359° Away From Cool

I'm beginning to think I may have a few more readers than I suspect. To get to my stories (both Simon and Poo stories), go to my LJ profile page and bring up my memories. They've all been saved under the "stories" category.

Also, a summary of the Simon-and-Cade universe and backstory can be found here, and the stories are all arranged chronologically here.

So, simply ages ago (that is to say: July) I wandered into Fashion Bug, on account of I can easily walk there from work and I needed clothes for work. And on one trip, I encountered this dress:

And I thought it was just lovely, but not really at all me, and also I had nowhere to wear it, and besides it was $50, which would mean, like, 5 manga, and I just wasn't willing to do that. Wargh.

But secretly, I was having a love affair with this dress. The shiny! The pink! The ruffles! Eeee! The $50! Ooooh...

At any rate, I drifted down to FB again last week, and discovered that they still had one of this dress, one size larger than I needed it, on clearance for $15. And yes, I can afford $15. And honestly, it's pretty easy to do tiny alterations on something too big to make it a little smaller, and it freakin' ties in the back anyway, so that's convenient.

And therefore I also bought a black bolero jacket to go over it, so my total purchase was about $20 and is like this:

Anyway, the point is, I got it home (after trying it on in the store), put it on again, pranced around for a while, and discovered that it doesn't actually look particularly good on me. Basically, the skirt-pleats are at an odd place on me (granted, if you know anything about my anatomy, MOST places are an odd place on me), and make me look lumpy.

This realization inspired a few minutes of intense depression and naval-gazing, at which point I decided that I DON'T REALLY CARE.

Like, seriously. What's the main problem? It doesn't make me look thinner? Well, who says the sole purpose of all of my clothes is to make me look thinner? (All right, it was a trick question: everyone says that. Every magazine. Every fashion program.) But, like, do I have to care about that? How about I opt out for a while?

It's not like I'm somehow going to convince people that I'm suddenly slim. So, does a "good" outfit mean that it makes me, a size 20, look like a size 18?

And it's not like the dress makes me look bad. Grey, for example, makes me look bad, by which I mean severely jaundiced. This dress doesn't make me look ill or anything. Basically, it makes me look like a cute size 22 instead of my usual 20.

But I think that's balanced out by the cute. Like, cute 22 > average 20. (Okay, that's a cultural fail. Culturally, 22 < 20, although both of them need to stop with the fast food and don't they know they are the cause of The Fatty Epidemic? So screw them anyway.)

Anyway, I hope this isn't just a gateway realization on the slippery slope to frumpiness. But I think that, from now on, I will pick my clothes based more on if I love them and find them adorable beyond words, and less on whether they make me look "skinny".

Craziness at the store today. I shall just touch upon it briefly, because even thinking about it exhausts me.

Disclaimer: I was actually only around briefly for part of this incident. The rest of it was patched in from my co-workers, who sort of kept an eye on it in shifts.

The players for this incident were a guy, his wife, their toddler son, our resident pair of belligerent lesbians, and some old woman. We've vaguely encountered the guy and the old woman before, in a store sort of way, and we don't particularly like either of 'em.

Anyway. Apparently, the kid throws a fit in the store, we think because he couldn't have a toy. Like,seriously a fit. 'Cause we can hear him wailing all over the store, and we're all getting that glazed trying-not-to-kill-people look. Eventually the guy takes the kid outside to tantrum, where apparently the kid throws himself down on the ground and wails for a while longer.

Enter old woman. She goes over the kid to make sure he's okay. The guy at some point goes off about how she needs to leave his kid alone 'cause she's, like, a child molester or something. And she points out that it's his kid that's lying on the ground screaming, and that this is because he's abusive.

(Note: There is nowhere good that the exchange can go from here.)

Eventually the guy goes back inside, since his wife is still in there. At some point the old woman comes in, too. So they scream at each other some more, around the store. Then she tries to make one of our cashiers call the police, which doesn't work because 1) they're intercoms. Good luck calling anyone on 'em, and 2) we hate you both. So they both stomp out again.

(At this point, I actually was up front. And wow, let me tell you, there's nothing like standing at the front of a store holding three bags of money while two wildly unstable people scream at each other while heading towards you. Hello, adrenaline.)

I left again at this point, on account of holding many hundreds of dollars and feeling awkward and mildly unsafe. From what we can patch together she got his plate number and then went next door to call the police. Now, I'm pretty sure their phone policy is something like ours, so it's hard to tell what lie she used. She came back talking on a cell phone, though, now that I think about it, maybe they called her BS, too.

