I'm really anxious that one of my favorite authors is having an affair. He's married.
My friends have tried to put my fears to rest, but the fears persist. I swear to God, it just seems as though he's talking about a certain woman too much for it to be innocuous.
I should get a life and it's a Nunya, but if he ever goes public with it, I'll have known the whole time.
I hate it when my heroes prove themselves human.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
And I'll look down and whisper, "No."
The excitement for the release of THE WATCHMEN, after the kefluffle of whether it would be released, made me dig, dig, dig through boxes of books until I found my copy.
It's been more than 10 years since I read it and I wish I hadn't reread it.
In my memory, the memory that fueled my heightened anticipation for the movie, the book was edgy and bleak, a completely mind-blowing experience. Major Ex exposed me to comic books and Alan Moore and Frank Miller, and something about where I was in my life responded in spades.
The Comedian's attack on Silk Spectre and her reaction to it hit me hard this time around. The last nail on the coffin was the fucking lipsticked kiss she lays on the picture near the end of the book.
You've got to be kidding me.
Which is not to say that the reread didn't show how many artists and writers in all sorts of mediums are in debt to THE WATCHMEN. Shit, there's a number of works that should begin with the dedication, "To Moore and Gibbons."
This was overshadowed by the knot of misogyny that couldn't be unravelled by my younger appreciation of the book.
It also brought up that feeling of "This is what you really think of us?" I hate believing that every man has a contempt for women somewhere in the layers of their being, but sometimes I get a glimpse of it.
I wouldn't say that men operate under this belief 100% of the time, but it's there. It's there in all the fanwank (I'm guilty of this) about the movie and the book that doesn't mention the glaring datedness of the work. It's there in a couple of glasses of beer at the bar when someone says something that puts you in the category of Other.
I'm not saying that women don't have their issues about men. They do. But I can't think of a canonical piece of literature by a female author that includes a big honking piece of contempt against males.
Such a thin line between gender trope and gender bias. And since THE WATCHMEN was so ahead of its time in many respects, why couldn't it have been in other respects?
I was going to reread Miller's THE DARK KNIGHT RETURNS and his Daredevil graphic novel, but I think I'll be putting them back in the box.
It's been more than 10 years since I read it and I wish I hadn't reread it.
In my memory, the memory that fueled my heightened anticipation for the movie, the book was edgy and bleak, a completely mind-blowing experience. Major Ex exposed me to comic books and Alan Moore and Frank Miller, and something about where I was in my life responded in spades.
The Comedian's attack on Silk Spectre and her reaction to it hit me hard this time around. The last nail on the coffin was the fucking lipsticked kiss she lays on the picture near the end of the book.
You've got to be kidding me.
Which is not to say that the reread didn't show how many artists and writers in all sorts of mediums are in debt to THE WATCHMEN. Shit, there's a number of works that should begin with the dedication, "To Moore and Gibbons."
This was overshadowed by the knot of misogyny that couldn't be unravelled by my younger appreciation of the book.
It also brought up that feeling of "This is what you really think of us?" I hate believing that every man has a contempt for women somewhere in the layers of their being, but sometimes I get a glimpse of it.
I wouldn't say that men operate under this belief 100% of the time, but it's there. It's there in all the fanwank (I'm guilty of this) about the movie and the book that doesn't mention the glaring datedness of the work. It's there in a couple of glasses of beer at the bar when someone says something that puts you in the category of Other.
I'm not saying that women don't have their issues about men. They do. But I can't think of a canonical piece of literature by a female author that includes a big honking piece of contempt against males.
Such a thin line between gender trope and gender bias. And since THE WATCHMEN was so ahead of its time in many respects, why couldn't it have been in other respects?
I was going to reread Miller's THE DARK KNIGHT RETURNS and his Daredevil graphic novel, but I think I'll be putting them back in the box.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
The Dempsey Factor
I came up with the term "Dempsey Factor" to describe actors who were geeky and awkward in their teens, but came into their own in their late-twenties/thirties.
Patrick Dempsey was the first one to make the effect absolutely glaringly obvious.
Then I started to look around.
Neil Patrick Harris and Wil Wheaton are the two I can think of now. I wouldn't count Jerry O'Connell because he arrived at hotness pretty soon after STAND BY ME.
