Bro and I are talking earlier, and I say something about paying off the car making for a happy Valentine's Day. He says, "Because that's what Valentine's Day is all about: owning something you love."
Hee.
Bro is pretty wrong. Wonder where I ever could have come to like that kind of humor so very much?
Monday, February 14, 2011
I Love a Watson
IBM's supercomputer makes "his" debut tonight on Jeopardy, and I am dorking out rawther. He's hot (has two massive refrigeration units all his own). He's smart. And lordy what geek cred.
Can NOT wait to see how he does!
Can NOT wait to see how he does!
Oh, HAPPY Valentine's or WhatEVER Day!!!!
I just submitted the payment which, tomorrow morning bright and early, will pay off my car!!!!!!!!
Bloody WOO!
WOO-HOO!!!!
Bloody WOO!
WOO-HOO!!!!
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Sticks and Stones
Sometimes, name-calling can be very nice. Like the writer a few days ago who called this blog thoughtful and moving. Or the ex husband bestowing the one-word "formidable" upon me.
It'd be selfishly stupid to dismiss and disrespect the esteem of people I respect myself. And that they respect me is something I treasure. I've long found life is made worth living, just by surveying the amazing people who've found room in their love for me to hold a place. How can we surround ourselves with people we find wonderful and amazing, and not realize that says something about ourselves - and not be grateful for, and humbled by that?
It'd be selfishly stupid to dismiss and disrespect the esteem of people I respect myself. And that they respect me is something I treasure. I've long found life is made worth living, just by surveying the amazing people who've found room in their love for me to hold a place. How can we surround ourselves with people we find wonderful and amazing, and not realize that says something about ourselves - and not be grateful for, and humbled by that?
S'funny
I call my mom kind of giggling, and tell her I'm having a ball, balancing my checking account. When she grimaces, I have to laugh and say, but no, on Tuesday I pay off my car. The payoff total as of today is $199.46, and even if two days bumps that a little, it's still nice to see as much left over after a payment as this will afford - and knowing that this debit will be off my books for the forseeable future. Mom gave me a few bucks recently to buy myself a present, and I put it toward gas and groceries; so now I will have to do justice to some proxy dollars. A gift deferred - but still to be enjoyed!
For now, though, some more caffeine free analgesics, then Stargate for a while. Then bed.
A good weekend, definitely.
For now, though, some more caffeine free analgesics, then Stargate for a while. Then bed.
A good weekend, definitely.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Oh, Brother ...
That's not an exclamation, that headline - it's a personal address. Hey, bro: I talked to mom, and she definitely remembered the hot jam reference you were talking about, with grandma's marmalade. So you weren't mis-remembering that! Happy-making.
To address the rest of Teh Intarwebs: my brother was telling me how he recently made marmalade (out of blood oranges - oh holy YUM), and he remembered our father's mother making it. When she took some of the jars and stuck a cinnamon stick in, the marmalade magically became hot jam, not just marmalade.
Frankly, either recipe sounds just divine to me, and I am only sorry there are so many miles between me and ANYthing made of blood oranges and cinnamon.
Anyway. That's my random, last, headache-induced wild-hair/hare-brained post for the night.
'Night!
To address the rest of Teh Intarwebs: my brother was telling me how he recently made marmalade (out of blood oranges - oh holy YUM), and he remembered our father's mother making it. When she took some of the jars and stuck a cinnamon stick in, the marmalade magically became hot jam, not just marmalade.
Frankly, either recipe sounds just divine to me, and I am only sorry there are so many miles between me and ANYthing made of blood oranges and cinnamon.
Anyway. That's my random, last, headache-induced wild-hair/hare-brained post for the night.
'Night!
11:41 p.m.
The headache, when I woke up this morning, was BAD, but I beat it into submission with caffeine, acetaminaphen, caffeine, acetaminaphen, aspirin, and ibuprofen. Ahh, the cocktail my mom can't worry about me taking ever since that trip to the emergency room when the doc said, "Does it work for you? Then take it." Yes, aspirin and acet. will tear up your stomach. I have a strong stomach. It's my cranium that's apparently weak.
*Cue smart remarks from the sibling- and ex-husband gallery* (Actually, probably not. I like those guys because they're at least nicer than THAT to me.)
So I made it through a pleasant afternoon, but since this evening, the throbbies have been creeping back up on me, and I think it must be time to get to bed. Ah well. It's getting to bed on a good day's socializing, eating, enjoying, and peace-ing. All told, not half bad.
If the head's still thumpy in the morning, it might keep me from church, so actually my hope is for it to settle down. I guess time for an uncaffeinated version of the pill popping, and a refill for the humidifier. I want to go enjoy my priest; she is pretty excellent. And if I don't go to church, I might not get out at all tomorrow, knowing me.
