Large Marge Sent Me (OLL, Part Two)

Oh, Tim Burton.

I find myself sighing and saying that a lot: "Oh, Tim Burton." And there's only been one time when that sigh was not loaded with complete and utter admiration and respect.

Oh, Tim Burton. I forgive you for "Planet of the Apes," and I certainly hope you can forgive me for doubting you and Johnny Depp and "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory." I should have known better.

I remember making a poor first impression on my ex-boyfriend's mother. I didn't know how to cook and expressed no desire to learn. I didn't go to church. I hated her husband and sassed her son. The nail in the coffin? She overheard me urging my then-boyfriend to take me to see "Sleepy Hollow" again. Yes, again. "Isn't that the movie where people get their heads chopped off?" she asked.

"Oh, yeah!" To my credit, I tried to curb my enthusiasm about the beheading. "I mean, it's a Tim Burton movie. Or whatever." I enjoyed the Tim Burton texture--the sepia, black-and-white colors with a splash of color (blood, in this case)--more than the carnage.

Yes, that's what I call it--the Tim Burton texture. I told Stephanie that I was having a hard time articulating what exactly it is I love about your sensibility. Why am I so thrilled when I see the trailers for movies like "Corpse Bride" and "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory"? I know I've appreciated that texture for as long as I can remember. I didn't even know he directed "Pee-Wee's Big Adventure" and "Beetlejuice." I memorized those movies. (No, seriously. I noticed what the Warner Brothers company did to "Beetlejuice," and I do not appreciate.)

When I see your name attached to a project, Tim Burton, I know I can expect a creepy, Gothic atmosphere--lightening from a thunderstorm illuminating the outline of a craggy castle; rough etches from gravestones; skulls. The characters will have interesting back stories which explain their ticks--like Willy Wonka and Ichabod Crane. Other characters will simply delight in being off and odd--like Beetlejuice.

I know I'll feel scared for at least one full minute during the film. I still have nightmares about Large Marge's disfigured face. So scary--but so funny. You, Tim Burton, get it. Why should a movie remain locked in one genre? Why shouldn't viewers root for the ghost with the most? I memorized those movies because they could be beautiful and well-wrought without taking themselves too seriously.

And I should have known that when I first saw those previews for "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory." The Roald Dahl novel provided all the right ingredients for the Tim Burton texture; candy and danger are right up your alley. And you should see me now, urging people to tuck away the Gene Wilder version--at least for a moment--and trust you.

You know what you're doing, Tim Burton.

"...it looked like this!"
Sam

Literary Death Match

So, Sam's interview brings up an interesting facet of literary study that I personally had yet to consider: the streetfight. I mean, here on this site, we've debated the fighting capabilities of the various Batmans and their ladies, but how important is that when compared to the outcome of a no-holds-barred blowout between Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson? (She'd win, of course, because she'd force the fight onto familiar ground and conk him on the head with a huge jar of preserves while he was searching for her in the pantry.) In honor of this new form of celebrity death match, I've decided to host a few bouts right here.

Jane Austen takes on Charlotte Bronte

Now, we all know that Charlotte did some trash-talking about Austen back in the day and it's no surprise Jane wants a little payback. But once the bodice-strain and skirt-pulling is over, who is still standing? The favorite going in has to be Bronte. I mean, she's got all that wandering-of-moors training going for her. On the other hand, with all her writing about "powerful emotions," she might be a whiner, not a doer. So while Charlotte is hopping around, cracking her neck and talking a good game, Jane would just pull back for a quick knock-out punch, put that hand behind her back and go sit down in the drawing room for tea.

Advantage: Austen

Flannery O'Connor faces John Berryman

Now, in this match, we're trying to vary things a little by setting a fiction writer and a poet against each other and it should be exciting (like that time Sam and I got into it over Zora Neale Hurston and Jane Austen, or that other time over Heath Ledger). Well, to the question: in a streetfight to the death, what matters more, Southern gothic wit or Northern batshit crazy? Now, hometown pride might make me more likely to choose O'Connor, she of the peacocks and a million and one local anecdotes. But we're talking about a fight here and, as was pointed out to me by Sam, John Berryman would totally pinch some Flannery backfat. He's just like that. Plus, as a woman living in a town with an asylum, Flannery wouldn't necessarily stay far enough away from someone who looks a little nutso. She'd step in too close, and that's when Berryman would pounce, yelling obscenities and spouting off old minstrel routines. Who could fend that off?

