Did Scalia say anything about guns and movie theaters?

I saw Wanted over the weekend. I was really surprised by how much I dug it, considering I thought the comic it's based on (loosely, loosely based on, thank God) was crap. I feel really sorry for anyone who sees the movie and thinks, "Hey, that was a cool film! So it's based on a comic book, huh? Well, I've never really been into comics, but what the hell, I'll swing by Borders and pick it up." Because they're bound to be let down, confused, and quite likely furious when they open it up and it resembles very little of what they saw on-screen.

But this post isn't about Wanted. It's about hands down the worst example of movie theater etiquette I've ever encountered in my life. And I've seen everything. Talking. Cell phone conversations. Nonstop texting. Running around. Loud eating and drinking. People practically having sex in the seats. Everything. But this blew me away.

Suppose you were a parent bringing your 2 or 3 year-old daughter to see Wanted. (Which you obviously shouldn't be doing in the first place, but whatever.) Wanting her to be occupied while you enjoy the film, you decide to bring something along for her to play with.

Which of the following would be the ideal toy to bring to a movie theater:

A) A stuffed animal
B) A doll
C) A flashlight-type thing, with a bright glowing star at the top

If you chose A or B, you're still a lousy parent for bringing your kid with you to a film where about a dozen people get their heads blown off. But if you chose C, you might well be the evil bitch I encountered.

Seriously. How utterly self-absorbed and unconcerned about the enjoyment of others do you have to be to not only let your kid bring a damn flashlight into a movie theater, but to just sit there blissfully as she plays around with it? And boy, oh boy, did she play with it. Every few minutes, she would turn it back on, wave it around a bit, and then turn it off. And just when I'd start to think that it might finally stay off, it would come right back on again.

And you know what the amazing thing is? The truly astonishing, astounding, fantastical, incredible, miraculous, phenomenal, stupendous, unbelievable thing?

No one said a goddamn thing.

For the entire film, everyone around the girl and her mother just sat there. And it was a packed theater, too, so it's not like only a couple of people were being bothered. I was about seven rows behind them, so short of shouting at them, there wasn't a lot I could do. I guess I could have gone to get an usher, but there's really no good way for a grown man to tattle on a three year-old girl and preserve his dignity.

But if you're sitting right there next to them? Or behind them? If you're having a green glowing star constantly shoved in your face? How do you not tap the mother on the shoulder and politely ask her to keep it turned off? And if she tells you to fuck off, tell her in a not-so-polite way.

I mean, has it really gotten to the point where we're so afraid of offending people, either because we're a bunch of touchy-feely, "I'm okay, you're okay" hippies, or because we fear any sort of confrontation, that we just sit there and allow ourselves to suffer because some idiot refuses to even pretend to be a good mother?

And why don't ushers patrol movie theaters anymore? When I was a kid, they'd do a walk-through every fifteen minutes or so, to make sure no one had sneaked in, and to scold anyone who had their feet up on the seat in front of them. Had someone from the theater swung by during the movie, they could have told the mother to turn the toy off, and while they were at it, they could have said something to the douche in the very front row who kept whipping out his iPhone.

It's going to be at least another year or so before I'm eligible for jury duty again. But if I get a murder case where a guy went nuts in a movie theater and shot someone for being rude, I'm voting not guilty. I don't care what the circumstances were, nor do I care if there's actual video of the defendant mowing his victim down, or even if a couple of innocent bystanders were also killed. I'm voting not guilty, and I'll convince my fellow jurors to do the same, and hopefully, that will encourage other people to bring their guns to movie theaters, and it ends up being a case where you're afraid to even breathe loudly, let alone act like a complete asshole, lest you end up shot dead on the theater floor, with the side of your face stuck to it.

Oh, Angie. Why couldn't your bullets have come out of the screen?

Panel of the Week

From Superman #677:

Final Crisis #2

"It shames us that the noble calling of the superhero has become just one more gimmick!" - Rising Sun

Apt words, as Final Crisis (not to mention, DC Comics in general), continues its descent into gimmickry.

