I claimed Table #2 for [livejournal.com profile] spn13, and here it is:

01 Risk. 02 Fear. 03 Agony. 04 Temptation. 05 Evil.
06 Desperation. 07 Broken. 08 Pain. 09 Tears. 10 Ruin.
11 Never. 12 Death. 13 Forbidden.


A fic responding to a prompt will be posted once every four weeks until all 13 are completed.
laguera25: Dug from UP! (Default)
( Jul. 3rd, 2017 06:42 pm)
I can't seem to settle my mind anymore, and my bones keep rattling after. Book reviews and travel plans and social commentary and story ideas all whirl and tumble around in my head, and when I go to bed at night, I fall asleep to the promise of posting them in the morning, but in the morning, I wake up and shuffle to the toilet and then shuffle into the sunroom to stare at the computer screen with gummy eyes, and nothing gets posted. The incisive critiques of the books I've read molder into a vague, indifferent muddle in my head, and the outrage inspired by the ludicrous political doings of the fool in the President's chair dissipates into a leaden apathy. It's impossible to persuade the willfully blind when they do not wish to open their eyes, and you cannot change the world from behind a keyboard, furiously as you might peck at the keys. Would that you could.

The Internet is a wondrous invention, but the ability to peer into others' virtual living rooms exposes you to a great many things you would rather not see. For instance, before I ventured into the wilds of Facebook as a means to communicate with distant relatives, I had vastly overestimated the basic literacy of my countrymen. Surely, thought I in my naivete, surely most Americans can read and write at a basic level. Nope. No, they cannot. Grown men and women scrawl incoherent gibberings that would embarrass an orangutan and proclaim them the wisdom of Solomon. "Who needs school?" they cry as it is painfully obvious how much they do, or how woefully they ignored or misused its gifts. History is replete with the stupid and the inarticulate, of course, but in the pre-Internet era, their faults weren't displayed for the world to see. Once upon a time, people weren't proud to be ignorant, uneducated, and stupid. But those days, like Jefferson and Lincoln, Dickens and Wordsworth, are gone, gone away, and now the fool is king.

Maybe that's why it's been so easy to fall silent. When I started my first blog, I did so because I wanted to belong. On the Internet, I could not be judged by my looks or my imperfections, but had to be judged by the content of my character. If people disagreed with my opinion, I could rest easy in the knowledge that it was my opinion alone that provoked their response and not the palsied tremor in the finger that typed it. They disagreed with me, not the body I came in, and for someone accustomed to being judge before I finished entering a room, to the necessity of proving my worth before being offered basic courtesy, it was a revelation. The Internet, for all its flaws, pitfalls, and squalid dens of iniquity, was the great equalizer.

But as movie!Galadriel once said, the world has changed. Anonymity is no longer the order of the day. Where once we counseled prudence and safeguarded our privacy behind pseudonyms, now every aspect of our lives is lived in the public sphere. Where we work, where we eat, the movies we see and the books we read--all of these things are on open display, and because it is posted under our real names, it is easy to uncover who we are in the offline world. We're no longer abstract voices in the ether, but faces and bodies and professions and economic strata and religious creeds and political affiliations, and with that knowledge comes all the judgment and supposition so many of us wanted to leave behind.

I can handle being labeled a bitch or a cunt or an asshole; it's part and parcel of life on the Internet. But being derided as a crippled bitch or a retarded cut cuts far more deeply. It's a devaluation not just of my opinion as it stands on its merits or lack thereof, but as a devaluation and dismissal of me, of who I am at the pith and marrow. It's not my ideas they disdain, but me, the soul-spark called Guera, and nothing I say will matter because I am me. Flawed body means flawed mind, the end, forever and ever, and even if God shoved His hand up my ass and used me as His Divine hand puppet, my voice would go unheard because everyone knows people like me are poor misguided souls with no minds of our own, put here to teach our families patience and remind strangers how much crappier their lives could be, so be grateful, you whinging peasants, or the Lord will smite you with a stroke or give you a handicapped child.

