The 40 Questions Meme: Cause it's Summertime @ the Day Job, So Why Not?

1. Have you ever been searched by the cops?
Oh, yea, right. I got out of my first speeding ticket because the cop used to work for my parents. Small towns!

2. Do you close your eyes on roller coasters?
No.

3. When's the last time you've been sledding?
What a poorly constructed sentence.

4. Would you rather sleep with someone else, or alone?
Are we talking in the biblical sense, or actual sleeping? Cause, you know, people are sexy, but there are, indeed, people who should stay far, far away from other people. Like, forever.

5. Do you believe in ghosts?
Of course. I saw a ghost in a B&B in Cape Town. I will not stay there again.

6. Do you consider yourself creative?
Not particularly.

7. Do you think O.J. killed his wife?
Doesn't much matter what I think, does it?

8. Jennifer Aniston or Angelina Jolie?
Keira Knightley.

9. Do you stay friends with your ex's?
No, but I'm hoping to change that.

10. Do you know how to play poker?
That's like asking if I know how to smoke a cigar and drink whisky. I mean, *Yea.*

11. Have you ever been awake for 48 hours straight?
Yes. Hullo, Clarion!

12. What's your favorite commercial?
I'm partial to the Apple Computer 1984 commerical classic.

13. What are you allergic to?
My pancreas, apparently.

14. If you're driving in the middle of the night, and no one is around do you run red lights?
No.

15. Do you have a secret that no one knows but you?
Yes, several, but they're likely to come out in my fiction.

16. Boston Red Sox or New York Yankees?
Whatever.

17. Have you ever been Ice Skating?
Yes. Once. Never again.

18. How often do you remember your dreams?
Usually. I have a lot of crazy fucking dreams.

19. When was the last time you laughed so hard you cried?
This weekend, baby: Steph and Ian, you guys rock!

20. Can you name 5 songs by The Beatles?
Yes, but should I?

21. What's the one thing on your mind now?
I reserve comment.

22. Do you know who Ghetto-ass barbie is?
Do you mean "Who" or "What"? Cause if it's who, and Barbie's a real person now, that's fucking scary. I had My Little Ponies and GI Joes, and they had wars, dude.

23. Do you always wear your seat belt?
Yes.

24. What cell service do you use?
I don't have a cell phone. Which is really ironic because, of course, I work for a company that builds, designs and upgrades cell phone towers. Word of advice: don't get a Cingular phone for another 3 years.

25. Do you like Sushi?
Yes. Is Sushi really a capitalized word?

26. Have you ever narrowly avoided a fatal accident?
Yes. Several.

a) I was coming home from the movie theater I worked at one night and stopped at a red light on a deserted street. The light turned green, I moved my foot to the gas and started for the intersection, and a car full of guys ran the other light going about 100 MPH. They missed me by about a foot.

b) Got T-boned in South Africa while trying to cross two lanes of traffic. I wasn't driving, and was on the non-T-boned side, but if the guy would have been going faster... well.

c) My pancreas exploded, which I'd count as an accident of sorts.

27. What do you wear to bed?
Depends on the season, but I'm quite partial to my oversized Nanook Nick's shirt and shorts or sweat pants. Terribly unsexy, but very comfortable.

28. Been caught stealing?
Caught? No.

29. What shoe size do you have?
Size 11. Just like Kate Winslett!

30. Do you truly hate anyone?
No, because that would mean I'd have strong feelings for someone I didn't care about, and I have no interest in giving anybody that honor.

31. Classic Rock or Rap?
Scissors.

32. If you could sleep with one famous person, who would it be?
I reserve comment.

33. Favorite Song?
Currently? "Fix You" by Coldplay.

34. Have you ever sang in front of the mirror?
All the time.

35. What food do you find disgusting?
Those gnocchi things with the olives

36. Do you sing in the shower?
Only when I'm really, really, really happy.

37. Did you ever play, "I'll show you mine, if you show me yours"?
Not that I recall. I figured out plumbing pretty early.

