that Robert De Niro as the young Vito Corleone in The Godfather Part II is a dead ringer for Kendall from boy band Big Time Rush?

This is haunting me.

3. Snickers Peanut Butter Squared is advertsing that it now contains 125% more peanut butter. Longtime readers know that I have had a passionate love affair with Snickers PBS. But now I don't eat sweets. So this news only makes me yearn for my former love like a middle-aged woman at a Rick Springfield concert.

I've hungered for your nuts...

4. I spent several hours yesterday reading David Thorne's blog 27b/6 (which you seriously need to stalk if you don't already). He is, hands down, the funniest blogger on teh Interwebz, and I only stopped reading because the urge to kill myself in a fit of writer's envy was growing unmanageable.

5. I've almost decided on what to get as a tattoo, assuming I ever decide to get a tattoo. Or I thought I'd almost decided. And then I saw this.

How do you say "squee" in Japanese?

Miyazaki soot-sprites for the win. How does one choose between this and Kermit the Frog, pray tell? And don't say both - I don't even know if I the nerve to get one, let alone two. But OMG, such cuteness in ink.

6.  Finally, Benedict Cumberbatch is making a movie called Black Mass. It's set in the 1970s. Check this out.

That tie. That hair. Those sideburns. Far out, man.

Stubs out.