In Olympic Russia, Hotel Checks You

Expectation:

It's a bit modernist, but seems stable -- what could go wrong?

Reality:

Oh, well, that's not good. Probably an isolated incident...

Erm...

WHAT.

Unless you've somehow put a block on anything Olympics-related, you've probably seen those 'reality' images seventy times over by now. As if the socio-political aspects of this year's games wasn't contaminated enough by a government vocally bashing a not-small portion of humanity there's, well, contaminated water, open manhole covers, floor-less lobbies, and a sense of unfinished-ness permeating Sochi -- and the games have only just started.
Now, Russia is generally a winter-sports wonderland, but if the infrastructure of the host city is this unprepared for just the sheer number of people coming for the games, it really raises questions about their preparedness for the games themselves. Are the halfpipes structurally stable? Are the slopes maintained well enough? Are the speed skating tracks even?
And who the hell was in charge of maintaining the construction schedule for the press, visitor, and athlete hotels?

I'm not boycotting watching this year's games, for many reasons, the foundation of which is I want to support the athletes who have spent their whole lives working toward these games. There are new events and new Olympians mixed in with the classic games and seasoned athletes. These people are what the games are about, not the ridiculous, homophobic, misguided government backing these games, not the already ludicrous accommodations and state of the host city, not the pomp and circumstance of the opening ceremonies, but the actual people participating. The athletes are what I care about. They're what I've always cared about.
You choose to boycott these games, for whatever reason, that's fine. Personal choices, not going to judge. Just remember: however these games play out over the next two weeks, the more focus given to the participants' achievements and how everyone going to Russia overcomes the obvious issues present there, the better we all will be as people.

That being said, calling out governments and officials on horrendous lack of planning, structuring, organization and implementation in any endeavour is not unwarranted. The more social media advances, the more opportunity we have to showcase these flaws not just at the Olympics, but any time, anywhere -- not through assumptions and false accusations, but through simple evidence. If nothing else, hopefully these Olympics will show some leaders that not all their inadequacies can be brushed aside using money and/or force, from the country level down through the smallest company.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go draft my Olympic viewing schedule from the comfort of my fully plumbed, entirely floored room.

The Fox Says: I WILL STEAL YOUR SANITY

Welcome to a Friday afternoon in this office, courtesy of this video and Twitter:

·    Coworker 1: So, I've been thinking a lot about this Syrian crisis and...crap...hold on... WHAT THE FOX SAY!!!! RING-DING-DING-DINGERINGEDING!!! #ylvis

·  Coworker 1: "COW GOES 'MOO'...FISH GO 'BLUB'...SEAL GOES 'OW OW OW OW'... Kill me!!! Fuckin' kill me!!! #ylvis

·   Coworker 1: WA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-POW!!!! I...still have strength....to grab this letter opener....stick it in my....fucking jugular.... #ylvis

·  Coworker 1: HATEE-HATEE-HATEE-HO.......letter opener....too dull....will.....throw body onto..... letter opener....to pierce sternum...must kill myself

·  Coworker 2: WHAT DOES THE FOX SAY?! Thank you, #Ylvis, thank you. #myjam #wapapapapapapow

·   ‏Coworker 1 to Coworker 2: ........must.....get hammer.....smash it....into skull....Please......kill me.....

·  Coworker 2 to Coworker 1: shhh shh shh shh, no tears, just sleep.

Thursdays: AKA The Uncle Willie Day of the Week

For those unfamiliar with the concept of an 'Uncle Willie Day':  In The Philadelphia Story, boozehound womanizer Uncle Willie wakes with a major sleep-deprived hangover and after several assaults by the farcical goings on utters, "This is one of those days which the pages of history teach us are best spent lying in bed."

I won't go into detail about all the crap leading up to the forthcoming rant, but suffice it to say the universe has been sorely testing the bounds of my patience and sanity today. Moreso than a typical shittastic Thursday. All I wanted was to escape the insanity for a bit and use the last $5 I have until payday to get a tasty sandwich (and then they were out of the usual bread and I had to get a different sandwich...). That's all I wanted. And then...

Open Letter to the Guy Who Has Apparently Never Seen Breasts Before:

