The reason I don't update this blog very often is that I simply don't have much of a life. I'm trying desperately to steer clear of the depressed, lonely blogs. Now that I'm so public, I can't really vent about the things I would like to, and it's dangerous to dwell on my personal life anyway.
For the funny stuff, I can really only write from life, and my life consists of work, Twitter, and walking Elliott. I haven't actually done anything past my four walls in a hideously long time, and there's nothing I can really do to change that. I'm busy, and few seem interested in seeking out any kind of personal, real world interaction with me -- and if they do, it's to fuck me over, so I'm better off spending my weekends on Netflix. But again, that's getting into territory that I can't really get into. So, just to assure everyone I'm still alive and updating, I thought I'd talk about going vegetarian. Wait!! Don't run. I'm not going to push an agenda, I promise!
Actually, it's a curious thing. Going vegetarian has been something I've wanted to do since the first time I read Charlotte's Web, and I just kept finding excuses not to do it from "Yum yum, steak and cheese pie" to "Well, the animal is already dead, so I might as well eat it" to "I've been eating meat this long, what difference does it make to stop now?" Living at home has also proved to be an obstacle, because you really have to eat what your mom cooks. Of course, I spent so many years as a picky eater and eating different things that I might as well have eaten tofu over ravioli and hot dogs I preferred to anything else.
But I finally decided to do it. I don't know what it is, but I've just been having more and more guilt about eating meat. When you're not even enjoying your meal because of the guilt, and memories of the five minutes you heard of "Death on a Factory Farm," then why bother? I also am getting pathologically warped about how meat looks and tastes. I cannot stand gristle or fat, and one bite is enough to put me off an entire meal. I couldn't eat lunch meat anymore because the texture was enough to make me sick, and you don't want to know how long it took me to assemble a sandwich or wrap.
There's also a health component to it. Every time I ate a hamburger, I ended up with a hideous migraine or a stomach ache. Both if I was lucky. I assumed it was the restaurant, the quality of meat, the way it was cooked. Again, it just reaches a point of "Why do I keep doing this? I feel like shit. Why don't I just eat something else?" Also, my mom has recently been diagnosed with a serious health problem, something that could be genetic, and something that seems to be helped / prevented by adopting a vegan diet. Obviously, I'm not willing to go completely vegan (Some of that is just bananas) but I do know what milk fat does to my skin, so I can't imagine what the meat does to the rest of me!
So, I just went cold turkey and have stopped eating chicken, beef, and pork. I have still eaten fish, which means I'm not a REAL vegetarian. It's not that I value fish any less than other animals, or think that they suffer less, but I'm uncertain I'll be able to give up that Omega 3 ... I find I really need that, and have to take stuff that has Omega 3 added in. Plus, a meal of fish and chips, Wahoo's, or macademia-encrusted tilapia is a rare, rare occurance anyway, much moreso than burgers, bacon, or chicken. Giving the latter up actually does something in the grand scheme of my life, and I do feel that those animals have higher thoughts and feelings than your average fish.
Immediately, I've notice a difference -- not so much in my personal health or anything, but substituting a Boca burger for a regular one meant no migraine, and no sick stomach. So that convinces me that I'm doing the right thing at least physically. Morally, we could debate it, but it's something I feel good about ... I mean, there's a herd of Black Angus that Elliott and I go visit on our walks, and I feel happy knowing I won't be eating them in the future. I don't even like thinking about it.
I can't deny that it's hard, and that it's going to get harder. Lately I've been craving vegetables, and passing up a burger or a turkey sandwich in favor of soy or tofu options has been pretty easy. But there are things I know are looming ... like bangers and mash, pepperzoni pizza, and shaved steak sandwiches ... that are really, really hard to give up.
In six months, will I find this blog and laugh at myself? Possibly. I hope not, though. :P
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Lifecast
As many of you are aware, the past few weeks have found me and Dave Chen firing up our headsets and doing a Lifecast on Saturday nights. It's still something that could end at any time, and it doesn't even have an official time or title, but we keep doing it, and it keeps attracting followers, so who knows what the future will bring.
The very first one we did focused on relationships and dating, and it was so popular and funny that we've kept that as an ongoing topic. So far, it's gone no deeper than "Tell really horrible stories about your dating life" with the vague conceit of having two people who are rather unsuccessful at dating offering advice to others. Geeks advising geeks, as it were.
But it's causing a problem that I feel I must address here before it gets out of control.
I've been getting a lot of messages from people asking for advice or a ready ear for their own horrible dating stories. I've been nice about it, and tried to be understanding. After all, you've tuned into listen to my hideous stories, surely it's only fair. However, it's reaching a level of pushiness and intimacy that I'm simply uncomfortable with.
You see, it's one thing to do this as part of the "show," insofar as we're doing one. This is a new thing, and we haven't really set up any kind of official e-mail or avenues of contact. Dave has graciously lent his own e-mail account, and we've opened the broadcast to callers several times. There's also a chat room where you can talk amongst yourselves. If this keeps going, we may set up a permanent e-mail where people can send stories, or maybe we'll start scheduling permanent guests. This is all new to us, and given the schedules and demands that Chen and I work under, I can't promise that it will continue. I hope that it does, because it's fun, but I don't know what's happening from one week to the next.
I especially can't promise anything if people continue to abuse my trust and my free time to basically continue Lifecasting. I'm not a Dear Abby figure, and I'm a little perplexed and insulted by the notion that I've bared my soul (albeit as hilariously as possible) so that you can abuse that by trying to set up a private relationship. I get that you might not be as comfortable going public as I have, but just because I did doesn't mean that you have a private ear to listen to your unhappy experiences.
I am insanely busy. My #1 priority are my jobs at Cinematical and MTV Movies Blog. If I am online, I am working, though I'm fortunate to have a job that allows me to be social while I write. However, often I get sucked into discussions that eat into what personal time I have, and prevent me from reading, writing on personal projects, or doing yoga. That's why I'm having to set more and more boundaries.
Now, I realize I have a rather public life, and I have no filter, no separation between the public and the private. I appreciate that my oversharing has led me to make so many friends and fans, and that people want to share their own lives with me. I feel very privileged to have that kind of trust and camaraderie with so many people -- and that the number continues to grow. I also hope everyone realizes that it's a tricky thing to navigate. This is a personal blog, and I've had to go back and censor things ... and even now, there are things out there that I wish weren't, but it's too late to do anything about them, so I try to just run with it, and control what I can. As it is, I'm constantly living in fear of saying something that'll get me in trouble personally or professionally ... or both. I've learned the hard way that people will take what you say and do, and run with it in hurtful ways. (Hi, Tomb Raider forum -- and fuck you again!) Life, learn, and regret.
I also want to stress that I have really enjoyed talking to all of you listeners and, I love Tweeting and chatting back and forth with you. I especially love that everyone has stuck by a code of honor. What happens on the Lifecast (and in its After Dark chat) has stayed there. That's awesome and unbelievable. I hope that level of trust continues as our numbers grow.
I am not trying to put myself on an unreachable pedestal, or imply that I'm the only one who should do the talking. Believe me, I have been glad to know that I'm not the only one out there who has suffered the slings and arrows of outrageously bad fortune. But I ask you to please keep it to Saturday nights and the Lifecast. The Lifecast is someplace we can talk and laugh about it all. It's a forum for everyone, and it's only fun if there's a conversation going.
Butmy participation in that conversation doesn't mean my shoulders are continuously available to cry on. While I am sympathetic to your loneliness and your dramas, I can't help you, and I can't continue to listen to it outside of the show. Please, let's not make things so creepy that we lose our Saturday nights. Please respect me, my boundaries, and the confines of the show so we can all keep talking and having fun.
Ok, I'm not sure if that's fun or creepy, but it certainly looks nice.
The very first one we did focused on relationships and dating, and it was so popular and funny that we've kept that as an ongoing topic. So far, it's gone no deeper than "Tell really horrible stories about your dating life" with the vague conceit of having two people who are rather unsuccessful at dating offering advice to others. Geeks advising geeks, as it were.
But it's causing a problem that I feel I must address here before it gets out of control.
I've been getting a lot of messages from people asking for advice or a ready ear for their own horrible dating stories. I've been nice about it, and tried to be understanding. After all, you've tuned into listen to my hideous stories, surely it's only fair. However, it's reaching a level of pushiness and intimacy that I'm simply uncomfortable with.
(No, it's not quite that bad. Not yet.)
You see, it's one thing to do this as part of the "show," insofar as we're doing one. This is a new thing, and we haven't really set up any kind of official e-mail or avenues of contact. Dave has graciously lent his own e-mail account, and we've opened the broadcast to callers several times. There's also a chat room where you can talk amongst yourselves. If this keeps going, we may set up a permanent e-mail where people can send stories, or maybe we'll start scheduling permanent guests. This is all new to us, and given the schedules and demands that Chen and I work under, I can't promise that it will continue. I hope that it does, because it's fun, but I don't know what's happening from one week to the next.
I especially can't promise anything if people continue to abuse my trust and my free time to basically continue Lifecasting. I'm not a Dear Abby figure, and I'm a little perplexed and insulted by the notion that I've bared my soul (albeit as hilariously as possible) so that you can abuse that by trying to set up a private relationship. I get that you might not be as comfortable going public as I have, but just because I did doesn't mean that you have a private ear to listen to your unhappy experiences.
I am insanely busy. My #1 priority are my jobs at Cinematical and MTV Movies Blog. If I am online, I am working, though I'm fortunate to have a job that allows me to be social while I write. However, often I get sucked into discussions that eat into what personal time I have, and prevent me from reading, writing on personal projects, or doing yoga. That's why I'm having to set more and more boundaries.
Now, I realize I have a rather public life, and I have no filter, no separation between the public and the private. I appreciate that my oversharing has led me to make so many friends and fans, and that people want to share their own lives with me. I feel very privileged to have that kind of trust and camaraderie with so many people -- and that the number continues to grow. I also hope everyone realizes that it's a tricky thing to navigate. This is a personal blog, and I've had to go back and censor things ... and even now, there are things out there that I wish weren't, but it's too late to do anything about them, so I try to just run with it, and control what I can. As it is, I'm constantly living in fear of saying something that'll get me in trouble personally or professionally ... or both. I've learned the hard way that people will take what you say and do, and run with it in hurtful ways. (Hi, Tomb Raider forum -- and fuck you again!) Life, learn, and regret.
I also want to stress that I have really enjoyed talking to all of you listeners and, I love Tweeting and chatting back and forth with you. I especially love that everyone has stuck by a code of honor. What happens on the Lifecast (and in its After Dark chat) has stayed there. That's awesome and unbelievable. I hope that level of trust continues as our numbers grow.
I am not trying to put myself on an unreachable pedestal, or imply that I'm the only one who should do the talking. Believe me, I have been glad to know that I'm not the only one out there who has suffered the slings and arrows of outrageously bad fortune. But I ask you to please keep it to Saturday nights and the Lifecast. The Lifecast is someplace we can talk and laugh about it all. It's a forum for everyone, and it's only fun if there's a conversation going.
Butmy participation in that conversation doesn't mean my shoulders are continuously available to cry on. While I am sympathetic to your loneliness and your dramas, I can't help you, and I can't continue to listen to it outside of the show. Please, let's not make things so creepy that we lose our Saturday nights. Please respect me, my boundaries, and the confines of the show so we can all keep talking and having fun.
Ok, I'm not sure if that's fun or creepy, but it certainly looks nice.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
If loving you is wrong, then I don't want to be right
As a person obsessed with pop culture and movies, it's always been natural to use them as a shorthand for just about everything in my life. I have been known to buy clothing, shoes, and make-up purely because they remind me of something from a movie. Why, last summer I even bought myself a ridiculously expensive LUCKY brand top (hey, I'm freelance, LUCKY is luxury for a chick like me) because the embroidery was evocative of Keira Knightley's Pirate King outfit.
Which is how an innocent comment like "Clint Eastwood is my dream boyfriend" came to be. (I know, I can't believe I came at that by way of my LUCKY top. No, I'm not drunk.)
See, I think he's a handy cultural touchstone. I'm not sure he is exactly my dream boyfriend (he voted for John McCain, after all, and I verge on socialist, plus he was such a manwhore), in reality someone like Viggo Mortensen might be closer.
But the thing is, people don't get what you mean when you say "Viggo Mortensen is my dream boyfriend" because they say "What, because he fought naked?" With Hugh Jackman or Gerard Butler, they assume it's because of the muscles, and not because they're nice fellows. Russell Crowe prompts "It'd be nice until he killed you." (He killed a phone! He's never hit a woman!) I haven't tried out "Daniel Day-Lewis / Last of the Mohicans," but somehow I think that would just peg me as a Harlequin romance type. Even I know that's not realistic.
But if you say "Clint Eastwood," people generally get it. There's something there that men and women understand, if only because he charmed the pants off Rene Russo in "In the Line of Fire" or drove halfway across America after a girl in "Every Which Way But Loose" or became a farmer for the dearly departed Claudia in "Unforgiven."
The funny thing is, I started using him as my cultural touchstone precisely because of one guy who didn't get it. I had made some offhanded remark similar to what I said on the now legendary "Gran Torino" podcast, and the dude's response was "What, you like guys who would shoot you?" When you have to explain that Eastwood characters generally (with the exception of "High Plains Drifter") don't shoot or abuse womenfolk, you know there's a problem. Not only does this person not know his manly movies (instant fail!!) but he doesn't know what defines a macho man. There should be something in a guy's gut, a glow of the lightbulb, and not just "Duhhh, guns."
I'm not denying it's an overly simplistic response, and that I want a guy who can do more than sneer and break the rules, but that's why it's shorthand and a bit of a Rorschach test.
My mom always points out that I should say Gregory Peck or Paul Newman, as they're the other two parts of my Classic Male Triptych, and behaved a lot better offscreen. They are ridiculously perfect specimens:
But I think I shy away from citing Peck because he's a very distant, enigmatic figure. I honestly know very little about him. Also, he makes me sad because I used to see his identical twin every Friday when I rode the train to work. His younger self wore glasses just like in To Kill a Mockingbird and was forever pushing them up on his nose and frowning, Atticus Finch style, as he read his files. I know he was a nice guy behind the studious stare because he always wore Disney ties, usually with Mickey Mouse. He didn't have a wedding ring on, but I am fairly certain he belonged to the brunette who I saw pick him up from the station once. I've never hated my ugly, badly dressed college self more. (If I could send my 21 year old self a time travel e-mail that read "You'll be dressing like The Dude in a couple of years, make the most of your in-public life you dumb bitch -- and take more yoga while you're at it!", I would.)
And Paul Newman?
Too good looking. Intimidating! Godlike! Never in a million years could I get a guy like that. Saying "I want a guy like Paul Newman" feels like the height of girlish arrogance.
But Clint Eastwood, well, he's like a pair of your favorite jeans. There's something rough and obtainable about him. He'd pick you up, buy you a beer, and flash that great-but-rarely-seen-smile. For some reason, I can see myself getting some of that. Plus he's done and seen some shit. He worked in a logging camp as a teenager and survived a plane crash during his stint in Korea. That's hardcore. That's a man you want to take home regardless of how well he counts his shots.
