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 By popular demand, the story of my day at the Renaissance Pleasure Faire.

Cut for perviness of the fun and happy sort!Collapse )

Overall, was a fantastic experience; I highly recommend.  (/pretense of being high-class film reviewer)

I am considering filtering out some old entries from this journal.  I mean, apparently people read it.  Like, real people.  Besides Marissa.

People like Nick and C, who I spent the entire weekend with in San Francisco and I want to go baaaack.

Highlights: Alcatraz.  There is a long and highly detailed story about our getting to Alcatraz, and I will but hint at it here, by telling you that should YOU want to go to Alcatraz, the only way to get there is from Pier 33.  As in, not the Blue and Gold people.  Their Web site does not actually say this.  The island itself is quite beautiful -- today there would never be a prison there, because the real estate profits would be unbelievable -- and the prison is creepy and fantastic, a great corroding Gearworld of dizzyingly vast proportions.  I have pictures of Nick being Prisoner Number 114 and an awesome shot of the overgrown-with-moss morgue that ended up being not-so-awesome after all because the glass turned it into a picture of me with a cell phone camera.  We bought handcuff keychains.  And Nick got a book of the Rules and Regulations that used to be provided to every prisoner and read it out loud to us, which was amusing.

Castro.  Oh my god.  Castro.  I expected sleazy, and there was a little sleaze, but it was the kind that's fun and open and safe and friendly and total strangers pat your arm and trill "HEY SEXY!"  People talk and laugh with complete strangers in little stores that sell obscene cookies.  Everyone smiles.  Even the waiters are friendly and happy.

Stormy Leather.  I am embarrassed by my fascination with this store, and will limit my comments for the sake of my readers with roommates who would be Shocked and Horrified by my Sin.  Nick thinks that the guy at the counter thought we were a threesome.  I'm not sure we did much to disabuse him of the notion.  I saw a corset that I really wanted, but it was not terribly difficult to talk myself out of it.  There was a T-shirt that said "woof."  Those who are familiar with the depredations of which we are capable will have an idea of why this made us snicker.

I heart San Francisco.  It is beautiful.  It is exactly what the Journey song led me to hope for.  It also can go from nice-place-to-live to omg-we're-gonna-die in less than a block ...

Now I have to write the sociology paper that is due in three hours.  And wish that I was back in San Francisco.

I am  now a die-hard, card-carrying Martha Jones/Toshiko Sato shipper.

You should know this joy.

That is all.
This is solely a test post because I don't want to eat up the cafenoticeboard with my sandboxing.

I've started in the new Seaside Cafe over on insanejournal and it's a blast.  The premise is that James and Regulus decided to leave their horrible fate in the canon world and went to an alternate-reality Margate and started a cafe by the seaside.

And then other people started following them over there.

I'm playing as Professor McGonagall (naturally).  I just discussed saints with Alex Krycek.  Susan Ivanova was kind enough to come and help me unpack my flat.   I'm at a Halloween party (yes, still) at the Doctor's on the beach ("Doctor who?" you might ask, and I would reply, "Exactly.") and I am currently discussing historical West Africa with a vampire named Isabel Giovanni while Rincewind's Luggage skulks under the table kicking people for beer.

Anyway, this is what I'm up to currently, since I am incapable of joining anything without starting a staggering new project:

Please, let the image work, please ...Collapse )
 Overheard at UCR:

"Would you like a complimentary midget to go with that?"
 It's 5: 45 A.M.  In exactly four hours and a half hours I leave for my first day of classes at the University of California in Riverside.

I woke at 4:00, lay in bed and swore at myself for a while, played my guitar for half an hour (I hereby declare "Buffalo Girls" the most difficult song EVER written) and am now waiting for my parents to wake before I turn on the shower (which is the other side of the wall containing the headboard of my parents' bed, which rather limits my time to pursue concerns of personal hygiene ... pooor planning on someone's part).

I am not going to be sick.

Neither am I going to hide under the covers until my mother shoves me into the car.

Last night my dad got out a picture of my first day of kindergarten, with big curly 1980s-Bible-belt-Sunday-school hair (I was vivid blonde back then) and a yellow plaid sundress.  And white Mary Janes.  With lacy socks.  I'm not sure if my fashion sense has come a long way, or devolved into a tatter of its former self.  I suppose it depends on where you live.

