A Dish Served Cold - Pt. 1 of 2

Varga II - the planet alone was an assault on the senses. Even now, at midday, light was unwilling to extend too much of its presence on the surface of this hell. The dull red glow of the planet’s sun was coupled with a temperature far colder than to be expected from the dry, desert landscape. And the smell - the acrid stench that burned the nose and the eyes. No matter how many times he had reviewed the logs and reports, nothing had truly prepared him for the stench of this place. But he was Worf, son of Mog, and he had no time to concern himself with mild unpleasantries.

It had taken a great deal of effort and latinum to circumvent the quarantines that protected this planet, quarantines put in place decades ago by Starfleet Command. Admittedly, he was no longer under their rule, but this was still their territory. And he was far from the Klingon home world. So far, in fact, that he had been forced to call in several old favors to make it here undetected, but, honestly, what else would he be saving them for.

Worf reached to his hip and lifted the tricorder up into his now fading gaze. There had once been a time when his eyes were as keen as any Klingons. A time when his body was honed as hard as steel and the warrior’s fire that burned in his heart could not be quenched. But those times were long gone. Age had dulled those eyes and quenched that fire. All that was now left was a dull smoldering, not worthy of a true Klingon.

The tricorder chirped and whirred, analyzing the surrounding area and condensing this information into a pulsing burst of lights. He was, of course, heading the right way. He had planned this day for some time and knew the route already, but he found some comfort in checking anyway. Though the path was easy, he still struggled, limping slowly and placing much of his weight on a thin, black cane with a bright silver tip.

He was now but a shell, ravaged by a disease and time. He wore a black eye patch over his left eye, a nasty scar stretching above and below, tracing the path of a blade long since stilled. It had been so long ago now he could not even remember that battle. Had it been the second civil war? His graying, mattered hair hung loosely about his shoulders. Deep in thought, he ran his fingers through his also graying beard, clutching them into a fist before releasing. The danger was quickly approaching, and he readied himself for battle.

“Ah, I see I have a visitor once again,” gurgled a voice from ahead. It had a liquid sound that belied its alien origin. It was a voice as dark as night and as cold as space. A voice of emptiness and doubt that burrowed its way into your mind. “Come closer,” it continued, “come to your death.”

Worf stepped out into a small, sandy clearing, perhaps twenty meters in diameter. The clearing was banked by small rock formations not five meters high, and a large crater was burned into the far side of the opening. Near the edge of the crater, a black, oily channel cut through the sand.

Worf inhaled deeply, and answered in his most official-sounding voice, “Hail, Armus. The Klingon Empire and the United Federation of Planets salutes you. I am Ambassador Worf, son of Mog, and in the interests of intergalactic peace, I extend greetings to you.”

A vaguely humanoid form began to slowly rise from the river of sludge. “Welcome, Meat, to the place of your death.” The being appeared to possess two arms and head of sorts, but it was covered – if not composed – of the oily substance. “You know my name, who I am, and yet you still come. What makes you value your life so little?”

Worf stepped forward with his arms spread open, “I come on behalf of many civilizations with a proposition for you. One that I believe you will find to your—” Worf’s voice broke off as his airway was cut off. An unseen force coiled around his neck, slowly choking him.

“You dare bargain with me?” bellowed Armus. Another jolt of force dropped Worf to his knees. “You seek commerce? You seek profit? You dare come to me with this filth?”

Worf’s fingers fumbled about his neck, seeking to pry the unseen vice from his throat. He pushed with all of the air in his lungs and wheezed out a faint, but audible word, “Titans.” The pressure immediately released from his neck, and Worf collapsed onto the ground gasping for air.

“What do you know of the Titans?” Armus bellowed. “Why are you here?”

Worf panted on the ground for a few moments before rising back to his knees. Rubbing his throat, he answered, “They have returned.”

Armus shimmered, visible agitated. The consistency of the liquid that made his form altered, losing color. The being began to ramble to itself shaking violently with each syllable, “They have returned, and yet they do not seek me? They abandon me here with no explanation, no course” Armus turned its attention back to Worf, “Where? Where are they now?”

Worf took a moment to get back on his feet, leaning heavily on his cane, before he answered. “Not far from here. A few days travel. They have appeared near the Antillian homeworld and have begun interfering in our affairs.”

“Interfering?” Armus asked, almost sounding interested.

