Together in electric dreams

Oddly enough, I didn't read much science fiction as a child. I'm sure I looked and dressed as if I did; and plenty of my friends were the sort of high-functioning sociophobes who devoured the oeuvres of Isaac Asimov and Stanislaw Lem and L. Sprague du Camp and Dean Koontz. (Incidentally, I've long believed that all the birth names of actors that are rejected as marquee-inappropriate - names such as Issur Danielovich Demsky and Spangler Arlington Brugh and Herbert Kuchacevich zu Schluderpacheru and Diana Fluck - are redistributed to SF authors whose monickers are deemed to be too ordinary.)

I loved Dr Who, of course, and must have had about 40 of the Target novelisations, but that wasn't *proper* SF, any more than Star Wars was. I think I dabbled with a bit of HG Wells and John Wyndham, and I know I read Fahrenheit 451. But one book that has stuck in my memory is Ben Bova's The Dueling Machine, which I remember borrowing from Leigh Park library at least three times.

So when I picked up a second-hand copy a few weeks ago, it was more than a potential read or even a re-read; it was a matter of revisiting my own younger self. What was it that grabbed my eight-year-old imagination so fiercely?

The eponymous machine is a device that allows people to settle disputes without bloodshed, in a virtual arena; problems arise when combatants actually start dying. The obvious comparison is with the Dr Who story The Deadly Assassin, written by Robert Holmes, which would have been transmitted at around the time I first read Bova's book. Passably interestingly, the conceptual battleground in which the Doctor takes on Chancellor Goth is called The Matrix, and if we leap forwards a further 20-odd years, there are also clear similarities between ideas in Bova's and Holmes's works and the notions that underpin the Wachowski franchise (although that's really only a remake of Tron, but with better clothes and worse acting).

Not only does Bova get his head round the concept of virtual reality over three decades before Second Life, he also second-guesses both how the Web would work, and the uses to which it would be put:

The order was scanned and routed automatically and finally beamed to the Star Watch unit commandant in charge of the area closest to the Acquataine Cluster, on the sixth planet circling the star Perseus Alpha. Here again the order was processed automatically and routed through the local headquarters to the personnel files. The automated files selected three microcard dossiers that matched the requirements of the order...

The personnel officer selected the third man, routed his dossier and Sir Harold's order back into the automatic processing system, and returned to the film of primitive dancing girls that he had been watching before this matter of decision had arrived at his desk...

When I first read The Dueling Machine it was a fantasy; now it seems almost spookily perceptive (although the gender roles underpinning the entirely superfluous love story must have looked pretty outmoded even in 1969) . Back then, I missed his nods to Marshall McLuhan and Vance Packard, which may even have extended to the Situationist appreciation for the subversive power of the decontextualised slogan. The hero and villain are fighting in a TV editing suite, and one of them falls onto a row of switches:

"LOOKING FOR THE IDEAL VACATION PARADISE?" a voice boomed at them. From behind Odal's shoulder a girl in a see-through spacesuit did a free-fall somersault. Hector blinked at her, and Odal looked over his shoulder, momentarily amazed. the voice blared on, "JOIN THE FUN CROWD AT ORBIT HOUSE, ACQUATAINIA'S NEWEST ZERO-GRAVITY RESORT..."

Through his mind flashed another maxim from his old instructor: "Whenever possible, divert your opponent's attention. Create confusion. Feint, maneuver!"

Hector rolled off the desk top and ran along the master control unit, pounding every switch in sight.

"TIRED OF BEING CALLED SHORTY?" A disgruntled young man, standing on tiptoes next to a gorgeous, statuesque redhead, appeared beside Odal...

Of course, it's only when they're out of context that these texts and images make us feel truly uneasy. Under normal circumstances, they're designed to lull us into a dream state, as much a replacement for reality as the dueling machine itself; even if they create insecurity, the solution is inevitably in the next paragraph. And when the prescribed solution to a financial crisis caused by injudicious consumption is for people to go out and buy stuff, sometimes with fatal consequences, you know the slogan-makers have won the war.


Which is why I find the newest purported mental dysfunction on the block so unconvincing. People afflicted with Truman Show syndrome apparently believe they are unwitting performers in some kind of reality TV show, and their only desire is for some omnipotent director to call "cut!"

But surely that's not a psychiatric disorder. Rather, it's the most sensible coping mechanism for modern existence, and I suspect everyone in the developed world does it to some extent. When I was a child, when I first read The Dueling Machine, I would sometimes create a fantasy life, and believe it to be reality. Now, I tend to look at reality, and wish it were a fantasy.

What price now for a shallow piece of dignity?

I'd hate to give the impression that the works of Douglas Coupland are essentially a string of vaguely connected smartarseries. On the other hand, this is from Life After God:

"One day I came home from the library, where I had spent the afternoon trying to make people feel middle class by scowling at them."

