"I am at a loss to conceive how a man should permit himself to write anything that would be truly disgraceful to a woman, or why a woman should be censured for writing anything that would be proper and becoming for a man."

22 May 2012

Creating New Magic

AKA: Starting a New Journal

I wrote yesterday about the trials and process of dealing with the loss of magic in one's journal. Once you accept and mourn the loss of one, however, you must move on and discover the enchantment in another journal.

In some ways, choosing a new journal is more vital to me than saying goodbye to one whose magic is gone. I've always felt journals to be precious, magical devices capable of eliciting unencumbered creativity -- so long as you choose one which suits you as an individual. Weird, old-fashioned notion? Yup. Have I tried to break myself of that idea? Yup. Did it work? Hell no. Do I argue with my 'process' of selection anymore? Hell-to-the-no. It just drags out the ordeal, and it can be a long and daunting enough journey as it is. Until I reach a day where 'any old blank book' will do (and honestly, I kinda hope that never occurs), I'll keep to my list of qualifications.

1. Easily portable, but not tiny. I'll buy larger journals (and occasionally sketchbooks) on occasion, but they tend to be for special projects and seldom see use. In order for a journal to become an extension of my writing and creative habits, it's got to be able to fit easily into a medium-sized bag with all my other take it everywhere crap. 5x7 or less in size, but not too small because then it feels like I cannot put anything of decent length in it without having to turn a page every ten seconds.

2. Place marker. I don't care what style it is, or how fancy, I just need something to mark a place in the journal to which I will pick up next time.

3. Lines. I MUST have lines for writing in a journal. Blank pages are daunting enough, the lines provide the tiniest amount of structure in what I otherwise see as a terrifying blank canvas. Plus, it helps keep my furious writings at least barely legible (to me, anyway).

4. A durable cover. It doesn't have to be hard; it doesn't have to be leather. It just needs to be durable. This book will live with me for, typically, at least a year and that requires it to be able to withstand a lot of getting shuffled and bashed around.

5. Paper of decent thickness. I usually write with mechanical pencil, however at times I write with fountain pens in dark ink. I don't want my scribblings to bleed through to the back of the pages. That's a waste of valuable writing space and again can sacrifice valuable writing time to having to flip pages too often.

6. An overall design and construction that is comfortable. See above re: carrying this thing everywhere. The cover design/color must appeal to me. I dislike sharp corners or edges as I can press down pretty hard when writing and don't like cutting myself when I really get into a tear and write twenty pages in an hour. It also cannot be too heavy, again due to the necessity of carrying it with me constantly.

7. Instinct. This is, obviously, the one aspect I cannot describe with objectivity. So long as it meets the above qualifications the only reason I choose one journal over another tends to be because I just happen to see one and my internal compass points and says, "That one!" And no matter how many journals I find that meet the above requirements, I will not purchase a book that doesn't pull me to it. I need to feel the magic. It must hit me before I ever sit down and start a single word.

At times, this search for a new magic tome has taken weeks of seemingly endless toil -- hours spent in bookstores and on the interwebs hunting for a book that not only fulfills my requirements but reaches out to me, personally, and voices that it belongs in my hands, and mine alone. Thankfully, when I felt the magic draining from my now dearly departed Red, I happened to find a replacement without an arduous or lengthy search. Another clearance item, it beckoned me from an end cap display. The size and weight are perfect, the pages crisp, lined, and decently thick. It even bears a resemblance to a previous journal which my parents got for me as a gift and holds the majority of (the handwritten portions of) my first novel. Above all, the instant I laid eyes on it, I knew. It knew.
It put a spell on me, and now its mine.

I know I'm not alone in this, so what, gentle readers, are your requirements for a new journal/sketchbook/notepad?

21 May 2012

When Journals Lose Their Magic

Writing, the act of actually putting a writing implement on paper, seems to be becoming more antiquated by the day. Yet there are still those out there who require at least some of our time spent writing to involve this act. For myself, there are times when not only is typing inconvenient (I have an outdated, though reliable, laptop that does not accompany me everywhere, nor any tablet device -- but I ALWAYS have a pen and a notepad), it lacks a certain connection to the material I create.
I've always been a hands-on creator. I draw. I paint (very poorly). I play piano (or could, once upon a time). I make jewelry. I put together shelving units and desks with the 'help' of the horribly illustrated diagrams of do-it-yourself furniture. I cook -- and while I don't always enjoy getting my hands seeped in ground meat, or chicken guts, or sticky doughs, I understand  and accept it's a part of the process of crafting meals.

