I would like to send this to everyone who's ever thought I "must" dislike them because I'm not very verbal around them/can't process their speech, even though I've always been able to express myself through/understand the written word.
From Wikipedia, yes, that gem of all sources -
"In hyperlexia, a child spontaneously and precociously masters single-word reading. It can be viewed as a superability, that is, word recognition ability far above expected levels. The more common definition also includes difficulties with comprehension of printed material beyond or even at the single-word level. Many hyperlexics also have trouble understanding speech. Most or perhaps all children with hyperlexia also lie on the autism spectrum.
Hyperlexic children are often fascinated by letters and numbers. They are extremely good at decoding language and thus often become very early readers. Some hyperlexic children learn to spell long words (such as elephant) before they are two and learn to read whole sentences before they turn three. An fMRI study of a single child showed that hyperlexia may be the neurological opposite of dyslexia.
Often, hyperlexic children will have a precocious ability to read but will learn to speak only by rote and heavy repetition, and may also have difficulty learning the rules of language from examples or from trial and error, which may result in social problems.
Despite hyperlexic children's precocious reading ability, they may struggle to communicate. Their language may develop using echolalia, often repeating words and sentences. Often, the child has a large vocabulary and can identify many objects and pictures, but cannot put their language skills to good use. Spontaneous language is lacking and their pragmatic speech is delayed. Hyperlexic children often struggle with Who? What? Where? Why? and How? questions. Between the ages of 4 and 5 many children make great strides in communicating.
Social skills often lag tremendously. Hyperlexic children often have far less interest in playing with other children than do their peers."
Thursday 25 September 2008
Whee!
I'm not continuously miserable any more!
Living as a woman, I was always down.
Now I'm only sometimes miserable.
The proof of the pudding is in the eating...
I say, it's lunchtime!
But I oughtn't really to leave the office empty. The other chap is having some difficulties moving house, so isn't here - incidentally, when Hagrid helped Kim to move house, one of them tidily packed his car keys. Or was it the new house keys? At the bottom of the bottom box.
Anyway, yes. Don't know why I just told that scintillating story.
Oh yes - I'm very pleased with myself. Here's why -
I was at the supermarket last night, when a charming youth ran up to me and shouted, "WHY ARE YOU WEARING FUCKING MAKEUP YOU FUCKING POOF" in my face.
This pleases me for two reasons.
Firstly, I've been practising keeping my temper. I very rarely lose it with someone I know, but when chavs hurled abuse (at me or anyone, especially girls or vulnerable-looking people) I used to hurl abuse back, and hurl my whole self at them if I figured I could take them on (which was rare, because they obviously hunt in packs).
That was why I got so many beatings at school - I couldn't keep my mouth shut, and didn't have the physique to match my testosterone levels...
(Actually, I reacted quite differently to bullying from males or females. I'd get really fucking angry at boys, but girls always managed to make me cry).
So, I'd have a problem if I tried to follow the advice they give to mugging victims - don't make eye contact, just hand over the stuff, it's worth less than your life, etc. I know that I'd say "No, fuck you, that's my stuff," and stare them straight in the eye.
I was incredulous, and impressed, when my friend recently followed the advice to the letter. I would be in hospital if our places were exchanged, or I would have died too young to decide upon a decent funeral playlist (actually, those particular muggers weren't too hardcore - just hospital).
So, I have to keep reminding myself, "Someone mental enough to randomly scream at you or mug you is certainly mental enough to stab you in the gut. Which, I've heard, is unpleasant. Oliver, don't react."
And I didn't react yesterday... OK, that's a lie. I did call him a cunt - but only when I was out of possible knife-range.
That's progress, right?
Secondly, the more obvious reason: WHEE! O superbly passable me! I got called a poof! And I am a poof! EXACTLY RIGHT! Fifty points! And I obviously wasn't trying - the eye make-up.
That makes up for several of the latest people assuming I'm a butch dyke.
Which, incidentally, makes me wonder whether any of those people have eyes. How butch am I, exactly? Where is my pickup truck and my ability to lift pianos? How many seconds of sports talk does it take before I beat myself into unconsciousness?
Living as a woman, I was always down.
Now I'm only sometimes miserable.
The proof of the pudding is in the eating...
I say, it's lunchtime!
But I oughtn't really to leave the office empty. The other chap is having some difficulties moving house, so isn't here - incidentally, when Hagrid helped Kim to move house, one of them tidily packed his car keys. Or was it the new house keys? At the bottom of the bottom box.
Anyway, yes. Don't know why I just told that scintillating story.
Oh yes - I'm very pleased with myself. Here's why -
I was at the supermarket last night, when a charming youth ran up to me and shouted, "WHY ARE YOU WEARING FUCKING MAKEUP YOU FUCKING POOF" in my face.
This pleases me for two reasons.
Firstly, I've been practising keeping my temper. I very rarely lose it with someone I know, but when chavs hurled abuse (at me or anyone, especially girls or vulnerable-looking people) I used to hurl abuse back, and hurl my whole self at them if I figured I could take them on (which was rare, because they obviously hunt in packs).
That was why I got so many beatings at school - I couldn't keep my mouth shut, and didn't have the physique to match my testosterone levels...
(Actually, I reacted quite differently to bullying from males or females. I'd get really fucking angry at boys, but girls always managed to make me cry).
So, I'd have a problem if I tried to follow the advice they give to mugging victims - don't make eye contact, just hand over the stuff, it's worth less than your life, etc. I know that I'd say "No, fuck you, that's my stuff," and stare them straight in the eye.
I was incredulous, and impressed, when my friend recently followed the advice to the letter. I would be in hospital if our places were exchanged, or I would have died too young to decide upon a decent funeral playlist (actually, those particular muggers weren't too hardcore - just hospital).
So, I have to keep reminding myself, "Someone mental enough to randomly scream at you or mug you is certainly mental enough to stab you in the gut. Which, I've heard, is unpleasant. Oliver, don't react."
And I didn't react yesterday... OK, that's a lie. I did call him a cunt - but only when I was out of possible knife-range.
That's progress, right?
Secondly, the more obvious reason: WHEE! O superbly passable me! I got called a poof! And I am a poof! EXACTLY RIGHT! Fifty points! And I obviously wasn't trying - the eye make-up.
That makes up for several of the latest people assuming I'm a butch dyke.
Which, incidentally, makes me wonder whether any of those people have eyes. How butch am I, exactly? Where is my pickup truck and my ability to lift pianos? How many seconds of sports talk does it take before I beat myself into unconsciousness?
Wednesday 24 September 2008
Thoughts...
Firstly, here's my tattoo (the angle's a bit off, so it looks a bit squashed, but it's the only pic I currently have).
OH YES, five hundred geek points please. Kthx.
More pensively:
Here's a murder trial ruling that has escaped the usual "disability panic" defence.
People are slowly, slowly starting to get the idea that murdering a disabled child is not a "mercy killing" or "for the best" - comments that have been everywhere after reports of similar murders; not just in the more fascist corners of the internet and in the more fascist newspapers, but everywhere.
However, the progress of this understanding that disability is not the end of the world has come too late for the little girl in question, Naomi Hill.
