Hello there, it's been awhile. Not much, how 'bout you...

In other news, I have reached my breaking point with most social and mainstream media. I can't process any more vile, unsheathed hatred of everything and everyone.

As history goes, this is just an uncomfortable time of uncertainty. It will shake out, humanity (such as it is) will survive, and the planet will continue to turn on its axis.

Where have you gone, Marshall McLuhan? The medium - 'open' channels for instant, relentless, reactive commentary predominantly without knowledge or basis beyond whichever way anyone's amygdala is slithering - is the message.

If we are but players on this stage, then I ain't playing. I'm happy to draw the curtain, tho. So here I come to fandom again, where it used to be fun and fanciful and sexy and gorgeous and completely imaginary. Dangerous only to the point where my partner hides the remote after too many binge-watches of whatever it is that soothes me: Supernatural, Miranda, The Great British Bake Off. Troublesome only when I start talking about Dean and Castiel in my sleep or answering questions in Miranda Hart-ese.

I desperately want to cocoon myself in a world of fan fiction and squee as a way to ease the absolute terror in my heart. I'm trying so hard not to do the "old bat next door" routine, always finger wagging that "the world has changed, and things were so much better when I..."

Truth is, today's world is better than the one I grew up in. It's worse in some ways, but it is remarkably better for me, at least, with my dewy white skin and the privilege it affords me. Advanced technology is just one reason why. Millennials are another - as an old, badass cranky woman boomer, let me tell you -- these kids won't just rock the world, they will save it. They are marvelous creatures that don't deserve the financial ruin my generation left them in. They are passionate, whip smart, idealistic, beautifully flawed and so sick of our bullshit that it warms the cockles of my shriveled-up walnut of a heart.

There's plenty of reason for hope. But for me, I can't nurture that flicker as long as I'm glued to mainstream media. And that means not just the content aggregating sites, but Facebook, twitter, reddit...ugh. I'll chill here. And on Instagram (oceannietoo - please come friend me and I'll friend you.) and Tumblr (Lostakasha over there.).

Is there anybody out there...?

I snurched this from tx_cronopio because it's been awhile since i've been here and it's also almost Friday! Wheee....

( 100 Questions MemeCollapse )

I may be the only person on the interwebs today that doesn't care about James Gandolfini.

So, I decide to visit one of my former Boston neighbors for a cup of tea and a catch-up. She's what you might call a character -- elderly, wonderfully kind, extremely smart, funny, and just a little off. Her wig is always a little askew but it suits her. Endearing.

For 8 years we lived across the street from one another and often chatted; but never once did we talk about religion. But last week during tea I said something nondescript about having to look into our hearts for answers to life's tough questions -- and the next thing I know, my neighbor is talking about the Bible.

And how Lucifer is locked in the cage.

So help me, I said "Right! He's in there with Michael!"

She lit up like I'd just given her a gift, and we were off to the races -- after she corrected me. Apparently, Michael is guarding the cage, not in it. (I don't know what kept the words "OMG poor Sam! And Adam is still there..." from dropping out of my mouth.)

Anywhoo, you can imagine how it went from there. She favors a literal interpretation of the text, which gave me a couple of small openings to toss plotlines from SPN and Dogma into the mix -- which I did, but only because they were actually helpful. Otherwise I'd have been sitting there with my jaw hanging open for the duration of the chat.

As wacky as it was, I left loving her just a weensy bit more.

You just never, ever know.

Those of you who've known me on LJ for years know that I wanted nothing more than to leave Boston for California. My hometown is full of contradictions, as all hometowns are, and there are lots of painful pockets and inhospitable neighborhoods that for years I ached to leave in the rear-view. I'm still glad that I left, despite the terrible knot in my heart that began yesterday with a tearful phone call from my mother that overnight has wound tight into a desperate need to go back, to make sure, to see.

My heart never belonged to "Boston." It belongs to the Back Bay. I grew up longing to live there, and while I could never make it happen, I did work there for many years, and from the time I was 16 until I was 35 I spent pretty much every day there. To me it is the best, most open, most beautiful part of the city. It's the part I cherish and think of as home.

