So when I was a kid, my family used to play Clue

And for some reason, when I was dating the (will once be) husband, I started calling his dog - a schnauzer - Colonel Mustard, even though she was a she, because she had this super cool mustache, goatee thing happening, kind of like this:

but much much cuter.

So imagine my joy (it's been a rough week, I take all the joy I can get) when I come across this:

well, except for the whole dead cat thing.
That's not...you know joyfully funny, but in context...oh, never mind.

Sometimes

...when I look at the world, our leaders, what guides people, and why people make the decisions they do, I become so very disheartened. I see our self-righteous, self-involved greed and feel sick; and I wonder if we're ever going to find a way to see clearly. Was it always like this? Have we always let the greater good languish while we worried more about our individual well-being?

I need good, positive, happy stories. I need to remember that individuals do fight for others to keep my hope from flagging. I think we all need to see the others care. We are connected. I believe we are all connected.

I'm just not feeling it right now.

Any thoughts?

Again, not about politics...

There's just nothing sexier than a sharp-dressed man holding a book, all looking like, "Dude! I'm at the good part! Where can I sit?"

The book, by the way is this one. Via Omnivoracious.

This is not about politics

Truth be told, I'm not too crazy about the video, which starts out great in outlining the blatant sexism that is allowed in today's media, but then segues into the sexist aspects of the media portrayal of Hillary's campaign. It's not that I don't believe sexism has played a part (as is apparent from the video), it's that there is so much more out there they could have used. Just from the big three news outlets alone, they could have shown how pervasively sickening the levels of what is allowed to be said about women on what are supposed to be shows about the news. Go here and watch it anyway. Sign up for news from the Womens Media Center, because until we all start speaking out, it is going to continue. Period.

As my wise friend Anna Marie once said, soon just selling books will be a crime

A new Indiana law forces bookstores selling any book that falls under the broadly defined and yet difficult to categorize heading of 'sexually explicit' to pay a $250 license fee and be classified as an adult bookstore.

In Oregon, publishers, booksellers, and the ACLU are still fighting to repeal the law that books that fall under the broadly defined and yet difficult to categorize heading of 'sexually explicit' cannot be sold to anyone under the age of 13.

I could go into a long diatribe about censorship.

I could go into a long diatribe about the consequences (and futility) of sexual repression.

But instead, I am going to thank my parents, who never once told me what I could and could not read. From my earliest days as a reader and book lover, I have been given free reign, not only in the library, but also my parent's bookshelves. I remember vividly looking though the coffee table book about Marilyn Monroe and staring at some of her famous nudes. I also remember the most affecting aspect of those photographs to me was the porcelain aspect of her skin, which was so different from anyone in my olive and pink-toned family.

Any book I could pull off the shelf was mine to peruse. Any book I wanted to check out of the library was mine to read. My world, whether I lived in a small town or large city, was always immediately expansive, filled with young women who created shelter out of whale bones, and girl detectives in upstate New York far cooler than Nancy Drew. As I entered my 'tween' years, my world grew exponentially to include seedy apartments in New Orleans, the parch dusty plains of Kansas, the killing fields of Dresden, Apartheid South Africa, and Regency England. And I entered my adolescence aware of the boundless universe encompassing not only space, but history and future, as well as worlds that don't even exist.

Thank you, Mom and Dad, for allowing me the space to find out what kind of reader I wanted to be (omnivorous). Thank you for trusting my ability to process anything others may consider too adult, too explicit, too anything for me, and for knowing I would come to you if I had any questions. Thank you for reading to me. Thank you for having books in the house and taking us to the library wherever we lived. Thank you for encouraging questions and also for leaving me alone, because you knew I liked to figure things out on my own.

You are awesome and I am blessed.

Thank You, Music Wench!

This one is even longer than the one I saw! How exciting. Now you can all share in my excitement:

So Random Your Eyeballs Will Ache

I know what I'm doing right now. I'm avoiding the many Vincent D'Onofrio-obsessed and LOCI-friendly websites I usually visit because I will lose an entire day roaming through them. The new teaser trailer for the June 8th return of my favorite obsession has premiered and I'm certain teh internets is a-buzzin' with anticipation. And while, I admit, I did rewind my DVR and watch all 10 seconds of it three times (mostly for that expression on Eames's face - so perfect), I refuse to spend half a day speculating what might be's over 10 seconds. I do have work to do. Suffice it to say, I am eagerly waiting to see what happens next.

My Schott's Almanac of Miscellany informs me that when my left eye itches I am soon to expect sadness or grief. Not a good sign during insane allergy season. Though on a more positive note, right eye itching signifies imminent laughter, jollity, or the arrival of a loved one. I wonder if one cancels the other out.

I had to put down a book on purpose. I will pick it up again and sooner rather than later, but I just had to take a break for a moment. I was reading it too quickly (because I was enjoying it so much), but it was becoming quite dark. I don't mind dark undercurrents; in fact I find them necessary in most novels. But something in my current mindset won't allow me to get too deep in these rivers right now. As soon as I finish, I will post a review with more detail.