I can't say these things publicly. Maybe I could have once upon a time, before anger and outrage became performative and good faith was the naive wish of the sheltered and privileged, but not now. Few would listen, and those who did would either condescend and tell me it was all in my head, the frightful bogeys of exclusion and rejection that have dogged me from childhood, or wag their fingers and tell me my unhappiness is all of my own making and I should just purge all negativity from my life, as if it were as easy as flushing a toilet(and all while moaning on their own blogs about how misunderstood and unappreciated they are. Hello, pot, I'm kettle. Would you like a winch for that beam in your eye?).

And therein lies the rub for me. I like the idea of people very much, but the reality of them is a bitter disappointment. I find them irksome and intrusive, too loud and too blinkered and far less clever than they believe themselves to be. And yes, I include myself in that misanthropic assessment. The pleasure they bring is seldom worth the effort expended to know them. There are wonderful people out there, and I treasure and delight in them as a dying man treasures another breath, but they are few and growing fewer. Most revel in being as cruel, petty, spiteful, and obnoxious as possible, and it's demoralizing to wade into the world to find that there's more mutual respect and decorum to be had in a shit-flinging poo fight at the monkey house.

I'm tired. That's the long and short of it. I'm tired of knowing I'll never be heard, that never again will my opinions be weighed on their merits alone, of knowing that even my family thinks I'm too stupid to have a credible opinion on any matter weightier than what to have for dinner, and that my only intrinsic value lies in how my existence shapes their character and improves their prospects in the hereafter.

I'm tired. I'm tired, and I want to be quiet, but to be quiet smacks too much of surrender, and I don't know what to do.
It's started again. Of course it has. Now that she's decided to pull up stakes again and move back to Florida, my mother is badgering me to do the same. It started this morning with a wheedling, disingenuous email enumerating the myriad wonders of Florida living and a nice, two-bedroom villa she found. Since she just told Roomie a few days ago that she bought a new villa next to my grandmother's, I suspect they are one and the same, and that though she bought the villa for herself, she'll now couch it in terms of having done it for me all along. Mysteriously-multiplying villas aside, she extolled the virtues of living near dozens of restaurants, bemoaned my limited lifestyle, and emphasized the presence of "medical care."

The stridency of this last item baffles me. I'm nearing forty, not seventy. I've always thought that when I was a young child, perhaps even an infant, the doctors(perhaps even the same pitiless oafs who told her not to name me since I wasn't long for the world)told her that I wouldn't live much past forty, and now that the appointed hour draws nigh, she's hoping to draw me home so that I can die in the bosom of my loving family.

Well, fuck that.

I don't know if the doctors whispered such a prophecy to her all those years ago, and even if they did, they made plenty of others that never came to pass. I'm not blind. I'm not mute. I'm not profoundly retarded. I survived. I endured. I clawed a rickety life for myself and snatched a few fragments of happiness from this hard old world. If the doctors got one right and my time is growing short, I have no intention of crawling home to spend what remains of it being smothered and steamrolled by people who thought so little of me and what I could've been that when my father drew up his will, it was not to provide for my life, but my assumed institutionalization.

If this is to be my end, then I would have it be such an end, as Theoden says before he rides out for the last time to meet the enemy. I will go to Atlanta for a last dose of Kiwi sunshine and spend time with him who loved me best and watch a few more sunsets over the mountain and read a few more books, and when it is time to quit the battle and go to meet Him who set me on this journey, I will go quietly, without fanfare. I will not be the set piece for one last drama with my mother wherein she plays the grieving mother. Let Roomie scatter my ashes in a shady spot for the ages or use them to plant a tree upon the ridge.

If she isn't preparing for my imminent demise, then I can only surmise that my grandmother's increasing frailty has raised the specter of loss, and of her own mortality and triggered yet another frantic, obsessive episode I'll have to weather. Whatever the case may be, the next few months promise to be an exhausting emotional grind.