In real life, I've encountered a mind-blowing example once. A friend in elementary school moved thousands of miles away (the next town) and I ran into him twenty years later. He was off-beat cute in sixth grade, but a Greek god in his thirties. He still had the same shy sweetness, which makes a lethal combination.
I heartily believe that everyone gets the chance to come into their own. Maybe not as noticeably as the men who've been Dempsied (nope, that word doesn't work), but in a definitive way. I imagine the effect is intensified when the person recognizes the change.
And not in the bullshit "I'm so different" declaration. Has anyone who ever said "I've changed" actually done so?
How comforting to know there's a bit of Patrick Dempsey in all of us.
Patrick Dempsey was the first one to make the effect absolutely glaringly obvious.
Then I started to look around.
Neil Patrick Harris and Wil Wheaton are the two I can think of now. I wouldn't count Jerry O'Connell because he arrived at hotness pretty soon after STAND BY ME.
In real life, I've encountered a mind-blowing example once. A friend in elementary school moved thousands of miles away (the next town) and I ran into him twenty years later. He was off-beat cute in sixth grade, but a Greek god in his thirties. He still had the same shy sweetness, which makes a lethal combination.
I heartily believe that everyone gets the chance to come into their own. Maybe not as noticeably as the men who've been Dempsied (nope, that word doesn't work), but in a definitive way. I imagine the effect is intensified when the person recognizes the change.
And not in the bullshit "I'm so different" declaration. Has anyone who ever said "I've changed" actually done so?
How comforting to know there's a bit of Patrick Dempsey in all of us.
Just like Xmas
Ella was kind enough to snag a computer from her shop and hand deliver it to me. She didn't steal it; I am paying for it fair and square.
The weirdness that happened was she decided to bring the kids down and we figured we should all eat together. If we were having supper together, why not invite everyone and the little event of getting a new computer (that's not true- it's a momentous event) turned into an impromptu gathering of the clan.
The house was full of adults, great food, and kids running helter skelter inside and outside. The youngest ate two cupcakes and changed into a hummingbird right before our eyes.
As I stood on the porch and watched the kids play tag with a zombie twist- you have to shamble, but it can be a speedy shamble- I remembered it was Valentine's Day, a fact I'd pretty much forgotten and remembered during the day.
Hands down, no questions, it was the best Valentine's I've ever had.
The weirdness that happened was she decided to bring the kids down and we figured we should all eat together. If we were having supper together, why not invite everyone and the little event of getting a new computer (that's not true- it's a momentous event) turned into an impromptu gathering of the clan.
The house was full of adults, great food, and kids running helter skelter inside and outside. The youngest ate two cupcakes and changed into a hummingbird right before our eyes.
As I stood on the porch and watched the kids play tag with a zombie twist- you have to shamble, but it can be a speedy shamble- I remembered it was Valentine's Day, a fact I'd pretty much forgotten and remembered during the day.
Hands down, no questions, it was the best Valentine's I've ever had.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Reason 251 why I hate sparknotes
Even ignoring the wild inaccuracies and generalizations on sparknotes, I hate that it makes checking for basic understanding hard.
Students have to walk before they run. Comprehension is important. After reading a section of a book, do they understand that A is the main character? That A did something to B? And this led to C?
Trouble is, that information can be found on sparknotes and to be sure that the little darlings aren't using the summaries as a replacement for reading the actual text, I have to go to the abstract questions.
But if all my assignments required abstract thinking, I'd end up losing the portion of students who didn't understand the text that deeply through no fault of their own.
This is my frustration, surely shared by every single secondary teacher out there.
I swear to God I have some sparknotes for texts memorized. The minute I see certain phrases in a student's work is the moment I realize that someone's been cheating.
I hate when I catch a student for cheating. The ache in the belly and hole in the soul. The feeling of betrayal.
A student came up to me at the end of last year and confessed he hadn't read any of the books and used sparknotes instead. Since he passed with a D- (largely out of my generosity and the safety net of groupwork), I wouldn't say his confession came with a gleeful "I sure put one over on you!"
