Honorable Denizens of Cyberspace! As your wayward Carnival Organizer, I humbly beg your forgiveness! I would have a long in-depth excuse as to why we have had such a long hiatus between carnivals, but it ultimately comes down to my neglecting my bloggerly duties in favor of icky RL responsibilities, and no one wants to hear the details of that. Sadly until such time as I learn to sustain my body purely on force of will or am able to download my consciousness directly into the blogosphere I'll have to deal with the hassles and distractions of meatspace.
But never lose your faith, feminist fans of the fantastic, for I have returned with a volunteer to host the next edition!
I'm sure you all remember Skye, who is solid, liquid, and gaseous awesome.
So without further ado, the skinny on the 21st Edition:
Where: Heroine Content
When: May 1st
How Long Until Submissions Close: Until April 28th
Who: skyekilaen[AT]gmail[DOT]com or submission form
What: Suggested theme is "Who Do You Love?" but all posts relevant to gender issues in speculative fiction will be gladly considered.
As our last edition was way back in February, the upcoming edition will accept submissions reaching back to February 7th.
And *ahem* I still need a host for the 22nd. Contact me if you're up for it.
--Crossposted to Feminist SF Carnival Blog.--
(Those of you who don't know what the fuck this is about would be advised to read this.)
Friday, April 11, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
DAMN YOU WINICK!!!
I'm not going to go into details, but today Judd Winick caused a mild amount of strife between myself and Kalinara.
We settled it peacefully, mind you, but this very rarely happens. I blame Judd Winick for it, and mark my words... I shall have my revenge.
In all seriousness, we do need a bet settled. Riddle me this, dearest readers: Who would be more comfortable in a gay nightclub in the late 90s, Wildcat Ted Grant or Flash Jay Garrick?
Show your work.
We settled it peacefully, mind you, but this very rarely happens. I blame Judd Winick for it, and mark my words... I shall have my revenge.
In all seriousness, we do need a bet settled. Riddle me this, dearest readers: Who would be more comfortable in a gay nightclub in the late 90s, Wildcat Ted Grant or Flash Jay Garrick?
Show your work.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
I made something pretty!
Horrified that the next Star Sapphire figure is going to be in that hideous costume, I searched about online and found the classic Star Sapphire action figure (which had ugly earrings, but those were a lot easier to cut off and paint over than fixing that dreadful costume).
When I took her out of the box the other night, I realized she was the same size as my Parallax/Hal figure. Then I noticed that one of her hands was outstretched, with the fingers spread like she was reaching for someone. And one of Hal's hands was open so that it could hold something, and that it fit perfectly to Carol's wrist.
About that time "Written in the Stars" from the Aida cast album hit my playlist. I got inspired.
I had to make a shadowbox. After testing out about five different background ideas, I settled on a picture from an old calender. For some reason, during the entire process my playlist was queuing up love songs. when I finally finished the whole thing (which involved searching for pieces from the base, and a lot more time that I thought it would) I was listening to a cover of "I Want You to Want Me."
Weird. Anyway, pictures:
And for some reason I'm fond of this one that didn't come out very well. It's kind of spooky and cool.
What do you think? Are they not just made for each other?
When I took her out of the box the other night, I realized she was the same size as my Parallax/Hal figure. Then I noticed that one of her hands was outstretched, with the fingers spread like she was reaching for someone. And one of Hal's hands was open so that it could hold something, and that it fit perfectly to Carol's wrist.
About that time "Written in the Stars" from the Aida cast album hit my playlist. I got inspired.
I had to make a shadowbox. After testing out about five different background ideas, I settled on a picture from an old calender. For some reason, during the entire process my playlist was queuing up love songs. when I finally finished the whole thing (which involved searching for pieces from the base, and a lot more time that I thought it would) I was listening to a cover of "I Want You to Want Me."
Weird. Anyway, pictures:
And for some reason I'm fond of this one that didn't come out very well. It's kind of spooky and cool.
What do you think? Are they not just made for each other?
Sunday, April 06, 2008
This is important.
If people who are trying never get criticized because "Hey, at least they're trying," then all anyone will do is the bare minimum. The only way to make things better is to keep at it. Keep making things better, correct false steps. Criticism is necessary, otherwise people won't know when they put their foot in it and they'll just continue to put their foot in it.
Saturday, April 05, 2008
To: Me, From: Me
They got it in where I shop a few weeks ago, but I just noticed it was there for the first time the other day.
I was going to wait until my tax return came in or my birthday (which is on a Wednesday later this month), but on Thursday I'd gotten a lot of errands done. And I only had one book come out.
And the clerk told em other people had been looking at her. I knew if I waited, she would disappear. So I went ahead and bought the Dodson Wonder Woman statue.
Because I'm worth it, dammit.
Note to all relatives: Send money in lieu of birthday gifts. Don't worry, there's no danger of it being used responsibly.
I was going to wait until my tax return came in or my birthday (which is on a Wednesday later this month), but on Thursday I'd gotten a lot of errands done. And I only had one book come out.
And the clerk told em other people had been looking at her. I knew if I waited, she would disappear. So I went ahead and bought the Dodson Wonder Woman statue.
Because I'm worth it, dammit.
Note to all relatives: Send money in lieu of birthday gifts. Don't worry, there's no danger of it being used responsibly.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Superteen Extraordinaire!
Can I trust this?
The date is April 1st on that Press Release. But it's not so utterly unbelievable that it would make a funny prank. Of coruse, given the subject matter of the show it might be appropriate to announce that as a prank. I'd be devastated if I believed this and it was an April Fool's joke, because I would love to get my hands on a Freakazoid DVD. It would make a wonderful addition to the "Remnants of My Wasted Youth" section of my entertainment collection.
Any word on this?
The date is April 1st on that Press Release. But it's not so utterly unbelievable that it would make a funny prank. Of coruse, given the subject matter of the show it might be appropriate to announce that as a prank. I'd be devastated if I believed this and it was an April Fool's joke, because I would love to get my hands on a Freakazoid DVD. It would make a wonderful addition to the "Remnants of My Wasted Youth" section of my entertainment collection.
Any word on this?
