Movie love: I have it, you have it, everyone should have it. I love movies. I decided that since I have very important things to do that cannot wait even a little bit, I'm going to blog about movies instead. (A movies name links to the corresponding IMDB page)
Since moving to number 77, I've discovered to my financial detriment that there's a video rental place about two minutes walk away. Wow, city life is fun. There's a general shop thirty seconds away, a Chinese take-away (oh Singapore rice noodles, my sweet downfall) twenty seconds away, and many, many other pretty shops that are so, so close. You can tell I'm from the country when I consider all this stuff a privilege, rather than a right.
So having a video rental place close is fantastic. We've hired quite a few movies between us (Tuesday is movie night) , although our rental history is very eclectic due to our differing tastes. The last time we went down we got 'Strangers with Candy' (my choice), 'Mission: Impossible III' (her choice) and a joint choice of 'Shortbus'.
Shortbus was interesting, to say the least. I had no idea what it was about beyond the blurb on the back of the DVD. I'd never even heard of it before. Certainly I wasn't expecting people having real sex on camera (nor was I expecting three men indulging in oral sex while one sings into another ones ass), but once I'd stopped going 'Oh my god! Naked people! NAKED PEOPLE!' I could actually get into the film. It made me laugh out-loud a few times, and that always wins me over.
Anyway, when I returned that one, Korean horror-comedy 'The Host' accidentally came home with me. I loved it, and I hate horror movies...so to be honest I'm not actually sure why I rented it, but oh well. Anyway, today's recommendation is...
The Host. If you like big scary monsters, unlikely heroes, blood, a few laughs and subtitles, then this is the movie for you.
Friday, 29 June 2007
Brain thinky no
I meant to write a celebratory post about how finally, after many weeks of waiting for phone-lines to be activated and waiting for the broadband to be activated, I have the internet at home. That's what I meant to do, but I'm so tired and ache-ridden that I can't think. Still, in the spirit of trying to remember to update this blog and not let it fall by the way-side as is my wont, I will relate the events of last night. [Edit: That's originally what this post was supposed to be, but it turned into a mammoth entry about the problems getting broadband since we moved. Gosh, I'm interesting.]
So, I recently purchased a wireless thingy from my broadband provider. This was mostly for GP, as my computer doesn't have wireless connection facilities and I was quite happy with my broadband modem. Still, I got it delivered while I still lived at the old house, and decided that I would set it up when we moved in.
Issue the first: when we moved in we had no phone-line. This was because the previous occupants of the house had had a phone/broadband package deal and hadn't bothered to cancel it when they left. We needed a specific provider to use our broadband (with no option of another because I get unlimited speed/download broadband through a package deal with my mobile phone operator) and it would take a week for them to clear the line and then re-activate it. Or so we thought.
Issue the second: Re-activating the phone-line (is phone-line hyphenated? I suddenly realised that I'm not sure) didn't take a week. The provider wrote us a lovely letter saying that it would, in fact, take two and a half weeks, but that they loved us and valued our custom.
Issue the third: We couldn't activate the broadband until the phone-line had been active for forty-eight hours. Since the phone-line was activated on a Friday, and the phone company didn't do whatever the net provider needed them to continue doing on weekends, this meant a five day wait (apparently Monday didn't count either). My question, stemming from utter utter ignorance of the workings of phone and broadband companies, is: what takes 48 hours? Surely your phone-line is done and dusted as soon as you pick up the receiver and hear that lovely dial tone? And why can't dial tones be more interesting?
Issue the forth: Once the phone-line was active for the requisite amount of time, and the broadband account re-activated for the new address, it apparently takes fifteen working days to start the broadband account? What? WHAT? THAT'S THREE WEEKS! At this point I unpacked the new wireless thingy and, although I didn't even look at connecting it to the computer, I did connect it to the phone-line and I turned it on once a day to check whether or not the connection was active yet via the pretty flashing lights on top provided for just such a purpose. Luckily, it only actually took two days, but still. Thanks for the mini heart attack, broadband provider.
Issue the fifth: Okay, lets recap. Phone-line active: check. Broadband connection active: check. So, imagine if you will, an internet starved geek getting very excited and putting the wireless modem set-up CD into her hard-drive. Wow, that kinda sounded like geek porn. "Put your CD into my hard-drive, baby! Yeah that really makes my RAM work!" or something. I probably got that all wrong: I know nothing about computers, which will become very evident. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Set-up CD in the hard-drive. Right. So, I'm following the on-screen instructions, and then I go to connect my computer to the wireless thingy. Apparently it goes in the network hole, so I get down on my hands and knees and look on the back of the PC for such a hole. There is no hole. (There is no spoon). Damn, damn, damn. Don't you just hate it when you get so close but something goes wrong?
Luckily, I remembered that I lived in a city now, and cities have things like PC stores that don't close till 8pm. I ran out the door and was half-way down the road when I realised that I'd forgotten the offending cable. I considered going on, but then realised my legendary failure to articulate my needs would probably mean that I'd come home with a new graphics card or some other improbable item, rather that what I actually needed. So, I trogged back up the hill (I hate hills) and retrieved the cable. I got to the store fairly soon after that and explained my plight to the nice man (who luckily did work there) who stopped me, presumably because I looked very, very lost. He understood immediately and took me to the aisle where the adapters should have been, but they were sold out. In that case, my only option was to by a thingy that I would have to open my computer to insert into a slot, and that would provide me with a network hole. After a few moments of panicked debate with myself, I decided to give it a go. So, sweatily clutching my new purchase in my hot little hands, I hot-footed it home.
