If You're Not a Rock Star: Fake It. Part 2

In part two of our week of debauchery, we begin on Friday afternoon, when K-Rock, ToniK and I went down to the WSOP to see Johnny Detroit play (he outlasted 6000 out of 9000 players, yo!). We got lucky because Johnny's table was right up against the spectator ropes, so we could actually watch him play. Dean the Dream and some of the loverly Canadians showed up too. See how freakin' cool he looks at the table.



Here's the real issue with going down to the WSOP. Johnny was playing for team Bodog. Team Bodog had an open bar lounge. So between 3:00pm when we got there and 5:30pm when Johnny was done with his break, we drank. A lot. A lot of stupid, free, top-shelf alcohol. So much so that we all felt sickly. I can't even imagine how much money was spent giving everybody free drinks, but it was probably out of line with what should have been spent giving folks liquor instead of, say, building roads in Africa.

We met Mekhi Phifer. Unfortunately, Ry was seemingly too drunk to take a photo.


We also met some dude named "The Cowboy." I have no idea who he was, but we were entertained.


So then I rush home and change and have dinner at Nobu with beautiful Jen and it was so good to see her. She was sleepy at 10:00pm though, so I headed out to Fado for Uncle Andy's going away party. The evening at Fado can be summed up with the following two exhibits:

Exhibit A: Welcome to the Sean Critchfield Experience


Exhibit B: The Best Text Message I've Ever Received
From: Hott Scott
To: Jocelyn
Time: 1:59am
You hooker bitch. Stop throwing the hootchie cootchy around like it's milk and cookie day at the retard farm.

Yeah, maybe you don't think that text message is so sweet it makes your heart swell, but I know that the real translation on that one is "You're such a sweet girl. I'm so glad that you came out tonight. Come pinky swear with me so that we can be best friends forever!"

For no reason, and a decision I later regret, 2:00am isn't late enough for us, so we head out to the Roadrunner for a couple of hours. I have no idea why we did that, but it was nice.

By Saturday morning though, I'm totally sick. I managed to crawl out of bed long enough to meet Uncle Andy and RJ for a going away lunch, and then I sleep until 8:00pm. I only wake up at 8:00pm because I'm supposed to be at a VIP party at ten.

I wish I had pictures of this party, because it was awesome, but I was having such a good time I forgot to take pictures. The party was in one of the VIP rooms at Tao and the girls were there and the guest list was only like 70 people so you could actually interact. All the people in the industry I love were there, plus a bunch of silly celebs, and some not so silly ones. But honestly, I have no specific stories for you. I guess since I'm doing bullet lists for all parties, I'll tell you that this party included:

- Open bottle service of all kinds
- NBA players
- Pregnant Britney
- 30 paid models, mingling
- Security problems and moochers

I do have this photo, of a guy with a belt buckle with a bottle opener on it. Fun times.



I slept all day on Sunday. We headed out around 9:00pm to the Bluff/BetUS party. This party featured:
- Goldfinger (and yes, they still play out)
- More NBA players
- Marcel Luske - singing

Again, I have no photos, and the ones I do have, I'm not posting because we look so terrible. But I do have a picture of Ry and I with Robert Horry, who is a stunningly beautiful man. He is also a tall man. Look and see, except I can understand if you are distracted from his height while you're busy saying "Jocelyn, what is that RIDICULOUS semi-Flashdance throughback/semi-Catholic school girl outfit you are wearing?" I know. I'm ashamed too.



Here ends the chronicals of World Series of Poker week, which should be named World Series of Hookers, Booze and Blow week. I'm tired.

 

If you're not a rock star: Fake it. Part 1.

World Series of Poker Week. If you work in the industry at all, this week is like Christmas with none of the presents and ten times the parties. After a solid week of being out past 3:00am, often until the sun came up, just about every night, all of the following describe how I feel:

- I have a serious head cold. On Saturday afternoon, I couldn't get out of bed until 6:00pm because I had a 101 degree fever. Sweet. I have this headcold because I smoked a hookah at a party on Tuesday. We weren't using those plastic covers because we were all too drunk to deal with that. Some jackass had a cold. Now a bunch of us do.

