August 14th, 2005

bear by san

(no subject)

Slept a lot last night (>9 hours) last night after literally falling asleep with my nose in Whose Bible is it Anyway? (No reflection on Mr. Pelikan there: it was after midnight and I had been up since the early, and got Nearly No sleep through the end of last week.) I've been good about the exercise lately, though (go me). Starting to get the barest beginnings of the itchiness to write again. Mostly its manifesting itself in the urge to write longhand, though,which has been an ongoing feature of this book. We hates writing longhand. Hates it. It means retyping later.

But that is the Carnival way, apparently.

And now I must eat something.

You know, the little pile of fruit and nuts and cheese in the bottom of the salad bowl is the best bit.

I'm getting into this whole idea of animated icon as micro-flash fiction. Shows, doesn't it?

***

via jlassen, The Race Against Race. A polemic on racism in genre writing communities and the real world. (This slops over into gay rights and feminism as well, and it's uncomfortably honest in places.)

sartorias, pursuant to the self-indulgence comversation

katallen, pursuant to same.
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bear by san

(no subject)

We went to see The Dukes of Hazzard. Except for the twenty minutes in the middle where there weren't any car chases and they seemed to have shifted the setting to an unnecessary remake of Real Genius, I shocked myself by enjoying it. Laughing so hard, at a couple of points, that I may have Diet Coke and bits of sour watermelon slices lodged in my sinuses.

It wasn't a good movie. Let me say that right up front. It was, in fact, the inverse of a good movie in every concievable way.

But it was aware of its own meta and its own badness and the badness of its source material in a sort of delightful way, much like the first Charlie's Angels movie. And if one is in the mood for fart jokes and boob jokes and car chases and Willie Nelson delivering bad jokes in a stiff monotone and Burt Reynolds chewing scenery like he hasn't been fed in a month, and one really needs to nurture one's inner seven year old... well, you know. It wasn't as deep and meaningful, say, as Harold and Kumar go to White Castle. But I don't regret the matinee price.

Jessica Simpson was surprisingly likeable. Who could have guessed?

And I am so in love with one of the bloopers shown at the end. The one where Seann William Scott figures out, to his own shock and horror, just how stupid his character is, in fact, supposed to be.



I finished the Pelikan book, which I somewhat wanted to be... deeper. The last chapter satisfied me most. It waxes philosophical. And I started Christopher Marlowe: A Renaissance Life, which wins me over completely before I even start reading by virtue of the timeline in the frontispiece. A timeline. With facts in it. Documented facts. And not conjectures, suppositions, and urban legends. (Those are my job, dammit.)

Oh, Constance Brown Kuriyama, how do I love thee already? Let me count the ways.

Now let's see if the book is any good.