I was happy that my class seems a little sparknote-proof, but it rankles that I can't ask the fundamental questions, the needed checks for understanding, without the worry that someone's taking the easy way out.
Students have to walk before they run. Comprehension is important. After reading a section of a book, do they understand that A is the main character? That A did something to B? And this led to C?
Trouble is, that information can be found on sparknotes and to be sure that the little darlings aren't using the summaries as a replacement for reading the actual text, I have to go to the abstract questions.
But if all my assignments required abstract thinking, I'd end up losing the portion of students who didn't understand the text that deeply through no fault of their own.
This is my frustration, surely shared by every single secondary teacher out there.
I swear to God I have some sparknotes for texts memorized. The minute I see certain phrases in a student's work is the moment I realize that someone's been cheating.
I hate when I catch a student for cheating. The ache in the belly and hole in the soul. The feeling of betrayal.
A student came up to me at the end of last year and confessed he hadn't read any of the books and used sparknotes instead. Since he passed with a D- (largely out of my generosity and the safety net of groupwork), I wouldn't say his confession came with a gleeful "I sure put one over on you!"
I was happy that my class seems a little sparknote-proof, but it rankles that I can't ask the fundamental questions, the needed checks for understanding, without the worry that someone's taking the easy way out.
CORALINE (spoilage ahead)
I went to see CORALINE yesterday and enjoyed it very much. Part of it was that it was Gaiman and part was that I don't often go to the big screen.
I do have to mention that it's a kid's movie. I know it's billed as appealing to adults, but that's a ploy. Even though it's creepy and scary in places, it's still made for kids. You need to know that going in and suspend your belief accordingly.
The movie also includes the voice of Ian McShane, the uber-sexy bad guy from DEADWOOD. His portrayal in that series was so masterful I had to sympathize with Al at the same time as coming to terms with the desire to want his boot on my neck.
I could natter on about everything I loved about the movie, but it's a little more fun to bitch about the two elements I disliked.
Of course the book was better than the movie; that's pretty much the way it is. I loved the book because Coraline reminded me of Alice: the type of heroine armed with only curiosity, wit, and nerve. Another reason I loved the book was that the stakes were high. The threat of buttons, lost parents, and death loom during the last half.
As a side note, I think this is what's missing in a lot of YA fiction. When I start realizing that failure could mean a hell of a lot more than a broken heart for the main characters and start fearing for them, I have a healthy appreciation for the author who took that risk.
Back to the movie. I'm pissed the screenwriter (not Neil) decided to include a friend for Coraline. Coraline's a loner. That's one of the poignant aspects of her personality. Put in a friend- even if the part about the slugs was cute- and the dynamics of character and plot are changed.
Not to mention, her little friend...SPOILER...
SAVES CORALINE FROM THE MOTHER'S HAND...
C'mon. Did the screenwriter see nothing wrong in diminishing the sheer pluck of the main character? Apparently not. I hate that Coraline gets rescued twice by that little add-on character. A huge satisfaction in the book is that she faces her fears and outwits her foe. Why change it?
I can't help but see some sexism in this. Or at least an appalling lack of judgment.
Sure, Harry Potter gets by with a little help from his friends, but that's a theme of the books. CORALINE didn't have that theme...Or wasn't supposed to.
But I'd recommend it heartily, if only in the hopes that the movie would lead people to the books.
I do have to mention that it's a kid's movie. I know it's billed as appealing to adults, but that's a ploy. Even though it's creepy and scary in places, it's still made for kids. You need to know that going in and suspend your belief accordingly.
The movie also includes the voice of Ian McShane, the uber-sexy bad guy from DEADWOOD. His portrayal in that series was so masterful I had to sympathize with Al at the same time as coming to terms with the desire to want his boot on my neck.
I could natter on about everything I loved about the movie, but it's a little more fun to bitch about the two elements I disliked.
Of course the book was better than the movie; that's pretty much the way it is. I loved the book because Coraline reminded me of Alice: the type of heroine armed with only curiosity, wit, and nerve. Another reason I loved the book was that the stakes were high. The threat of buttons, lost parents, and death loom during the last half.