“Yes,” Worf answered as he sat down on a small rock formation nearby. He leaned forward, much of his weight resting on the cane. “They demand tribute from us. They demand that we honor them for their superior nature. They interfere with our trade routes. They have proclaimed themselves rulers of the sector.” With each word, each sentence he had allowed his voice to grow louder, more angry. He paused for a moment, catching his breath. “Rulers of our territory.” He spat on the ground. “And there is nothing that we can do about it. Every military force that we have sent against them has been destroyed. Every attack has been overcome. We are at a loss. We are desperate. We need help from someone who is as powerful as they.”

Armus’s answer was almost sickening in the delight it showed, “And you to come to me?”

Worf nodded in agreement. “And we come to you. While our last visit to this planet was brief, we recognized the sheer force that you hold at your command. You were able to strike down one of our people with but a gesture. You outmatched every show of force we could offer. It was obvious that we faced a superior being with a superior intellect.”

Armus paused a moment, mulling over Worf’s words. “Yes, you would need my help. The one I killed – “

“Lt. Yar” interrupted Worf.

“Her name does not matter,” answered Armus curtly. “This Yar,” Armus spat the name out as if it were a bit of rancid meat “she died quickly. Your people possess no power. No strength. You would have no hope of overcoming the Titans.”

“And that is why we seek your aid. We know that with your hand guiding us, we will be able to rise up and overcome them. With you allied by our side, we may find true power.”

“You delude yourself with your own importance, son of Mog. You will not be my ally. You will be my victim if you do not obey me. You will use your ship to take me to the Titans, and I will crush them. I will feast on their flesh and grind their bones into dust. They will weep before me, and they will know fear. And you, you will—I, I do not—what, what is happening to me? What—what have you done to me?”

(To Be Concluded)

The spiders in my brain tell me that if I close my eyes, the gnomes will steal my soul...

It's the first time that I've stayed up all night in quite some time (probably since college). I was playing Lord of the Rings: The Third Age, and the next thing I knew, it was after 5:00 AM. It seems pointless to go to sleep now, so I have decided to write haikus regarding the games I've been playing...I think the lack of sleep may be affecting my higher brain functions...

Lord of the Rings: The Third Age:

Frelling Uruk-Hai
They keep killing my party
...need to level build

Dune 2000:

Build fast, Atreides
You need missile tanks to win
Or ornithopters

Baldurs Gate: Dark Alliance 2

My dwarf's an archer?
Who makes a dwarf an archer?
Lousy game design.

Peter Jackson hates black people

Ever since Kanye West uttered those revelatory words about our nation's President, I have been on the lookout for these subversive hate-mongering white men that have risen to positions of power. Last night, as I watched the updated version of King Kong, I believe I found one - Peter Jackson.

Throughout his film he has one racist visual image after another, each one more heinous and insulting. The violent, murderous natives of "Skull Island" are all as black as sin, while the lily-white Americans are just trying to make a harmless movie. It seems that this color-scheme is foremost on Mr. Jackson's mind since upon close observation, it becomes apparent that several of these natives are really Anglos and Asians done up in black-face. And here I thought that kind of degenerate entertainment went out in the 50's.

In the film, the most violent, bloodthirsty native is obviously an Asian male, but his skin is a deep ebony. If you think that the racial overtones hadn't been obvious enough, the palest of these "natives," a decrepit old hag, is the only one of them capable of speech. Obviously, she had to whiten herself up to gain the gift of language.

The only redeeming black character in the film is the ship's first mate, who just so happens to be the first human killed by Kong in the film. Obviously some twisted commentary on black on black crime. I'm sure Mama Jackson would be so proud.

And Kong himself is perhaps the worst embodiment of racial stereotypes since Darth Vader. The BLACK gorilla is able to lift more, jump higher, run faster and throw farther than any of the white characters, yet the one thing that he lacks is basic human intelligence. He is ruled entirely by instinct with no intellectual thought, probably how Jackson views the entire black race. Oh, did I mention that he spends his entire time on screen obsessed with a blonde-haired white girl. Apparently an ebony princess isn't good enough for our erstwhile king.

They could have only made Kong more insulting if they had done him up in blackface and had him tap-dancing on a stage to entertain the white folk--oh wait, they already paid some black actors to do that at the beginning of the film.

Have you seen my hate? I seem to have misplaced it...

In my meanderings about the Internet today, I stumbled across a scathing revitorial (review+editorial) on the recent film release of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe that was entitled "Narnia Represents Everything That Is Most Hateful About Religion."