Okay, that might be a bit unfair. At least as far as Final Crisis goes, as this issue is considerably better than the first. Of course, that's not saying a whole lot, but hey, stuff actually happens this time! And it's entirely possible that there's an actual plot (and indeed, a point!) to all this, as opposed to Grant Morrison just waving his arms around manically and dazzling us with his encyclopedic knowledge of the DCU.

Spoilers below what I'm really afraid will become my new catchphrase.

So we have four concurrent and occasionally intersecting stories going on here.

The first is amazingly entertaining, and what I think everyone who was looking forward to this series was hoping for when they heard the name Grant Morrison. The second and third are intriguing, but I think they've been padded out about as much as they can be before Morrison actually has to start delivering answers. The fourth almost seems as though he was half-asleep while writing it.

The first takes place in the colorful world of the Japanese superhero subculture. I had no idea there was a Japanese superhero subculture in the DCU, but when it's this well done, I'm not going to argue. In fact, I'm not entirely sure why we're reading Final Crisis instead of a Super Young Team series, as Morrison seems a lot more enthusiastic about these new characters than he does Superman, Batman, etc. But I guess he can rectify that post-Final Crisis.

The second and the third, concerning Libra and his gang of villains, and the New Gods becoming the Newer Gods (or something), haven't revealed much about what's going on thus far. Which is fine, I guess, since it's only the second issue, but it doesn't show much consideration for those of us with short attention spans. Especially the New Gods stuff, as the New Gods are dull as dirt on their best day. (Although, nifty Morrisonian lines like, "Rejoice! The Evil Factory is open for business!" certainly help.) I'm a lot more interested in Libra and his ultimate plan. As I said in my review of last issue, a lot of this subplot feels like covered ground, so I'm really hoping Morrison has something clever in mind.

The fourth is the portion of the story featuring the JLA, and it couldn't be more lifeless, showing none of the energy and excitement of Morrison's original JLA run. It's entirely possible I'm just projecting, but it seemed like even the characters were bored. Another funeral. Another world threatening crisis. Another member gets captured. Yawn. Also, rather than answering any of the questions from the first issue, these scenes just prompted all kinds of new ones.

Like, why did Sue Dibny get a better funeral than the Martian Manhunter?

What the hell is a "black alert," and what does it accomplish that a simple red alert couldn't?

What was the point of not showing John Stewart's attacker, only to reveal it just three pages later? And if his ring wasn't working, what stopped Kraken from just finishing him off? Or at least removing his eyes, as threatened? After all, is it really possible for someone to throw a good right hook after he's been impaled multiple times? And...oh, never mind.

I'm a lot more optimistic about this series than I was at the end of the first issue, but all things being equal, I'd rather just have more Super Young Team.

Inside the Blogger's Studio

Someone emailed me over the weekend to say that he really liked the Washington Post comics post, and that he liked the blog in general, but that he "didn't get" the banner at the top.

I've always thought it was pretty straightforward, and I've been using it for about 18 months now with no one else inquiring about it. But I figure if one guy out there is confused by it, that means that...well, it's probably just that one guy. Still, just to be safe, join me on this quick tour of my blog banner.

First, in case you've ever wondered, yes, I did rip off the basic design from Andrew Sullivan.

Second, for nostalgia's sake, here's the rather drab banner I used when I first started the blog, so you can appreciate how far my mastery of MS Paint has come:

And now, the anatomy of a blog banner:

The poster on the left is of whatever new release on any given week that I like the most. (Mind you, this doesn't necessarily mean I'm actually going to go see it. And when there's nothing good coming out, it's sometimes just a matter of picking the lesser evil.) The poster on the right is of an older movie I like. Sometimes there will be a thematic link between the two, but usually not.

My way of honoring the Mayor For Life. It used to be George W. Bush and then Dan Snyder up there, but there's no escaping the fact that this is D.C.'s number one citizen.

Some comic books and a comic book storage box. Have you ever wondered where comic book geeks store their precious comics? Sure, you have! Well, wonder no further, non-comic book reading reader!

This is what's commonly referred to as a "long box." It holds roughly 200 comics each, and can easily be stacked on top of one another. Fun scientific fact: The number of long boxes one owns is directly proportionate to the fewer number of women one has had sexual intercourse with than the national average.

