There’s loads of boring stuff like Sundays and Tuesdays and Thursday afternoons.

From a little blog post I did on another site regarding this day:
Thursday is my least favorite day of the week. That’s right. Not Monday, when (if you’re cursed with a standard day job) you must return to the blinding fluorescent lights and windowless cubicle world for another five days of torture. Not Sunday when, just like as a child, you dread the upcoming return to the cubicle/classroom environment. No, it’s Thursday for the win. 
Thursday dangles the weekend before you yet stands as a constant reminder that you’re not done yet. People tend to be more testy, more easily riled, and more frustrated with the universe on Thursday (at least most of the people I know). Thursday reminds you that all those deadlines you set for the end of the week and haven’t achieved yet are imminent — and you’re probably not going to achieve them. Thursday afternoon is the most interminable three to four hours of the whole work week. Time actually does move backwards. 

There's been a lot happening in my little 'verse lately, and yet not so much that I feel as though a lot of progress has been made. I think it's a pitfall of spending so many years in theatre that I yearn for an immediate response to projects which are completed start to finish in a matter of months. Setting deadlines to complete a work that's been in progress for years... my patience just wears thin.
Still, I'm trying to avoid the pitfalls of wanting to move on to something else because damnit, this year I am going to finish something. More than one something if I can stick to the deadlines. 
I just have to work through the low days, including every wretched Thursday...

Doctor Feel Better Viewings...

Back in the day when I felt under the weather, I'd curl up with some VHS tapes of The X-Files. In more recent days of yore, I chose to see if one could really wear out DVDs with a smattering of teen comedies (Can't Hardly Wait, Bring It On, the John Hughes collection, Better Off Dead, etc.). Since entering my mid-twenties and embracing the inner-anglophile there's been a surge in Brit TV and movies.

This current go around with some unknown viral attack on my sinuses and energy levels I decided to post what I've been watching to see if I can glean anything about myself from said viewings. I somehow think not, due to my current inability to focus/think/walk for more than five minutes, but I like making random lists such as this sometimes...

Currently playing: The Vampire Diaries, Season 2, Disc 2 -- Mason Lockwood gets skewered, everyone glams it up for the masquerade ball, Jeremy suddenly becomes really hot, Digital Daggers have a fantastic cover of a classic 80s tune, Elena gets kidnapped by really old vampires running from an even older vampire, and Damon confesses his true feelings for Elena.

Over the Weekend:
Firefly - Our Mrs. Reynolds. Christina Hendricks + Whedon = we're all going to the special hell

Pirates of the Caribbean II: Dead Man's Chest - AKA Way too many Special Effects Cloud Really Important Exposition, and then Jack Dies and Barbossa Returns. Plus, scruffy, asshole Davers is really hot.

Doctor Who - The Time of Angels. Ser Jorah Mormont + The Doctor + River Song + Amy Pond = dream team

Grimm. This show is just fun.

The Cooking Channel. Default 'there's nothing else on' channel.

Sherlock - A Study in Pink & The Blind Banker. Because, duh.

Platypus Day AKA Phineas & Ferb Marathon. We all need a little secret agent platypus vs. hapless Germanic villain action in our lives.

MoffTissIan

I'm proclaiming it, right now. (Links will contain major spoilers...)

The only thing which currently gets my brain a-buzzing, my pulse a-racing, my geek heart a-pitter-pattering as much as the ASoIaF series, is Sherlock.
While I understand that for the quality of the series to remain so spectacularly high they can only produce three per season, IT'S NOT ENOUGH. Just like waiting for The Winds of Winter (or, T-Wow, as my geek friends and I like to call it), waiting for whatever will follow "The Reichenbach Fall" is equal parts excruciating and exciting, both mentally and emotionally.
Thankfully, the interwebs indulge my addiction, while constantly proving to me that there are other fans out there just as invested. Even more so.

While following up on every theory and explosion of fandom awesome regarding these series may not equate to the best use of time which could be spent being 'productive,' it does get those synapses firing in a way nothing else does.

It's certainly better than spending my days following celeb news on TMZ and Perez Hilton...




#believeinsherlock

American Horror Story: Needs More Crybation?

Courtesy of Urban Dictionary, for those unaware...
Crybate: Simultaneously crying and masturbating; the most pathetic act a human being can engage in alone.

Like millions of other seemingly ordinary individuals, I engaged in the horror mash-up that was last night's premiere of American Horror Story. The show has balls, coming out of the gate with a slew of disturbing imagery, homages to classic horror, Dylan McDermott crybating while being watched by a creeper standing amongst his family's drying sheets, and the most incoherent, jumbled assembly of timeline and plot ever created for a pilot series.
The show already has numerous reviews addressing the WTF-ery of its existence, as well as some top ten lists associated with the insanity vomited out of Ryan Murphy's GLEE-addled brain. My assessment runs more along the lines of: if this is an "American Horror Story," what makes it such... and does it work?

Ignoring generalizing and/or subjective queries such as: Is it scary? Are the ghosts real? Is anyone real? The biggest question about whether this show lives up to its title is this: What makes a horror story American?
Without getting all near-two-decades of watching, researching and writing about horror on y'all (because that would get far too intellectual for something as ridiculous as this series' pilot), it basically boils down to the following:
American horror wants to shock you. How it goes about achieving this varies depending on the desired shock level, where it hits you psychologically, and the style of its crafter. In this sense, American Horror Story wins in its first episode, if a string of mental WTFs can be considered shocking.
American horror is fascinated with disturbed individuals and their penchant for killing people, often in gruesome ways, with lingering effects. This show has disturbed people all right, and there's already hints and statements that some have already killed.
We like sex in our horror. It's not uncommon for American horror films to contain as much sexual content as violence, or at least the undertones of it. Europeans tend to be more subtle in their portrayal of sexuality as it relates to horror. It's almost non-existent in Japanese horror. Not us, we come out balls-blazing, coupling acts of gore in tandem with college orgies. From McDermott's luscious booty, to the (Ghost?)Gimp sex scene, to the hilarious (if you're me or anyone who works in my office) crybation scene, this series is no exception. In fact, if allowed by the censors, it could take torture-porn to a new level: porn-torture... like elevated crybation.
Many other themes in horror are embraced by the show: isolation, struggling against our desires in a heightened situation, history resurfacing to (possibly literally) bite us in the ass, and a questioning of what reality truly is. These are general constructs of most horror, not necessarily American.

