For Madmen Only!

Annual Birthday Music Offering

Fri, 23 Jan 2009 16:45:35 GMT

So, my birthday is this Sunday. In the interest of making sure people see this post, and because I am going to be drinking most of the night, I am opening up my yearly music offer now.

My playlist which does not include these OST(s) in my possession: Metropolis, Samurai Champloo, Cowboy Bebop, Big O, Gundam Singles, Brain Powered, Windaria, Wolf's Rain, Spirited Away, GitS S.A.C., Lensman, .hack//SIGN, Princess Mononoke, Studio Ghibli's THE BEST (mostly Ghibli movie theme songs), Arion, Galaxy Express 999, and various anime theme tracks.

I strongly suggest using the Find function - it's 5275 tracks long, and some of them are duplicates. If you're looking for something specific, ask - I may have it, but it's not listed. I will host/MU .zips of requested files.

Because I feel this post is very germaine to recent wanks

Sat, 29 Nov 2008 07:33:26 GMT

Title: Dazzled By Love
Fandom: (In)Famous Vampire Authors
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 748

“Well, would I retain my virginity if it was psychic?”

A walking cellphone ?!?

Wed, 23 Jul 2008 21:02:24 GMT

I love my new icon.

That is all.

EDIT: Okay, no it's not because Keitai Sousakan 7 is hardcore awesome with a dash of literal too-cool-for-school. *writes love letters to Takahashi Miike*

Sat, 03 May 2008 16:48:26 GMT

So, my Iron Man review will not exactly be everyone else's. Mainly because I went with a group of people who had just finished watching Gurren Lagaan.

Closeup:

Yes, we totally spent the entirety of Iron Man going, "All you need is a bigger drill!"

Wed, 12 Dec 2007 06:03:46 GMT

What do I do to unwind when I've had a bad day? (Go go skirting with another panic attack in a week.)

Parody awful fanfic. I'm pretty sure most can guess the "author" I'm imitating. (Hint: She's the star of most of my badfic posts). Bruce/Clark, fucking on dinosaurs kink.

Clark hadn’t known what to make of it when Bruce asked him to visit the Batcave. However, fixing the dinosaur was certainly not what he’d had in mind. He reconstructed it piece by piece, punctuated with sly advice from his partner.

Clark stroked the tail experimentally then wrapped his hands around it, preparing to reattach the last piece. Bruce laughed, rubbing his hand lightly Clark’s back, slipping his hand down to grip Clark’s rear.

“Have a firm hold on it?”

Clark smiled. “I think I’m used to large, meaty protrusions by now, Bruce.”

Bruce got astride the tail, eyes twinkling. “Give me a ride, dinosaur cowboy?”

Clark smirked at Bruce’s deceptively childlike expression, but his eyes drifted down to the open collar of Bruce’s shirt, well-muscled chest prominently on display. “Do you think you can handle a ride with me?”

“I only like ‘em when they’re hard, rough, and leave me gasping. Up to the challenge?” Bruce wrapped his arms around Clark’s neck and licked his ear, as Clark welded the tail back to its owner. The lick nearly caused the Kryptonian to wreck a path of fiery destruction across the cave with a glance.

Clark turned to frown at his partner. “Bad boys who distract me while I’m working get punished, you know.”

“Oh? And what would that be?”

Clark kissed Bruce roughly, and Bruce shifted uncomfortably, well aware of the protrusions rising from the tail. Bruce could feel his cock pressing up against the reptile, his pants providing poor protection against its rough skin. The thought of Clark taking him from behind led his blood to be inexorably drawn to his cock, his magnet of lustful desire.

Bruce didn’t notice when Clark pulled the small tube of lube from his pocket, but he readily obeyed when firm hands pushed him forward against the dinosaur. Clark entered him slowly, heat expanding his cavity, Bruce’s head thrown back with a dying capybara’s moan, struck with the poacher’s bullet of love, willingly giving his life to this masterful hunter.

The push and pull, heat filling him to his molten core, a tyrannosaurus rex taking his prey roughly, mercilessly, sweat coating Bruce in an iridescent layer of mica, Clark gasping at the sensation of Bruce’s Batcave closing around him, Clark’s hand unzipping his pants and grasping Bruce’s cock, his essence leaking from the straining lever, begging to be pulled and dispense its white reward, Clark pumping, faster, faster, the image of Bruce’s naked ass driving him to melt into Bruce, hard and sweet and hot and savage, Bruce closed his eyes and a glittering waterfall of light flashed across his eyes and sluiced over him as Clark let loose his barbaric yawp.

Bruce’s ejaculation formed a trail of gloriously debauched ellipses across the pebbled green skin, and he lay post-climax like an armadillo by the roadside, the 18-wheeler tire track of love crushing his armored hide of indifference.

However, today was offset by getting the internship with Audacia Ray, which is pretty much monumental for me, so. Fuck you Dr. Keller and your insinuation that I am clearly lazy and I am not trying to, y'know, balance an pretty hectic life.

Thu, 02 Aug 2007 23:10:32 GMT

I FART GODDAMN MIRACLES AND PUPPIES OF JOY. IN KITTEN UNITS.

Wed, 06 Jun 2007 04:44:08 GMT

I'm just going to quote selectively, because I'm lazy like that.

"So here he was, trussed up in the Batrope, or whatever Batman called it, being flown back to Arkham. He was thirsty and tired and angry at Harley.

And horny. Definitely horny.

How many of his fantasies had started just like this? Restrained by Batman, bound by one of his toys. Close quarters, tight enough to hear the creaking of the plates of armor in Batman’s costume as he moved, smell the man’s sweat, see the way the muscles in his jaw were clenched tight.

Oh, what he’d give to have Batman land the plane and turn around, kneel over him and play with those bindings, cape flowing over him, lean down and touch his mouth to-"

"Joker craved the touch of a man who would sooner never lay eyes on him again, let alone his hands."

Within the first section we've already veered far downhill, as Joker fantasizes about Batman like a horny high school kid with an issue of "Leather Guys" shoved under his mattress.

Next, Poison Ivy gives Joker a vial of sex pollen as an apology.Because that's not just plot driven to explain the sex at all.

"He wanted to feel with his disfigured body, not his empty heart.

He’d dreamt about it again the night before, what it would be like to be under Batman, be taken by him. His hands entwined in that silky cape, his own pale thighs surrounded by muscular ones. He woke up desperately needing to come and hating his brain for teasing him so."

Joker with woody. Such a lovely thought. Maybe the kids will pick on him during gym class next.

"Or maybe it would make Batman shrivel up into a husk of a man as he died from the inside out. Hopefully not. Joker’s life didn’t have much of a point without Batman in it.

