Stallion Cornell's Moist Blog

Veep Watch: Romney's Out

2008-08-28T15:25:00.001-07:00

It's not reflected in InTrade, but it's being reported by the RealClearPolitics Veep Watch as follows:

A well-placed source has confirmed that Mitt Romney no longer understands himself to be in consideration for the Republican nomination for Vice President. When asked where he'll be tomorrow, Romney revealed that he planned to be in Massachusetts. When pressed for a clarification -- as to whether that remark constituted an artful prevarication -- Romney declared that it did not. Further, one of Romney's senior advisors has verified that if he put it thus, it's true.

Pawlenty's cleared his schedule for the next few days.

*sigh*

Veep Watch: Now it's Pawlenty 44, Romney 38

2008-08-28T15:09:00.001-07:00

Yikes.

Veep Watch: Then again again...

2008-08-28T14:57:00.000-07:00

Pawlenty's back up; Romney's down but still ahead. It's something like 50 to 42.

Nobody knows anything. Except Carl Cameron, who, according to Marc Ambinder of The Atlantic.com, knows who it is. Ambinder also says "Media/strategist buzz centers on Tim Pawlenty.... Romney advisers pessimistic."

Veep Watch: Then again...

2008-08-28T14:07:00.000-07:00

Something's happened. Romney's rocketed back up to 66 and Pawlenty's down to 28. They were neck and neck about half an hour ago in the low to mid forties.

Somebody knows something.

Veep Watch: I spoke too soon!

2008-08-28T13:37:00.000-07:00

Tim Pawlenty's stock is soaring on InTrade and Romney's has plummeted. Romney's still higher, though - he's at 48, whereas Pawlenty is at 41. That's about a twenty-point shift for each candidate - Romney down, Pawlenty up. Drudge is announcing that Pawlenty has canceled all his public appearances, and the story about Romney's security sweep is explained by the fact that McCain will be coming to Michigan, where Romney will act as a surrogate.

I should have known that Beavis wouldn't do something I'd like. In the long run, it means that Romney's got a viable political future, but here and now, it means that I'm back to Cousteau.

A Free Country

2008-08-28T13:02:00.000-07:00

Veep Watch: Smart Money's On Mitt. He's been trading above 70% on InTrade all day, the day that McCain has announced that he's picked his guy. Roll Call says there's been a security sweep on the Romney family. I have no inside info, but I'm betting it's Mitt.

And if it's Mitt, I'll vote for McCain. Sorry, Jacques.

I'm caving because the Dems are so loathsome this time around. This convention is seriously bumming me out. I heard pieces of Joe Biden's speech on the radio last night - it was astonishing. This is the worst economy EVER! (Except today's numbers show it grew at a rate of 3.3% last quarter.) America does NOTHING to give people a hand up! (Except for hundreds of billions in stimulus checks and a multi-trillion dollar bailout of Fannie and Freddie Mac.)

"Compassion" is defined as "governmental redistribution of wealth." It's all so much piffle. Expensive, totalitarian piffle, sure, but piffle nonetheless.

It reminds me of a story when I was a missionary in Scotland. A British elder told me of a greenie companion he had who, fresh from the States, spent about a week getting his bearing before making an observation.

"I dunno. This country seems pretty free," he said.

This made my British friend laugh. Apparently, this kid believed all his life that America was the only free country in the world. Yet it begs the question - what is a free country? Freedom, it seems, is more easily identified in its absence. Some countries - Cuba comes to mind - are literally prisons - you can't come and go as you please, and everything you do is subject to government monitoring and approval. But what about the Scots? Are they free? Sure, Britain protects free speech and free assembly, but at the time this missionary made his pronouncement, the UK was taxing every dollar earned above $70,000 at a 98% tax rate. Are you free if you're not capable of managing your own property?

And where does that leave us?

The Book of Mormon recounts the story of King Limhi, described as being in "bondage" to the Lamanites because his people are forced to cough up "a tribute to the Lamanites of one half of all they possessed." (Mosiah 19:22)

"And now, is not this grievous to be borne?" the King asks rhetorically. "And is not this, our affliction, great?"

Between federal, state, and local taxes, including property tax, sales tax, and everything else, a fifty-percent tax rate looks like a bargain today.

Obama's more concerned with fairness than he is with freedom. The two concepts, however, are often mutually exclusive, especially when Washington gets involved. To make things fair, you have to make someone else a little less free. That was the case in Scotland, where rich and poor alike lived in dumpy council houses owned by the government.

Fairness can't lift up the losers, so it tears down the winners. I prefer freedom.

Incidentally, when I was 11, I entered a songwriting contest with a song about freedom. I can only remember one stanza, because it's so laughably awful that I ought to share it with you.

If our freedom were taken away
Tomorrow or some other day
In our death beds we would lay
Unhappy evermore.

Remarkably, I didn't win. That's because back then, this country was more free and less fair - you actually had to achieve to get recognition.

I think those who lay in their deathbeds are probably unhappy, though. Especially if they're laying eggs.

Clintons and Communist Clothing

2008-08-27T09:42:00.000-07:00

We had to fold clothes last night. That means we haul huge piles of laundry up to the bedroom and fold like the wind whilst watching whatever’s on the tube.

That’s why I was unfortunate enough to watch Hillary Clinton’s speech last night.

Let’s get a few things on the table. I do not want Barack Obama as our next president. But watching that harpy screech about how great she is while her WC Fields/ Warren Harding hubby mouthed “I love you forever” to the camera, I said my own silent American Prayer of gratitude that this harridan and her Lothario spouse got their butts handed to them in the primaries.

Beginning with the “Look How Cool I Am!” intro video narrated preciously by harridan-in-waiting Chelsea Clinton, the entire presentation was a self-congratulatory one-woman love fest. Every mention of Barack Obama was a throwaway; every sentence had a subject of “I” or “Me.” She’s cracked the glass ceiling! She’s saved the world! She’s waiting for Obama to get mauled by McCain so she can build her own Greek Temple and become the Female Messiah! (Have you seen the Greek Temple Obama’s building to himself for his nomination acceptance speech? Yikes.)

This is not a woman trying to unite a party. This is a lady who is providing the bare minimum of Obama support to avoid the Democrats disdain while, at the same time, submarining the Almighty Obama at every turn. She’s the greatest asset the McCain campaign could ever have. Has there ever been a more contemptible couple than Bill and Hillary? What will it take to get these slimeballs to finally go away?

Speaking of things that never go away, a fellow Languatron detractor and frequent blog commenter sent me a link to this video he took in a Burlington Coat Factory in his hometown that’s now become the talk of his local talk radio market.

