I went and saw Cloverfield this afternoon with some buddies.

You know, it’s gotten some bad reviews, but I really enjoyed it. It’s not gonna go down in history as a piece of deathless film making, but it was a surprisingly good execution of the concept, namely “Monster movie from the point of view of one of the tiny screaming people fleeing under Godzilla’s feet.”

I liked it much better than Blair Witch, where the characters were so stupid they deserved whatever happened to them, you just wished it would happen faster. This one worked because the characters weren’t reprehensible, and while they were occasionally panicky and dumb, it was the comprehensible dumb of “something I’d do, against my better judgment” rather than epic dumb.

The central plot of course hinged on “going back for the cat”* which is also sort of dumb, but again, understandable and heroic dumb. I might do that. (Mind you, at the moment, I don’t have anybody I’d go back FOR–maybe Carlota, but she’s a sufficiently competent sort that I would expect her to A) get out just fine on her own, or more likely B) as we cowered in the middle of the street with a gigantic monster bending over us, there would be a sudden pause, and the monster would say “…Carlota? Is that you?” and she would look up and go “Xplog!rk’!n’rg? Wow! How long has it been?!?” and there would be hugs all around.)

The only Actively Oh My God The Stupid thing in the movie for me was when they left a perfectly good crowbar behind. Every adventure gamer knows that if you find a crowbar in the midst of the apocalypse, it is a gift from the gods, and you damn well take it with you.

Still, I enjoyed it, despite the depressing ending. (I was actually far more bummed by the death of the cameraman than of the protagonist couple. The camera guy was sort of a lovable doofus.)

Part of the reason I may have liked it is because while I’m fine with a monster movie, the minute they whip out the pseudo-science to explain exactly WHY it’s ten stories tall, I start gagging. My suspension of disbelief will happily allow for a thirty story monster, but chokes on the bad explanations. As no one had an explanation that I had to immediately find the flaws in, I was happy to go along for the ride.

I say go see it if you’re capable of enjoying a monster movie without a lot of eye-rolling. *grin*

*And if you haven’t seen Alien yet, god help us all.

Waaaay Too Much Information Re-Re-Redux

I was taking a hot bath a few days ago, and in a fit of madness (God, I HAVE to start making sure I have better reading material in the bathroom…) I denuded more or less everything between neck and knee. (Surprisingly easy to do, I must say, I had all these terrors of wielding a razor in those areas, but it was really rather simple.) I’ve been shaving rather more aggressively in that vein for awhile, as past entries have shown, but this time I decided to take it all off.

One of the NICE things about being single, zits and centipedes and cooking aside, is that you can do any damn thing you want to yourself in the grooming department without embarrassment. A good time for experimentation in that regard!

Look, it was for science, okay?*

“Huh,” I said, studying the results in the mirror. “I look like a prepubescent girl.”

This evening, as I got out of the shower, I looked again in the mirror and said “Great. I look like a prepubescent girl with five o’clock shadow.”

Hmm. End analysis…probably not worth it to shave. Might be worth it to get the full Brazilian wax, but the stubble is too coarse and the skin too sensitive for shaving to be a long-term solution, plus it’s just not terribly attractive…while I imagine many men are pleased by the lack of obscuring fuzz, I am so incredibly pale, particularly in that region, that I get the five o’clock shadow look almost immediately, and the slightest irritation or ingrown hair stands out like red neon, which I’m guessing would entirely negate the attractiveness of removal of said fuzz.

Mind you, texture-wise it’s kinda nifty, the skin is certainly hyper-sensitive, and I’ve heard it’s awfully convenient at certain times of month on the hygiene front, but I dunno. I don’t feel strongly enough about it to find it worth the trouble.

 Will allow landing strip to grow out, and see how that degree of topiary compares to the other two extremes of “Screw it,” and “Slash and Burn.”

*I will do virtually anything in the name of science. This worries me occasionally.

My Villainess order arrived!

I haven’t tried most of it yet, but the Smashing “Whipped” body creme makes me smell like pumpkin pie. As pumpkin pie was shown in a study some years ago to be one of the odors that notably increases arousal in men* I’ve got no problems with this. (Yes, I am willing to use science for my own nefarious ends. Otherwise what good is it?)

Plus, I mean…pumpkin pie! Dude! It’s yummy! I keep getting random whiffs and getting hungry. I keep sniffing myself. This probably looked weird while I was driving, but feh, a woman’s car is her castle, damnit.

Can’t wait to try the other stuff…


*Look, a bibliography and everything!
 

Well, the cats have definite achieved a sleeping truce. Last night they both snuggled down, one on each side of my right thigh, and proceeded to trap me in place and attain the density of lead. (They both do this by different means. Angus starts at the knees and then stretches out to full length on his back. Ben starts with his chin on my hip and then curls around into butt-warmer mode.)

This was all fine and snuggly until I had to get up to go to the bathroom. I carefully extracted myself, by virtue of putting one foot on the floor and dragging the trapped limb out sideways. Neither one of them moved.

The problem was that when I came back, in order to get back into bed, I had to stick my leg back into the gap between cats. As this gap had only ever been the size of my leg, and was now notably smaller, owing to the tendency of cats to flow*, it was rather like trying to thread a needle with a salami.

Ben made a vague grumpy sound. Angus snored.

I eventually managed to get back into position, thinking vague, five-in-the-morning thoughts about how bizarre it was that a savannah ape was bedding down with a pair of pint-sized predators, and wondering exactly which one of us had been domesticated anyhow, sagged into the mattress, and thought “…my feet are hot.”

It is possible to take a sock off merely by rubbing your foot vigorously against the mattress. Ben woke up enough to gaze vaguely at this spectacle, possibly wondering if a ninja had infiltrated the blankets, but decided that a ninja would not make such a spectacle of itself.** Angus snored a bit more.

