Lots of Dork

Hello! As indicated in my previous post, this week has been crazy busy. As also indicated in the previous post, you'll soon see why RenFest dorks should not be let near comics.

Where to begin...?

OK. I volunteer at the info booth every Saturday afternoon at the MN Renaissance Festival. This means I get to hang out with My People without paying the $20 admission fee. In return, I get to point out privvies to patrons. ELW got me into this gig last year, and it's a blast.

Dude, today I met an actual furry. Like, not online.

So, when you attend these things as a patron, the usual route is thus: food, shopping, food, cheezy stage show that's been the same for twenty years, food, beer, beer, beer, annoy festies with drunkenness, food, go home. When you're a vegetarian on a tight budget who has most of the comedy acts memorized and attends every freakin' week, you tend to pack a lunch, save your money for mead (the Mead Booth features home brew from a local farmer that is only available at Fest; I recommend the Egyptian Mead), and find a shady spot to listen to one of the many fantastic music acts from. My four favorites, in no particular order, are:

1. Misplaced, for whom I could not locate a website. They have a thing about putting the choruses from pop tunes into folk songs. It's highly fun.

2. Drunk & Disorderly. These guys all went to my high school and graduated a couple of years after me, which makes me absurdly proud even though I don't know them. They're awesome, especially on multi-part harmony and adience participation.

3. Pyrates of Portobello. Dude, pirates! With tar on our pigtails, and blood on our rapiers, we'll hoist the skull and crossbones, by god we'll take no prisoners! Er, yeah. Fun to sing along with. Also, their women are awesome.

4. Folk Underground. Do not go without hearing "Sweet Violets." Or their instrumentals. The Fabulous Lorraine plays fiddle beautifully. She's also in at least one other band out at Fest, but I've not gotten a chance to check them out.

So thems the goods, as far as I'm concerned. I've been to see some of them so many times I'm in danger of becoming a groupie. Not like that, you sickos.

So you're reading this, and you're saying, "OK, but why the hell are you dragging comics into your Fest post?" And that, my friends, is the comic relief for the day. You see, I've been reading classic X-Men story arcs a lot recently. Late 1970's, early 1980's. Dark Phoenix Saga, Days of Future Past. You either get the picture, or you're about to bail on this post. Now one of the most frequent critiques of super-hero comics that i hear is about women's costumes. Little to no coverage, strangs cut-outs, freakin' high heels. Yes. I get it. But dude, have you looked at the guys?! Lemme tell you, it's always Underwear On The Outside Day in the X-Men. And when I see that, I'm instantly transported to one of those RenFest acts that I've got practically memorized. The Washing Well Wenches have an audience participation bit where they challenge one of the guys in the crowd to run to a nearby rise, put on a giant pair of briefs over his pants, and yell, "IN MY MANPANTS I CAN DO ANYTHING!!!!" Indeed.



You saw it coming. I know you did.

Phonogram

Y'all. I know. I'm blogging about comics again. But see, I'm a Heroine Addict, the title is no lie, and so I gotta get my fix somewhere. In a medium full up with people saving the world/the day/each other, you gotta find something sometime.

Unfortunately, I'm not at all sure I'll find it here. Phonogram seems kind of tired before it even starts; we've seen the protagonist-you're-supposed-to-hate before, we've seen male characters who think they're too good for women before, we've seen the Goddess who proves them fucking wrong before. I'm not saying that any of this shouldn't be done (ok, I coulda lived without the women hate; Jeezy Creezy, people, find a NEW way to make me dislike your character, because the hipster misogyny is SO last century), but if you're character is pretty much every other pretty boy magician ever, you might consider using your first issue to introduce something that makes your comic different.

