track day report

Been pondering the general shortage of time lately -- winter coming, birthdays, looming mortality etc. As we know, I probably won't die of mad cow disease, or bird flu, or even a motorcycle accident, but rather from sitting in chairs. The modern, slow-motion violence of just having a sedentary day job year after year -- odds are, that's what'll do me in.

You'd think this understanding, with all its accompanying despair and/or calmness of mind (depending on the day of the week), would allow me to throw myself headlong into dangerous pursuits. Occasionally it does. But usually, no. I am still a chicken, pretty often. Example: this weekend, I hitched a ride up to Shelton, Wash., to do a track day with a bunch of fellow SFRCers at the Ridge. (The Ridge is the track about which famed Isle of Man champ Dave Roper said: "maybe my favorite race track in the universe.") We left work early Friday and drove up that afternoon in Travis's new old truck.

Three bikes in back, with room for a mini or two!

I was stomach-ache nervous starting about Wednesday. Woke up Friday morning before the alarm went off, packed up, headed to the office, failed to concentrate at all on the job, and just basically performed deep breathing exercises until it was time to leave.

The drive was adventuresome enough to distract me from impending doom. After I got us lost a couple of times (no smartphone can help you if you can't tell left from right), we found our way to the track and set up camp in the parking lot. (Sounds grim but it was actually very comfortable - thank you, REI sleeping pad!) At this point I reverted back to panic because when you pull into the parking lot, what you see is this. Which looks terrifying from below, mainly because it is bloody terrifying.

But once we unloaded the bikes and set up camp, and the other guys arrived, I relaxed. Patrick's been racing and winning trophies practically every weekend all summer, and he mentioned how much he was looking forward to a fun, relaxing track day where you could hang out and ride with your friends and not get stressed out about trying to go full-blast, so I decided to aim for that stance. Also, I had some beer.

That worked until morning.

When I woke up the whole parking lot and surrounding area was socked in under a pea-soup fog. (But not green, though. Just thick like that. You could barely see!) After the rider's meeting, where they reminded us what the various flags meant (adding that it wouldn't matter because the flags would be invisible through the fog), those of us new to the track hopped into a trailer and were driven around for a one-lap tour, narrated by an ace rider with a charming Canadian accent. He kept saying stuff like "I sure wish we could see that cone there because that's where you'll want to tip in to this corner." From the back of the trailer, we could not see at all -- but we knew there were many hilly bits, because we kept all falling into each other. The narrating Canadian said, "If this fog doesn't burn off before your first session, I'd recommend skipping it, because this track with zero visibility is....ooof." So that was super comforting to hear.

Then it was time for our first classroom session. The only thing I remember from this is that the instructor advised us to take very deep breaths if nervous. I tried to focus on how attractive he was, and on my breathing, rather than all the trembling and various regrets about how little I'd had time to accomplish in my (soon to be) sadly abbreviated life. It kind of worked.

We left the classroom, got on our bikes, and lined up behind instructors for the first session. Within 30 seconds it was clear I would be totally blind the whole time. The fog congregated on my visor, and instead of just peering through it like a sensible person I tried to wipe it off with a glove, which made a big opaque smear across my field of vision. Visor up! OK. What was that he'd said about breathing? Oh right -- we should try to. Yes. OK. Wait, where did everyone go? Shit -- I'm holding up the entire operation. Zoom, catch up. Eeek, slow down! Repeat for 20 minutes. Breathe twice. End session 1.

After that the fog lifted and everything was much better.

A few illustrations:

Here's me looking basically just annoyed to be there. And another similar one.

Later in the day, one of PSSR's several awesome instructors followed me around to observe and coach. This was pretty fun and extremely helpful -- although the only time I actually felt comfortable on the track was when I followed one of them. The track has 16 turns, which is a lot to memorize in a day, and some of the lines are really weird -- but they make perfect sense when someone leads you through them. Here's a handy map:

 

Turns 13 and 14 are the ones that look scary from the parking lot, but in fact 15 and 16 worried me more, because passing (or, in my case, being passed) right there is super-hairball: you have to go pretty much all the way across the width of the track, far right to far left and back to far right, while trying to build speed for the front straight, all of which potentially cuts off anyone trying to get around you, so - kablammo, maybe? Luckily I couldn't see behind me ever. Who knows what went on back there.

Anyway...here's Patrick demonstrating how this sort of thing ought to be done.