When I got there, I un-connected everything from the computer and carried it carefully down-stairs. Then I examined the new thingy. It had words like 'Ethernet' (eh?) and sentences like 'Connect the NIC and the PC motherboard with the WOL cable (if adapter supports WOL fuction' (buh?) on it. I stared at it for quite a long time, but the words didn't even resemble sense. Still, I thought, the guy told me how to install it: how hard could it be? And you know what? It wasn't hard. Not even a little bit. I popped out the bit of metal, popped the card in and wam-bamma-jamma! Had broadband! (after, of course, I'd put it back together, carried it back up the stairs and re-connected everything). I still don't know what a single one of those words means, but I have broadband and that's all that matters. Now, we just have to put the CD into GP's computer and set up her wireless internet. Whose betting something's going to go wrong with that?
So, I recently purchased a wireless thingy from my broadband provider. This was mostly for GP, as my computer doesn't have wireless connection facilities and I was quite happy with my broadband modem. Still, I got it delivered while I still lived at the old house, and decided that I would set it up when we moved in.
Issue the first: when we moved in we had no phone-line. This was because the previous occupants of the house had had a phone/broadband package deal and hadn't bothered to cancel it when they left. We needed a specific provider to use our broadband (with no option of another because I get unlimited speed/download broadband through a package deal with my mobile phone operator) and it would take a week for them to clear the line and then re-activate it. Or so we thought.
Issue the second: Re-activating the phone-line (is phone-line hyphenated? I suddenly realised that I'm not sure) didn't take a week. The provider wrote us a lovely letter saying that it would, in fact, take two and a half weeks, but that they loved us and valued our custom.
Issue the third: We couldn't activate the broadband until the phone-line had been active for forty-eight hours. Since the phone-line was activated on a Friday, and the phone company didn't do whatever the net provider needed them to continue doing on weekends, this meant a five day wait (apparently Monday didn't count either). My question, stemming from utter utter ignorance of the workings of phone and broadband companies, is: what takes 48 hours? Surely your phone-line is done and dusted as soon as you pick up the receiver and hear that lovely dial tone? And why can't dial tones be more interesting?
Issue the forth: Once the phone-line was active for the requisite amount of time, and the broadband account re-activated for the new address, it apparently takes fifteen working days to start the broadband account? What? WHAT? THAT'S THREE WEEKS! At this point I unpacked the new wireless thingy and, although I didn't even look at connecting it to the computer, I did connect it to the phone-line and I turned it on once a day to check whether or not the connection was active yet via the pretty flashing lights on top provided for just such a purpose. Luckily, it only actually took two days, but still. Thanks for the mini heart attack, broadband provider.
Issue the fifth: Okay, lets recap. Phone-line active: check. Broadband connection active: check. So, imagine if you will, an internet starved geek getting very excited and putting the wireless modem set-up CD into her hard-drive. Wow, that kinda sounded like geek porn. "Put your CD into my hard-drive, baby! Yeah that really makes my RAM work!" or something. I probably got that all wrong: I know nothing about computers, which will become very evident. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Set-up CD in the hard-drive. Right. So, I'm following the on-screen instructions, and then I go to connect my computer to the wireless thingy. Apparently it goes in the network hole, so I get down on my hands and knees and look on the back of the PC for such a hole. There is no hole. (There is no spoon). Damn, damn, damn. Don't you just hate it when you get so close but something goes wrong?
Luckily, I remembered that I lived in a city now, and cities have things like PC stores that don't close till 8pm. I ran out the door and was half-way down the road when I realised that I'd forgotten the offending cable. I considered going on, but then realised my legendary failure to articulate my needs would probably mean that I'd come home with a new graphics card or some other improbable item, rather that what I actually needed. So, I trogged back up the hill (I hate hills) and retrieved the cable. I got to the store fairly soon after that and explained my plight to the nice man (who luckily did work there) who stopped me, presumably because I looked very, very lost. He understood immediately and took me to the aisle where the adapters should have been, but they were sold out. In that case, my only option was to by a thingy that I would have to open my computer to insert into a slot, and that would provide me with a network hole. After a few moments of panicked debate with myself, I decided to give it a go. So, sweatily clutching my new purchase in my hot little hands, I hot-footed it home.
When I got there, I un-connected everything from the computer and carried it carefully down-stairs. Then I examined the new thingy. It had words like 'Ethernet' (eh?) and sentences like 'Connect the NIC and the PC motherboard with the WOL cable (if adapter supports WOL fuction' (buh?) on it. I stared at it for quite a long time, but the words didn't even resemble sense. Still, I thought, the guy told me how to install it: how hard could it be? And you know what? It wasn't hard. Not even a little bit. I popped out the bit of metal, popped the card in and wam-bamma-jamma! Had broadband! (after, of course, I'd put it back together, carried it back up the stairs and re-connected everything). I still don't know what a single one of those words means, but I have broadband and that's all that matters. Now, we just have to put the CD into GP's computer and set up her wireless internet. Whose betting something's going to go wrong with that?
Wednesday, 20 June 2007
I am not panicking.
I am not panicking.
There's a random nest of some sort of creepy insect living in the bin we inherited. I am not panicking.