He knew it was dangerous to put all of one’s being into another person- he was crazy, not stupid- but sometimes these things couldn’t be helped.

And maybe he didn’t want to help it."

Yes, poor, obsessed w00bie Joker. Little tear. Little emo tear.

"That had been an hour and a half ago. Joker was getting antsy. Could Batman actually be standing him up?

They’d had a date!

Joker would keep the place under control, then Batman would come and take him away, and then he’d try to use Ivy’s wonder dust. No matter what happened, he’d at least get to smell that deliciously sweaty Kevlar again."

Okay, let's consider that phrase again. "smell that deliciously sweaty Kevlar." Process that for a second, grab a grocery bag, and let your gag reflex go, folks.

"Before he could snark at Batman he was dumbstruck yet again by the sheer attractiveness of the large, angry man stalking in his direction. What made him crave dominance from such a frightening, imposing figure?"

Joker. Dumbfounded, because Batman's just too damn hot.

"Those were the only words spoken until they actually got to the sexiest car Joker had ever seen. Sleek and black, intimidating and powerful, all just like its owner. Surely the order to climb into the car was the result of the pollen; there was no other way Joker would ever see the inside of that gorgeous machine."

Phallic car imagery from Joker. Phallic car imagery. Grab the bag again, or just give yourself some time in the restroom to empty your entire stomach.

"Batman spoke again, and Joker couldn’t remember any time when someone had spoken to him with this amount of reverence. Even Harley tainted her words now. “I can’t believe I never noticed.” He moved closer and popped open the cuffs around Joker’s wrists, and even if Batman had bothered to clarify what he was talking about Joker didn’t think he’d be able to hear him over the beating of his own heart."

It's true sex-pollen fucking love.

"Batman pulled off his other glove, tossed it into the narrow backseat, and made a lunge for Joker. Only years of practice grappling with Batman prepared him to deflect him from his target, clearly a kiss. That, and Batman actually stopped when Joker pushed him away.

That wasn’t an edge of hurt in Batman’s pretty eyes. Joker refused to believe it. “What’s wrong? I know you want this. Have for years. Want,” Batman’s voice sank deeper, “me.”"

Batman, the diminutive teasing sub.

"Joker’s heart beat impossibly harder, pumping blood directly to his cock. Hard and aching in six seconds flat, just from Batman. Well, sexy Batman. It’d only been his fantasy for years.

Why did he stop him? Because Batman was drugged. Because it was wrong.

Because kissing was too intimate, too personal, and if he kissed Batman he couldn’t watch his mouth, and it couldn’t be on his cock."

First time sex anxiety.

"“So, Batsy, you want me?” Joker could barely speak, so constricting was the weight of Batman’s gaze. “You want to suck me?” Joker trailed his white fingers down the dark expanse of armored chest in front of him and whispered, “You want to fuck me?”

Batman growled and pulled Joker’s left leg over the center console and Joker righted himself indignantly. “Not right here, Batsy.” Not in the car. He wasn’t his prom date. On the car, however... “Wouldn’t you rather see me spread on the hood?”"

"Batman intended to strip him and fuck him raw."

Car hood fucking. Always a winner.

"At the fender stood the Dark Knight, his knight for tonight."

Bag warning.

"“Keep it on. All of it. And get on your knees.”

He obliged like a whore, and strong hands unzipped Joker’s pants and pulled them down his narrow hips. Batman barely let him step out of them and his polka dot boxers before he was sucking him, tongue everywhere around the head and then pressed underneath when Joker was inside."

Batman. Obliged. Like. A. Whore.

I hope you had a collection of those gag bags.

"Things rarely lived up to expectation, but this may have. Maybe it was just that it’d been a while, but it was good all on its own. Batsy knew how to give head, knew where to lick and where to press, and Joker shuddered as a wave of pleasure rolled through him.

His hands drifted to either side of the cowl, thumbs caressing the ears, and it was so much like his fantasies, so much like his dreams...

It was almost too late not to come before he pushed Batman away. “Fuck me, Batsy. Like you know you want to.” Like he hoped he wanted to. “Then you take it from there. I’m yours.” Owned."

Owned. I really can't get over the owned. It has such a nice ring to it.

"His shoes were next, then his socks, and finally he was nude, cock jutting forward from green pubic hair."

T.M.I.

"Thumbs pressed around his opening and then saliva- it was all it could have been- trickled along it. Batman grunted, shifted, and then a colder fluid was drizzled along his hot flesh. “Lubricant,” was whispered into his ear, followed by, “Condoms, too. Better prepared than a boy scout.”"

Ah, yes, those Boy Scouts. Always ready for anything

"Without warning the blunt head of Batman’s cock pressed against him. Armor clad hips thrust forward and Joker held his breath as his body tightened to ward off the invasion."

So many bad battle jokes, so little time.

"“Relax. Or I won’t be able to give you what you want.”

He did want it, and he forced himself to calm down. He got himself comfortable, and because it was right in front of him, studied the stylish grate that ran up the middle of the top half of the hood. Slowly, painfully, Batman forced his way inside. It was dry and it hurt, but he tried not to focus on that. Instead, he thought of what they looked like, Batman behind him, cape flowing over them both, billowing slightly as he moved, Joker supporting himself on his forearms and wincing on every forward thrust."

The cape fetish bit? Mildly creepy.

"His knight pulled out and rolled Joker over, somehow simultaneously pulling one of those familiar zip strips out of the ether. He yanked Joker’s arms over his head, wrapped the strip around one wrist, threaded it through a bottom bar of the grate, then around the other wrist.

He was restrained, trapped, Batman looming over him in the gloom, pupils dilated, his own pale thighs spread around Batman’s waist.

He was restrained, trapped, Batman looming over him in the gloom, pupils dilated, his own pale thighs spread around Batman’s waist.

Joker was harder than he’d ever been."

"He got just a little more turned on each time he tugged at his bindings and found himself still latched to the car, and then Batman threaded his fingers through Joker’s sweaty hair and kept his head in place as well.

Pinned. Everywhere. By Batman fucking him."

Really nothing to say here.

"Batman came soon thereafter, an odd self-satisfied smirk on his face. He pushed Joker’s legs down and pulled out, then tossed the condom into a garbage can near the computer.

He turned his back to Joker, and Joker didn’t think too much about what he may be doing until he turned back around and there was a fresh condom on his erection."

Mmm, repeated anal sex.

"Joker came one more time that night, Batman three more, and then the Dark Knight had collapsed onto the floor. Joker wasn’t sure how long ago that was.