There's no counting the time I've spent on those blocks of Boylston Street. Most of you would never know that one explosion detonated right in front of the old Glad Day bookstore. It's long gone now, but Glad Day existed in a time when a city just having a gay bookstore made it special and dangerous. (And it was dangerous; before moving to 635 Boylston in the early 80s, Glad Day and a related publishing enterprise were firebombed. Nice, huh?)

There's no way to explain how seeing those explosions from 3,000 miles away have made me feel. Horror, sorrow, disbelief, rage -- all words that lack the depth of feeling I want to express.

Never thought I'd ever say this, but I just want to go home.

Thank you to everyone who left such kind comments and warm wishes on my last post. It means more to me than you'll ever know.

I know I should reach out and thank each of you personally, but ... this will have to do for now. Forgive me.

And so we go on, yes? Yes.

It's somewhat of a relief to be bothered by trivial things -- like the SPN fandom over on Tumblr. It's equal parts shit-stirring cranks, 13-year-old 'sexperts,' batshit crazy shippers and budding political activists with zero sense of history (!) screaming at everyone about agency. The bad art has no humor or irony. (These kids today! Jeez!)

Makes the crappiest bits of the BTVS fandom seem like paradise. And I miss Tentacle!Spike and Unicorn!Xander.

Firstly, may I just pimp my darling friend Jon Gale? He's going to be on Criminal Minds tomorrow night -- it's his big break on network TV, although he's done lots of stage work and a fair chunk of movies. I'd rather read the police log while covered in red ants and honey than watch Criminal Minds, so this is a BIG DEAL. (Sorry, CM fans -- I just get so triggered that I can't bear to watch most gristly procedurals. Nothing personal.)

let's try this one -- see how handsome!

We're having a friend over to do a Jon Viewing Party tomorrow night; she doesn't care for procedurals either and loves her some SPN, so my guess is that we'll be flipping back to the boys as soon as Jon says his line. :) Yup, that's it -- one line. That's the horror of Hollywood, though -- acting is fairly easy; getting work is what's hard. I don't know how he keeps plugging, but he does. That's why we all moan around looking for our favorite actors to no avail (looking at you, Jason Behr) -- you can't just be gorgeous and talented and relentless, you must be fucking lucky. (Being bendy and indiscriminate might help, but luck has a role there as well.)

Speaking of horror, Jon's latest movie is called Revenant. It got great reviews at the LA Shriekfest and hopes are high for a distribution deal. You can find out about it here: http://www.revenant-themovie.com/

In other news, life in the west is so fine, so far, so good. (Bonus points if anyone gets that song reference.) We went pumpkin picking Sunday and OMG WTF WHY IS CALI SO HORRIBLY HOT? Oh, right. That's why we moved. :::headslam:::

We drove a few miles south to Hayward because there's a Sonic there...haven't had Sonic since sweptawaybayou took me there in Kansas (oh, Snow how I miss you) so a couple of years and couple of thousand miles west and AHOY cranberry lime fruity goodness. That said, we got lost and with gas prices at an apocalyptic $4.59/gal, we will forever refer to the event as "our $60 burger."

I do not like the butter here. And WTF is a ball tip roast? Do not want. (And I do love me some balls, but really....)

How are you??????

or not, really. Just some blather for a Tuesday.

We're getting settled in; almost all of our boxes are unpacked, and our everyday lives are mostly neat and organized. To keep moving costs down we got rid of a lot of stuff, and as a result we have barely any furniture in a big, echo-ey apartment. Which has a way of making me feel all new and tingly, so all to the good!

We went into the People's Republic of Berkeley this past weekend, and it was as great as I'd hoped. Found a few amazing furniture stores -- amazing as in great design and seriously great prices -- but the one of the best parts of the day was finding parking spots reserved for Nobel Laureates. That is so unbearably nifty. And where else would you find a Mexican-Pakistani-Indian restaurant? Mexistandian cuisine FTW.

It's probably very different these days, but Berkeley of today reminds me of how Cambridge, MA used to be before it became a homogenized mini-mall.

That's what I love about my new community -- lots of mom and pop shops, only a couple of chain stores. The obligatory Starbucks, naturally -- and excuse me, but if Peet's Coffee is HQ'd here, shouldn't we pay less for it than in Boston? Apparently not. (I feel a 'get offa my lawn' old geezer moment about to erupt.)

