Iron Man 3 (Shane Black, 2013)

Quick Take:

Hollow, full of lies, leaves a bad taste in the mouth . . . kidding! Ben Kingsley is the greatest. The rest of the movie is good—better than Iron Man 2—but fairly by-the-numbers summer superhero flick fun. Recommended.

SPOILERY Thoughts:

Iron Man 3's "Barrel of Monkeys" scene, wherein Iron Man, equipped only to carry, at most, four people in his arms, must somehow rescue a dozen people falling from an airplane, by having the first person he catches then helping to catch the next falling person and so on in a human chain, is maybe the greatest superhero sequence in movie history. I've always loved these moments when the regular people the superheroes protect are then able to assist in small ways as participants in the action. Those were some of my favorite parts of Sam Raimi's Spider-Man films—when New York bystanders would rally to Spider-Man's defense against the Green Goblin or Doctor Octopus, or when the tiny Asian child in Spider-Man 2 tried to pull Peter Parker to safety from near-death in a burning building. Maybe it's hokey, but I guess I find these moments of random ordinary people rising to the occasion to be especially inspiring—more so than just the idea that a superpowered hero will save us all. Iron Man 3's scene might be the most amazing of all such scenes, and yet, speaking honestly, I don't expect I'll remember it in another week. It's a great, well-constructed scene, but it feels largely disconnected from the main story of the movie. It's the sort of set piece that one can imagine they filmed before they ever even had a script locked down. So, even as cool to behold as it is, there's a certain lack of consequence to the scene that kept me from fully engaging with it.

What I found more striking and likely to be remembered was the lady with the scarred face, showcased briefly but notably in the middle of movie to rumble with Tony Stark in probably the best action sequence in any of these Marvel Cinematic Universe movies so far. Between actress Stephanie Szostak's natural good looks and performance and the great hair and makeup work, this character may have been the most visually well-realized character in any superhero movie to date. She looked like she had stepped right out of a comic book, and I mean that in the best possible way. I hope I didn't just say all that because I thought she was hot.

Above all else, if Iron Man 3 is to be remembered for anything, it will be for the Mandarin and for that big twist. I can't think of any other case where all of the marketing was so deliberately deceptive in setting up audiences' expectations for something that would turn out so far off what the movie would actually be. I think back to those trailers, where Ben Kingsley's voice-over as the Mandarin was prominently featured to such chilling effect, and meanwhile Guy Pearce barely appeared and I assumed he would have a minor supporting role. Boy, they sure got me! No wonder Ben Kingsley's character was never seen doing anything but sitting or standing, nor even glimpsed in a single shot with any of the other characters. The question now, however, is whether it was worth it.

I know a lot of comics fans do not care for the movie's take on the Mandarin, and I do sympathize, but, really, Ben Kingsley is, far and away, the best part of Iron Man 3—already before the twist, when he plays it rather like a more effortlessly menacing version of the Tom Hardy Bane, and then even more so after the twist, which is when we truly come to appreciate his genius as one of the most amazing actors in the biz. I can't help wondering if his character's turn here was intended as a sly commentary on all the over-the-top villain roles he's inexplicably taken on in some truly wretched productions. Ben Kingsley's performance aside, the Mandarin's reveal is also the only moment where the film is elevated to being anything more than just a predictable superhero action movie. And it may have been the only way we were ever going to see the Mandarin in these movies in any form.

For those not familiar with the comics, the Mandarin was, from the 60s through the 90s, as close as Iron Man had to an archenemy (i.e. the Joker or Lex Luthor to Iron Man's Batman or Superman). He never had a particularly compelling story (but then Iron Man himself was always a B-lister in the Marvel stable anyway), but he was the most popular and successful of Iron Man's foes because his powers—ten alien rings, each bestowing upon him a different ability, collectively allowing him to go toe-to-toe (or, better yet, at range) with Iron Man (or almost any superhero)—were simply the coolest. Also, like Doctor Doom or Magneto, albeit to a much lesser degree, he was a villain who could be interesting apart from his principal heroic nemesis, because the Mandarin, unlike, say, Iron Monger or Crimson Dynamo, was not defined by his relationship with Iron Man.