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Three Things
Yesterday's goofing around made me realize three very important things:
1) It is fun to write a Milleresque narrative. It's all gritty and exaggerated and colorful and abusive to the English Language. Makes you feel powerful.
2) When I start to have fun and really put myself into writing, I get compared to Jack Kerouac and told I'm writing beat poetry. I must read some actual Kerouac and see what this means. Maybe I'm some sort of throwback to the Beat Generation. (What's weird is I think that's my father's generation -- Mama's a Boomer, but he's quite a bit older than her.)
3) That fucking cat came right out of a Frank Miller book. He whines, he scratches my carpet, he scratches my long-boxes, he scratches my shortboxes, he scratches my arms and waits while I walk to the bathroom and back until he gets a good chance to lunge at me and bite my thigh (he only does this when I'm not dressed yet, so that he gets the flesh and draws blood). He gets annoyed whenever I change anything in the apartment. He sits in my chair. He sleeps on my bed. He stinks up the place. He lies in my footpath. He's sleeping on top of my monitor right now, dangling his damned tail in front of the screen. He does everything he can to inconvenience me.
And when he's not inconveniencing me, he's sitting somewhere and staring at me, trying to intimidate me.
That furry bastard is out to get me.
If I disappear, you'll all know why.
1) It is fun to write a Milleresque narrative. It's all gritty and exaggerated and colorful and abusive to the English Language. Makes you feel powerful.
2) When I start to have fun and really put myself into writing, I get compared to Jack Kerouac and told I'm writing beat poetry. I must read some actual Kerouac and see what this means. Maybe I'm some sort of throwback to the Beat Generation. (What's weird is I think that's my father's generation -- Mama's a Boomer, but he's quite a bit older than her.)
3) That fucking cat came right out of a Frank Miller book. He whines, he scratches my carpet, he scratches my long-boxes, he scratches my shortboxes, he scratches my arms and waits while I walk to the bathroom and back until he gets a good chance to lunge at me and bite my thigh (he only does this when I'm not dressed yet, so that he gets the flesh and draws blood). He gets annoyed whenever I change anything in the apartment. He sits in my chair. He sleeps on my bed. He stinks up the place. He lies in my footpath. He's sleeping on top of my monitor right now, dangling his damned tail in front of the screen. He does everything he can to inconvenience me.
And when he's not inconveniencing me, he's sitting somewhere and staring at me, trying to intimidate me.
That furry bastard is out to get me.
If I disappear, you'll all know why.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Today, We Speak the Truth.
It rained last night.
A harsh rain. A violent rain. The wind was angry at the citizens of Oklahoma. Possibly over the ancient broken treaty. The Sooner state is cursed with blood and wind and rain and broken glass.
The Sirens went off, and I tried to ignore them. I've lived in Oklahoma. I don't fear death. I'd have walked out and met the Finger of God himself if not for the damned cat. Without me, there would be no one to feed the cat. It was possible the cat wouldn't surive if he didn't get some shelter. I hated that fucking cat. But he was the only companion I had in this damned state, and the only living resident of this rotten world who didn't mind spending time with me. So I holed up in the hallway closet with that stupid cat, a flashlight, and a box of books. I didn't look at the books until I was sitting there with that damned cat, or else I wouldn't have been caught dead with them.
It was the entire run of Sin City. The reprints from when that movie came out. That fucking misogynistic movie.
I'd only bought them because the guy in the comic book store with the indy-goatee and the straggly blonde hair recommended them I read every single one of them, and instead of shadowy light of noirish genius I found the stench of foul cigarettes and that cheap cologne your real grandfather wore when he scammed Grandma into bed by swearing on his then-breathing mother's grave that he was "shipping out tomorrow" and may die in the war. Then he left her with the stench of cheap cologne and a swelling in her stomach that you grew up calling "Mom."
It was nothing new. It was every old man's fantasy in cheap paperback black and white with artsy highlights. It was beautiful deadly young girls tearing their clothes off and throwing themselves at wrinkled old bastards who never showed them the slightest bit of respect. It was women love assholes compounded by women love power with women are sneaky whores thrown in to spice it up.
It was cliche. It was stereotyped. It was a case for gathering a band of merry lesbians and embarking on a cross-country crime spree where you stole from the bastards and gave to their broken-hearted ex-lovers and left a river of masculine blood in your wake as you stayed just a half-step across from a grizzled US Marshall with a tarnished gold star, pecs you can cut glass on and pants tight enough to tell if he dresses right to left from 50 yards away.
It was hot.
And not just because I'd left the air conditioner off.
And that's the secret of these stories. That's the reason for the stereotype. Young women want old men. Wild women are just waiting for a man strong enough to get her to shut up, smack her on the butt and send her into the kitchen. That's why "I'm shipping out" never fails to get you laid. In this world of marshmellowy creampuffs there are far too few Real Men, and it takes more than spitting at quiche to fit the bill, though that's a decent start. That's the deep, dark secret of why we rage at Frank Miller, because baby, he's telling the truth. We want Men, not mice. And if you creamy little bastards with the pimples and the faces so pasty white that they glow in the light of your monitor as you stuff cheetoes into your chipmunk cheeks in your mother's basements learn that that's what we are looking for, then you'll pretend to be a real man and fool some poor weak girl into offering up her uterus for your substandard sperm, thus spoiling the pool for our beloved daughters.
We need real rebels, not cowardly losers. We want men with light, not dimbulbs in the comic shop. That's why old bastards like Frank Miller turn young women on. We know they're tough.
So, in honor of the day, that's the secret of Feminism, boys. It's biological imperitive. It's weeding the weak out of the garden. It's truly only the strong survive in our world. Not just the assholes, but the real heroes. Honestly, if I could make each and every first date walk through fire to climb the gates at the local military base and outrun the MPs over a trail of broken glass, I would. Because that's the way to be sure he's worth the utter destruction of my body and the years of my life spent rearing his squawling brats.
Until then I'll have to settle for spewing my own personal font of rage and hatred at every male member of the species I meet, bedding the one who manages to survive and continuing to test him with the fire of my blood and my soul for the rest of his life, which should be considerably shortened by this treatment.
I do this because I care about the future of our species, and want only the very best genes for my child. As do all women.