To counteract the old geezerism, here's a tip for all of you rebels out there who may be considering relocation: I've had my great grandmother's xmas cactus plant since her death in 1970 and when the movers told me it couldn't cross state lines I was brokenhearted. But...they would take my dry goods and canned goods. So, I packed a large carton with cereal boxes, dry soups and the remains of my pantry. I watered the holy fuck out of the plant, drained it well, and set it into a disposable litter pan in the center of the groceries. A little packing paper held it in place, and a pillow over the top kept it from breaking. It survived two weeks in transit and now sits on my patio! And as an added bonus, the last of my herbal remedy *cough* made it through just fine -- I accidentally left my stash in my nightstand. So yay for hiding in plain sight.

I really do belong here.

Oh! I cut my hair. As in OFF. It was at my waist when I left Boston, and now it's above my ears. Wheee!

Writing about things that light your fire will make you giddy with joy.

Writing about things that rob you of the will to live may one day pay your bills.

Embrace the horror.

If your character is taking a breath, or respirating, or inhaling and exhaling repeatedly, they are breathing. They are taking a moment to b-r-e-a-t-h-e.

Breathe that in for a second. Get a whiff of that.

Breathe is not spelled b-r-e-a-t-h.

When we say breathe, it sounds like "breeth." When we say breath it sounds like "breth."

I have no breath left in me to explain transitive and intransitive verbs to you, so I'll just say this:

BREATHE HAS AN E
BREATHE HAS AN E
BREATHE HAS AN E
BREATHE HAS AN E
BREATHE HAS AN E
BREATHE HAS AN E
BREATHE HAS AN E
BREATHE HAS AN E
BREATHE HAS AN E
BREATHE HAS AN E
BREATHE HAS AN E
BREATHE HAS AN E

Damn, that looks like Gaelic. Or Enochian.

BREATHE ENDS IN A FUCKING E
BREATHE ENDS IN A FUCKING E
BREATHE ENDS IN A FUCKING E
BREATHE ENDS IN A FUCKING E
BREATHE ENDS IN A FUCKING E

Signed,

Your mentor and dispenser of vry srs bsns about wrds,
Akasha

PEE ESS: To everyone who sent comfort and kindness to me about Pyewacket, thank you. You guys are love. xoxoxo

My little orange tabby, Pyewacket, died in my arms Tuesday. She was 16.

It was so sudden -- she had thyroid problems that we were managing very well and was healthy up until the last day. She was playful and in great fettle Monday night, but didn't come down for breakfast Tuesday morning. She died at 2 in the afternoon.

I'd post her picture but I can't manage it just yet.

Before she lost her hearing last year she would come when I sang for her. If she was hiding all I had to do was belt out a few bars of Happy Birthday and in she'd bounce, all "What do you want?"

I've had many pets throughout my life, but her loss is like no other. I thought she'd make it to California with us and grow old in the sunshine.

And here I was, thinking either D or me would die before we got to the promised land, but no -- just my baby.

We don't listen to Top 40 radio much these days, why I'm not even sure, but a while back we were riding around with it on and heard Grenade for the first time. When it was over, we looked at each other, horrified. D said, "what the fuck is wrong with him?"

I decided to rewrite the chorus from a functioning adult's point of view. Well, somewhat functioning:

I would go to Rite Aid for you
Pick up some Schick razor blades for you
Make Country Time lemonade for you
You know I'd do some nice things for you
I would lend you “Cities on the Plain,”
Take you walkin' out in the rain
No, I won’t die for you, baby
Because I’m not that lame.

And now it's in your ear and I won't suffer alone. Speaking of suffering, I sat with D through American Idol last night. It's her favorite show but... damn, damn, that is love. Bruno, you wanna talk sacrifice for love? DUDE. That's it, right there.

and yes, you may call me ho.

But not a hoarder, which is what I felt like when the 1-800-Got Junk truck pulled into my driveway on Monday. ( time for a few small repairs, she saidCollapse )

AIYEEEEEEEEEE

Title: Fractured in the Echo and Sway
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: G
Character: Claire Novak
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1,023
Summary: The first time she heard the song on the radio, Claire and her mother were pulling into a strip mall parking lot in Hood River.