And over in the US, a "trans panic" defence has been (almost, this is a preliminary hearing) thrown out, ensuring that the killer of a young trans woman named Angie Zapata will be charged with first-degree murder (anyone who assumes that a murder charge for the murderer of a trans woman is normal needs to do some extensive reading on the thousands of similar cases).
Two signs of real progress, and two reasons to hope. Maybe the world, after all, is becoming a more humane place.
But, again, too late for Angie Zapata and Naomi Hill.
I'm not sure what to think.
OH YES, five hundred geek points please. Kthx.
More pensively:
Here's a murder trial ruling that has escaped the usual "disability panic" defence.
People are slowly, slowly starting to get the idea that murdering a disabled child is not a "mercy killing" or "for the best" - comments that have been everywhere after reports of similar murders; not just in the more fascist corners of the internet and in the more fascist newspapers, but everywhere.
However, the progress of this understanding that disability is not the end of the world has come too late for the little girl in question, Naomi Hill.
And over in the US, a "trans panic" defence has been (almost, this is a preliminary hearing) thrown out, ensuring that the killer of a young trans woman named Angie Zapata will be charged with first-degree murder (anyone who assumes that a murder charge for the murderer of a trans woman is normal needs to do some extensive reading on the thousands of similar cases).
Two signs of real progress, and two reasons to hope. Maybe the world, after all, is becoming a more humane place.
But, again, too late for Angie Zapata and Naomi Hill.
I'm not sure what to think.
Tuesday 23 September 2008
And Part III...
It would also be nice if they could decide what they wanted *before* they sent out the email telling us, supposedly, what they want...
Then everybody would get fewer indignant emails going "We're having to amend this and send it out again! We asked for 30-something men last week, and didn't get any 60-something women! Not one! Why not? The audition is in 6 minutes in Belgium, so you'd better jump to it!"
Today, somebody was casting a musical adaptation of His Dark Materials (incidentally, three of the Best Books In The World Ever, currently also being adapted into the Three Worst Films Ever, but that's a whole other opportunity to watch me spit with rage).
They're trying to cast Mrs Coulter, but have failed to mention that the character is physically attractive - no, make that stunningly beautiful. The whole point, at first, of the character is that her looks allow her to get away with pretty much anything, as she captivates powerful men; and even manages to con her cynical, monstrously intelligent 11-year-old daughter.
Now, I can tell from the rest of the breakdown that they're not altering the plot, or any of the characters - they want a pretty faithful adaptation, it's just that they're expecting the usual mind-reader on the other end of the Interwebs. And they'll actually lose faith in this mind-reader, and all connected with hir, if ze sends in a load of normal-looking people...
And now I have to tell a load of normal-looking people, those that want submitting for the part, that they're too ugly...
Then everybody would get fewer indignant emails going "We're having to amend this and send it out again! We asked for 30-something men last week, and didn't get any 60-something women! Not one! Why not? The audition is in 6 minutes in Belgium, so you'd better jump to it!"
Today, somebody was casting a musical adaptation of His Dark Materials (incidentally, three of the Best Books In The World Ever, currently also being adapted into the Three Worst Films Ever, but that's a whole other opportunity to watch me spit with rage).
They're trying to cast Mrs Coulter, but have failed to mention that the character is physically attractive - no, make that stunningly beautiful. The whole point, at first, of the character is that her looks allow her to get away with pretty much anything, as she captivates powerful men; and even manages to con her cynical, monstrously intelligent 11-year-old daughter.
Now, I can tell from the rest of the breakdown that they're not altering the plot, or any of the characters - they want a pretty faithful adaptation, it's just that they're expecting the usual mind-reader on the other end of the Interwebs. And they'll actually lose faith in this mind-reader, and all connected with hir, if ze sends in a load of normal-looking people...
And now I have to tell a load of normal-looking people, those that want submitting for the part, that they're too ugly...
Casting Directors, Part II
Now, away from casting directors' enlightened views of racial minorities, poor people and Northern people, and on to their similarly enlightened views of the LGBT community (yes, I'm aware that these sets of groups often contain the same people, who I'm sure are quadruply happy to know that those who control our media are portraying them so well).
My favourite today:
"However in our story, there is a possible slight sexual ambiguity towards the end of the piece (it is a comedy after all!!) so not too macho for this one."
Lollerskates, those comical gays.
I also like:
Male transsexual (MALE) (note: the only description).
EPICALLY UNBELIEVABLE LOGIC FAIL.
To be fair, some casting directors do not live in cloud cuckoo-land. One of them has just forwarded this quotation from Eve Ensler to DPM's inbox - presumably because she liked it, though it comes with no explanation...
"This is from Eve Ensler, who wrote The Vagina Monologues.
I don't like raging at women. I am a Feminist and have spent my life trying to build community, help empower women and stop violence against them. It is hard to write about Sarah Palin. This is why the Sarah Palin choice was all the more insidious and cynical. The people who made this choice count on the goodness and solidarity of Feminists.
But everything Sarah Palin believes in and practices is antithetical to Feminism which for me is part of one story -- connected to saving the earth, ending racism, empowering women, giving young girls options, opening our minds, deepening tolerance, and ending violence and war.
I believe that the McCain/Palin ticket is one of the most dangerous choices of my lifetime, and should this country chose those candidates the fall-out may be so great, the destruction so vast in so many areas that America may never recover. But what is equally disturbing is the impact that duo would have on the rest of the world. Unfortunately, this is not a joke. In my lifetime I have seen the clownish, the inept, the bizarre be elected to the presidency with regularity.
Sarah Palin does not believe in evolution. I take this as a metaphor. In her world and the world of Fundamentalists nothing changes or gets better or evolves. She does not believe in global warming. The melting of the arctic, the storms that are destroying our cities, the pollution and rise of cancers, are all part of God's plan. She is fighting to take the polar bears off the endangered species list. The earth, in Palin's view, is here to be taken and plundered. The wolves and the bears are here to be shot and plundered. The oil is here to be taken and plundered. Iraq is here to be taken and plundered. As she said herself of the Iraqi war, 'It was a task from God.'
Sarah Palin does not believe in abortion. She does not believe women who are raped and incested and ripped open against their will s hould have a right to determine whether they have their rapist's baby or not.
She obviously does not believe in sex education or birth control. I imagine her daughter was practicing abstinence and we know how many babies that makes.
Sarah Palin does not much believe in thinking. From what I gather she has tried to ban books from the library, has a tendency to dispense with people who think independently. She cannot tolerate an environment of ambiguity and difference. This is a woman who could and might very well be the next president of the United States. She would govern one of the most diverse populations on the earth.
Sarah believes in guns. She has her own custom Austrian hunting rifle. She has been known to kill 40 caribou at a clip. She has shot hundreds of wolves from the air.
Sarah believes in God. That is of course her right, her private right. But when God and Guns come together in the public sector, when war is declared in God's name, when the rights of women are denied in his name, that is the end of separation of church and state and the undoing of everything America has ever tried to be.
