“Boredom arises from the loss of meaning, which in turn comes in part from a failure of religio or connectedness with one another and with our past. This book is a modest plea for the realization that absolutely nothing is intrinsically boring, least of all the everyday, ordinary things. These, today, are after all what even we are prepared to admit we have in common. We have recently discovered in ourselves a determination to consider nothing to be beneath consideration, and a willingness to question passionately matters which used to be thought too basic for words. I think the reason for this is that we are fighting back with an altogether healthy urge to recapture ancient but pitifully neglected, thoroughly human responses such as participatory attention, receptivity and appreciation. We have learned well the lessons about the stupidities of superstition, of misplaced, because ignorant, wonder. It is time now to think about whether we have leaped from the trivial to the vacant. Boredom is an irritable condition, and an exceedingly dangerous one when it is accompanied by enormous destructive power.”
Where this is not a recurring thing, has nothing to do with Wednesdays, and is actually 50/50 things I like and dislike. Yay titles!!
5 small things I disproportionately like 1. Seeing promo materials for rock/sport/computer programs for little girls. Fuck yeah. 2. Doing any electrical work that results in things lighting up. LIGHT! 3. A good bruise obtained doing anything cool. I have a clonker on my right shoulder right now. But you should see the other guy.* 4. Mounting things on the wall. … No. I mean like, “taking advantage of vertical space”. No… I mean… Like shelves and hooks and things. Pervos. 5. Imitating Uni from Dungeons and Dragons. “Meeeeeh! *ppbbbbttt*” (Stupid infrequently teleporting unicorn). 6. BONUS! Related to #5. Waking Husband up on Saturday morning by saying “Cartoons! Car-toons! Caaaaaaaaartooooooooooooooons!” And then watching cartoons. Golden.
5 small things I disproportionately dislike 1. The Hokey Pokey. Just keep your feet where they are, thank you very much. 2. Extended conversations about feelings. Blaaaaaaaah. Booooooooo. 3. Being stuck in a traffic jam when you really really have to pee (oh god, it hurts just thinking about it…) 4. Toothpaste foam on someone’s face. Including my own. Shake, shudder, wheeze, hurl… 5. The idea of having a dog, and being indentured to building my day around picking up its poop. See also: Babies. Cats forever!!!
* The other guy is a tree. I rode into it while mountain biking. The tree is actually fine, but it’s one majestic bastard and you really should see it.
Me: “Why do furries creep me out so much?” Husband: “Well… you do hate pretending…”
It’s true. I do hate pretending.
Husband: “It’s like this blanket. You love this blanket. It’s soft and you say it feels like a bunny. But you’re not thinking of that when you think of furries. You think of people pretending.”
I also think of their creepy pointy dog faces. But point taken.
I like to think I’m fairly open-minded. Or, as I put it when I said that to the Husband “I like to think I’m fairly open-minded… but … yeah. I’m almost definitely wrong about that.”
Sure. I’m pretty liberal and and pretty shameless and pretty cool with other people doing their thing. Furries, you just keep on keeping on — I am sorry my hatred of pretending catches you in its wake. I don’t hate you. I just hate the magic of make believe. Who’s the sick one now?
But this isn’t about judging people. This is about pretending, and how much I hate it. My open-mindedness contract has a “pretending notwithstanding” clause.
God how I hate it.
Sometimes people ask me what good plays are on. And I have to tell them they are asking the opposite of the right person. Because I don’t go to plays. In fact, I kind of hate the theatre. Does it involve make-believe? A wondrous transmogrification of the heart and soul into the world of fantasy? Are there costumes? Can it be goofy? Is there audience participation? Can I wait in the car?
I mean, I like that the theatre exists. I like that people go to it. I will support its funding, and get all poetically waxical about its essential role in life pushing forward.
I just don’t want to go.
Husband: “I don’t know. It’s some deep-seated fear of yours. It’s why you hate drama kids.” (I don’t hate you drama kids.) Husband: “It’s why you hate the Hokey Pokey.” (I do. Oh god I do.) Me: “But the Hokey Pokey isn’t pretending…” Husband: “Yeaaaah, but it’s the same sort of thing. There’s something in there and you don’t like it. No sir, not one bit.”