Then political correctness became a thing in this country, and people realized that maybe having a Communist Fu Manchu-looking sorcerer named "The Mandarin" was a little dated. (Personally, I also suspect that the rise of British comics writers has had an influence, leading to stories where Iron Man himself plays the bad guy (or at least the capitalist American tool) with alarming regularity.) So when I heard that they were going with the Mandarin as the villain for Iron Man 3, I was surprised, but also excited. What they ultimately ended up doing with the character is perhaps an admission, in the cleverest way possible, that the character really is too over-the-top and dated to believably adapt to film.

I do get that some fans are disappointed that we didn't get to see the real Mandarin in this movie. Even though I liked the twist, a part of me is disappointed too. Mostly, I'm saddened that this effectively rules out any possibility of ever seeing the real Mandarin in these movies. Dated though the original comics character may be now, there are nevertheless ways that they could conceivably have adapted the best parts of him for film (like, maybe just don't refer to him as "The Mandarin," and don't make him look like Fu Manchu). And it's not like the character was completely written out of the comics at the turn of century. He was even a main character in the 2009 Iron Man: Armored Adventures cartoon, which I felt modified the character enough to make him inoffensive, while still doing justice to the Mandarin's role in Iron Man mythology. In Iron Man 3, the best we get is Guy Pearce's character declaring himself the "real" Mandarin, Not even close, sorry, but I suppose it allows us a way to fool ourselves, if we must, into insisting that Iron Man did fight the Mandarin in the movies, and the Mandarin was formidable and not just some absurd fiction.

As for the rest of the movie, I found it much more enjoyable than Iron Man 2. Robert Downey, Jr.'s performance in the first film was brilliant. As with Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow in the Pirates of the Caribbean films, one could afterward scarcely imagine that character or that franchise existing apart from its star. Downey simply was Iron Man. By Avengers, however, I was kind of starting to hate him. Iron Man 3 manages to somewhat scale back his abrasive egomania (it probably helps having Gwyneth Paltrow as Pepper Potts to stand up to him and keep him in check), and it's nimbler overall than Iron Man 2—more self-contained, without any appearances by Nick Fury or that other S.H.I.E.L.D. guy. I did not at all buy, however, that Tony Stark would suffer some sort of PTSD from the events of Avengers (not after the at-least-as-harrowing experiences of his solo movies), though Iron Man 3 is largely predicated on the premise that he's going through something.

The movie was consistently funny in short bursts without ever trying too hard or carrying on a joke too long. I particularly enjoyed a scene where Tony Stark and Rhodey snuck aboard the oil tanker that served as the enemy base. Equipped with only small arms and no armors, they reminded me of my experiences playing co-op shooter video games like Army of Two or Splinter Cell: Conviction. Stark especially, technically a civilian, reminded me of myself—reckless and inept.

"Your Touch" (Blake Lewis, Portrait of a Chameleon, 2013)

It has both puzzled and amused me what a seeming misnomer American Idol's title is. It was, for years, the most-watched show(s) on American television, and the results were (supposedly) determined solely by votes drawn from that massive American audience. At one point, it was suggested that the show received more voter participation than the US presidential election. Yet, with a few exceptions, the winners chosen by America have never enjoyed anywhere near the same amount of support during their post-Idol careers. And, frankly, you look at (and listen to) some of these people, and it's painfully obvious that they were never going to be pop idol material (again, with a few exceptions). Even the original American Idol winner (and one of the few legitimate stars produced by the show), Kelly Clarkson, has never been a conventionally attractive pop star.