Getting back to my pondering of mortality and whatnot, here is the complete list of injuries accumulated at the track day:

1. Stung by wasp, crook of elbow, left arm (the stinger is still in there and it really hurts!)
2. Pinkie finger pinched during pre-coffee tent-disassembly mishap (all better now)
3. Heart-attack diet, exclusively
4. Touch more sun than is probably healthy

That's it. (Now don't I feel silly.)

Anyway, I had a blast (as soon as I could see) and somehow my back tire got melty all the way to the edge, even though I'm pretty sure I was only going about 35mph the whole time. Look at it!

No chicken strips!

In perhaps the weekend's most humbling development, several people noticed (but politely did not mention, until I brought it up) that my bike is actually somehow dirtier than Patrick's. I don't know how this happened, and at first I wasn't sure whether to feel incredibly guilty about it or kind of proud. But the reactions of others led me to believe it was not something to be proud of, so today I washed the bike. It looks much better and might have dropped five or 10 pounds.

After the track day, Travis and Courtney and I continued on to the Isle of Vashon TT -- an enormous vintage-bike rally thing basically designed for strolling along gazing at cool and rare motorcycles, aka mantiquing, and a bit of riding around the beautiful island. We saw a lot of amazing bikes I won't even attempt to describe because I'll probably get them wrong. Travis competed in the field games and beat the old dudes in most categories (except the slow-bike race, which is fine because there's no glory in being slower than a dude on a harley anyway, even on purpose).

(Photo by Courtney)

All in all not a bad weekend.

L-I-V-I-N

Via DK Holm, from a book I am suddenly pretty excited to read:

"Just living," said Barbara as we lay in bed that night, "just rotten old living, I've always hated that, it makes me want to puke. Kids, school, smells, Dad working for the council, regular meals, telly in the evening—who needs it? Where's your time for living gone? Well, it's gone, but by the time you realize it you're nothing but a worn-out knitting and washing machine. Then when it's too late and you're fifty and you've got the menopause, you take off your woolly one night and see there's fuck-all left of you except a pair of flabby old tits that no one wants to know about and bulges all over. Even your kids don't want to know you by then; they're grown up, swinging, they've got their own thing going. As for Dad, he's ogling the teenage slag down at the boozer, drinking up, getting all ready to make a scene when he comes in because he feels cheated—of course he feels cheated, the silly old bastard."

--Derek Raymond, He Died with His Eyes Open

the good, the bad, the weird

Last weekend was the annual SFRC Goldrush ride, in which 30-40-odd (very odd) souls ride the best roads in the state to cause drunken mischief in a demi-ghost town called Sumpter in eastern Oregon.

The roads really are the main draw, but once you get to town, things get weird. We set up camp this year in someone's field more or less behind the Elkhorn Saloon, which is in (well, is) the center of town. (No restrooms at the campsite, but there was an antique Tri-Met bus parked there for some reason, with a tarp over it and the windows taped over (not creepy at all) so I just peed behind that.) Typically, you roll into town hot and dirty anywhere between 5 and 7pm on Saturday night, and Alpha Mike hands you his flask to sip, and then you set up your tent and go to the Elkhorn for a cool beverage. Alpha Mike is always the first person I see on arrival, for some reason. Wouldn't have it any other way. 

The Elkhorn is an old-fashioned saloon in that it demands to be courted. Having your way with it is not easy. The Elkhorn will not simply serve you. Time moves at its own pace inside, and it may feel like days before you get that beer you ordered. (Did you order it, actually? Can you even remember? When was that?) There are 42 kinds of burgers on the menu, each more elusive than the last. There's even a Ghost Burger. (Invisible.) 

The Elkhorn is mad with power. Dinner ends at 6.45pm. What are you going to do about it? Nothing. Drink your beer. Shut your mouth. You're in Sumpter. Three people in a row just bought a round for the house.

Eventually you stagger up the hill to where the current SFRC president (shown above in magical power hat) has a cabin. This is the site of the Isle of Stan, in which the younger, harder-headed fellows take spins around a makeshift dirt track in total darkness on a minibike. It's pretty fun (to watch). On my way up there from the bar, Alpha Mike gave me his knife - or more precisely (I later learned), a knife he'd stolen earlier in the evening from some toothless local in order to cut the sleeves off his t-shirt - for protection (as I am a lady and all). I still have the knife and will treasure it always. 