What's that? How many long boxes do I own? Er...um...one. Just one long box.

It's empty space now, but there used to be a football there, to signify my love of the sport, both NFL and fantasy. Then I decided that between the movie posters, comic books, and the football, the room in the banner looked like that of a 12 year old-boy. So I took out the football, and now it just looks like the room of a slightly retarded grown-up suffering from arrested development. Which is not only a lot more accurate, but actually what I was shooting for.

Summer Movie Scorecard

Have Seen:

Speed Racer: A
Iron Man: A-
The Incredible Hulk: B

Get Smart: C+
Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull: D+

Definitely Seeing:

Hancock
The Dark Knight
The Midnight Meat Train
Pineapple Express

Might See:

The Happening

Wanted

WALL·E
Hellboy II: The Golden Army
Step Brothers
X Files: I Want to Believe
The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor
Tropic Thunder

The Babyborrower's Club

I've heard lots of mothers (and a few fathers) discuss that magic moment where they realized that they were ready to have children. Where whatever biological clock that exists inside each of us started going off, and they felt this sudden urge to have unprotected sex and create little versions of themselves. Where they finally, it could be argued, became adults.

That happened to me this past weekend. Sort of.

I was in line at the grocery store. The guy in front of me was holding his four or five year old daughter, her head resting on his shoulder. She and I made eye contact. She smiled at me. And...I honestly felt like someone had just punched me in the gut. It was really just the most adorable thing I've ever seen in my life.

I thought about whipping out my cell phone and taking a photo to show you, but unfortunately, society frowns on people taking pictures of strangers' children. Seriously, though, she really was just insanely cute. Part of me wanted to hit her dad in the back of the head with the bottle of salad dressing I was holding, kick him to death while he was on the floor, and take her. That's how cute she was.

(Wait, did that last part come off as disturbing and psychotic? Because it was meant to be warm and paternal.)

Anyway, now that my biological clock has gone off, am I ready to settle down and have a kid? Er...uh...um...well...no, not really.

I mean, let's face it, I'm way too selfish to be a parent. Hell, I'm way too selfish to be a pet owner. Plus, I really, really like having disposable income. My biggest problem in life at the moment? Deciding whether to get an Xbox 360 or an iPhone. And frankly, there's a really good chance I'll end up getting both. Why complicate things by having to decide between an Xbox 360, an iPhone, or taking my kid to the doctor for a check-up?

So you would probably agree that I'm not cut out for parenthood at this stage in my life. But that doesn't mean I don't want to experience the joys of being a father. I just want to do it on an exclusively part time basis.

How can I manage this? Well, I do have friends who have kids who would be thrilled to give them to me for a bit so they can get some peace and quiet. But it's weird babysitting for your friends' kids. For one thing, they actually expect them back in the same condition in which they gave them to you. Plus, none of my friends' kids are particularly interesting to be around. Being three isn't an acceptable excuse not to be able to carry on a decent conversation.

I thought about becoming a Big Brother, but when I called the organization and asked about setting up some sort of audition where I could pick which kid I wanted, they hung up on me.

I could just put an ad on Craiglist offering my services as a babysitter. But the weirdness factor of a grown man embarking on a babysitting career aside, I don't want to work around other people's schedules.

As a result, I'm proposing an alternative. I call it babyborrowing. "Sitting," I think, connotates a certain degree of responsibility and liability. "Borrowing" does not. You know, you borrow a book. You borrow a pen. You borrow an item of clothing. If something happens to what you're borrowing, yeah, it sucks, but no big deal. Life goes on. Same principle here.

So here's what I'm offering:

- I agree to take your kid off your hands for free, for a period of time to be mutually agreed upon.

Again, this is babyborrowing, not babysitting, so don't expect me to come over to your house and watch your kid while you go out and have fun. The whole point of this is for me to have fun, so the kid comes with me. (Unless you have a really cool place, with a big TV and lots of video games and food in the fridge. Good food, not crap. Then we can probably work something out.)

- I promise not to do anything creepy with your kid. I don't swing that way.