I picked it up (OK, my cousin picked it up for me) because the premise is fucking awesome: music is magic. No, really. Not just in the transported, nostalgic metaphor sense but, apparently, in the *poof* you're a toad sense. I say "apparently" because after reading the first ish, I know no more about how this works than I did before reading. There are Phonomancers; they have a Goddess; she smites people in club bathrooms (er... minor spoiler there, but as I'm not sure exactly how the smitage went down or what its consequence is, I don't feel too guilty). The Phono-world remains impenetrable and unsatisfying. As this means that I'll likely stick it out through the second issue in order to find out more, I doubt my dissaisfaction matters much, but for something that's been rather well-hyped, it sure was a let-down.

Should you want to preview Phonogram, one of the folks at scans_daily has posted parts of it here. The poster is a lot more enthusiastic about it than I, so by all means read her review (and comments) as well.

Coming soon to Confessions of a Heroine Addict: In My Manpants, I Can Do Anything!, or, Why RenFest Nerds Should Stay the Hell Away From Comics. As soon as my weekend is over, because I've two out-of-town friends, two days of fest, and a post-surgical ELW to cram into it.

More Posting from Work

Why God Never Got Tenure.

Temping is slow, interwebs are good.

ETA: Via Making Light, Chibi Watchmen. Fan-freakin'-tastic.

ETA2: SSSSLLLLLOOOOOOWWWWW. When faced with boredom and the internet, I am a self-destructive twat. Rec me something work-safe and funny. Puh-leeze???

The Golden Hymen

So, I'm reading J. Michael Straczynski's Amazing Spider Man slowly, one trade at a time, because I can only put up with but so much of Peter Parker at one time. He's basically a fanboy Mary Sue (OK, fine, Marty Stu), and beyond the disruption in my suspension of disbelief that his long-winded witty remarks during lightning-quick combat moves create, some part of my brain knows that he's basically just another fully-grown man who still thinks the word "come" is fucking hilarious when used as a noun.

(NB I have nothing against fanboys. I spend a lot of time with fanboys. I can deal with the juvenile sense of humor. I've even learned to put up with their fetishization of various really creepy elements of fan culture -- say, Japanese schoolgirls, for a shudder-inducing example -- by laughing at them loudly when they talk about it. I can't patronize fictional characters into submission, though, so Peter is a right pain in the ass.)

At any rate, I got to the middle of the "Sins Past" story arc and nearly peed myself for laughing. (NB This is where I tell you to stop reading if you don't want to be spoiles for something that came out two years ago. Because I'm nice like that.) Peter has just discovered that Gwen Stacy had twins that were fathered by a pity-induced fling with Norman Osborn (that's Green Goblin to the uninitiated). Now, this is apparently a controversial decision amongst fans (I've tried to stay out of comics fandom online, because that way lies madness; this is the google overview). But none of those reviews, critiques, or controversies even touches on the element that triggered my irate laughter.

You see, once MJ gets done telling Peter the story of Gwen's hidden pregnancy by an insane, power-hungry super villian, Peter gets down to the business of freaking out about what matters most: the fact that she was a virgin when she slept with Osborn. Seriously. Through the entire gruesome tale, he's pretty collected; it's this realization that makes him snap. Because, sure, the pregnancy, the running off to a foreign country to give birth and hide the kids, the batshit megolomaniac ALL MATTER LESS than the fact that Petey didn't get to bust her cherry.

Y'all. I couldn't stop laughing. Sure, some would likely say it's more about failure to protect her from a manipulative older man (which is also problematic, yo), but it essentially comes down to his enemy fucked her first. There are two enhanced humans coming after you because they think you're their deadbeat father, Peter, but by all means take the time to bust a few pieces of furniture over your dead girlfriend's poor hymen. Does the phrase "least of your problems" mean anything to you?

Seriously, both the flashbacks to Osborn arguing with himself (I can't... I CAN!... Osborn... Goblin...) over fucking her in the first place and Peter's anger at him for taking something so vewwy pwecious to her suggest that poor, dead Gwen had no input into the situation at all. She's a convenient, penis-sized hole filled with angsty plot twists. You'd think Parker's first love deserved better than that.