38. Have you ever made fun of your friends behind their back?
Oh yes. Sadly. Though not many of those people are still my friends, so that says something about how close we were...

39. Have you ever stood up for someone you hardly knew?
Yes. The most memorable being in South Africa when I was waiting at a bus stop with this skinny blond chick and these two drunk guys came up and started saying all these really lewd, violently sexual things to her and telling her what they were going to do to her, and I turned on them both and started a screaming, swearing tirade about how it was disrespectful to harass people while they were waiting for the bus.

The guys moved on.

40. Have you ever been punched in the face?
Yes, but not hard, and she was wearing gloves. So.

Summertime at the Dayjob

I'm reminded of why I've kept this job for so long.

Cause for several months during the summer, I get paid to write and play computer games for 8 hours every day.

Man.

In Which the Protagonist is Chagrined

So, my buddies Ian and Stephanie were in town for the long weekend. They're living in Dayton where he's working toward a PhD in material science (we keep trying to call him a physicist, but it's "Material Science" apparently) and she's working as a medical receptionist to support the household before heading back to grad school herself (like me, she's a history major. Yay!).

Stephanie and I met when we were 14 via the high school drama department. We hated each other at the time. She was the backstage bitch, and I was the onstage bitch. Our most famous encounter was during a show where - because of the limited resources we had - I was supposed to get offstage from a scene and then go back onstage to move a bookcase once the curtain went down. Stephanie was stage managing, which meant it was her job to make sure all the shit got moved.

Well, you know, one night after a particularly great show where I just thought I was the hotest shit ever to hit the stage, I waltzed back into the green room, absolutely preening, and went to my locker to get some more chamomile tea (I did a lot of yelling in that particular show).

About three minutes after I walk into the green room, Stephanie tromps in - 5'4 and barely 120 lbs at the time - and you can practically *see* the steam coming out of her ears. She storms right up to me and screams, "You didn't move the *fucking* bookshelf! It was your job to move the bookshelf! I just about killed myself moving the goddamn bookshelf! Remember to move the goddamn bookshelf! Do you know how important this is??"

Now, a stage manager storming into the green room and screaming at an actor in front of God and everyone wasn't something that, well, happened. There was the heirarchy, right? If an actor fucks up, well, you come to them later, quietly, and set things right.

Oh, no, not Stephanie.

And never again did I forget to move the goddamn book shelf.

We didn't really become close friends until the theater rivalry was over and we started college and started re-examining what we were doing with our lives. It turned out that we had a lot more in common than we suspected, which is probably why we hated each other in high school. Now I think of Stephanie as the little sister I don't have (I mean, I have a sister, but, well, we really don't have anything in common); that is, someone who's loud and obnoxious like me, and even looks like me (when she arrived in Chicago and stepped out of the car, I saw that we had the same haircut), and who has the same sorts of fears and has overcome a lot of the same things. She also decided one day that she didn't like her life, and she's worked very hard to create a new one.

In any case, because I've always been on the move, and now that they are too, a lot of the "what's going on with Kameron" stuff gets transmitted via my blog (I told Stephanie she really needs to start one, too, but she's afraid it'll all be about quilting and scrapbooking, to which I'd reply, "So the fuck what?").

So, a few times this weekend, the subject of exes came up, and after hearing about the shitstorm that was my relationship with B and hearing a few things via the blog, Stephanie said she regretted not meeting him. I told her it was best she hadn't, because he'd probably have assumed that because I spoke to Ian, I must be flirting with him, and I'd have spent the whole weekend trying to convince him that I wasn't going to screw Stephanie's husband (who is nice and all, but I feel like I'm related to him, so that idea is just, well, *icky*).

And, really, how exhausting is it to reassure someone that you're not going to go out and screw the closest human being around the second he turns his back?