Notes: This is what happens when I have to polish my shoes. Lyrics and title by Elvis Costello.

Feedback would be lovely.

( she doesn’t have anything she used to have: not a permanent address, not a pair of real leather shoes, not a fatherCollapse )

Is it 1988 again? Lemme see -- shoulder pads? Nope. Maxipads? Nope and nope.

How can the telemarketing manager not know how to type text into an Excel worksheet?

How does he not know keyboard save/cut/paste shortcuts?

( if this was fiction it might be funny, but it's real and not so muchCollapse )

Jesus, take the fucking wheel. I don't care if you lost your sandals and the DMV says no barefootin' and your daddy's gone rogue, dammit, just drive.

*slams head on desk*

rivers_bend linked me to this wonderful post where you can write a fic about your fantasy boyfriend. So I did!

Title: Who's Your Dada?
Rating: PG. Relax. There's no sex.
Triad: Misha Collins/Victoria Vantoch/Me
Warnings: Poetry, pretension, apple abuse, I'm in it for chrissakes.

( Thank God leeks need lots of cleaning.Collapse )




Victoria Vantoch is an author, a Guggenheim and NASA scholar specializing in queer theory, and I want her. She renewed her wedding vows at Albertson's. In drag. ♥♥♥♥ And Women of Power did exist, and it was wonderful.

Poetry lines from Gertude Stein, Lifting Belly, W.B. Yeats, An Irish Airman Foresees His Death.

Over on tumblr....

spikeschilde621 blogged her opinion on SPN AU fics today, and it prompted me to think about why, when I almost never read AU fics when I wrote/read in the BTVS/AtS fandoms, I am reading SPN AUs quite often. YAY FOR THINKY THOUGHTS.

( hrmmmmmmCollapse )

Finally signed up on tumblr to try and keep a journal of our relocation to San Francisco! And other weirdness. Probably NSFW from time to time, knowing me!

If you'd like to please, please follow me there:

http://lostakasha.tumblr.com/

Trust me -- it's worth it for the Misha-Vonnegut-Georgia O'Keefe banner I made.I think my graphic skills are slowly retuning!

I was a sophomore in college when Kansas' Leftoverture came out. I practically wore it out -- under the headphones with the volume cranked to 10 (Nigel Tuffnel wasn't even a twinkle in Christopher Guest's eye then) - writing like a maniac, getting stoned, writing more, occasionally waking up naked beneath friends' dining room tables -- and so on. Lather, rinse, repeat.

So here we are. 2011. I've got bad knees, a bum ankle, a fat ass, and perky parts that gave up perking before the Patriot Act. I'm down to seeds and stems. My hands go numb in the cold, so I'll let the young'uns occupy Wall Street with my 150% support.

And here I sit, a nice glass of Cotes du Rhone handy, earbuds plugged in and the volume cranked to 12 -- and damn, if that song from that tee-vee show about the two hunting bros doesn't sound just as good as it did when it Carry On was personal.

Guess it still is, in a way, thanks to the queer joy of it all. :)

Don't have a dining room table anymore, though. Perhaps that's for the best.

Yeah, I'm back in fandom, in over my head -- but just as a reader this time around.

And I've found something fantabulous to read that I have to share, especially for the Dean/Cas crowd:

spn_redemption is an absolutely enthralling virtual season of SPN -- call it season 6A. They've posted one episode, World Leader Pretend, which you can find here. The writing is spotless and gorgeous -- one episode up and it's already filling that brutal hole kicked in my ribs by the blink and you'll miss it dispatch of Godstiel.

As for the artwork? Holy hell -- I usually avoid fanart like the plague (too much eyeball damage from Unicorn!Spander and Tentacle!Spike, methinks) but the story art by gikun is absolutely breathaking.

Run! Reed! Redeem!

...am I sitting here, with Jefferson fucking Starship blaring in my headset and getting goddamn GOOSEBUMPS thinking about Dean and Castiel?