Plus, it just makes for a better joke. People won't laugh when you say "Gregory Peck," they'll go all serious. And you know me. I'm a raconteur. Then again, I might be cutting my own throat by wanting them to laugh and not take me seriously. Ah well, I have always been a bit of a fuck up that way ... and what does it matter, anyway, it's not as though I'm gonna get me any of the above. Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt?
So, there you go. If you've been wondering what the backstory behind all the Twitter jokes is, you've got it. Now watch this and tell me he wouldn't make a better boyfriend (one with one hell of a jacket) even at 79 than any jackass I've met in my hometown.
Which is how an innocent comment like "Clint Eastwood is my dream boyfriend" came to be. (I know, I can't believe I came at that by way of my LUCKY top. No, I'm not drunk.)
See, I think he's a handy cultural touchstone. I'm not sure he is exactly my dream boyfriend (he voted for John McCain, after all, and I verge on socialist, plus he was such a manwhore), in reality someone like Viggo Mortensen might be closer.
But the thing is, people don't get what you mean when you say "Viggo Mortensen is my dream boyfriend" because they say "What, because he fought naked?" With Hugh Jackman or Gerard Butler, they assume it's because of the muscles, and not because they're nice fellows. Russell Crowe prompts "It'd be nice until he killed you." (He killed a phone! He's never hit a woman!) I haven't tried out "Daniel Day-Lewis / Last of the Mohicans," but somehow I think that would just peg me as a Harlequin romance type. Even I know that's not realistic.
But if you say "Clint Eastwood," people generally get it. There's something there that men and women understand, if only because he charmed the pants off Rene Russo in "In the Line of Fire" or drove halfway across America after a girl in "Every Which Way But Loose" or became a farmer for the dearly departed Claudia in "Unforgiven."
The funny thing is, I started using him as my cultural touchstone precisely because of one guy who didn't get it. I had made some offhanded remark similar to what I said on the now legendary "Gran Torino" podcast, and the dude's response was "What, you like guys who would shoot you?" When you have to explain that Eastwood characters generally (with the exception of "High Plains Drifter") don't shoot or abuse womenfolk, you know there's a problem. Not only does this person not know his manly movies (instant fail!!) but he doesn't know what defines a macho man. There should be something in a guy's gut, a glow of the lightbulb, and not just "Duhhh, guns."
I'm not denying it's an overly simplistic response, and that I want a guy who can do more than sneer and break the rules, but that's why it's shorthand and a bit of a Rorschach test.
My mom always points out that I should say Gregory Peck or Paul Newman, as they're the other two parts of my Classic Male Triptych, and behaved a lot better offscreen. They are ridiculously perfect specimens:
But I think I shy away from citing Peck because he's a very distant, enigmatic figure. I honestly know very little about him. Also, he makes me sad because I used to see his identical twin every Friday when I rode the train to work. His younger self wore glasses just like in To Kill a Mockingbird and was forever pushing them up on his nose and frowning, Atticus Finch style, as he read his files. I know he was a nice guy behind the studious stare because he always wore Disney ties, usually with Mickey Mouse. He didn't have a wedding ring on, but I am fairly certain he belonged to the brunette who I saw pick him up from the station once. I've never hated my ugly, badly dressed college self more. (If I could send my 21 year old self a time travel e-mail that read "You'll be dressing like The Dude in a couple of years, make the most of your in-public life you dumb bitch -- and take more yoga while you're at it!", I would.)
And Paul Newman?
Too good looking. Intimidating! Godlike! Never in a million years could I get a guy like that. Saying "I want a guy like Paul Newman" feels like the height of girlish arrogance.
But Clint Eastwood, well, he's like a pair of your favorite jeans. There's something rough and obtainable about him. He'd pick you up, buy you a beer, and flash that great-but-rarely-seen-smile. For some reason, I can see myself getting some of that. Plus he's done and seen some shit. He worked in a logging camp as a teenager and survived a plane crash during his stint in Korea. That's hardcore. That's a man you want to take home regardless of how well he counts his shots.
Plus, it just makes for a better joke. People won't laugh when you say "Gregory Peck," they'll go all serious. And you know me. I'm a raconteur. Then again, I might be cutting my own throat by wanting them to laugh and not take me seriously. Ah well, I have always been a bit of a fuck up that way ... and what does it matter, anyway, it's not as though I'm gonna get me any of the above. Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt?
So, there you go. If you've been wondering what the backstory behind all the Twitter jokes is, you've got it. Now watch this and tell me he wouldn't make a better boyfriend (one with one hell of a jacket) even at 79 than any jackass I've met in my hometown.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
The Perils and the Trenches ... a Rant
What a week. June has flown by in a total blur because I've been writing so much stuff for MTV and Cinematical. Some things of note:
Horror Virgin #1
This is the new feature I'm doing for The Horror Squad. The introduction is here and pretty funny. I didn't mean to write in a novelistic style but the response to the intro was so good, I'm going to see if I can keep it up without hate mail
Five Movie Proposals To Watch While You Wait for "The Proposal" (I really liked writing this one. Shocking, I know.)
Five High School Moments That Don't Involve Profanity
Date Movies Set After Year One (This one was really hard, and Adam Rosenberg cleaned it up into poetry.)
I Reckon Westerns Are Coming Back (The sluggish response says I'm wrong)
And finally, there was this: Why Can't Geek Girls Just Be ... Girls
Wow, that segue way impressed even me! See, that last piece was what this blog was really going to be about, I just thought I'd illustrate why no one really sees or hears from me by linking to the others. And really, this blog is about all of those too.
I hope you read the "geek girls" piece for a better recap, but suffice to say that girl geekdom was up in arms this week over a fluffy piece the LA Times ran called "The Girls Guide To ComicCon." There was also an IGN ComicCon contest that excluded girls from applying to win a trip to ComicCon. Both of these hit the same week, causing near riots on Twitter and Gawker.
Naturally, I chimed in. I wasn't incensed about the LA Times piece (read the reason why in my column), and I found out too late about the IGN thing to really get on the bandwagon. I addressed it, and scolded it, but it felt a bit lame after the fact.
While I was glad to see girl geekdom in arms, I quickly became annoyed and a tad disgusted with some of the responses I saw. There was a hysteria and an extremism that I just couldn't get behind, and a posturing that was just eye-rolling. At least one of the most vocal members made a point of e-mailing Cinematical with a so-called REAL Girl's Guide after being blissfully unaware that we had several girls on staff, and one in particular who had spent a year writing Geek Beats, Wolverine rants, and guides to Ant-Man, Watchmen.
So much of it rang false, and many of these lists came from girls who haven't been slogging it in the trenches, but who suddenly found an Issue to get behind. It rang a bit false to have lists being written and hawked by girls who hadn't written the exhaustive pieces that I see on io9 and The Beat. Come on, girls. If you want to be accepted into the club, you've got to actually be IN the culture more than once a year when ComicCon rolls around.
And let's talk about some of lists that the LA Times DID inspire. I don't remember which "Real Guide" it was, but one of them advocated skipping meals and drinks not only to make bathroom trips easier, but in order to look better in your costume. SERIOUSLY? How is that less demeaning than a piece gushing over Jake Gyllenhaal?
But hey, when it was all about the posturing, who cares about consistent arguments?
And oh, the posturing. Nothing turns me off more than that "Fuck YEAH, I'm such a geek. I'm such a geek that I'm practically a MAN. Check out my comic collection. Fuck yeah, bitches!" If you've read the comments on Jezebel, you know EXACTLY what I'm talking about. Now,I know I've done a bit of that from time to time, but it was always meant to be a bit sarcastic. (If it never came off that way, I do apologize.) I also found that a heavy-handed approach was necessary in the first few months I was out in the trenches. But I dropped it quickly once people "knew" me. I never let it get in the way of my personality and tastes, though. I am who I am, I like what I like, and I'm not going to bury that under a macho posturing just because that's what a girl geek REALLY is.
I'm seeing the rise of a new stereotype -- a girl geek who acts like a man, because to act like a woman is to cave to gender pigeonholing, when gender doesn't matter.
To be a geek girl you can't look at men, just comic books. If you DO decide to cast a glance at the opposite sex, you can crush only on what the world deems the offbeat and "curiously attractive" men like Zachary Quinto or Michael Cera. (I saw more than one comment across the Internet saying that no self-respecting geek women liked the Hugh Jackmans of the ComicCon world.) It's all so calculated! Look, I don't care if you DO prefer Zachary Quinto to Hugh Jackman, but don't act like it's a mark of honor or a necessary requirement. There are no such things, or there shouldn't be, and if gender and labels don't matter, than you should be able to wear high heels and admit you'd like to shag Hugh Jackman before heading off to buy a girl-sized Green Lantern t-shirt.
Geek girls shouldn't have to act or dress a certain way, or have a checklist of interests in order to be real and accepted. This is supposed to be fun, you're here because you ENJOY it. That means you have to be true to YOURSELF, whatever and whoever that self is, and not try to create some mold in order to be "accepted" and marketed to.
This girl geek loves make-up. I like high heels. (I just don't buy or wear many of them -- they don't go with the Dude bathrobe.) I love Wolverine, Avengers, and Jonah Hex. I love ComicCon and hideous Marvel t-shirts. My favorite hoodie says "Browncoat." Joss Whedon is my master now, and I have way too much fun with that iphone lightsaber app. Despite their many abuses, I DO like guys, and I want one for my own. I like them whether they're geeky, or beefy, or both. Preferably both. ;)
Horror Virgin #1
This is the new feature I'm doing for The Horror Squad. The introduction is here and pretty funny. I didn't mean to write in a novelistic style but the response to the intro was so good, I'm going to see if I can keep it up without hate mail
Five Movie Proposals To Watch While You Wait for "The Proposal" (I really liked writing this one. Shocking, I know.)
Five High School Moments That Don't Involve Profanity
Date Movies Set After Year One (This one was really hard, and Adam Rosenberg cleaned it up into poetry.)
I Reckon Westerns Are Coming Back (The sluggish response says I'm wrong)
And finally, there was this: Why Can't Geek Girls Just Be ... Girls
Wow, that segue way impressed even me! See, that last piece was what this blog was really going to be about, I just thought I'd illustrate why no one really sees or hears from me by linking to the others. And really, this blog is about all of those too.
I hope you read the "geek girls" piece for a better recap, but suffice to say that girl geekdom was up in arms this week over a fluffy piece the LA Times ran called "The Girls Guide To ComicCon." There was also an IGN ComicCon contest that excluded girls from applying to win a trip to ComicCon. Both of these hit the same week, causing near riots on Twitter and Gawker.
Naturally, I chimed in. I wasn't incensed about the LA Times piece (read the reason why in my column), and I found out too late about the IGN thing to really get on the bandwagon. I addressed it, and scolded it, but it felt a bit lame after the fact.
While I was glad to see girl geekdom in arms, I quickly became annoyed and a tad disgusted with some of the responses I saw. There was a hysteria and an extremism that I just couldn't get behind, and a posturing that was just eye-rolling. At least one of the most vocal members made a point of e-mailing Cinematical with a so-called REAL Girl's Guide after being blissfully unaware that we had several girls on staff, and one in particular who had spent a year writing Geek Beats, Wolverine rants, and guides to Ant-Man, Watchmen.
So much of it rang false, and many of these lists came from girls who haven't been slogging it in the trenches, but who suddenly found an Issue to get behind. It rang a bit false to have lists being written and hawked by girls who hadn't written the exhaustive pieces that I see on io9 and The Beat. Come on, girls. If you want to be accepted into the club, you've got to actually be IN the culture more than once a year when ComicCon rolls around.
And let's talk about some of lists that the LA Times DID inspire. I don't remember which "Real Guide" it was, but one of them advocated skipping meals and drinks not only to make bathroom trips easier, but in order to look better in your costume. SERIOUSLY? How is that less demeaning than a piece gushing over Jake Gyllenhaal?
But hey, when it was all about the posturing, who cares about consistent arguments?
And oh, the posturing. Nothing turns me off more than that "Fuck YEAH, I'm such a geek. I'm such a geek that I'm practically a MAN. Check out my comic collection. Fuck yeah, bitches!" If you've read the comments on Jezebel, you know EXACTLY what I'm talking about. Now,I know I've done a bit of that from time to time, but it was always meant to be a bit sarcastic. (If it never came off that way, I do apologize.) I also found that a heavy-handed approach was necessary in the first few months I was out in the trenches. But I dropped it quickly once people "knew" me. I never let it get in the way of my personality and tastes, though. I am who I am, I like what I like, and I'm not going to bury that under a macho posturing just because that's what a girl geek REALLY is.
I'm seeing the rise of a new stereotype -- a girl geek who acts like a man, because to act like a woman is to cave to gender pigeonholing, when gender doesn't matter.
To be a geek girl you can't look at men, just comic books. If you DO decide to cast a glance at the opposite sex, you can crush only on what the world deems the offbeat and "curiously attractive" men like Zachary Quinto or Michael Cera. (I saw more than one comment across the Internet saying that no self-respecting geek women liked the Hugh Jackmans of the ComicCon world.) It's all so calculated! Look, I don't care if you DO prefer Zachary Quinto to Hugh Jackman, but don't act like it's a mark of honor or a necessary requirement. There are no such things, or there shouldn't be, and if gender and labels don't matter, than you should be able to wear high heels and admit you'd like to shag Hugh Jackman before heading off to buy a girl-sized Green Lantern t-shirt.
Geek girls shouldn't have to act or dress a certain way, or have a checklist of interests in order to be real and accepted. This is supposed to be fun, you're here because you ENJOY it. That means you have to be true to YOURSELF, whatever and whoever that self is, and not try to create some mold in order to be "accepted" and marketed to.
This girl geek loves make-up. I like high heels. (I just don't buy or wear many of them -- they don't go with the Dude bathrobe.) I love Wolverine, Avengers, and Jonah Hex. I love ComicCon and hideous Marvel t-shirts. My favorite hoodie says "Browncoat." Joss Whedon is my master now, and I have way too much fun with that iphone lightsaber app. Despite their many abuses, I DO like guys, and I want one for my own. I like them whether they're geeky, or beefy, or both. Preferably both. ;)
Saturday, June 13, 2009
El Duderino, if you're not into the whole brevity thing
A few days ago, I began getting notifications that I was one of Twitter's Hot Tweeters -- and not because I Tweet a lot, but because my current icon is no longer Walt Kowalski, but one of me looking bronzed (don't you dig my faux tan?) and Keira Knightley-ish. I was actually quite concerned it would be seen as some kind of sexy play for attention ... one of the most appealing things about using good old Walt as an icon is that I'm reassured people talk to me not because I'm a girl, but because they actually like me. If you can overlook this icon, you are truly a pal:
The only reason I took it off was because there was a sudden flurry of "Your boyfriend, Clint Eastwood" talk, and while the joke was actually supposed to be "Kowalski is me as a cranky old man," it was looking more and more like it was a mark of fangirl devotion. Particularly since I am sporting a retro Fistful of Dollars background.