Now, I saw this movie twice over the past weekend, and I have to admit that I really didn't see anything all that "hateful" in the film. (Then again, I didn't see the anti-Semitism in Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ. In fact, I found myself arguing with someone at a Christmas party last year that the film wasn't the least bit anti-Semitic. The discussion reached a stalemate when I learned that the girl I was arguing with hadn't actually seen the movie. She had, however, written a graduate-level paper regarding the film's anti-Semitic content and, ergo, was an expert...but I digress.)

Upon reading the article, though, I realized the error. You see, the article should have been titled "Narnia Represents Everything That Is Most Hateable About Religion." I found that the following passage brought the author's reasoning most clearly to light:

"Children are supposed to fall in love with the hypnotic Aslan, though he is not a character: he is pure, raw, awesome power. He is an emblem for everything an atheist objects to in religion. His divine presence is a way to avoid humans taking responsibility for everything here and now on earth, where no one is watching, no one is guiding, no one is judging and there is no other place yet to come."

Realizing how misguided this author was, I immediately knew that I had to post a response. There are so many better reasons to hate religion (Christianity in particular) that it boggles the mind. After a brief wracking of my brain, I have settled on ten better reasons to hate Christians than because of our faith in the divine Aslan...er...Jesus.

10. The Daystar Network.

9. The Spanish Inquisition.

8. The second Left Behind movie. (The first one gave reason to be mildly displeased, but the second one was a clear insult.)

7. Their flapping heads and beady eyes…no, wait...those are Canadians.

6. Their inability to understand sarcasm, irony or most other literary conventions.

5. Centuries of anti-Semitism.

4. Their instant belief in everything that shows up in their e-mail inbox.

3. The Crusades.

2. Giving out tracts instead of candy on Halloween.

1. Amy Grant.

An Open Letter to J.K. Rowling - Author of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Blasphemous Sacrilege

Madame Rowling,

Reticent as I am to interact with anyone involved with the den of iniquity known as the "entertainment industry," I find that I can remain silent no longer. In the past month, I have had the opportunity to not once, but twice view the recently released film based on your novel, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. May I be the first to say - How dare you!

How dare you and your ilk invade my nation with your filth and propaganda. How dare you sully this land's soil with your lies and pornography. How dare you profit from damning the souls of children and household pets. Your work is a travesty and an insult to all that is good and pure in America.

While I was admittedly surprised at the lack of bestiality, demon worship and human sacrifice that I expected from the film, I still felt an evil presence hovering about me as I entered the theater. A damp blast of air pulsed on the back of my neck during the entire movie - doubtless a minion of the dark lord seeking to penetrate my spine to gain access to my soul. My ample waist felt pressure on either side of me - as if some unseen force had taken two planks of wood or coated plastic and forced them to pinch me on either side. And when I tried to leave the theater in the middle of the film, a sticky, unworldly substance attempted to pin my feet in place. Oh, it gave off a saccharine-sweet aroma, but I recognized it for the demonic bile it was.

As if this assault was not enough, the content of your "masterpiece" was even more disturbing. Let us take a moment to examine one of the key themes in your work - magic. Poppycock is more like it, but let us use your term for the benefits of clarity. It is obvious that you encourage children to believe in this unseen yet all-powerful force that operates beyond human comprehension to affect our lives. Moreover, you encourage children to engage in daily exercises to strengthen and hone their ability to commune with this power. The gall you have, Madame. To take young minds and pollute them with this drivel is unforgivable. How you can sleep at night is beyond me. Matters are only made worse when you make it clear that the level of one's belief in this unseen power (placing one's "faith" in it, if you will) will result in improvements to one's life, station and character. How absurd. I will pray for your sanity.

To prove the evil of your works, Madame, I need only point out how quickly children are seduced into mimicking young Mr. Potter and his cronies. As I sat there, watching your filth on the silver screen (now sullied to a dull brass, or perhaps tungsten) I noted that the children of your dastardly Hogwart's magic school were all dressed in black robes. This unique wardrobe choice reminded me of last May when I attended my nephew's graduation from kindergarten. All 17 children in his graduating class had chosen to don a black, flowing robe over their dress clothes. At the time, I thought the children were merely performing some type of political commentary regarding the U.S. Supreme Court, but now I know the awful truth. It is now obvious to me that these children were imitating the emissaries of darkness from your film.