JEFFERSON FUCKING STARSHIP

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

okay, so maybe it's the only tolerable song they ever did, if you don't listen to the gawdawful lyrics and wonder how big Grace Slick's mortgage/horse habit had to be for her to consent to singing a friggin' bar of it, and okay, so maybe I had sex as this song played on the mix tape and maybe it was pretty damn awesome because how many years ago was that and my stupid, stupid, stupid ryhmes-with-Dolores is still as suggestible as Pavlov's first beagle and maybe I'm trying to convince myself that it's just because Misha Collins turns me on to a ridiculous degree and iTunes could be playing Happy Birthday (TM) Patty and Mildred S. Hill and the result would be the same and maybe wondering if sweptawaybayou realizes that we've never seen Misha and Jason Behr in the same room at the same time and maybe I need to hit replay....

BUT I DON'T HAVE TO LIKE IT.

I'm an adult and I can stop anytime I want. Right? Right?

ETA: Never mind the Dean/Castiel.

There's a little purple house with a teal door on a side street near a park in Monterey. The steps leading to the entrance are paved with broken pieces of FiestaWare. If you stop on the sidewalk out front, you'll hear this awful song threading from the half-open windows, but you won't stop because it's Jefferson fucking Starship, and it's a good thing, too, because you won't want to hear the noises the man and woman inside are making.

Dean who? Hells yeah, baby, it's me and Misha in there and I AM NOT SORRY.

But that new episode made me belly laugh, time and again.

And there was more than one moment when I thought, "Tsk, tsk...stealing from Angel."

At least they're cribbing from the best, so I'll prefer to think of it as an homage.

And you just can't beat the pretty.

And here I thought I'd lost the capacity to surprise myself.


Until I heard its definition on Cash Cab I had no idea St. Elmo's Fire was a weather phenomenon.

I thought it was a disease, like St. Vitus Dance. Honest.

No, never did see the movie -- I just assumed one of the Brat Packers had St. Elmo's Fire, or died from it, or something.

I haven't laughed this hard in a long, long time.

Now that stupid damn movie theme song makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. I can feel St. Elmo's fire burnin' in meeeee...

Still say it's a disease. Highly communicable, and probably venereal. I'm looking at you, Judd Nelson.

Oh, dear flist, I call unto thee for directions to the best Dean/Castiel fic.

As in tabaqui and rivers_bend and sweptawaybayou quality: perfectly characterized, gorgeous, feral prose that will leave me heartsore and enraptured.

I've only ever read Tabi's and River's SPN fics (and the too few Dean/Angel joints of Snow's) but they don't write Dean/Castiel, I don't believe. If I'm wrong, holy hell, sisters, POINT ME TO THEM NOW.

I know.

*cries*

p.s. HAI!

I AM FIVE YEARS BEHIND THE REST OF YOU but OMG.

Run, do not walk, to killerweasel's LJ and watch this Supernatural vid set to Don McLean's American Pie. The creator is BottledMichelle.

I didn't think anyone could ever redeem the American Pie song, but damn. Only Sam and Dean and Bobby and Jo and omg Jo and Ellen and Cass and I die.

OMG. YES I KNOW I AM FIVE YEARS BEHIND THE REST OF YOU, but...

Not everyone on Facebook is Christian. Or whatever the holy hell it is that *you* are, and that you insist that everyone agrees upon and shows their unilateral support in a massive hive mind posting that will, for once and for all, but the Christ back in Christmas.

Recognizing that not everyone shares your beliefs is not "political correctness." It is simply behaving as a citizen of the world with eyes in your head, room in your soul, and an occasional salient thought.

Guess who'd be the first one to tell you that? Hint: ass-kicking the money changers was just the tip of His iceberg*.

No love,

Me

Bing Crosby danced with Danny fucking Kaye."

So, next Thursday is Thanksgiving in the U.S. D & I were planning a quiet day -- just another day, just the two of us. And so it goes.

Two hours ago D's cousin Winnie called from Wisconsin to say that she and her wife were packing the van and heading east -- to our house -- for the holiday. They arrive Sunday. They'll be staying until the first week in December.

*faints*

After I screamed and danced with joy -- we love them -- it hit me. Houseguests.

The fridge is empty.

There are no clean towels.

There are no extra sheets that are clean.