There's a random smell in the kitchen that must, surely, have a source...but I cannot find it. I am not in any way shape or form indulging in panic.
I have no money. Not worried, nope.
I cannot get the internet for another (excuse me while I count on my fingers) five to six days. No panic here. This is a panic free zone.
You know what I need? I need to hot-foot it down to Blockbuster and rent me some pretty lady movies (no, not those sorts of pretty lady movies). I think a tub of chocolate ice-cream and two hours of Jodie Foster/Diane Lane/some other of my celebrity crushes would do me the world of good.
Actually...you know what I really need? To leave here right now because of just checked the time and my parking ticket ran out two minutes ago. Damn! Damn this wonderful newly discovered cyber cafe with it's comfortable chairs and high-speed connections and keyboards that make that lovely muted 'thuck-thuck' sound, so unlike my keyboard that goes 'CLACK-CLACK'.
You know when you're addicted to the internet when you realise that you have to go but you finish your blog entry anyway.
Sigh.
There's a random nest of some sort of creepy insect living in the bin we inherited. I am not panicking.
There's a random smell in the kitchen that must, surely, have a source...but I cannot find it. I am not in any way shape or form indulging in panic.
I have no money. Not worried, nope.
I cannot get the internet for another (excuse me while I count on my fingers) five to six days. No panic here. This is a panic free zone.
You know what I need? I need to hot-foot it down to Blockbuster and rent me some pretty lady movies (no, not those sorts of pretty lady movies). I think a tub of chocolate ice-cream and two hours of Jodie Foster/Diane Lane/some other of my celebrity crushes would do me the world of good.
Actually...you know what I really need? To leave here right now because of just checked the time and my parking ticket ran out two minutes ago. Damn! Damn this wonderful newly discovered cyber cafe with it's comfortable chairs and high-speed connections and keyboards that make that lovely muted 'thuck-thuck' sound, so unlike my keyboard that goes 'CLACK-CLACK'.
You know when you're addicted to the internet when you realise that you have to go but you finish your blog entry anyway.
Sigh.
Sunday, 17 June 2007
My struggle to ascend
Alas. Still no Internet connection at home, so still no regular blog posts; no watching of my favourite shows; no surfing for hours at a time keeping up to date with all the new lesbian hoo-ha at AfterEllen and no regular e-mail checking (not that I'm too good at that anyway).
Still,living at number 77 is proving to be fun. There's all the attendant experiences that come from moving into a new and unfamiliar property with someone you've never lived with before, and my current issue is something I haven't had to deal with for a long, long time. A towering problem, one might say. A hill to climb; an uphill battle. That's right. I'm talking about stairs. I haven't lived in a house with stairs for a good five years, and I just seem to be completely un-equipped to deal with the concept of ascending at an angle of x degrees by the power of foot locomotion. I've already ripped off half a toe-nail by mis-judging a few steps, launched my face at the wonderfully maroon carpet at speed on a number of occasions and been reduced to using my hands as well as my feet once or twice. Most memorably, I seem to have a wonderful blind spot regarding the existence of the final three steps when i descend, causing me to fly past the dining room doorway and into the front hall in a slap-stick comedy manner. Although, I do remember, the last time I did that I managed to catch myself on the banisters with my elbows, a most athletic feat.
I don't know what's wrong with me, I really don't. Ninety-nine percent...well, okay...ninety-five percent...okay, okay...eighty percent of everyday tasks, I have no problem with. I can usually feed myself, dress myself (although, not well: two years of living in a uniform twelve hours a day will do that to a girl, especially one who had no fashion sense to begin with. Now, the only things I can be trusted to co-ordinate are my pajamas and my slippers), wash myself and perform hundreds of mundane daily events without fear of injury or, you know, horrendous embarrassment. Which, frankly, I think is worse. There's nothing more horrifying than starting the descent as dignified as Audrey Hepburn and finishing with a comedic flourish that would have a place in every slap-stick movie ever made.
GP is quite used to having to run from one room to another after hearing a horrendous crash, only to find me crumpled in some inexplicable position with no serious injuries and no idea how I'd come to be there, holding triumphantly to an unbroken vase/television/kitten that in and of itself is, again, inexplicable. It's like my tremendous talent for holding onto an inanimate object, only to have it become oddly mobile in my hands, wiggling and slipping from my grasp so it can enjoy that one moment of freedom before smashing on the floor into itty bitty pieces. Many a glass/mug/plate/bowl has experienced it's last moments in that manner.
Now...what on earth did I start this post to write? Any idea?
No...I don't have a clue, either.
Still,living at number 77 is proving to be fun. There's all the attendant experiences that come from moving into a new and unfamiliar property with someone you've never lived with before, and my current issue is something I haven't had to deal with for a long, long time. A towering problem, one might say. A hill to climb; an uphill battle. That's right. I'm talking about stairs. I haven't lived in a house with stairs for a good five years, and I just seem to be completely un-equipped to deal with the concept of ascending at an angle of x degrees by the power of foot locomotion. I've already ripped off half a toe-nail by mis-judging a few steps, launched my face at the wonderfully maroon carpet at speed on a number of occasions and been reduced to using my hands as well as my feet once or twice. Most memorably, I seem to have a wonderful blind spot regarding the existence of the final three steps when i descend, causing me to fly past the dining room doorway and into the front hall in a slap-stick comedy manner. Although, I do remember, the last time I did that I managed to catch myself on the banisters with my elbows, a most athletic feat.