ETA: Oh, holy hell. I just read the first ish of "Claws" an it did NOT help Peter's image at all. Granted, it did this by writing him completely out of character, but pervy-molester!spidey was not an image I ever wanted to contemplate. Eurgh. Though Black Cat's line about him being immature and maladjusted is highly quotable. Er, or would be if I had written it down.

I'm Trying to SLEEP Here

I have had it with these muthafucking crickets in my muthafucking basement!

Not dead. Ren Fest started today. Too little sleep. Too much chirping. Off to jam cotton in ears.

Snakes on a Clandestine Email Post From Work

Tomorrow, 7:10 pm at Brooklyn Center Ghetto 20-plex.  Be there or be... wherever you are.

 

Better post this weekend.  This work thingy's really cramping my style. :-)

I Gotta See These Muthafuckin' Snakes On This Muthafuckin' Plane

Who's going with me on friday? Early evening, Ghetto 20, further details as soon as I got 'em. It's the movie that bloggers made (or at least, made better).

Comment if interested.

Your Attention Please!!

I start my first temp assignment on Wednesday!!!

I Call Bullshit

It's three fifteen in the morning, and I can't stop thinking. This is not unusual. I'm a bit riled, though, so you get a rambling essay.

I've been calling bullshit on the idea of True Love since the sixth grade. That's capitalized because it denoted a very specific notion: a True Love that conquers all, survives any fuck-up, can be fixed with a simple apology, is absolutely irreplaceable (though can be mistaken), and retroactively disappears should it's accompanying romantic relationship end. I call bullshit just looking at that description. Whether it's your mother, child, lover, husband, sister, aunt, best friend, or your dog, loving someone will always be work. Getting along with them will always be work. Relationships are work, even if all you have to do is pick up a phone and have a conversation every couple of weeks; still involves effort. Much of that work is communication, which is what this conceptualization of True Love seems to seek to avoid: we love each other, so we don't have to talk about it; our True Love will fix the problem magically. Bullshit. Romance is not a Get Out Of Work Free card.

I'd love to babble something about living in an era of disposability and affluence here, but I don't really care where it comes from at this point. It's everywhere, and it's making me crazy. Why? I'm single, right? Don't really like romantic relationships enough to seek them out, don't really see my sex drive as something that can't be sorted without the help of a second party. But here's the thing: take all of the "oh, you'll find someone someday" shit that you ever heard when you were single and MULTIPLY IT BY A FUCKING MILLION and you'll get what I get when I try to tell people this. Because as soon as folks hear that I'm not buying what they're selling, the become the used car salesmen of romance. "You're just not looking in the right place. You have to kiss a lot of frogs. You won't find anyone if you don't make an effort. Do you really want to be alone forever?"

OK, face it, I'm hardly alone. I live in my mother's basement; alone is a blissful state that I rarely achieve. And I'm the first person to admit my disinterest in romantic relationships is not a permanent condition. It's likely that I'll date in the future; I'm an attractive person and it'd be a shame to deprive potential suitors of my piss-poor communication skills. Right now, though, I find that the non-romantic relationships I have with the folks I love require all of the effort I'm willing to give. In fact, I've skipped some regular play-dates because I just wasn't up for them. I'm an introvert, yo. I feel socially over-extended fairly easily. And frankly, my experience with romantic relationships tells me that they take more effort than I put in with my three closest friends, with a higher likelihood of making me feel like shit in return.

Oh, I hear you: I just haven't found my True Love yet. Shut the fuck up. When your lover finds it in his or her heart to throw furniture at you, you tell me if love can still conquer all. What's that? Must not have been my True Love, then? I'm sorry, I don't retcon my life. We were talking cohabitation and combining bank accounts and rest-of-our-lives. Prior to that? Engaged to someone I couldn't imagine living without. Loved them both, could not stay with either one. And yet I live and am happy.