And so it is time to take care of my headbone. Good night to all, and to all a good night.
*Cue smart remarks from the sibling- and ex-husband gallery* (Actually, probably not. I like those guys because they're at least nicer than THAT to me.)
So I made it through a pleasant afternoon, but since this evening, the throbbies have been creeping back up on me, and I think it must be time to get to bed. Ah well. It's getting to bed on a good day's socializing, eating, enjoying, and peace-ing. All told, not half bad.
If the head's still thumpy in the morning, it might keep me from church, so actually my hope is for it to settle down. I guess time for an uncaffeinated version of the pill popping, and a refill for the humidifier. I want to go enjoy my priest; she is pretty excellent. And if I don't go to church, I might not get out at all tomorrow, knowing me.
And so it is time to take care of my headbone. Good night to all, and to all a good night.
Whew
I sit here (and that uses - if not abuses - the verb rather loosely), almost horizontal, relaxing upon my Queen's Chair, completely content after a writers' club meeting. I got the house clean last night and this morning, got myself clean, set out the food, and sat in the sun for a little while, not reading nor doing anything but contemplating how handsome a dog I have, as she joined me in my "west wing", a very quiet room, where she got up on her chair/bed and perched front legs on its arm to stand high up and watch out the window. I'd left the front door open today, and she knows, as much as mama likes the sun, that the door standing open must mean Someone's Coming. It means Friends. She was very excited, but not all spazzy and annoying.
I sat, she stood sentry, the sun shone, and they came. Good meeting, great people. I like this group, and we had a good time but also managed a LOT of focus, and got a lot done I think. Laughing all the way.
We comprise young adult, historical, urban fantasy, sci-fi, memoir, and all the varied influences we bring - short stories, blogs, social networking; it's such a variety, and there are only seven of us total. We had six today, and it was a nice dynamic.
And now I sit, the sun slowly setting on a spectacularly beautiful day, the event of my day behind me, and my DVD player not working. Ordinarily, I'd so love to top this off with a few episodes of DS9 or a couple flicks from my collection. I'm not up for a big night out (and can't afford a very great deal anyway, though with friends like mine I could probably manipulate my way to a discounted night of fun), my friend V is not up for a hang-out at my pad, and my mom and stepfather are off for their own evening. So it is quiet, and very relaxing.
Lolly is perched at the window again, ears up, adorably expectant.
This is the gift of down-time. Tomorrow - church. Then reading, I suspect. I'm not up for much outing, and have a whole trove of things to delve into.
Maybe some writing. The group gets my juices going!
A productive weekend. But not overactive. That must be a perfect balance of some kind.
Off to go putter a little. What a nice afternoon.
I sat, she stood sentry, the sun shone, and they came. Good meeting, great people. I like this group, and we had a good time but also managed a LOT of focus, and got a lot done I think. Laughing all the way.
We comprise young adult, historical, urban fantasy, sci-fi, memoir, and all the varied influences we bring - short stories, blogs, social networking; it's such a variety, and there are only seven of us total. We had six today, and it was a nice dynamic.
And now I sit, the sun slowly setting on a spectacularly beautiful day, the event of my day behind me, and my DVD player not working. Ordinarily, I'd so love to top this off with a few episodes of DS9 or a couple flicks from my collection. I'm not up for a big night out (and can't afford a very great deal anyway, though with friends like mine I could probably manipulate my way to a discounted night of fun), my friend V is not up for a hang-out at my pad, and my mom and stepfather are off for their own evening. So it is quiet, and very relaxing.
Lolly is perched at the window again, ears up, adorably expectant.
This is the gift of down-time. Tomorrow - church. Then reading, I suspect. I'm not up for much outing, and have a whole trove of things to delve into.
Maybe some writing. The group gets my juices going!
A productive weekend. But not overactive. That must be a perfect balance of some kind.
Off to go putter a little. What a nice afternoon.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
JOY!!!!
Joshua Malina on Big Bang Theory? Never mind, X - don't bother calling. I've got a date with Sheldon and "Jeremy" and it's a hot one.
Heh.
Just kidding, of course. X knows perfectly well my real boyfriend is Kier Dullea. (... So how is it my beautiful photo of said boyfriend features X and not me ... ? That's terrible!)
Heh.
Just kidding, of course. X knows perfectly well my real boyfriend is Kier Dullea. (... So how is it my beautiful photo of said boyfriend features X and not me ... ? That's terrible!)
Moonlighting
This is an article I wrote for our newsletter at work. X asked me about it, so I thought I'd share it here just for humor. Oh - name changed to protect privacy, of course.
