I need all of you to help me think of a new lj username. _harrietpotter is annoying me more than I can possibly express, and to make matters worse, vorsythia informed me that the other harrietpotter has recently started reposting. I am, needless to say, chagrined.
So, everyone, use your brilliant imaginations and send me anything and everything. All I ask is for something with no punctuation and no netspeak.
Current Music: A Horse With No Name
Normally, I have about as much love for the United States as for ovarian cysts. So it's a rare phenomenon that can inspire the kind of pjs-just-out-of-the-dryer warm fuzzy patriotism which courses through my veins now. That phenomenon is American Idol.
Yes, I said it: I love American Idol. It is hands down the best show on television. In this era of divisive red-state/blue-state politics, religious fundamentalism, and wide-spread hysteria, only this show has brought Americans from sea to shining sea together to participate in our true national pass-time: mocking losers.
That, friends, is really what AI (American Idol: now 50% more artificial than the leading artificial intelligence!) is all about. Like Abu Ghraib prison guards, we revel in the humiliation, making predictions on how long the judges will allow the latest fat, ugly, tone-deaf mongoloid to continue his cacophonous rendition of "A Whole New World" from Disney's Aladdin. Does our conscience bother us? Hell no! We can jeer at these hapless contestants (though as Americans, statistically 2/3rds of us are also fat, ugly, tone-deaf mongoloids) because, and this is the show's real genius, they asked for it!
While I enjoy mocking losers as much as the next red-blooded American jerk, I've noticed a trend that I don't recall happening last season (perhaps I just blocked it out): some of the contestants seem to actually be mentally ill. How do these people get in? Where are the Social Services people? Are there really so few scruples among the shows producers that somehow this seems ok? And what does this auger for future seasons? Will we lobotomize bad contestants (or re-lobotomize in some cases) and try to get them to breed during the Super Bowl half-time show?
On another note, it occurred to me as I watched the Coney Island-style parade of freaks that was our most recent episode (including that original sideshow attraction, Gene Simmons of Kiss, looking like a cross between Don Vito Corleone and Hagrid's dog Fang), that American Idol is really the televisual equivalent of badfic. There's the appalling grammar, the incomprehensible dialogue (Randy: "Yo, it wuz a'ight, I'm jus not feelin' ya - Stay crunked, my man"), the squeeing (Stupid Contestant #922: "Mark McGrath is such a babe!!!111), and - of course - the Sues. Take Carrie Underwood (a Sue name if ever there was one): a sweet-as-pie blonde farm girl from Missouri whose honeyed voice (and, presumably, her sapphire almond-shaped eyes, glossy lips, child of the moonishness, and ability to make a patronus in the form of Jesus Christ come out of her nipples) earned her a ticket to Hollywood.
Perhaps someone could write an AI/Harry Potter crossover badfic? Snape can be the celebrity judge.
Current Music: Shebang - as sung by William Hung
Cold germs by the trillions are currently drinking margaritas and reading trashy novels from deck chairs inside my throat, lungs, and nasal passages. So, because I feel like such utter bung, I thought I'd cheer myself up by putting up an entry about stuff that makes me happy.
Here, then, in no particular order, is "Stuff I *Heart*":
1. I *heart* June Diamanti. The new chapters of her fic But You Alone made me forget my sore throat and sinus pressure last night as I poured over them in bed. Her Severus Snape is the most rich, genuine, and realistic I have ever had the pleasure of reading, and her imagination of what a disappointing life could do to Hermione is poignant, believable, and frightening at times. If you haven't read it yet, stop reading this silly journal and get thee to Ashwinder immediately !
2. I *heart* robitussin. Chris Rock is right: there is nothing wrong with you a little tussin can't fix. I intend to down a whole bottle tonight and watch the tracers when my hand moves until I go into a short coma.
3. I *heart* my boyfriend. After finding me passed out half on the floor, half on the couch in my work clothes last night, he went out in the freezing cold to get me hot chocolate, aforementioned robitussin, and tissues. He then put me into my favorite pjs, tucked me in, put the cat next to me to keep me company, and left so his snoring wouldn't disturb me.
4. I *heart*, while we're on the subject, my cat. His name is Hat (short for Hatticus Finch - I know, I deserve whatever you have to say about this), he's a 7 year old, 15 pound gray tabby, and he's the greatest animal in the world.
5. I *heart* Professor Severus Snape. No explanation needed.
6. I *heart* the weekend. Nifra is going to visit me, I am going to kick this cold, and the sky is going to positively vomit snow.
7. I *heart* procrastination. Am I trying to call Kikkoman or Ajinomoto about sponsoring my Formula 3 driver? Am I writing my law school application personal statements? No! I'm updating my lj and it's fantastic.