I write to my sisters. I write because I believe we hold this election in our hands. This vote is a vote that will determine the future not just of the U.S., but of the planet. It will determine whether we create policies to save the earth or make it forever uninhabitable for humans. It will determine whether we move towards dialogue and diplomacy in the world or whether we escalate violence through invasion, undermining and attack. It will determine whether we go for oil, strip mining, coal burning or invest our money in alternatives that will free us from dependency and destruction. It will determine if money gets spent on education and healthcare or whether we build more and more methods of killing. It will determine whether America is a free open tolerant society or a closed place of fear, fundamentalism and aggression.
If the Polar Bears don't move you to go and do everything in your power to get Obama elected then consider the chant that filled the hall after Palin spoke at the RNC, 'Drill Drill Drill.' I think of teeth when I think of drills. I think of rape. I think of destruction. I think of domination. I think of military exercises that force mindless repetition, emptying the brain of analysis, doubt, ambiguity or dissent. I think of pain.
Do we want a future of drilling? More holes in the ozone, in the floor of the sea, more holes in our thinking, in the trust between nations and peoples, more holes in the fabric of this precious thing we call life?"
Is true, no?
Though how we over here are supposed to influence the US elections I have no idea. Let's register our new kitteh as an American voter (what? That'd work if we were voting for McCain/Palin, methinks).
My favourite today:
"However in our story, there is a possible slight sexual ambiguity towards the end of the piece (it is a comedy after all!!) so not too macho for this one."
Lollerskates, those comical gays.
I also like:
Male transsexual (MALE) (note: the only description).
EPICALLY UNBELIEVABLE LOGIC FAIL.
To be fair, some casting directors do not live in cloud cuckoo-land. One of them has just forwarded this quotation from Eve Ensler to DPM's inbox - presumably because she liked it, though it comes with no explanation...
"This is from Eve Ensler, who wrote The Vagina Monologues.
I don't like raging at women. I am a Feminist and have spent my life trying to build community, help empower women and stop violence against them. It is hard to write about Sarah Palin. This is why the Sarah Palin choice was all the more insidious and cynical. The people who made this choice count on the goodness and solidarity of Feminists.
But everything Sarah Palin believes in and practices is antithetical to Feminism which for me is part of one story -- connected to saving the earth, ending racism, empowering women, giving young girls options, opening our minds, deepening tolerance, and ending violence and war.
I believe that the McCain/Palin ticket is one of the most dangerous choices of my lifetime, and should this country chose those candidates the fall-out may be so great, the destruction so vast in so many areas that America may never recover. But what is equally disturbing is the impact that duo would have on the rest of the world. Unfortunately, this is not a joke. In my lifetime I have seen the clownish, the inept, the bizarre be elected to the presidency with regularity.
Sarah Palin does not believe in evolution. I take this as a metaphor. In her world and the world of Fundamentalists nothing changes or gets better or evolves. She does not believe in global warming. The melting of the arctic, the storms that are destroying our cities, the pollution and rise of cancers, are all part of God's plan. She is fighting to take the polar bears off the endangered species list. The earth, in Palin's view, is here to be taken and plundered. The wolves and the bears are here to be shot and plundered. The oil is here to be taken and plundered. Iraq is here to be taken and plundered. As she said herself of the Iraqi war, 'It was a task from God.'
Sarah Palin does not believe in abortion. She does not believe women who are raped and incested and ripped open against their will s hould have a right to determine whether they have their rapist's baby or not.
She obviously does not believe in sex education or birth control. I imagine her daughter was practicing abstinence and we know how many babies that makes.
Sarah Palin does not much believe in thinking. From what I gather she has tried to ban books from the library, has a tendency to dispense with people who think independently. She cannot tolerate an environment of ambiguity and difference. This is a woman who could and might very well be the next president of the United States. She would govern one of the most diverse populations on the earth.
Sarah believes in guns. She has her own custom Austrian hunting rifle. She has been known to kill 40 caribou at a clip. She has shot hundreds of wolves from the air.
Sarah believes in God. That is of course her right, her private right. But when God and Guns come together in the public sector, when war is declared in God's name, when the rights of women are denied in his name, that is the end of separation of church and state and the undoing of everything America has ever tried to be.
I write to my sisters. I write because I believe we hold this election in our hands. This vote is a vote that will determine the future not just of the U.S., but of the planet. It will determine whether we create policies to save the earth or make it forever uninhabitable for humans. It will determine whether we move towards dialogue and diplomacy in the world or whether we escalate violence through invasion, undermining and attack. It will determine whether we go for oil, strip mining, coal burning or invest our money in alternatives that will free us from dependency and destruction. It will determine if money gets spent on education and healthcare or whether we build more and more methods of killing. It will determine whether America is a free open tolerant society or a closed place of fear, fundamentalism and aggression.
If the Polar Bears don't move you to go and do everything in your power to get Obama elected then consider the chant that filled the hall after Palin spoke at the RNC, 'Drill Drill Drill.' I think of teeth when I think of drills. I think of rape. I think of destruction. I think of domination. I think of military exercises that force mindless repetition, emptying the brain of analysis, doubt, ambiguity or dissent. I think of pain.
Do we want a future of drilling? More holes in the ozone, in the floor of the sea, more holes in our thinking, in the trust between nations and peoples, more holes in the fabric of this precious thing we call life?"
Is true, no?
Though how we over here are supposed to influence the US elections I have no idea. Let's register our new kitteh as an American voter (what? That'd work if we were voting for McCain/Palin, methinks).
Monday 22 September 2008
Friday 19 September 2008
Inconsequential Things and Advice
I have a very sore throat (and all the other symptoms of man-flu). It hurts to talk. If people could STOP TELEPHONING ME for five minutes, that would be lovely. Though I'm not working - I'm in my designated illness dressing gown, drinking hot water and watching Jeremy Kyle.
Thanks to Kim for cheering me up last night.
This morning -
Me: "I can be all beautiful and femme! Look... this is a gorgeous feminine pose!"
Hagrid: "No... that's a very masculine pose."
Me: "Oh. What about this one?"
Hagrid: "Masculine."
Me: "I know... this one is feminine! You can't say it isn't!"
Hagrid: "Ew. That one's just... disturbing."
Also, you know when you are talking to someone who is vaguely familiar, and they mention that you met them in a bar/club, and you slowly realise that that night was one of horrible drunkenness and behaviour that was so embarrassing that NO I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT I JUST WANT TO DISAPPEAR FOREVER, and you may have done anything from trying to seduce them to vomiting on their shoes, and you can't remember?
That happened to me on Wednesday. And has been happening all year. And I really, really wasn't a drunk fresher compared to the standards of most. By those standards, I was stone cold sober.
Here is my only piece of advice to my friend whom, after a foundation course, is off to uni now:
DON'T DRINK ALCOHOL DURING FRESHERS' WEEK.
This is no moralistic tirade or expression of excessive interest in another's liver...
You'll avoid every single one of those moments! Isn't that just lovely?
Thanks to Kim for cheering me up last night.
This morning -
Me: "I can be all beautiful and femme! Look... this is a gorgeous feminine pose!"
Hagrid: "No... that's a very masculine pose."
Me: "Oh. What about this one?"
Hagrid: "Masculine."
Me: "I know... this one is feminine! You can't say it isn't!"
Hagrid: "Ew. That one's just... disturbing."