As a side note, I think this is what's missing in a lot of YA fiction. When I start realizing that failure could mean a hell of a lot more than a broken heart for the main characters and start fearing for them, I have a healthy appreciation for the author who took that risk.
Back to the movie. I'm pissed the screenwriter (not Neil) decided to include a friend for Coraline. Coraline's a loner. That's one of the poignant aspects of her personality. Put in a friend- even if the part about the slugs was cute- and the dynamics of character and plot are changed.
Not to mention, her little friend...SPOILER...
SAVES CORALINE FROM THE MOTHER'S HAND...
C'mon. Did the screenwriter see nothing wrong in diminishing the sheer pluck of the main character? Apparently not. I hate that Coraline gets rescued twice by that little add-on character. A huge satisfaction in the book is that she faces her fears and outwits her foe. Why change it?
I can't help but see some sexism in this. Or at least an appalling lack of judgment.
Sure, Harry Potter gets by with a little help from his friends, but that's a theme of the books. CORALINE didn't have that theme...Or wasn't supposed to.
But I'd recommend it heartily, if only in the hopes that the movie would lead people to the books.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
You looking at me?
Yes, my errands are completed and the day was spent in industry. I'm going to write as soon as I get off the computer.
Last summer, a teenage crush on Henry Rollins was reawakened. I netflixed everything by him I could.
I really love the man even though we could never be together in real life. I don't care that he masturbates in the sink, but my sinning, although it's minimal, would get on his nerves. Heavy sigh, heavy sigh.
He said in one show that someone at some time during the day checked you out and thought you were hot.
I love this. I think everyone should live as though someone is checking them out right that minute. The reaction should be confidence, not paranoia.
His words ran through my mind at the gas pump today. A guy walked out of the store and he was fucking hot: cool ink, nice jeans, and a black wife-beater. It wasn't really warm enough for that kind of shirt, but I wasn't bothered, which is weird because inappropriate shorts and T-shirt wearing get on my nerves. I had to drop my eyes for fear of being caught ogling him. And I'm usually not one for the blatant ogle.
I wonder if he was free from the self-loathing grows rampantly in most people. Or maybe he didn't realize what a figure he struck, walking to his jeep.
Most cities have independent papers. Portland has the Mercury and one of the neatest parts of it is "I Saw You." People write in and mention someone they ran into, a stranger who made an impact.
I fell in love with this concept. One smile or moment of eye contact and boom, an impression is made.
Henry's right.
Last summer, a teenage crush on Henry Rollins was reawakened. I netflixed everything by him I could.
I really love the man even though we could never be together in real life. I don't care that he masturbates in the sink, but my sinning, although it's minimal, would get on his nerves. Heavy sigh, heavy sigh.
He said in one show that someone at some time during the day checked you out and thought you were hot.
I love this. I think everyone should live as though someone is checking them out right that minute. The reaction should be confidence, not paranoia.
His words ran through my mind at the gas pump today. A guy walked out of the store and he was fucking hot: cool ink, nice jeans, and a black wife-beater. It wasn't really warm enough for that kind of shirt, but I wasn't bothered, which is weird because inappropriate shorts and T-shirt wearing get on my nerves. I had to drop my eyes for fear of being caught ogling him. And I'm usually not one for the blatant ogle.
I wonder if he was free from the self-loathing grows rampantly in most people. Or maybe he didn't realize what a figure he struck, walking to his jeep.
Most cities have independent papers. Portland has the Mercury and one of the neatest parts of it is "I Saw You." People write in and mention someone they ran into, a stranger who made an impact.
I fell in love with this concept. One smile or moment of eye contact and boom, an impression is made.
Henry's right.
I'd call myself lazy, but I don't have the energy
Yesterday was spent in unmitigated sloth. I don't have the excuse that my battery needed recharging. The day started with lethargy and proved the whole "bodies at rest will stay at rest" law.
Today will be different. I figure if I can spend some hours in hardcore industry, balance will be restored.
I'm dicking around on the internet right now because my hair needs to dry and my bank doesn't open until eleven.
I won't spend this afternoon watching all three PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN or eating stale cake left over from my nephew's birthday. Said cake is in the trash and I'm ignoring the siren's call from my DVDs.
I intend to be like a worker bee and this isn't the type of intention that paves hell's highway.