So, the show hits most of the themes set forth in hundreds of years of American horror, along with more than a dash of general horror conventions. Does it work, though?
It could be a bit too soon to tell, but thus far... not entirely. The issue, I think, is that it's combining too many established constructs, coupled with homages, coupled with an incoherent plot and timeline. While it's shocking, disturbing, and full of weirdness (supernatural and otherwise), it fails to provide the audience with an answer to one of the most important questions in successful horror: What makes this horrific, and why tell us this story?
It has a chance to reveal this to us, but as of right now I'm doubtful it can accomplish this given its explicit bombardment of freakshow moments in the very first episode. That type of insanity cannot be maintained and retain the necessary creep-out factor to keep people engaged. yet you need to pull away a bit to provide some actual, coherent storytelling. Backing away from the crazy too soon, though, could expose perhaps the greatest flaw (so far) in this scenario: If all this insanity is happening within weeks(days? hours? who the hell knows right now...) of moving into their new home -- why are these people staying there and why should we care?

Writing Buddy

Different than a diving buddy (who stands by with oxygen) or a porn buddy (who pledges, in the even of your untimely death, to remove all the pornography in your place before your parents can find it), a writing buddy can be many things to a writer.
Sometimes I have used it as a term for a co-author when I don’t want to sound too prissy and formal about it. I’ve known others to use it as a code word for a glorified intellectual fuckbuddy (“This is Jason, my ‘writing buddy.’ We get together on Wednesday evenings and alternate weekends to discuss Pynchon and Hemingway, work on our novels, drink wine… and screw each other senseless.” You know, like you do… or other people do, at least…). Still others utilize it as a casual term for someone you see on occasion – a friend, colleague, or someone you met in a writing group – with whom you share a need to be culpable for your progress.
This last usage I find myself identifying with at the moment, and I have to say, the relationship is anything but casual. If not for an appointment with a writing buddy last night (who is also a friend/colleague/actress/theatre-maker/all-around amazing woman), my writer’s block may have gone on for weeks, perhaps even months (it has been known…). I won’t wax on about how devastating a continued block is, or what tactics I may have been forced to employ should the block have continued much longer (though some ill-advised adventures in debauchery were on the list), because my block might have broken on its own in a few days… though I doubt it.
What I do want to impart is that a ‘writing buddy’ who is there to be a fellow soldier in the war against writer’s block, even if it’s only to set a time and place to write your separate projects concurrently, is just as important as a diving or porn buddy. A good writing buddy stands by with the oxygen of support and understanding, and even a breath of conversation when you’re beating your head against the wall looking for the right words. Just by sitting near you and participating in the battle they clear out many of the distracting thoughts, fears, and hidden guilt hiding in the closets of your mind (or under your bed, or slipped in behind other thoughts you know no one else will ever explore, so it’s safe there…).
Praise in the form of blog lauding and internet hugs go out to my writing buddy*, the marvelous Nina.




*She even gets paid to write -- something I sorely miss, thus I am not only grateful for her, I'm jealous of her ;)

Detailed Minutiae

Query:
Do you count thirty minutes spent trying to find the answer to an historically relevant, yet minor, detail as editing time?

It came upon me quite unexpectedly. There I sat, casually marking up my manuscript with what has become the Demon Red Pen* with few cares beyond the composition in front of me. Then, at the beginning of my smutfest scene** I read a sentence I've read dozens of times. Yet for the first time, a little detail struck me as possibly historically inaccurate. It's a minor detail, but one that bothered me as I did not know the answer. A thorough scouring of the interwebs proved fruitless, and a query among my co-workers brought a 90% assurance to the correct answer. Yet that 10% nags at me. I have a message in to my historian father who, I am confident, will either know the answer definitively or be able to find it for me with ease.
Still, that one miniscule detail haunts me in some aspects more than the glaring plot gaps and awkward paragraphs scattered throughout the book. While I know editing to be full of these little gaffes, it amazes me how fixated I become on them when I find them and cannot proceed until I have the answer. I have found for myself a new personal 'tick' in my editing style which I previously ignored. We shall have to reconcile ourselves to these little errors when they arise, for if the internet and my merry band of pop culture and history fanatics are nowhere around when the next minute detail flaw arises, we may go mad from sheer want of a solution -- and start taking on bizarre attributes such as talking of ourselves in the third person.



*It's not a demon because it deletes unnecessary content or corrects grammar and spelling errors, it's a demon because it exposes flaws with no ideas on how to fix them. Fixing the flaws requires more writing, which delays the editing, even though they go together. It's damn aggravating.

** It's not really that smutty. It's risque to a point, but I am writing 'young adult' literature so I tried to stay a little vague... at least in book one. Book two, well... we'll get to that one later.

Adjust Me?

Not sure if my mind exists in a different habitat than the majority of the movie going public, but I found myself just kind of whelmed by The Adjustment Bureau. I likes me some Matt Damon, and Emily Blunt doesn’t usually annoy me, and both were good in the film. The writing was strong, though I feel that the performances carried it well and in the hands of a lesser cast and director it might not have been as engaging. The story I found intriguing and didn’t feel too let down by the explanation of the whole system, but overall I’m not feeling too positive about the experience.
I will say that as an English major and history buff, I did have a bit of an issue with a section of the reasoning behind the Bureau and how they decide when to fully allow free will (anyone who’s studied Imperialism and the so-called Dark Ages should take issue with blanket statements about those periods, positive or negative). And while I did feel connected to David and Elise, both as characters and with regard to their relationship, I did desire a little more development in the way they connected so quickly. As my gal pal Tishy stated at their first encounter, “It never happens like that,” and she’s right. Generally speaking, none of that obsession-masked-as-love ish happens like that in real life. And if it does, especially to that extent, most rational people would sick the cops on Matt Damon. I’d love to believe in the dippy romantic aspects of life, but we just aren’t tuned like that anymore.
Still, it was a fun ride, with an almost bullshit free explanation of the reasoning behind and function of the Bureau, and some pretty awesome doors I’d like to be able to run through.