Dear Sir,

  While I appreciate the fact that sometimes the wonders of nature appear to us at the least expected times, it is important to remember that people are not beautiful flowers. Your awe at seeing a wondrous sight such as my (fairly-concealed) cleavage is understandable. However, your open mouth and eyes glued to that one section of my body for the entire duration of our interaction is none of the following: flattering, gentlemanly, proper, polite, enticing, sexy, unique, justified, excusable, desirable or acceptable. Your inability to remove your Tex Avery-style bugged out eyes from my breasts while you perform the simple task of handing me my food and saying, "Have a great day," elicits in me only one desire: to punch you in your cock.
  If it had been a glance and a smile, I might have been flattered. I might also have been a bit creeped out, but I wouldn't have this lingering feeling, hours later, that when I stood up as you called my number and your eyes were drawn to one area of my anatomy and never left that this one insignificant body part is all you see. That it may be all ANYONE sees. Believe it or not, I've put up with that type of lingering stare which fails to acknowledge that my form is comprised of anything except breasts since I was twelve. Your behaviour is not new to me. That doesn't make it acceptable, and the repeated experience of it over time does not dull the tumultuous emotions stirred by being seen as a walking pair of tits. 
  We don't know each other. It's not like you're a man I've known for a time who has won a bit of my trust and is allowed to make the occasional boob joke. I have a great rack. I'm not actually shy about it, because it is a nice asset. I wear corsets and tanks and much more revealing shirts than this one, not to garner attention but because they make me look and feel good. Let me repeat: it makes ME feel good. A glance here or there from a stranger isn't terribly untoward. It's the complete disregard for ANYTHING ELSE ABOUT ME which makes me concerned for your education about human anatomy and basic manners.
  We are unlikely to ever meet again, and in this particular instance though you were a good looking young fellow who probably has several positive attributes, our interactions today leave me with a sick feeling and the intense desire to inflict violence other human beings. Why? Because you are a dick-leading, manner-less, ogling douchenozzle with no regard for another person's humanity beyond one physical characteristic. Eat shit, scumbag.

Sincerely,
Me

Life's Road Signs...

True dat!

Much to my constant chagrin, on this journey of life there are no signs along the road which say truly helpful things like:
Buckets of money over here!
Turn this way for ultimate success in your professional endeavors!
Three miles straight ahead to your perfect human companion!
Satisfaction with the state of your life and acceptance of who you are just through this thicket of brambles on the other side of the mountain!
Free puppies (already wormed, neutered, chipped, and with free food for a year)!

Wait... that last one actually does exist sometimes and is for me, in a brief moment of extreme optimism, always a sign which leads to happiness both for the recipient and the puppies.

You get the point, though. And if any of those other signs has shown up in your life and led to what is indicated, please give me directions to your road... unless that road involves joining Scientology, becoming a total slut, or sacrificing all my ethics in order to achieve my desires (gee, and I wonder why I haven't found success in Los Angeles yet...).

There are, however, signs which alert us to events, situations, traps, pitfalls, and such to avoid -- sometimes the signs are even multiple and give us a way out, if not to a better road, at least a different one with better potential. These signs aren't always obvious, but often they are, and in either instance there are times when we are either too distracted looking for the signs we want to see, or too stubborn to pay heed to the warnings, or too distracted by a drifting plastic bag across the road to notice the signs.
Then, one day, we look around and realize we're on a road we never intended to be with (seemingly) no idea how we got there, nor how to get away. Whatever triggers our realization, we ultimately have few options: stay where we are, accepting that this is where we took ourselves and just deal with it -- or find a way out.
Option one is safe. We may not be in the place we intended, or even want, but we're here now. Why not make the best of it? Accept, deal, and hang out here. Maybe we'll adjust to this place and find some type of satisfaction in it... eventually. Maybe.
Option two is terrifying. Exhilarating. It has the potential to alienate us from those we've been heading down the same road with and formed bonds with along the way. We could crash our proverbial cars or drive them off a cliff trying to get out of this place. We could also find our own road, build it if necessary, that leads to what we really want -- what is good for us.

I'm finding myself currently looking back and seeing the signs reflected on the road where an oppressive heat beats down and causes the signs to gleam in reverse off the pavement. I look at where I am and see how lost I truly am. I'm standing in the center of what looks like an oasis village, and yet I know what it really is. I've known for a while, I just haven't admitted it to myself.
It's a mirage.
That promise of security and balance is an illusion, and as much as I crave those two stabilizers I know I was made for more. I'm not one to run back out into the desert down unknown roads without drawing myself a map first, but I'll be damned if I settle in this little pocket of life and accept it as my one and only inevitable future. The water was soothing at first; now it's growing stagnant and wretched. I'm tired of trying to boil it and tossing in a few additives to make it more palatable.
I don't want palatable. I want savory, sweet, exotic, surprising, and I want it assaulting all my senses.

I'm going to start my own map, watch for the important signs, and build my own road out of this mirage. Anyone who wants out of theirs, let's build that road and head down it together.

Midway-ish

Lack of updates generally point to one of the following:
- Inability to write, guilt over thus, and fleeing from any chance at flexing the writing muscles
- Lack of time to write due to insanity of life and/or work
- Illness
- Extreme apathy toward life in general and feeling like there's nothing worthy of writing about

Combine issues two and three, and that's basically the reason this time. I'm trying to be a dedicated mentor, passable worker, powerhouse novelist, and quasi-decent friend... and it's exhausting. It's just that time of year.