No nap. A finite time on the computer. And mundane tasks completed. That's my day.
Today will be different. I figure if I can spend some hours in hardcore industry, balance will be restored.
I'm dicking around on the internet right now because my hair needs to dry and my bank doesn't open until eleven.
I won't spend this afternoon watching all three PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN or eating stale cake left over from my nephew's birthday. Said cake is in the trash and I'm ignoring the siren's call from my DVDs.
I intend to be like a worker bee and this isn't the type of intention that paves hell's highway.
No nap. A finite time on the computer. And mundane tasks completed. That's my day.
I'd be flattered if you card me
An ex in a galaxy far, far away used to take his card buying and card giving very seriously. He was in advertising and I think he came across some tidbit that said giving cards was an excellent way of networking. He took this advice to heart.
Never mind that he gave me a Snoopy card for my twenty-ninth birthday or that he was the biggest cheapskate I ever did know (but he did expose me to great music I probably wouldn't've heard elsewhere and he did take me to my first sex show, which in this part of the country means full frontal and a little extra).
He severed relationships, both business and personal, with the declaration, "They won't be getting any more cards from me."
I kind of felt sorry for him. Cards were much more important to him than to most people and I doubt the receivers of his little tokens of affect cared or noticed the deprivation.
That said, my family loves cards. When the gifts for young and old tend to be the gift card variety- and there ain't nothing wrong with that- something has to bring on the merriment.
For the longest time, I used to get my mother the cards that contained heartfelt expressions- given in all sincerity- until I realized she preferred humor. I had forgotten who she was.
We're not the type of family to tell dirty jokes in front of each other, but the cards that bring out the biggest laughs are the ones that are a little dirty or somehow capture something about our collective childhoods.
If not for our senses of humor, we wouldn't be able to shovel half the shit life gives us.
After the receiver opens and reads the contents, each card is passed around. It's a considerable victory to give the funniest card, to evoke the response, "Here, you've got to read this." My brother wins no question. He has an uncanny talent at selecting the perfect card.
My mother used to go for the humor, but now she's in love with the musical cards. They absolutely crack her up- and maybe provoke a little awe- and there's no doubt she buys them as much for herself.
She and my sister gave me my favorite card. Both of them bought me the PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN one that plays the "rally and at 'em" music. I play it when I need a pick me up.
In fact, I played it right now, which wasn't smart. It put me in the mood to watch the movies when I don't have six-plus hours to spend in front of the TV.
Never mind that he gave me a Snoopy card for my twenty-ninth birthday or that he was the biggest cheapskate I ever did know (but he did expose me to great music I probably wouldn't've heard elsewhere and he did take me to my first sex show, which in this part of the country means full frontal and a little extra).
He severed relationships, both business and personal, with the declaration, "They won't be getting any more cards from me."
I kind of felt sorry for him. Cards were much more important to him than to most people and I doubt the receivers of his little tokens of affect cared or noticed the deprivation.
That said, my family loves cards. When the gifts for young and old tend to be the gift card variety- and there ain't nothing wrong with that- something has to bring on the merriment.
For the longest time, I used to get my mother the cards that contained heartfelt expressions- given in all sincerity- until I realized she preferred humor. I had forgotten who she was.
We're not the type of family to tell dirty jokes in front of each other, but the cards that bring out the biggest laughs are the ones that are a little dirty or somehow capture something about our collective childhoods.
If not for our senses of humor, we wouldn't be able to shovel half the shit life gives us.
After the receiver opens and reads the contents, each card is passed around. It's a considerable victory to give the funniest card, to evoke the response, "Here, you've got to read this." My brother wins no question. He has an uncanny talent at selecting the perfect card.
My mother used to go for the humor, but now she's in love with the musical cards. They absolutely crack her up- and maybe provoke a little awe- and there's no doubt she buys them as much for herself.
She and my sister gave me my favorite card. Both of them bought me the PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN one that plays the "rally and at 'em" music. I play it when I need a pick me up.
In fact, I played it right now, which wasn't smart. It put me in the mood to watch the movies when I don't have six-plus hours to spend in front of the TV.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Call it a pash
Those few times in every year when I feel weary can be recognized by the length of my toenails and a lack of work crushes.