I don't know what's wrong with me, I really don't. Ninety-nine percent...well, okay...ninety-five percent...okay, okay...eighty percent of everyday tasks, I have no problem with. I can usually feed myself, dress myself (although, not well: two years of living in a uniform twelve hours a day will do that to a girl, especially one who had no fashion sense to begin with. Now, the only things I can be trusted to co-ordinate are my pajamas and my slippers), wash myself and perform hundreds of mundane daily events without fear of injury or, you know, horrendous embarrassment. Which, frankly, I think is worse. There's nothing more horrifying than starting the descent as dignified as Audrey Hepburn and finishing with a comedic flourish that would have a place in every slap-stick movie ever made.
GP is quite used to having to run from one room to another after hearing a horrendous crash, only to find me crumpled in some inexplicable position with no serious injuries and no idea how I'd come to be there, holding triumphantly to an unbroken vase/television/kitten that in and of itself is, again, inexplicable. It's like my tremendous talent for holding onto an inanimate object, only to have it become oddly mobile in my hands, wiggling and slipping from my grasp so it can enjoy that one moment of freedom before smashing on the floor into itty bitty pieces. Many a glass/mug/plate/bowl has experienced it's last moments in that manner.
Now...what on earth did I start this post to write? Any idea?
No...I don't have a clue, either.
Friday, 8 June 2007
where does the time go?
Thank goodness for work. How else could I check my e-mail and catch up on my web-surfing? I still don't have a connection at home. Sigh.
Despite the tag-line for this blog, I still haven't met my neighbours. Perhaps they knew we, the gays, were coming. Maybe they wait for us to leave and then make a run for it. In fact...come to think of it...I haven't heard anything through the walls yet. Either they're spectacularly light-footed neighbours, or they're dead. Either way, I'm happy: I don't like people disturbing my television time. Oh, I'm kidding. I've heard them through their kitchen windows when I've been in the garden, so I'm fairly sure they're not dead. Having said that, what I mostly heard through the window were very odd bird noises...lots of them...so either they keep birds (inside their kitchen) or I really really don't want to meet my neighbours.
This weekend, GP and I decided we're going to walk into town for a drink and maybe some dinner. It's going to be such a novelty! I've never actually lived anywhere where I could go out and get an alcoholic beverage /and/ a meal that I didn't have to cook. I'm very rural, this I know. The town we moved into is the same one people from my neck of the woods (literally) visit on special occasions - birthdays, pay-days, etc etc - and it feels, after years of taxi-ing to and fro, very odd to be able to say "Do you fancy going to the such-and-such pub?" without it having to involve money, a long taxi ride, nice clothes and badly applied make-up. Odd, yet exciting. Like I've said before (see previous post) it doesn't take much to excite me.
Tonight, GP and I are going food shopping. Well...you know how well I deal with that. Is it sad that i'm excited about going food shopping for the new house for the first time?
Despite the tag-line for this blog, I still haven't met my neighbours. Perhaps they knew we, the gays, were coming. Maybe they wait for us to leave and then make a run for it. In fact...come to think of it...I haven't heard anything through the walls yet. Either they're spectacularly light-footed neighbours, or they're dead. Either way, I'm happy: I don't like people disturbing my television time. Oh, I'm kidding. I've heard them through their kitchen windows when I've been in the garden, so I'm fairly sure they're not dead. Having said that, what I mostly heard through the window were very odd bird noises...lots of them...so either they keep birds (inside their kitchen) or I really really don't want to meet my neighbours.
This weekend, GP and I decided we're going to walk into town for a drink and maybe some dinner. It's going to be such a novelty! I've never actually lived anywhere where I could go out and get an alcoholic beverage /and/ a meal that I didn't have to cook. I'm very rural, this I know. The town we moved into is the same one people from my neck of the woods (literally) visit on special occasions - birthdays, pay-days, etc etc - and it feels, after years of taxi-ing to and fro, very odd to be able to say "Do you fancy going to the such-and-such pub?" without it having to involve money, a long taxi ride, nice clothes and badly applied make-up. Odd, yet exciting. Like I've said before (see previous post) it doesn't take much to excite me.
Tonight, GP and I are going food shopping. Well...you know how well I deal with that. Is it sad that i'm excited about going food shopping for the new house for the first time?
Thursday, 7 June 2007
The AfterEllen.com Hot 100 List
I admit it: I was excited. Not so much by the list, but by the anticipation of the experience (I know, I know. It doesn't take much to excite me, okay?). I couldn't wait to open up the list, see who was number 1 and have the whole experience of "Where are the people I voted for? Why is she at number X?! What? What?! Lucy Lawless is 36?!" and so on. I was excited at the prospect of seeing a list that...well, frankly, that had lots of pretty ladies on it, but also I wanted to cheer and mope when I read it. Not everyone is going to agree with the list (personally I don't agree with the number 1 spot, but I have to say after watching S4, Leisha Hailey has really grown on me. Number 3, I think), but everyone has their favourite women, and everyone's taste is personal. I can only hope people don't comment dis-favourably on the list simply because their favourite lady didn't get the position they felt she deserved. For me, it definitely wasn't about the women I voted for winning. It was about putting my votes in and seeing where they came out; seeing who other people thought deserved high spots on the list and grinning when I went through the finished product. It really was the taking part that counted.