So, she calls the police and, since she's called the police, the guy sticks around too. Also, his wife. And our two belligerent lesbians, who are totally on the guy's side, although how anybody can be on the side of either of two such repellent creatures I do not know. Although the BLs are reasonably repellent, too, so maybe there was some fellow-feeling there.

At some point the cops actually showed up, got all of the repellent people's names and such, and kicked them out for us. And it was quiet once again.

Points of interest:

1) There was a visiting manager wandering around our store. By "wandering", I mean "watching with interest, after calling someone on his cell phone, and also taking notes on a notepad". So someone will probably try to get us into some trouble.

2) Some woman complained. To us. That there was a disturbance. "Well, frankly ma'am, I'd shoot 'em both right here and now, but I left my semi-automatic in my other trousers, and besides the cleaning guys don't come until tomorrow morning, and by then the blood will be all congealed and we'd have the strip the wax from the floors. So I can't do that." I especially like it when they complain to our 5'3", size 1, 24-year-old female floor person. What, you think she's gonna wade in there and give 'em a talking to? Really?

So, I was in a silly mood, and do not work tomorrow, and was wondering what Sammy and Vek are up to (crap, have I not introduced Sammy and Vek yet? Oh dear). So here's this: happy belated birthday, J.

Anyway, Sammy and Vek are from a new story I'm working on, tentatively entitled "The Devil You Know", although I'm certain that will change with stunning regularity (I mean, it took me years to get the arc titles for Simon's stuff worked out). At any rate, this new one is a rather skewed take on the usual misogyny-and-swords sort of D&D-type fantasy writing. I am making a vague attempt to keep it linear, and non-short-story-ish, but this is me, and so far I've got the first chapter and the last chapter written, so we'll see how it goes.

So, the characters in the story thus far are:

Sammæl - a demon. Well, not actually a demon in the afterlife sense, more in the human-superstition sense. Sammy is tall, athletic and reserved (to say the least), and has some sort of fire-based magical powers. Always pictured with a tail, for no apparent reason.
Vek - a teenage human. Worryingly attached to Sammy. Has been traumatized in many ways, and has a resultant mildly-concussed outlook on life.

So, the main story can be found here, on Google Docs.

But now for today's story:

TItle: A Small Matter
Characters: Sammy, Vek
Rating: Innocuous
Summary: In which Sammy has a problem, and is puzzled.
Notes: It's a drabble, so 100 words. And the "solution" to the dialogue is a picture, and is under the LJ-cut. Remember: I have more obsessive enthusiasm than I have actual drawing ability. The point is that it's funny, not that it's a particularly good drawing. Go easy on me.

A Small Matter

"Oh! I...um. Hello, small human. I...I beg your pardon. Excuse me? I'm afraid that's mine. I don't suppose you know who you belong to? No, I thought not. I'm afraid I'm not well equipped to handle young humans, really. Hmm. Although you seem to think I am, at least. Um...Vek?"
"Yes?"
"Are you busy?"
"A little. Why?"
"I...need you to come here and handle a small problem for me."
"Can it wait?"
"I...don't think so. I suspect it may require a human perspective. Imminently."
"What is it, Sammy?"
"It's...a small matter. Ouch! And yet very pressing, in its own way."

( It's a... )

Rough day at work. Enough about that, though: it's Simon's birthday! Happy birthday! (Actually, it could be the 9th. It was the 9th for a year or two. I had to relocate it, though, when I realized that I would never remember it unless it fell right after mine. Hence: the 19th.)

Title: Itinerant
Characters: Simon, Natalia
Rating: nothing in the foreground
Summary: In which Simon is recovering from a rough birthday and a bad assignment.
Notes: Yeah, it's something of a mash-up of my New York Train Adventure. I thought Simon would enjoy it :-P And the punctuation's a bit odd, but that's rather deliberate, to make it feel vague. Oh, just read it and you'll see what I mean.

( Itinerant )

Well, I guess this means I'll have to post more, at least for the next two months, eh? Not a problem at the moment, actually: I need to talk about AFP, and I have a story and possibly some pics to post. So, that'll be good for a few days, at least.

My grand New York adventure started very early Saturday morning. It was at that time that I stumbled out of bed, pulled on some plastic pants, got my fedora, grabbed my bag, and caught a ride to the train station.