The difference between crafting in those other mediums and writing, for me, is that when I get a notebook or journal to write in, I'm not only picky about the ingredients (as I am with any creative project), I also reach a point where those ingredients which shaped my need for the journal lose their power. The whole journal loses its power and ability to spur on my writing. In short, the journal loses its magic.
Yet I cannot bring myself to simply toss aside the book as if it were remnants of silver wire, or a broken cerulean pencil, or an extra wing nut that doesn't fit onto any conceivable part of the rolling shelf unit. I know many who use journals and sketchbooks feel the same. The desire to hold on to the physical evidence and memory of what once inspired you is too strong to discard.
However, this time around I've used the same journal for just over three years and while there are still probably 80 usable pages remaining, I noticed a couple months ago that every time I reached for it, opened it, any creative impulse I had disappeared. The book itself lost the power to draw me into it and furiously write down my inspirations in an encapsulated red-covered parcel of paper. It infuriated me not just because I don't like wasting paper, but because I felt that I had betrayed this loyal companion.
This books contains notes from my time on the Artistic Management Committee at my theatre. It's got the first piece of fanfiction I began that doesn't make me feel like fanfic is a derogatory form of writing. It contains tax calculations, shopping lists, career coaching notes and oh yes, dozens upon dozens of pages filled with writings from two of my (currently) four in-progress novels. How does something that contains that much of your life, that has been the keeper of important notes, dreams, creative bursts you never imagine, suddenly transform one day into a dull collection of pages where each time you set your writing utensil to a sheet of paper all your desire to write melts away?
There's likely some psychological time+overuse=meah-related explanation for it that relates to the amount of time and energy you invest into it and one day your brain just no longer relates to that object as the receptacle of such things. I, however, surmise it thus: one day the magic dies -- whatever you wrote in that journal still carries import, and always will, but the days in which your mind pours itself onto those particular pages is over  -- and until you accept that, put the journal to rest, and find a new receptacle, your ideas will become stagnant and uninspired (if the ideas ever deign to come at all).

So yeah, the other day I posted about my brain missing. And it is still, to an extent, but I have had to force myself to come to terms with the idea that part of my lost mind is due to going far too long without physically writing. I need that type of release for my thoughts and ideas, and by clinging to a magic-less book for too long I allowed that part of my mind to run off in search of I know not what.

Here's to my red journal. I found it in a Borders on clearance for $6 in the early spring of 2009,  and it has served me ever so faithfully. Within it are words I might never have written had I chosen another journal at the time. It grieves me to let go of something that once inspired my mind in new and exciting ways. A part of me will feel lost without it. However, a much larger part may lose itself forever if I do not accept this loss and endeavor to rekindle the magic in a new journal.

18 May 2012

Stay Tuned!

New, interesting, thought-provoking, occasionally ranting, sometimes fangirling posts coming REALLY soon. 

Just as soon as I find my brain.

Which will be very soon.

I hope.

I mean, it was here recently. I have a dim recollection of having amazing ideas for posts, and articles, and the drive to complete them.

Enter debilitating invisible illnesses rearing themselves for a week and POOF! my brain went into hiding. I now have the attention span of a four year old on pixie stix. I can barely finish a coherent thought let alone...

Have you noticed how incredibly hot and talented and all-around-geeky Tom Hiddleston is? Classically trained Super Actor who refers to Loki as 'cray cray,' gets himself memed all over the interwebs (Loki'd!), and will either rap Will Smith's "Miami" or recite monologues from Henry V on command.

Oh, and then there's this:

What was I talking about?
Oh yeah, I'm going to see APOCALYPTOUR in less than a week. Which might help get songs from Holy Musical, B@man out of my head... or just embed them deeper. *shrugs* Still doesn't make me regret having Supersnoop saying "You got a phone call, motherfucker," as my ringtone.

Wait... that wasn't what I was talking about...

Oh. Yeah.