What he did know was that his shoulders were sore because his arms were still pulled back above his head, his ass was sore from Batman’s cock, and his lower back was sore because without Batman in front of him, there wasn’t a good place to rest his legs. He was also tired and dehydrated, he smelled bad, and the dried semen on his stomach itched.

And, oh yes, he was strapped to a car."

And then Robin walks in and it becomes uncomfortably boring.

Judged by parents and the public...The Fingers pointed at them...Well I'll point mine right back...

Thu, 24 May 2007 17:05:26 GMT

Because LJ's posting servers are down...

Picked this up from Box Turtle Bulletin; they speak with an Ex-Gay Watch representative, and it's well worth listening to. I literally cannot speak, I'm so offended.

You can see all four cartoons here. The blog GoodAsYou gets their rage on as well.

This the the kind of rhetoric a so-called "legitimate" organization like the Traditional Values Coalition is using to fight the Employment Non-Discrimination Act. People in a position of power are supposed to take them seriously while they produce this utterly offensive claptrap. When they photoshop babies in with men in the perfectly legitimate job of male erotic dancers.

It's just ridiculous.

To further make it worse, one would think an organization like National Association for Research & Therapy of Homosexuality would at least understand the sensitivity of using such a word, when they claim to want to rehabilitate homosexuals.

"Many individuals who consider themselves transgendered, undergo only partial surgeries or hormone treatments and identify as She/Males. Numbers of these individuals become part of the online pornography industry. Sexually explicit She/Male sites number in the hundreds online." Genderqueers: Lesbians Living Between Genders.

No. Just...no.

This isn't rhetoric, this isn't intelligent discussion. I don't even think there's a shred of intelligence in any of these comics. Just the drunk monkey at a computer. I want to say something witty, something light to defuse the pure offense, but there's nothing. This is so utterly repulsive that it chokes off any response but rage.

Someone give me a baby, that I may punch it.

Sat, 28 Apr 2007 05:05:24 GMT

This comment is pure love. It's even more love when it's in film form.

Shamless Fic MST

Thu, 05 Apr 2007 05:32:31 GMT

This is mainly to make up to Kat, because I'm very talented at being oblivious and an asshole.

Title: A Timely Rescue
Characters: Deathstroke, Black Canary, Arsenal, Nightwing
Rating: R
Word Count: 750
Continuity: OTPoW AU, no Crisis of the latter sucky sorts
Disclaimer: DC Comics owns
Notes: Written for cero_ate's Cliché-a-thon

Normally, Slade paid only minimal attention to the lunatics of Arkham. They were, after all, only insane in extremely disturbing ways. But then, normally, they stayed in Gotham, a city he had left pretty much alone since the debacle that had been Vigilante.

It deserved what it got, letting a rich kid with issues dress up as a bat and tend its insanity. She loves it when I hit her!

This time, one of the lunatics had found her way to New York. American Airlines would take anyone these days. Worse, she had done so while he was waiting for his lover to finish dropping off Lian to Harper and Grayson, from a long vacation. Orphan comma without purpose in need of a good home. His plans to finally have her for a few hours were seriously hampered by the likelihood of her getting involved in rounding up the villainess behind the hostage situation in Central park. Poking your penis in a woman's vagina: Always more important than saving lives!

He made his way to the Park after suiting up, taking the precaution of filters for his nose and mouth; he had heard Poison Ivy liked to use strange pollen in her terrorism. Wikipedia also said she liked bunnies and was Harley Quinn's lover, but who trusted the internet anyway? As he went, he listened in on police bands, and cursed as it was confirmed that three heroes were on site. He wondered whom the trio had left Lian with just briefly, but Harper had to have contingency plans. When it takes me three tries to read the first half of your sentence and the construction is worse than a Gotham project, it is a clear warning that you shouldn't tackle topics above your talent. This is an author, I think, more suited to why kittens are better than puppies (or vice versa).

He did not figure he would be needed, but he was not a man for taking chances. Slade Wilson: Boy Scout. Dinah Lance and Dick Grayson had a strong pull on him, one as a friend and lover, the other as his student of sorts. Though he could not get them to see how impractical their methods were, he still had to admit to a fondness for them remaining healthy. If only we con finagle a way for it to contract ebola...

He arrived just as a very unconscious Poison Ivy was being loaded in a Hazmat van. Using very as an ironic descriptor: funnier than Lightbulb jokes? Video at ten! Along the way the various hostages had been released from their living wicker cages by sharp arrows, but of the three heroes, he saw nothing. Inverted sentence structure: when you just can't bother to be creative. That surprised him; Black Canary at least usually handled the police personally, and Arsenal was prone to it as well.

He began scanning the outer edges, expecting to see Nightwing discreetly observing to make sure things happened properly. Nightwing also enjoys discreetly observing from the tree next to the Drakes' second floor window when Kon visits. When he did not find the man, he eluded the police and headed into the roped off crime scene area. The further in he got, the more worried he became, seeing small animals in the midst of mad mating frenzies. Slade's so sexy, he makes rabbits spontaneously fuck like themselves. The cold feeling in his stomach grew as he approached the small creek, and heard unmistakable sounds coming from under its bridge.

The mercenary could have abandoned all pretenses of stealth and the three heroes never would have heard him, he was convinced. Slade's magic sexing powers can have that effect. The image before him was one he never would have wished to see, and he was pretty sure his lover would not want to remember it.

She was trapped between the two men, as their fingers alternated between stroking her very bare skin where her costume left her so revealed, the top part of her bodice pushed down, and trying to get their own costumes open. The redhead was standing behind her, moaning as she pressed back into his body, writhing as if already in the grips of a strong climax, while the brunette was leaning down to taste those bared breasts, white teeth flashing sharply in the filtered light. Slade wondered why everyone had suddenly grown frock coats, but felt it better not to ask.

Slade could neither keep his growl back nor stop from flashing forward. Stopped by the power of the Slade penis. A strong pull on Dinah was followed by a small scuffle, as the intoxicated men tried to keep her from Slade. They were partly trying to protect her from the new villain, and partly trying to keep their sex-partner. Sad, deformed, pointless sentence looking for good author to put it out of its misery.

He did not want to hurt Dick, and Dinah would have things to say if he hurt Harper too much. Because it is ironic and creative to use another overworked cliche. It remained that he could not let his woman be molested by the two, especially when it would lead to severe issues on her part, as Roy was…complicated…in her heart. But he fit cozily in her liver.

