My biggest problem with Basterds--aside from the completely pointless bad spelling--was the fact that literally about 80 percent of the movie consists of conversations around tables. The movie starts with a Nazi Jew hunter and a French farmer sitting at a table. Then a junior Nazi war hero imposes his presence on a Jew-in-hiding at a table. Later, his superiors bring her to a fancy Nazi dinner featuring the Nazi that killer her family and lots of tables. The supposed protagonists have a conversation with some Nazis in a forest clearing and probably think about how much they wish they had a table. Hitler seethes while sitting at a table. The undercover Allies meet a double agent and exchange small talk for what seems like hours while sitting at a table. The Jew hunter takes the undercover Allies to a room, where he sits them at a table and offers his complete surrender. Then a theater burns down and the entire Nazi party, including Hitler, dies. End of war.

The entire movie felt like an extended cut of the terrible, terrible ship's mast conversation in Death Proof. Instead of action, we get conversation. Instead of substance, we get one liners. Instead of plot, we get monologues. I was bored with the first scene after a few minutes, and then the whole rest of the movie was more of the same.

But there were other things that simply didn't make sense. Why, for example, was the movie called Inglourious Basterds to begin with? The Basterds are a group of undercover Allies in occupied France who go around killing Nazis in all manner of gruesome ways, but the movie is much more about Shoshana, the Jew that escapes the Jew hunter at the beginning. She's the character the viewer can probably most identify with. And it's her plan that kills the Germans. For the majority of the movie, the Basterds seem like an afterthought, and they completely fail both times that they have a substantive mission to carry out; by the end, only two survive, and that's only because the Nazi that captures them decides not to kill them.

And that's another thing--why the fuck didn't that guy kill them? Throughout the movie, we are repeatedly shown what a ruthless, untrusting motherfucker this guy is. This is a guy that really thinks that Jews and rats are cut from the same cloth. This is a guy who mercilessly kills Jews and doesn't lose a wink of sleep over it. He doesn't just buy into being a Nazi, he fucking loves it. He relishes it. In this regime, he is given complete freedom to be his sadistic, murderous self. So when he, at the end, decides that he's going to switch sides just because he wants a house on Nantucket, it doesn't make any fucking sense. This guy doesn't want a big house surrounded by old money, he wants a basement torture chamber and an endless supply of pseudo-people to play with. And why--after demonstrating that he's essentially a human lie detector--does he decide that he's going to give the good guys all his weapons and let them tie him up? It's not clever or ironic, it's lazy.

This is a movie so ineptly made that it somehow manages to make Brad Pitt--an actor I can't recall ever not liking--and makes him a one-note caricature. And here again, it's not funny or clever, it's just lazy. And unentertaining.

To review: if you want to see endless table-based conversation punctuated by pointless gore and violence all carried out by characters with absolutely no substance, then this is the movie for you. Otherwise, stay the fuck away.

The food at Oysy isn't the best I've ever had. The crab legs were cold (intentionally, I think), some of the sushi had been sitting out too long, and the non-seafood options were limited, although I think chelsadilla wasn't disappointed by the place. On the other hand, this place had all-you-can-eat crab legs, all-you-can-eat sushi, and mounds of other food.

In addition to the crab legs, the raw bar featured peel-and-eat shrimp and oysters on the half shell. Other offerings included an entire buffet counter that seemed to feature pretty much just whole baked fish fillets and the obligatory giant hunk of roast beef. There seemed to be two soup choices (an udon variety and your standard miso). To my surprise, the place even has frog legs. Chelsadilla brought some to our table. I had a bite. They were terrible, but I can't say if that's because they were frog legs or if it's because they were frog legs prepared at an all-you-can-eat seafood place.

Aside from getting some tempura shrimp and vegetables--which were awesome--I bypassed almost all of the non-sushi options. As I mentioned, some of the sushi seemed like it had been sitting out too long, but that only applied to the pieces I got on my first trip. i think that might be more a result of the fact that we came in well before the dinner rush. Those first pieces might have been left over from lunch. Later, when more people started showing up, the sushi chefs started continually making fresh sushi, and they were all at least passable.