- This is how I self describe how I feel: I feel like every night since Tuesday, somebody has, around midnight, dunked me into a vat of vodka. Every fifteen minutes, they remove me from the vat of vodka and beat me with baseball bats. The sad part about this is that, if you follow the metaphor through, around 11:45pm each night I started screaming "Please! Dunk me in a vat of vodka and beat me!"

- I have bruises and no idea where they came from.

- My eyes are seemingly permanantly dehydrated.

That said! Pictures and stories! Part 1 covers Tuesday through Thursday.

The following two pictures were taken just before the Bodog party on Tuesday night. I post them to confirm that on Tuesday, we all looked like normal, healthy people. By Sunday we look like zombie alcoholics.

My peeps throw it down with some pre-party drinks at the Venetian.


Apparently, none of my girls felt wearing anything other than black was appropriate.

The Bodog party was at Tao. They had rented out the entire club and it was, of course, open bar. Within 20 minutes, we'd already had champagne and jaeger bombs. I don't think you need to ask how quickly this went down hill. This party featured all of the following:
- Chinese acrobats
- Contortionists
- So many almost naked chicks dancing that you lost count
- Creepy pervo men taking pictures of the naked club dancing girls on their camera phones
- Kobe beef and tiny boxes of lobster lo mein
- MIDGET NINJAS!!!!!!

Everybody's been asking about the midget ninjas, and I'm telling you, it was true. I have all of the photos below to prove it!


Sherri & I with MIDGET NINJAS.


Ry & Matty with MIDGET NINJAS.


Smoke, MIDGET NINJAS and my girls!

And also....CHINESE DRAGONS! Britz and I tried to get a picture with the dragon, but trying to have drunk folks take pictures of you with moving objects doesn't work out so well.



Then, later, Johnny D comes up to us and says "There's a hookah lounge AND an ice cream sundae bar back in the other room!" The sprint is on, people. Enjoy some hookah pictures.


Ry & Toni: Drunk eyes!


Let it not be said that we all won't immediately go for the free ice cream just as quickly as we went for the free booze.


The ladies luv Johnny D.

I have no idea what time we left, or really where I ended up afterwards. I know I was intending to head back for a suite party and then it all went somewhere else altogether...

Wednesday
I will come clean: I actually took a day off in this run of debauchery to knit and store up energy for the weekend. It was Wednesday. I unsuccessfully tried to advance in Prince of Persia, the Warrior Within.

Thursday
Thursday starts out with a three hour dining extravaganza at Michael Minna. Because I'm with my hottie Canadian girls, that also involves mojitos and wine before we've ever left for that evening's party. Then, around 11:30pm, we're like, "Let's head up to the Doyle's Room VIP party!" Because it seemed like a good idea at the time.

That party? Kind of lame but, in retrospect, no so bad. It had all of the following:
- Free open bar
- Girls in cowboy hats riding mechanical bulls
- Daniel Negraneu
- White midwesterners dancing to eighties rap

But really, the best time was after we left. I give you some pictures.


I love E's boobs, and it's not just because I'm drunk.


Ry & Pretty Nic with some, ahem, contraband.


Toni is Ron Jeremy's #1 Fan. And so he signed her boob.


The ladies also love MC.

Dude, long night. The sun was coming up by the time I actually went to bed. But I was not to be deterred by lack of sleep and booze in my veins because, well, there was a lot to do on Friday. See Part 2 tomorrow.

 

My Staff Rocks

I have an entry in the works about the week of parties and insanity that is World Series of Poker week. I do. I feel dead today. I'll be tomorrow. In the meantime, enjoy this picture of my marketing staff rocking the hell out at team bonding dinner the other week. The women, we love Ry.

 

Would you like to see something beautiful?

