How Do You Solve a Problem Like Edward Cullen...

Last week, I engaged in several debates about Twilight and its effects on women and young girls -- it kicked off with my snarking that men were feeling inadequate next to the sparkly one, and extended throughout Twitter. I found myself in the very bizarre position of being in the Twilight camp -- a camp I really, really don't belong in given my love of cartoon pilots, Scotsmen, and old-timey men.

This photo is 2 out of 3.

3 out of 3. You can't get more old-timey than a Spartan!

Look, I am no fan of Twilight. I think it's pulpy drivel -- and if you like pulpy drivel to relax to, I don't care. But it must be acknowledged as such. I have real problems with anyone who thinks that this is good literature, or anything close to the Gothic wonders that are the Brontes. It's a G-rated Harlequin, and nothing more. Nor do I like much of what Twilight espouses. I think Bella is a drip, and I think Breaking Dawn was a medieval throwback, complete with pregnant teenager and arranged / imprinted marriage. It's messed up, and would be disturbing even if written by Anne Rice, though arguably it would be sold to an audience better prepared for a mindfuck of grossness.

However ... I found myself defending it, and even defending Bella, because I have real issues with 20-something men insisting that it's detrimental to young women, sets them up to expect "too much" out of men, and will ultimately render them into mindless creatures who only live to do a man's bidding.

It's weird, because I had a discussion with an older man and completely agreed with him that the series is upholding outdated fairy tale values, and encourages girls to love "the bad boy." (I'm uncertain that Edward Cullen is a bad boy, he strikes me as a bit foppish, but I may have different standards of badness.) But his perspective is also coming from a different place -- he's a father of a daughter, for one, and an avowed feminist.

Perhaps it's a bit ageist and sexist of me, but I'm disturbed by the 20-something (and younger!) men who are getting up on a soapbox about Twilight. It's not as though men can't be feminists (I just cited one) and I don't welcome and encourage their opinion in such matters. But there's something very icky about young men telling young women what they should or should not fantasize about. I don't think its their place. Part of it is personal -- I find that many of these young men are silent or snarky when it comes to championing women in other fictional or professional contexts. Many of them are the first to chortle over some T&A. But it's also a matter of age and experience. I think it's something that a man can only offer commentary on if he has a certain kind of experience, or more familiarity with women, and women's literature.

Much of the criticism stems from a firmly held belief that young women are mindless sponges who will absorb Twilight, and reenact it in their own lives. They believe that young women are incapable of seperating fact from fantasy, and that they'll be abused or alone because they want an Edward Cullen. Sometimes, I get the impression from their complaints that alone will be worse -- and that much of the rage stems from the fact that girls might not want to date them, because they're not Edward.

My point has and continues to be this -- girls have more brains than men are giving them credit for. We've been reading fairy tales and romance novels for years. Centuries, even. The majority of them portray woman as simpering things, unable to survive without a man, and many of them feature dangerous men. The women who have read them have gone on to live successful, rich, and normal lives. Hell, the eras that taught these submissive traits managed to produce kick-ass and subversive women.

Girls read books like Twilight because it's elevated fantasy. They know it's not real, they know boys like Edward Cullen don't exist. That's the whole point. That's why girls have lusted for Heathcliff, Rochester, Mr. Darcy, Sir Lancelot, and gosh knows who else. We all know Heathcliff is a psychotic, sadistic bastard who you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley, let alone a bedroom. The point is that he's safely contained on paper, and you can engage in wishful thinking -- if only you had been Cathy, you'd never have thrown him over, and he would have never gone off the deep end.





One also needs to look at the "bodice-ripper" genre as a whole. Some of it is disturbing stuff, bordering on a rape fantasy, or the idea that if a man does rape you, it's because he really really likes you. A lot of men have taken the "She means no, but she really means yes" scenes of a Fabio novel to be literal truth. A lot of women probably have too, hence the doubt that begins to seep in. "Maybe I was asking for it ..." I don't see men arguing for the danger of such scenes -- in fact, when you bring them up as evidence, they don't seem to know of their existence. Or they dismiss them as something intended for a mature audience, refusing to accept that a lot of girls do read them as pre-teens or teenagers.

But what about the pervasiveness of Twilight? Surely no book has ever been so widely read and thus consumed by girls who don't know any better. I'm not sure about that. If you could import The Bridges of Madison County, Jean Auel's The Clan of the Cave Bear series, or The Thorn Birds to an Internet-driven fandom, you might see something very similar spring up. They were all very popular in their day -- and the latter are particularly troubling if you really want to pull them apart. Sure, Jean Auel penned Ayla, the feminist cave woman who invented like, everything -- but once Jondalar walked in, Ayla stopped inventing, made tea, and slept with him. A lot. The books weren't about skinning hides anymore, they were all about what you could do on skinned hides. Jondalar was also the most unrealistic hero ever -- a pre-history man who was all about equal rights for women, ridiculously handsome, clean, and gifted, if you know what I mean. And I think you do. Like that hasn't set unrealistic expectations for every girl who came of age in the 1980s.

This guy, only mixed with this:

But ten times more perfect because he can make canoes, sculpt, and is ... well, you know. Gifted.

Let's talk about The Thorn Birds too. Father Ralph de Bricassart was Collen McCullough's Edward Cullen -- beautiful, unobtainable, chaste, brooding, flawed. He also imprinted on Maggie at six or seven. The book is one big tragedy on what happens when you fall for Mr.Can't-Have-Him-Because-He's-A-Priest, but try to find a man like him and ... yeah. It's not a happy story. But women don't read it because they want it to happen to them and while they might sigh at Father Ralph, I don't think any girl decided they would hold out for a Catholic priest.

Were these books intended for mature audiences? Yes. But every girl 13 or older snuck them off the shelf, so don't give me that. We start finding the naughty stuff very early.

Girls who are curious about boys are going to take this from the shelf. They may not like it, but they're going to pick it up.

It's also why, when we look to fantasy, we often gravitate towards the pulp. I love a strong, female character -- and I can project myself into one. But the reason so many romance heroines are thinly penned is because they're just Viewmasters for the girls reading them. Take your Harlequin novels. We're always told the heroine is a spunky, literate, feminist ... but all that goes out the window when she meets that immortal Scotsmen, gets kidnapped by pirates or Vikings, or sees the man with no name walk into town. She never looks at a book again, and her life becomes consumed by the well-endowed hero. These books are just an excuse to hop to the sex scenes -- Twilight just stretched out "the boring bits," the obsession, and the foreplay for four freaking books. But they're also an excuse to put yourself into the story and imbue the heroine with your own characteristics. That's why so many girls think Bella is a great character -- they are Bella. The traits they imagine her to have are actually theirs. One day, they'll realize it.

I have confidence they will, too. What young men don't understand is that girls need different fantasies for different periods of their lives ... hell, for different days of their week. Sometimes they need to feel strong, and sometimes they want to feel weak, and have someone save them. It's like that old U2 song Stories For Boys:





It's not something that changes with age, either. I don't think women watch The Last of the Mohicans and become fixated on Hawkeye to the point of insanity. Though you couldn't blame them if they did:

We all know that he doesn't exist today, let alone 18th century America...

As I said earlier, I recognize that my crushes are driven by very specific issues I have. Some punks might think they're dangerous. I've certainly gotten the "You need to lower your expectations" speech a few times, to which I shrug and suggest they grow a pair of balls, and try to meet them instead. Halfway would be nice. Dirty Harry Callahan and Bud White doesn't leave a girl to walk the ghetto streets alone, and they don't disappear when the dinner bill comes.



Will there be women who really mess themselves up thanks to Twilight? Possibly. But I have no doubt they are women who already had issues, poor self-esteem, and no encouragement to be strong, independent individuals. If they hadn't found Twilight, they would have found something else that confirmed and crystallized it all for them. Yes, if there had been a strong alternative for them to follow, they might have been saved -- but there are examples. I think Elizabeth Swann was a recent bit of kick-assery that appealed to the same demographic. Whip It was too. Even Twilight has managed to lead girls into Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre, and Jane is certainly an example of a woman who goes for "the bad boy" and retains her own sense of self. (Even bipolar Cathy did what she wanted, Heathcliff and Linton be damned.) But a girl will be what she will be ... and while you can try to guide her to the things that will matter, she'll choose her own lifepath, for better or for worse. Choices are what feminism is all about, after all, and you can't force her to make one.

However, it would seem that there are young men out there who would like to make it for them. Again, I don't want to say that men can't have their opinion about wholesome fantasies and literature -- but I don't know if it's valid. I certainly don't think it is while they preach against Bella when New Moon hits theaters, but praise Megan Fox as harmless eye candy. You can't damn Bella for not having any interests outside of Edward Cullen, and then idolize the pin-ups who do it all for the male gaze. It's apples to apples, lads, and you better start tearing it all down if you really want to give girls and boys realistic and wholesome expectations.

My boyfriend, Astronaut Mike Dexter

Silly Liz Lemon ... you can never have your fake boyfriend be an astronaut. Everyone knows it's a lie then!

Once upon a time, before my life was very public, I had to play the fake boyfriend game. I can hear you now: "What?! Guys never ask you out, why the hell would you need a fake boyfriend?"

I said guys never ask me out. I didn't say they didn't stalk me.

My alma mater sits next to one of the longest, busiest, and sleaziest streets in America: Colfax. Our campus wasn't the kind of closed, quiet place that you might generally associate with higher education. It was an open free for all, where bums, creeps, and weirdos could just wander in off Colfax and shower in the Central Classroom bathroom or sleep in the library. It kept things real when you would be hit with the overwhelming smell of stale, unwashed drunk while browsing the Biblical History or Women's History shelves. (It was a very sunny corner of the library. Luckily, the Chaucer shelves were dark and cold, so one ever went there but us literary geeks. Woe to the cross-disciplinarians, eh?)

The office where I worked most of my academic days was in Central, and it was always unpredictable. Much of the traffic was students and professors, but many of them were just oddballs looking for someone to harass. Usually female. Often, me.

Look, I know I'm not a total troll -- from the neck up, I think I'm even decent. If you're crazy or under the influence of vodka, I'm sure my red hair and fair skin is a vision of beauty, even under flourescent lights that make my skin greenish. Plus, I was always alone in the front office, so that made me appear very fragile and medieval, a studious Rapunzel just waiting to be rescued.

So, I had a few stalkers. One guy made my office a frequent stop and to this day, I don't know what he was doing, or what he carried in that King Sooper bag, or how he ever found our tiny academic department. He always came in for coffee, and it wasn't until another man came on the scene that I figured out why he liked our shitty coffee so much.

The light dims from my eyes, my memories fade, but I actually think it was this photo:


It was on my wallpaper, keeping me cheerful ... and by a total fluke, happened to be Butler and not this:

"Er, his job? Well, he vanquishes evil. He can sense evil. Yeah. No, it doesn't pay very well."

My desk was at just enough of an angle that coffee-slurpers could see it. He spotted it and said "Oh wow, that's your boyfriend!" (This was the pre-3oo days of Mr. Butler.)

"Umm," I said. "YES. Yes, it is."

"Wow, he's good looking."

"Why, thank you!"

"What's he do for a living?"

"Ohhhhhh...he's a computer programmer."

"Nice. Well, you better tell him he has competition!" Big wink, and off the guy went. I realized I had stumbled onto a fantastic decoy, and so I began to seek out really blase photos that looked as though I could have taken them. I remember that I switched it at one point to a photo of Butler laughing really hard, and it's like this Stalker sensed it! He came in, saw the new photo, and was keen to know all about it. Where was it taken, why was he laughing so hard?