(And in response to all your kind messages, fine thanks, unless or until I need to go anywhere.)

It's going to be easy - like peeling a turtle.

However much of a hard time I give him, Bourdain is incredibly perceptive. (I should take a moment to clarify that I am speaking of my cat, not the chef. Though if you read this and assume I'm speaking of the chef, it would certainly make for a very colorful event...)

I left the carrier out all day so he wouldn't freak out when I brought it out tonight (he hides). I came home and shoved half a pill into some tasty tuna. This is a very hit or miss method--half the cats I've ever owned chomp away, the other half eat around the goddamn thing. Bourdain, true to his namesake, apparently is enough of a tuna connoisseur to know when someone's been tinkering with his tuna. He left that spot untouched.

So I got out the pill popper. I LOVE this thing, this $0.05 contraption has made my life so much easier I want to marry it. And it did the trick today. But Bourdain knew he was in trouble when he didn't finish his food and I headed off to the bathroom for it--he headed for under the bed.

And got really scared. And started farting his little head off. I can still smell farts on me.

But I pulled him out and cooed to him and popped it down his throat. I then went about my business and I can tell he thinks that's what all the drama was about, as he is now licking his privates in the middle of the room.

He has no idea.

Yes, baby, I made you take that pill so you can go...in the car.

He typically fights the hell out of the drugs and it's still a fairly unpleasant ride, but jesus. At least he doesn't SHIT and PISS and BARF during the one hour trip, which yes, he normally manages all three if we do this undrugged. Last year I tried just leaving his ass at home for ONE DAY all by himself (the other cat came with me, as he is a very seasoned and happy car traveller) and holy jesus. He hid from us when we came back, acting totally betrayed and abandoned. Like I just didn't love him. And I hope that is the closest I ever come to knowing what it's like to have a girlfriend...

And I still smell like goddamn cat farts. I'm going to have to change.

But Darius is a dancer. He's in "Cats."

OMG, I LOVE YOU FED EX! And I loooooooove that I hadn't gotten in the shower yet when you rang the bell--I love that I was even home.

I ordered this Sunday night:



and have it in my paws Wednesday morning. Holy shit.

And it just may be the most gorgeous thing in the world. Sleek, sexy, purple.

Did I seriously say I was going to wait until test day to play with it? Fuck that, I'll buy myself a cookie afterwards or something.

From despair to somewhere

Richey Edwards, lyricist, ideologue, stylist and half-assed guitarist for the Manic Street Preachers has finally been declared dead, nearly 14 years after his disappearance; as such, he warrants an obituary in the Daily Telegraph. I can't help but think that, had his body been found in 1995, he wouldn't have earned such a niche among the war heroes and Tory MPs. So essentially he's being honoured for his post mortem achievements, and the hotly debated Cult of Richey; we are encouraged to remember the myth and the mystery rather than the man.

Bizarre what some men find attractive.

So props to the dude who crossed the room as I was getting ready to leave, who stopped me and said, "Hey, before you pack up, I really just wanted to let you know that you really carry yourself very well. You're very beautiful and you seem really intelligent and I just really wanted to let you know that."

Ok, first of all. Thanks. Second of all, now I feel REALLY awkward. Thirdly, how the FUCK did I seem intelligent surfing the net and sucking down ale? And baby, I even ate cheese fries. So maybe not the time to choose, "You look intelligent," but whatev.

Also, it was not one sentence. It was several. There was, no shit, even something about my posture in there. He was pretty eloquent, all things considered (like, it's Fort Worth and it's a bar), and I was the choad who initially responded with a comically high-pitched, "Really?" But I let him know I thought it was very nice to hear and that I was married (met with, of course, "Oh, I didn't mean to hit on you, I just really appreciate a beautiful woman...") but I basically gave him a nice kthxbye.

Good on him, but it also makes me want to hide. I don't do compliments well, especially when I assume they may be brought on by an alcoholic binge.

The only proper authorities I am aware of are my commanding officer Colonel Nathan R. Jessup and the Lord our God.

Vaguely crappish work day, but the evening is obviously meant to be. Pulled up in front of the Flying Saucer to find an open spot exactly across the street at Schakolad (the best chocolate shop in the city, but more on that in a mo') and walked in to find exactly one table left all by itself. Not only is it nice and warm inside, the table is completely isolated from douchebaggery and right next to the menu of new winter ales.

Ah.

And I wanted to stop at Schakolad anyway for Thanksgiving. I got a 1/2 lb box and filled half of it with mint truffles and half with milk caramels. Now let's see if it makes it home to the family! It's a very affordable truffle shop and the quality is the best I've ever had, comparable only to Vermont Chocolatiers. Their mint truffles are really something...I picked out two that would go well with eggnog, red wine and tea. Not everything can have alcohol in it, I suppose...