I'd just arrived and been handed a beer when my buddy Hole had a sudden vision from a TV commercial, one of the ones where they smash a stack of styrofoam coolers via bodyslam, or something (?). Unable to communicate this vision in words, he picked me up and threw me at the coolers (we're pretty close to the same size). Light wrestling ensued. We were all holding giant glass bottles of beer this whole time, which in hindsight seems like a terrible idea, but I'm proud to say I did not spill any beer during the whole 20 minutes or so that I was being used as a tool to smash a pair of coolers into bits. (Eventually the heroic John Graeter swooped in and rescued my beer so I could use both hands, which was very helpful.) 

The minibike racing continued throughout. Around midnight it stopped running and there was a break for emergency carb repair, then more racing. At some point there were four people on the bike (briefly). Then it was back to the Elkhorn for a while, our path down the hill lit by styrofoam debris glowing in the moonlight. 

Next day, we had breakfast at the community center, thanks to the Sumpter Breakfast Club's charity community fundraising breakfast. (Really.) Civic duty done, we hauled ourselves to the lake for a swim (well, some of us went on a day ride, but it was about a hundred degrees that day, so I opted for swimming). 

That evening's activity: the Western Olympics. Sumpter was a frontier town, and settling here required many and varied skills. The boys (Zach and Patrick and Peter) had devised a way of reenacting those olden days, but with more tequila and a minibike. 

This was a competitive, timed event, with several stations. First you play cowboy: the time starts and you quickly don an Eastwood-style poncho and sombrero, head to the "bar," slug back some tequila, mount your steed (the minibike, with a stuffed-toy horse strapped to its back in a very undignified manner), and race a lap around the parking lot of the Depot Inn. Ten-second penalty for losing your hat; a man's hat is like his woman. 

Back at the bar, you tie up your steed (or just drop it - easier than finding the kickstand through your poncho) and race across town to the barbershop. Here you shave your customer, which is a balloon, with shaving cream and a straight razor. Ten-second penalty for killing the customer. (I slit mine's throat like Sweeney Todd. I had spent longer than strictly necessary at the tequila bar - ten seconds extra wouldn't hurt.) Racing back across town, you change allegiances, ditching your hat and poncho for a feathered headdress, and take a shot at the target with a bow and arrow. ("Kill whitey," the crowd chanted. Whitey was a stuffed shirt with a cantaloupe for a head.) And done. 

We are seldom bored. 

Other shenanigans followed; one guy got trapped inside the haunted Sumpter Dredge and had to swim to safety through probably radioactive slime or at least industrial ooze; he returned to the bar in his undies, perfectly happy. I got the hiccups and was cured by being held upside-down for like the eighth time that night. Everyone tried on a Joe Dirt mullet wig, even the bartenders. Every mosquito in the valley got hammered on our toxic blood. They must look forward to this all year, like Mardi Gras. 

Next morning I somehow woke up early and mostly free of hangover - my theory is that the Jager canceled out the tequila. Or the mosquitoes drank it all, I guess. Anyhow, the ride out of town is glorious: you go over the mountains on a narrow, winding road that cuts through "the burn," scene of a massive forest fire several years ago. At the summit is where, evidence suggests, every depressed chipmunk in America comes to end it all. Just dozens of the poor little things, flinging themselves at your tires in utter despair. It's sad but you can't focus on it. The scenery's gorgeous and the road takes a fair amount of concentration to ride. 

The rest of the route home was deathly hot but fantastic; I had two ice cream bars and a milkshake, plus one quick swim and a number of buckets of cold water dumped on my head (by request). Back in town, it was Club 21 for burgers and debriefing, then home to unload and take a shower I really, really needed. Good times, can't wait to do it again!

in related news...

...or maybe not, but it struck me as somehow connected to the previous post - anyway, here's William Vollmann in the latest Bookforum, in a piece about the American ache to escape the grid:

"Were there such an animal as national character, then I might define an American as follows: longing for and half-expecting perfect freedom and happiness; disappointed by the authoritarian constraints of present necessity (which we'll call 'the grid'); unnerved by the conflict between aspiration and reality; uncertain whether to blame oneself or others for imperfection; ready to 'reinvent' oneself to achieve self-sufficiency, profit, or peace." 

where i've been

I haven't had a haircut since I got my current day job, back in June a year ago. My hair doesn't grow very fast, so this is not the Crystal Gayle nightmare one might think. But I do need a haircut: it's looking a little unkempt and shaggy. What's holding me back (besides laziness and a general failure to accurately measure the passage of time) is this vague idea that submitting to a haircut would mean accepting my current circumstances. Not in a hippie, CSNY sense exactly -- it's more that a haircut would mark my current life, the Office Life, as normal. Routine. It would represent settling in.