"Er, we were in line for a concert --"

"What concert?"

"U2 ... and he just saw something that made him laugh and I took the photo. It's really a nice one."

At one point, I thought I was fucked because he said "He looks so familiar!"

"O-ohh? Oh yeah?"

"He looks like Russell Crowe!!"

"Ohhhhh...ohh, yeah? You think? I guess so."

A week later, he asked me if I had told "Gerry" that he looked like Russell Crowe and I said "Yes." "What did he say?" "Ummm, he was kind of pissed off because he thinks Russell Crowe is fat." This guy REALLY cared about me and my boyfriend.

I felt like the most demented fangirl, but since he ended every conversation with that big wink, I knew I had to keep the pretense up, especially once he wanted to know if he had "popped the question yet -- well, tell him he ought to! Tell him there's other guys interested in you!"

It must be said that he was not the only one who saw the photo and said "Nice boyfriend!" Another employee came in and said "Oh, I know who your boyfriend is!" I assumed she meant 'I know your 'boyfriend' is Gerard Butler!" and was about to say "Did you like Dear Frankie then?" when she said "He was in my bed last night! Ha ha, keep that guy on a leash! He's so good looking!"

Oh. Well, thank you ... and wait, what? In what universe is that comment ok when my boyfriend isn't actually Gerard Butler? Damn.

I remember she even asked about the photo -- was he outdoorsy or something and I was like "Oh, I guess, we were just in a park. You know..." It was amazing. People were just intensely curious. Part of me suspects that it's because Butler was just a little too good looking for a girl like me, and the photos just a little too perfect. But I have no idea. It was never said with a trace of sarcasm or irony. People are just weird and curious.

Now that Butler is basically a superstar, I wonder if any of these people sees him on the poster for Law Abiding Citizen and goes "That lying, loser bitch!" Or conversely "That lucky bitch. She was banging him before he became famous!" I hope it's the latter, because I really liked that in one universe, we were just two crazy kids in love.

But here's to Astronaut Mike Dexter, Gerry the Computer Programmer, and all the strong and silent types who guard us from the creepy.

Oh, to be THAT Elizabeth

I volunteered to write a ton of actor biographies for Moviefone. It's taking forever (I'm undoubtedly going to too much work on them), but I'm now a bonafide expert on people from Kevin Bacon to Sylvester Stallone. I'm sure it'll come in handy.

Last night, I wrote a very epic biography of Elizabeth Taylor and in looking for quotes about her, I became fascinated with the whole torrid love affair between her and Richard Burton. I knew that he had bought her jewelry and that they were Very Public, but I didn't realize just how incredibly Harlequin it all was. Check out these quotes from Burton:

"Elizabeth has great worries about becoming a cripple because her feet sometimes have no feeling in them. She asked if I would stop loving her if she had to spend the rest of her life in a wheelchair. I told her that I didn't care if her legs, bum and bosoms fell off and her teeth turned yellow. And she went bald. I love that woman so much sometimes that I cannot believe my luck. She has given me so much."

"I might run from her for a thousand years and she is still my baby child. Our love is so furious that we burn each other out."

"I love her, not for her breasts, her buttocks or her knees but for her mind. It is inscrutable. She is like a poem."

"[She was] the most astonishingly self-contained, pulchritudinous, remote, removed, inaccessible woman I had ever seen."

Then there's the gifts -- the famous Cartier-Burton-Taylor diamond. Necklaces galore. A pearl belonging to Mary I, which then drove Burton to find a portrait of Mary wearing the pearl. He succeeded, only to discover the British Museum didn't have one, so he and Taylor donated it with their best wishes.

Amazing, amazing stuff. I find it very difficult to believe that men really do love the women they're with ... I find love a iffy concept and a big lie in general. But he certainly believed it when he said it, and I love the picture he paints of something so furious and passionate. It doesn't even matter if it lasts forever (they certainly burned one another out), but that it happens at all, and that the feelings existed once. I'd rather it all go down in flames than be with the insipid, the milquetoast and the uncertain.

Battered, Bruised, Bewildered

Once upon a time, someone told me that whatever you find yourself doing at 12:00am on New Year's Eve is what you'll find yourself doing for the rest of the year. I scoffed, but I tried it. In 2008, I sat down at my computer and wrote about nothing in particular. Lo and behold, February 2008 found me employed as a Real Writer.

Well, January 2009 found me at home, alone, crying and drinking a beer over an issue of The New Avengers. You know what? That's pretty much what every night has been ... minus the beer (though you'll find it much more often in my home) and New Avengers. Usually I just hide under my comforter or something, and mourn the badass version of myself.

I got to lose my shit again this past weekend, which led to me going offline for a few days to clear my head and ... well, fall past a deadline or two. It turns out that "clearing my head" means "sleeping 24/7" which is surprisingly awesome. I love voluntary unemployment.

This year has sucked. As it ticks down to its final weeks, I can't believe how much it has sucked. Yes, there's been some glorious moments -- Watchmen, Josh Brolin, Puerto Rico, and Twitter. But there's been a lot of bad ones. Just pure heartache, terror, pain, and despair. I've spent a lot of time begging to no one in particular to make things go right only to realize that I just have to pick myself up, wipe off the blood, and get back on the horse. I suppose I will be a lot stronger after all of this -- I will have learned a lot -- but I'm going to be a lot less pleasant, and a lot more unbalanced. Let's just hope it's not a full blown Travis Bickle phase.

Throughout it all, I'm just amazed at how many truly awful people reside in this world -- and how quick they are to befriend you, and tout themselves as something they're not. I don't know why they delight in being such rotten shits, and spending their lives bashing around their fellow humans like the world is a pinball machine. But they do.

And I will see them destroyed. Oh yes. I'll outlast every goddamn one of them and be there to spit on their grave.

But hey, on a lighter note, I'm beginning to understand why my fantasies jumped from Scottish actors and cartoon pilots to Harry Callahan. No idle crush will defend you from the slings and arrows of the unrighteous -- why, they might just be the kind of guy who delights in my personal pain. In the most cartoonish part of my imagination, there's someone out there who is knocking in heads just because they looked at me wrong, and then coming home so I can treat him right. That's my dream, and in this age of limp condolances, that's all I'm gonna have. And so be it.

Well that's like, your OPINION man.

The Lebowski sweater arrived in time for Halloween.

I'm so proud of the sunglasses! I spent hours online trying to find a pair of cheap Ray Ban Baloramas. They aren't the Dude's sunglasses, they're Dirty Harry's, but I thought "Well, they'll work AND I'll satisfy two of my fandoms with one purchase." But I couldn't find any cheap ones, and I couldn't justify full price. (Someday. Oh, someday.) But then I was at Office Max of all places, and found a pair of decent Balorama knockoffs. Go figure. You really do find things in the last goddamn place you look.

A girl's got to have a pair of Ray-Bans in order to authentically tell a man that he's got to know his limitations.

Now I can preserve my last pair of Tomb Raider sunglasses for a few more years, and preserve my eyeballs with a different rogue character.

Two things amaze me about my Lebowski photo. One is how skinny my legs look in my saggy pajama pants. If the camera adds ten pounds, then I have toothpick legs. I don't have toothpick legs, so the camera is obviously full of shit and removing ten pounds.

The second is how easily I can turn into a man? Even my mom found it creepy. It actually looked pretty twee until I added the sunglasses, and then I magically became a red-haired Jeff Bridges. I feel the need to stress that my hair is not that limp and stringy, that's merely my front layers. The rest of my hair is pulled back. The idea was that I would sleep with it in a pony tail and end up with a shaggy mane worthy of Bridges, but apparently the vegan conditioner kicked in overtime and it came out all soft and silky. The one time I need a rat's nest, my hair is like "No! I will not do that!"

His hair is actually quite nice. So curly!

Unfortunately, I wore it only for the photo ... and a dog walk because Elliott refused to let me peel off the goatee to walk him. It was pretty humiliating, but luckily my neighbors don't know me. They probably thought I was a weird little man with a pug.

All our plans fell apart. Bad behavior and disaster prevented us from attending the Molly Brown tearoom (not going there, not at all), and the extent of my unpopularity became apparent by nightfall.

Here's the thing about being single -- you are subhuman. (If you lack a car, you're worse than subhuman. You're pond scum.) Forget all the talk about how awesome it is to be single, and how you have freedom to do what you want. That's what happily settled people tell you so that you don't feel bad about yourself. The reality is miserable. The thrill of having the freedom to watch High Plains Drifter and Pierrot La Fou at 3am wear off quickly, and do nothing when you have a comfy costume and want to go to a Halloween party.

As a single woman, no one wants to hang out with you. Couples only want to hang out with other couples, and a single girl is too much of a threat. The women will spend all night convinced you're trying to sleep with their man, and the men are fearful your presence will consolidate girlhood, and cheat them out of sex with their wife/girlfriend. Or they're worried they'll be stuck taking care of you, and won't be able to slobber all over their wife/girlfriend.

Yes, in theory one should have single men or women to hang out with. That's theory. Go through my blog, you know what happens when I meet single men. Dateable ones do not exist in Colorado, land of lethargy, stalkers, and pusscakes.

When my sister began dating, I made the terrible assumption that my own social circle (which had vanished after college) would expand. Reared on a steady diet of film and television where couples tried to hook up their single friends and siblings (presumably so they could safely hang out with them again), I thought that I would experience a similar bounty. If nothing else, I thought I'd at least be included in group activities like bar-hopping or parties. But no. Instead, they ask other couples, invent "traditions" of attending events with those couples, and you're lucky if you receive polite suggestions that "you should totally check out" a corn maze or an ice-skating rink. Naturally, these things are really fun to do alone. I guess they think I can hire a gigolo or friends, or that I want to attend everything with my parents. Yeah, that isn't awkward when you're in your late 20s.

It's not that I'm uncomfortable doing things alone. I toured London attractions by myself, I've haunted New Orleans and Charleston solo. But when you lack a car, local attractions are very hard to attend. Something like Halloween is impossible -- I don't think it's safe to go downtown alone on a Saturday night, and doing so would make me feel like a pathetic bar whore. Besides, it misses the point. It's a holiday that is supposed to be spent in the company of others. You dress up to show off to each other. It's not a holiday to spend by yourself.

And here's the other thing -- even if I went to a party by myself, no one would talk to me. I've been to big parties by myself. You end up in a corner nursing a drink, and watching the people who know each other talk to each other. It's humiliating.

So, while I strive to be happy in my own company, and give up on dreams of Halloween plans, Christmas parties, and a phone that rings, I want you to go look at your own social circle. See any single people there? If so, befriend them. Quit treating them like shit just because they don't have the good fortune to find a companion. It's bad enough to wake up every day with the knowledge that no one wants you romantically. But that simple fact should not deny you friends, phone calls, and stick you on Halloween with no one but Kahlua, vodka, and triple features to keep you company.

I don't mean to end with a whine -- but I am sick and tired of feeling like a loser, and for disappointment to be the dominant feature of my social life. My costume was cool and comfy, and I hate that life has stuck me in a circle of self-absorbed people who denied me the chance to wear it.

A Man For All Seasons

I love the covers of romance books. Oh, I know what you're thinking. "You're a girl! Of course you do! They're designed for you." But I don't actually find them sexy. They appeal to me on some comic book level. Actually, it's safe to say that I view them as most people view comic books -- over the top, outlandish, and utterly hilarious. I find a well-sketched panel of Wolverine sexier than a rippling Fabio.