Of course, now that I reread that intro, it sounds as though I'm pulling a Jessica Biel / Megan Fox thing. "Gosh, life is so hard because I am hot! No one respects me!" Christ, no. If you know me well enough, you know I don't feel I'm attractive, and I am rather famously the girl who can't score a free beer or cup of coffee. I just feel like noting that I don't play the sexy act because I'd rather be known for a knowledge of Marvel, spaghetti westerns, and an exhaustive knowledge of medieval literature.
All of which is a very long introduction to what I was going to document ... and that is the fact that last summer found me haunting Sephora. This summer finds me spending my days looking like this:
There are a few differences. I don't have a goatee, I don't blog in sunglasses (though I may have to -- the window above my desk can blind me in the early morning), and I have red hair. Also, my bathrobe is blue, and has clouds on it.
While every week finds me trying to heed the warnings of friends and colleagues and alter my sleep schedule (up all night, sleep until 12 or 1 pm), every week brings on a new assignment or disaster that finds me feverishly writing at 7am. I sleep, I get up, and I immediately get back on the computer for my new assignments. Often, it's 4pm and I have not yet put on real clothes, and am still clutching the last of my new sustenance, cafe au lait. Hey, at least it has protein. Once I'm finally free, I shower, dress, and walk Elliott.
It's pretty dehumanizing, though I must stress that I never go without showering, and I use fine soaps and lotions. I just never get around to combing my hair. I also never leave the house this way, although given how far I've slipped in a year, 6 months may find me going to the store for soy milk and Guinness in just such a Dude fashion. Who the hell cares, anyway? The reactions of my rich-bitch neighbors might just be worth it.
I brought up my startling state of decay to my mother, who agreed I was beginning to resemble Jeff Bridges, and then began to laugh. "I just saw an article asking 'Do you have what it takes to work from home?!' and one illustration was of a girl all perky and put together, sitting at her laptop. The other one was shuffling around in a bathrobe with rumply hair. I figure the one all put together probably just started blogging."
"Yeah," I said. "I think I gave a shit when I started too. I actually put on clothes too. I made a point of combing my hair. It didn't fucking matter." At that, I thought my mom was going to die laughing. (Given how perilous her lungs are after having been sick for so many weeks, this was a distinct possibility!)
There's a lot of truth in that cheesy illustration, though. People on-line and off always remark to me that they're jealous of my job, or express amazement that I manage to juggle two sites (three counting the new Horror Squad) so effortlessly. Well, it's not effortless. You have to be willing to type your fingers to the bone. That's the truth of it. You can't just churn out a post or two, and believe that's enough to survive in this frenzy of an online world.
But hey, every stinky bathrobe cloud has a silver lining. I don't get dressed because I'm busy, and I'm busy because people want me for my writing. (I'm getting called "a rock star."Ha ha. Well, there's some truth. Neither Keith Richards or I can be killed by conventional weaponry.) I'm working too hard to remember that I'm loveless and alone.
The money I make is saved for rugs and art that tie the room together, and not spent on more useless clothes, make-up, and laundry. I'm fired up to dress to the nines when I go anywhere. (Qdoba? Hell-O Laura Mercier!) I appreciate going places more and more. And I appreciate being an independent lass who buys her own goddamn food, movie tickets, and beer. There is but one mistress here ... and no master! (No, not even Clint rules my world.)
Best of all, the whole ensemble doubles as a Halloween costume. I can just mix a White Russian, and hit a party. Whoo hoo!!
The only reason I took it off was because there was a sudden flurry of "Your boyfriend, Clint Eastwood" talk, and while the joke was actually supposed to be "Kowalski is me as a cranky old man," it was looking more and more like it was a mark of fangirl devotion. Particularly since I am sporting a retro Fistful of Dollars background.
Of course, now that I reread that intro, it sounds as though I'm pulling a Jessica Biel / Megan Fox thing. "Gosh, life is so hard because I am hot! No one respects me!" Christ, no. If you know me well enough, you know I don't feel I'm attractive, and I am rather famously the girl who can't score a free beer or cup of coffee. I just feel like noting that I don't play the sexy act because I'd rather be known for a knowledge of Marvel, spaghetti westerns, and an exhaustive knowledge of medieval literature.
All of which is a very long introduction to what I was going to document ... and that is the fact that last summer found me haunting Sephora. This summer finds me spending my days looking like this:
There are a few differences. I don't have a goatee, I don't blog in sunglasses (though I may have to -- the window above my desk can blind me in the early morning), and I have red hair. Also, my bathrobe is blue, and has clouds on it.
While every week finds me trying to heed the warnings of friends and colleagues and alter my sleep schedule (up all night, sleep until 12 or 1 pm), every week brings on a new assignment or disaster that finds me feverishly writing at 7am. I sleep, I get up, and I immediately get back on the computer for my new assignments. Often, it's 4pm and I have not yet put on real clothes, and am still clutching the last of my new sustenance, cafe au lait. Hey, at least it has protein. Once I'm finally free, I shower, dress, and walk Elliott.
It's pretty dehumanizing, though I must stress that I never go without showering, and I use fine soaps and lotions. I just never get around to combing my hair. I also never leave the house this way, although given how far I've slipped in a year, 6 months may find me going to the store for soy milk and Guinness in just such a Dude fashion. Who the hell cares, anyway? The reactions of my rich-bitch neighbors might just be worth it.
I brought up my startling state of decay to my mother, who agreed I was beginning to resemble Jeff Bridges, and then began to laugh. "I just saw an article asking 'Do you have what it takes to work from home?!' and one illustration was of a girl all perky and put together, sitting at her laptop. The other one was shuffling around in a bathrobe with rumply hair. I figure the one all put together probably just started blogging."
"Yeah," I said. "I think I gave a shit when I started too. I actually put on clothes too. I made a point of combing my hair. It didn't fucking matter." At that, I thought my mom was going to die laughing. (Given how perilous her lungs are after having been sick for so many weeks, this was a distinct possibility!)
There's a lot of truth in that cheesy illustration, though. People on-line and off always remark to me that they're jealous of my job, or express amazement that I manage to juggle two sites (three counting the new Horror Squad) so effortlessly. Well, it's not effortless. You have to be willing to type your fingers to the bone. That's the truth of it. You can't just churn out a post or two, and believe that's enough to survive in this frenzy of an online world.
But hey, every stinky bathrobe cloud has a silver lining. I don't get dressed because I'm busy, and I'm busy because people want me for my writing. (I'm getting called "a rock star."Ha ha. Well, there's some truth. Neither Keith Richards or I can be killed by conventional weaponry.) I'm working too hard to remember that I'm loveless and alone.
The money I make is saved for rugs and art that tie the room together, and not spent on more useless clothes, make-up, and laundry. I'm fired up to dress to the nines when I go anywhere. (Qdoba? Hell-O Laura Mercier!) I appreciate going places more and more. And I appreciate being an independent lass who buys her own goddamn food, movie tickets, and beer. There is but one mistress here ... and no master! (No, not even Clint rules my world.)
Best of all, the whole ensemble doubles as a Halloween costume. I can just mix a White Russian, and hit a party. Whoo hoo!!
Friday, May 29, 2009
I Dance For Your Amusement
I dream of being polished, clever, well-spoken and brilliant whenever I do anything in public. I rehearse things beforehand. I go in feeling cool and confident. Ten minutes later, I've become a blithering idiot because ... why? I'm too wound up, I suppose, and because at heart I am a clown. Or a mess. I'm not even sure which.
The past few weeks, Dave Chen and I have been doing a Saturday night Lifecast where we just talk about random crap. The first few weeks have been oriented around my love life because no matter how painful the story ("...and then he took someone else to the Highlands Festival!") I (apparently) manage to spin it into hilarity. It has the added benefit of allowing people to feel better about their own lives, because mine is such a perpetual train wreck.
Take New Orleans, for example. (Apologies if you've heard this before -- I know a lot of you have because you just can't get enough!) I was down South to visit the set of Jonah Hex , something that's embargoed until next year, so there's no way I can tell you the things you're dying to hear. But as a geek and Westerns addict, a visit like this was kind of a pilgrimage. If I could have left an offering, prayed, and kissed Josh Brolin's boot, I would have.
But my life being what it is (an endless episode of "30 Rock") I don't get to have an ordinary, geektastic experience. Oh no. I found myself in hideous pain thanks to the enormous coffee, orange juice, and water I had downed prior to visiting the set -- a set so rural it had no plumbing.
Being a devoted, Girl Friday type there was no way in hell I was going to risk missing a damn thing. So I braved the snakes and bugs, followed the boys example, and pissed out in the field. It was horrible. It was traumatizing. I was so afraid that I couldn't even go -- frankly I could have probably hiked to base camp and back in the time it took me to psych my insides up to do their duty. I could still see crew people so I am convinced everyone was watching. I could still hear the scene being filmed / rehearsed which was just bizarre. More than anything, I was afraid I'd end up with soggy pants and boots. That's exactly how a girl wants to come face to face with Brolin, after all.
Luckily, that didn't happen. What did happen was I was so unsettled by the experience that I ceased to enjoy where I was, and what I was doing. Everything just seemed to be weird and cringe-worthy after that. There was an additional awkward moment where I was sitting by myself, half-listening to the cast conversation, with the result that one of the players shot me a LOOK that could chill the blood for eavesdropping. I wasn't! I swear!
Everything went like that. It was a day of salted slug stomach and spotlight effect ... which really sums up my daily life of wacky, clumsy adventure. Where does the psychotic, badass side fit in? I don't know. But in a pinch, I can totally turn on the berserker rage. I'm either schizophrenic or "complex." Let's go with complex.
My days are so exhausting that I'd like to find respite in my dreams. Why can't I be the cool equivalent of Angelina Jolie when I sleep? But it never happens. I dream my daily life. If, say, Hugh Jackman pops up, he doesn't find me attractive. He rolls his eyes and goes to talk to someone else with a look akin to this:
Upon returning home, I lamented to my mom that I would give anything to have one day of cool, organized awesome.* A day when I look and act my best, charm everyone, and escape without having had to piss behind a Jonah Hex set.
"But then you wouldn't be you," said my mom. "You're a Liz Lemon, and that's your destiny."
Like Paddington. Things happen to me. I'm just that sort of bear. But at least you all find it really funny.
*It happened once, kinda. ComicCon and The RocknRolla roundtable. That worked out ok.
The past few weeks, Dave Chen and I have been doing a Saturday night Lifecast where we just talk about random crap. The first few weeks have been oriented around my love life because no matter how painful the story ("...and then he took someone else to the Highlands Festival!") I (apparently) manage to spin it into hilarity. It has the added benefit of allowing people to feel better about their own lives, because mine is such a perpetual train wreck.
Take New Orleans, for example. (Apologies if you've heard this before -- I know a lot of you have because you just can't get enough!) I was down South to visit the set of Jonah Hex , something that's embargoed until next year, so there's no way I can tell you the things you're dying to hear. But as a geek and Westerns addict, a visit like this was kind of a pilgrimage. If I could have left an offering, prayed, and kissed Josh Brolin's boot, I would have.
But my life being what it is (an endless episode of "30 Rock") I don't get to have an ordinary, geektastic experience. Oh no. I found myself in hideous pain thanks to the enormous coffee, orange juice, and water I had downed prior to visiting the set -- a set so rural it had no plumbing.
Being a devoted, Girl Friday type there was no way in hell I was going to risk missing a damn thing. So I braved the snakes and bugs, followed the boys example, and pissed out in the field. It was horrible. It was traumatizing. I was so afraid that I couldn't even go -- frankly I could have probably hiked to base camp and back in the time it took me to psych my insides up to do their duty. I could still see crew people so I am convinced everyone was watching. I could still hear the scene being filmed / rehearsed which was just bizarre. More than anything, I was afraid I'd end up with soggy pants and boots. That's exactly how a girl wants to come face to face with Brolin, after all.
Luckily, that didn't happen. What did happen was I was so unsettled by the experience that I ceased to enjoy where I was, and what I was doing. Everything just seemed to be weird and cringe-worthy after that. There was an additional awkward moment where I was sitting by myself, half-listening to the cast conversation, with the result that one of the players shot me a LOOK that could chill the blood for eavesdropping. I wasn't! I swear!
Everything went like that. It was a day of salted slug stomach and spotlight effect ... which really sums up my daily life of wacky, clumsy adventure. Where does the psychotic, badass side fit in? I don't know. But in a pinch, I can totally turn on the berserker rage. I'm either schizophrenic or "complex." Let's go with complex.
My days are so exhausting that I'd like to find respite in my dreams. Why can't I be the cool equivalent of Angelina Jolie when I sleep? But it never happens. I dream my daily life. If, say, Hugh Jackman pops up, he doesn't find me attractive. He rolls his eyes and goes to talk to someone else with a look akin to this:
Upon returning home, I lamented to my mom that I would give anything to have one day of cool, organized awesome.* A day when I look and act my best, charm everyone, and escape without having had to piss behind a Jonah Hex set.
"But then you wouldn't be you," said my mom. "You're a Liz Lemon, and that's your destiny."
Like Paddington. Things happen to me. I'm just that sort of bear. But at least you all find it really funny.
*It happened once, kinda. ComicCon and The RocknRolla roundtable. That worked out ok.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Women! Know Your Limits!
I've slowly become aware of a very disgusting fact: People have issues with "emotional" or "angry" women.
It never fails that when I snap something like "That person is a retard!", the men in the room (or on Twitter, or AIM) will look aghast. One of them will start questioning me. How can you say that? Why do you think that? I would never think that of you! How could you think such a terrible thought, let alone say it?
It doesn't matter if the person has done something retarded, or that all the men share the sentiment, or that one of them could have said it two seconds before I did. I expressed a Strong Emotion.
Thanks to appearing on podcasts and Twitter, a lot of men want to get to know me. A few conversations in, they always remark on what a negative/honest/strong person I am, and begin trying to dissect me. Or they lecture me on being angry about something. It doesn't matter if that something is entirely valid, no one feels that you should be angry about it. Anger is bad. Strong words are bad. That's not fair, Elisabeth. That may have been wrong, but you shouldn't SAY anything about it, or FEEL anything about it.
I will rarely play the woman card, but here it is ... men do not like to see an angry woman. Women are supposed to just shut up and take it. We're supposed to be nice about it.
Yes, I rant and rave. I cut people down. I call things with brutal, horrible honesty. Not all of these are good traits. In fact, they may all be very bad. But if I was a man, I would simply be an asshole ... or possibly respected as a badass depending on who I was cutting down. But as a woman, I'm a freak. I must be gently taken aside and lectured. I must be examined to find out what the source of my negativity is. Why are you so angry, Elisabeth?
I'm angry for a lot of reasons. I carry around a lot of simmering resentment and hurt that I try to let go of. I've had to do a lot of fighting -- I still have to. A lot of people have been mean to me (to put it mildly) and there comes a point when you have to just stop taking it. Maybe I've taken some of my nasty traits too far, but the fact is that I don't flinch away from my emotions, from giving my opinion, and from calling a spade a spade. I don't hide who I am, or what I feel. I don't believe in lying or keeping a low profile because people might be uncomfortable by the truth ... and I certainly don't believe that as a woman, I should repress anything stronger than a whisper and a maybe because it alarms the men of the room.
