Do yourself a favor and just laugh, okay?

Sent to me by the ever-incomparable Maria:

For the love of NUMB3RS

I will, on the outset, admit a certain fondness for Rob Morrow since his Northern Exposure days. There's just something about a man whose eyes sparkle and crinkle up when he smiles.

Also, a weakness for math. Math is the purest, most distilled form of every science in existence. There is something beautiful about attempting to use equations to explain the universe. As if, even through math, we can try to touch the hand of God.

I actually didn't get into this show for two seasons, mostly because I thought it was just about this FBI stuff. Math is sexy and all, but I watch too many procedural shows. I am full up on crime and punishment. But once we moved to Austin and my Friday nights became sad and lonely, it was what was on. And I was instantly hooked. Because it's not just an FBI show. It is a show that examines the relationship between two brothers who care about each other, but are vastly different.

And it's even more than that. Because each brother-- genius, Charlie, and FBI supercop, Don-- have life issues of their own to deal with.

Charlie has had his life mapped out since he was a child at Princeton working equations that make the rest of us scratch our heads. He is a professor at a University, a noted mathematician, and respected scholar. But he feels his life is missing something. He worries his gifts shorted his brother on parental involvement. He wants more, but doesn't always know what that is, but he loves helping his brother solve crimes. Using math. Because Game Theory explains everything.

Don, once a baseball pitcher, loves his job as the team leader for the FBI's Violent Crimes Division. He worries about his team, worries about doing a good enough job, worries about his brother's involvement in his world. A brilliant arc from last season had Don in therapy, examining his overburdened sense of responsibility and how that impacts his personal life and professional choices. Don, who does feel he was slighted a bit, also recognizes his brother is meant for greatness, and fears he's now holding him back, even while recognizing how much Charlie is needed. Don is driven, ambitious, direct, and hardcore when it comes to his job. But he has been missing something and doesn't quite know what it is.

It is this show's unrepentant examination of these two grown men's interior lives that make me love it. Charlie and Don are adults living in an adult world. Sometimes the work they do affects them, but for the most part they accept those emotional scars a part of the Life, and don't become worn down or pathetically despondant in the face of it. They both have positive relationships to lean on, a supportive father (the incomparable Judd Hirsch), girlfriends who are professional and emotional equals. But they are also thinking, feeling men who represent the angst I believe a lot of us feel in our over-connected, yet strangely cut-off, 21st Century world. Their search is what keeps me coming back.

Also of note is an impressive supporting cast, which includes (for smarty-pants comic relief) Peter MacNicol as Charlie's mentor/best friend, the aforementioned Hirsch, Alimi Ballard as one of the few non-token black characters on TV. In fact, Numb3rs succeeds where so many shows do not in having an impressive array of nationalities and skin tones represented across gender lines without once feeling like it is catering to stereotypical tokenism (Bones still being the show that tops this list). And anyone who watches and doesn't develop a tiny girl-crush on Navi Rawat as Charlie's computer programming genius girlfriend, Amita, needs a check-up.

This season is shaping up to be an interesting one on the personal development front. Don is exploring the role his Jewish faith may play in his search for higher meaning in his life. Charlie is deepening his relationship with Amita and establishing his ethics as they apply to him in both his scientific and law-enforcement spheres.

These personal developments excite me because I feel I am watching a show in which adults act, think, and worry as adults do. In this day and age of arrested development all over our entertainment media, it is refreshing to see.

Now that Blogger is working again

Stephenie Meyer proves to all of us just how batshit insane she truly is.

Ironman? Didn't that movie come out way after the last book was written?
Oh, and do I need to even go into my Bella is no Jane Eyre rant again? I thought not.

Oh, what the hell, in case you have a memory like mine:

Which fictional character would you compare Bella to?
I think that Jane Eyre and Elizabeth Bennet are more apt comparisons, in terms of the niche Bella fits into—despite the vampires, she is really a romance character.

I know she's talking niches here, and not character-to-character comparisons, but this just set my mind in a tither. I can honestly see the Jane Eyre, as that novel is a spin on the Beauty and the Beast motif of Gothic literature. And many arguments can be made about Rochester's treatment of Jane being similar to Edward's treatment of Bella. However, let's not forget Jane herself resented Rochester's treatment and went on a quest to seek her identity. She was then able to meet Rochester again as his equal, not by giving anything up, but by gaining her own independence. Bella may wish to be Edward's equal, but it will not be through gaining her independence that this will be attained.

Stephenie, as opposed to the person interviewed here, sees a lot of Edward Rochester in Edward Cullen.

...

Um, no. Rochester is a highly flawed character for a reason. He needs to be redeemed. Edward Cullen is a two-dimensional OMGPerfectBoyfriend! stalker who loveloveloves Bella sooooo much, he watches her sleep. Edward doesn't seek redemption, but suicide, and even then fails mightily because he chooses the most melodramatic way to do it possible. Rochester, like all failed romantic heroes, mopes around his house and snaps at people.

On to some of her other choices, which I will simply list for their comic value:
1. Linkin Park - a band that cannot even spell
2. Anne of Green Gables series - because a series-long exploration of one girl-to-woman's life can compare to Bella's just after high school marriage and devirgining.
3. Somewhere in Time - I think it takes balls to admit this and will give her kudos for it.

All right. There should be more, but most of my energy is going into writing right now. The mocking can commence in the comments.

More Bad News

Opinions, Observations & Other Oddities: The Ugly Rumors Are True

It took a memeing to get me to post!

So really, I've had this whole homage to Chuck I wanted to write (Rush! Atari! Though I know from watching The King of Kong that it takes way longer than 30 minutes to reach the kill screen of a classic arcade game, but whatevski). And then I was going to talk about some other TV I've been watching and how it's faring in the grad scheme of my TV life. But I've actually been writing creative stuff, which leaves me little room for the brain spew I put here.

But Val tagged me and I love Val. She posts lovely pics of Vincent, London, and cute-as-pie baby animals, all the while maintaining her British humor and reserve (well, not always in the case of Vincent, but...).

So: Memage

Where would you have your 8 homes, if you were as insanely rich as the McCains?
List them. You don’t have to list your reasons, but if you do at least for a few of them, it would be more fun. And remember that the only rule is: the homes must be within the borders of the United States of America or else, within the borders of the country you live in, so as to utterly emulate the McCains. When you’re done, tag 8 people, so that they may join in the self-indulgence, forgetting about the crappy property market and the equivalent of The End of Pompeii on Wall-Street. You could spend your time hammering your doors and windows shut in preparation for the apocalypse instead, but it would be much less fun.

1. Chelsea or the East Village, New York: I know, Manhattan is fatuous, filled with more people who believe they are the centers of the Universe than could actually be the center, but it is New York Motherfucking City. It very well could be the center of the Universe.

2. New Orleans: Because it is my home.

3. Austin: Because it is that cool a place to live.

4. Pensacola Beach: I'm low-brow like that. I love Pensacola, the beach is pretty, it's close to stuff, and there's a Maguire's Irish Pub (men in kilts! yowza).

5. Somewhere in Oregon: I don't know where. Because it's Oregon. And it's pretty.

6. Las Vegas: How could I resist? Living in the equivalent of an amusement park. Plus, I don't gamble, so no wasted fundage.

7. Cabot Cove, Maine: JB Fletcher and I are going to get coffee, man.

8. North Carolina: Again, pretty. Number 2? Mountains.


Number 2

Link to your tagger and list these rules on your blog.*
Share 6 / 7 facts about yourself on your blog - some random, some weird.*
Tag 6/ 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blog.*
Let them know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

1. Yes. I actually do know people who work in the film industry. Yes, most of them are assholes.
2. I am double-jointed
3. Favorite dinosaur? The triceratops, because...horns.
4. I had a friend in elementary school who, like me, liked to fabricate stuff. We once had an entire conversation about an event neither one of us attended. No one else was listening. We just talked to each other about how much fun we had seeing each other at a place we weren't.
5. The above is why I'm so good at that "Put a made-up thing we did together in the comments" meme. I am apparently a professional at that shit.
6. I really do worry all the time that I'm not living up to some expectation on everyone's part. Ask for my advice and I will stress over having given good enough opinions; need me to edit something? I will be certain I'm not offering the help you really want.
7. I look everyone in the eye and smile at them. I feel it's the least I can do for a fellow human being.

