Honestly, I've never read Watchmen or Swamp Thing. I bloody well own V for Vendetta but have yet to peruse it. I have never finished From Hell, and have read no further than the very first volume of League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. I've only read a few volumes of Hellblazer, and anyway, none of those were written by Alan Moore. But the man had a lot of influence on Neil Gaiman, and I've read pretty much everything of his that I could get my hands on, and there are very few people in the world I respect more. So traces of the blatant hero-worship I have of Gaiman are transferred to Mr. Moore, which is why, when I stumbled across this YouTube video, I actually watched it.
"Alan Moore is a writer and magician from Northampton. He's a stranger to hairdressers and worships his very own gods in his very own way, blurring the lines between religious belief, magic, and the power of the creative imagination. If you film him from strange angles, you can make him look very sinister."
Stewart Lee cannot help but make a potshot at our president, but then, Lee is English and Bush is eminently mockable. Unfortunately this clip cuts short just as Lee begins to address some serious concerns about religion in government and schools today.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Work miracles and play forever
Fictionlag ['fIk ʃən læg] noun : a condition that is characterized by various psychological and physiological effects, occurs following long periods of exposure to and concentrated involvement in various fictitious media.
For example, upon reviewing my dietary habits (Easy Mac, a spoonful of Nutella, and No-Doz), it occurred to me that an acceptable alternative would be to download myself into foglets. I was then reminded that this procedure exists only in the postcyberpunk world of Warren Ellis, and was disappointed.
For example, upon reviewing my dietary habits (Easy Mac, a spoonful of Nutella, and No-Doz), it occurred to me that an acceptable alternative would be to download myself into foglets. I was then reminded that this procedure exists only in the postcyberpunk world of Warren Ellis, and was disappointed.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Back on the street
I went out to get fresh blood today because I didn't trust the old stuff. On my way back home, I swung by the library to more thoroughly search the shelves for volume 1 of Transmetropolitan, a quest that met with no success. The computer catalog claimed that it had been checked in since September, but there was a conspicuous empty space where it should have been in physicality, a hiccup in the Dewey Decimal stream.
Unruffled, I went to the comic book store down the street; every volume of the series was on the shelf. Well, every volume but one--the first one, the one I needed. How suspicious, thought I, but chalked it up to unhappy circumstance and went instead to Prairie Lights, where I was stunned to discover that there was not a single volume of Transmetropolitan to be found. And then I knew that I had stumbled upon a city-wide conspiracy so sinister, so diabolical that it could confound the senses and render a casual observer incapable of perceiving the threat. Unheimlich.
Walking along the backways, I passed a house with an honest-to-gods tower: round, and capped with a three-foot spire. I knew instantly that the house's inhabitants were somehow connected. No one has roofs that pointy unless they are involved with some seriously shady dealings.
Just before I crossed the final street, I noticed something that had been on that corner for years but which I had never remarked upon: a standard blue government-issued mail dropbox. Commonplace enough, but not so mundane considering that just across the street is another dropbox. Why would there need to be two so close to one another? Clearly, one of them was suspect. But who could be responsible? Surely not W.A.S.T.E., though it would be clever for them to disguise their operations in the colors of their sworn enemy. The government itself made for an easy scapegoat; after all, the United States Postal Service had been putting me through the wringer all semester, withholding my mail, testing my nerve, pushing me to the edge with their deliberately discombobulating decrees and guidelines. I had been weighed and measured and, to all appearances, released from my ordeals. And I've seen my father, longtime employee of the USPS, transcribing data in his journals. Keeping tabs.
Well, you can scribble all the psychoanalytical notes you want. Even as you monitor me, I am observing you. And I, a contentious product of these postmodern postliterate postselfretentive posting-obsessed times, can blog with the best of them.
Unruffled, I went to the comic book store down the street; every volume of the series was on the shelf. Well, every volume but one--the first one, the one I needed. How suspicious, thought I, but chalked it up to unhappy circumstance and went instead to Prairie Lights, where I was stunned to discover that there was not a single volume of Transmetropolitan to be found. And then I knew that I had stumbled upon a city-wide conspiracy so sinister, so diabolical that it could confound the senses and render a casual observer incapable of perceiving the threat. Unheimlich.