A harsh rain. A violent rain. The wind was angry at the citizens of Oklahoma. Possibly over the ancient broken treaty. The Sooner state is cursed with blood and wind and rain and broken glass.
The Sirens went off, and I tried to ignore them. I've lived in Oklahoma. I don't fear death. I'd have walked out and met the Finger of God himself if not for the damned cat. Without me, there would be no one to feed the cat. It was possible the cat wouldn't surive if he didn't get some shelter. I hated that fucking cat. But he was the only companion I had in this damned state, and the only living resident of this rotten world who didn't mind spending time with me. So I holed up in the hallway closet with that stupid cat, a flashlight, and a box of books. I didn't look at the books until I was sitting there with that damned cat, or else I wouldn't have been caught dead with them.
It was the entire run of Sin City. The reprints from when that movie came out. That fucking misogynistic movie.
I'd only bought them because the guy in the comic book store with the indy-goatee and the straggly blonde hair recommended them I read every single one of them, and instead of shadowy light of noirish genius I found the stench of foul cigarettes and that cheap cologne your real grandfather wore when he scammed Grandma into bed by swearing on his then-breathing mother's grave that he was "shipping out tomorrow" and may die in the war. Then he left her with the stench of cheap cologne and a swelling in her stomach that you grew up calling "Mom."
It was nothing new. It was every old man's fantasy in cheap paperback black and white with artsy highlights. It was beautiful deadly young girls tearing their clothes off and throwing themselves at wrinkled old bastards who never showed them the slightest bit of respect. It was women love assholes compounded by women love power with women are sneaky whores thrown in to spice it up.
It was cliche. It was stereotyped. It was a case for gathering a band of merry lesbians and embarking on a cross-country crime spree where you stole from the bastards and gave to their broken-hearted ex-lovers and left a river of masculine blood in your wake as you stayed just a half-step across from a grizzled US Marshall with a tarnished gold star, pecs you can cut glass on and pants tight enough to tell if he dresses right to left from 50 yards away.
It was hot.
And not just because I'd left the air conditioner off.
And that's the secret of these stories. That's the reason for the stereotype. Young women want old men. Wild women are just waiting for a man strong enough to get her to shut up, smack her on the butt and send her into the kitchen. That's why "I'm shipping out" never fails to get you laid. In this world of marshmellowy creampuffs there are far too few Real Men, and it takes more than spitting at quiche to fit the bill, though that's a decent start. That's the deep, dark secret of why we rage at Frank Miller, because baby, he's telling the truth. We want Men, not mice. And if you creamy little bastards with the pimples and the faces so pasty white that they glow in the light of your monitor as you stuff cheetoes into your chipmunk cheeks in your mother's basements learn that that's what we are looking for, then you'll pretend to be a real man and fool some poor weak girl into offering up her uterus for your substandard sperm, thus spoiling the pool for our beloved daughters.
We need real rebels, not cowardly losers. We want men with light, not dimbulbs in the comic shop. That's why old bastards like Frank Miller turn young women on. We know they're tough.
So, in honor of the day, that's the secret of Feminism, boys. It's biological imperitive. It's weeding the weak out of the garden. It's truly only the strong survive in our world. Not just the assholes, but the real heroes. Honestly, if I could make each and every first date walk through fire to climb the gates at the local military base and outrun the MPs over a trail of broken glass, I would. Because that's the way to be sure he's worth the utter destruction of my body and the years of my life spent rearing his squawling brats.
Until then I'll have to settle for spewing my own personal font of rage and hatred at every male member of the species I meet, bedding the one who manages to survive and continuing to test him with the fire of my blood and my soul for the rest of his life, which should be considerably shortened by this treatment.
I do this because I care about the future of our species, and want only the very best genes for my child. As do all women.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
Quick personal update.
Life's in my way again.
My email and stuff is backed up right now, hopefully I can catch up on the weekend. Nothing bad happened, I just had something huge fall into my lap last month and I am still catching up. I've been too distracted to do much more Twitter some nights. Potential major life change (for the better, so I'll have none of your sappy sympathy comments dammit!), so I'm a bit behind on most of my obligations. Catching up, though.
My email and stuff is backed up right now, hopefully I can catch up on the weekend. Nothing bad happened, I just had something huge fall into my lap last month and I am still catching up. I've been too distracted to do much more Twitter some nights. Potential major life change (for the better, so I'll have none of your sappy sympathy comments dammit!), so I'm a bit behind on most of my obligations. Catching up, though.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Green Lantern #29
First off, I enjoyed it. I like to read an origin retelling every once in a while.
However, there were a few USAF fumbles. Not the least of which is that there is no way in hell he could steal a jet and go for a joyride. If a jet gets turned on, and it's not scheduled to fly, it's a hijacking. It's a pretty big fucking security violation. In order to do this, Hal would have to be a close enough friend to the ground maintainers, the air traffic controllers, the military police (and possibly a few more groups);to be able to convince them all to let him do this the morning after he decided to get discharged.
Yeah, good luck with that.
(And no, he hadn't pulled strings with a buddy in plans and scheduling because then he wouldn't have taken an unauthorized joyride, he'd have taken a normal scheduled flight.)
Not just that, I can fucking guarantee that if a pilot hijacked an experimental fighter jet and then punched his commanding officer in the face, he wouldn't be at his mother's hospital room without an armed escort. But I can ignore that one, since the writer wisely didn't let us know how much time had elapsed between the punch and the hospital scene.
Still, no fucking way on the "unauthorized joyride". You overplayed your hand there, Johns.
Otherwise, it was a fine issue. I'm especially fond of Jim Jordan. I hope that character stays in the supporting cast for a while.
However, there were a few USAF fumbles. Not the least of which is that there is no way in hell he could steal a jet and go for a joyride. If a jet gets turned on, and it's not scheduled to fly, it's a hijacking. It's a pretty big fucking security violation. In order to do this, Hal would have to be a close enough friend to the ground maintainers, the air traffic controllers, the military police (and possibly a few more groups);to be able to convince them all to let him do this the morning after he decided to get discharged.
Yeah, good luck with that.
(And no, he hadn't pulled strings with a buddy in plans and scheduling because then he wouldn't have taken an unauthorized joyride, he'd have taken a normal scheduled flight.)