There is a new mystery developing on Canada's coasts. dismembered right feet are being found washed up on its beaches. There is much speculation, some of it plausible, but the fact that it is right feet only, and that they are still shod just give me the creeps.

Oh and...another pointless but interesting thing I learned from Mr. Schott is my preferred ink color (burgundy) was, in Edwardian times, the ink used by country squires and clergymen. I don't know if that signifies a thing. As I doubt if I would have been considered a lady of quality, it seems rational I wouldn't prefer light blue ink. Luckily, I've given up green ink - that was the ink of knaves and the insane.

OH! How could I forget...Matthew McConaughey's brother - who goes by the nickname Rooster - has a son named Miller Lyte. Yes, he named him after his favorite beer. Somebody give that man his own reality show!

The Politics of Pain

I never thought much about physical pain most of my life. It's not that I wasn't familiar with it; one bad car accident when I was three and chronic strep throat allowed me to experience it on my own, but I never gave too much thought to other people's pain. I sympathized with it, as much as one can, but never understood it as I do now.

I am in my late thirties and I don't feel old by any definition of the word. But catch me in the throes of one of my allergy-induced migraines (thanks, Austin!), monthly cramps exacerbated by endometriosis and uterine fibroids, wrists gone numb and shaky from carpal tunnel, or watching the care I take with my right arm so as not to aggravate the inflamed whatever in my right shoulder, and I feel downright ancient.

On top of that, I feel guilty. Like everyone thinks I'm faking it. No, no, thank you, I don't want to do that fun thing you offered because I'd rather lie here on the couch. No, don't mind me here. I know I stood up and just doubled over, but it's nothing really, just a feeling like someone punched me with a spiked glove in the abdomen. I shouldn't have stood so fast. It'll pass.

I really do say stuff like that. And I sit there at work while feeling like a wombat is trying to claw its way out of my brain and the top of my head and feel guilty because I want to go home. Or I stay home (and work from home), and feel bad because I'm convinced others think I'm making it up.

I occurred to me this morning as I woke up at my usual time for work and thought, "Nope. Not. Gonna. Do. It." that pain is so personal. It's internal. It can't be quantified. There is no set of standards that works for every person. I get a tattoo and go all zen deep into it. Someone else gets the same tattoo and pukes when the needle touches his skin.

I am in pain almost every day now from something that's just gone wrong in my body. And most days I can handle it; most days I just do that grin and bear it thing. Unfortunately that means the days I can't bear it, I feel I've failed somehow. I mean, I worked for mega bookstore chain for three years and I think I called in sick all of five times. I went back to work early after having major abdominal surgery because I was just that bored. Why can't I give myself a break now?

I think for me it's just anger. At my body for betraying me. At myself for giving in. At the world for judging me (in my mind - I realize I am the only one doing the judging). And the frustration of not being able to externally express it without crying. If there were a way I could wear my pain like an appendage so those around me would understand why I am so grumpy, why I seem I'm not paying attention, why I don't feel like doing that thing, I would.

But then I wonder why I feel I have to justify it for everyone else. Why does it matter if no one believes me? I don't care if others agree with me on most matters. I generally don't give fuck all what anyone thinks of my taste in music, clothing, TV, opinions. Why is it so important "They" believe me when I say I'm in pain?

And is it the same for everyone else?

Nothing

I have nothing.

Nada.

Zip.

Naught.

Zed.

Life roll: Computer problems. Allergies. Work. Work. Work. I am now hella awesome on Quickbooks and that just depresses me to no end. I do the books. Yippee.

I did read a fantastically amazing book that defies all previously stated hyperbole exclaiming its excellence (I was actually going to find links for all those words, and then I thought: is anyone actually going to click on those links? I thought not). Though if you're interested, it's called Skulduggery Pleasant (you should actually click on that link, it goes to the book's website and is pretty cool) and it is a kid's book (as in younger than 14), but a kid's book unlike any you read when you were kids. I know what books you read, so don't even try to fool me. Buy it (check it out, steal it, borrow it, I don't care) for the kid in your life (neighborhood, apartment building, church, classroom), then read it first.

So there. Not nothing after all.

Personally, I think...

...people do over-philosophize at times.

I think too much. I know I do. But what I'm usually over-thinking are real life situations involving real people. Or my own place in this endless universe, my role or purpose, or whether I'm meant to have a purpose at all.

It is times like these I wonder if I am a freak of nature. If I'm just one of those weird people who sees the world too differently than everyone else. Then I remember I am not that unique at all. Or, rather, my uniqueness is no more special than anyone else's.

I don't know why I can have the patience of Mother Theresa in most situations, but then stick me in a fan forum and I want to go Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver all over the place. I've worked with children; I've worked in the service industry; I've worked retail, for fuck's sake, and held my cool.

And I'm really sorry if the one of you (who I like bunches) who will know exactly what I'm talking about here gets insulted by what I'm venting about, but this is my forum and I apparently need to vent.