The baffling incongruity between what people like in an American Idol contestant, versus whose music they'll pay money for, became most apparent when Taylor Hicks, a dorky harmonica-playing white soul singer, who was only 29 but looked about 40, was voted the winner of Season 5, ahead of Katharine McPhee, who possessed the most stunningly mainstream good looks of any contestant yet, and baldie Chris Daughtry of the band Daughtry, who, subsequent to his finishing in fourth place on the show, went quadruple-platinum with his album Daughtry. As for Taylor Hicks, his post-Idol debut album did all right, but who the hell knows or cares what happened to him after that? I don't think I've ever heard a single Taylor Hicks song on the radio.

Maybe it's not that baffling and can be explained a couple ways. Certainly, one problem is that the contestants' performances on the show—just covers of famous songs—are rarely indicative of the B-grade "let's manufacture a pop star" material that will be on their albums. Mostly, I think the reality is that American Idol viewers aren't really interested in the music so much as they are in the personas (which itself is completely irrational, since every contestant is presented essentially through the same filter of flat wholesomeness). Hence, once the show is over, and these people no longer have the visibility of being on a weekly TV series, we find that America has only limited interest in what remains (i.e. the music).

At any rate, one contestant, who didn't win but whom I genuinely kind of liked on the show, was Blake Lewis, the Season 6 runner-up. He was not a great vocalist, but his gimmick was that he was a beatboxer, which made him unique among American Idol contestants, and it would have made him rather unique in pop music. He was noted for his adventurous renditions of well-known songs, over which he would add beatboxing, no matter how inappropriate it seemed. He was also one of those guys who really looked and sounded like a viable mainstream star. He was young, good-looking, and always savvy in taking on fresh-sounding songs that could conceivably have indicated what his potential original album might sound like (as opposed to most other contestants' Idol performances being indicative of songbook standards albums or Christmas records). What he lacked perhaps was the charisma or attitude to stand out as a solo male artist. Or maybe his original stuff just wasn't very good. I mean, would I, even as someone who liked him on the show, ever buy an album that was a mix of beatboxing and weak singing? Either way, I never heard mention of him again after his run on American Idol. That is, until I was surprised to recognize him featured—not just his music but the man himself—in the "Explore Touch" commercial for Microsoft's Internet Explorer, which debuted during the Super Bowl and is now playing in theaters before a number of summer blockbusters.

No idea what Microsoft was thinking in using this guy to promote their updated Internet browser. I guess, according to Wikipedia, he has enjoyed moderate success on the dance charts, but, honestly, how many people now seeing this commercial would have a clue who he is? It would more likely be one of those annoying moments when you see a vaguely familiar face featured in a commercial, and you're not sure if you're even supposed to recognize him. You wonder to yourself, Who is that? Do I know him? Am I supposed to recognize him? Is he somebody? Is that why he's in this commercial? Or is he just some model featured because his look fits the ad?

http://youtu.be/WUPzSrKqQ-E

Anyway, the song kind of sucks. The only digestible part is the refrain (i.e. the only part featured in the commercial), which is full of "sounds like technology" noises—very suitable for showing off how cutting-edge cool the new Internet Explorer is (even if it isn't).

Demon in a Bottle

"You know, sometimes, when I drink, it makes me drowsy, and then even I'm driving and I almost fell asleep, haha. That ever happen to you?"

Despite that "haha," the lady appeared to be in earnest in sharing her personal findings on the effects of alcohol consumption on one's ability to operate a motor vehicle. At least, if she was joking, I couldn't tell what the punchline was supposed to be, unless this middle-aged, mumbly Filipino lady was playing the part of some sort of living satire of the impaired judgment of the intoxicated. Then again, supposing hers was a serious question, I was at a loss at how to respond to that either.

"What the hell?!" answered her appalled companion, a younger Mexican woman. "That's why you don't drink and drive!"

Apparently not one to suffer fools, this second woman sounded legitimately pissed. I wanted to step in and suggest that maybe she was being a tad severe. Like, I dunno, maybe the first lady came from a land without automobiles, and so, even having reached her forties, she had never properly been acquainted with the concept of driving under the influence. But then it came out that this second woman had once lost a high school friend to a drunk driving collision. I could see that there was naught to be done but let her speak her piece.