I actually planned my entire outfit for today.  Down to the underwear.  "Damn," I said to myself as I debated my jewelry selection, "I must be nervous."

My first class is held in a cinema in the shopping center appended to the campus.  How surreal is that?

The older, wiser members of my f-list are no doubt chuckling at my naivete.  *clings like a limpet*  As for the rest of you, THE DAY SHALL COME.  Or, you know, is coming.  Right now.  Hi, Dani.

In other news, I no longer need to wear my glasses for older men to start hitting on me.  *evaluates that statement in silence for a moment*  I should perhaps explain, I used to have older guys (mid-twenties, early thirties) start looking if I went out in glasses instead of contacts.  Now it requires no such sacrifice of attractiveness.  I think this is a good thing.  Or perhaps an indifferent thing.  Or just a wtf? thing.

Hey, has anyone used CafePress before?  Is it a good investment?  Only I've got some stuff that would make interesting posters.
Also find this fic on my InsaneJournal.  That's pretty much where I'll be living when one of my Loyal Readers reports this.  *whistles*

Kinky dubcon Sirius/Voldemort-Sirius/Death Eaters-Sirius/Harry nastiness coming soon.  For now:

Evenings Out

1975.  Professor McGonagall interviews a bartender.  Zevazo experiments with format.

500 words.  PG-13 for implications.

Read more...Collapse )

I no longer blame LJ for Strikethrough '07.

They're totally to blame for the aftermath, of course.  "Okay, let's half of us pretend nothing is wrong, and the other half give conflicting information and it'll all go away!"  Poor business practices.  Poor public relations.  Poor grasp of common sense.

But, anyway, I finally went to the Warriors for Innocence homepage to see what all the fuss was about (being socially responsible today; I registered to vote, too).

I wouldn't be at all surprised if they started deleting communities just to shut these people up.   That woman is a piece of work.    http://www.warriorsforinnocence.org/  No one can realistically argue that children should be unprotected, but I can't imagine that stridency and whining is any help.  Why not put in an effort to protect a child through legislation, or through raising money for the police force, or through supervising one's own kids, instead of putting together a strongly-worded Web site to scream about how no one else is doing those things?

I have a dream that one day, people everywhere will realize that forming a group with a nice ring to the name and shrieking insults is far less effective than taking calm and concerted action.

Yes.  All of you.  Listen to me.  Immaturity solves nothing!

I have a challenge for everybody.

Make the world a better place today.  Stop screeching loaded words and make a mature argument.  Whatever your issue, whatever your stance -- have the self-respect and respect for society to make an effort to change something instead of endlessly whinging about it.

Thank you.
I can't shake the feeling that my mother would be ten times happier if I were actually leaving to go to university, instead of commuting.

Also, I really feel that I should leave LiveJournal, if only to show willing because their business practices are shit, but I'm going to hate having to actually move.

1500 words, rated PG-13 for a squicky experience
McGonagall-centric because she kicks ass
Set a few days before the Battle of Hogwarts


She's an old woman now. There's no denying that.Collapse )

The beauty of writing Marauder-fic is that nothing has happened to destroy my personal canon.

I'm thinking about my old ceramic-sculpture teacher.  Man, he was cool.

See, there's this idea in show-quality sculpture that you have to stick to the Old Ways -- namely, always glaze, never paint, and if it breaks you're done for.

Mr. Regalado didn't go in for that shit.  He was what I call a genuine artist -- he cared more about making things look cool than he did about keeping to some fictional unheated-garrett standard.  He gave us an entire three-day lesson on mending work so no one can tell it ever broke.  (The end of the lesson was, "If it's absolutely cracked beyond repair, raku it.  Raku will hide anything and it's cheaper than throwing away your clay and kiln time.")

My favorite piece of his -- now shattered to pieces, sadly -- was a caterpillar in a fez, with a face that bore a mildly alarming resemblance to the Cheshire Cat.  He was a cat-erpillar.  He had three sets of arms (legs that he didn't stand on, anyway), two of which were folded.  Of the top pair, one twirled his Fu Manchu mustache, and the other held a cup of tea.  The tea in the cup was formed by a dab of hot glue, which anchored a thread-and-paper tag which trailed from his tea bag (presumably).  His thick semi-segmented body sprouted toothbrush bristles.  Since he was part cat, his thick tail curved perkily up, revealing a ... realistically-placed ... airhole.