***
Almost all of us give ourselves an unpaid job of some sort, more avocation than vocation. We pour ourselves into gardening, mechanics or building, extracurricular activities, games or hobbies. People seem to thrive with a creative outlet requiring investment and discipline, which provides the kind of reward a paycheck doesn’t carry. Some of us take it far enough to hope it might produce paychecks of its own. And New Year’s—be that January 1, or the Chinese new year, or some period of renewal that has meaning beyond the calendar—is often a time we choose to rededicate ourselves to these pursuits.
I’m an author. Many of you have heard me mention it; what few people really know is how serious a professional one has to be—even unpaid—to make writing a “working” pursuit. During a three month layoff in 2010, this was my day job, after I spent mornings going through the twenty-three job sources I searched every single day of the week. The writing work actually took up more time than the job search, because that search was a cut-and-dried process (the sort of thing a good admin should be able to get down pat without a lot of trial and error—ahem). The business of writing can make mere unemployment look like a piece of cake!
Step one: I authored a novel. It was completed on February 28, 2010, and had taken me four and a half years to finish. During this time, my membership in the local literary community, James River Writers, provided me an education on how to proceed beyond the creative part. The first thing to learn, as an aspiring author, is that you can’t sell a product that isn’t off the assembly line. If I don’t have something to sell, they don’t have something to sell, and there are probably anywhere from fifty to two hundred authors every single day querying them with completed works. Why would an “idea” take precedence over that much available material? I had to finish.
Step one, subsection A: confidence. Knowing my work is a product, I consider its quality with a critical eye. During the process, and afterward too, the novel is not my precious baby, and I look forward to advice on how it can be better, from people who know. I’m willing to stand behind it, in front of it, talk about it, be confident in it and in myself as its shepherd. Moreover, I’m as much a product as the book. The response rate I get in-person with agents and editors is very high—which is as important as the fact that the story is compelling; if they want to listen to me, it’s because they think others might, as well. And the ultimate goal of a published author is to sell and be sold. Realistically, the goal might not be to become David “Daddy signs books for a living” Baldacci successful (my boss knows he’ll have to forcibly evict me from my job with **** to part me from it!)—but it isn’t to have an unpublished manuscript sitting around all by itself either. And this brings us to …
Step two: getting agented. People ask me every so often, “Is the book published yet?” and look disappointed in me when I say, gracious, I haven’t even got representation yet. It can take years to get the right agent, and as much longer for them to sell it to a publisher. You have to expect to query a hundred agents—two hundred—as many as it takes. I’m entering my transatlantic queries at this point; reaching out to those who handle my genre in the U.K. You have to research agents’ catalogues and “show your work” on that point to make yourself relevant and attractive. You have to approach EVERY contact individually, personally, just as with job hunting. An email blast of cold queries is a doomed waste of the minimum effort it shows. It’s an enormous, demanding, pain in the, er, elbow, and some days you want to kick a puppy—or just an agent or two. And all these things … while having a full time job … and trying to make progress on a second novel. In the best of circumstances, querying is a lengthy process. Precious few authors are blessed with those circumstances.
If I am published within three years of completion, that would be wonderful and amazing; and one year is almost gone already. The fantasy of it happening even sooner would be perfectly spectacular. That I will not be published is not among my expectations (see also: step one, subsection A). I just look forward to step three, the publishing, and seeing my work go out into the world. And then the second. And then the third …
The beginning of a new year is not only a moment when we rededicate ourselves to whatever matters most, it’s also when we reflect on time and its passing. As an author, I’ve learned the greatest investment and discipline of my work has to be time. This isn’t a pursuit for the impatient; if someone isn’t spontaneously famous and hiring a ghost to write about why that is (“my six-minute marriage to Britney” or “how I said I was a terrible, drug-addled criminal and turned out to be a liar on Oprah”), no book ever hits the shelves in a hurry. The idea that trends have a persuasive place in publishing isn’t one worth attempting to control—or to follow. Harry Potter was an accident—and, many forget, a huge surprise to everyone at the time. The market can’t be timed, and the goal can’t be raced-to.
Some things in life refuse to hurry, and some go by too quickly. Maybe in a way, those pursuits we assign ourselves are most important to us because they stay with us for a long time, they make up who we are, not merely what we do. We keep our unpaid jobs even when the paying ones change over time; when one phase moves to another, or when one project ends, or when a team has to shift and reconfigure in some new way. Some things may not happen quickly, or produce easy yields, but we don’t lose our dedication, because gratification isn’t always about this month’s calendar. Some paychecks don’t direct-deposit in the most straightforward way.