Lucky me.
-One plucky, down-on-her-heels heroine making a new start? Check. Betts Winston dropped out of law school and slunk home to help her grandmother run her country cooking school. Why she dropped out is never explained, but it's implied that Betts just wasn't fulfilled as a law student and only found peace and meaning when she came home to find herself in tiny Broken Rope, Missouri. Fulfillment is the go-to excuse for these cozies when the author needs to explain why Our Hero(ine) decides to leave the big city and settle in a town that time forgot. It's more glamorous than admitting that the plot mule to which our narrative wagon is hitched for the next three hundred pages was an incredible dullard who couldn't hack their chosen career path and washed out after a semester-and-a-half to live with their disappointed parents, who aren't even getting rent out of the deal.

In this case, Betts is the school's resident gofer, though she tries to dress it up by saying she's her grandmother's assistant. Assistant. Uh huh. She stocks shelves, cleans, and does some half-assed shopping, and even those arduous duties fall by the wayside as she "investigates" the mystery at hand. However will her seventy-eight-year-old grandmother--who does all of the actual teaching and student evals--survive without her incalculable contributions?

-One cantankerous secondary character designed to act as an anchor and/or font of homespun wisdom to be spouted forth when the heroine gets insufferably boring? Check, and boy, does this character get a workout, because Betts is bland as institutional gruel. Gram, a.ka Missouri Winston, a.k.a Miz is Betts' crusty, septuagenerian grandmother who runs the cooking school. She's set in her ways and feisty and, according to Betts anyway, the best cook EVER. We'll just have to take her word for it, though, because the only time we see her cook, she sets a chicken breast on fire and nearly burns down the kitchen when she doesn't immediately call the fire department. But totally the best cook. The best.

Because this is a cozy mystery and we have to have a reason for Our Heroine to get involved in the plot and take center stage, Gram is arrested for murder when her friend, Everett turns up dead in the school supply closet. Thus, it's up to Betts to don the cape and save the day. Oh, goody.

-One hunky love interest for which Betts can pine? Check. As a bonus, the hunky love interest is Betts' first love, Cliff Sebastian, The One Who Got Away, and he's also the new deputy, which means he'll be shoehorned into the plot at every opportunity and thereby produce ample grist for Betts' overworked and unceasing angst and self-pity mill, whose machinery should be smoking from gross overuse thirty pages in but somehow chugs along for another two hundred and thirty. You lucky reader, you.

On his own, Cliff would be a good character, a bit one-note, maybe, but this is a cozy mystery, not Othello and one note can make a delightful ditty in skilled hands. Alas for us, Cliff isn't allowed to exist or act beyond Betts' petulant pining or the lens through which she sees him. Despite the fact that Betts left him, and that ten years have elapsed since their last contact, Betts pouts like a preteen when she learns that poor Cliff had the audacity to build a life for himself without her in it. He's married? OH, NOES! HOW CAN SHE CONTINUE TO LIVE IN THE SAME TOWN WITH HIM WHEN HER HEART HAS BEEN POISONED BY THIS KNOWLEDGE!!! He might've had children? OH, GOD, THE SELFISH, UNRELENTING CRUELTY OF IT. WHAT HAS HER LIFE BECOME?

Bear in mind that Betts is thirty years old and has dated several men since their doomed love affair. But never mind that. Somehow, the fact that Cliff moved on with his life is a horrible betrayal. Apparently, Betts, a grown woman ostensibly living in the really world, honestly believed that the man she cast aside in pursuit of her dreams all those years ago would wait for her. This isn't inference, by the by. She says this to her brother at one point(we'll get to him later). And she believes it. I just-

Look, I'm all about the One Twu Wub trope. I've written it. It's emotional catnip for me, and I don't blame anyone who eats it up with a double-fisted spoon. But I've never seen a lovelorn character resent the object of their desire for daring to have a life once they were pushed aside. Yet here we see it on full display and without apology. A grown woman acts like a ten-year-old eno queen at the merest hint that her lost love isn't drinking his life away without her lurve to nourish his languishing soul. It's jarring and repulsive, and as relieved as I was when it was revealed that Cliff was divorced, and that the little girl in his company was his niece, I was also angry because that meant Betts' creepy, inappropriate mooning and stropping was going to be rewarded.