I may yet die of cricks in various parts of my anatomy, but at least I’ll die warm.

*Cats, as we all know, are not a solid but a liquid with high surface tension.

**Unless it was rabid. There are few things more pitiable and terrifying than a rabid ninja.

Walked over to the office to get a package, and was just in time to see the local kingfisher take a fish out of the pond, one quick sleek dive, practically under the nose of the great blue heron hunched along the shoreline.

I was not close enough to hear the heron mutter “Show-off,” but sometimes you can just tell.

Okay…I should not have followed the links from Making Light to garbage houses and hoarding behavior over breakfast.

Not because it turns my stomach, I hasten to add–I came out of “Sweeney Todd” with a vague craving for meat pie–but because I had stuff I wanted to get done today, and instead I compulsively cleaned the house, just on the off chance that I was a single misstep from recreating the Collyer house in one bedroom.

This is, of course, patently absurd. About the worst that can be said about my apartment is that my decorating sense is more enthusiastic than discriminating and I don’t always make my bed. (I will not apologize for the tendency of art supplies to hang out in the kitchen, as I am a working artist, and occasionally roaming squeegees and silkscreening equipment living on the counter is just life.) The studio generates a certain degree of functional clutter, and my cupboards aren’t well organized,* but other than that…

Still, these articles make me twitch and generate an urge to clean everything, including myself and the cats, with scouring powder, just to ward off even the possibility.

I think it might be a genetic thing…I’m pretty sure that a mild, recessive version of that gene runs in my family (when my grandmother died, there were three households worth of stuff to go through, and the grandmother on the other side hoarded things in the way that childhood poverty often causes one to do.) and while no one in my immediate family suffers anything other than a vague tendency to save old papers, my mental immune system is hyper-vigilant and it doesn’t take much more than the sight of a rogue bottle cap or two inappropriate objects stacked on top of each other to send it off into a fit. “AAAAGH! There’s a used Kleenex by the computer!”  (…I’m using that. Right now, in fact.) “Aaaagh! There’s a pile of papers on the desk!” (That’s outgoing mail.) “Aaaaagh! The TV remote is sitting on top of a book on the history of cod!” (…okay, you’ve run out of things to actually worry about, haven’t you?)

So I know that this is vaguely absurd and I should get over it and work on work, plenty of which still needs to get done, particularly since I have Anime Night tonight and need to go out and already slept late and whatnot.

I know this.

Now, where did I put the mop?

*A fact which is starting to make me crazy. Perhaps I should take steps…. No! Must get Digger done first!

Damnit. Okay, I take it back–the worst thing about being single is NOT the lack of sex, it’s not eating my own cooking, it’s not killing my own centipedes.

It’s getting a goddamn zit at that point between your shoulderblades where you can only reach it by contorting like a graduate of the St. Vitus’s School of Topless Dance.

There is a level of intimacy required to get a partner to deal with your rogue zits for you. This is not a casual relationship thing. This is not a friend thing. You have to committed. It is the level beyond being willing to fart in one another’s presence. (It is slightly below the “Great, you’ve broken both arms and now need help on the toilet” level, mind you.)

Bloody…miserable…*contorts*

Well, damn.

Adam and Steve both died last night.

Cause is completely unknown–they were healthy and flitting around yesterday, no odd behavior, no apparent ill health, no foreign substances got into the tank to my knowledge, and the usual things that might take out a fish, like overfeeding or old age, I wouldn’t expect to snuff them both simultaneously. Water is clear and clean, nitrogen cycle was fixed in advance…huh. I turned on the light this morning, saw they were both tucked in at the bottom in what I assumed was the usual sleep mode, but this afternoon went to feed them and they hadn’t moved. A tap at the tank set one loose and belly up, and the other, fished out, proved to be the same.

Hmm.

Most likely possibility that presents itself is a heater malfunction–it got cold last night, they’re near the sliding glass door, and if the heater wasn’t up to snuff, it’s just possible that the temperature dropped enough locally to send them into shock.

Second possibility is that there’s a reason Petsmart was selling their platys for a buck fifty apiece.

I’ll check the heater, wait a week and let the tank cycle enough to hopefully clear out any other possible toxins, then try again, I suppose. Poor little guys. I mean, I don’t get attached to fish, particularly, they’re more ornamental and interesting than lovable, but you still feel a twinge of guilt when they snuff it on your watch.

Drowning in the Koolaid

Man, I’m not sure if you BPAL people are generous or dangerous!

Probably a little–or a lot!–of both.

My thanks to everyone who’s offered to send me imps, and there’s a revised list below, with the ones italicized that people have already offered to send me, just so I don’t wind up buried in identical samples.

…and if I do, I’m going to have to send the ones that don’t work on me off to people. I see how this works! *flail* My god! It’s genius! It’s depraved! It’s…kinda cool, actually…

Serpent’s Kiss
Bloodlust
Dracul
Helle’s Belle
Malice

Troll
Anne Bonny
Black Tower
Dee
Intrigue
The Jersey Devil
Mary Read
Plunder
Scarecrow
Sudha Segara
Scherezade
Voodoo
Jolly Roger
Mr. Jacquel
Mama-ji
Azathoth
Miskatonic University
Shub-Niggurath
Nyarlathotep
Bien Loin D’ilci
Snake Oil
De Sade
Perversion
O (O shut up.)

The Lion
Faustus
Dragon’s Hide
Doc Constantine
Coyote
Three Witches
Samhain
Tombstone
Danse Macabre
Saw-Scaled Viper
Juke Joint
Shanghai Tunnel
Lydia
Baron Samedi
Anubis
Highwayman
Unheavenly City