Not exactly Separated at Birth

(With apologies to Bully)

I'll admit right off that with me and Kalinara, this is the opposite of that Star Sapphire Green Lantern cover. I giggled and rolled my eyes at this one and she found it distasteful.

But as a Private Benjamin reference?

The iconic Goldie Hawn image:



Ms. Marvel #29:



Just to drive that home, Goldie Hawn again:




If that's an homage, it's a piss-poor one.

It'd be a funny homage, were it for the cover of say Benjamin's Privates or some similarly themed pornographic take on the movie, but a superhero book?

You know, I never thought that I could respect Greg Horn less as an artist, but the thought that he was intentionally referencing Private Benjamin rather than Army@Love or an actual porn movie... Well, that just digs a new cellar under the Hall of Artistic Shame.

I'm so disgusted I'm impressed, actually.

But I'm sorry, it can't be what he was thinking. I'm almost certain it's a reference to an Army@Love cover, but I can't find it. I've seen that pose before in the annuls of military-themed pornographic images. It's not a Horn original idea. It's not a reference to that movie, either.

Very kind.

The first commenter demonstrates the point of the post.

Tales from the Chatroom

Kalinara... on civics:

You ever notice...There are 9 members of the Supreme Court. And 9 Nazgul?

Mike Choi

On dealing with criticism:

But in public,

1. Do not dismiss the criticism. At least show an attempt to at least see where they might be coming from.
2. Do not become combative or antagonistic. Sarcasm counts.
3. Do not use past works to justify the current work.
4. Do not just say that you're doing your best. Everyone is doing their best.

If you do any of these, prepare for a shitstorm, especially if you do any of these on a message board where you're trying to defend your shit.

Actually if you ARE on a message board trying to defend your shit,

5. Get the fuck out.

Public Service Announcement: The Last Word

(Update at bottom)

Most blogs have a feature that allows people to know when someone has commented on their post.  They can do this by mail, or by a comment feed, or a little message center in the dashboard.

Most people who blog are aware of this, but there's a number of commenters who seem to think that they can pick a 6-month old post and get the last word in on the discussion because the actual conversation part is dead.  Why do think people are doing this to get the last word in and not be noticed by the smart bloggers and commenters?
 
Because the dumbest fucking comments are made when the thread has been dead for 6 months or more.

Rarely do I ever get anything positive or intelligent when the post has been dead that long.  I'm not sure why anyone bothers doing so, maybe they link it to their friends and show how they "pwned" the original poster, maybe its so that future web nomads will leave the discussion with the impression that no one could argue against the last commenter's "brilliant" point.  Whatever the motive, it doesn't work and it looks rather stupid.

It reminds me of this guy.



Now, this guy is Internet-Famous for standing behind a bunch of people with a sign and making them look foolish.  The first time I saw it, a colleague at work had emailed it out with the words "The guy in the back is my hero."

I admit to chuckling when I first saw it.  It's amusing as it is.

Thing is, he's standing behind all of the women in the photo.  I'd hardly describe that as a feat of courage.  Judging from what I know about human beings, he probably hid the sign whenever any of the women turned around.  Not exactly a hero.

Granted, the thought of him shitting his pants, running for the hills, or being duct-taped to a pine tree once that group of protesters noticed him is pretty funny.  But it makes the overall stunt more an anecdote of amateur clownishness than the brave act of counter-culture rebellion I suspect the gentlemen was going for.  And certainly not the heroic moment of comedy its held up as.

I supposed my point is that's there's something especially disgusting in cowardice.  I mean, it's one thing to be an unrepentant asshole and get surrounded with hatred and banned from message boards and blogs and such for your rudeness and it's one thing to merely be stupid and outmatched in every argument you set foot in.

But to be stupid and/or rude and know you'll be hatred, banned, or outmatched and then go out of your way to avoid it but still look like a badass little rebel who gets the last word?  That's pretty low, even for a fucking troll.





I suppose what I'm saying, to translate to the language of misogynistic assholes, is "Good god, grow a pair".



Update: Look what I got in the mail today, as if the universe wished to remind me of this post and prove my point.



I'm giving you a screencap of the email rather than just linking the comment because the comments don't have dates. And the date to this comment is so very important to me.



These two comments were left two years, one month, and five days after this post was originally posted. It's like the universe is validating my opinions.

This guy might actually be a very brilliant comedian who was hoping there'd be a date stamp on the comment. If not, well, he's like a birthday present. A really late birthday present. I mean, I'm still not impressed with his idiot friend, or likely to click on his idiot link, but this may be the best comment I've ever gotten. Thank you, Bob.

For the record, there's some sort of radio recording supporting his story. So he's a truthful, late, probably cowardly (or just obsessive or stupid), asshole troll. I really don't care, though, because this is an old post and he started out with calling me names. Now, to be fair, I called the guy with the sign an asshole but the man is demonstrably an asshole and it doesn't matter that he's not as big a coward as I thought or he's a paid plant or what-have-you. I can upgrade him to the level of timely asshole troll willing to get into an argument for attention, which isn't exactly a brave, intelligent, or respectable person. So I fail to see how this is defending him exactly. Bob is being abusive on a two-year old post. So I'll be publishing the abusive comment, but not the followup comment with the link because I am a bitch.

The Further AIM Adventures of Ragnell and Kalinara... in INNER SPAAAACE!!

Ragnell: It's vitally important that we wear the GL costumes on the day I finally snap.
Ragnell: So I can introduce myself to the gathering crowd as Hayley Jordan and point to you as my associate Gal Gardner.
Kalinara: I'll look appropriately menacing.

(I know one of you is typing a comment asking what led to this part of the conversation. Stop it. You really don't want to know this one.)

Feminist SF/F Carnival 21 1/2

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.)

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.

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?

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.

That Furry Bastard.

So much for tonight's plans.

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.

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?

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.

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.

The hell--?

How can anyone hate Barbies?

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.

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.

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.

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