***
Almost all of us give ourselves an unpaid job of some sort, more avocation than vocation. We pour ourselves into gardening, mechanics or building, extracurricular activities, games or hobbies. People seem to thrive with a creative outlet requiring investment and discipline, which provides the kind of reward a paycheck doesn’t carry. Some of us take it far enough to hope it might produce paychecks of its own. And New Year’s—be that January 1, or the Chinese new year, or some period of renewal that has meaning beyond the calendar—is often a time we choose to rededicate ourselves to these pursuits.
I’m an author. Many of you have heard me mention it; what few people really know is how serious a professional one has to be—even unpaid—to make writing a “working” pursuit. During a three month layoff in 2010, this was my day job, after I spent mornings going through the twenty-three job sources I searched every single day of the week. The writing work actually took up more time than the job search, because that search was a cut-and-dried process (the sort of thing a good admin should be able to get down pat without a lot of trial and error—ahem). The business of writing can make mere unemployment look like a piece of cake!
Step one: I authored a novel. It was completed on February 28, 2010, and had taken me four and a half years to finish. During this time, my membership in the local literary community, James River Writers, provided me an education on how to proceed beyond the creative part. The first thing to learn, as an aspiring author, is that you can’t sell a product that isn’t off the assembly line. If I don’t have something to sell, they don’t have something to sell, and there are probably anywhere from fifty to two hundred authors every single day querying them with completed works. Why would an “idea” take precedence over that much available material? I had to finish.
Step one, subsection A: confidence. Knowing my work is a product, I consider its quality with a critical eye. During the process, and afterward too, the novel is not my precious baby, and I look forward to advice on how it can be better, from people who know. I’m willing to stand behind it, in front of it, talk about it, be confident in it and in myself as its shepherd. Moreover, I’m as much a product as the book. The response rate I get in-person with agents and editors is very high—which is as important as the fact that the story is compelling; if they want to listen to me, it’s because they think others might, as well. And the ultimate goal of a published author is to sell and be sold. Realistically, the goal might not be to become David “Daddy signs books for a living” Baldacci successful (my boss knows he’ll have to forcibly evict me from my job with **** to part me from it!)—but it isn’t to have an unpublished manuscript sitting around all by itself either. And this brings us to …
Step two: getting agented. People ask me every so often, “Is the book published yet?” and look disappointed in me when I say, gracious, I haven’t even got representation yet. It can take years to get the right agent, and as much longer for them to sell it to a publisher. You have to expect to query a hundred agents—two hundred—as many as it takes. I’m entering my transatlantic queries at this point; reaching out to those who handle my genre in the U.K. You have to research agents’ catalogues and “show your work” on that point to make yourself relevant and attractive. You have to approach EVERY contact individually, personally, just as with job hunting. An email blast of cold queries is a doomed waste of the minimum effort it shows. It’s an enormous, demanding, pain in the, er, elbow, and some days you want to kick a puppy—or just an agent or two. And all these things … while having a full time job … and trying to make progress on a second novel. In the best of circumstances, querying is a lengthy process. Precious few authors are blessed with those circumstances.
If I am published within three years of completion, that would be wonderful and amazing; and one year is almost gone already. The fantasy of it happening even sooner would be perfectly spectacular. That I will not be published is not among my expectations (see also: step one, subsection A). I just look forward to step three, the publishing, and seeing my work go out into the world. And then the second. And then the third …
The beginning of a new year is not only a moment when we rededicate ourselves to whatever matters most, it’s also when we reflect on time and its passing. As an author, I’ve learned the greatest investment and discipline of my work has to be time. This isn’t a pursuit for the impatient; if someone isn’t spontaneously famous and hiring a ghost to write about why that is (“my six-minute marriage to Britney” or “how I said I was a terrible, drug-addled criminal and turned out to be a liar on Oprah”), no book ever hits the shelves in a hurry. The idea that trends have a persuasive place in publishing isn’t one worth attempting to control—or to follow. Harry Potter was an accident—and, many forget, a huge surprise to everyone at the time. The market can’t be timed, and the goal can’t be raced-to.
Some things in life refuse to hurry, and some go by too quickly. Maybe in a way, those pursuits we assign ourselves are most important to us because they stay with us for a long time, they make up who we are, not merely what we do. We keep our unpaid jobs even when the paying ones change over time; when one phase moves to another, or when one project ends, or when a team has to shift and reconfigure in some new way. Some things may not happen quickly, or produce easy yields, but we don’t lose our dedication, because gratification isn’t always about this month’s calendar. Some paychecks don’t direct-deposit in the most straightforward way.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Stop-N-Sniff
Lolly and I are off today, so we had a nice leisurely walk of it this morning. It is fairly warm outside, the sun out but not overdoing it; a pleasing, soft February day. Spring starts making promises early around here, and this is one of those days it's hinting around, flirting. I spent last night fraught with dreams, so quiet has been the order of the morning so far.