Yesterday was nice...I drove back to my house from Denton and actually tidied up a little and made dinner while starting Mad Men. Only one episode in, but I can see it has potential. While I was watching it, my friend J called wanting to discuss season 4 of BSG, which I have not watched yet, and he had just started Mad Men as well, though where I saw potential he had doubts. It's very hard for me to choose which of his opinions to take under advisement; we definitely agree more on drama than comedy. Then again, he occasionally unwinds by watching Cheaters, meaning everything coming out of his mouth is suspect.

But for dinner I tried a new recipe for macaroni and cheese from Fine Cooking; it had a lot of similar ingredients to my mother's famous take, so I thought I'd give it a whirl. Hmm, says I. Not even close. Too wet and not spicy enough. But I also made their French Onion Soup recipe, which I have made a few times before. First of all, cooking onions is just about the absolute bestest smell the kitchen can offer (that and those sweet potato rolls mom makes), but then eating it with bread and cheese melted on top...borderline orgasmic. Very much a cold weather dish, sadly. (Being a Texan...)

But speaking of trying new things, I'm sipping on an Anchor Christmas, which I only tried at the waitress' insistence...



I never would have, had I realized it was a dark ale. But holy shit is it good. It has a bunch of spices going on, including ginger. Not unlike the French Onion Soup, winter helps.

And yesterday, I ordered my LSAT present for myself, a new purple ipod Nano. Because I cannot afford the iTouch and besides, the iTouch is not purple. I haven't taken the test yet, but I wanted to have it in my hot little paws the second I get out of that goddamn test center and I wanted it engraved. So as you can imagine, ordering now was prudent.

What sucks is that Apple will not let you put whatever you want in your engraving. Who the hell are they to censor my little purple ipod? So sadly, it shall not have my favorite Streets of Fire line, "Everywhere I go, there's always an asshole." I wrestled with many a movie and line all the way home on my drive, but in the end, considering it's going to be purple and well, mine, I went with a line from Bridget Jones:

"I choose vodka. And Chaka Khan."

Abuse your delusion

So have you got yours yet? Your copy of Chinese Democracy, of course, the long awaited Guns N' Roses album that's been long awaited by everyone who makes a habit of waiting a long time for long-awaited Guns N' Roses albums...

More eagerly anticipated guitar heroics, and Nabokov and Jerry Lewis, here.

Wot no chameleon circuit?

From the background notes for Dr Who, in the BBC archive, to which James Blue Cat so kindly directed us:

"Therefore, we do not see the machine at all; or rather it is visible only as an absence of visibility, a shape of nothingness..."

Production meetings in those days were clearly spun off from Cambridge philosophy tutorials. It amazes me that the show ever made it to the screen.

Lust in translation

I always wonder whether a word's impact is down to its form or its function. I mean, would George Carlin's Seven Dirty Words be as dangerous if they were rendered as Plop, Widdle, Rumpy-Pumpy, Quim, Nosh, Physical Manifestation of the Oedipal Narrative and Funbags?

Yes, you are exactly my brand of heroin.

I giggled less than I expected, though that line was one of them. I know it's even in the book, but someone saying it out loud definitely made it giggle material.



First of all, Twilight was sold out all night, so it was the last show of the night to which I barely snagged a ticket. And it was a surprisingly diverse crowd, ethnically speaking. Mostly women, yes, but I assure you they dragged many a male along.

And you know, it wasn't bad at all. I can't imagine wanting to watch it without having read the books, but the movie actually seemed to take it down a notch. The books are so overblown with angsty romance I have to not roll my eyes or sometimes even fight the chunks. The film had those moments, but far fewer, and it was pretty good to the material.



And all the people were great. I especially thought Kristen Stewart made a great Bella. I think the weakest link may really have been Robert Pattinson. Sure, he's easy on the eyes, but he lacked that vampire charisma somehow. You know, like Kiefer Sutherland in Lost Boys, Gary Oldman in Dracula (that one may be a stretch--that movie loses something for me every time I see it now), shit, I'd even go so far as to cite Louis from Interview With a Vampire (yes, it's a little different, since he always seemed to be working that whole victim thing). But you get my point. Pattinson's good looking and all, but I didn't buy anyone being uncontrollably drawn to him. (Yes, I realize a billion screaming girls may disagree with me here.) He still did a great job, I'm just being picky. People in the crowd were still quite, uh, audible, when Edward made his first appearance.

And I do see what one reviewer meant when they said the cinematographer shoots Edward "like a sex god." I actually felt less uncomfortable than I anticipated.

Oh, and I thought Jacob Black was totally meh. I really wanted more for that character. Oh well.



It did feel kinda long to me, though it was 125 minutes. I don't see that being a real fault since they did a great job picking what to shoot and how long to spend on various things, so the pace was fine...must have just been me.

I did laugh when my friend J (who was running projection) said, "My god. You've found a vampire movie that D doesn't want to watch!" (In all fairness, I'm sure he would have if I had really wanted him to see it with me.) But he was closing last night anyway.