I don't even want to talk about the iBook issue. Not open for discussion.

I'm back! Mrs. DCWP - yes, I can't even articulate at the moment.

On to something beautiful. This.

I enjoyed If Lucy Fell, though it didn't have any kind of lasting impact on me. Despite what others might tell you, I was only mildly fond of Fall. But in both those movies, afterwards, I was like, "There's something about the stories he's trying to tell, I feel them, but something...just...missing."

Not missing in Mind the Gap, I tell you. It's just beautiful, and worthy of it's happy endings because it earns them. You should all see it. It's lovely.

Other things you might want to see:
If you want to be depressed for two solid weeks, try Born Into Brothels. But be prepared to give up hope that the world at large cares about children.

If you want to be totally underwhelmed, try When Will I Be Loved. And it's sad that you'll be totally underwhelmed because Neve Campbell is REALLY good in this. Dear James Tobak, Please attempt to tell a story where there's some kind, any kind, of a fabric going on.

If you want to be pleasantly surprised, check out Neve's other good work in The Company. Pretty nicely done, really.

Between the trip, LA and WSOP week here, I feel like somebody injected beer into my veins. More coming later.

 

Some Last Thoughts on Queen Bees and Wannabes

So, one of the key elements of the concept of Queen Bees and Wannabes is that teenage girls accept the "Act Like a Woman" box. In this scenario, there's a box, and if you have characteristics that are inside the box, you're a valid woman. And if you have characteristics that our outside of the box, you are not a valid woman.

If you're inside the box, you are: Pretty, confident, hang out with the right guys, nice on the outside, happy, has money, thin, in control, popular, athletic.

If you're outside the box, you are: shy, fat, have acne, too opinionated and cause-oriented, gay

For the record, because she's AWESOME, Rosalind Wiseman actually notes that athletic is only on the "inside" of the box if it's pretty, Mia Hamm-athletic. If it's masculine athletic, not so much.

So what's the one that's most concering? Well, I'll tell you, to me it's the one that's choice-oriented. By which I obviously mean "too opinionated and cause-oriented." I'm not saying that the rest of those don't suck, but life is dealing with challenges. I've had my skin go haywire (or worse) on me, and I've been overweight, and while people totally treat you differently when you're like that, you have to learn to deal with it because you can't completely control it and that's just life. But isn't it awful that something girls consider such a horrible characteristic that it actually puts girls outside of the "Act Like a Woman" box is being opinionated or cause-oriented? That's horrifying to me. Because once you teach a girl to NOT be like that, will she ever realize that it's okay to be like that? Sigh.

And while statistics are only as good as the agenda of the institution that put the report together, here are a couple of good ones:

The overall U.S. teen pregnancy rate (while still HIGHER than in most developed countries) decreased 17% from 1990 to 1996. While 20% of this decline is attributed to decreased sexual activity, 80% is attributed to more effective contraception practices.

Now, I know a lot of people who would take issue with only 20% of that number being attributed to decreased sexual activity. And let's be fair, it seems like that percentage should be higher given the number of resources being allocated to promoting abstinence versus those allocated to promoting effective contraception. But I guess the important number is the decrease, right? WRONG. Isn't anybody seriously concerned that the teen pregnancy rate in the U.S. is higher than in most developed countries? Shouldn't we maybe be looking at what THOSE countries are doing? Know what I know? Most of them aren't as hung up on abstinence as we are.

Here's another one:

Of girls who became pregnant, many feel that pregnancy will solve their problems. Instead, over 70% of pregnant and parenting teens are beaten by their boyfriends.

This also probably isn't a shocker when you think it through logically. But it's scary, no?

Okay, I'm done talking about this book now. But you should read it. You should read it if you're female. You should read it if you're going to be raising a girl child. Read it. It's good.

 

Tell Me I'm Pretty! No, Seriously! Try it!