Not just that, I can fucking guarantee that if a pilot hijacked an experimental fighter jet and then punched his commanding officer in the face, he wouldn't be at his mother's hospital room without an armed escort. But I can ignore that one, since the writer wisely didn't let us know how much time had elapsed between the punch and the hospital scene.
Still, no fucking way on the "unauthorized joyride". You overplayed your hand there, Johns.
Otherwise, it was a fine issue. I'm especially fond of Jim Jordan. I hope that character stays in the supporting cast for a while.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Realization
I worry too much about what you guys think of me.
Every time I read a post saying they're not reading me, or notice that someone has unsubscribed form my feed it bothers me. It bothers me more than dropped stats (stats being something I don't always check anymore anyway) because those are the regular readers who are sick of me.
After the latest "I'm no longer reading Ragnell because she's a big meanie" sentiment that flowed into my sphere of attention, I realized just why it bothers me so much when even someone I despise stops reading my blog.
Because I've seen blogs that are consistently good, but that aren't always linked. I've seen people with absurd opinions, who are nevertheless always entertaining to read. I've seen people I disagree with who are always thoughtful about their opinions, and who communicate clearly. And I can never see myself dropping those feeds over a personal disagreement, or because the opinion was one I thought was foolish or stupid. These blogs may be challenging on a mental level or just plain entertaining or written by a person with a particularly unusual viewpoint.
I've also seen those blogs that aren't very good, where the writing is terrible and the logic is muddled and the humor is questionable. I've seen blogs like that get linked everywhere because they said something that affirmed the opinions of the linkers, but offered nothing truly insightful or original. Either they've brought up something first, or have some sort of status (experience/social background/occupation/history/ROAARS category) that they can put behind the opinion for extra oomph. I've seen blogs that popular even though the blogger is not a talented writer, and it's usually because of that.
Now, that's not to say there's something wrong with being linked when a number of people agree with you, or because you have a special trait that lends weight to the argument. But that can't be all there is to your writing. At least, there can't be for me. I'm not doing a good job unless I'm writing something someone who disagrees with is still willing to read.
I don't want you to read me because I said something you agreed with before you started reading.
I want you to read me because I'm entertaining. Because even though you think I'm wrong you enjoy watching me be wrong.
I want you to read me because I'm insightful. Because I just blindsided you with a thought that never would have occurred to you on your own.
I want you to read me because I'm a fucking genius. Because my flawless reasoning brought you around to my way of thinking.
That's why I flake a ltitle when I see someone swear off my blog after a disagreement with me. Not because I feel guilty, not because I was particularly fond of that person, and not because I'm not 100% certain I was right.
It's because when someone stops reading me over a conflicting opinion, what they tell me is they only thought I was worth reading when I was confirming their existing ideas.
Which is telling me I'm not writing anything worth reading.
Which irks me.
I'll get over it. I have a naturally cantankerous disposition that combines with an inflated ego that leads me to eventually disregard the opinions of others in favor of my own. It just takes a bit to kick in. Plus, I enjoy being mean. No amount of social anxiety will take that away.
Every time I read a post saying they're not reading me, or notice that someone has unsubscribed form my feed it bothers me. It bothers me more than dropped stats (stats being something I don't always check anymore anyway) because those are the regular readers who are sick of me.
After the latest "I'm no longer reading Ragnell because she's a big meanie" sentiment that flowed into my sphere of attention, I realized just why it bothers me so much when even someone I despise stops reading my blog.
Because I've seen blogs that are consistently good, but that aren't always linked. I've seen people with absurd opinions, who are nevertheless always entertaining to read. I've seen people I disagree with who are always thoughtful about their opinions, and who communicate clearly. And I can never see myself dropping those feeds over a personal disagreement, or because the opinion was one I thought was foolish or stupid. These blogs may be challenging on a mental level or just plain entertaining or written by a person with a particularly unusual viewpoint.
I've also seen those blogs that aren't very good, where the writing is terrible and the logic is muddled and the humor is questionable. I've seen blogs like that get linked everywhere because they said something that affirmed the opinions of the linkers, but offered nothing truly insightful or original. Either they've brought up something first, or have some sort of status (experience/social background/occupation/history/ROAARS category) that they can put behind the opinion for extra oomph. I've seen blogs that popular even though the blogger is not a talented writer, and it's usually because of that.
Now, that's not to say there's something wrong with being linked when a number of people agree with you, or because you have a special trait that lends weight to the argument. But that can't be all there is to your writing. At least, there can't be for me. I'm not doing a good job unless I'm writing something someone who disagrees with is still willing to read.
I don't want you to read me because I said something you agreed with before you started reading.
I want you to read me because I'm entertaining. Because even though you think I'm wrong you enjoy watching me be wrong.
I want you to read me because I'm insightful. Because I just blindsided you with a thought that never would have occurred to you on your own.
I want you to read me because I'm a fucking genius. Because my flawless reasoning brought you around to my way of thinking.
That's why I flake a ltitle when I see someone swear off my blog after a disagreement with me. Not because I feel guilty, not because I was particularly fond of that person, and not because I'm not 100% certain I was right.
It's because when someone stops reading me over a conflicting opinion, what they tell me is they only thought I was worth reading when I was confirming their existing ideas.
Which is telling me I'm not writing anything worth reading.
Which irks me.
I'll get over it. I have a naturally cantankerous disposition that combines with an inflated ego that leads me to eventually disregard the opinions of others in favor of my own. It just takes a bit to kick in. Plus, I enjoy being mean. No amount of social anxiety will take that away.
Monday, March 24, 2008
American Gothic
I found the entire run of American Gothic on hulu.com. I remember that show form when I was a kid. I adored it. Lucas Buck was the perfect kind of villain, a total bastard who was smart, calculating, seemed like a great guy on the outside, had vague power over reality and lost only because he expected certain people to be more cowardly or meanspirited than they actually were. I never saw the entire season through, so I'm not sure if he was ever revealed to actually be the Devil, but there was a pretty good case for it in the episodes I remember.