However, I wanted to take a moment to say that, while stressful, this has been one of my most fulfilling NaNoWriMo years yet. Why? I have an amazing collection of writers around me. In inspiring and encouraging them, I inflict the same wisdom on myself. When I feel like throwing in the towel just to focus on other things (including helping them make it through the month), I get energized by their passion. I'm finally getting a bit of the teaching bug, if you will, though I definitely do not have enough patience for that...
Mentoring, though, is damn satisfying. If I had more time to dedicate to it, I know there'd be even more worth sharing, even more rewards to give, even more encouragement to dole out, even more emails spewing variations of 'don't give up -- you can do it!'
I've always volunteered and given back to causes I'm passionate about in some way, but never with writing. It's such a (generally) solitary and isolating line, but it doesn't always need to be. Crawling out of our dark little writing cozies and chatting with each other, even consoling ourselves when nothing seems to be going right, is great motivation for retreating back into our own little worlds and continuing our journeys.

Also, it's great to be around literate people. Just, you know, for life in general.



Required link to fundraising page for NaNoWriMo for those who like writers and kids and books and reading (it's all tax deductible and I have swanky broke!writer rewards for any size donation. Any.Size.): Click here and show some love.

The Ultra-Douche Complex

Or: Why do we allow assholes to have control and squash genuine individuals?

The following reflects my personal worldview and contains some ranting, not intended to be injurious to individuals… except douchebags and dicks… if you don’t know whether or not you fall into one of those classifications, I’m sorry but you probably do.

Inspired by this great interview with actor (and gorgeous human being), Sean Maher, my mind and emotions were stirred to advocate on behalf of the downtrodden. In this instance, ‘downtrodden’ equals ‘someone who is a genuinely decent person who feels forced or pressured into denying their true self while Douchebag McAsshat continues a successful life by being… well, Douchebag McAsshat.’
The entertainment industry exists as a shining example of the Realm in Which Douches Prosper, but if you think it’s only in Hollywood, smack yourself upside the head a few times and take a closer look at the world in which you live.
Everyday the news bombards us with details of politicians getting dumber and douchier. Not only are some of these scumbags and wackos currently in powerful positions of public office, over the next year we’ll be subjected to yet more outlandish displays of ridiculousness in the name of them ‘helping’ our society move forward.
It happens in business all the time. Comic strips like “Dilbert” and shows like The Office don’t have the staggering fanbase they do because they’re farcical reversals of real-life ‘structure.’ By and large, corporate number crunchers, office honchos, and senior management rank among some of the most out-of-touch, useless, narcissistic and douchey people you will ever find. Not necessarily the CEOs and such, though there are high-profile examples of their cockuppery as well – I’m talking about the people between them and the office ‘plebes’ who actually allow the company to function.
What irks my sense of universal hierarchy in all this isn’t just the incompetency of these people. Or their general douchery. Or their entitlement complex (Ever seen a mid-to-high level executive interact with a retail employee? It’s terrifying.). It’s the fact that we, as a society, let these people continue with their selfish, stupid, asshole tendencies and allow them to advance their careers while intelligent, capable, compassionate, stable-minded individuals get ground into the dirt, mentally and emotionally, for refusing to pattern themselves after the behavior of their ‘superiors.’ We promote asshole behavior in this country.

Beyond that, any time an individual is pressured into feeling like they cannot express themselves and who they are as an individual because of a narrow-minded worldview – whether professionally or personally – it’s an abuse of our right, in this country at least, to freedom of expression. The warped view we’ve garnered on freedom of speech is ludicrous. I’m sorry, but your right to express your views and say what you think ends when it callously, or intentionally, injures someone because you think your opinion is above reproach. Basically, when you shoot your mouth of just to be a dick and it hurts someone, you are a dick and if you get your ass kicked (verbally or even sometimes physically) and claim freedom of speech and right to voice your opinion as a defense, you should get your ass kicked again. As many times as it takes for you to realize that treating people like shit, especially unprovoked, is not a justifiable action in a personal or professional context.

Thus, when reading an article like the referenced above, I’m simultaneously proud of an individual who finally feels the comfort and freedom to profess their true nature (when their true nature is nothing to be ashamed of, nor something they should feel an inhibition about expressing), and angered by the fact that this person lived against themselves because of the cultural stigma which exists in our society.

For my part, I don’t care if you’re gay, straight, bi, or a circus performing transvestite who reads to children at local hospitals on the weekend… I only think you should be forced to suppress yourself if you’re a dick. And the easy solution for not needing to suppress your inner dick? Don’t be one.

/rant

A Report From the Other Side of the Lens

Or: Am I really getting paid to hang out with my friends?