It never fails that when I snap something like "That person is a retard!", the men in the room (or on Twitter, or AIM) will look aghast. One of them will start questioning me. How can you say that? Why do you think that? I would never think that of you! How could you think such a terrible thought, let alone say it?
It doesn't matter if the person has done something retarded, or that all the men share the sentiment, or that one of them could have said it two seconds before I did. I expressed a Strong Emotion.
Thanks to appearing on podcasts and Twitter, a lot of men want to get to know me. A few conversations in, they always remark on what a negative/honest/strong person I am, and begin trying to dissect me. Or they lecture me on being angry about something. It doesn't matter if that something is entirely valid, no one feels that you should be angry about it. Anger is bad. Strong words are bad. That's not fair, Elisabeth. That may have been wrong, but you shouldn't SAY anything about it, or FEEL anything about it.
I will rarely play the woman card, but here it is ... men do not like to see an angry woman. Women are supposed to just shut up and take it. We're supposed to be nice about it.
Yes, I rant and rave. I cut people down. I call things with brutal, horrible honesty. Not all of these are good traits. In fact, they may all be very bad. But if I was a man, I would simply be an asshole ... or possibly respected as a badass depending on who I was cutting down. But as a woman, I'm a freak. I must be gently taken aside and lectured. I must be examined to find out what the source of my negativity is. Why are you so angry, Elisabeth?
I'm angry for a lot of reasons. I carry around a lot of simmering resentment and hurt that I try to let go of. I've had to do a lot of fighting -- I still have to. A lot of people have been mean to me (to put it mildly) and there comes a point when you have to just stop taking it. Maybe I've taken some of my nasty traits too far, but the fact is that I don't flinch away from my emotions, from giving my opinion, and from calling a spade a spade. I don't hide who I am, or what I feel. I don't believe in lying or keeping a low profile because people might be uncomfortable by the truth ... and I certainly don't believe that as a woman, I should repress anything stronger than a whisper and a maybe because it alarms the men of the room.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Ghosts
Tonight, I was watching "Zack and Miri Make a Porno" for the first time (Netflix has thwarted my renting it for months) and I began to feel all nostalgic for someone in my past. This fellow was my Zack, minus the sex and living together.
I began to really miss him, started wishing that things had gone better, wondering if I was nursing something akin to a broken heart. Certainly the loss of this person in my life has hurt me pretty fucking deeply.
Then I go on Twitter, my sociopathic comfort, and this very same guy comes up. At the very time I was thinking wistfully on What Might Have Been /Gosh I Miss Him /Why Did He Always Put Me Second, he was hooking other people up to see Star Trek at a free screening. Once again, I am reminded of how I never occur to him. I may have been second in his thoughts in the time we were friends, but now I'm nothing. Brutal. Really brutal.
Talk about a dash of icy cold reality, but a much needed one. I hate when my heart goes all squishy, and I start to have these things called "feelings" again.
I don't know why the ghosts of college past still haunt me. I just can't seem to get closure when it comes to that relationship. It's all wrapped up in my sense of inadequacy. Why was I always second -- why was every other girl better? Why is every girl always better than me?
College was a hard road. The time when everyone gets to be free and experiment, I was still persona non grata. My nickname for myself was No Man's Land. This one guy was the one constant friend I had, but I always knew that the moment I was off campus, I would be forgotten by him. And I was.
All I can say is that it's been an incredibly rough 2 years, an emotional wasteland, and a trial by fire. The one constant has been my mom ... on a day to day level, there was no one else to talk to. I have a lot of pent-up anger and loneliness, and it's killed off a lot of what was nice and giving about me.
But I thank the Powers That Be for giving me such a stern reminder -- and from now on, I'll continue to look forward. No more wondering. No more fond memories. That life (and that person, and the person I used to be) is dead. I won't let it haunt me or sadden me any more.
I began to really miss him, started wishing that things had gone better, wondering if I was nursing something akin to a broken heart. Certainly the loss of this person in my life has hurt me pretty fucking deeply.
Then I go on Twitter, my sociopathic comfort, and this very same guy comes up. At the very time I was thinking wistfully on What Might Have Been /Gosh I Miss Him /Why Did He Always Put Me Second, he was hooking other people up to see Star Trek at a free screening. Once again, I am reminded of how I never occur to him. I may have been second in his thoughts in the time we were friends, but now I'm nothing. Brutal. Really brutal.
Talk about a dash of icy cold reality, but a much needed one. I hate when my heart goes all squishy, and I start to have these things called "feelings" again.
I don't know why the ghosts of college past still haunt me. I just can't seem to get closure when it comes to that relationship. It's all wrapped up in my sense of inadequacy. Why was I always second -- why was every other girl better? Why is every girl always better than me?
College was a hard road. The time when everyone gets to be free and experiment, I was still persona non grata. My nickname for myself was No Man's Land. This one guy was the one constant friend I had, but I always knew that the moment I was off campus, I would be forgotten by him. And I was.
All I can say is that it's been an incredibly rough 2 years, an emotional wasteland, and a trial by fire. The one constant has been my mom ... on a day to day level, there was no one else to talk to. I have a lot of pent-up anger and loneliness, and it's killed off a lot of what was nice and giving about me.
But I thank the Powers That Be for giving me such a stern reminder -- and from now on, I'll continue to look forward. No more wondering. No more fond memories. That life (and that person, and the person I used to be) is dead. I won't let it haunt me or sadden me any more.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Party Politics (Updated)
So, yesterday was the second coming of the Boston Tea Party in which everyone was having tea parties, and the media was throwing around the phrase "tea-bagging" like they didn't know what it meant. Thanks, media. It prompted a discussion like (but not necessarily identical to) this:
Me: Oh my God!
Mom: What, tea-bagging?
Me: Yeah. What are they talking about?
Mom: Why that bad?
Me: Ummm...you should Google it if you really want to know. It involves balls. That's all I'm gonna say.
Thanks, Anderson Cooper.
It also prompted me to declare on Twitter that I wanted to attend a tea party, before realizing that I didn't actually agree with what they were protesting. I hastily clarified my position:
I preserve the original Tweet because it led to graphic filled discussion with my friend Chris, who called me out:
Me: Oh my God!
Mom: What, tea-bagging?
Me: Yeah. What are they talking about?
Mom: Why that bad?
Me: Ummm...you should Google it if you really want to know. It involves balls. That's all I'm gonna say.
Thanks, Anderson Cooper.
It also prompted me to declare on Twitter that I wanted to attend a tea party, before realizing that I didn't actually agree with what they were protesting. I hastily clarified my position:
I preserve the original Tweet because it led to graphic filled discussion with my friend Chris, who called me out:
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Personal Trivia
When you live and work online, it's funny what personal facts linger in people's memories ... and what doesn't.
I've noticed this since joining Twitter. Despite a year of posts and columns in which I have enthused about Wolverine, Hugh Jackman, Preacher, Viggo Mortensen, Jane Austen, Old English, Gerard Butler (including relating waaay too much detail about a press conference), pugs, the Renaissance Faire, Lord of the Rings, and Martin Riggs ... very little of that ever comes up. (Though I will say there are things on that list that I've noticed being picked up and imitated by "rivals." So there you go.)
Instead, they do remember (or at least one loyal reader does) that I love love love L.A. Confidential, particularly Bud White's propensity for breaking chairs.
They remember that I play D&D. I guess this is because my editor Erik also mentioned it on the /filmcast. It's very odd that this has become part of my personal biography because I've only been playing about six months or so, and I really kind of suck at it. (It's the math thing. Also, I find just find that no matter how hard I try, I can't remember shit from the Player's Handbook -- which is so odd because I have the kind of memory that can still rattle off the difference between the Bolshevik and the Menshevik parties. Or can it? Oh dear.) I guess it's noteworthy, as one of my friends says it's because it's still bottom rung on the ladder of geek.
They know I'm good at impressions and accents, thanks to the last After Dark in which I imitated a BBC Accent AND Katharine Hepburn, among other things.
They know about the Tomb Raider thing. I wish they didn't. If there was one thing I could delete, it would be that, if only so other photos would get passed around. Look, I've dressed as a pirate far more often:
They know I have a beauty mark above my left eyebrow. 98% of the time, I don't remember I have a beauty mark above my left eyebrow.
And finally, despite an avowed fondness for all those guys mentioned above (and a Butler fandom that was pretty damn public, right down to a 300 review, but it seemingly didn't cross over to my life on Cinematical), everyone remembers the one time I described Clint Eastwood as my "dream boyfriend." My Cine cowriter even called me Mrs. Eastwood the other day.
Jesus. Exactly how many people listened to that Gran Torino podcast?
Don't think I'm complaining, however. I think it's cute, and pretty cool. I would much rather be known for all of this than a lot of other things I've done or said online. (I mean come on -- there's worse things to be called over "Mrs. Eastwood." Much much worse.)
Now, when everyone knows my favorite beer (Bass Ale or Blue Moon, depending on where I am) and can name my favorite perfume (Jo Malone's Wild Fig ans Cassis), then I know I will have made it. Or that I blab too much. Either way.
I've noticed this since joining Twitter. Despite a year of posts and columns in which I have enthused about Wolverine, Hugh Jackman, Preacher, Viggo Mortensen, Jane Austen, Old English, Gerard Butler (including relating waaay too much detail about a press conference), pugs, the Renaissance Faire, Lord of the Rings, and Martin Riggs ... very little of that ever comes up. (Though I will say there are things on that list that I've noticed being picked up and imitated by "rivals." So there you go.)
Instead, they do remember (or at least one loyal reader does) that I love love love L.A. Confidential, particularly Bud White's propensity for breaking chairs.
They remember that I play D&D. I guess this is because my editor Erik also mentioned it on the /filmcast. It's very odd that this has become part of my personal biography because I've only been playing about six months or so, and I really kind of suck at it. (It's the math thing. Also, I find just find that no matter how hard I try, I can't remember shit from the Player's Handbook -- which is so odd because I have the kind of memory that can still rattle off the difference between the Bolshevik and the Menshevik parties. Or can it? Oh dear.) I guess it's noteworthy, as one of my friends says it's because it's still bottom rung on the ladder of geek.
They know I'm good at impressions and accents, thanks to the last After Dark in which I imitated a BBC Accent AND Katharine Hepburn, among other things.
They know about the Tomb Raider thing. I wish they didn't. If there was one thing I could delete, it would be that, if only so other photos would get passed around. Look, I've dressed as a pirate far more often:
They know I have a beauty mark above my left eyebrow. 98% of the time, I don't remember I have a beauty mark above my left eyebrow.
And finally, despite an avowed fondness for all those guys mentioned above (and a Butler fandom that was pretty damn public, right down to a 300 review, but it seemingly didn't cross over to my life on Cinematical), everyone remembers the one time I described Clint Eastwood as my "dream boyfriend." My Cine cowriter even called me Mrs. Eastwood the other day.
Jesus. Exactly how many people listened to that Gran Torino podcast?
Don't think I'm complaining, however. I think it's cute, and pretty cool. I would much rather be known for all of this than a lot of other things I've done or said online. (I mean come on -- there's worse things to be called over "Mrs. Eastwood." Much much worse.)
Now, when everyone knows my favorite beer (Bass Ale or Blue Moon, depending on where I am) and can name my favorite perfume (Jo Malone's Wild Fig ans Cassis), then I know I will have made it. Or that I blab too much. Either way.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Funny men? Bah.
The Daily Mail (that bastion of scientific journalism, you know :P) recently did a piece about how funny guys do get girls based on a recent psychology study. "There was a kind of halo effect. The funny guys appear to be getting everything. I think men play on this - I would if I was funny. For a man that doesn't look like Brad Pitt, it gives them a bit of hope. You probably won't call somebody like Billy Connolly particularly attractive but he's had a couple of wives and had children. His selling point is that he is hilarious."
Now, don't get me wrong. I like a guy with a sense of humor. But the "I'm a FUNNY GUY HO HO HO" schtick just pisses me off.
I'm sympathetic to them wanting "a bit of hope." I'm not someone who is that attractive, and so I always sought to be interesting. I don't know if one can consciously choose to be smart (if you have a thing for academia, you pursue it), but I decided brains and wit were something to at least be proud of. Better to be interesting than ugly and boring -- better to be a real girl.
I have been treated worse by the funny, Seth Rogen type of guy than by any other. I am (or was) a girl who prided herself on going for personality over looks, for wanting a "funny, normal guy" who would treat me well. I've given many a funny guy a chance -- only to have them repeatedly treat me like shit.
Funny, normal guys bank a lot on being funny, normal guys. It's their excuse for why they forgot to call you for the movie you'd planned to see. It's their excuse as to why they lied to you about being single, and why they won't buy anything for you. I'm a normal, funny guy ... don't expect too much!
To be honest, my experience dating (or trying to date, but failing) the "funny guy" has now caused me to be riddled with insecurity and fear when it comes to the opposite sex. See, you expect a Clive Owen to screw you over. They're good looking, they know it, and you know that no good can come of being with them. If it's too good to be true, it is.
But the normal funny guy -- they are the la homme fatale. You expect that if he likes you, he really likes you. He's normal. He's funny. He's trying to impress you and oh...he's succeeded! Oh, you even feel bad for him when he downplays his physical attributes and compares himself to Shrek. "Awwww," you say. "Whatever. I think you're cute. You're NICE. And you're so funny!" Bam. You fell for it hook, line and sinker. Before you know it, La Homme Fatale stops calling. When you meet him again, he will have gotten back together with his ex, or he'll have a new one on the string. (True story -- the last la homme fatale promptly introduced me to his wife of several years.)
So if you can't expect the best out of "average" guys, and you certainly can't expect it out of someone "above average," it leaves a girl with nowhere to go. You can't trust any of them. At the end of the day, they pick you up because it gratifies them, not because they like you.
I resolved after the last la homme fatale that if I was going to be screwed over and hurt, I would at least be shallow about it, and only date hot, rich guys. It's a pipe dream for a girl like me --which is why it's been amended to "I just don't date at all" -- but there's nothing that can knock a "funny" guy to his knees faster than a scathing rejection.
Nothing will repulse them more, either. There's one thing the Daily Mail says your average funny guy hates in a girl -- wit and brains. ""When a man says he would like a woman with a good sense of humor, he really means one that will laugh at his jokes."
Now, don't get me wrong. I like a guy with a sense of humor. But the "I'm a FUNNY GUY HO HO HO" schtick just pisses me off.
I'm sympathetic to them wanting "a bit of hope." I'm not someone who is that attractive, and so I always sought to be interesting. I don't know if one can consciously choose to be smart (if you have a thing for academia, you pursue it), but I decided brains and wit were something to at least be proud of. Better to be interesting than ugly and boring -- better to be a real girl.
I have been treated worse by the funny, Seth Rogen type of guy than by any other. I am (or was) a girl who prided herself on going for personality over looks, for wanting a "funny, normal guy" who would treat me well. I've given many a funny guy a chance -- only to have them repeatedly treat me like shit.
Funny, normal guys bank a lot on being funny, normal guys. It's their excuse for why they forgot to call you for the movie you'd planned to see. It's their excuse as to why they lied to you about being single, and why they won't buy anything for you. I'm a normal, funny guy ... don't expect too much!