Also, you know when you are talking to someone who is vaguely familiar, and they mention that you met them in a bar/club, and you slowly realise that that night was one of horrible drunkenness and behaviour that was so embarrassing that NO I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT I JUST WANT TO DISAPPEAR FOREVER, and you may have done anything from trying to seduce them to vomiting on their shoes, and you can't remember?
That happened to me on Wednesday. And has been happening all year. And I really, really wasn't a drunk fresher compared to the standards of most. By those standards, I was stone cold sober.
Here is my only piece of advice to my friend whom, after a foundation course, is off to uni now:
DON'T DRINK ALCOHOL DURING FRESHERS' WEEK.
This is no moralistic tirade or expression of excessive interest in another's liver...
You'll avoid every single one of those moments! Isn't that just lovely?
Tuesday 16 September 2008
Repetitive Daily Trangst Update
I'm 100% sure that my dad doesn't read this blog - he's a proper autistic person, who neither likes nor understands people communicating with other people, and prefers his one-sided communication with machines.
"Autism speaks" still wouldn't have him as a token (insert ablist slur), though, because his life isn't a tale of woe. He's supposed to be one of the best... whatever it is he does... in Europe, so... he probably doesn't spend enough time sitting around in his own poo.
Whenever I see him in the evenings after work, the bags under his eyes make me glad that I'm not good at anything at all, and inspire me to stay that way.
I specify one-sided communication because his goes "You are a machine. I have fixed you. Now you work" and mine goes "Right, you son of a bitch! Do what I say!" "No." "What in the name of Jesus' knickers do you mean, no? You're a computer! Compute!" "Only if you ask me nicely." "Please?" "No." I think the robot revolution is already here.
I think he tried to compliment me yesterday, is the point. We were in my parents' house, with Gareth in another room, and I was shouting through a list of the world's most beautiful women (that's not actually a regular pastime of mine - I'm not FHM or whatever, and besides, we have much better taste).
Whereupon my dad said vaguely "No, my wife is the most beautiful woman in the world. And my daughter is the second."
I don't need to tell anyone that I'm an only child.
I think someone has given him suggested compliments for females. He meant that he was vaguely glad of my existence, no matter how much I puzzle him.
/daily trangst update
Reminds me of Venus Envy in which the dude is called "princess" by his parents... although I'm plenty more femme than he is... he exists mainly to beat stuff up...
"Autism speaks" still wouldn't have him as a token (insert ablist slur), though, because his life isn't a tale of woe. He's supposed to be one of the best... whatever it is he does... in Europe, so... he probably doesn't spend enough time sitting around in his own poo.
Whenever I see him in the evenings after work, the bags under his eyes make me glad that I'm not good at anything at all, and inspire me to stay that way.
I specify one-sided communication because his goes "You are a machine. I have fixed you. Now you work" and mine goes "Right, you son of a bitch! Do what I say!" "No." "What in the name of Jesus' knickers do you mean, no? You're a computer! Compute!" "Only if you ask me nicely." "Please?" "No." I think the robot revolution is already here.
I think he tried to compliment me yesterday, is the point. We were in my parents' house, with Gareth in another room, and I was shouting through a list of the world's most beautiful women (that's not actually a regular pastime of mine - I'm not FHM or whatever, and besides, we have much better taste).
Whereupon my dad said vaguely "No, my wife is the most beautiful woman in the world. And my daughter is the second."
I don't need to tell anyone that I'm an only child.
I think someone has given him suggested compliments for females. He meant that he was vaguely glad of my existence, no matter how much I puzzle him.
/daily trangst update
Reminds me of Venus Envy in which the dude is called "princess" by his parents... although I'm plenty more femme than he is... he exists mainly to beat stuff up...
Monday 15 September 2008
My Pet Peeve
Look, the world's going to hell anyway. This is my blog, so I'm going to write about something that, while it's unimportant in the grand scheme of things, annoys the crap out of me.
Whenever someone who doesn't belong to a very select group of my friends start talking about The Lord of the Rings, I have to stick my fingers in my ears and go LA LA LA LA LA I'M NOT LISTENING.
Why? Because they will always, always say "I never finished the books" and then they'll joke about the length of Tolkien's descriptions.
Our current GM did the same thing recently! It's like being an evangelical Christian who's never read the Bible... OK, many evangelical Christians ain't so good with the readin', but you know what I mean.
It's a thousand pages. Not a thousand pages of doctoral research into nuclear physics, a thousand pages of swords and monsters and poems and stuff. Tasty? Yes, tasty tasty.
Now, it's true that the books have one obvious flaw, which is pretty much rectified in the film versions. Tolkien... didn't find interesting anything that the average person might find interesting. So, all the crucial, dramatic moments in The Lord of the Rings get a grudging sentence of description, while everything else gets a decent chunk.
It's rather like when you're reading a Victorian novel, and you suddenly find that the plot has been set aside while the author gives a phrenological description of the newest character.
But that's a comparably minor issue, yes? It's worth dealing with an author's foibles to read a story of that magnitude.
Apparently not. People suddenly become so viciously anti-intellectual, they could be mistaken in a poor light for John McCain. "It's too loooong" they moan. "There are too many words". "Everyone has too many names" - try reading the Children of Hurin, sunshine! Or even, gosh, some real mythology!
Unless you're dyslexic, illiterate, or blind, reading a book is the most leisurely of leisure activities in existence. You have to turn the pages. That is the extent of the effort you have to make. You have to make sure that your eyes are open, so that you can see the words. Have I covered everything here?
Now, all these people that just "couldn't" finish the books are neither illiterate nor blind, and the vast majority are not dyslexic. In fact, I know several badly dyslexic people who love the books, and read them, slowly, often.
So, can we modify the "Tolkien-wrote-long-books" jokes from people who never finished them? Can't they just say "I have the shortest attention span known to humanity! Yay me - what? I say, a pony!"
Of course, the films aren't without their flaws. Some lines (either written for the film or needlessly modified) that enrage a pedantic sod like me:
"No parent should have to bury their child"
Excuse me? Why are we suddenly anti-sexist? The Lord of the Rings is innately sexist! You'd have to not make the films at all! Dispense with this horrible American quasi-anachronism at once, and try "father" and "his" so it doesn't sound shit.
"It makes the trees grow tall... and come alive... and even move."
"Alive???"
Trees are already tall and alive. That's why they're TREES, and not, say, small flat rocks. And yes, they move. Being ALIVE - oh, we've been through that already. I believe the line ought to be "and walk about" - something that trees do not ordinarily do. I wouldn't employ a screenwriter unfamiliar with the concept of a tree.
There are dozens more, but I suppose they're minor quibbles *twitch*.
Finally, two people have made their best attempts to destroy The Lord of the Rings for me.
Firstly, there is another pseudonymous Bob. Because Bob is very handsome, I allowed my baser instincts to take over, and I... listened when he mentioned those five words.
Bob thinks that The Lord of the Rings is all about Frodo and Samwise's latent homosexuality, which they are man enough to throw into the appropriately named Crack of Doom. While Sam becomes a "real man" who breeds millions of small hobbits, Frodo is still consumed with lust, writes some poetry then goes off in a boat with a load of gay elves. He thinks the effect of Tolkien's Catholicism on his work should not be underestimated.
And absolutely finally, there is whoever made this:
Is so catchy...