The Cat-erpillar (I always pronounced this CATerpillAR) was painted entirely in acrylic, and no all-glaze traditional piece will ever replace it for sheer wicked whimsy.

I believe this post stemmed from a vague existential guilt I occasionally feel, because as a writer I'm supposed to be living in the infamous unheated garrett, using my drug addiction and hatred of my parents to fuel impassioned, foodless three-day writing sprees.  I mean, I live in an attic, yeah, and I once had a mild Vicodin dependency which I still maintain was not a pain-management problem but a pain problem (let's play spot-the-reference!), but I like my parents, despite the fact that my mum's OCD and my dad is descending into grumpy alcoholism, and the very idea of missing meals for the sake of My Art causes me to laugh wildly and go make myself a low-fat peanut butter sandwich.

I don't know what I'm talking about.  This is when I usually go to bed and I just got up, so ... yeah.  Nothing to see here folks.
A transcript of the last fifteen minutes:

ME: "Isoflurane.  I should look that up."

ME: "...but isn't sodium pentothal injection-only?  They'd probably prefer to just ... soak a rag ..."

ME: "Oh, that's just sick."

ME: " ... eeeg ..."

ME:  "Hmm.  rrr ... rrr ... hay ... my ... what do you mean?"

ME:  "Yeah, he might actually have a stutter."

ME: "Okay.  Volatile anaesthetics.  Wikipedia, here we come."

ME:  "What was I doing?"

ME:  "I already saved it, asshat."

ME: "Little brother!  That's perfect.  Except she has to have left the father, or he'd have said something ....  I mean, I guess he would ..."

Yes, I am indeed alone in the room.  I LOVE being a writer ...

Note to the world:

When you talk on your cell phone until the conversation ends with, "Okay, I'm falling asleep."  -- "Me too."  -- "Talk to you tomorrow then."  -- "Okay, see you" -- followed immediately by drooling collapse, 

it is entirely likely that you will be wakened by the sound of the corner of your pillow finding the # key and holding it.

They're gone! *dances in a frightening hip-shimmying manner with lots of flailing hands*

"They" refers to my grandparents, which leaves me utterly qualified for the role of Horrible Person.  Really, though.  I love them very much, I just never want to actually see them again.

And I have my bedroom to myself again, which permits partly-clothed dancing and writing about orgies without the presence of my thirteen-year-old brother.

Speaking of which, I have something to submit to the world.

I have discussed my feelings about premarital sex with my brother.  I explained to him about homosexuality three or four years ago, defined "blowjob" for him last year, and defined "orgasm" for him last week.  (Incidentally, a seventeen-year-old male friend of mine found out that a blowjob was not the same as a French kiss about a month ago, so clearly I am way ahead of the game in the matter of my baby brother's worldly education).

I have told him that I very much hope that he waits until college, at the very least, to have sex.  And I will still be making damn sure he has access to condoms in a couple of years, because I am the one he asks questions of, and it is my responsibility to make sure that he stays safe.

Thank you.

Yes, there was a conversation that precipitated this entry.  Yes, it had to do with my grandmother's horror when she heard me making my appointment to get my HPV vaccine.

Just because I don't intend to go out and have sex now doesn't make me less responsible for protecting myself and my partner for the just-in-case, and my brother will be similarly taken care of, and I will continue to be available for discussion of everything from masturbation to crack cocaine, because I am a responsible older sister and I will do my level best to see that my baby brother is as safe as he can possibly be.


There's this one artist -- God, I hope she's not reading this -- and why I assume she's female I don't know -- I guess because most of you folks are -- 

*forces herself to stop*

I love this artist's work.  I mean, honestly, love it.  And I can't remember exactly who she is at the moment.  But she does these pencil sketches that have something to them, this moment that's as clear as a photograph and twice as moving.  There's a very old sketch of Lucius Malfoy (she's an HP artist) which I still remember clearly, though it's been a good year since I've run across it, and his arms are pulled out in front of him by a pair of manacles because he's going off to prison at this point, but his head is turned over his shoulder, and his expression -- just -- I'm there.  I'm in the moment.  For an instant, I feel what he's feeling.

And there's a lens flare on the picture.