I just spent a good part of the night the uploaded episodes. I made it to #8, which was the "Strong Arm of the Law. This is an episode I only ever saw once, but that I remember it more clearly than any other episode. Because it was awesome. . It showed that Sheriff Buck was even worse when he was the protagonist you had to root for than when he was the antagonist. Four would-be crimelords set up shop in town and start extorting money from the shopkeepers as part of a protection racket. They are clever enough to cover a murder, but otherwise they strike me as total fucking idiots. No sense of subtlety. They extort money for the "Sheriffs' Retirement Fund" and the "Policeman's Ball". They beat up an off-duty Deputy in the middle of the street just to show that they freaking can. When the Sheriff comes to confront them, they act like he can't do anything to them. The only reason they manage to get away with anything is because the townspeople assume they are working for the Sheriff, and the entire town is scared shitless of him. Buck spents the first part of the episode letting this crap go on, then starts to pick them off one by one. And he doesn't arrest them (he must have an aversion to paperwork), and he doesn't just kill them. He tortures them. The entire point of the episode seems to be demonstrating just why the entire town is scared shitless of Sheriff Buck.
As villains go, this guy may still be one of my favorites. I am so freaking happy this series was put on the internet
I just spent a good part of the night the uploaded episodes. I made it to #8, which was the "Strong Arm of the Law. This is an episode I only ever saw once, but that I remember it more clearly than any other episode. Because it was awesome. . It showed that Sheriff Buck was even worse when he was the protagonist you had to root for than when he was the antagonist. Four would-be crimelords set up shop in town and start extorting money from the shopkeepers as part of a protection racket. They are clever enough to cover a murder, but otherwise they strike me as total fucking idiots. No sense of subtlety. They extort money for the "Sheriffs' Retirement Fund" and the "Policeman's Ball". They beat up an off-duty Deputy in the middle of the street just to show that they freaking can. When the Sheriff comes to confront them, they act like he can't do anything to them. The only reason they manage to get away with anything is because the townspeople assume they are working for the Sheriff, and the entire town is scared shitless of him. Buck spents the first part of the episode letting this crap go on, then starts to pick them off one by one. And he doesn't arrest them (he must have an aversion to paperwork), and he doesn't just kill them. He tortures them. The entire point of the episode seems to be demonstrating just why the entire town is scared shitless of Sheriff Buck.
As villains go, this guy may still be one of my favorites. I am so freaking happy this series was put on the internet
Friday, March 21, 2008
Dammit, Kalinara
I was feeling open-minded and relaxed this week, so I let Kalinara talk me into watching a show she recommended. An old British show called Sapphire and Steel. And now I'm freaking addicted. I'll probably have to track down the radio recordings too.
Damn her!
(Steel is freaking awesome, though.)
Damn her!
(Steel is freaking awesome, though.)
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Okay, I'll be the one to say it.
I've been reading a lot of griping about Wonder Woman #18, so I thoguht I'd chime in with my opinion: I liked it.
Not only that, I like Tom Tresser. Sure, he's no Steve, but he's cute. And he can be awesome when used properly. He's clever, funny, and skilled. I liked him under Heinebrg, I like him under Simone. I don't like him when he's written by Piccoult, but I don't like anyone as written by Piccoult. Fortunately, Piccoult's not writing him anymore. Simone is. I'm going to pretend Piccoult's run didn't happen, just like I do for Diana.
Also, does nobody realize what Simone just did? Amazon customs. She is fleshing out Amazon society in a way that's not just rehashed Athens customs. The Amazons had their own city-state in Ancient Greece, which means they had their own festivals and traditions and stories. Simone may be the first writer since Perez to start tossing this in there.
Plus, Wonder Woman has decided to court him. That's cool as shit, and pro-active. Just like Diana should be in a romantic situation. It's not like where she had a little-girl crush on Superman, or was the unwitting object of Ed, Micah or Mike's affections. She's an active participant. She's not dainty flower waiting to be picked. She's pursuing a relationship with a guy she thinks is hot.
It's okay that she made a joke about bowling. I drag my dates to the comic book store, but we also do stuff they like. That's part of dating. You try different things together, see if you can deal with the other person's world.
I like the joke about American courtship rituals, because that proves this is not the lifeless, humorless Diana entering a stiff, awkward romance like in Eric Luke or Phil Jiminez's runs. She's relaxed and playful and comfortable. The piece of personality that Perez took away when he removed Steve Trevor is coming back. The maturity and sensuality of the Pre-Crisis Wonder Woman, modernized to shed the "hard to get" social norms of those bygone decades whil still keeping her playful charm, is slowly returning. The icy distance between Wonder Woman and mortals is disappearing. We're getting Diana back.
Now, I love Steve. I still think we need a way to bring him back as her love interest. But announcing that she's courting Tom doesn't mean she's going to marry this character. Means she's exploring a little. Means she's opening as a person. Sure, not all female characters need romantic interests. But celibacy would make no sense for a follower of Aphrodite, after all. Remember, the warmth and caring in her heart? Not a gift from Demeter or Hestia. That's from Aphrodite, a sex goddess. Diana's connecting with a piece of herself here, and if things work out she'll get to connect with a piece of Tom.
And of course Tom's not good enough for her. She's friggin' Wonder Woman. No man in comics is good enough for her (which is probably why they got rid of Steve to begin with). That's no reason she shouldn't shop around. That's no reason a natural part of her life should be closed off except for a once-every-two-or-three-years short story about sexual tension with Superman, Batman or Aquaman.
Even if the objection is that he's not good enough for her because he's not an A-lister, that's silly. It's good that the most powerful woman in comics isn't spending all her time trying to find a match in status and power. Superman is married to a mortal woman. Diana's being like her male counterparts, and going for a guy she enjoys being around.
I'm sure we'll still have lots of action in the series. Gail Simone is writing her. A little romance does not a sappy love story make. Diana flirting with a guy does not mean she's not a kickass warrior.
And again, I like Nemesis. I enjoyed Wonder Woman #18. I think Gail Simone did a good job. I look forward to the rest of this story. And I am not ashamed!
And I'm sure I'm not alone in this.
Not only that, I like Tom Tresser. Sure, he's no Steve, but he's cute. And he can be awesome when used properly. He's clever, funny, and skilled. I liked him under Heinebrg, I like him under Simone. I don't like him when he's written by Piccoult, but I don't like anyone as written by Piccoult. Fortunately, Piccoult's not writing him anymore. Simone is. I'm going to pretend Piccoult's run didn't happen, just like I do for Diana.