Whenever someone who doesn't belong to a very select group of my friends start talking about The Lord of the Rings, I have to stick my fingers in my ears and go LA LA LA LA LA I'M NOT LISTENING.
Why? Because they will always, always say "I never finished the books" and then they'll joke about the length of Tolkien's descriptions.
Our current GM did the same thing recently! It's like being an evangelical Christian who's never read the Bible... OK, many evangelical Christians ain't so good with the readin', but you know what I mean.
It's a thousand pages. Not a thousand pages of doctoral research into nuclear physics, a thousand pages of swords and monsters and poems and stuff. Tasty? Yes, tasty tasty.
Now, it's true that the books have one obvious flaw, which is pretty much rectified in the film versions. Tolkien... didn't find interesting anything that the average person might find interesting. So, all the crucial, dramatic moments in The Lord of the Rings get a grudging sentence of description, while everything else gets a decent chunk.
It's rather like when you're reading a Victorian novel, and you suddenly find that the plot has been set aside while the author gives a phrenological description of the newest character.
But that's a comparably minor issue, yes? It's worth dealing with an author's foibles to read a story of that magnitude.
Apparently not. People suddenly become so viciously anti-intellectual, they could be mistaken in a poor light for John McCain. "It's too loooong" they moan. "There are too many words". "Everyone has too many names" - try reading the Children of Hurin, sunshine! Or even, gosh, some real mythology!
Unless you're dyslexic, illiterate, or blind, reading a book is the most leisurely of leisure activities in existence. You have to turn the pages. That is the extent of the effort you have to make. You have to make sure that your eyes are open, so that you can see the words. Have I covered everything here?
Now, all these people that just "couldn't" finish the books are neither illiterate nor blind, and the vast majority are not dyslexic. In fact, I know several badly dyslexic people who love the books, and read them, slowly, often.
So, can we modify the "Tolkien-wrote-long-books" jokes from people who never finished them? Can't they just say "I have the shortest attention span known to humanity! Yay me - what? I say, a pony!"
Of course, the films aren't without their flaws. Some lines (either written for the film or needlessly modified) that enrage a pedantic sod like me:
"No parent should have to bury their child"
Excuse me? Why are we suddenly anti-sexist? The Lord of the Rings is innately sexist! You'd have to not make the films at all! Dispense with this horrible American quasi-anachronism at once, and try "father" and "his" so it doesn't sound shit.
"It makes the trees grow tall... and come alive... and even move."
"Alive???"
Trees are already tall and alive. That's why they're TREES, and not, say, small flat rocks. And yes, they move. Being ALIVE - oh, we've been through that already. I believe the line ought to be "and walk about" - something that trees do not ordinarily do. I wouldn't employ a screenwriter unfamiliar with the concept of a tree.
There are dozens more, but I suppose they're minor quibbles *twitch*.
Finally, two people have made their best attempts to destroy The Lord of the Rings for me.
Firstly, there is another pseudonymous Bob. Because Bob is very handsome, I allowed my baser instincts to take over, and I... listened when he mentioned those five words.
Bob thinks that The Lord of the Rings is all about Frodo and Samwise's latent homosexuality, which they are man enough to throw into the appropriately named Crack of Doom. While Sam becomes a "real man" who breeds millions of small hobbits, Frodo is still consumed with lust, writes some poetry then goes off in a boat with a load of gay elves. He thinks the effect of Tolkien's Catholicism on his work should not be underestimated.
And absolutely finally, there is whoever made this:
Is so catchy...
Thursday 11 September 2008
I am feminist fail?
I'm alive! My grandma drove me somewhere, and I'm alive (I just wish I was rich enough to own a car, so that she would never drive me anywhere ever ever ever ever ever ever again...).
I think she thinks that appropriate gears and speeds are for fascists, capitalists and/or the under-85s. Which she thinks are all the same thing. Like first and fourth gear, in fact.
Firstly, I have the most awesome tattoo ever in the history of the world ever.
I hope that's clear. I also hope it heals well.
I've been watching people descend on this blogger with the understanding that they are, in fact, Hermione Granger and she is, in fact, a house-elf (the metaphor, applicably, of that man pseudonymously named Hagrid).
When she says "You are not Hermione Granger and I am not a house-elf", they say "well... well... you're a SLUT! Ha! Yes, a SLUT! And a BITCH! HA!"
Thus ends my detailed analysis of "sex-negative" - no, wait, YES sex-negative, also incredibly woman-negative, the-porn-industry-is-a-monolith, feminism.
I refuse to share a label with women who are so bitterly, evilly judgemental of other women (racism, transphobia etc. in the movement are a thousand million other posts... hell, could be a thousand million encyclopaedias).
"Female Chauvinist Pigs"? If you're living under a rock, this is a fairly new, popular "feminist" book in which the author, Ariel Levy, does NOTHING but insult and belittle other women (and some transmen/transmale genderqueers, for good measure).
Classy. That'll end male domination, I'm sure. That's just as useful as fighting for employment rights or reproductive freedom, fighting against rape or female genital mutilation... etc. etc. Those issues will take care of themselves!
Sadly, the issue is as old as feminism itself - no, hang on, Mary Wollstonecraft never wrote "A Vindication of the Rights of Some Women, and A Great Long Bitch About Others" - OK, then, at least a few decades old.
My introduction? I was 15. I was wandering through Waterstone's, having just had my lip pierced at a shop around the corner. I thought "aha, I have never browsed through the feminist section before, even though I am feminist - I am feminist because it's evident that women are equal to men in worth, and they (I thought "we" at that point) are hardly ever treated like that is the case".
The first paragraph I read in the first academic book I skimmed through? All about how women were JUST DISGUSTING for having body piercings, tattoos, etc, because they were TORTURING THEMSELVES for male approval.
Yup, I loved all that male approval that my gothy appearance procured! All those beatings from boys at school, and all the street harrassment!
I'd assumed that other feminists had my back, and I had theirs - but I had the sense just to laugh at that particular author and assume that most feminists were lovely people, dedicated to gaining women every freedom.
Well... fuck that belief. Royally.
I know some people would think that I can't speak about these issues - I'm disqualified as I "quit" womanhood.
Look. If a woman says/writes, "I believe this..." or "This happened to me..." I listen. Intently. I assume that that woman is telling the truth. I mentally file the information away for future use. If the statement is my first example, a belief, I check that it does not contain blatant racism, misogyny or any other ideology that only exists to hurt - if it does not appear to, I accept it.
If a woman says/writes "Women all think", "Women all do", "A real woman would never"... they fail the misogyny test. Just as a man would, if he expressed the same sentiments.
So... do I call myself a feminist any longer? What do I call myself instead? I particularly won't call myself a "trans-positive feminist" because that implies that hatred of trans women is an optional feminist extra, like peanut butter on toast. Is "womanist" vastly culturally inappropriate, as I'm white and English? "Trying not to be a dick to women" doesn't roll off the tongue.
I think she thinks that appropriate gears and speeds are for fascists, capitalists and/or the under-85s. Which she thinks are all the same thing. Like first and fourth gear, in fact.
Firstly, I have the most awesome tattoo ever in the history of the world ever.
I hope that's clear. I also hope it heals well.