I'm only tagging lynnez and Music Wench, because I know they'll do it. Maybe. Whatevski.

Most fun 2 minutes ever

Your result for the completely scientific nonsense test...

genius

5 nonsense, 3 lamp, 10 yellow and 15 spain!

you are smart and pretty, you are also very shallow

Take the completely scientific nonsense test

Smear ads for Jesus!

Just funny. It's a week of frivolity!



via Revolution in Jesusland

More librarian awesome

New favorite word: Biblioburro

Wherein PostSecret makes me ridiculously happy

There is something about this secret that almost made me cry. And not in a sad way. I think because the sender chose a picture of fireworks, it offsets what could be negative text and turns it into a celebration. I imagine this guy as maybe someone who didn't know what he was doing to make his wife unhappy, but desperately wished he could figure it out. I'm sorry it took so long, but whoever they are, I am mind-trippingly pleased for them.

Oh Crap!

It's blog action day and all I did was talk about myself.

I'm supposed to write something about poverty. I can't even focus on it because when I think about how connected we all are and how, when thinking that, we should all be going to bed hungry, I feel all overwhelmed. Don't believe me? Where were your clothes made? Who picked the fruit and vegetables you eat? Where did the wood that made the furniture you sit, eat, work, and sleep come from?

Poverty touches us all, if we know how to look around and see it. I'm not saying this because I think we should all feel guilty. I don't think guilt is a very healthy motivator. I say it to make you more aware. To make myself more aware. Opening my eyes to the interconnectedness of us all helps me not get lost in my own head. It also keeps me honest. We are all hypocrites, if we look closely enough.

I do not have the funds right now to donate to the cause that will alleviate my guilt for the day. I know, I said not to feel guilty, but the reaction is like breathing for me. So I write this meaningless jumble of words, hoping to open one other person's eyes. Or at least try to.

Ummm, yeah

So I hate coming up with titles for these things because most of my posts are so lacking direction or focus. I'm thinking of visiting some random name generator to do it in the future.

I finished this major thing at work yesterday and I think I'm broken. Because I should feel better. Lighter. At least less sleep-deprived. But instead I went home yesterday and the only thing that kept me from crying all night was the chance to finally see Monday's Chuck and Heroes episodes. No, I'm not going to talk about how Heroes has sucked me into its strange cult of fuck!me! right now. There are things happening in my brain that I'm certain psychotropic medications may fix, but for now, I'm enjoying the ride.

I couldn't sleep last night (hence the sleep deprivation), and for some reason, my hands kept itching. Not in some prophetic "money!" way, but in a "Did I eat something weird?" way. But even that wasn't it. I sometimes itch when I'm stressed out. I broke out into hives on the day I was supposed to be competing in the Missouri State Junior Olympics. The night two of our cafe staff and my only other closing lead had to leave the store early, my manager almost sent me home because I was scratching my arms to bleeding. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it's spectacular.

But I shouldn't have been feeling that at all yesterday. I should have felt light, grateful, pleased, even.

I am afraid I have become that thing I can't stand - an apathetic human. I know apathy is a normal reaction sometimes. That it protects us from internal and external stresses. My problem is with those who use it as an excuse to not care about anything going on around them, not engage with the world, and keep from even trying to make a difference. I see apathetic people as the close cousins of cynical people. And really, I don't hate such people. I love quite a few cynics, actually.

My apathy, though, is the result of something else. I've spoken before about how I do not know how to ask for help. Trust me when I say: I would rather chew off my own hand sometimes than ask for help. Not because I think I do everything best, but because I don't trust others will come through for me. I have been working very hard to let that go, to trust that the people in my life are willing to step in, hold me up, keep me sane, when I ask for it. But the asking is still hard as shit.

If my life were a movie, it would go something like this:
No, scratch that, not nearly important enough for a movie, maybe TV movie? Nope, nothing melodramatic enough happening. Little indie feature starring Catherine Keener (can she play me? because I lurvs her) that has no actual plot, but little character observations? ...no, then I'd have to have sex with an obviously mentally disturbed Jake Gyllenhaal character.

Hmmm.

Okay, if my life were an episode of Murder, She Wrote, I would be the character incorrectly accused of murder because I couldn't reach out to others and just when my faith in humanity is almost gone, sitting in my lonely jail cell, being harassed by the ignorant local cops, Jessica Fletcher would come riding in on her brilliant blaze of glory and show me what trust in others means, because she trusted I was innocent even though she didn't know me. She just had a feeling about me. Because she's made of all the awesome in the world. There is no more air for awesome when Jessica Fletcher is around. And don't get all "But everywhere she goes, people die!" Yeah? People die everywhere, bub. But with Jessica Fletcher around, you can guarantee the right person will go to jail for it.

My life, alas, is not an episode of Murder, She Wrote. Pity, that. I think Jessica Fletcher would be an awesome friend.

Because when I do ask for help? Really and truly break through that wall and say, "Hey! I'm drowning here! Please help me with this one specific thing, huh?" And whoever I ask says, "No problem!" And I feel better for a little while. Until it occurs to me nothing has been done. So when I do it again, because by this point, I really really need the help. And someone else says, "No problem!" I start feeling a little less better, because by this time I'm thinking...yep, right. No help there either. The laughable part comes when someone asks if they can help me and I say - all excited - Yes! Please! Can you do this? And they look at me and make some assenting noises and...right. Just tell me no, next time, 'k?

So instead of being the plucky girl wrongly accused of murder who learns that help is there if you ask for it, I am now the whiny bag of itchy sleep-deprived apathy who learns she can't count on those who are supposed to be there for her.

So I finished a long-overdue project yesterday. And I should feel lighter. Instead all I feel is the continuing pressure of everything else. And the sinking feeling I'm in this alone.

In another life, I am a librarian

I do not know if I would have the capability of awesome I see sometimes, though.

Here is yet another story about librarian fabulosity.

You don't have to be a librarian to appreciate librarian etiquette. Especially those of us who work(ed) in bookstores.

The Librarian's Internet Index send me a weekly themed set of websites chock full of information.

Signs for libraries. I would do a square dance if I were to actually see one of these in my local branch.

Love libraries. Kiss a librarian.

It's Monday! - More thoughts on Heroes

So for the past two weeks, Monday has not held the same excitement for me because my local NBC affiliate got into a bidding war with our cable company. Now we have Starz Kids & Family instead of The Office, Chuck and Heroes.

[Note: I've been having major issues with the carpal tunnel these days and am attempting to type with one of those cushiony thingies in front of the keyboard. I feel like I'm learning to type all over again. If more typos slip past than usual, please forgive.]

So now I watch Chuck and The Office on the computer and Heroes on G4--all a day later. And it sucks. So if my usual TV wrap-up is late, please understand. And for some reason, in honor of the show that will not let me hate it, I give you my Heroes sunshine and clouds:

Actually I have to give props to my livejournal friend of awesomeness Fiareynne, for telling me I was taking it all way too seriously and needed to see the humor in what was happening. So last week I tried to do just that, and...and...I think I liked it!

Don't get me wrong, Peter is still a whiny little bitch. He seems to do things without thinking twice about the consequences, such as taking on Sylar's power and then getting pissed at Sylar for having his murderous impulses. Really, Peter, that fact that future-Sylar told you it was a bad idea just wasn't enough? No, you're Peter, you must save the world, which is in constant threat of being blown up.

I can't wait to see the episode wherein we find out the world is actually going to blow up because some mutant squirrels have been chewing through wires at a nuclear power plant.

The future-Heroes is still unimpressive to me. Goth!Clarie is as annoying as Cheerleader!Claire. She just has more of an excuse to be all pissed off now, what with the false eyelashes making her eyes itch all the time. And they're trying to set up all this complexity as in: who's bad? who's really good? OMG, maybe Peter is the bad guy! And I get wrapped up in wondering and then I remember Tim Kring created Crossing Jordan, so what was I expecting, really? Just keep giving me more Parkman and I'll be happy.

Another reason the future storyline bugs me is this idea that the future is fixed. It doesn't seem to matter who does what or how they do it or who gets hurt in the process, the end result is the same: squirrels chew through the wires at a nuclear power plant and blow up the planet. Someone oughtta be out hunting squirrel.