To be honest, my experience dating (or trying to date, but failing) the "funny guy" has now caused me to be riddled with insecurity and fear when it comes to the opposite sex. See, you expect a Clive Owen to screw you over. They're good looking, they know it, and you know that no good can come of being with them. If it's too good to be true, it is.
But the normal funny guy -- they are the la homme fatale. You expect that if he likes you, he really likes you. He's normal. He's funny. He's trying to impress you and oh...he's succeeded! Oh, you even feel bad for him when he downplays his physical attributes and compares himself to Shrek. "Awwww," you say. "Whatever. I think you're cute. You're NICE. And you're so funny!" Bam. You fell for it hook, line and sinker. Before you know it, La Homme Fatale stops calling. When you meet him again, he will have gotten back together with his ex, or he'll have a new one on the string. (True story -- the last la homme fatale promptly introduced me to his wife of several years.)
So if you can't expect the best out of "average" guys, and you certainly can't expect it out of someone "above average," it leaves a girl with nowhere to go. You can't trust any of them. At the end of the day, they pick you up because it gratifies them, not because they like you.
I resolved after the last la homme fatale that if I was going to be screwed over and hurt, I would at least be shallow about it, and only date hot, rich guys. It's a pipe dream for a girl like me --which is why it's been amended to "I just don't date at all" -- but there's nothing that can knock a "funny" guy to his knees faster than a scathing rejection.
Nothing will repulse them more, either. There's one thing the Daily Mail says your average funny guy hates in a girl -- wit and brains. ""When a man says he would like a woman with a good sense of humor, he really means one that will laugh at his jokes."
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
What happens on Twitter...
...doesn't stay on Twitter. I keep forgetting this, particularly now that Facebook has done that hideous makeover and is now Twitter Lite. I installed the application that updated them both simultaneously due to friends and family feeling left out of my status updates. You'll notice it's on my blog too.
I forget this. Twitter is a very enclosed place once you're logged in, and I am running with a slightly different crowd. A crowd who would think this was very funny:
And it IS funny. And he IS.
Then I log onto Facebook and see my newsfeed where innocent young eyes are posting pictures of puppies and pandas, and their parents are updating their own statuses. I know they just saw a potential role model for their child declare Clive Owen to be fuckable. I know how possible it is that their child may have went "MOOOOOOOM! Elisabeth just said fuckable!"
I am ashamed. Please know that I am actually a very good girl who simply uses bad language. I am actually full of good morals and values and can help instill them into your children. I am especially good to have around girls because I will turn them kick ass. I will help them hide corpses.
And really -- if you're going to have your young daughter hear a label like "fuckable", it's better to hear me say it because I only apply it to the worthiest of men. Who would you rather hear your daughter lust for ... Clive Owen or the Jonas Bros?
I forget this. Twitter is a very enclosed place once you're logged in, and I am running with a slightly different crowd. A crowd who would think this was very funny:
And it IS funny. And he IS.
Then I log onto Facebook and see my newsfeed where innocent young eyes are posting pictures of puppies and pandas, and their parents are updating their own statuses. I know they just saw a potential role model for their child declare Clive Owen to be fuckable. I know how possible it is that their child may have went "MOOOOOOOM! Elisabeth just said fuckable!"
I am ashamed. Please know that I am actually a very good girl who simply uses bad language. I am actually full of good morals and values and can help instill them into your children. I am especially good to have around girls because I will turn them kick ass. I will help them hide corpses.
And really -- if you're going to have your young daughter hear a label like "fuckable", it's better to hear me say it because I only apply it to the worthiest of men. Who would you rather hear your daughter lust for ... Clive Owen or the Jonas Bros?
Sunday, March 22, 2009
A Girl With Nothing to Update
The reason I haven't updated my blog in a few weeks is very simple ... there's nothing to talk about! My life is a very quiet one -- so quiet that my world was rocked by watching "Cruising" and "Angel Heart" on my laptop, in bed, with a drink. Seriously, it was awesome.
But perhaps a few blurbs are in order ... and I should start by saying that in addition to having a quiet life, I've been in a pissy, depressive funk lately. I don't like to repeatedly blog about the men who have done me wrong, how lonely I am, how shitty my social life is ... that sort of thing makes for boring reading.
Plus, I recently had something happen that made me realize that I've got to hold things much closer to the chest than I have previously. You forget that when you're having fun -- and you let it all out, forgetting how far it might reach, and how it might come back to haunt you.
Lest you think I'm alluding to something really serious -- I'm not. I'll be honest and say that it was my costuming. I enjoyed it, I never took it seriously ... but it's become something rather tawdry lately. I've been the butt of some really shitty comments (and admittedly, when confronted, those making them actually apologized -- remember assholes, the Internet isn't that big and a Google Alert reveals all) and now the focus of some very sleazy imitation. I guess I should be flattered that someone sought to copy something I had no intention of ever "selling," but it really just feels shitty. I have crappy self esteem at the best of times, and not only do I not need to be reminded of how ugly I am, but I don't need the comparison made in public.
So, yeah. There's no getting away from what I did -- I wish there was, but the photos are out there and always will be. Hell, I'm using a Queen Gorgo photo on all my social media at the moment -- despite its bad memories, the photos are good and current, and I feel like it's honoring Carlos' awesome work more than it is flaunting anything about myself. But I'm not going to continue it, or stress it, or align myself with it. I'm trying to strip a lot of its iconography away in order to try and keep the association at a minimum. It makes me sad to do it -- but I'm even sadder that I ever allowed the situation to develop.. I wish I'd never let it become associated with my work. It soured something enjoyable for me.
It's a tough lesson to learn -- if you enjoy something, keep it relatively close to your chest. Obviously, I'm always going to be who I am -- I'm not going to hide my personal interests, my enthusiasm makes me who I am. It's the same for all of us in this field. It's a necessary component. I just don't know quite where to draw the line ... except that perhaps, if it involves photos, it shouldn't be done, because that's the temptation. That turns you into That Girl Who Does That Thing, and opens the temptation up to those who want to mimic it ... or maybe those who just want to call you a fat loser.
Whew. Ok. Got that off my chest. So, what else?
Well, March has seen me throw my shaky frugality to the winds. I've gone a bit mad with money -- while some of it can be excused as "professional requirements" (software, airfare) I am fairly certain I did not need more Chanel eyeshadow, or a new motorcycle jacket. (I am working on the motorcycle. :P)
I've booked my ComicCon trip, so that's the next thing on the professional agenda, unless X-Men Origins: Wolverine causes a flurry of work. I doubt it -- somehow I think NPR will find more when they Google "Wolverine" and "girl" than they did with Watchmen. Although hey, if you are looking for a girl to talk Wolverine with ... I am that girl. When I spring-cleaned my closet, the high heels got the top, unreachable shelf, my Wolverine collection got the lower, reachable rack.
I'm always looking forward to ComicCon, but I'm not overly wound up -- this year, all I want is to see the ocean, work, have a few drinks, and buy Wolverine stuff. It's his 35th anniversary, you know. They better honor it like Marvel has.
Also, I'm back at work on my screenplay. I finally got my Twilight bonus and used it to buy Final Draft -- it is impossible to do it through Microsoft Word even when you're just trying to get it down while waiting for Final Draft to arrive. And I finally told someone outside of my family what I was playing with, and he actually thought it was a good idea. Nothing energizes you more than hearing a project isn't a total waste of time. Now, if I can just find more time to do it in...!
Really, that's all there is ... I'm working my ass off to jump the next hurdle, improve my circumstances, and get to that next chapter. A friend once told me that I needed to think of my life as an ongoing story, and to remember that I was in the middle of it. Whenever things get really bleak, I remember that -- and I remember the hole I was in when he told me, and I know now that he was right. But they don't just happen -- a girl has to make sure the chapters coming up may just be pretty fucking awesome.
But perhaps a few blurbs are in order ... and I should start by saying that in addition to having a quiet life, I've been in a pissy, depressive funk lately. I don't like to repeatedly blog about the men who have done me wrong, how lonely I am, how shitty my social life is ... that sort of thing makes for boring reading.
Plus, I recently had something happen that made me realize that I've got to hold things much closer to the chest than I have previously. You forget that when you're having fun -- and you let it all out, forgetting how far it might reach, and how it might come back to haunt you.
Lest you think I'm alluding to something really serious -- I'm not. I'll be honest and say that it was my costuming. I enjoyed it, I never took it seriously ... but it's become something rather tawdry lately. I've been the butt of some really shitty comments (and admittedly, when confronted, those making them actually apologized -- remember assholes, the Internet isn't that big and a Google Alert reveals all) and now the focus of some very sleazy imitation. I guess I should be flattered that someone sought to copy something I had no intention of ever "selling," but it really just feels shitty. I have crappy self esteem at the best of times, and not only do I not need to be reminded of how ugly I am, but I don't need the comparison made in public.
So, yeah. There's no getting away from what I did -- I wish there was, but the photos are out there and always will be. Hell, I'm using a Queen Gorgo photo on all my social media at the moment -- despite its bad memories, the photos are good and current, and I feel like it's honoring Carlos' awesome work more than it is flaunting anything about myself. But I'm not going to continue it, or stress it, or align myself with it. I'm trying to strip a lot of its iconography away in order to try and keep the association at a minimum. It makes me sad to do it -- but I'm even sadder that I ever allowed the situation to develop.. I wish I'd never let it become associated with my work. It soured something enjoyable for me.
It's a tough lesson to learn -- if you enjoy something, keep it relatively close to your chest. Obviously, I'm always going to be who I am -- I'm not going to hide my personal interests, my enthusiasm makes me who I am. It's the same for all of us in this field. It's a necessary component. I just don't know quite where to draw the line ... except that perhaps, if it involves photos, it shouldn't be done, because that's the temptation. That turns you into That Girl Who Does That Thing, and opens the temptation up to those who want to mimic it ... or maybe those who just want to call you a fat loser.
Whew. Ok. Got that off my chest. So, what else?
Well, March has seen me throw my shaky frugality to the winds. I've gone a bit mad with money -- while some of it can be excused as "professional requirements" (software, airfare) I am fairly certain I did not need more Chanel eyeshadow, or a new motorcycle jacket. (I am working on the motorcycle. :P)
I've booked my ComicCon trip, so that's the next thing on the professional agenda, unless X-Men Origins: Wolverine causes a flurry of work. I doubt it -- somehow I think NPR will find more when they Google "Wolverine" and "girl" than they did with Watchmen. Although hey, if you are looking for a girl to talk Wolverine with ... I am that girl. When I spring-cleaned my closet, the high heels got the top, unreachable shelf, my Wolverine collection got the lower, reachable rack.
I'm always looking forward to ComicCon, but I'm not overly wound up -- this year, all I want is to see the ocean, work, have a few drinks, and buy Wolverine stuff. It's his 35th anniversary, you know. They better honor it like Marvel has.
Also, I'm back at work on my screenplay. I finally got my Twilight bonus and used it to buy Final Draft -- it is impossible to do it through Microsoft Word even when you're just trying to get it down while waiting for Final Draft to arrive. And I finally told someone outside of my family what I was playing with, and he actually thought it was a good idea. Nothing energizes you more than hearing a project isn't a total waste of time. Now, if I can just find more time to do it in...!
Really, that's all there is ... I'm working my ass off to jump the next hurdle, improve my circumstances, and get to that next chapter. A friend once told me that I needed to think of my life as an ongoing story, and to remember that I was in the middle of it. Whenever things get really bleak, I remember that -- and I remember the hole I was in when he told me, and I know now that he was right. But they don't just happen -- a girl has to make sure the chapters coming up may just be pretty fucking awesome.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Twittering, Twittering
I joined Twitter a month ago -- on my birthday of all days.
For months, I had resisted it. I had a MySpace and a Facebook ... and I simply didn't WANT to know what my friends and colleagues were doing 24/7. So you're eating a sandwich? Big deal. It doesn't matter how near or dear you are to me ... I simply don't care about that. Keep some mystery about yourself.
After I joined, I had to admit that it wasn't so bad. I've suddenly become connected to my fellow writers as I never thought I would. And I have fans! I have all these followers who actually like me, and enjoy what I write. It's so affirming to get all these nice messages.
In fact, I'd venture to say that Twitter's 140 character limit has brought technology full circle, and we're now enjoying telegrams again. And I always did want to get a telegram.
But I'm becoming more and more addicted, and more comfortable on there. It's kind of like being at a big party, and getting snippets of really amusing conversation. You can just sit and listen to people. You can join in. You can watch flare-ups, and make-ups. I don't think it replaces blogging or e-mail, but there's something very appealing and comforting about the ongoing chatter, and the fact that it's so limited to the impersonal.
I'm a little scared of how much I like it. Right now, I have to say that it appeals to me because it doesn't throw my life into any kind of sharp relief. It's not like MySpace or Facebook which jammed weddings, vacations, and relationships down my throat. I find that element of society uncomfortable in general ... that NEED to be seen and affirmed via your photographed kisses and parties. And as a girl who can't even get someone who take her to a movie, or buy her dinner, I resent every bit of it that appears on my Facebook feed.
For me, Twitter is fun while being coolly impersonal. I'm enjoying the limited interaction. I don't talk to anyone on there enough to be annoyed by them, and they're not demanding anything of me. I can demand nothing of them, so there's no room for disappointment. It's wonderful, and I'm beginning to think it's all I'm capable of right now. Perhaps it's all I'll ever be capable of from this point on.
And yes, I do realize that's probably the first step to becoming a sociopath. What can you do? Other than Tweet it.
For months, I had resisted it. I had a MySpace and a Facebook ... and I simply didn't WANT to know what my friends and colleagues were doing 24/7. So you're eating a sandwich? Big deal. It doesn't matter how near or dear you are to me ... I simply don't care about that. Keep some mystery about yourself.
After I joined, I had to admit that it wasn't so bad. I've suddenly become connected to my fellow writers as I never thought I would. And I have fans! I have all these followers who actually like me, and enjoy what I write. It's so affirming to get all these nice messages.
In fact, I'd venture to say that Twitter's 140 character limit has brought technology full circle, and we're now enjoying telegrams again. And I always did want to get a telegram.
But I'm becoming more and more addicted, and more comfortable on there. It's kind of like being at a big party, and getting snippets of really amusing conversation. You can just sit and listen to people. You can join in. You can watch flare-ups, and make-ups. I don't think it replaces blogging or e-mail, but there's something very appealing and comforting about the ongoing chatter, and the fact that it's so limited to the impersonal.
I'm a little scared of how much I like it. Right now, I have to say that it appeals to me because it doesn't throw my life into any kind of sharp relief. It's not like MySpace or Facebook which jammed weddings, vacations, and relationships down my throat. I find that element of society uncomfortable in general ... that NEED to be seen and affirmed via your photographed kisses and parties. And as a girl who can't even get someone who take her to a movie, or buy her dinner, I resent every bit of it that appears on my Facebook feed.
For me, Twitter is fun while being coolly impersonal. I'm enjoying the limited interaction. I don't talk to anyone on there enough to be annoyed by them, and they're not demanding anything of me. I can demand nothing of them, so there's no room for disappointment. It's wonderful, and I'm beginning to think it's all I'm capable of right now. Perhaps it's all I'll ever be capable of from this point on.