Anyhoo. If you're going to see it at all, I do think it's one of those few movies where seeing it with the crowd of tittering fans does kinda help...there's something you'll almost never hear me say!

...makes the tart grow fonder

A few days ago, I was sampling lots of nice food for free and wondering whether 'restaurant reviewer' should be added to my list of the only jobs that are really worth doing.

One of the dishes was an orange and absinthe sorbet, which led to a discussion with the nice restaurant PR lady about la fée verte and its various cultural connotations. She knew that the stuff had been banned in many European countries for much of the 20th century, and that Kylie Minogue had played its spectral manifestation in Moulin Rouge; but not, apparently, that its renaissance in Britain was partly due to the efforts of someone who'd once been the drummer in The Jesus and Mary Chain.

And we talked about 1915, the year in which France prohibited the production of absinthe, and the resulting invention of pastis; literally a pastiche of absinthe, a half-hearted impersonation, a fuzzy photocopy of the real thing. And it was only then that I realised that a drink such as Pernod was, for much of its existence, a perfect simulacrum; a copy of something that didn't exist.

But I didn't say anything; I refrained from pontificating about Baudrillard and Deleuze and The Matrix to someone who really just wanted me to write nice things about her restaurant. Maybe I don't need to see Baudrillard in everything, like someone finding the name of God in an aubergine; maybe, as with my bubblewrap moment, it's a sign that I'm finally joining the human race. Although I still shared it with you, I suppose. Maybe that's different.

We moved on to the paprika-smoked Ahi tuna, and jolly nice it was too.

Marks will be awarded for showing your working

I've been catching up with Are You An Egghead? In many ways, it's something of which I approve, a consciously difficult quiz show (there's no quantitative way to measure these things, but I reckon the level of the questions is rather tougher than those on Mastermind or University Challenge), presented as mainstream tea-time entertainment. Moreover, it's real Revenge of the Nerds stuff: those of us who never got the girl, and always wore the wrong trainers, can only gloat at the elevation of geeky brainboxes to the role of tea-time sex symbols. One of the most glorious moments so far was when one bubbly contestant from Coventry selected the diffident polymath Kevin Ashman (second from the right in the picture) to join her team, because she fancied him. For those of us who always got picked last for football, it was something special.

One quibble, however; the contestants are encouraged to explain how they negotiate the multiple-choice brainteasers. I suppose this is laudable, making the retainment and regurgitation of arcane knowledge more accessible to the casual viewer; rather than just sucking it all in as gloriously incoherent combat, a sort of cerebral version of the sumo coverage Channel 4 used to offer in the good old days, the punter may actually learn something.

But for those of us whose sole talent is knowing a tiny bit more than most people about Jacobean tragedy or soul music or the birthplaces of England cricket captains (Ted Dexter? Milan!) will understand it isn't as straightforward as that. Very often, as Alistair remarked in a response to my previous post, with reference to sell-out 80s Goth combo the March Violets, "I Just Know That". I've got no idea whether I picked it up from a book, or a geography lesson when I was 13, or an explanatory sign in the V&A, or even from watching a TV quiz show. I Just Know. And watching people who also Just Know desperately trying to concoct a plausible post-hoc justification for why they've decided that the answer's Borneo, rather than Viscount Palmerston or the square root of π, is a little bit tiresome; for a start, it requires self-examination, and that's one thing we botched and bungled geeks really don't like doing in public. (There's a similar tendency in Mastermind, when Humphrys has his little chats before the general knowledge rounds; fair enough if you want to talk about the specialised subject, but the "so, you're a policeman, do you get annoyed with all the form-filling?" delving can make for pretty uncomfortable viewing.)

So, respect to Olav Bjortomt, one of the few contestants with the cojones to say "I know this one", and leave it at that. I'm all for opening up the world of pointless trivia to as wide an audience as possible; but let's retain a little mystery, OK?

"I strenuously object?" Is that how it works?

I am back at Mangia (who says I'm not original and adventurous?) for one last pizza before I hit the road. My feet ached and I just didn't feel like fucking around with downtown parking.

I was slightly adventurous this morning, however, and tried a place called Torchy's Tacos for breakfast, as they are supposed to have the best queso in Austin. Yes, I ate queso before 10am, lick me. I also had a Democrat (it's a taco), which was not really all that. But I like my cilantro in minute amounts. They do have a pretty cool menu and reputation, so I do recommend. And the queso was pretty damn fine.

I also like the first few reminders that I'm back in a city with personality. They had a sign attached to their trash can that read, "PLEASE! Do NOT throw away our baskets!! WWOD? What Would Obama Do? He would not throw away our baskets." Hee hee.