I just don't think I belong. I don't like how judgmental I become. I don't like that I sit there and think, "What a load of pretentious, nonsensical garbage. You can't intellectualize character action on a TV show, no matter how many mythos you tie it to. And something else, obscurity is not a virtue. Just because you sound intelligent doesn't mean you're right. And just because people ooh and aah over what you write doesn't mean they understood one freaking word. And another thing? You make no fucking sense, and I am saying that with full confidence in my intellectual ability."

I say all that in my head, I do.

What do I do in the forum? Most times, I ignore what I read and go about my business. Sometimes the discussion veers somewhere I feel like jumping in. And sometimes it's fun. But then someone else will jump in (or the original poster) and steer it off into the never-never land of fanciful meandering, Jungian archetypes, and the like. And I say...

It doesn't fucking matter what I say (so sayeth The Rock). Obviously I also take this way too seriously. Even I know that. If one person or another wants to post Marina Warner-like theses about a TV show, what do I care? And if I'm going to get annoyed every time it happens, then maybe it's time for another break.

Of course it would help if the goddamn show would come back on the air. And then maybe a couple of us could actually get together and discuss what I want to discuss. Things like, why do you think he did that? I don't remember that being mentioned before, can someone point me to the episode where that happened? how does all this tie into that other thing that happened?...you know...actually discussing the show?

I know I'm overly fond of my deep thoughts, but anyone who has discussed Buffy the Vampire Slayer with me ad infinitum knows I love to talk about my shows and their characters, and that I love hearing different opinions. When they make sense, that is.

Oh hell. I'm going to go bury my nose in a book for another couple of weeks.

Download Little Brother for free!

While I am all in favor of supporting the book industry, I also recognize there are many reasons to also support e-books (the environment being a primary one). Cory Doctorow has been a long-time supporter of the Creative Commons movement and has made all of his books available for free download.

Check out Little Brother for free.

And then send the author some email telling him how great it is. He'll answer you, just like he did me!

Many Thanks to my friend AMC for the link.

Little Brother, by Cory Doctorow

Confession, I attempted to read Doctorow's Someone Comes to Town, Someone Leaves Town, and like many books I found mildly interesting, but not really what I wanted at the time, I put it down and never thought if it again. But I picked up Little Brother and didn't put it down again until I had finished. Quite a feat for someone who usually has several books competing for her attention.

Before I get into Review Mode, I want to say a little something about YA fiction while attempting to avoid the many many things that have already been said (just Google it and you will be treated to a plethora of blog posts). Sometimes the line between what is adult fiction and what is "teen" fiction gets blurred and it's not uncommon for novels to cross that line. Over at Bookshelves of Doom, I gave some reasoning (in the comments) as to why a particular book (the excellent Ysabel, by Guy Gavriel Cay) should be considered YA, even though previous discussion had decided not due to the lack of immediacy. Traditional adult novels portray action about one step removed from the narration taking place - this happened...and then I felt this...and then we did this as a result. Traditional teen novels have no division between action and reaction. An excellent example of this is Twilight, by Stephanie Meyer: there is nothing that happens in that book that isn't immediately felt, described, reacted to by the series protagonist, Bella. And in that, the reader becomes Bella, feels what Bella feels, thinks what Bella is thinking. And while Little Brother falls neatly into the YA category because of this immediate action/reaction narration, this novel can, I believe, be equally enjoyed by readers who rarely venture into the teen section of their bookstore.

I have often said (in a complainy sort of tone) that adult writers of adult novels give their young protagonists too much preternatural maturity. Not that there aren't wise, intelligent children in this world, but many would have you believe one existed on every other block of New York City (and one for every small Southern town). Most kids are just kids: they make mistakes, they argue with their parents, they are selfish, they think they're smarter than they are, they're not very good at predicting what the adults around them will do in a given situation, they think about sex, but not all the time. Marcus Yallow is a pretty typical smart kid living in San Francisco in the not-too-distant future. Most of his life is taken up with trying the hack his high school's Big Brother like methods and playing an online game called Harajuku Fun Madness.

One day when Marcus and his friends cut school to find a clue for their game, terrorists bomb the Bay Area Bridge, and in the aftermath, they are picked up as suspected terrorists by the Department of Homeland Security. They are held and questioned for several days and are released into a different world as different people. Paranoia reigns supreme, fear dominates, and civil liberties are stripped away in the name of National safety. Sound familiar? What follows is a fast-paced adventure in the land of hacking, Internet freedoms, cryptography, the Bill of Rights, betrayal, faith, and determination. Marcus is one determined kid, sometimes stubbornly so, but his faith in the ideals set up in The Declaration of Independence and The Bill of Rights remains unshakable even when facing his liberal father's compliance to random searches and constant surveillance. Through Marcus's narration, we feel his frustration when debating with his classmates, his elation at inspiring thousands of young people to mess with the surveillance methods of DHS, and the fear that underlies every move he makes.