In any case, the four of us went out to a great pancake house in Evanston yesterday morning, and I was blabbing to Stephanie about how I'd had to break things off with B when I realized I didn't respect him, and if you can't respect someone, how can you love them? She agreed that that was a pretty mature thing to do.

"Apparently," Stephanie said, "if you talk to marriage counselors, you can figure out which couples will stay together and which won't by measuring the amount of contempt they have for each other. Once couples start down the road toward contempt, there's really pretty much none who can turn it around. Once you disrespect someone, things are pretty much over."

"It's fucked up, too," I said. "I mentioned him, what, five times in the five months since we broke up, and he thought I was, like, saying these really horrible things about him, that I was attacking him on my blog and calling him all sorts of names. All the stuff I said was true stuff. He's kinda wacky and all, but I never said the stuff he said. I mean, he was posting about how disgusting I was, and how I was a shitty writer and used all my friends and was going to spend the rest of my life alone and without love. Which, you know, I've heard before."

"I didn't get that," Stephanie said. "I thought you were being mature about how you felt."

"Oh no," Ian said, and turned to me. "No way. I totally thought you were trying to destroy him."

Me, Steph, and Jenn all looked at Ian, a little perplexed.

"Huh?" I said.

"I mean, you might as well have kicked him in the balls," Ian said. "When you tell a guy `I don't respect you,' that's the worst possible thing you can say. There's like this heirarchy of things you can do to a guy: kick him in the balls, tell him he has a small penis, and then, worst of all, tell him you don't respect him. It means he's not worth bothering with. Not worth anything at all. It's the worst possible insult."

"You're fucking kidding me," I said.

"Seriously," he said. "I honestly thought you'd thought of the worst possible thing to say to him, the one that would cut him the worst, and then posted it up on your blog to your international audience."

"Fuck," I said, "I so totally didn't mean to do that. I thought I was being really honest about the whole thing. I didn't want to be a jerk."

"Well, I mean, what's the female equivalent of that?" he said.

"What do you mean?" Stephanie said. "Of disrespect?"

"I don't know that a guy saying he didn't respect me would be so huge because -" I began, and then stopped. "Oh. The female equivalent is having a guy tell you he loves you and thinks you're the most amazing person in the world and then once he has sex with you says you're a dirty whore and he was only using you for sex."

"Oh, totally," Stephanie said.

"That's it," Ian said. "Same thing."

"Holy shit," I said. "I acted like an ASSHOLE."

"And I thought it was just a mature thing to say," Stephanie said.

Well, crap.

I somehow always manage to come across as more of a bitch than I really think I am, which is likely why so many people call me one. I mean, I don't *feel* evil.

Damn.

Top Ten Trivia Tips About... Me

1) Kameron is only six percent water.
2) Kameron is the oldest playable musical instrument in the world.
3) Michelangelo finished his great statue of Kameron in 1504, after eighteen months work!
4) In Eastern Africa you can buy beer brewed from Kameron!
5) Kameron is born white; her pink feathers are caused by pigments in her typical diet of shrimp.
6) Kameron cannot burp - there is no gravity to separate liquid from gas in her stomach.
7) Kameron can use only about ten percent of her brain!
8) 99 percent of the pumpkins sold in the US end up as Kameron.
9) In Japan, Kameron can only be prepared by chefs specially trained and certified by the government!
10) In Vermont, the ratio of cows to Kameron is 10:1!

You gotta go to Africa for the beer, really. Though that statue pretty much rocks, too.

Get your own tips

One of This Weekend's Discussions...

.. was why the hell aren't we talking about vaccinating girls and boys against HPV (or, rather, the four kinds of HPV that prevent 70% of all cases of cervical cancer). I mean, women aren't just magically contracting it all by themselves, any more than we reproduce through parthenogenesis.

My buddy Ian wondered if anybody had even tried the vaccine on men, and whether or not it'd even be effective.