Normally I always hit El Sol y La Luna for breakfast, as it's attached to the Austin Motel, but they are always closed on Mondays. I knew this going in, but booked there anyway, why not. And I was SO SAD to see the restaurant is moving downtown! That BLOWS! Their SoCo location is ideal--who the fuck wants to be downtown anymore, it's too crowded. And it was easily half the reason I stay at the Austin Motel! Sniff. Oh well.

Anyhoo, the tour and class at UT was great. I especially loved the class, it was Criminal Law. I mean, we kicked right off by discussing the technical difference between "deviant sexual acts" and "fornication," oh yes. And then it went on from there and (it was a small section, 25 people) there was much debate about what should or should not be deemed criminal (homosexual conduct vs. incest) and if so, how can it be, if it can't be proven that it's harmful (incest can be harmful insomuch as children could be produced or coersion may be a factor, but what if it's two adult twin brothers? This was an actual example). The point is, at that point you get into what's "morally" right and wrong and it gets complicated.

So it was quite an interesting class and the teacher had much personality, so that made it even better. All the people were very friendly--I was there with two other people, one of whom I just can't find anything nice to say, so I shall say nothing here. But we all also sat and read some of the personal statements from successful candidates. Some of them really made me wonder...and there were far too many that discussed their personal relationship with God and/or Jesus in a little too much detail for my taste.

It's much larger (in so many ways) than Cornell--it's really a complete opposite, in a way. From being in such a bustling city to the fact that they accept a much larger class (400) than the small schools (fewer than 200). Which I see as both a plus and minus. I think I would probably rather be somewhere larger, though, if that's all that mattered. Otherwise it might just be too tight, y'know? I don't want to know everyone's name. I quite value some anonymity once in a while.

But I'll be on the road soon, just stopped in for a little pizza in my greater plan to miss the bulk of Dallas rush hour.

This man and I have some unfinished business.

Well hell, I thought it was fun.



I definitely prefer Casino Royale, but Quantum of Solace was good, nonetheless. The opening wasn't as huge as they've tended to be lately, but it was still very cool. With a nice laugh. And Alex disagrees with me, but I really didn't like the editing style on most of the action--it was all tight close-ups, no wide shots or really much scene-setting. To me, that always reeks of cheating, plus it's just not as impressive-looking.

Daniel Craig was perfection, as always. The bad guy was nice and creepy, too, A+ on him, ew.

And now I'm in Austin waiting on my deep dish Mangia!



Jesus there's a fuckload of construction! Everywhere I want to go it's one lane. I haven't scoped out the law school yet, I'll wait til tomorrow morning. I'm getting a tour before the 12:30 Criminal Law class. Good times.

I wish I was going to be here for more than one night, I love this place. And the Austin Motel is so cute, I'm always excited when I get a room there.

But for now, I'm getting off the internet and starting New Moon. How embarrassing...and hey, speaking of embarrassing, I think the film of Twilight comes out this week. Let the shame parade begin!

And remember: the passion for destruction is also a creative passion.

Ha ha, I almost forgot I'm supposed to drive to Austin tomorrow. I remembered yesterday morning, with just enough time to book a room at the Austin Motel. I'm sitting in on a Criminal Law class Monday morning. So I will spend tomorrow evening shoving either deep dish Mangia or Scholz Garten BBQ in my face while doing yet another practice LSAT.

I searched images of "UT Law" and this nice pic came up third...



and sadly, this one came up fourth.



It's a very serious school, you see.

Actually, it might be; perhaps this poor bastard has just finally snapped.

In any case, it's time to pack up and head for Denton for a little Quantum of Solace break. Yum.

I've got a little itch, down there. Would you mind?

I think this is from Tuesday or so, I just never got around to finishing...

Damn. It's really raining out there! Me? I'm having deep dish cheese pizza and wine. A smart girl would be at home, but there was no food there. Well, there was some microwave popcorn, maybe some pickles...milk...I think there is some leftover tomato bisque from election night...so, no.

And it's just windy enough to make me nervous. My umbrella is my Very Super-Sexy Mitsukoshi Umbrella, and you've got another thing coming if you think I'm letting that thing get blown inside out. What's a little water? I'll get soaked before I let it get ruined. It's not that I don't mind an excuse to go back, but those fuckers are pricey. (My mom and I caught a sale a couple years ago...)

Anyhoo. Long day, same stupid shit but nothing interesting enough to actually merit a place here (unlike my titillating food and umbrellas stories).

So my friend J and I have already been bitching back and forth about this year's Bond and whether or not it will suck. He sends me some review--published on Fox News, which already sends my eyes rolling--shitting on it. This reviewer is apparently all put out that Bond is mourning Vesper. The reviewer claims Bond wouldn't give two shits and neither should we--infact, who among us recalls who the fuck that was?

I beat my head against my desk. I'm so sorry, please go seek out your old school '60's Bond if you want him to slap some twinkie's ass with a wink and a, "Run along, honey, man talk."



