Did most of my list today; Jeff and I got a walk in, and I wrote, and I practiced.
is it not a thing of beauty?
400 odd words on an UPSUN short, a few words on the fic.
I can finally see the Sto:lo bridge from my back window again…. it’s been the best part of a week. AQI is 24, about as good as urban air gets in these parlous times.
Two loads of laundry plus the dishes yesterday, plus restringing Smokey. We’re still cursing an intermittent blue streak about the intermittent leaking of the dishwasher but no solid ideas.
Buster trained hard this morning, three paw claps and a couple of bounce and chase, and really focussed. Between having his fleas dealt with and the better air he’s def got more of a tigger-sproing in his step.
Le Mans has started and Jeff’s well-ensconced.
scanged from @luckyma_man
There is an EXPLOSION THEMED PARK in FINLAND …. every time I think I can’t love Finland more, look what they do. For more details look it up on youtube.
“FENCING: The Perfect COVID Sport” *Masks *Gloves *If anybody gets closer than 6′ of you, you stab them @NeilLowenthal1
I laughed. @sjvn
Whoever made a gator chase a laser pointer, thank you.
This isn’t funny, but it points out how hard it is to infiltrate anarchists when you’re mostly going to be commuting and making coffee for office workers
I got ALEX FOR TWO HOURS
He was as good as gold. He whined at the very last minute when he realized his momma bear was going to leave and he wasn’t going to get Xenon HE LOVES XENON, but we made recordings and watched TV and I made him homemade choco milk and we laughed very very hard.
before we made new recordings we listened to all of the old ones, and Alex made some noises that were excruciatingly funny and the two of us nearly choked laughing.
And we have sourdough bread thanks to Katie so YES.
Weather was lovely yesterday, it’s overcast and cooler now, also good.
I got a couple more surfaces cleared off in the kitchen.
10322 on the fic
Wasp nest growing over yardlights.
SEE YOU IN HELL
above noted is the noted, feted and howlarious burlesque artiste Carrie Finnell. According to twitter’s @WhoresOfYore, “Carrie Finnell (1900-63) was a legend of burlesque. She had complete control of her pectoral muscles & could bounce her boobs out of her dress & move them independently of one another. She called her act ‘The Chestcapades’ & was once the highest paid burlesque act in America.”
Don’t say this isn’t an educational blog, and she’s only mentioned in Wikipedia as a member of the Mutual Burlesque Association, so don’t bother looking her up.
If you click on it, it expands to a readable size.
Katie and Mike BOTH dropped by yesterday, Mike to pick up lentil soup and drop off sous-vide chicken breasts, nom, and Katie to just lay eyes on me and tell me about her life updates, which include what appears to be a shot at being happy, so, I’m like. YEAH SURE I want you to be happy, why the fuck wouldn’t I. She’s known him since high school, it’s not like he fell out of the sky. I haven’t met him, mostly because I don’t have to during a pandemic, but Paul and Keith have.
We talked about how the world is half mad with grief, and those who show no grief show fear and anger.
No walkies with Paul.
Made more lentil soup, made more dough for cinnamon buns; the ones I made yesterday morning are, like, gonzo. I guess Jeff and I really really liked them.
Finished watching season two of the Alienist. It’s much like the first season in some ways, but they handled a trope about as tastefully as one can, and the man follows the woman to her new job rather than the other way around, so that was a nice break, and there was an extremely satisfying revenge killing, one of the best and promptest ever. You killed my brother, I ain’t giving you the CHANCE to prepare to die, I’m just going to shoot you in the back. YES.
When I was researching the show I learned that the author of the original source material had a family story that possibly affected his writing; his dad committed a murder that was embedded in scandal and served time for it. Then he had a fifty year career in newspapers. I wish I was a white guy.
This is a Balmain dress from the 50s. Dress looks like she was hung by her heels, dipped in white chocolate and rolled in glitter-encrusted dust bunnies.
Mel Baggs the disabled activist is dead. Sie went into hospital a couple of days ago, not sure why, and hir last post was about how alienating the hospital was. That made me cry.
I must sadly say that I followed hir on twitter for a while and stopped because I found what sie said unchallenging and the way sie said it so annoying that I couldn’t deal with it. I kept wanting to argue with hir or high key mock hir and if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s not to white lady on people, so I just backed off.
Now sie’s dead and I’m reading her blog. Reading the temporal lobe epilepsy symptoms on hir blog freaked me out, since at various points in my life I’ve had symptoms identical; just never all at once.
I have a deeply weird brain, but I’m quite attached to it. Mel also pointed out that ‘status migraine aura’ is possible which is when you’re in a migraine state all the time without head pain. I’ve gone months like that.
We had a lovely brekkie and may get Alex here later, depending on his mood.
Almost fell down this morning when I turned my ankle on the walkway – Jeff can attest how spectacular it was.
