Okay, so I’ve had Avril Lavigne’s “Complicated” stuck in my head for two days, which is rather horrifying. But the really horrifying part is I didn’t figure out what it was until this morning. That’s because the version playing in my head isn’t Avril Lavigne, but some version that doesn’t exist. The version I came up with sounds like it should be part of a recent musical, a really peppy version sung by someone like Kristen Chenoweth.

The thing is — I think that version would actually really work.

There’s at least one spoiler in this.

It’s taken me awhile to figure out what to say about The Dark Knight. I’m still not really sure. The movie made me fairly unhappy. Enraged, actually. To start, this is The Dark Knight review I agree with. So there are at least two of us who didn’t like it. In a nutshell, the film’s chock full of relentless brutality and a lot of tedious technoporn. After two and a half hours, I just didn’t care anymore. Maybe I missed something. Sure, it’s a very well made, well acted, well put together movie. But I never want to see it again.

Here’s the really weird thing. Through the second half, I kept thinking of Robocop. Paul Verhoeven’s 1987 sci fi classic. At the time I saw it, Robocop was the most violent, brutal film I had ever seen up to that point. It was one of the very first rated R movies I ever saw in the theater. And I loved it. One of the most brilliant pieces of satire from the 80s. (Oh, Verhoeven, what happened to you?) The violence was part of the excess. Each time it happened, it was a shock, and it meant something. It worked because the film had a level of humanity that balanced it out.

During Dark Knight, I kept thinking, “This is now the most brutal and violent film I have ever seen.” Which is really, really funny, because Reservoir Dogs is another of my favorite films, and it’s massively violent — for brief, shocking moments. Again, like Robocop, the violence in Reservoir Dogs always shocks, and always means something. I have a really high tolerance for violence in movies. But Dark Knight tipped me over the edge. And it’s only PG-13, which is hilarious. I think it’s because there’s no actual blood. You have to have sprays of blood to earn an R rating. Dark Knight was just nasty, which apparently makes it all okay.

A lot of my feelings about this movie come from the part of my brain that has two degrees in English literature and is always analyzing and trying to ferret out meaning. This is one of those cases where people are going to tell me I’m reading too much into it, or not enough into it, or something. But I believe the art a culture produces tells us something about that culture. What does this movie say about my culture?

Most of what I wrote about this movie didn’t make it into this post, and that’s okay. Like I said, I’m still processing. I may also be annoyed because this is the third film I’ve seen in a week where the female love interest dies as a plot device, and it’s starting to piss me off.

But hey, how ’bout that Watchmen trailer? Holy crap! It’s awesome! I can’t wait! (That’s right. I had more fun during the two minutes of Watchmen trailer than I did during the movie.)

Apparently, I almost died Friday afternoon. Here’s why:

What you’re looking at is the scarring (the pale streaks) on a tree that was struck by lightning about twenty minutes before. Near as we can figure, the lightning struck the tree branches and chimney of the house, then may have arced about 15 feet away to the metal bits of the porch.

Ty and I were sitting on the swing at the edge of the porch when it happened. Ty jumped and ran. I curled up and covered my face. We’re still debating which survival technique is optimal.

A minute later we were all inside, debriefing. I asked, “How close was it, really?” Because I thought it struck the house next door. Everyone said, “You pretty much almost died.” I had to take their word for it, because my back was to the whole thing, and I didn’t particularly feel threatened. No feeling of static, no charged hair. Also, it happened very very quickly. Flash, kaboom, curl up. (It turns out that Duck and Cover is a pretty instinctive response when you see the Flash.) No elevated heartbeat, no rush of adrenaline, no aftermath endorphins. So, I had a near death experience but without all the neato biochemistry that goes along with it, which seems rather a shame. But as Walter says, he, Ty, Ian and I now have nifty superpowers, or so we hope. Melinda was in back getting the dogs inside, and so doesn’t get superpowers. Daniel and Kat, the owners of the house, were in their car a mile away and were reported to have said, “Huh, that one looks pretty close. Wonder if it got the house?” Yes. Yes it did.

It was very, very loud. Probably the loudest thing I have ever heard in my life, in fact. My ears hurt, and I had a bit of a headache for the rest of the day. It felt just like the morning after a very loud concert. So, imagine the sound from a very loud concert compressed into half a second. That’s what it was like. My ears still hurt whenever anyone says “lightning.” I’m thinking of claiming to have the most minor case of PTSD in history.

Mostly, I’m trying to figure out how to explain to people why I thought sitting outside during a thunderstorm was a good idea. (I’m from the West, I’ve sat outside to watch thunderstorms hundreds of times.) My answer: We weren’t outside! There was a roof.