Walking along the backways, I passed a house with an honest-to-gods tower: round, and capped with a three-foot spire. I knew instantly that the house's inhabitants were somehow connected. No one has roofs that pointy unless they are involved with some seriously shady dealings.
Just before I crossed the final street, I noticed something that had been on that corner for years but which I had never remarked upon: a standard blue government-issued mail dropbox. Commonplace enough, but not so mundane considering that just across the street is another dropbox. Why would there need to be two so close to one another? Clearly, one of them was suspect. But who could be responsible? Surely not W.A.S.T.E., though it would be clever for them to disguise their operations in the colors of their sworn enemy. The government itself made for an easy scapegoat; after all, the United States Postal Service had been putting me through the wringer all semester, withholding my mail, testing my nerve, pushing me to the edge with their deliberately discombobulating decrees and guidelines. I had been weighed and measured and, to all appearances, released from my ordeals. And I've seen my father, longtime employee of the USPS, transcribing data in his journals. Keeping tabs.
Well, you can scribble all the psychoanalytical notes you want. Even as you monitor me, I am observing you. And I, a contentious product of these postmodern postliterate postselfretentive posting-obsessed times, can blog with the best of them.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Unhappy fishy :(
I finally changed my betta's water, and now he's sulking at the bottom of his bowl. C'mon, Cervantes, embrace life! Rebuild your bubble nests anew!
The last time she phoned, my mum sounded surprised to hear that Cervantes was still alive after spending a week in my care. I don't blame her; I once owned a wee cactus plant that withered up from dehydration. D:
Really, I don't know why I keep selfishly surrounding myself with tiny creatures whose survival is dependent on me when I so clearly possess the Hand of Death.
ETA: And now he's bashing his head against the inside of the bowl in an apparent attempt to commit suicide by brainbursty asdfk;klj?!
The last time she phoned, my mum sounded surprised to hear that Cervantes was still alive after spending a week in my care. I don't blame her; I once owned a wee cactus plant that withered up from dehydration. D:
Really, I don't know why I keep selfishly surrounding myself with tiny creatures whose survival is dependent on me when I so clearly possess the Hand of Death.
ETA: And now he's bashing his head against the inside of the bowl in an apparent attempt to commit suicide by brainbursty asdfk;klj?!
Ink
My parents don't understand body modification. And while I realize that this statement smacks of melodramatic teenage prose ("SIGH nobody understands me, I'm all alone in this colddarkworld, my parental units were young when the Earth's crust cooled and couldn't possibly get me"), I stand by it. What makes the generational gap a little more difficult to navigate is that besides being parents, they're Koreans, and Confucianism still runs rampant back in the mother country (other than preaching blatant misogyny, our boy Confucius declaimed body modification [piercing, tattoos, cutting one's hair] as an insult to one's ancestors). Ironically, or perhaps a little hypocritically, both of my parents have gotten cosmetic surgery/tattoos; in my mother's case, both. And as I may be disowned if I reveal any more deepdarkfamilysecrets, I'll leave it at that.
The notion that tattoos are solely the domain of prison inmates, gangsters, and generally unpleasant folks (oh, and those affiliated with some military organization) is still strong in "first world" countries, but society is changing. Our generation in particular is providing the impetus for that change. More and more teenagers and twenty-somethings are getting ink as tributes to dead loved ones, as testaments of love for living family and friends, or simply for the aesthetic appeal. We simply have a different idea of aesthetics, not unusual in a species whose idea of aesthetics is subject to change on a generational basis. It is not so uncommon to see white-collared employees with body modifications--my AP English teacher proudly displayed her ankle tat, though my college anthro instructor and English professor try to keep theirs tucked away. Tech support folks are veritably clothed in all manner of geeky ink, and librarians sport literary quotes or Dewey decimal numbers on their skin. Some public relations or customer service workers are even encouraged not to hide their body mods--for them, looking like the people they help is an asset. I would not be the least bit surprised if one day the norm is to have tattoos, multiple piercings, and cybernetic limbs. Okay, so that last one is just wishful thinking. I write specfic, it's allowed.
Anyway, I got another tattoo, and it's awesome.
Mom: Bwaah I didn't even tell your father yet about your first one!
Me: I told him!
Mom: When?
Me: This summer! Before I went to school.
Mom: What? He never mentioned anything to me!