Jane Snare

Yes, Charlotte Brontë, even dead and unable to collect royalties you still get my money. Even though I have a hate-appreciate relationship with your critical blockbuster of a novel, I still cannot resist the siren call of another adaptation when it comes creeping into theatres (or onto my telly). Thus I gave in this weekend and ventured out, armed with a trusty band of ladies, to see what this new film adaptation held in store.
To start, I must say that the cinematography, lighting, and overall mood of the film better matched the tone of the story than just about any other adaptation. Also, though he doesn’t exactly qualify as a member of the Less Than Handsome Club (understatement), Michael Fassbender made a better-than-normal Rochester. Miss Mia also portrayed Jane’s different states of vulnerability and self reliance quite well. However, the chemistry between them left something to be desired, a fault I attribute more to the structure of the film and the absence of some vital moments from the book than to either actor’s performance. Let’s face it, carrying off believable chemistry between a man of forty-ish and a woman of seventeen presents a difficult challenge. However, as proved a few years ago by Ruth Wilson and Toby Stephens, it’s entirely possible to do without being at all creeptastic.
Now for the, erm, issues. I’m going to try to steer away from the issues that relate directly to the source material (i.e. Rochester’s a douchebag), and just stick with the problems inherent in condensing and style. The concept of crafting a darker, more gothic adaptation worked well as a whole, however within the confines of a two and a half hour movie, some of the extended dark sequences in the end took up time that could (and should) have been given to some of the even darker and more important moments in the story. This, coupled with extended sequences of Jane moping around Thornfield grounds and a highly repetitive ‘escape’ sequence from the hall not only slowed the pace of the film, but took up time which could have been dedicated to more important moments… like the gypsy sequence, or the veil tearing, or Jane’s nightmares, or ALL of Grace Poole’s scenes. You know, the REALLY dark, gothic, scary and important sequences. These sequences not only showcase the best of the story’s gothic side, they develop and deepen Rochester and Jane’s relationship… so when she gets all mopey that he’s gone, you understand it better.
The flashback method worked well to a point. It helped speed along the childhood moments which, to be frank, aren’t why we watch the adaptations. We want to get right to the juicy stuff at Thornfield. Jane’s aunt and cousins are assholes; Lowood School is full of douches except for one friendly girl who dies, the end. Also, it was a nice change to see Jane start out with St. John and his sisters to see their kindness extended and give a basis for Jane’s affinity for them from pretty much the start (also, Jamie Bell, Holliday Granger, and Tamzin Merchant are all made of awesome -- I hope they continue to get more and more work). However, as the film progresses, there aren’t enough returns to the Rivers family to make their relationships with Jane strong enough to sustain her caring for them when they reach the climactic scenes. Also, um, cousins anyone? Did we just feel making that connection would get to creepy or something?
In any case, conceptually this adaptation works in bringing the darker (figurative and literal) aspects of the story out. However, too many sequences of empty moping and unnecessary eye flirting and candle lighting didn’t leave room to cover some of the most important emotional (and darkest) moments in the film, thereby not allowing for the real chemistry between Jane and Rochester to come through, thus leaving me more emotionally empty than I have been while watching other interpretations.
Sorry, Fassbender, Bell, and BabyDickens, you’re still trumped by Toby Stephens.

Digestible Linkage

In addition to spouting off a fair amount this past week, I’ve also been catching up on reading. Sadly not novel reading as my attention span has yet to recover from the Death Flu, but I’ve been reading many interesting and varied articles across the interwebs – enough of them that I feel compelled to share some of the highlights:

Fellow LA Theatre Slave, Gedaly, has a great piece on how theatre still markets itself like it’s 1936. While I believe intrinsic changes need to occur at the AEA level to even begin to move us forward (because even non-equity houses fear the wrath of the AEA), I do concur that internet marketing, specifically in video form needs to be made better use of in productions. The secondary hang-up is that in small theatre, which needs the marketing most, the desire to find inventive ways of incorporating video marketing is often there but the manpower to make it happen on less-than-no-budget is not. That speaks more to the inherent lack of non-actors and designers involved in theatrical ventures (that aren’t revivals or rip-offs of tried-and-true hits) than to anyone directly involved in a production, but it still is a root cause of this problem.

Author J.S. Chancellor has decided to go for pomp (and hopefully avoid broke) in advertising that his new (and unfortunately partially leaked) novel will be available for free download in March. As a starting novel in a series, this grand gesture could garner enough support from readership to gain buzz and profit for the succeeding novels.

Chamber Musician Today features a guest blog on how/why to join a vocal ensemble. While it lacks a bit in the directional ‘hows’ of joining (i.e. what to be prepared for in different ensemble types and what to expect in audition/interview processes, and how the rehearsal and performance schedules can differ between various groups), it does offer several varied options for vocal groups and what might appeal to potential members. As someone who’s constantly toying with the idea of finding a new vocal home, this gave me a little push to maybe give it a go.

This interview with Andrew Chambliss would have knocked me on my ass, if I hadn’t already been on it. There’s nothing new or astonishing in the article; it’s just a successful writer-geek talking about his work and those he’s worked with. However, as he’s a) a phenomenal, young writer and b) has worked on shows with writers I worship and adore, it’s pretty much a geekgasm-causing insight into the inner-world of writers I would love to know and would consider myself lucky to emulate.
TV writers also hold a bit of enigmatic awe for me as the concept of anyone’s mind working that fast, let alone a room full of people working at that pace, astonishes me.

