The 35th Precinct

The bills are paid, the car has passed inspection and had the oil changed, and the registration has been renewed for another year. Now all we have to do is look forward to Thor: The Dark World on Friday and the series premiere of Almost Human on the 17th.

I finally finished Mayflower by Nathaniel Philbrick. It was a solid examination of the deterioration of Anglo-Native relations throughout the seventeenth century, but it was so didactic and soporific in places that it made me drowsy despite a full night's rest. It was also draining and horribly depressing to read about the systematic humiliation of Native people by self-righteous English settlers with God-fueled superiority complexes. "Sure, these people might have kept our grandparents from starving to death that first winter, but fuck 'em. We want their land, and besides, they're happy in their heathen godlessness. Burning them alive and selling them into slavery is therefore not only morally acceptable, but ordained by God! Yeehaw!" Follow that with butthurt grousing over the Natives' ingratitude and perfidy toward the blameless English, and it inspired a migraine and a throbbing, impotent fury.

Next on the pile is Russian Disco by Wladimir Kaminer, a gift from schwester_grimm. It's a collection of humorous anecdotes about life in Berlin in the 90s and should be a refreshing palate cleanser before I start either the collected Hercule Poirot stories or the next Temperance Brennan novel.

Oh, hey, LOTR cast reunion on Sleepy Hollow! Craig Parker has been a busy bee in American TV this year. It was delightful to see him as the snooty, cruel Ban Tarleton. He made that redcoat uniform look good. And Denethor rocked it as the sineater. They left it open for him to return, and I hope he does.

One thousand three hundred and thirteen words today. That makes eighteen thousand one hundred and sixty-three words for March.




You know, if I can't have Richard Kruspe in his priestly vestments, I'd settle for one of these. I don't ask for much:p

We're heading into a spate of glorious weather here, and I'd love to get Et Tu XII finished and posted before the next series of squalls. It's three-quarters complete, and if I don't post it before the summer term sucks me into its gullet like a shucked oyster to slosh in the belly of Central Asian History, it could be months before I can bestir myself.

Christ, I hate school.


Dear Internet,

Why does it matter with whom Craig Parker shares his bed? He's not going to be sharing it with you. I'll admit to having fantasies wherein I engage in torrid affairs with Celebrity X, but my fantasies end where real life begins, and my X-rated daydreams don't entitle me to know about my lust object's private life. At all. Because they're never going to know or care who I am. Celebrity X falling for Reclusive Wallflower Y is a Hollywood trope and a fanfiction plot. It's not reality. Thank God. Their blessed ignorance of my existence and concomitant fantasies doesn't mean I can't imagine banging Haldir of Lothlorien like a screen door or tapping Don Flack like a keg or begging Richard Kruspe to use his Rammstein on me. Imagination is free and limitless. It does mean, however, that my relationship with them begins and ends on the screen. The end.

Therefore, Craig Parker's sexuality is none of my--or anyone's--business, and people should stop being so nosy and desperate for "scandal". Would he be any less talented or hot if he were gay? Would it make his Haldir less badass or his Lord Rahl less deliciously evil? He's not defrauding or deceiving you by refusing to disclose his sexuality. He's choosing to have a private life, which should be the right of all individuals, not just lonely, invisible, ugly nobodies.

In short, piss off, you gossiping magpies.