every martyr in this jungle

Dear JJ Abrams,

Please to be making more Star Trek movies ANY TIME, preferably very soon. Also, tell Zachary Quinto my husband is willing to share.

xoxo,
-Jules

If updating while drunk is hard, trying to not die from each report of the keyboard because one's head is already a massive hangover-induced ache is next to impossible. Blargh. It was just beer! Granted it was a lot, but I drank water like I'm supposed to. We even had 5 a.m. breakfast at Waffle House! Mmm, pecan waffle.

Ahem. In any event, Friday lab was largely pleasant, with my minder showing a penchant for South Park, though she did consider making Cartman the FAA spokesman, so the extent of her knowledge is debatable. But the kids in there just don't seem to be learning what I've told them at least twice. No specifics in the lead, especially names unless the person has public figure status. Make them single sentences. Attribute properly. Basic stuff. And yet, here we are.

Mike and I blew off the world that afternoon to see Thumbsucker. I need to remember that indie, quirky cinema is not for me, even if it does have Vincent D'Onofrio, Keanu Reeves and Tilda Swinton in it. It's somewhat ironic, unless that was the point, that the character I walked away understanding the least was the lead. It's also interesting that I have the opposite philosophy with regard to my cinema - escapism - than fanfic - realism. In the theater, I like the improbable; in fic, I demand grounding in canon for events and characterizations. Hm.

Saturday was a mess of South Park. We officially have all but maybe two or three of my favorite episodes on the DVR, making investment in a writer imperative. That show is amazingly clever, just weird, offensive, relevant, petty, hilarious, horrifying, delightfully depressing and smart, in turns and, of course, in their own ways. Guilty pleasures include The Losing Edge, Good Times With Weapons, Raisins, Fat Butt and Pancake Head, and You Got F*ucked in the Ass but even then, there's almost always something redeeming about the episode.

In alarming technological news, if commercials are to be believed, there's now a car out there (sorry, can't find a link for the life of me and don't remembr the make/model) that calls up your service shop when it has a problem. Big Brother liek woah. Also, this. Me and robots, man. The wax sculptures at Madame Tussaud's were freaky enough, but to have them move and talk? [meep]

( I work at the Alligator, as you may have heard. )

I crawled unwillingly from my bed at 2 p.m. but only until I got to the sofa and found Down With Love had just started on Cinemax. Frankly, everyone I lamentably listened to who didn't outright love this movie was smoking the bad crack. Ewan McGregor owns a piece of my soul, he truly does, especially when he sings. Though Renee Zellwegger was outacted at a few turns, which is dumbfounding, the plot was genius, the execution delightful, and the resolution on point. It's smart, funny, and (ultimately) escapes the misogenism underlying so many romantic comedies.

As far as the rest of the night, in brief as that is all it deserves, Opinions Editor Emily has a management concern to discuss, she should do it with an iota of maturity and ask Mike and I into his office rather than pitch a loud hissy fit in the middle of the newsroom. Grr. Especially if she's going to make false accusations and suggest that changing a letter-writer's point is better than taking out the letter without consulting her. Also, news needs to not happen after budget, but if it must, please do so before 9 p.m. so we can write a reasonable story and pull and stretch content like so much warm taffy to make it fit, because at 10:30, it would take the falling of all the stars above to make some such thing happen.

Have I mentioned the mouse that lives in the Alligator production office? It ventures out occasionally - Mike claims to have seen it in his office - but it's of frightening proportions if the amount of noise it makes scurrying above the ceiling panels are any indication.

In conclusion, as well as a fit of unfathomable shallowness, has it been mentioned that the Japanese prime minister is a very handsome man? Ditto for Tony Blair, who also wears great ties. Mmm, politicians. And wow have I got to be warped to say that. In that same fit of impropriety, insert your own quips here (by the way, the fourth image result from my Google image search of Tony Blair turned up a manip of him kissing Dubya. Heh. But I mean, when they're this happy to see each other, the stuff kind of writes itself.)

EDIT: Wow. If that's not a classic clandestine moment, I don't know what is. Also, Bwah! A government-issue cotillion! [heart]

SON OF EDIT: Why is this new to me? [dies]

That's the thing about running into old friends or colleagues (if you can apply that term to middle school acquaintances) after not having seen them for a few years: it's almost like you've stepped into the Twilight Zone where they seemingly just went from gawky little boy to grown legal adult. You almost need to touch them to make sure they're real.

Lucky for me, this apparition insisted on holding my hand.

For the entire ride from Stonebrook to the towing lot, he held my left hand with our fingers laced, giving it a gentle squeeze every once in a while along with a glance of reassurance that everything would be fine. I guess he figured I was still stupid from the weed, which had for the record worn off about half an hour ago and all that remained was a heightened fascination with the world around me, which at that point consisted of his strong hand enveloping my own. When had he gotten so big? He was always short, scrawny Billy with the glasses and the quirky demeanor - when had he become this protective, even mature person?

Don't get me wrong, he hadn't become a diametric opposite of who he was - still all about the ladies, eager to please, wisecracking, easily chagrined, good-natured and out to have a good time - but somewhere in there he'd gotten rather very handsome, and with that, he acquired this newfound self-assurance to back up his already manifest tendency to invade the personal space of said women. He knows he's good-looking and knows he can press certain buttons and reap advantages because of that - he so got off on being the protective male while we drove, whispering assurances that everything would be fine, not to worry, that he would stay with me until everything was taken care of, all the while holding my hand. Did I mention that part? Have I mentioned that the right kind of handholding can be incredibly erotic? In any event, it was a very amusing to touch and feel attracted to what amounts to a figment of my imagination.