I've been watching people descend on this blogger with the understanding that they are, in fact, Hermione Granger and she is, in fact, a house-elf (the metaphor, applicably, of that man pseudonymously named Hagrid).
When she says "You are not Hermione Granger and I am not a house-elf", they say "well... well... you're a SLUT! Ha! Yes, a SLUT! And a BITCH! HA!"
Thus ends my detailed analysis of "sex-negative" - no, wait, YES sex-negative, also incredibly woman-negative, the-porn-industry-is-a-monolith, feminism.
I refuse to share a label with women who are so bitterly, evilly judgemental of other women (racism, transphobia etc. in the movement are a thousand million other posts... hell, could be a thousand million encyclopaedias).
"Female Chauvinist Pigs"? If you're living under a rock, this is a fairly new, popular "feminist" book in which the author, Ariel Levy, does NOTHING but insult and belittle other women (and some transmen/transmale genderqueers, for good measure).
Classy. That'll end male domination, I'm sure. That's just as useful as fighting for employment rights or reproductive freedom, fighting against rape or female genital mutilation... etc. etc. Those issues will take care of themselves!
Sadly, the issue is as old as feminism itself - no, hang on, Mary Wollstonecraft never wrote "A Vindication of the Rights of Some Women, and A Great Long Bitch About Others" - OK, then, at least a few decades old.
My introduction? I was 15. I was wandering through Waterstone's, having just had my lip pierced at a shop around the corner. I thought "aha, I have never browsed through the feminist section before, even though I am feminist - I am feminist because it's evident that women are equal to men in worth, and they (I thought "we" at that point) are hardly ever treated like that is the case".
The first paragraph I read in the first academic book I skimmed through? All about how women were JUST DISGUSTING for having body piercings, tattoos, etc, because they were TORTURING THEMSELVES for male approval.
Yup, I loved all that male approval that my gothy appearance procured! All those beatings from boys at school, and all the street harrassment!
I'd assumed that other feminists had my back, and I had theirs - but I had the sense just to laugh at that particular author and assume that most feminists were lovely people, dedicated to gaining women every freedom.
Well... fuck that belief. Royally.
I know some people would think that I can't speak about these issues - I'm disqualified as I "quit" womanhood.
Look. If a woman says/writes, "I believe this..." or "This happened to me..." I listen. Intently. I assume that that woman is telling the truth. I mentally file the information away for future use. If the statement is my first example, a belief, I check that it does not contain blatant racism, misogyny or any other ideology that only exists to hurt - if it does not appear to, I accept it.
If a woman says/writes "Women all think", "Women all do", "A real woman would never"... they fail the misogyny test. Just as a man would, if he expressed the same sentiments.
So... do I call myself a feminist any longer? What do I call myself instead? I particularly won't call myself a "trans-positive feminist" because that implies that hatred of trans women is an optional feminist extra, like peanut butter on toast. Is "womanist" vastly culturally inappropriate, as I'm white and English? "Trying not to be a dick to women" doesn't roll off the tongue.
Monday 8 September 2008
Ethnic bees and actors
Sometimes, I feel vague ethical twinges about submitting actors for parts. I get a bit media-deterministic in my wilder moments, and I figure it can't be good that every TV/corporate training/film role requires a stereotype.
Also - gems like these, that you find in almost every casting breakdown -
"actor should have neutral accent" - they mean RP, tinged with Estuary English, but not enough to terrify. They don't say that, because they mean That's How I Talk, So It Must Be Neutral, The Default Human Is The London Yuppie, Yah Boo Sucks To You Scum.
"actor can be white or ethnic" - this means I Have Absorbed That Blatant Tokenism Will Get Me A Cool Grand From The Arts Council, But Sadly, I Am A Racist, Illiterate Fuckwit.
(Incidentally, when my friend D beekept, which is now a word, somebody said to him "These are ethnic bees. They are from Africa". I'm assuming that that person didn't mean it in a beautiful, Alice-Walker-esque, Africa-is-the-mother-of-us-all way).
Far, far worse ones are common - we just haven't had any in recently, so I can't source current examples.
Yes, I am having a boring day.
My friend Ed told me last night that he is looking for a sheep. If you happen to have a spare one, please do tell me.
I got cornered, and told off (by someone I don't know) on Saturday, because she learned that I was changing my name. She kept repeating "But (old name) is such a pretty name!" with a look in her eyes that said I Will Eat Your Soul.
Hagrid bore my oh-so-decidedly unpretty self away, laughing at my expression of utter puzzlement. "Well, that's you told" he said.
This is vaguely applicable.
Also - gems like these, that you find in almost every casting breakdown -
"actor should have neutral accent" - they mean RP, tinged with Estuary English, but not enough to terrify. They don't say that, because they mean That's How I Talk, So It Must Be Neutral, The Default Human Is The London Yuppie, Yah Boo Sucks To You Scum.
"actor can be white or ethnic" - this means I Have Absorbed That Blatant Tokenism Will Get Me A Cool Grand From The Arts Council, But Sadly, I Am A Racist, Illiterate Fuckwit.
(Incidentally, when my friend D beekept, which is now a word, somebody said to him "These are ethnic bees. They are from Africa". I'm assuming that that person didn't mean it in a beautiful, Alice-Walker-esque, Africa-is-the-mother-of-us-all way).
Far, far worse ones are common - we just haven't had any in recently, so I can't source current examples.
Yes, I am having a boring day.
My friend Ed told me last night that he is looking for a sheep. If you happen to have a spare one, please do tell me.
I got cornered, and told off (by someone I don't know) on Saturday, because she learned that I was changing my name. She kept repeating "But (old name) is such a pretty name!" with a look in her eyes that said I Will Eat Your Soul.
Hagrid bore my oh-so-decidedly unpretty self away, laughing at my expression of utter puzzlement. "Well, that's you told" he said.
This is vaguely applicable.
Sunday 7 September 2008
The Sad Tale of Bob
In this tale of woe, there are two main characters. Let us call one Bob, and the other Arseholeface - OK, let's not, let's call him Fred (those who know me will be aware that I often give the name Bob to characters with whom I am sympathetic, but I've made an attempt to remove some naming bias, at least).
Bob is fairly sociable, and extremely wealthy. So, it was natural that, come his 50th birthday, he decided to hold a bloody massive party.
OK, now everyone in the world knows who Bob is, as I know very few extremely wealthy 50-year-old people... never mind. Let's plough on.
The party was held in a giant marquee in his back garden. There were 120 guests, plus some caterers, a DJ, and some Portaloo operatives. It was a most excellent party - I ate, drank, and was merry - danced, and improved my not-so-mad Mario Kart skillz (there were a lot of kids, so Bob was prepared).
Now, Bob and his wife, whom we will also call Bob (this is why I can't GM) are friendly, lovable, accepting people - and a cynic with my upbringing understands that these are rare qualities among the very rich. Where Bob and Bob went wrong, then (as did their children, Bob, Bob and Bob) was to hold their party in their Dead Posh Neighbourhood.
What would the average person, in the average neighbourhood, do if their neighbour was having a fairly loud party? Remember, this is a posh neighbourhood, so the houses are very, very far apart - closing your window would be the technical solution to the problem of what noise was left.
Also, the residents immediately on both sides of Bob's were all at the party.