But...but, all that aside, I loved future Sylar. I was curious who the mother of his son is. Okay, I will admit to a moment of , wouldn't it be cool of the mother is Claire, that kid would be unstoppable! Oh! the angst! and then I remembered Claire is Sylar's niece and ewwed all over the place.

Then came the crowning moment I loved. The part that, no matter how formulaic and predictable, makes me get all giddy inside: Nathan flying. I don't know why I turn into such a girly-girl whenever Nathan flies out to save someone. Maybe it's touching on my childhood mad crush I had on Christopher Reeve and I believed I too could win the heart of Superman. Though unlike Lois, I would never let him give up his powers for me. In fact, now that I'm examining it, I think Reeve/Superman was my first actor-as-character obsession. In my head, I was writing fanfic all over the place.

I don't even care for Adrian Pasdar that much. His voice is a little too nasal and I get the impression he's a wee little thing (I could be wrong, but the higher pitched voice gives me that impression). And I'm getting sick of the repeating political storyline the same way I'm tired of Peter's whining and Hiro's Ando abuse. But in an HRG-free episode, I'll take all the heroic saving the damsel in distress (can I say fucking ugh already!) I can get.

Friday What?

I don't know what I'm doing here. Usually when I have nothing of interest to talk about, I do it on livejournal. But I fear I've been boring everyone over there too much lately. So I'll just babble here for a while and throw some links in at the bottom and we can all happily move along, 'k?

Last night was the Husband's birthday. He, the Second Wife, and I went to eat at Fogo de Chao, a Brazilian steakhouse. If you've never experienced this, you must try it once. It is like Vegas in a restaurant. The funniest part is when you're ready for your meat course and you flip over your coaster to the green side to let the servers know, you're suddenly inundated by all these beautiful men in baggy pants and boots, waving around giant skewers of meat. You forget they'll keep coming until you flip your coaster back over and have to fight the urge to scream "Stop!" Oh yeah, not a place for vegetarians, by the way. SW made a comment about having to challenge everyone to a duel if he were wearing those pants and brandishing sword-like skewers, which then lead to an Inigo Montoya quote-athon as we dug into our very delicious meat array.

Then we went to one of my favorite bars in Austin for a nightcap, which was about all we could handle while our digestive systems worked overtime on protein. The owner is very nice and always greets us like we're his favorite people there. I was therefore pleased when he announced that - after being open after only 7 months - Nomad was given a "Best of Austin" award. which is way cool, but at the same time not, because then one becomes afraid of who else will start showing up. Yes, I'm a snob like that. I get tired of Austin hipsters. I also avoid certain bars because of the high college student quotient. I went to college bars when I was in college. No need to relive that now.

Then again, who am I kidding? I "go out" about once every two months. I don't really like bars that much anymore, and I'm not really a drinker. Trust me when I say being the lone sober person surrounded by drunks is not amusing. It's actually boring as shit. The funny thing is, because I so rarely join the Husband at his watering hole, when I do I am treated like a Queen. Everyone is soooo happy to see me. I don't pay for a single drink. While gratifying - and a boost to my ego - it feels weird to have all the attention. Luckily, drunks have short attention spans and move on quickly. Tonight will be one of those nights, as the Husband's official b-day party is at...a bar.

In other news, I'm trying to write a ghost story. But I can't get the atmosphere right, so instead it's just a story narrated by a ghost. We'll see.

Linkage:
I enjoy watching The Big Lebowski more now than I did when it came out. I think it's because, as this article states, of the high quotability quotient.

What are your favorite words? I actually knew about half of these off the top of my head. My favorite word, for sound effect only, is bamboozled.

Banksy makes statements again. This time legally.

I have found one of my favorite new blogs. I can only hope I am this stylish when I get old. Or maybe it's in the carrying yourself with style that allows old people to pull off such things with style. No joke.

Have a great weekend, y'all.

Another thing about idol worship

Why do I purchase a book of short stories, in hardcover, that only contains two stories I do not own in another form?

Kelly Link, that's why.

And the cover is soooo pretty!

Simon Pegg is made of rainbows and unicorns

Or, How I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb.

Went to see How to Lose Friends & Alienate People yesterday. It was that or Nick & Norah, and I didn't feel like going to see a movie during which I would start to feel uncomfortably old, no matter how clever it is. I went with absolutely no expectations. I went alone (as the Husband is sick as a...). I went because I haven't been out of my freaking house except to go to work all week. And because one of the few theaters showing it is a mere 5 minutes from my house.

Oh, and, Simon Pegg.

I don't know if this is a review or just an explanation of an experience or simply me gushing once again about a subject I never seem to tire of. So I'll start with the movie.

HTLF is being marketed in the US as a cross between an Adam Sandler movie and Curb Your Enthusiasm. I am sorry for that, because while it is closer to the latter than the former, I believe it is the former that will keep people away that may actually enjoy what it has to offer. It isn't the most blistering or edgiest of comedies about the blurry lines between print journalism and celebrity. It falls back a little too much on sight gags. It is predictable.

Yet.

It is intelligent, thoughtful, funny, and scorchingly acted. And it makes what I believe to be important statements about the loss of integrity in print media by using a venue that is easily palatable: a predictable, easy on the eyes, and fluffy movie with appealing leads and more to it than US reviewers are giving credit (dead dogs and urinating pigs notwithstanding).

Most importantly, it entertained me on a slow Sunday afternoon after a week of craptacular life events.

I'm not giving a summary of the film, as it is too easy to find one, should you be interested. I am instead going to point out those things which kept me entertained for almost 2 hours in a nearly empty theater.

The acting contributed so much more than I anticipated, I think I would see it again for the beauty of it. Megan Fox, Pegg described as a talented actress and "beautiful geek" (see notes about this later), surprised me the most and how could she not? My previous impression of her consisted mainly of one terrible movie and some shameless sexist self-promotion in Rolling Stone. As such, she is a bit like her character, an up-and-coming ingenue who is engaging in shameless self-promotion in order to keep her name at the top of the list. That she is a lovely young woman is without question. Her beauty is pretty much unparalleled among young actors of her generation. Her acting was surprisingly spot-on. My esteem grew when it occurred to me she wasn't playing a shallow and stupid wannabe, but a shallow and cunning will-be. The transition of this realization, while predictable, was still surprising enough to keep me from feeling I had been hit on the head with a frying pan by its obviousness.

While Gillian Anderson and Jeff Bridges weren't in it enough for my taste, their input was valuable. Both glowed in their respective roles. It was especially gratifying to see Anderson looking fabulous as the ruthless, yet still charming, Eleanor Johnson. And Bridges' wig didn't scream at me with its wigness once.

Kirsten Dunst has been in the business longer than any actor her age. She knows its flaws and foibles as well as anyone. Honestly, I'm fairly ambivalent towards her, but I do respect anyone who has had to play this game for so long and still maintains some integrity by not giving into the whims of Hollywood lookism. She is, in fact, so normal looking in this movie, especially in contrast to everyone else (purposefully done - and to great effect, imo), that I wanted everything for her character. That she plays the aspiring writer who ends up shilling celebrity gossip and falling for - against her better judgement - Pegg's Sidney Young, plays into this normalness very well.

Then there's Simon Pegg, he of the glowing rainbow that forms a pulsating heart-shaped bubble within me. I can't even begin to describe why I love this man so much, but I will attempt to do so for those of you who have not seen his work (and what is wrong with you?).

Recent articles liken him to the next Hugh Grant. Let me set the record straight. Pegg is no more the next Grant, than he is the next Colin Firth, Clive Owen, Jude Law, Ewan McGregor, Daniel Craig, or any other actor who happens to have an accent. He, like all the other actors mentioned, is an entity unto himself who brings his own talents and charisma to the screen with such consistency, I cannot help but be impressed by him.

As an actor, Pegg is highly physical, in that he uses his whole body to convey emotions and reactions, as real people do. With every facial twitch, head jerk, and hand gesture, he is able to project his character's thoughts with such verve, you feel you are watching a real person, and not an actor playing a part. From Angel's stiffness to Tim's slouch, Pegg uses physical action and reaction to add dimension to each character he plays. As such, he exhibits a high level of comfort with his own body that translates so beautifully through the camera that no movement feels scripted. I believe it is this comfort with the very physicality of his acting which gives Pegg an edge of sexiness most American actors lack, and definitely adds to his appeal.