The train itself was something of a relief: it was better than both an airplane AND the DC Metro, which are both varying degrees of terrible, depending upon whether or not one is me. But in a train, the seats are roomy, the electrical outlets are aplenty, and the bathrooms are certainly large enough for shenanigans, if one so desires. Also, if you are a rather questionable-looking person wearing plastic pants and a fedora, you do not have to share your seat, which is an added bonus.

Strangely, the train goes one way until it hits Philly, and then goes the other way up to New York. Which meant I travelled backward for 2 hours, stopped at Philly, and then travelled forward the rest of the way. Odd and unnecessary, but this is why I am not an adviser for the train system.

After very little fuss, I found myself in Newark. (conductor: "Why on earth do you want to go to Newark?" Me: "I...I really don't know.") This led to an awkward moment of standing on the train platform, wondering how one gets into the train station proper. (Answer: go in the little area with the benches, and then go down the stairs. Try not to look like a spazz.)

And then I drifted with interest around the train station, until Jackie found me. At which point we went outside, greeted her father and dog, sent my bag back with them, and went back into the station to catch yet another train, this one local and much less accommodating. Subways followed this, at some point, and then somehow we found ourselves on the Upper West Side, me with no clue at all as to how we had arrived.

We put our name in at Alice's Tea Shop, which is adorable but has very long waits, and then trotted off to have soup dumplings (dumplings! Full of soup! Soup inside of dumplings, like magic!) at a Chinese place. Halfway through our miracle dumplings, Alice's called, and by the time we got back, they had given away our table. We put our names on the list again.

There were thoughts of cream puffs to occur at this point, but unfortunately the cream puff eatery was closed, and so instead we wandered in and out of various ridiculously expensive shops. (Point of interest: I was carrying my black and hot pink Betseyville bag. It got a truly unprecidented number of compliments from sales assistants, and about how none of them had ever seen one like it. This includes the girl at the Betsey Johnson store, who also commented that we were "very well accessorized." So, um...go us!)

At any rate, we missed the call from Alice's again, and then got to walk back to Alice's in the rain, put ourselves on the waiting list for the third time, and then drift down to the Lush store a few blocks away. We naturally picked out ridiculous things at Lush, which we always do, and stood around having bizarre conversations with the sales assistants for waaay too long (another Betseyville bag compliment! Bizarre!), and Then The Phone Rang. From's Alice's. So we thrust our baskets of stuff at the Lush employees, promised to come back for it, and then found ourselves running down the street in the rain.

Fortunately, we got a table. We then proceeded to order food. Mint chocolate black tea, mysterious multi-flavoured rooibos tea, scones in coconut-lemon, strawberry-banana, and raspberry-chocolate, sandwiches in salmon and chicken-apple-goat cheese, and mocha cake. Wow. Yes. Very, very good. The sandwiches, in particular, were spectacular.

After which, we wandered back to Lush to actually buy the things we had been carrying around before. And it was lovely.

Somehow, during this time, it seems to have turned into evening. So we caught multiple subways to Brooklyn (why were so many of the subways not running?? Why??), found a B&N to wander into briefly, and went looking for Re-Dress, which had (!) decided to close early that day. Having run out of things to do and also beginning to run short on time before the show, we went looking for a subway station.

Unfortunately, the closest one was closed. We therefore tramped off to find another subway station.

We got to where we were going, but it seriously took like four subways. Jackie developed a habit of peering intently at her Pre at a subway map, and then helpfully showing it to me. "Hello," said the map, "would you like a plate of colorful spaghetti?" I was intensely mystified each time.

The Music Hall of Williamsburg, where Amanda Palmer was playing, turned out to be in a mildly sketchy area of Brooklyn, which made sense, as it is a rather sketchy sort of building. We arrived soon after nine, confirmed that Nervous Cabaret, the opening act, was still playing, and then promptly went out to the vestibule to buy merchandise, at which time Beth (Amanda's assistant) commented that she liked my outfit, which made me feel rather quietly overwhelmed.

Nervous Cabaret were quite good, and then they hung around to be Amanda's band as well, which was fantastic. It was a very, very good show, with singing and stories and question-answering and song-lyric-forgetting and Thoughts About Twittering. It was fantastic, and finally wrapped up around 12:30.

Amanda, though, was sticking around to sign autographs, and we decided that it would certainly be worth our time to acquire said autograph. Also, Neil Gaiman was in attendance, which meant a chance to get his autograph as well, which was nearly enough to throw us both into a violent swoon.

