The First Rule of WordPress: You Don’t Talk About WordPress


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In Mr. A’s unusual string of logic, American Psycho and Fight Club are somehow linked. Because they are both based on books by authors he likes. Fight Club, unlike American Psycho, is actually better on screen than on the pages. A movie actually better than a book. This is the first time I think I have ever heard of such a occurrence so  I am excited about tonight.

Fight Club is a dark movie. VERY dark. I barely know what to say.

It is a movie about a man who has so much. He is not wealthy or successful perhaps but he has enough. He has a good job. An immaculate house full of the furniture he ordered to fulfill himself.

But it is not enough. He stretches out for some meaning and fails. Even weeping in the arms of a buxom man, in the end, falls short.

He shatters and tears down his whole life. He finds a person who is all that he wants to be. The man who ignores the advice of his father to find a normal life that melds into the rest of humanity. Someone who is fearless. Someone who lets go of the dark shallowness of the world. A man who is the embodiment of chaos and laughs at the face of death.

He found an outlet in taking the pain of physical fighting and felt exhilaration.  He used the exhilaration to face all the people and things he feared. In the end, without giving away any spoilers on a 15 year old movie, he attempted to destroy himself and bring turmoil to the world. And he found that he was the turmoil.

It is a dark look at the commercialism and turmoil of life.

Mr. A’s interpretation of Flight Club came behind a very long “Ummmmmmm” and concludes with, “It is the story of a man who rejects society’s norms and attempts to destroy them. Although he goes about it in a strange way, he becomes the man he wants to be…..until he shoots himself in the face.”

We basically sat in silence the whole movie.

“Because it was such a good movie,” Mr. A explains.

In an odd way, I feel like an addict. Fight Club pulls you in and keeps you motionless. Dragging you along to the startling climax.


Before Batman, There Was Bateman


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Our next adventure takes us to the dark world of American Psycho.

“Eerie, very eerie,” as the detective summarizes.

It is a driving  satire of a decade before I was born yet still rings true. A dark caricature of the self-absorption that haunts humanity.  It is fundamentally a story about a guy who wants to get caught and doesn’t get caught. He even confesses. And no one believes him.

My favorite scene is one the one that features the calling cards. How the slightest variations can be easily seen and admired by his peers. Men are easily ranked by the shade of white and slant of the font. How feeble this world is that it can be built on such shallowness

Naturally the book is much better. My spouse, Mr. A. reiterates. Like a broken record. The movie frequently pauses to allow for brief reminiscences into the variance of the book and the film and how much superior the printed pages are.

“It’s weird. Lots of dead bodies.” Mr A summarizes. And oddly, he is correct again. Then again, he just said that we should go kill some people and that doesn’t quite seem like the wise thing to do.

I learned that Mr. A knows a terrifying amount about psycho killers. Along the same lines as Patrick Bateman. I don’t know how much sleep I’ll be able to get tonight………….

A Total Thrill


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Despite the late hour, we decided to splurge and watch one more movie. A trip into the future with Arnold in Total Recall.

It’s good to know that although brain manipulation and nail polish have upgraded significantly, there are still infomercials featuring old, bald men and bad digital effects. Although cars have developed into less sophisticated modes of transport sporting more boxy silhouettes and heavy doors, demented puppet-like mechanical men drive the taxis, using Siri like responses to questions. Also there are still rats and construction jobs. I’m beginning to think the future is not a place I want to be.

Don’t worry, as the assistant explained, only very rarely do things fuck up but, of course, this is one of those rare times. 

It is, as to be expected with one of Arnold’s movie, a roller coaster ride of bloodshed and action. Several of the moments however are so sweet even my mate threatened to start crying. However he maintained his masculinity by backtracking several times to watch the scene where Doug beats the shit out of a gang of thugs by twisting one arm behind one man’s back and shooting him with his own gun. 

The main lesson I learned in the course of the movie is that three is not always better. And do not go to Mars for a divorce…it doesn’t always end well.

As one small character proclaims, “A man is defined by his action not his memory.” In which case, Arnold is defined as a quiet, sharp-jawed mass of chaos armed with a machine gun. He delivers, as per his usual, brutal beatings and savvy one liners in his innocent, child-like accent.

Not even a group of space nerd doctors were any match for an angry Arnold tied to a spiked chair. Soon the dream-twisting, Mars-controlling villains have two demonically laughing Arnolds to deal with. As is to be expected from such a scenario, the movie climaxes in an explosive bloodbath that is impressively satisfying.