Also, does nobody realize what Simone just did? Amazon customs. She is fleshing out Amazon society in a way that's not just rehashed Athens customs. The Amazons had their own city-state in Ancient Greece, which means they had their own festivals and traditions and stories. Simone may be the first writer since Perez to start tossing this in there.
Plus, Wonder Woman has decided to court him. That's cool as shit, and pro-active. Just like Diana should be in a romantic situation. It's not like where she had a little-girl crush on Superman, or was the unwitting object of Ed, Micah or Mike's affections. She's an active participant. She's not dainty flower waiting to be picked. She's pursuing a relationship with a guy she thinks is hot.
It's okay that she made a joke about bowling. I drag my dates to the comic book store, but we also do stuff they like. That's part of dating. You try different things together, see if you can deal with the other person's world.
I like the joke about American courtship rituals, because that proves this is not the lifeless, humorless Diana entering a stiff, awkward romance like in Eric Luke or Phil Jiminez's runs. She's relaxed and playful and comfortable. The piece of personality that Perez took away when he removed Steve Trevor is coming back. The maturity and sensuality of the Pre-Crisis Wonder Woman, modernized to shed the "hard to get" social norms of those bygone decades whil still keeping her playful charm, is slowly returning. The icy distance between Wonder Woman and mortals is disappearing. We're getting Diana back.
Now, I love Steve. I still think we need a way to bring him back as her love interest. But announcing that she's courting Tom doesn't mean she's going to marry this character. Means she's exploring a little. Means she's opening as a person. Sure, not all female characters need romantic interests. But celibacy would make no sense for a follower of Aphrodite, after all. Remember, the warmth and caring in her heart? Not a gift from Demeter or Hestia. That's from Aphrodite, a sex goddess. Diana's connecting with a piece of herself here, and if things work out she'll get to connect with a piece of Tom.
And of course Tom's not good enough for her. She's friggin' Wonder Woman. No man in comics is good enough for her (which is probably why they got rid of Steve to begin with). That's no reason she shouldn't shop around. That's no reason a natural part of her life should be closed off except for a once-every-two-or-three-years short story about sexual tension with Superman, Batman or Aquaman.
Even if the objection is that he's not good enough for her because he's not an A-lister, that's silly. It's good that the most powerful woman in comics isn't spending all her time trying to find a match in status and power. Superman is married to a mortal woman. Diana's being like her male counterparts, and going for a guy she enjoys being around.
I'm sure we'll still have lots of action in the series. Gail Simone is writing her. A little romance does not a sappy love story make. Diana flirting with a guy does not mean she's not a kickass warrior.
And again, I like Nemesis. I enjoyed Wonder Woman #18. I think Gail Simone did a good job. I look forward to the rest of this story. And I am not ashamed!
And I'm sure I'm not alone in this.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Alzhiemer's Research Charity Drive
Terry Pratchett, recently diagnosed with Alzheimer's, has given half a million pounds (about one million dollars) to Alzhiemer's research foundations. There's a charity drive on challenging his fans to collectively match his donation.
Match it For Pratchett
Look, it's kind of hard for me to come up with words to push this. There's a lot worthwhile places to put a spare couple bucks. This one, though, is pretty important to me. My Great-Grandmother had Alzheimer's, and I got to see just how devastating this illness is at a very young age. And honestly, it scares me more than anything else that happens when you grow up. I had relatives with Diabetes, heart problems, cancer, arthritis and a host of illnesses. I had one grandmother who constantly advised me never to get old. But none of that, even the stuff keeping people in their bed constantly seemed to me to be as horrible as Alzheimer's. Her daughter, a woman who had spent a good deal of time traveling the world before her mother got ill, stayed with her to take care of her. We went over her house regularly. It was where all the family gatherings were. She didn't usually seem to recognize us. There was one Halloween when she had no candy, and we came there to trick or treat. So she went to give us some of those chalky Canadian mints she kept around. I was young, and we'd just had a long lecture on safe trick-or-treating, and I said I wasn't supposed to take something unwrapped. I'll never forget her posture, I hadn't realized I'd said something wrong but it was clear I had. She seemed to not have caught up with the conversation. We were talking more around her than to her. It was how it always was there, though, but this was the first time she seemed self-conscious about it to me. I still feel guilty about that.
And I remember when I got older and snuck upstairs in my Great-Grandmother's house I once found a room full of paintings. Pretty nature scenes, mostly, in those ornate golden wood frames. A few of them weren't finished. It turned out she'd painted not only them, but a picture that had been hanging in our living room as long as I could remember. I'd always been a kid who loved drawing and writing and making up stories, and I had trouble with the art so I was very impressed with her talent. That was the saddest thing of all, I think. Having had so much talent before. And now not recognizing her grandkids.
Alzheimer's is scarier than death. Consider a donation, or at least spreading the word.
Match it For Pratchett
Look, it's kind of hard for me to come up with words to push this. There's a lot worthwhile places to put a spare couple bucks. This one, though, is pretty important to me. My Great-Grandmother had Alzheimer's, and I got to see just how devastating this illness is at a very young age. And honestly, it scares me more than anything else that happens when you grow up. I had relatives with Diabetes, heart problems, cancer, arthritis and a host of illnesses. I had one grandmother who constantly advised me never to get old. But none of that, even the stuff keeping people in their bed constantly seemed to me to be as horrible as Alzheimer's. Her daughter, a woman who had spent a good deal of time traveling the world before her mother got ill, stayed with her to take care of her. We went over her house regularly. It was where all the family gatherings were. She didn't usually seem to recognize us. There was one Halloween when she had no candy, and we came there to trick or treat. So she went to give us some of those chalky Canadian mints she kept around. I was young, and we'd just had a long lecture on safe trick-or-treating, and I said I wasn't supposed to take something unwrapped. I'll never forget her posture, I hadn't realized I'd said something wrong but it was clear I had. She seemed to not have caught up with the conversation. We were talking more around her than to her. It was how it always was there, though, but this was the first time she seemed self-conscious about it to me. I still feel guilty about that.