And it is, of course. By the story's end, we learn that Cliff never really loved his wife and has been holding a torch for Betts for all these years. She's pettish, judgmental, stupid as a box of hair, and mercurial. What wouldn't crank up a guy's rheostat? Methinks that two years from now, Cliff will be headed across the county line in that patrol car of his to hide from the paranoid succubus who thinks he's flirting with every woman in town, and who wakes him up in the middle of the night in her room at her parents' house to nag him about why he doesn't taaalk to her. Just eat the gun, Cliff. It's faster.

-One quirky best friend? Check. His name is Jake, and he runs the town historical society, because they've got to have someone in these ideal-life fantasies with access to historical records. Jake is a convenient info-dump repository and sounding board, but has no personality beyond his utility to Betts as a prop for her distorted self-image as a a Good Person.

-One sibling designed to make the protagonist look better by comparison? Check. His name is Teddy. Betts describes him as the family flake and a rake, but I'd rather hang out with affable, flirtatious Teddy than Betts. At least Teddy doesn't think his paramours should never date against after a taste of that heady, incomparable Winston love. And for all her carping about Teddy's purported irresponsibility, he shows a remarkable knack for teaching and organization, and he's not the one who deserts their grandmother during the most important event in the school's calendar to play TBI Nancy Drew with a ghost in the old theater.

-One quaint locale? Check. It's called Broken Rope, Missouri, and it trades on its past as an Old West town as a tourist attraction wherein they run faux old-time saloons and stage gunfights. Everything is modern-day Mayberry in Broken Rope. Everyone knows everyone except when they don't, and since this is a visit to Shelton's own private, wistful Idaho where idiots solve mysteries by accident and get lauded as the hero, there's neither hide nor hair of chaw-chewing rednecks in diesel-spewing pickups with Confederate flags and gun racks in the back or of ratty trailers cum meth labs parked on the edge of some weed-choked lot.

-One dash of the supernatural? Check. Betts and her grandmother can see ghosts. Why? Because Shelton has books to sell. Because why not? Because some part of Shelton must've have realized how deathly dull Betts was and sought to spice up this plodding trudge of inanity with a pinch of the whimsical and otherworldly. Whatever the reason, she gives us Jerome Cowbender, the ghost of an outlaw, who turns out to be the true hero of the piece. Since he isn't the author's avatar, however, he'll fade into eternity and leave Betts to bask in the credit.

-One mystery? Check. As previously mentioned, Everett ends up dead in Gram's supply closet. Turns out he was searching for the treasure of Jerome Cowbender as a lark and half-heartedly searching for a daughter he'd given up for adoption years ago. Unfortunately for him, someone else was looking for it and did him in. So imaginative, I know, but if that doesn't twinkle your toes, we get the tragic tale of Jerome Cowbender, who only became an outlaw to support his love and their unborn child. He had cancer, you see, and wanted to provide for an unwed mother before he carked it and shuffled off this mortal coil. But the sheriff was a better shot and plugged him in the back as he rode out of town with his loot. Woe.

Bonus angst: Shortly after the birth of their love child, Cowbender's lover dies of a broken neck after a fall through a trapdoor during her contortionist's act, and the child is raised by relatives. WOE!!!

I've read worse, but I'm in no rush to read more.
If I could say anything to the world today, it would be that summer approaches. It's grown steadily warmer inside the house, and soon, the dogged whirling of the ceiling fan will be no match for the heavy, sticky heat. When that day comes, Roomie will rinse the AC filters, and the aging behemoth in the living room will drown out the television with its lugubrious hum. If anyone were to drop in on us during the summer, they'd assume we were deaf, victims of thirty years of listening to metal at high volume, because the volume has to be set in the twenties to compensate for its neighbor's throaty roar.

