I'm Talking About Batman. I Know Not Why.

Any Batman fans out there? Who's anxiously awaiting the release of Dark Knight Rises?

I kind of am, I have to admit. That makes me a geek, right? Christian Bale's hot, though. Like, smokin'. And I had a dream a few months ago that I would be allowed to marry another husband, but ONLY if he's got the same name as my current husband, so I chose Gary Oldman, simply because I adore him, as well, AND he's Sirius Black (in the Harry Potter films for the uninitiated). In the dream, Husband #2, Mr. Oldman, was charming and very polite. Excited to meet my kids and Husband #1. Nothing kinky happened (bummer) but we did have a beer. That was nice. I do like beer now and again.

Brother husband. Yeah, right. Have you seen his WIFE? She's breathtaking.

Thing is, Husband #1 doesn't giggle so much when I tell him his Brother Husband is delightful. He sort of snorts and looks at me like I'm not quite right. (I get that a lot.) HEY, if that creepy blond dude from Utah can have sister wives -- wives, as in plural -- what's wrong with me wanting to have brother husbands? (No matter how you look at it. It's gross. One man. Four vajayjays. COOTIES!!!!!!)

Oh, and don't tell Mark Strong about Gary Oldman. I don't want him to get jealous or anything. *sigh* Le problems.

So back to Batman: who doesn't love Michael Caine? (Is he a sir yet? He should be.) Hans Zimmer, of course, is back behind the composer's podium -- DUDE IS A GENIUS AND I AM A SOUNDTRACK WHORE -- and Christopher Nolan has pulled out all the stops for this go-round with the rubber-suited protector of All the People. There's a great 13-minute featurette on YouTube HERE (11,000 extras at the Steelers stadium for the Gotham Rogues football scene? EPIC!). You're welcome. 

It does make my heart hurt a little to watch The Dark Knight because I am a huge Heath Ledger fan and he was so fantastic as the Joker. No, really, I feel pain. Chest pain. I think of his darling daughter Matilda and GOD HE WAS SO TALENTED and when I see Maggie Gyllenhaal's turn as Rachel Dawes, I can't help but wonder if her adorable brother Jakey (teamed up -- literally -- with Ledger in Brokeback Mountain, in case you forgot) visited and Jake and Heath had some raucous laughs between takes and it just sucks. Young people shouldn't die. It's not right.

The only thing -- Bale's throaty interpretation of Batman's voice makes me giggle every time I hear it (although I finally did get around to watching Terminator Salvation and he growled his way through that, too, so maybe that's just the thing that makes him so incendiary, despite the fact that TS sucked -- really? A digital Arnold Schwarzzenwhatever? Spare me. But OMG, Sam Worthington, how I adore thee. Hims adorable. Those eyes. He just looks like the sweetest child. He can do the dumbest films and I will still like him. I'll even forgive him for Clash of the Titans. Harry Hamlin forever!). Come on, right? Bale does sound sorta funny. "It's not a car." Really, Batman? You're growling again.

THE POINT HERE (yes, I'm nothing if not circuitous): The Batman trailer running every twelve minutes on network TV, the one with Catwoman/Selina Kyle, aka Anne Hathaway, hiding behind her masquerade decor, whispering in Bruce Wayne's ear?

She sounds like she's starving.

Hathaway reportedly has been shedding pounds in the last little while for this role and for her turn as Fantine in the upcoming cinematic reboot of Les Miserables (although the 1998 version with Liam Neeson, Claire Danes, Geoffrey Rush, and Uma Thurman was grand). Whenever I see the ad with Hathaway, and I hear her whispering, all I can think is:

SOMEONE GET THAT GIRL A CHEESEBURGER.

Here. Cheeseburger. Eat.

She's hungry. Can't you hear it? She's so WEAK from hunger, she can hardly speak! Seriously! I think she's going for sexy, but it ain't working -- it comes off as timid and lethargic and anemic. It screams to me, I haven't had a meal of more than a pea pod and some teardrops in weeks. Someone help me.

Hollywood, stop depriving your starlets of food! Anne, darling, that's what craft services is for. AT LEAST go get some Red Vines. They're free! No, really! Craft services is part of the film's budget! Come on, Anne, come to my house. We'll get some burgers, chocolate milkshakes, and cake, just so you don't disintegrate into dusty particles and float away while waiting for your next film to release. I'll go ahead and have some of those things for you, because I'm nice that way. Nom nom nom. That bite was for YOU, Anne Hathaway.

Enough about Batman. Although if you guys get to see it when it opens, leave a comment and tell me how epic it is. It will likely be weeks before I'm allowed out of my own Bat Cave to go to the ci-ne-ma. *sad face*

WHAT ARE YOU PEOPLE READING RIGHT NOW?

Xs and Os ...

In Which I Toe the Crazy Cat Lady Line ... and Stuff

First off, CONGRATULATIONS to my dear friend Angeline Kace for winning the Best Editing award at the first-ever utopYA Convention in Nashville, Tennessee.

Know why this is cool, beyond the fact that Angeline is a terrific human being worthy of All Things Great? Because I'm her editor. So, yeah. Sweet. 