- I will make a reasonable attempt to keep your kid safe. Please note the word "reasonable." I'll hold its hand while we cross the street and all that jazz, but I won't be running into any burning buildings. In the event I find myself in a position where I have to chose between saving myself and saving your kid, I reserve the right to save myself. And at the hospital and/or funeral, you're not allowed to make me feel bad about that.

And here are my rules:

- No babies. No teenagers. No kids who aren't toilet trained. One kid at a time. No ugly kids.

- I'm not responsible for anything that happens to your kid while I have possession of it. Like I said, I'll make a reasonable effort. But hey, shit happens, you know?

- While your kid and I are out, should I meet a woman who's dazzled by my skills as a single father, I may need to use your kid as a prop. In which case I'll expect full cooperation from it, up to and including hugging me a lot and referring to me as "Daddy" in front of her. Should a relationship blossom, I may need to borrow your kid quite a bit for the next several weeks, until we either break up or it starts to look serious, in which case I'll just invent a horrific car accident or something to explain why the kid is no longer in the picture.

- For the most part, children's movies suck. If we go to a movie, I pick what we're seeing, and there's a good chance it'll be rated R. Look, your kid has to learn about slasher films at some point.

- Before I got Netflix, one of the things I hated most about Blockbuster is how they make you return the movie to the same location you rented it from. So I'm going to need a list of at least five friends spread out over the D.C. metro area where I can drop your kid off if I'm too tired to drive it home.

- The service is free, but I do get reimbursed for expenses. Here's how this will work: I get paid back for every penny I spend on your kid. This includes food, tickets, souvenirs, gas, whatever. I hate saving receipts, so you'll have to take my word when I tell you how much you owe me.

As for what I spend on myself, it depends. For example, suppose we go to King's Dominion. I like King's Dominion, so I have no problem paying for my own ticket. But if your kid wants to see, like, a Wiggles concert or something, you damn well better believe you're reimbursing me for that shit.

These are, I believe, completely fair and reasonable terms, and I think it's a win/win/win system, where you, your kid, and me all come out ahead. So email me if you're interested. And actually, include a recent photo of your child as well, just so I know I'm not going to be stuck with a homely kid. I shouldn't have to suffer just because you passed along bad genes.

Wow, is this what being a parent feels like? Because I haven't even taken my first kid yet, and I already feel awesome. I'm just sorry I missed Father's Day. I somehow feel like I'm owed a present now.

Panel of the Week

From Justice League of America #22:

R.I.P. Chunks

No, no. Don't worry. The kid from The Goonies is fine. And besides, that was Chunk, no "s."

I'm talking about Chunks, aka "The Radio Bottom," maybe the best part of The Hideout when it was originally broadcast in D.C., and then when they moved to Orlando for a couple of years, and now conspicuously absent from the show ever since it returned to D.C. on Saturday nights.

And while the man himself is alive and well, his radio persona seems to be dead and buried.

Just leave him alone and remember him how he was. That's all he wants. He really doesn't want to be known as Chunks or Corolla or Kevin Rogers or talked about on the radio either. (Former Hideout producer Tommy Bateman, on Hideout Heretics)

I'm not going to lie. Part of the fun of Chunks was listening to him get mercilessly tortured by Jefe and Dubbs on a regular basis. Having his Playstation 2 smashed to pieces before his eyes. Getting Icy Hot on his junk. Constantly having to deny he was gay, despite numerous sound bytes to the contrary ("I hate vagina!"). Discovering that someone had taken a dump on his car. Getting shocked with a stun gun. Being forced to dance in bra and panties. Swimming in alligator infested waters. Getting hit with a chair. Cleaning the men's room with his tongue. The Fat Man Diaries. Having his paycheck burned up. Being called "Chunks."

Huh. You know, reading all that, maybe he should be a little bitter. But he's also a genuinely hilarious dude, and it's really a shame that he's apparently no longer interested in radio.

As something of a radiophile, I've noticed that almost every radio show that falls under the "shock jock" umbrella has someone who exists mainly to get kicked around by the hosts. Elliot has Flounder. The Junkies have BDK. Ron & Fez have Black Earl. And none of those guys are funny. Their limited appeal exists solely in being abused for the amusement of the audience. Chunks could get a laugh, even when he wasn't getting sexually abused.