All right, so I can’t help but be a bit self-indulgent as this final link (via CJDirector) is to a site which put me on their main page. I’m down in the ‘Health’ section, which is a little off for the entry, but I will certainly take publicity in any form I can get – especially for this entry on music snobbery. I will use pretty much any avenue I can to headbutt the ignorance out of people resistant to Hanson.

Why Are All My Relatives Such... Twats?

Having recently finished Jane Goes Batty (which I may rant/rave about soon), and with the timely-yet-unexpected random inspirational quote from one of my dear friends, I find myself compelled to follow in the footsteps of scholars and fans far more deserved than I to explore the realm of what many consider the anti-Brontë: Jane Austen.
One might surmise that my overall disdain for two-thirds of the Brontë sisters would create an automatic enjoyment of all works Austen. Sorry to disappoint, dear quick-to-judge readers, but I find Miss Jane flawed as well, though admittedly not with the kind of vehement passion I aim at her Byronic successors. Still, on the whole (and though I have not read all their works), I do gain more personal enjoyment and find more intriguing and worthwhile in Jane's writing than in Charlotte's or (*hurk*) Emily's.
The quote which helped spur on this Austen topic quite took me as both accurate and bitingly amusing:
Apparently to have an Austen-esque romance, your family must be filled with twats.
(Texts from my friends are not, I think, like most people's texts... also, at least in my circle, 'twat' seems to be making a much needed comeback.)

While at first glance the assessment holds true to the 'it's funny because it's true' adage, both for works of Austen and those who hunger to emulate her, on reflection it caused pondering of classic feminine literature in general and how applicable this statement may be.
First, with Austen, it rather amuses me that by all accounts her own family was quite stable and satisfactory, if a little wanting for financial stability. Yet the heroines in most of her novels must deal with family (or those who may become family) who exemplify twattiness while on their individual journey to personal (and matrimonial) bliss.
Obviously Lizzie has to put up with not only her own but Darcy's atrocious relations (I'm looking at you, Aunt Lady Catherine de Twatourge). Twatilicous Lydia even ends up marrying a complete asshat, and I still wonder who got the worst end of that deal: her or Wickham. Even the almost nauseatingly perfect Jane and Bingley must contend with Charles' complete twat of a sister. No wonder Caroline so longs to be in Darcy's family -- she and Aunt Twatty would be the Twats of the Town. And in an informal facebook poll, my friends unanimously crowned Mr. Collins as the King Twat of Pride & Prejudice.
Then we have poor Fanny whose own immediate family pawns her off on her rich relatives at an age where her female cousins can be expected to shat on her like their pet puppies do on the front lawn. Then of course we have the Twat Twins who seduce various members of the Bertram family and end up exposing the fact that Edmund and Fanny are about the only respectable people in that circle -- and even they almost get duped and seduced by the Cunty Crawfords (yeah, I said it).
Similar patterns of familial twattery appear in Emma, Sense & Sensibility and (at least the parts I've read) of Northanger Abbey. The only Austen work which I am almost completely unfamiliar with is Persuasion but I would wager the twat theme queefs mightily in that novel as well.

Still, on my brief contemplation of female literature in general, Jane is not exempt from familial twatishness as a plot device. Miss Charlotte created an epic family of twats with the Reeds, and even the boorish Emily ensured her characters would never see happiness due to their über-twat relatives (of which Heathcliff and Catherine both suffer from and then become themselves). Yes, even my Brontë goddess Anne enlisted the family twat device in The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (though Gilbert's family of twats pales in comparison to Helen's husband and Lord Twat, Arthur Twatingdon).
While not 'feminine' literature, She Who Has More Money Than Everyone Else In The World Combined (aka Jo Rowling) excels at using FamTwat. Though young adult literature is steeped in twat tea, few families twat it up as well or as much as the Dursleys or the Malfoys (when your parents' names are Lucius and Narcissa, you're pretty much guaranteed a twatty childhood and thus becoming a top class twat yourself).

Obviously this is not a plot epidemic limited to female authors (Shakespeare was king of family twats), but from one little text I find yet another way to examine feminine literature and authors. I know Familial Twats: Exploring Twatticism in Post-Colonial British Female Authors probably won't garner me any academic accolades or grant money, but it is very interesting as a topic and damn fun to write about... or maybe I just like finding new ways to use 'twat.'

Coming Soon:
Coping with Twats Leads to Bliss? -- how the twatty behaviour of literary families correlates to the ultimate happiness of their protagonist relatives.

Fiction Battle

Or: Why snobbery in any form only makes you look like a douche...

The Death Flu cramped my writing for over a week, no doubt about it. While my brain functioned on occasion and I wrote more than before I caught the Death Flu, little of it felt substantive to me. With the exception of the migraine rant, I wrote because I felt I needed to but the passion behind the writing, the drive that keeps me going, was simply lost in the sea of a mind clouded with phlegm.
I’d like to thank Joe Hill for breaking me of my malaise. After a series of tweets which delivered the right amount of snark and disdain for an article on literary versus genre fiction (in which he advised readers not to seek out the originating article), I caved and followed the desire to seek out this supposed atrocity.
To say that it bothered me would be a bit of an understatement. It’s not entirely the content of the article but the tone that drives me to imaginings of strangling this writer with his own pompous ascot, which I envision he wears just to keep his inflated head from floating off his body. Yes, I resorted to cheap jibes. I suppose I’m just not ‘literary’ enough to appreciate his pompous, condescending, insulting tone as it relates to the general reading populous.
However, in reading this article I found my way to this one which, while it doesn’t entirely refute Mr. Pompousity does point out that readership and acceptance is a two-way street. Just as an article slamming all fiction that isn’t literary makes one seem like a giant douche, a retort which only serves to praise the mass consumption of Grisham and Steel books and casts aspersions on meriting works of literary fiction for being too high-brow makes that critic seem like the giant douche’s hillbilly cousin – who’s still descends from the family of Lord and Lady Douchebag.
The writer of the second article sees merit in both types of literature, and the problems inherent in either side dismissing the other for either pandering to the common folk or targeting only the upper echelon that sneers at the fiction of the plebes.
“I understand that everyone has different tastes, but there is no pride in ignorance of literary fiction. Genre writers can learn from literary fiction, just as literary writers can learn from genre fiction. There's a middle ground.”
Now that is an anti-snobbery statement I can stand behind.

