Happy belated Wednesday birthday to vladimirsever, who is now in Singapore. Not really belated, though, because I wished him hippo birdy, two ewes plenty of times on the day itself.
God, I hate calling for pizza. I hate using the phone at all, really. It's one thing if it's Mom or Sister Girl or The Lovely Emily on the other end, but... if I do not/did not live with you or did not go to school with you, it's really, really hard for me. Like, ordering goods and services? ARGHHHHH. And the stupid part is, I'm usually fine once I've forced myself at gunpoint to dial the number or answer the phone. (And it's really difficult to force yourself to do something at gunpoint, I tell you what.) So I managed to order the pizza. But having to call for it myself really took all the fun out of it.
I am so tired. I keep reminding myself that I was under a lot of stress for weeks--months--at a stretch there, and it's time for a vacation--literally, a period of "vacating." I tried to type up some notes for a Batman/15M, but the urgency seemed gone, you know? Still, that's probably the one I'm going to do next. (It definitely helps that I have the script on hand. I'm so spoiled from having the DVDs at beck and call for the book.) I still want to do Sin City, though--I saw it a second time expressly for that purpose--and I want to do Star Wars, but I'm concerned about doing ROTS now and giving away half the jokes in AOTC in the book, you know? But I don't know. I'll see what I can do.
I'm back online on my own computer now, Betsy 2.0. While a lot of (fairly crucial, actually) documents and bookmarks are still trapped on the old computer with the blown-out monitor (so old, it doesn't even have the right plugs for my flatscreen), I've basically got that "new" computer I ordered late last summer up and running as my primary setup. It's so weird to have internet AND sound on the same computer--I keep forgetting that I can actually watch a trailer if I download it. Also, I can upload music for you guys, because the computer with the internet and the computer with the vast majority of my mp3s are now one and the same! Whee! Finally the two are being consolidated!
Speaking of music: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Official "Cells" instrumental from The Servant's website! Sign up for their mailing list, watch your inbox (and junk mail), and when they send you the password, you can get to it.
Part of the reason it took me so long to get back online was that the problem was twofold: first my monitor blew out. Thus, the one computer I had that did have an internet connection--well, I couldn't see it. So I went downstairs to the other computer (yes, we have two separate internet accounts, one cable and one DSL. It was cheaper than routing two computers on two different stories together, and Charter gave us a package deal with the digital cable. Long story), and the cable decides to be stupid. Seriously, it went down right as I was trying to beta and fact-check the last two parodies for the book, and you know how down to the wire it was at that point. We called Charter. They promised to send someone with a new modem, since ours had been giving us problems like this for a long time. I waited a full week while the cable dithered in and out. At one point, I had my mother email in a draft, which was just embarrassing. Seven days later, I get a call from the cable guy, who says, "Uh, so, we had a big outage in your area, and, we, uh, fixed it. Bye!" WHAT? WHERE IS OUR NEW MODEM? HELLO? BUELLER?
Meanwhile, we called Bellsouth about installing the internet on my other computer, because I didn't have the installation disk (rule of thumb: if there is a piece of software needed, I will have lost it). Well, they didn't want to send me another one, again, so they said... they'd send me a new upgraded modem with a disk. And... somehow... I'm supposed to feel chastised, I guess. So that comes in while we're still dicking around with the cable, and I try to install it. But I know that first, I must switch out the old computer with the new computer, because if I'm going to have to root around behind the new computer to install the modem, I may as well have the monitors and keyboards of preference and whatever sorted out first.
This takes three hours.
I am not kidding. Part of the problem is that my old monitor was something like 19 inches (on sale! six
Shit. If I want to get back on the old computer--and I can, for about two seconds at a time--I'm going to need the old monitor. Which is now blocking the door ten feet away. Smugly.
("YOU IMBECILE! PTOLEMY WILL HEAR ABOUT THIS!")
Three hours, people. I won't even go into the saga of The Flatscreen That Would Not Turn On Even Though All I Did Was Unplug The Cords, Pull Them Behind The Desk, And Plug Them Back Into The Same Places. I was saved from a psychotic break when Em called me about going to see Batman ("Yeah, I can be ready in--well, give me twenty minutes. I need to shower off the sweat of RAGE").