I just think it's cute that each of my parents were apparently trying to cover my ass. XD
And then my mum insisted that she would be driven clinically insane if I got another tattoo (though she would retain enough of her mental faculties to cut off my college funding) and made me swear blind that I wouldn't get anything else done until I turned 25 at the earliest. My original bid was for when I graduate from UIowa in a year and a half, and hers was the age of 30, she insisting that the older I am the more certain I'd be that I wouldn't regret a permanent addition to my body, I maintaining that at 30 I may as well start having my mail forwarded to Death's doorstep.
People say that when you're young, you think you're invincible. Why then do I see memento mori reflected in every surface, waiting to wing me to my untimely yet somehow ironically implemented demise? Too many horror novels/comics/movies, I don't doubt.
The notion that tattoos are solely the domain of prison inmates, gangsters, and generally unpleasant folks (oh, and those affiliated with some military organization) is still strong in "first world" countries, but society is changing. Our generation in particular is providing the impetus for that change. More and more teenagers and twenty-somethings are getting ink as tributes to dead loved ones, as testaments of love for living family and friends, or simply for the aesthetic appeal. We simply have a different idea of aesthetics, not unusual in a species whose idea of aesthetics is subject to change on a generational basis. It is not so uncommon to see white-collared employees with body modifications--my AP English teacher proudly displayed her ankle tat, though my college anthro instructor and English professor try to keep theirs tucked away. Tech support folks are veritably clothed in all manner of geeky ink, and librarians sport literary quotes or Dewey decimal numbers on their skin. Some public relations or customer service workers are even encouraged not to hide their body mods--for them, looking like the people they help is an asset. I would not be the least bit surprised if one day the norm is to have tattoos, multiple piercings, and cybernetic limbs. Okay, so that last one is just wishful thinking. I write specfic, it's allowed.
Anyway, I got another tattoo, and it's awesome.
Mom: Bwaah I didn't even tell your father yet about your first one!
Me: I told him!
Mom: When?
Me: This summer! Before I went to school.
Mom: What? He never mentioned anything to me!
I just think it's cute that each of my parents were apparently trying to cover my ass. XD
And then my mum insisted that she would be driven clinically insane if I got another tattoo (though she would retain enough of her mental faculties to cut off my college funding) and made me swear blind that I wouldn't get anything else done until I turned 25 at the earliest. My original bid was for when I graduate from UIowa in a year and a half, and hers was the age of 30, she insisting that the older I am the more certain I'd be that I wouldn't regret a permanent addition to my body, I maintaining that at 30 I may as well start having my mail forwarded to Death's doorstep.
People say that when you're young, you think you're invincible. Why then do I see memento mori reflected in every surface, waiting to wing me to my untimely yet somehow ironically implemented demise? Too many horror novels/comics/movies, I don't doubt.
Monday, October 15, 2007
This is the face of true horror.
I often have nightmares. I dream of wars, assassination attempts, werewolf infestations, past-life possessions. Blood, fatalities, screaming confusion, and dismemberment abounds in my slumbering noggin.
Last night I dreamt that I'd gone to one psychology lecture and had forgotten entirely that I was registered for that class until I received a midterm notification.
Most. Horrifying. Dream. Evar.
Last night I dreamt that I'd gone to one psychology lecture and had forgotten entirely that I was registered for that class until I received a midterm notification.
Most. Horrifying. Dream. Evar.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
bogeys
So maybe you have that little voice in the back of your head that tries to help you be a good human and be happy and learn things you need to know to be a fulfilled soul. Maybe you have more than one, and maybe they're not just voices but have manifested in forms both familiar and comforting to you. (Some people call these not-just-voices spirit guides or guardian angels or totems or fylgja or daemons.) Maybe they're shaped like a red fox and a black panther and this isn't as general and impersonal as a certain blogger might like you to believe. Anyway.
So let's say that there are times when you are a bit jumpy, scared of nameless shapeless potential dangers that could just be your overactive imagination conjuring monsters out of nothing, and you call on these beings to help you out and they say things like "Don't be afraid" and "There's nothing there" and "You really should stop watching horror flicks after dark." But then let's say that another such occasion has arisen and instead of making mildly scornful comfort-noises, they say, "Try not to attract it's attention" and "Don't run, just calmly walk away."