Well...that and the looking at all the hot women. I'm shallow.
Well...that and the looking at all the hot women. I'm shallow.
Newsflash: Lesbians have evolved into people!
Well what do you know? Hot damn, I've always wanted to be a real person.
Whilst surfing the AfterEllen website during my lunch-hour (like all my other hours sitting here, just with less work and a horrible habit of answering the phone with my mouth full) when I noticed a new post on the AfterEllen blog. It had the header "Showtime: "The L Word" no longer about lesbians, but "people"." Well goodness golly gosh (no, really), I thought, you mean lesbians aren't people? Who keeps the toaster oven business alive then? Who buys tank-tops and Subarus? And has anyone told Ellen this yet?
I know, I know, I'm going overboard. I agree with the AfterEllen blog poster, who started the article: "In a blatent attempt to woo emmy voters...". This is a blatent attempt to de-gay a show in order to win votes. It's sad. For all it's faults, The L Word is a lesbian show. It's, in a way, our show. Foolish, foolish me for thinking that they would try and protect their status as a much-beloved (or at least, much talked about) show that stands as a mile-stone for lesbian entertainment rather than selling out for award kudos.
Another thing that bothered me about the ad that proclaims the de-lesbianising (not a word, I know) of The L Word (reproduced on the AfterEllen blog) is the quote from the Chicago Tribune. "No longer a show about lesbians, "The L Word" has evolved into a show about people."
Evolved? I get what they were trying to say. A show should evolve; as the actors get more comfortable in their roles; as the crew learn the methods involved for that particular show and studio; as the directors and writers find their voices and solidify their vision, yes, a show should evolve. It should evolve into something greater than that which it was at the start.
No, I just have a problem with the quote itself. It started off as a lesbian show, and now it's evolved into a show about people? To me, the word evolution has always been synonymous with the idea of betterment. Something evolves into something else: something bigger, stronger, smarter, better. The quote, to me, seems to suggest that the lesbian show was inferior and that it has evolved into something less gay, therefor better. Me picking at straws or unconscious homophobia? Boredom driving me to pick fights or a sad indication of how, even now, 'straight' television is seen to be something preferable to 'gay' television? You decide, because I can't: I'll freely admit that I don't know whether my argument is justified or whether it's me.
Anyway, back to work. Speaking of, what did I do? What did I do that people keep ringing me to complain about the state of the company? I'm just keeping an eye on a small regional show-room, I'm nothing to do with head office and I don't even really work here! And yet 'my' company is a disgrace? Your company is a disgrace! And do you really think I'd be sitting here if this were my company? Somehow, I like to think that if this were my company, I'd be out swaning around in a silk suit (why not?), driving my hellishly expensive Subaru (of course) and seducing poor little rich girls with my money-laden charm (why not indeed?), not sitting in a showroom which no-one ever visits all by myself, drinking so much tea my hands shake and using the very expensive display furnite to play Lesbian Tea Party (no, no Lucy, you sit next to Elizabeth: Angelina, have you met Clea?).
Anyway, I suppose I'd best get back to work.
Whilst surfing the AfterEllen website during my lunch-hour (like all my other hours sitting here, just with less work and a horrible habit of answering the phone with my mouth full) when I noticed a new post on the AfterEllen blog. It had the header "Showtime: "The L Word" no longer about lesbians, but "people"." Well goodness golly gosh (no, really), I thought, you mean lesbians aren't people? Who keeps the toaster oven business alive then? Who buys tank-tops and Subarus? And has anyone told Ellen this yet?
I know, I know, I'm going overboard. I agree with the AfterEllen blog poster, who started the article: "In a blatent attempt to woo emmy voters...". This is a blatent attempt to de-gay a show in order to win votes. It's sad. For all it's faults, The L Word is a lesbian show. It's, in a way, our show. Foolish, foolish me for thinking that they would try and protect their status as a much-beloved (or at least, much talked about) show that stands as a mile-stone for lesbian entertainment rather than selling out for award kudos.
Another thing that bothered me about the ad that proclaims the de-lesbianising (not a word, I know) of The L Word (reproduced on the AfterEllen blog) is the quote from the Chicago Tribune. "No longer a show about lesbians, "The L Word" has evolved into a show about people."
Evolved? I get what they were trying to say. A show should evolve; as the actors get more comfortable in their roles; as the crew learn the methods involved for that particular show and studio; as the directors and writers find their voices and solidify their vision, yes, a show should evolve. It should evolve into something greater than that which it was at the start.
No, I just have a problem with the quote itself. It started off as a lesbian show, and now it's evolved into a show about people? To me, the word evolution has always been synonymous with the idea of betterment. Something evolves into something else: something bigger, stronger, smarter, better. The quote, to me, seems to suggest that the lesbian show was inferior and that it has evolved into something less gay, therefor better. Me picking at straws or unconscious homophobia? Boredom driving me to pick fights or a sad indication of how, even now, 'straight' television is seen to be something preferable to 'gay' television? You decide, because I can't: I'll freely admit that I don't know whether my argument is justified or whether it's me.