Well, maybe I will never Stop Worrying And Learn To Love The Hokey Pokey.
But… there is a spot in my heart for the Tickle Trunk.
Maybe one day it’ll grow a few sizes.
p.s. Aaaahhhh and how much did I love when he’d go to the shelf behind the tickle trunk and there would be some crazy adventure about the figurines back there. I may hate pretending, but everyone loves a good backstory.
p.p.s. Where by “figurines” I of course note they are stuffed animals. Touché furries.
Spoiler alert: Season 1 of Dollhouse contains rape.
How much rape? SO MUCH RAPE.
Joss: Would you like some rape plots to go with your rape subplots?
Me: No. No, I would not Joss. Of course not.
Dollhouse. More like Rapehouse. Population: rapity rape rape rape rape rapetown. With a main of rape, dressed in rapesauce, featuring creme de rape for dessert.
And when it’s not flat out rape, it’s hypersexualized violence. Holy sexy sexy slashy face wounds Batman!
The rape with rape on rape effect was especially potent as I was bingewatching Dollhouse after getting home from travel (travel summary: Chile was chilly). I was too fried to do anything but sleep and eat and recharge on The Husband — the man is the human equivalent of footie pyjamas.
We started keeping track of how many episodes either starred or subplotted around rape, but then we got bored, because the answer was All The Episodez. An episode guest starring Rape, followed by an episode featuring Rape, and then the story arc continued with… wait for it… recurring character: Moar Rape.
The fuck Joss. The. Fuck.
Soooo…. yeah. All done Season 1. Deeply uninspired to watch Season 2. And, very sadly, this experience has cost me more than a little Faith (GET IT?!) in Whedontopia.
It’s not just because I have zero interest in shows featuring rape. It’s because it’s just so … lazy. Rape is shooting the beloved pet, beating up the nerd in the locker room. It’s what a writer busts out when they can’t be bothered to come up with nuanced characters, complex backstories and motivations. It’s goodfernuthin, socially-destructive, normalizing shorthand. The Bad Guy(s). The Broken Girl(s). Done.
In the worst — and increasingly frequent — cases, rape is used the same way they’d use an actual sexyfuntimez scene, to make the show titillating. It’s like the deeply depressing observation that it’s easier to show a woman’s breast being cut off than to show it being kissed. Spoiler #2! Kissing is so much better! Yay kissing! Actual pleasure! wheeeeeeeee!!! Team Geniune Sexyfuntimez FTW!
Also, this:
“KevinB Aug 29, 2009
The only way I could give this a positive score is if the second season reveals that Dushku’s character is actually a horrible actress and the real life Dushku is an incredible actress, acting like a horrible actress, who is acting like randomly-generated personalities. Bring back Firefly.”
The opening credits, listing all the many ensemble actors and actresses, but showing only footage of DushkuDushkuDushku (seriously, did her granny crochet those thigh-highs for her? *shudder*) led me to come up with own version of the theme song. Main lyric: “It’s the Eliiiiza Dushkuuuu shoooow!”
TV, you have failed me again. I guess I’ll just have to go back to reading books. But not Game of Thrones because… sigh.
Why does the dog become a star? Where does his little doggie body go? Why doesn’t he get a helmet? Dogs need oxygen too! Oh god, here come the nightmares again… RUN SCRUFFY RUN!!
1. Most British actresses are very, very fond of Elvis.
2. Everyone, everyone, loves Sir Laurence Olivier.
3. Many British men are desperate to dance, but think they can only do so alone on a desert island.
4. The diversity of Lady Gaga, Kanye West, & Missy Elliott’s fanbases are astonishing.
5. The MOST important event in the year for ALL British people is some Christmas do called a “pantomime” (“panto”). They are obsessed with it. Whoever can crack the success of the “panto” will have all British people in the palm of their hand. Forever.*
Attributed to him in Neil Peart’s Ghost Rider (which I’m reading), though the WikiGods say that perhaps only the first line can be accurately traced to Mr. London.
I would rather be ashes than dust!
I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze
Than it should be stifled by dryrot.