The worst part of the whole thing was the dessert. There was one offering that was completely unidentifiable. Based on chelsadilla's reactions to it, I wonder if it was actually meant to be eaten. The cheesecake I tried was, frankly, terrible. And there were these little chocolate-looking cake things that were actually coffee cakes that I hated but chesadilla liked.

When we left Oysy, we were full and happy. The food was, on the whole, fairly decent. I think that the price was a little steep--right around $20 per person. I'd have to give it a value ratio of about .8--it's closer to being worth about $15 to $16 a person. If I were in the mood to completely gorge myself on food, I'd happily pay $15 more and go to Samba. I don't regret going to Oysy, I'd go there again if I was with people that wanted to, but I don't think I'd seek it out.

For those of you who aren't as hip and with it as me and my group of friends, Le Tigre Lounge is in an extremely dilapidated strip mall directly off of the Beltline on Midvale. It's next-door neighbors are an auto-parts store and a Mexican market. Further down the parking lot is Taqueria Guanajuato (pronounced by Mr. Vice as "takwERia gooanajoowato"), which I've been told is the best Mexican food in town (we couldn't verify that claim on Saturday because Taqueria Guanajuato closes at 10:00pm). It's a cash-only establishment, which we didn't know. That meant that we had to hike to the nearest ATM, which involved running across Midvale, traipsing through a little wooded area, and arriving at a BP where the cashier was behind bulletproof glass. Still, that all went off without a hitch, and, after nearly stepping out in traffic, we were able to get to the business at hand: exploring a new bar.

As the name suggests, Le Tigre is all about the tigers. Though I was initially disappointed because there wasn't a large, dead, stuffed actual tiger near the entrance as we'd been told, there certainly was no shortage of tiger paraphernalia. In fact, there was a clear overabundance of tiger shit everywhere. In addition to the numerous portraits of tigers, there were tiger-print lampshades and tiger statues in essentially every direction. There was even a giant picture of Tony the Tiger right when you walk in. It's good times.

We got there kind of early, so the place was fairly empty. The people who were there were older, laid-back types. More jaded observers might have called them alcoholic burn outs. As the night went on, though, a more varied crowd came in, but the place was never packed and it was never too loud to hear what your friends were saying, which I value.

The drinks were strong, and the fact that it wasn't crowded meant no one felt guilty ordering more complicated drinks. Chelsadilla got a sweet brandy old fashioned on her first round; I got a white Russian. PH got a bloody Mary, and I think she liked it.

We sat towards the back at what appeared, at first glance, to be a giant table. We realized once we were sitting that it was actually a piano with a bar built into the outside edge--I tried to imagine what sort of terrible lounge-y performances this piano was party to. Of course, there was a giant stuffed tiger spread out on top of the piano. It was cute.

We'd heard that the owner of Le Tigre hand picked the jukebox music and that the most recent song was from 1985. I think that's bullshit--there wasn't a song on there that was recorded after 1969. Still, the music was fun and fit the atmosphere perfectly. And it was never too loud.

One of my main concerns with going to Le Tigre was that we'd read that there was a strict no-cursing policy because, as that article noted, at Le Tigre, it's all about the class. We were never called out on our cursing, though I think we were fairly careful about it.

Another concern that popped up as the night went on was that the bartender--who may or may not have been the owner--had two small greyhounds behind the bar with him. I'd never seen a dog in a bar before, and it was strange. But the bartender later came out and assured us that the dogs were cute and not disease-infested. I was reassured.

We called it a night fairly early, but I think everyone had a good time, and I know that I can't wait to go back. I don't think I'm going to have a problem finding people to join me, either.

That's right--they want you to call their website. Or they named their company after the website, which, unless you're Google or Yahoo, just seems like a bad idea. Plus, also, how large is the target audience for this ad? How many people are in this situation where their car's been written off and they think they got a raw deal? And of those, what percentage is watching HGTV at 8pm on a Monday? This ad is a failure no matter how you cut it.

Anyway, yeah. Other than that, i had a great weekend, Halloween was awesome, I spent Sunday lazing about the house, and now it's the work week again. I really think that every third week should be a vacation.

The main theme to the party, if there was one other than drinking, was cooking. I prepared some sushi rice and let pH go at it with the rice, nori, raw tuna, and fake crab. She turned out some delicious rolls. So, too, did chelsadilla, who developed the ability to make excellent raw-fish-based food, even though she herself is strongly opposed to raw animal flesh and fish. So, that's coming along.