A solution did present itself when he saw that every time they managed to touch her or each other, it led to more caressing and less fighting him. I love how this sentence randomly reminds me of cheesy techno. I think that says everything. Dinah seemed just as content to press to his solid body, rubbing along the armor, so Slade maneuvered until he could trip one young man on top of the other. The full body contact sent the lovers off deeper into the intoxicated need to touch and be touched, letting Slade jerk Dinah very close and make an exit. All the other descriptors hated "need to touch and be touched." It was notorious for bringing cups to the party and then eating all the cheese dip.

Now he just had to get her somewhere a little more discreet to burn the effects out of her system…and somehow, that did not bother him in the least. So...unironically opportune.

Title: Lifting Bird to Wind
Characters: Slade Wilson, Dinah Lance
Rating: R
Word Count: 314
Continuity: HookerVerse
Disclaimer: DC Comics owns
Notes: Written for cero_ate's Cliché-a-thon

"She's not available," the man said one final time, and made his way back toward the others. Slade watched, a long moment, before he went elsewhere, to think about that. Poor commas. Always the most abused of punctuation, it got the backhanded slap when it asked for more. His last five trips to the city had found his accommodation with this man satisfactory. The petite brunette girl was just to Slade's tastes between brains and appetites, and the mercenary was disgruntled to have his routine broken. Slade's penis is so awesome it cries emo tears at being deprived.

It did not pay to make the tall man agitated or wonder about things that affected his life. Pronoun seeking antecedent. Likes to discuss subjects of all kinds, hates missed dates and being left hanging.

It was fairly easy for him to find the tenement the pimp kept his homeless girls in, and even easier to break the men keeping an eye on them. The Gotham city Tenement and Slum map put out by the tourism bureau came in handy. The one he was seeking was not drugged; she lived the life because it was a matter of survival, so he bypassed the room with the paraphernalia in it. He came to another room, this one locked from the outside. It was nothing for him to break the locks and get inside, where his blood turned ice cold. Victor Freeze later admitted it was a good, if overelaborate plan.

He knew the hooker he had been frequenting was young. She had been able to hide it better than most, but he was an old hand at reading people. He had a reputation for exorbitant late fees at the local people library. Seeing her like this, her face all but unrecognizable, and mostly non-responsive nearly enraged him past reasoning. He stopped at insanity briefly to purchase a soda.

When he knelt to pick her up, and she flinched violently despite being nearly unconscious, he vowed there would be one less pimp come morning. The poor commas. Never knew they had it coming. This woman had been his, on a cash and carry basis in the past. It's a slaughter, I tell you. Finding her like this had insured she would be his, one more piece of a network that stretched worldwide.

First, he had to make sure she lived. He was more of a BDSM guy, anyway. Then she would be set free of all but the ties binding her to him…and those, he thought, would lie as loosely as possible on her young shoulders. If the author thinks that constructing purposely confusing sentences so that I have to read them repeatedly will somehow make me enjoy them, I must warn her this clever ruse is failing miserably.

Title: A Selfless Wish
Characters: Deathstroke, Black Canary
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 441
Continuity: Total Crack OTPoW AU
Disclaimer: DC Comics owns
Notes: Written for cero_ate's Cliché-a-thon

Dinah wanted to pace. She needed to be up and moving, but she could not abandon the chair at the bedside of her lover. She watched him as he tried to remain calm, waiting for J'onn to arrive. Almost on instinct, they both moved their linked hands to his stomach, swollen and hard with the life they had created. Pro tip from someone who sucks: Describing a pregnant stomach with terms normally reserved for an erect penis? Not advisable.

"Our daughter is impatient," Dinah murmured. "Not that you won't be glad to have her out here…" Praise be for magically flexible anuses.

"I'd do it all over again, Dinah," he assured her as a single tear rolled happily down a cheek rosy with love. (The worst bit? I bet this was deleted while she was writing.)

`~`~`~`~`

'It' was the beginning of the strangest pregnancy, and the full-fledged reformation of her lover. I should really quit with the overdone cheesy comma jokes. They're as easy as pulling dead commas in an absolutely atrocious fic.

Dinah had been back with him for just a few weeks, following the exorcism of the corrupted Azarath spirits, when they discovered her hasty form of trying to help him over what he had done had led to her becoming pregnant, with his child. You see, when you read this sentence aloud it sounds utterly ridiculous. Read the entire thing aloud and brain cells die.

She had been excited, happy beyond belief. And Slade, looking over a past full of mistakes, and wrong paths had chosen to give up the hunting, to give up the paychecks in favor of just being a father. *comma joke*

Three weeks later, the doctor they found had told them Dinah's body would never survive bearing the child anywhere near term. Random inexplicable angst source lifted from a better work!

Slade had held his lover tight that night, listening to her near silent sobs. She had stubbornly refused to even consider the abortion the doctor was urging, not until they had talked, not until all options had been exhausted. I think I've found the source of everyones' issues: This is Grell!Dinah. He knew he needed to urge her to do it soon, before it was too late and he risked losing both mother and child.

It was tearing him apart to consider causing her that much grief, to see her trying to come to terms with the idea she could not have this baby. And, once she had fallen asleep in his arms, he remained awake well into the night, wishing with all his heart that just once, that something he had done would not bring so much pain to his loved ones. *another comma joke with a reference to cliche, tight jeans, and pine tree sap*

The next morning, to the complete confusion of them both, he was the one with the symptoms of pregnancy, and she had none. "Guys, I gotta bail. I'm in labor." Exhaustive tests proved the symptoms were correct; and all Dr. Fate would say was that some magical entity must have chosen to intervene. Magical entities: Advocates of anus babies.

`~`~`~`~`

It took J'onn most of an hour, but eventually he handed a perfectly formed little girl to Slade, and watched with amusement as the couple cooed over their newborn. I would adore a J'onn J'onzz: Martian Midwife miniseries. He quietly withdrew, knowing that the hero community would be set on its ear for years to come, for the way their Canary had captured Slade so fully. It took Batman a few weeks, but his utility belt kickstand worked perfectly.

Mon, 12 Feb 2007 05:14:33 GMT

“Come on! Blast me!” Flash called, as he dodged a green light that was sent by the new evil that invaded his home town.

“You shouldn’t be encouraging me,” the dark haired woman smiled, or rather smirked before blasting another light from her hands only this time it was a dark red. Attack of the Evil Christmas Decorator? Unlike the green it didn’t crash behind him, instead it followed him, and managed to keep up. No, anything but cliche evil person dialogue! What evil she could unleash if she requested he "stand still, dammit"?

“Oh crap. A little help would be good!” Flash screeched as he zoomed past Hawk and Dove who both yelped and jumped out of the way as the fire followed Flash around Central City, destroying anything that got in its path. Except of course Superman, who took the full blow like it was a tennis ball to the gut...Superman: Professional Masochist and Catcher of Tennis Balls!