A few minutes later, they were friends again. They started discussing Iron Man 3, and suddenly it was my turn to lose it.

"It's Tony STARK! Not 'SPARK!' You don't know what you're talking about, you should just do what I do and shut your mouth. Just shut your mouth."

At least, that's what I might have said, were I not versed in the art of self-control. I held my peace. You'll appreciate, however, that it was a sensitive subject for me, having lost a friend to an Iron Man.

Resident Evil 6 - Leon Campaign (Capcom, 2012)

Resident Evil 6 is, if nothing else, gargantuan by action game standards, comprising three full-length campaigns (plus an unlockable fourth) with very little overlap in content, and each distinguished by some unique gameplay mechanics and design philosophies.

I started with Leon's campaign, which is clearly intended to be evocative of the classic PS1-era survival horror games, although it's not ultimately very much like them at all. The early proceedings do present the illusion of a more deliberately paced adventure. Starting out indoors in a mansion-esque environment, you're trudging through the building, searching for the way forward or for anything useful to pick up. It's actually quite a long stretch before there's any action, and you're more just exploring the area. It is all an illusion, however, because, whereas the classic mansions were fully realized environments that allowed you some leeway in your exploration, only nudging you (via locked doors limiting your possible paths) in certain directions, RE6 always progresses along effectively a straight line, with only the occasional side room along the way toward triggering the next event or objective. You can scavenge around for items, but there aren't any documents to pick up. If you just want to get to the next cut scene, you can even call up arrows (on top of the already busier-than-ever on-screen display) to point you in the right direction.

When the action does commence, Leon's campaign again tries to channel the classics by bringing back zombies as the primary enemy type. They're more mindless than the infested of the last two numbered installments—not as organized or dexterous at handling weapons, they just lurch toward you—but, honestly, it's not that pronounced a departure from the recent games. Combat is similar but, in my opinion, inferior to RE4 and 5. You can move while shooting now, there's finally analog walk/run control, and melee attacks can be performed at will, but it all feels very imprecise, not nearly as methodical and strategic as previous games. The old RE4 mechanics, though sluggish compared to modern shooters, were very thoughtfully engineered, involving care and consideration on the player's part, every time you took aim at a particular body part on a target, either to line up the head shot or to set them up for a contextual melee attack. With RE6, on the other hand, it feels like the designers just looked at what shooters were popular on the market and then responded by putting out a generically average one. The action is faster and the enemies more reckless, so you end up spraying fire or, at least early on, spamming the obscenely juiced new melee attacks.

It's rather ridiculous that the heroes' kicks and pro wrestling maneuvers can crush zombies far more efficiently than bullets can put them down, but what's even more ridiculous perhaps is the arbitrary stamina meter, which regulates how much you can use your melee attacks. Spam that melee button, and watch as your character tears through a crowd of zombies as though a god of war . . . until your stamina runs out, at which point your melee transforms into a pained and pathetic limp slap. The meter will automatically refill after a bit of time, and I suppose this is meant to encourage strategic management of your resources—not just bullets anymore but also your stamina—but it just feels so unusually contrived to have this arbitrary limit to the number of kicks you can perform.

Elsewhere on the gameplay front, the menu system has been overhauled, and there are new dodge/roll maneuvers. The problem with all this is that the controls, while theoretically simpler and faster than the dated and clunky systems of RE5, are still not exactly intuitive, and if, like me, you only play games once a week at most, there's a good chance you won't remember each time how to quickly use these systems to your advantage—assuming you even remember that they exist!

The camera was also an issue for me. It was positioned way too close in on the player character, leaving me with huge blind spots that led to me constantly getting ambushed by unseen enemies. I understand that Capcom actually patched the game specifically to add options for adjusting the camera angle, which is commendable, although I haven't yet tried out the post-patch camera to see if the options actually fix the issues.