I believe I’ve posted this before, but it bears repeating under the circumstances. Klaus Nomi weighs in.

Back from Albuquerque.  Had a near death experience, which I’ll tell the story of soon.  Meanwhile, I wanted to brag about this:

In case you can’t quite see it, my car turned over 200,000 miles this trip.  The best part?  I still get 35-40 mpg.  Love my car…

On this roadtrip:

• I was reminded how flat the flat bits of Nebraska are.
• I learned that the restrooms at Nebraska rest stops are air conditioned. Score!
• I hit and killed a robin. This upset me greatly because I like birds. They usually get out of the way, but this one zigged when it should have zagged. Sigh.

Saw Hellboy II last night after getting back home. I liked great big swathes of it, mostly in the first half. It’s like old school urban fantasy, with elves and cities and magic and troll markets and cool stuff. But the second half kind of fell apart, mostly because the characters kept acting stupid. I got annoyed. Daniel has a good, writerly analysis of the problem.

But old school urban fantasy? More, please.

I picked the hottest day yet this summer to drive across Nebraska.  Sigh.

I’m entering a month of being intensely busy, so if posting becomes spotty, that’s why.

First up, this weekend I’ll be at OSFest in Omaha, Nebraska. I’ve got a reading and a panel on Saturday. If you’re in the area, consider dropping by!

I have a day at home before heading to Albuquerque to hang with some writer friends and plot the takeover of the universe. Or somebody’s universe, at least.

The weekend after that, more camping. The weekend after that, Las Vegas (purely for fun — woot!). The weekend after that is Worldcon. Poor Lily is not going to like all this disruption to her routine.

And I’m trying to finish a novel in the middle of all this. Yikes!

I’m so excited — I’m almost done with the first draft of Kitty #7. I’m closing in. I can see the end. Yaaaaaay! And I gotta tell you, this may be one of the scariest, creepiest things I’ve ever written. I don’t know how people are going to react to it.

I’m at the stage where the pieces are all coming together. A month ago, I wasn’t sure they would. The metaphor for novel-writing I’ve come up with this time is like putting together a giant puzzle. It starts out pretty easy and straightforward: I’ve got the picture of what it’s supposed to look like, I can put together the framework — all those edge pieces — without too much trouble. But then there’s that murky middle bit. I’ve got lots of pieces, and I need to figure out where they go, how they fit with each other. Sometimes a piece looks like it fits but it doesn’t quite. But then I get to that stage where I only have a few pieces left, and I know exactly where they go, and I work faster and faster because I can see the end. My daily word count has doubled over the last week or so.

I love this part.

I hope everyone who celebrates July 4 had a lovely weekend. I went camping in Wyoming for a couple of days (for an SCA event). I had a great birdwatching moment: in my morning walk yesterday, I saw a flock of wild turkeys, five of them, just moseying along.

In my Renaissance Festival post I meant to share one of the treasures I came home with from the Festival a couple of years ago. It seemed strangely appropriate and I felt a professional obligation to buy it:

There’s a game that full time writers play. It’s called, “What home repair are you doing when your next check comes in?” (Though sometimes I turn that into, “What trip am I going to take?”)

This time, I was good and did the home repair, replacing the sinks and vanity tops in my two bathrooms. My place is 30 years old. It hasn’t had much remodeling done, so a lot of the stuff is…old. The sinks were the worst. Enamel covered metal sinks in pressboard counter tops. The enamel was cracked, the metal rusting, the faucets leaking. I’d finally had it and ripped it all out, replacing them with cultured marble. Here’s the before picture of one of the bathrooms:

The thing that happens when remodeling a 30 year old place is you discover all the weird patches and repairs that have gone on before. Some of them are inexplicable. Like the fact that the P trap under one sink is 1 1/2 inch pipe when the standard for bathrooms is 1 1/4 inch, so you need a special washer to connect it to the drain. Or that the vanity top is secured by a single screw in the one place that is impossible to reach with a screwdriver. We took three extra trips to the hardware store for parts we didn’t know we needed when we started.

My mom came up to help me with this project, which took a day. A friend of mine came over the next day to help repair the paint, make some final adjustments to the pipes, and haul away the old sinks. The happiest moment was driving away from the old sinks, left behind at Western Disposal’s transfer station. “It’s almost sad,” I said, watching the lonely, displaced sinks recede behind us. “No,” my friend said. “It really isn’t.”

Here’s the after picture, with the new sink, vanity top, and faucet. (I put the same thing in both bathrooms.)

Aaaaahhhhh! Shiney! It almost doesn’t feel like my house anymore. Now, when the next check comes in, I’m going to replace the avocado green kitchen appliances. Seriously. I have 1970s avocado appliances. Sigh…