“Thank Supes,” Flash said slowing down as Booster Gold, Blue Beetle, Shining Knight, Vigilante, Supergirl, Wonderwoman, and Shayera appeared in the alley way the Flash had run too. So...all these people need to thank him for saving Flash's life. And when you're introducing the cast, something besides a grocery list would do. I don't go to the grocery store to get "A Batman, a few Green Lanterns, and a Superman on clearance." I don't need to read it too. “Do we really need that many?”

“J’onn feels as though you will need help,” Wonderwoman said, as the League began to regroup in the alley way. They had to stop by Roy's old dealer for some smack, apparently. Since no one will expect them to hide in the alley! The Question, Green Arrow, Hawk and Dove had now joined them.

“That woman, she’s not just any one,” Booster Gold yelped, as he peered from over a garbage can. “I recognize her; she’s got a bad reputation in the future.” No, no, she might be multiples of herself! And thank you for the pertinent info, Booster. Would you also like to inform everyone that she's "capable of great evil" as well?

“We’ll make sure she has no future,” Shayera said, sharply. *insert wounded by wit joke here*

“Exactly,” Superman said.

“She’s immortal,” Booster stated, annoyed, “Which is obvious since she still existed in my time.”

“Vandal Savage was immortal too,” Batman said.

“Who?” Booster asked.

“We can take her out and her stupid posse,” Flash said, patting Booster hard across the back. He then faced Batman with a stupid look on his face. “How do we take her down?”

“Full force,” Batman said, walking back out onto the battle field. Batman later revealed he had an actual plan of attack as opposed to a line of cheesy overused dialogue, but preferred to watch everyone "flail around a bit."

“I’ll do crowd control,” Booster called out.

“Now!” Not saying it, not saying it...oh hell, as opposed to later? Maybe after you and Beetle have had a quickie behind the dumpster?

“We are all gonna die, or worse,” Booster muttered to Beetle.

“Relax; she can’t be as bad as you think she is,” Beetle grinned as they followed the rest of the League. Never let the inexperienced handle a semicolon. They could shoot their eye out!

“Well, I'm leaving as soon as she starts to tear out our hearts with out cutting us up,” Booster said.

“You’d be to busy dying to leave,” Beetle said, kicking one of her hideous minions to the ground. Behind them Hawk and Dove fought against a strange beast with five heads, and a nag for biting. To their left Vigilante, Shining Knight, Green Arrow and Question fought against another five head creature, only it was ten times bigger then the first.

“What are these things?” Arrow asked, shooting arrow after arrow at the beast.

“Some type of demon from hell,” Booster said, as he blasted the creature hard with a yellow flash. Despite having a flying robot companion from the future with an entire encyclopedia inside him, Booster was unable to find justfuckinggoogleit.com In It yelped as it went flying towards the other creature Hawk and Dove were fighting. A squishy noise was heard as it stood up. The smaller creature was dead underneath it, flat as a pancake.

“Nice shot Boost,” Beetle grinned, Booster sent another blast at the creature sending it hurling towards the state library. However, I'd be glad to share some commas with you. I blunted the edges so you wouldn't hurt yourself. The building collapsed around it leaving the creature unable to move.

“No!” The women screeched, sending a black orb fast in Booster’s direction. He’s eyes widened fearfully as it drew nearer and nearer. Much too easy. I'm only fond of punching babies when the jokes are bad.

“Booster! Move!” He could hear Beetle screaming at him, but he was too stunned to move. He had seen that black orb before in the future. It was just like the fireballs, designed to kill, only slowly and dreadfully. It was only several feet away from him. Booster was suddenly taken out of his trance when Beetle tackled him out of the way; the pair fell to the ground.

“Boost? Beets?” Booster could hear the Flash calling them as he slowly sat up. He turned to face his best friend, who was lying beside him shaking hard, his eyes rolling to the back off his head.

“Beetle?” Booster asked fearfully. He only received a strangled cry from the fallen man. Realisation dawned on the man from the future; Ted had been hit by the orb. “Oh God…”

“Booster, what’s wrong with him?” Dove asked, as he came rushing over with the Question trailing him.

“He’s going to die,” Booster whispered.

“What? What was that?” Question asked as he looked up at the woman who was now focusing her attention on Superman, Shining Knight who was on his winged horse, and Wonderwoman. Ted was still shaking hard on the ground gasping for breathe.

“B-b-b-boost…”

“It’s alright buddy!” Booster whispered.

“H-hurts,” Ted groaned, loudly. I'm amazed. Ted's hands don't appear to be reaching for a shoulder, cloth, or the sky.

“Try to relax,” Dove said, leaning beside Beetle. “We have to get him to a hospital!”

“Oh no,” they heard Question mutter.

“What?” Dove and Booster asked turning around. Question was looking up at the sky watching what appeared to be Shining Knight falling down hard to the ground. “Oh!”

“I believe he was hit by that black sphere too,” Question said, “Some ones sent her after us!” The Question, frustrated at always being lumped with the morons, had taken to stating the blatantly obvious.

“No one’s sent her after us,” Booster snapped as they watched Vigilante catch him, “Iniko attacks every one, good or bad… as long as she can hurt and kill.” Booster, irritated by The Question's insistence upon stealing his lines, now said the even more obvious.

“Iniko?”

“It’s her name,” Booster said, “I think it means evil in some language.” Booster claimed victory, as the Question stalked off muttering something about Jello packs and the color purple.

“How long will Beetle be like this?” Dove asked.

“There wasn’t a cure in the future,” Booster muttered, softly. DUN-DUN-DUN.

“h-has to be,” Beetle whimpered. Booster shuddered as he and Dove dragged their fallen comrade away from the battle and back to the alley way they were in before.

“I’ll stay with him,” Booster muttered as the pair slowly lay Blue Beetle down next to a brick wall. And the quickie jokes just keep coming... “You’ll have to get Shining Knight out of there too.”

“Okay, I’ll get Vigilante to bring him here,” Dove said, as another scream filled the air. “I think she hit some one else.” Dove liked to get in on the pair's rivalry, but he often felt out-classed.

“We have to retreat, there’s no stopping her!” Booster said, slowly stroking his unconscious friend’s head. Quick, get her to gloat! Booster sighed softly, in relief knowing at least his friend wasn’t feeling any pain.

“There has to be,” Dove said, as Vigilante came rushing on his bike with Shining Knight unconscious beside him, his head lolling across is chest. Winged Victory galloped beside him, looking at his owner in fright. Hank came running after them with a screaming Question in his arms.