As for the experience of Leon's campaign specifically, after those first twenty-or-so minutes of pretending to be classic Resident Evil, the game settles into frantic action, big set pieces, and over-the-top cut scenes. The first chapter ends in spectacular fashion with a sequence echoing the barricade cabin from RE4. The cabin, the first time I played it, was probably one of my top 5 experiences in gaming, and this sequence, wherein the player characters and a few AI allies in a gun shop try to hold the fort against a zombie siege, comes as close to replicating that "Battle of the Alamo" experience as anything I've played. It's not as well-paced, and it doesn't have that cool bit of pushing the shelves in front of the windows, but, on the other hand, you can play it co-op this time, and it ends in much more satisfying fashion, with your party actually having to make a desperate escape, instead of the enemies just relenting after you kill enough of them.

Alas, there are four more chapters after that, and it's all downhill from there. It's a lot of stumbling through generic and dimly lit caverns, the only other notable sequence being a chase through a Chinese street market, where you're pursued by a uniquely freaky enemy that can split itself into multiple parts and is determined to literally cram itself down your throat to burst you from the inside-out.

The story crosses over at points with the other campaigns, but the long-awaited in-game meeting between Leon and Chris Redfield is only a non-playable cut scene. Also, the way Capcom has chosen to present the story results in each campaign basically spoiling what happens in the others, even when they don't seem to have a lot to do with one another. For example, sometimes a thread will move from one campaign to another, but you won't be able to follow along, and when it eventually rejoins your campaign, they'll explain what happened but, in the process, rob you of the chance to actually experience the events firsthand without foreknowledge of their outcome. I wish they had opted more for a Suikoden III-style system, whereby you could switch between characters' perspectives after each chapter, instead of having to play through each entire campaign one at a time. Oh well. The story's pretty terrible anyway, and, once I play the other campaigns, maybe I'll find I didn't miss out on much at all.

Community (Season 1) (2009-2010)

The funny thing about being smart is you can get through most of life without having to do any work. So, uh, not really sure how to do that.

— Jeff Winger (Community Season 1, Episode 1 "Pilot")

It took a long time for me to warm to the first season of NBC's Community.

It had the occasional good joke, but there was no sense of comic timing. It was very rapid-fire, feeling more like sketch comedy than a sitcom, although its punchlines were often punctuated by cheesy musical cues.

I got that the writing was smart, but it felt to me like a show that was clever while having nothing to say. It would poke fun at anything and everything—activism, debate, religion, making an effort, showing enthusiasm, or sticking your neck out in general—usually by setting up straw men, all the while showing no convictions of its own. It all seemed rather gutless to me.

I didn't consistently enjoy any of the characters other than Jeff, who reminded me a little of myself (the taking of shortcuts through life), and (after a few episodes) Annie, on account of Alison Brie's scene-stealing comedic brilliance and commitment. There was a certain homogeneity to the other characters' voices, owing to the aforementioned timing issues, as if they were all transparently just mouthpieces for the joke writers. Whenever they did present more distinct personalities, they would all be so narrowly defined (except for Britta, who would unaccountably alternate between being the undermotivated burnout and being the know-it-all Brainy Smurf-esque punching bag), and they would adhere so strictly to type that one could practically predict what each character was going to say or do at every moment. Shirley would behave in a passive-aggressively judgmental manner, Pierce would make some tactless old white man comment that would go ignored, and the impervious Abed would neatly summarize the situation in a way that would make everyone else look stupid. I especially objected to the handling of Abed, the Asperger's character, in the same way that I object to the "lovable fat guy" character trope in TV. Although I imagined they meant well in approaching it with a celebratory "everybody's a winner" attitude, that just trivializes what a person in that condition would have to deal with in reality, ultimately encouraging us to live in denial, instead of working toward a truly healthy understanding of how their life experience might be unique, in both good and bad ways.