I hope that once he's recovered from what they did to him in Orlando, be it through therapy or heavy drinking or just taking some time off, he gets back on the horse. I'm not sure how an unemployed radio sidekick finds a job, but there has to be something out there for him.

The bottom line is, the world needs The Artist Formally Known As Chunks. (And if you've listened to the pale imitation of The Hideout that's currently airing Saturdays on WJFK, it's pretty obvious they need him, too.)

Yeah. We're the unhip ones.

"Die yuppie scum!" chanted protesters outside the small sipping spot last Friday night; many wielded placards: "EVICT WINE BARS SAVE THE EAST VILLAGE."

...
Meanwhile, the New York Young Republican Club rushed to embrace the place, booking the wine bar for its monthly get-together; one member even threatened a full-scale yuppie invasion of the neighborhood: "We're coming with briefcases and BlackBerrys in hand to stake our claim." (New York Observer)

You know, after this, I don't ever want to hear from another New Yorker (especially an East Villager) about how dorky D.C. is.

Somehow, despite the hundreds of protests that take place here every year, we have yet to march against the opening of a wine bar. We have yet to have to fend off an invasion of Young Republicans. No one has ever threatened to bring their briefcases and BlackBerrys to a fight.

Also, "Die yuppie scum"? Seriously? Hey, 1986 called. It wants its protest slogan back.

On a somewhat related note, when Sex and the City opened up a couple of weeks ago, there were stories about how groups of women in New York were dressing up in their finest designer clothes and going out with their girlfriends to go see it. You know, basically getting the whole Sex and the City experience. Role playing, if you will.

Ladies, you know what that's no different than whatsoever, even though you'll swear otherwise? This:

So the next time your husband or boyfriend declares his intention to dress up like Green Lantern/Darth Maul/Legolas and attend a comic book/sci-fi/fantasy convention, you'll bite your lip and tell him to have a good time. Because in 2008, dorkiness knows no gender boundaries.

The royal crown

Chalk it up to envy or insecurity or whatever on my part, but the day I found out Prince William was losing his hair was one of the greatest days ever.

I mean, I have nothing against Prince William. He seems like a nice enough kid. And as far as princes go, he's certainly better than those awful Saudi princes who are living large while we're paying $4 a gallon. But still. He's fucking Prince William. He has looks. He has money. He could have had Britney Spears, back when that would have been an accomplishment. He's the future King of England. He's led a completely charmed life. (Well, except for...you know. That one thing.)

What makes his hair loss more tragic (or if you're me, more funny) is that if you look at pictures of him from even just a few years ago, he had great hair:

You know, it takes me like, ten minutes and a gob of greasy hair stuff to achieve that slightly tousled, "Hey, man, I could give a damn about how my hair looks" look. He probably used to roll right out of bed like that.

And while my taking delight in his genetic misfortune is admittedly childish and petty, I believe this reminder that regardless of whether you're prince or peasant, there are still some level playing fields out there, is a valuable one.

But then I got to thinking. Obviously, Prince William isn't exactly hurting for money. He could have gotten hair plugs. Or a toupee. He could have bought a lifetime supply of Rogaine and had it slathered on his head every morning by a team of British supermodels. Or he could just wear a hat all the time, which is how Tiger Woods has decided to cope with his receding hairline.

So why the hell hasn't he done something? Where does he get off being so damn secure?

I mean, look at all-American movie star Brendan Fraser:

Now look at all-American movie star Brendan Fraser when the cameras are off:

See, this is a man appropriately insecure about his appearance. This is a man who wept when he noticed his shower drain was getting clogged with hair. This:

is the proper American way to react to something like male pattern baldness, if you have the means to do so.

Meanwhile, across the pond, there's stupid old Prince William, seemingly totally accepting of both his hair loss and his disturbing physical transformation into his father.

I don't get it. Is it a British thing? A royal thing? Would it really kill the guy to at least make an effort to appear as though he's freaking out over this?

Sometimes, I really do think that if people would just stop for a moment and consider how their actions affected me and my self-image, the world would be such a better place.