The picture shown below is an athletic cup after it was hit by a slapshot, scanged from wtf on reddit. Personally I think it looks like a mean faced dude being snuggled by a dragon but what do I know.
the absolutely fabulous Elise Matthiesen says
Sometimes anger will give you enough traction to make it through whatever lousy situation you’re in, whether that situation involves self-harm or other people telling you that you don’t exist. Anger often has some collateral damage, though. It’s usually not a precision tool.
It’s four Amish farm boys busted for drunk driving a horse and buggy in Michigan this past week. I SHIT YOU NOT.
So I’m working through my Youtube videos and captioning them. Already done: my most popular effort, at 14.2K distinct views! How to Cut Up a Pineapple. Lemming’s Twofer, Neener Neener and Blasteez (my advertisement for laxative coughdrops which, as you can likely imagine, work as poorly as advertised).
I shall continue with the making my videos more accessible until they are all done.
Got into a beatdown with a bunch of one of the most self-righteous pot activists (like there’s another fucking kind) on twitter today.
Come ON I smoke, but I don’t smoke and blow smoke in the faces of the allergic and the elderly, and they’re announcing it’s their RIGHT, because this is VANCOUVER, home of TOLERANCE. Yeah I’ll believe that when Canada gives back the unceded lands, you unregenerate failure of logic. I’m like a homophobe for harshing their mellow. Srsly. Got accused of equivalency to homophobia for objecting to people dousing the entire west end in pot smoke for their stupid fucking 420 festival (which leaves heaps of trash mounded everywhere and they’re all cryface because they didn’t get a fucking permit.) F*ck me!
I realized that when you put asterisks in f*cking swearwords you’re putting a leedle asshole right in the meedle of the word and since when you’re swearing there’s usually an asshole involved, it’s mesmerizingly poifect.
I love Buster, he’s an amazing cat. And he loves me too, I know it. I don’t think Miss Margot cares if I live or die, but Buster does.
My latest piece of fanfic smut has more than five hundred likes (it’s cute and hot, so there)
I’ve written a BDSM scene in the same ‘verse but I’m not happy with it yet. I had to put in about 200 words about how the scene is ‘necessary but non-consensual’ which kinda blows (or not!) since scenes need consent if they’re to resonate with me writing, at all. So it’s like “We’ve talked about this – I hate it when you want me (and need me) to top you but I’m s’posed to read your mind – and topping when you’re angry at your partner is a bad bad bad idea” followed by “Do what ya gotta, man, just hit me really hard.” Oh, and there are minor children in the house while this sh*t’s going down, just to make it even more like real life, and our heroes must deal with the domestic consequences of Daddies fighting. I LOVE A CHALLENGE. After all, continuing to have interesting sex after kids *is* a continuing challenge in real life. People want carefree smut? they can look elsewhere; to me smut always has a cost. Who bears it depends on who’s being responsible, or not.
Not that anybody wants to know, but I’m really not into any of those behaviours in real life. Nagging at volume is sort of where I max out, ask any of my exes.
Continuing to have the poly life discussion with someone. It’s painful. Really painful. I feel like I have my nose up again a particularly interesting window. I can smell bread baking. But no. G*ddamned heteronormative uncommunicative bushwah (on their end, not mine.) But at the same time there’s NO F*CKING POINT to becoming an elder if you don’t understand that real life takes time, opportunities for growth don’t wait, and if you don’t consider who’s going to be impacted by your decisions, your years, your grey hairs and and your learning means squat. I am still 22 in some corner of my persona, for my enthusiasms still have all the joy of my youth; I just can’t write everyone affected by my behaviour out of the script any more. I do from time to time, but not all the time.
Fortunately, since I’m pushing 60 with a broom, I can contemplate my greed like the gorram caged bear that it is. Still here, but not running the show.
Katie is still having a rough time and she and Alex are both sick again.
I am not having a rough time. I feel pretty good, all things considered. I have another two weeks of full time work. If that changes, I’ll deal with it. I actually have a plan to deal with it that I think will make almost everyone happy, at least temporarily.
Rogue One is a fucking fantastic movie. Getting eaten by Disney was the best thing that ever happened to the franchise.
Now to check if my money transfer has come through.
I have now learned what happens when you put bubble tea in the fridge overnight, and I have a big first world sad. The tapioca pearls become tasteless rabbit pellets of regret.
Kevin M said: Yuck
Shane said : Rabbit pellets of regret. BAHAHAHAHAH!
Diane said: Become?
Allegra Sloman said : I swear it was translucent and looked like fairy snot not six hours ago.
Andi said: And that was….better???
Juliana said: Personally, I think it starts out that way but YMMV.
Andi said: I don’t drink lumpy drinks.
Debbie said: Man, you kill me, Allegra.