Let me level with you: Acting is a rough career path to choose. Though, like many industries, the amount of work you do in relation to those around you is generally inversely proportional to how much respect, money, and chance for advancement you get. Good acting, solid acting, is difficult… but it’s not brain surgery. You’re not curing cancer. You’re not risking your life to protect other human beings. You’re not educating a future generation of lazy, sugar-high rugrats who have been raised in an ‘I’m entitled to whatever I want because that’s how mommy, daddy, the nanny, and the internet raise me’ generation. You’re not organizing the life of an individual who probably could not tie their shoes or find their way to the nearest Starbucks if not for you. Still, it’s a career I chose a long time ago to abandon because I didn’t want to put up with all the baggage involved. I wasn’t passionate enough to dedicate my life to it, and I don’t think you can seriously expect to make it your true job if you’re not.
This isn’t the post for me to enter into the flawed system of filmmaking and the aforementioned disparity between what you do on a set versus how people treat you (and how you are expected to behave/be treated). Suffice to say it’s one of my eternal grudges against the industry (and really, most industries) that because you hold a certain title in one situation, one job, that either entitles you to special, sometimes over-pampered, treatment OR degrades you to one of the muck-soaked peasants in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. That scene pretty much explains my feelings regarding any type of ridiculous hierarchical structure.

Anywhooos, yesterday I took a turn around the other side of the camera during a well-crewed, enjoyable shoot of an international commercial. The whole situation was quite surreal, mostly because I’m not used to being ‘talent’ when on a set, but also because it took an inordinate amount of internal adjusting to come to terms with the facts that a) I wasn’t just talent, I was principal talent, b) this required allowing myself to not jump in and help the crew and c) I was getting paid to ‘act’ with three of my closest friends.
Granted, it wasn’t all fun and rainbows. During the multiple takes, I got my ‘box’ slammed into a few times… but, you know, I don’t want kids anyway. That’s what happens when you’re the rudder of an office rowing team and you have to stop, and it takes everyone else a few seconds to catch up to you.

All in all, it was an intriguing study in the structure of filmmaking. I have to give a shout out to the crew for their efficiency with set-ups and generally being very easy-going, on top of everyone’s needs, and professional… on top of having a good sense of humor. I hope someday to see the fruits of our labor on YouTube or some such bastion of crazy internet videos.
In the meantime, unless the casting overlords see fit to start placing me in filmic creations with my close compadres, don’t expect me to return to acting as my creative outlet anytime soon… though if I do, I promise to not turn into one of ‘those’ actors.

Vacating

August is almost over, for which I am grateful. Yet today is shaping up to be the most Monday-like Monday I've had in quite a while. I'm on edge. My skin is almost tingling. Every time the phone rings I just want to pick it up and yell, "WHAT!?"
I need to write, but Writer Brain is buried under Editor Brain. I can't write so it makes me more stressed. I'm stressed, so I can't write. Cyclical bullshit of the psyche that makes me want to curl up in a ball with a mug of tea and a stack of books and ignore everything for a solid week.

I revert back to this post from last year:

"Adults need summer vacation.
When you're a kid, no matter how long or short your summer vacation is, it provides you with freedom and opportunities to be expressive, creative, social (or not), occasionally spontaneous and more carefree than you ever realize at the time. Once you hit high school (or if you're lucky, college -- in which case you have no idea how lucky you were/are), you get summer jobs and much of that freedom dissipates. It's still there in smaller doses, though. You're also still more free to travel -- even if it's with your family -- and goof off, because your responsibilities and ties are relatively small.
Then, you 'grow up,' get some form of job, and vacation is typically reduced to a couple weeks at most which you have to plan out in scary detail, usually not take all at once, hope that all of your plans work out, and in all that chaos actually find time to relax.
That is wholly inadequate. Pardon my language, but it's just bullshit. 'Maturing' into an adult does not mean you need less time to decompress, to be free in thought and action, to explore the world around you, to express your creativity or lack thereof, to be a social butterfly or a hermit... if anything you need more. I believe the problems with stress so many people experience in adulthood, especially in this country, stem from the de-institutionalized human need for time to deal with ourselves and our problems. Everything must be done faster, better, more efficiently, even coping with our problems and personal inadequacies. Work Harder has replaced Work Smarter and in that we have lost the time, the ability and the PERMISSION to take time when we need it. We steal cigarette breaks and long lunches where we can. We use a vacation day to deal with doctor appointments, bills, family issues and the like. We try not to use sick days (if we are lucky enough to have them) unless we're at deaths door. Why? Because jackasses creating corporate models have instilled in us that this is how we become better workers. It's not. It's also very much not how we become better people.
Even if you have a non-traditional job that is more flexible than most, you still need time off and not scattered for a week here or there. We all need actual breaks -- at least 2 weeks of solid time off, SEVERAL TIMES A YEAR -- to truly be productive, rational, sane individuals."

I don't claim to have much sanity to begin with, but what little I possess is currently on its own vacation with my mental equilibrium, patience, and ability to process information and daily life occurrences without wanting to scream.

Boyness

Fear not, this will not be a post about boys in relation to my personal life (nothing to speak of in that area, which is another issue in itself, so we'll just pretend your mind never went there and just get on with our day, shall we? Good.).