You don't have to agree with Marcus to cheer him on, worry about him, or even get frustrated with him when it seems his stubbornness has taken him too far. But underneath it all, you believe in Marcus, even when he doesn't believe in himself anymore. Marcus is a real kid who is in a situation that is just one more attack from becoming our reality. Yes, he's a smart kid: there are many times we are treated to a lesson on Alan Turing, public and private encryption keys, coding, and the Mission District. And like most smart kids, he can be a smart-ass. And like most smart-asses, he can be endearing.

This is a YA novel primarily because our protagonists are teenagers, but I believe it can be read and enjoyed by many adults (not just those of us who read YA). We can all see some of ourselves in Marcus and his friends. It is intelligent enough to hold anyone's interest.

Couple of things I lurved-lurved-lurved about it:
1. Marcus meets a girl who he likes well enough, but doesn't think of as "h4wt," but her intelligence, exuberance, and good humor attract him. Before the end of the book, he thinks she's beautiful. There is something so true in this. I wish more guys and girls would read books wherein it is more than someone's looks that attract a person.
2. Marcus isn't a hero to all. And it's not just adults who disagree with him. He loses friendships over his actions. He also learns that - even though his anti-DHS slogan is "Don't Trust Anyone Over 25" - those he can count on the most are adults.

My biggest gripe was - ready for this? - two typos. But they are pretty big ones that jump off the page and slap you in the face. I'm never surprised to find such things in small press books, but Tor is a major publisher. And I'm not talking about comma splices or missing quotation marks. Anyway.

I loved this book. And you will too. Especially if you are a fan of Scarlett Thomas's PopCo, Scott Westerfeld's So Yesterday, 1984, or anything by William Gibson.

Friday Frivolity

Just like every other female on the planet, I <3 Jim, mostly because of this:

29 Days of Giving - Day 1

This video is totally cheesy in that "movies they showed you at school to keep you off drugs, sex, rock and roll" way, but try to look past that to the message inside. It speaks to what I feel is the most important quality we should all embody:



I've started my 29 Days of Giving Challenge today. I'm supposed to blog about what I gave each day. I honestly don't know if I can accomplish that. But I will face the challenge internally and do my best. I started my challenge with a donation to John and Elizabeth Edwards' College for Everyone. I can't afford to donate much (though I try to donate to someone every month), but I figured a monetary gift to a great program in honor of Edwards' endorsement of Barack Obama is a good beginning.

Apparently, The Oil Cleansing Method depends heavily on the power of creative visualization

I have very challenging, problematic skin. It's oily, except when it isn't. It breaks out, but not in typical places. It is sensitive, but not in the traditional sense. I have in the past shopped for facial cleansers in a desperate attempt to realize that I too can have clear beautiful skin. And in 39 years, I have yet to find that product, or combination thereof, that is more than just adequate. Just when I'm resigning myself to accepting having slightly flaky, oily, dry, combination, acne-prone, itchy, dull skin, someone comes along and says, "You're a perfect candidate for The Oil Cleansing Method (OCM)!" Why this method gets to be all capitalized is beyond even my powers of analysis.

And while I understand the thinking behind it (and believe it may actually work), a part of me would rather just plunk down the extra few dollars and purchase an oil-based cleanser than go through all this trouble.

They say it's simple, but when your nightly cleansing routine includes the following:

As you're massaging, let your mind drift off to something calming and breathe deeply. Take this time to relax and release some of the stress that your body is harboring. Sit down, breathe deeply, and take your time. Give the oil enough time to work on dissolving the impurities in your pores and give yourself enough time to unwind. Picture what your face would look like if it were completely clear and free from blemishes. Focus on that image and know that it is attainable. Trust that it is attainable. Accept that it is attainable. You can have clear skin, free of blemishes and you will have clear skin, free of blemishes. Focus on perfect skin and breathe deeply.

I think not. I have a hard enough time getting myself to meditate for a measly 20 minutes a night and they want me to sit down while washing my face? And go all Shakti Gawain on my skin?

It doesn't help that my creative visualization technique must be cock-eyed, because I creatively visualized myself into my current job and now look at me. I'm all for the power of positive thinking (tm) and all, but I prefer to use my powers to increase betterment of my life as a whole, such as for procuring pie ala mode, not focusing so much on whether or not my skin is living up to society's expectations. It bugs me, yeah. Enough to spend a little more money than I do on shampoo, sure. But most days, I don't even think about it. Except now I have this itch to go to Sephora and buy some damn cleanser.

Commercials from other countries, take 1

One of the aspects of Thai culture is their easy acceptance of ghosts as a normal routine part of life. I had never known this before reading the brilliant Bangkok series by John Burdett. Here is a Thai light bulb commercial. It makes me smile.

Because We All Need a Laugh Now

via Fimoculous

Angst Alert (and kind of preachy as well!). Oh Well.

As food aid finally reaches the cyclone-stricken population in Myanmar, I am reminded again of how easily one population can be held hostage by their government. I watched it happen two and a half years ago on my home turf. Unlike then, the US government has engaged in lengthy negotiations with the military junta controlling the country to allow relief workers to enter with supplies. For that, I am glad, but it doesn't end there. Thousands of people are crammed into tiny refugee camps with little in the way of necessary comforts. The lack of sanitation will cause more deaths.