“Call them in! Tell them to retreat!” Booster screeched. “We have to get out of here! NOW!”

On que pasa? the League all came rushing back to the alley way. Not one member was left with out a scratch or bruise on their body. Even Superman was bleeding from the head. So, everyone else gets beaten horribly, but Supes? Someone fucked with the hair. You don't fuck with Superman's hair. Green Arrow and the Flash were both carrying Batman over towards them.

“She just hit Bruce as we were running,” Flash said, as Superman lifting the shaking man from their arms.

“I-Its the Goddman Batman!” he groaned.

“She’s hit four of our members with that thing of hers!” Shayera snapped, turning to Booster, “What is it?” Shayera, never let in on the rivalry, had taken to announcing the number of objects in a given room to prove she was capable enough to compete.

“I'm not sure,” Booster muttered, as Beetle squeezed his hand and moaned painfully. “But there wasn’t a cure in the future.”

“We have to get out of here and fast,” Flash said, “How long does it take for the orb…?”

“A while, possibly a week,” Booster said.

“A week… like this,” Superman said, peering down at Batman. “We can’t have them in pain like this.” Batman relished it, as he was grim and gritty, dammit.

“We have time though to try and find a cure,” Dove said.

“But that’s what Batman usually does,” Hawk said. Even with the best computers in half the known universe, not one of them had ever bothered to open a science textbook.

“Here Leaguey, Leaguey, I haven’t finished with you yet,” she called out. “Come out, come out, where ever you are?” Ah, so coming out is optional?

“Yeah but we’ve finished with you,” Superman said. ...how the hell does this make sense.

“Mr Terrific, we need an emergency transfer!” Shayera cried into her Comm. Link.

“I'm setting your coordinates, just be ready.”

“Peek-a-boo!” The League jumped around, as she floated on air smirking at them, black horns appearing from her temples as her eyes flared red. “I told you I haven’t finished yet. I still have one ball left.” It's like being given the entire joke setup with a free toy packed in.

“Terrific! NOW!” Shayera screeched, as the orb left the demons hands and flew straight towards where Green Arrow and Dove stood.

“DOVE! MOVE!” Hawk was heard screaming as they began to feel themselves being sent to the Watch Tower. No, stand still! If you die, you might be able to escape!

I think this is the part where I make a cliche Hulk anger joke.

Sat, 06 Jan 2007 06:14:26 GMT

So, I've been considering reading the Midnighter/Grifter mini on the strength of the cover, which is fabulous. I was going to tolerate the Chuck Dixon because hey, sometimes you can't always win every battle, but now...

Oh, hell. Will someone just shove a vodka-doused sock in Chuck Dixon's mouth and light it, please?

I wrote an anti-death penalty story even though my views are the polar opposite.

Oh, so now it's the "black friend" defense. Clearly, your non-political, escapist comics never taught you that tokenism as a defense is idiocy.

My suggestion was that superhero comics are, whether die-hard fans like it or not, ostensibly children’s comics and perhaps not the forum to be informing children of homosexuality, heterosexuality, or sexually transmitted diseases. think I incensed some people by saying that I didn’t want my kids receiving their sex ed from Judd Winick in the pages of a superhero comic book. I still don’t.

I’ve never backed away from my disdain for agenda-driven comics in what should be the medium’s primary escapist, mass appeal genre. Stand on your soap box all day long. But don’t stand on the shoulders of household-name icons. Write the characters in character and don’t write your world-view through them.

And the introduction and retro-fitting of gay characters into established series has become an instant cliché. It’s done in a cynical manner strictly for marketing purposes in a way that should offend everyone.

I think I can pretty well-assuredly say that when Alex Ross first made his comments about Obsidian's gayness, there was anger. However, he later explained and clarified in what I'd term an acceptable manner and made clear his position. Unfortunately, Chuck's still so far in the closet he's visiting Narnia.

Chuck's also shrunk a bit in height, so it's easier for the point just to sail right over his head. Heck, when people like Chuck are confronted with the reality of the industry, there's a hurricane of not getting it that threatens to flatten Florida. So, his kids can read escapist fantasy where women are busier advertising assets than acting, and men are often impossibly-muscle bound, occasionally to unhealthy levels (this is much more an issue of the 90s, but it still stands). So instead of getting Judd Winick's Sex Ed. (which one hopes is more than, "This is herpes. Doesn't it look nasty? Don't fuck people, kids!") they can learn women are there for boobs and men are always the winners. Escapism is not bad in and of itself, but it's also in no way superior in actually considering the reality of a situation. This isn't even tackling the whole bit with Spoiler, which has been much better stated by others.

Any changes I might make to that part of his character are not a matter of interpretation. Any changes would be wrong and a disservice to the writers that came before me and the readers who enjoy Midnighter’s antics.

(Warning, this is the part where I do a Moon Knight soapbox) I wonder, because I seem to recall part of the issue with Marc Spector: Moon Knight is that it flat-out ignored canon and was a steaming pile of crap. Did you ever think about the disservice to Monech, who created and wrote Moon Knight for years? So thanks for pulling Moon Knight further from his origins because you hate "realism." Instead of making up for the abysmal Fist of Khonshu, you took an interesting character and turned him into a laughing stock for your own purposes. Don't tell me you write in-character even if you don't agree with them. Thank the powers that be Huston is writing an awesome book right now.

And on the note of writing bad escapism...

Please. Stop thinking you can write martial arts, manhwa-ish stories. Your exposure to martial arts stinks of seventies kung-fu movies with bad dubbing and third tier Thai Bruce Lee imitators. A contest to find the "best archer in the world?" What an original way to force two characters together. You're really adapting and revolutionizing those old hackneyed, boring, pointless concepts there.

And I know we all love gangs. Especially the yakuza. But either bother to write the yakuza well (see Beat Takeshi's stunningly brilliant Sonatine) or find something new.

Also! Connor? About as Zen as those little karesansui (rock garden) boxes next to the checkout counter in a bookstore. Yes, Connor lived in an ashram. There was karesansui work, always an automatic sign of enlightenment. This is all well and good, but it is not true, real Zen practice. So stop trying to point to Connor as something special. It's microwave Zen. (This is not to say he's not a good character, however.)

Hell, just find a new trick pony besides "Look, it's Asian and deep!" You've got nothing but dogfood left.

After all, we have a Canadian, a German, and an Irish guy added to the cast.

Yeah, those white (or fuzzy blue) and male "ethnic" additions were great. Who needs the Super Friends when you can have the Racially Insensitive Friends?

Despite all of the brouhaha over me writing the limited series, this is the kind of story I’m known for; visually-driven, fast paced and violent with a few laughs thrown in.