I won’t pretend that I do not place labels on certain types of fiction based on my own personal tastes. However, I will say that for me great fiction, regardless of status, is about a compelling story, engaging characters, and a mark of creativity. A lack in any one of these areas does not discount the book for me as an example of poor writing or storytelling because each of those qualifiers contains no small amount of subjectivity. Still, if my interest is not captured you’re probably going to lose my investment in your writing – and even high-brow writers of the highest caliber get props from me even if your writing (and subsequent acceptance into the bourgee canon) frustrates this little pixie because all I got from your story was an intense need to throw your book across the room. Unless you’re Emily Brontë, even a violent reaction still merits note because it provoked thought. I’m not a huge fan of LitFic, but I’d rather be incensed at your pompous popularity than bored to tears by your drivel.

Still, if you want my respect, be a good writer, a good critic and an anti-snob. In simple words: Don’t be a douche.

I though all writers drank to excess and beat their wives...

You know I think at one time I secretly wanted to be a writer.

On the topic of favorites, my favorite movie usually elicits one of the following responses:
Hmmmm....
I've never seen that...
Really?
or
That's a great movie!

Obviously it's the final response I like to hear. I also make the delineation between 'favorite' and 'best' in situations like this. A favorite does not equate to the belief that this is the most exceptional item in whatever list is being discussed -- though both are quite subjective, despite what creators and discussors of 'best of' lists would have people believe.

So what is my favorite movie? The Philadelphia Story.
It replaced The Princess Bride sometime after I turned 19. One day I want a dog that I can name CK Dexter Haven. I will call it Dex, except when I have to call it across distance ("CK Dexter Haven! Ohhhh, CK Dexter Haaaaaaven!" will ring out then) or want to chat to it (this is when "CK Dexter Haven, I would like to talk to you," will be employed).
I'm going to preface the intense gushing by stating up front that generally speaking I'm not a huge fan of either Hepburn or Stewart. This isn't to say I don't like or appreciate their work (though in my younger days I generally did not), but merely to state that neither of them interest me much as actors -- not in the way I'm interested in Cary Grant or Ingrid Bergman or Leslie Howard or my own trifecta of Gene Kelly, Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye.

What has, from my second viewing on, fascinated me about this movie is the balance it strikes between farcical and biting comedy, light-hearded and emotional performance, and frivolous and serious issues. I cannot think of another move that is this funny while examining, on a very real level, societal conventions, prejudices, marriage and alcoholism. Still, the serious undertones of the movie never deter from the fact that it is one of the sharpest, wittiest, best-timed comedies ever.
Not only is the writing spot-on (and with some improvements I think from the original play), but the direction and casting are intrinsically linked to how good the movie is. It's one of Cary Grant's most understated (and therefore, I think, under-appreciated) performances. It's a perfect fit for Stewart's style without seeming repetitive of his other work. It's an obvious tour-de-force for Hepburn who obviously knew how to steer her own career as she tailored this film to suit her and did so flawlessly. Personally, other than Grant's wonderful portrayal of Dexter, my favorite performance in the film is Ruth Hussey's Liz. There's more than a touch of myself in her character so there's the self-identifier working in her favor; however, it's also a role of great sympathy and gumption, written and played with a sincerity rare in any era of film.

As I sit here writing this and desire to delve into the depths explored in the movie, I'm rendered incapable of being too serious about it since right now Mike is drunkenly hiccuping his way around Dexter's house as Dex patiently takes it all, and all the while the plot thickens. Yes, a comedy where you have to pay attention. Concept.
That in itself is the underlying brilliance of The Philadelphia Story: it doesn't let you rest. Similar to His Girl Friday and yet I think more accessible, more romantic, and blatantly more humourous, it takes multiple viewings to understand all the layers within it, yet never loses the core of romance and comedy. For first, and even second, time viewers I wouldn't recommend trying to read too much into the film. There are some disparities in how it treats the ideas of relationships and prejudice which are reflective of the time in which it was made, and there are a lot of feminists who slam the movie because they only see the film for these flaws and not the overarching messages. Still, as a snapshot of society created for entertainment, it's remarkably reflective and perceptive of the world it inhabits.
However, even if you just come for the romance and the funnies, you can't do much better than this movie.

So-and-So on…

Thus far I have rather failed in my ‘embrace Fauxbruary’ mantra due to succumbing to my largest time/emotional-suck addiction: theatre.
Now, were I in a divulgatory and supercilious frame of mind, I might expand on a great many reasons why I feel the need to leap into situations in theatre; however, with my current sleep deprivation that would reach Epic Snark levels in about two sentences and then devolve into an intense rant which would probably give people a whole different impression of me.
Instead I will attempt, in my over-exhausted haze, to convey a little message about life addictions and how we use them to avoid engaging ourselves in activities we either should be or would rather be doing. We all have them. Sometimes we call them hobbies, other times obligations… chill-out time, organized social activities… all these things teeter on the edge of a line which, for those of certain temperaments, can very easily spill from leisure activity or enhanced social interaction to obsession. The biggest problem with something you like doing becoming something you do all the time is stagnation (closely followed by over-exhaustion). You become so involved that it consumes your life in ways you never intended for periods of time which far exceed what your dedication was meant to be. No matter what you learn, who you meet, how enriching experiences may be, it will continue to eat away at other areas of your life more and more until what was once a fun and exciting break from mundane life necessities or aggravating creative struggles becomes both mundane and aggravating.
As I see it, you have two options at this point: continue with this obsession in the hope that sweeter waters are around another bend in the road – and vow to take it easy on yourself next time (which is good when you’re committed to something you can’t in good conscience abandon), or take a mother-lovin’ break (which is what to do when option one fails miserably, or when you have a better ability than I do to say ‘no’ to people). Well, after five years of following option one, I’m finally about to stride down the path of option two, and I must say that as exhilarating as the prospect is, it is also utterly terrifying. Why? Peril number two in the extracurricular-to-obsession realm is safety.
Once you find that activity, hobby, video game, travel blog, etc. which consumes your life bit by bit, leaving it (or even easing off in a controlled-dose-of-weaning way) not only equates to the possibility of losing whatever new talents, skills, friends, connections and whatnot you’ve built, it’s a loss of emotional safety. By becoming so involved in this endeavor you have effectively shut off other areas of your mind and emotions to concentrate more on your obsession. Now, reconnecting with those parts of yourself, and the world, can seem counter-intuitive. You’re safe, you know your way around, you like the people, you used to like the obsession… so what’s the point in letting it go for a while (or ever)? Again, stagnation -- AND the fact that the very safety you feel when enveloped by your obsession transforms into fear of doing something new and different (when wanting something new and different is what likely got you into your current obsession in the first place).
So while it is with an inordinate amount of fear, uncertainty, and a dash of reluctant sadness that I take temporary leave of theatre, it’s for my own personal, creative, and professional development that I need to step out of comfort’s loving (and smothering) caress and run headlong into a terrifying blackness of potential. Here’s hoping beyond the black I find new lights, and that one day those lights will lead me back to seeing the light in theatre again.