And I remember when I got older and snuck upstairs in my Great-Grandmother's house I once found a room full of paintings. Pretty nature scenes, mostly, in those ornate golden wood frames. A few of them weren't finished. It turned out she'd painted not only them, but a picture that had been hanging in our living room as long as I could remember. I'd always been a kid who loved drawing and writing and making up stories, and I had trouble with the art so I was very impressed with her talent. That was the saddest thing of all, I think. Having had so much talent before. And now not recognizing her grandkids.
Alzheimer's is scarier than death. Consider a donation, or at least spreading the word.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Remnants of My Partially-Remembered Youth
There was a surprise at the comic book store when I went to get my copy of Green Lantern Corps. My local shop had four boxes of My Little Pony sets. This wasn't a complete surprise, given how much of this store is dedicated to Hello Kitty collectibles.
What was a surprise was that they were anniversary sets, remakes of 1984 Ponies.
I remember very few toys that were definitely mine growing up, and it's entirely possible that my favorites were hand-me-downs from my sister. But many of my cherished (thought cloudy) childhood memories are of me playing with a yellow winged pony. I cut her hair. I drew on her wings. I may have burned one of her legs. But she was my favorite toy for years.
And she was at the comic book store.
Yeah, I shelled out the money. I'd been having an exceptionally crummy day and just seeing these packs cheered me up.
I was so excited that rather than read my comics tonight (Yes, rather than read Green Lantern Corps and Wonder Woman), I instead sat down to fix the hair on each pony so that it would flop properly on the side of the head. (They pack it in the package so it will look windswept, but the tape and the little plastic piece make it end up very messy and vertical when it's time to play. You have to wet the hair and comb it in the proper style.)
Also, I've been reading word-books. Why did no one ever recommend The King in Yellow to me?
What was a surprise was that they were anniversary sets, remakes of 1984 Ponies.
I remember very few toys that were definitely mine growing up, and it's entirely possible that my favorites were hand-me-downs from my sister. But many of my cherished (thought cloudy) childhood memories are of me playing with a yellow winged pony. I cut her hair. I drew on her wings. I may have burned one of her legs. But she was my favorite toy for years.
And she was at the comic book store.
Yeah, I shelled out the money. I'd been having an exceptionally crummy day and just seeing these packs cheered me up.
I was so excited that rather than read my comics tonight (Yes, rather than read Green Lantern Corps and Wonder Woman), I instead sat down to fix the hair on each pony so that it would flop properly on the side of the head. (They pack it in the package so it will look windswept, but the tape and the little plastic piece make it end up very messy and vertical when it's time to play. You have to wet the hair and comb it in the proper style.)
Also, I've been reading word-books. Why did no one ever recommend The King in Yellow to me?
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
A Momentary Glimpse at my Magnificent Social Prowess
Yes, I am actually answering comments again! Or at least this one:
But I digress (habitually). One of my motives for starting the blog (along with venting so as not to spend another dinner describing to a blind date why the Yellow Weakness in Green Lantern was the Best Arbitrary Silver Age Weakness Ever -- I'm still waiting on him to call me back) was to get used to writing regularly, so that someday I could pursue a career as a writer (It was also one of my Super-Secret Super-Silly Reasons for Joining the Military because hey, seeing the world worked for Hemingway! -- Don't judge, I was seventeen, there was no way I was getting a decent college but I had to get out of my hometown that year or I was destined to end up as a little old spinster lady working for the historical society who was saving her pennies to finally take that trip to Niagara Falls so she could see another country for the first time in her memory! and it seemed to please my parents. After all, my father was laughing when he signed the age waiver. He had to have been happy) and gain fame and legendary status as one of the luminaries of my generation! (Plus being a writer is a great excuse to act weird.) Closed comments would be a way to get used to writing and just leaving it rather than continuing a conversation forever. (I imagine editing would help with the run-on sentences and choppy writing, but I'm not going to edit the shit out of blog posts. Too much work for a hobby.)
Thing is, I like my comments. I like the instant gratification of praise from consistent readers. I like to see what holes were in my argument, and see if someone can use it as a piggyback for another idea. I like watching a conversation that I started form. Most of all, I like seeing that someone read what I wrote.
That's part of why I get frustrated at times. The reaction is often not what I was hoping for, and I was indeed hoping for a reaction. Sometimes I steam over a misinterpretation or respond rudely or politely or steer the subject to a different place. I lose my temper when the content of a comment indicates that someone didn't read what I wrote and they just want to use my comment section for their soapbox. There's not a problem with using one post to point out something about your own pet peeves/issues/ideas, but when I want to use someone else's post as a jumping off point for my own rant, I come back here to do it. If something's spam or overly rude or from someone I completely despise, I roll my eyes and delete it. If something grates on my nerves, I write a post ranting about my commenters. If I feel playful, I can wade in there and fight. If I'm bored I can watch you guys fight.
To summarize: I read comments when I want to talk to people. I want the comments there for the times I do.
So why don't I moderate, then?
Well, because of the times I don't want to read my comments.
I get email notifications, but I have a nifty little filter that sends comments to a little file that I check when I feel up to reading comments. When I don't, I simply don't bother with the file until I do. If a thread has gotten out of hand, I'll often just ignore all comments marked with that thread title. The conversation continues, people enjoy themselves, and I can look through it at my leisure. If the conversation has gotten to a very stupid track or I'm tired of arguing that point or I'm just not interested in the topic anymore? I never have to read those comments, so I just let the thread die on it's own. Hell, sometimes I'm overworked at my dayjob so I don't check the comments for long periods of time so the file has gotten intimidatingly full, so I just start a new thread and continue on from there.
See, if I moderated, I would have to read all of those comments in order for any conversation to take place. I don't want to do that. I don't have the time. I don't have the energy. I don't have the interest. I don't have the patience. There are more enjoyable uses for my time. (Such as fighting with the commenters that I do read.)
Also, the control. A lot of people like moderation because they get control over what's said on their blogs. I don't care that much. I'm not your Mama. (I'm your MAMA DENTATA! *Ahem*) I'll tell you off if you offended me and I feel like telling you off, but I'm not going to be responsible for what's written by someone else. And I enjoy watching the conversation weave in unexpected ways. It's fun and exciting! That's not going to happen if every leg of the conversation is waiting for me to come home and release it every night. People'll lose interest. I'll lose interest.