So, at the airport the other day, I finally finished Queen Bees and Wannabes. I've read a lot of the standard cannon of books about the scarring events of growing up girl -- though, you know, there are still a bunch of them on my wishlist and you're always welcome to contribute to my collection at Christmas-time. Anyway, my point is that I've read a lot of these books, but this is the first one where I've come out of it saying: "Wow. I really just learned something about myself." Why is this, you may ask? Because, let's be real, most of these books focus on the scarring events of girls picking on other girls, of being overweight as a kid, of having a bad childhood. But Queen Bees and Wannabes goes so far beyond that. It really does. It not only talks about the impact of having a relatively happy tween and teendom, it even talks about the traumatic impact of things like the first time your little group of girls breaks up and you lose a friend and things like that that happen to every tween/teen girl at some point. It's awesome. And then I had a revelation about it.

Also, by the way, if you've read the book, I was a banker. There you go.

Okay, so, revelation time. So, it's been pointed out by people a hundred million times that I have compliment deflection syndrome: as in, you say something nice about me and I immediately try to invalidate it. Here's an example:

Him
You're very pretty.

Me
No, not so much. What you can't see is that there's a ton of grey in my hair and a bad scar on my right cheek. My right incisor is totally crooked. My breasts are too small. My eyes are two dramatically different shapes - I mean, we're not even talking close to being the same shape. Underneath all of this hair product, I totally have a white girl fro. I have cellulite pouches on the top of my thighs. I'm amazingly bo-legged from 13 years of dance lessons. Look! See! I can't even force my knees together. And don't even get me started on my skinny girl arms and my huge child-bearing hips.

You think I'm joking, but I'm not. That's my typical response in that situation. When that fails to get my point across, I'll launch into my emotional and psychological deficiencies until you're really, totally forced to get my point.

So, I'm in Vancouver the other week and pretty much that exchange happens exactly as I laid it out up there, and, because he is ALL ZEN, the boy in said conversation looks at me and says, "Wow. Do you wonder why you do that? I don't even necessarily think you completely believe everything you said there. If you really believed all of that stuff, you'd have zero self esteem, and if you had zero self-esteem, you wouldn't be sitting here talking to me as comfortably as you are."

In fairness, his grammar wasn't quite that good when he said that. There were a lot more "for sure" and "like" in that statement. I can't replicate it though.

I'm about to answer, "Yeah, I got that from my mom. She's totally incapable of taking a compliment," because that's usually what I say when confronted with that. Because it's, at least partially, true.

And in that moment, a section from Queen Bees and Wannabes comes to my head in which it is explained that most girls are trained from an early age to never accept compliments or admit anything good about themselves because if they do, they will be considered conceited, and being considered conceited is fantastic ammunition to be used against a girl to "ladder jump" her in the social hierarchy of girls. And I'm like, "Yeah, you know what, I was ABSOLUTELY trained to think that accepting a compliment is a threat to your social status. That's SO RIDICULOUS. I have to kick this habit."

I immediately, the next day, call my mother to share this revelation with her. This is how this gets worked out in her head:

My Mom
Well, I don't know about that whole deflecting compliments in order to preserve social standing. I mean, I always did that because when people say something nice to you, you don't want to be rude and say you know because that will make them feel bad themselves, and you don't want people to be made to feel badly by you because...hmmmmm...wait...huh. I guess that preserving social relationships is the underlying reason, huh?"

Yep. I feel like I've just been armed with an important piece of knowledge here. Because here's where the problem comes in. It's not so bad to teach girls to be modest, but we also want to teach them to love themselves too, right? And the more times you tell somebody else that they need to believe that you have fat thighs and weirdly shaped eyes and big hips, the more you'll start to believe it yourself. And anybody who knows me will tell you that after more than a decade of doing this, I've inevitably begun to start to believe it all myself, too. So I've been really actively working on being better at accepting compliments lately. So bring them on. For real!

(No, don't really do that. I'll be so uncomfortable. Give me six months. I'm actively practicing.)

 

Get My Ass Out of Saturn, Please.