Advantage: Berryman

Gabriel Garcia Marquez battles John Donne

When I was taking a class on 17th Century poetry, my professor talked up a rivalry between John Donne and Ben Jonson. Jonson was this robust hard-drinking guy whose process for writing poetry was that he would write it out in prose and then hammer it into a form while Donne was a ladies man, laid back and easy (until he got religion and started asking God to rape him). The choice between these two is clear: Donne is Bugs Bunny and Jonson is Elmur Fudd. So, we must seek a more challenging challenger for Bugs. What about Gabriel Garcia Marquez, another famous lover with the kind of suave finesse that makes the idea of James Bond seem appealing (even when the execution of that idea is off)? Lover man against lover man, who wins? Well, what we really have here is an English priest against Gabriel of the South American brothels. Chances are, as wily and charming as John Donne is, there's some dirty back alley moves he's not going to see coming from Mr. Garcia Marquez. Still, you can't help wanting Gabriel to stop short of really hurting John so that the two of them can do the double-pat guy hug and head out to a bar for some joint trolling.

Advantage: Garcia Marquez

Inside the Blogger's Studio

There is no Instant Messenger for the wicked here in Gambier, OH. (I miss you, Stephanie!) The kids ask me what college students do at a place like this. What can they find to do among all these trees and gentle, woodland creatures?

I'll tell you what we did. We studied. We made our own fun with sticks and acorns. We did interviews. You can do it, too:

1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying "Interview me." "Blow me" or "Eat me" are not acceptable substitutes.

2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different. I'll post the questions in the comments section of this post.

3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.

4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.

5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

All righty then.

1. Where were you going the day you sold The Chicago Manual of Style for gas money?

I had no place to go until after the book store clerk put those crisp bills in my hand. Before that moment, I figured I could pack my work clothes in the trunk and save a trip back to my apartment. With that gas money, though, I drove around the block twice and visited my aunt on the other side of town.

2. In your opinion, what is the best film adaptation of a book you love?

You think I'm going to say "Gone with the Wind," but you're wrong. "The Color Purple" is the best film adaptation of a book--ever. The book inspired my college thesis. The movie makes me cry and call my sister every single time I see it. Every time.

3. The Bible: fascinating tome filled with endlessly entertaining stories or snoozefest nonpareil?

With the exception of the books detailing who begat whom, the Bible is a pretty fascinating tome. This is an easy shot, but the Book of the Revelation continues to freak people out after over 2000 years. Think about that. The Exorcist only freaked people out for, like, thirty years.

4. If E.L. Doctorow were to meet John Irving in a street fight, who would win? (And would anyone care?)

John Irving is punk rock. The tattoos, the motorcycles, The World According to Garp--oh, he wants you to say a word, just one word. E. L. Doctorow is a Kenyon man. He wears sweater vests. He smiles--not snarls--at the camera. Advantage Irving? Nah. Kenyon alumni fight dirty. (And, no, no one cares.)

5. If you could be any fictional character in the history of literature, who would it be?

I think I need to be Carmilla from Le Fanu's Carmilla. That bodacious vampire babe lived for centuries, seducing young girls with her night whispering and blood-sipping. Oh, and she took some time out to have her picture painted, too.

Open Hate Mail, Part One

Dear Bacon and Eggs,

I hate you.

Yes, you and you. You think you're the all-American breakfast, don't you? In preschool, they show kids pictures of you, eggs--sunny-side up--and you bacon--greasy and glistening--together on a plate. Breakfast, they call it. Desayuno.

You're nasty, though, especially eggs. I've known that a long time, despite those attempts at indoctrination. My mother scrambled eggs on Saturday mornings, and I left them right there on the plate. A scrambled egg will develop a flat, greasy bottom if you don't touch it. The pepper stands out against the pale yellow and white gloop like a black pox. The smell of eggs reminds me of waste and decay, of bad breath.

My aunt scrambled eggs on Saturday mornings, too. I liked her for her gold tooth. She once told me she put sugar in her eggs, and I believed her. I took one bite of her so-called "sugar eggs" ...and knew I could never trust adults again. I was eight years old.