A Trip to the Desert


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Part 2 of Movie Night #2 is the “spiritual successor” to Goodfellas…a number 2 if you will. Casino.

I will start off by saying this movie is second to none.

This movie has the best opening minute of any movie I have seen as DiNiro strolls out of a door in the most incredible cotton candy pink suit with a matching pink tie. Sadly the suit met a fiery end before it was even properly admired. It was only the beginning of the fatalities.

Despite the fact that it is a blood-bathed crime-ridden movie centered on mob-run casinos, I must say I learned a few things. Some of which were pointed out to me by the Spouse.

Lesson 1: If you see a pen, do not ask who’s it is. Put it in your pocket or leave it on the table. Trust me.

Lesson 2: Don’t mess with very small, very angry people (I forgot you can’t see me…I’m fairly short). So is Joe Pesci and let’s just say…he knows the location of several holes in the desert.

Lesson 3: Fake glasses/beards/wigs don’t work. Heart attacks can strike anyone at any time especially at casino tables.

Lesson 4: Money, jewels, chinchilla coats mean nothing without trust…you should always tell this to the woman you don’t particularly trust after you’ve given her the money and the only key to the safety deposit box. Because love is a tragic beautiful trap.

Lesson 5: The more outlandish the outfits, the more interesting the movie. The green shirts always go with green ties. Lemon yellow suits cut an intimidating figure. Knee high orange boots and the corresponding headband and rain coat is proper day-after-the-honeymoon attire to convince your new spouse that he married malibu Barbie. And in the occasion of your life and marriage crumbling, always pull out the orange suit jacket over an orange shirt tied together with an orange tie and topped off with an orange pocket handkerchief. That definitely sends the right impression.

Nonetheless Casino is a ruthlessly good movie. There are many memorable scenes…I know they are memorable because the Spouse has them memorized and has often quoted them to me. To be honest, he has given me at least two summaries of the movie but that did not lessen my enjoyment. The movie is based on a book which is based on a true story. I was lucky to have someone (the Spouse) who had read the book who kept giving me updates on the inaccuracies and variations in the stories. Because, as everyone knows, books are better than movies.

And real life is better than both books and movies. Sitting here in the dark cuddled up with my man. My tummy full of peppermint ice cream and a day with the family on the horizon. I am happy.

Not to Miss


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In cahoots with last night’s glimpse into the crime world, tonight’s movie excursion takes us to California 1997 with LA Confidential.

“Oh boy,” is my mate’s summation, when the first crime scene appears on screen. “Dead people. The money is gone.”

For once, both of his comments are true. There are a lot of dead people and lots of blood. To be expected from a crime drama I suppose.

The movie is one not to miss. In fact, while watching, you must not miss a single second. Every time I glanced down to type out some notes for this post, the Mate poked me or whispered to look up, don’t miss this part! As criminals are confronted and chair backs splintered. To be honest, I’m glad I didn’t miss one minute of this fascinating and complex film. (But don’t tell him that.)

Movies in which the black and white world of heroes and villains is painted in the shades of grey more reminiscent of the actual world fascinate me. The idealistic young detective maintains his facade of morality through ratting out his comrades and heroically (and accidentally) being the sole survivor of a brutal gun battle, while his fellow (i.e. of the same occupation but barely the same species) hardened cop attacks woman beaters and cohorts with prostitutes. Yet somehow, the hero vein woke in both of them when the call arose. 

LA Confidential is a clever movie. Dark and brutal. It’s plot is intricate and the twist even surprised me. A definite success. My mate is quite on a roll. (but again, he doesn’t need to know….)

My mate cooked dinner, filling the apartment with the smell of simmering beef, so we could slurp spaghetti noddles while watching the murderous climax. He is currently doing the dishes before we pick the next film. I am a very lucky girl.

Learning from Journeys into Hell


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Part two of moving watching night has finally been decided. *Que dramatic opening music* The Ninth Gate.

I did learn several important things during this 3 hour escapade into the realms of hell.

1) If any young, relatively hot woman who appears to never comb her hair is willing to join you on your quest to find ancient books and kicks a few bad guys in the face, be willing to follow her advice and open your car door for her. No questions asked. It always works out well.