"It's incredibly difficult, being a Pisces woman," the astrologer says to me. "I don't envy you. In fact, I respect you. A Pisces born in your birth year is about as sensitive as they make them. I totally get that most days you don't even want to leave your house.

Well, the good news is that you come out of Saturn in another year or so. You'll probably have a better idea of where you're supposed to be when that happens."

"Really?"

"Really. Might be, you know, a little more than a year, but not much."

And that was my day.

 

With Liberty & Justice for All: How Americans Can Take TOO MUCH Advantage of Their Freedom

I'm in the airport while I write this. Don't ask, I won't explain. I think my cell is still working though.

Be aware that you will read these stories, and the only words that will come to your head are, "Fucking Vegas, man." It's like a fairy tale in three parts.

Chapter One: The Princess Has Lost Her Slipper, and Her Boyfriend is PISSED
So, I've been going out a lot lately. I feel, you know, more myself because of that. On Friday, Krock and I head out to 80's night at the House of Blues (or HOB if you're THAT FUCKING HIP). I love 80's night, not only because I love the music, but because, as a general rule, there are no men at eighties night. I mean, there are boyfriends who are dragged there by their girlfriends. There are the occassional gay men, but not that many at HOB. Every once in a while, there's that guy who figures out that eighties night is basically the home of the bachelorette party, and those men inevitably score like Matthew McConaughey does pretty much every day of his life. Gentlemen, I give you this piece of information freely. Do with it what you will. My point here is that most women at eighties night realize there won't be men at eighties night, so it creates an atmosphere where women feel free and comfortable to get drunk and act as stupid as possible. This is important for the rest of this story.

So, eighties night at the HOB features a band called the Spazmatics. During their first set, the Spazmatics are pretty entertaining. Between the first set and the second set, the band apparently got really, really, really drunk/high/messed up. The second set is a wreck, but no part of it is more of a wreck than the "ladies on stage" section.

During each set, the Spazmatics like to invite all of the "ladies" on stage to dance with them. Wohoo! I don't think I need to tell you that I'm too lazy for that shit. But I'm amused to watch. But the time the "ladies" came up on stage for the second set, the "ladies" were amply drunk themselves. And the Spazmatics were singing "Like a Virgin." Yes, any reasonably sober person could see that this was going to be a cluster.

So Miss "I'm MUCH Drunker Than You" starts to grab the microphone out of the singer's hand and sing with him. She is, needless to say, hopelessly out of tune. Think of the worst American Idol audition you've ever seen and you're just about there. Not to be outdone in the inebriation category, the lead singer gently pulls Miss "I'm MUCH Drunker Than You" down to the floor, where he climbs on top of her, sticks his ass in his face and -- yes, rides her. I turn away in horror, as does most of the audience, but fortunately, I turn back just in time to see the next trainwreck happen. The lead singer then removes Miss "I'm MUCH Drunker Than You"'s shoe. In my head, I'm thinking "No, he's not going to ..." And even as I can't finish that sentence, the lead singer puts half of Miss "I'm MUCH Drunker Than You"'s foot in his mouth. I'm not talking toe suckling, people. I'm talking full-on foot sucking.

I'm about to turn my head away in horror again, but I'm so glad that I didn't, because if I had, I would have missed the moment wherein Miss "I'm MUCH Drunker Than You"'s enraged boyfriend ran onto stage followed by security. Security who managed to grab him and throw him off the stage BEFORE he could remove his girlfriend's foot FROM HER OWN MOUTH, which is where the lead singer had now placed it, and possibly save some of her dignity.

I will tell you that, after that display, while the rest of the world went back to dancing, I was amused by watching the stage exit where Enraged Boyfriend was anxiously awaiting the arrival of his girlfriend. I have never seen a boyfriend escort an embarassing drunken girlfriend from a club more rapidly, and that's saying it politely. And I have mixed emotions about that. It kind of feels like, if you're a couple, this should be previously decided upon. If your girl wants to get ass drunk and make an idiot out of herself when she goes out, perhaps you should just stay home. Or at least advise against eighties night, where the atmosphere is girls acting stupid.