Today for the first time since it happened, I saw footage of parents in China grieving over the bodies of their children. I was late to work, too busy crying over the helplessness that suddenly washed over me.

After Katrina, I was filled with that same helplessness, but it was coupled with rage. It doesn't matter whether or not I personally know people who suffered on those streets or in the Superdome (I do), what mattered was the misery and suffering I had to witness and yet be separated from. And you know what? I agree with Kanye. George Bush probably does hate black people. Though I don't hold him wholly responsible for what happened. I mean, it's not like he's alone in that sentiment.

Disaster fatigue will set in soon enough and we will all once again worry more about the antics of the latest celebutant than how those parents are coping with the sudden loss of their only child (don't forget China's one-child policy), or how many more people in a tiny country in Southeast Asia no one even cares about are dead because of unsanitary conditions. Most of the rest of the world will move on. I used to feel kind of dirty acknowledging this. Now I realize it is human nature. It is a survival technique that keeps us going in the face of daily tragedy--personal, political, world-wide.

In the past when confronted with so much human ugliness and misery, my brain reverted to what I call "denial mode." Specifically after the OKC bombings and after 9/11, I refused to believe humans were capable of so much mindless evil, and instead found a very brief comfort in blaming, then turning my back on, God. Because as the all -powerful, he should have stopped it from happening in the first place.

But here's what I've learned about myself. I can't not believe in God. Every time I feel I managed to convince myself of my belief's pointlessness, I felt a brief moment of release, followed by constant uneasiness and unhappiness. It was almost as if my sudden fall into atheism became the equivalent of an ill-fitting bra with chronic discomfort and the constant awareness of its existence. And after a few itchy months, I would have to realize what a part of me obviously knew all along:

• the Oklahoma City bombing was a horrible act perpetrated by a very misguided and unhappy young man who wanted to teach us a lesson (that we're still not getting)
• the 9/11 attack was a horrible act perpetrated by very angry and disillusioned young men who wanted to teach us a lesson (that we're still not getting)
• and on a smaller scale: people we love die, sometimes long before we're ready for them to, but it happens because people die everyday and I guess statistically it has to happen every once in a while to someone we know personally. God is not "calling anyone home." That would make him very codependent.
  

I realize I'm simplifying something more complex and messy, but that's how I make sense of things. If I am to believe in God (as it appears I feel I need to regardless of my own intentions), then I have to recognize that I believe humans were given free will in the hopes we would figure a few things out on our own. Some of us have, but most have not.

Because here is where, for me, it ties all together. IF we can cry and mourn the loss of life in a far away country because of disaster, why can we not also mourn the loss of civilian life due to perpetrated violence? Due to war? IF we can become outraged at a government's cavalier treatment of its own citizens after a disaster, why can't we become equally outraged at our government's cavalier treatment of another country's citizens? The questions could go on and on...

I don't believe in a God who puts out an invisible hand to cushion us. I believe in a God who gave us a perfect world to live in and the intelligence and capability to live in peace. I believe that God is now waiting for us to make the connections needed to realize that perfection. It doesn't matter whether or not we believe, or what we believe, as long as we have faith that this world can be a better place. That the anguish I feel for the sufferers of tragedy are not delineated by the cause of that tragedy, or the color of their skin, or what religion they practice.

It has taken me a long time to get to this point. I hope I'm finally getting it.

Current Reading List

Yes, I really do read several books at one time.

Dorothy L. Sayers - Gaudy Night
Cory Doctorow - Little Brother
Walter Wink - The Powers That Be
Tennessee Williams - Memoirs

Here's how it works:
The fiction gets read in large chunks only. There's no point in even opening the Sayers or Doctorow if I can't devote at least an hour to it. Evenings when there's nothing on TV and weekends are usually reserved for fiction. But when I read fiction, I tend to read very quickly, so it is therefore imperative to have your Too Be Read (TBR) pile visible and ranked according to what I'm ready for next.

Nonfiction is generally read before bed--while in bed--usually for at least 30 minutes, though if I'm having a hard time pulling myself away, it can take over the fiction spot momentarily (as happened with Jesus for President and why I'm still reading Gaudy Night even though I love it).

Four books is about average. Sometimes there is one more nonfic book hanging around somewhere that gets read slowly (like molasses slow) over the course of about a year (during which time I will read around 60 other books).

I always write down the titles of the books I'm currently reading, then check them off when I've finished. This is not because I'm just that anal, it's so I don't forget what I've read. Not everything is so spectacular it stays in the memory banks forever. I also write down my TBR list and "books that sound interesting," all in my moleskine reporter's notebook. I never remember to pull the notebook out when I'm book hunting. I think sometimes I just like to write down the titles of books.