My pinkie nail will be digging into the nearby piggy, and I'll have to stop, find the clippers if I'm not too far gone, and ask myself, "What's the problem here?"
The same goes- minus searching for the clippers- when there's no one I'm crushing on at work.
TQ and I often talk about our work crushes. I think the service industry lends itself better to the mechanism of the crush. A regular says something funny or lingers a little too long at the counter, and all of a sudden, he's a crush.
My current crush is another teacher and one merit to it is that I'd never act on it for a dozen reasons. Some legal, some emotional, and some common sensical.
There's a delicious freedom in unrequited love. The ideal version of the person is seldom troubled by reality. I am perfect and he is too.
Still, there are times when I wish we could go out for a beer or watch a movie...
No, that's not true. There are times when I wish he would recognize that my good points outweigh my flaws and that we suit each other. I want to know what he's like outside of school. Even though all of us teachers get together after school, the aura clings to us. Our personas might become a little more foul-mouthed or outspoken, but they're personas nonetheless.
I want to see the man and I want him to see the woman.
That dissatisfaction tends to put a bruise on the apple.
Yet I love having a crush. It never fails to make me feel alive.
My pinkie nail will be digging into the nearby piggy, and I'll have to stop, find the clippers if I'm not too far gone, and ask myself, "What's the problem here?"
The same goes- minus searching for the clippers- when there's no one I'm crushing on at work.
TQ and I often talk about our work crushes. I think the service industry lends itself better to the mechanism of the crush. A regular says something funny or lingers a little too long at the counter, and all of a sudden, he's a crush.
My current crush is another teacher and one merit to it is that I'd never act on it for a dozen reasons. Some legal, some emotional, and some common sensical.
There's a delicious freedom in unrequited love. The ideal version of the person is seldom troubled by reality. I am perfect and he is too.
Still, there are times when I wish we could go out for a beer or watch a movie...
No, that's not true. There are times when I wish he would recognize that my good points outweigh my flaws and that we suit each other. I want to know what he's like outside of school. Even though all of us teachers get together after school, the aura clings to us. Our personas might become a little more foul-mouthed or outspoken, but they're personas nonetheless.
I want to see the man and I want him to see the woman.
That dissatisfaction tends to put a bruise on the apple.
Yet I love having a crush. It never fails to make me feel alive.
Live Fry or die hard
I've fallen in love with Stephen Fry and his blog recently.
I enjoy and admire anyone who's witty, which he is in abundance. I don't think there's anyone who's truly witty in my life right now. There are funny people and those who say one or two witticisms a week or month, but nobody who achieves that constant level of wit.
The worry that Mr. Fry wasn't in the Harry Potter movies began to plague me. After all, there's quite a amount of British talent in them, and the exceptions tend to make me wonder. I imagine Hugh Laurie's too busy with HOUSE. Helen Mirren's probably otherwise engaged. Mr. Fry's absence made me feel sad for him.
Until I researched the matter and discovered that he does the narration of the audio versions. Tell you what, it put my mind at ease.
It's the slippery slope of fandom to think I know a celebrity, but the giants I adore are also the ones I feel I know. He strikes me as being very polite, confident-yet self-deprecating, exceptionally intelligent (which means he's smarter than me), and I imagine if we met, we'd become instant friends.
No. Not really. I'd gawp at a distance and then shoot my gaze to the ground because his essay on fame would assert itself into my conduct. I wouldn't want to bother him.
But I love him from afar, as I do most of the loves in my life. Asking for nothing except the occasional blog and/or movie.
I enjoy and admire anyone who's witty, which he is in abundance. I don't think there's anyone who's truly witty in my life right now. There are funny people and those who say one or two witticisms a week or month, but nobody who achieves that constant level of wit.
The worry that Mr. Fry wasn't in the Harry Potter movies began to plague me. After all, there's quite a amount of British talent in them, and the exceptions tend to make me wonder. I imagine Hugh Laurie's too busy with HOUSE. Helen Mirren's probably otherwise engaged. Mr. Fry's absence made me feel sad for him.
Until I researched the matter and discovered that he does the narration of the audio versions. Tell you what, it put my mind at ease.