You can read more about this here. Apparently, the store is selling old Soviet military uniforms. My guess is that they’re in the racks next to the Klan hoods and the jackboots. Can you imagine Burlington selling anything with a swastika on it? Fascism killed tens of millions and is rightfully considered deplorable; Communism killed hundreds of millions and is inexplicably chic.

These outfits would look great with one of Hillary’s pantsuits.

American Prayer to Almighty Obama

2008-08-26T12:34:00.000-07:00

This has to be seen to be believed.

What on earth is the message of this video? Vote for Obama, because Barry Manilow and George Costanza pray to him? All of the Rush Limbaugh-style jokes about the Lord Messiah Obama underestimate the ludicrous, over-the-top worshipping at the altar of the Church of Barack embodied in this laughable display of celebrity cluelessness.

Come on, folks. This is beyond vapid. “This is my American prayer?” Gobbledygook. Dave Stewart, the author of these insipid lyrics who looks vaguely like Eric Clapton throughout the video, is British, for the love of mud! Does his British prayer look anything like his American prayer? I wonder if Cyndi Lauper and Joan Baez can pray in Belgian, too.

“American Prayer” is written and performed by people who seem entirely unfamiliar with genuine prayer. The ditty uses religion childishly, like a talisman or a lucky charm, to invoke a sense of spiritual heft to a decidedly secular purpose. Amid pleas for huddled masses to finally breathe free under an Obama administration, there’s also an implicit call for lower gas prices. You know what lowers gas prices, Whoopi and Cyndi and Forrest and Macy? Drilling! Maybe you should start praying to Exxon-Mobil for that one. (Lord Obama’s only going to answer your prayers by inflating your tires.)

Every time some pile of celebrity has-beens injects themselves forcibly into the national conversation, I have to ask: Is there anyone on this planet who was waiting to see how Whoopi Goldberg was going to vote before making their decision? Was anybody wondering which way the guitarist for the Eurythmics was going to fall in 2008? Does Jason Alexander really think he can move political opinion in this country? I mean, that guy can’t even be master of his own domain, if you know what I mean.

What these guys don’t realize is that they do move public opinion – in the opposite direction. I live by the Streisand Touchstone – whatever Barbra’s for, I’m against. Babs didn’t show up for this one, though, so they had to settle for famed pundit and political analyst Pamela Anderson. I lost all respect for her when she refused to marry Borat. (Actually, I never had any respect for her, so I didn’t really lose anything.)

I hope this American Prayer goes into heavy rotation on MTV alongside this piece of crap from the fat, ugly, and/or aged McCain Girls.

Run both these unintentionally hilarious nightmare videos from now until Election Day and Jacques Cousteau is a shoe-in.

Deep Thoughts from Stalliondo

2008-08-25T20:11:00.000-07:00

While putting my three-year-old little Stalliondo to bed tonight, we had the following exchange.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" I said.

He paused for a moment.

"Ummm... a dinosaur!" he finally answered.

"Why do you want to be a dinosaur?" I asked him.

He smiled. "So I can kill all my friends."

Biden, Boats, and Backpacks

2008-08-25T09:30:00.001-07:00

There’s a story that’s been passed around the Senate about a Catholic bishop who wants to deny communion to all Democrats, due to their party’s embrace of abortion rights.

“We need to take action, beginning with Joe Biden,” the bishop says.

“Why Biden?” answers one of his colleagues.

“Because he’s the only one who would care,” the bishop responds.

Joe Biden is a genuinely religious man, a solid Catholic who opposes partial-birth abortion and meanders into pro-life territory every once in awhile. He’s a leftie, but he’s not a loon. He’s a serious, intelligent lawmaker who brings plenty of heft to Obama’s ticket. Conservatives who cackle with glee over his many gaffes – calling Obama “clean,” plagiarizing Neil Kinnock, mocking Indians working in convenience stores – are missing the point. Biden has been in the fray for forty years, and he’s thrived under pressure. He’s everything Obama isn’t – including being somewhat reasonable.

I think this improves Barack’s chances of being elected. It also improves Mitt’s chances of getting on McCain’s ticket, too.

Intrade now has Mitt as VP trading about thirty points ahead of everyone else. Where Biden brings a tremendous amount of foreign policy credentials to the Dems, Mitt becomes the economic guru the GOP is looking for. Biden fills in Obama’s gaps, and Mitt could do the same for Beavis. The only drawback – and it’s considerable – is Mitt’s Mormon faith. I’m not the one to gauge just how big a deal that is, as I woefully underestimated this issue when Satan’s Brother used it to knock Mitt out of the race.

I plan on ignoring the convention for the most part, much as I ignored the Biden announcement, which came as I was camping with the fam up at Bear Lake on the Utah/Idaho border. It was a good time, except when I went to pick up a rented boat and couldn’t get it up to more than 10 miles per hour without nearly capsizing it in the massive early morning waves. I also picked up the boat while wearing jeans, thinking I would step onto the boat from some kind of pier. Instead, I had to wade out into the water in denim and sit in moist clothing for over an hour.

I was less than pleased.

The two kids who came with me – my son Corbin and a friend from another family – learned a few interesting words that morning. The friend later asked my other children whether or not I was a Mormon, since she had never heard a Mormon use such colorful metaphors.

I may have scarred both of them for life, but such is the way of things. Today is the first day of school for the Cornell clan, and they awoke and dressed and got lunches made and, with backpacks firmly in place, sallied forth out the door. Cleta is now in 6th grade; Chloe is in 4th; Corbin and Cornelius are starting grade #2, and Stalliondo begins preschool next week.

I would say it reminds me of that ABBA song “Slipping Through My Fingers,” but then everyone would accuse me of being gay.

The Olympics and Patriotism

2008-08-21T10:47:00.000-07:00

I haven’t mentioned the Olympics yet in this blog, which is strange, as the Cornells are watching them semi-religiously. Twins Corbin and Cornelius have been up far past their bedtimes to cheer on the Americans and Michael Phelps and the gymnasts and whatnot, and it’s been a whole lot of fun.

What’s delightful about the Olympics is that it’s based solely on excellence. There’s no forgiveness, no feel-good consolation prize, no margin for error. Political correctness had yet to infect the Olympic process with “everyone is special” self-esteem-boosting pap. Not everyone is Michael Phelps-style special. I like to think I can eat 12,000 calories per day and still look great, but my gut says otherwise.

The other thing remarkable about the Olympics is that it’s patriotic as all git out. You spend your time cheering for your country and celebrating American achievement. In everyday life, Democrats moan and whine that Republicans are always “questioning their patriotism,” yet they think that they can slice down their country at every opportunity and demand that be considered equally as patriotic as those who want the USA to succeed. That dynamic is stripped to its essence in the Olympics – either you want the American gymnast to win, or you want the “16-year-old” Chinese infant to win. One choice is clearly more patriotic than the other.