Thank goddess we have a guest room. Even if it is packed full of crap, summer clothes, crap, crap, and more crap. Oh, crap!

Sunday's when?

Hallelujah, holy shit and pass the Tylenol. (Where's my Clark Griswold icon?!)

In other news, HAI ALL! ::::smooches wetly and quickly::::

to wish the ever-so plucky tesla321 felicitations on her natal day!



...and having broken said silence, I'm going to try and be around more. I miss you all!

Food Network Challenge spoiled me on the end of Moby Dick.

Let me be clear: I hated, loathed, despised, abominated and abhorred Moby Dick and never bothered to finish it. I'd already read The Old Man and the Sea and didn't give a flying fuck about men, aging, obsession, machismo and/or fish.

But that doesn't mean I wanted to be spoiled for the ending, dammit. And on a food show,sheesh!!

Screw it. I'm blaming....

Title: Rebel, rebel
Author: lostakasha
Pairing: Christian Kane/David Boreanaz
Warnings: Really?
Disclaimer: Relieved to say they do not belong to me.
Note: The quote read actually appeared on E!Online, except for the "defender" part. :)

( hot tramp, I love you soCollapse )

Let's say you needed life-saving surgery.

Dr. D-Bo, let's say, is a brilliant specialist who has a 100% success rate with the procedure -- and also happens to be a cheating man-whore with hidden depths of unplumbed douche-baggery.

Dr. McGoodnik could perform the surgery somewhat successfully; after all, he was top of his class at the Acme School of Medicine and Nail Art. Even though he's only got a 60% success rate with the procedure (damn those shaky hands!) the nurses love him because he is pure of heart and would never dream of cheating at cards, on his taxes or on his wife.





:)

Eric Clapton's Forever Man came out 25 years ago and it still pisses me off no end.

You'll try to be my forever man? FUCK. YOU.

but I love the song. Hard.

The ham in is the oven, and that's about as Easter-y as we're going to get today. Well, unless you count the vanilla buttercream cake with lemon filling. :)

It's a lovely Sunday, and for most, I hope, a day off. Enjoy!

LJ's been running horrifically slow so I gave up on trying to post yesterday.

So! Happy Passover to all who celebrate. Have a piece of Glamatzoh.

And wash that down with a taste of this: Seder at Joan & Melissa Rivers'... Too funny!

And, on a more timely note, I wish the happiest of happy days to the truly beautiful and beloved beadatittude. You are lovely inside and out, on of my most favorite people EVER, and deserve a year/life/afterlife filled with everything you desire. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Cheap and sticky, that's me!

I'm getting addicted to watching BtVS on Logo. It's so comforting and wonderful and awesome, and I've missed it so! You'd think after watching obsessively for so long it would lose some of its joy juice, but it never has. I'm falling in love with Angel all over again. (I have to watch with the remote in my hand because I can't take the animal cruelty ads, but it's worth it.)

What's also fun is watching my sweetie's blossoming (and burning) crush on David Tennant. It's so cute! She loves falling asleep nights with Ten on in the background. She's totally smitten -- the other night she said, "all that fuss about the age difference between Buffy and Angel. Now Rose and the Doctor -- that's an age difference." Awwwwwww. <3<3<3

Watched Desperate Housewives the other night to prep for Le Barrowman's arrival. It was pretty good -- Marcia Cross's forehead moved! Is it always that exciting?

As if the week couldn't be better, the grocery store accidentally sent me a rutabaga. :) Maybe it's a bonus gift for using their delivery service. (I'd love to see the customer profile they based it on.)

Okay, I'm up to my topknot in work. But before I go...

Happy birthday, killerweasel! Have a fantastic day, sweets!

1) Do not crowd the Tots.

There's not much I can say about the current state of the Herald because I've been gone a long time and the management has changed. But here's what I know for certain:

The Sunnydale Herald is a labor of love.

To my understanding the Herald wasn't supposed to be about content aggregation -- it was about skimming the cream and linking to what we felt were the day's best stuff. Cherry picking was part of the job and the Herald never shied away from it or pretended to be a comprehensive compilation of the day's fannish activity.