Which is absurd: I've been at this job for almost a year, I should be settled in by now. But I haven't bothered accumulating an office wardrobe, for example, or getting a proper lunchbox or shoes that meet the dress code. (There's a dress code!) I figure, if I keep my presentation haphazard, barely passing, it's easier to convince myself that this is all just pretend, a costume I'm wearing, a role, nothing real or god forbid permanent. I am working in an office but I don't really work in an office - that isn't my life.

Before this, the longest I'd held an office job in the past 10 years was for about eight months, and most of it was part-time. In retrospect, that's pretty dreamy. But at the time it felt like I was chained to a rock in a cave with poison being slowly dripped upon me from above. Gray carpet walls. Fluorescent lights! The horror.

I mean obviously I'm just spoiled. I've been able for years to get away with doing work that was (a) on a pretty flexible, self-determined schedule and (b) essentially the same stuff I do for fun. My dad pointed this out the other day: up until recently, my life pretty much was my work. They were integrated. Now the two pursuits are entirely separate: I have to carve out time and energy for my real life from whatever's left over after my job. (Which, usually, isn't much. Ten hours of sitting on one's ass repairing legal documents might sound relaxing, but for whatever reason, it wears me out.)

The day-to-day schedule is as big a factor as the nature of the work, I think. My jobs have typically been project-driven: various tiny emergencies you work on intensely until the deadline, followed by a reprieve before the next tiny emergency, which is different from the last one. The scary part is never knowing how many emergencies might come your way; each one could be the last. This job, though, feels like an emergency all the time, with no hint of change ahead. There's not, like, a point at which I'm finished with the work and can relax for a while. Next week looks about the same as this week. It's like driving across Kansas, very slowly. This is tiring at an existential level, and I don't know how you guys all manage it so well. If I were a regular person I'd have about 25 years of this ahead of me.

Here's a thought I like, from a magazine interview with the poet Frank Bidart; in this section he's talking about the word "making":

"It's one of the principles of the world. We live in this awkward culture that tells people that they have to have a job, have money to buy things, but that the job does not have to be connected to one's soul, one's inner life or spirit or sense of self-worth. On the contrary, the aim of work seems to be retirement where you can fish all day or go to Florida or someplace -- which seems to me grotesque, an absolute impoverishing of the idea of human life. Human beings are makers. It's the only thing that gives human beings something approaching satisfaction. It's completely central to what a human being is, to living in a complicated process where one must constantly accept givens that one can't control." 

...and later:

"Making is a way of knowing and trying to embody what you feel you do know."

Anyway, I realize I'm being a complete pansy about the job. It's a perfectly good job, and I'm lucky to have one at the moment. But so often it leaves me too worn out to make things, and that doesn't seem likely to change anytime soon, and I'm not sure what to do.

So then. Maybe just a trim?

in between

An in-betweener post to tide you over while I finish tinkering around with a real post...

This song has been on permanent repeat in the Becky den lately --



(Not currently for topical reasons, oddly enough; I just think it's lovely.)

And this just came my way, via Mike Russell, source of all good things --



And speaking of Mike Russell, here's a hilarious drawing he made from an email my awesome brother (hi Karl!) sent me about telling Real Live Stories at bedtime to the kids (my little twin nephews). Their list of demands for the contents of the real-live stories (an egg, a big rock, a big chicken, a visitor) led to this composite illustration:

I've heard Karl and Natalie telling these stories before, and it's the greatest thing: the little dudes are rapt, suspense levels are extremely high, and the narrative shenanigans of the storytellers are impressive and humbling. Maybe I can get Karl to record some of them to send me, and then I can have real-live bedtime stories too.

What else? Hmmm......the two best movies I've seen this year are Frances Ha and Upstream Color. I'm not reviewing them or anything but I might come back here later and write a little more. For now, the trailers:



This one, though, might be too revealing-of-surprises....or maybe it's fine, I'm not sure. You should probably just go see the movie if you can, and then watch the trailer. Not everyone will love it, but I'll take the chance:

look out!

It's starting!

walking portland - updated with schedule

So remember all those times this past fall and winter when you wanted to hang out but I said I couldn't because I was "working" on a "book," and you figured I was probably just making it up so I could stay at home with a box of wine and watch Buffy on Netflix?