And speaking of Fabio, thanks to writing a goofy story about his interest in Thor, I discovered his Official International Fan Club site which is chock full of romance covers. I now long for a copy of VIKING to keep on the coffee table:

And weeee can loovvveee forevahhhhh .... !

Looking at all these covers, I never realized before that I share a hair color with so many of his well-ravished heroines.

Ravish, ravish, ravish.

But dreams that my vivid, untamed, and long mane of hair will land me at the calves of a rugged hero are shot. The hair isn't enough. You have to have a cute, upturned nose as opposed to the one I inherited from the Romanovs:

I'd put this one as my wallpaper, but then my computer would break and I'd never convince the tech guy I meant it ironically.

You also need to be buxom. Very buxom. He can't spend a lot of time unlacing your elaborate gown, you need to just be able to pop them out. His breeches are bulging, remember?

He's not looking at your eyes!

Finally, you have to have some filmy nightwear. Wild red hair is nothing when paired with these:


I mean, think how utterly ridiculous they'd look drenched under a waterfall of passion. (Bonus points that this chick has roots. Love does conquer all!)

Good times. Go visit the collection for yourself and pick out your favorite. Then ponder whether you'd give up flannel pajamas to inhabit it. I don't think I would. Waterfalls? Brrr.

That Sound You Hear? It's My Knee Jerking

There's clearly something other than autumn leaves and fall harvests in the air. October has been a Very Dramatic Month in my corner of the Internet.

First, there was the Law Abiding Citizen kerfluffle. I Tweeted my impression of the movie, and had my head bitten off for a "spoiler" which was actually revealed in the film's trailer. I told the accuser they were acting like a 12 year old girl. I was promptly blocked. Cest'la vie.

No, wait -- first there was the stink that occurred when I said "Everything we [Internet movie writers] is, to an extent, marketing." Now, I don't mean that we're studio shills. I try my hardest to shed light on every corner of film, old and new. I think there's lots and lots of discussion to be had about film that isn't tied to a new release. But so much of our day-to-day work is inherently market-driven -- trailers, reviews, interviews, profiles, first look stills, set visits, contests, etc. I don't care if you're a fancy print magazine or a humble blog, the fact that we're talking about upcoming movies is because some shadowy studio figure is marketing them to us. But that's a rant for another time, perhaps.

This past week or so has been dedicated to the flame war spawned by the Lebowski Sweater. I wrote about its creation earlier in the month. Everything was going along fairly swimmingly. There were errors in the pattern, but between my mom's knitting skill and my own, we were getting through it. But then it hit a point of disaster from which it could not be rescued ... and worst of all, it barely fit. This was supposed to measure a man's 44 inch chest, and could barely be closed around my Keira Knightley one.

So what did we do? We left negative feedback on Etsy, which spawned a flame war between the pattern maker and my mom. Pattern maker shrieked like a 12 year old until we changed the feedback to "neutral," at which point she refunded me $3.00 of a $6.00 pattern. Oh, Internet. You are like a Wild West Town populated by hoaxters and snake-oil salesmen, and I just never know when I'm going to win and when I'm going to get taken. My November project is now unraveling the entire Lebowski sweater so I can reuse the yarn.

In the meantime, my mom felt so bad about the incident that she bought me one of the authentic Cowichan ones -- we'll see if it gets here in time for Halloween.

That brings me to my final drama-rama of the month. Because of snow and the reliability of the USPS (especially in Colorado -- the Apaches get them), I've been trying to come up with a back-up Halloween costume. Now, I have a whole box of costumes in the basement, but there's no chance I'll wear any of them. There's no point. I mean, when you put on this and show off some skin ...

... and receive nothing but snark back, it kills a girl's spirit. (Oh, and let's not forget that from here to San Diego no one recognized it, and no one could say a nice thing about it on any goddamn costuming site it was featured on. But every year since 300, my mom is inundated with e-mails from girls demanding that I sell it to them for their Slutoween parties. Yes, demanding. Yeah, fuck you. I'll burn it first.)

I also have zero interest in getting all dressed up in something awesome and winding up at The Church. This is my sister's preferred Halloween haunt. I don't know why, when you're glared at for not being 50 years old, clad in dirty bondage pants, and slouching to Depeche Mode. Because I thwarted that plan last year, she's turned its attendance into a death march of determination ... and I'm not invited. Not that I care. But you see the problem.

So, I've given up. Last year I was determined to wear something obnoxious and wound up gently dressed as a 40s reporter, this year I'm going all the way. It has to be unattractive, offensive, or just plain lame. I own a lot of weird stuff, so it's really a matter of combing through my room. "Oh look, a pith helmet. I'll just put on khaki and go as an Explorer." I don't know what made me think of it, but I said to my mom "I know what I'll do if the Cowichan sweater doesn't get here. I'll go as an IRA member!"

Now, I studied Irish history and read a lot of books on the IRA in my class. I have no sympathy for terrorism (though I consider Michael Collins a personal hero -- sorry England, but I fully support his IRA) but I was envisioning the Hollywood version. Think Brad Pitt in A Devil's Own or Sean Bean in Patriot Games. IRA members are inevitably wearing cool coats that match their ski masks just so, cool boots, and are very Romantic and Sympathetic. I was also imagining this old SNL skit, which I quote occasionally to the understanding of no one.

When I initially Tweeted it, I had a lot of laughs back and a lot of "Yeah, do it!" So I Tweeted again that Mom had said "Look, here's a ski mask for your IRA costume."

But it was Knee Jerk Reaction day (as evidenced by all the rude e-mail I'd gotten about Dune and Sinestro), so what transpired was a bunch of lectures from English and Scottish followers, including those from Mr. Butler's fan club.

Look, terrorism isn't funny. Losing a loved one to a car bomb isn't funny. But I find extremism and Hollywood stereotypes of revolutionaries to be well worth sending up. Besides, what is the difference between dressing up as an IRA member, and dressing up as a mobster? The Mafia has killed plenty of people too, but a pinstripe suit and a cigar is seen as a humorous ethnic stereotype. Frankly, I see the same schtick in wearing a ski mask and a leather coat. People dress as serial killers, revolutionaries, prisoners, notorious public figures, soldiers, suicide bombers, and gosh knows what else. It's a bit grim once you get down to it, but that's the whole point. Laughing at horror diffuses its power -- and while I can agree that plenty of it is in bad taste, I'd never shriek at anyone about it.

Nevertheless, I'll probably give up that particular idea (I really don't want to wind up using the photo as my Twitter icon and kick off November with more hysteria), and just dress as lord knows what. Hopefully the Dude.

But really people ... get a life. All of you. Whether you're shrieking about the IRA, your faulty knitting pattern, or Law Abiding Citizen, get a life. Go donate money to orangutans, or volunteer to build a well in Africa. Throw your indignation to something that actually matters, make the world a better place, and get out some of that righteous (but ultimately silly) fury.

The Dude Is Knitted

How fast do my fingers fly?

6 days ago:


3 days ago. Everything from the brown stripe onward was redone in a single day:


The sweater right now:


I think I'm going to get it done by Halloween, barring any whimsy from the pattern. There's been a lot of that so far -- and the sharp-eyed may notice one of the quirks in the Z pattern. (Fixed for any later sweaters I do.) But other than a few imperfections to please the gods, I'm really proud of how authentic it looks.

Now to find myself a goatee and the right pair of sunglasses...

Living in the Land of Veggie

You might remember that over the summer, I quit eating meat and decided to go vegetarian. I decided a little update might prove interesting, and show that I do write about things other than dudes, dating, and movies.

I'm happy to report that I have stayed beef and chicken free since June or July (whenever I stopped), other than one (possible two) accidental consumptions of chicken broth. I have caved an eaten fish a few times. I don't count that as "cheating" (fish are animals!) but a necessary break.

So far, the only things I have found myself really missing is pepperoni pizza, meatballs, and bangers and mash. That's it. The first two have been real cravings, but I'm trying to resist because I know they won't make me feel very good anyway. I haven't missed hamburgers at all thanks to the delicious veggie burgers I've had at home and in restaurants. And a portobello mushroom melt is far superior to a patty melt, not in the least because I don't get a migraine from eating it.

For some crazy reason, I really enjoy the Tofurky and the Tofu brats. Mom loathes all the meat substitutes so far, but I like them. They're like eating Food of the Future!

While I've noticed that my weight stays down, so far there's been no improvement to my skin. In fact, my skin is worse than it's been in years despite the elimination of milk (except for cheese and yogurt) and meat, and the addition of far more vegetables and fruit. In theory, this should have led to perfect skin, but instead I'm back to looking like a cheeseless pizza. It's so frustrating -- I've spent thousands on skin care products (natural and chemical), changed up my diet, drink tons of Pomegranate juice and water, and steer clear of as much junk food as I can. The only thing I can think of that causes it is caffiene -- and frankly, I looked awful before I started drinking tea and coffee in the quantities I do now, so I'm skeptical that's what's causing it.

I'm trying not to become a rabid converter of people's diets, but I've noticed that with the elimination of meat comes a powerful desire to stop seeing it around you. You know you've gone crunchy when you find it difficult to look at a barbecue resturant in "Whip It!"

So, there's your update. I'm chuffed at myself for bowing down and eating things I never thought I would, like eggplant. And I never thought I'd find a portobello mushroom tastier than a Black Angus.

Confused in Bon Temps

What do women want? It's been one of the questions plaguing mankind since the first cavepeople tried to hook up. As a woman, I used to say "WHAT? It's not that hard!" but now I've come to the conclusion that I don't have a clue, either.

Like much of the civilized world, I've become a fan of True Blood. It's pulpy and fun, and set in a part of the country I've really come to enjoy. (Yes, I do like Louisiana. I'm not crazy about the bugs or humidity, but I'm less crazy about the nouveau riche of Colorado.) Also, half the cast is made up of very attractive men which makes Anna Paquin's acting bearable. Naturally, I prefer the star vampire, Bill Compton:

I was looking around Jezebel's Season 2 recaps for no reason other than work procrastination. Not surprisingly, most of the commenters (as well as womanhood in general) prefer Eric Northman.

He earns major Viking points

But what really startled me was the ongoing shrieking that Bill Compton was "creepy." Apparently, his protective streak makes for a "gross father/daughter dynamic" and makes Sookie less confident or independent. He lectures her, stalks her, leers and hovers.

Now, everyone's entitled to their own opinion in regards to what characters they'd like to shag but ... what the hell?

Look, I'm an independent woman who believes in equality of the sexes. I don't like to be smothered. I will never, ever rely on a man. I can barely trust their collective gender. But what about being a man's man, and keeping a loved one safe is "gross" or "creepy"? Bill asks that Sookie listen to him, but only when they're heading into vampire territory. She doesn't know anything about it, and it's fraught with peril. Isn't it a good thing if someone wants to cover your ass in that kind of situation? If I was going on safari, I'd rather a safari guide tell me what to do rather than watch me be mauled by a lion and say "Sorry, I didn't want to cramp your style." In their "daily life" (insofar as they have one), he's never told her how to dress, what to read, or how to behave. He doesn't make decisions for her. That is controlling, gross, and creepy.

I find Bill to be a very courtly gentleman. I love the "May I call on you sometime?" stuff. He nearly burned to death to save her. He kills those who have hurt her. I mean, isn't that the stuff a girl wants? That's the kind of thing I want.

