Darth Vader Versus Jar Jar Binks

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I realize now that there is only one way to redeem the Star Wars prequel trilogy of its irreversible legacy of painfully sordid banality. And it is not just that Jar Jar Binks must die. No, that would not be nearly enough. The only way Lucas will get me to pay money to see Episode III is to have the dark, whiny central character of the series execute the prequel’s worst, most hated stereotype.

Darth Vader Killing Jar Jar BinksDarth Vader must kill Jar Jar Binks.

If Darth Vader were to slay Jar Jar Binks in cold blood, perhaps after a long, sadistic chase scene, I might be persuaded to watch the movie. And I want Vader, mind you, in black suit and helmet, and not Whiny Padawaaanakin Skywalker. Ah yes, I can picture it now…

<Vader breathing>

“ANI! Meesa likey da new outfit!”

“I find your lack of grammar disturbing.”

<Lightsaber sounds>

“NO, ANI! YOUSA KILLING JAR JAR!”

<Lightsaber sounds, wet splatters>

“You have annoyed me for the last time.”

<Vader breathing, steps fading into distance>

On a more serious note, Kottke has some interesting insights into character interaction in the original Star Wars trilogy.

Update: Darth Darth Binks. No further comment.

Rainy NJ Weekend

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The weekend was spent up in rainy New Jersey, mostly vegging out indoors with Amy and her folks. I finally got down to watching Attack of the Clones on DVD, and if you just fast-forward through Jar Jar Binks and the smarmy love scenes, it’s actually sort of tolerable. Sort of. Here are a few photos of windows:

IMG_1831

IMG_1835

Best of April Fool’s 2005

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Maybe it was just me, but somehow, April Fool’s 2005 seemed a bit weaker than last year, probably because Metafilter went without a gag. Nonetheless, it was fun to have Beg The Question linked from “the blue” (as we MeFites call it).

Update: And a link from Language Log! I’m truly honored. And yes, the “ignoramii” error, was an intentional mistake, along with any other run-on sentences, dangling participles, and extraneous prepositions that may have occurred in BTQ. In reality life, my grammare, speling, and useage is always inpeccable.

BTQ

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There’s a subtle pollution creeping up on our media, our literature, and our speech; a horrific piece of abuse which threatens the very fabric of our way of thinking. It’s BTQ abuse, and it’s time to take action to end it, before it destroys our language. March on April 1st to End BTQ Abuse Now!

(Also see last year’s March for Web Standards.)

Update: April Fool! Those of you who left stern, earnest comments chastising me for my petty concern with BTQ issues — especially you fun and wacky descriptivists — thanks for the laughs. In all seriousness, I’ve learned not to be a complete fundie about the whole thing, which raises the question: should we change our encyclopedia entries?

See more at the Urgo.org April Fools List.

Falcon: a photo not taken

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Yesterday, a peregrine falcon alighted on a tree branch outside the office window, and, spreading its gray tail feathers, began to pick at what appeared to be a pigeon carcass in its talons. I watched it as I ate my own lunch — stir-fried vegetables — and wished I had my camera with me just then. Add it to the list of missed photos, I guess.

In Soviet Russia, painting frames you!

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DC art enthusiasts would do well to visit the Smithsonian’s 20th Century Russian Paintings exhibit before it ends on April 10th (extended closing date). The multitude of Soviet-era painting styles on display is startling, showing a far richer, more colorful variety of life than I thought existed in Russia behind the Iron Curtain.

The collection is on display down in the International Gallery of the S. Dillon Ripley Center, one of the Smithsonian’s well-hidden underground secrets — literally. Look for the unobtrusive round kiosk nestled in the trees behind the Castle, near the Freer Gallery. Descend the spiraling stairs and single escalator within, go past the exhibit of original Smithsonian prints, and in the cavernous subterranean halls of the Ripley Center, lit by skylights high above you, the entrance to the International Gallery should be to your right, at the end of a long white hallway. No photography allowed, no talking above a whisper.

(Painting above is a detail from “Laughing Milkmaids” by Nikolai Nikolaevich, my favorite painting at the exhibit.)

An Easter Taxi Ride

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I hate taking a taxi on Sunday morning, most especially on an Easter Sunday. It’s a last-resort mode of transportation when I’m running late for choir rehearsals — which happens all too often — and it involves engaging in commerce on a Sunday (something I’ve been more conscientious about ever since I met Valerie), to the tune of about $7.50 with tip. Still, I was late, choir rehearsals were starting in five minutes, and there was the taxi I had managed to flag down right outside my apartment.

“All dressed up,” said the driver, a white-haired South Asian, as we headed up Massachussets Ave NW, “you going to church?”

“Yup, Easter service,” I replied.

“So you’re a Christian?”

I think I tensed a bit. “Yeah.”

“Tell me something, if you don’t mind my curiosity, this ‘Easter,’ what is it anyway?”

“Well, it’s when we celebrate the resurrection of Jesus.”

“Resu- what?”

“Jesus rose from the dead after a weekend in the grave.”

“So how did he die, if you don’t mind me asking?”

So I took a deep breath, and told him the Gospel in the fifteen minutes it took to get to church. There was a point at which he was morbidly curious as to whether the Jews were responsible for the crucifixion, and I had to qualify that it was Christ’s own message, his insistence on his kingship and deity which had inflamed the hatred of the High Priests to cause them to bring him for execution to the Roman governor. I gave him the Resurrection account via a mix of John and Luke, since they carried the most specific details as to the empty tomb and the appearances of Christ to Mary Magdalene, to the disciples, and to Peter.

I had finished with the Road to Emmaus when we pulled up in front of the church.

“Thank you for all that,” the driver said as I gave him the $5.50 fare with my customary $2 tip, “that was some history I didn’t know, and it was interesting.”

I was late for rehearsal anyway, but that was worth it, don’t you think?

Be always prepared.