"I know who robbed me of 15 of my best bucks"

Resolution number 638: Do not watch movies whose titles start with “I know...”.

“I know who killed me”, as the name should suggest to any person with half his brain awake, is probably the saddest thing that happened to cinema screens.

Psychotic pianists, stigmatic twins, lame symbolism.. the movie even attempts at a motif.

I'll tell you what it is all about : (SPOILER ALERT people, although if you WANT to watch this movie, you should reflect on your tendency to make bad choices)

Lindsay Lohan – only daughter of affluent suburban parents who chooses writing over the piano goes to school where a classmate, missing for a few weeks, is found dead, with her right hand and right foot missing. Serial killer alert.

What do you know, soon enough Lindsay goes missing. Gore gore gore, fake blood fake blood fake blood, and Lindsay is found comatose in a ditch, minus a hand and a leg herself. Only, when she comes to, she claims to be someone else – as it happens to be, a character from Lindsay the writer's book. Hm... gravy.

Bearded forensic psychologists, split personality theory and regular such mulch for a while, and then boom – they throw stigmatic twins at you. There is not one Lindsay, but two (horror of horrors!), the father coughs up the facts – his baby died in the hospital, he bought one child from a poor crackhead mom who had given birth to twins. No apologies to Bollywood. None. Don't you say that plot twist sounds familiar. No it doesn't. Entirely original, I tell you. It came to the writer in the shower.

So anyway, stigmatic twins means that while this writer chick is undergoing leisurely dismemberment somewhere, her stripper twin bleeds spontaneously. Chop off Lindsay 1's finger, and sure enough, Lindsay 2 will pop a digit too. All blue and bloody, lying on the carpet. Elegant.

All that is well enough, but if you are wondering how she came to share the name and history of a character in Lindsay 1's book, you are clever and should be ashamed of watching such movies.

Finally, no thanks to the FBI, we learn that the bad guy is the pissed-off piano teacher who doesn't take well to students who quit on him. I of course knew who-done-it 10 minutes into the movie – I've had to deal with maniacal music teachers since age 5 up.

So brave little Lindsay 2 hobbles down to spooky house where she knows Lindsay 1 is being butchered in the basement (how does she know? – it has to do with blue flowers, visions, and an owl) – while rich suburban dad dies trying to rescue daughter, the psychotic pianist is no match for 90 pound armless legless Lindsay 2 whose bionic limbs, moreover, are running out of battery (ooh thrilling race against time!) - she manages to saw off his hand – this obviously doesn't agree with him, so he sulks at the piano and plays sad chords with his left hand till Lindsay 2 can take it no more, and sticks him one between the ribs.
Go Lindsay 2.

Then she limps down to the graveyard where she knows Lindsay 1 has been buried (I told you, owls, visions..), some few hours of digging, and there is our stained glass coffin with the blue rose motif (I just changed my decision on how I want to be put to rest – stained glass coffin it shall be) – Lindsay 2 breaks it open with an iron fist (no really, iron fist – she has a bionic hand, don't you pay attention?) - lo and behold! Lindsay 1 is alive and well, for someone who has been systematically cut up and then sealed and buried in an airless coffin for what has to have been hours.

Daniel did lecture me that the faults of this movie were not really faults, but “features” specific to it's genre, which apparently is "teen slasher". Good to know.

Boys and girls, This movie is like strangers with candy. Highly avoidable.

head over heels.

I was at the Six Flags great America amusement park last Saturday, and it has to be one of the most supremely unnecessary things I could have done in life. Never having ridden a roller coaster, I was serenely confident in my ability to stomach a ride. It did not occur to me that my mental image of myself as an adventure loving cool chick had no basis in reality whatsoever.

The first ride i went on, apparently a simple one, corrected that error and helped me reach an important truth – I was not cool.
Daniel and I got on to this idiotic contraption called The Batman, and i cannot imagine how I could have missed the obvious fact that our seats were attached not to the floor like they should be in any decent setting, but shoulder up to the roof, so that we were hanging like so much beef on meat hooks. As the ride shot out, i was still too caught up in my overinflated self image to notice that at the speed at which we had shot out, good things couldn't happen. Then the car took its first insane spin and I was presented with the alarming sight of the sky over my feet, and that was my cue to shut my eyes tight, deny recognition to reality, curl up as tightly as possible, and whimper the names of long forgotten deities from my grandmother's native village.

It was over rather quickly - either that or I have remarkable mastery over the unhealthy habit of suppressing unpleasant memories. I stepped out giddily, telling myself none of this ever happened. Denial is easier than accepting cowardice. Now, that is the kind of self-kidding that gets you into deeper trouble, for next thing I know, I was strapped and fastened on to a very shoddy looking contraption, on my way up the ominous incline of The Raging Bull. On the slow climb, I chanted “This is fun I am not going to die”, and beginning at that awful first drop, and lasting through all the savagery that followed, I produced a scream of such exquisite timber that after i got off, I was left with torn vocal chords, blood in my mouth, and no dignity whatsoever.

I did do a few more rides, none of them pleasant, although I resolutely refused to climb on to the wilder ones like velocity and Superman. it would have been a day entirely wasted had I not discovered this excellent contraption called the river side crawler, a large spidery thing that had baskets strung to it's arms, and will spin you around till you are pleasantly dizzy. I took five repeat rides on this one, accompanied by several 5 year olds and Dnaiel, all shamed and smarting. I was finally enjoying myself, like the lady at the Park's entry gate told me to.

Roller coasters are supposed to be scary, you are supposed to feel that you are pretty much going to die. But why do some of us feel the resentment that we do towards them? I think it has to do with the sheer indignity of being trussed up like poultry and being tossed about, all the while having no say in the matter. It is impossible to maintain the steady eye and the cool brow. There is no escaping the silliness.

On a different note, money and desk jobs have driven us to such desperate boredom that for a giggle, we are willing to be flung around by our nose hair.

THE RAGING BULL:
http://youtube.com/watch?v=gyMOXQBxJWA

BATMAN THE RIDE (3D simulation)
http://youtube.com/watch?v=usFi5J6B96Q

Next ride KINGDA KA : think this is the biggest / baddest or something of that sort - Daniel is planning a pilgrimage to this one)
http://youtube.com/watch?v=Q2cdqDMcUW0