Yet Erik Northman (who lies, cheats, and manipulates) is cool. Of course he's cool and hilariously funny, and he's rescued her too. But his trickery makes me furious. Yet the implication I get from the forums is that girls don't mind being lied to by a hot guy because...wait, why again? I don't even know. I'll grant you that appearances can be deceiving, and that Erik may end up being the Better Man. But if you take it purely on the evidence at hand, I'll take the protective one.

It sounds like I'm taking a television show personally -- and I'm not, I actually have a deeper point. I find it interesting that what I consider to be old-school qualities (and what, I assume, the writers also consider to be dreamy traits) are gross and creepy to so many girls. No wonder social evolution is going like this:

Brandon Bird is a genius

Something as simple as True Blood seems to represent exactly what has gone wrong between men and women, and in the world of dating. It's no wonder guys no longer want to pay for stuff, hold open doors, have your back in a fight, or walk you back to your car because it's dark outside. A guy who looks out for you is nothing more than a sleazy father figure. Call me crazy, but I've really appreciated when a guy makes sure I leave a bar or party safely. I don't particularly want to be mugged, raped, or killed in the name of feminine independence. (Does it suck that a woman has to rely on a man for that kind of thing? Yes, it does. I'd love girls to be able to take back the night, and walk home safely. Until that happens, safety in numbers, dammit.)

Clearly, girls find that behavior unnecessary and disgusting. But it's fine if a man coerces you into doing something you don't want to, lies, or cheats. If he's hot, no worries, and it's better to be with a hot guy who is out for himself than to be alone. You have to get that "In a Relationship" Facebook status any way you can, I suppose.

Have I met icky "chivalric" guys who thought a flouncy shirt and a rose was appropriate dayware? Yes. But I've met a lot more of the liars and cheats. The last guy I allowed to interest me was a major fuckhead, and not one person censured him for it. Every one of them shrugged and said "Oh well, there's that, but it was probably a misunderstanding anyway." For some reason, bad behavior is becoming a standard. Everyone overlooks it because they don't want to be a jerk, and they don't want to be alone.

So, I could look at this positively and say hooray Bill Compton is mahn:


But the reality is that you can't find a Bill Compton -- not only because they died in the Civil War, but because that's not what women want. Nicely played, ladies.

TMI

As you may have discovered Saturday, it looks like my vocal chords will be ravaging the Internet once again:

Neo Psychobabble

My friend Chris is the tech man for this Lifecast, and we did a very rough test of it Saturday with the hopes of doing a weekly live podcast. We're still figuring things out though, and I can't promise anything. We're currently looking at doing it on Friday or Saturday nights. Watch my Twitter for impromptu announcements and sessions for now.

What will it be about? What is anything about with me -- it'll be full of too much information, zany stories, movies, and current events. Whatever we feel like.

As I've got nothing else to write about, I thought I'd celebrate your insatiable demands for personal info by documenting something really inane and stupid: my ringtones.

Ringtones are an elaborate thing in my family. Ever since we bought cellphones that could actually play music, we've been obsessed with creating The Greatest Ringtones Ever, usually through this site: Mobile 17. (Completely legit! I've used it hundreds of times, so have my family and friends, and no spam ever occurred.)

Because every member of my family is an obsessive movie nut (I'm just the fool who got lucky enough to be paid for it), they're inevitably movie themes. We get a lot of surprised looks and compliments. I've had everything from music from Tomb Raider, Braveheart, Doctor Zhivago, Eastern Promises, Pirates of the Caribbean, The Goonies, 300, High Plains Drifter, Lord of the Rings, A View to a Kill. You name it, I've made it.

When I bought the iphone, my talents for ringtones were immediately curtailed which sucks. But I've cracked it (and you can too!), although it's so tricky that I make many, but only manage to sync one or two at a time.

Now, L.A. Confidential is my current one. From about 2:01 onward is my bit. The sad thing is that I pride myself on having something so classy, and such is my imagination that I dream of impressing some studly fellow with it. "What is that music? I recognize it." "Why, it's the theme from L.A. Confidential, my good man!" "I love that movie!" "Me too! Let's get married."

In reality, I'll just be glared at when it goes off at the airport or in the middle of Borders.



L.A. Confidential replaced this one. A Fistful of Dollars was my favorite ringtone, and my iphone's too since it's always syncing it when I'm not paying attention. I only took it off for fear I might get sick of it. I've actually caught an approving glance from people when this one goes off. "Why, the young lady knows her spaghetti westerns!" (Knowing the madding crowd, they probably just think "Tarantino!")



Not all Morricone ones are wonderful, some are just bad luck. Every horrible phone call I received is to this next ringtone, but I still love it, and I keep giving it multiple chances to bring me good luck. However, I'm not so obvious as to use the whistling bit like everyone else does, I used the guitar piece from about 0:55 on. I guess it's no surprise its such an unlucky ringtone since it's the theme that plays whenever Tuco or Blondie screw each other over:




Whenever I go to a big event where my phone will ring a lot, I pick something that I can hear over a crowd, and that I won't mind abandoning after four days. I picked Dirty Harry's theme this year with the vague idea that it would be less embarrassing than the previous year's A View to a Kill. I narrowly prevented that one from going off in the middle of the RocknRolla roundtable, and I had visions of it happening again. I thought "By God, if a good looking actor overhears my ringtone, it ain't gonna be some 1980s piece of crap, it's going to be Lalo Schrifrin so I look sophisticated."

Anyway, that didn't happen. It's a mark of how little my phone rang that I can't even remember what part I used. (It's in the first 40 seconds, I do know that.) But it suited my mood perfectly and cheered me up because whenever I hear it, I picture the scene where Harry kicks the living shit out of Scorpio in the stadium. That's what I wanted to do to just about everyone I knew that week, and for several weeks after. In fact, if I don't like you, I'm probably picturing it about you any time you come back into my life. Ha Ha.




Anyway...lest you think I'm really cool (yeah right) or stuck on themes featuring a certain 1970s badass, this is the very first one I ever made for a cell phone. No lie.



This was definitely one of the most offbeat, and earned a lot of weird looks. You make no friends when your ringtone is softly sung Elvish.




After reading/hearing this, there's no way you'll want to listen to my weekly show. That might be what I had in mind all along.

Major/Minor

Hey kids! If you go to college and unofficially double major in English Literature, you too can write something like this:

More Sense & Sensibility, Less Sea Monsters

I'm actually very proud of myself for being able to pull it off. It was one of those insane ideas I came up with at 2am (rather like the stroke of genius that led to The House on Haunted Hill) and it worked. Such is my anal-retentiveness that I'm sure I made linguistic mistakes. I had to actually do research for this -- it turns out, for example, that we weren't really using the word "unique" until the middle of the 19th century. I really should have taken more language classes instead of saying "What the heck, more Shakespeare!"

I have a love/hate relationship with my too-long academic past, veering towards "hate" whenever I have to make another student loan payment. My degrees are useless. I got one because it was supposed to make me employable, but I haven't had a job interview yet where the interviewer didn't sneer. Guess what? They really don't care if you're a member of Phi Alpha Theta or Sigma Tau Delta. They toss your application because you're too overeducated to shelve copies of Twilight.

I'm proud of being a bluestocking, and I'm sure I wouldn't write half as well if it hadn't been for all those research papers. Even in college I set ridiculous challenges for myself, and tried to argue points of Chaucer and Shakespeare that no one in their right mind would have attempted. I still have nightmares about the semester I tried to track down the folk origins of The Clerk's Tale (hundreds of years of Chaucer scholars have nothing on one undergrad in Denver, Colorado!), argue something esoteric about Shakespeare's Troilus and Cressida, and write about Beowulf's queens.

All so I could disappoint my professors by throwing away my medievalist training and write about movies. (Arguably, I make the same amount of money. Possibly less.)

But hey, when do medievalists get to visit Puerto Rico? Never, that's when.

Tropic Thunder

I've lost sight of two very important things in my 2+ months of being so very depressed. Let's get them out of the way:

1. Holy shit. I'm paid to write. I'm a writer! I didn't think that would actually happen.
2. I really do love movies.

I also am fortunate enough that this crazy, low-paying, high-stress lifestyle of mine is as close as I'll ever get to my other dream job: assassin. Over the past couple of months I've been sent on very short notice to Do A Job, the latest of which was a trip to Puerto Rico. I can't tell you what I was visiting just yet, but hang around Cinematical a few months and you'll get to read the piece.

But Puerto Rico! If one thing can cheer you up in a bad spot, it's a free trip to the beach!

That was the view outside of my bedroom window. How wonderful is that? I left my window open all night and listened to the ocean and singing tree frogs. Puerto Rico trees are full of the coqui frog, and they sound just like baby birds. I didn't take this photo (I never actually saw a coqui) but they're as adorable as they sound:


There were three downsides to the trip. The first was that you have to fly there. Naturally. It's an island, for gosh sakes.

Now, I'm not afraid to fly. Up until recently, I would even say I enjoyed it. But I've had to travel a lot in the past couple of months and it quickly begins to suck ass when you're at the whim of the crumbling airline industry and dealing with the dregs of society.

First, let's talk about the airline industry. I can't think of anything you spend a shitload of money on for absolutely no service. Airline tickets aren't cheap, and for your hundreds of dollars, you get a Coke. That's it. You have to carry your own bags, stow them, retrieve them from whatever godforsaken shelf you were forced to stow them on, and fling yourself on and off the plane because hop to, we need to get this thing loaded again and fly somewhere else because we're not turning a profit!

It's getting worse and worse. As you might remember, nearly two years ago I applied and interviewed to become a stewardess. I know how little they make, and I know what lousy conditions they work under. On one hand, I can't blame them for becoming surly, unhelpful individuals -- particularly as now they're dealing with all those stupid carry-on bags because their companies decided to charge to check them, and nobody in their right mind will pay to do it. But you know what? At least you're being paid to deal with it, whereas the passengers paid to be shafted, so at least you could help me stow my bag before I brain somebody with it.

And then there's the people. I don't want to hear about the economy going to shit. All it means is that a bunch of businesses (especially the airlines) are pretending they're not making money, because every time I've been to the airport, it's packed. Charleston, New Orleans, Chicago, San Juan, Albuquerque, San Diego, you name it, it's been packed to the gills. We're not just talking business travelers -- I'm seeing big families with kids, students, elderly people, couples, all traveling for the fun of it. Every plane I've been on has been sold out. "No one is traveling" my ass. Everyone's traveling and worse, none of them seem to have traveled before. They seem bewildered by the ticket kiosks, the need for small shampoo bottles, the way to find their terminal, and they hold the rest of us up while they fret.

Those are the ones who are vaguely sane. The insane are the ones I always sit next to. There's ones who believe that once the plane takes off, they'll never eat again, and proceed to order piles of crappy food from the airline if they haven't already brought it with them. I wouldn't care, but I'm always in the middle, and it's always passed over my lap. It's enough to make me throw a vegan fit. "Oh my God! Keep your cheap animal flesh sandwich away from me!" (Cheap sandwich meat is so nasty. Even if I wasn't trying to live the life of a veggie eater, I'd find that shit repulsive.)

And then there's just the crazy fuckers. The guy flying out of San Juan beside me kept babbling in Spanish at me, and waking me up if I fell asleep. "You always sleep! Is funny! Is weird!" Yeah well, the way you keep licking your hand is weird, but I didn't say anything or stop you from doing it.

