March 13th, 2003


I love my dead gay icon.

And how he's always looking over his shoulder at me and smoldering.

Hey! I sired a childe! I'm so proud. Sniff. I look forward to seeing her mature until she's ripping out people's throats and collecting minions and, much later perhaps, brooding soulfully. As we do here in LJland. You know, I do have other other LJ codes. Who else wants one, hmm? CC? Nonnie? (See, I remember the little people my anonymous posters. I am not a total loser.)

ros_fod says interesting things about last night's "Angel," including some insightful stuff about the AI philosophy of dispensing justice.

I sit here in bed, unwashed and rather hungry, working from home. Contemplating the three-day old pizza in my fridge. Kind of needing to pee.


Because I never do that.

There is also no chocolate in the house and this is wrong. I feel a very strong intimation that I will be boring today. And perhaps bored. I think I will go take a quick break and reread unapologetic smut, and ponder why it is I hate the word "dildo" and yet like what it *is*. In my dirtier fantasies, I mean. It gets people stuffed. If dildos were all made of polished wood or ivory and called fylia, or some such wispy, vaguely Latinate name, we'd find them much more "erotic" instead of "porny."

Porn. Dildo. Today on Fun With Words!


So, I always used to wonder how certain people got so many comments on their posts, and then I started to notice that numbers really add up when the LJ owner actually comments *back*. Strange but true: people will talk to you if you talk back.

Food for thought, food for thought. (Said in contemplative, Jack Handy-like tones.)

I should mention that my rabid, sudden sociability has a lot to do with how little I'm writing, which--when it's working--is an incredibly unsocial mode for me. I'm sure I'll sink back into the wordwork sooner or later, a mute termite gnawing tirelessly at the prose of tomorrow!

I *could* have left that analogy incomplete. But that would be wrong.

As I was getting my garlic toast and garbage potatoes (weekly cheese quota met! yay!), a memory surfaced of the first time I watched Raiders of the Lost Ark and saw that scene with the spiders--you know, how they go to the cave and the guide turns around and all of a sudden we see his back crawling with hairy, busy, ANGRY ANGRY ANGRY spiders. My thought at that time was: I will never, ever be an archaeologist.

Movies have stranger and stronger effects on us than we realize. Jaws gave me a lifelong fear of being immersed in deep water. Death Trap made me realize for the first time, I think, that homoerotic content could be explicit and "approved" by Hollywood. Aliens made me realize I could empathize with a female, ass-kicking action hero--until then, I'd been totally a boyfan. I'd never even *seen* female action heroes, not in a serious way. And she was still so very much a woman--maternal, for one thing, yeah, but also recongizable as a mirror of me. You know, like, when she's going down in the elevator and getting ready to blow her way through the nest, she gears up, and then she pushes her hair back. Not in a femmey way, but not in a guy way, either. I can't even really describe it--it was just so perfect.

I should be able to think of other influential movies, but my terrible memory strikes again and I can't.

How convincing is it, I wonder, when one bleats and blushes about the shame of one's own kinks and then reveals them anyway? kormantic asked me to post some of the stuff still on my hard drive, and since I was home, I briefly switched computers to see if there was anything interesting left. Sadly, there wasn't! But I did find a story snippet I hadn't mentioned, an old Sentinel kink-piece, scribbled in a wanky, unedited way, not all that good. The file name was "anon_kink," which brought it all rushing back, reminding me that I had been considering--for the first time ever--posting anonymously under a pseud. It's a pretty embarrassing piece of writing, in its way, kind of a pony-kink thing, and if you've read Anne Rice's pseudy "A. N. Roquelaure" stories, you'll know what I mean. I can't make this shit up, you know. It finds its way to me.

And all that said, I feel kind of queasy about the idea of posting it. It's not all *that* bad, yeah, but somehow there's a difference between talking about one's fantasies--Spike in a whorehouse! blinded by elves! raped by wolves!--and actually *fictionalizing* that kind of stuff. And shouldn't I listen to my nausea and keep it to myself?

Oh, hell no. You're all freaks, and you love this kind of shit.

(Except for those of you who don't, and who should go read something else, like say Beauty and the Beast, and not say things that will make me cry like a little bitch.)

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Syrian golden hamster

No, that's just random.

Argh: how sad is it that I am sad "Charmed" is not on tonight? Basketball. Damn them.

And there's no one in chat, and no new posts are appearing on my friends list, and nothing stirs my mind with the desire to post at length, and oh fuck, this means...

I may actually have to go *write* something.

A sense of disquiet unnerves me. I think perhaps--yes--I will find a reason to get up and go into the kitchen. I think, a soda.



I just had an extremely strange moment. I walked into the living room, and glanced at the TV, and my heart skipped and revved up into almost frantic excitement--it was just some very ordinary scene from "Spiral," but for about three seconds my brain flashed messages to me: Oh my god, there's Xander! And Spike! And Buffy! They're on my TV! In color--and it's real, they're acting out stuff--they've *filmed* stuff of Spike and Xander and Buffy, and the entire Scooby gang! And the characters are *exactly* like I pictured them! It's so exciting!

It was as if I'd become so accustomed to a reduced, recontextualized Buffyverse that exists in my head and as words on a page, that I'd entirely forgotten that they actually filmed over six seasons' worth of episodes. With, like, actors.

Clearly? I need to watch more television.


gratuitous buffy post

There really is nothing more beautiful than that hospital scene in "Weight of the World" when Spike walks up to Giles and Xander, all roughed up and pretty, and tells them about Doc. And Xander and Giles just drink in everything he says, both of them privately thinking, "My *god*, you're shaggable," and then Spike lights a cigarette right in front of the "No Smoking" sign and he and Xander walk off together, two yummy boy-creatures on the hoof, and they have the Ben-and-Glory conversation for, like, the tenth time. And Spike whacks him and they both wince, and then they're *joined* at the hip practically as they leave. Like buddies.