(And hey, I don't know about you, but I'm watching Quantum of Solace for its artistic integrity. Hmm...is it weird that the one on the left does way more for me? Ok, anyhoo.)

Plus, let's all please recall that this is setting up Bond to be Bond. This is why Bond is who he is. Seriously, the film might totally suck balls (there were rumors aplenty when word got around that it clocks in at around 1:45, don't ask why), but let's not say that it sucks balls because "Bond doesn't have any." Kiss. My. Ass.

In all fairness, the review also said A) the theme song sucks donkey nuts b) there is no bad-ass opening...and beyond that, I just don't recall. Those may be valid complaints, and I'll letcha know.

But this was a totally endearing look from The New York Times at Daniel Craig himself (thanks, Alex! *drool!*).

...and now it's Friday and the Bond is out. J saw it the other day and said something along the lines of, "Yeah, craptastic. It was just non-stop action and a nonsensical plot."

And I was all, "Fucking A!"

This really isn't his sort of flick to begin with, but now I think he's just missing the point altogether. And he isn't ogling Daniel Craig, either, so there's very little in it for him.

In any case, plans are on for tomorrow night, so fingers crossed for LOUD, HOT ACTION! Rowr.

All right, all right I'll ask her. Miss, miss! Do you know where the high school girls hang out around here?

I'm trying not to take this the wrong way:

Waiter: "Has anyone helped you?"

Me: "Well, someone took my drink order."

Waiter: "Was it a margarita?"

Me: "Yes."

Waiter: "I remember you."

I mean, a lone girl with a laptop is surely more memorable than some chick who orders a margarita at a Mexican restaurant, right? And sure, it ended up being three margaritas, but it's not like I did a table dance after the third one, jesus.

PFG, Carter. PFG.

See? I wasn't making it up.



Even worse, as I'm pulling up my car alongside to take a picture, I notice the owners' neighbors are out and about in their yard. Shit, might have been the owners for all I know. Did I care? Hell no (I mean, look at it), but I only took the one picture...

Again, this is parked on the street perpendicular to mine, so at least they aren't my neighbors. (Did they lose a bet? Seriously.)

Yeah, but see, that's it. Somehow they know not to come back til you really forget.

I am LOVING CNN's post-election coverage and their choice not to bother mincing words, choosing ones instead like, "thumped, crushed, hammered..."

I am also loving waking up to hearing the news on the radio and hearing the words, "President-Elect Barack Obama." It's taking me a while to get used to it, but in that good I-can't-fucking-believe-it way.

But I am so proud of myself. I met up with D last night and a work friend of his, C. She brought her roommate/friend with whom she is not involved but is more like a big brother. He was quite cool, and I think he's fairly liberal. Well, she's hardcore Republican and a huge sports/NASCAR fan. But she's awfully cute. Anyhoo, she's from New Orleans and was showing us pictures from her recent trip. Many of the pictures were of parts of town that are completely uninhabited because there is still a ton of damage by Katrina.

We had just been discussing--or rather, agreeing not to discuss--the election. I was incredibly proud of myself for being completely silent while going from subject A) politics, to subject B) New Orleans and looking at her Katrina pictures. It was almost like when we meet up with our gay Republican friends. You just hafta fight that shitty urge to go, "But WHY?!?!" I did notice Louisiana resoundingly voted for McCain, but their map kinda looks like ours: totally red, with a blue blot right on New Orleans and our blue blots in Austin and one in Dallas.

Anyhoo. Leaving work a tad early today so I can come home and change. We're heading off to Dallas' Meyerson Symphony Center!



And we'll be in the nosebleed section as pictured below...



I am somewhat irked to note NOW that it's considered "Casual Friday," but fuck that. I'm going to goddamn dress up and they can all just go fuck themselves. Also, there's a piece that's not included tonight; since it's "Casual Friday," there is no intermission. I find that totally lame, but you bet your ass I made sure the other nights' tickets were indeed more expensive. Still, LAME. If you're going to go to the fucking symphony, who wants it to be CASUAL or truncated? FAIL.

Speaking of FAIL, I was looking at Fail Blog last night, because it has been way too long. One of them struck me as quite relevant for the holiday season. Veloute always sends cookies, but one year I was living in a shitty Denton apartment and I have a feeling why they never showed up...



Luckily, we have an enclosed porch now. Those are MY goddamn cookies! Some stoner bastard in Denton totally ate my cookies one year, I know it.

He's just not that into you.

Did anyone else just hear John Oliver call the state of the country a "shitburger" on live TV? Good times, love it.

Mr. McAllister. Mr. McAllister. Somebody's torn down my poster. It's not fair. Can I get an A? Can I get a recommendation? Can I? Can I? Fuck them.

Omg. What is this? Is this joy? This emotion is so...foreign to me. These tears...they're tears...of joy. Not...pain!

