Thursday, December 23, 2004

The Cost of Being Me

I wish to administer exaulted props and massive shout-outs to the reader called shardek, whose recent Honor System generosity just about covers the expense of renewing this domain name for another year, or, if you prefer, the cost of 7 boxes of Cheez-Its.

*wipes away tear*

You can make me cry too! Go ahead! Be honorable! Click above, MAKE ME CRY!!

Oh, and shardek: I am, in fact, a dirty, dirty hack who works for you.

or, just send a check to:


I am going to court utter disgrace and admit something here: Until four days ago, I had never read, nor seen, anything Lord of the Rings-centric. Not one fanfic. Not one movie trailer. Those obnoxious racks of teeny-tiny books at the checkout lane of Barnes and Noble? Passed ‘em right by. No Cookbook From Middle Earth for me.

When Josh the Pilot got tailwind of this, he did the only sensible thing and ended the relationship for the fourteen seconds it took him to shove Fellowship of the Ring into the DVD player. “This is the greatest fantasy trilogy of all time,” he informed me, and I nodded politely and juxtaposed this information with certain other fantasy trilogies in my life, wondering how long it will take Peter King to redigitize things so that everybody is running around all upset over, say, an evil-embodying iPod, because rings are just so passe, and won’t it be nice if Frodo shoots first.

It was important for me, a woman recently confused by the plot structure of Jim the Baby Nephew’s copy of Goodnight Moon, to have a guide. This is not a movie for the world in general; this is an all-you-can-eat buffet for the irretrievably geeked-out individual, as opposed to me, a completely cool person whose living room is currently accessorized by a fully extended lightsaber.

Viewing Fellowship of the Ring is a fourteen-hour experience, which is what tends to happen when you are watching a three-hour movie and somebody presses the pause button every two seconds because she doesn’t understand why these supposed “elves” don’t scamp about in pointy shoes with jingle bells on the toes.

“Wait, who’s that?” I would say, and the answer was invariably something like, “That’s Moonbeam Eaglebronnger, Jr., son of Toshama the Ooglewrapper, all-high majority leader of the Jabobbins, a race of Umberites living along the River of Quinty. They hate the Peepins but are closely allied with the Gormarands, of course.” Of course.

I can't believe anybody bothers to cut their way through this crap. I mean, when somebody says, “The tauntans of Hoth are no match for a standard Imperial AT-AT walker,” it’s perfectly obvious what they mean.

Most illumunating moment? One of the characters made a solemn announcement along the lines of, "We shall pass through Creamy Caramel World on our way to the Village of Nougat," and I said, "Why is that significant?" and Josh said, "Hold on a second, I'll draw a map." Say what you will about my unnatural attachment to White Christmas : You don't need no freakin' map to know that Bing Crosby, in the middle of the Vermont wilderness, is going to whip together a professional-grade collection of sets and dance numbers within forty-eight hours so as to save the old General's failing ski lodge.

I suppose I’ll understand and appreciate all this once I read the books, but here is what I’ve gathered:

-Elves, only slightly paler than I, are immortal; this immortality is carried in necklaces from the Claire’s Prom Collection.

-Somewhere between my junior year of high school and 2001, Rudy dropped out of Notre Dame and got a really fat face.

-One of the Vikings from the Capitol One commercials puts in appearance as an outstanding minor character, although I was mightily displeased when he did not start kicking Frodo right in the pocket, yelling “What’s in YOUR wallet?!”

I think we’re watching the second installment sometime after Christmas. Should polish it off by Memorial Day, tops.

Moonbeam Eaglebronnger, Jr., call your office at:

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