He is credited as being a comic actor, and he is. He has shown in every role he's played a varied range of emotion. He's good at it as well. By-the-book Sergeant Angel moves through the first half of Hot Fuzz with such determination and reserve (and not just a bit of priggishness), we are startled by that first laugh that is almost forced out of him. It pleases us to see the break, so much did we believe this persona was fixed. But it is not just range which tranfixes us, but the seeming improvisational aspect of it, best seen by the constant re-imagining of events undergone by Shaun in Shaun of the Dead. HTLF's Sidney Young is a complex character we feel we should loathe, and yet we don't, because Pegg is able to bring that complexity to light especially when Young is being a complete ass. At those times, we instead simply shake our heads, thinking, "Oh Sidney, why?"

Then there's Simon Pegg the person. Of course, I do not know Pegg at all. I have no idea what truly drives him, what kind of husband he is, what his dreams are. He is - as we all are - an entire universe unto himself with all manner of angels and devils guiding him. What I do see is the person he projects through his interviews and blogs, and the steadfast connections he has formed over the years. For example, in his blogs concerning his travels on the Spaced Invasion tour and for HTLF promotion, Pegg details for his followers the many people he meets along the way. Many are famous, some are not. He uses the same glowing terms to describe all of them. Kirsten Dunst is "lovely" (a common description), he and Zachary Quinto "geeked out together about being in Star Trek," James Franco is a "top fella," and then there's this bit concerning not getting the chance to chat with Mischa Barton at Cannes:

[Who] I wanted to apologize to, after a story appeared in the press, shortly after the National Movie Awards that claimed that me and Nick had made fun of
her. We hadn't and most certainly wouldn't. We have an affection for the OC because Shaun Of The Dead got an honorable mention in Season 2 and lest we forget she was the creepy little puker in The 6th Sense, which in my book gives her real geek kudos. Also, she is pretty.

None of these statements - or the many others similar - tell me a substantive thing about the persons mentioned, but to me speak volumes about Pegg as someone who doesn't mention a person without saying something positive about him or her. One gets the impression he does it not to name drop, but because he is so fucking stoked to meet actors he has watched and enjoyed onscreen. Pegg is first and foremost a movie-loving geek, and in reading his blogs, I also feel he has a deep appreciation for his fans. Added to that, he is intelligent and genuinely funny. Also, he is cute.

In HTLF, Pegg plays a guy who sells his soul to attain his dream. In doing so, he realizes it's not that the dream isn't what it's cracked up to be - because it is everything he ever dreamt it would be - but that it doesn't matter anymore because he has no soul. To me, this is a universal theme that cannot be reiterated enough. I feel I can say with considerable confidence that Simon Pegg is attaining his dream without selling his soul, and we are all winners for it.

MOAR Friday Frivolity

It's Friday. I'm bored. Which is not something, I realize, I should admit to while I'm at work, but there you have it.

Couple more things I've come across:

Simon Pegg gives an interview at The AV Club, and because it's the AV Club, it's not the same old, same old, we usually see in promo interviews:

AVC: In the film your character goes from being a spectacular failure to a huge success more or less over the course of a montage sequence.

SP: God bless the montage. [Laughs.]

Also included, a series of quote-offs in the comments.

And in his blog, Simon expresses his usual aplomb regarding the movie biz on the day of the HTLF premier:

With regards to the movie, it's up to the box office gods now. I have a feeling it will do better at home than it will here in the States. We're up against a Chihuahua and the ever lovable Michael Cera, not to mention Eagle Eye, so I'm not sure how an outsider like me will fare in such crowded waters. The reviews have been pretty mixed, so it's anyone's guess. I hope you will go see it and I hope you will enjoy it. I certainly had a great time making it.

Out YA author Brent Hartinger previews the Gay Coming Attractions over at AfterElton. In it, movies, both small and large, are previewed for their potential gay friendliness and themes.

Regarding the drug lord/assassin movie La Linea:
Why Is It Gay? One of the drug lords is gay. And Esai Morales, Andy Garcia, and Ray Liotta are pretty easy on the eyes.

Quick Friday Frivolity

Couple of things which caught my eye this morning:

Sarah Palin's interview technique revealed! She is actually speaking in free verse:

"Challenge to a Cynic"

You are a cynic.
Because show me where
I have ever said
That there's absolute proof
That nothing that man
Has ever conducted
Or engaged in,
Has had any effect,
Or no effect,
On climate change.

(To C. Gibson, ABC News, Sept. 11, 2008)

"Small Mayors"

You know,
Small mayors,
Mayors of small towns—
Quote, unquote—
They're on the front lines.

(To S. Hannity, Fox News, Sept. 19, 2008)

via slate

...and now blogger want me to speak in italics. Oh well.

John Crace, my favorite book digester for the Guardian UK, knocks out some banned books for you to round out banned books week:

From Harry Potter and the...

Harry could feel the scar on his forehead burning as he surveyed the wreckage of the past 3,500 pages. Sirius lay dead, Hedwig lay dead and Dumbledore lay dead. And now Voldemort lay dead. He alone was the ruler of Magic Land. "Did they really think I was going to stop there?" he cackled manically. "Now to take on the Muggles and that Pussy Jesus."

From Ulysses:

[Molly] wonders if she knocks this all out in a long unreadable stream of consciousness with no discernible punctuation she'll be able to sneak the dirty bits past the US censors as they'll probably have found something better to do by now. No.

"You learn how to be lonely" - An anticipatory review

[Cross-posted to my livejournal page, for those who read both]
November 2006: I have lived in Austin for exactly seven months. One of my favorite people (Random Thinkables) is coming in town to visit me. We are attending the World Fantasy Convention, which happens to be in town this year. I look at the schedule and circle every appearance by Kelly Link. I plan to stalk her, declare my undying love for her, after which I will either 1) be asked to leave; or 2) be asked to join her and her husband (equally talented, though not as prolific, author Gavin Grant) in Massachussetts to work at their publishing company, Small Beer Press.

An excerpt from my book review of Magic for Beginners:
Perhaps, in the reading of it, I have gleaned some knowledge into the paranormal, the quixotic, the hidden theme park adult playland for zombies and other recently departed, and those dead souls waiting to be reborn. In finishing it, I feel I just came home from playing at my weirdest, coolest new friend's house, the one to which I thought I'd never get invited. I hope she lets me sit at her table for lunch tomorrow.

Kelly Link manages to bridge a gap in short story writing I feel has been absent for years, or possibly has never existed. Her work, usually genre-fied as "speculative" flows too easily from the imaginary to hyper-realistic. For every faery handbag, there is a very real teenage girl desperate to fix something she broke. So while the situations are speculative - replete with monsters, haunted houses, the undead, and Greek gods reborn - her stories are populated by someone we all recognize within ourselves, our friends, our neighbors. Their reactions become ours.

Or, as stated in an article in The Phoenix: She’s the rare writer who’s able to mix these [pop cultural] of-the-moment items, products, and activities with the eternal, the timeless: quests, coming of age, entering a new world, death, and the day-to-day mysteries of being human.

As someone who is constantly, anthropologically fascinated by the day-to-day mysteries of being human, Link's stories appeal to me in spite of their inherent darkness. There are few happy endings here, and I find I mind little when confronted with writing so completely bewitching.

From The Specialist's Hat (click link to read the entire story):

Last year, they were learning fractions in school when her mother died. Fractions remind Samantha of herds of wild horses, piebalds and pintos and palominos. There are so many of them, and they are, well, fractious and unruly. Just when you think you have one under control, it throws up its head and tosses you off. Claire's favorite number is 4, which she says is a tall, skinny boy. Samantha doesn't care for boys that much. She likes numbers. Take the number 8, for instance, which can be more than one thing at once. Looked at one way, 8 looks like a bent woman with curvy hair. But if you lay it down on its side, it looks like a snake curled with its tail in its mouth. This is sort of like the difference between being Dead and being dead. Maybe when Samantha is tired of one, she will try the other.