Worst of all, though nobody else will likely admit it, it seemed to me that the first half of the season proceeded according to a formula borrowed from that much-loathed 90s sitcom Home Improvement. Typically, an episode would begin with Jeff, acting out of ego and self-interest, behaving like a jerk to someone. Then, another character, usually Britta, would make him feel bad in pointing out how hurtful and inconsiderate he had been. Finally, Jeff would resolve to make things right with a noble gesture. It was all quite groan-inducing.

After watching the first 12 episodes in fairly rapid fashion, I had to take a break from it. I actually didn't realize that my break happened to match up with where the show itself had taken a mid-season break, both in the story and in the production. At any rate, when I got back to it, it seemed to have somehow become a much better show. Whereas the earlier episodes had been fairly conventional, the latter half was far more inventive and full of high-concept themed episodes, most notably the mafia film spoof episode, "Contemporary American Poultry" (Episode 21), and the action movie parody, "Modern Warfare" (Episode 23). While the first half of the season was more structured and possessed a more definite theme, it was in the second half that the show truly began to find its own identity, becoming surer of itself ironically as the sitcom without clear rules or confines.

As of the end of the first season, I still don't quite love Community—even when it comes to sitcoms, I like having characters I can root for, and this show doesn't really offer that—but I'm looking forward to watching more.

Oblivion (Joseph Kosinski, 2013)

Short Version:

From the director of the super-slick Tron: Legacy (and also that Halo 3 commercial, which this almost plays out like the aftermath to). Very cool, stylish look. Moody, epic score by M83. Story is deceptively thin and hits a lot of familiar beats, but at least one plot twist took me by surprise. Recommended.

Longer, SPOILERY Thoughts:

The opening narration, wherein the protagonist, Jack (Tom Cruise), bemoans that his committed partner (in every sense of the word), Victoria (Andrea Riseborough), is too shallow and uncomplicated a match for him, as he is meanwhile haunted by dreams of an unknown other woman, had me almost immediately groaning. So it's going to be one of those stories, eh? A veiled rationalization/justification for why men stray from their significant others? Sure enough, the first act largely amounts to an episode of him playing hooky from his wife (which we understand he has been doing regularly, probably for years), and we are obviously expected to be on his side, since she's all mechanical and unromantic—more like an uncool boss than the super-hot and affectionate lover that a stud and poet like Jack deserves (never mind that she is super-hot and shows plenty of affection). Fortunately, for sci-fi reasons, it's not as simple as all that. Turns out his real wife, from before he was mind-wiped by a hostile alien entity, is Julia (Olga Kurylenko), the woman from his dreams.

Not that surprising a twist. And neither is the revelation that Jack, mind-wiped Earth custodian tasked with repairing the drones that fight alien invaders called "Scavs," is actually being manipulated by the real aliens, while the Scavs are actually the human resistance force. The trailers pretty much blew that twist, although I'm guessing most moviegoers would have seen it coming anyway. Even if it hadn't been done before, I think we've all been conditioned, in the post-Shyamalan era, to be on the lookout for "the big twist" before it happens (somewhat ruining the movie-watching experience, I'm starting to find), and when the guy telling the story admits to having been mind-wiped, that's usually a good reason to doubt anything we're being told.

The movie's most unexpected twist is the one that seems to make the least sense—that Jack is actually one of many clones of the real Jack, the astronaut who, 60 years ago, made first contact with the aliens, who then captured him and made clones of him to do their bidding. It's a cool, potentially game-changing moment, when we first realize that there's more than one Jack. And yet it ultimately feels like an unnecessary twist, raising new questions late in the game, without answering any of the dozens we already had. Why exactly did the aliens need to clone Jack? If they needed more humans to work for them, couldn't they have just captured or bred some? Or why, if they were determined to have a bunch of clones, couldn't they have just come up with a story to explain it to the Jacks? I mean, would it have been any harder to swallow than the cover stories they were already using to explain the last 60 years to the mind-wiped Jack?