Well, turns out, it is:

And there is still discussion about whether to vaccinate a group of people who don't get cervical cancer: men. HPV is a sexually transmitted disease, after all, and vaccinating men would likely protect their sexual partners.

There's a small advantage for men and boys: The vaccine protects against genital warts and rare cases of penile cancer.

Aha. So, studies on guys have been done.

Sooooo... why am I not seeing the idea of vaccinating boys being discussed in 90% of the articles about the vaccine?

Besides, you know, sexism?

On Not Being "Fat Enough"

"When Kathleen LeBesco gave a talk at an academic meeting last fall about how, as an overweight professor, she influenced her students' ideas about body size, there was only one problem: She wasn't fat."

Well. Fat's really a relative term, isn't it?

I mean, among a bunch of models and actresses I'd be considered a freakin' whale. I mean, Elizabeth Hurley has nightmares about being a size 14. And, you know, I'm a size 14. And according to the BMI, still fat, though it took a diabetic coma to get me here.

I'm currently reading a volume LeBesco edited called, Bodies Out of Bounds, which is mostly pretty good (after a stop-and-go iffy sort of start).

What interests me about this article is the assumption that because LeBesco doesn't currently have an obese BMI that she's suddenly not fit enough to talk about fat studies. Because suddenly all of her experiences as a fat woman in society are completely invalid?

Speaking as someone who can "pass" (for the moment, in some circles) I can tell you this: no matter what the scale says or what other people say, I still have an image of myself as a fat girl who takes up too much space.

You could argue here about what's more valid/important/real: society's perception of you, or your perception of yourself.

(via bfb)

The Crazy Life

I have a fucked up life. Not bad, fucked up, but just kind of fucked up right now. Things are up and down and crazy and full of sadness and hurt and laughter and storytelling and low sugar shaking and dancing in the kitchen and drinking wine and all that bittersweet shit.

I'm not a beautiful writer. I'm not always the greatest person. I might try to do the right thing all the time, but it's not neccessarily the best thing, or the smartest thing, but I do what I think is right.

Despite everything, I had a really good weekend.

And yea, I really fucking needed it.

Something about a phoenix, fire, ashes, burning everything up and starting over.

Sometimes I wish I could rewind my life and start over.

I suppose falling down seven times, getting up eight, is as close as I'm going to get.

In Which The Protagonist Starts Deleting Posts!

Ah, yes, Delete is a useful function, as any good LJer will tell you, so I've deleted this one!

I'll be taking a blogging break until late next week.

Just Keep Upping That Insulin

Upping me another 4 units: 24 in the morning, 18 in the evening.

I'm no longer spiking above 300 in the afternoons, and I can get myself under 200 at night by working out.

Calling him again on Monday for another dosage check.

This is such a bitch.

In Which The Protagonist Fucks Up, Again

Well, I dig my own holes.

Sex Talk

Well, the one good thing that came out of the whole "blowjob" fiasco running rampant in the feminist blogosphere are a couple of threads over at Bitch PhD. She's opened up a women's and men's thread for "honest" talk about sex: what you like, what you don't.

In this case, I actually like that she broke the threads up by sex; likely, it avoids some fighting/disagreements that would undermine the whole idea of the exercise, which is to feel that you can speak honestly without being attacked for it.

One of the things I don't talk about here is intimate sexual details, because, well, that's between me and my partners. But hey, you can post anonymously over at Bitch's place...

Footprints

My parents both worked when I was growing up; still do. I have fond memories of helping my mom mop up the burger joint on Christmas Eve. Sometimes they worked nights, weekends, holidays, so me and my brother and sister spent much of our time, until I was about 12, at my French grandmother's house. She had fantastic stories about growing up in Nazi-occupied France, and she was also a devout Catholic.

When I was old enough to read - and tall enough to see it - I read a poem that hung in the dining room. It was called "Footprints," and if you haven't read it, one version goes something like this:

One night a man had a dream. He dreamed He was walking along the beach with the Lord. Across the sky flashed scenes from His life. For each scene He noticed two sets of footprints in the sand. One belonging to Him and the other to the Lord.