Sid particularly loves wild onions. Today we had a browse, and she investigated all the dark green patches shooting up out of the low, mossy turf. I listened to the quiet sound of our footfalls, and she softly nuzzled up in all the rubbery green shoots of onions.
She likes a Stop-N-Sniff, does my girl. Not walking in any particular direction, given free leash to lead me a little, and all the time in the world to investigate the breaks in the evergreens, the shadowy damp underneath, the stories told by dogs gone by. More often than not we're on a mission; in the mornings, she doesn't get to do more than say hi to her friends and get her business done. In the evenings, she usually only gets to take her preferred detours on the second half of our walks. So a day off, and a good, short-but-SLOW stop-n-sniff is luxury for her. Hey, it's her thirteenth birthday today. She gets the sweet treatment she *always* deserves, in good helpings.
She also got some scraps of turkey for breakfast. Didn't mind a bit if it was still a little kinda-frozen. It's turkey! She's a dog! Lay it on me, says she. And so I did.
She's just thumped down next to me in the dim outline of her sunbeam. Her eyes are looking up at me. Beautiful, big old glossy things, those eyeballs. Almond shaped, clear, bright, and trusting. Her ears are up. If I am living well enough that my dog has her ears up, it is a good day.
And slowly, she begins to kind of sniff at, in preparation to relax upon, her elegant forepaws. The sun is gleam-shous on her. She uncertainly, then finally, relaxes. And all is well, for now, with the world.
Sid particularly loves wild onions. Today we had a browse, and she investigated all the dark green patches shooting up out of the low, mossy turf. I listened to the quiet sound of our footfalls, and she softly nuzzled up in all the rubbery green shoots of onions.
She likes a Stop-N-Sniff, does my girl. Not walking in any particular direction, given free leash to lead me a little, and all the time in the world to investigate the breaks in the evergreens, the shadowy damp underneath, the stories told by dogs gone by. More often than not we're on a mission; in the mornings, she doesn't get to do more than say hi to her friends and get her business done. In the evenings, she usually only gets to take her preferred detours on the second half of our walks. So a day off, and a good, short-but-SLOW stop-n-sniff is luxury for her. Hey, it's her thirteenth birthday today. She gets the sweet treatment she *always* deserves, in good helpings.
She also got some scraps of turkey for breakfast. Didn't mind a bit if it was still a little kinda-frozen. It's turkey! She's a dog! Lay it on me, says she. And so I did.
She's just thumped down next to me in the dim outline of her sunbeam. Her eyes are looking up at me. Beautiful, big old glossy things, those eyeballs. Almond shaped, clear, bright, and trusting. Her ears are up. If I am living well enough that my dog has her ears up, it is a good day.
And slowly, she begins to kind of sniff at, in preparation to relax upon, her elegant forepaws. The sun is gleam-shous on her. She uncertainly, then finally, relaxes. And all is well, for now, with the world.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Not the Death Scene
I'm watching a show right now, it doesn't matter what, wherein a cast of years' experience together is portraying the loss of one of their members. It's not the death scene getting to me, but the mourning scene. Right now ... the sight of a pair of cmpassionate hands, encompassing someone's back - the sound of weeping - is probably more than I can bear ... and yet, perhaps, just the right thing, too.
We are near an anniversary of sadness, me and those I love most dearly. Today was bright, beautiful, not very cold, and empty of a certain life.
Tonight, I just have a terrible headache, and I can't breathe, because even if I'm not actively weeping, I'm still close enough to a sob that the congestion has overtaken me.
That, and I never have breathed right since that life was taken.
Christ, loss is so horrible.
We are near an anniversary of sadness, me and those I love most dearly. Today was bright, beautiful, not very cold, and empty of a certain life.
Tonight, I just have a terrible headache, and I can't breathe, because even if I'm not actively weeping, I'm still close enough to a sob that the congestion has overtaken me.
That, and I never have breathed right since that life was taken.
Christ, loss is so horrible.
Happy Ronald Reagan's Birthday
I take it he'd have been 100 this year.
His terms of office felt like a century all to themselves.
His terms of office felt like a century all to themselves.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Absurdum Again
Turns out Mr. Bernanke doesn't like this sort of writing any more than I did - and less.
Probably a more cogent response than bad Latin puns and snarking about writing styles, but that doesn't mean I don't stand by my snark.
Probably a more cogent response than bad Latin puns and snarking about writing styles, but that doesn't mean I don't stand by my snark.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Firefly
Okay, so here is a thing about actors. I'm coming to the series Firefly about eight years late, so I'm backing in with a lot of post-production knowledge - aware that Summer Glau is a big deal now, the frustrating short life of the series, all that.