Now the TBR pile? That is one unruly, ungainly mess. And I add to it almost weekly. My friend Frank once told me that work is what we do so we can do the stuff we love when we're not working (a work philosophy that doesn't totally jibe with my ways, but if it works for him...). Well, I don't go out and drink. The husband and I rarely eat out. We sometimes go see movies. I don't buy lots of clothes or shoes or need the latest doodads and technojunk. What I do is read. I work to read. Keeps me from lots of psychological mischief and feeds my brain.

When I think about it that way, I don't dislike my job so very much.

When Comparing Apples to Oranges...

I went to see Iron Man last weekend and I can't stop talking about it. I mean, it's a fun superhero movie and all, but that's not what made it stick in my brain. Robert Downey, Jr. is what what is sticking in my brain. I walked into that movie with absolutely no expectations and walked out enthralled anew. My first thought was, wow. I just want to go give him a hug right now and tell him how proud I am of him. It takes a shitload of strength and determination to live on the knife-edge of disaster and pull yourself out and keep working for something you love. We see too many stories of celebutants and pretty young things falling into notoriety and never quite bringing themselves out of it. Most of these people have so little talent, even if they were to truly clean up their acts it wouldn't matter. If your entire self-image is built upon nothing more than your celebrity status, then what do you have to fight for when being a fuckup keeps you a celebrity? Robert Downey, Jr. is an actor who - I believe - loves what he does. His self-image was apparently built upon something greater and more lasting than celebrity. And he cleaned up and took whatever jobs he could until someone gave him the break he needed to get where he belongs, on theater marquees.

And there's that little thing where, in Iron Man, he portrays a character of such confidence and intelligence with such conviction, I found him...compelling. Like, if I were single and he were single, after that hug of support, we would hopefully be finding somewhere to have hot monkey sex.

When I admit this to the husband (who gracefully takes such things in stride), he asks, So your #1 has been replaced?

I'm sorry, what?

Here's the thing, Robert Downey, Jr (why do I feel I need to write out his entire name?) is a very talented actor. He's a good-looking man. He's aged well. But he's no Vincent D'Onofrio.

This isn't about sex appeal. Whether or not I find one more or less attractive is irrelevant in this case.

Vincent D'Onofrio is a more compelling actor. He inhabits his characters so fully that one believes he is Detective Robert Goren; he is Private Pyle; he is every lovable, despicable, and irascible persona he's ever portrayed. Some accuse him of over acting, but I say pshaw, because:

Robert Downey, Jr is a great actor who's been given one great character to portray and he shined in that role. Vincent D'Onofrio is a great actor who has shined in every role he's played regardless of the quality of material he's worked with. His characters literally jump off the screen and into your face. They excite you, irritate you, scare you, creep you out, and turn you on. There is no middle ground. And during that time you are in the theater or on your couch, there is no actor playing a character. There is only that character.

Few actors have this ability to fully embody a role. Male or female, there is always this recognition happening, the visibility of acting. Book reviewers frequently make reference to the transparency of an author's writing. Transparent writing brings character, setting, and emotion alive without the reader even noticing. The writing may be beautiful or evocative, but it is simply the backdrop for more important elements to come alive. I believe transparent acting is the same. I've seen many die-hard Law and Order: Criminal Intent fans admit they took awhile to get into the show because the Goren character was so irritating to them. Then, after some time he grew on them (much like an annoying friend does).

That is transparent acting. That is compelling acting. That is why, in an industry of fakers and prettyboys, Vincent D'Onofrio will always rock my world.

Friday Frivolity

My newest internet friend, Music Wench, has excellent taste in music. Occasionally she shares her love on her blog. I have pretty decent, if quite eclectic taste in music. I also have no shame. The following is not a good song at all. But it brings me joy nonetheless:



This video brings up some existential questions:
How does one play sax like that?
If I had been at that beach side concert, would I too have been headbanging?
Do all vampires have such crappy taste in music? or just those in California?
Kiefer Sutherland, hotter as David or Jack Bauer?

Nothing more than some great pictures I've come across this week.

Stolen from I Can Haz... and PopSecret.

Humans. Good.

CPIII - MVP

In his final weeks, Brian told his family that he knew he was going to heaven and that he wanted to meet Jesus wearing his Chris Paul jersey....

... [Hornets owner George] Shinn and his wife hoped to attend the funeral with Paul and his parents. But the team will be on road at the time, so that isn't possible, Shinn said. The family plans to bury Brian in his favorite jersey, as he requested.

Yes. We are the future of my family. Be very afraid.

From Thanksgiving last year. Pictured are (l to r): My brother, Cousin Maria, Cousin Roger are standing; Alex, the Husband, Cousin Stacy, and me with Nicky on my lap seated (the kids are my brother's). I am reminded of how blessed I am every time I look at this.

Here are the matriarchs of our brood, my mom (right, white hair) and her sister, Dina (Stacy and Maria's mom)

Boast all you want, but I know the truth: you should all be jealous you weren't born into my family.

Sigh

...really?...

If anyone's interested, I'll pontificate on this in the comments after I battle the whirlwind that just ate my soul.

Okay, never mind. I can't NOT speak here.