Lynn said: Interesting. I tried making bubble tea at home and wound up with a pot of lumpy tapioca paste (and no, I did not use the microwave!).
Janice said: Oh! That’s what regret tastes like!
Allegra said: Believe me, regret has *many* flavors.
Kevin said: I’ll have the rabbit pellets of regret please. Unless the leftover stir fry of soggy disappointment is on special
Lois said: Leftover stir fry of soggy disappointment……..Yum!
Erin said: That’s the best thing I’ve read all day!
Miles Vorkosigan said: The Tasteless Rabbit Pellets of Regret is now the name of my Robin Thicke cover band.
Jeff pointed out this article to me. Scary stuff.
At Mike’s. The sky is grey but little dabs of blue and white are starting to show through. (an hour later…. not so much really, sigh).
Goddamn Hurricane Matthew. I have a bad, bad feeling about it. If the track holds steady a lot of people are going to be dealing with seawater where it ought not to be.
It would be tragic if the hurricane hits the East coast at the same time as the (not very exactly) predicted West coast quake.
Just had somebody point my transmisogyny out to me. That damned Donald Trump. I know that doesn’t make much sense but the two things are connected. Also Barry Blitt. This cover is transphobic, but how I laughed when I saw it. Then two transwomen mentioned they’d laughed their asses off, and sometimes allies are quicker on the draw than the people they’re trying to protect, and I felt a little better, because if I was a transwoman I imagine my sense of humour would be even more vile than it is now, since there’s something about (ed. – Shut the **** up now, please.)
I am two days ahead on writing, so I’m probably going to make notes and take the weekend off from writing. VCON is this weekend, but J and Paul are going for parts of it so “yay” I’m not going. There’d be no point hiding out in the filk room even, even after Dara sent out a call for minions for her rousing song, “Sad Muppets.” And yet I’m really okay with all this and I’m just pretending to be put out, because I’m broke, and all I can think about is how much money I spent in the dealers room the last time I went. Conflikt is in January. I’ll go filk among my friends.
Finished season 1 of Supernatural. Sadly, you cannot make Vancouver and environs look like southern Georgia but by god that doesn’t stop the locations scouts from trying. Also, Jensen Ackles can whisper advice about how to deal with demons in my ear an.y.time. I like Jared Padalecki but he brings out my maternal instincts (sadly withered but still present).
Saw Alex and Katie the other day. He is a busy little bee, sweet and biddable and mischievous and noisy. And he has a VERY good memory. Katie recounted the story.
He and Katie had only ever walked to Julie’s house. She left town six months ago. As they were coming to my place the last time they visited me, Alex pointed at Julie’s old house and said, “Julie house.” So he dredged up a memory from before he could talk, after seeing the house from a completely different angle, and put the two together. Katie was flabbergasted. I suspect his memory is better than the rest of us put together.
Indigo Nai, who lives and works in New York, wrote this
I am abandoning the world of men.
I am abandoning the world of men because masculinity is a sinking ship, and it is loaded with leaking, toxic drums, and it is sinking while we watch, and it is my belief that the men that do not escape it will drown.
Now, I’mma tell you a little story. It’s a long one, so feel free to flake if you start to fade, but here it is:
On my last day in the Bay area, a small gang of us agreed to meet at a local bar to hang out, take in the late summer sun, and drink a healthy amount of bourbon. It’s a warm summer day, and the patio of the bar is crowded; friends and acquaintances of both genders join our little group every once in a while, stay for a bit, and then wander off, but just before things kicked off, our little group is four women, myself, and another male friend. Over on my side of the table we’ve just started a conversation about rape culture and how to help redefine the ways men view themselves within it, because me and my friends really enjoy light conversation. The dialog in our part of the little circle is going great, but at one point I look over and notice that my best friend has been cornered by the other guy in the group, and it’s clear that she’s having *exactly* the kind of conversation that you don’t want to be stuck in; that one conversation where a guy is mansplaining to a woman about the ‘slippery slope’ that prosecuting everyone accused of rape inevitably leads to, in the kingdom of toxic masculinity, at least. My friend is trying her best to be both polite and to be heard, but she can’t get a word in edgewise, so I decide to leverage my own privilege; the next time he interrupts her, I interrupt him, and say, “Hey brother, you know what’s sexy? Letting a woman finish a sentence”. I then turn away, good deed done, to rejoin my own conversation. Unfortunately, this causes me to miss the warning signs as the guy begins to grimly stew on the indignity of having his privilege publicly checked, because masculinity so fragile.
A moment later, he calls out: “Hey, I think Shannon is done talking, so I’d like to share my thoughts, if that’s all right with you, INDIGO”. Now, I admit, I’m obnoxious to the bone, so I toss a quick and merry “That’s fine!” over my shoulder. This, inexplicably breaks him; that simple comment sends him right over the edge of man-child sulking into the abyss of beast-mode rage, and before you can say “can’t hold your liquor” he unfolds from his seat, all 6’3″ and 240 pounds of him, and bellows “Do you want to have a fucking go then, man?”
