Endless Night

Yeah, so I'm a bad sleeper. Wait a second . . . nope, I'm an excellent sleeper. If I recollect rightly, I was last clocked at 18 hours of uninterrupted pillow time. Once I'm down, I'm out -- nothing to see here, move it along, drool is not pretty people. My problem is actually falling asleep, that's where the timesuck lives, and all because of my stupid brain. I mean, don't get me wrong -- I like my brain and all. It's gotten me out of some tight spots (sometimes a little too well) and we work okay together as a team, but sometimes I wish it would just shut up so I could get back to killing it with beer. Figuratively.


It yaks a lot, my brain, and often there are things I don't wanna hash out, especially not at three in the morning thank you very much. I realize that most people refer to this particular condition as really bloody neurotic but I'm not sure if that's the technical term. Anyway, I've found that the best treatment for my nighttime trips to the set of Bring In da Head Noise, Bring In No Sleep is to distract myself until Hypnos smacks me upside the head with his big velvet hammer. Mostly I use books for this, escapism at its finest, a time-honored tradition in weetzieland. Sometimes TV works, unless I'm really tired -- then everything works. Car ride, boring lecture, hand in my pants . . . all equally effective.

I hear you out there in bloggerland, don't think I can't, and I know what you're saying. But weetzie, sez you, did you, like, have a fuckin point? Hmmm, lemme check my other pants. Oh yeah! So, it's hard for me to fall asleep, right? And last night I stayed up until 1:30 or so, cuz the old noggin was crankin away, and I was still on the couch when the good old BF wandered downstairs on his way to work. (Yes. At 1:30 am. I know! Freaks you out huh?) I knew it was past my bedtime so I smooched the boy and staggered upstairs, hit the lights, and commenced relaxation. I could do this. What about some deep breathing? It's gotta help.

I'm all sacked out at this point, breathing my head off. I know it's gonna happen! Oh Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream! Is that you Mr. Sandman? Wow, you sound awful angry. And you're not quite here yet, your voice is too far away. I think you're outside . . . hey, I think you're outside my bedroom window. I'm on the second floor so you must be talking pretty loud for me to be able to hear you. And you seem to be a woman. Well, hey, no big deal there, who cares? In fact, I like women. Are you hot? Just kidding. But why don't you come here so I can get some shuteye? On second thought, never mind, you're too angry. In fact, you sound like some drunk bitch ranting into her cell in my parking lot! Busted! SHUT THE FUCK UP! I can't believe you don't shuttup!

Round about that time last night I seriously considered hurling myself at the window and screaming the above one-sided cuckoopants conversation through the screen. I also thought about just shouting "could you keep it down please?" and taking it from there. But jeezus, this woman had enough problems. She was definitely, um, exuberant to say the least. She had the beverage-based energy that don't come from no can labeled Rock Star. And somebody sure pissed this chick off. I didn't get his name but I think it started with F and rhymed with Duckface. I didn't wanna be next on her list, and I was sure complaining would guarantee my spot. I was just too tired for any more bullshit. And after a little while she shut up and went away to sleep it off, which I hope worked out for her, because god knows I've been to Belligerent Drunkenland, in fact I think I had a short stint as the queen. It's all kind of hazy but there may have been a mock turtle. And I woke up this morning in plenty of time to get everything done, cuz I don't have work today and there's sunshine and life is just fine. Like it usually is.

I just my head could be dealt with as easily.

Beware Scout Niblet!

I understand now why loud music can be used for torture in Guantanamo Bay for I was assaulted last night by the atonal postmodern noise that one Scout Niblet passes as her "art". I did this in the interest of the main act, Rainer Maria, whom my husband has a strong fancy for and I was attempting to make peace with. Cover at the Mews had been paid, and I was not going to throw in the towel just because some stoned, half-wit Brit, thinking she was the next Cat Power or PJ Harvey, couldn't figure out the line between artistic and assaultive feedback. I would like to rename her Cat Piss, due to her ability to take the worst qualities of both the previously mentioned artists and combine them into one nonmusical, gutrending sound. Oh, and when after her set I happened to meet her in the bathroom, I swear that's what she smelled like. I spent much of her set with my pointer fingers snuggly plugging my ears and wishing it would end. When the lyrics of one song related, "We're all going to die," I thought, "You before me, please," or alternatively, "If only that would be now." Rarely have I been so audially offended. There were moments I had to stifle the urge to throw my pint glass at her head, which at the time seemed the most immediately convenient physical manifestation of returning the favor.