Panel of the Week

Friday posts have always been sort of difficult for me. Because even though doing this blog is fun, in a way, it's also work. And I hate doing work on Fridays. It's the end of the week, I've already pretty much checked out, and I don't really feel like doing anything other than just watching the clock.

At the same time, I've been trying to think of a way to have more comics-related stuff on here without going back to doing reviews, because honestly, I hated doing reviews. There are only so many ways to say, "This issue ruled!" or "This issue sucked!" before it starts feeling repetitive. I really don't know how the bloggers who do multiple reviews each week manage. I'll probably still do it for significant stuff like Final Crisis, but doing it on a weekly or even semi-regular basis doesn't interest me.

And so, a happy win/win situation presented itself.

From now on, each Friday, I'm going to post what I think was the "Panel of the Week." Something that features a really cool moment or made me laugh or has some exceptionally great artwork or was just mind numbingly awful. I thought about including a small blurb about why it was chosen, but then I decided it would be more fun to just throw it out there without any context whatsoever. Easier, too.

From Salvation Run #7:

Space Invader

As someone who almost certainly has ADD, I'm always looking for ways to amuse myself on the Metro to and from work.

My iPod and the billion or so free newspapers available in D.C. help, but I still spend large portions of my commute just bored out of my skull. Even gawking at inappropriately dressed skinterns gets old after a while. (I saw a girl last week whose skirt was so short that when she got to work, she was either immediately sent home to change or immediately hired on the spot. When she got off at McPherson Square--and if Clinton were still in office, that would have been a great double entendre--you could hear about ten guys sharply exhale as they were finally able to stop sucking in their guts. I might have been one of them. But I digress.)

Fortunately, though, I've invented a new game which has brought me a fair amount of amusement over the past couple of weeks. I call it "Space Invader." Obviously, I'd run into problems if I tried to trademark the name, but that's okay, because I doubt there's really any money in it, anyway.

Here's how it works. When you get on the Metro (train or bus), look for the person who obviously doesn't want anyone sitting next to them. They'll either have their belongings on the seat beside them, or are just sitting in such a way that they take up more than one seat. Sit next to them, anyway. (Note: This only works if the train/bus is relatively full. If you try sitting next to someone when there are numerous empty seats available, the game completely loses its punch, because now you're the jerk.)

If the person acts like a human being and makes room for you, there's nowhere to go with it. If, however, he or she decides to be passive-aggressive and attempts to claim as much of the seat as possible, leaving you squished into a tiny space, it's game on.

Lean into the person as much as possible. Not quite to the point where it becomes overtly intrusive. Just to where they realize that you're not going to meekly jam yourself up against the arm rest, while they occupy 75% of the available space. And should they object to the unwanted physical contact, you can correctly point out that if they'd scoot the fuck over, there'd be more room. That's the brilliance of the game: You have the moral high ground.

I've played it about six times now, and I'm undefeated. Most cave within thirty seconds. Only two have given me any problems.

The first was clearly peeved about having to put a small piece of luggage on his lap so I could sit down, so he positioned the bag in such a way that it took up most of the seat. No problem. I just pressed the side of my arm firmly against it, so that when he tried to adjust it to get to something in his pocket, he was unable to do so. Eventually, he gave up and repositioned the bag on his lap so that we both had ample seat room.

The second was a girl who was splayed out at a 45 degree angle when I sat down, and showed no interest in making room for me. It was the tightest fit yet, but as I read the City Paper, I made sure that my right elbow was practically resting on her hip, and would occasionally dig into her when she shifted. She held out longer than anyone else, but eventually, she too moved over, and seat equality was achieved.

Now there are some common-sense rules to remember:

1) Avoid playing with an obese person, as they don't really have a whole lot of say over how much of the seat they take up.

2) Be mindful of the kind of person you choose to sit next to. The dude with the angry glare and MS-13 tattoo? Maybe not the best person to mess around with, moral high ground or not.

3) Finally, if you're a guy and the person in the seat next to you is a woman, you probably want to be careful of how much "leaning" you're doing. "I was playing Space Invader," likely won't be a successful defense should you end up in court.