Jane Eyre is one of my absolute favorite novels from my young adult years. It opened my eyes and heart to so much more than just good literature (to which I had already been introduced). I have already written (albeit briefly) about my love of this novel, so I won't go into the details here. This is about the movie, anyway, not the book.

I have no issue with the hollywoodization of novels. The industry feels it is so sadly lacking in fresh story ideas, it seems. So if my choices are to see Rush Hour 25: Gridlock! or and adaptation of a great novel, I think my choice is clear. I also understand that what makes great written stories don't necessarily make great movies, and therefore changes must be made, things cut, subtle plot points turned into frying pans to beat the viewer's heads in. But good screenwriters and thoughtful directors make choices that translate the story faithfully despite any changes.

The first of these thoughtful choices is in your lead actors. Keira Knightly and Matthew Macfadyen were strong choices in what could have been a disastrous turn of a brilliant novel. And while Gwyneth Paltrow usually bugs me a little (and breaks rule #1), she embodied her character to an honorable enough degree to not ruin her title movie. But a bad choice in lead actor can ruin even the most amiable adaptation.

1. When your novel is set in England, please please please employ British actors.

They do exist, you know. Very talented, those Brits. One might even say they've held an acting tradition that supersedes ours by, oh, a couple centuries? Ellen Page is as cute as a button, but I feel I'm pointing out the painfully obvious by stating she is NOT BRITISH! If one was doing a Clueless-like adaptation, then I could understand, but a straight-up retelling? Did you learn nothing from Jena Malone (a fine actor by her own right, but by far the weakest link, along with fellow American Donald Sutherland, in the recent P&P)?

2. When part of the appeal, hell, one of the main aspects, of your protagonist is that she is not beautiful, do not cast someone beautiful and plain her down for the part.

The world is filled with mightily talented actors who happen to not look like Charlize Theron. Or Ellen Page. Some of them might even be British. And keep in mind that Rochester is no looker, either. And older than Jane by far. I can't fucking wait to see who they cast.

3. It's really okay to cut out parts of the novel to fit into the delegated screen time, but make those cuts judiciously, keeping in mind the arc of the story. And there had better be a damn good reason for changing actual plot points.

No one, other than me and a few die-hard Austen fans have seen the brilliant Persuasion. I recommend for everyone a study of a fine fine novel which was in turn adapted into a fine fine movie. This was made easier by the fact that Persuasion-the novel is very short. It can be read in a day. Eyre, on the other hand, is not only not short, it is full of layers and story arcs that traverse Jane's whole brief life. The importance her childhood plays in decisions she makes later in life cannot be ignored, or glossed over, or covered in 10 minutes of screen time. And anyone who watched the disastrous Scarlet Letter doesn't need me to go any further on the whole changing plot points thing.

I feel a caveat is needed here: I will probably go see this version, as I have seen every other. I will go with trepidation. I will be ready to enjoy it in spite of..., and I will attempt to take what I can from it without letting it discourage me completely. Then I will bitch about the hollywoodization of favorite novels and watch this adaptation, which (while cheating a little because it is a miniseries) is the best of the bunch - sexy and smart with a great cast.

What do you do when you're stressed out?

I rearrange my books. There is something soothing in that element of control over one of the most important aspects of my self. And there is a tactile therapy to it, as I get the chance to touch those objects and with that, the sense memory of what each volume means to me comes alive in my memory.

My favorite Librarian Avenger does the same, but with different results:

I fuss and swap and graze over my books, looking for the right system.And through this, somehow, I describe myself to myself. Whatever is going on in my head benefits from the organization I’m doing with my hands.

I externalize this stuff because it’s easier than neurosurgery and cheaper than therapy.

Behold my books. They are arranged by priority, then color.

I arrange mine by subject, then author, though not alphabetically. I have a type of hand-eye memory that allows me to shelve something and remember where it is forever until I move it. Certain shelves are mini altars to my writing gods. And I am constantly running out of room.

Destiny and the Reluctant Heroine

I just finished reading Wicked Lovely, by Melissa Marr, and now I'm one of those freakish book ladies who want to run around to everyone and thrust it into their hands and say, "You simply must read this book!" Unfortunately, I no longer work for mega bookstore chain and therefore don't have the opportunity to do so. This makes me sad. Because, really, unless you are someone dead set against reading smart urban fantasy with excellent writing, you will enjoy this book.

I notice an ongoing theme in the urban fantasy genre that I appreciate wholly: that of the smart female protagonist. In a world dominated by male heroes in both our fantasy (Harry Potter, LoTR, Heroes, most comic books written by men) and "reality" (anything else, most specifically crime shows which may contain strong female characters, but always have a male in the lead - CSI, Without a Trace, Law & Order, I'm lookin' at you!), I have long been one of those pop culture fans waiting for producers to get it - that women can lead the way and viewers will follow. There is a reason The Closer is the #1 cable drama on TV, people. And while I appreciate things are much much better than they used to be, I do get tired of watching the female lead play second fiddle to her charismatic, brilliant male lead co-star (even when that charismatic co-star is someone I admire greatly!).