Anyway, back to work. Speaking of, what did I do? What did I do that people keep ringing me to complain about the state of the company? I'm just keeping an eye on a small regional show-room, I'm nothing to do with head office and I don't even really work here! And yet 'my' company is a disgrace? Your company is a disgrace! And do you really think I'd be sitting here if this were my company? Somehow, I like to think that if this were my company, I'd be out swaning around in a silk suit (why not?), driving my hellishly expensive Subaru (of course) and seducing poor little rich girls with my money-laden charm (why not indeed?), not sitting in a showroom which no-one ever visits all by myself, drinking so much tea my hands shake and using the very expensive display furnite to play Lesbian Tea Party (no, no Lucy, you sit next to Elizabeth: Angelina, have you met Clea?).
Anyway, I suppose I'd best get back to work.
All settled and ready for sleep
So...the move actually went very well. There were no problems; no incidents of the kind that I would normally associate with my life when something important happens (nothing caught fire, nothing got broken, no babies were dropped during the making of this motion picture). The downstairs is now furniture ridden and box free - it looks good. Better than I was hoping it would, even if it did take two very long days to make it work. The upstairs...well, the bedroom is a mess (GP has so many clothes I thought...well...I don't know what I thought. The clothes precluded thought. It's like sleeping inside someone's walk-in cupboard), although the spare bedroom is better - it's where my clothes live, and what can I say? Jeans and tank-tops don't need much organising.
I have to say, though, I'm very tired. I have bags under my eyes that look like...well...bags (which is handy - at least I know I won't lose my new house keys). Betty, my wonderful little car (so named by a friend of mine on our deluded 'day' trip to Paris back in January. She's an international car of mystery. Up to that point I'd spectacularly failed to find her name - nothing stuck) has been fantastic, and it's amazing how much crap you can fit into a tiny car. Can't say I'm a big fan of manual labour though. Everything aches. I'm a wimp, I know.
Anyway, the hardest thing has been not having the internet for four days. Four days! Four days of no e-mail, no procrastination, no blogging and no watching episodes of the show I missed when it first aired and so am now catching up with (BSG if anyone's interested). No wonder I've got things done! We still don't have the internet at home (home!) but I'm back at work for a few days, so I'm getting all the important things done (catching up with AfterEllen, answering e-mails and wasting time) before I actually do any work. Am I a bad person? I guess I should go and do some wo- oh, hey look, it's lunchtime.
Where was I? Oh, yes, no internet. We have to wait for the phone line to be something'd before we can set up the 'net, so that's a wait of at least another 6 days. How will I survive?
I have to say, though, I'm very tired. I have bags under my eyes that look like...well...bags (which is handy - at least I know I won't lose my new house keys). Betty, my wonderful little car (so named by a friend of mine on our deluded 'day' trip to Paris back in January. She's an international car of mystery. Up to that point I'd spectacularly failed to find her name - nothing stuck) has been fantastic, and it's amazing how much crap you can fit into a tiny car. Can't say I'm a big fan of manual labour though. Everything aches. I'm a wimp, I know.
Anyway, the hardest thing has been not having the internet for four days. Four days! Four days of no e-mail, no procrastination, no blogging and no watching episodes of the show I missed when it first aired and so am now catching up with (BSG if anyone's interested). No wonder I've got things done! We still don't have the internet at home (home!) but I'm back at work for a few days, so I'm getting all the important things done (catching up with AfterEllen, answering e-mails and wasting time) before I actually do any work. Am I a bad person? I guess I should go and do some wo- oh, hey look, it's lunchtime.
Where was I? Oh, yes, no internet. We have to wait for the phone line to be something'd before we can set up the 'net, so that's a wait of at least another 6 days. How will I survive?
Sunday, 3 June 2007
Moving day
Tomorrow is moving day (at which point I will official be a resident of number 77 - yes, it's a real place). I'm so bored yet excited by packing. The house is a mess, I can't find anything and I have no idea what to do next. I have so many priorities my priorities have priorities and I can't prioritise them!
Anyway, I'd best get on - I have (in the best tradition of British movers) tea to drink and boxes to drop.
Anyway, I'd best get on - I have (in the best tradition of British movers) tea to drink and boxes to drop.
Saturday, 2 June 2007
Ahh...I miss the good old days of chakrams, sword-fighting and subtext
Ah. Procrastination, how I love thee.
And how better to feed my procrastination habit than mixing up two of my favourite things into a wonderful, funky puddle of fevered joy?
Question: Why (how) did I not know that Lucy Lawless took part in an American show called Celebrity Duets? Why? Why would life deny me that precious, precious knowledge?
Oh well, no matter. I know now, and have whiled away quite a few minutes watching clips at work on Youtube, giggling and squeaking like the geeky heartfelt Xenite I always will be:
Ahh...Xena and singing. Two of my favourite things. I feel complete.
Although...I do need to ask a few questions.
When did she get so...so...hollywood-ised? She's made-up to the hilt and flawless in every shot. Am I too used to grungy, blood-spattered Xena? And wait...why am I complaining? She's stunning! Scratch the question from the record.
Has her hair always been that big and blonde? Secretly? Did she tame it throughout the filming of Xena with the odd well-timed threat and steely glare aimed at it in a mirror?
My girlfriend, last christmas, offered to buy me a life-size cardboard cut-out of Xena. I was so, so, so close to accepting. It was the restrained dis-belief permeating her face that she was actually making the offer that made me think twice. She must love me lots. (GP, not Xena).
And how better to feed my procrastination habit than mixing up two of my favourite things into a wonderful, funky puddle of fevered joy?