I would rather be a superb meteor,
Every atom of me in magnificent glow,
Than a sleepy and permanent planet.
The proper function of man is to live, not to exist.
I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them.
I shall use my time.
So my brand spanking new shiny red motorcycle is now home safe and sound, tucked in under a tarp (shhh, she’s sleeping).
Which got me thinking about how motorcycles are like kids and dogs.
(No, not that they’re loud and stinky. And you take that back about my baby.)
This is what it’s like when you get your first bike. Swap dog for bike, and little kid for grown-up little kid:
Little kid sees a big dog. Runs behind parent’s legs, but can’t stop staring, wide-eyed, at the dog. Mom: “Do you want to pat the doggie?” Kid shakes head and hides face behind parents legs, clutching at fabric. Seconds later, kid is peering around legs again.
Time passes.
Kid mumbles something incoherent into fabric of parent’s slacks. “What’s that sweetie?”
“I want to pat the doggie.”
Holding parent’s hand, kid walks over to dog. Skin and fur barely make contact. Kid runs back behind parent’s legs. Kid resumes staring at dog.
Time passes. Dog scratches its ear.
Kid tries again. Maybe this time the dog licks the kid. Kid almost loses it, but holds it together. Barely.
Cut to later the same day.
Kid is chasing the dog around the house yelling “I want to play with the doggie!!!” “HERE DOGGIE!!!”
The whole ride home is doggie this and doggie that. Kid. Loves. Dog. (Dog just wants to be friends).
. . .
This is what it’s like with a motorcycle. When you first see it, you think it’s cool. Then you sit on it, and it’s suddenly huge and scary. Then you get used to it, and it gets smaller and smaller and you get bigger and bigger. Until you have one sitting out in your parking spot and you keep throwing on your flip flops to go peek under the tarp at it.
If their shoulder was really to the wheel, they could have jammed in a few more cliches about women (and men) and sex.
Women like talking (guys don’t). Women need intimacy before sex (guys don’t). Women are the ones who lose interest in sex over time (their own sexpert said it’s 50/50 — when it happens). Long-term relationships will probably fizzle unless you get all new-agey about the “person within”. Women like WALKS as foreplay (<-barf).
Oh, did I say “barf”? I meant “swoon”. (No, I meant barf).
All of these little dead horses were trotted out to be beaten on the CBC’s new summer show about divorce. I forget what it was called (“Unsatisfied” or “Uninteresting” or something).
It’s not that I mind these tropes being discussed. But as part of a spectrum of experience. Ready for the big reveal? Not all women are the same.
I know. It’s just so crazy, it might be true.
Same token? Not all men are the same.
Holy. Shit. Did I just blow your mind? I know right? Take a minute to wipe your brain bits off the wall.
I expect more from my national broadcaster. I expect at least a little both-sides-of-the-dead-horse dialogue. If I wanted to hear about how women need to feel intimacy before they have sex, I would go to the grocery store and buy a magazine from the gum rack.
Cuz y’know what? Some women just like sex. (BAH! OMG! BRAIN BITS!) Some women don’t even like foreplay. Some women (CBC interviewee: “*giggle* that doesn’t work for any women“) enjoy a random ass smacking (by their partner people, by their partner). Or a random nipple tweak.
Some women think that going for a walk is about as sexy as cleaning out the cat’s litter box. Some women even… I know, it’s so crazy… like to have sex not because they’re feeling “emotionally connected”, but because they have sex drives that make them horny. For sex. The kind of sex where if you say “making love” it’s a fucking deal breaker. (<-Get it? “Fucking deal breaker”? Take a minute to enjoy that one…)
And as I ranted about this to the good’ol’piece’of’meat husband as he left for work today, I teased that maybe we should *rawr* go for a walk.
Him: “I don’t want to get all aroused right before I go to work.”
Over the past week or so, just about every single person I know has shared the Carl Sagan “pale blue dot” video. Tagged “must watch” or “life changing”. But I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d seen it, or something very similar to it, before.
And, though Google search strings failed me, my cousin pulled through with the link to the Patrick Stewart video. So here they both are together. Carl on the Earth as a tiny speck in the cosmos, and Patty-boy on the Earth as an island. Enjoy!