8. I *heart* George W. Bush. Wait, no, that's not right. Too much tussin...
9. I *heart* the fact that Neil Gaiman's feature length adaptation of Beowulf just got re-optioned by Sony and I also *heart* that they are going to be doing it as a big budget motion-capture, special effects extravaganza. I cannot wait.
10. I *heart* hearing from you people. So tell me stuff that makes you happy, so that we can all procrastinate together.
I just read a post to WIKTT (don't ask why I was reading this: ten hours a day at Bullwinkle & Bullwinkle LLP makes me do crazy things) in which a person said he/she didn't read Porn Without Plot because he/she finds it offensive as a concept on the grounds that "writing is supposed to be about plot and characterization, and telling a story." I in no way mean to disparage this individual or his/her opinions, who in fact I'm trying to notify of this post so that he/she may clarify his/her position, but I'm a tad confused. What if the purpose of these authors is not characterization, but to help some poor horny fans get their yayas out? And are lemons and well-developed characters mutually exclusive? These questions are meant in all sincerity: I want to understand this better.
Are others out there offended by this genre? I read it, and maybe I'm a bit clueless but I hadn't ever considered the possibility that it was offensive, except in as much as it's too explicit for some. Can anyone offer either a defense or a more involved condemnation of PWP? Or at least your opinions on the subject.
Current Music: If I Had A Hammer - why, God, why?
Per the sage advice of you lovely people, I think I'm going to get the hell off WIKTT. The last straw was a post about Professor Snape teaching home economics, and like, OMG, how funny would that be?
Today is one of those days that makes you want to move to Patagonia. I'm working on a trust review which is about as exciting as a Monday morning History of Magic class with Professor Binns, Nifra_Idril's internet is down so I have no one to help me break up the monotony, and all I want to do is read June's three new chapters of But You Alone but I can't because the dreaded "hoverboss" has returned.
So, to help me survive the next five hours of work (and yes, folks, I do still have at least five hours), I'd like to pose a question to anyone out there who is similarly bored (and please forgive me if there is some part of canon that mentions this. I gave all my HP books away recently, and consequently cannot check this stuff before I open my big mouth): what event, series of events, or general change of heart caused Snape to go to Dumbledore and change sides? Are there any hints in the canon about his motivations for this, beyond just the general repellentness of Voldemort and his groupies?
and cracked out
Current Music: The Gambler - but when is it not?
|» WIKTT Just Tried to Kill Me|
Can I just tell everyone that I just went through four thousand two hundred and twenty freaking seven messages from When I Kissed the Teacher. Some of them really freaked me out, I have to say. Do you more experienced fans have advice about whether this list is even worth participating in? |
Also, would anyone like to weigh in on their feelings about Ron Weasley? It's come to my attention that there is significant antipathy for him out there, particularly amongst those in the proverbial dungeons of fandom. Do you lovely people hate the Weasel King too?
|» I too have a dream...|
My dream, however, is much less ambitious than Dr. King's: I have a dream that this day this office will rise up and live out the meaning of its "national holiday": My boss shall not show his face this day as he did not show it Thursday or Friday of last week.|
Unfortunately, my dream will probably go as unrealized as the good Reverend's. But until then, I thought I'd give my regards to cyberspace. As yesterday was my boyfriend's birthday (said boyfriend shall, for the purposes of this journal, be referred to by his nickname: the Monkey King), this entry will be dedicated to introducing you to the more ridiculous side of his personality.
For his big day we had a lovely little party, the end of which involved him and some of his more impressionable mates reverting to approximately age 15 and doing keg stands. For those of you unfamiliar with this glorious tradition, it involves holding either side of the keg and being lifted into something resembling a headstand above said keg while a friend pumps a beer into your mouth that both tastes and resembles insecticide. If you've never attempted one, and don't hold your short term memory all that dear or need a rude update on the contents of your stomach, I recommend it.
The fact that I'm here at work (a law firm whose name we shall, for the purposes of this journal, modify only slightly to Bullwinkle & Bullwinkle, LLP) attests to the fact that I had what I consider the good sense to avoid the keg stands. That doesn't mean that this morning was pleasant, though. I'm sure by the end of the day I'll be taking my tenth cup of coffee intravenously. Had I done a keg stand, I would have required a shot of adrenaline and difibrillation to even get out of bed.
The Monkey King, however, could play on at least a minor league keg stand team. Though he really doesn't drink that much any more, there was an era in recent memory where his well-defined levels of drunkenness were the subject of much amusement and anxiety at our gatherings (and more than a few bets). These levels (which are often separated by a single drink and tend to resemble, both in their overwhelming nature and element of surprise, tsunamis) are as follows:
Level 1: Wobbling. As a very tall man, the Monkey King tends to slump and lumber in the best of times. Early in the drunkening, however, he begins to have the coordination of a marionette being operated by a committee of Parkinson's sufferers. The beer spillage from such perambulatory dysfunction has been known to exceed 80,000 cubic liters and may be hazardous to those attempting to ford said spillage by automobile.