This is about re-embracing the non-gender-specific empowerment in all of us. (Inspired, partially, by a post yesterday by Luv & Kiwi)

I'm pretty laid back when it comes to fashion. I like to be comfortable. Jeans and tees kind of gal, kicking it in flip-flops or chucks. I do like cute, girly tops, love corsets, and even a good flowy dress or skirt can make me feel like my feminine powers have increased. Yet I experience a different kind of empowerment when I don a pageboy cap, or a snappy vest. Don't even get me started on what kind of empowered mischief I could get up to if I owned a bow tie...

When I get girlied up, even if it's in slacks and a barely-breathable corset with a snazzy necklace that drops down almost into my cleavage, I feel womanly. I feel as though I could walk up to some good-looking bloke, plant one right on his lips, and he'd be dazzled by my awesomeness (rare is the occasion I do something like this, but I FEEL that I could, without consequence). It's a pretty great feeling, don't get me wrong.

However, when I embrace my dapper don side, pulling on the pinstripes, capping my head with a cap, aligning some cute tee or collared shirt with a vest I feel like... like I could take on members of either sex in a bar fight whilst giving redecorating advice to the owner between blows and singing a jaunty tune the whole time. It's like I grew phantom balls that come equipped with a power of fearlessness, attitude, and not giving a toss. All the female insecurities about opinions, looks, emotions, selfish behaviour, stepping out of a comfortable situation... it all just melts away.

Now, I'm not saying I'm trading in my beloved AE jeans or flip-flops or (heavens forbid) corsets for suspenders, ties, vests and a fedora. I wore a skirt and flip flops with the magical hat yesterday, and was comfy and cute all day. Still, it's an interesting realization that a bit of man-flare makes me feel powerful in ways no frilly skirt, deftly-tied scarf, or stiletto heels ever could.

What about y'all? Do you find a difference in how you think and feel when you add a bit of the 'traditionally opposite' sex's garb to your dress?



(It may be a kiss-o-gram outfit, but Amy Pond is totes bad-ass in her collared shirt, tie, and bowler)

Pin Me!

A couple weeks ago I got sucked into a new online world.
No, not Google+ (still working out how worthwhile it will be vs. how worthwhile it could be).
Pinterest.
Explaining Pinterest to the uninitiaed is rather difficult. You can't really explore it until you join, and once you join you can't really understand it until you explore. A lot. It's a very experiential site -- the more you dive into it, the more you become one with it. It may sound very zen, and a tad creepy, but I have never found a 'fluff' (or as professionals call them 'social networking') site that makes wasting hours of time on it feel so useful. There's not much in the way of creating connections beyond a very surface level. There's no witty banter about life, politics, the weather, or CARMAGEDDON! There's no constant stream of outside links to click, videos to watch, or Farm games to play. It is, simply, a giant bulletin board of awesome/inspiring/pretty things. The users are a collective of people who like to create, express, explore, design, craft, inspire... and gaze at pretty things.

I'm a quote whore, and the number of amazing quotes I have found in exploring Pinterest astound me.
For example, I found this one this morning.



Remind you of anything?
"Sometimes I get nostalgic for the time when this massive universe called The Internet did not exist, nor was it so easy to create a stream of words, thoughts and ideas and then delete them in a flash.
Sometimes I want a physical record of my creations, not just a glorified collection of electric pulses and digital code translated to 'my work.'"

That, in a pin, is why I love Pinterest.

"Weakness is tiring, but strength is exhausting."

"I am tired of being strong."

My life, it seems right now, is a series of snippets mashed together. There is no linear progression from task to task or day to day. I go through the same procedures yet the feeling is one of constant interruption and chaos. Long, novel experiences and thoughts are suppressed beneath layer upon layer of brief interludes. Some thoughts and feelings and experiences are pleasant; some are reflective or inspiring; many are stressful and exhausting. All seem fleeting and inconstant. This does not sit well for someone who, though adaptable and capable of eternal juggling, requires a certain level of consistency and stability. Not a lot, really, just a bit to keep me tethered to a plane that resembles reality.
There’s too much shifting, too much uncertainty. Too many good ideas without a home and too many depressing and/or stagnant thoughts which arise and fester.

To put it succinctly:
I’m in a major funk with no semblance of how to rise out of it. I’m outwardly trying to hold on to the calm while inwardly feeling like a ship being ripped apart by a storm with no break in the weather or rescue boat on the way.

I have brief periods where something inspires me, and then am bombarded with an avalanche of negativity from varied directions and those fleeting moments of possibilities are quashed by the heavy burden of reality. I know it cannot remain like this forever. I know, even now, there is hope left… but I cannot see it. (Yeah, been retreading a little LotR).

I can’t even watch films properly right now as everything only settles in increments of a few minutes. The greater picture is lost while the few moments of true emotion I try to cling to are soon overcome by more confusing and aggravating ‘real life’ occurrences. Not being able to escape blows.