More from my review:
Magic for Beginners is one of those books that cannot stay within the boundaries of a single description.
-It is fantastical writing with a literary bent.
-It is a collection of literary short stories with an air of magic realism.
-It has zombies (but not the kind that eat your brain), and interview with a recently-divorced cannon (the kind that shoots people over the crowds), a haunted house guarded by rabbits (or is it the marriage that's haunted and are the rabbits preparing for war?), a not-so-nice fairy tale involving cats (or are they witches?), zombie contingency plans, metafiction, and stories within stories within stories that cycle back into themselves in such a way one could read the story forwards, backwards or even in a starburst pattern from the inside out.
These aren't happy stories. They're melancholy and best read between 2 and 4 a.m. while the zombies are at their local convenience store looking for things that aren't there and handing pajamas to the night clerk.

Kelly Link's latest book of short stories, Pretty Monsters, is being marketed for the YA crowd, because Sharyn November (who I stalked at August 2007's Armadillo Con) is smart enough to know her stories can appeal to a broader audience than she's been given. And also because teens and pre-teens are less involved in worrying about what "genre" the book they're reading says about their intellectual capacity. They just want something good to read.

Kelly Link is better than good. In my eyes, she is a Rock Star of short story writing, which is why stalking her held such sweaty-palmed anticipation for me. I couldn't even imagine how to approach someone whose stories always contained a hint of menace, somehow without seeming morose, or even dark. How is it I can meet actors and musicians without barely a "meh" and meeting a writer makes me all quivery inside?

As it turns out, I simply approach her at the Small Beer table in the expo room. I gush a little bit overmuch, but hopefully with the same articulate intelligence I tend to always gush. I make reference to the "lunch table" comment in my review. At her reading at Book People (literally the coolest bookstore ever), I tell her that if her stories were food, I would eat them everyday. I believe she is pleased. Because even professional writers, I have learned, love to hear their work has touched people. Even if those people are touched.

Magic for Beginners and Stranger Things Happen are under Creative Commons licensing and are available for free download here and here.
Pretty Monsters is available now. Do not be afraid to enter the teen section of your bookstore to pick it up.

For the record

I posted my new story this morning...and I haven't had one freak-out.

Okay, most of you already know about the story thing, but the no freak-out? - without a doubt a new one for me.

Just wanted to share.

Monday Night TV - some brief thoughts

Chuck
Zachary Levi is totally OM NOM NOM, and they let us know in this episode that the white Nerd Herders shirt does cover more than meets the eye. Which has nothing whatsoever to do with why I loved this episode. Not at all. Neither does the wonderful man-love occurring between Chuck and Casey. Nope. I loved this episode because I can turn off my brain and have a great time and not think I'm watching something mindless because it's smarter than your average brainless show. Did that make any sense? Okay, so the Sarah character still bothers me, but I get her place as the idealized hot spy chick. I don't watch for her. But if you were to mention any other character besides Sarah, I would say, "Yes, I watch it to see...(Chuck, Casey!<3!, Ellie, Awesome, Lester, Jeff, and even Morgan - who sometimes bugs me)." This was the premier I have been waiting for, and I was pleased.

Heroes
This episode bothered me less, or possibly I am being sucked into the hive mind that has kept it on the air for a third season. I don't know. What pisses me off about this show is that it could be so fucking good. It could be brilliant, even, but instead it is an uneven, sometimes boring, mess that tinkers with character arcs too much for us to even continue to care about them. A few thoughts:

Sylar's two minute turn as a conflicted good guy? Made me angry because that was the best Sylar I'd seen so far. This is what they should have done with his character all along. Because for that two minutes? He was totally badass. Badass. He could have been the Batman of the series.

Hiro's storyline bores me to tears. Literally, I almost started crying I was missing so much the Hiro of season 1.

Parkman's story is the only one holding my interest for any length of time because Parkman is the only character I care about anymore.

HRG can just keep on doin' what he's doin' I love his consistency and awesomeness.

Everybody else: STOP WHINING SO MUCH. YOU HAVE SUPERPOWERS, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!

The Zen of Punk

NPR finally picks up on something those of us who are already in love with Brad Warner always knew.

Stolen from Heratic

I am one quarter Irish!

Your result for The Ultimate TRUE IRISH Test...

Finn MacCool

You scored 91 Common Sense, 73 Irish Facts, and 84 Irish Soul!

I am honored to be in your presence. You know your stuff. You are Irish in your heart. You probably talk like an Irish person after a few pints. You sing the rebel songs. You drink, and probably bleed Guinness. You may have even been interned in British Prisions. You impress (or annoy) all your friends with your vast Irish knowledge. If you are a female, I am in love. If you are a male, we are brothers. We should have a pint.

Please don't forget to rate my test...

Take The Ultimate TRUE IRISH Test at HelloQuizzy

Oy Vey! Weekend!

I love those weekends that just fly by so quickly the alarm is going off and you can barely open your eyes and you're thinking, it's fucking Monday already?

That's really all I have to say on the matter. I have nothing to say about the debates, which I heard, but did not watch, because I know who I'm voting for and I know why. No debate is going to change my mind. Presidential debates only serve two purposes: 1) to reinforce your decision to vote for one person; and 2) to provide material for why you're not voting for the other. Plus, they're generally boring.

I cannot comment on any television, as I have had little time to view anything except the most recent Eureka, which I am the only person who watches, so whatever.

Oh, but I did, while listening to the debates (okay so my parents wanted to watch it and I was in the office writing and surfing and short of closing the door and turning on the music - which I won't do because I'm not in high school anymore, you know? - I had no choice but to hear it), finish my most recent story. I am very proud of it. It is also the first time in seven years I have started and completed two stories in a row, so Right on, me.

Great Googly-Moogly! Simon Pegg is all over the place right now promoting How to Lose Friends and Alienate People. The Husband has expressed an interest, so we may go see it this weekend, because...Simon Pegg. I have decided I have to see it for the dancing alone. I love the picture in this article because this is how he dresses normally, which is how he probably dressed when he was twenty-five. And as I dress the same way I did when I was twenty-five that means we're soul mates, right? Right? And no, the trailer does not make the movie look funny at all, but I'm not going expecting high cinema.

Oh, and I realized last night - well...found out is more like it - that I am batshit insane and will always, always assume you are angry at me and hate my guts if I don't hear from you on a regular basis. No, it does not matter if you have been terribly busy and haven't been near a computer because you've been searching for rare medicines in the jungle. If you don't answer that email I sent you a week ago, it's because somewhere in our very brief friendship, I did something heinously wrong and you are punishing me for it. There need be no more said about that. Just know I am aware of my own craziness.

I did this fun book meme on my livejournal. Feel free to steal.

Oh, Paul!!!

Paul Newman dies at 83.

Sad now.

Rambling, personal, possibly unwanted

Note:
This is part of a series of letters I wrote almost two years ago, when my life was so very different than it is now. I just found them, and find something in them that touches me: how, even though I was desperately unhappy at the time, I still had hope there was a solution and that it would help me.

Second Note:
For the record, I am much better. And yes, I do believe in God, if you haven't figured that out by now from previous posts.

Dear God,

Why can't I be happy?

Buddhists would say I need to let go of the expectations and idealizations I have concerning my own life. that my suffering comes from my attachment to these expectations which my life can never live up to and will never actually fulfill me.

Evangelical Christians say I am unhappy because my relationship with you is broken, probably because of Eve, and my entire life is one long journey back into your good graces.

Other Christians will point out that I am a sinner by nature - that my whole life is tainted by sin and that sin eats away at my soul. That I am constantly tempted by Satan and it is this struggle with temptation which causes my unhappiness.

I say I know very few happy atheists and that all of life is one long-ass journey to find you or someone like you. Perhaps even to touch your hand or feel we could.

I think the Jews also believe I need to make things right with you. That you are loving but displeased with me, that is why my unhappiness is caused by punishment.

I don't know if that's right or not, but it doesn't feel it. I think you are possibly up there wondering what the hell we're doing down here scurrying around trying to please you, as if we know what it is you want.

I think the Buddhists have it right in part - that I want too much.

There are brief periods in which I realize this is my life and I have no other and I just have to figure out how to be happy on my own - here and now. But sometimes that is at odds with my christian self, who feels the yearning is normal, a part of all human experience. I wish I knew.

If you have any thoughts on the matter, feel free to get in touch.

Love, D.

So...Heroes...