It was a good night.

Chapter Two: The Princess Tames the (Mechanical) Wild Beast
Saturday night we go out again, meeting up with Kim at Gilley's at the Frontier. Let me begin by saying that I love country music, I have hours of it on my iPod. I love country bars, if you're in, say, Tennessee or Kentucky, which is where I typically visit country bars. I do not love Vegas country bars which are, frankly, a scene.

On the way into Gilley's, I couldn't remember what their marketing catch phrase was. I was all like, "You know, Gilley's, with slutty girls and free chilli." I later realized that the phrase is "Cold beer and bikini bull riding." I like mine better. I think, not that they're having a hard time getting people in the door, but I think they'd pack the place more if they gave away free chilli and just put the thing about the slutty girls right out there. That's all.

Anyway, my point is that we hung out until bikini bull riding time. People, it IS as magnificent as it sounds. If you want to watch slutty girls gyrate on a mechanical bull while taking their clothes off, this is your place! And you can get cheap domestic beer there, too! Check it out, yo!

Chapter Three: The Prince Turns Into a Pumpkin at 3:00am (and then he pukes)
Our next stop is the Empire Ballroom, where we are supposed to be meeting friends. It's also eighties night there, too.

We've never been to the Empire Ballroom. We're there to check it out. It's kind of new, except not new because something else was there first. But whatever. We get there, I don't know, maybe 12:30am, and it's totally dead. So dead, in fact, that our friends have already left. And the DJ SUCKS. I mean, SUCKS. But we're there, there's nothing else on the board, and we're like, "Let's get a drink and see if it picks up."

Firstly, it does pick up from the standpoint of amusing things to watch. One of my favorite amusing things to watch in Vegas is dudes who have gotten hookers and don't know what to do with them. There are these guys in VIP who have gotten themselves three hookers for the evening, and they're clueless. CLUELESS. The hookers are pretty much drinking their booze and having a conversation about people they know while the guys kind of do that white guy bounce dance in the VIP area. It's so sadly that by the end of the night I just give up and go explain to one of the guys the proper way to get your money's worth out of hookers in a club. So sad.

Speaking of sad, the club is pretty sad, but you know how sometimes you're somewhere and you feel like if you leave you'll be leaving right before the party starts? Exactly. So Krock and I decide to give it until 1:45am, which apparently is when the party starts! Or at least it's when tragically cute bartender from across the street at New York, New York buys us a round of shots. And he's fun, and we're having a good time. And then I buy a second round of shots.

In my defense, since I was driving that night, I'd hardly had anything to drink, so it didn't occur to me that normal people who had been drinking all night (and it was now about 2:30am) might be at the point where a huge shot would put them over the edge. Yep, didn't even occur to me. So we do the shot, and when I get back, tragically cute bartender from across the street at New York, New York is literally falling over at the bar.

He says he sees a cab in his future, and in the interest of full disclosure, when he goes into the bathroom to puke, Krock and I are like "Do you want to bail out of here before this gets worse?" But here's the thing, I'm standing there, and I'm thinking about all the times in my life I've been drunk beyond reasonable repair and somebody has taken me home rather than just plant me in a cab (yeah, you know who you are -- and you're not shamus, who's more like "You're so drunk! Lay down on the ground in the middle of the street! No, wait, flirt with that guy, he TOTALLY looks STD free."). Anyway, I believe in the karma bank. I strongly believe in the karma bank. So when tragically cute bartender comes out of the bathroom, I say, "Why don't you just give me your keys? I'll go get your car and we'll drive you home and then we'll cab back to our car. I'm not sure you'd last in a cab."

Tragically cute bartender is an IDIOT and hands me over his keys. I could have been gone to the chop shop, but this night is all about karma bank. So I leave Krock with Tragically Cute Bartender while I go to get his car and muddle my way through its ridiculously complex security system. When I get back, I see the look on Krock's face, and I wonder if this is such a good idea.

