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Feliz Cinco de Mayo a todos que lo celebran.
Now that I hath shewed my linguistic might, on to the entry proper.
I am happily on my camping trip. Once again, I find myself ensconced in the fine lodgings of the University Motel, but luckily, it is the semester break, and so there is a refreshing dearth of mouth-breathing cretins to awaken me at an ungodly hour. Even better, I've brought several books, playing cards, a scribble pad, an extra blanket, and my sleeping companion, The Froginator. I am set for the night, I tell you. Grissom, Jack, Chairman Kaga, and a good night's sleep.
Once I get home on Friday afternoon, it's back to the fic grindstone. The LJ-exclusive fic will probably go up on Saturday or Sunday, and truth be told, I'm nervous. Like SLS, it is a very dark fic with unpleasant themes and a sobering moral conundrum, but I need to make sure Rebecca isn't whinging. Nothing is a faster fic buzzkill than angst without purpose, and in order for this fic to work, I need the underlying motivations of all parties involved to be sound. We'll see. At worst, it is a humiliating flop, and the haughty empress who has so brazenly sauntered into public view clad in nothing but arrogance and the unsightly effects of time and gravity will quietly delete it from the servers. At best, you will enjoy the tale as much as I have enjoyed spinning it.
Friday is Kingdom of Heaven Day. I am hoping that the direction of Ridley Scott and the veteran acting leadership of Neeson and Irons will rise above Bloom's limited range. Bloom is a British beefcake of the first water, and his face is quite emotive, but his dialogue is always stilted and wooden, bloodless as the paper upon which the script was written, and when he speaks, I am seized with the overwhelming urge to peer over his shoulder in search of the puppeteer that surely must be hunkered and lurking there, hand jammed to the wrist in that delectable ass, lips moving frantically as the lines drift up from below.
You know what my luck will be, don't you? Neeson will die in the first reel, if not the first fifteen minutes, and I'll spend the rest of the movie wishing Kermit the Bloom would either die or get his good Christian dowel waxed by the fairskankarella maiden so that I can go home.
Now that I hath shewed my linguistic might, on to the entry proper.
I am happily on my camping trip. Once again, I find myself ensconced in the fine lodgings of the University Motel, but luckily, it is the semester break, and so there is a refreshing dearth of mouth-breathing cretins to awaken me at an ungodly hour. Even better, I've brought several books, playing cards, a scribble pad, an extra blanket, and my sleeping companion, The Froginator. I am set for the night, I tell you. Grissom, Jack, Chairman Kaga, and a good night's sleep.
Once I get home on Friday afternoon, it's back to the fic grindstone. The LJ-exclusive fic will probably go up on Saturday or Sunday, and truth be told, I'm nervous. Like SLS, it is a very dark fic with unpleasant themes and a sobering moral conundrum, but I need to make sure Rebecca isn't whinging. Nothing is a faster fic buzzkill than angst without purpose, and in order for this fic to work, I need the underlying motivations of all parties involved to be sound. We'll see. At worst, it is a humiliating flop, and the haughty empress who has so brazenly sauntered into public view clad in nothing but arrogance and the unsightly effects of time and gravity will quietly delete it from the servers. At best, you will enjoy the tale as much as I have enjoyed spinning it.
Friday is Kingdom of Heaven Day. I am hoping that the direction of Ridley Scott and the veteran acting leadership of Neeson and Irons will rise above Bloom's limited range. Bloom is a British beefcake of the first water, and his face is quite emotive, but his dialogue is always stilted and wooden, bloodless as the paper upon which the script was written, and when he speaks, I am seized with the overwhelming urge to peer over his shoulder in search of the puppeteer that surely must be hunkered and lurking there, hand jammed to the wrist in that delectable ass, lips moving frantically as the lines drift up from below.
You know what my luck will be, don't you? Neeson will die in the first reel, if not the first fifteen minutes, and I'll spend the rest of the movie wishing Kermit the Bloom would either die or get his good Christian dowel waxed by the fair