I can always spot who I'm going to sit next to, just like back in the days of the train to school. Will it be the nice nerdy looking girl? Will it be the hot dude? No. No, it's going to be the stinky old lady or the pervy business guy! Only once have I fooled myself and that was when I flew to San Diego for ComicCon. I kid you not, there was a Daniel Day-Lewis lookalike on my plane. Youngish Day-Lewis, not post Italy Day-Lewis:

To prepare for this flight, I became the pilot. I became the stewardess. I became the airplane.

I dared to let myself hope and convinced myself that because I'd seen him in the TSA line ("Holy crap, that guy looks like In the Name of the Father era Daniel Day-Lewis! I want to shag him! Where is he going?") that it was destiny, and he'd be in the seat beside me. Alas. No luck. Naturally, I had to sit next to the creepy kid who kept passing Quizno's across my lap to his bromantic partner. Wherever I go, I'm doomed to smell someone's rank sandwich.

So, yeah. I finally snapped in DIA. For four airports, I'd been behind the Lost Souls -- the ones who talk on their phone, text, or just stare at the bright lights and shiny colors. They veer drunkenly, they stop, they wander. They're always right in front of me, tripping me. Finally, the last five steps I had to take before I was Officially Home, I lost it at one pajama clad Lost Soul on her iphone. "LEARN TO FUCKING WALK ALREADY OR STAY HOME!!"

My mom said "Good lord. You must be fried."

Whew. Anyway. In San Juan itself, the downside was the ungodly heat. As beautiful as it was -- and it was lovely:


-- the heat was horrific. I've only experienced heat and humidity like this once or twice in my travels, but I'm still not sure it was so crippling. Our set visit left us on concrete for hours, and when we got back, all we wanted to do was fling ourselves into water. I immediately ran to the beach and ran through the waves ... which reminded me I really, really need to start working out because I'm not fit for swimsuits. (I also need to shop for a swimsuit. Eesh.) I couldn't even stay on the beach as long as I would have liked, as my head started to pound from the heat. Plus, it's lonely being on a beach all by yourself, with no one to notice if you drown or not. Drowning was a really possibility too, as there were some freaky undertows.

My fellow journalist Jenna and I toured the Corazan San Cristobel, which has been there since the 16th century or so:




I have a feeling that this was a very cool place, chock full of history. But my brain had melted by the time we got to the ticket counter, and by the time we got to the top, it was being wrung out of my t-shirt. I have worn full pirate gear in 102 degree desert heat, and it was still cooler than a t-shirt in San Juan.

I have a feeling there was a lot to see in San Juan too. Ponce de Leon is buried there in an old cathedral which must have been cool. There must have been cool shops. The architecture is lovely and Popsicle colored:

I claim the orange house, it matches my iphone case.

But I couldn't find any of it. My eyeballs were melting, and I was desperately thirsty. We gave up and went back to the hotel. Very frustrating but I did manage to drink out of a coconut:

No, I didn't put any lime or rum in it. Just a straight up coconut.

After the fort, it was the most delicious thing I've ever, ever tasted. Ice cold coconut milk. Yum yum!

Which brings me to the second downside ... the food. Wow. This was the one time the food didn't match the location. I managed to eat one decent thing in three days, and that was a goat cheese pizza. Otherwise, blargh. Crusty lo-mein, dry pancakes, soggy salad, and a pure sugar filled pastry:

The pinkish stuff was supposed to be fruit. It was not.

Typical room service, I guess, and worse because I eat vegetarian. Supposedly there was delicious food in Old San Juan, but by then I wasn't willing to spend money, and I was too hot. Plus, there was no telling that the sumptuous looking pastries in every window weren't just sugar filled like the one above.

But honestly, it was cool to see another part of the world, no matter how freaking hot it was. It was wonderful to sleep every night to the sound of the ocean. I also received a nice dose of reality when I flew through Chicago, which brought back startling memories of my job interview with the airlines. I could feel myself back at that point in my life where I was just hoping that I could get a job that would allow me a little extra time to build up a portfolio enough to eventually write for a movie website.

And here I am. Talking to insanely good looking people who may or may not have looked like this:

But I'll neither confirm, nor deny, nor talk about anything else. So don't ask about anything but the coconut and the Corozan San Cristobel, yeah?

Ba-NaN-As.

It has come to my attention via Twitter that I'm master of unintentional come-ons. Do you remember those Lil Miss and Mr Books:

My sister used this one to ridicule me as a child. I talked a lot, apparently.

Well, mine would be Little Miss Foot-in-Mouth, or Little-Miss-You-Said-WHAT? Something like that, only less cumbersome, I guess.

Anyway, I say things that sound all sexy like "You should have come over, I needed the company" which make me seem like Lauren Bacall. In reality, I intended it only as "I have Throne of Blood and snacks. We could have had an delightful and informative film experience together."

To illustrate how unintentional that was, I gave the individual my finest come-on line which requires the presence of bananas, and a single & handsome man I wish to be acquainted with. My plan was always to pick up the banana and say huskily "Do you know what bananas have always reminded me of?"

Oooh, what?

Once he is sufficiently hooked and thinks he knows the answer, I respond "MONKEYS! What did you think I was going to say?"

Fate has not allowed this scenario to take place, which is a really good thing. I'm not sure what I hope to accomplish with this seduction. A guy who really likes primates?

"Clyde's not a monkey, he's an ape ... twelve ribs, just like you and me."

"We named the monkey Jack! Which will be distinctly uncomfortable given who your sister dates."

Not a bad thing to aim for, I suppose. But otherwise, what? A guy who loves terrible, grade school humor? A guy who likes bananas? A guy who appreciates the desperate advances of a nerd? Do I want to date any of these things? No wonder I'm single.

At least the joke doesn't rely on poo-flinging or insinuations of spanking the monkey. Good lord!

My Horrifying Night with Jon Hamm

Not too long ago, I mentioned that I never have very happy dreams. If a guy real, fictional, or famous pops up in my dream, it's usually to snub me. I didn't realize I was particularly different until I was talking to a female friend of mine, and I enthusiastically described a dream where some dude I liked took me to a movie.

Yes. In fact, now that I think back, the dude was Dougray Scott. Why do I remember this and not my 19th Century Europe class? Because it's useless, that's why. Crimean War? Who needs that. I need to remember lame crap like who I dreamed about in 1999.

"And we went to see Shakespeare in Love. I thought I showed you a lovely dream date, even if I never did call back."

After I described what I thought was a great dream, my friend looked incredulous.

"You went to see a movie? That's it?"
"Well, yeah."
"I didn't have dreams that innocent when I was in kindergarten."

It was then I realized something was deeply wrong with my subconscious, and it's gotten weirder and more punishing as the years have gone on. Since my brain is usually regurgitating movies (what a surprise!), it's really nasty of my REM state to not recast me in The Last of the Mohicans. It could do that. It's cooked up a Reign of Fire dream once where I fought off dragons and was snubbed by Gerard Butler's character, so it could give me anything in the way of bodice rippers.

Then again, my version would be all "I'll try really hard, but I probably won't find you."

So to my surprise, Saturday night found me dreaming of Jon "cartoon pilot" Hamm. I was inexplicably his date to a wedding, and had a mint green dress on. He kept commenting on this because this was some weird fantasy wedding where the color we were assigned to wear signified something, and he kept saying things like "She pulls it off well though, aren't you lucky? She looks great." At one point, he took my arm and I said "Well hell, I'm happy because I get to walk around with Don Draper!" and he laughed very appreciatively.

"You referred to me by the name of my popular television character. That never ever happens!"

The dream changed from a sunny outside wedding to a creepy, medieval church. Things got downright weird when the church was clearly haunted (tortured screams kept issuing from the walls) and only Hamm and I really noticed. But he barely noticed for one simple reason: he was really really into me.

So, what should have been an absolute nightmare (this church looked like something out of The Spanish Inquisition, the sounds were too) was the best dream ever, and all because Jon Hamm kept looking at me with such adoration. He was so besotted, complimentary, and obvious in what he wanted that it was impossible to be frightened by whatever demonic force was bent on destroying us. The funny thing is that's exactly how people end up dead in horror movies. It also should have pissed me off because hello, man not paying attention to something important like an evil entity in the basement of a church, way to have priorities, dum dum! But it didn't. I was falling for him all the way.

I didn't want to wake up, but I did, and was very sad to do so. Mostly because it really seemed like Hamm and I were about to go places if you know what I mean -- and I guess it's a sign of desperation as it was so clearly a horror movie, and we were going to be butchered during or after. Whatever. I would take death at the hands of a hellish demon if it meant one night of glory with a cartoon pilot.

And who wouldn't?

It was the sort of vivid dream you don't forget, and I spent my day wondering not only how I could turn the horror bit of it into a real story ("What would the hellspawn be? Why would the wedding wake it up? Why would Hamm and I go searching for it after getting it on?") but also what it meant.

Actually, I hit on that right away. It's obvious it was a dream infused with the anger of the Horror Virgin incident -- Gothic settings, screams, glimpes of blood and slash, missions left incomplete, demons bent on destroying me and mine for no good reason -- but why it had the soothing balm of Don Draper I'll never know. Maybe my subconscious took pity on me for once, realized I'd had enough rejection for one month, gave me someone to hold onto, and let me be the heroine of my own movie.

"Christ! I took you to a movie! Where's the love? Why you gotta ruin our special day?"

(More) Bloody Bad News

The Horror Virgin feature on The Horror Squad is no more.

I'm writing a blog about it for 3 reasons

1. It occurred to me some of you might have missed the news on Twitter
2. I'm still really fucking pissed off about it
3. I hope I can purge the anger by writing about it

However, I'm not going to name names because I will be damned if I direct traffic over there, and I like the pretense of staying classy with allusions.

The reason is simple. This week, a large movies blog started an identical feature. By sheer coincidence (yes, that's sarcasm) it's the blog I was formerly employed at. In another remarkable coincidence, one of the writers is also employed with Cine.

Angry Tweets did nothing except rally some moral support, and prove that my Twitter is apparently being stalked by someone (who, like many others at the same time, was blocked from it), as justification for the "borrowing" was apparently due to my innocently Tweeting to a friend about not having received another movie assignment -- a Tweet to someone no one in my professional circle follows, and thus would have only been visible on my profile page. Elementary, my dear Watson. I love when people think they're being so sly and smart.


I know thanks to Twitter that an apology was issued to Scott. I didn't receive one from anyone, but where's the surprise in that. Nor was the rival feature suspended, and dreams of a really loud public outcry were quickly quashed. (Face it, I ain't that popular and clearly, neither was the feature.) Instead, it's mine that has to end and as a result, I'm voluntarily leaving Horror Squad. I feel silly occupying a space that a genre fan could have, and who could do something really thoughtful with the soapbox. I appreciate that Scott gave me the opportunity, but I'm not going to continue to draw pay for something I'm thoroughly unqualified for.

It's so frustrating, upsetting, and unfair. I thought better of everyone involved, and I am appalled that anyone would so glibly become a part of something so blatant and copycat. I am crushed at letting it go, as it was a lot of fun -- and I'm wrapped up in guilt because there was so much criticism on the last installment that I was half-dreading a new one. Be careful what you wish for, because there was never ever going to be a new one ... and oh, how it eats at me to have gone out on a low note of creativity. (When I think about the House on Haunted Hill one, I could actually cry again -- that one was so good! And so fun to write. It kills me I won't get to do that again.)