We got Ohio. Even the CNN dude is trying to figure out HOW McCain can possibly win at this point, which is, frankly, total salt in the wound. It makes me giggle.

Colbert and Stewart are on in 2 minutes. I bet they were hoping it would be at least a little closer than this...the hell are they gonna do for two hours? Oh, that's right, make me laugh. SWEET.

Your whole campaign is like some Dr. Seuss nightmare - One Fish, Two Fish, Dead Fish, We Fought The Good Fight Fish.

Oh my god, this is almost too painful. I mean, it's great and I'm loving every minute of it, but 174 to 49?



God this is great. I can only hope it stays the path!

New Rule: You can't run on a mistake. Franklin Roosevelt didn't run for re-election claiming Pearl Harbor was his finest hour.

Today is going to be too damn long, isn't it? I wish I could vote again.



And tonight will be even worse watching the results on TV. Hopefully it won't be tense because it won't even be close. (Not that they won't try to milk it.) But fuck it, I'm starting to actually get my hopes up and be optimistic...despite what the past two elections brought...especially that first one, goddamn.



EIGHT. LONG. YEARS. Had better be over soon.



I refuse to even consider the thought of McCain winning. So there.

Trent, the beautiful babies don't work the midnight to six shift on a Wednesday. This is like the skank shift.

So despite a fairly shitty work day, I'm still in a pretty good mood. Guess I just don't care. And remember (thanks, mom!):



Also, this helped...quite possibly the world's stupidest cat...is it wrong that I laugh? (thanks, Cute Overload!):



Anyhoo. I have really been craving Swingers lately. (As you can perhaps tell from the subject line.) I think my mom and I initially had the exact same reaction--the first time we watched it, (completely serparate from each other), we shut it off within 15 minutes. I mean, it's obnoxious. (Maybe it's easy to mistake the asshole nature of Vince Vaughn's character for the attitude of the film itself? Who knows.) But somehow we gave it another chance and boy did it turn itself around.



The other day brought multiple Ron Livingston references and I decided it was a sign for a re-watch. First, a Berger episode of Sex and the City was on the TV in the break room...god, he really plays a douchey loser on that show...and then, while I was trying to study at The Flying Saucer ("study" is kind of a strong word, but I was actually quite into my stuff), while trying to deter three guys from chatting me up, I replied to one of their questions of,"What do you do?" with "Nothing. I do nothing." Only one of them got it and even then I had to spell it out.

So I think that may be getting a view tonight if I get my chores done!

Um, btw, if you google "Swingers" for an image on google, you might want to specify, like, "Swingers movie," or include the actors, year, whathaveyou. Just sayin'. Word to the wise...

And before I forget, Skyler's Dad had a great post the other day called If The Candidates Were Trains. Great shit.

Completely unrelated to anything, I have been harboring a profound desire for the symphony for EVAH and by god, I'm finally gonna go. And yes, I'm making D go. Classical music is not his thing, but he has never seen it live. I'm hoping the atmosphere, the music, the...you know, mood and ambiance will all be enough magic to make him like it. (It's ok if he doesn't.) But by god, I haven't been in one fuck of a long time. (Quite possibly due to the hideous expense. Did you know you can sit BEHIND the stage? Sadcakes. I refuse to settle for that.) But that's what I have going on this Friday night, woot!

He's got a shit coming on. It's overdue.

SQUEE!!! I am so excited. I saw a wine bar up on Camp Bowie a few weeks ago, but I was driving and didn't get a good look. A little internet research tells me that it and every wine bar near it (still delighted to know there are ANY) happens to be CLOSED on Sunday.

But then I found Brix Pizza & Wine Bar! It's on Hulen, across the street and up a bit from my massage place. Best of all, it has both internet (obviously) AND outdoor seating. Though it's a little warm today, it's shaded and gorgeous. I plan on trying the calamari. I used to think you couldn't fuck up calamari, but Cafe Aspen (also here in Fort Worth) proved me wrong, so I will let you know...

I spent the better part of the morning painting the kitchen and watching the rest of Cold Mountain. You know, it was actually pretty decent. I was expecting to hate it, and I didn't.



Seriously, there is a REASON Rene won an Oscar. I was contemplating turning it off when it she showed up. God did she save it. (Well, and a little Philip Seymour Hoffman never hurt anyone.) But oh holy jesus, someone needed to pull both Jude Law and Nicole Kidman aside and just say, you know, your bad accent is almost so distracting, it would probably be less distracting if you just spoke in your native accent, yes, it's that bad. And yes, it was getting cheese and spooge and goo everywhere with its MELODRAMA (seriously, a little emotion in a film should be treated like rosemary or cilantro, kwim?) and DESPERATION. But the events and plot (predictable though it was, and no, I don't mean in regards to the Civil War itself, thanks) had me watching, even while I was painting (the paint peels right up off the kitchen tile, fyi).