Can I say I hated it? No, I shouldn't. I didn't hate it. I was unimpressed. I was kind of bored. I think the character arcs are (deliberately?) predictable. Gee, is Nathan going to be tested...AGAIN? Oh looky...

Okay, you know what? I'm not gonna do it. Because right now, mine is one of millions of blogs spouting their opinions, defenses, eviscerations, and the like, of last night's episodes. And I hate being sheep. But last night, the Husband's BFF brought over Deuce the Wonder Puppy (no longer a puppy), and instead of being annoyed by all the attention she wanted, I was grateful to have a distraction from the blandness occurring onscreen.

I made a promise to the Husband that I would commit to this season (totally walked away last season before everyone else started complaining - I watch too much TV, something has to be completely fascinating to me to keep me watching), and commit I will. Most likely with several bitchy comments.

I actually had problems with Heroes from the beginning, but I liked the concept. And that's where the problems start. The idea of "concept shows" leave me a little cold. The "we're trapped on a island and weird things are happening and we can't get off and OMG and Holy Shit! is the island moving?!?" Yes, I am unafraid to be the lone geek on the planet who hates Lost.

Here's the thing with me and TV: I love it, but I don't need to be challenged by it. We live in a big complicated messy world populated by citizens who are contradictory in their equal parts frustrating and lovable ways. I live in a world that acknowledges the gray aspects of humanity daily. So I don't celebrate it on TV as some do. I know there are those who love that. Who love the open-endedness of complicated story arcs, and the way good guys aren't always heroes or heroes aren't always good guys. And I can see the appeal. These are intelligent shows that cater to adults and reflect life in subtle ways even if they take place on an imaginary island that travels through or exists outside of time.

Me? I like completeness. I like turning on a television show and knowing the main story to which I am introduced will be resolved. I like having heroes on my TV that are unrealistically good, because I don't think it's too unrealistic. For example, Eureka is about as fantasy as TV gets, but Jack Carter's Everyman is a lone True Good Guy in a sea of geniuses (genii? genium?) who have relied too much on their intellect to swim through life. Jack, who cannot think his way out of every situation, has to therefore be the one unafraid to take action. And he does so, even with reservation, because it is the right thing to do. I love Jack Carter because he represents to me why I watch TV: not to see characters acting hyper-realistic in a fantastic setting, but people acting heroically, no matter the setting.

I started watching Heroes because I wanted to see a group of people struggle and come to terms with their gifts. And I knew some of those people would be "bad guys." So for every Sylar, shouldn't there be someone- Anyone?- who is willing to be the hero? Evil characters are more interesting if they actually have a foil. Oh sure, we have Hiro ("Hiro from Heroes is the only true hero."), but he isn't Sylar's equal, and right now he's annoying the piss out of me for not realizing that events we witness in a hypothetical future aren't certain to occur because simply becoming aware of those hypothetical future events automatically changes them. Someone who teleports through time and space should know that by now. So Sylar? boring and whiny to me. Peter? So needs to pull that stick out of his ass (did the season one finale never happen?). Nathan? Okay, you can keep doing what you're doing (because you do it so well), but DO SOMETHING, for fuck's sake. Actually that last bit? Goes for all of you.

ETA 3 things: 1. Parkman thinking the turtle was talking to him? Priceless. 2. Why always the city blowing up (or whatever)? 3. Sorry I did the thing I said I wasn't going to do in para 2.

To make up for the whining, I include my pic of the day:

Deuce the Wonder Puppy (no longer a puppy)

Does it matter that I amuse myself so much?

I'm reading Bookshelves of Doom, because it makes me laugh, and think, and stuff (and she's got that cool new Alice header). And Leila is all excited because the father of 90210's Kelly Taylor's son is revealed to be *BLEEP* and I'm all, "No way she just censored that!" I do not, do not want to watch the show to find out. So what do I do? Go to Google and type out "Kelly baby daddy" while feeling a little sick, honestly. And wouldn't you know: that is exactly the phrase that is used.

Stuff and stuff

HAHAHAHA!:

You may have seen this picture already, but I came across it at YA for Obama, and cannot get it out of my head. As a commenter over there put it: I love how blase she looks. "Ho hum. Another day with my crab-paperweight and bear-sofa. Nothing to do; nothing to do."

Neil Gaiman continues his reign of awesome.
I love the guy because he answers his fan mail, even the poorly typed ones. I love that he shares pictures of his cats. I love the worlds he builds, the characters he creates, the stories he comes up with. I just. Don't. Love. His. Writing. Sorry, folks, but it throws me out of a book of his faster than furry sex. There. I said it.

ETA: The proposed Downey/Law Sherlock Holmes is something to look forward to, I think.

Recent pics of Baby Sofia arrived just this moment! As if she new I needed to share them with you. I hope this makes up for opening with Sarah Palin.

Pretty much sums up how I feel about Frank Miller

From the incomparable Maria, Goddess of Awesome.

Note to self: drinking beer while posting causes one to have to reinsert the same image over and over and over and over...

Huzzah!

Bitch magazine is saved (for now).
I think it's all due to my side banner and Random Thinkables' $5.

Friday Frivolity

Funny. I always thought this song was about masturbation. I don't think I want to imagine Gonzo masturbating...
Side note: Recently saw Dennis Quaid at a local Mongolian Bar-B-Que restaurant. He was so tiny! And skinny. It's true, I guess, what they say about the camera.

This is not about politics...and yet it is.

I am finally going to join my fellow bloggers and say something. But instead of re-examining issues that are currently being talked about (the most recent, but check out all of Music Wench's political posts for insight to my current state of mind), I am going to bring up something else about this campaign that bugs the living crap out of me.

I watched enough of the Republican Convention to be blinded by the glaring whiteness of it all. The majority of the speakers were old, white, and male. This perplexed me because I had been led to believe the GOP was trying to prove its diversity. Didn't the 2000 and 2004 conventions make it a point of displaying their 4% minority delegates and speakers to prove they're down with the people? Oh, wait...they're running against a black candidate now. I get it. So basically their posters should read:

VOTE MCCAIN
NO BLACK AGENDA HERE!

Thinking about how well this is working is making me, well, angry.

Over at alternet, Tim Wise breaks down quite easily what white privilege means in this campaign. These are points we all have seen, but to view them through this lens makes everything sickeningly clearer for me. We still live in a racist society. I have always known that. Now, apparently, the Republicans aren't afraid to exploit it for whatever means necessary.

An example:

White privilege is when you can call yourself a "fuckin' redneck," like Bristol Palin's boyfriend does, and talk about how if anyone messes with you, you'll "kick their fuckin' ass," and talk about how you like to "shoot shit" for fun, and still be viewed as a responsible, all-American boy (and a great son-in-law to be) rather than a thug.

And:

White privilege is being able to be a gun enthusiast and not make people immediately scared of you.

Read. Enjoy. Be sick with me.

Disaster Fatigue?

I know there is too much going on in the world.

I work for an organization that would not survive without the support of generous donors. Regular people, who believe in the work being done, pay my salary.

In the wake of so much damage due to Gustav and Ike, it saddens me to learn the American Red Cross Disaster Relief Services is practically broke. This is an organization whose entire purpose is to provide aid to those stuck in impossible situations. After Katrina, The Red Cross provided hot meals, financial aid, water, and comfort to those who had little left. They were the first on scene in flood-ravaged St. Bernard Parish.

I'm not asking for much. But if you are considering making any sort of donation for disaster relief (and do consider even a small amount, for even if it's not good karma, it will make you feel a little better about yourself), please consider this worthy organization. This link takes you straight there!

Have a good day.

I found my soulmates, but they are taken...

People, I love paper. I love paper. I can write that one sentence over again ad infinitum and you would not have an idea of the depth of my love for paper.

With this depraved love (which involves much fondling in public, as well as some stroking, accompanied by vaguely sexual sounds) comes my obsession with writing journals.

I have a journal for every mood. There is the one I use as a commonplace book. The writing improv journal. The book title jotter. The random bits of life, including some very amusing sketches (amusing due to my inability to draw) of current scenery. The whining about life stuff. The one I paste a poem I love for each entry. The one in which I write about God.