I had a strange dream that I was in one of Sister Girl's cooking classes, and for the final, we had to roast an entire... swan. Like a Thanksgiving turkey. Only... with a swan. The swan lay flopped out on its back, and it was huge. Giant wings, y'all. For whatever reason, I had no idea what I was doing. (I mean, you'd think that if I was in her class, the dream would have given me some context for that. But no, I was as clueless as I would actually be in real life if I got sent there in her place.) So I was paging through this book being like, "Shit, where's the recipe for swan?!," and my grandmother (?) was sitting on a table (?) beside me, trying to be helpful. I'm not sure that she was. Also, we were in the gym of my elementary school. Strangely? I don't think this dream was about the computer at all. I think it was about the book.
So. Next day. I try to install the modem. I KNOW I did everything right because the installation wizard assumes, delightfully, that you have the IQ of a breath mint, and thank God, because sometimes I do. Like, it has an actual sound recording that's like, "Now, plug the yellow cord into the back of your computer. No, not there--no, you have to turn the plug in sideways--really, now, it's like a phone cord, you have to press in the tab on the side--look, if you're too dumb to use the yellow cord, we'll just use the blue cord, all right?" So I KNOW I did it right.
"PASSWORD ERROR? What do you mean, PASSWORD ERROR?"
The only solution is to... call tech support. Now, we have established how I feel about calling for goods and/or services. It had already taken me about, oh, three or four days before I decided that... uh... it was good computer-moving weather. Yes. Or perhaps it was bad weather for family members' cable connections that didn't feel like working, the bastards. I had been anxious about the trials and travails of switching out the computers, and it turned out even worse than I expected. But Anyway, I bit the bullet and called. And of course I get someone I can't understand. And of course it takes forty-five minutes of not understanding her. You know what the best part was? The password I had written down was my mother's name and a three-digit number (I inherited the DSL account when my parents got the cable). The password they gave me? A four-digit number. That's all. I have no idea where the hell that came from. So now, after much sorrow and much toil, I am back online for the forseeable future. Huzzah and woot.
We were watching the trailers in front of Batman Begins last weekend (and I should note here that War of the Worlds looks like the most depressing summer blockbuster ever. Ever. Particularly if they're following the end of the original, because it means that... spoiler: >>nothing mankind does to defend itself does any good at all, and it's only pure dumb biological luck that the aliens are felled by a simple virus or whatever<<), and after the movie Em turns to me in the car and says, "You know, War of the Worlds and The New World are basically the same movie."
"Except that [spoiler?] the virus kills the invaders in one and kills the natives in the other."
I should add here that I had totally forgotten everything I knew about The New World, except that Colin Farrell + fourteen-year-old actress = the boding of ill. (He's Captain Smith, she's Pocahontas.) And I had always wondered why, if the "love affair" of John Smith and Pocahontas was so legendary (sez Peggy Lee, anyway), why'd she end up with that John Rolfe guy? And then I see the trailer, and I realize that "John Rolfe" is "Christian Bale," and SUDDENLY IT ALL MAKES SENSE. Wow! History explained! Thanks, Terence Malick!
While I was resolutely waiting for good computer-moving weather, I read Everything's Eventual, the most recent Stephen King story collection. Like a lot of people, I like his short stories the best, but it's funny--I think he's become a much, much better writer over the years, but his earlier stories, where he's mostly writing about the Maine locals, are creepier, I think. He's a lot more philosophical now (see "Riding the Bullet," which is still really good), and a lot more psychological. There are fewer giant eyeless rats under the old mill, if you see what I'm saying, and I kind of miss the weird, dark charge those stories have.
The irony here is that I liked a story like "1408" a lot more when it was still in the psychological realm--the manager of the hotel pleading with the writer not to go in, the first few minutes the writer examines the door and then the interiors of the room, and so on. Once the walls started melting, I was just like, "Oh, whatever." The tape recording also had sort of a failed House of Leaves vibe--I think King probably should have stuck with that angle and obscured more of what actually happened in the room, because once the walls started melting, I started thinking more in terms of special effects than "It could happen to me the next time I'm in a hotel." But that's the thing--his writing's good enough now that any missteps stand out in pretty clear relief, whereas his earlier stories were creakier, but you tended to question them less. So I don't know.
Mmmjewelry. Too bad I don't have money to splurge at the moment. Sadface.
God! You toothy, crackheaded little man.
The Missing Days of Katie Holmes. Cree. Pee.
EEEEEEEEEE! EE! EE! EEEEEE!
Brain Cells 'Recognize' Famous People
In one case, a single cell was activated by different photos of Berry, including some in her "Catwoman" costume, a drawing of her and even the words, "Halle Berry."What the hell kind of evil experiment was this? "Not Catwoman again, no! Please--NOT CATWOMAAAAAAAAAN!" "Nurse? Fetch the pictures from Gigli." "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
More later; that right there was a lot to catch up on as it was.