When the last scene of His life flashed before Him, He looked back at the footprints in the sand. He noticed that many times along the path of His life there was only one set of footprints. He also noticed that it happened at the very lowest and saddest times of His life.

This really bothered Him and He questioned the Lord about it. Lord you said that once I decided to follow you, you'd walk with me all the way. But I have noticed that during the most troublesome times in my life there is only one set of footprints. I don't understand why when I needed you most you would leave me.

The Lord replied, my precious, precious child, I Love you and I would never leave you! During your times of trial and suffering when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.

Something about this poem really touched me, and I'd come back to it again and again and read it over and over, especially the last part. I wanted that, I think. I wanted to know someone would carry me through the darkest times. I wanted to believe it.

Though my grandmother took me to church whenever she could get away with it, and I grew up reading gory children's Bible stories (growing up on Bible stories and stories about Nazi-occupied France, it's really no surprise I write what I write), I never took to the idea that there was somebody out there who would carry me during the worst times. I didn't take to the idea because during the worst times, nobody carried me. The older I got, the more obvious that was. I was the one responsible for my choices. If I was lucky, loved ones might try and bail me out, but well, my dad's the one who agreed to come bail me out of my bad choices in Bellingham, when I was evicted from my apartment. My mom wanted to leave me there to stew. "She's 18. Let her make her own mistakes." So I've never felt any sort of *guarantee* that even family members would carry me out of anything.

No, the only one who could pick me up was myself.

I lost it this morning on the bus. I had Coldplay's Fix You on repeat, and I just started crying. In public. On the bus. I was so heartsick. The other side of anger is deep sadness, grief.

I feel like I'm working so hard, and nothing is working. I don't feel great. And the worst part of that is that for three great days I felt so totally wonderful and normal and then my sugar took a nose dive again. And it's so frustrating. I'm living mainly on protein and vegetables and working out every day, and this is what I get: I feel terrible, my numbers don't come out right, and I'm stuck drinking decaf fucking coffee.

I cried on the bus, and transferred to the train, and thought of that poem. And I steeled myself again. I buttoned everything back down, I stopped the tide of grief.

Suck it up, Hurley.

No one's going to carry me. No one's going to fix me. At the end of every day, all you have is yourself, and it's you who gets to decide how you'll handle what you'll feel: it's you who decides if you'll hide under your bed and weep or open up that goddamn book file and *concentrate harder* and get some goddamn work done.

And I sucked it up, and I walked off the train and I wiped off my face and thought, OK, it's going to be hard. You knew it was going to be hard. It's OK if it's hard. It doesn't mean you've failed at anything. It doesn't mean you're a bad person. It means it's fucking hard. Suck it up.

When the cardiologist (from Durban, of all places) came into the ICU room (once I was conscious) and told me I was going to be an insulin dependent diabetic the rest of my life, he talked a lot about my heart. Being the doctor on duty the night I came in, he'd had to oversee my care, despite being, you know, a cardiologist and not an endocrinologist. So it's no wonder he talked so much about my heart, and so little about my pancreas.

"You have a really strong, healthy heart," he said, and he said it as if he was slightly surprised that a 180 lb insulin dependent diabetic could have such a healthy heart. "Your heart is very strong. You'll do well."

I trekked 120 km into rural Africa. I left a bipolar, schizophrenic Marine who wanted to kill me. I jumped off a bridge. I saw peguins on the other side of the world. I've lived without love, without money, without self-respect, without a clue.

I can live without a fucking pancreas.

Because if my fucking pancreas can't get me through this, my heart will have to do.

Oh, For Fuck's Sake

I've cut carbs until I'm down to one serving per meal (I'm supposed to be eating 3-4), and the best # I could get was 180, last night, after working out. I increased my goddamn insulin dose agoddamgain

This FUCKING INSULIN isn't FUCKING WORKING.