Finally, all the neighbours had been sent a letter informing them of said party.
However, Fred did not like that his Very Important Evening was being disturbed by what, by the time it got to his house, was a small amount of noise - noise he'd been warned about a week in advance, noise that he knew would last an entire hour more.
Instead of using the double-glazing that I'm certain he could afford, or, y'know, joining in the party (there were a couple of happy gatecrashers), or engaging in any behaviour that might be attributed to a normal person, ever...
He turned up and started shouting in Bob's face.
Bob asked him to be less aggressive. He became... more aggressive.
Bob pushed him out of the garden.
He fell, humourously, upon his bottom.
Bob walked back in, and reminded the DJ that he must finish up by the time Bob had promised in the letter. Which the DJ did.
However, the next thing he knew, Bob had been arrested for assault, and carted off to the police station - where the police did have the decency to look a bit sheepish as they fingerprinted him and gave him a caution (!)
It emerged later that Fred had been yelling at them, too.
Can I take a straw poll, here? Would you, yes, you, phone the police if someone pushed you off his property?
Would you phone the police even if someone, irritated at your trespassing, had punched you one?
Would you then shout at the police until they administered the harshest possible punishment to whoever pushed you?
Would you assume that the police have nothing better to do, and they're just sitting belching the alphabet until your call?
Here is where I get a bit inarticulate with rage... D'you think that, if Fred had been poorer, or had his skin had contained a bit more melanin... would the cops have acquiesced to his shouted demands? Or would they have locked him up for Wasting Police Time in the Most Fucking Major Way Ever?
(I never saw Fred. If you think that my assumption that he's white is uncalled for, I say - no, he would never call the police otherwise. Not in the city where I grew up, at least. I also say, ha, you're a fool).
So... Bob now has a criminal record.
And I've got yet another model of masculinity to avoid - that which is "manly" enough to go around shouting the odds, but runs to Mummy in the form of the nanny state when things don't go entirely his way.
Bob is fairly sociable, and extremely wealthy. So, it was natural that, come his 50th birthday, he decided to hold a bloody massive party.
OK, now everyone in the world knows who Bob is, as I know very few extremely wealthy 50-year-old people... never mind. Let's plough on.
The party was held in a giant marquee in his back garden. There were 120 guests, plus some caterers, a DJ, and some Portaloo operatives. It was a most excellent party - I ate, drank, and was merry - danced, and improved my not-so-mad Mario Kart skillz (there were a lot of kids, so Bob was prepared).
Now, Bob and his wife, whom we will also call Bob (this is why I can't GM) are friendly, lovable, accepting people - and a cynic with my upbringing understands that these are rare qualities among the very rich. Where Bob and Bob went wrong, then (as did their children, Bob, Bob and Bob) was to hold their party in their Dead Posh Neighbourhood.
What would the average person, in the average neighbourhood, do if their neighbour was having a fairly loud party? Remember, this is a posh neighbourhood, so the houses are very, very far apart - closing your window would be the technical solution to the problem of what noise was left.
Also, the residents immediately on both sides of Bob's were all at the party.
Finally, all the neighbours had been sent a letter informing them of said party.
However, Fred did not like that his Very Important Evening was being disturbed by what, by the time it got to his house, was a small amount of noise - noise he'd been warned about a week in advance, noise that he knew would last an entire hour more.
Instead of using the double-glazing that I'm certain he could afford, or, y'know, joining in the party (there were a couple of happy gatecrashers), or engaging in any behaviour that might be attributed to a normal person, ever...
He turned up and started shouting in Bob's face.
Bob asked him to be less aggressive. He became... more aggressive.
Bob pushed him out of the garden.
He fell, humourously, upon his bottom.
Bob walked back in, and reminded the DJ that he must finish up by the time Bob had promised in the letter. Which the DJ did.
However, the next thing he knew, Bob had been arrested for assault, and carted off to the police station - where the police did have the decency to look a bit sheepish as they fingerprinted him and gave him a caution (!)
It emerged later that Fred had been yelling at them, too.
Can I take a straw poll, here? Would you, yes, you, phone the police if someone pushed you off his property?
Would you phone the police even if someone, irritated at your trespassing, had punched you one?
Would you then shout at the police until they administered the harshest possible punishment to whoever pushed you?
Would you assume that the police have nothing better to do, and they're just sitting belching the alphabet until your call?
Here is where I get a bit inarticulate with rage... D'you think that, if Fred had been poorer, or had his skin had contained a bit more melanin... would the cops have acquiesced to his shouted demands? Or would they have locked him up for Wasting Police Time in the Most Fucking Major Way Ever?
(I never saw Fred. If you think that my assumption that he's white is uncalled for, I say - no, he would never call the police otherwise. Not in the city where I grew up, at least. I also say, ha, you're a fool).
So... Bob now has a criminal record.
And I've got yet another model of masculinity to avoid - that which is "manly" enough to go around shouting the odds, but runs to Mummy in the form of the nanny state when things don't go entirely his way.
Thursday 4 September 2008
Kitteh, part II
So, I searched the websites of some animal shelters for a kitteh, but there weren't any the right age. So, I searched all the classified ads, looking for the nicest-sounding owner (I'm not encouraging unpleasant ones to get more cats!).
I immediately found an excitable advert extolling the virtues of my babies! They need new mummies and daddies! They're used to being kissed and cuddled! They are beautiful fluffy balls of fun!!! and thought OK, that's perfect. Even though I would rather drown in a barrel of eels than write that advert myself, I want to buy a kitteh from someone who has.
We walked through the door, said hello, sat down, and were immediately covered in kittens. The lady had 10, from two litters, and was obviously only selling them because her husband thought that 10 more cats was excessive.
Four of them had new homes, five of them didn't (she's hoping her husband won't question that calculation).
I sat there, covered in friendly kittehs, panicking because how the hell can one possibly choose? Will we have to choose our children like this?
This was, I swear, the conversation that came next:
Kitteh: (to Hagrid) You are mine now! Kthx!
Hagrid looked puzzled, as you would if a cat had just telepathically yelled at you.
Hagrid: "I... like that one."
Kitteh: "You better! I love you. Lovelovelove you - put me down and, I swear, I'll claw your hand off to the best of my ability - love you!"
Hagrid: (still puzzled) "I... love you? Yes, yes I do." He has never looked at a girl like that before!
Me: "Pass her over, then."
Kitteh: "I don't fuckin' think so, mate - I want my daddy back! I love him lots and lots and lots!"
I gave her back, and she smugly fell asleep in his hand.
She comes home on the 27th. Hopefully, she'll get as keen on me when she realises I'm the more reliable source of food.
I immediately found an excitable advert extolling the virtues of my babies! They need new mummies and daddies! They're used to being kissed and cuddled! They are beautiful fluffy balls of fun!!! and thought OK, that's perfect. Even though I would rather drown in a barrel of eels than write that advert myself, I want to buy a kitteh from someone who has.
We walked through the door, said hello, sat down, and were immediately covered in kittens. The lady had 10, from two litters, and was obviously only selling them because her husband thought that 10 more cats was excessive.
Four of them had new homes, five of them didn't (she's hoping her husband won't question that calculation).