2) Blue-flowered wallpaper does not in any way impede the enthusiasm of satanic worshippers

3) Never allow the deaths of everyone around you to deter you and even though you are pursued by satanic forces, if you have the charismatic good looks of Johnny Depp, you will walk away with only broken glasses

The only real question that persisted at the close of the movie was why exactly would anyone want to enter the Ninth Gate. Hell is a bit hot and being on God’s level seems like it would get old rather quickly. Despite the rather set-looking set, the plot was clever and interesting. The characters intentions were faintly unclear, except for the goal of taking whatever anyone else is pursuing.

But overall, the movie was yet another success. During the best scene of the movie in which a certain demented person accepted his place in the Black Book and found he was not immune to fire at all, the Spouse fell quite asleep, immune to the screams of a dying man. Thus the fourth thing I learned today was who not to count on in the event of a fire.

Mock Movie Critic

So my husband has decided to give me a tour through the landscape of his favorite movies. He suggested I focus my rambling posts into movie reviews of his favorites. So a handshake agreement that I would tell him if the movie was so appalling I could not watch till the end, our journey has begun.

After a good 20 minute scroll through the alphabetized folders of movies on the TV screen, the first cinema of our adventure was selected. 


I don’t know what our obsession with watching characters achieve the highest level of fame and wealth and luck in the most cut-throat way and then suddenly climax before facing the consequences. To watch one person or one family or one gang of mobsters become millionaires and then frantically scramble as the whole palace of cards comes tumbling down. Perhaps it is our own un-manifested dreams of success that soar with the glamour of wealth on the screen yet also are equally impressed by how shallow that wealth is. How dastardly schemes may enrich them but they are only fleeting before they are doomed to a fate worse than our own.

Or perhaps we only enjoy fast-paced movies full of intriguing old cars and glimpses into a world of yesteryear. 

It’s hard to say but I shall end the philosophic rambles because philosophy for all its pleasures and pretenses really leads no where. I love a good gangster movie. The class, the cars, the clothes, the guns, the intricate webs of the world of crime and how the flies and the spiders alike come to be ensnared in them. And Goodfellas is a very good one.

The villains are fascinatingly cunning and vile in the most charismatic way. The main character, Henry, effortlessly transforms from a star-eyed child, into a dealer juggling lovers and a family, focused solely on surviving through whatever the moment required, from laughing at the right people’s jokes to hiding guns in his relative’s trash barrels.

DiNiro, as Jimmy, almost stole the show for me. His character also matures throughout the show from a young thief passing out hundreds like chewing gum into the mastermind behind the largest score in history. He drifts from naively overjoyed boy into a conniving ringleader who decides on the death of close comrades with only the lift of a eyebrow. Even as his fate is drawing near, he maintains brutal cool, even pulling out enormous grandma glasses to face down a perspective rat. Only the death of a fellow conspirator in the moment of his and by association their triumph does Jimmy crack. Weeping at the lost opportunity or yet another death, only he knows. 

Perhaps the most cursed in this doomed circus is Henry’s own first love Karen. Taken for a roller coaster ride into the lap of luxury, she is quite whisked away into a lavish, cash-envelope-filled matrimony. Although an outsider, the closeness, almost familial feel of the mob entices her and results in cutting her off from the rest of the world. At first, it seems a dream. Wealth beyond worry. Two beautiful daughters. A doting husband who turns her on with his ruthless occupation. But the dream cracks all too quickly into a nightmare. The beautiful young belle turns into a fear-crazed woman who falls to the level of taking her two young daughters to confront their father’s prostitute. Her fight to escape is feeble. The same charms that wooed her into this world cannot be fully stripped away, even when she is struck and cheated on by her husband. The lure of wealth and a rouge daredevil bring her only poverty and separation.

In the end, *spoilers!!!* the “good guys” in the form of asshole cops storm the beaches and save the day. Leaving us with a vague impression of justice and sadness at the fate of the charismatic, glorious lifestyle of the gangsters.

Somehow, I don’t think this is why the hubby enjoys the movie. He is more interested in the long camera shots that lead us to the feeling that it is we who are walking the room and the witty short-liners peppered with curses. It is a lovely thrill ride and I regret that we must get off. But the spouse has ridden this particular ride “500 times” so I know I will probably take another spin sometime in the near future.

Now the man is stirring up the ingredients for tacos while I write this and seesawing between the next two options for our next viewing adventure. Another post/review will be coming shortly.


A Slightly Life-Changing Day

To date, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen is not one of the glorious Kansas sunsets or the smile of an infant or the texture in a famous painting, but the momentary glimpses of a thick silver band tied around the finger of the man I love. His large hands contrasted with cold metal. The embodiment of the strength and beauty of a love that binds us together as man and wife.