That may be the reason why Beavis McCain is coming back in the polls. In their hearts, most Americans are rooting for America. They’re not Michelle Obamas who think their nation is downright mean or that they can’t be proud of their country. They’re not Barack Obamas who worry about what the rest of the world will think if we keep driving SUVs and turn our thermostats down to 72 during the summer. I loathe McCain, but I will say the unspeakable, which is that McCain is obviously more patriotic than Obama is. The reason this statement makes the Left so sputteringly angry is that it’s demonstrably true, and they have no argument in response other than to call people names.

Blatant expressions of patriotism always make Lefties feel uncomfortable, like someone sitting in a damp swimming suit. When everyone was sporting the American flag after 9/11, the Bill Moyers crowd was wringing its hands about the dangers of the flag lapel pin and little flag logos in the corner of TV screens. Displaying the flag is the first step down the road to fascism, doncha know, and don’t you dare call me unpatriotic for saying so!

The fact is that the word “patriotism” means something, and the defensive of the Democrats demonstrates that they’re less comfortable with the definition than the Republicans are.

Speaking of being uncomfortable with patriotism, I found the goofiest current example of an unpatriotic boob in the latest online edition of Newsweek, which features a diatribe by this pinhead, pictured here:

Said pinhead is named Sameer Reddy, and he states that the U.S. Olympic uniforms are – wait for it – racist, classist, and evidence that Ralph Lauren is a self-hating Jew. Don’t believe me? Here’s the money quote:

The biggest sports-related news stateside has been the redesign of the U.S. uniforms by Ralph Lauren, who took the reins from Canadian company Roots. Lauren has built an empire by becoming the unofficial outfitter of the American Dream, marketing an idealized image of America's former ruling class to the nation at large. However, the WASP aesthetic he sells-think of characters from "The Great Gatsby," clothed in tennis whites and delicate tea dresses-has come to represent a classist and racist set of ideals, hardly representative of the current multicultural social fabric of the United States. A strange choice then, to redefine the U.S. team's visual identity in this way, even as it marches further away from the 20th century, when WASP power reached its peak. But if one stops to consider America's shaky status as the world's preeminent superpower, Lauren's nostalgic, retro creations begin to make more sense.

But wait! There’s more! It seems the NeoCons who are too stupid to see the bigotry here. Here’s more from said dweeb:

Social conservatives would probably fail to read anything insidious into these outfits-after all, at least the U.S. team looked pulled-together and semi-formal-but the clothes, in and of themselves, are not the problem. The issue is that the Polo brand is built upon an aesthetic intended to communicate to the world, the wearer's successful assimilation into the traditional institutions of upwardly-mobile American culture-the elitist world of typically WASP-only country clubs, prep schools and cotillions. (Never mind that Ralph Lauren, née Lifshitz, was born in the Bronx to Jewish immigrants who most certainly would not have been allowed into the country clubs that many of his designs seem destined for.)

Oh, yeah? At least Ralph Lauren isn’t unpatriotic, dweeb boy. And you are.

Loons

2008-08-20T14:11:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, I was part of a group of artsy-fartsy types trying to put together a major performing arts center in Salt Lake City. (I'm now a member of a new group trying to do the sam thing, but that's beside the point.) Back then, a prominent local developer told us that he could fully fund our project immediately, due to the investment of two wealthy angels who were building an even larger center near the same site.

Sound too good to be true? Yes it did, considering we were looking for about $50 million to get the thing going.

So we sat down at the meeting, and we met these two investors who are both 60+ year-old women who look like they've just walked out of an Amway convention. They're wearing way too much jewelry and make-up, and they're clearly trying to pretend they're bigger deals than they really are. Neither one of them can speak coherently - one finished every sentence with the word "eckcetera" (sp) - and another was missing two of her molars. They proceeded to tell us that they were going to buy 700 acres (!) of land and build - stuff.

Weird stuff.

Like a rotating restaurant in the shape of a baseball on top of a 200-foot tall baseball bat. Or a massive waterpark that leads people past the pyramids of Egypt. And a Western town where visitors could come pretend they're Jesse James. And a full service movie studio. And a "wellness center" that will feature new, anti-aging treatments and drugs. And, as an afterthought, our fun little $50 million performing arts complex.

Their proposed budget? 3.5 billion dollars. That's "billion" with a B. And, according to them, it was all their own money.

Where did this money come from, you may ask? Well, one woman claimed to have invented the disposable diaper. "But the idea was stolen and they had to settle with me out of court," she said, so that's why nobody knows she's the Queen of Pampers. The other woman said she owned a multi-million dollar bowling ball company that uses her own patented bowling ball design. (Near as I can tell, the design on bowling balls hasn't changed much in over a millenia. Three holes, one ball, ten pins. Am I missing something?)

One of them had created a bunch of goofy cartoon characters, the primary one of which is an extraterrestrial worm named Spacey. Thoughts of Languatron went through my mind as this woman detailed her extensive negotiations with Universal Studios, which desperately wanted to make a feature film about Spacey, but this lady "walked away from the table" because they were going to "compromise the integrity of the character," which looked like it had been traced from the back of a cereal box.

They've also invented golf clubs and traded international real estate and probably driven to the moon in a Mustang convertible. (OK, so I made the last one up. But given the circumstances, it's hard to tell.)

I probably would have left the meeting after about ten minutes if this developer guy hadn't been there. He was legit, and he was treating these loonbats as if they were legit, too. My question was: how do you live to be 60+ years old and say you have $3.5 billion on hand and still get any human being to take you seriously when its patently obvious you're a fraud?

Plus, if you've got that kind of money, why can't you get your teeth fixed?

Things continued for awhile, and there were a couple more meetings that I attended, until I got fed up and called the landowners that these people were supposedly negotiating with. They were very friendly, and they told me they'd met these loony ladies, and that they were wackjobs, and don't bother with them any more than is absolutely necessary. The head of the group I was with got really mad and kicked me out of his club, because I'd "upset the investors." So I moved on and never looked back. (Until now, of course, because it's a funny story.)

Of course, if anyone sees the rotating baseball restaurant somewhere, let me know. I'll bet they have good fries.

Tron. Crap. Synonyms.

2008-08-19T10:03:00.000-07:00

Tron 2 is in development.

They’re not calling it Tron 2, though. They’re calling it TR2N. Which is unreadable and annoying, much like the first Tron movie.

Make no mistake – Tron blows.

I had a vague recollection of seeing this thing when it was in theatres and not liking it, but I also remembered playing the video game with the speeding light cycles and liking that. As buzz for TR2N began to build, and as the likes of Harry Knowles at AintItCoolNews began to sing the praises of the original, I managed to convince myself that my memories of the film were somehow inaccurate, and, convoluted as those memories were, I ought to give Tron another chance.