Well, you may have been right about some of those times (except it was Alias -- Buffy was the previous winter). But most of the time I really was working on a book. And now it's all done! (Let's hang out!)

Here is the shiny, shiny cover:

Here's the scoop from the publisher.

Here's an interview with fellow Wilderness Press author, hiker and breakfast guy Paul Gerald.

And here's Terry Richard's very nice review in The Oregonian (although I'm not so sure about "hip" and "young"...).

Oh, and one in Portland Monthly. And one in WW.

This is the first non-Lonely Planet guidebook I've done, and the first I wrote from scratch (rather than updating an old edition, the typical LP deal). It's also the first time I've had a publicity department! So, it looks like I'll be holding court in a few places around town this spring, in case you discover any huge mistakes in the book and would like to point them out to me in person. (I encourage this.)

The first event is at Annie Bloom's Books on April 24, at 7pm. (Thanks to Rob Seamans for the author photo, by the way.)

The schedule so far: 

April 8-12: Guest-blogging for powells.com
7pm Wednesday, April 24: Annie Bloom's Books, 7834 SW Capitol Hwy, Portland
7.30pm Thursday, May 2: Powell's Books on Hawthorne, 3723 SE Hawthorne Blvd, Portland
Noon Monday, May 13: Ristretto Roasters, 2181 NW Nicolai St, Portland  [had to cancel, alas]

More to come - stay alert!

random kid pic

From a little while back...probably the closest I'll ever get to being in style:

this seems relevant

...somehow:

It may sound like I’ve got some sort of formula by which I write. Hell, no! You’re out there completely on your own—all you’ve got to do is write. OK, it’s nine in the morning. All I’ve got to do is write. But I go hours before I’m able to write a word. I make tea. I mean, I used to make tea all day long. And exercise, I do that every other day. I sharpened pencils in the old days when pencils were sharpened. I just ran pencils down. Ten, eleven, twelve, one, two, three, four—this is every day. This is damn near every day. It’s four-thirty and I’m beginning to panic. It’s like a coiling spring. I’m really unhappy. I mean, you’re going to lose the day if you keep this up long enough. Five: I start to write. Seven: I go home. That happens over and over and over again. So why don’t I work at a bank and then come in at five and start writing? Because I need those seven hours of gonging around. I’m just not that disciplined. I don’t write in the morning—I just try to write.

--John McPhee

the best

I hate it when people say "blah blah blah is the best thing EVER! on EARTH! EVER!" etc but this might actually be the best thing:



(I found it because of the great Ed Park, whom you should all also be internet-stalking, if you're not already.)

business casual

Apologies, glob fans: I've been off securing employment. Successfully! No doubt through some sort of clerical error I've been hired at a supersecret location to sit and read encoded documents all day long. My office is very high above the street and has a view of the tram, and the tram as we know is almost my favorite thing about Portland. There is also free coffee. But I'm expected to dress like an adult, which takes a lot of time, so - less blogging, at least during this initial adjustment period. Back soon. Probably tomorrow.

xo

Excellent news!

"... there are already Avian Flu strains in existence that are just three mutations away from human-to-human infection."

no reason

http://silodrome.com/francoise-hardy-motorcycle/

TL;WKW

Looks Safe

I keep forgetting to post this -- courtesy of Mr Mike Russell:

why i ride

Things that never crossed my mind while I was riding my bike on the SFRC Season Opener this weekend:

* work of any kind
* acute need to mow the lawn
* money, chronic lack of
* boyfriend, chronic lack of
* pointlessness of reviewing movies in the internet era
* that I have no wearable clothes for hot weather
* haircut? or no? yes?

Let me tell you, it was nice. Of course, motorcycles have many other excellent qualities beyond their total absorption of the rider's attention. For instance, when they gather in large groups, they tend to attract a certain level of mischief. Also beer. This certainly proved to be the case at the after-party, which occurred in a fenced-off compound surrounding a long, rusted-out dock and boat-launch ramp underneath the St Johns Bridge. A guy we know has leased the property so he can park his tugboat there and live on it, but the tugboat isn't there yet. Plenty of firewood washes up from the river onto the concrete boat ramp, so we built a bonfire at the end of the ramp and started in on the beer and sausages. Guess how long it took before someone rode a motorcycle down the pier? Not very long.