In my humble opinion, it was the most glorious wedding. The plainness of the bride was overshadowed by the power of love between the pair. The cake was beautiful although I did not get a chance to taste it. The decorations stunning, each handcrafted by women who adored the happy couple.

The weather was immaculate. The first cool-with-a-hint-of-a-breeze day of the entire summer tucked behind a day of storms. The morning brought clouds but as the afternoon and time of the ceremony neared, the clouds pulled back like curtains lifting just before the show began.

Every seat was full. A beaming crowd of friends and family. The ceremony was beautiful. With tears and laughter in turn. Sealed with a kiss. And a triumphant high-five.

The reception was brief. A dab of cake on my nose. Countless pictures with my arm entwined in yours. 

Our new life began. We will never be the same. Never go back to being single. We are stepping into a new adventure of together-ness. I for one am excited. 


Potential to be Greater

I love Potential Me. I admire her.

She’s smart and confident and charismatic. She is organized and dedicated. She has studied the things she loves and has become an expert. She is a talented photographer and writer. She is dedicated to her job and excelling at it .Because she dared to leap into all these things with both feet and persevered through every challenge.

She has a loving husband who she never gets mad at because she is always considerate and diplomatic. She has a small, close group of friends. She is a competitor at video games and a novice chef.

She has found a haircut and a style of wardrobe that suits her and parades them fiercely with the confidence of a woman who knows her attributes. She is funny and charming. Not overly talkative but very laid back.

The only flaw in Potential Me is that she isn’t real. 

She is what I wish I was. What I hope I could be. 

I know i will never entirely reach that goal. Sadly I cannot be perfectly the person I want to be. 

Real, Present Me is a disaster. A clumsy, shy, easily frustrated sort of girl. Who doubts all her decisions and battles laziness and fear of failure. 

But there is potential in Me. Desire. 

And the love of a great man.

A man who sees when I am angry and does not question but folds me in his arms. A man who encourages my interests with buying me books and lifting me to reach for the stars. A man who says I am beautiful when I need to hear it. A man who can see that spark of potential and breathes on it to encourage it into flame. A man who takes me for what I am. Not what I could be. But still inspires me to be more. 

The Girl on the Train

She was sitting in a train car. And he desired her.

Not in the sense that he wanted to possess her. To have her body. To mark his territory.

He desired to know her. To know the book in her hands. To know what season’s sun left the freckles upon her cheeks like lipstick stains from the lips of a beautiful soul. To know what adventure tore the heavy fabric from the sleeve of her shirt and whether that adventure had been so exciting that she hadn’t even noticed that a bit of her skin was peeking out at the elbow.

To know what wisdom darkened those brown eyes. And what mischief brought a light there, like moonlight on the stillest of lakes. To know if she knew she was beautiful and wild and smelled like sweat and passion and cherry blossoms. To know if she would smile if he sat in front of her and replaced her book with his own hands and eager face. If she would smile back or snatch the book back to place a well-aimed blow to his head.

He wanted to know her soul. Her secrets and her adventures. Her passions and her fears. If she feared spiders or forgotten friends. Death or life without living. Or thunderstorms.

To probe into her pasts. What kind of child was she? Adventurous or shy. Wild or fearful. What moments and books shaped her into this slim, unique traveler with sunlight falling across her nose and this train hurtled her across the world.

To learn of the mundane things that filled her brief time on this planet. Where was she going? Did she take her coffee diluted with coffee and cream? Or black and bitter as the night sky? Or did she resist that addiction and steep her sorrows only on tea?

What did she eat when she was alone at night and sleep was far away? Who did she call when fear was rising like a tide? Who did she text when she got home safely at night? Who was at her side, binge watching her favorite movies and devouring bowls of popcorn when life was suffocatingly dull?

What job did she have, that made her dream of escape? What decorated the walls of her home? And who met her when she got there?

Did she travel often? Did she drink at parties? What song was she addicted to, dragged back into it’s enveloping high when the world’s silence bore down on her?

What thought tormented her? Who could she never forgive? What color was her warmest sweater, the one in which she curled up in to stare out at the rain? What chores created the callouses on her hands?

What hope shown in her eyes? What about her made her the only girl he stared at on a train?

Could she answer any of these things?

The train stopped. The doors slid open. She stood, slung her bag over her shoulder and climbed out. She never turned to look at him. He did not speak.

She stood on the platform for a moment. She turned back and raised her eyes. They met his own. She raised her hand and waved. Their eyes remained connected, as she faded into the distance.