The same trend has been weaving its way through the young adult publishing industry. In the past few years, an uproar has been raised about the sad state of boys and their reading habits. Apparently, boys don't read. Actually, they do read, just not what the book industry wants them to. So to pull these "reluctant readers" away from their video game guides, the Internet, comics books, and manga, the publishing industry is greenlighting books hoping to pull them to novels. And of course, these novels must feature a male protagonist. The guiding philosophy here is that girls will read books about boys wherein boys won't read books about girls. So instead of addressing why we've created a society in which boys won't read books with female lead characters, publishers are churning out mass produced formulaic crap. And any girl who wishes to read new fantasy or adventure will finish her Kiki Strike and dutifully pick up the newest Artemis Fowl for lack of anything else. And the world can retain its balance of power with a new generation of young women expecting young men to always be the charismatic brilliant hero of the tale.

Enter into this arena a cache of amazing and dedicated writers who think this is a load of crap. From Charles de Lint to Holly Black, to Emma Bull and many others (most listed under the original Urban Fantasy entry), contemporary young adult fantasy writers have figured out what most of us have known all along, male and female readers want and need to see women in the lead. And while, sadly, the entertainment industry has only Joss Whedon doing the same for movies and TV, at least he is doing so while flying his feminist freak flag proudly.

I have noticed a beautiful and realistic trend in these offerings that you don't normally see in your male-dominated counterparts, reluctance. Not so much out of fear (though that may play a part), but because these young women have plans for their lives and truly don't want some destiny laid upon them by The Powers That Be to interfere. One of my favorite aspects of most of these novels is the creative ways in which our heroines fight to keep their lives as normal as possible - high school, friends, boyfriends, college. These young women have goals for themselves that don't always involve drinking fairy wine at an endless faire and dancing their newly immortal lives away. And in the case of Aislinn, our protagonist from Wicked Lovely, these future plans are so important as to be the crux upon which helping is even considered. And that, I believe is as important as having a female lead at all. If your heroine is going to give up her mortal life to save fairy-verse and not even bother to secure her own growth and future, she may as well marry the proverbial prince and live happily ever after in Disney-esque security.

If you haven't delved into the world of which I speak, I heartily recommend the Holly Black Trilogy (Tithe, Valiant, Ironside), Emma Bull's War for the Oaks (a tad dated, but still a new classic), de Lint's Jack of Kinrowan, and the book that started this whole blog.

PS, Also watched the King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters this weekend. Please please please do yourself a favor and see this movie. In the wake of a movie-going year in which we've had to endure countless hours of how cruel, empty, and hopeless the world truly is, seeing the absolute decency of (real human being and not movie character) Steve Wiebe in his quest to become the best at something- in spite of the oddly menacing strong arm tactics of his cult of personality obsessed adversaries- will fill you with joy and hope. I kid you not.

Totally Frivolous

Beard. Beard. Beard!

Another reason to hate Disney

To be completely honest, I never thought too much about Disney until my stint as a kids bookseller. Then it seemed to be everywhere, the childhood version of Scientology, gleefully brainwashing our under-12 set with homogeneous crap pre-packaged for any white slightly talented kid who can be programmed to perform the same song over and over again.

Parents love Disney and its conglomerate because they see it as "safe," meaning primarily, "I can leave my kid in front of the TV with it on and I won't have to explain what sex is to them once." Oh, for fuck's sake! This world is not wholesome. It is precarious and frightening and just because your kid has zombified in front of endless hours of That's So Raven! doesn't mean they have any understanding whatsoever of who people of color in this country are and what their lives are like. And what-oh-what do you do when your Disney teen stars get pregnant? Pray they get married (because of course there is no other option for pregnant teenagers in Disneyverse!). Just because you feel you are providing a safe place for your kids from this big scary world by letting them watch High School Musical countless times doesn't mean you are securing a happier kid. Because most of what Disney does is sell their crap to your kids. That whole channel is about nothing but having a rapt audience of future Disney consumers who watch nothing but commercials for Disney products aimed directly at them. Oh, and..they're hypocrites. Just like everyone else.

I would rather have my 10 year-old watch countless hours of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and have those tough discussions that may make us both squirm then have to deprogram my kid from some sugar-coated false utopia that masks rampant consumerist ideals.

That is my rant, and I'm sticking to it.
(oh, and, sorry big brother, I know you're pro-Disney, but this is part of what makes our family so uniquely wonderful, no?)

Nerd nerd nerd

It's the first of the month, which means I get to change my desktop wallpaper! Why does this excite me? Because I go here to get my new page. May is a tad...odd, but I like it better than April, which looked waaaay too serious. I felt like they were judging me, or something. Perhaps just my guilty subconscious. And I found some absolute fab pictures on someone's Flickr stream that were from some Criminal Intent promotional shoot (not from the US), but they weren't available for download because they were professional stills from the shoot. And then I was sad. Now I can't find them again (stupid me forgot to bookmark them). Sigh. Perhaps it's for the best. I do have to get some work done today...