Other food items included Night Cactus's excellent udon soup, some chocolate-chip cookies made by The Bassist, guacamole and beef stir fry courtesy of me, and delicious cake brought by L-Dawg and X-tina. Here's a look at the table after the whirlwind of eating:

Also, based on the fact that we had long promised to have a cape day and the fact that Mr. Vice recently acquired a cape, we both wore capes. Here's the picture:

For some reason, people congregated in my kitchen. At one point, three out of four girls in attendance were sitting on my kitchen floor talking about who knows what. Eventually, others joined them:

Of course, the night wouldn't have been complete without music. That's why Mr. Utah and I took it upon ourselves to perform "High Happy Birthday":

And, later, with the assist from RPM, a special performance of "Low Milkshake." You gotta check this out:

My first observation was that the Angry Whopper was fucking huge. And it had a lot of toppings. I think there was bacon, jalapenos, a barbecue sauce, and maybe two kinds of cheese. There was a lot of shit on there. There were tomatoes, but I removed them because tomatoes on a burger just don't do it for me. Then I took a bite.

The Angry Whopper wasn't what I expected. I remember Burger King burgers being hard and chewy. I remember the meat being extremely bland. I remember an overwhelming taste of mayonnaise. None of that was the case here. I had to admit: this was a damned good burger. It cost nearly $4, which was a bit on the steep side, but it was quality. There were lots of different flavors, and they played very nicely together. I gotta say: I enjoyed the Angry Whopper.

But is it the best fast-food burger? I don't think so, no. Having recently enjoyed a sampling of In-n-Out, I still have to say that it's the best. There's just something about an animal-style serving of meat and cheese between quality buns that's incomparable. I had really started to think that Five Guys might have a superior burger, but they don't. They have a great burger, but In-n-Out is still, in my opinion, the best fast-food burger. Burger King's offering is surprisingly good--and not just because I had extremely low expectations--but it doesn't reach the levels of its two most worthy competitors.

One thing that I don't think anyone's going to argue with me on is that the BK fries are nearly inedible. Once again, they weren't nearly as bad as I remember, but they were still pretty wretched. I think that In-n-Out offers quality fries, and it's awesome that you can literally watch your fries go from whole potato to delectable fried slices of goodness. And there's a lot to be said for animal fries. But I think the clear winner in the fry category is Five Guys. Those things are just fucking delicious.

So I enjoyed the Angry Whopper, but if I were in a situation where I was at a Burger King and there was an In-n-Out across the street, I'd choose the In-n-Out ninety-nine times out of a hundred.

I didn't read the book when I was a kid. At least, not that I can remember. I definitely remember the pictures, though. And the image of a boy in a wolf costume is in my subconscious somewhere. But, as far as plot, nothing. Something about wild things, maybe.

As it turns out, and at least according to the Wikipedia article, the text of the original book only had ten sentences to it. I couldn't tell based on the movie, though.

So, with no impossibly high expectations based on childhood memories, I was fairly excited about this movie, based solely on the trailer. I was not disappointed.

What I like most about the movie is that, while the visuals are obviously fantastical, the emotions of the thing are extremely raw and real. The conflicts we see on acted out between a boy in a costume and a bunch of huge Muppets are allegories for real conflicts.

The thing never becomes saccharine or simple. The characters are flawed--sometimes deeply so. And, while they all grow and develop, there isn't some magical moment when everything is fixed. When we last see the monsters, we get the sense that they're somehow content right that second, but also that their larger conflicts are unresolved, while their deeper issues--anger, resentment, depression, loneliness--are just under the surface. When we see the boy hero back in the real world, we know that things are ok, but only for now--the larger issues don't get washed away.

I highly recommend this movie. It's not perfect, and I was miffed by a few scenes; at times, the protagonist veers towards infuriating rather than endearing. Still, on the whole, it was a pretty good movie, and it was definitely a visual success.

It all started with the move. I was told that I had two options for TV: Charter and Dish Network. That choice seemed easy: I fucking hated Charter, so I decided to go with Dish Network. I called up Dish Network and explained to them that I had tapped them to provide me with mindless entertainment. I gave them my name, phone number, address, credit card number, and whatever else they asked for. They asked me which package I wanted. I told them. They told me that if I sign up for auto-pay, I could get Cinemax for $.01 for a whole year. I said, "No, thanks." They scheduled a day to come and install my dish: sometime between 8:00am and noon, they'd be here.