With the exception of the journal I kept throughout my adolescence (when I was so vastly inexperienced as to only keep one), I still have every embarrassing random bit of crap that floated through my mind that can be bound between two covers. Even the shit from my twenties, y'all. When I was single. And inappropriately in love. Reading through them is not something I do often. As the Husband will attest, I am not a nostalgia junkie. I like moving forward. My past is filled with crap I do not ever have to relive. But sometimes, it is interesting to note where I once was and how far I've come.

Through the years, I have probably spent as much on journals as I have on music (though never as much as I have on books). I have tried every kind, from plain $1 kiddie notebooks (touted by writing advocates everywhere as the cheapest way to keep the pen moving - I like any with fairies or dragons on them, go figure!) to moleskines (slightly overrated, but I love my reporter's notebook for jotting down book titles). My current favorite is the Apica Spiral - I love the paper quality, spiral binding makes it easy for my lefty self to get down, relatively inexpensive, easily modded. Oh yes, I mod my journals - stickers, postcards, what have you - mod podge it all together and call it art. Another favorite is the Clairfontaine, especially the square smaller notebooks - the paper quality is exceptional, though it does smear a bit with my new special pen (don't get me started on pens, please).

So imagine my delight to stumble across this site. They review notebooks and journals. As in, seriously! They look not only at paper quality, but binding, flatability (the ability of a notebook to lay flat - v. imp.), cover sturdiness. They understand me in ways even the Husband never can.

Ah, love.

Take this one, then!

Your result for The Who Would You Be in 1400 AD Test...

The Prioress

You scored 5% Cardinal, 69% Monk, 56% Lady, and 38% Knight!

You are a moral person and are also highly intellectual. You like your solitude but are also kind and helpful to those around you. Guided by a belief in the goodness of mankind you will likely be christened a saint after your life is over.

You scored high as both the Lady and the Monk. You can try again to get a more precise description of either the Monk or the lady, or you can be happy that you're an individual.

Take The Who Would You Be in 1400 AD Test at HelloQuizzy

ETA: Hey...where's my cool picture?!?

Holy Crap!

I now feel strangely bad about all the times I mocked his writing. Except his essays. I liked his essays a lot.

It's all Music Wench's fault!

Note: I am about as goth as I am alternative country. Though I do think everyday should be Halloween.

You Are 56% Goth

You definitely have some gothicness going on, but you're far from being a stereotypical goth. You enjoy certain elements of goth culture, but you're not going to be into something simply because it's goth. It's likely that you're the type of person who totally defies labels. Good for you! If you are into something, it's because you sincerely love it. Not because it projects a certain image.

Are You Goth?

PS, I love when I have to fix blogthings html, it makes me feel all smartypants!

Lord, I am wordy this weekend

Partly because I feel I have broken through this dam of a block that has plagued me for years. Finishing a creative endeavor can do that. Also, I am killing time before I go volunteer tonight. I promise to catch up on my blog reading tomorrow, friends, because I've been watching the weather channel all day and can't do it anymore.

Most of you know where I'm from, and while I may not have stated it explicitly, why I moved away. I was one of those lucky bastards who got out because I had the means to leave, a place to go, and no desire to hang around and chance it. And like the rest of America, I watched the terrible damage that weather and governmental incompetance combined can wreak on the soul of a place and its population. I, like you, was horrified by what I saw. But that horror had its own flavor because I was watching my home. And the whole time I stared, crying or in mute deadened pathos, I was still aware that I was lucky. That, even if my own house had been destroyed, I was alive, my family was safe, we were together, and still found reason to laugh at times - that's just how we are.

'That did not happen to me', is what I think whenever someone attempts to wax poetic about my being from New Orleans. I was lucky. I was blessed. And yet. It did. Because of my blasted sense of connection to all humanity, whether through my Zen studies, or my inherent Christian sensibilities, or through my own special empathetic superpowers (Sponge Girl!), it did happen to me and I still feel it every day.

Today I watched cameras pan around in special Disaster!Pornish ways, focusing on blown windows and destroyed highrises and knocked over street signs and I thought, 'That did not happen to me.' And I am grateful.

Here's the secret no one will tell you. Those images you are seeing of damage and destruction? Not the least of it. The true heartache sets in when people go home and see if anything is still standing. When the homeless population doubles due to subsidized housing being demolished and rents tripling. When businesses have to close because their insurance won't cover all the lost property, or because they depend on a tourist trade that just isn't there, or because they can't staff it because so many cannot come home. The true heartbreak will occur when families cannot find their loved ones, or realize they lost someone to the storm.

Trauma is loosely defined as a sudden unexpected event which causes a negative emotional reaction, such as fear. Its effects can be felt for years after said event. The emotional reaction one feels can be triggered at any time, by anything. I know people in the New Orleans area who are still reeling, even if their homes have been rebuilt, and their favorite stores have reopened, and they manage to exist in their protective bubble of everything's all right now. They are still waiting for that trigger. They are changed. We are changed. I am changed.

That did not happen to me. And yet it did.

Oh, Hai Thar, Weird Dream!

I am so obvious sometimes I crack myself up. Consider my state of mind for most of yesterday, my current obsession with Simon Pegg, and the pilot episode of Fringe, which I watched Tuesday night (for a great review of Fringe, check out Keyser Soze's blog). Put all these elements in a blender and put me to bed after three days of insomnia. Here is your cocktail for the evening:

I am in a hospital, and it is dark and creepy (as dream hospitals always are). For some reason I am in an area with lots of computer terminals and looking online at a list of "The Highest Rated Fanfiction Stories Ever!" And of course I am on the list, but not with my current offering, but a series I wrote about seven years ago in the Buffy fandom. So I'm all excited and thinking I need to get home and tell someone, when...cow. Damn it! The cow's escaped. Now what do I do? And in the manner of all dreams (and lost dream memory) I now have the cow on a leashy type thing and we wander around - outside - for what seems like hours. There are people around, but no one seems to take notice of the cow. There's lots of sitting around in the hot humid night talking to cow, mostly asking cow what I should do with cow. Then it occurs to me that I should call the other people that work in the lab! So I leave a desperate message on one guy's voicemail, and talk to some chick, who sounds all sleepy and says she's about to go out. So I sit some more, only now I'm forlorn and miserable and, for some reason, by a river. Me and cow are just lounging there, when the guy I left the vox for walks out some door that just appears and it's Tim Bisley! Only not Tim really, but basically some guy who looks like Simon Pegg did when he played Tim. But that doesn't matter because I'm not even certain who I am in this dream and he's come to help me with cow! So I hug him (wouldn't you?) and we head back to the lab, which is reached through this alley, and everyone is there! The whole lab came to help me with cow! I feel so gratified and pleased that the cow simply disappears at that point, and I'm really really hoping they'll ask me to go out with them, and Not-Tim is looking very cute in this long red coat with brass buttons, and then I have to pee and I wake up laughing.

Ah, dreams.

Considering my last post...

This is what I know some of you are saying. It's okay. I say it to myself all the time.
From someecards.com.

In which Diana describes how beyond pathetic she is

You have no idea.

I have long accepted that external validation is more important to me than I would ever admit out loud. Partially because I see it as a completely understandable human condition, though also a regrettably personal albatross of my own. But, since I apparently have decided I'm some sort of ragged role model for humanity, and so therefore have learned to fake a certain laissez-faire attitude about other people's attitudes, I am very good at pretending I have no need for it. While all along, I'm hoping to put into play that fake it until you make it axiom. I fall short. So so many times. And while I know that it's OKAY that I need for people to tell me they like me, I'm beautiful, clever, funny, smart, I'm their fav-o-rite person on the goddamned universe, it still makes me feel full of FAIL. Not to mention the neediness that accompanies the wondering.

And no, I'm not posting this so all five you you (wonderful wonderful yous) will leave me comments repeating "But I LOVE you, D!!!" That's not what this is about. I know who loves me. I know I'm mildly entertaining at times. I know I'm intelligent and curious and passionate and thoughtful, and that - on a good day - I am able to project all those wonderful qualities outward into the world. What shakes me to the core is this rock-hard belief I have that I have to impress everyone all the time.

Take my current situation: I post a story. It is well received. I am pleased about that. Very, ridiculously, inordinately pleased about that. I love every single person who took the time to comment and tell me they enjoyed my story. I believe they enjoyed my story. I therefore calm down a bit from my previous post and accept that my initial observation of my story (that it's indeed pretty good) was correct. Done.