I sat there, covered in friendly kittehs, panicking because how the hell can one possibly choose? Will we have to choose our children like this?
This was, I swear, the conversation that came next:
Kitteh: (to Hagrid) You are mine now! Kthx!
Hagrid looked puzzled, as you would if a cat had just telepathically yelled at you.
Hagrid: "I... like that one."
Kitteh: "You better! I love you. Lovelovelove you - put me down and, I swear, I'll claw your hand off to the best of my ability - love you!"
Hagrid: (still puzzled) "I... love you? Yes, yes I do." He has never looked at a girl like that before!
Me: "Pass her over, then."
Kitteh: "I don't fuckin' think so, mate - I want my daddy back! I love him lots and lots and lots!"
I gave her back, and she smugly fell asleep in his hand.
She comes home on the 27th. Hopefully, she'll get as keen on me when she realises I'm the more reliable source of food.
Wednesday 3 September 2008
Barack Obama
Look, US politics are important over here, no matter how much we're fed up at how much our media reports on them. Frankly, no-one listens to a small, overpopulated island whose last achievement was the New Wave of British Heavy Metal in the 80s - and OK, a normal person would replace that with victory in the Second World War 45 years before then, but I'm optimistic.
Basically, we have delusions of grandeur. The US has political and corporate sway - and loadsa nukes.
That's why I'm paying attention.
I've heard British people my age, who know a bit about our own political matters, compare the Dems to Labour, and the Republicans to the Tories. No... Political savvy failure. Read both candidates' proposed policies, and all their speeches - with your eyes. Yes, read them.
John McCain is rather closer to Nick Griffin than he is to David Cameron. In his turn, Barack Obama is what we, here, would call a "conservative" - and had his family moved to Britain instead, I reckon he'd be in David Cameron's place right now (actually, he wouldn't - we don't seem to like politicians who are great orators any more. We like ones who resemble confused bunnies).
So... they're not like our candidates. You can't view them as much of a muchness, and it's actually quite important who gets in - yes, for the whole world. You don't like them being that important? Go and do some empire-building for Britain, then, so we can have the political clout instead. Look how well that turned out the first time! We could have another War of Independence... with our armed forces made up of five men and a cat, with one combat boot between all of them. Oh.
So - use whatever influence you have to get US citizens voting for the right candidate.
When I talk to people, I'm not even bothering with "Think of all the poor starving children with no healthcare..." etc. - if they ain't thought of them before, they ain't gonna start now.
North Americans are proud patriots, yes? *wins small prize from Royal Society of Obvious-Stating* So, we need the "Your country won't be the punchline to every joke in Europe" angle.
"You won't have to pretend to be Canadian when on holiday in Europe, so that people don't punch you in the face" (I remember that being common a few years ago, at least).
"No-one will think you spend your days alternately beating your wife and having sex with your sister, taking breaks to take potshots at passing black people".
At posh dinner parties, no-one will say, "I must introduce you to Bob... though he is American".
I think that angle is our slim, but only, chance at success.
Here's Obama, anyway, doing his speechifying at the DNC.
He does seem to have those family values goin' on, incidentally - the family seem to quite like one another, and he's never, as far as I know, divorced a wife because she became disabled (I'm not thinking about anyone called John McCain here at all, tis just an observation).
Anyway, this is enough politics, or my mum will kick me off her blogroll (everyone calling her "little comrade" when she was small kind of put her off - I'm frankly surprised she's not a card-carrying fascist now).
Sarah quite fancies Barack Obama. I'd quite like to look and sound like Barack Obama. A Yorkshire Barack Obama. With a flat cap.
That's another problem with his appeal, apparently. He's in too good physical shape. For fat people. To vote. For him.
Please, America. Don't make this true!
Basically, we have delusions of grandeur. The US has political and corporate sway - and loadsa nukes.
That's why I'm paying attention.
I've heard British people my age, who know a bit about our own political matters, compare the Dems to Labour, and the Republicans to the Tories. No... Political savvy failure. Read both candidates' proposed policies, and all their speeches - with your eyes. Yes, read them.
John McCain is rather closer to Nick Griffin than he is to David Cameron. In his turn, Barack Obama is what we, here, would call a "conservative" - and had his family moved to Britain instead, I reckon he'd be in David Cameron's place right now (actually, he wouldn't - we don't seem to like politicians who are great orators any more. We like ones who resemble confused bunnies).
So... they're not like our candidates. You can't view them as much of a muchness, and it's actually quite important who gets in - yes, for the whole world. You don't like them being that important? Go and do some empire-building for Britain, then, so we can have the political clout instead. Look how well that turned out the first time! We could have another War of Independence... with our armed forces made up of five men and a cat, with one combat boot between all of them. Oh.
So - use whatever influence you have to get US citizens voting for the right candidate.
When I talk to people, I'm not even bothering with "Think of all the poor starving children with no healthcare..." etc. - if they ain't thought of them before, they ain't gonna start now.
North Americans are proud patriots, yes? *wins small prize from Royal Society of Obvious-Stating* So, we need the "Your country won't be the punchline to every joke in Europe" angle.
"You won't have to pretend to be Canadian when on holiday in Europe, so that people don't punch you in the face" (I remember that being common a few years ago, at least).
"No-one will think you spend your days alternately beating your wife and having sex with your sister, taking breaks to take potshots at passing black people".
At posh dinner parties, no-one will say, "I must introduce you to Bob... though he is American".
I think that angle is our slim, but only, chance at success.
Here's Obama, anyway, doing his speechifying at the DNC.
He does seem to have those family values goin' on, incidentally - the family seem to quite like one another, and he's never, as far as I know, divorced a wife because she became disabled (I'm not thinking about anyone called John McCain here at all, tis just an observation).
Anyway, this is enough politics, or my mum will kick me off her blogroll (everyone calling her "little comrade" when she was small kind of put her off - I'm frankly surprised she's not a card-carrying fascist now).
Sarah quite fancies Barack Obama. I'd quite like to look and sound like Barack Obama. A Yorkshire Barack Obama. With a flat cap.
That's another problem with his appeal, apparently. He's in too good physical shape. For fat people. To vote. For him.
Please, America. Don't make this true!
Monday 1 September 2008
Casting directors...
Are like very small children with ADD in the Shiny Land of Shiny.
I'll carefully craft a submission for, I don't know, a 25-year-old South Asian slim, stunning one-legged female plumber who can sing and play the barrel-organ, and they finally pick a tone-deaf, pasty John Prescott clone with five legs.
And am I the only one who dies a little inside when asked for a "named" actor? 'Cause actors are actually given names at birth, like everybody else - they're not like a modified Inuit tribe where, instead of getting a name at two or so, you only get it once you've gone through the rite of passage that is appearing in a bloody awful soap?
I'll carefully craft a submission for, I don't know, a 25-year-old South Asian slim, stunning one-legged female plumber who can sing and play the barrel-organ, and they finally pick a tone-deaf, pasty John Prescott clone with five legs.
And am I the only one who dies a little inside when asked for a "named" actor? 'Cause actors are actually given names at birth, like everybody else - they're not like a modified Inuit tribe where, instead of getting a name at two or so, you only get it once you've gone through the rite of passage that is appearing in a bloody awful soap?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