Within seconds of getting into his car, Tragically Cute Bartender pukes an entire puddle on the floor of his backseat. "Karma bank!" I think.

Tragically Cute Bartender is so drunk that he turns a 15 minute trip to his house into 35 minutes of driving in cirles. "Karma bank!"

Did I mention that Tragically Cute Bartender has a half mastiff, half pitbull dog? Karma bank! Except that actually that dog was very sweet.

Tragically Cute Bartender immediately passes out face down on his bathroom floor. Krock and I have at least 20 minutes to kill to wait for the cab back to the strip and/or Tripsright (and for the record, TripsRight is the most awesome person and totally a super star about heading out to get us in the middle of the night/morning -- because it's now, like, 4:30am). Anyway, so I drag Tragically Drunk Bartender into bed to get him put away for the night. This is where, for the record, soemthing I NEVER want to say again is said, and something I NEVER want to hear again is said.

The thing I NEVER want to have to say again: "Seriously, no joking, aside from any other reason, I'm not kissing you because my mouth is not coming within five feet of your mouth -- because your mouth is FULL OF PUKE."

The thing I NEVER want to have to hear again: "I'm SO SORRY I'm PUKING ALL OVER THE PLACE ... can I call you tomorrow?"

The night is made most excellent though by a convesation with our most wonderful cab driver back to the strip about whether, even though opposites attract, can they make a go of it long term? And then by mini-cheeseburgers and coffee with TripsRight at Denny's followed by whiskey with TripsRight at my place.

Fortunately, my Fourth of July weekend ended on a relaxing note (I mean, I had to work on Monday, but still), with Scategories and Corona at Matt & Jess's barbeque. It was lovely, and in Scategories I got to answer the question "Things Found at a Gym" using the letter G with "Gigantic Guns" for double points.

It was a good Fourth of July. I wish you'd all been here though.

 

X3: I mean, it wasn't that bad.

So, let me just say, so much to write about. But I thought I'd talk aboutX3 first. Then we'll talk about the long party known as my Fourth of July weekend.

So pretty much everybody I talked to said, "Just wait for the DVD." But can I say I'm glad I didn't do that? Not because this movie is brilliant, but because there were some beautiful special effects that would not, so much, have worked if they were on a small screen. That said, before we talk about what I did like, here's a list of what I would have liked to actually have seen in this movie:

• I would have liked it if both the writers and the director had actually cared enough to write and direct dialogue that made the characters sound like they did in the previous films instead of like totally different folks. Where is my smart ass Wolverine and who replaced him with this pansy?
• I would have like if we got just a little further into the movie before we started killing off all of the characters we'd build relationships with in the previous movies.
• I would have liked if, since it's the last of the trilogy, if the movie had rewarded fans with tiny little cameos of characters from the first two: Sure, Toad and Sabretooth aren't sexy enough for the new Magnito clan, but can't we get a quick shot in during the final battle scene?
• I would have liked more shirtless Hugh Jackman.
• I would have liked if I could have just enjoyed the scene where Magnito stretches the Golden Gate Bridge out to Alacatraz without having my brain take over and say, "You know, that bridge isn't actually long enough to reach that far."
• I would have liked if the final shot of Wolverine walking out onto the grass at the school DIDN'T look like is was shot on my VHS camcorder from 1989. WTF?

Okay, but all of that complaining done, I really enjoyed the movie. And I really thought it was a good way to wrap up the story. And I loved all of the angel wing effects, and I loved kind of the heartbreaking moment when you realize that Rogue really has given up her powers. And I loved the moment when Professor X dies, that was really beautifully done. I really felt enough closure to the three films here that I'll be okay with it. And yes, I'll be putting the dvd on my Amazon wish list, so deal.

But I'm saying, if they do do a Wolverine spin off, it better be a return to the cool Wolverine and not this watered down version. That is all.