To use a current, popular yet crude, analogy being tossed around my office: I need to get the cock out of my mouth, but I can’t find it right now. I need someone to help find the cock and possibly help get it out.

And this is my life right now…

Falling on Swords While Falling for Wizards

One of the ‘joys’ of moving is potentially losing one’s DVR forever and thus all the awesome hours of television contained within (though if DirecTV can mount a dish on the side of our complex, we probably won’t lose it… still, one can never be too careful when it comes to precious television – teacher, mother, secret lover). While packing this weekend I watched a slew of movies* along with a couple hours of mindless television and five episodes of Merlin.
Out of all this stimulation, I found myself surprised (though I shouldn’t be) that what affected and stuck with me most was Merlin, particularly one of the scenes toward the end of "The Changeling." Seeing Merlin finally starting to take the reigns as more than Arthur’s servant, beginning to become his adviser, really exposes some of the depth and complexity added to the series throughout season three. It only gets deeper from this episode forward, but even this singular moment in an otherwise ‘creature of the week silliness’ episode points toward better and more in-depth stories as the series continues to progress.
It’s also pretty damned adorable to hear Colin Morgan’s tone of voice shift when Merlin’s allowed to be adviserly.

From a personal standpoint, the destiny-laden, ceremonial sword stabbing doesn’t feel so far removed from situations I’ve experienced (and some I am currently experiencing), which makes the ancient ‘rules’ of chivalry, duty, and honor seem less removed from daily modern life than they typically feel. While we’re not all destined to rule kingdoms, or advise on how to do so, or charged with the protection of VIPs and/or entire nations, we all have aspects of our life for which we are (or feel) utterly culpable as individuals and sometimes it seems easier to throw ourselves on the ceremonial sword rather than face up to what we know is right, rather than give into something out of a sense of duty or tradition.

As a writer and English major I’ve often felt that one of the great benefits my degree has over my writing is that it taught me all the rules so I would know how and why I break them, when I do. Granted, I learned tons of nifty tidbits about life, society, history, industry, creativity, war, love, pain, beauty, theatre, poetry, music, politics and what makes the world worth living in for different folks at different points in our shared history. Still, much like Arthur following his instinct (and Merlin’s advice) to do what feels right and not just what is expected of him, I feel that with both writing and life we all need a reminder once in a while that traditions can and should be broken when there is reason compelling enough to alter them.


Love, in an unselfish and giving state, complicated as it can be, is a damn good reason to buck against tradition in favor of creating something better.


*Slew = Eight. Miranda, Pygmalion, Only Angels Have Wings, Alex Rider: Operation Stormbreaker, Bride & Prejudice, Pride & Prejudice, and Sneakers


Merlin: I've brought you your ceremonial sword.
Arthur: Is that for me to fall on?
Merlin: Hopefully not. What's wrong?
Arthur: You wouldn't understand, Merlin. You have no idea what it's like to have a destiny you can't escape.
Merlin: Destinies are troublesome things. You feel trapped. Like your whole life has been planned out for you and you've got no control over anything and sometimes you don't even know if what destiny has decided is really the best thing at all.
Arthur: How come you're so knowledgeable?
Merlin: I read a book.
Arthur: And what would this book tell you? Should I marry her?
Merlin: It's not really my place to say, sire.
Arthur: I'm asking you, it's your job to answer.
Merlin: If you really want to know what I think? I think you're mad. I think you're all mad. People should marry for love, not convenience. And if Uther thinks an unhappy king makes for a stronger kingdom, then he's wrong because you may be destined to rule Camelot but you have a choice... as to how you do it.

Move all the things?

The week began with such possibilities in terms of creativity and life. While nothing has crashed or burned, spending most of the week awaiting a life-changing decision to be made sapped away almost all energy and creativity.
The hours spent editing felt fruitless as each hour that passed was an hour without a future. Then, after an epic adventure with corporate human resources, the word came; my roommate and I are officially approved to move to a new place. The stress which previously ate up all waking hours (and some sleeping ones) exploded into excitement over having secured a new residence. However, today that elation has once again slid back to Stressville and my ability to focus seems irreparably shot.
So here’s my query: When life keeps attacking you in various ways and attempting to quash your creativity – and when you have the bulk of your time eaten away by ‘necessary’ life activities like, oh say, moving – how to you maintain/regain a little time and energy to be creative?

For the record: I hate moving. I’m a homebody to the extreme and do not like having myself and all my possessions displaced. I love traveling, but I need a centralized base to return to every once in a while that I know and think of as ‘home.’ Having my living situation thrown into complete chaos and uncertainty for over a year has been one of the most mentally and emotionally taxing experiences thus far in my life. Despite all the insanity to come, I am extremely glad to have found a ‘new home.’