Of course, as with most things in life, there is a much easier and more mature way of handling this sort of situation. If you're being squeezed on the Metro by the person sitting next to you, you could simply say, "Excuse me," and he'll probably just move over.

But again, as with most things in life, the more complex, less mature way of handling the situation is significantly more fun.

Also, the word "gullible" isn't in the dictionary

I watched Swimming With Sharks for probably the hundredth time over the weekend. I'm still amazed at how many people I meet who have never seen the film, or for that matter, even heard of it. Because when I say this is a great film, I don't mean it's a great film like I might say Hostel or Mallrats is a great film, where I'm only being half-serious. I mean, Swimming With Sharks is a great fucking film, and if you haven't seen it, you owe it to yourself to.

Anyway, I once knew a guy at my old job (we'll call him "Dave") who loved the film as much as I did. We'd often quote Buddy Ackerman to each other when one of us fucked something up. Such as:

"You are nothing! If you were in my toilet I wouldn't bother flushing it. My bathmat means more to me than you!"

"You're happy. I hate that!"

"Do me a fucking favor. Shut up, listen, and learn."

"You. Have. No. Brain."

Good times.

Anyway, one day...and here, I'm going to include a spoiler warning, because I'm hopeful that if for some reason you haven't seen Swimming With Sharks, you're now planning on doing so, and I don't want to ruin a great ending. So anyone who hasn't seen it may want to step out of the room.

Everyone good? Cool.

Anyway, one day Dave dropped this bombshell on me: He informed me that at the end of the movie, Buddy and Guy have become gay lovers. And that final scene where Buddy summons Guy into the empty boardroom while the ominous music plays, was a prelude to the former buggering the hell out of the latter.

Of course, I challenged Dave on this nonsense, and he coolly informed me that the evidence was all there, and besides, he'd heard somewhere that's what the writer/director had intended.

I just dismissed what he was saying as the ramblings of a crazy person, and it never came up again. Eventually, Dave quit, and I haven't seen or heard from him since.

Fast forward a couple of years. Swimming With Sharks is on cable. And as I'm watching it, Dave's stupid theory keeps rattling around in my brain. So instead of just being able to enjoy the film, I'm forced to analyze it for any fucking evidence whatsoever to prove or disprove his claim. And there's nothing to support it. Nothing. In fact, just the opposite. There's tons of evidence to actually disprove it.

Still, for whatever reason, I had lingering doubts. So I hopped on the Internet and Googled stuff like, "Swimming With Sharks, ending," or "Swimming With Sharks, Buddy, Guy, gay," and so on. Again, nothing to back Dave up. I would do this occasionally over the course of several months whenever some new search term would occur to me, until I was finally able to conclude beyond a shadow of a doubt that Buddy and Guy were not, in fact, gay.

Still, every time I've seen the movie since then, including last night, I find myself unconsciously looking for clues, even though I'm 99.99999% certain they don't exist. All because of some fucking idiot I knew five years ago.

Here's the thing that really bothers me, though. Was he a fucking idiot, or was he some sort of evil genius who recognized an obsessive quality in me that he knew he could exploit to drive me nuts? That by saying something so totally outlandish about a film he knew I loved, that I would waste countless hours trying to disprove it?

Unfortunately, I'll never know. However, I do know two things for certain:

First, if you ever want to get revenge on a movie geek, this is a great way to do it. The key is to come up with a lie that can't easily be verified by simply watching the film once or searching online. And if you're challenged, fire back with an ambiguous, "Oh, I just heard it somewhere," as Dave did.

Second, I know that Buddy doesn't fuck Guy at the end of the film. Or...at least, I'm reasonably sure he doesn't, anyway. Kind of. Sort of.

Fucking Dave.

The War on Charity

Recently, I've declared the following new enemies: kids with cancer, kids trying to stay off the streets, military families, and last but not least, greedy corporations.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to Giant. After paying for my stuff, the clerk asked me if I wanted to donate a dollar to help cure children's cancer. Could I have said no? Sure. But when you're actually holding a wad of bills in your hand and someone asks if you want to donate a dollar to help cure children's cancer, I don't care if you believe in God or not, you instinctively know this is one of those moments that's going to decide whether you go to Heaven or Hell. So I forked over the dollar. In return, I got a stupid scratch-off ticket. More on that in a bit.