By June, the bedroom will be sauna. The small wall unit will take the edge off, but I will still wake in the morning with sweat tricking into the crack of my ass. Such is the price you pay for living in an uninsulated shanty in the South. And yet, miserable as it can be when your hair is plastered to your scalp in an unbecoming clump and you're swilling fluids to stay ahead of dehydration, I wouldn't change it. This town is flawed, and sometimes I dream of Tallahassee and the safe routine of easy excellence, but it's quiet and peaceful, and its isolation has allowed me to save up for adventures like Dragoncon and Rammstein in Vegas.

Speaking of houses, my mother bought a villa in Florida. Because why not? Never mind the four properties she already owns down there; she needs this one, too. Oh, and by the way, she and PC will be moving down there this fall. Apparently, they've decided to become stereotypical snowbirds and winter in Florida while spending their summers here. She claims it's because my grandmother is getting frail, but I suspect she's just lonely and homesick and restless again.

It's her life and her money to do with as she pleases, but I shudder to think of the property and estate taxes with which she's going to saddle me when she finally succumbs to the COPD she steadfastly refuses to acknowledge. Mayhap I'll be able to sell a few when the time comes.
If I could say one thing to the world today, it would be that the irksome, burning needling in my side continues. It's something that's happened before my period for years, but it's particularly bad this month. I'm not sure what it is. I've gone to the doctor about it three times, and each time, they declare they can fine nothing amiss and look at me as though I'm just a fretful little woman or a lonely cripple looking for attention, so I've just learned to live with it. I suppose I'll live with it until either my appendix pops like a balloon or a cyst ruptures or the pain gets so steady and so acute that they can't insist it's all in my silly head. If it does, I hope it has the decency to wait until after Dragoncon.
laguera25: Dug from UP! (Default)
( May. 12th, 2017 09:47 pm)
If I could say one thing to the world today, it would be that I am okay. There's an irksome, needling stitch in my right side and my period is late, but I'm still here. Every day brings a new dumpster fire in the political arena, and the country remains perched upon a dreadful precipice, its future as a democratic republic in precarious balance, but there is still hope, and as hope endures, so shall I. I ate today and looked out my window to see a blue sky and green grass and frolicking dogs, so yes, there is hope.

In matters less momentous, I've been reading and watching crappy paranormal shows and counting down the days until Dragoncon. Time flies of late, and it's less than four months until we're off to Atlanta for five days of fun, food, and geekery. The hotel is set, and since we've been saving judiciously, money should be of scant concern, especially since we're unrepentant cheapskates who'll make do with whatever foodcourt victuals we find. As long as I get an Urban autograph and photo op and a Skurge Funko, I'm happy.

And a visit to the aquarium, of course.

I've been working my way through a replay of Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess. Oh, non-existent readers, long had I forgotten the RAEG of the field chase and subsequent jousting match with King Bublin. I went at that for more than an hour, and frankly, by the end, I was perfectly willing to let that little turd, Colin, remain a permanent fixture on Bublin's spear, but I was damned if I'd let the game have the satisfaction(Reason, alas, takes a hasty holiday when I'm frustrated.). Sheer, seething butthurt bested code in the end, but I called it quits before I hurled my controller through our elderly TV. Link can just sit and think about what he's done for a few days. I'm too old for daily blood-pressure spikes anymore and don't want my end to be a massive stroke brought on by telling a conglomeration of polygons and meticulous code to go fuck itself and suggesting that he cram his less-than-helpful companion up his narrow, inept ass. Sideways and sans lube.
I finished Paper Mario: The Thousand-Year Door yesterday, and now I'm at loose ends. I'd planned to draw it out a bit more by leveling all stats to the max, but I got tired of mindlessly grinding on scrubs in the Pit of 100 Trials and decided to put paid to the adventure. As it was, I was ridiculously overpowered and beat the final boss quite handily. For most people, this would be no big deal, but for my spastic ass, it was cause for minor celebration.