(Meanwhile, I availed myself of another bottle of Magical Water. See, I had been feeling somewhat dehydrated and faint at around 11:00 or so, having been up for 17 or so hours at that point, and went to the bathroom, only to discover half a case of Poland Springs in the last stall. I accordingly helped myself to one, and then went back after the show for another. It was something of a miracle.)

And finally, after a bit of a wait (probably. Time was starting to slip off its cracker by that point), we got up to Neil and Amanda. And got their autographs, and got to chat for a minute. I got to ask Amanda why she had YES written across her ("general affirmation", apparently), and Jackie got her name written in her book by Neil, which was also quite fantastic. And then we wibbled our way outside, and began the long, footsore hike back to a subway station.

Subways are surprisingly crowded at 2:00 AM, I learned, with my nose in a Russian man's jacket and some mysterious stranger having more full-body contact with me than I've probably ever allowed anyone. This was about hour 20 of my day, though, and so I was pretty well out of it.

I have very vague recollections of getting back to Jackie's house. At one point, there was a shouting crazy man on a subway, and I remember uncharitably thinking, "Your daughter's a whore," in response to something he was saying, and I remember another time where there was a big bronze ear (?) fastened to a support pillar down on one of the subway platforms. I don't remember taking the local train back to Newark, but I must have, because then somehow I ended up in the car, Jackie's dad having arrived to pick us up. There was then a conversation about (drug-sniffing?) goats, I think, although we were nearing hour 22 of my day, and my recording apparatus was malfunctioning significantly.

At some point, I put on my pajamas and brushed my teeth, which seemed to take FOREVER. And then I plunked down on the couch and waited to fall asleep. At 5:00 AM, I was still waiting, and feeling notably grumpy about it. Seriously. Who's up for 23 hours and THEN can't fall asleep?

I did, finally, for a few hours, although the dog kept trying to stare at my face and steal my pillow, which made for an odd night. Also, the problem with using one's phone as a flashlight is that the light goes off after ten seconds, stranding you in someone else's bathroom in the dark in the middle of the night, which makes for some awkward.

And then, much too early, we woke up and wibbled a bit more about how cool Neil and Amanda were. And then, because we hadn't slept and hadn't eaten for about 16 hours, we went out for sushi. In retrospect, this was a rather questionable choice, but it did seem sound at the time.

We ate and found ourselves briefly at a bookstore (I think I know where the manga section is in about 12 different Borders in PA and NJ. It's sort of a sickness), because that is something that happens to us with stunning regularity. And then we went back to Jackie's house to pick up my things, and off I went to the Newark train station, again.

I had to share a seat, unfortunately, and therefore had to feign unconsciousness until Trenton, when somebody left and managed to snag their seat.

Remember: at this point, I had gotten very little sleep, hadn't showered, was wearing a rumbled blazer, and was motion-sick. I therefore sprawled out on my two seats, put my fedora over my face, and proceeded to 70% pass out until I got to the train station.

I got off the train around 7:00, and was torn between the desires to eat, throw up, take a shower, or go to sleep. I don't actually remember much about that evening. Like, anything, really.

And then the next day (Monday) was my birthday, and I worked at 10:30, although I didn't actually wake up until about 2:00. I vaguely remember one of my co-workers wishing me a happy birthday and laughing hysterically.

Good times, good times. Definitely a fun trip. But also very, very odd.

Pictures will, hopefully, be forthcoming.

I have returned, briefly! And I have come bearing stories! Well, just the one, actually. But anyway.

I've been working on my new series more, lately, which means I'm pretty much all-consumed by thoughts of medieval peasantry and poisonous plants and fantasy-novel hijinks to appropriate in a satirical manner. At some point I really do plan to give a character sketch of Sammæl and Vek and Vanyard and Janecy and the others, but right now I always seemed to be a little too busy actually writing down their story.

ANYWAY! For today's story: Happy Halloween! I wrote this story, like, last May or something. But I haven't posted it, and it's mildly creepy, and I designed it to be a songfic with a rather insidious song, so I suspect it might be a perfect fit for a Halloween story.

Crap. Does this mean I'm going to have to come up with stories for Simon's birthday and Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year's, like usual? Well, I suppose it can be a writing challenge for me.

Title: Seven Circles of Manipulation
Characters: Simon, Mal, Everard Gilford
Rating: T
Summary: In which Simon and Mal torment a freshman, and the mystery of Justin's unusually-discreet roommate is finally uncovered.
Notes: A series of seven double-drabbles (200 words each), each corresponding to a line in Jill Tracy's deliciously creepy song "Diabolical Streak", which has been provided here for your listening pleasure. Let me know if the media embed for the song doesn't work. Also, Everard probably won't be back again, except in passing as Justin's roommate; I just needed to have Simon and Mal torture someone, and couldn't think of a reason for them to do it to any of the main cast.