There's no doubt in my mind that it's personal. The individual behind this whole fucking scheme has now cost me a lot of money from two different websites, and a lot of hurt. Clearly, they intend to go to such exhaustive and personal lengths to injure me, my career, and my site -- and I don't think I'm being paranoid in imagining that, though I'm shocked that anyone would do that. It's too obvious from the way the pieces fit together, and it's just exactly what might be expected from someone who banged the drum of professional conduct and personal respect so loudly and incessantly. It's like I mentioned a few weeks ago ... if you have to keep saying it, you don't embody it. Actions speak louder than words. And once again, I've learned that you can't trust anyone. If they complement or befriend you, hello red flag. They've got an agenda.

A few people have asked me why I can't continue Horror Virgin, and simply "make it better." Well, for one, I have absolutely no interest in competing. To have two identical features on the Internet isn't competition anyway, it's just stupid, and it makes it look like there's a lot of female writers out there just begging to be schooled in genre films. What's next? Girls who need lessons in Kurosawa? Girls who need to be saddled in Westerns or New Wave? It's disgusting and insulting. We're still second class citizens in the entertainment journalist field, and we don't need to make it worse with a bunch of copycat, cutesy features.

There's also a problem of timing. Scott and I had a crazy ass summer after I did "The Descent," and we couldn't re-coordinate for August. As sheer, shitty luck would have it, he'd given me "Splinter" to do this week, and I had planned on doing it the very goddamn day the rival launched. How utterly cheesy and cheap is it going to look now? If things had been better, and I had 6 or 8 more entries to my name, then there'd be no question. The Horror Virgin wouldn't be going anywhere, and the other piece could go suck it.

I'm at a loss. I'm not quite at rock bottom (rock bottom would be utter unemployment) but goddamn. I haven't had a stroke of good luck since July, and every week has brought a new failure and loss. I lost ComicCon, I lost my other job, the podcast invites dried up, and now I've lost Horror Squad and Horror Virgin.

Just in case I couldn't feel crap enough, I was reminded I should Tweet more positively in case someone evil might be reading, and something like this could happen again. I'm contemplating leaving Twitter altogether -- certainly, I have almost nothing to self-promote, and lately it's been a way for people to backstab me even more in the comments and in my professional and personal life.

In between, I've lost so much time, effort, and money, and readers. I gave up all my "offline" activities in order to better concentrate on work. I've got nothing left, and I'm in the delightful position of watching those who have fucked me over continue to roll in the fortune and fun. I haven't left the house except for one business trip. I know now I'm going to have to dip into my very small savings account to pay off ComicCon (and the full portion of Con hasn't even arrived) and my student loan this month, and I'm thankful I was able to cancel my dentist appointment without attracting a major fee. The one job interview I managed to score, I was turned down because I don't have a car. I can't afford a car because I can't even climb above poverty level. I certainly can't move to L.A. in the hopes of more work and a happier life because, if I'm lucky, I'll have $50 a week in "extra" money.

I'm fried. I'm tired. I'm heartsick. I'm wondering when the hell something is going to go my way. I am so depressed that it's difficult to keep working at all. I wish I could just spend my time drunk or asleep, because then I wouldn't have any coherent thoughts or time to be unhappy and worry.

Now that I think about it, it's a perfect ending to The Horror Virgin -- I'm not won over into being a fan of the genre because nothing onscreen can compete with the horror of real life, and I do enough of my own screaming, crying, and running to want to watch any of it for work or play.

One Good Thing

There was one happy moment today. This was it.

Good on you, Gerard Butler!

This entry puts me in danger of being Crazy Pug Lady but whatever. It's my blog.

Anyway, thanks to @FunnyPugVideos, an incident involving a much-admired Scotsman caught my eye:

Gerard Butler in Battle with Queens Couple Over Dog Fight

Gerard Butler's Dog Fight

Obviously, I saw the NY Post story first, and the Radar Online Exclusive which cleared things up considerably -- gotta love that the NY Post omitted the fact that the couple was lurking around a film set (Just happen to be fans of Butler and just happen to be on the scene of his shoot? Yeah, and I have oceanfront property in Arizona) which is what led to the incident happening in the first place. It wasn't just Butler running around willy nilly with an unleashed pug. He was at work with his dog, who should have been perfectly safe whether she was leashed or not, because it was a contained film set.

As I mentioned in my last post, walking Elliott wears me out -- his human fans have pushed it over the edge, but the reality is that I'm constantly on the lookout for other dogs. Elliott loves to just bounce up at other dogs to say hello (it's bizarre -- take him to a dog park and he shits his pug pants in shy fear, put him on a leash and he's Mr. Sassy McGee). Sometimes, it appears he's lunging at them and I never, ever know how a dog is going to react to that. So I try to steer clear. Unfortunately, people are morons and don't steer clear of me. They don't rein their dogs in, they just let them charge up to Elliott, which thrills my stupid pug to death ... and frankly, could lead to his death because he's lunging at them, and you just never know.

I live in fear of Elliott being attacked in a similar situation as what Mr. Butler encountered -- people say or think their dog is friendly, but any animal will bite. Especially a rescued greyhound which any fool knows is like owning a war veteran. Those dogs are nevous, tweaky, and unpredictable which isn't their fault, but you have to be responsible for them, and for the situations you put them in.

I actually had one incident where I was walking Elly on the trail, and this frail, Lucille Bluth type (my area is full of them -- women who subsist on booze, pills, and misery) was walking two enormous black Labradors. She couldn't control them. They were mean. And Elliott was acting especially bouncy and skippy, darting on and off the trail, and into the grass. She actually got pissed at me and snapped "Do you and your pug want to decide where you're going?" because he was bouncing hither and yon, enjoying the frosty air, and her dogs were frothing to attack. My first thought was getting Elliott out of there, so I did.

Then I went psychotic, took him home, and actually went back to hunt her down in order to say "How dare you talk to me like that? If my dog wants to bounce around like a pogo stick in the grass, he can. He's not going to hurt anyone, and I can get him under control if I need to. If YOU can't control your dogs, and you clearly cannot, than what business do you have walking them? It's not MY job to get out of YOUR way, it's YOUR job to not bring two uncontrollable animals out in public." Unfortunately, she was back home sucking on her vodka bottle. I haven't seen her again, so maybe her dogs ate her.

I've been spoiling for a similar fight with another couple we often encounter and have to avoid, as they have extremely vicious dogs. These two dogs are so bad that they are forced to drag them into the street or grass if they see anyonecoming. The dogs sit there and snarl, froth, and fight to get at whatever and whoever is passing, be it bike, child, or dog. I've never heard a dog that sounds like that. They're either wolverines or Critters. Anyway, what fries my ass is that every time we run into them, the couple is all pissed off that anyone else is daring to walk their dog on a cool evening, and forcing them to get their wolverines under control. The last time I saw them was outside their house -- the woman actually threw a hissy fit, flung down the dog's water bag/bowl in a rage, and dragged her foaming dog into the house. I'm dying to give them a similar speech that I planned for Ms. Oxycontin.

It's a scary world out there. No one wants to take responsibility, and the task that should be least stressful (walking my dog) is now a tension filled ride. Every day, I wonder if this will be the time Elliott gets it because he's bounced up to a dog he shouldn't, despite my best efforts, and some moron doesn't care enough to keep a tight leash.

So, Mr. Butler, I'm on your side ... and these fuckheads are lucky they encountered you and not me. I would have had to hunt them down, extract money from them for my vet bill (whereas the NY Post reported YOU paid someone else's while at the vet office!), and call Animal Control. That's if I'd kept a cool head, because as evidenced by the Labrador incident, I often snap -- and if anyone hurt Elliott, I might have their head on a pike before I knew what I'd done.

Oops!

Why the Internet is cool

Seeing as I work on the Internet, I've learned to love and hate it. I love it because it provides me money and an excuse to post Hang 'Em High clips, I hate it because it's a festering bed of fandom.

But I also love it because you can blog about your dog resembling an Ewok, and someone will make you a photo illustrating the resemblance in a very short order:


You know the scary thing? It took me a minute to figure out which one was Elliott. I mean, I was looking at it on my iphone but still. Eerie!

I really do need to force Elly into an Ewok costume. I had a little piece of leather that fit over his head and ears just so, but every time we tried to photograph him in it, he pulled it off. I believe he mangled it for good measure. Don't worry, we will prevail this Halloween if it kills us. And knowing Elliott, it just might -- my mom and I tried to trim his nails once (something all pugs resist with a fury of a thousand gods) and he tore my arms, chest, and hands into ribbons with his nails. He's like the real Ewoks -- fuzzy, cute and toothy, but a killer if his peaceful planet is invaded.

Thanks to the maker -- you know who you are. :D

THE Elliott.

Elliott is my pride and joy. I love him more than just about anything or anyone in the entire world. I Tweet about him all the time, I don't blog about him nearly as much as I should (I find his antics are horribly boring when I try to describe them), and I take way too many photos of him.

That said, he is wearing me out.

Elly loves to go on walks. It's like all he lives for. They are epic, winding things where he chooses his route, obsesses over nondescript thistles and patches of grass, gets in trouble for chasing dogs, and poops a lot. I really kind of hate going (mostly because I hate walking in our horrible neighborhood), but he loves it, so what can you do?

What I find more exhausting than his nervous pooping and dog chasing ways is his level of neighborhood celebrity. For the first two or three years we lived here, people didn't like him. He would run up and snuffle their ankles, and they would get grossed out or glare at him. They didn't like him touching their dogs. They didn't like him walking on their lawns, let alone peeing or pooping on them. (I always clean up, by the way.) It was all very stressful, and I would go out of my way to avoid people, something that's getting harder to do as the nouveau riche of the area insist on walking and Being Seen.

Now, people are seeking him out. Little kids are obsessed with his smushy face. They call to him. They beg me to let him pet him. They want to know what he is. Whenever I see a family entourage (here, you encounter groups that include grandma, grandpa, mom, dad, 3.5 kids, 2 dogs, and a wagon of toys) I just dread their approach because all of them will want to pet him. I'll be like ten minutes explaining his name, that his snorting isn't growling, that he's shy, and then having to apologize as Elliott tries to flee all the patting little hands.

I sound rude and I don't mean to be -- it's just that Elliott was born nervous and fussy (this is the puppy that chose to live under the hot tub stairs for no reason anyone can fathom) and he doesn't really like being messed with. And I just really like to zone out and meditate as I'm outside, which is tough to when your chatting with your dog's fans. (Also, I look like a hobo. Who dresses nice when walking a pug? Not me.)

It's escalated the past couple of weeks. I've had people chase me down asking if they could pet sit him. I was so sure they were going to yell at me for Elliott snuffling in their yard that I can't imagine how I looked, but I immediately thanked them and said "Well, maybe, sure. Good to know."

The kicker came this past weekend. Two boys spotted him and inexplicably cast him in a Star Wars renactment they were doing. The whippersnappers couldn't have been more than 2 or 3, but they declared "We will call him Chewbacca!" as he approached them. I don't know why they thought he was a Wookie as Elliott is clearly an Ewok, but they were awfully little. Maybe they haven't gotten to Return of the Jedi yet.

Picture him in a little leather Ewok hood and you'll see what I mean. Yub Yub!

As if the Chewbacca thing wasn't odd enough, Sunday afternoon found me stopping again and again so he could be admired, and one little girl asked if Elliott liked the park.

"Well yes, he does."
"I think I've seen him there, but he was being walked by a man, so it can't be the same Elliott."
"It is, but you probably saw my dad walking him."

