The 35th Precinct

Another creatively constipated day in paradise. Six hours, zero words. I have, however, managed to suss out old Eddie Cahill interviews, eat an entire can of Chili Cheese Fritos and a can of yogurt, and post "Going Under" to csi_fic. A house afire, I am. It's not for lack of will or ideas; I have both in abundance, but getting started eludes me. Perhaps if my eyes weren't glued to the Internet until they were as strained and desiccated as a camel's testicles...

Whatever momentum I build over the next few days will be disrupted by the rude intrusion of academic responsibility into my fandom playroom. My paper will treat on magical realism in Gabriel Garcia Marques and Julio Cortazar. Exciting stuff if you're a lit nerd, but in truth, reading stories you normally wouldn't is a creative boon, as it expands the pool of literary techniques and allusions from which you can draw. References from Conrad's Heart of Darkness have already taken shape in upcoming chapters of Through a Glass Darkly, Come Ye Home Again, and now that I think of it, the title itself alludes to the Bible, Lewis Carroll, and the aphorism that "you can't go home again."

I will refrain from remarking on how clever I am. See? J.M. Barrie for you. If you read enough, you can scoop these puppies out by the dripping fistsful.

It's not the reading of stories that I mind. It's the tedium of research. For every good to excellent secondary source you encounter, there are thirty bad ones, abstracts that purport the craziest assertions on the flimsiest of evidence. Combing through the material available on magical realism, Gabriel Garcia Marques, and "El Ahogado Mas Guapo Del Mundo"(The Handsomest Drowned Man in the World), I wonder exactly what Crazy Goggles certain academics were wearing when they read it. Someone should tell these esteemed ladies and gentleman that beer goggles are not required attire when undertaking critical analysis.

ETA: Courtesy of beccaviola, The Craftmatic Adjustable Toilet

Dear Professor L,

You suck. I can deal with your obtuse explanations of phonemic concepts and your gormless expression when questioned by your bewildered pupils. Such things are a hazard of an educational system reliant upon underpaid and underqualified grad students and tenured old farts clinging to their titles and the doorjambs of their offices with the tenacity of a wolverine. However, I cannot cope with the fact that you assigned a torturous exercise in phonemic pairs and allophones, made it due before Thanksgiving, and promptly left the country so that we could not come to you with questions.

I have been wrangling with this final problem for four hours and am near tears, but there is no help in sight because I cannot reach you for clarification. How kind of you. Please fall into a hole in your travels. Happy Thanksgiving.

La Guera

I have done battle with my linguistics homework, and though I cannot claim to have slain the many-claused beast with my expert knowledge, I have at least beaten it back. What mastery of phrase-tree construction of English clauses has to do with my Spanish degree, I have no idea, but so the Illuminati of the Department of Foreign Languages hath decreed. Hopefully, I'll do well enough to muddle through the test and get one step closer to the finish line.

Last night, one of my regular anons commented on the picture I posted of Leland Chapman, asking if short hair and tattoos turned my libidinal crank. No, not really. In fact, I find excessive tattoos unattractive, but I'm willing to make an exception if a person has other charms. Leland has them in spades-long hair, a baby face, a sunshine and bluebird personality, curiosity, and the ability to tie unsuspecting souls into Gordian knots of untold woe. Alas, he's unattainable, but I thank God that He gave me such a lovely creation to admire from afar.

In truth, there is no one type of man that flips my switches. I've liked and lusted after Latinos, Asians, Germans, people with long hair, short hair, or no hair, bodybuilders, pencil-necks, rockers and country boys. I dribble over Eric Szmanda, Sean Bean, Alan Rickman, William Petersen, and Gary Dourdan with equal fervor. Blake Shelton torques my bolts, but so does Dave Batista or Edge.

Apparently, all that's needed to catch my eye is a wang, and even that might be optional.

Oh, well, more eye candy for me.

By the way, has anyone seen the trailer for Flightplan? Sean Bean in a pilot's uniform...guh~thud~

Thus endeth the second week of lessons, and while I hesitate to say that I've grown bored with the endless diagramming of sentences that are often silly and ridiculously long, I do wish she'd get on with it. I realize that there are a few members of the class who have heretofore demonstrated the intelligence of paste, but the majority of us could diagram sentences and phrases whilst in the throes of a drug fugue. Please, Professor, schedule individual tutelage for the grammatically challenged and the synaptically impaired and move on to the next topic.

Roomie and I are contemplating a trip to the movies tomorrow, but we have no idea what to see. I was marginally excited about The Cave, but it was so universally panned that I think I'll save my money. The Exorcism of Emily Rose looks like it could be worth a gander, but I know roomie would be bored. Not just bored, but emotionally bereft as he stared disconsolately at the screen and wished for the car chase from The Transporter 2 to breach the celluloid barrier and mow down the puke-spewing hellspawn in bad makeup.

