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Saturday, April 05, 2008
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Article Sale!Circlet Press accepted my article "The (String) Art of Writing" and it's now up on their website! Coolness!
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Thursday, March 20, 2008
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Tom Hanks, I love youI'm currently watching Episode Two of the 7-part John Adams miniseries on HBO (produced by Tom Hanks, bless his forward-looking populist heart), and I dearly wish that this would become required viewing in all high school history classes (it may be a little too graphic for grammar school kids, especially as Episode One shows why "tarring and feathering" wasn't punishment so much as brutal torture). Actually, I dearly wish we could tie Dubya, Mike Huckabee, Alberto Gonzales and Donald Rumsfeld to chairs and make THEM watch it. In one sitting. I'd add Karl Rove in there, but Turd Blossom would probably blow it off as liberal commie propaganda.
It's a realistic and uncompromising look at what prompted intelligent, law-abiding people to rebel against their government and form a new one of/by/for the people, doesn't glorify/demonize anyone (the redcoats weren't all monsters, the rebels weren't all heroes) and is an exquisitely appropos response to the current administration's joyride over our various rights -- namely, "Hey assholes, THIS is what our forefathers had to do to gain independence, and THIS is why the Constitution is so important, so keep your fricking hands OFF it."
The recreation of the Continental Congress is superb; Academy Award nominee Tom Wilkinson is spot-on perfect as the wily, politically skilled Ben Franklin, and when the Pennsylvania, New York and South Carolina delegates agitate against separating from Great Britain you can understand why they fear that the move towards independence is running too fast. The intellectualism of the congress is counterpointed by George Washington (David Morse in some scarily accurate makeup) struggling to do his duty and relieve British-held Boston with an underequipped and pox-infected army, and by Abigail Adams (a wonderful Laura Linney) trying to keep her farm going and her family alive by subjecting them to a dangerous and uncertain pox inoculation.
And if Paul Giamatti doesn't win an Emmy for his performance as John Adams, I will eat this bloody laptop. Well played, sir.
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Sunday, March 16, 2008
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Match It for Pratchett
As some of you may already know, Terry Pratchett, author of the insanely popular Discworld fantasy series, has been diagnosed with a rare form of early-onset Alzheimer's Disease. He has just donated $1,000,000 (£500,000) to Alzheimer's research, and is appearing in the media highlighting the low levels of research funding Alzheimer's receives. Loyal readers from around the world have responded with a goal to match Terry's donation. If 500,000 fans each donated two bucks, that would do it.
If you have a friend, relative or loved one who suffers from this disease, you know why it needs to be cured. If you don't, consider yourself lucky that you never had to sit and watch while someone you loved slowly disappeared. And if you're a fan of Terry Pratchett, you know why we can't let this beat him. Please donate.
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Friday, March 07, 2008
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Man, I'm crankyGentlemen, be grateful that you're not burdened with a reproductive system that merrily releases hormones at certain times of the lunar month, making you look wistfully at a rifle and a clock tower.*
And it's nothing in particular raising the ire, either -- lots of general stupidity going around as per usual, but it's background noise rather than a loud screech in the hypersensitive ear. This is just one of those general "I hate everyone and everything, don't talk to me, GAH!" moments. I'll go lift some weights later on -- that usually helps somewhat -- and see if I can write a pleasantly bloody fight scene in which I can vicariously give someone the beatdown of their life. That might help.
And maybe a Thin Mint or two. Yeah, that sounds good.
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*And not that I think any of this blog's regulars would think this way, but Deity help the first person who says, "Aha, you see! PMS proves that women are naturally weaker/less reliable/etc. than men!" The fact that I'm not reaching for a weapon and wreaking mass destruction is proof that I have king-hell self-control.
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Thursday, February 28, 2008
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Genug! Basta!Enough!
I must clean the kitchen. The floor is adhesive, there is low-carb flour particles EVERYWHERE, I have found cat hair where there simply should not be cat hair, the counters are covered with crap, and there is a Smell(TM).
I shall be back. Eventually. With comments about how I really want to do a podcast with my sister and my best friend.
LATER: Okay, I'm taking a break because Lyndon is home early and needs to make a cheese sandwich (and frankly I'd rather have him make the cheese sandwich before I vacuum and wash the floor). He's doing all of this instead of helping me clean because he has to work a late shift tonight and needs to stuff something down his throat before heading off to bed and grabbing a couple of hours of shut-eye. And you thought the life of a telecoms engineer was all glamour and champagne.
As for my comment about podcasting, my friend Walt and HIS friends Nessa and Fairy Princess Holly are seven 'casts into a new series they call "We're Mean Because You're Stupid." I find it funnier than hell, and then I keep remembering how Stacy and Patrick pretty much heterodyne on the comedy stylin's every time they're around me, so I think we three could make a completely kicking podcast.
Except for the fact that we're in three different parts of the country. And none of us have Skype. And I haven't actually talked to them about this yet. But those are minor points, I'm sure, and can be worked out with enough persuasion and Bailey's Irish Creme.
Okay, he's in the recliner with the sandwich and a drink. Back to the salt mines.
EVEN LATER: And now the Bodacious Brit is in bed, which means that the assault is temporarily suspended as the bedroom shares a wall with the kitchen. However, I did get all the main counters cleaned, wiped down all appliances, scrubbed off the burners and drip pans on the stove, wiped down the kitchen table and put a variety of stuff away, so that's all good.
Now I just have to sort through the piles of crap on the high counter/room divider, get all loose particulate matter off the floor and mop/scrub it down, all of which I can do after he gets up. In the meantime, I'm off to write because if I don't my writing group will beat me with broken beer bottles and electrical cables, because that's how they show their love.
I really should write about the weird-ass dream I had last night about World War II and this Nazi sympathizer performer who came to America and starts a really popular kid's show here. I have no freaking clue where that came from, but that's my subconscious for you -- one really f'ed up place.
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