I've started watching a walkthrough of Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild in a bid to fill the void, but while the visuals are stunning, the gameplay is soporific. I'm not a fan of smaller shrines in lieu of vast, complex temples, and there are fewer enemies to battle than I'd like. A quick Google search reveals scads of glowing reviews, but I'm just a crusty old fogey who eschews this particular sea change in gaming. Maybe I'll take a third run at Majora's Mask to soothe my wounded nostalgia.
We're bunkered in for the time being in an effort to save money for Urbancon 2017. I've been reading and playing Paper Mario: The Thousand-Year Door. I wish I could add writing/ficcing to the list of daily activities, but my inspiration seems to have evaporated. I haven't written more than a few half-hearted journal entries and inchoate scraps of fic in more than a year. Sometimes I toy with the myriad unfinished fics sitting on my hard drive, but none of them seems worth the effort. Every time I start, I stutter to a stop, and who's going to read it anyway with my sterling track record of leaving fics unfinished? So fuck it. I'll read other people's stories and stop looking for a sense of connection that I'm never going to find.
laguera25: Dug from UP! (Default)
( Apr. 24th, 2017 04:27 pm)
On the heels of joy, reality intrudes. We had to replace the rear tires to the tune of $200, and two days later, storms wiped out a surge protector. None of the equipment plugged into it, thank God, but that was another $40 unplanned dollars spent. The bill for the communal water pump is due next week, so there goes another $55 dollars. Add in $25 for lawn maintenance and possibly another $100+ for staining my ramp so it doesn't rot out from under me, and it looks like it's going to be a lean month. Bah.

At least the library is free.
laguera25: Dug from UP! (Default)
( Apr. 14th, 2017 09:58 pm)
There is joy! Joy in Mudville. Karl Urban was announced for Dragoncon on Monday. He could cancel, but for now, my joy knows no bounds.

I saw Fate of the Furious today, and now I want all the fic in which the Shaw brothers are the offspring of Victoria and Ivan from Red and they're a family of mercs.

The movie was just big, dumb fun, choked with angsty tropes. Betrayal by coercion! Surprise!offspring! Enemies developing a fantastic bromance! Hulking men with small children! Jason Statham with a baby! And damned if that baby didn't think he was the bees' knees. So much fun! Oh, DVD, where arrre youuu?
Tags:
laguera25: Dug from UP! (Default)
( Mar. 24th, 2017 10:15 pm)
Age is unkind to a body, especially one so ramshackle as mine. It has always ached on some level, battered by spastic muscles and misaligned bones and the constant thrum of anxiety, but it has recently added another twinge and throb to its ailing repertoire: My ass hurts. A hemorrhoid, mayhap; I've been prone to them since adolescence, a consequence of the aforementioned anxiety and spasticity. Or maybe as I've aged, my ass has compressed, flattened by years of immobility. I've never beheld my glutes in the mirror, but I do know that they certainly aren't maximus, and I have the sneaking, unhappy suspicion that if I were to stand upright, I would bear an uncanny resemblance to Michigan J. Frog. Guera Noshanks, they would call me in the sprawling lore of a fantasy novel, the wizened, stringy crone hunched in the corner of some filthy tavern that smelled of hay and malt and festering B.O., and I would be the bearer of the pivotal prophecy. At least until I dropped dead, felled by a convenient embolism right before the truth is revealed.

Hemorrhoid or a simple case of Flat Ass, this is no small concern for someone who has no choice but to sit(And on a related note, I can't tell you how cheered I am by all those studies that claim sitting shortens the lifespan. Whee!). Whatever it is, I hope it subsides soon.