Question: Why (how) did I not know that Lucy Lawless took part in an American show called Celebrity Duets? Why? Why would life deny me that precious, precious knowledge?
Oh well, no matter. I know now, and have whiled away quite a few minutes watching clips at work on Youtube, giggling and squeaking like the geeky heartfelt Xenite I always will be:
Ahh...Xena and singing. Two of my favourite things. I feel complete.
Although...I do need to ask a few questions.
When did she get so...so...hollywood-ised? She's made-up to the hilt and flawless in every shot. Am I too used to grungy, blood-spattered Xena? And wait...why am I complaining? She's stunning! Scratch the question from the record.
Has her hair always been that big and blonde? Secretly? Did she tame it throughout the filming of Xena with the odd well-timed threat and steely glare aimed at it in a mirror?
My girlfriend, last christmas, offered to buy me a life-size cardboard cut-out of Xena. I was so, so, so close to accepting. It was the restrained dis-belief permeating her face that she was actually making the offer that made me think twice. She must love me lots. (GP, not Xena).
Friday, 1 June 2007
What is it with me and cookies today?
Okay. I admit it. I've been procrastinating. After surfing AfterEllen.com, I went to the blog and couldn't resist doing the band blurb generator that I found there:
A history of metal icons: Oobly Boo
Emerging from the cesspool known as Bristol, Oobly Boo roared onto the metal scene in 1982 with their debut album, I Hate You And Your Co-Dependant Cat Too. The band's latest album, You Ate My Cookie And It Tasted Good, fuses Bilbo's ominous howls with thunderous drums to cook up an effort bursting at the seams with sludgy anthems. With standout tracks like "Tounges Are For Kissing, Not Verbally Abusing Minorities," dominating radio airwaves far and wide, Oobly Boo is an essential addition to any music lover's library.
Work? Eh.
http://www.bumbershoot.org/band-bio-generator.htm
A history of metal icons: Oobly Boo
Emerging from the cesspool known as Bristol, Oobly Boo roared onto the metal scene in 1982 with their debut album, I Hate You And Your Co-Dependant Cat Too. The band's latest album, You Ate My Cookie And It Tasted Good, fuses Bilbo's ominous howls with thunderous drums to cook up an effort bursting at the seams with sludgy anthems. With standout tracks like "Tounges Are For Kissing, Not Verbally Abusing Minorities," dominating radio airwaves far and wide, Oobly Boo is an essential addition to any music lover's library.
Work? Eh.
http://www.bumbershoot.org/band-bio-generator.htm
Addiction, oh sweet addiction
Do you ever get those days where you're at work...and it's not that you're a bad worker, or irresponsible, it's just that...you can't be bothered. Not at all. Not even a little bit. I know that I have things to and yet feel slightly less than compelled to do them. I'm not a bad worker. I'm not irresponsible.
Well. I say not. Is it wrong that I just abused my power and shut the shop for two minutes to run down the road and buy myself a cookie which is now sitting on the desk next to me? Damn the previous post. Damn the sandwich shop eight doors down. Damn them and their tasty raisin and oatmeal cookies the size of a large, tasty coaster!
Or maybe damn me for being irresponsible and giving in to a needless urge? I keep thinking I should be better at this, 'this' being life, the universe and everything. Oh god, now I'm going to go off on a whiney guilt trip. Where's a cookie when you need one? Oh...wait...
Well. I say not. Is it wrong that I just abused my power and shut the shop for two minutes to run down the road and buy myself a cookie which is now sitting on the desk next to me? Damn the previous post. Damn the sandwich shop eight doors down. Damn them and their tasty raisin and oatmeal cookies the size of a large, tasty coaster!
Or maybe damn me for being irresponsible and giving in to a needless urge? I keep thinking I should be better at this, 'this' being life, the universe and everything. Oh god, now I'm going to go off on a whiney guilt trip. Where's a cookie when you need one? Oh...wait...
Things That I Love 1
Today, My Thing is...
Cookies.
Having been obsessed with cookies from a very young age (starting with Rusks, maturing on through my bland Rich Tea phase, wandering worryingly into the realm of dog biscuits and then returning to the world of the normal through Digestives), I'd just like to take a minute to salute the humble cookie. What other food item can provide joy, comfort and pleasure in such a compact, many flavoured package? (Probably hundreds, don't answer that).
But there is an area where, at least for me, the cookie surpasses all other food items:
What other foodstuff can you eat whilst pretending to be the Cookie Monster?
So please, take a minute out of your day to contemplate your friend, the humble cookie.
Cookies.
Having been obsessed with cookies from a very young age (starting with Rusks, maturing on through my bland Rich Tea phase, wandering worryingly into the realm of dog biscuits and then returning to the world of the normal through Digestives), I'd just like to take a minute to salute the humble cookie. What other food item can provide joy, comfort and pleasure in such a compact, many flavoured package? (Probably hundreds, don't answer that).
But there is an area where, at least for me, the cookie surpasses all other food items:
What other foodstuff can you eat whilst pretending to be the Cookie Monster?
So please, take a minute out of your day to contemplate your friend, the humble cookie.
man-sex = calorie burning fun!