Confession Time

Not like ‘this is a guilty pleasure I’m admitting to’ confession. We’re talking full on ‘I was born a lapsed Catholic’ confession. Anyone who’s been through the Catholic ringer knows that even when you don’t know what (if any) form of religion or higher power you believe in anymore, there’s ritualistic aspects of the Catholic Church that never leave you. For many of us, Lent is one of those.
Every year for the past, erm, decade-ish I have succumbed to that residual guilt which accompanies the period known as Lent and have sacrificed my deep love of fried foods for forty days. Some years it goes well. Others it does not. Still, I keep the tradition going because regardless of any religious reasons, or even residual guilt that only exists as a childhood remnant of having said guilt ingrained in me like an emotional tattoo, giving up fatty, deep fried food for six weeks isn’t exactly bad for my body. Some swanky health nuts cut it out all together, and I applaud them. I am no such paragon of healthy eats and will likely never be, so for this brief period, though around week three I typically turn into a raging bitch due to French fry withdrawal, I will endeavor to be a little more virtuous in terms of what I put into my body, even if I only do it out of misplaced residual guilt. Any reason to get healthy without harming yourself is a good idea in my book…

I’m just this girl…

Trying to live a life. Sometimes.
On occasion it works. Most of the time it doesn’t. This week has been a mix of both.



I’ve written more than I have in quite a while and I know this, like love, should lift me up where I belong. Yet as the week ‘ends,’ I’m miffed that everything I wrote was not my specialty. I wrote many a blog and tweet, but no fiction. However…

I began editing my first novel again. Only about twenty pages, but I see now where some of the major flaws lie and even have some ideas on how to fix them. While it’s about as intimidating as facing down an angry hippo, I still don’t hate the book and I count that as a bundle of points in favor of keeping it up.

I stepped way out of my comfort zone and went to a real Hollywood networking party. I could go on and on about the absurdity of these events, but to be succinct: I met a couple cool people, didn’t have to interact with anyone too douchey, and spent time with some awesome friends on top of the W hotel in Hollywood, for free.
So I won’t talk about the outside party downstairs with the disinterested swaying (because it can hardly be called dancing) bikini girls on red-light podiums.

I organized an Oscar party in about ten minutes. Granted the idea’s existed for a while, but the planning and execution have been in doubt for weeks. Not anymore.

There’s accomplishment of varying degrees in all of this, and yet I don’t feel as though ‘productive’ applies to this week at all.
I need a new dictionary.

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.

It's not 'just a headache,' imbecile

All right, so while I can get ranty and ravey on here occasionally, I tend to steer away from ‘deep topics’ such as politics, religion, health care, the financial stability (or lack thereof) of the world, education, etc. I’ve got my opinions on these, but it so rarely affects my writing as it relates to the topics I spew about on here that I steer clear of hotbed topics.
Well, not today.
Most people not living under the proverbial boulder of social blindness are probably aware that the biggest story to come out of the Grammys was not about the show, but about a reporter who suffered a medical emergency during a live broadcast about the show. It’s now been confirmed by her physicians and the media that she did not have a stroke but had an episodic lapse in speech and feeling due to a migraine. Is it good that this woman did not suffer a stroke? Absolutely. Is this going to raise public awareness about a serious physical and neurological disorder that affects millions of people and can mimic, and eventually cause, strokes? Probably… for about an hour. Does that frustrate me? Hells. Yes.
Now, I’m not saying we should drop everything and focus on migraine research because there are worse medical conditions that do not have cures or even decent treatments. However, as someone who has lived with the migraine stigma of “Oh, you have a headache” for over ten years, and seen friends and family deal with the same BS, when national media covers migraines in a high-profile manner I get instantly hopeful and angry, because to date no amount of coverage has done enough to change the perception that migraines are anything more than a really intense headache… oh, and sometimes people have to lay in a cool, dark, quiet room like they have a hangover until the headache goes away.
I could detail for you all the symptoms I get with various migraines (and yes, they can differ), or list all the medications I’ve taken since I was a teenager that either never worked or stopped working after a short period of time, or launch into a description of what it actually feels like (for me, because every sufferer is different) to have a migraine. However, none of this ever seems to get through to the core of the issue: migraine sufferers have a serious, debilitating medical condition which, because of a lack of knowledge and (typically) visible effects, most people write off as a minor inconvenience in our lives. Also, because migraines can be caused and triggered by a myriad of factors (and each sufferer reacts with different symptoms), no one treatment or solution is feasibly possible so research is far more complex than it is for disorders where the contributing factors are more easily pinpointed.
So any time a story like this is touted in the media, I give a little fist pump for my fellow migraneurs, and then get a little incensed on behalf of us all because I know the chances of it creating new opportunities to explore treatments are slim to none. One day perhaps an event large enough to garner heightened exposure will occur (and I sincerely hope it’s not anything catastrophic), but until then I want to express my solidarity for my fellow sufferers and state for the record that this is one issue where I will always give a voice, both on my own behalf and that of anyone who’s ever had to cope with a migraine while being patronizingly gazed at by those who don’t comprehend what it is we experience.