Bacon wasn't always nasty. I used to enjoy tearing the fat-part from the deep red meat of every strip. I liked that a lot. And bacon once dressed up cheeseburgers and salads. Mom used to make bacon--er, cook bacon on Saturday mornings, too. I loved the smell; it meant I didn't have to go to school. It meant the Bugs Bunny and Tweety show would be on in a little while. It meant dancing to Purple Rain (on vinyl) with my mom while we cleaned the house.

But there are no eggs without bacon. I could eat every slippery bacon strip on my plate, but I still "had to" eat the flat-bottomed eggs. I missed whole cartoon segments because of silent battles over breakfast food. I sat at the kitchen table, pouting and toying with the salt shaker. Was it even necessary? I could have just had cereal and bacon.

Bacon and eggs, you're no breakfast. Everyone in this country wants to know why they have heart disease. They cut all the good stuff out of their diets because of you, because of what you did. I hope you're happy.

Always,
Sam

Dear Ashanti,

I wish I could say this was nothing personal.

When you arrived on the scene, when folks started calling you the princess of R&B, I was nonplussed. I listened to Brandy, Monica, and Aaliyah. Someone put me on Ella Fitzgerald, Etta James, and Billie Holiday, and I listened to them, too. I tuned you out. It was like you came along too late for me to think that you mattered. You are no jazz legend with a tragic personal history. You were not a teenaged R&B diva when I was in middle school. You didn't have cool braids, and you didn't elope with R. Kelly. Why would I even think about you?

And then I saw you on the cover of some magazine. Maybe it was Vibe. It doesn't matter. You had a gardenia in your slicked back hair. A gardenia. The headline gave you a title; you were now the new something of soul or whatever. With a gardenia in your hair.

I'm sorry. I didn't realize the death of Billie Holiday left an opening for you in the annals of jazz history. I didn't realize you were comparable to Billie Holiday. I must have missed your rendition of "Strange Fruit."

I know it was just a picture. But it was also a mistake. Billie Holiday's voice commands an audience. I watched a video tape of one of her performances, and I cried. She poured everything into that song. I've seen you dancing on BET. You should not dance.

You dressed up like Sandy from "Grease" for some cheesy video featuring Ja Rule. That was not okay. I mean, it really wasn't. It was, however, appropriate. The next time you play dress up, you should invoke the spirit of Olivia Newton-John and let the legends rest.

That should be that, shouldn't it? Shouldn't it, Ashanti? I shouldn't catch you sniffing around any of my other favorite things, right?

Wrong.

You showed up on an episode of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer." You were just there. In actual scenes. With Nicholas Brendan. Xander. I thought I understood why you were existing in the Buffyverse. The show had moved to UPN. "Girlfriends" aired after every episode of"Buffy." The network knew their audience. The network thought I liked you. In scenes. With Nicholas Brendan. Xander. Big, funny Xander. How can you sleep at night, knowing you ruined a scene with one of the warmest, funniest actors on a sci-fi-comedy-drama series? You don't act. You can't act. You are, at your very core, anti-acting. Watching Buffy chop off your demon head was gratifying. Shame she could only do it once.

That's mean, isn't it? You probably think this is obsession, that I have an Ashanti dartboard or that I cross out your face when I see it magazines. It isn't like that, though. You provoke this. You show up where you don't belong. You wear the wrong costumes. You had no business belly-dancing in "Bride & Prejudice." You glittered, you worked your two-bit act for all it was worth, and you maintained this completely serious expression on your face the whole time.

Don't you ever shrink from looking ridiculous? Aren't you tired of pretending like you deserve fame, like you have the right to associate yourself with Billie, Buffy, or Bollywood Austen? What would you like to ruin next? Will I see you in "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" tomorrow night? I know, you're going to write a book, right? Another sequel to Gone with the Wind because you've always been a fan? I wouldn't put any of those things past you, Princess.

Oh, and Shut Up,
Sam

Endearment

Why am I such a bitch?
In this room, the perfume is overpowering,
the tensions hang over.

On TV, Shirley McLaine is yelling,
"Give my daughter the shot!"
I can't relate.

Here, I'm tripping
over my own catty remarks.
I know Jeff Daniels is just no good,
but then, neither am I.