Level 2: Cheerleading. The King, rendered excitable by his libations, begins to notice he is the most drunk person in room. As in the case of last night, he encourages (or coerces) his fellows in drinking more on the grounds that they are "dropping the ball on the whole partying thing, man".
Level 3: Emoting. It is on level three that the fate of the night rests. Having successfully lubricated everyone in a six block radius, The Monkey King may be riding a crest of euphoria. In such cases, level three is characterized by statements such as "Thisss's da bess party ever. You guys're soooooooo great," "I love all of you soooooooo much," and "I wanna kiss you soooooooo bad". Hugs, high fives, and kisses may ensue. However, on occasion his cheerleading irritates and (due to its effectiveness) disinhibits certain individuals who shall remain nameless (and of course are not writing this journal) and the party descends into madness faster than a Joseph Conrad hero. One particularly spectacular example occurred on a subway car after a long night of drinking and involved him saying, in what I admit now was probably the utmost innocence, "Could you let me finish my own stories in public next time?". My response was probably a wee bit over the top, but I had been cheerleaded far beyond my capacity and simple snapped "Oh yeah? If I'm so annoying why don't you just get a new girlfriend!". Because we were deep in stage three, the King was unable to resist my baiting and emoted all the way back so loudly people left our subway car until he finally walked out a stop early and told me to "go the fuck home and fuck myself and see if he fucking cared, fucking bit-["Stand clear of the closing door, please"]".
Level 4: Adventuring. Too much emoting and eventually the King needs some air...and some potato chips...and some cigarettes...but not that kind, the Khazakstani handrolled kind they sell for $22.50 a pack at this store that might or might not still exist in New Jersey. Oh, and there's a great pizza place right near there. Pizza sounds good, right about now, doesn't it? And another beer too. Hey, let's go meet that friend of mine you call "that hipster buttface" who always stares at your tits at that shady, overpriced bar in his totally inaccessible, crime-ridden neighborhood. And let's ride bikes there. So what if it's snowing! Live a little.
Level 5: Fugue Stating. I am usually not in a position to comment on, or even remember, the events of level 5, but I can tell you they are pretty uniformly bizarre. The most innocuous level 5 evenings end with what we in the fine borough of Queens refer to as "getting Coned". This is when, while drunk and riding the N/W train back to Queens, one falls asleep and wakes up in Coney Island, about two hours away, often during morning rush hour. Level 5 can have even more peculiar results: recently the King spent the entire night drinking with his friends (the aforementioned keg stand delinquents from last night's fete). When he was not in bed in the morning, I assumed he had gotten Coned and went about getting ready for work. When I walked out to leave, though, there he was: passed out completely naked and spread eagle on the living room couch covered head to toe in cuts and scrapes with an Indiana Jones themed porno ("Indiana Mack" - yes, folks, I'm serious) running in a loop on the television and a bottle of Astroglide on the table. I was mildly confused, to say the least, and no less so when, upon waking, he informed me that the last thing he remembered was falling into our rose bush while trying to climb in the window. I chose to ask no more questions, which I find is a good general policy when it comes to level 5.
By the time I dropped out last night, he was at Level 3, and I'm fairly sure by the fact that he was still there this morning that it didn't go much further. Some of you might think I'm either mean or unloving to be able to to provide the world so unflattering a characterization of my chosen mate. But I think it's a sign of true love (and yes, of course I love him) to be able to love someone for their...eccentricities, shall we say. No one is displayed to advantage when describing how they behave while drunk. Perhaps to even the score I will dedicate a later edition of Theoretical Fetus to the top five stupidest things I've ever done while drunk. That's assuming I can narrow it down to five.
|» Hello wide world of live journal|
Welcome welcome, one and all! Well, actually probably just one, for now. In honor of the fact that I only have one friend on this thing, this first journal entry will be dedicated to Nifra, you greatest of all freaks.|
I am really just trying to dodge work. My big task for today is to try to contact the heads of Kikkoman and Benihana to try to convince them they really need to sponsor a Japanese Formula 3 racer. If you are the head, or even a lowly peon, of Kikkoman or Benihana (and are for some reason reading this instead of setting shrimp on fire or brewing salty condiments) please put me out of my misery and respond to this.
I'd like to also put out a general question (i'd do a poll, but there's no way on God's green earth I'm paying for this thing): is anyone else getting increasingly paranoid about the environment? I feel like our generation has replaced nuclear paranoia with environmental paranoia, and much more justifiably so (just because you're paranoid...insert cliche here). What do you guys think? Is the California flooding a sign of impending doom, or just karmic retribution for Meet the Fockers?
On another note (because I have the attention span of a fetal gnat): who does everyone think will die in the next Harry Potter book?
Until next time, folks.