I like the show. It's an interesting conceit, to take Roddenberry's idea of pulling off the cowboy hats and setting a western road story in space - and put the cowboy hats back on. There are aspects of just how (literally, not metaphorically) "earthy" things get which distracted me at first, but Willing Suspension of Disbelief is my friend, and I've certainly WSD'd worse entertainment than this without questioning it. I like the scripting mostly, it's an engaging show, ingratiating even.
What's interesting to me is that one of the MOST engaging aspects of it - characters - is not the one who earned the most attention for it. Jewel Staite is a ludicrously appealing actor - pretty, but like an actual person, fully fleshed out, and playing the role of a character of winsome charm, Kaylee. Next to her, we have Summer Glau, who has gone on, as far as I can tell with what I must admit is limited geek-cred ("hi - backing into Firefly almost a decade later ...") to by far the greater share of the nerdly adoration.
Glau gets to play the difficult, and frankly INCREDIBLY irritating and sketchily understandable River - a part, to be sure, fraught with the daunting challenges of getting an adolescent actor to scream and play almost psychotic recalcitrance - and a part, I can just smell it, people are impressed with by its nature.
Here's Staite, able to embody a clear and full character, with actual lines - and some good ones - whose experience is mercurial and emotional, acute and very vulnerable; and here is Summer Glau - still, at episode TWELVE, barely verbal with anyone beyond her brother, and even with him largely still All About the Riddles. There've been opportunities galore to develop the character (her relationship with Kaylee, actually, has been quite the missed opportunity), but as much as I love Whedon, this is one of those areas he insists on being infuriating: he has *such* a thing for his Have-A-Secret characters. Oh, he likes the mature and mysterious black man, to be sure, but his near-creepy relationship to his youthful female players is hinted at here in ways that kind of came to a head with Dollhouse so much later. Glau isn't a person, she's a fetish in a box (for those who don't know: *literally* the way she is introduced in the series). He likes ever-so-slightly Asian-appearing mixed-race actresses, the younger the better, the more his cameraman can highlight the intense clarity of their beautiful skin the better. Why that didn't creep me out in Dollhouse, but does so badly here ... well, there's probably a dissertation in that, or at least a women's studies research paper, but I'll stick with this: these two are VERY young, and Dollhouse wore its exploitation on its sleeve, *and* played its creepy aspects with a lot of sophistication. Here we're treated to a broken doll, and a vulnerable one, and the broken one getting as much attention as she does makes me feel queasy.
Staite's role (here's where I finally remember that "thing about actors" - thought I'd forgotten, didn't you?) is not uncomfortable enough to get the same level of attention. Her considerable attractions, surprisingly, seem to have been no match for Glau's River, damaged and crying out to the male urge to protect - and, if I were a women's studies major, I might frankly say, to exploit. River is a repellant character, in the end, and as I say, twelve episodes in, I find her unpleasant to watch. The performance is good, and Summer Glau is likeable in a way that only layers the creep onto the harrowing nature of what we know of River's problems, but she has no relationships, even with her brother, and she's only waiting around so we can be shocked by her, so Whedon can perform those acrobatics for which we rightly love him, and for which right now I'm about ready to strangle him. I find myself watching Staite, knowing what I know - and NOT knowing what I don't (remember where I am in the series) - and almost resenting the extent to which she's going to become irrelevant, or at least a side dish to whatever it is Whedon's put under the silver cover on the platter of River's next shocking steps to come.
In a way, it's not so much an actor thing as it is an auteur thing, in this case. But it's all sorts of people. Great performances that don't involve Meryl Streep and a dead child, extremes of volume, behavior, or challenge-to-the-viewer are never as well noticed as they should be.
Jewel, you made something beautiful when you took the role of Kaylee. I could watch her show and be most contented.
Still interested, sure, to see what's coming next. Just interested, too, how funny people's attention is.
I like the show. It's an interesting conceit, to take Roddenberry's idea of pulling off the cowboy hats and setting a western road story in space - and put the cowboy hats back on. There are aspects of just how (literally, not metaphorically) "earthy" things get which distracted me at first, but Willing Suspension of Disbelief is my friend, and I've certainly WSD'd worse entertainment than this without questioning it. I like the scripting mostly, it's an engaging show, ingratiating even.
What's interesting to me is that one of the MOST engaging aspects of it - characters - is not the one who earned the most attention for it. Jewel Staite is a ludicrously appealing actor - pretty, but like an actual person, fully fleshed out, and playing the role of a character of winsome charm, Kaylee. Next to her, we have Summer Glau, who has gone on, as far as I can tell with what I must admit is limited geek-cred ("hi - backing into Firefly almost a decade later ...") to by far the greater share of the nerdly adoration.
