Of all the movies I wanted to see most in theaters this year, none required as long a wait as The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey did. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I had to sit quietly and wait until its third whole weekend of American release before all schedules properly aligned. Those of you who wait to catch movies on DVD or via basic-cable hatchet job may roll your eyes at my impatience if you must, but I like keeping current on my movies, especially those that have been pinned on my mental calendar for months.
To place my anticipation in perspective: I was required to read The Hobbit in seventh-grade English class. Our teacher was such a fan, we received extra credit if we completed our assignments in green ink. I also have the Mind’s Eye six-cassette audio adaptation and the Chuck Dixon/David Wenzel graphic-novel adaptation. I read The Fellowship of the Ring for a ninth-grade book report, but didn’t read the other two until after the movie trilogy had commenced twenty-five years later. I abandoned the Return of the King appendices after five pages, and once owned a copy of The Book of Lost Tales, Volume 1 that I don’t recall ever opening.
Regardless, I’ve been pacing back and forth, waiting for the chance to see Martin Freeman win as Bilbo. Freeman met all my expectations with the proper combination of exasperation, humility, whimsy, and plucky determination. For that alone, I received my money’s worth and then some.
All around you are family, friends, and strangers using the excuse of a new January 1st to restart, relaunch, or reboot their lives. You may doubt their sincerity, their dedication, or their grasp on reality, but you’re not in charge of their story arcs. For whatever reason, they’ve decided their “series” needs to begin again from scratch. Some of them aren’t so sure about what they’re doing, but they firmly believe the results will justify the scheme. Some of them will be wrong, but it’s possible a few of them may be on to something.
Imagine the following scenario:
Remember that time when the world ended on December 21st? And before that on January 1, 2000, at the hands of the Y2K bugaboo? And before that in 1994 as Nostradamus predicted in The Man Who Saw Tomorrow? Neither do I. As the humble survivor of at least three documented ends of the world, I count my blessings and try not to take the failures of those premature endtimes for granted.
Consider this list an overdue companion piece to my previous entry, “
During the solemn, lamentable weekend following last Friday’s senseless tragedy in Newtown, Connecticut, Facebook users who were already struggling with their own reactions, the reactions of their friends, and the fights breaking out between friends of conflicting reactions all found themselves interrupted dozens of times over the course of the weekend by the reassuring face of Academy Award Winner Morgan Freeman, perceived as one of the kindliest, most grandfatherly figures in all of Hollywood. His face was attached to a short essay decrying the culpability of mass media in encouraging too many broken young men to become power-tripping mass murderers because of the seedy allure of posthumous headlines and ten minutes of front-page infamy. Few would argue with the content of the well-meaning essay, but this wasn’t just any old essay written by an ostensibly intelligent typist. This was an essay attached to a photo of Academy Award Winner Morgan Freeman. 
Midlife Crisis Crossover! 