I've been limping through the city
these last few days, striving not to show
it, as though I were the weak member
of the pack trying not to be picked off.
And still, I have begun to speak
the language of impatience.
I probably have it coming.

Out my window, the night refuses
to smother thousands of little lights.
TVs flash from far-off buildings.
I imagine Shirley McLaine weeping
from each one.

Her daughter dies
and it is only a smear of mascara,
a little sigh.

Open Love Letters, Part One

No one writes letters anymore.

For years, I wrote to Diana Wong. We were best friends in 8th grade, and we penned six page missives to each other once a week. (Miss you, Di!) And then it stopped. We tried email, but--well, we were lost without the letters. There's just something better and right about pressing the tip of a cheap, ball-point pen onto a stack of college-ruled notebook paper. I sniffed the pages I wrote before I stuffed them into my homemade envelopes.

Good times.

So, I've decided to revive the form. Sure, I don't know anyone's street address, and I always underestimate the cost of postage. I will write letters again!

I just need a little practice. This isn't the same as scribbling high school gossip to Di Wong, but it's a start.

Dear Low-Fat Chocolate Vanilla Swirl Push-Up Pops,

I love you.

Now, I know we've only just met. But don't you think it means something that I was thinking about Push-up Pops on the day I rescued you from the freezer? Not only that, I was thinking, "Wouldn't it be great if Push-Up Pops came in a flavor other than orange sherbet?" See, orange sherbet tastes just as disgusting as ear wax or scrambled eggs. Only the push-up mechanism made the taste tolerable. I love the creamy, decadent flavors--chocolate and caramel--and until now I've always had my ice cream with a spoon or on a cone.

Yes, I love you. I didn't need the endorsement of characters from "The Flinstones" or "Scooby-Doo" to love you, either. You are perfect the way you are, Low-Fat Chocolate Vanilla Swirl Push-Up Pops. Thank you for not going to my hips.

Always,
Sam

Dear Trey Parker (But Not Matt Stone, Never Matt Stone),

I'm not like the others--

Wait, no.

Dear Trey Parker (Screw Matt Stone),

Remember that time you were in that movie? You know, "Cannibal! The Musical"? Back in the early '90s? Remember? Huh?

No again.

Dear Trey Parker (I'll Punch You in the Face, Matt Stone),

I saw "Orgazmo" on one of the best nights of my life. There wasn't much to it. I was a sophomore at a college in Middle of Nowhere, Ohio. It was April, and for the first time that year, we could go outside without our coats. By the time my roommate and friends filed into the little theater on campus, our skin was damp with night mist. We saw this play, "El Grande de Coca Cola," and I had a crush on the male lead. He wore this technicolor costume, and his Spanish wasn't so great, but I felt warm all over. At one point, he ran into the aisle--so close to my seat--and pretended to hurl a knife or something. I don't know. It was fabulous.

Afterward, we played for a couple of hours at this carnival on campus. There was no reason for the carnival to be there. We didn't have cable, so we had to make our own fun, I suppose. Anyway, I ate so much popcorn and cotton candy, I thought I would barf. I won a keychain that broke before I got back to my room around midnight.

It was so late, but the five of us--Tino, Damon, Lee, James, and me--couldn't imagine going to bed. So, Damon brought his copy of "Orgazmo." We gave him this look, like, "What the hell?" I probably asked him if it was gross because I hated gross movies. (Screw you, "American Pies 1-3.") He asked us--me--to trust him, and we did.

"Orgazmo" is gross--but it's funny. And it was part of this night that I didn't want to end. After that, we could greet each other like this: "Damon, I don't think I'm gonna do it Hamster-style anymore. You goin' to dinner?" It was that one night, that still point in our turning world of midterms and squeaky dorm mattresses, and that movie is sewn into the experience. So, now, when I watch "South Park" or "Team America" or even "Baseketball," I recover a little of it. I remember. Thank you for not going to my hips.

Love,
Sam

Catfight for Batman

(As requested by Anna)

In this catfight for Batman’s affections, we’ll work backward through the movies to see which lucky lady is the best match for Bruce Wayne and his pointy-headed alter-ego. [Note: I won’t be discussing the women from the Batman series because I haven’t seen it in a long time—my apologies to Eartha Kitt and Julie Newmar.]