To summarize: Moderating would force me to confront frustrations that I can avoid. Moderating would take more work. Moderating would take the joy that I get from my comments out of my comments.
To summarize the entire post so far: Blogging is a fun hobby. I enjoy comments sometimes. They sometimes piss me off, but turning off the comments would make blogging less fun. And moderating the comments would make blogging more work. More work would make blogging less fun. Complaining about the comments is simply more blogging, and so it allows me to get a small amount of fun and writing practice out of being pissed off.
I've been thinking about this entry for a while now, off and on, and I've been wondering...I have considered going to closed comments. I confess to a bit of jealousy about some of the nice, calm, commentless blogs out there. (Particularly when I do a Blog@Newsarama post.) It would be better for my, because when I read my comments I often have a compulsion to answer them or stew about them. Partially I want to be proven right, partially because I want the last word, but mostly because I enjoy seeing the conversation go on for a very long time at some points. I've been working on a "Let the commenters talk amongst themselves in the comment section and pipe in on a different post" policy for a number of reasons. It's less work and energy for me, it's less repeating myself and rephrasing myself which gets tedious, it takes the conversation in a more interesting direction when I can't predict either side, it's a way to get my opinion out there but not actually interact with people and the whole reason I'm on the Internet is because I'm a terribly unpleasant person trying to avoid interacting with people, and it prevents me from getting into arguments that escalate to the point that some dude deletes all his comments, and his blog, and proceeds to spend the next two years complaining about me and my friends in any comment section that seems even the slightest bit sympathetic to his situation.
Have you ever thought about disabling comments? I don't mean to imply that you can't handle criticism, or anything, but it honestly does seem that they provide you with more stress than entertainment. You've posted on more than one occasion about frustrating or irritating commenters, and there's even a little "warning" in the sidebar of your blog about it.
I mean this as friendly advice, and I hope it doesn't upset you. I'm just saying that you can get rid of them if you think it'll make you happier. Comments aren't mandatory. If you don't enjoy reading them, disable them. Nobody's going to think any less of you. (And if they do, you'll never know! :) )
But I digress (habitually). One of my motives for starting the blog (along with venting so as not to spend another dinner describing to a blind date why the Yellow Weakness in Green Lantern was the Best Arbitrary Silver Age Weakness Ever -- I'm still waiting on him to call me back) was to get used to writing regularly, so that someday I could pursue a career as a writer (It was also one of my Super-Secret Super-Silly Reasons for Joining the Military because hey, seeing the world worked for Hemingway! -- Don't judge, I was seventeen, there was no way I was getting a decent college but I had to get out of my hometown that year or I was destined to end up as a little old spinster lady working for the historical society who was saving her pennies to finally take that trip to Niagara Falls so she could see another country for the first time in her memory! and it seemed to please my parents. After all, my father was laughing when he signed the age waiver. He had to have been happy) and gain fame and legendary status as one of the luminaries of my generation! (Plus being a writer is a great excuse to act weird.) Closed comments would be a way to get used to writing and just leaving it rather than continuing a conversation forever. (I imagine editing would help with the run-on sentences and choppy writing, but I'm not going to edit the shit out of blog posts. Too much work for a hobby.)
Thing is, I like my comments. I like the instant gratification of praise from consistent readers. I like to see what holes were in my argument, and see if someone can use it as a piggyback for another idea. I like watching a conversation that I started form. Most of all, I like seeing that someone read what I wrote.
That's part of why I get frustrated at times. The reaction is often not what I was hoping for, and I was indeed hoping for a reaction. Sometimes I steam over a misinterpretation or respond rudely or politely or steer the subject to a different place. I lose my temper when the content of a comment indicates that someone didn't read what I wrote and they just want to use my comment section for their soapbox. There's not a problem with using one post to point out something about your own pet peeves/issues/ideas, but when I want to use someone else's post as a jumping off point for my own rant, I come back here to do it. If something's spam or overly rude or from someone I completely despise, I roll my eyes and delete it. If something grates on my nerves, I write a post ranting about my commenters. If I feel playful, I can wade in there and fight. If I'm bored I can watch you guys fight.
To summarize: I read comments when I want to talk to people. I want the comments there for the times I do.
So why don't I moderate, then?
Well, because of the times I don't want to read my comments.
I get email notifications, but I have a nifty little filter that sends comments to a little file that I check when I feel up to reading comments. When I don't, I simply don't bother with the file until I do. If a thread has gotten out of hand, I'll often just ignore all comments marked with that thread title. The conversation continues, people enjoy themselves, and I can look through it at my leisure. If the conversation has gotten to a very stupid track or I'm tired of arguing that point or I'm just not interested in the topic anymore? I never have to read those comments, so I just let the thread die on it's own. Hell, sometimes I'm overworked at my dayjob so I don't check the comments for long periods of time so the file has gotten intimidatingly full, so I just start a new thread and continue on from there.
See, if I moderated, I would have to read all of those comments in order for any conversation to take place. I don't want to do that. I don't have the time. I don't have the energy. I don't have the interest. I don't have the patience. There are more enjoyable uses for my time. (Such as fighting with the commenters that I do read.)
Also, the control. A lot of people like moderation because they get control over what's said on their blogs. I don't care that much. I'm not your Mama. (I'm your MAMA DENTATA! *Ahem*) I'll tell you off if you offended me and I feel like telling you off, but I'm not going to be responsible for what's written by someone else. And I enjoy watching the conversation weave in unexpected ways. It's fun and exciting! That's not going to happen if every leg of the conversation is waiting for me to come home and release it every night. People'll lose interest. I'll lose interest.
To summarize: Moderating would force me to confront frustrations that I can avoid. Moderating would take more work. Moderating would take the joy that I get from my comments out of my comments.
To summarize the entire post so far: Blogging is a fun hobby. I enjoy comments sometimes. They sometimes piss me off, but turning off the comments would make blogging less fun. And moderating the comments would make blogging more work. More work would make blogging less fun. Complaining about the comments is simply more blogging, and so it allows me to get a small amount of fun and writing practice out of being pissed off.
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