I'm assuming she Photoshopped in the lens flare.  I saw another picture a while ago that I think was by the same brilliant artist, and it had lens flare.  Why would she do that?  She's so brilliantly talented, and then she tacks on this uninspired digital gewgaw and covers her fantastic work.

This may be a ten-post day.  I'm feeling a bit chatty.
One of my favorite things about livejournal is that I keep taking Memory-Lane trips through my old fandoms.  I read it, do the hissing-like-a-snake laugh when I see a good joke, do the snorfle-through-my-nose laugh when I see something that embarrasses me with my own degree of geek cred, it's fun.

In this case, the fandom in question is Lord of the Rings.

And then I was a freak.Collapse )

The whole thing's just hilarious.  To me.  And.  You know.  Possibly, someone, out there in the wilds of the Internet.

Oh.  And I graduated from high school.  *glee!*  I keep looking for excuses to bring this up in conversation.

*does a stupid little dance*  Pirates.  Pirates.  Pirates!

Since I'm pompous and like to get out my lighted pen and pretend to be a film reviewer, I have reviewed it ... I'll post in the morning ... but first, there's a story behind the way we saw it.

Every year since Pearl Harbor came out, my journalism/economics/US government/US history teacher has taken his classes to see a film after the end of AP exams.  The idea being, that since we have difficult college-level work and research papers over the summer, we deserve to take a tiny portion of that time back once we've taken all of our exams.  Last year we went to see "The Da Vinci Code," and certain members of our math, science and foreign language departments threw an absolute shit fit.  Further trips were nixed, because our principal is easily swayed by the vociferous minority of teachers.

So this year, myself and certain other members of the senior class put together a trip for the AP classes to go see Pirates of the Carribean.  (Our rationale is that since Article I, Section 8 of the United States Constitution grants Congress the power to punish piracy on the high seas, this relates to AP Government).  About two hundred people ended up coming ... I think that the nice ladies who I made the reservation for the private screening with still have no idea that it wasn't a sanctioned trip.  And frankly, how fantastic is it that we did this?  That we organized that well?  That word of mouth took us all the way up to the day before?

Then this idiot girl decided to tell the High Queen Pwner of Field Trips, a.k.a. the Spanish III teacher, exactly what was going on.  I don't know her, but I'm told she does the whole sabotage-everything-for-attention thing fairly often, which would cause me to pity her in other circumstances.  Now half the staff is screaming for my suspension.  *shrugs*  I'm not exactly untouchable here, but given that my dad's the assistant principal AND I'm a top student AND I've been offered a job at the school next year, I think the staff members who adore me can stall, stall, stall for the two weeks until graduation.

I suppose technically it's my fault that certain teachers caused a whole lot of grades to plummet, but ... I told my fellows how to fix that (dropping already-earned scores because of an absence is so illegal it's not even funny), and if everyone's too lazy to make a well-placed phone call then it's their problem.

What irks me is that the football team does this all the time, and band and choir miss classes all year long, but if AP students take three periods off to see a damn movie it's grounds for educational execution.  After some consideration, though, it's even more satisfying, in a way.  

We scared those teachers who patronize their students and think we're incapable of making decisions.  They saw that their perfect, 4.0 GPA little AP robots had minds for something beyond their oh-so-helpful homework assignments and their condescending little life lessons.  We gave them a bit of a fright, because this was in the works for three weeks before a whisper of it reached their pricked ears.  It scares these teachers that something involving two hundred students, over a thousand dollars, deals with a corporate office, weeks of planning, could go on without their signed-and-sealed approval.  It scares these teachers that we can organize without their guidance.  

And deep inside me, in the part of my independent heart that would sign on to be a pirate in seconds flat, that makes it all worth it.

My God, I'm doing it again.  I just looked up Discworld fanart.  And this time I can pinpoint the exact moment it happened.  I was reading Thud! and the thought popped clearly into my head:  "Someone, somewhere has drawn or written Sally/Angua hatesex in the locker room, possibly with a side of Corporal Carrot, possibly involving strategically placed clothespins."

So here we are.

Fandom -- any fandom -- is a place of wild whim, flighty imagination and vindictive bunnying.  I know that I am going to run across Rincewind/Ridcully or Vimes/Vetinari or Librarian/Luggage or something similarly brain-searing.  And alliterative.

...I'll close my eyes and hum.
At three minutes and four seconds past two o 'clock A.M. on Sunday morning, it will be 02:03:04 05-06-07.