Surviving the Niblet, I enjoyed Rainer Maria's show, though it was short. The new album sounds to be one of their most listenable creations to date. Previously I had been lacking enthusiasm due to the lead singer's disregard of musical key in her singing. But--happy day!--she's apparently invested in singing lessons and now manages to maintain her heavy, yell-like quality while still meeting expectations for pitch. Furthermore, they were incredibly fun to watch. She was a cross between Jennifer Grey and Veronica Mars, complete with pseudo-80's fashion sense. The lead guitarist jumped around and danced like he loved this thing he was doing, and the drummer, though stuck behind his set, was equally excited by the music they were making. The joy was contageous.

I hope that with this new album, my husband and I will no longer have verbal sparrings whenever he wants to listen to them in the car. Now if only I could get him on board with the Rufus Wainwright...

World of Warcrack

The first time is free--10 days trial period, borrow the game discs from a friend, and you're on your way to addiction.

This is nothing new. Everquest invented the MMORG addiction; World of Warcraft just refined it, made it more accessible for the masses.

Two weeks before Christmas, our so-called friends convinced us to try it out. We were hooked after two sessions of play and got the official subscription the day before our trials ran out. For Christmas two of those "friends" gifted us 60-day subscription cards, so now we're set till May.

My main character is a 21st level rogue with skinning and leatherworking. She has a fishing skill of 75. She's named after Gillian Anderson and the protagonist of a fantasy novel called Daggerspell.

The game is fun. There's no doubt about that. I imagine heroin is fun too, but most people are better off without personal knowledge of that fact.

I'm getting less sleep. My other interests are falling by the wayside. But I'm not as bad as one of my friends. He's getting up an hour earlier to get some play in before work. The game devours our time and then cries for more.

The worst is the guilt of passing on the addiction and becoming that "so-called" friend. We've officially hooked in one and have passed the free trial on to two more. I have mixed feelings about it, knowing that I may have handed a friend the gun she will now shoot herself with.

But I'm trying not to focus on the negative...
WTB [Light Leather] x10

Jazz choir goes old school, Nintendo style!

So I'm sitting in my study, preparing discussion questions for Heart of Darkness and minding my own business, and then I hear it, the vocal sound that is distinctly jazz choirian. Why is my husband listening to this, I ask myself, knowing that he is generally adverse to jazz in all forms?

But then I realize the song, what seems to be a tinny, bouncy number, has changed to an ominous, deep beeping sound. A brain synapse goes off, and I see in the back of my mind an 8-bit plumber falling into a sewer system. The choir is rendering the music of Super Mario Bros. I jump up to join my husband in watching the choir procede to tackle "Chill" from Dr. Mario, Tetris, Mortal Kombat, and Legend of Zelda before its all over.

Now you can share the love: Nintendo Choir

Serenity offers what the Star Wars prequels failed to deliver

I am blown away. I knew I would like Serenity if only the movie held mostly true to the show. But this reincarnation of Firefly truly deserves to become the next great sci-fi franchise.

It offers everything the Star Wars prequels lacked in abundance:

1. Characters to care about.
   I know I was supposed to care about Anakin and Amidala and the rest, but ultimately I couldn't give a rat's hinney. I loved Leia, Han, Luke, Chewie, and the rest in the originals, and I wanted to love the new gang, but I was never given a reason to. Not so with Serenity. These are lovable characters with strengths and flaws and honest sympatheticness. Their choices have consequences that make them important. They are the regular folk, just trying to keep flying, not wanting to be heroes, not wanting to change the universe (anymore). But they're put in those 'verse-changing situations and are forced to make hard choices.


2. Real-life grit.
   Remember in the original trilogy how the Millenium Falcon was dirty and half the time failed to jump to lightspeed? Lucas forgot the tactile grittiness when he made the prequels, but Joss Whedon didn't. Serenity, the ship, stays in the air with spit and love and the talent of a natural whiz mechanic. There is grease and grime and tangibility because of it. It feels real. And that goes for the rest of the 'verse. It is engrossingly realized. There's none of this one planet, one ecosystem simplicity of, say, Hoth or Dagobah. Joss' vision never lacks complexity. It feels homey and lived in.


3. Good writing.
   There's nothing like Joss dialogue. It's witty and real and intelligent. It mixes the old with the new and the invented. It feels natural, unlike the heavy-handed dialogue of the prequels. Even the original Star Wars films were critiqued for their clunky writing. Serenity sparkles in its writing, and the characters shine because of it.


4. High excitement and tension.
   Maybe it was just me, but I was falling asleep during the prequels. The opposite was true with Serenity. The second time I saw Serenity, the film seemed to fly by me. I tensely held my husband's hand both times, holding my breath during particularly gripping scenes. The fact that there are real consequences for our crew mean that the tension holds true. It builds to a point where I truly wondered whether my beloved heroes would make it out of this.


5. FUN.
   The movie's just plain fun to watch. It's a helluva ride, there are a number of surprises, and no shortage of humor.

Go see it. It is worth every penny. It is the most engrossing pulp adventure since 1980's The Empire Strikes Back. I should know. That was the last time I fell in love like this.