I think you'd be scared to go back, too. :P
So let's say that there are times when you are a bit jumpy, scared of nameless shapeless potential dangers that could just be your overactive imagination conjuring monsters out of nothing, and you call on these beings to help you out and they say things like "Don't be afraid" and "There's nothing there" and "You really should stop watching horror flicks after dark." But then let's say that another such occasion has arisen and instead of making mildly scornful comfort-noises, they say, "Try not to attract it's attention" and "Don't run, just calmly walk away."
I think you'd be scared to go back, too. :P
Friday, October 12, 2007
Another day, another blog
The other day I was feeling desperately unhappy with breakfast, and it reminded me of another miserable morning meal that was saved by a boy with owleye glasses and an apron. The apron was because he worked at the Burge dining hall and was behind the breakfast bar that fateful morning when I staggered into the dining hall, stressed out and haggard.
It was my first semester at college and midterms were afoot. I was not having a good day and I'd only been awake for a couple hours, which did not bode well. I thought, The one and only bright spot in my immediate future, the single thing that will salvage this day is the fact that I am about to partake in tasty biscuits-'n'-gravy. There were two left in the bin, one for the guy in front of me if he so chose, and one for me, right? But no! No, the evil overlord bent on wreaking chaos and despair who had disguised himself as a college student took BOTH BISCUITS. I reeled. My world was shattered.
You know that moment that housewives who have hacked their husbands to itty bitty pieces and taken an electric eggbeater to their juicy innards describe as "the breaking point"? I think I hit mine. I stared blankly at the empty biscuit bin, unable to respond. My right eye twitched. Then I saw that owleyed boy come around the corner carrying a steaming bin of... of...!
Tri-taters. Bitter disappointment.
But that blessed university employee took one look at my expression and hastily set the tri-taters aside on the nearest available surface with an utterance of "I'll be right back." Then he ran to fetch a fresh bin of biscuits, thus saving my day as well as that of everyone within a 50-foot radius who I may well have beaten to death in a blind and senseless fury with my breakfast tray.
I took my biscuit and gravy and poured myself some chocolate milk and joyfully attacked my plate for six minutes before rushing off to take my midterm, which I didn't fail. The end.
Some people might tell me that such anecdotes have no place in a blog intended for spiritual ramblings but to them I say that our lord Jesus was in that boy with the owleyed glasses, and it was by His grace that my biscuity salvation drew so hastily nigh, hallelujah!
Sometimes I get really angry or sad at the human species and think there is no saving us, but then I remember that there are people like the Biscuit Boy and I think, maybe we're not so bad, after all.
It was my first semester at college and midterms were afoot. I was not having a good day and I'd only been awake for a couple hours, which did not bode well. I thought, The one and only bright spot in my immediate future, the single thing that will salvage this day is the fact that I am about to partake in tasty biscuits-'n'-gravy. There were two left in the bin, one for the guy in front of me if he so chose, and one for me, right? But no! No, the evil overlord bent on wreaking chaos and despair who had disguised himself as a college student took BOTH BISCUITS. I reeled. My world was shattered.
You know that moment that housewives who have hacked their husbands to itty bitty pieces and taken an electric eggbeater to their juicy innards describe as "the breaking point"? I think I hit mine. I stared blankly at the empty biscuit bin, unable to respond. My right eye twitched. Then I saw that owleyed boy come around the corner carrying a steaming bin of... of...!
Tri-taters. Bitter disappointment.
But that blessed university employee took one look at my expression and hastily set the tri-taters aside on the nearest available surface with an utterance of "I'll be right back." Then he ran to fetch a fresh bin of biscuits, thus saving my day as well as that of everyone within a 50-foot radius who I may well have beaten to death in a blind and senseless fury with my breakfast tray.
I took my biscuit and gravy and poured myself some chocolate milk and joyfully attacked my plate for six minutes before rushing off to take my midterm, which I didn't fail. The end.
Some people might tell me that such anecdotes have no place in a blog intended for spiritual ramblings but to them I say that our lord Jesus was in that boy with the owleyed glasses, and it was by His grace that my biscuity salvation drew so hastily nigh, hallelujah!
Sometimes I get really angry or sad at the human species and think there is no saving us, but then I remember that there are people like the Biscuit Boy and I think, maybe we're not so bad, after all.
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