Rachel Dawes vs. Pamela Isley vs. Barbara Wilson vs. Julie Madison

Okay, one of the main problems with Batman and Robin is that it’s got too many things going on. Look at all those girls! Of course, none of them were actual players for his attention. Barbara Wilson is more of a romantic lead for Robin. Alicia Silverstone shows up as Alfred’s niece-turned-Batgirl, yet another addition to the Wayne Manor charitable house for adult orphans with hero complexes. She mirrors Robin’s sullen you-can’t-stop-me-from-putting-on-rubber attitude as well as his penchant for motorcycles.

Julie Madison is barely a character. Played by Elle McPherson in what was surely a desperate gambit to get more recognizable names into the movie, she’s Bruce Wayne’s plus-one at charity events. She never gets close to the Batman secret and Bruce doesn’t seem remotely interested in her or concerned for her safety. She’s his beard.

And then there’s Pamela Isley, aka Poison Ivey. Uma Thurman plays Pamela as a cross between Jim Carrey’s crackpot scientist Edward Nigma and Michelle Pfeiffer’s pre-Catwoman Selina Kyle. Unfortunately, she is not only derivative but also annoying as she over-enunciates her way through her plant advocacy tirades. She blows love dust (seriously) on Batman and Robin, but in this cotton candy bloat of a movie, there’s not even the slightest tension that Batman might fall for it. She’s defeated by Batgirl in what must be termed the lamest girlfight ever—full of cheesy puns and pseudo-feminist grandstanding.

And into this malaise of Joel Schumaker cartoonish-ness, we introduce Rachel Dawes from Batman Begins, Bruce Wayne’s childhood friend-turned-Assistant D.A. as played by Katie Holmes. Now, if you’re thinking she’s going to win this bout just because she’s in a better movie…you are absolutely correct.

Advantage: Rachel Dawes

Rachel Dawes vs. Chase Meridian

Still, that win doesn’t give Rachel any kind of advantage in the next round. That’s like running a foot race against your grandmother: your biggest competition is your own pity and shame. The truth is that Rachel, much like Katie Holmes in general, is irritating. As the voice of moral authority in the movie, she is also the angry lecturer, the slapper of faces and sober downer after clearly fun fountain-swimming.

Compare this to Chase Meridian, the woman who totally uses the Bat signal to get a date. Nicole Kidman’s psychologist is the Lois Lane of the Batman movies. She’s way more interested in a date with Batman than the same with Bruce Wayne. And she’s not afraid to call a rubber fetish a rubber fetish. Her damsel in distress quotient is maybe a little higher than Rachel’s, but is even with Robin’s in the same movie.

Advantage: Chase Meridian

Chase Meridian vs. Selina Kyle

Of course, Chase Meridian has her faults. For starters, Chase Meridian has to be the stupidest name for anyone who is not also a bank or map. And based on Nicole Kidman’s accent, Chase seems to hail from some part of the U.S. where they try really hard not to be Australian (with a limited amount of success).

But these detractions aren’t really necessary when comparing Chase to Selina Kyle (aka Catwoman). She’s way out of Chase’s league. Selina is the only one of Batman’s paramours who manages to be both love interest and villain. It’s due to this latter designation that she’s such a well-rounded and developed character. Tim Burton’s films are all about the creation of the villain and Selina Kyle is perhaps his most complicated and interesting exploration. There’s no flip of a switch into a villain. Selina remains vulnerable and vicious throughout. Her connection to Bruce Wayne is powerful enough for him to reveal himself as Batman in front of a witness. Who she then kills.

Advantage: Selina Kyle

Selina Kyle vs. Vicki Vale

Now, the only true competition Selina Kyle has is the woman Tim Burton felt compelled to explain away in her movie: Vicki Vale. Notwithstanding the severe case of the ‘80s that Kim Basinger had to deal with, Vicki manages to be neither shrill nor retiring in her love interest / damsel in distress role. As a photographer, she hilariously thinks Batman may be some natural phenomenon—a freakish man with wings or mutated bat. She sleeps with Bruce Wayne and remains confident enough in her skills that she calls him on his neurotic commitment-phobe bullshit.

Still, at no point in Batman does Vicki Vale dress up in black leather and say, “I don’t know about you Miss Kitty, but I feel much yummier.”

Advantage: Selina Kyle