Except. There is this one person on lj. There is always one person. It doesn't matter where I am. Do you have that person? That one person who you do not even know and yet who somehow holds your self-esteem in the palms of invisible hands? That one person who writes beautiful stories, or funny blogs, or insightful book reviews, or whatever. Somehow you have, without even realizing it, put this person on a pedestal. I have been on someone's pedestal, and I hated it there. The view sucks, the seat is uncomfortable, and the fall is hard. So I don't make it a point to let this person know about my personal pedestal. This person has no need of my pedestal. This person has a life, and flaws, and foibles, and stuff, and doesn't even know me. But I look up and there this person is, waving down and I wave back, wagging my tail that I'm even noticed.

So how do I react when this person lets me know my story has been printed for reading (because it is a long story to read off a computer screen)? I'm sorry, I have my hand by my ear, but I can't quite hear all of you laughing at how I'm pissing myself with excitement. Yes, maybe that's how each and every one of you would react as well. Perhaps you won't want to admit it, but I like admitting my failings, not because I want everyone to look down at me, but because I believe I'm just expressing something we all feel sometimes. And by publicly admitting it, I am making it okay for all of you to admit it as well, even if it's just to yourselves. See? Fucking role model, me. Besides, that reaction, the wagging, pissing, squealy-noised joy? Nothing compared to the misery that is crashing down on me as we speak. Because it's been three days. And this person - my pedestal? Not one peep about my story. Which, of course, leads me to assume it was not well received.

There are so so many things I could say right now. Some of them would be placating. Some disturbing. Some full of invective. But none would fully describe the complexity that is my brain processing how it feels about not hearing what I so desperately wanted to hear, even though so many have already said the same thing. And I am ashamed. I do feel gratitude for what I have already been given: real friends - some of whom actually know me - reminding me I am supported, strangers taking the time to appreciate how much work I put into something I care about, family teaching me what unconditional love means. But right now that gratitude is a distant thing.

I will remember it in time. But first I will retreat, pretend it doesn't matter what other people think, hope one day I will believe that, and lick my self-indulgent wounds. Be back soon.

Speaking of gay...

Just a little linkspam to start off your morning (except, of course, those of you who are in another time zone):

Will Sarah Palin stop reading Where the Wild Things Are to her kids? I mean, the man who wrote it chose to be gay for his entire life. In speaking of his life, homosexuality included, Maurice Sendak states the sad truth of never publicly coming out:

“I just didn’t think it was anybody’s business,” Mr. Sendak added. He lived with Eugene Glynn, a psychoanalyst, for 50 years before Dr. Glynn’s death in May 2007. He never told his parents: “All I wanted was to be straight so my parents could be happy. They never, never, never knew.”

I've mentioned before that my favorite part of the week is the Guardian Digested Reads. No book is too sacred. This week, John Crace gives mini-digests of the prestigious Booker Prize shortlist. From Sea of Poppies by Amitav Ghosh:

Deeti chewed on a mouthful of roti as she ground the poppies. "I must be in the book that ticks the historical, multi-layered, multicultural shortlist box," she said. "In which case," her husband replied, "I had better hurry up and die so that you can show off your research about the Opium Wars and sail away from Calcutta on board the Ibis with a cast of colourful characters who will use wilfully obscure and caricatured language that the judges will fall over themselves to call a tour de force of comic invention." "You're right," Deeti agreed. "And the best thing is I don't even need an ending as it's only the first in a trilogy."

So in case you've been living in a box for the past three weeks, Stephenie Meyer had a snafu regarding her next manuscript. And while I have been critical of the series, I do understand how she must feel violated by the incident (Unless, the very suspicious person in me whispers, unless she was the source of the leak because of the sad little nervous breakdown she had due to the laughing criticism of her book. Shush, little brat, I tell myself, let's just take people as they are, okay?). Meyer then officially released the first 12 chapters of Midnight Sun on her webpage with this slightly contradictory explanation:

I'd rather my fans not read this version of Midnight Sun. It was only an incomplete draft; the writing is messy and flawed and full of mistakes. But how do I comment on this violation without driving more people to look for the illegal posting? It has taken me a while to decide how and if I could respond. But to end the confusion, I've decided to make the draft available here (at the end of this post). This way, my readers don't have to feel they have to make a sacrifice to stay honest. I hope this fragment gives you further insight into Edward's head and adds a new dimension to the Twilight story. That's what inspired me to write it in the first place.

Be that as it may, if I were Meyer, I would take what good I can from the entire episode. What good is there in having someone you trust take a work in progress, scan it, and leak it on the internet, you ask? Well, of course, it opened the window for Cleolinda of Occupation: Girl to work her read and commentary magic:

Okay. The first thing I want to discuss is the fact that I cannot stop reading these books even though they fill me with feminist rage and horror. I can't stop, y'all. The imprinting! The forced kissing! The STALKING, OH MY LORD, THE STALKING. More to the point, perhaps: if Bella Swan hadn't met Edward, what was she planning to do with her life? I mean, what was she planning to do for a job? We're not even told enough about her interests to have any idea what career path she could have taken. Novels of the nineteenth century: that is pretty much it. And guess what? They're not hiring for those anymore.

Oh, Edward. Shine on you prissy diamond.

For your picture of the day:

The Bacon Flowchart (via BoingBoing):

There is so much awesome in this, I can't even begin

From artist Sam Gilby, an illustrated homage to the greatness that is Hot Fuzz. You can see close-ups of the different characters here.

Can I battle my own ego?

After three weeks, countless cups of coffee, and so much Laffy Taffy my teeth were starting to ache, I finished, edited, and uploaded my story on my livejournal page. And that's when the anxious neediness set in.

Five years ago, I was a happy little fanfic writer. I had a small following for a Buffy series I was writing, and was in the middle of writing an epic piece for the dueSouth fandom. Then I just stopped. I'd love to say I stopped because I realized my talents were being wasted, but I would be lying. Number one: I think fanfiction is a healthy and fun way to explore character development. Number two: that just wasn't the case with me. Because when I'm writing it, I'm having a blast. It's after I post it that I become a miserable wreck.

Part of the problem lies in my inability to contribute to fan communities. To me, forums and communities are the internet version of soul incubii. So I am an unknown entity in fannish communities, which automatically relegates my story to the yeah, we'll see pile. Added to that, the current offering is freaking long, which requires a commitment to read in a fandom that seems to appreciate shorter to-the-point pieces.

I said - in what was apparently an eloquent email, but which felt to me like whiny whinybuttness - that I would rather hateful comments than no comments at all, because that would mean at least people were reading it. Later, I told another friend I was debating that point of view and could not decide if I would rather hateful comments or no comments. I mean, would you rather someone hated what you wrote, or think no one bothered to read it at all?

There are many terrible fanfiction writers out there who post stories with impunity and receive feedback (though I suspect the authenticity of said feedback) that would make anyone envious. I don't think I'm a terrible fanfiction writer, but I post with trepidation and nervous stomach-twisting anxiety, and then I get so fucking pissed at myself.

I become convinced that a story, which not twelve hours beforehand I was pretty proud of, is utter crap. I start second-guessing decisions I made concerning character interactions, word choices, plot development, and even subject matter. I begin to believe I'd been deluding myself, passages of which I had been proud were stupid, humor I had enjoyed writing was instead trite and shallow. I'm such a terrible writer, I can't even think of a word other than stupid to describe how stupid my writing is.

So of course I stop writing. Because how could all that negativity be worth it?

But then another story idea pops into my head and I think, oooh fun! And I start writing and I forget the upcoming stomach-churning crap I'm going to put myself through; I forget the wondering if anyone will even bother reading it; I forget everything because I am immersed in something I love, mindless of the world around me except that one of my own creation. And the cycle begins again.

I don't know if it's worth it for something I don't even get a paycheck for, but for some reason, I feel compelled to keep doing it. For right now, I suppose it's enough. Of couse, it helps when your friends pimp your story so graciously on their journal. Don't know if it made people read it, but it did make me smile.

ETA: So I'm a big whiny dork from whiny dorktown. I've had three lovely comments on my story from actual strangers! Yes, people who do not know me let me know they liked my story. No, apparently I cannot battle my own ego.