That night, I went to see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. After I paid for my ticket, the girl behind the counter asked me if I wanted to donate a dollar for the Boys and Girls Clubs of America. Honestly, I really didn't. I have no qualms whatsoever about blowing off kids who are cancer-free. But again, you're standing there with your change in your hand, and you feel like a douche saying no. So again, I paid my dollar and helped make the world a better place. In return, I got to write my name on a paper star, which was hung up in the box office, so everyone can see what a sucker I am. Hooray.

A few days ago, I went to Best Buy for a USB cable. I can't even remember the charity I was hit up for this time at the register. Something to do with military families. This time, I just said "No," grabbed my stuff, and left. What I wanted to say was, "Tell you what. Take a dollar out of the thirty-five bucks I just paid for a USB cable that probably cost fifty cents to manufacture, and donate that, you cheap fucks." But I settled for "No."

The more I've thought about this over the past few days, the angrier I've gotten. Whatever happened to the days when wealthy corporations donated their own money to good causes? Why are customers being asked to subsidize gifts to charity? (Not to mention the subsequent tax write-offs.) And you know it's only going to get worse. If we don't put a stop to this now, every company is going to start doing it.

When you go to the gas station, the screen at the pump will ask you if you want to donate a dollar to invest in alternative fuel research. And after just paying roughly $100 to fill your car up, you'll be thinking, "Fuck, yeah, I want to invest in alternative fuel research!" Of course, what the screen won't tell you is that "alternative fuel research" means paying lobbyists to try and get ANWR opened for drilling, or covering the cost of sending some executives to an ethanol conference in Europe on the company jet.

Or you'll be on a date with a girl, and when the waitress brings you the check, she'll ask if you want to donate a dollar to feed hungry children in Africa. Not only won't you be able to say no with your date watching you, but you'll probably have to give even more just so she doesn't think you're a prick.

Eventually, companies will just start treating donations like restaurants treat gratuities for large parties, and add it automatically. You'll check your receipt and notice a small charge of, say, five cents has been added without your knowledge. And you'll be annoyed, but you'll think, "Do I really want to make a scene over a nickle? A nickle that's going to fight AIDS?" So we'll just bend over and accept it.

Well, I'm taking a stand. No more corporately-funded charity for me. I don't care how good of a cause it is. Someone could stop me and say, "Hey, we're one dollar away from having enough money to wipe out poverty forever! Want to help out?" And I'm just going keep walking.

In fact, you know what? I've never been wild about charities in general. Every time I donate to one, I can't help but think that instead of actually furthering the cause I'm giving to, I've just helped buy a new leather office chair for the director. Also, I'm too lazy to declare donations on my taxes, so I really don't even get that benefit. So I think I'm just going to cut out charities altogether. For now, the only charity I'm going to be involved in is the, "Scotus Needs a New Laptop Fund," which is an excellent cause that everyone should donate to. Maybe I'll make a few paper stars, hang out in front of movie theaters, and offer people the chance to write their name on one for a buck. Apparently, people really go for that sort of thing.

Oh, about that scratch-off ticket from Giant. They've partnered up with the Children's Cancer Foundation, and are giving away at least $15,000 to people who match the right numbers on the ticket. This is retarded. The people at Giant don't even tell you about the scratch-off tickets ahead of time as an incentive to get you to donate. They just hand it to you afterwards. So what's the point of even doing it? And why give away $15,000 when you're ostensibly trying to make money?

And how much do you want to bet that if you have the winning ticket and you go to collect, they try and guilt you out of taking the money?

"Congratulations, sir! Just sign this and we'll get your check ready. You know, this comes out of the general charity fund. I guess you have to spend money to make money, but still. I think of all the kids it could help, and it just seems like a waste. See little Jimmy over there? We'll probably have to take him off life support tonight. You know, budget cuts. If only we could come up with...oh, I don't know...$10,000..."

Fuck you, cancer kids! If I win, I'm keeping it!

Damn, those sure are some lucky kids. But I am taking that free Tylenol. If that means one of them has to go without, that's their problem.