Genius with Dyno-MITE!

Nathan Fillion, Neil Patrick Harris, and directed by Joss Whedon. What could be better?
Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog.
Watch it.

Oregonian Rhymes with Alien

Three things from my trip:
1. Mega Extra Testosterone in high school = balding and fat ten years later, proven at least 5 times during the reunion. Hey, I may not be so hot myself, but no one's saying "YESSSSSS!!" when they see me that way.

2. Movie Reviews: The Diving Bell and the Butterfly = Ah-Maze-Ing (see, I like non-action too). Upcoming movie Death Race = I guess I lied about being a Jason Statham fan for the rest of my life. Why would you do that, Jason? Money problems? I'd loan you 5 bucks. Because that is all you're going to make on that movie. I Want To Believe = 3 stars. You are SO not allowed to pull "Scully and Mulder have been together for years now" and get away with it. Punks.

3. Landing gear = Really important to the whole landing the plane thing. Thank goodness for second approaches.

Oooo I'm leavin', On a Midnight Plane to Oregon...

After enduring a toddler (not my own) crying for over an hour, I was finally falling asleep. His cyclical high pitched screams had died down and I was at that state where everything one thinks makes perfect sense to oneself. You know what I'm talking about. That part when you start thinking that if you put your shoes on backwards and eat gingersnap cookies that the crumbs might fly out the window and fall into a perfectly good tart pan for dessert with the wiggly leggy guys from the muppets, and, "Uh huh, I'm not asleep. I'm listening to you."
That's a good moment.
I'm breathing heavy and I feel something moving against my feet. Not thinking too much, I push it back. But it won't go back. It's being pushed up further.
The woman behind me had put her pillow under my seat, and then started kicking as far as it would go, until it was in my area.
Now, I think that this violates some major cardinal rules here, specifically Flying Commandment #8 which states: Thou Shalt Not Enter Other Passengers' Space With Anything Other Than the Back of Your Chair During Recline. This rule refers to putting your hands on the back of the chair to pull yourself up (unless you are less mobile, in which case you are forgiven), hanging your wrist over the armrest, keeping your knees off the back of the seat, and placing your feet in your 10 inch square area at all times.
Then the woman began to violate Flying Commandment #3: Talking Shall Be Kept to a Minimum to Establish Friendliness, But Avoid Life Long Friendships From Taking Place While at 30,000 Feet.
I've never been a talker on the airplane. I put the grim face on and hope that no one thinks I look approachable. I really don't understand having conversations on the airplane that last from 11 pm until 7 am.
This woman proceeded to violate Commandment #8 twice more: hanging on the back of my seat (while catching my hair in her obviously unfeeling hands), and kicking the back of my seat the second before I had drifted into sleep again, after deciphering the meaning for pen caps on permanent markers that have the little clip broken off, providing small animals a stick for digging.
In all truthfulness, she could have kicked my seat on purpose. Commandment # 11 states: "Thou Mayst Kick the Seat if a Dirty Look Doth Not Suffice." I can just picture her thinking, "Geez, that girl totally snores so loud."

Duh-duh duh-duh duh-duh duh-duh, BAT-MAN!

I have a major weakness. This is not something that I can blame on nostalgia or upbringing although I wish I could. You might totally disrespect me after you read this post.

My weakness is called: action films.

I really appreciate good films, independent films, foreign films, even the occasional musical (although I normally show them great disdain on principle, except old ones that have cute, perfect people who dance in heels next to short guys in tail coats). But oh! Put in an action movie and I'm totally hooked. No matter how stupid they are, really.

This weakness has only grown in the past few years. I never really watched action movies before college, other than Speed (about 50 billion times-- I once chatted with people from an online group who claimed to love the movie more than life itself and constantly repeated its lines). I also really loved The Fugitive, although some would argue that it is not a strict action film.

I would totally watch an action film before a chick flick. I wish action films had a silly name like that, and the only thing I can think of that also rhymes with flick should not be a publicly spoken name. When I get on netflix or go to the video rental store I always end up looking through the action section the longest. Jake, on the other hand, pretty much hates action movies. I think this is why I should be designated the pants wearer in the family. He can wear the shorts, but I wear pants, because I like The Transporter (and #2) and will be a sworn Jason Statham fan until I die.

That's what pants-wearing is all about.

So, on opening night, I succumbed to the absolute craze of Batman. I kind of feel bad about contributing to American materialism in the biggest opening night that ever happened, but I had to do it. I loved the first one and I had nothing but high expectations for this movie.

And I must say, I was not disappointed. I did not want it to end. In its defense, Christopher Nolan has created a great movie, not just an action film. Lots of good discussion about vigilantism. The Heath Ledger performance goes without saying. The film also tipped me off to another weakness of mine. For some reason, I do really like Guys Who Get The Job Done (I think some people might call these guys "Bad---". I consider myself a liberal in 9 out of 10 issues, yet I find myself drawn to self-sacrificing hot shots who get those bad guys no matter what. YEAH.

(On this note, I would like to say I do not condone torture in any case, unless you are Jack Bauer, and that means that you know what you are doing and I will trust you.)

It's always at this point that I start wondering if Freud was right, at least about me. This is probably why I loved Alias and have fantasies about joining the CIA and being a bad--- myself.

Then I have to shake it off and watch Grey's Anatomy.

The Thing Came Out of the Frying Pan

Deb, my favorite foodie blogger, recently asked people to label their cooking fears. I was surprised by the extraordinary variety (she had over 200 comments the last time I checked) and thought, at least on my small scale, it might be interesting to address people's frights in regards to cooking.
I answered the post myself because the question immediately brought to mind pork. Now, pork in the slow cooker or dutch oven is one thing, with its marbles and chunks of fat that melt into the meat to create a perfectly gorgeous texture; lean pork that requires a quick, hot pan before it sends its juices to the ceiling and toughens up to make chewing leather is quite another.
I am terrified of pork chops and pork loin.
There is also the matter of a certain episode of House M.D. that I've watched, involving a girl with a parasite from pork living in her brain and causing bleeding and certain death. This only feeds my paranoia.
Israel is a pork on the barbecue expert, and I think I might be able to do that, yet usually I cook indoors. Coals are not my thing, but that is for another post.
Italian icing is the other thing I have never been able to get right. If you're not familiar with the process, it involves hot sugar syrup set to exactly the right temperature, and moves on to a slow stream incorporated by whisking into egg whites. The pictures of it are lovely. Not lovely enough for me to attempt it, again.
So tell me, readers, what is your cooking fear? Maybe some of us know how to help.