That was the night of the Supermoon, so just to be on the safe side I started text-messaging a play-by-play to my friend Mike. In case things turn weird it's good to have an off-site perspective on where it all went wrong. Turned out the adventure remained small-scale and well contained. But it's not every day you get to ride in the Cylon Commander Seat of a semi-truck dodging obstacles in a vacant lot. Partial transcript:

MR: Hope the Cinco de Mayo ride ruled!

Me: Still ruling! Partying under the st johns bridge.  

Me: We're riding motorcycles off a pier by accident, whee!

MR: I hope you are riding away from many explosions 

Me: And not looking back 

MR: Why bother you know what you hath wrought

Me: Now they're trying to drive an old semi truck. What could go wrong?

MR: "What could go wrong?" might be a pretty good Sang-Froid club motto if they're still looking for one

MR: In Latin: "Quod Posset Ire Iniuriam"

Me: Now they're maybe using a stumptown van to jump the semi.

MR: Why do I fear this text thread is about to become evidentiary.

Me: They got it running! I pulled the horn. Lifelong dream realized!

MR: Okay, that's pretty goddamn sweet. Somewhere a schoolbus full of kids is delighted you did that.

Me: The semi just almost ran over the bonfire and into the river. 

MR: If this is another set of those "They're playing The Cure at the Hawthorne Strip"-style texts, I will be sorely disappointed [this is fair, I've been known to exaggerate and even just make stuff up in text messages]

Me: I have video

MR: I hope you get yourself filmed pulling the semi horn as a fire roars behind you

Me: I am now in the truck

Me: Cops are here yeay!

MR: Now it's a party

Me: They retreated in disgust

MR: Let me know when someone plays The Smiths "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out" [he's clearly not buying any of this]

MR: You're in jail now aren't you

I was later reminded that when the cops rolled by, we decided to "act cool" and "seem normal" by turning up the miniature boombox extra loud and dancing. Because what could be more innocent.


There really is video but I have yet to figure out how to get it off my fancyphone and edit out the embarrassing giggly parts. Meanwhile here is the truck:

Now back to that list....

Oh, GREAT

I probably already have it.

Tom Hardy update

OK fine, so my Tom Hardy date movie (This Means War) was terrible. In interviews Hardy has called it "a very light entertainment," which is both an under- and an overstatement. I laughed exactly one time (because of something Chelsea Handler said) and was instantly mortified. It's the kind of movie in which the opening scene has a suitcase full of money spilling open on top of a skyscraper, hundred-dollar bills disappearing in the helicopter wind, and nobody even notices.

That could be because everyone in this movie has plenty of money, including federal agencies (parallel universe?), and the characters only show up to work because their offices are so attractive. Plot summary: two CIA guys, Chris Pine (who wears Savile Row suits) and my boyfriend, Tom Hardy (who is less fancy but whose shirts are still pretty tight for government work), fall for the same woman (Reese Witherspoon). Tom Hardy loves Reese because he reeeeeally wants a family but has been dismissed by the mother of his kid, apparently because she thinks he's a travel agent, and travel agents are obviously ridiculous and undateable. (Watch for the magical transformation when she finds out that's not really what he does for a living!)

Chris Pine loves Reese because she's so smart.

(We can tell she's smart because she knows the titles of multiple Hitchcock films and has her very own opinions about them. Also because she can remember information she learned on her product-testing job even whole days later, when it's useful in emergencies.)

There's also some kind of a sub-story about an evil German on a vengeance kick -- he's after Chris and Tom not because of all that money they spilled earlier but because they killed his brother during the skyscraper fight -- but the movie doesn't care about that and neither do we. At first, Chris and Tom pretend they're spying on Reese because of the evil German situation, but after about five minutes they drop this facade and it's an open contest to see who gets in her pants first. The villain is reduced to the role of prop, which bums him out so much that he drives off the edge of an unfinished highway in despair. (Spoiler!)

On the plus side, the director ("McG" [??? whatever], who directed Terminator Salvation, and Charlie's Angels) seems also to be in love with Tom Hardy, so there are lots of scenes in which the camera lingers fondly on his radiance, and his shirts come unbuttoned often. Which I felt was a commendable directorial choice, under the circumstances.

Short version: just go watch Bronson again. Seriously.

V-Day

Greetings, glob fans. Seems I've got a lot of catching up to do. Meanwhile, though...I'm very much looking forward to my Valentine's Day date with Tom Hardy:

(Apparently there's some other chick in this movie, but....whatever. I've watched the trailer a whole bunch of times, and all I see is Tom.)