Right then, the girl's mom approached. "Is this the Elliott? The one from the park?"

What the hell did my dog do there? Get pushed in a swing to maximize his cuteness? Dance like his ballet-performing namesake? Or just smile toothily at everyone? Lord knows. But yes, the Elliott. And I remember that every time he wakes me up solely to look at him and recognize that he's jumped on my bed before his morning sleep. The Elliott.

Fame wears him out, too. Seriously, this is him after a walk.

Regret Plenty, Forgive Nothing

I don't forgive. Ever.

All right, that's not entirely true. I forgave Elliott for killing and devouring one of my parakeets because he's a dog, and he didn't know any better. There have been a few other incidents, but they're rare.

I have always tried to do the right thing. I've reached out to those I've hurt, or who have hurt me, individuals who have drifted away. But inevitably, it ends up backfiring and I end up hurt even worse because dear lord in heaven, I had forgiven them only to have them repeat the behavior.

I don't have an endless capacity for that. Maybe if circumstances in my life were different, I'd have a more open and bottomless well of love and acceptance but I don't. Perhaps this makes me a bad, bad person but I simply have no energy or capacity to continue loving and giving when someone will continuously abuse me.

Here's a case in point -- there's a person who has never been close to me, exactly, but we get along well. They're related to me. Let's call them EF for "Extended Family." Over the years though, it's been a lot of up and downs. EF and I will make plans to do something special, I will shape my plans accordingly, and will usually end up stood up. EF is going, but with someone else, if I can find a ride they'll be happy to meet up with me there ... maybe.

Over the last year and a half, EF and I have been going through a lot of the same things. We re-bonded, and finally we seemed to see each other as adults worthy of respect and friendship, with the warm and squishy knowledge that we could rely on each other. Or so I thought. It turned out, I was only useful insofar as I was able to help them with a new life path. When I could no longer offer day to day help, I was dumped.

Fast forward a year, and EF comes back. Apologetic. They were mad, they shouldn't have been, and I was a good person after all. EF was horrified at how badly my life had gone, and about a situation that erupted where I literally had nowhere to go except to lock myself in my bedroom. I always had a place with them. Call them, let's hang out. You're a good person, Beth, and you shouldn't be alone. Let's friend each other on Facebook, let's trade updated cell numbers.

Weeks later -- maybe even less than that -- and EF is ignoring me. But I find out EF is contacting my sister via phone, Facebook, and text and inviting her out. "Gosh," says EF. "I'd hang out with you more often if it wasn't for your sister. I feel like I'd have to ask her, too and I don't want too. She's so angry and unhappy. It's such a drag."

Well, no shit Sherlock. It's hard to be Pollyanna when every single time anyone enters your life, it's with a sharpened knife that goes into your back the moment you've glanced away.

I'm alone. It scares me. I'm trying to deal with a lot of bad, bad situations in my life right now and the last thing I need is for someone to think I'm a drag because I'm struggling to control my anger and depression. What I need is a friend -- what I need is love, and I find it absolutely impossible to come by. Friendship does not come with trust for me. It only comes with pain, and when I protest, I'm told that I expect too much out of people. Apparently, you're supposed to keep forgiving people the horrendous things they say and do behind your back because once and awhile you'll get a lunch date out of it ... a lunch date they'll promptly say was a total drag, man.

I'm done with this person. Bridge crossed and burned. I didn't want them back in my life after the last "break" a year and a half ago, but I tried to be the better person and understand their flaws, and accept them for what they were. The moment I did that, I saw the reality, which was they weren't just flawed, they were glibly cruel. It's not worth it.

I'll never understand the casual meanness of people. There have been so many situations and relationships in my life that have ended brutally and coldly -- and I look back and marvel as to how they could forget what we were, and what we had. I wonder why they can't look in the mirror and say "Wow, I really fucked up. I did wrong by her. I wouldn't want that done to me."

But what gets me most of all is that every onlooker will say that I should forgive this person or that, and allow them back into my life. My sister is horrified to see me delete cell phone numbers and Facebook friends. "You were friends with them. How could you get rid of them like that? They were fun. You'll miss them." Sure, I'll miss them. But a fun phone call doesn't make up for the fact that they hang up, and promptly forget human decency.

Hey, if declaring forgiveness makes you feel good, fine. Great. But for me, it's a pass on bad behavior. It's saying "What you did is acceptable to me, and I don't even care if you apologize. I forgive you. We're human. Warm fuzzies!"

Fuck. That. Shit. It makes me feel better if I cut that person out of my life and pretend they don't exist. I don't buy for an instant that people change, and that giving anyone multiple chances allows for anything but pain, regret, and crushed hopes. I see failed relationships like I see Band-Aids -- once they get dirty and gross, rip them off in one go. It hurts, but you'll never think about again. You wouldn't believe how good that feels.

But forgiveness? To me, forgiveness is re-sticking that Band-Aid again and again, trying to make it work. The Band-Aid is good. It helps. It covers up the ugly cut (life) and makes you feel better for a little while. Then you knock your knee against something, expose the cut, and frantically try to restick the Band-Aid. But you know what'll happen if you do? You'll get an infection from that dirty Band-Aid. Rip it off. Get rid of it. It's not helping. It wouldn't have fallen off if it was helping you. It let you down.

Sure, it hurts. It'll hurt every time you bang that cut. You'll reopen the injury, and no one will be between you and it. But things heal. You'll cope. You'll be stronger because of it.

So, I don't forgive. I will regret what happened between me and them (and that's a universal them -- it ain't all about EF), and I will regret that it forced me to cut them out of my life. But I will not forgive.

Where do you go when you're not here?

Long time, no update. I apologize for my moody, miserable Tweets and general silence. Those of you who follow me on Twitter might have guessed that I've been quite depressed -- and if you're sick of me, you're not alone. I feel like a lot of people are just looking at their watches when I'm around, or avoiding me altogether, and I can't say I blame them. To be honest, I'm half glad, as I'm finding isolation and solitude to be a lot more comfortable these days.

Nothing has really improved personally or professionally. As you may know, I lost a major source of my freelance income, and nothing has popped up yet to take its place. This week, I've been putting in applications everywhere and offering myself up to full time retail. The possibility remains that I might have to significantly reduce my writing -- and I'm down to so little already that if I have to go work elsewhere, I might as well leave the online journalism world forever. It's too fast and without a constant presence, I'll be replaced and forgotten in a month. I feel it happening already, being left behind as people newer to the field than me progress further and further, whereas I'm still not getting into press screenings. I went from being super busy and in demand to someone no one particularly needs or wants for any sort of movie discussion.

Of course, the really sick thing is that my resume is absolutely useless to "the real world." I applied at a liquor store near my house and they demanded a resume before they'd give me a job application. I complied, and turned it in the day I was flying out for another set visit ... and let me tell you, there are few things more hideous than a liquor store manager sneering at your application as you're heading out to the set of A Major Motion Picture. I wanted to scream "I've interviewed Gary Oldman! I think I can fucking sell your Yellowtail wine!" I should have, but I held out hope that courtesy would win the day. (It didn't. And guess that store just lost my Guinness sales? Yep. And that'll be quite a hole in the pocket, let me tell you!)

And yes, the near constant reader bile continues to eat at me. It's very difficult to stay up all night writing a piece and putting a lot of heart and soul into it and receive either nothing back, or nothing but rudeness. I could probably handle it better if I wasn't fretting as to how to pay off bills. I mean, come on -- I was turned down by a liquor store for being a successful female writer. I'm fragile right now. Deal with it.

But hey, I didn't want to write a post that was utter doom and gloom. I actually had a very funny story to tell. Last week found me on another set visit, and while I can't tell you where or what it was, this time I got to be an extra in the film! It's insane to me, but slowly, but surely, all the goofy, fannish things I've wanted to do have happened in the last year. The whole experience was a lot of fun, and when I can write about it in full, I will. It's difficult to make it funny when I have to leave out the key details, sigh.

Now, we found this out the night before, and the instructions were to dress normal, and wear a nerdy t-shirt if we had one. Naturally, this would be the one time I didn't have a nerdy t-shirt with me. Technically, I did -- I wore my ComicCon exclusive Serenity shirt on the plane, but after an entire day of sweating in the airport in it, I didn't particularly want to put it back on, you know? Besides, I spend so much time in Wolverine and Serenity t-shirts that when I actually leave the house on a professional assignment, I wear Real Clothes. Nice ones, too. So I put on a 60s themed top, put on flattering make-up, and thought "Whatever -- I'm going to be on camera, dammit, and I need to look good. I need to wear something bright so my family and friends can see me!"

Naturally, this backfired. We were ushered into the scene and assigned places. I was originally in the front, near the leads, but the assistant director abruptly changed his mind and loudly proclaimed that he couldn't have any pretty girls that close to the camera. "I need big, geek guys up front!" So I was moved a few rows back, stuck behind any awkward guy they could find (and girls they made up to look awkward), and while the possibility exists that I'll still end up on camera (I was one seat away from one of the actors), it was nevertheless humbling. There's some truth to what those Megan Fox types say ... you can be too pretty for the big screen!!

So, there went my big break. Dreams of Clint Eastwood spotting me beside Two Popular Actors and rasping "That redhead -- find her! Those cheekbones! She's perfect for my Russian Revolution film!" are dashed thanks to wearing make-up and leaving my glasses at home.

I'm doing my best imitation of a Sears model here. I know -- too pretty? WTF?

But we all know that if Mr. Eastwood had seen me looking more in my natural state, like the above, he would have looked right past me!

"Girl's got a face for radio -- wait, that's what she sounds like? Tell her to stick to writing. NEXT."

Of course, that itself was just a concept I couldn't fathom. Me? Attractive? Too attractive? 99% of the time I'm too ugly for any given situation. (Come on, if I was actually good looking, wouldn't the liquor store have ignored the film resume and hired me on the spot?) We are talking about Our Lady of Perpetual Singledom here, a lass who wasn't pretty enough to score a date in years of higher education, and who isn't hit on except online. I've always assumed that's because I type like an attractive person, and men can project the Dream Geek Girl picture onto me. Even if they know what I look like (and my picture is everywhere), they can still cast me as perfection. Bye bye crooked teeth, unpredictable skin, and chubby thighs, hello lithe Lara Croft!

Anyway, if I was looking for a situation that perfectly encapsulates me and my perpetual discomfort more, it'd be this one. I just don't fit in anywhere, you know? Too pretty (apparently) for the ComicCon crowd -- I've actually pulled comic books out of my carry-on bag to prove that yes, I am a geek who reads Wolverine and Jonah Hex, but who also knows how to apply eyeshadow and wear high heels. But I'm too ugly and geeky for the "mainstream" crowd, who look askance when I chatter on and on about Preacher. I'd never catch the eye of a Gerard Butler sort. Now there's a guy who'd find me fat and pocky, but might consent to let me be that funny friend who knows a lot about Lord of the Rings.

"Harvey Dent as Sir Gawain, sure. I am too listening. Scoot over, there's a hot brunette behind you."

So, there you go. Credentials too glittery to find an "ordinary" job. A job that's not really glittery, but one that that leaves me poverty stricken, and lets me watch others go to junkets and festivals. Too pretty to be an extra. Too ugly to request a phone number from. I can't help but be self-deprecating and miserable, because I'm just so ill-suited to the world in general. Never sure of myself in my own skin, always a stranger in a strange land. I can act confident enough, though if I get too comfortable and settle into a "Yes, I am rocking this!" attitude, it all crumbles beneath me.