So we Netflixed it. Not a good plan.

It’s not just that the movie looks like it’s been filmed through a muddy digital lens with only twelve pixels. Indeed, the attempt at computer animation, made back when Asteroids was still a hot video game in arcades, has to be accepted for the ambitious breakthrough that it was. My complaints aren’t technical – they’re logical. The movie is filled with dated, convoluted jargon, and to say that its premise is stupid is to say that using wallpaper paste for shampoo is stupid. It’s so obviously boneheaded that its not worth mentioning.

Apparently, all of our computer programs have complex, emotionally satisfying lives within the confines of our hard disks. They have genders; they fall in love; they get high drinking virtual water; they have religions; they have bad fashion sense and a wide variety of driving skills, and they look like the people who program them. Groovy, no?

No.

See, back in 1982, when Tron came out, I was actually writing computer programs in BASIC on my Atari 400 that I’d purchased with hard-earned paper route money. They involved statistical comparisons to determine which girls were the hottest and roughly pixilated explosions to simulate nuclear war. I had to save them on cassette tapes that took about half an hour to load while making horribly twisted screeching sounds. They were all about a hundred lines or so, and I guarantee you that none of them were catching any nookie in their virtual downtime.

Even now, the idea that programs are complex enough to simulate human life is silly, but in 1982, when the Commodore 64 was state-of-the-art, it’s like saying a piece of dog chow could compose Handel’s Messiah. And then to put a real human in the mix, as Tron does with Jeff Bridges’ Flynn character, you have to hurl your brain out the window to begin to take the thing seriously.

Trust me, I can do stupid if it’s fun. This is not fun. It’s the polar opposite of fun. The dialogue is so joyless and wooden that you keep waiting for Anakin Skywalker to show up to explain how love is blind and sand is not smooth. George Lucas writes better than this, and that’s saying something. (Hint: What it’s saying is not good.)

We’re continually trying to find new and innovative ways to punish our children when they’re unruly. Sometimes we make them do wall sits or put a drop of Tobasco on their tongues if they say something nasty. But now, we’ve determined that threatening to make them watch Tron all the way through is a surefire bad behavior deterrent.

So don’t look for me waiting in line to catch the opening of TR2N. I’ll be at home, scrubbing the wallpaper paste out of my hair.

P.S. Tron does have David Warner in it, though, so that's something. David Warner is the consummate bad guy. He was great in every piece of crap he's ever been in, including Tron. You don't see him much anymore, though. I hope he's not dead.

Mormon Cultural Oddities

2008-08-18T10:39:00.000-07:00

One of the first Mormon meetinghouses in Scotland was built in the city of Dundee in the mid-fifties and dedicated by then-church president David O. McKay. It was the largest LDS building I had seen when I served my mission there, and I would wager it’s probably still the largest meetinghouse in the country. However, if it were magically transported across the ocean and relocated somewhere along the Wasatch Front, I doubt anyone would think it unusual in any way. It’s about the size of most modern stake centers, and it looks exactly like every other Mormon church in America, complete with a full-size basketball court in the center of the building.

There’s only one problem. Most Scots have never seen a basketball, except in stories and legends.

The only people who used the court were missionaries, 90%+ of whom were American. Locals used the court to play indoor football – sorry, “soccer” to us culturally unenlightened Yanks – and it was hard to even find a basketball on that side of the pond. More recent buildings have foregone the basketball standards and better reflect the preferences of the local populace.

This is the most benign illustration I can think of that demonstrates the quirkiness of Mormon culture.

As I prepared for my 40th birthday – yes, I’m 40, had a nice dinner and played laser tag, big whoop – I had a chance to reconnect with some old friends to invite them to my shindig. One is now a Church employee, and this anonymous friend resents the fact that he’s unable to comment about any peculiarities in Mormon life for fear of reprisal from his employer. My musings on temple marriage would likely have gotten this pal of mine into hot water if he’d posted it himself, and I think that’s unfortunate. I think there’s a lot of room for discussion and disagreement within the church, and I don’t think it’s faithless to join in the dialogue every once in awhile.

Where we get into trouble is when we confuse church doctrine with church culture. One is inspired; the other ain’t necessarily so. For instance, if one were to publicly preach that Jesus is not the Christ or that baptism is for losers, perhaps they’d be stepping out of bounds. But if you write a blog post that says building church basketball courts in Scotland is really, really stupid, I think you’d be making a valid cultural point while standing on firm doctrinal ground.

Doctrine changes only by revelation. Church culture, on the other hand, is, over time, remarkably fluid. Don’t believe me? Consider this, then: Brigham Young would have a very tough time getting tenure at today’s Brigham Young University unless he shaved his beard. Indeed, David O. McKay once told his wife that he’d never be called into high church leadership because he was incapable of growing facial hair. Nowadays, even a Richard L. Evans moustache would get you tossed out of the BYU Testing Center. And it’s an unwritten rule that bishops, stake presidents, and other church leaders must be clean-shaven. The Holy Ghost, apparently, now finds it impossible to penetrate through a thick sit of whiskers.

Why? Show me the doctrine on this, guys. It’s just not there.

When I was at USC, our bishop stood up in priesthood meeting and told us all the necessity of attending all of our church meetings while wearing a white shirt. Thankfully, I was wearing a white shirt at the time, but only because my cool black shirt was lying in a crumpled heap at the bottom of a clothes hamper. I wore a white shirt from that point forward out of respect for that bishop – who is a great man and a wonderful leader – but I have yet to receive a spiritual confirmation from heaven that God is displeased with colored textiles.

There are plenty of other rules that seem equally ridiculous. Never applaud in a chapel. Woodwinds are acceptable in church meetings, but brass instruments are not. Missionaries must never go swimming. The Motion Picture Association of America’s ratings board has a mandate from heaven. Church attendees must never stray from their self-assigned pews. Visual aids must be banished from sacrament meeting and confined solely to General Conference. Saying “you” instead of “thee” in prayers is almost as bad as swearing, but ending a sermon "in the name of Thy Son, Jesus Christ, Amen,” is appropriate, even if the people you’re speaking to don’t have a son by that name. She who births the most kids wins. Using wheat bread for the sacrament may occasionally be necessary, but that doesn’t make it right. And partaking of the sacrament with your left hand will make you go blind.

It all seems kind of silly to me.

I decided a long time ago, though, that none of this weirdness was enough to drive me away. I still wear a white shirt most of the time, and I’m usually clean-shaven. I’ve grown a beard on occasion, but I shave it off after a month or two, largely because I don’t care enough about the issue to start a crusade over it. I don’t really want to be “The Beard Guy,” striking a blow for Mormon goatees everywhere. If it’s not a big deal, then what’s wrong with going with the flow? Bishops have enough problems as it is – they don’t need a batch of beard crusaders making trouble.