And yes, I do realize that's probably the first step to becoming a sociopath. What can you do? Other than Tweet it.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Just Me and the World
I have never, ever been so tired as I was on March 6. Friday was the culmination of a pretty intense week of Watchmen press -- who knew I would be doing so much press for a movie I had no part in making?
First came my Geek Beat:
Watchwomen
This prompted an 11th hour invite to be on the /filmcast After Dark to talk about it:
Blue Genitalia and Career/Genre Revivals
The very next day, I had an invite to be on The Takeaway, a NPR program out of New York. As they broadcast at 6am, I had to be up at 4. I'm normally up well past then, but it's a totally different thing to be intelligent at 4am. Normally if you talked to me, it would probably be the more unhinged self you hear on the After Dark cast.
The Takeaway: Watchmen
After I sent the NPR interview around to some of my real life friends, one of them asked me if I get paid well for doing such things. If you're inspired to irrational jealousy and long for such a frantic and public life, please know that I didn't even get a free ticket to Watchmen. I had to pay and go on March 6th like everyone else, but with the added bonus of being so fucking tired that I almost fell asleep in the middle. (Which isn't an indication of the film's quality at all. I really liked Watchmen. But you can sleep through anything if you're tired enough. I slept through many hours of BNAT 8.)
I rewarded myself for my non-paying appearances by buying this hoodie from Mondo Tees. That's life in the fast lane, my friends -- lacking all else that is best in life, I settle for the comfort and versatility of a Dirty Harry hoodie.
Anyway, now you know what I've been up to.
First came my Geek Beat:
Watchwomen
This prompted an 11th hour invite to be on the /filmcast After Dark to talk about it:
Blue Genitalia and Career/Genre Revivals
The very next day, I had an invite to be on The Takeaway, a NPR program out of New York. As they broadcast at 6am, I had to be up at 4. I'm normally up well past then, but it's a totally different thing to be intelligent at 4am. Normally if you talked to me, it would probably be the more unhinged self you hear on the After Dark cast.
The Takeaway: Watchmen
After I sent the NPR interview around to some of my real life friends, one of them asked me if I get paid well for doing such things. If you're inspired to irrational jealousy and long for such a frantic and public life, please know that I didn't even get a free ticket to Watchmen. I had to pay and go on March 6th like everyone else, but with the added bonus of being so fucking tired that I almost fell asleep in the middle. (Which isn't an indication of the film's quality at all. I really liked Watchmen. But you can sleep through anything if you're tired enough. I slept through many hours of BNAT 8.)
I rewarded myself for my non-paying appearances by buying this hoodie from Mondo Tees. That's life in the fast lane, my friends -- lacking all else that is best in life, I settle for the comfort and versatility of a Dirty Harry hoodie.
Anyway, now you know what I've been up to.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
I've Got Competition
Shortly after Cinematical's Scott Pilgrim / Lara Croft spoof popped on-line, Edgar Wright decided to spoof us right back:
You just never know who's really out there...
However, the fact that the Internet continues to pass around the worst Lara Croft photo of me ever taken, and the cold, dark fear of who all has seen THAT has killed any ego I could actually develop.
Seriously people, if you're going to pass around a ComicCon photo, can't you use this one? I'm normal-sized in it, not shot at the angle which gives me stomach rolls I don't actually possess:
Not that I could compete with the handsome (I mean that) Mr. Wright anyway! He IS Lara Croft. :P
You just never know who's really out there...
However, the fact that the Internet continues to pass around the worst Lara Croft photo of me ever taken, and the cold, dark fear of who all has seen THAT has killed any ego I could actually develop.
Seriously people, if you're going to pass around a ComicCon photo, can't you use this one? I'm normal-sized in it, not shot at the angle which gives me stomach rolls I don't actually possess:
Not that I could compete with the handsome (I mean that) Mr. Wright anyway! He IS Lara Croft. :P
Friday, February 20, 2009
Lara Croft on the Record
If you were on Cinematical this week, you probably saw this goofy little post.
Of course, our readers being the kind and gentle souls they are misconstrued it as a massive ego trip on my part. (Actually, only one. Let's call him "Rudy" because he shares a name with Samwise Gamgee.) I'd like to clarify that this wasn't my idea at all. It was the brainchild of the editor, and intended solely as a spoof on the Scott Pilgrim photos. I thought it was funny, particularly with that whole Tomb Raider reboot, and agreed to do it.
It may surprise my obsessive detractors that it's actually very nerve racking for me to do these things. I've never suggested that my editors post my costumed photos. I agreed not out of a desire for compliments, but because I really have no sense of shame. Anyway, you can't exactly go out in public dressed up in an outlandish outfit and then say "Please don't post my photo on the Internet."
So...that's that out of the way. You know, I think it may be the last time I ever dress up as Lara Croft -- it was kind of startling to see how awful I looked at ComicCon (every photo I see seems to add another 10 pounds -- I have a nicely defined stomach but the outfit gave me a gut!), plus costuming in general has lost a lot of personal appeal for me. But hey, never say never...
But if I may indulge in an egotistical moment on my personal blog...
...my eyes are rather attractive. I can say that because strangers actually stop me to comment, which is kind of freaky and flattering. Could my eyeballs have launched a thousand ships? If I build my time machine to 1971, can they seduce Clint Eastwood? Could they win over any of the single dudes on my Robo-Boyfriend list? (I don't want to break up the married ones, that's using my one good feature for evil.) Let's lie, and say they can.
Of course, our readers being the kind and gentle souls they are misconstrued it as a massive ego trip on my part. (Actually, only one. Let's call him "Rudy" because he shares a name with Samwise Gamgee.) I'd like to clarify that this wasn't my idea at all. It was the brainchild of the editor, and intended solely as a spoof on the Scott Pilgrim photos. I thought it was funny, particularly with that whole Tomb Raider reboot, and agreed to do it.
It may surprise my obsessive detractors that it's actually very nerve racking for me to do these things. I've never suggested that my editors post my costumed photos. I agreed not out of a desire for compliments, but because I really have no sense of shame. Anyway, you can't exactly go out in public dressed up in an outlandish outfit and then say "Please don't post my photo on the Internet."
So...that's that out of the way. You know, I think it may be the last time I ever dress up as Lara Croft -- it was kind of startling to see how awful I looked at ComicCon (every photo I see seems to add another 10 pounds -- I have a nicely defined stomach but the outfit gave me a gut!), plus costuming in general has lost a lot of personal appeal for me. But hey, never say never...
But if I may indulge in an egotistical moment on my personal blog...
...my eyes are rather attractive. I can say that because strangers actually stop me to comment, which is kind of freaky and flattering. Could my eyeballs have launched a thousand ships? If I build my time machine to 1971, can they seduce Clint Eastwood? Could they win over any of the single dudes on my Robo-Boyfriend list? (I don't want to break up the married ones, that's using my one good feature for evil.) Let's lie, and say they can.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Little Miss Awkward
This is probably going to sound like one of those whiny and bitchy blog posts where I blame others for my own mental problems. But I actually only have myself to blame on this one.
I have just realized that there are only one or two guys I know who haven't mocked my breasts -- or lack of. It's one of those things I have undoubtedly encouraged because I mock my figure constantly, joking I look like a 12 year old boy, or that if I took my shirt off no one would notice. Obviously, such self-deprecation arose out of a sensitivity ... I mean, a girl doesn't take kindly to putting on a corset and having a fellow girl say "Jesus, that's all you've got?" Let alone the suggestion that she get a sugar daddy to pay for enhancements in order to enjoy a richer, fuller dating life. (How I'm supposed to get a sugar daddy in order to attract a proper boyfriend was left a mystery.)
So in a way, I've made them think they can have a free pass because I never gotten offended or upset about it. I have a jolly hockey sticks sort of thick skin about these things, a consequence of usually being "one of the guys." And I can't really say that I ever have been hurt by it until this very moment. Suddenly they've combined into one pile of negative scrutiny, and I wonder "Why the hell can't any of them say something nice about my tits? Is there anything nice to say about them? Oh my God, something else to worry about, and be glad I don't date and have to confront. Here I was just worried about my chunky, ugly legs!"
Of course, "negativity" is the overwhelming feeling left behind after most interactions I have with men, so that's not really surprising.
Oh, to be a girl who has a guy, and the power to utterly beguile and attract him, to hear nice things and believe them and know them to be true, at least from his perspective.
I find myself increasingly glad when no one notices me. It's so much easier. Being noticed immediately immediately makes me self-deprecatingly defensive, which in turn allows men to make fun of me, which then makes me feel bad about myself, which then causes me to be more self-deprecating in order to pretend their snark doesn't bother me.
Damn. No wonder I'm neurotic and alone. Let's look at a cute photo instead.
There. All better.
I have just realized that there are only one or two guys I know who haven't mocked my breasts -- or lack of. It's one of those things I have undoubtedly encouraged because I mock my figure constantly, joking I look like a 12 year old boy, or that if I took my shirt off no one would notice. Obviously, such self-deprecation arose out of a sensitivity ... I mean, a girl doesn't take kindly to putting on a corset and having a fellow girl say "Jesus, that's all you've got?" Let alone the suggestion that she get a sugar daddy to pay for enhancements in order to enjoy a richer, fuller dating life. (How I'm supposed to get a sugar daddy in order to attract a proper boyfriend was left a mystery.)
So in a way, I've made them think they can have a free pass because I never gotten offended or upset about it. I have a jolly hockey sticks sort of thick skin about these things, a consequence of usually being "one of the guys." And I can't really say that I ever have been hurt by it until this very moment. Suddenly they've combined into one pile of negative scrutiny, and I wonder "Why the hell can't any of them say something nice about my tits? Is there anything nice to say about them? Oh my God, something else to worry about, and be glad I don't date and have to confront. Here I was just worried about my chunky, ugly legs!"
Of course, "negativity" is the overwhelming feeling left behind after most interactions I have with men, so that's not really surprising.
Oh, to be a girl who has a guy, and the power to utterly beguile and attract him, to hear nice things and believe them and know them to be true, at least from his perspective.
I find myself increasingly glad when no one notices me. It's so much easier. Being noticed immediately immediately makes me self-deprecatingly defensive, which in turn allows men to make fun of me, which then makes me feel bad about myself, which then causes me to be more self-deprecating in order to pretend their snark doesn't bother me.
Damn. No wonder I'm neurotic and alone. Let's look at a cute photo instead.
There. All better.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Happy Anniversary to Me
Today marks the one year anniversary of my stint at Cinematical -- or rather, my first post there since it took me ages to get the contract in.
Remember it? It was this:
Punisher War Zone Writer Despises New Film
I think the second one was on Wolverine. Destiny, my friends. While I probably brought the collective film community down a few pegs with my ramblings and obsessions ... it's been a hell of a lot of fun, even if I no longer sleep or live normally.
If nothing else, it was worth it for this gem of dating advice I received from one of our most illustrious writers, who shall remain anonymous:
Me: Where the hell am I supposed to meet normal men? Where do you meet Clint Eastwood?
Illustrious Writer: At an old folks home.
Remember it? It was this:
Punisher War Zone Writer Despises New Film
I think the second one was on Wolverine. Destiny, my friends. While I probably brought the collective film community down a few pegs with my ramblings and obsessions ... it's been a hell of a lot of fun, even if I no longer sleep or live normally.
If nothing else, it was worth it for this gem of dating advice I received from one of our most illustrious writers, who shall remain anonymous:
Me: Where the hell am I supposed to meet normal men? Where do you meet Clint Eastwood?
Illustrious Writer: At an old folks home.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Time Machine
You know -- I used to watch That 70s Show and mock my parents. "Oh my God, you lived during such a hideous time. The colors! The clothes! Why did you think that was attractive?"
That was wrong of me. You know why? Because the 70s were really pretty hot. First, the hair:
And despite the hideous patterns, fabrics, and details, there was a lot to be said for the pants. The cut was quite lovely. It's nice to see a man's ass, lost now in baggy jeans and Docker pants. Flaunt it, boys. Flaunt it!
Seeing as time travel is impossible (and I would probably hate the 70s once I got there -- plus my dependence on NARS and Laura Mercier would mean I couldn't survive OR fit in.) I shall humbly ask men to start wearing sideburns, shags, and tight pants again. It's a good look, guys. Run with it. Look, Jemaine Clement does it and it works without descending into hipster repulsiveness:
His ability to disco dance probably helps too...
That was wrong of me. You know why? Because the 70s were really pretty hot. First, the hair:
And despite the hideous patterns, fabrics, and details, there was a lot to be said for the pants. The cut was quite lovely. It's nice to see a man's ass, lost now in baggy jeans and Docker pants. Flaunt it, boys. Flaunt it!
Seeing as time travel is impossible (and I would probably hate the 70s once I got there -- plus my dependence on NARS and Laura Mercier would mean I couldn't survive OR fit in.) I shall humbly ask men to start wearing sideburns, shags, and tight pants again. It's a good look, guys. Run with it. Look, Jemaine Clement does it and it works without descending into hipster repulsiveness:
His ability to disco dance probably helps too...
Thursday, February 12, 2009
The bitterness of Valentine's
This weekend is, of course, Valentine's Day ... the day which makes you feel like all ugly and worthless if you're single. My sister and her boyfriend keep name-dropping it which pisses me off even more. Yeah, I get it. You have dinner reservations. Blow me.
I'm actually not one of those girls who gets totally bent out of shape and sulky about it. I think Valentine's is extremely overhyped which is a shame, because I think it's very sweet and fun, with a nice historical weight behind exchanging love tokens. It actually annoys me more when bitter singletons gripe that it's invented by greeting card companies -- guess what, kids? All your holidays are invented. Your calender is an invention. Sorry.
The reason I am always disappointed to be single on Valentine's is that I love the simple tokens -- it's got a dash of the medieval to it. I love the cards, the heart-shaped boxes of candy, the red roses. As a kid, I just thought all of that was the epitome of adult romance. As an adult, I see that it's total kitsch, but it retains that simple, childish appeal. It has always disappointed me to be left out of the fun -- especially in college. College was the fucking worst. No one could stand me lunch or a Starbucks the other 364 days of the year, let alone Valentine's, and the campus was always filled with couples exchanging tokens, kissing, cuddling. Love was literally in the air, as phony and staged as 90% of it probably was. Since college is supposed to be the time when you Meet People and Date Men, it really hurt to spend it with Lev Trotsky or Beowulf every year.
Thankfully, I'm pretty isolated from all that "Look what you don't have, bitch" stuff now -- working at home does have its advantages.
On the flip side, it's the one day of the year I actually feel sorry for guys. Girls are such bitches about Valentine's Day. I remember one girl who was pissed because her boyfriend bought her a Britta water filter. Sure, that's lame as hell, but he had heard her say she wanted one. At least he was listening, which men don't do 99.9% of the time. Women could stand to have a much better sense of humor about these things. I'd probably make fun of a guy who did that (to his face, of course) and be annoyed there wasn't something a tad more romantic, but I'd still be happy he thought of me. Being thought of is quite nice, as someone who never is can attest to.*
Of course, my "sense of humor" about these things may be what leads men down the primrose path of totally screwing me over. "I thought you'd be cool about my standing you up!"