Because guess what? We're all blessed with self-control. I'm surrounded every time I go out in public by attractive people and yet I do not jump them. I am surrounded by people I would like to bitchslap, and yet they remain unharmed. I am barraged with email from loveforsale.com, and yet I do not sign up. My friends are all beautiful people, and yet I do not molest them (well, not so's they'd have to point on an anatomically correct doll, anyway). Get it? I don't want the headache any of these things would cause.

(OK, the dating sites have been calling to me lately, but that's mostly because I've been lacking blog fodder; it would be utterly mean to seriously implement any of the dastardly schemes I've thought up for your amusement. Self-control, yo.)

Until I feel like I can enter into a romantic relationship that doesn't smack of desperation, I'll pass. I don't need to be someone's One And Only, their One True Love, their Everything. The last time I was I turned into a personal therapist. And yeah, I keep hearing about how True Love and rationally don't mix, that I ought to think with my heart rather than my head about it. And really, Shut The Fuck Up. My heart fucking agrees with my head. It remembers being toyed with, and has decided to remit these matters to my brain for proper disposition. Yeah, it still loves people; hell, it sometimes mentions that the whole of me might not mind dating one or several of them. And hell if I haven't considered it, and usually decided it ain't gonna happen.

There you are again: "if you don't try, how will you ever know?" OK, you're seriously getting on my nerves now, Cliche Voice. STFU, and all that. I have tried. I have also Not Tried, that is, been attracted to someone and said nothing. I have felt both awful and joyful at the outcomes of both of these courses of action, but what is most important is that the world has continued to turn throughout all outcomes. My friends still make fun of me, I still get all flustered and tell them to shut up, the fucking US Army still decides to send my cousin to Iraq, and my mother continues to think I'm not trying hard enough to find a job. I'm not missing out. Hell, on the rare occasioin that people ask me out, I'm usually too polite to say no (of course, they usually turn out to be forty years old and look disturbingly like my uncle, but that's not something I can help).

I guess I'd just really like folks to stop treating me like an incomplete person. I am me, and I am how I will be, and I am whole. I'm happy for folks who have found happy partnerships. I just don't think partnership is the only way to be happy, and I don't like knowing that some of my friends and family feel that my life needs "fixing."

And now it's 4:45 in the morning, and I'm thinking, if they wanted to fix things by finding me a job, I might not complain. Goodnight, y'all.

Heroes (minor spoilers)

OK, I'll buy it for at least a few episodes. Here's the why, and some limiting factors:

1. The characters are far more varied in context than the website suggests.

2. It's smart: the plot twsts kept me interested, and the larger elements made me want to find out more.

3. Limiting factor: plots that revolve around the blonde who strips on the internet, especially when they involve sexualized and/or sexual violence. Female superhumans get enough of that already. And what exactly is her power? I'm so lost on that one.

4. Get High and Paint The Future Man: so very creepy, in a very fun way.

5. Limiting factor: oh, god, if they're really going where that last painting went I'm gonna be sick, because just the painting... yeah, I've got issues.

6. Super Hiro: he absolutely rocks. And he's not even blue*.

7. It's an X-Men rip-off that KNOWS it's an X-Men rip-off. The reference to Days of Future Past cemented my love for Hiro.

8. Limiting factor: find better flying effects, yo. (OK, so the X-Men movies could have used this advice as well. Moral of the story? If it doesn't look continuously cool, don't be afraid to cut away from the people in mid-air.)

9. The invulnerable teenager? Rocks. Hard. I never would have expected it.

10. Limiting factor: continuous tests of invulnerability. I've got a strong stomach, and I had to look away at points. Less gratuitous gross, please.

11. The "normal" characters are exceptionally cool, and have thus far avoided sidekick-ism by being part of main plot developments. Here's hoping.

So, yeah. I'm in. Is it september yet?

*E and M and I have decided that all the bad-ass mutants are blue. Yes, we discuss this fairly frequently. Shut up.