My brother-in-law has a beard. He’s evil, you know.

Happy Anniversary

2008-08-15T19:56:00.001-07:00

This blog has been up and running now for exactly one year. It averages about 120 unique visits per day. It has over 300 posts. That is all.

I turn 40 on Sunday. Wish me luck.

Watchmen

2008-08-14T21:58:00.000-07:00

I stopped reading comic books about five years before Watchmen, the “greatest graphic novel of all time,” came on the scene in 1985. I resumed reading them circa 1991, and it wasn’t until this week that I finally decided to supplement my geek education and prepare for the upcoming Watchmen movie by actually reading it myself. I came to it with tremendous expectations – according to the accolades quoted on its covers, it’s supposed to “turn the superhero genre on its head” and “redefine the medium,” whatever `that means. It’s long been a target for a Hollywood adaptation, but its writer, a very hairy British fellow named Alan Moore, has called the thing “unfilmable” and has refused to lend his name or his assistance to the film version, which has gone through many drafts and potential scribes since its publication.

I think Moore has resisted the adaptation because he knows, deep in his gut, that Watchmen, stripped of its excess sex, blood, profanity, and psychological pretentions, is a fairly ordinary superhero story. Someone’s killing heroes, and as the surviving folks in capes dig deeper, they uncover a conspiracy that leads to a wild-eyed James Bond-style villain bent on taking over the world. He even has a cool lair, complete with a glass dome and everything! I think we’re probably supposed to see this as irony or satire, but it doesn’t quite cut it on that level. As a conventional superhero story, though, it’s pretty decent.

What isn’t decent is the worldview that fuels the characters who clearly share the writer’s perspective. We have a killer vigilante Rorschach driving most of the narrative, and he’s a guy who wears a mask that has shapes that constantly shift. He comes to the conclusion that God is dead and you make your own rules. And then there’s the Comedian, who actually dies at the beginning of the book and whose whole life is told in flashback. He’s a thug, a rapist, and a guy who casually guns down a woman pregnant with his own child without thinking twice. Every protagonist in the story ends up praising this thug for “getting the joke,” which is that life is a dark, miasmic pit of despair, and thus violent cynicism is the only sane response.

The nihilism in this story is black, gooey, and rancid. You can almost smell its foul odor rising from its pages.

It’s also hopelessly dated. It takes place in an alternate 1985 where Richard Nixon is President-for-Life, and war with the Soviet Union is inevitable, because chaos reins supreme, and there’s nothing we can do about it. That looks pretty silly in light of Reagan’s victory in the Cold War, although the doings in Russia today make it somewhat less ridiculous. The idea that the West was right and the Soviets were wrong doesn’t occur to this hairy British guy. They both have nukes, so they’re both bad. That’s like saying the rapist and the one who’s raped are both equally responsible.

This may have been the first mainstream comic where superheroes swear and stuff, so maybe that was considered bold and daring. Annoying would be a better word. The book is also far too busy – the panels are cluttered, and our hairy pal is intent on telling two stories at the same time throughout, including a completely irrelevant tale about a pirate who makes a raft out of dead bodies, eats raw seagulls, and comes home to kill people. In addition, each chapter begins with several pages of non-illustrated text that is a chore to read. It’s an unwieldy, often clumsy piece of literature.

I’ll probably see the movie, though. The trailer looks cool.

Overlooking Sleaze

2008-08-13T11:08:00.000-07:00

I’ve been thinking I should write something about the John Edwards scandal, but I can’t think of a less interesting, more predictable, or less surprising denouement for a truly pathetic human being. Of course he’s a liar. And he’s still lying. If the affair ended in 2006, why is he showing up in the middle of the night to visit his kid at the Beverly Hilton Hotel last month? And is anyone really aghast that the media militantly ignored this story for as long as they could? You really think that Mitt Romney wouldn’t have been on the front page of the New York Times for weeks on end if he had done the same thing?

But what part of that story is news? The media tilts left? Yawn. Edwards is a sleaze? I mean, come on. This is a guy who bilked the health care industry out of hundreds of millions of dollars by putting massive numbers of OB/GYNs out of business on the premise that dead children used him as a vessel to demand C-sections to avoid cerebral palsy. Well, guess what! The amount of C-sections has skyrocketed, OB/GYN malpractice insurance rates are through the roof, and the frequency of cerebral palsy remains unchanged. But at least Edwards had enough cash to keep paying his mistress hush money!

I guess the only thing that still surprises me about such a tired, worthless story like this is that so many Americans either cannot or will not recognize sleaze when they see it. My father-in-law, a very good, decent, and intelligent man, was startled when he heard the news about Edwards. “He was the one I wanted in the primaries!” he said. It never occurred to him that his populist hero was human garbage. I think, in his case, that speaks well for him – he’s willing to give anyone the benefit of the doubt. I wish that were the reasons so many others are taken in by the Edwardian offal.

Alas, many people see people who get away with reprehensibly egregious assaults on decency and praise them for their ingenuity. Is there anyone in the country – besides imbecile Dan Rather, of course – who can say with a straight face that the Clintons are honest people? Yet Hillary was able to marshal the support of millions of folks with selective amnesia who followed blindly as she appealed to every crass instinct, every racial bias, and every irrational fear she could to keep Obama from winning the nomination. Hillary was- and is - nothing but ambition and appetite, and so many failed to notice. How is that possible?

At least with my candidate, famed decomposing undersea adventurer Jacques Cousteau, everyone can smell him from miles away.

Mamma Mia!

2008-08-12T09:12:00.000-07:00

At the risk of opening up the whole “he’s gay” thing again, I admit, at the outset, that I went to see Mamma Mia of my own free will and choice, and I’d do it again. I saw it with my wife, my three sisters, and My Fiancée, and a good time was had by all.

I liked it. A lot.

Glenn Beck has said that seeing Mamma Mia more than once will make your testicles fall off, but I think he’s speaking solely on his own behalf. I’m one of a handful of heterosexual men who digs good musical theatre, and my libido has been surprisingly unaffected. Still, I can’t imagine anyone not having a good time at this flick. It’s genuinely cheerful, devoid of sneering irony or saccharine cynicism. It’s impossible to walk out of this movie without having a smile on your face.

That’s not to say it makes a lick of sense. The plot is wafer thin, and the whole thing is paced like a musical revue. Snippets of dialogue serve only to move the thing from one song to another, and if you think about anything for more than three seconds, it all falls apart.

Consider: Meryl Streep plays Donna, a single mother who got pregnant one summer twenty years ago and remains shaky on her child’s paternity. Apparently, Donna’s mother was so upset with her that he kicked her out of the house when she found out.

Meryl Streep is 59 years old.