I mean, Anthony Minghella directed The English Patient, which is way more melodrama than I care to admit to liking, but somehow, that film really pulled it off. This one? Eh, not so much. In its defense, it didn't pull punches and it was certainly not dull (after Law went off to war and Zellweger showed up).

Also tried to watch Repulsion, and rather than offend any Polanski fans--I mean, I'm sure it's great and I can often dig the whole minimalist thing, especially when involving insanity--I'll just say clearly, I was not in the mood. I was especially not in the mood for Catherine Deneuve's (whom I have quite enjoyed in the past, like maybe in Belle du Jour?) sad sack of emotionally limp French goddess pouty wussiness. I get that she's sexually repressed (the character) but again, just not in the mood, I guess. (No pun intended.)

Started Scanners, which is perhaps the only Cronenberg I have never seen. And yes, I get that's like saying, hey, David Lynch is a great director, but I have just never seen Blue Velvet! Ok, it's not quite like that, but you get my point. How did I ever miss Scanners? I know so many scenes of it well, from retrospectives, horror homages, previews, etc. You know, like the exploding head scene.

So I had a good morning of painting and films (a strange mix of films, in retrospect, but hey, that's me) and now it's break time. The cats were being needy and whiny and someone even has a brown spot on his tail. Ahem.

Ooh, and in a fairly rare move, I actually went clothes shopping yesterday. Express had a grand re-opening at The Parks and I had two huge coupons. Plus I kinda love winter clothes. I know, I know, I live in Texas. You think I don't know that? But I tried on a ton of stuff and bought a few items...let's just say that I saved $72! (Ok, I spent $125.) But I got some NEAT stuff and only one item is a hardcore sweater. Even it doesn't have long sleeves, but it's still bulky and warm with one of those cowl turtleneck cuts. Very cool. For the record, I don't care where we live, sweaters with tiny cap sleeves are WAY THE HELL STUPID. It looks like ass and it's just...well, it's stupid. Fewer things I have to try on, at least.

They had way more cute stuff but most of it fit me awkwardly. And no, not because I'm fat, but the sleeves had shoulder puffiness going on or the arms were a little tight (ok, that might be me) or you know, they do kinda gum up the fit sometimes. But again, I always breathe a sigh of relief becaues it's one less decision I have to make.

Anyhoo, now let's see if it lasts, quality-wise.

And speaking of fat, I have been changing up the routine at my gym lately. I've been doing more swimming than running/cycling (I used to mix it up) and have been able to really see a little more progress with myself lap-wise. And it finally dawned on me that my gym has both a sauna and a steam room. I have yet to try the steam room, but the sauna is wicked. Weirdly, upon first entrance it always reminded me of the old school Denton Chuck Wagon. It's just that dry heat, who knows. Is that weird? In any case, I keep going back! I'll try the steam room this week...(I try a lot more new things when it's dead, tbh!)

Any for what it's worth? The calamari is bitchin'.

Whoa, whoa. You better watch what you say about my car. She's real sensitive.

So on Halloween, we often wander down the street (it's a tiny street) where the neighbors are having driveway parties. There is one house in particular that is always very cool. I'm not saying anything about the Christmas decorations that may appear, but the Halloween stuff is great. This year...



There was a mad scientist with lots of "experiments..."



And this is just a sampling of their yard offerings.

Though our house is at the bottom of a cul-de-sac, the neighbors who are sort-of across from us are usually quite strange, too. It's the kids. There is either a boy or girl who lives there, but the boyfriend/girlfriend is always there, too, so who knows who lives there. At least, I hope that is their relationship, as they are often in the driveway at night with a guitar and they seem to be on fairly intimate terms.

Anyhoo. Last year they had a ventriloquist/dummy thing going on and this year, they were toys. When I got home, we saw people stringing up Barbies and dolls in the trees and especially in the daylight, it seemed desperately sad. But in context, much better! (Especially the teddy bear strung from the tree...)



In the dark, it looks much cooler. D also took a pic with the flash...



And you can see a lot more detail.

But not everyone had a scary yard!



It was very different. I think it went up last year as well.

And finally, our house, both at night and in daylight...



D set everything up; he gets quite excited. He carved the jack-o-lantern--I didn't have one this year.



This is Skully, whom you can kinda see in the first one in the way background. He has green eyes and smokes, it's very cool. And in this too-dark pic, you can kinda make out some new spiders D picked up. There's a great rat, too, but he's on the ground. I call him Templeton.



A closer look. What you can't see is the lamp behind Tom (the ghost). Cuts from Halloween play and the CD player is connected by a box to the lamp, so a red light flickers with the creepy music. It's actually a really cool effect. And of course, there's a (crappy piece of shit) fog machine.

And in daylight...



That's Head. He guards the house.

Speaking of pics, I have YET to see the Jesus Car again lately. Maybe it didn't live there? I still keep an eye out, though...