The cloning element also raises Oblivion's only truly profound philosophical question, which it is wholly unprepared to explore to any satisfying degree: What becomes of "identity" in a world of clones? When Jack, our Jack, realizes that he is not the original, but only a clone of a man likely long dead, Julia assures him that he is the man she knew and loved. He possesses those memories of the life they shared, as well as the original Jack's heart and personality; collectively, we might understand these to make up the soul, and so the original Jack's lives on through his clone. But isn't that too easy? The second Jack we meet, Tech 52, also has those same memories and feelings. Would Julia deny that Tech 52 is as much the man she married 60 years ago? If so, on what grounds? If not, then how would she choose which Jack to be with (supposing the choice had presented itself)? Or would she? In fairness to Kosinski, this probably is a philosophically unanswerable question. I foresee such advanced cloning as inevitable, however, albeit in a distant future, and I truly believe that the development will be a tipping point for many of humanity's most long-held philosophical and spiritual ideas regarding identity and the soul. When humanity eventually comes to that bridge, I predict we will cross it, giving up certain convictions in the process.

To return to an earlier point, I suppose our existing, largely accepted notions of monogamy, "true love," etc. are quite problematic, often reaching their own tipping points. How does Jack choose between Julia and Victoria, having spent significant portions of his life with each? We could probably guess he'd choose Julia (and not because she's legally his actual wife), but I hope everybody can agree that he'd also be kind of a jerk, if he simply ditched his longtime partner (even if he didn't end up in that situation of his own will) to get with the woman of his dreams. But, in fact, he never does come to a point of having to choose. The decision is conveniently rendered unnecessary, just as with Julia's having to choose between Jacks.

Oblivion's ending, not nearly as thought-provoking or memorable as those to Dark City or The Matrix trilogy (other stories that spring to mind of humans taking back their freedom from aliens/machines they didn't know took it from humanity in the first place), really has more in common with something like Independence Day, but it also reminded me just how unsatisfying (perhaps, in hindsight, even deeply depressing) I found the ending to The Matrix Revolutions. I went into that movie prepped for a heroic slugfest finale, and instead I got something that left me with possibly a more pessimistic view on life in general. And so it was that, as Jack went on a suicide mission to take on the AI mastermind in Oblivion, that pessimistic side of me felt so sure that, instead of following through with destroying the villain, Jack was going to deal, and I was going to come away feeling depressed all over again. Instead, Oblivion's ending is like the "alternate happy ending" to The Matrix Revolutions, and if it's perhaps a bit easy and simplistic, at least, for that moment, it made me want to cheer. I'll take that.

At least it wasn't the middle thumb

Seriously, I sprained my right thumb, and it is very much the nuisance. I was going from a sitting position to standing, leaning my hands on my desk as a support to push off in rising (which I needed because I have bad knees). Something went wrong, and I could feel my right thumb crumple as I rose. I knew immediately that I had sprained it, and all I could do was think to myself, Damn it all. It was a freak occurrence—a perfectly routine motion, done exactly as I had done it thousands of times before, only this time my body wasn't there for me. What a nuisance.

While waiting for my right thumb to heal, I've shifted over to using just my left hand for most tasks, which is all manner of lame (though I suppose it's less "lame" than my right hand is at the moment). I must say, I have a renewed respect for lefties (especially the one-handed, and especially lefties who aren't actually left-handed but just lost their right hands, especially if it happened while fighting in some war). You southpaws do not have it easy. At my workplace, for example, it feels like everything I need is always situated on the right side of my desk, forcing me to reach over and across when using my left hand. It's like having to do twice the work of a right-handed person for the same amount of pay. Maybe everything is on the right because I'm the one who set it up that way, because I'm right-handed. Or maybe we live in a society that thoughtlessly discriminates against citizen sinister.

At least I'm able to do most things still with my left hand, albeit more sluggishly, and I don't know how long I can really expect my weaker left arm to carry the burden of my day-to-day all by itself. Right now, the hardest part of the day is when I have to turn the ignition in my car. Right hand is too weak to turn the key, and my left hand can't deal with that angle (it's on the right side of the steering wheel, and not because I put it there), so it takes both my hands working together just to get my car started.