If I were her mom two decades ago, I’d have kicked her out of the house, too. Pregnant or no, if you’re pushing forty, it’s time to spread your wings and fly. (Andrew Fullen, take note.) All of the potential fathers are the same age as Streep, and they sing about how they dated her in the time “of the flower power,” which would have been back around the time Meryl would have been the right age to play this role. It would have been simple to set the thing as a period piece back in the 80s, but they mention the Internet and other 21st Century staples and throw off the entire chronology.

Then get to the issue of the men themselves. Each of them has achieved a significant amount of worldly success, yet they all drop everything when they get a bogus invite from Donna to come to her daughter’s wedding on a remote Greek island. Two of them only had one-night stands with this woman. It’s hard to believe that Donna could be so memorable as to derail three lives with the mere memory of her good lovin’, but that’s what you have to accept to make this movie fly. Then, when they show up, Donna’s daughter tells them she wrote the letters, but please don’t let her mom know. Incredibly, they all agree. So Donna just accepts that three of her old flames have all shown up at the island at the same time coincidentally.

It strains credulity, I tells ya!

And you don’t care. About any of that. That’s because the music is so much fun and everyone’s having such a great time. I was never really an ABBA devotee back in the day, but I thoroughly enjoyed these songs. They’re very theatrical, and they feel as if they were written in support of this story, not strung together haphazardly. They’re actually more consistent than the flimsy dialogue. And they’re always fun to watch.

I should note that much has been made of the fact that Pierce Brosnan can’t sing. That’s not entirely true – he can carry a tune well enough, but vocally, he’s amateurish. He’s straining the whole time, as if he’s trying to sing during a bowel movement. Yet he’s so committed to the enterprise that his lack of talent is endearing. He doesn’t shy away from what should be an embarrassing performance, and he ends up giving one of the most memorable performances in the whole flick. I don’t think I’d buy a Pierce Brosnan CD, but I certainly enjoyed him in this flick.

I also enjoyed Orson Scott Card’s recent review of this movie, which argued that Mamma Mia is great entertainment but a reprehensible social artifact. That is to say, the movie depends on the audience’s respect and admiration for the traditional family while, at the same time, rejecting the necessity of marriage and fidelity. And he’s right, although I think he overstates his case somewhat. True, the young girl who was planning to get married suddenly doesn’t go through with it for completely arbitrary plot reasons – she has to get out of the way so that Donna can have the stage with her one true love – but there is a marriage, and Donna’s family is more traditional at the end of the film than at the beginning. Card also laments the fact that one character’s homosexuality is treated solely as a punchline, yet having read Card’s review prior to seeing the film, I found this less disconcerting than I had anticipated. So I recommend reading his review prior to seeing the film so you can feel righteously indignant in advance.

I’m not gay.

The Ammon Song: Live!

2008-08-11T13:01:00.000-07:00

As promised, here is a video of last week's live performance of The Ammon Song. Mrs. Cornell is doing the camera work while five kids crawl all over her, so the cinematography may not win any awards. I also forgot the words in the third verse, and the "everybody sing along" section was shoddy, but other than that, I think it's kind of fun.

Enjoy.

Aspen Grove Report

2008-08-10T08:52:00.000-07:00

I have returned! And I’m sick and exhausted.

This year’s Aspen Grove jaunt was far more difficult than many in year’s past, because at one time or another, every single member of the family was ill. Three-year-old Stalliondo also decided he was incapable of mobility on his own, and insisted on riding on my shoulders everywhere he went. That was fun at first, but it ended up doing interesting things to my back. The family still hasn’t really recovered, and I, myself, am now struggling with the effects of a nasty, nasty cold. I could whine more if you like, complete with mucous descriptions. Let me know.

Still, I kept my word to my wife, and I didn’t touch the computer the entire week we were gone. It was startlingly easy, really. The world is a much more cheerful place when you don’t read screeching headlines on a daily basis.

What to say about the vacation itself? Well, Aspen Grove is becoming more and more like a traditional resort getaway, which is a bad thing. In my childhood, it was exceedingly rustic, and now they’ve built a massive new abomination called the Beckham Lodge to replace a lot of the funky old A-frame cabins that we’ve grown to love. The lodge sits directly in front of the mountain view from the center of the camp, and it’s not nearly as nice to look at. The lights from the thing stay on 24 hours a day, which results in unnecessary light pollution when the sun goes down. This monstrosity even has an elevator and a garage.

It’s civilized! Blech.

We still stayed in the cabins, but the writing is on the wall that said cabins are not long for this world. Nobody’s seriously considering abandoning the annual Aspen Grove retreat, but if the cabins disappear altogether, the rumblings of discontent might start getting louder.

That’s not to say that it wasn’t fun. It’s always a blast to see all my siblings, cousins, and extended family from hither and yon. I also read a good book – Ilium by Dan Simmons – and snuck out of camp and saw a fun movie – Mamma Mia, which was much better than I expected. I’ll review both in forthcoming blog posts. I also hiked and swam and unsuccessfully fished. I tried to play paintball, but we got to the paintball site five minutes late and the Nazi running the thing refused to let us participate. I told him “Up your nose with a rubber hose.” It felt good. I also sang my Ammon Song live for the first time at the talent show, accompanying myself on both guitar and harmonica. Siblings have threatened to put it up on YouTube. If that happens, I’ll embed the thing here on the blog.

Perhaps the most fun were the nightly games of Time’s Up, held in My Fiancee’s cabin. I discovered that my brother-in-law thinks Pierce Brosnan is the lead singer of The Who, and that my sister thinks Squanto had bowel issues. The women always bested the men in the competition, despite our feeble efforts to cheat.

All in all, a good time. But I really need a vacation to recuperate from the effects of my last vacation.

Announcing the Aspen Grove Hiatus

2008-08-01T10:32:00.000-07:00

I'll be at Aspen Grove Family Camp for an entire week beginning tomorrow afternoon, along with about two thirds of the people who comment on this blog. I believe I may make a post or two from my mountain encampment, unless my wife has anything to say about it. She's none too pleased to see me on a computer on a vacation. Come to think of it, she's not all that thrilled when I'm on the computer at any time. (Don't tell her I'm writing this.)

Aspen Grove is a family tradition on my mother's side, stretching back over 35 years. All my cousins and their families gather in the mountains and spend a week letting someone else take care of our kids. I got Chicken Pox at Aspen Grove when I was three years old. (I've since recovered.) We Cornells went dutifully until the the eighties when we took about a decade-long hiatus, but then we picked it up again in 1992 and have gone every year since.