Perhaps this isolated incident is not enough to convince you of the wickedness of the path you have chosen, but there is more. The characters from your "harmless" wizard film all had a strange manner of speech as well. I'm assuming this is some type of magic language that they all learned in the first movie. There was probably some lesson that taught if you don't pronounce the "h" at a beginning of a word or make every "a" sound like an "aw," the dark prince of hell himself will grant you unspeakable powers. Either way, I attended a community theater production of Hamlet not two weeks ago where every actor in the piece imitated this foul demon-speak. Again, in my naivete, I assumed an innocent reason behind this oddity - perhaps they were all deaf or had recently experienced strokes. Nay. They obviously sought to use some magical wile to enchant their audience to engage in some disgusting orgy of filth and wretchedness. I thank God that I was in that audience and that my faith protected everyone that night.

Now I know that your apologists typically use the defense of "It's not real. It only encourages children to use their imagination." And they say that like it's a good thing. Let's take a minute to look at this glorious "imagination" that you wish to instill into our nation's children. I believe we will uncover the truth if we break the word down to its roots - i/magi/nation. Or to fill in the blanks - I am the MAGI to the NATION. Yes, that's right. I've cracked your cunning lingual code. You seek to turn the children of our nation into the Magi (sorcerers or wise men) of our nation. While I'm sure that you would state your goals are benevolent, I find that highly unlikely. Doubtless you seek to raise up some clan of demonically-powered overseers to conquer the American government and enforce the socialist "utopia" that you British hold so dear.

Well, foist your magical universal health care plans on some other hapless nation - perhaps France. Lord knows they deserve it.

I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel

For the first time in a decade, I have gone snowboarding. This now brings my total of snowboarding trips to two. I don't know if there are words to describe just how much I suck, but I saw dozens of children no higher than my waste rocket past me throughout the day. (I think quite of few of them were laughing at me.) However, I can say that I did a hell of a lot better than I did back in my senior year of high school. Unfortunately, any number multiplied by zero is still zero.

As you might expect, I fell on every part of my anatomy several times - sometimes driving one part of said anatomy into an alternate, more tender part. Oddly enough, the pain of the actual day of snowboarding is so much less then the ongoing suffering of the following days. Every muscle burns with the fire of a hundred...nay, a thousand suns. Those aforementioned anatomy parts grow livid with any motion. And my left knee, my apparent shock absorber of choice, stings on contact with anything heavier than a feather.

In this state, I find myself questioning "Why in the name of all that does not suck did I do this to myself?" I believe the only answer is that I must have some masochistic tendency. Some intense self-loathing that leads me to my own destruction. Typically, I try to avoid pain whenever possible, but on Monday, that was not the case. In fact, I kept trying to push myself until my body was no longer willing to cooperate.

I need to have a good, long talk with myself and work on this latent hostility. Until I work this out, I am going to self-medicate with a lot of rest and sitting on my voluminous, yet supple posterior.

Working my fingers to the bone

As you can see, I'm not really doing such a hot job posting regularly. But I have an excuse this week. While I took time off last week, I am working several extra hours this week.

"Doing what?" you might ask. Well, I work for a marketing company writing boring sales collateral. No really, I'm a copywriter. I write copy. "What kind of copy?" Well, something kind of like this (but completely different).

New to the IBM Workplace family of products is IBM PureEdge. For those of you who have longed for more edge in your applications, IBM now has the answer. This sucker's edgier than U2. That's right, it's edgier than "The Edge" - the definitive article. It's edgier than one of those Schick Triple Edge razors (which is by default three times edgier than The Edge/U2). You want edge? You got it baby. This hot little application is so edgy that it's PureEdge. Pure. Unadulterated. Edge. It's all edge. It's as edgy as a one-dimensional line. There is no part of it that is not edge. You could circumcise a muon with the edge on this puppy. Now that's edge. That's PureEdge, by IBM.

...somebody should pay me to write commercials.

The Pevensies vs. The Hobbits

(I am going to gauge this combat based on each of the groups' later incarnations, at a time when they were battle-hardened and actually "dangerous." If this contest were to take place at the beginning of each set of novels, my guess is that it would be filled with introductions and "how do you do's," ultimately concluding with a grand tea party and discussions of the weather. Then again, perhaps that would have been more interesting...)

"We swear fealty only to King Aargorn!" piped Sam. Turning to his companions, he asked, "Isn't that right, Master Frodo?"

"Well," Frodo answered as he rolled back his eyes in thought, "there is Lady Galadriel...and probably Elrond."

"Don't forget my Lord Theoden," added Merry.

"Alright, alright," muttered Sam. Turning back to the well-armed children he cried, "I take that back. We swear fealty only to King Aargorn, Lady Galadriel, Lord Elrond and King Theoden. But no more."