Anyway, I wish everyone would take the Victorian spirit of the day, and just give tokens to those they know and love -- or at least like. Send cards to your family and friends. If you can afford it, buy them something sweet or funny. It doesn't have to be elaborate, it should just be fun. The world can always use a little more love in it, even for just one day.
* This year, someone did think of me -- they shall remain anonymous, but I'm still gobsmacked at the gesture ... and the fact that it was vaguely Spartan themed.
I'm actually not one of those girls who gets totally bent out of shape and sulky about it. I think Valentine's is extremely overhyped which is a shame, because I think it's very sweet and fun, with a nice historical weight behind exchanging love tokens. It actually annoys me more when bitter singletons gripe that it's invented by greeting card companies -- guess what, kids? All your holidays are invented. Your calender is an invention. Sorry.
The reason I am always disappointed to be single on Valentine's is that I love the simple tokens -- it's got a dash of the medieval to it. I love the cards, the heart-shaped boxes of candy, the red roses. As a kid, I just thought all of that was the epitome of adult romance. As an adult, I see that it's total kitsch, but it retains that simple, childish appeal. It has always disappointed me to be left out of the fun -- especially in college. College was the fucking worst. No one could stand me lunch or a Starbucks the other 364 days of the year, let alone Valentine's, and the campus was always filled with couples exchanging tokens, kissing, cuddling. Love was literally in the air, as phony and staged as 90% of it probably was. Since college is supposed to be the time when you Meet People and Date Men, it really hurt to spend it with Lev Trotsky or Beowulf every year.
Thankfully, I'm pretty isolated from all that "Look what you don't have, bitch" stuff now -- working at home does have its advantages.
On the flip side, it's the one day of the year I actually feel sorry for guys. Girls are such bitches about Valentine's Day. I remember one girl who was pissed because her boyfriend bought her a Britta water filter. Sure, that's lame as hell, but he had heard her say she wanted one. At least he was listening, which men don't do 99.9% of the time. Women could stand to have a much better sense of humor about these things. I'd probably make fun of a guy who did that (to his face, of course) and be annoyed there wasn't something a tad more romantic, but I'd still be happy he thought of me. Being thought of is quite nice, as someone who never is can attest to.*
Of course, my "sense of humor" about these things may be what leads men down the primrose path of totally screwing me over. "I thought you'd be cool about my standing you up!"
Anyway, I wish everyone would take the Victorian spirit of the day, and just give tokens to those they know and love -- or at least like. Send cards to your family and friends. If you can afford it, buy them something sweet or funny. It doesn't have to be elaborate, it should just be fun. The world can always use a little more love in it, even for just one day.
* This year, someone did think of me -- they shall remain anonymous, but I'm still gobsmacked at the gesture ... and the fact that it was vaguely Spartan themed.
Friday, February 6, 2009
25 Things About Me
This is one of those Facebook memes from about 2 weeks ago, but I'm reposting it in hopes that it will balance out some of the other crap you new readers might find here...or confirm it!
1. I keep my movie ticket stubs -- they go back to 2002, although I know I have my Fellowship of the Rings and Phantom Menace stubs stuck in a scrapbook. I started doing this after I found an enormous stack of them tucked under my student ID and decided to just keep doing it. Some of them are cute (Aww -- my tickets from Hidalgo, that's cute.) and some of them are appalling. (Oh yeah -- I wanted to see Munich but got stuck seeing The Ringer.)
2. I have a horrible temper. Really horrible. And the slightest thing can set it off. I would potentially kill someone without a thought. And I rarely forgive anyone a trespass.
3. I think 1am is "still early" and that I can get loads of work done.
4. I have 3 Lara Croft figures, two t-shirts, a stack of the Top Cow comics, and a bunch of GameTap dogtags someone at ComicCon gave me in exchange for a photo. Obviously, I'm not counting the 2 Croft costumes in that, but you could if you wanted.
5. The weeks I spent in London, I stayed with two MI6 agents. I told everyone I knew that I was staying with MI6 agents. I probably told strangers on the flight that I was staying with MI6 agents. Later, my friend Gareth ran into someone he knew from the military, who was all "Why are you in London, mate?" Gareth gave him some lame excuse, and later I said "Why didn't you tell him you're working for MI6?" "Because I'm not supposed to tell anyone." I felt very ashamed, but it's not like anyone ever told me it was a secret. I can say it now, though, as their job has been over for awhile.
6. Things I wanted to be when I grew up: a marine biologist, a mountain gorilla researcher, a fighter pilot, an FBI Agent, a professor of Russian history, a professor of medieval English literature, and an actor. Yeah, journalist was never on the list (and I took one and a half classes in journalism -- just enough to get the basics like slugs and "put the important stuff first") but everyone kept saying that's what I should do. You cannot fight fate.
7. I flunked math in high school and college. I think that makes me kind of retarded.
8. On the other hand, I maintained a 3.97 GPA in college. This was because I am uber-responsible, but also because I had no friends. I now know that I WASTED MY TIME and that no one will ever care what grade I had in Imperial Russia. (It was an A.)
9. I don't date. In case you're thinking this is code for "slut who needs no incentive to sleep with a guy" or that I'm playing hard to get with dudes, you are wrong. It simply means I don't date, and won't be changing that any time soon. Boys, you have only yourselves to blame.
10. I played ice hockey for a very short period of my life. I was the worst right wing to ever lace up a pair of skates. If they had known I would someday attempt to play, they would have never invented hockey.
11. I have to wear glasses to watch tv and drive. My glasses make me look even harsher than I do normally -- when they were brand new, I was at the cafeteria grabbing lunch. There, I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of this redhead glaring at me. I thought "Man, what a BITCH, what the fuck is her problem?!" and realized I was seeing my own reflection from the big mirrored wall behind the counter.
12. I can do Useless Talent #66 (the backwards arch) from Planet Terror. It really IS a useless talent!
13. I have really ugly legs, which is why I don't wear dresses or shorts. (Yeah, Lara was an exception and I won't do it again.)
14. I don't really listen to music. People are always talking about bands and concerts, and I feel like a total moron because it's something I don't follow or do. I think the last non-soundtrack I bought was a Best of Springsteen. The last concert I was at was the last time U2 toured. This is why I don't have an i-pod, it's magic would be wasted on me. I don't know why this is. I LIKE music, but...?
15. I don't have any tattoos, but I carry a Tree of Gondor illustration in my wallet because that's what I always planned to get, and I want to be prepared if I somehow get shoved into it. However, I might swap it for a Tree of Life design (esp. from the cover of "The Fountain" graphic novel.)
16. I often have nightmares that I accidentally copied and pasted my "creative" (i.e. trash) writing into a news post, and that the world will laugh at me. I think I might be losing my mind, what do you think?
17. I'm really good at foreign accents. I can do Russian, Scottish, BBC effortlessly (BBC needs to be polished back up), and once got out of a trespassing citation by pretending I was a lost Czech tourist. I'm currently working on perfecting a Northern English and a New Zealand accent. Australian, however, escapes me.
18. When it comes to dream men, I actually prefer Gerard Butler and Viggo Mortensen to Clint Eastwood. But Eastwood is the perfect pop cultural touchstone to describing what I want out of a man so that I might actually consent to a date. Might!
19. I petted a full grown male lion once. His name was Winston, and he wanted me to pet his nose. All I could picture was my hand disappearing into his mouth. Really though, he was very nice and tame -- but if I had to pick a way to lose a hand, it would have been as his snack. That would have made for a better #19.
20. I ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day for the 4 years I was in grade school. After that, I was homeschooled, and varied it with mac and cheese, spaghetti O's, and Top Ramen. This might explain why I was chubby and plagued with bad skin.
21. I really like to knit. I make socks, sweaters, hats, scarves, and gloves. I'm pretty good at it. It's what I seriously look forward to after a day of writing.
22. If I had a time machine, I would very much like to go back in time to see William Wallace, then go see a first run of a Shakespeare play in Elizabethan England, and then hook up with Clint Eastwood. I have to say, only one of the three wouldn't get me executed as a witch, but they might all screw up the time space continuum.
23. My least favorite author is probably Faulkner. "As I Lay Dying" is the worst reading experience I have ever had. Come to think of it, I don't particularly like American literature in general. It insists upon itself. ;)
24. I don't watch Battlestar Galactica.
25. I used to be mistaken for a boy when I was a pre-teen. Photos of me from that era resemble Elijah Wood in "Forever Young." I wish I was kidding.
1. I keep my movie ticket stubs -- they go back to 2002, although I know I have my Fellowship of the Rings and Phantom Menace stubs stuck in a scrapbook. I started doing this after I found an enormous stack of them tucked under my student ID and decided to just keep doing it. Some of them are cute (Aww -- my tickets from Hidalgo, that's cute.) and some of them are appalling. (Oh yeah -- I wanted to see Munich but got stuck seeing The Ringer.)
2. I have a horrible temper. Really horrible. And the slightest thing can set it off. I would potentially kill someone without a thought. And I rarely forgive anyone a trespass.
3. I think 1am is "still early" and that I can get loads of work done.
4. I have 3 Lara Croft figures, two t-shirts, a stack of the Top Cow comics, and a bunch of GameTap dogtags someone at ComicCon gave me in exchange for a photo. Obviously, I'm not counting the 2 Croft costumes in that, but you could if you wanted.
5. The weeks I spent in London, I stayed with two MI6 agents. I told everyone I knew that I was staying with MI6 agents. I probably told strangers on the flight that I was staying with MI6 agents. Later, my friend Gareth ran into someone he knew from the military, who was all "Why are you in London, mate?" Gareth gave him some lame excuse, and later I said "Why didn't you tell him you're working for MI6?" "Because I'm not supposed to tell anyone." I felt very ashamed, but it's not like anyone ever told me it was a secret. I can say it now, though, as their job has been over for awhile.
6. Things I wanted to be when I grew up: a marine biologist, a mountain gorilla researcher, a fighter pilot, an FBI Agent, a professor of Russian history, a professor of medieval English literature, and an actor. Yeah, journalist was never on the list (and I took one and a half classes in journalism -- just enough to get the basics like slugs and "put the important stuff first") but everyone kept saying that's what I should do. You cannot fight fate.
7. I flunked math in high school and college. I think that makes me kind of retarded.
8. On the other hand, I maintained a 3.97 GPA in college. This was because I am uber-responsible, but also because I had no friends. I now know that I WASTED MY TIME and that no one will ever care what grade I had in Imperial Russia. (It was an A.)
9. I don't date. In case you're thinking this is code for "slut who needs no incentive to sleep with a guy" or that I'm playing hard to get with dudes, you are wrong. It simply means I don't date, and won't be changing that any time soon. Boys, you have only yourselves to blame.
10. I played ice hockey for a very short period of my life. I was the worst right wing to ever lace up a pair of skates. If they had known I would someday attempt to play, they would have never invented hockey.
11. I have to wear glasses to watch tv and drive. My glasses make me look even harsher than I do normally -- when they were brand new, I was at the cafeteria grabbing lunch. There, I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of this redhead glaring at me. I thought "Man, what a BITCH, what the fuck is her problem?!" and realized I was seeing my own reflection from the big mirrored wall behind the counter.
12. I can do Useless Talent #66 (the backwards arch) from Planet Terror. It really IS a useless talent!
13. I have really ugly legs, which is why I don't wear dresses or shorts. (Yeah, Lara was an exception and I won't do it again.)
14. I don't really listen to music. People are always talking about bands and concerts, and I feel like a total moron because it's something I don't follow or do. I think the last non-soundtrack I bought was a Best of Springsteen. The last concert I was at was the last time U2 toured. This is why I don't have an i-pod, it's magic would be wasted on me. I don't know why this is. I LIKE music, but...?
15. I don't have any tattoos, but I carry a Tree of Gondor illustration in my wallet because that's what I always planned to get, and I want to be prepared if I somehow get shoved into it. However, I might swap it for a Tree of Life design (esp. from the cover of "The Fountain" graphic novel.)
16. I often have nightmares that I accidentally copied and pasted my "creative" (i.e. trash) writing into a news post, and that the world will laugh at me. I think I might be losing my mind, what do you think?
17. I'm really good at foreign accents. I can do Russian, Scottish, BBC effortlessly (BBC needs to be polished back up), and once got out of a trespassing citation by pretending I was a lost Czech tourist. I'm currently working on perfecting a Northern English and a New Zealand accent. Australian, however, escapes me.
18. When it comes to dream men, I actually prefer Gerard Butler and Viggo Mortensen to Clint Eastwood. But Eastwood is the perfect pop cultural touchstone to describing what I want out of a man so that I might actually consent to a date. Might!
19. I petted a full grown male lion once. His name was Winston, and he wanted me to pet his nose. All I could picture was my hand disappearing into his mouth. Really though, he was very nice and tame -- but if I had to pick a way to lose a hand, it would have been as his snack. That would have made for a better #19.
20. I ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day for the 4 years I was in grade school. After that, I was homeschooled, and varied it with mac and cheese, spaghetti O's, and Top Ramen. This might explain why I was chubby and plagued with bad skin.
21. I really like to knit. I make socks, sweaters, hats, scarves, and gloves. I'm pretty good at it. It's what I seriously look forward to after a day of writing.
22. If I had a time machine, I would very much like to go back in time to see William Wallace, then go see a first run of a Shakespeare play in Elizabethan England, and then hook up with Clint Eastwood. I have to say, only one of the three wouldn't get me executed as a witch, but they might all screw up the time space continuum.
23. My least favorite author is probably Faulkner. "As I Lay Dying" is the worst reading experience I have ever had. Come to think of it, I don't particularly like American literature in general. It insists upon itself. ;)
24. I don't watch Battlestar Galactica.
25. I used to be mistaken for a boy when I was a pre-teen. Photos of me from that era resemble Elijah Wood in "Forever Young." I wish I was kidding.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
27 Years (And No Dresses)
I wish I had gotten time on my birthday to actually write a post -- I don't think I've ever managed to post here on my B-Day. Next year, I guess.
February is a rough month. I get slammed with my birthday and Valentine's Day, and basically being reminded that I am Our Lady of Perpetual Singledom. As it creeps closer, I start getting depressed and whiny.
Last year was a definite low point. I was unemployed, couldn't even get a job interview despite my impressive academic background, and flunked the ones I did get. (It's humbling to get rejected from Whole Foods because you weren't ambitious enough to apply for a manager position with your liberal arts degree.) I was really at a "What the fuck do I do now?" moment when Cinematical came along. Suddenly I was not only employed, but I had a byline, and could be found on Google.
So, turning 27 this year wasn't so bad -- sure, I'm a little worried about inching ever closer to 30 after having wasted so many years in school, having traveled so little, and being at odds with anything male. Plus, this birthday was over so quickly that I barely had time to do that. Wham. Bang. Over and done! This was mostly because I had been up until 7am cobbling together a Geek Beat (and you can tell, it's barely readable) and slept until 2pm. I didn't get out of my pajamas until 4, when I decided that I couldn't wear my turtle pajamas outside to walk Elliott. (It would have been another matter if it was the monkey pajamas.)