The place is steeped with tradition - we perform "Javelin Man" live at the talent show every year, we always lose Aspen Follies, and we play as much Pirate Rook as possible. (Pirate Rook is kind of a modified version of Bridge without face cards. There's nothing piratey about it.) Sadly, three of the most active Pirate Rookists - Rob, Bret, and Norm - will not be there for the duration, or, in Bret or Norm's case, not there at all. So I may have to actually do something else. Perhaps I could blog! I'm sure Mrs. Cornell wouldn't mind.

Just the same, don't bet on any new posts for the coming week. Enjoy "Javelin Man" in the meantime and savor what you'll be missing.

My Other Grandfather

2008-07-31T09:06:00.000-07:00

When I started writing yesterday’s post, I intended to share memories about all four of my grandparents. But as I got into it, I realized I was focusing on the end of their lives, and that gets a bit maudlin after awhile. My intention was to illustrate how all of their funerals were really positive events. They were a chance to gather with family and celebrate a great life. At my paternal grandfather’s funeral, my aunt expressed the sentiment perfectly in her eulogy when she said, “He was tired and in pain, so we wouldn’t wish him back. But we do miss him.”

I can tell you plenty of stories about him. Unlike my mother's father, he was ridiculously healthy in his later years. Every day he would walk from his condominium at the mouth of Emigration Canyon to his office downtown and back again. The trek was at least a 10 mile round trip or more. But after he turned 90, he fell down, and he never really recovered. He slowed down considerably and got a bit dingy. One of my cousins, a cardiologist who essentially became Grandpa’s personal, on-call physician, recalls once asking him if he wanted a glass of water, and Grandpa replied, “We Japanese don’t drink water.” Make of that what you will.

Still, up until the end, he had moments of lucidity, and he never lost his sense of humor. He was especially fond of limericks and clever poems, of which he had an endless supply for every occasion. This is the one that was repeated at his funeral:

Little Willy, in bows and sashes,
Fell in the fire and burned to ashes.
By and by the room grew chilly
No one wanted to poke up Willy.

When I was but a lad of three years old, he and my grandmother celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary, and it was my job to participate in the program by singing a verse Grandpa had passed on to my father, who passed on to me:

James James Morrison Morrison Weatherby George Dupree
Took great care of his Mother, though he was only three.
James James said to his Mother,
"Mother," he said, said he;
"You must never go down to the end of the town
if you don't go down with me."

I got up on stage and, staring out at what seemed like an endless sea of people, burst into tears. That’s one of my earliest memories – choking in front of Grandpa. I’m now trying to teach the same song to Stalliondo, who has the requisite age and moniker, but Grandpa isn’t around to hear him atone for my mistakes.

He was a man of considerable accomplishment – a businessman and a civic leader, as well as the guy who invented the first “Colorizer” paint. Every time you buy a bucket of white paint and get the Home Depot guys to inject some color into it, you can thank my Grandpa for that idea. In fact, you should probably pay me a royalty, which I’ll be happy to collect on his behalf.

I am his youngest grandson, so I have no real memories of him as a captain of industry or a leader of men. To me, he was just Grandpa, the guy who asked me to sneak him a piece of candy after Gram had put it away before dinner and then let me take the fall when Gram caught me in the act. He was the host of a weekly Family Gathering every Sunday evening, when any cousin in town had an open invitation to drop by unannounced and visit. He was a man who had life in perspective and, even amid the accolades he collected over the course of his career, never took himself too seriously.

My favorite story in that regard was recounted by my cousin at the funeral. Robert Redford once approached him at some official function to introduce himself. They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries, and my cousin, eyes wide, said, “Grandpa, do you know who that was?”

Grandpa shrugged. “No,” he said, “but people do that all the time, and you have to be polite.”

My Grandfather

2008-07-30T10:00:00.001-07:00

My wife attended the funeral of her aunt yesterday, who died after a prolonged illness. I wasn’t able to attend, but I got a report that the funeral was uplifting and beautiful, marked more by joy in remembrance of a life well lived than sadness at her loss. The degenerative disease she suffered from had made the past several years part of a long, painful goodbye, and by the time she finally passed, it allowed the family to recall her life in its entirety, and not just the agonizing difficulties surrounding its end.

This led me to reminisce about the funerals of my own grandparents, all four of whom lived into their nineties. Three out of four of them passed away within two months of each other, beginning in October of 1993. My paternal grandmother followed about a year later at the age of 95. For the most part, each of them enjoyed good health throughout most of their lives, but getting out of this world wasn’t particularly easy for them.

Case in point: My maternal grandfather had a remarkable case of Parkinson’s Disease, causing one doctor to remark that he had never seen a similar case, because people usually died before the condition advanced that far. Throughout his career, he was a prominent Salt Lake attorney and a leader in the LDS Church, but at the end of his life, it became harder and harder for him just to get up out of his chair. He was taciturn by nature in the best of health, so when Parkinson’s robbed him of his faculties, he virtually stopped speaking altogether. Every now and then, you looked at his stiff, moribund frame and had to wonder if there was any part of him left.

It was delightful and bittersweet when he showed flashes of wit that let you know he was still in there.

On one occasion, he was trying to dress himself, a slow and tedious process for a man forced to move at a snail’s pace. His body and his wardrobe weren’t cooperating, yet his face remained placid and expressionless, until, after several failed attempts to make progress, a single, monotone word, barely audible, escaped from his lips.

“Dammit,” he said.

Keep in mind that this may very well have been the first profanity ever to issue forth from this man in his entire lifetime. He was a patient, kind, soft-spoken man, virtually incapable of anger, the most Christlike man I’ve ever met. He was a lifelong Latter-day Saint and a leader in the church on almost every level. My mother insists that she never had heard him swear at any point previous. (My father once said the same thing about his father, too, prompting my other Grandpa to say, "Now that's a damn shame.")

Needless to say, everyone in the room was aghast, especially my maternal grandmother, who had, shall we say, a rather well-developed sense of propriety. Never at a loss for words herself, she did what she could to cover for her husband’s faux pas with this excuse:

“It’s not really swearing unless you say ‘dammit to hell,’” she explained.

Silence fell. Nobody breathed a word until, after a lengthy pause, my grandfather spoke yet again.

“Dammit to hell,” he said.

Everyone burst out laughing, and Grandpa cracked as broad a smile as he was capable of producing there at the end.

Nobody told this story at his funeral.

Are Bad Guys Better Presidents?

2008-07-29T09:58:00.000-07:00

When he was president, I loathed Bill Clinton.

I cannot express this passionately enough. The man was so clearly, fundamentally dishonest, so patently corrupt, that I was ashamed for my nation every time the weasel opened his mouth. The Lewinsky scandal was particularly disgusting, because it has now forever lowered the standards of conduct we can expect from those in public life. Suddenly, lying under oath if it’s “just about sex” isn’t that big a deal, and even feminists like Gloria Steinem said Clinton’s botched fondling of Kathleen Willey’s breast was acceptable because he stopped after she said no. So now everyone is entitled to one free grope.