Now, this is unexpected, since he’s an old friend, and we’re surrounded by a handful of other old friends, and we’re in the middle of a bar that’s run by Family, and we’re there for an unfortunate friend’s fundraiser, so it seems a little strange that he and I have suddenly started doing the man-dance right in the middle of of a crowded patio on a Sunday afternoon. But he’s Scottish, and I’m Irish, and the story of a wee Irish guy scrapping with a great Scottish hulk is a tale as old as love itself, and besides, I’m always one for a story, so I call back “Sure, brother” and stand up.
Before I can even get my arms up, I have a giant meatpile of angry, drunken Scotsman throwing his fists in my face. I hear/feel My tendons squeak a bit as his weight came down on my knee, so I know my knee was wrenched, and at some point I saw stars so I knew he got a good kiss in, but mostly I just kept grappling with him and tried not to worry too much about the damage already done in order to try and minimize the damage that was yet to happen.
Some colder, more removed part of me was also laughing its ass off because I suddenly found myself climbing Mt. Slappy McHaggis when, less than ten seconds before, I had been drinking bourbon and chatting with some very old friends about the nuances of feminism, rape culture, and male privilege.
Trust me, the irony didn’t escape me, even at the time.
It was also, in some sense, tragic: this was someone I had been friends with for fifteen years, someone whom I had always considered Family. This was a man I had always thought would have my back in a fight, not someone who would suddenly be trying to bury their fists in my face.
It was also, in some sense, inexplicable: this was a guy with a six inch height and a fifty pound weight advantage over me, who I know for a fact thinks of himself as honorable and chivalrous.
And finally, in every sense it was hideously dangerous: physical fights are terrifically dodgy ideas to begin with. I mean, I have anger issues, and I’m a big fan of consensual violence between men, but fighting is chock full of the potential for really shitty consequences; come in at a bad angle, you can crack the zygomatic bone and blind someone; land wrong after a takedown, you can tear tendons and lame them; knock them off balance, and you can crack their head on a curb and there you are, in prison for the next two decades of your life, and the guy who was looking at you funny that one night in a bar is shitting into a bag.
I mean, who knew, but physically beating someone into submission is really hard, and pretty risky when it all comes down to it.
And over what?
The perception that you’ve been disrespected when a friend suggests that you stop interrupting another friend while they speak?
The perception that you’ve been disrespected when someone calls you out for rude behavior?
On the masculine side of things, it makes me very sad for men as they grow older; go through divorces; lose their businesses; have their children taken away. As men, we’re never taught to build communities, or examine our feelings, or build genuinely intimate connections with other men. We’re taught that we can share two emotions: lust and anger. And we’re taught to use those two brutal, clumsy tools to solve every challenge that we experience in our worlds. This is the price we pay for our privilege.
But on the feminine side, my experience makes me much sadder. See, I’ve been thinking about that fight ever since it happened. It’s been a long time since I was in a real fight, and a long time since I was in a fight with a real fighter. And that means it’s been a long time since I had to really think about what it must be like to have to be constantly wary of the rage of men. I did well for a wee Irish guy, for the few seconds that our scuffle went on, I held my own; but those few seconds were enough to earn me a black eye an d weeks worth of limping. And if we hadn’t been in a public place, surrounded by friends, I would have been fucked. Right proper fucked. Rabbit in a hound’s mouth fucked. Fucked like every abused wife in a trailer or McMansion is fucked. Which, ironically, is what the conversation we were having to begin with was all about: when that fight popped off, we were discussing the reality that about half of the world’s population has to process that the at any given moment, some member of the other half of it could go savagely violent on you with no warning, rhyme, or reason. And this reality is something every woman I know has to deal with every day. The irony is remarkable: simply discussing the topic of male rage and expecting equality from all participants was enough to provoke this guy to violence. What I experienced in that brief window of time was being punched right out of my privilege for a minute. In that moment, I was reminded, very briefly, what being assaulted by someone much bigger and much more aggressive than you are is like; what it’s like to go toe-to-toe with someone to big for you to resist, let alone overcome. And it reminded me why I care, why I fight, and why feminism is always worth fighting for, with our words, our tongues, our fists, or a goddamn barstool, needs must.
So, yeah. I’m abandoning the world of men. I’m abandoning the idea of egos so fragile they can’t bear criticism. I’m abandoning the idea of size as strength, might as right, and women as an audience. And most of all, I reject the idea of using your power as a tool to enforce your will, rather than using it as a tool to protect your Family.
Always punch up. Never punch down.
We’re going to win this.