Brain missing.

Hopefully not for much longer...

04 May 2012

Immortals is ETERNAL

As a movie experience, it seemed never-ending. However, that probably had to do with the fact that a minute into it I had to start live-blogging the whole film. So two hours of never ending cheese turned into about four and a half. Still, here are the fruits of my labor. If anyone actually gets every reference in here, I will personally donate ten dollars to the non-profit cause of your choice. Seriously.

Making Titans into a foosball set = worst marketing ever.
The movie opens with an ancient, less spacey-wacey looking Pandorica containing foosball warriors. The box is guarded by either weeping angel statues or trolls turned to stone. Or maybe the quadruplet love children of the two. A mysterious figure sends a sparkly arrow into the foosball Pandorica and in this first minute we know this movie will focus on cool visuals that will likely serve no real purpose.
Cut to the girl from Slumdog Millionaire waking up, panting, flanked in bed by three other ethnic ladies. Frieda, she is an oracle and the others are apparently the rest of Destiny’s Child to her Beyoncé. She woes about the foosball warriors (aka Titans) being set free by a magic arrow loosed from Legolas’ Sparkly Bow, and a four way hug ensues. 
Lest you think I make any of this up...
The Great Dragon* VOs over the titles and there’s a pictograph motion comic trying to happen here, but without Merlin to look puzzled and/or angry about the story it doesn’t really make sense.
Post picto-intro, we’re introduced to King Hyperion and his army who are trying to break up Destiny’s Child’s quadro-hug. We know Hyperion is evil by his size, his mask, his spiny armour, his gravelly tone, and his propensity for making bad puns while torturing priests. Also, it’s Mickey Rourke. 
Scarred face: Check. Spiny gold armor: check. Insane past: wrote the book
 Meanwhile, in some tiny insignificant fishing village on a cliff, the Great Dragon harps on Superman for his inadequacy in hacking wood while sermonizing about protecting the weak. Superman makes weird spear jokes with his mom, who has just returned from a prayer meeting where everyone calls her out on being a whore with a Kryptonian son, and everyone is uncomfortable. Said spear jokes are made more awkward when the next cut reveals Superman sleeping in the same room as mommy dearest. They are both awoken by the Sound of Drums (no, not those drums, sadly), and Superman must leap shirtless from his bed and spearfully run off to discover why the noise. 
I am a poor, shirtless man with a spear and I demand respect for my life choices!
Shirtless Superman holds mummy close as the general captain of the tiny fishing village full of buff soldiers have the situation man-splained to them. Hyperion bad. Oracle taken. Village must evacuate. An angry pre-hybrid Klaus pulls the generic redshirt ‘we’re all doomed’ routine but is quickly pulled away by some compelled fangirls. 