It’s easy to focus on the sexual stuff – it’s salacious and easy to understand – but Clinton’s corruption ran far deeper and was far more devastating on other fronts. Selling nuclear secrets to the Chinese for campaign cash is essentially treason, and it dwarfs what malfeasance he committed in the Lewinsky mess. Yet that is Bill Clinton’s legacy, along with kicking the can of Islamic terrorism down the road until it finally blew up on September 11, 2001. The guy is human garbage, and I’m optimistic that with his wife’s defeat, we’re finally rid of him.

So here’s the problem: in terms of actual, practical policy, the guy wasn’t really all that bad.

I’m setting aside the tyrannical judges he appointed, which are going to be the byproduct of any Democrat’s administration. I’m talking fiscal and economic policy, which he essentially abandoned in 1994 when Newt and the boys took the Hill. That’s when he suddenly decided to sign a welfare bill he had previously vetoed twice, which has been more successful than even its proponents dared hope. Now Clinton boasts of Newt’s bill as his own crowning achievement, despite having bitterly opposed it and then promising to “fix” it after he’d signed it into law.

Newt pushed through capital gains tax cuts and the child credit. Clinton signed them into law and took credit for them. The economy hummed along without incident, because Clinton did nothing to get in the way. In his 1996 campaign, he triangulated a la Dick Morris and focused on piddly issues like V-chips and school uniforms. The guy did nothing and got out of the way. Which, in terms of the nation’s economy, is not a bad thing to do. I wish George Bush could figure that out.

The irony is that it was Clinton’s mendacity and complete lack of any guiding principles that allowed him to abandon his party’s ideology and “govern” without screwing things up too badly. Had Clinton been a decent man, he would have been a far more destructive president in terms of policy. (Although we might have avoided the scandals.) To quote and/or paraphrase George Will, Clinton was not our worst president, but he was the worst man ever to serve as president.

Why do I bring all this up? Because Barack is turning out to be less decent than I previously believed. Certainly he’s more decent than Clinton, although that’s a ridiculously low threshold, but he seems willing to throw his old positions under the bus if they get in the way of his electability. If he keeps doing that, then he might end up betraying his lunatic base and doing the right thing for the wrong reasons.

Where does that leave me?

I doubt I’ll get another Reagan in my lifetime –a Pres who does the right thing for the right reasons – so maybe I have to be satisfied when dopes like Barack do the right thing by accident. That’s probably the best I can hope for this time around.

I’m still not going to vote for him, though, although I can’t vote Beavis McCain, either. My wife has broken down and said she’s casting her ballot for McCain, only because Barack is so patently awful on every issue. If I lived in a different state, maybe I would lose my resolve, too. Fortunately, I’m in Utah, where the electoral votes are assigned to the Republican long before any ballots are cast. So I can comfortably write in the French guy and know that no matter what happens, we’re all screwed.

Cousteau ’08, baby!

The Dark Knight

2008-07-27T19:50:00.000-07:00

I finally saw The Dark Knight, and I have to say that I liked it a whole lot more than Mrs. Cornell did. Her mantra was that it should have been rated R, and she was probably right, although the violence alone wasn’t the problem. Heath Ledger’s Joker was just so dang creepy that it was hard to justify seeing that kind of a performance in a PG-13 film. This was Hannibal Lecter-style stuff, and just like The Silence of the Lambs, the gore and the violence isn’t nearly as disturbing as the character moments. “Do you want to know how I got these scars” ranks right up there with “I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.” I love both moments, because the anticipation is always more dreadful than the payoff. This is a remarkable film, certainly, but none of my kids will be allowed to see it – hopefully until they reach adulthood.

In any case, it’s a comic book movie that respects its source material, so of course I loved it. Reviewing the film blow by blow is kind of pointless now, as all of you probably have or will see it, if the box office grosses are any indication. Ledger really is that good, although playing a villain is probably the easiest thing for a decadent, self-indulgent actor-type to do. Much harder is bringing the kind of dignity and gravitas to lesser roles like Alfred and Lucius Fox, something that Michael Caine and Morgan Freeman do brilliantly. So does Gary Oldman, for that matter. And Christian Bale has the thankless task of holding all of it together, and he does an admirable job on that score.

The best performance in this film, though, came from BYU grad Aaron Eckhart. Harvey Dent’s fall from grace is pure tragedy, mainly because Eckhart succeeds in creating a character that you like enough to dread what you know is coming.

Of course, focusing on performances ignores the fact that they had such magnificent material to play with. Although I didn’t buy the stand-off on the ferry – I doubt anyone would have put the matter to a vote, and nobody would even consider pulling the trigger - and I found it eye-rollingly silly that Lucius would have no problem with letting his boss break people’s legs and destroy cars and property according to his whims, but the moment he engages in – gasp! – illegal wiretapping, that crosses the line. I guess director Christopher Nolan had to toss in a token anti-Bush bon mot into his subversively conservative movie.

And make no mistake – this is a fundamentally conservative film. The critics are amazed at how it supposedly blurs the line between good and evil, but I thought it did exactly the opposite. The price Batman pays to preserve decency only matters because decency survives as an inherent value. The Joker preaches moral relativism and is ultimately proved wrong. Anyway, a guy in the Wall Street Journal makes this argument better than I can – read his piece if you don’t believe me.

I’m going to wander into spoiler territory here, so skip to the next two paragraphs if you don’t want to know who lives and who dies and how the thing ends. Still here? Don’t blame me. I’m not convinced that Two-Face is dead. You see him unconscious, but you never see them haul off the body. What if he’s been quietly locked up in Arkham, only to escape, and in a murderous rampage, inadvertently end up clearing Batman’s name? The Joker’s survival indicates that the filmmakers were probably not done with him, although recasting the role would be like making Rebel Without a Cause II. So the question is, who is the villain for the next film going to be? Batman’s rogue’s gallery is massive, but none of the villains in it can hold a candle to the Joker, especially after Ledger’s tragic star turn.

So who will it be? Nolan has already pooh-poohed the idea of Catwoman or the Penguin, and I say good for him. If it were up to me, I’d go with Bane, the guy who break’s Batman’s back in the comics. (Although a wretchedly dumbed-down, monosyllabic version of Bane appeared in Batman and Robin, which can’t be good for his chances.) Bane – at least the comic book Bane –is a wrongfully convicted Brazilian genius who systematically sets out to destroy Batman, and ends up leaving him paralyzed and broken, both body and spirit. He’s also a drug addict and a muscleman, and he could fit quite well into this version of Batman’s real world milieu. Just my two cents.

Bottom line: good, violent flick. Don’t take the kids.