Each issue took hours and interest and passion and caring. Those of us on staff at the time were chosen because we had good critical eyes and a deep commitment to the fandom.

Whether you disagree with the editorial choices or not, how the kind of commitment needed to put out the Herald every day helps our fandom die is beyond me.

...or does the music some skaters use in their long programs sound like the soundtrack from an old Christopher Lee movie mashed up with Russian military music and a clip of that sweaty manic guy in Reefer Madness whamming the piano?

Dude, it is so time to switch to the Food Channel.

ETA: Alexandre Bilodeau at the medal ceremony kinda looks like Connor. Just sayin'. He's Connoresque...hmmm.

One of my clients sends me lots of Canadian assignments, which, with the exception of the occasional monosyllabic interview subject (who is typically an oilman from Alberta) gives me heady joy.

And today my joy is multiplied because it involves hooch! I have an interview with the CEO of Wiser's whiskey tomorrow. Sadly, I can't get Wiser's here in Boston, but I am a huge fan of blended Canadian whiskey (points to jug of V.O. in kitchen).

So, my fellow imbibers, particularly those of you from the GWN, have any of you had Wiser's?

The distillery they use now is the Hiram Walker plant in Waterloo; they make Canadian Club, which I have had on occasion. Personally, I prefer O.F.C. -- which I recently figured out is what they put in the Crown Royal bottles and charge you another 10 bucks for.

Jeez.

I know way too much about the subject.

Colorful Captain Phil Harris has died.

Phil was my favorite of all the Deadliest Catch captains, if there's such a thing. (I love most of them* to a ridiculous degree. Even Sig.)

It's completely foolish, I know, but I find myself wondering about the boat, his kids, and weirdest of all, about Murray. And in that order, too. Jeez, I love that show and those guys.

*sigh*

For those of you who don't know, Murray's not Phil's dog. He's a relief captain on the Cornelia Marie. There's just something about him, too. *sigh*

*I wouldn't be so sad if it had been Captain Keith who'd keeled over, the mamzer.

(to the tune of that Discovery Channel 'I love the whole world' commercial)

I love my coffee
I love my donuts too.
I'm eight foot wide and
I'm only five foot two!
I love my donuts
Maybe a bit too much...
Boom de yada
Boom de yada
Boom de yada
Boom de yada

when you bend it you can't mend it
but my love for you is like a sinking ship
and my heart is on that ship out in mid-ocean.

Rest in peace, Kate McGarrigle.

Happy birthday, you wild, wonderful woman. I've written you a poem to commemorate the day.

With apologies to Dorothy Parker:

Ode to Snow

You're one more year upon the planet
It can't get much worse now. Really? Can it?
You're undervalued for what you're worth
Living in lovely Leavenworth.

The summers are boiling,
The winters are freezing.
The men are boneheads or jailbait --
There's no cock for teasing.

You're surrounded by writers, those smutty fair mavens,
That comfort you with perversity and boys misbehavin'.
Fuck the windswept fields of bright yellow corn.
Thank the good goddess your girlfriends write porn.

love you madly,
me

Having inherited my dad's high tolerance for pain isn't necessarily a good thing. I's got a fractured fibula and am on bedrest for a few days. They gave me fistfuls of painkillers.

They wanted to keep me overnight, but I thought that was a ridiculous waste of resources and told them so.

I'm in a splint now, but I'll go see the orthopedic person once the swelling goes down and they'll either cast it or set me up for surgery. The visiting nurse will be coming, and apparently there's a wheelchair and a hospital bed on the way, too. The bed will be welcome, I think.

The turkeys are on their own.

Hey! It's past eleven. Time for treats! Nothing like better living through chemistry, I tell ya.

Yesterday when the ambulance came to take me to the ER I begged them to tell me what the secret code is for hauling a fat woman out of the house. :) They vehemently denied there was any such thing, but laughed so hard they nearly dropped me. As they yanked me through the door I said, "It's a Crisco, isn't it? I'm a Crisco!"

(Crisco, for the non-US based, is a brand of lard. And fat, for those of you who've never met me, is what I am. I claim so with pride.)