Hey girl, I heard you like immortality. Playing in Immortals wasn't enough for me. I'mma become one.
During the evacuation, typical class distinctions divide the villagers. Superman’s shirtlessness and overt attachment to mom mean he must wait an extra day with the social lepers and mouth breathers before following those with more money for shirts and less oedipal attachments. Superman takes issue with this, as well as with being called a WatersSnowRiversStone and a fight breaks out. Before Superman can pwn the day and rid the movie of Redshirt Klaus, the general captain promises Superman capable soldiers to escort the poor, oedipal, mouth breathing bastards. Superman is offered a place in the manly, breastplated army, but turns it down so he can go back to hugging mom.**
Emo Redshirt Klaus recovers from his near-skewering by gazing gloomily into the distance and sketching Superman being forced to watch other men hug his mom. The general captain sees these sketches and kicks Emo Redshirt Klaus out of the army and into the not so loving arms of the mouth breathing social lepers.
Meanwhile, Superman tries to convince the Great Dragon to leave the village before the giant spiny tortoise that is Mickey Rourke attacks. The Great Dragon refuses on the grounds that only a dragonlord can make him leave and a dragonlord Superman ain’t. He then tries to impart some wisdom to Superman, but as it has nothing to do with spears or his mom, Superman just looks puzzled.
Mom wants grandkids, but I'm not supposed to sleep with her to get them? I don't understand.
A couple of redshirt soldiers nibble around a fire with some exposition chatter until Rebellious Emo Redshirt Klaus skewers them all to ensure his eventual redshirt death is meaningful. As he pushes the final guy off a cliff under a full moon, a wolf howls in the distance (no, really) and Rebellious Emo Redshirt Klaus begins plotting on how to become a hybrid.
The Great Dragon can obviously radiate heat since he no sooner snorts out candles than he transforms into Zeus: The Hottest Lady Loving God Ever. (Now how do we get that transformation to happen on Merlin?!?) Athena pops out from her disguise as a naked statue and Zeus reveals he’s been masquerading as Superman’s mentor because he admires the Kyptonian’s courage, strength, and devotion to his mummy. The world needs an oedipal Superman to defeat the Spiny Tortoise and lo! this one is even shirtless.
King of the gods? More like King of My Ovaries.
Elsewhere the Spiny Tortoise’s army prepares to war on the tiny insignificant fishing village on a cliff while one of the soldiers roasts marshmallows under an iron bull’s nuts. (I don’t make this shit up.) Traitorous Rebellious Emo Redshirt Klaus questions the soldier’s culinary skills and thus is shoved by an early crafting of Gendry’s bull helm (supposedly this is the Minotaur, but the SFX budget was apparently blown on sparkly arrows), then down to the Spiny Gravelly-Voiced Tortoise’s lair where he is forced to kneel in front of a bright red lamp for dramatic effect and foreshadowing. 
This lighting really highlights my sanguine personality.
They Kurtz their way through a conversation wherein Rebellious Emo Redshirt Klaus tries to convince the Spiny Tortoise (who’s eating Renly’s peach, btw) of how important the tiny insignificant fishing village on a cliff is to the world, but all Kurtz Rourke wants is Legolas’ Sparkly Bow. Beyoncé, she knows where to find it, but no one will tell him where she at. Kurtz Rourke nonetheless deems Traitorous Rebellious Emo Redshirt Klaus too pretty to kill yet, so he uses his powers of evil (aka his quiet, gravelly, somber timbre and personal servant, Gregor Bolton) to gash up TRERK’s face and make a Reek out of his male anatomy. 
In the morning, Shirtless Superman goes in search of the Great Dragon with his spear, but finds only a flashback to his childhood: whacking a tree with a stick while the Great Dragon philosophizes about finding one’s rhythm. Back in the now, the Great Eagle soars overhead on its way to Mordor or Orthanc, and Shirtless Superman knows this is a sign that Winter War Gregor is coming. Sure enough, the remaining villagers are being skewered by the Bloody Mummers and Shirtless Superman must spear his way to mommy. The special effects do most of the work and just to solidify Shirtless Superman’s impotence, he is netted by Gregor’s group while Kurtz Rourke slits mommy’s throat wearing a helm that is obviously part of a bronzed lobstrosity killed on the shores of Mid-World. Rather than kill Shirtless Superman, Kurtz Rourke saves him to work in the salt mines – so he can serve some real men, if you catch my drift…
Roland Deschain ain't got nothing on me, mothereffers.
Up in the shirtless heavens, the gods talk about having ethics and morals, but Zeus the Bard maintains they must all keep those feelings in check lest this movie turn into an episode of Xena. His outdated reference is lost on his pouty-lipped children and they whine about what could happen if Kurtz Rourke obtains Legolas’ Sparkly Bow. Frustrated that no one got his Xena reference, Zeus threatens death to any god that interferes with the humans.
Later, Zeus had a quiet cry because he still misses Iolaus
Shirtless Superman stumbles through a desert in chains with a giant piece of wood. He and his fellow wood-toting prisoners are herded toward an enclosed oasis tower with its own spa and recording studio. Beyoncé trips over Sweaty Shirtless Superman, causing a vision of him holding Legolas’ Sparkly Bow, bromancing with Kurtz Rourke in a rickety boat trying to surf tidal waves. She mutters some cryptic bootylicious speak before adjourning to the spa waters where she is hit on by Stephen Dorff. She then goes back and drips water from her mouth into Sweaty Shirtless Superman’s and the spread of who knows how many germs is apparently supposed to look sexy. 
It's all sexy time until someone catches an incurable disease.