What am I sure of? That I'm going to end up like this in another 30 years:

"What Do You Want Me To Say?"

No, this isn't going to be a post about Jon "cartoon pilot" Hamm or Mad Men. I'm just trying to set a workplace tone here.

So, update time. Once again, if you've been following my Twitter, you'll probably recognize that my situation hasn't improved much. I do believe this has been the roughest period I've endured as an Internet Lois Lane, and it's a little dispiriting to go back through my summer blogs and realize I was all successful and upbeat when the season began.

But given that my depression has sparked some very caring and concerned individuals to write to Master Weinberg and Master Davis, I feel I do need to stress that I am still employed at Cinematical and it's spin-off blogs, the Geek Beat and Horror Virgin will continue, and if there's anything to really go "OMFG!" about, I'll be the one saying it. I hope.

However, my services are no longer needed at the other site I worked for. I will not name names or discuss it publicly. To do so would be in very bad taste, and would also violate the terms of my contract there. However, that doesn't prevent me from saying that the situation has left me depressed, angry, and a good deal poorer. Guess who isn't going car shopping any time soon!

I shouldn't be depressed about it, but I am, mainly because I'm at a loss at how situations flare up. Trying to navigate editorial problems has been an ongoing problem in this fledgling career. When I have a problem with someone or something, my reaction is to discuss it sternly, openly, and as professionally as possible. Apparently, this is no longer acceptable in this online world, where we're all supposed to speak like surfer dudes and be friends, with the distinct understanding that you do have a poorer ranking and shouldn't complain. But the next minute, you're getting flak because you didn't complain, and suddenly it's ok to be open, honest, and unerring.

Respect is a hard thing to come by in this day and age. Given the wild west nature of online journalism, I shouldn't be surprised it's even scarcer than at a Barnes and Noble or a Whole Foods.

I mean, what's at the core of the Twitter wars we engage in? A lack of respect. There are a lot of people in this field I don't agree with, but I respect them, unless they are making our field look amateurish, or if they're publishing outrageous political and social views. I don't hold people responsible (necessarily, there's always exceptions) for their Twitter opinions. I consider Twitter to be like a giant office or party -- there are people you don't agree with, or they say something shocking in the heat of a moment, but you take them on their own terms. You maintain a respectful relationship with them. If that person is letting their personal problems or political agenda affect their work and my own, then I'll take a confrontational stance. Otherwise, I have to respect their right to hold a certain opinion, no matter how wrong I find it to be. That's my code. Yours may vary.

Along that line comes an ongoing problem I meet regarding people's actions and their words. Those who bang on and on about how much better they are than everyone else -- I am neat, everyone else is sloppy -- you are going to have problems with down the road. I've only just now caught on to that. There's a reason the world has said "Actions speak louder than words" and you only learn why they say it with a lot of life experience. The person who has to stress constantly that they are neat will end up being the sloppiest person of all. It's the sad truth. It's like chivalry -- you either embody the qualities, or you're too busy talking about it to actually do it.

The same goes for any guy or girl who introduces themselves with platitudes about how nice and kind they are. Nice people do not introduce themselves as nice. That's not a label you bestow upon yourself. That's a label that should be given to you and when it is, it ain't part of your resume. You better work to maintain it. Being a good person isn't an end all rank of a video game, it's something you have to continuously work at, not achieve and let go.

I may have learned all this now ... but I still don't know what I'm supposed to say, Mr. Draper. all I know is that you have to simply put up and shut up, and pray to God you start earning enough to get health insurance to calm down those ulcers.

The result of all this whining is that year and a half later, I find myself having to scrounge for a "real world" job to supplement my writing income. So while you'll see me in the usual places, you probably won't see as much of me. There's just not enough work to go around. And while there's absolutely nothing wrong with being a freelancer and, say, a shop clerk, I feel like a failure. I feel like I've just gone about ten steps back, and can no longer call myself a writer, but merely a girl who dabbles in a hobby.

Worst of all? I'll have to actually wear clothes again. The Lebowski look is never going to fly.

How You Gonna Keep'Em Down On the Farm Once They've Seen Karl Hungus...

So if you've been reading my Twitter, you know I'm in a very dark and unhappy place right now, and not sure how I can keep on going.

Look, I'll be honest ... my job isn't that hard. It's stressful, it's unpredictable, but I get to write about movies and comic books all goddamn day. I get paid for what I'd be doing with my time anyway. That's pretty sweet. And in the last year and a half, I've come from total obscurity to someone who spent Saturday afternoon sitting next to Jon Favreau. (The dude smells wonderful. Like sunshine, cupcakes, and damn fine cologne. He's also pretty cute. ) I'm not exactly sure how I can go back to a regular 9-5 job after staring deeply into Josh Brolin's eyes, or getting told about stardom by Jimmy Hayward.

But ... fuck.

Things didn't go great in San Diego. Again, if you followed my Twitter feed you know I ended up not seeing anything (including the Jonah Hex footage I was shitting bricks to see), spending a lot of money, tearing up my feet, and just generally having a poor time. There were highlights -- Chris met James Purefoy who agreed I had "a fine name" and signed a poster with much love, the Favreau thing, seeing Gary Oldman get angry, having Jimmy Hayward say "I remember you!" That sort of thing. Also, I got these:

My sister keeps trying to steal the Wolverine because of his thatch of chest hair!

Otherwise, the last week has been a blur of poor sleep, transcribing, and a lot more drama. I may have come really far in a year and a half, I may have a lot of fans, but it doesn't stop the bullshit that comes with any job, but especially one that's freelance and online.

I keep thinking how very nice it would be to watch movies without looking at them through the lens of a writer, and how cool it would be not to hold my breath every time I check my e-mail. It would be nice to have bigger and steadier paychecks so I didn't wince every time I bought something. It'd be a relief to have to deal with coworkers and bosses in person and face to face instead of the chicken shit anonymity afforded by AIM and e-mail. I wouldn't have to censor my blog. I wouldn't have to worry that some psychotic fanboy or girl will tear through the Internet trash talking me, or that people will make fun of my personal life. Hell, I could have gone my entire life without knowing people on Rotten Tomatoes or a Lara Croft forum thought I was fat and ugly.

Look, all jobs have their upsides and downsides. Mine has a lot of upsides. I get some free t-shirts, posters, and I occasionally shake hands with and talk to good looking and famous people. I've made friends with people who do work I really admire. Sometimes, I get to see a movie set. I see and hear things my friends can only go "Holy fuck!" about. It's a crazy, heady life.

But it's also a job I can't be sure will exist tomorrow, comes loaded with hate mail, cliquish attitudes, Twitter wars, and a lot of "Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out" moments. I'm really kind of worn out by it all ... and it doesn't help that so much of this comes wrapped up with the personal disappointments and unhappiness that have been a mainstay since, I don't know, college.

So, I don't know what to do. On one hand, if I leave, I'll never get to shake Clint Eastwood's hand and say "You've ruined me for all others!!" On the other, I wouldn't have to read another psychotic "you're a bitter and horrible bitch" e-mail, face losing half my income on a spontaneous Friday afternoon, or feel awkward when I mention where I was, and who I was with. (I know, boo hoo, but I'm uncomfortable enough in my skin. I don't need more of that shit.)

We'll see. But let me take the time to say thanks to those of you who have shown me so much support and kindness, especially lately. I appreciate it. I may not always get to reply, but I do hear you, and it helps.

And the Horse You Rode In On!

I'm really tired. And I want to quit.

Just when I think this grand little career of mine is taking off into something special, and I'm precisely where I'm meant to be, I endure two weeks of professional hell and wonder why the hell I put up with any of it. I love movies, and I love writing, and I'm thrilled I found a job that combined the two.

But then comes a week like this. Not only did I realize I'm flying out to ComicCon next week (a thought I found absolutely terrifying simply because time is moving too fast), but the hassles of working all that out have been a lesson in horror and humility all at once. I was really looking forward to it, but now I'm just dreading it.

Perhaps I'm just overtired and San Diego will recharge my batteries with excitement and views of the ocean, but I'm feeling so sour and burnt out when it comes to fandom and our community of readers. Fandom has become a wretched, poisonous thing in the last year and it no longer has any boundaries. It's just angry and seething.

See, there used to be certain properties that you could expect fans to go off on. George Lucas. Star Wars. Twilight. X-Men 3. Superman. Star Trek. These are the things that could cause flame wars if you tread too heavily. You criticized at your own risk, and might be picking through e-mails for days. But now? Now every bloody film, comic, and television show has a psychotic, ravenous fandom that will tear out your through for daring to criticize it. When James Bond has fanboys and girls who call you every manner of name for saying "Gee, Quantum of Solace wasn't very good" or for making a Casino Royale joke (a joke!), then you know the film community has become very fucked up indeed.

For months, my comment fields have been empty, or filled with nothing but hate. Call Terminator: Salvation a flop ... out came the psychos. Criticize Bond? You're a stupid hag. Say that Russell Crowe grew his hair out for Robin Hood? You're ignorant of his hair-growing techniques. (This actually happened.) But nothing has earned me more hate mail than daring to point out that Chris Columbus' "Percy Jackson" looked an awful lot like Hogwarts. It didn't matter that it was more obvious than the nose on your face, and that the entire Internet was in agreement ... I was a bitter writer who had never studied Greek mythology, let alone English, and used criticism as a way to disguise my poor writing. Yep. Criticism of a teaser trailer is now indicative of flunking English.

We all battle with the comments. I feel good knowing Kevin Smith has battled with the demons it spawns for some time. I have endevoured to let them go, and most of the time I succeed. But when you're already having a very low week, having someone take time out of their life to actually write you hate mail is just rubbing salt into the wound. (To top it off, I started having shitty comments pour in on Horror Squad. Blood in the water, man.)

The thing that also made this particularly sucky is that I really had two very special installments of the Geek Beat this month -- interviews with Jonah Hex writers Justin Gray and Jimmy Palmiotti. Again, this was one of those moments where you go "Damn, my job is cool." It's surreal to get to trade e-mails and talk movies with two people whose Hex is scattered all over my house. But did the Cine readers notice? Oh no. Too busy scanning the site for their niche of fandom in order to start another flame war.

I love movies. I love comics. I love the magic of Hollywood. It's been an honor to be paid to write about both, and nerd out about Wolverine or Clint Eastwood, and have it be part of an excited, enjoyable dialogue. But what do you do when the dialogue is entirely one-sided? When everything you write prompts hate mail? What's the point of my job if no one is going to value my opinion?

I mean, I'm faced with spending four days at ComicCon for these people -- for readers who can't respect, value, or stand my opinion or the original content I bring them. I don't want sycophants, I want a give and take. But fuck me ... when did it become a lockstep movement of "Its teh awesome shut the hell up u bitch1!!!!!"

Between that, and some of the behind the scenes things I'm dealing with, I just don't know that I can continue. I swore I'd only do this for year or two, and then I would move onto something else. I've spent the last year and a half happy and confident (except for that one period at the same time last summer) that I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I've come a long way in a year, which strengthened my feeling. I mean, an insane idea I had of "writing about movies" came true. Few people can actually say that about their lives, right?

Nothing lasts forever, though. And hey, nothing comes without rough patches. I'm not naive enough to expect that any gig is going to be peachy keen all the time. But I need a change. I need something to balance out. And I'll do whatever it takes to help the stars align again, so I can be happy, sane, and balanced in my personal and professional life.