I CAN'T WRITE IF I CAN'T CONCENTRATE ON THE FUCKING SCREEN.

Fuck.

I am so done.

I Remember

I've been tossing and turning in bed, thinking of Durban.

I don't know why I'm thinking of it again, now, suddenly, when I've gone so long without talking about it, ruminating, thinking anything beyond, "I drank a lot in Africa."

But I remember. I'm lying awake remembering things; leaning out the big back window of my little one-and-a-half room flat and watching the storms come in over the Indian Ocean. Watching the big red sheet I kept over the living room window billow in the wind and scatter the light. I remember long, drunken nights of dancing. Shots of tequila. Rum and coke. I remember the way the air tasted, how it clung to my skin; I remember the crazy rides in the overpacked taxis and the dust that clung to everything. I remember chain smoking while writing a thesis and a novel, and yes, I remember the bugs. The flying cockroaches, the geckos that lived in the cupboards, the nest of unnammable creatures living under the bathtub. I remember stumbling home drunk and waking up in my own bed wearing only a towel. I remember hot nights.

I remember the people. The sound of Zulu. And I remember Julian's house, this stolid, quiet little house with the front porch and the big dining table under the awning out back, and I remember the good wine and the good coffee, and the dinner parties. I remember laughing. I remember being asked what I thought my worth was, in cows. I remember a woman at a noisy dance club asking me for aspirin, because, you see, her stomach hurt; she'd just had an abortion. I remember being driven home by some pretty drunk drivers. I remember never quite feeling like I fit in. I remember not being pretty enough. I remember not being smart enough. I remember the art parties, the bottles of wine.

I remember running away from everything and ending up there, on the other side of the world. I remember monkeys perched on top of garbage cans. I remember figuring out, for the first time, what love was. I remember lying awake and tossing and turning and trying to figure it out, and suddenly understanding, and thinking, "Ahhh... this was my lesson. This is why I had to come to Africa. Not for the cockroaches or the banana trees or the ocean storms, but this, here, yes."

And I remember looking back at Table Mountin from a boat in the harbor and thinking, "I have come to the ends of the earth. I can stop running now."

I'd spent five years running and running and running. Running from an old life, an old self, and I was ready to stop. I was ready to live again. I was tired of running because I was afriad. I wanted another reason to get up in the morning.

I wanted the storms to be enough.

Joss Whedon is My Secret Boyfriend

If you haven't seen it yet, Joss Whedon's award acceptance speech for Equality Now:

"Why aren't you asking a hundred other guys why they *don't* write strong women characters?"

I got to the end of the speech and burst into tears, because he said so succinctly what I've been trying to say with so much of my fiction.

Whedon is my new Secret Boyfriend.

Sugar Sick

Well, I've been feeling like absolute shit the last three days, so I called Dr. S. today and updated him on my numbers, which, like my physical state, are shit.

I've been having trouble concentrating here at work (sugar headache, blurry vision), my sex drive tanked (yes. I notice these things), I wanted to lie around in bed immediately after coming home last night (I couldn't do this, of course, because my sugar was so high that I had to work out immediately after coming home just to get it reasonable), and all of a sudden water was looking *really* good again, and I was spending more time in the bathroom.

Well, at least I know what all of these things *mean* now, even if I wasn't sugar testing 5 times a day.

Dr. S. told me to up my insulin from 18 morning, 10 night; to 18 morning, 18 at night, and call him again on Thursday.

This is exhausting. I just want to get these goddamn numbers back on track before I get another fucking yeast infection.

This is like some kind of fifth ring of hell.

Jagged Little Pill

When my computer(s) died, I lost a lot of music along with them, and have been re-installing music piecemeal. Yesterday I finally re-burned a copy of Alanis Morissette's first album, Jagged Little Pill.

And I was reminded of what I love it so much.