Vexing Visages

Though not always...
While not always on a wide range of topics, my dreams lately are more vivid and, in theory, inspiring than they've been in months. Apparently actually allowing myself the time to sleep as well as not running ragged with work and theatre (together) allows my subconscious some reign over sleep and let's my fears, thoughts, and fantasies have more sway. Disturbing as some of these dreams have been (woke up in a cold sweat the other night from dreaming about being an 'accidental' baby killer -- of what would be my own sister), the quality of construction and vivid sensory material makes them seem not only ultra-realistic, but a welcome distraction to life -- and so much better than months of dreaming about 'the show,' my cast, work, etc. (Apologies to cast & crew of 'the show' and any co-workers who might read this. You're all awesome, but I see you in waking life and don't need a constant stream of you in my dreams.)

While upon waking and getting into my day these dreams rarely stay clear in my mind (I might need to start a dream journal), some of the images stay clear for hours. Right now I have the image of my dream forest -- a tangled web of decaying trees which appeared more as twisted, skeletal branches reaching in every direction to form a thicketed path to wander through, daring anyone who approaches to enter and emerge from the same location. This dream also featured a young man: tall, pale, with dark, spiky hair and piercing eyes, who sometimes appeared translucent, other times as a silhouette, but always in the realest of real physicality. The only time I remember seeing his features and form in dreamy technicolor came when we were reunited after many separations and he reached out a hand, touched my face and became as clear and solid as anyone before kissing me.

I've had several Colin Morgan centered dreams, likely due to my playing Merlin every night to fall asleep. Some are with Merlin, others with Colin. All are pretty damn pleasing ;)

Whatever the content and caliber of these dreams, all those I remember upon waking leave me with very specific emotions tied to the dreams, as though they continue even during wakeful hours, and a pressing need to do something about or with the images which my mind creates. I don't know what that something is, but I hope my subconscious continues building new worlds long enough for me to get something productive from all this.

Throwaway the Year

"Is 'all right' special Timelord code for 'really not all right at all?'"
"Why?"
"'Cause I'm all right, too."

Agreeing with this post, I would like to offer a big FUCK. YOU. to this past year. January came and went leaving me jobless and stressed with a show. Oh yes, and began a still-ongoing purgatory of not knowing whether I can stay in my home as my landlords endeavor to sell the property. February graciously gave me a new job with friends who have become closer and co-workers who have become friends. As stressful and anti-what-I-want-from-life as it is, I think what I am most thankful for this year is that job.
March acted as March always does - a hellacious reign of suck, topped off by the death of my grandmother, my last grandparent and my closest non-immediate relative. Yeah.
April brought about my largest tax bill yet, which I will likely be paying off for another two years since despite having a steady paycheck filed under the correct status (and including benefits), I'm deeper in debt now than I ever have been before. May brought more suckiness, though for all its failings and being the first year I haven't been home for my birthday, or to my second home up north, my birthday itself begat an awesome party with awesome people. June and July were passable, and I got to see my mom which eased the not going home in May travesty a bit. August through early November saw the most intense, grueling, impassioned theatre project I've ever been involved in... and the following month and a half have been spent attempting to recover from those four months, along with insanely busy times at work and some of the most turbulent emotional issues I've tried to cope with in years.
Yeah. 2010, you sucked. Big time. I will not miss you at all.
Yet for all your screwing me and the rest of the world over, there are a few items I will remember fondly:
Previously mentioned new job and all the new and expanded friendships
This blog
A new Doctor who (very thankfully) is truly fantastic
The Huntington
Celebrations at the house -- and a house to have celebrations in
Friendship
Writing as an escape when I needed it most

So here's what I intend for 2011. Following with long-standing tradition I have a few goals, resolutions if you must:
Write more
Read more
Create more
Find more positivity in life
Trust my instincts more
Plus a couple I won't mention here

More than these goals, however, what I will endeavor to do is shake off this past year. The universe has ever-delighted in playing games with me and continually screwing over myself and those I care most about. What it is about me that carries the target for 'step on me, crush me, screw me over, and laugh all the while' which fate continues to hit with deadly accuracy I may never know. I do know this, though: whatever hell occurs, it can always get worse and instead of dealing with it or ignoring it, next year I intend to act in the form of my namesake, my astrological sign, and my general personality... I intend to fight back. I do not expect anything in my life to get easier or better; I've learned enough to know that's not my lot in life. However, as I've learned with time and progress and experience, being upset, depressed, accepting, etc. for me are unproductive emotions. Being pissed on the other hand, that gives me fire. It gives me energy and passion, planning and action.
2010, you fucked with me like no other. 2011, you're about to get fucked.

Yeah, that's my pep talk.

Happy Fucking New Year!

Planes and Princes...