( Seven Circles of Manipulation )</div>

Quote of the ~~year~~ ~~decade~~ ~~century~~ EVER, courtesy of the inestimable Connie Willis, in Impossible Things, one of her books of short stories:

When you're a writer, the question people always ask you is, "Where do you get your ideas?" Writers hate this question. It's like asking Humphrey Bogart in The African Queen, "Where do you get your leeches?" You don't get ideas. Ideas get you.

You see something or hear something or read something, and unlike the hundreds of other things you've seen and heard and read, this one triggers something--some connection nobody else sees--and you know you'll never be able to explain it. So you write a story about it.

"Idea" is even the wrong word. it implies something rational, a concept, a thought, and there's usually nothing rational about it. It's not a light bulb going on over your head. It's a tightening of the throat, a shiver down the middle of the back, a stab to the chest. Or the sudden impulse to shout, "Get out! Before it's too late! Run!"

Here are my dresses that could be potential Renaissance Faire material. Note: it is very difficult to take full-length pictures of oneself. To that purpose, I took my mirror outside and propped it up in the gazebo. Due to questionable positioning and my desire to keep the camera itself out of the picture (I was concerned that would be a bit meta), you tend to only see about 2/3 of me in any picture. However, the dresses are symmetrical even if I am not, so you get the idea.

First, my black velvet-burn-out dress, with flowy sleeves and a lacy bra to keep me from flashing the world:

Here, I have gothed-out the black dress. Addition of black corset belt, black lace bow, and Doc Martins:

A bad picture of my embroidered brown flowy-sleeved dress. Also: stripey tights. I look like a monk.

My striped bustier, with last year's black skirt and my lace-up fishnet gloves. Really ought to have a chemise underneath it, but I can put that off for another year, I suppose. The stripes did something odd to the camera and wouldn't photograph. Perhaps they are possessed.

Here is the back of the bustier. I have it laced up with a hot-pink ribbon. The positioning in this photo is very, very awkward.

I really would update more often, but there is very little drama in my life right now. I'm still writing my stories (Martin's backstory is currently at 49 pages. Single-spaced. Ridiculous), but since nothing is getting wrapped up, there's nothing to post.

Last week I created a backstory for a character of

starfall2 's, and I was pretty pleased with it, so maybe I'll post it up here at some point. I really like making up people. This is probably some form of mental illness.

Lately I've been rather wrapped up with helping my mum arrange things for her class reunion. My jobs for this involved: designing the programs (looks like an old train poster, adorable), burning some current-events-of-1969 CDs for everyone (82 CDs...yikes), designing little fake retro gift certificates for prizes (finally a use for those fonts I'm always downloading!), scanning about 100 pictures (*twitch*), and keeping everyone from freaking out when the PowerPoint looked back, by the magical expenditure of adjusting the projector's settings.

Fortunately, I am getting paid for this. Which is good, because I've had to buy 100 lightscribe CDs, 50 CD cases, more ink for my printer, and (oh yeah) a new DVD burner, because mine kind of ate one of the CDs and died promptly thereafter.

Anyway, the reunion was yesterday, and apparently went swimmingly, if my parents' return at 2:15 AM is any indication. *whew* I'm certainly glad that's done.

Then today, needing something relaxing, I restored books for a while. Torn pages, ripped book jackets, loose covers, that sort of thing. They're still being pressed while the glue dries, so we'll see how they are tomorrow. I think book restorer would be a nice job, and I might like it a lot...finicky, exacting, solitary, and dealing with books. Yes, that is me all over. Unfortunately, I'm not sure how a person becomes one, and it probably doesn't make much money or have steady work (especially in C-lizzle, which hasn't bothered to have a bookstore for the last 15 years).

At any rate, I think I've decided that Valerie is probably a book restorer. She's close enough to the city that it might help her get business, and I suspect she's got enough of her own money (and besides, she lives with Natalia) that amount of money made wouldn't matter to her too much. Because Natalia is a little out there, which means Valerie either had to be really wild (female Owen, basically), or else very calm and reserved. I think Natalia likes being the wild one of the pair, though. And Valerie has to be calm, especially if she and Natalia are supposed to be analogous to Martin and Simon. (Simon and Natalia are supposed to be very clearly male and female counterparts of the same personality. Therefore, Martin and Valerie could possibly be the same.) Besides, I think Simon (and probably Natalia) would consider wildness to be rather gauche and unbecoming in a relationship. Fun for a while, but ultimately annoying. AND a wild Valerie would probably scare Martin, who's got enough problems as it is.