*Sigh*

Dear Self,

Please stop putting things "where I'll be sure to find them." At no time in the past 27 years has this worked. Dammit, I wanted to read the comics, not tear my room apart looking for them.

No love,
Me


EDIT: Hour two of search; still no comics. Day 10,158 of life; still no prehensile tail.

Everyday Superheroes

Heroes looks to be one of NBC's "please, oh please, bring our viewers back" offerings (right up there with Studio 60, but that has Sorkin, and therefore has a solid chance of not sucking). The website contains annoying amounts of Flash, but has bios of all of the "heroes" (near as I can tell, people who suddenly develop superhuman powers. Because that premise has never been done before) and some pictures of them being superhumanly pretty.

As is usual for ensemble casts, there are very few women and two of them are blonde. The one who isn't appears, from her bio, to not actually have a Power of her own, but to be the largely ignored sidekick of her druggie-artist boyfriend. Because naturally, the woman with dark skin and hair couldn't possibly be Super. (Yes, that was more venom than is deserved. I'm in a Mood.) The teenage girl gets the invulnerability (one of my personal favorite Super Powers), but she's also the Male Mid-Life Crisis Wet Dream fodder (bedroom eyes on a high school student? Only if they've got dark rings around them from staying up too late talking on the phone and cramming for a test).

Then there's Peter, the man who thinks he can fly. He's a male nurse, constantly overshadowed by his virile politico brother. Apparently, instead of growing a foot-long penis, he's growing wings. (OK, developing the ability to fly. Still, I saw X-3; the euphamism isn't lost on me.) Dear NBC, putting a male nurse with an inferiority complex in your shows does not equal better gender parity. He's still not a woman.

Will I watch it? Hell, yeah. Have you been reading this blog? I dig super humans. Not all of them, and not uncritically, but they appeal to my sense of "truth is more than reality" and various bullocks like that (I keep meaning to write up something witty and meaningful about my love of super ability, magic, and other reality-enhancing fictions, but I don't think I could listen to myself pontificate for that long). Hell, if I could have anything I wanted, it'd be flight, invulnerability, or a prehensile tail (in that order, but that changes daily). So I'll give it a shot -- might go after the pilot this evening, as I've heard it's available somewhere online, and I've heard folks squeeing all over it. I don't think it'll create any new entries on my lost of Favorite Enhanced Humans (comics!Wolvie -- just about any 'verse -- for the win, there, though Jenny Sparks and any number of the officers from Alan Moore's Top 10 are right up there), but it could be entertaining.

But just once, I'd like the networks to take a chance. To recognize that for every formulaic cast that becomes a huge success there's another that flops entirely. Because it's gotten to the point where I can't tell the blonds apart. Hell, I haven't been able to tell the guys apart for awhile; my mom has to sort me out every time I watch Without a Trace with her, because the two TD&H Fibbies look so much alike that I get confused as to how that person is in two places at once. (Mom: "they're not the same person! Look, that one's Latino!" Me: "... oh, yeah, I can sorta see the difference WHEN HE SPEAKS SPANISH." They fucking look the same!) Would it have killed you to cast a red-headed dude? Or, you know, someone shorter? Or fatter? Or darker skinned? Or OMG THEY ALL LOOK THE SAME!

Sorry. I get a little riled when I can't tell who's who. (You should see me try to remember names in undergrad courses where the students are all trying to look like A&F models. It really developed my appreciation for artsy kids who dress weird.) Maybe "Heroes" will sort out character differentiation with the whole super powers bit. But it still would be cool to be able to tell them apart before they start flying.

Selling Off Grad School

Best conversation of the day, while at Half-Price Books selling old texts:

Guy at counter: These look mostly academic. You in grad school?
Me: Nope. I quit.
Guy: ... Congratulations?
Me: *big grin* THANKS!

Man, did that feel good.

Where Were You Five Years Ago?