By a certain point in life, one sometimes believes they know themselves well enough; that random epiphanies and revelations occur only to later turn out as extensions of what we already know. Yet then the right set of ideas, circumstances, emotions and frame of mind align and we experience something we might have begun to think impossible: a new revelation about ourselves.
This revelation, however it happens, can occur due to a shattering life experience. However, though it may be through my own limited experience of the world and the people I know, often these revelations come at the oddest and seemingly most mundane times. One such revelation emerged piece by piece over the past week, though the bulk of it formed over the course of plane trips to and from my hometown for the holidays. While it's too personal a revelation to speak of right now, too close to my emotional core, for the sake of expanding on the randomness of revelation I'll elaborate a tad on what concepts and items of inspiration led to the ultimate realization.
The holidays, as we grow up, fire within many of us deep rooted memories, emotions, familial ties, traditions -- whether good or bad, we constantly grapple with the past and either fight or strive to work towards or against that past. I have yet to meet anyone who treats the holiday season with complete ambivalence, and if I ever do I'm likely to even chalk that emotion up to influences from their past. Combine this with the stress of life, work, money, relationships, adulthood -- all those things we deal with on a daily basis -- amplified by the rush and fervor of the season and it's already a cocktail for examination of our lives.
Flying always causes a certain amount of reflection for me, mostly because I'll think of anything to keep me from focusing on the miraculous and always potentially horrific science and luck that allows us to fly. It's one of those commonalities of modern life which I refrain from contemplating too much lest I go mad with the knowledge of all that can go wrong.
The final unexpected ingredient in the revelation cocktail is reading. As I get older I have this horrendous habit of seeing reading not as a necessity, a productive activity which spurs on my mind and endeavours through enjoyment and enlightenment, but a time consuming activity which yields less than more important activities like paying bills, doing laundry, overworking myself, looking at facebook, and speed-watching TV. Erroneous and ludicrous a concept as that is, it's a trap I find myself in more and more these past few years. Then I pick up a book and invest myself in reading it and I realize once again how insane I've been for ever seeing reading as a chore, or worse, an utterly unproductive activity.
This particular trip I chose the first in a series of novels on Plantagenet England and Wales, Here Be Dragons. An historical and imaginative novel, it chronicles the story of kings Richard and his brother John, their kin, and the parallel stories of Llewellyn Fawr and his kin -- centering primarily around Llewellyn's story and his marriage to John's illegitimate daughter. The story and characters fed into sections of my mind and emotions I hadn't allowed myself access to in a long time, and as a result, in combination with all other factors, caused me to stumble headlong into my newest revelation.
It's comforting and terrifying at this juncture to realize myself still capable of discovering new aspects of myself and the world around me. Even more than that, it's inspiring.

Open Heart, Insert Fist... then remove and move on.

It's amazing what occurs in our minds when faced with realizations and information to major questions we've been coping with for months. Sometimes what we feel might most damage us when our worst possible (or close to it) imaginings come to pass turns out to, in the end, only make us chuckle, shake our head, think, "I knew it," and prepare to carry on. When you've already prepared yourself for the worst in your mind over and over again and dealt time after time with the emotional beatings of what that final piece of information will do to destroy you, you may have already processed that poor piece of news without realizing. Thus when the time comes to hear and accept that information you're much better equipped having already imagined the scenario, as well as experiencing satisfaction at finally having a semi-definitive answer.
I'm not talking about horrendous life happenings like losing a loved one or getting news about health or any sudden, unexpected wretched news. I mean those situations and desires we build up in our minds and psyches to the point they nearly drive us mad. All we want is an answer, preferably something to give us hope or even more, but you reach a point where the answer matters more than the desire ever did. For me, a curious thing has occurred: I got the answer, not a surprising one yet certainly not the one I wanted; yet while I won't pretend to be happy about it, there's a satisfaction in just having any answer and since I already played out the seeming inevitability of emotional destruction in my mind, repeatedly, instead of feeling crushed (which I do a bit, let's be honest, we never like not getting what we want and believe we need) there's a sense of freedom. Almost power. The situation no longer needs to control me; I can control it and how I react to it from here on out.
I never expected to feel so empowered by devastation, and there may be some lesson on my personal psychology in there, but I've never been much for psychoanalysis. All I know is that I thought I would be broken, and while there will be some breaking and scar tissue formations to come I am sure, right now I feel not just able to cope but to overcome.

Blogger's Block

In the past several days I've made multiple attempts at blog entries which have yet to grace anyone's screen but my own. Most revolve around horror movies/shows, one about writing, one about utterly random crap. Each one contains about two sentences I like and the rest, to me, look like Stephenie Meyer's high school paper reject articles. I'm making an assumption here, but anyone who's read more than two pages of a Twilight book without eyes clouded by sparkly descriptions of Edward's luscious lips and golden-melted-topaz-butterscotch eyes should understand how someone with an English degree feels about their writing with that comparison. I get all these seemingly great ideas in my head and then the minute I sit in front of the screen to type them out they seem pointless and lame. With the blogverse being vast and saturated with utter crap, I don't want to be another person adding to it. Anxiety begets uncertainty which begets a mental block which begets self doubt, and before you know it there are 600 words before you, less than 100 feel usable and now the whole concept of this entry feels like a massive waste of your time -- so how could anyone else want to read it?
This, dear readers, is what keeps many writers silent. The fear and powerlessness we feel when releasing our formed ideas into the world for anyone to judge. Though often our own worst critics, the internet excels at bringing out people who find new ways to terrify everyone including reclusive, schizo, miserable writers who just want someone to be (positively) affected by their writing. Writers are huge cowards. It's what keeps us trapped in the land of first drafts that never become final drafts. It's why we hold on to submissions which never leave the 'to be sent' drawer.
So here's where I make a request of both writer and reader. To readers I say this: next time you feel the urge to leave a negative comment on someone's blog about their opinion, think about how you'd feel if someone responded to you the way you're responding -- if someone has opinions you disagree with or a writing style you abhor, that's fine, but it's no reason to assault them with words from the safety of your computer screen. For writer's I say this: don't be afraid to post your thoughts, even when you think they are stupid or redundant, because in order to find your own voice you have to keep exercising it. Now, this isn't to give license to either side to be douchey and spiteful or to attack without educated and/or experiential reason. All I'm saying is writers are as insecure as any creative type, and yes criticism can be helpful, but writers shouldn't be afraid to write for fear of having their ideas shot down, and readers should acquaint themselves with models of respectful argument when criticising another's work.
Basically...
Writers: Have courage and say what you feel, even if you think it's stupid at the time.
Readers: Feedback and contrasting opinions are great, just try to be constructive.
Everyone: DON'T BE A DICK.