To my surprise, they showed up right around 8am. Great, I thought. Except that, and this is my fault, I didn't have a TV yet. So that was a no-go. I apologized to the guy and told him that I'd call up Dish Network and get a day rescheduled.

So I did. And I made sure that I was here that day. I brought work home. The guy was supposed to be here between 1 and 5pm or something. By about 4:45, no one had showed up. I checked my phone and saw a missed call and a message. I checked the message, and it was some guy telling me that he had come to set up my TV, but that he couldn't do anything because my apartment complex has an exclusive contract with some company called CTI, and only their technicians are allowed to come onto the property and work. I called the guy back to ask exactly who he worked for and why no one had realized that this was the case, but he didn't answer.

So I called up Dish Network and explained the situation. They fell all over themselves trying to explain to me how sorry they were and how much they understood, and they said that they were trying to call that technician to figure out why he'd decided that he couldn't do the installation. That was a no-go, so they called up his company, and they couldn't come up with a good reason, either. So they decided that they could install it, and the person I was speaking to apologized again and told me that they'd bump me up on the installation schedule to make it up to me. Sunday between 8:00am and noon, someone would be here to install my dish.

Or not. All I got was a phone call saying that they couldn't possibly install my dish because of some contract between my apartment complex and some other retailer. This made my mind warp.

Just to recap: I called up Dish Network. I asked them to install their shit. They said they could. Then someone who works for them said they couldn't. Then they said they could and would. Then they said, "oh, wait, no, we can't." I explained to whoever was on the phone that I'd been waiting for my TV for weeks and that it was unfathomable to me that they had absolutely no idea which retailers were authorized to work on which properties. Seriously, how is that not information these people have access to? I mean, aren't people paid to compile databases searchable by, I don't know, zip codes or street names or something?

"You say you live on Main Street in 12212? Oh, let me look that up. Yup, it's Home Satellite that you've got to deal with." That's not inconceivable, right? It's possible to do that! We have that technology.

Apparently Dish Network doesn't. I was livid, but surprisingly respectful: it wasn't, after all, this specific person's fault. So I explained why I was frustrated and asked to know exactly what the hell was going on. She said that maybe they could install it (mind explodes more), but that maybe not. All the while, she's telling me that she's keeping detailed notes in my file about what's happening and what they've done.

Then they told that this whole thing was going to have to wait until Monday because no one at my apartment building was there on Sunday. That makes sense, although it sucks. So I waited until Monday, and I called them again and we're sitting there on the phone and they tell me that they're in contact with my apartment-complex management. It's unclear whether they've sent someone to speak to them in person or whether they've just called, but they assure me that they've talked to someone from my complex, that they've figured out that the right company is CTI, and that they've spoken to CTI and they can get my shit installed right away. The woman also assures me that all of this is reflected in the detailed notes that she's keeping in my file. Thank god.

I got a call from someone in my apartment complex's office following up and letting me know that they'd heard that I was having problems with Dish Network. Okey doke.

So I call CTI and go through the application process again. I give them my name, phone number, address, credit card number, and whatever the hell else they ask for. They ask me which package I want. I tell them. They tell me that if I sign up for auto-pay, I can get Cinemax for $.01 for a whole year. I say "No, thanks." They say they'll come install my shit at 4pm the very next afternoon, Tuesday. Today.

I come home from work, my mind awash with memories of what TV is like. My face is a silly grin all day because I keep thinking about how, soon, I'll be able to enjoy mindless, passive entertainment again. The day-to-day drudgery of my life and existence are dulled somewhat by the thought that, before too long, I'll be basking in TV's warm, glowing warming glow.

Or not. Because at around 4:15, I get a phone call. It's the CTI technician, and he's got an attitude. He tells me that this isn't CTI's building, and that he can't do any of the work. I get angry and tell him that Dish Network told me that they were the people I had to talk to. Then he screams at me, curses at me, and hangs up, but not before he mentions that he's outside. I run outside in a blind rage, ready to tear this guy limb from limb while wearing my flannel pajamas and Cookie Monster Woot shirt. I can't find him. That's probably a really good thing.