That night, the girls perform a death-apella version of “Bootylicious” for the guards and in the building mass grave confusion send Beyoncé off with Sweaty Shirtless Superman, Stephen Dorff, and a mute priest who was tortured by Kurtz Rourke’s bad puns. Bonding around the escapee campfire, Sweaty Shirtless Superman sniffs out Beyoncé’s clairvoyance and they share a mutual pout over their woeful lives. Beyoncé, she can never have sex or her hideous visions of the future will disappear, and Sweaty Shirtless Superman will never get to sex up his mom to give her the grandchildren she always wanted. And don't even get them started on their options for Yule Ball dates. They are in such a pickle.

Back with Kurtz Rourke, the rest of Destiny’s Child is being rape-talked into giving up Beyoncé, yet they pull a Spartacus and all claim to be her. Kurtz Rourke doesn’t like any of this, so he won’t put a ring on it.
Back at the escapee camp, Shirtless Superman takes offence to Beyoncé being called a whore, but is perfectly willing to abandon her in his quest for revenge. Stephen Dorff, meanwhile, wants to head down south to the ladies, and head south on Beyoncé. 
Horny Stephen Dorff, oedipal Superman, Beyonce, and a mute priest... humanity is doomed.
The gods watch as Shirtless Superman and his band of redshirts Superfriends try to liberate a ship to carry them all to the lair of Kurtz Rourke. All looks bleak until Poseidon, tired of stroking his trident all day, swan dives with a triple Lutz into the ink sea and kicks up a tidal wave. This saves the Superfriends and destroys their enemies… along with all the ships and any chance they have of gangbanging Beyoncé on their way to Kurtz Rourke. She cockteases them all by using the one spring of non-ink water to shower under. Oily Shirtless Superman asks Beyoncé for a vision, then verbally bitch slaps her when she relates the one she had with him holding Legolas’ Sparkly Bow, bromancing with Kurtz Rourke in a rickety boat trying to surf tidal waves. Beyoncé retaliates with the power of faith through guilt and tells Oily Shirtless Superman if he wishes his mommy everlasting peace, he better bury her. Because can you imagine the mess if she became a zombie and then he got his full Oedipus on?
Meanwhile, Gendry stokes the coals under the iron bull while the Bloody Mummers bring puppies to Kurtz Rourke, hoping it will ease the news that Beyoncé and the Superfriends escaped them. Kurtz Rourke sends Gendry after the Superfriends and decides the fun she is over: he is heading to Tartarus where the foosball Titans are stashed because, damnit, he’s a busy guy and that Sparkly Bow is just going to have to come to him.
Overcome by guilt and violin music, Superman returns home to bury his momma in the church where the other women called her a whore -- because she would want to be buried in a place of love and respect. While soliloquizing to her corpse about the family line, he punches the wall in sexual frustration, uncovering Legolas’ Sparkly Bow. Gendry quickly leaps from the shadows, before Superman can conceive of the Bow’s sparkly properties. Gendry then kicks Superman’s ass all over the rose petal strewn crypt. 
Don't insult Gendry's skill as a blacksmith...
Yet eventually Superman manages to bury Gendry’s cleaver in the back of his neck. Gendry dies on a bed of rose petals and then Superman decapitates him.
Superfriends Theology Chat Show is interrupted by an ambush from the godless as Superman struggles through the crypts, burdened by the weight of weaponry, Gendry’s head / helm, and his shirt. He emerges just in time to send magic arrows from Legolas’ Sparkly Bow into the throats of the Superfriends’ captors. The Great Eagle observes all as Superman pitches Gendry’s helmed head off the cliff.
The bow must have psychic arrows because Superman's form is TERRIBLE.
Shirtless Superman wakes up in his mom’s bed, his arm apparently poisoned by the antlers on Gendry’s helm. Or just an intense allergic reaction to having to fight in a shirt. Beyoncé tries to comfort him, but Shirtless Superman just wants to curl up in mommy’s bed alone… until she shows him how bootylicious she could be as a solo artist. Then they do it in mom’s bed. Bye-bye visions, hello flourishing solo career.
During their afterglow the next morning, Stephen Dorff swoons over them both as they embark for Kurtz Rourke’s lair. Kurtz Rourke, he ain’t there. He’s standing in front of The Wall as Traitorous Rebellious Emo Redshirt Klaus tries to convince him of the wildlings, grumpkins, snarks, and Others who live beyond The Wall. The reference is lost on Kurtz Rourke, so they press on toward the ‘gate’ of The Wall.
You know nothing, Kurtz Rourke.
At Kurtz Rourke’s lair, the rest of Destiny’s Child roasts in harmony inside the iron bull. Beyoncé cries convincingly at the site of their charred bodies still trying to stay together as a group. Superman and the Superfriends deliberately run into a pit ambush where Legolas’ Sparkly Bow is snatched by one of Kurtz Rourke’s puppies. They all look to be slaughtered until Ares flits down to rescue them and Athena shows up with magical galloping horses. Rescue and salvation are assured until a firework crashes down from the heavens and the earth trembles under the force of Zeus the Bard’s awesome abs (as well it should). He bitch-whips Ares into hades, then man-splains everything to Superman: bitch, you on your own – and don’t fuck this up. The Superfriends take off on the magic horses, following the Great Eagle to The Wall.
You get your ass to the Wall and sort out your bastard problems. Zeus out!
Meanwhile, rather than actually make progress, Kurtz Rourke fiddles with Legolas’ Sparkly Bow, frolics with puppies, and gouges out the eyes of his lookout.
A funeral, complete with Royal Wedding style hats, is held for Ares while Zeus the Bard weeps the hottest man or god has ever wept. 
Superman and the Superfriends arrive at The Wall to find not soldiers, but weak men, bastards, and thieves. They then realize why, vow of celibacy or not, no one finds honor in serving at The Wall anymore. 
Traitorous Rebellious Emo Redshirt Klaus and Kurtz Rourke have another convo about Superman, intercut with Superman and Beyoncé explaining to the current Lord Commander how Kurtz Rourke got a hold of Legolas’ Sparkly Bow. The Lord Commander, probably related to Janos Slynt, poo-poos any talk of Sparkly Bows, lobstrosity helms, grumkins, or undead wildling armies, and plans to negotiate with Kurtz Rourke in order to avoid fighting. On cue, Kurtz Rourke’s envoy shows up, demanding parlay with Superman Snow, and Beyoncé’s surfer bromance vision seems imminent. Kurtz Rourke hangs in the shadows (like he does) and parlays with Superman Snow, offering to be his daddy – no more bastardy, only the panicked squeals of the dying bodies piling up around their new happy family. Superman Snow spits on the offer and returns to The Wall and Superfriends, a proud bastard until the day he dies. Tomorrow, they battle!
Possibly rethinking this decision, that night Superman Snow mopes as he looks beyond The Wall, then reluctantly dons armour, becoming more than a shirtless bastard peasant. He’s now an empowered shirtless bastard peasant with Superfriends, who really aren’t that super.
We've got bastards, weak old men, and a self-obsessed pop star. The wildlings have Kurtz Rayder. We.are.fucked.