I knew it was a mistake to talk about food. I don't know what it is about this job, but I always get hungry really early...although, I have to say I'm a little bit suspicious of my eating habits now, seeing as I was surfing through blogs earlier and I found an entry about how lesbians are more likely to be overweight than straight girls. Wow, what a choice! Either sex with a man or a stomach that doubles as a knee-warmer. Could it, perhaps, be insidious straighty propaganda?
Oh god. The lack of food is affecting my brain. Quick, someone get me a man before I eat my pain!
In all seriousness...I know I can be a little snarky. I don't mean to be so, and I'm the first one to admit that I have weight issues. In this day and age, it's difficult not to (hence my running battle with the cake isle). It's an issue I do take seriously in my private life, and I would never poke fun at someone personally. Disclaimer done.
NEW STUDY SHOWS WITHOUT A DOUBT THAT MAN-SEX IS ONLY WAY TO KEEP OFF POUNDS.
A new study funded by the US Government today found that in order to keep from a life of being air-lifted out of bed, all women should indulge in (preferably post-marital) man-sex. This study, endorsed by the President, suggested that-
women should look to a life of happy and healthy man-woman relations in order to keep trim and attractive.
"We're not saying any other life choice is wrong," said a leading scientist, "only that for the happiest, healthiest life-span, it's dick all the way."
When faced with evidence that lesbian sex burned off just as many calories as hetrosexual lovin', the same scientist replied, "Ah, but are they the right kind of calories? Lesbian calories, as we've proven, are less healthy than straight ones, and harder to shift. We recommend, to any and all lesbians, a hardcore diet of man, man, man. Yummy."
Oh god. The lack of food is affecting my brain. Quick, someone get me a man before I eat my pain!
In all seriousness...I know I can be a little snarky. I don't mean to be so, and I'm the first one to admit that I have weight issues. In this day and age, it's difficult not to (hence my running battle with the cake isle). It's an issue I do take seriously in my private life, and I would never poke fun at someone personally. Disclaimer done.
Tea for two
Does anyone else talk to themselves in food shops? Especially the gigantic superstores?
This trait of mine has really come to the fore in recent years. I can't go food shopping by myself anymore...Or, really, I shouldn't be allowed to. I mutter, I wander, I pick up things I have no intention of buying and study them intently as if trying to devine some mysterious property that would make them attractive. One of the last times I went, I actually has this conversation with myself:
"Cake. There's cake. Not that I need cake. I don't need cake. See, I walk past the cake. I ignore the cake. But maybe I could just have a little one," pause, contemplates cake, "no, no. I am leaving the cake isle," leaves the cake isle, "wayhey!" And at that point I threw my hands up and nodded at a job well done, having avoided every and all cake items.
I swear, it's like I'm in my own private food store where no one else can see me. I spend a lot of muttering to myself along the lines of: "Okay, so I need baking soda. If I were baking soda, where would I be? I already looked down there...hmmm...where oh where is the baking soda?"
I have a problem, I'm aware of that. The only issue is...I like food shopping. Where some girls can spend hours in clothes shops or bookshops, food stores are my playground. I love searching out exotic items that I'm never going to buy, snearing at the latest designer gunk and yet cooing with joy over the latest designer gunk that takes my fancy. I'm that person, you know the one: The one you send out for bread and milk and who comes home with North African Koala Berries and a lump of squid and doesn't know why.
Although, I'm getting better: now I bring home bread and milk and the berries and random square of marine life. As long as I write bread and milk on my hand, I'm good to go.
In other news, I watched 'Stick It' last night, having heard a lot about it and/or the lead actress here, and here. I loved it. What was not to love? Lead with dykey overtones: check. Feel good message: check. Gymnastics: check. Slap-stick comedy: check. A killer set of abs on said lead: check. What can I say, it checked all my boxes!
This trait of mine has really come to the fore in recent years. I can't go food shopping by myself anymore...Or, really, I shouldn't be allowed to. I mutter, I wander, I pick up things I have no intention of buying and study them intently as if trying to devine some mysterious property that would make them attractive. One of the last times I went, I actually has this conversation with myself:
"Cake. There's cake. Not that I need cake. I don't need cake. See, I walk past the cake. I ignore the cake. But maybe I could just have a little one," pause, contemplates cake, "no, no. I am leaving the cake isle," leaves the cake isle, "wayhey!" And at that point I threw my hands up and nodded at a job well done, having avoided every and all cake items.
I swear, it's like I'm in my own private food store where no one else can see me. I spend a lot of muttering to myself along the lines of: "Okay, so I need baking soda. If I were baking soda, where would I be? I already looked down there...hmmm...where oh where is the baking soda?"
I have a problem, I'm aware of that. The only issue is...I like food shopping. Where some girls can spend hours in clothes shops or bookshops, food stores are my playground. I love searching out exotic items that I'm never going to buy, snearing at the latest designer gunk and yet cooing with joy over the latest designer gunk that takes my fancy. I'm that person, you know the one: The one you send out for bread and milk and who comes home with North African Koala Berries and a lump of squid and doesn't know why.
Although, I'm getting better: now I bring home bread and milk and the berries and random square of marine life. As long as I write bread and milk on my hand, I'm good to go.
In other news, I watched 'Stick It' last night, having heard a lot about it and/or the lead actress here, and here. I loved it. What was not to love? Lead with dykey overtones: check. Feel good message: check. Gymnastics: check. Slap-stick comedy: check. A killer set of abs on said lead: check. What can I say, it checked all my boxes!
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