UPDATED:
I feel very comforted when one of my favorite bloggers experiences similar issues with blogger's block and/or feelings of fear and inadequacy over their writing. We all want to have the most awesome, wonderful, thought-provoking or at the very least, entertaining, blogs ever. all. the. time. Yet sometimes you just have to get drunk and say, "Fuck it, I'm blogging while drunk because the interwebs tell me it's awesome." And so you do. And then this happens.
And while there are (often Anonymous) jackasses who will never adhere to the 'don't be a dick' Rule of Life, there are also people out there who appreciate the candor, and amusement, the occasional insecure DrunkBlog can provide.

You want only child? I'll give you only child.

Coincidentally...

This is the type of determination that can be instilled in self-reliant only children: Child + Cake + 'Forbidden' = MINE NOW.
I never, to my knowledge, put my parents through anything like this for cake but I will say when you put a determined, self-reliant, calculating child who does not have siblings to rat on them in a situation where they want something desperately and you tell them, "no," that child WILL find a way. Consequences be damned, success will be ours no matter the cost because we need this (insert seemingly important item or result) and we need it NOW.
Not to degrade myself or other only children, but we pretty much turn into deviant, petulant puppies with the determination of people who have successfully climbed Everest in such situations. So if you want to know the secret of what makes some only children highly successful, it's probably because at some point during their formative years someone told them, once they had sampled the sweet deliciousness of a forbidden cake, that they could not have the cake. Those children then used all their powers of deduction, persuasion, physicality, coercion, and any other tactic they did not yet even know they name for to achieve said cake -- and most of them likely did reach the Everest peak of Cakedom and did not care that an ER visit was continually eminent for hours afterward because the only thing better tasting than ill-gotten cake is self-reliant triumph.

This from a girl who once carted her babysitter's son with her from the sitter's home to her mother's work because she wanted to see her mom. A story which will be told in full... someday.

I'm Alone but I ain't Lonely (mostly)

As a member of the Only Child Society, this article spurred a flurry of thoughts and opinions... now, I'm not one for psychoanalyzing from an academic standpoint. I get the basics of psychology, but beyond that I just get how people work on an instinctual and experiential level. I grew up surrounded by kids in multi-child families (perils of private, religious-oriented schooling) while I often stood as one of very few only children in every classroom.
Was I an outcast growing up? Yes. Do I blame it on my being an only child? No. My socialization with others began at an early age, mostly with my parents' friends. When I began to disassociate myself with other kids my age, it was because I couldn't connect to them on a basic, internal level. They had Girls Scouts, I had books and reenacting -- and I wouldn't trade that to this day. Elementary and middle school were exceptionally difficult for me, but it's not because I didn't have siblings to help me through it, it's because I never fit in. I still don't. To this day there's only a handful of people who really know and see the majority of my real self, and that has nothing to do with the presence or lack thereof of siblings in my life.
Just as this article's author states, I had fill-in siblings in a couple of cousins and friends, though I knew it couldn't replace an actual sibling. Even at the time I didn't want siblings, usually. My loner sensibilities began at an early age. What that did for me in a positive way is instill a value which many people lack even as adults: self reliance. Granted, for other reasons, some of that reliance transformed into an inability to trust others, but it also allows me even now to understand and cope with a world in which, when all is said and done, we're all on our own. Whatever supports help carry you through the harsh times, there will come a time (often multiple times) when the only person responsible for your life is yourself. It's a terrifying prospect, and one that I've noticed takes most people a long time to come to terms with -- and even once they do they continue to look for crutches rather than deal with the problem themselves. Spending so much time on my own as a youth, I learned to cope and handle this at an early age. I still hate it, don't get me wrong, but I deal with it.
In fact, one aspect that is only hinted at in this article that I've seen with many other only children is that (many) only children grow up faster. We have to in order to live up to, well, the world. Some who are coddled more than others struggle with this, but those of us who grew up in nurturing, non-stifling, challenging environments are forced (or force ourselves) to mature faster. Much. Faster. That, in turn, makes us less apt to be selfish or spoiled, though it can make us lean more toward Lonerville than Socialtown because we're not adapted to the level of most of our peers.
Socioeconomic factors also enter into the picture when it comes to 'spoiled' only children. I come from a significantly-less-than-affluent family, so I was never granted every tangible whim and desire the way only children are painted with spoils of winning the war against their siblinged counterparts. Coming from this type of family I never felt over-indulged in terms of attention either, since both my parents needed to work extreme hours just to make ends meet -- again, point for self-sufficiency.
Being an only child can also redefine your concept of 'family' since your worldsphere is often smaller than those with larger familial branches. However, like any social dynamic, it doesn't necessarily predict whether that redefinition creates a smaller or larger extended family, it's just an attributing factor. And really, like the article points out, that's all any of us are -- an accumulation of factors that shape us as we grow up, yet ultimately we as individuals are the only people who decide how we are defined.

However, I will be the first to admit that on occasion I succumb to 'typical' only child moments and attitudes. Sometimes when my patience wears thin or my eagerness becomes overwhelming I want something when I want it and how I want it and everyone else be damned. It happens to everyone, though. The difference being I have a convenient, socially-accepted phrase to fall back on: I'm having an only child moment. Sounds a lot better than: I'm being a selfish, narcissistic jackass right now for no discernible reason.