Still no joy in Mudville. I doubt there will be, truth be told. His career has picked up under new management, and I doubt he'll have much time for con appearances anymore. I can't fault him, and I'm glad there'll be new projects this year, but a pathetic, wistful part of me is sad that I won't get the chance to be touched by his kindness this year.
Still no joy in Mudville, but then again, they still haven't announced much of anyone.

I'm replaying Paper Mario and the Thousand-Year Door. Man, I'd forgotten how fun this game is, and I seem to have gotten a bit better at it in the intervening years. Not great, but better. I'm halfway through Boggly Woods now and dreading getting 101 Punies across the crevasse via the bloviations of Madame Flurrie. Still, so much fun. I wish they had put out a sequel.
Still no joy in Mudville.

Roomie has gone off to run errands, and I am alone. On the one hand, I'm glad because I have a few hours to myself to think my thoughts and scratch my ass and watch TV without interruption, but on the other, I'm ill at ease. I'm exquisitely aware of my vulnerability, my physical limitations. If something unexpected were to happen, my options would be few. If I were lucky, I could escape the house to safety, short pants and my dignity. If I weren't, I would die. The end. It's a sobering thought to entertain, and sometimes I wonder how often able folks have similar thoughts. Not often, I suspect, else they wouldn't routinely do such stupid things as trying to annihilate a spider with a butane torch or leaping off a short bridge in an effort to demonstrate the unrivaled circumference of their sacred testes. I envy them such serene unawareness of their fragility.
laguera25: Dug from UP! (Default)
( Mar. 7th, 2017 02:26 pm)
Another day, another Dragoncon disappointment, but they have invited a bunch of NASA nerds, perhaps as a backlash to the government's anti-science stance. Bravo to them. I'll have to seek out a few of their panels and demos.

Speaking of science, congratulations to Jason Isaacs for landing a plum gig on Star Trek: Discovery. I have but scant hope in a show whose pre-production has been a mess from the get-go and whose debut has been pushed back three times, but God bless Space Tavington. I might pick it up on DVD someday(yes, I'm a crusty old Luddite who still has a DVD player). I do feel bad for John Cho, who was so excited when Michelle Yeoh was cast because it was assumed she was the lead.


After years of relative stability, my panic attacks have returned. I can't pinpoint a specific cause, but it wouldn't be a stretch to say that the current political climate plays a major role. Nothing is certain. Everything is under siege, and our institutions have given lie to the idea and ideals of representative government. Jokes about self-interested politicians have been around forever, but the truth behind them has never been on such alarming, ostentatious display before, and the comforting notion that even politicians had lines they wouldn't cross has been obliterated. The entire foundation of the country is crumbling underfoot, and who knows what waits for us at the bottom of the abyss. Nothing good. Nothing kind, and while I feel pity for myself and sympathy for the folks who saw the danger and did their best to avert it with their vote, I can feel no such things for those who continue to support this perverse, craven administration and insist that trampling civil rights and fomenting racism and xenophobia is making America great again. Yes, yes, reach out and build a bridge and blah blah, but I'll be damned if I'll waste my time and empathy on a moron who sees the chaos and the fear of his fellow countrymen and stubbornly, belligerently refuses to admit that there is a problem at all, let alone that they had a hand in it. If good people wouldn't be consumed in the oncoming conflagration, I'd let the idiots burn without a pang of remorse. Gandalf I ain't.
laguera25: Dug from UP! (Default)
( Mar. 6th, 2017 01:15 pm)
Every day, I check the Dragoncon guest list, and every day, I am disappointed. To be fair, they haven't announced anyone of note yet except Matt Smith and Billie Piper. Aside from the voice of Mario, they've only announced authors. Which, great! I might go see them if I can discover their hiding place at the con, but they just don't tweedle my tweedler like the actors do. If they announced Stephen King, say, I'd break my neck getting there, but Sherrilyn Kenyon is not in the same league.