A little sampling of great creative minds that suffered from migraines...

...there's a picture of a train.

Valentine's Silliness

You know what I like about Valentine's Day? Cards and candy. No more than that. And that joy dissipates pretty much the instant you hit junior high and instead of giving everyone in your class a Valentine and reveling in the cute and funny cards while gorging yourself on sweets, you start having to quench emotional fires between your classmates because people didn't get Valentines from the person they wanted.
Oh yeah, and when I say 'candy,' I mean actual food, not those chalky imitation Rolaids with cheesy phrases on them which are somehow supposed to express true emotion AND be tasty. Epic fail on both counts.

Am I cynical when it comes to this holiday? You bet your cupid's diapered butt I am. Does it relate to never really having a 'good' Valentine's Day? Not really. I've had a couple good ones, none of them romantic in the traditional sense, but very good nonetheless. Is it because more than any other holiday I see it as a commercial gimmick to get people to spend ridiculous amounts of cash trying to cram all their caring for someone into one day while simultaneously making those of us without a 'special someone' to lavish these attentions on feel like utter shit for not being able to hook someone for this 'special day'? Yeah, that may be it.

Honestly, I think the best way to have Valentine's Day is the way we do it as kids: everyone gets a Valentine, even those you don't particularly like, because everyone deserves a day to feel special (or at least not left out). Everyone gets some yummy candy, because everyone deserves some now and again. We spend an hour or so reading our silly notes and giggling about Choo-choo-choosing someone to be our Valentine and spend the rest of the day sneakily trading candy beneath our desks, and then we move on with our lives.
And the people who are truly special to us? They have birthdays and bigger holidays and every days for us to make them feel special and loved. February 14th might as well be Everyone Day if it's about showing affection for people, but that's not exclusive enough for marketing purposes, so we go with the feast day of a random martyr and a set-up courtesy of the creators of chivalry and suddenly there's a toddler with a bow and arrow shooting shafted hearts at people, demanding we couple up and spend hundreds of dollars on dinner, drinks and some jewelry.

At least this day, sadly like so many more important holidays, disappears the next day and won't even be thought of again for about 340 days.

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.

Ice: The Next Generation

Or: Why male figure skaters rock my world
While I miss the live feed of figure skating events, and the sharp decline in full coverage over the past couple years (except for the Olympics), I do love having the power of DVR to replay great showings and fast forward through commercials. It allows me to get through an entire weekend of U.S. Championships in about five hours.

As usual, though I love all forms of figure skating, the men’s competition consumed most of my attention. Don’t get me wrong, women skaters are amazing and their programs range from stunningly gorgeous to energetically playful. It’s also fun to see how the costumes adapt for each skater over the years and performances. Ice dance is like ballroom dancing with deadly weaponry, so that’s fun. Pairs skating is watched with a similar intensity to race car driving – it’s enchanting and much more artistic than racing, but let’s face it, you watch partly in case someone goes flying off their partner’s hands and crashes spectacularly into the boards, judges and/or crowd.

Men’s figure skating gets a bad rep because it requires an attention to artistic detail unlike any other sport, and since there aren’t any females skating with the competitors people speculate as to why one would choose this sport over another. Seriously? Why does artistry need to be limited to certain areas of performance and sport? Anyone with the ability to heave their body several feet in the air, rotate 3.5-4.5 times and land on huge razorblades strapped to their feet is certainly fulfilling their athletic quotient, so what’s wrong with adding meaning and creativity to the footwork and spins that come between building your body up for aerial acrobatics with deadly weapons? /rant

Going into the U.S. men’s portion of the championships I was rather underwhelmed. No Evan or Johnny for the first time in many years and without my two uber-talent beauties to watch and pine over, what kind of excitement could there be? Plenty, it turned out to be. Ryan Bradley put on a show unlike any he’s done since he rode Evan’s spectacular showing at the 2007 championships. Abbot (predictably) choked when it counted, opening the door for the new generation of young cuties to step up. While I wasn’t overly impressed with Ross Miner’s program, he did skate very well and clean. Richard Dornbush’s long program to Sherlock Holmes deserved every point he garnered. What I love most about the top two finishers is they know how to combine athleticism, musical interpretation and artistry into their skating and still have fun. As wonderful as some of the European and Asian skaters are (and even Evan and Johnny), they sometimes take competing a little too seriously, forgetting that in this sport it matters just as much that you engage with your audience as much as doing your utmost to skate a clean program. While some skaters have innate ability to draw the spectators in, it’s often through dramatic performances and yet it’s been proven time and again (and now again) that having the support of the crowd and giving them a little wink or backflip now and again is just as important as any quad jump… ok, maybe slightly less important. But not much.

Thanks to the excellence of the U.S. men I’m now exceptionally geeked for the men’s competition at the World Championships (anyone who can keep Joubert off the podium has my vote). Now if only NBC would stop taunting us and actually show all the short programs in addition to the long…