Glau gets to play the difficult, and frankly INCREDIBLY irritating and sketchily understandable River - a part, to be sure, fraught with the daunting challenges of getting an adolescent actor to scream and play almost psychotic recalcitrance - and a part, I can just smell it, people are impressed with by its nature.
Here's Staite, able to embody a clear and full character, with actual lines - and some good ones - whose experience is mercurial and emotional, acute and very vulnerable; and here is Summer Glau - still, at episode TWELVE, barely verbal with anyone beyond her brother, and even with him largely still All About the Riddles. There've been opportunities galore to develop the character (her relationship with Kaylee, actually, has been quite the missed opportunity), but as much as I love Whedon, this is one of those areas he insists on being infuriating: he has *such* a thing for his Have-A-Secret characters. Oh, he likes the mature and mysterious black man, to be sure, but his near-creepy relationship to his youthful female players is hinted at here in ways that kind of came to a head with Dollhouse so much later. Glau isn't a person, she's a fetish in a box (for those who don't know: *literally* the way she is introduced in the series). He likes ever-so-slightly Asian-appearing mixed-race actresses, the younger the better, the more his cameraman can highlight the intense clarity of their beautiful skin the better. Why that didn't creep me out in Dollhouse, but does so badly here ... well, there's probably a dissertation in that, or at least a women's studies research paper, but I'll stick with this: these two are VERY young, and Dollhouse wore its exploitation on its sleeve, *and* played its creepy aspects with a lot of sophistication. Here we're treated to a broken doll, and a vulnerable one, and the broken one getting as much attention as she does makes me feel queasy.
Staite's role (here's where I finally remember that "thing about actors" - thought I'd forgotten, didn't you?) is not uncomfortable enough to get the same level of attention. Her considerable attractions, surprisingly, seem to have been no match for Glau's River, damaged and crying out to the male urge to protect - and, if I were a women's studies major, I might frankly say, to exploit. River is a repellant character, in the end, and as I say, twelve episodes in, I find her unpleasant to watch. The performance is good, and Summer Glau is likeable in a way that only layers the creep onto the harrowing nature of what we know of River's problems, but she has no relationships, even with her brother, and she's only waiting around so we can be shocked by her, so Whedon can perform those acrobatics for which we rightly love him, and for which right now I'm about ready to strangle him. I find myself watching Staite, knowing what I know - and NOT knowing what I don't (remember where I am in the series) - and almost resenting the extent to which she's going to become irrelevant, or at least a side dish to whatever it is Whedon's put under the silver cover on the platter of River's next shocking steps to come.
In a way, it's not so much an actor thing as it is an auteur thing, in this case. But it's all sorts of people. Great performances that don't involve Meryl Streep and a dead child, extremes of volume, behavior, or challenge-to-the-viewer are never as well noticed as they should be.
Jewel, you made something beautiful when you took the role of Kaylee. I could watch her show and be most contented.
Still interested, sure, to see what's coming next. Just interested, too, how funny people's attention is.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm
I am wireless again. Having had a good day at work, this is serious icing on the yum-yum cake.
*Dorkily happy*
*Dorkily happy*
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Oh, And
Nova Science Now: ridiculously awesome tonight - magic and neuroscience. Almost scary, and what science is more fun than scary science!???
And Nova: Clean stuff, especially cars. Geek-tabulous. Love, love, love, love.
Further recommendations for this week - a fun thumbs-up for a bit of a breathless piece on the DaVinci -- er, CHRISTIE -- code; analyzing the formula of Agatha's wonderfully literally-puzzling work. Amusing if only for the incongruently dramatic/rather sexy narration from Joanna Lumley, who earns love even when she's not tricked out in a giant french twist.
Sometimes, I love British casting agents. Hee.
Oh, and make sure to catch Frontline this week, sharing investigation with NPR on a piece about coroners and forensic pathologists. The program description blurb unfortunately misleads, as if the story is about the shortage of professionals, but it's deeper than that, and more individual - an exploration of the systemic issues inherent in the nature of the current system, its massive shortfalls (not enough attention on this on PBS/Frontline, but from what I caught on the radio on the way home today, NPR may be stronger on the financial aspect), and some areas of overwhelming corruption and the reasons that is so hard to do anything about. Some gross-out shots, perhaps, for the lily-livered among us (I don't know what that is like ...), but a very good set of pieces I wish I were hearing more completely.
Okay, go. Listen. Watch. Good.
And Nova: Clean stuff, especially cars. Geek-tabulous. Love, love, love, love.
Further recommendations for this week - a fun thumbs-up for a bit of a breathless piece on the DaVinci -- er, CHRISTIE -- code; analyzing the formula of Agatha's wonderfully literally-puzzling work. Amusing if only for the incongruently dramatic/rather sexy narration from Joanna Lumley, who earns love even when she's not tricked out in a giant french twist.