That leaves Red Eye, The Transporter 2, or The Brothers Grimm. I could stand to see Cillian Murphy again, oh, yes, I could. That man's cheekbones should be considered lethal weapons. Good God. Then again, Jason Statham isn't hard on the eyes, either, and receding hairline aside, Heath Ledger is still a pretty, pretty mancake. Decisions, decisions...

I joined a CSI chat forum last night. I'm not sure I'll post much, if at all, but it is nice to see that I'm not the only lass squeeing o'er the manflesh. I was surprised to see a Jim Brass squee thread, however; when I think Teh Sexx0rz, Paul Guilfoyle does not immediately spring to mind, but more power to him.

The Nevillefic will likely go up tonight or tomorrow, and it will be huge. If you do not wish to be spammed with three entries' worth of fic exploring the bruised psyche of Neville Longbottom, it would be wise to avoid my journal for the next 72 hours. The fic will be behind a cut, so uninterested parties can easily scroll past the offending material. Feedback is greatly appreciated, but such pithy insights as, "You suck and write like dogs crap," will get you banned. However, "This story is a pile of thesaurus diarrhea," will not.

Lastly, the first entry in the "Waxing Lyrical HPfic Challenge" is on display in bitterbarbs, so if you've been following that, skedaddle on over for a read.

Can I interest anyone in a rebellious uterus? Mine is currently attempting to abscond with my sanity. I told my roomie I was willing to trade genitalia with him. He laughed at me. Of course he would. His God-given appendage doubles as a worrystone in times of stress, whereas my bits do nothing but cramp and spew noxious and vaguely carcinogenic biological hazards onto every surface not coated with Kevlar. It's just as well, I suppose. Were I suddenly endowed with a penis, I would no doubt waste valuable hours squirting myself in the eye and testing my testicles for ripeness.

Tomorrow is the second day of lessons, and now that the professor has dispensed with the tedious business of Storytime For Adults, I'm hoping she doesn't lapse into the favored teaching method of the past fifteen years and "split us into peer groups for discussion".

The only thing I ever got from a peer group was a blinding case of classroom rage. The theory is that the grouped students will learn from each other and develop problem-solving and social skills, thereby enhancing their education. Unfortunately, the reality is quite different. In a group of four, one student will quickly be designated the fall dork, and the others will piggyback on his hard work while doing nothing to contribute. If the fall dork carries the day, credit will be shared equally, but if the fall dork turns out to be little more than a moron in glasses, well, then it's all his fault, and he is duly ostracized.

General unfairness of such a proposition aside, I have two problems with "peer group" education. First, I learned all the social skills I needed to know in kindergarten. I learned that hitting was bad, bathing was your friend, and picking your nose in public will get you crossed off the list of kids to invite to the pizza party. I also learned not to run with scissors, eat paste, or loudly announce it whenever I passed gas. At twenty-seven, I'm fairly certain my socialization is as good as it's going to get, and if you haven't learned these things by the time you get to college and don't have the excuse of profound mental handicap, I foresee a long and fruitful career as a gas jockey in your future.

Secondly, when last I looked, I paid three hundred and fifty dollars for this course, not counting rent and food, and when I registered, I did so with the assurance that it would be taught by a professor. Indeed, the name listed under the title of Instructor read, "Dr. L. Reglaro, P.h.D. Therefore, I expect Dr. Reglaro to teach me, not Ned the soccer jock or Bitsy the Chi Omega. After all, according to your syllabus, you have the right to fail me should I fail to attend lectures. Why, then, do I not have the right to demand that I get that for which I paid, namely tutelage by a presumed expert in the field? If I have to sit next to the garbage can and wedged behind the door because the room is too small for a class of thirty and you can't be arsed to shift the desks to make room, then you have to be there and lecture for more than twenty minutes, and I don't give a damn if you don't feel good. After all, you don't have sympathy for me when I look like Death warmed over.

Fair is fair, isn't it?



( Weird CSI Dream )

Welcome, misreadsigns, to the flist.

Ridiculous fappage from the previous entry aside, I've decided to give the aloe vera a try. If the situation does not improve in thirty days from the time I start, it's off to the doctor and Nexium for me. In the meantime, I've got to decide between juice and capsules, and if I choose the former, what's a decent brand? Ah, well, I'll figure it out.

On the fandom front, the ficcing rolls along. I don't know why, but my writing habits have changed of late. I used to be able to write at any time of day, but now my most productive hours come between 9PM and 1AM. It's not unprecedented for me to be a nocturnal creature; when I first began ficcing in 2002, the vast majority of my creative output was done in the wee hours. It was not unusual for my to write from midnight to five in the morning, but after I rejoined the ranks of the single and no longer had to wait for the tapping of my Cassanova on the door, I re-established normal(and healthy) sleeping hours. That I have apparently come full circle intrigues me.

First day of class in twelve days. Where did the summer go? It seems like only yesterday that I was reveling at the prospect of eight weeks' liberty. Ah, well. If nothing else, the close of summer means the writing of a letter to the executor of my trust, such as it is, to authorize the payment of fall tuition. USPS, don't fail me now.