Kurtz Rayder prepares the wildling army for battle and, using Legolas’ Sparkly Bow, blasts a giant hole in The Wall. Woe is the Night’s Watch until Superman Snow inspires them by rapping to sword-on-shield beats. Everyone runs headlong into a tunnel fight where Superman Snow uses bootylicious moves to rack up a high body count. Somehow Kurtz Rayder slips up to the Lord Commander’s chambers and skewers him without a word. Negotiation fail. In the tunnels, Traitorous Rebellious Emo Redshirt Klaus shouts Superman Snow’s name to ensure his own skewering is meaningful. Finally free of this movie, he can start daggering his siblings so he can maintain his Traitorous Rebellious Emo attitude for another few centuries.
You think your mom issues are complicated? Mine turned my entire family into vampires, I killed her, and now her reanimated corpse wants us ALL dead. I gotta get out of this movie, Superman!
Kurtz Rayder manages to arrow the keystone of The Wall, starting a slow crumbling within the tunnels. Knowing they must escape or risk the most un-hot death of the crushed, Superman and the Superfriends rush upwards towards Beyoncé, and then beyond when she hardly acknowledges all their hard work and can only worry about how bad her hair looks with all this dirt falling on it. The battling heroes finally make it to where the foosball Titans are stored with their weeping angel troll guardians just in time to see Kurtz Rayder arrow them free.
Superman Snow is disoriented by the release of foosballers from their caged table and must remove his armour to sort it all out in his mind, unencumbered by the weight of anything on his chest. Stephen Dorff is actually being useful and has managed to get Legolas’ Sparkly Bow away from Kurtz Rayder. He waves it for Superman Snow to come retrieve when he is trampled by the foosball Titans for serving a real purpose. Superman Snow kneels in confusion, not understanding how any of this happened without him. Just when it seems all is lost to utter ridiculousness, the gods swoosh down, led by the immaculately chiseled Zeus the Bard, armed with Ares' giant hammer. (All right, I’m just going to say it: the hammer is his penis.)
They had to put him in the back so his 'hammer' wouldn't eclipse all else.
Zeus the Bard slams Legolas’ Sparkly Bow into oblivion with his hammer, then orders disoriented Superman Snow to go kill Kurtz Rayder so this movie can end already and Zeus the Bard can go live manly ever after, shooting arrows with Legolas. Superman Snow runs off and the gods have a smackdown with their foosball cousins. Zeus the Bard manages to gut and destroy four of them in three seconds with a random length of chain he pulls out from some cuffs on the wall. Yeah, that’s the king of the gods, bitches.
Superman Snow stumbles his way into Kurtz Rayder’s knife half a dozen times as the foosballers take out some of the lesser gods. Their deaths, although unseen by Superman Snow, give him the strength to start wailing on Kurtz Rayder and we jump cut the hell out of these two fights until Superman Snow’s multiple stab wounds finally make him dizzy and he must slow-mo down his fight.
Meanwhile, Zeus the Bard continues wrecking Titans with the simple, mortal crafted chain from the wall, and when one gets close enough to grab for his foot, Zeus the Bard slams that foot through the foosball Titan’s chest. Through. It. Just… sex me now.
Superman Snow is literally getting the seven bells knocked out of him (all right, I think the score only rang five bells) just as Athena gets skewered and Zeus the Bard ceases all badass chain fighting to be at her side. Badass warrior and loving family man – be still my heart. 
Now this is an incestual relationship I'd get in on, if you know what I mean
As she dies without ever getting to kiss her daddy, Zeus the Bard mournfully climbs on top of the Pandorica as his remaining kin fight for their lives. Using his fabulous pecs and arm muscles, he pulls down the entire mountain, collapsing it on himself, his kin, and the foosball Titans.
Meanwhile, Superman Snow has slow-fought enough and finally shoves Kurtz Rayder’s knife into our villain’s neck. Revenge complete, Superman dies.