I don't know much about Valerie; I may have to write a snippet or something about her. Hmm. Bears thinking about.

Title: A Necessary Question
Characters: Simon, Cade
Rating: innocuous
Summary: Cade has a question. Eventually, Cade's going to grow up and figure it out.
Notes: Just a little double drabble, written because I had Simon's last line stuck in my head, and the scene fit so obviously around it. I was also messing with punctuation, as a precursor to another piece I'm writing, in which punctuation is abused.

He stares silently at me. Eyebrows raised. I recognize it: somewhere behind his mask of an expression, there is a dismissal. Again. I wasn't this irrelevant before.

–You were nice,– I persist –Okay, kind of. I mean, a little. I mean, you were less of a jerk before. You know. When we were traveling together. Before you caught me.–

–You know I didn't mean that, right? That's called acting, kid. That's called undercover.– Finally he's talking. –I know what you want to hear. You want me to just tell you what you want to hear?–

I can't answer. No is a lie and Yes is pathetic, like I don't care if he lies to me as long as he's friendly. It's the truth, but I don't want him to know it. –You do it for Martin and Natalia,– I point out. –You tell them what they want to hear. You do it all the time.–

Simon gives me a long look. –Because with them,– he explains finally, –what they want to hear is a lot closer to what I want to say.–

So, I was inadvertently reading a blog post the other day (located at http://thenewadventuresofjuliette.blogspot.com/2009/07/fat-is-fantasist-issue.html, which I am not going to link to, because frankly I want nothing to do with her) and I was amazed that anyone could be so...hateful.

She seems to be personally insulted that people can consider themselves hot without being her personal definition of a "traffic-stopping uber-babe", a phrase which makes me throw up in my mouth a little. (Also: uber isn't a word. If you're dabbling in German, the word is über. Those little dots about the "u" are important, and can easily be reproduced by using Alt+0252. Any of the German vowels with umlauts [ä, ö, ü], can be properly Anglicized by adding an "e" [ae, oe, ue] if you don't want to go to the trouble of adding umlauts. As an added bonus, this makes you look like a person who knows something about the source language, instead of like a complete moron. But I digress.)

At any rate, my thought upon reading it was puzzlement as to why she and others seem to take it so very personally when people they don't think are hot are considered hot. I mean, really, getting worked up because other people see a third party as attractive? Pardon me, but you don't have a dog in that fight. Why does it matter?

After pondering it all day (there wasn't much in the way of mental stimulation at work today), I think I have reached a conclusion: people like that are desperately trying to hide the fact that they have no idea what makes another person attractive. They have no idea how to judge beauty. As a result, they have set up a scorecard (thin, white, long-legged, large-breasted, symmetrically-featured, long blonde hair, moderately-tanned skin). It's easy! You just check off the characteristics of another person, and if they have a majority, then you know they're hot! Nothing to it!

Now, let's use a musical analogy, because I love me some symphonic band. Let's say you're judging band competitions. Unfortunately, you have no idea what actually makes for good music, so you make up some rules: must have three sections, must have common-time, cut-time or waltz-time signature, must not be too fast or too slow, must be in an identifiable key, must not have abnormal instrumentation. And for the most part, that kind of works. You can go by those guidelines and pretty much get by.

And then you come across something like, say, Abram's Pursuit [David Holsinger] or 12 Seconds to the Moon [Robert W. Smith]. "Abram's Pursuit" is played at 176 beats/minute, changes time signature 59 times (often into lovelies like 5/4 or 7/8), and has no key signature. "12 Seconds to the Moon" is like 12 minutes long and involves, at one point, the instrumentation of a hammer and anvil, which have been pressed into service.

Oh, right, and they're both freaking gorgeous pieces. Which completely fail by those guidelines set up before.

Strangely, though, their inability to fit within those guidelines does not make them less beautiful. Rather, if someone disqualified their beauty based on those guidelines, one would invariably come to the conclusion that the judge possibly didn't really know much about music.

Have I lost you in the analogy yet? Do you see how I'm comparing it to the beauty standard? The people who are judging have no idea how to qualify beauty. So what do they do? Make up some guidelines. Hey, if you always use the same set of rules, maybe nobody will realize that you have no idea what you're doing!