Oh, sure, she got the "you must be a femi-nazi bitch who hates men" label after this album, which secrely pleased me. I love You Outta Know. I think it's the star of the album, though every single other song ain't bad either.

I was surprised to read this piece (scroll down) over at The Hathor Legacy that, while affirming the fanasticness of the album, expresses frustration about the rap Alanis got for this album, and particularly, for You Outta Know. She argues that there are a lot of really powerful songs besides You Outta Know on the album (which is true), and that Alanis got tagged as an evil, angry woman unfairly, and you should look at the album as a whole, and blah blah basically "Hey, she's not *just* an angry woman! She's a talented artist!"

It's really shitty that we feel we have to defend angry women by pointing out that they're really great artists (I'm trying to think of angry men whose artistic talent gets overlooked because they're too "angry" and I'm not coming up with anyone. Feel free to correct me). But I don't want to defend angry women artists by saying they "aren't as angry as you think they are."

I WANT her to be that angry. That's what I fucking love about You Outta Know and the album as a whole. All of sudden there's all this honest emotion: not cutesy little, "Oh, I love you and all the shiny flowers even though you cheated on me" crap, but real, "I cared about you and you fucked me over you asshole" anger. And "I thought this relationship was something it really wasn't" anger. And "this isn't quite the life I was looking for" anger.

Anger is good.

Lack of anger and frustration actually really turned me off the second album. Not that I *hated* her second album, but it doesn't connect with me the way Jagged Little Pill does. I mean, maybe once you make a lot of money and run off to India for a few years, you aren't angry anymore. But, you know, Pink has a lot of money, and I think she had some great ass-kicking songs in I'm Not Dead.

I don't want to feel I have to defend an artist cause she's angry. I want to go, "She's really angry! Isn't that cool!?"

Because it is cool. What nobody seems to get is that the flipside of anger is often sadness; anger is just a more powerful way to express oneself than sadness (and more socially acceptable among men. Men are encouraged to get angry instead of being sad. Women are just supposed to be sad). If you want to know what the song's really about, try listening to You Outta Know again - particulary the slow, sad, alternate take she did at the Grammies.

That'll stop your heart.

But most days, I prefer the pissed-off version. Most days, it feels truer. And it's telling the truth that's going to connect with people; or piss them off.

Gormenghast

You know what the *real* problem is with the BBC production of Gormenghast?

The problem is, Jonathan Rhys-Meyers is really fucking hot, and the director even manages to employ several ingenious ways of getting gratuitious shots of JRM without his shirt on. OK, yea, that's good, I know. But here's the bad part:

JRM plays a Sneering Villain. And Sneering Villains: not so hot. So while I sigh and squirm over the long, lingering shot of JRM's beautiful bare back and shoulders, I am then thrown out of said reverie the moment he turns around and *sneers*.

Blast!

Can't somebody please put him in more roles like the one in Bend It Like Beckham instead of Misogynist Jerk #4 in Vanity Fair? I have the same problem with Ryan Gosling. I found him incredibly repugnant in Murder By Numbers, and then wanted to leap out of my chair and drag him home after The Notebook. I'm wondering if this is the real mark of a good actor: they can transcend their good looks, so you'll find them appealing or disgusting based entirely on their performance, and not based purely on their looks.

This is why I couldn't watch Red Eye, either, though Jenn loved it. Not only is the uber-cute and lovely Rachel McAdams getting terrorized (and the idea of Rachel McAdams getting terrorized makes me want to run out and save her!), but the Bad Guy is Cillian Murphy, who I mooned over (once he shaved) in 28 Days Later, but is far, far less appealing as a Crazy Jerk.

Bad guys just aren't sexy.

Blast!

And I still have one whole disk of Gormenghast to go....

The Workouts Will Continue Until the Sugar Improves

::Snarl::

Quote of the Day

“If you act like a rock star, people will treat you like a rock star.”
- Marilyn Manson