"You will claim Aslan as the highest king before this day is out, or I shall send you to meet him," came the cry of Edmund Pevensie. (Now dear reader, this challenge may have been more intimidating had Edmund yet reached the initial stages of puberty. However, since he had not, the Hobbits felt no qualms about crying back--

"Game on, Mother Trucker." (In all honesty, this isn't entirely what they said, but I don't feel comfortable writing what they said where young children or women might read it, so I have loosely paraphrased.)

Edmund unsheathed his sword, swinging it back and forth, while his older brother rubbed his hand against his forehead and muttered a "Bloody Hell" under his breath. Lucy and Susan, the two Pevensie girls, fell back several paces from their brothers. You see, the girls were archers and carried no melee weapons with them since Aslan doesn't like it when girls fight in war...unless they are shooting pieces of wood and steel from a long distance. I think it's supposed to be more feminine or something...

Anyway, as the four Hobbits begin their advance, Susan cocked back an arrow and let it fly, lodging the shaft in Pippin's throat. (Gentle reader, the previous line may sound a tad pornographic in nature, but that is no one's intent except for perhaps yours, you filthy pervert.) Lucy's arrow also landed home, striking poor, dead Pippin in the leg. You see, young Lucy had been thinking of gumdrops and caramels rather than listening as her sister told her to target the one on the left. Had she been listening, she would have severely wounded young Frodo Baggins, and things would have gone far better for the Pevensie children.

Realizing he was in terrible danger, Frodo placed the One ring on his finger and became invisible. Surprised, Lucy and Susan paused a moment before reloading their bows, which gave Merry and Sam a chance to begin a mad rush on Peter and Edmund. The wise little hobbits took great trouble to keep the much taller boys between them and the two female archers, robbing the women of a clear shot. Frodo, meanwhile, used his invisibility to sneak up on the girls and promptly stabbed Susan. At the fall of Susan, Lucy began screeching about her "Dearest sister," but she was quickly silenced by the bite of Sting.

Peter, who was quite easily dealing with Merry and Sam, dispatched Edmund to go check on the girls. It bears mentioning that Edmund could be considered what some might call "tricksie" or at least "crafty" or perhaps "a deceptive little wanker." Either way, Edmund had also seen Frodo disappear, and as he approached the fallen bodies of his recently departed sisters, he was well aware that he now faced an invisible foe. (I do mean faced in a figurative sense, since Edmund would not be able to tell if he was actually facing his foe because he was invisible...the foe, not Edmund.)

As luck would have it, or mayhaps the will of Aslan (long may he reign), this particular battle was taking place on a rather dusty, dirty field. As Edmund kneeled near the corpses of his deceased siblings he sneakily (it's a word) filled his hands with dirt and quickly cast it about him. Now anyone who is familiar with cloaking technology (magical or non-magical in origin) may tell you, when someone is cloaked (invisible) light bends around them. Unfortunately for Frodo, dirt does not. Immediately noticing a patch of earth that seemed to halt in mid-air, Edmund lashed out with his blade, neatly severing Frodo's head from his body.

"Noooooooooo" cried Sam as he launched into a blood rage much like the berserkers of old Norse legend. As his tiny form whirled about in a dervish of blood and metal, he quickly struck down Peter the Great, High King of Narnia. Unfortunately, in his unrestrained lust for vengeance, Sam also happened to strike down Merry, who, honestly, was standing a little too close for his own good in the first place.

As Sam raced forward to strike down Edmund, the young lad grabbed the bow from his fallen sister (Susan, not Lucy) and let fly an arrow that pierced Sam's side. Undaunted, Sam continued his advance, a blood-curdling cry drawing forth from his lips. A second arrow struck his left arm, forcing him to drop his favorite frying pan. (Perhaps I should have noted earlier that Sam preferred to enter battle carrying a sword in one hand and a frying pan in the other. It was actually said frying pan that crushed the tiny skull of young Meriadoc Brandybuck not a full minute earlier.)

With Sam so close now, Edmund was forced to drop the bow and unsheathe his sword once again. While not exceptional fighters, hobbits typically have an advantage in combat since most denizens of Middle Earth have never combated an enemy that barely came up to its middle. Unfortunately, Edmund had fought many a tiny enemy -- from dwarves (whom are shorter in Narnia) to wolves to the nasty badgers of Hedgwick Falls (who weren't that nasty really, but the name had stuck). As Sam drew within Edmund's range, he let forth a devastating over-the-head blow that split the little Hobbit's skull right down the middle.