Library holds are wondrous things. I peruse the catalogue of 281 member libraries, choose the treasures that catch my eye, and a week or so later, they're ready for pickup. It's not as much fun or as soothing as browsing the stacks myself and losing myself in the delicious smells and somnolent silence, but it does ensure that I'm not tempted to just grab a bite of lunch or pop into Walmart to fritter away money on a DVD I won't watch for three years. It makes life a bit duller, but finishing each month with a financial cushion, however slight, is a nice feeling.
I love medium salsa, but my digestive tract does not. ~moans~

Yesterday, we had a FANTASTIC thunderstorm, and by "fantastic", I mean a terrifying maelstrom that spewed hail and lightning and tore transformers from poles. Had I been home, I undoubtedly would've been in a fetal position on the floor with my pants in an unspeakable state of filth, but I was at the movies and thus was insulated from the roar by Lego Batman. It was cute but lacked some of the charm of The Lego Movie. It was too aware of what it was meant to be and occasionally tried too hard too be funny. Lego!Alfred was adorable, though, and maybe I'm an old sap, but I felt bad for the Joker when Batman told him he meant nothing to him. Batman was nice, but I want more Emmett.

In ominous news, I fear the car's transmission might not be long for the world. It felt very sluggish last night. I'd take it to be looked at, but our trusted mechanic has disappeared. Whether he moved or shut down entirely, I don't know. If the car dies, I have no idea what we'll do.
They're calling for severe weather on Wednesday, so Roomie and I will be seeking sanctuary at the library and the movie theater. We might even catch a double feature. This might not sound like much, but I haven't left the house since the first week of January. I simply haven't wanted to, and on the more practical side, you wouldn't believe the money I've saved. No excursions mean no temptation to buy DVDs I won't watch and food I won't eat, and since we don't go further than the library, we need very little gas. Life might be a little dull at the moment, but my Dragoncon nest is getting exceedingly well-feathered.

I wish I had more to report, but not much happens when you don't leave the house.
laguera25: Dug from UP! (Default)
( Feb. 26th, 2017 11:44 pm)
There aren't enough drugs or booze in the world to cope with the political climate in this country right now. Each day brings some new gobbet of calamity, some new assault upon decency and common sense. Facebook is a quagmire of cruelty, stupidity, and hysterical propaganda from both sides. To ignore it is to be coward, but to wade into it is an invitation to gibbering insanity.

It's times like these that I miss LJ-era fandom. I was never a BNF, and more than a few people found me an abrasive ogre or an insipid bore whose fics waffled interminably on before petering out into pathetic incompleteness, but there was always something to do or watch, and there were so many comms on which to lurk. You could feel at home even if nobody every knew you were there, and if you couldn't cope with anything else, you had a place where someone, somewhere shared your OTP or your headcanon or your hateboner for that one godforsaken character who should've been dunked into boiling pitch three seasons ago. You might only cross paths once, or you might be friends for years. Either way, there was a frisson, however fleeting, of recognition and connection. Now there's just a maelstrom of me me mes, and all those clean, well-lighted places are gone. It's very lonely. It's also the way of it now, and I find that sad.

If only it were different. If only I had not grown old.
Today was a good day. I knew I picked a good person to fangirl.

I started S2 of The Wire today. I'm two episodes in, and thus far, it feels much more sluggish than season one. The big bad isn't as compelling as the machinations of the Barksdale crew, and the feud over a stained-glass window is so petty as to strain credulity even as the pessimist in me acknowledges its sad possibility. I don't care about Ziggy, and the entire atmosphere strikes me as Sopranos lite.

I do like the fact that McNulty is still managing to piss in Rawls' Cheerios even from the harbor patrol, and I'm interested to see what's happening with D'Angelo Barksdale, doing his stretch in the state pen. He's clearly on coke, and that will doubtless have repercussions down the line. Where is Omar(my money's on McNulty's house), and what happened to the Gant evidence? I want to see Bubbles again, too. Still, it's an amazing show, with excellent, realistic writing, realized characters, and superlative acting. What a treat to see, and because I'm so late to this party, I don't have wait to see how it all turns out.
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