And my beloved friend sinkwriter was the generous goddess who gifted me the paid account! As soon as I'm a bit more comfortable I'm gonna get me some userpics and host a poll! Thank you, sweetie -- that was a lovely, lovely thing to do, especially since you've got a sprained wrist. Poor bb! If you need to see a doctor for that, feel free to borrow my line when they ask you how you injured yourself. "Rough sex." Breaks the ice, for sure.

♥ to all....

I love you guys! *grabs you all* All these lovely birthday wishes!! Thank you from the bottom of the bottom of the depths of my little dried-up walnut! I promise to respond directly when I can get back to my desk, which I hope will be soon.

Well, where are you, you ask?

Sofa. Laptop on belly. Leg raised, iced. Full of NSAIDs and the odd vicodin. Because...

( under the covers we goCollapse )

And someone gifted me a paid membership on 12/24 and I didn't realize it until today. What a lovely thing to do -- thank you so very much, you generous soul! Uncloak so I can thank you properly!

That's the view from here...*smoooch*

It's not an obsession, really. But when you live in New England and want to try and eat more seasonally-balanced meals, in winter you're pretty much stuck with root vegetables. (Don't panic -- I haven't tried to make my own toilet paper or anything. After my home-made maxipad experiment in 1978 I sold my soul to Kimberly-Clark, so no worries there.)

Thus, I have discovered things I'd never cooked before! Parsnips! Rutabaga! Beets of the fresh variety! I reawakened my dormant love of turnips. As a result, every home-cooked meal we've eaten for the past two weeks has featured root vegetables of some kind or combination. It's absolute heaven. Roasted, boiled, mash, puree! Rutabaga's here to stay!

So, copperwash and I are hunkered down last night, about to drift off to sleep when I remembered something I'd seen at the grocery store the other day. "Hey honey, there's this farm in the Western part of the state that's produced kind of turnip that's a cross between a..."

The bed starts shaking. Quaking. I peer over to see my spouse actually stuffing her mouth with a corner of the sheet. At first I wasn't sure if she was seizing or laughing, so it took a second for me to react. Yeah, she was laughing.

"That's all you think about," she said. "Turnips, 24/7. What is wrong with you?"

Thank goddess she said the last part with affection.

Apparently, all I've been talking about for days are root vegetables. All she's been talking about for days is David Tennant.

I have therapy tomorrow, so that's good.

It's samsom's birthday! Many happy returns, sweetie! I hope your year is full of sweet surprises.

And now, the weepy/grumpy/blinky part of the post.

We've been glued to BBCAM since Friday night -- and now we feel like we have permanent Whoverse feed in our brains. We'd been renting it on Netflix but we got caught up in the marathon, and wowza...

We're still filling in holes; this is the first Doctor I've followed since Peter Davison (5?) and it took awhile to come back to me, but when it did -- Ye gods! I'd forgotten that I actually have, buried somewhere, a dissapearing Tardis mug.

It's like I've come out of some odd Doctor coma. Or an Ood coma, Doctor.

I guess I'll need to catch completely up before I comment on the end of Ten's run, so I'll just say that I adored DT in the role. He's awesome and heartbreaking and I'll miss him. But that said, I'm not a total purist -- I worshiped Tom Baker and went on to adore Peter Davison just as much. Really dug Nine, too.

Imagine Chiwetel Ejiofor as 11. We could do with a dose of kinky gravitas. But alas...Matt Smith reminds me of the Sixth Doctor, whom I despised. We shall see.

( okay, now I have a spoilery questions for the Who-savvy among usCollapse )

All in all, I love RTD and the Ood. Now I'll have to cool my jets until the next Torchwood series, or the next series of Being Human, whichever comes first.

Here's to 2010, my darlings.

Let us be bolder than we dare, stronger than we can imagine, as fearless as we dream we can be, and most of all, true.

Let us be relieved from our sorrow, comforted by kinship, united within these worlds we create. Let us be loved without condition - most importantly, by ourselves.

Here's to us, with boundless affection.

Happy New Year.

...a year that I'd like to think of as my 'refractory period.'

( cut on the bias and ribbed for your pleasureCollapse )

We watched Julie & Julia last night. Enjoyed it, but...( in case you haven't seen it, under the cut go my musingsCollapse )

um... hey! Happy Last Tuesday of 2009!