I was apparently writing bad poetry about someone who likely didn't deserve it, and though I've found the poetry journal and I've read the vague descriptions I cannot for the life of me figure out what the fuck was going on. It's funny, though. I go from agonized romanticism (really, yo, this is why I gave up the Twoo Wuv thing: it turns me scary), to damn near ODES, then to utter irrationality. No, really, the phrase "I'd do irrational things to stop..." (blah blah fucking blah) actually appears. The point is, it's five years later, and I'm NOT SURE WHO INSPIRED THIS MESS! Anything that's intense enough to inspire crap poetry really ought to be more memorable. Of course, the last of this magnificent (*snerk*) series is dated 9/9/01, so it's possible that I soon had other things on my mind. The next poem is on lost innocence; it still sucks, but starts a merciful trend away from cloying tripe. Also starts a trend toward only two poems a year since, which I surely can get behind.

So yes. Five years ago I was a college grad who was apparently infatuated with some poor soul (in typical Me fashion, I don't even specify a gender -- terribly egalitarian, but not so easy on the memory). And there was kayaking. Of course, there is no poetry about the kayaking, but kayaking is far more memorable than the parade of crushes through the heart of a twenty-two-year-old flake. That was also the year Cathy was in town. And the year Tom and I went to his cabin and my mom tried to call me and freaked out because I didn't answer for two days, so she called campus police to try to find me. No poetry about that either, but we do still make fun of mom for it. So I really CAN remember.

The next year there were quasi-romantic hijinks galore. I remember all of that. I'm mostly surprised that the bad poetry doesn't date from a year later, though kind of glad it doesn't because the person it would have been aimed at is way to shallow to have ever deserved it.

OK, I'm going to bed. This is one mystery that ain't gonna be solved and will only make me feel bloody old (holy crap! that was FIVE YEARS AGO!). So tell me: where were you five summers ago? And if you were near me, can you help me find my lost memory? Maybe it got shuffled in with something of yours.

Because Sending This Email Would Just Cause Problems

Dear mother,
Your condescention is not helping me find a fucking job.
Go to hell,
CJ


EDIT:
Dear Safari,
Your RSS reader sucks, and your auto-fill has the memory of a newt.
I can kill you with my mind,
CJ

CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP

I have not posted much over the past two days. I was out of the house quite a bit, registering with a whorehouse temp agency so that I can pay for all the hookers and blow continue to eat and pay my bills whilst waiting for the end of the parade of rejection letters. The concept of temping is not repugnant to me; I actually have quite enjoyed my other stints. The process, however, makes me cringe. I spent three hours taking tests to see how good I am at things I know I'm good at, only to end the day with an interview that included "what would you recommend we say to best sell you to our clients?"

...

Yeah. I resisted temptation and did NOT in fact list the various sex acts at which I am pretty damn expert. But perhaps you can see how maybe the mental image was not a happy one.

So, between brain death from standardized testing, mind boggling from unwanted metaphors, and the uninvited guest in my basement, I've been a bit disfunctional.

What? I didn't mention our newest roommate? Jiminy Freakin' Cricket has moved into my basement. It is possible that JC is in fact someone's conscience, because HE IS FREAKIN' LOUD AND WILL NOT SHUT UP, NO, NEVER, NOT EVEN DURING THE DAY! I'm not sure how he got in here, but whoever ditched him seems to have a lot to answer him. I'm thinking of taking out an ad on craigslist: "One Conscience, free to whoever can find and catch him, PLEASE OH PLEASE I NEED TO SLEEP!"

...

Yeah. He's that loud. He's all the way across the house from where I sleep, and he's so loud that my closed door, the pillow jammed over my head, and NPR playing on the radio can't keep the persistant CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP out of my head. I wake up throughout the night to a slightly louder CHIRP, as if he's afraid I've stopped listening and must make sure he has my complete attention.

Yes. He does. And that's why I haven't posted for a few days. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go on my nightly, futile cricket hunt.