It's the slippery slope of fandom to think I know a celebrity, but the giants I adore are also the ones I feel I know. He strikes me as being very polite, confident-yet self-deprecating, exceptionally intelligent (which means he's smarter than me), and I imagine if we met, we'd become instant friends.
No. Not really. I'd gawp at a distance and then shoot my gaze to the ground because his essay on fame would assert itself into my conduct. I wouldn't want to bother him.
But I love him from afar, as I do most of the loves in my life. Asking for nothing except the occasional blog and/or movie.
Let your freak flag fly
I love reading, writing and talking about sex. With one condition: don't tell me what's right.
I was around for the second wave of feminism, which hadn't yet found the balance between gender sovereignty and harmony. Much about heterosexual relationships was judged to be oppressive.
I swear to God that someone once wrote that masturbation without foreplay was akin to raping yourself.
Holy shit!
Rape fantasies and romantic fantasies showed enslavement to the dominant paradigm. And what a skull fuck it is to realize your imagination is politically incorrect.
I'd slam anyone for telling what is or isn't right in an area that's confusing enough without the added pressure and guilt.
What made me think of this is a recent post I read in which the writer proclaimed that people who were subs or bottoms didn't really get off on pain. Just like the doms or tops didn't really get off on inflicting pain.
You can be freakish, but not too freaky.
I'm sure there are people on either side of the fetish who aren't into pain, but I'm also certain there must be those who quite enjoy getting the hell smacked out of them to varying degrees as well as those happy to do it.
Don't tell me the right way to go about sex.
I had a conversation with a friend of the poisonous sort who recently discovered S & M. Like anyone new to knowledge, she wanted to talk about it. Great...up until the third time she corrected my calling it "S & M" by saying, "No- it's SM."
Fuck her. Conversations about sex shouldn't make people doubt themselves or their predilections.
I've been shocked and freaked out from conversations- and dear Lord, I love it when that happens. But I'd like to think I never made someone feel like shit for telling me about a recent adventure or fantasy.
Because sex is hard enough. Which is the reason my view on sexual compatibility follows a Venn diagram (a graphic organizer that is simple and elegant and applicable to most occasions).
I think the ideal would be to have a huge sweet spot of intersection in the middle with some space left over for individual tastes.
I developed this when Major Ex was crestfallen that his former girlfriend told their co-workers that he didn't know how to kiss. He was hurt and since we were best friends at the time, I wanted to comfort him. I told him that he didn't have a lack of ability in that area. His style just didn't overlap with hers. No intersection.
Telling someone he can't kiss or sucks in bed is one of the bitchiest things to do. Telling co-workers promotes you to the uberest of Uber-bitches.
Of course tastes and styles differ. Everyone hammers out their sexuality according to individual kinks, twists, and influences. The minute rules and complexities and some kind of convoluted ethos gets inflicted on those who were doing fine before the censure is the moment that one of the most basic and simple and elegant drives gets fucked up (and not in a good way).
What happens between consenting adults makes for great reading, writing, and conversation. If your freak is riding a high horse, bully for you. Just keep that thing the hell away from me.
I was around for the second wave of feminism, which hadn't yet found the balance between gender sovereignty and harmony. Much about heterosexual relationships was judged to be oppressive.
I swear to God that someone once wrote that masturbation without foreplay was akin to raping yourself.
Holy shit!
Rape fantasies and romantic fantasies showed enslavement to the dominant paradigm. And what a skull fuck it is to realize your imagination is politically incorrect.
I'd slam anyone for telling what is or isn't right in an area that's confusing enough without the added pressure and guilt.
What made me think of this is a recent post I read in which the writer proclaimed that people who were subs or bottoms didn't really get off on pain. Just like the doms or tops didn't really get off on inflicting pain.
You can be freakish, but not too freaky.
I'm sure there are people on either side of the fetish who aren't into pain, but I'm also certain there must be those who quite enjoy getting the hell smacked out of them to varying degrees as well as those happy to do it.
Don't tell me the right way to go about sex.
I had a conversation with a friend of the poisonous sort who recently discovered S & M. Like anyone new to knowledge, she wanted to talk about it. Great...up until the third time she corrected my calling it "S & M" by saying, "No- it's SM."