Yet Zeus the Bard in all his awesome hotness manages to flash out with Athena’s body before sending the entire wildling army into the depths of Mordor under the crushing mountain.
Screw you guys, I'm going to Laketown to fight me a dragon!
Decade-ish Later Epilogue: The Great Dragon narrates a relief sculpture tale around Shirtless Superman Snow’s tomb as mama Beyoncé looks on. When Superman Snow’s own bastard son touches the 3-D lobstrosity helm, he sees visions of war. Not to fret, the Great Dragon in flesh is there to impart cryptic futures to the boy. Beyoncé’s been too busy getting her nails done to overhear, but calls her son away when she sees the Great Dragon within kissing distance of her kid. Superman Snow’s bastard closes his eyes to visions of his daddy and Zeus the Bard rocking it in the heavens with a new army of gods and Superfriends.
And they all lived violently ever after.
I don't even have words for this silliness...

* Yes, I am fully aware of John Hurt’s long and varied career, but the presence of magic, VOs, and the character’s penchant for imparting wisdom the main character doesn’t understand lends itself to Merlin references.

** I searched and searched for images of how creepily close Theseus and his mom get, but to no avail. Trust me, though, it's like there's a neon sign above the two flashing 'oedipal relationship' the whole time. 

And, if you couldn't tell, I'm kind of madly in love with Luke Evans.

I meant what I said about the donation. The first person, if such an one exists, to cite every reference will be granted a $10 donation to the non-profit of their choice. I would say no cheating by google-pedia-ing, but it's for a good cause, so I DO NOT encourage it but it's not like I can stop you.

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