But see...there are a lot of things that make up beauty. Some of it's physical. Some of it's personality, sense of humor, attitude, and intelligence. Most of it is subjective. And generally, if one area is lacking for you, then one of the other areas will pick up the slack. (I suppose if you have none of those qualities, and are strange-looking, egotistical jerk with the intelligence of a ball-peen hammer, we could argue that you are not attractive. On the other hand, behold the internet: put up a myspace; someone will think you're hot, sooner or later.)

Unfortunately, the people who are willing to defend the beauty standard are defending it because that's the standard they've been judging themselves by. They've been playing Texas hold 'em, and it turns out we're trying to play seven-card stud. "But I've been dieting and tanning and bleaching my hair for years! Therefore I deserve to be beautiful!" Nooo, you only like those rules because that's the game you've been playing this whole time, not beause it's somehow more worthy than the game we're playing.

And instead of sticking to the same rules...I dunno, wouldn't it be nice sometimes to switch to a game that's less stressful and has a higher payout?

I haven't been posting at all lately, for no apparent reason. I mean, I've got stories written, and pictures taken, and other such things, but somehow I always seem to lose my ambition just before posting them.

So, here, finally, I've got a story to post. And it's weird.

Title: Dust to Dust
Characters: entirely new set
Rating: A
Length: slightly over 6,000 words, so it'll be split into a couple of parts. Yeah...
Summary: In the grand tradition of space westerns, I give you: a space western. Time travel, land-grabbing, and lots and lots of dirt.
Notes: If you combined Firefly, and Star Trek: First Contact, and anything written by Connie Willis, and possibly a hint of Grapes of Wrath, this would be the awkward result. It's actually a dream I had, so if something doesn't make sense or there's a plot hole, just let me know and I'll try to think up a (slightly) plausible patch. The title may change, since it's changed about four times so far. Also: I think a couple of the songs from Black Hawk Down fit perfectly as the soundtrack to this story, so I have provided them. Enjoy!

( Dust to Dust, part one )

Realized earlier that I haven't posted at all this month (!) so I'm attempting to rectify that.

Interestingness at work today:

Note: the janitors usually leave around 11:30 on Sunday. I went in today at around 11:30. Our "normal" ('-ish?) janitor had already left, which meant the new guy (been here about a week) was still around somewhere. Fine, whatever.

Forward: 12:30. Our assistant manager gets reports from around the store that Sketchy Janitor is still roaming around the store, occasionally running into things, at which point he locked himself in the janitors' closet. Wait, what?

So we go to hang out in the stockroom (where the janitors' closet is), looking unconvincingly casual. Eventually he wanders back out, staggering all over the place and slurring like crazy, at which point Assistant Manager points out to him that it's 12:30 and strongly suggests that it's really about time that he go.

...And so, he drifts around the store for a while. So we get sick of this, and call the cops. He finally drifts out the door, at which point he sits on the sidewalk, which is where the cops eventually find him. They wander in later, after attempting (and finally succeeding) to send him on his way. They agree that, in light of the fact that he can't walk in a straight line and doesn't seem to have a fully-functional mouth, that something is probably up. And, um, he's been banned from the premises, so we should probably look for a new cleaning guy.

We wander back the stockroom again, to investigate. At this point, we find that the janitors' closet reeks. Like, serious odor. Like, the can of aerosol graffiti remover that lives back there. Yow.

So, like...we don't know. Did the aerosol fumes have anything to do with it? Can you get that freaking high from a spray can? And, like...this guy's in his 20's. Um. I associate fume-highs with, like, desperate 14-year-olds. By his age, I seriously expect even the most reluctant stoners to have graduated to smokeable substances.

And they're only at work for an hour and a half. Really, if you want to get high at a store, finish your work and go down to Walmart. Jeez.

AAAAAND later our sewers backed up. This is completely unrelated, but it meant that the men's room and the janitor's closet (because of the big sink therein) spent the day smelling faintly reminiscent of a septic tank. Fortunately, the ladies' never did back up. Unfortunately, between the aerosol and the raw sewage fumes, we were all pretty much chased out of the stockroom for the rest of the day.

...Which turned out to only be a bit of a problem, since there were other things going on: like vomit. Yes. Because the day really needed some puke to finish it up nicely.

Some kid was evidentally roaming arond the misses section and threw up, at which point her dad grabs her and hustles her outside...where she proceeded to let a few more quarts loose right outside our door. Sigh.