I come back inside and weigh my options: who do I scream at first. I take stock of the situation and realize what the real problem here is: I don't have TV. So I call up Star Satellite, who the CTI guy told me is the right company (after Dish Network told me that they'd spoken to my complex and CTI was definitely the right company). I calmly explain the situation to the Star people, and they take my application. I give them my name, phone number, address, credit card number, and whatever the fuck else they ask for. They ask me which package I want. I tell them. They tell me that if I sign up for auto-pay, I can get Cinemax for $.01 for a whole year. I say "Yeah, no, thanks." The guy says "I'm sorry, did you want Cinemax and auto-pay or not? That response could mean either." I realize that my response could have been reasonably interpreted to mean either, and I say "I'm sorry, I meant that I do not want it." They set up an installation time, but they tell me that I should make sure that all my other orders are canceled or else everything will be fucked. That's fine, I think, I'm calling up CTI and Dish Network, anyway.

I call up CTI first. I do my best to stay calm while explaining that, hey, your fucking employee fucking cursed at me. I don't demand that he be fired on the spot, knowing that won't accomplish anything. I ask the guy on the phone how it's possible that they could not have any idea what buildings they service. He gives me some non-answers, and I get bored, so I thank him and hang up.

Then I call Dish Network. I dodge all of their auto-answer obstacles so that they have no choice but to send me to a live person at their "Welcome Center." The woman I speak to says that she'd like to welcome me to the Dish Network family. I tell her that I'd like to talk to someone about my potentially canceled account and that I don't want to waste my time speaking to a non-supervisor. She puts me on hold and I wait.

I talk to some guy and explain my situation. He tells me that he's able to pull up my account. I ask him to review all of the detailed notes that are in my file. He seems puzzled, and tells me that there are only two notes. The first mentions that they reviewed some legal stuff with me, and the second one says something like "Cinemax offer made, client agreed to sign up for auto-pay."

I throw the phone across the room.

Three fucking times I've told these people that I will not do their auto-pay dance, even for free Cinemax. Three fucking times! And they, in turn, have told me numerous times that they're keeping detailed, meticulous notes about my fucking account. I was lead to believe my file was more voluminous than a fucking Dostoyevsky novel. But no! Instead, there are two one-sentence notes, one of which says the exact opposite of what I've been telling them for weeks. My mind explodes from rage.

I ask the guy to check my account information, and he tells me that, based on what he's seeing, I signed up in 2007, disconnected in June of this year, and am now asking to be reconnected. "How is that possible," I ask, "given that I just moved in to this apartment last month and I've never had Dish Network before?" He seems baffled. I suggest that perhaps what happened is that someone took the account for whoever was here before and changed all the information except the history so that it pertained to me. "That's possible," the guy said, "but that would violate all of our business practices." So then what the fuck? The guy has no answers. He actually says that, he says that he can't answer any of my questions. So I ask if there's anyone that can, and he says "Let me have you talk to my supervisor." What? Really? What about earlier when I said that I wanted to go straight to a supervisor. No dice, apparently.

So I talk to a guy. He's nice. I specifically tell him that I am livid, but that I know it's not his fault and that I'm trying to be patient with him. He says he understands. He puts me on hold for a while, then comes back and tells me that everything is all rainbows and lollipops. He says he's canceled the auto-pay thing. He apologizes. He tells me someone will be here Thursday.

If I'm not splayed out on my couch watching reruns of Baywatch by this time Thursday, I'm using the nuclear option: I'm crawling back to Charter.

One of the things that's strange about going from meeting someone to dating someone to practically living with someone is that there's this progression from that person hardly being there to that person being there all the time. It's like you wake up one day and it's strange when the person's not there. That had never happened to me--my life had always been long stretches of being by myself punctuated with flashes of hanging out. I mean, not really, but you know what I mean: I lived alone, so I spent most of my afternoons alone. Then on the weekends, I'd be by myself all morning, then hang out later in the day, then go home by myself. It wasn't as bad as that paragraph made it sound, but that's the way it was.

Then, seemingly overnight, I found myself in this situation where chelsadilla was always around. Maybe we're not actively "hanging out" all the time, but she's always around.