Sometimes, I love British casting agents. Hee.
Oh, and make sure to catch Frontline this week, sharing investigation with NPR on a piece about coroners and forensic pathologists. The program description blurb unfortunately misleads, as if the story is about the shortage of professionals, but it's deeper than that, and more individual - an exploration of the systemic issues inherent in the nature of the current system, its massive shortfalls (not enough attention on this on PBS/Frontline, but from what I caught on the radio on the way home today, NPR may be stronger on the financial aspect), and some areas of overwhelming corruption and the reasons that is so hard to do anything about. Some gross-out shots, perhaps, for the lily-livered among us (I don't know what that is like ...), but a very good set of pieces I wish I were hearing more completely.
Okay, go. Listen. Watch. Good.
Okay, In NOT Complaining News
I stepped out earlier to go and walk Lolly, and happened to see the next-dog neighbor, out in his backyard with two friends. Next has these buddies visiting because Next's mom is so generous - and she is sitting for the dogs of a guy at her office, and his fiancee' - who are getting married this week. So she's got her handsome, fluffy man Next, and the two friends are Bitty-Tiny and Big-Grinning-Meat-Boy. BGMB and I are old friends by now; Neighbor has sat for him a number of times. He's a pit, and has the most magnificent brindled brown coat; he looks like the most amazingly polished, beautiful piece of burled wood. Made of meat.
He's a slab, and an absolute darling of a boy.
Well, it turned out Neighbor was on her way out too, for a walk, so Lolly got to go with a whole pack tonight. For a while, I walked Next, our oldest friend, while Neighbor took Bitty and BGMB; then we switched, I took BGMB and she took her boy Next.
BGMB is very very good, and so is my Lolly.
But boy do I wish I had X here! Myoflex doesn't sound like the least bit of a bad idea ... Heh. If my girl is Tuggy McTuggerstein, I can't even come up with a nickname for BGMB indicative of his power - but maybe Meat Boy goes some way to provide an idea. You give Lolly a pat on her side and she has a nice barrel-chested, deep thump. You pat a hand on Meat Boy, and it sounds like slapping a side of beef. Or a piece of polished MARBLE. That kids is solid.
The two of 'em weren't going to pull me apart, but it didn't stop us making jokes about my accidentally becoming an amputee ... Shew, maim me ... oh my. No. Ah-hem.
Anyway, an energetic walk was had by all. Heh. And Lolly, I think (and would be gratified to hope/believe) is enjoyably shot. My good old girl.
He's a slab, and an absolute darling of a boy.
Well, it turned out Neighbor was on her way out too, for a walk, so Lolly got to go with a whole pack tonight. For a while, I walked Next, our oldest friend, while Neighbor took Bitty and BGMB; then we switched, I took BGMB and she took her boy Next.
BGMB is very very good, and so is my Lolly.
But boy do I wish I had X here! Myoflex doesn't sound like the least bit of a bad idea ... Heh. If my girl is Tuggy McTuggerstein, I can't even come up with a nickname for BGMB indicative of his power - but maybe Meat Boy goes some way to provide an idea. You give Lolly a pat on her side and she has a nice barrel-chested, deep thump. You pat a hand on Meat Boy, and it sounds like slapping a side of beef. Or a piece of polished MARBLE. That kids is solid.
The two of 'em weren't going to pull me apart, but it didn't stop us making jokes about my accidentally becoming an amputee ... Shew, maim me ... oh my. No. Ah-hem.
Anyway, an energetic walk was had by all. Heh. And Lolly, I think (and would be gratified to hope/believe) is enjoyably shot. My good old girl.
Dang
Dadgum George the Router has gone on me. His settings apparently spontaneously changed, and a system restore and two rounds of troubleshooting haven't worked. Stupid wirelessness. (I'm back on my DSL box.) Not quite annoying enough to be down to my last couple dozen bucks - no, I have to be down electronically too.
Stupid internets.
Stupid money.
Stupid NEXT oil bill, which is going to top $700. So much for being excited I'm paying off my car; it's not like I'm going to get any relief out of THAT apparently.
Stupid technology.
Come on eBay auctions ... sell already ... !!
*Pleh*
Stupid internets.
Stupid money.
Stupid NEXT oil bill, which is going to top $700. So much for being excited I'm paying off my car; it's not like I'm going to get any relief out of THAT apparently.
Stupid technology.
Come on eBay auctions ... sell already ... !!
*Pleh*
I Hate Heating Oil Bills
Thirty-four bucks until the next paycheck. Dang is that too far away, and gas too stupidly expensive.
Gah.
Gah.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)