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THIS lustrous Brown Lazy Domestic (Felis Brownus Lazyus Domesticus) almost died this weekend:

Damn, isn't he gorgeous? Even if you're not a cat person (loser), you have to temporarily suspend your anti-feline sentiment and understand how friggin' awesome this cat is. He's going to be 14 in October. And he STILL LOOKS THIS GOOD. Forget nine lives -- Kovu has some special deal with the gods because he has been through the shit and still manages to come out sparkly and brown and oh-so-soft on the other end. He's California born, suffered through his share of LA summers, and has since lived in Southern Oregon and British Columbia. (You can imagine his first introduction to snow. And go figure how the hell he's dodged the coyotes who regularly pick off lesser neighborhood cats.) His adventures with us started on a shaky foot -- the weird whistling neighbor lady who gifted a mewling bundle of eight-week-old brown fluff didn't bother to tell us that he had ringworm (Tinea corporis), which, for the record, is NOT a worm. It's a fungus. And people can get it. Because we did. THANKS, PSYCHO WHISTLING NEIGHBOR LADY, for giving us a cat with a communicable disease.

After a month of quarantine in a tiny room in the garage, twice-daily pills shoved down his little kitten throat, and regular application of the stinkiest antifungal "lotion," he was cured. (If you spend any time in our house, you know that one of Kovu's many nicknames is Stinky. From this dark time in his wee life. Poor cat.) 

And then, once recovered ... we learned The Truth. Kovu was meaner than hell. We had a tall IKEA cabinet in our bedroom, atop which I'd stored a few of my young daughter's oversized stuffed animals (stuffies, for our Canadian readers). Kovu would hide in between them, camouflaged, and wait for us to walk in, at which time he would launch himself from the 10' tall cabinet and embed his tiny kitten nails into your head. And then he'd eat whatever hair he could sink his milk teeth into. BASTARDO, seriously!

When Yaunna was ten, she heard Kovu fighting with a neighbor cat. Not thinking, she ran out to rescue him. Upon picking him up, he flayed her arm. Should've gotten stitches but the doc said no. Sweet little Yaunna still has nerve damage in the back of her hand from the holes rendered by Kovu's very adult fangs. (Dumb kid for picking up a warring cat, but we've had that lecture.) I tried to find the photo from that fateful day, but maybe it's best I can't. It's pretty gory.

Alas, he's all grown up now. No longer ventures out of doors, except on sunny days. Pretty sure he sees ghosts, and he will randomly start talking in the hallway and chasing his own tail, so I'm constantly asking him if he senses zombies or Republicans. (Same thing.) He is OBSESSED with those Temptations cookies and will sometimes come to me, while I sit at my desk, and embed his razor-sharp claws that he won't let me trim into the meat of my fleshy calf to say, "You. Woman. It's time for my cookies. Get thee to the cookie drawer." When he's not shredding my fat in pursuit of wholesome treats, he is otherwise known as the Ovary Warmer. Sometimes the Spleen Warmer. Because he effing SLEEPS ON ME. I've got a snoring husband on the left, and a freakish cat on my torso. It's safe for you to therefore assume that I am a woeful insomniac. But him's soooooo cute, how can I move hims? 

This sums up the hierarchy. Fat Beagle, YOU SHALL NOT PASS. Merrowww.

I'm sorry for talking so much about my cat. I point and laugh at people who do this. But Kovu had a stomach thing that started last week, and by Friday night, as I was force-feeding him water through a dosing syringe. I thought he was on his last legs.

As of this morning, he is alive and taunting his much-larger Maine Coon brother, Eskimo. When I say, "Kovu, get the kitty," and he gets that glint in his eye, his whiskers twitch, and he goes in search of some kitty ass to kick, I know he's on the mend. Meee-owwww.

Thanks, Kovu, for living to see another day. You rock. Mommy loves you. Now come over here and keep my spleen warm.

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In other news, I've started writing for this site:

They cover cool art/artists and designers, hot architecture, and stuff that inspires. Check it out when you get a chance. (I'm even on the About page now! So legit!)

For my other gig, LitStack, come August I'm going to be reviewing Chuck Wendig's NEWEST BOOK, Mockingbird, and interviewing him. AGAIN! OMIGOD SO STOKED. Total fangirl moment here. Only I have to think of shit to ask him. He's, like, a million times funnier than me. I can't even think of anything funny to say at this exact moment because I am awed by the mere thought of his funny. My funny has frozen, like a deer in the headlights. A drunk deer. Or maybe it's a deer on bath salts (so by default, he's from Florida), but if that were the case, the deer would chase you down and eat you. That would be weird. NO BATH SALTS FOR THE DEER.

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My kids start summer school tomorrow. Well, the Young Lads do. Mean Mommy. But it's a cool option that the school district offers -- a 17-day preview of the coming grade. One's doing 6th grade math, the other 3rd grade reading/writing (because he's going to be a better writer than me very soon). And that means I GET THREE WHOLE HOURS A DAY without children whining at me about the fact that we're out of Froot Loops and chocolate milk again. Hey, I get hungry. Sue me.

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The baby turned eight on Saturday. Which means I am getting old (because it's all about me). Here is a birthday collage Big Sister did to honor the little fella's special day. 

Omigod, he's eight. That means I'm 29.

Happy birthday, PianoMan. We heart you.

Now someone write to me and tell me what they're doing this summer besides working. I need to live vicariously.

Xs and Os, lovelies ...