Chuck, you're that uncle at the reunion who thinks he's hilarious but always tells the same five bad jokes, then gets roaring drunk in an attempt to forget he's less funny than a Chuck Norris joke.

Ain't worried about the dumb things I've done...

Fri, 20 Oct 2006 16:05:14 GMT

Some random babbling on the distractions.

How does one solve a bout of self-pity and bad night at work?

With tandoori chicken, long grain saffron rice, spiced black chai, dark chocolate with marzipan, and spending money one really doesn't need to. However, the new sheets are nice, I do now own a proper sake set, and...

Spider-Man Loves Mary Jane is, quite possibly, one of the cutest things I've ever seen, besides puppies. I can't pet and snuggle a book as well as a puppy, unfortunately. The high school angst-drama factor is through the roof, but I just can't help but love MJ's earnestness and Peter's passive-aggressive tendencies. Seriously, showing up as plain Peter when MJ is going to go out with Spider-Man? Way to set yourself up to fall. SMLMJ is the comic book analog of that sappy "popular one hooks up with dork" movie you'd never admit to liking, but still watch on occasion when you may catch playing on television.

Also bringing the cute, high school drama is Kamen Rider Hibiki. Despite how the fandom wants to paint it, Hibiki is the best-acted, most emotionally honest KR series made in recent memory. Tendou may have memorized every word out of his Grandmother's mouth, but he's a crappy concept played by a bad actor. (Me, sick of hearing about how he's so amazing? Nah...) Admittedly, I've been trying to share the gospel of Hibiki with those who would rather slap me than hear about it anymore.

Mainly because I'm so sick of reading people trash it based on how it's not a real "Kamen Rider" series. So it doesn't have the standard hallmarks of the two-eyed mask, Henshin call, and Rider Kick. And? Much rather I would have great acting, real flesh-and-blood relatable characters, and down to earth storylines.

Because that's a big part of what makes Hibiki special to me. A grounded, centered hero instead of a gung-ho hothead like Kenzaki of Blade, Hibiki tries his best and genuinely cares about Asumu even if he fails at expressing it. I can ignore the gimmicky disc animals and their irritating sound effects for the unique approach to the series score composed by Tosihiko Sahashi, whose work on Big O I absolutely love. As the weaponry is musical instrument-derived, it could either be corny or creative. Thankfully, it's the latter.

Yes, Hibiki (at least to episode 20) mainly focuses Asumu and his struggles with making the right choices, looking up to Hibiki as a father figure, his crush on Hitomi. It's not about the fights, the suits (which are also fabulous, thankfully), or some world-ending conflict. As much as I liked Blade's ending, I find the same "world-ending OH NOES!" premise tiresome in Kabuto, and am thankful Hibiki is about the humans who wear them and the trials they go through instead of how cool Tendou is when he kicks another generic Worm into a wall in bullet-time. The only damn thing I can stand about Kabuto is Daisuke, and he's already been written out now. Call him the humor character all you want, his arc with Gon was the only real human part of the entire endeavor.

Ah, that feels much better.

Now, to see if I can resist really breaking the bank at Kentuck. I've been tempted every year, and this one I very likely won't have anyone with me to remind me to be sensible or responsible. Fall is my second favorite time of year, and Kentuck is how I really get into the season, browsing the art and being awed by some of the raw skill on display. And they do bring some serious skill, along with some not-so skilled.

In reality, though, it's all about the alligator and fried twinkies. And the Silver Age GA vibrator jokes.

Sun, 15 Oct 2006 16:42:50 GMT

Disclaimer: I don’t regularly read Ultimate Fantastic Four/Ultimate Power. These scans are credit to consummated, who posted them at scans_daily.

I have a highly flexible sense of humor, which loves the absurd, unusual, and absolutely terrible. I am a b-movie collector, a purveyor of crap in all forms. This tends to annoy other folks, understandably; I got a great laugh out of the Super-Skrull “stretching” Reed, when all that got stretched was my tolerance for Land’s art and a photo of someone yelling.

Upon wasting the time viewing this utterly ridiculous piece of Land porn glory, though, I simply could not laugh off.

To start, we have a shot of the Fantastic Four action figures. For once, Land can use his source material without having to add in any of that pesky realism. Biting sarcasm aside, it does irritate that only Sue is in a demure, lady-like pose, while every other figure’s pose somehow implies great physical strength even when they aren’t endowed with it, such as Reed or Johnny.

What really gets under my skin is this .

Here we have the hallmarks of a crisis situation: collapsing building, a non-superpowered civilian, people yelling the obvious. Sue, being the ‘force field maker’ of the team, is clearly expected to save the day. This is all well and good, until we get to the actual art of the matter.

Sue’s pose is perfectly suited for say, dance or diving. (Both photos credit to Corbis) It’s soft, graceful, and shows her entire form in motion. Her hands are delicately set, emphasizing the length of her frame. If she were about to, in example, dive into a pool, it’d be appropriate.

There’s one tiny problem: she’s not. She’s protecting four other people from tons of crumbling concrete rubble. Unless Sue’s power works like an antenna and strengthens the higher she reaches, there is absolutely no logical reason for her to stand like this. Compared to other renditions, Sue is in a defensive pose when using a shield, bracing her body to withstand impact. The sheer weight she’s attempting to support/withstand with her back here could quite possibly shatter her spine. There’s a reason doctors recommend one kneel to lift a heavy object instead of leaning over. Leaning over puts the weight entirely on the spine and shoulders; this can lead to the possibility of serious back problems in the future. Since one’s leg muscles are much stronger than those in their back, when one kneels and puts the weight into their hips and legs, there’s no risk of injury.

But of course, that doesn’t matter. When the world is collapsing under a nuclear holocaust there’ll be tons of opportunities for me to show off my ass, no doubt. Because that’s what this is. Since the page construction has the panel focused solely on Sue and her line, it is pure T & A for the hell of it. And surely, considering the utter monstrosity that is the Squadron Supreme introduction, Land was not under pressure to meet his “hot women showing their assets off” quota; Power Princess is in a corset, of all things. Admittedly, the splash is equal opportunity for the silly poses, considering every single person seems to have kept their hands in fists to resist the urge to break out into jazz hands, and Blur is busy looking pretty in an acrobatic dance leap.

Of course, this is Greg Land. The last realistic woman he drew was his mother in first grade, and even then she had pornface.

Wed, 27 Sep 2006 07:06:42 GMT

This just pounced on me while brushing my teeth and I couldn't stop it. This scene is actually one of the very last scenes. By this point it's only Hermine and one other person left, who is, of course, the first Agent she encountered. Most of it really needs context, but the most I can give is that they both meet at the ruins of a rest stop and talk; he's taken on the guise of James Dean.

