Blast! (Or Why I'm Going to Play The Riddler in the Next Batman Movie)

I've discovered that Frank Gorshin's viridian-toting, punctuation-clad schizophrenic terrorist may have been on to something in taking up the moniker of "The Riddler".

Allow me to elaborate, for those of you who haven't had the obtuse experience of engaging me in philosophical debates centered around our beloved Caped Crusader. The Riddler, I had until recently decided, is unique in his absolute failure as a masked villain of any kind. Devoid of such trifles as matter-freezing cryoguns, smile-inducing barbituates, or the proportional acrobatic skills of a housecat, The Riddler seems to have three particular abilities:

• Drawing question marks on high explosives
• Pulling off a derby at least half a century after he should be able to
• Giving Robin something to do by proposing apparently solvable riddles (which seems to have died out after the Adam West version)

In short, the Riddler has...well, nothing. His nerfarious schemes are comprised of spraypainting a question mark onto a few pounds of plastique, strapping it to *building, landmark, or vehicle*, and taunting Batman for the remaining twenty minutes of the show. The Department of Homeland Security calls this terrorism, and it's not even the fun kind with...yknow, thrilling conclusions, exotic locations, and Jack Bauer. It's the ugly kind, with Kalashnikovs and firebombs. Because he's never really strayed too far from the formula; blowing up bridges sounds alot like most modern terrorism--spraypainted bombs don't explode too differently from non-spraypainted bombs.

But I think I understand where he's coming from. This came from the past few episodes of Cash Cab, and a Jeopardy quiz or two, in which I've had a veritable bank of answers residing on the tip of my tongue that refused to divulge themselves until it was far too late. I've decided this agonizing frustration is enough to drive anybody crazy. Granted, it might still require a case of schizophrenia or two, and certainly the tenacity to go into the business of...well, firebombing, but it's certainly a good start. Ever wonder where Ken Jennings went? Check the latest roster of the Shining Path, it's a distinct possibility.

My apology takes the form of a book recommendation...

Well it's been two months now, and for the life of me I can't remember why I named the damn thing 'fish entrails' in the first place. Something to do with spewing out the enormous quantity of crap floating around my head, and how it personified itself in my imagination as a bucket of fish entrails. You know the kind; unassumingly resting in a random corner in some salty wharf between the bait shop and the restaurant that appears alarmingly similar to said bait shop. It can't serve any practical purpose beyond alienating us landlubbers (great word). Strange folk, we are, always demanding our animal entrails...well...inside the animal.

At any rate, I invite you all (hah!) to read a spectacular series called A Song of Ice and Fire, by George R.R. Martin. To spare you an agonizing psuedo-history lesson, it's like Lord of the Rings, except all of the elves are dead and gone, the dwarves are actually people, what little and random magic there is in the damn thing actually isn't taken in stride by anybody who sees it, and there's enough irrelevant, anachronistic profanity and needless graphic detail to rival the third Alien movie. The current (overseas) publication date is April 6, 2009, therefore we can expect it to be finished shortly after the International Space Station reaches fruition.