Fuck her. Conversations about sex shouldn't make people doubt themselves or their predilections.
I've been shocked and freaked out from conversations- and dear Lord, I love it when that happens. But I'd like to think I never made someone feel like shit for telling me about a recent adventure or fantasy.
Because sex is hard enough. Which is the reason my view on sexual compatibility follows a Venn diagram (a graphic organizer that is simple and elegant and applicable to most occasions).
I think the ideal would be to have a huge sweet spot of intersection in the middle with some space left over for individual tastes.
I developed this when Major Ex was crestfallen that his former girlfriend told their co-workers that he didn't know how to kiss. He was hurt and since we were best friends at the time, I wanted to comfort him. I told him that he didn't have a lack of ability in that area. His style just didn't overlap with hers. No intersection.
Telling someone he can't kiss or sucks in bed is one of the bitchiest things to do. Telling co-workers promotes you to the uberest of Uber-bitches.
Of course tastes and styles differ. Everyone hammers out their sexuality according to individual kinks, twists, and influences. The minute rules and complexities and some kind of convoluted ethos gets inflicted on those who were doing fine before the censure is the moment that one of the most basic and simple and elegant drives gets fucked up (and not in a good way).
What happens between consenting adults makes for great reading, writing, and conversation. If your freak is riding a high horse, bully for you. Just keep that thing the hell away from me.
A brick to the head
Saint Oprah believes that God at first gives you a whisper. If you don't heed the warning, He'll increase the volume until, upon repeated unheedings, you get a brick- or brick wall- to the head.
I agree with her, but I'd put "life" in place of God, so as not to slip into solipsism.
Last Friday, I finished the edits and was all set to send my MSS off. My computer, which had been quirky before, decided to become downright diabolical: it wouldn't let me get onto the internet, wouldn't let me save my file, froze, and wouldn't shut down.
I met this disaster as calmly as I could. Which meant much whimpering and cursing and little choke sounds.
After the demons left, I sent the edited book off and decided to buy a new computer.
I don't know why it took me a near heart attack to make the decision. Then again, I'm the type of person who wears shoes and socks until they fall apart and hates to send back a meal, even if it's wrong. I'll eat wrong orders unless they're inedible.
Compromise and/or making do is great, but I'll always wonder why it's innate in some people while others are completely devoid of it.
I can afford a computer. I've been making do with the old one for some time. Why did it take a brick to the head to make me get a new one?
TQ has this same quality, and it smacks of the wearisome "Guess this is good enough for the likes of me" mentality. Her take on the sitch is that it's a virtue as long as it isn't taken to the extreme.
You gotta pick and choose, as with most things.
I choose to get a new computer now before the old one becomes too possessed for even the Winchester boys to exorcise.
My boots, on the other hand, will last me the rest of winter. The hole in the left one is really tiny.
I agree with her, but I'd put "life" in place of God, so as not to slip into solipsism.
Last Friday, I finished the edits and was all set to send my MSS off. My computer, which had been quirky before, decided to become downright diabolical: it wouldn't let me get onto the internet, wouldn't let me save my file, froze, and wouldn't shut down.
I met this disaster as calmly as I could. Which meant much whimpering and cursing and little choke sounds.
After the demons left, I sent the edited book off and decided to buy a new computer.
I don't know why it took me a near heart attack to make the decision. Then again, I'm the type of person who wears shoes and socks until they fall apart and hates to send back a meal, even if it's wrong. I'll eat wrong orders unless they're inedible.
Compromise and/or making do is great, but I'll always wonder why it's innate in some people while others are completely devoid of it.
I can afford a computer. I've been making do with the old one for some time. Why did it take a brick to the head to make me get a new one?
TQ has this same quality, and it smacks of the wearisome "Guess this is good enough for the likes of me" mentality. Her take on the sitch is that it's a virtue as long as it isn't taken to the extreme.
You gotta pick and choose, as with most things.
I choose to get a new computer now before the old one becomes too possessed for even the Winchester boys to exorcise.
My boots, on the other hand, will last me the rest of winter. The hole in the left one is really tiny.
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