have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?

As I’m sure anyone who knows me is well-aware, I was a Batkid.

Now firmly established in the realm of adulthood, I feel some vindication in knowing that the world has reached a general global consensus in acknowledging the truth: Batman is the Coolest Superhero.

Sure, he might not be your favourite (for whatever godforsaken reason), but all must bow to the fact that he is indeed The Coolest.

Batman has become an eternal symbol of cool. Just like leather jackets. And jazz. And smoking. And the Sixties. And smashing glasses of whiskey in fireplaces.

Perhaps in a vain attempt to siphon off some of this cool, Boy Roommate and I decided to watch The Dark Knight.

This led to a debate regarding the live-action Batman franchise(s).

No, not “who is the better Batman.” That debate is so *ahem* riddled with subjectivity as to render it moot and headache-inducing. (And not to mention frankly quite childish.)*

No. The debate was over Who is the Better Joker.

I was champion of the Heath Ledger Camp. Boy Roommate championed Team Jack Nicholson.**

I'm an agent of chaos.

It kind of went like this:

“Come on, he won an Oscar!”

“Only because it was posthumous!”

“But he was so AMAZING.”


“I think we need to accept that it’s just two different styles of movie. Two completely different Gothams. Two completely different Jokers.”

“Right. Agree to disagree.”

“Okay.” Long Pause. “But you know I’m right.”

“This is going to be our Ship of Theseus argument all over again, isn’t it?”


This needed to be settled.

But I murdered Bruce Wayne's parents.

The next day, I ventured to the HMV downtown where I succumbed to the sweltering heat of triumph at finding four Batman movies for ten dollars. (From the first Tim Burton one through to that crap with George Clooney I’m going to pretend never existed.)

That evening, we watched Jack Nicholson do his thing.

Neither opinion was swayed. If anything, opinions were only reinforced.

We agreed to disagree. Again.

Tensions were still high.

So the other night, we decided to watch the original. That’s right: Batman: The Movie. From the automatically cool year 1966.

Also, the way its subtitle so proudly claims itself to be The Movie does seem rather definitive.

And this brought another Joker into the mix. Cesar Romero.

Okay, so The Joker stands out the least of all the villains in this film. The Penguin is the mastermind, Catwoman spends a lot of time trying to seduce Bruce Wayne, and The Riddler just minces around being awesome in his lavender cummerbund.


But, but, but.

You can see his moustache underneath his white makeup!

But I can't even be bothered to shave!

Game. Set. Match.

Cesar Romero.


*Irony. Obvs. Everyone knows Michael Keaton is the best Batman.

**I posited this question to Dad and he responded with “Heath Ledger, DUH!” But, to be fair, Dad loves Heath Ledger in a way that’s a little worrisome. A Knight’s Tale is his favourite movie; he owns it on DVD but it was still his first Bluray purchase. After Heath’s death, my sister and I had a troubled phone call over who would break the news to our father. Dad also loves anything Batman, so, to him,  The Joker combined with Heath Ledger is perhaps the single greatest feat of the performing arts.

state of the union: the more things change…

I know it’s been a while, but somehow, summing up the last few days of my life is remarkably similar to summing up the last month.


Invited over for dinner with the parents on Thursday.

I had been thinking this was rather sweet of them, since there wasn’t anything like Glee that week to unite us as a family.

Anyway. Long story = short: they were babysitting for The Boy and The Boy’s Sequel*.

There was a lots of cuteness and lots of crying. The Boy wept like a tempest over the fact that we paused “Poke-In-Oh”** for dinner.

While the kids cried, Dad excitedly announced in an exercise in randomness that he was going to the zoo.

“Are you going for ice cream afterwards?”

He answered “No” in a way that suggested ‘Dont’ be silly.’ (Yet I could see the glimmer of an idea shine in his eyes.)

I returned to The Commune at ten at night with baby spit-up all over my blouse and a bit of a headache.


On Friday, got to see The Oatmeal. That was fun.

But also, this was the day Dad went on his field trip to The Zoo.

Two fun (and slightly related) facts:

1.) My sister, Bri, is a zookeeper at said zoo. (And apparently a damned-good one; she was Employee of the Month).

2.) Dad and his colleagues did not actually take any students on this field trip.

While A Day at the Zoo sounds like a lost Marx Brothers film, I was told there were no mutes, outlandish Italian accents, or witty one-liners amongst their party.

And no ice cream.


Met with Mum for lunch on Saturday.

“So! Did I tell you that I finished the fourth book?!”

She meant A Feast for Crows, which she’s arrived at rather rapidly following her enthusiastic response to Sean Bean HBO’s Game of Thrones.

She actually had told me that already. “Yes. You did.”

“Yes. Cersei is still a bitch.” (Fact.)

Mum sipped at her apple cider. The rain was beating down on the plastic roof because we were at a pub and we tried to sneak in my fifteen-year-old cousin but pretty soon the jig was up and they sat us on the patio.

“Oh,” she drawled as if adding a footnote to Cersei’s personality issues, “And your dad got bit by a cobra.”

“Um, what?” My natural reaction was shock, obviously.

But seriously: a cobra?


Called Dad on Sunday to verify the cobra story.

Turns out: not a cobra, but a boa constrictor. Or, as Dad would have it: “Just a boa constrictor.”

Maybe it was like a Marx Brother’s film after all.


*The Boy’s Sequel is two months old and looks so much like Orson Welles it’s a little unnerving.

**Walt Disney’s Pinocchio