And then we have a conundrum, because...is the sidewalk our store? It's not, really. Do we have to clean it up, then? Or what? Because walking through puke is bad, but mopping the sidewalk is also bad.

Solution: Assistant Manager gets a mop and bucket of soapy water, takes it outside where Puke Dad is with Puke Kid, and says: "Here, I brought you a mop and cleaner. I'll go get another bucket of water." Which meant that Puke Dad was more-or-less forced to do a little cleanup work, lest he look like a total dick. And we proceeded to get more water. He managed to kinda mop the [noodles, undigested...urg] over to the sidewalk ramp, at which point Assistant Manager and I proceeded to slosh buckets of water on the mess in an attempt to at least get it out into the parking lot proper.

Noodles, it turns out, have a great affinity for concrete, and are very, very sticky. By the time we were done, it looked like we had been having a carwash on our sidewalk and our part of the parking lot. Ack.

(And by then, there was only about an hour until it was time to go home, and fortunately nothing eventful happened in that time. Hurray.)

AND in closing: I've always felt a sort of burning animosity towards Kanye West. This just drops him into my "Completely Worthless Human Being" category:
"Sometimes people write novels and they just be so wordy and so self-absorbed," West said. "I am not a fan of books. I would never want a book's autograph."

Sigh. Am I old enough to fear for the future yet?

A sudden rash of "firsts" today at work:

1. First day I required sunglasses to drive around. Usually, there's just not enough sun out to necessitate eyewear. Today there was. It made me think of the beach (as does everything lately).

2. First mulch fire of the season. All of the little islands in the parking lot are mulched, and usually a few times over the course of the summer, someone will come in and inform us that our mulch is on fire. At that point, we grab a trash can, fill it with water, and dump it on the mulch, although once last year I believe someone called the fire department, which was unnecessary. Really, a trash can of water will work just as well. The going theory at work regarding mulch fires is that they originate with lazy jerks who throw their still-lit cigarette butts out their car windows into our mulch. My personal theory is spontaneous combustion, but I have yet to solidly sell anyone on this idea.

3. First Christmas merchandise. In the store's defense, I'm pretty sure it was mis-packaged, because it arrived with a shipment of similar Independence Day merchandise. But still. Christmas stuff. On April 27. Really.

(And then I came home and spent the evening modifying a vinyl skin I bought on eBay for my DS. It didn't fit quite right, and there were no holes for the speakers and the logo, so I got out a ruler a sharpie a pencil a pen a maglite an LED light scissors and an xacto knife. Now it fits. I can't believe it took me as long as it did. I can't believe I didn't go blind. But it looks pretty good now.)

Oh man oh man oh man oh man. HBO has gone and made The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency into a TV series. EEEEEEEEEE! I am completely beside myself with glee. It has everything: a non-NY, non-CA setting, charmingly personal mysteries, a non-skinny leading female role, and apostrophe humor! I mean, what else is there?!

(Well, all right: if we're going for what else there is out there, there's also Victorian setting. So, that's one thing it's lacking, I guess. But I can hardly consider it a fault. I mean, they can't all be Victorian. I suppose.)

*trails off into incoherent, ecstatic wibbling*

So, recently, the hot color for spring seems to be...grey. I know, right? And not just any grey, but that certain Crayola Soviet Grey shade. Seriously, it's everywhere, often on very severely-tailored pieces. This spring, fashion Does Not Want Fun.

And we've got this rather stunningly bland outfit in at work, which I found to be so offensively nondescript that I took a picture of it to share with everybody.

Now Presenting:
The People's United Socialist Republic Fairly-Priced Grey Linen Outfit of ~~Oppression~~ Freedom from the Forces of Capitalism.

I ask you. Doesn't that outfit just make you want to ban free trade, invent a moderately-goofy car, and throw up a wall, like, now ?

I got this idea at work and was terribly amused by it. It's not actually so funny in person, but in my head, I was absolutely taken with it.

Title: Empire Building
Characters: Simon, Justin, Mal
Rating: Meh. Average.
Summary: Byzantines. Libertines. In which Justin learns (or not) that two of these things are not the same.
Notes: Very short, probably only about 500 words. Written in about 20 minutes, so point out mistakes if you find 'em. Also, Lucien is Simon's long-suffering grammar-junkie roommate.

( Empire Building )

So, to get back to the issue of my nonexistent credit card...

I wrote my bank a whimpery letter about what a good little bank member I am, and also O HAI I HAZ MONEY I CAN HAS CREDIT PLZ?!

And now I have a credit card.

Nice :-D

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