Chelsadilla left Wednesday night, and I was startled by how empty and dark my apartment was that night. She wasn't on my couch playing her new ukulele or at my dining-room table reading blogs or whatever, and that was strange.

Then it was Friday, so I seized the opportunity to go see a movie that she didn't particularly want to see--Zombieland. But all through it, I kept thinking about how she'd either enjoy or not enjoy certain parts. And when L-Dawg, X-tina, and I came home, I think we all missed her. And I'm sad she wasn't here to see how L-Dawg and I opened a bottle of wine without the benefit of a corkscrew (hint: it involved a power drill, a sieve, and a paper towel).

Then Saturday, everyone was busy or out of town, so I had no one to hang out with. So what did I do? I played Rise of Nations until 5:00am. I had no idea how it got so late, but it was a strange flashback to the Year of Unemployment.

This morning, I woke up, played some more video games, went back to bed, went shopping with HiRy, came home, took a nap, then played some guitar. It was a strange sort of pseudo-day.

So my point here is that I miss my girlfriend, which might be sickeningly cute, and I apologize. But more than that, I'm just shocked at how I used to live my life.

So, while it was sort of interesting not having to consider someone else for a weekend, I can't wait for her to get back tomorrow.

About an hour later, they called me back with the diagnosis. Apparently, my timing belt had crapped out. This was, in itself, an expensive problem because, apparently, when you build a Nissan Xterra, you start with a timing belt and then build a car around it. But my mechanic had much more dire news than that: on cars with engines like mine, it's sometimes the case that a blown timing belt results in serious damage to the engine itself. The mechanic told me that he'd be unable to tell if this had happened on my car until after he replaced the belt. I told him to go ahead and replace the belt, but I knew what had happened: the seXterra had driven its last mile. If my engine was fucked, it simply wouldn't be worth fixing it. I started the mourning process.

The seXterra and I have been together for seven years. I got it after test driving only a few other cars, all of them Xterras. I was excited and, in that excitement, I made a rash decision on a very large purchase. Sometimes love makes you do stupid things.

The vast majority of the times that two people get married in Vegas after spending just one drunken night together, they regret every second of it and can't get the thing annulled fast enough. But it seems to me that out of all those stupid people making all those stupid decisions, there have to be at least a few couples that actually make it. And that's what it was like for the seXterra and I: the chances of buying a wonderful car by accident is probably very small. But I committed the seXterra, and he's never let me down. Or, at the very least, he's let me down a nearly negligible number of times in the years we've been together. He never cheated on me, it's just that he broke a promise here and there. It happens. Sometimes your fuel pump dies. Sometimes your battery dies. It doesn't mean you're a bad car.

The fact remains that the vast majority of the times that I've sat in the seXterra's driver's seat and turned the key, he responded by starting right up and driving as far and as fast as I asked him to. He carried me and my friends across the country while towing all my possessions behind him. He took Mr. Vice, Mr. Utah, and RPM safely to Florida and back--fifty hours spent driving in two nonstop chunks. He's picked people up and helped people move and provided a place to sit and talk. He's played all my favorite music, and he didn't complain when I drove him through cinder pits or bumpy mountain trails. He looks extremely badass with all four wheels off the ground. In my imagination, he's even been an offensive lineman for the Badgers.

And all of this in spite of--not because of--his maintenance record.

I thought about all of this as I sat there thinking about what car I could possibly get to replace the seXterra. I'd always figured that I'd get another car some day, but I figured that I'd get an additional car, not a replacement. I wanted a car to drive during the summer so that the seXterra could rest. I didn't want to replace him. But that's what I had to start thinking about doing. I even considered buying his exact clone. But I knew that none of it could bring back my reliable, dependable, extremely badass car.

I waited nervously for the call from the mechanic, the call I knew would mean the true end of the best car I've ever owned. And when it came, i was baffled: the seXterra lived! The engine was fine! The belt replacement was all it needed! That and a little power-steering fluid!

I went to the place, paid my bill, and got in the car. Everything was right where it used to be. He had developed this issue where almost every turn made a wookiee sound, but that was gone. Sitting behind his steering wheel was like being home again. Only now home was new and improved.

The seXterra died. But he came back and he was better. So now he's not the seXterra, he's seXterra the White.

Except that he's still red.