I also had a very nice birthday, with my Enchanted Grounds gang hauling me out for Mongolian BBQ on the 2nd, and my family taking me out to a pub on the 3rd. It's kind of weird to actually have this thing called "friendship," and I am worrying people (even my mom!) with my isolationist tendencies. I'm kind of freaked out at how bad I am at conversation with anyone -- I used to be fun to hang out with. Well, maybe not fun, but wittier. But when I left college, I only had one person to speak to outside of my family, so it's no wonder I've turned a bit eccentric.
My eccentricity is going to be even more on display -- I was strong-armed into joining Twitter. I tried to resist. I'm online 24/7 as it is, and the last thing I needed was another social networking site. But then Dave Chen of Slashfilm said "There's people talking about you on there, you need to join so you can talk to them." So I did, and amassed a frightening amount of followers in a matter of hours (which is partly how I never got out of my pajamas), and started to take my first steps on a dark road of addiction. (Next step: cocaine. All the bloggers are doing it!) So you can follow me on there -- @ElisabethRappe -- where I will inevitably spending my time talking to @hughjackman and pretending he's the real deal. He found me, after all, so he must be.
So there's an update of sorts -- once again, it's 7am, is it any wonder I look like a haunted Russian revolutionary?! -- and to all who have now stumbled onto my blog, welcome. Yes, I really am this lame. Read my UK trip stuff though, I'm kind of poetic there.
February is a rough month. I get slammed with my birthday and Valentine's Day, and basically being reminded that I am Our Lady of Perpetual Singledom. As it creeps closer, I start getting depressed and whiny.
Last year was a definite low point. I was unemployed, couldn't even get a job interview despite my impressive academic background, and flunked the ones I did get. (It's humbling to get rejected from Whole Foods because you weren't ambitious enough to apply for a manager position with your liberal arts degree.) I was really at a "What the fuck do I do now?" moment when Cinematical came along. Suddenly I was not only employed, but I had a byline, and could be found on Google.
So, turning 27 this year wasn't so bad -- sure, I'm a little worried about inching ever closer to 30 after having wasted so many years in school, having traveled so little, and being at odds with anything male. Plus, this birthday was over so quickly that I barely had time to do that. Wham. Bang. Over and done! This was mostly because I had been up until 7am cobbling together a Geek Beat (and you can tell, it's barely readable) and slept until 2pm. I didn't get out of my pajamas until 4, when I decided that I couldn't wear my turtle pajamas outside to walk Elliott. (It would have been another matter if it was the monkey pajamas.)
I also had a very nice birthday, with my Enchanted Grounds gang hauling me out for Mongolian BBQ on the 2nd, and my family taking me out to a pub on the 3rd. It's kind of weird to actually have this thing called "friendship," and I am worrying people (even my mom!) with my isolationist tendencies. I'm kind of freaked out at how bad I am at conversation with anyone -- I used to be fun to hang out with. Well, maybe not fun, but wittier. But when I left college, I only had one person to speak to outside of my family, so it's no wonder I've turned a bit eccentric.
My eccentricity is going to be even more on display -- I was strong-armed into joining Twitter. I tried to resist. I'm online 24/7 as it is, and the last thing I needed was another social networking site. But then Dave Chen of Slashfilm said "There's people talking about you on there, you need to join so you can talk to them." So I did, and amassed a frightening amount of followers in a matter of hours (which is partly how I never got out of my pajamas), and started to take my first steps on a dark road of addiction. (Next step: cocaine. All the bloggers are doing it!) So you can follow me on there -- @ElisabethRappe -- where I will inevitably spending my time talking to @hughjackman and pretending he's the real deal. He found me, after all, so he must be.
So there's an update of sorts -- once again, it's 7am, is it any wonder I look like a haunted Russian revolutionary?! -- and to all who have now stumbled onto my blog, welcome. Yes, I really am this lame. Read my UK trip stuff though, I'm kind of poetic there.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Everyone's a Critic!
Including my ignorant ass!
So, here's the podcast that last, rambling blog referred to:
Slashfilmcast Reviews Gran Torino
And if you want to hear my uncontrollable, annoying giggling at "The Wicker Man" and my thoughts on "Wuthering Heights" this would be the program for you:
Slashfilm After Dark
I do apologize for the sound of my voice. I have what they call a Rocky Mountain accent (which means it's just a few notes shy of being Fran Drescher) which occurs due to the altitude.
Oh yes, and be warned -- there IS strong language and there are movie spoilers, so listen at your own peril.
So, here's the podcast that last, rambling blog referred to:
Slashfilmcast Reviews Gran Torino
And if you want to hear my uncontrollable, annoying giggling at "The Wicker Man" and my thoughts on "Wuthering Heights" this would be the program for you:
Slashfilm After Dark
I do apologize for the sound of my voice. I have what they call a Rocky Mountain accent (which means it's just a few notes shy of being Fran Drescher) which occurs due to the altitude.
Oh yes, and be warned -- there IS strong language and there are movie spoilers, so listen at your own peril.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
An Vaguely More Articulate Defense
Monday night, I had the pleasure of appearing on the Slashfilm podcast. It was a fun but daunting experience, particularly since I willingly went on to defend "Gran Torino" against three guys who vehemently disliked it. I'll post the link when the podcast gets put online, but I offered a pretty piss poor defense of the film, and feel like I need to offer a more solid one.
Now, I really liked the film. It's actually the first Eastwood film I've ever seen in a theater -- I wasn't a fan of his until very recently. I didn't particularly want to see this film, as I thought the trailer was corny as hell.
Yes, the film is heavy handed and a bit awkward. I still believe Eastwood's mere name lends him a degree of critical Teflon that no other director really enjoys. He's had some clunkers that it's polite to ignore. But hey, he's Eastwood. Icons should get a little wiggle room, and considering he (with a little help from Don Siegel and Sergio Leone) invented so much pop culture, it's difficult to knock him for liking first drafts and obvious messages. I think that's part of his appeal, really -- he's a simple guy, who makes solid films for mainstream audiences. I think he loads them with obvious messages because he knows he attracts a meat and potatoes crowd, and he wants to offer them something smart without alienating them completely.
That said, I don't think "Gran Torino" is supposed to be a very profound film. I don't think it makes any grand statement on race or race relations. It's just a story about an old man -- a guy who is lonely, unhappy, and stuck in a rut of outdated opinions and stunted emotion, and who ends up thrown into a situation he doesn't handle particularly well. Walt Kowalski is a man we all know -- we all have a grandfather or father like this. Yeah, his growling is a bit over the top, but I don't think he's caricature. There's glimpses at a man who is kind ... his relationship with his dog, particularly when no one is looking, his restrained grief over the loss of his wife, the twinkle in his eye when he meets the pretty girl Tao has his eye on. Walt is a tough nut to crack on and offscreen, but there is a deeper portrait there if you can get past the racial slurs. (And hey, it seems I was right -- that's what Eastwood seems to have been going for. Basically, I think his remarks to CNN sum up what the film is. I don't think he made anything more than a portrait of a particular guy who fumbles into a particular situation.)
One of the scenes that my mom has commented on repeatedly is the scene where Walt calls his son after a dismaying doctor visit. It's a pathetic scene -- Walt knows what the medical results mean, and he's trying to patch things over and ask for help, but he doesn't know how. The son knows something is wrong, Walt isn't the kind of dad who calls....and he blows him off anyway. Check out the son's face at the end. It's going to eat him up forever. Maybe it is heavy handed, but everyone in my movie group found it to be hideously real -- frankly, life is heavy handed. It's rarely graceful, elegant and cinematic.
And it is a commentary on a generation -- if you don't know the kind of white teenagers scattered throughout the film, you're really lucky. I encountered them at my campus jobs, I encountered them within my family (and yes, my grandma's funeral really WAS as bad as Mrs. Kowalski's was), and I encounter them when I walk my pug dog. It's horrifying ... I really don't want to believe I share the sentiments of a 78 year old man, but I do. My generation sucks, and the ones following are worse.
In fact, Eastwood has made controversial remarks to that effect. I don't think it's a Neandrathal, right-wing outlook, and I don't think he's a man who necessarily embraces violence. Hell, isn't that the point of Gran Torino -- Walt responds to violence with violence with disastrous results...and he gets rid of the gang by turning its violence against them. It's a pretty pacifist movie, but I think that Eastwood's rep is such that no one is really seeing it. People have a certain image of the actor/director and his opinions and politics, something that his personal quotes on IMDB don't really back up. Like this one: "I don't like the wimp syndrome. No matter how ardent a feminist may be, if she is a heterosexual female, she wants the strength of a male companion as well as the sensitivity. The most gentle people in the world are macho males, people who are confident in their masculinity and have a feeling of well-being in themselves. They don't have to kick in doors, mistreat women, or make fun of gays."
Eastwood's sneer at the wimp syndrome is all over "Gran Torino." Walt's sons suffer from it. The gang suffers from it. The priest suffers from it. Kowalski may be a racist hardass, but he continuously does the right thing -- he may have a very low opinion of his neighbors initially, but it doesn't prevent him from going out to help them when he hears the girls screaming. Should he have called the cops? Sure. But it might have been too late if he had hidden behind his drapes as the men of my neighborhood would -- he goes out to stop it.
Again, I don't know that Kowalski is supposed to be an ideal. I think his choices in the film are flawed, even it comes to curing Tao of "the wimp syndrome." I think that's the point of the barbershop scene. It's one of deplorable sentiment and language, but it's ultimately about knowing who you are, and where you stand as a man. I think Tao understands the flaws in it more than Kowalski does, and that he's going to take the spirit of the lesson, and not the language -- whereas Kowalski's sons chose to shun everything their dad was.
I do know that my reaction to that aspect of the film was a visceral, emotional one that (good or bad) has more to do with my personal experience than anything else. There's a lot of scenes that resonated with me (particularly Kowalski berating the white guy for trying to be black, and failing to protect Sue), and I will freely confess that may not be a good thing, and that it doesn't excuse the weaknesses of the film.
However, I think if one does go into film without expecting Eastwood to comment profoundly on race...and not expecting him to blow up gang houses...then you'll enjoy it. I think it's worth watching. If nothing else, it's a rare chance to see Eastwood use some of his dry wit, and cuddle a dog onscreen. That's something he's rarely done outside orangutan movies.
I just wish he hadn't chosen to sing at the end. Good lord.
Now, I really liked the film. It's actually the first Eastwood film I've ever seen in a theater -- I wasn't a fan of his until very recently. I didn't particularly want to see this film, as I thought the trailer was corny as hell.
Yes, the film is heavy handed and a bit awkward. I still believe Eastwood's mere name lends him a degree of critical Teflon that no other director really enjoys. He's had some clunkers that it's polite to ignore. But hey, he's Eastwood. Icons should get a little wiggle room, and considering he (with a little help from Don Siegel and Sergio Leone) invented so much pop culture, it's difficult to knock him for liking first drafts and obvious messages. I think that's part of his appeal, really -- he's a simple guy, who makes solid films for mainstream audiences. I think he loads them with obvious messages because he knows he attracts a meat and potatoes crowd, and he wants to offer them something smart without alienating them completely.
That said, I don't think "Gran Torino" is supposed to be a very profound film. I don't think it makes any grand statement on race or race relations. It's just a story about an old man -- a guy who is lonely, unhappy, and stuck in a rut of outdated opinions and stunted emotion, and who ends up thrown into a situation he doesn't handle particularly well. Walt Kowalski is a man we all know -- we all have a grandfather or father like this. Yeah, his growling is a bit over the top, but I don't think he's caricature. There's glimpses at a man who is kind ... his relationship with his dog, particularly when no one is looking, his restrained grief over the loss of his wife, the twinkle in his eye when he meets the pretty girl Tao has his eye on. Walt is a tough nut to crack on and offscreen, but there is a deeper portrait there if you can get past the racial slurs. (And hey, it seems I was right -- that's what Eastwood seems to have been going for. Basically, I think his remarks to CNN sum up what the film is. I don't think he made anything more than a portrait of a particular guy who fumbles into a particular situation.)
One of the scenes that my mom has commented on repeatedly is the scene where Walt calls his son after a dismaying doctor visit. It's a pathetic scene -- Walt knows what the medical results mean, and he's trying to patch things over and ask for help, but he doesn't know how. The son knows something is wrong, Walt isn't the kind of dad who calls....and he blows him off anyway. Check out the son's face at the end. It's going to eat him up forever. Maybe it is heavy handed, but everyone in my movie group found it to be hideously real -- frankly, life is heavy handed. It's rarely graceful, elegant and cinematic.
And it is a commentary on a generation -- if you don't know the kind of white teenagers scattered throughout the film, you're really lucky. I encountered them at my campus jobs, I encountered them within my family (and yes, my grandma's funeral really WAS as bad as Mrs. Kowalski's was), and I encounter them when I walk my pug dog. It's horrifying ... I really don't want to believe I share the sentiments of a 78 year old man, but I do. My generation sucks, and the ones following are worse.
In fact, Eastwood has made controversial remarks to that effect. I don't think it's a Neandrathal, right-wing outlook, and I don't think he's a man who necessarily embraces violence. Hell, isn't that the point of Gran Torino -- Walt responds to violence with violence with disastrous results...and he gets rid of the gang by turning its violence against them. It's a pretty pacifist movie, but I think that Eastwood's rep is such that no one is really seeing it. People have a certain image of the actor/director and his opinions and politics, something that his personal quotes on IMDB don't really back up. Like this one: "I don't like the wimp syndrome. No matter how ardent a feminist may be, if she is a heterosexual female, she wants the strength of a male companion as well as the sensitivity. The most gentle people in the world are macho males, people who are confident in their masculinity and have a feeling of well-being in themselves. They don't have to kick in doors, mistreat women, or make fun of gays."
Eastwood's sneer at the wimp syndrome is all over "Gran Torino." Walt's sons suffer from it. The gang suffers from it. The priest suffers from it. Kowalski may be a racist hardass, but he continuously does the right thing -- he may have a very low opinion of his neighbors initially, but it doesn't prevent him from going out to help them when he hears the girls screaming. Should he have called the cops? Sure. But it might have been too late if he had hidden behind his drapes as the men of my neighborhood would -- he goes out to stop it.
Again, I don't know that Kowalski is supposed to be an ideal. I think his choices in the film are flawed, even it comes to curing Tao of "the wimp syndrome." I think that's the point of the barbershop scene. It's one of deplorable sentiment and language, but it's ultimately about knowing who you are, and where you stand as a man. I think Tao understands the flaws in it more than Kowalski does, and that he's going to take the spirit of the lesson, and not the language -- whereas Kowalski's sons chose to shun everything their dad was.
I do know that my reaction to that aspect of the film was a visceral, emotional one that (good or bad) has more to do with my personal experience than anything else. There's a lot of scenes that resonated with me (particularly Kowalski berating the white guy for trying to be black, and failing to protect Sue), and I will freely confess that may not be a good thing, and that it doesn't excuse the weaknesses of the film.
However, I think if one does go into film without expecting Eastwood to comment profoundly on race...and not expecting him to blow up gang houses...then you'll enjoy it. I think it's worth watching. If nothing else, it's a rare chance to see Eastwood use some of his dry wit, and cuddle a dog onscreen. That's something he's rarely done outside orangutan movies.
I just wish he hadn't chosen to sing at the end. Good lord.
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