Victorious on the battlefield, Edmund stared around at the devastation and death that lay about him and muttered a muted but triumphant "Bollocks."

The Winner: The Pevensies

The Chronicles of Narnia vs. The Lord of the Rings...in a no-holds-barred cage match

I've taken off the second half of this week to burn through some of the excessive vacation that my employer gives me (I am by no means complaining). Yesterday, I finally had the chance to sit down and watch all three of the extended editions of the Lord of the Rings trilogy back-to-back-to-back. If you're interested in doing this as well, it takes about 11.5 hours with minimal breaks (I'm talking about taking the time to pee in between disks, not the time to cook a meal).

I've also been rereading the Chronicles of Narnia; though it might be better to say I've been devouring them. In the past week, I've read through the first four - typically finishing each novel within 24 hours of starting it. I'm also halfway through the Voyage of the Dawn Treader.

Anyway, since I've been infusing massive amounts of Inkling-based fantasy, I figured now would be as good a time as any to compare the two bodies of work. (For any who might be concerned that I am basing my assessment of Tolkien's craft solely on the movies, rest assured that I have indeed read nearly everything Tolkien wrote about Middle Earth, not just the four main titles.)

It's difficult for me to say which body of work I prefer. I can handily say that I am more familiar with the Chronicles, having read them several times since childhood, while I have only read through the Lord of the Rings twice (once as an adolescent and once as an adult). But familiarity does not necessarily imply preference.

The Chronicles offer a rosier view of a fantastic world, almost making things how we'd want them to be. A world full of nobility and mercy. A land of wonder and awe that surprises us with beauty again and again. Middle Earth, on the other hand is a much darker yet more real realm. Victory is purchased by spilling the blood of another. Suffering is all too common, and redemption is found at the end of a trying, painful journey. Rather than simply relying on an Aslan-ex-machina to save the day, Middle Earthers must agonize and toil long after hope has abandoned them. This structure, of course, leads to a richer, more complex story, but it does not instill the sense of marvel and awe that the Chronicles offer.

In all honesty, I think I read through these sets in the appropriate order. The Chronicles are ideal for younger children. They fuel the imagination. They make you believe that life is a glorious thing and that every moment should be treasured. Joy can be found around the next bend, over the next hill.

The Lord or the Rings trilogy, however, works better for young adults. They offer a much more complex storyline that isn't always the easiest to follow (and I'm not just saying that because I repeatedly confused Sauron and Saruman the first time I read through them...ok, maybe I am). They remind us constantly that nothing is free and that anything great usually comes at a terrible price.

Honestly, to determine which one is better, you really have to decide what you're looking for. Do you want an intelligent, compelling story...or are do you want something that will capture your imagination and instill a sense of wonder?

Perhaps it is simply a sense of nostalgia. Maybe at this moment in my life I'm just looking for something that will offer me a sense of hope. Maybe I need to believe that redemption can be easily gained. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm really happy to be reading some fast-moving, simple novels after just completing the Frank Herbert Dune saga last week. Whatever the reason, I heretofore decide...

The Winner: The Chronicles of Narnia

Best chase scenes

I've been off for the past couple of days, and I've been watching a bunch of DVDs. A couple of these featured some really good chase scenes, which got me trying to decide on my top 10 favorite ones. So here they are.

10. Striking Distance - Honestly the only reason this one made the list is because I get a huge kick out of watching the light bars bouncing around on the tops of the cop cars as they go bounding down the road.

9. The Transporter - A movie about a professional "wheel man." I'm going to go out on a limb and say there were some good scenes in this one.

8. The Italian Job - Three words: Minis, minis, minis.

7. The Bourne Identity - A movie for anyone that's wanted to careen down the narrow streets of a small European village...and has.

6.Return of the Jedi - Who didn't want a speederbike when they saw that movie?

5. The Rock - A movie for anyone that's wanted to drive a Mercedes through a plate glass window...and then derail a street car.

4. Ronin - Driving on the wrong side of the road for fun and profit.

3. Bad Boys II - High end sports car + (A car transporting semi x Villainous Haitians) = Fun for the whole family.

2. Matrix Reloaded - This one probably scored so high because of the fight scenes that are interspersed throughout the chase. I loved the in-car fighting between Morpheus, Trinity and one of Albinos. Of course, ending the scene with two semis slamming into each other at full speed didn't hurt either.

1. Batman Begins - A car chase on rooftops. Does it get any better than this? No. It doesn't.