Admittedly, a lot of it is what I love to write for long pieces: lots of unnatural, humorous back and forth with revealing passages and not actually discussing an issue. Also, since DOTH is a huge amount of meta on the idea of the hero, what it means, and how one chooses to use it, along with the idea of being trapped in mortal godhood his speech really sums up the final point I want to get across, that every person she meets exists on this plane that is outside the normal experience, and they have to in order to do what they do: ensuring universal peace exists at all costs while acting as the god of their planet along with the Representative.

---

A year later, it was hard to find further decay in the ruins to her eye. The same setting, the same relaxed pose against dogged bike. He glanced up as Hermine came in to land, parking next to him. “Shall I end the story?”

“I really don’t know. It’s been long, but good.” She said the statement simply, with a shrug. “I mean, there was sex. Alien sex.”

“Sex does usually assure one that the story will sell, yes. But it takes more. A good main character, some throwback archetypes, a coherent plot, lots of grunting and posing in fights. Explosions, of course. Preferably in space.”

“The last one would be hard to fulfill,” Hermine said.

“True, not every story can be perfect. Have you stepped into your role as hero well?”

“Different people, different stories.” She still bristled at the comparison, but she did not hold a grudge against Leo and his legacy. He was the man your grandfather always admired in those old war stories he regaled you with when you’d rather be doing anything else possible. The hero was admired, idolized, loved by all. But there was the snag: He was, also, always dead by the end. Men like Leo never won the fight because they were too busy trying to be heroes when the world didn’t need heroes or winners. It needed peacekeepers.

“One denies the existence of good and evil, but concepts require words to be realized, words require concepts to give them life. So in speaking we create the duality from which we cannot escape. The hero comes with an adversary, the planet still orbits and creates day, darkens for night. To be right there requires a wrong. It is the universal state of being.

“Yet we live outside this, on our little pantheon, pulling the strings to save intelligent life from its own mind, keeping the balance. Ascendant is the only state we can keep breathing in, and as I’m sure you’ve noticed, there’s a reason Leo has ceased such a function. Anything else just leaves us choking on the dust of the dead,” he rattled the words out rapidly, voice slipping into a slight singsong manner. His face and voice changed abruptly as he finished his speech, relaxing into a satisfied smile. “Welcome to godhood.”

“Painfully honest yet pretentious and wholly unnatural. You’re good.”

He looked away, hand automatically reaching for a cigarette that didn’t exist. “It was a good run all considered, I’d like to think.”

“The star’s light, long since having gone out, fascinates years later on a little far-off planet that will likely never realize its destruction. Dean was a nice touch.”

He acknowledged her praise with a nod. “I do my research.”

The silence passed through them, stilling their minds. She looked off to the side; he turned his eyes to the stars, considering their light. “Even having known it would be you, it still scares me. Toppling Zeus with a feather.”

“Zeus could be quite ticklish, one never knows. I’m not even sure you’re allowed to make allusions to human mythology,” Hermine said, smiling briefly.

“Like I said, I did do my research.” The guise fell away, and having once seemingly held a cigarette, a large six fingered hand now rested on his side.

Same weight, similar texture. The grip was worn differently, to accommodate fingers that did not exist on her hand. The neural structure pulsed a sickly yellow against the deep red background of flesh, flowing in and out of unfamiliar contours, a map of roads never taken.

He was out before the blade landed in her other hand.

You will jog for the master race...And always wear the happy face...

Mon, 18 Sep 2006 05:18:54 GMT

So…it's been about a year and a half since I did a good, solid MST. Then again, I haven’t had material so willing to slap me in the face with a fish and leave its stench behind, material that begged like a wholy inappropriate sexual metaphor. Source remaining nameless at the moment.

I love Clark. I really do. I couldn’t ask for more in a friend and there is nothing that I wouldn’t do for him. Within reason that is. I surely hope going out and buying you tampons isn’t out of the question. And I know that he would do the same for me.

But if he doesn’t stop hovering over me I’m going to have to kill him. Would you? It’d save me the cost of a good soda that’ll be wasted on a spit take.

I know that he’s excited over the prospect of being a father again, Yes, being on various different recreational dugs can have that effect. after thinking that the opportunity was lost when Lois was killed. I know that he still relives that moment in his nightmares, where sometimes it is my face he will see, and not hers. When you see the face of a middle-aged man on Lois Lane’s body, it’s really time to pass the pipe. So out of consideration of his feelings, and because he is the father of this child, I let things go. We just need the therapist to call for group hugs and we’ll be a happy family.

When he called me an obscene number of times during the day to check on me So…Batman has millions of dollars, his own secret cave, a giant computer, but no caller ID and answering machine?, I dealt with it with a studded Kryptonite baseball bat, thinking that the phone calls would eventually taper off due to the fact of emo!Clark being dead, no doubt. When he came by the mansion every night to see how his baby was doing Wait, so now we have zombie!emo!Clark?, I made time for him, letting him stay with me while I worked on various other methods of killing him. When he had members of the League keep an eye on me, having become suspicious of my true intentions, I gritted my teeth and tried to ignore them, knowing none of them clever enough to divine my murderous plan thinking that it would only be for a short period of time until I was able to kill him again.

But when he showed up one night two and a half months later with a suitcase, announcing his intention to move into the mansion. It’s all about Bruce’s nifty-keen sleepovers. They get to stay up and do each others’ hair!

I lost it and can’t seem to find it, either. I slammed the door in his face, engaged the emergency protocols for the mansion, and have avoided all contact with him for the past week as I build my Kryptonite boomstick.

I’m not known for being a very compassionate person Oh, I’m sure he’s just too busy organizing the Kumbaya song-meet at the Watchtower every weekend. so everyone was more surprised that I put up with his behavior for as long as I did than by my delayed and rather explosive reaction to it. I tried to be understanding of his insecurities and fears lest my plans for his death were to slip out. But dealing with them every day for two and a half months straight is more than anyone could ask for.

Clark just doesn’t seem to appreciate the sacrifices I’ve been forced to make or understand how much this pregnancy has affected me. Neither do I, but then again, I’m pretty sure the pod people have having lots of fun probing the real Batman right now.

I had to give up my mission. I vastly prefer Old El Paso tortillas, myself.

That was the first and the hardest thing that I had to give up and it still affects me even now. I never realized just how much my life revolved around the protection of Gotham until I could no longer do it. Even now I will still rush to the Batcave after my communicator goes off, before a gentle reminder from Alfred that I really do need to lay off those drugs, or my memory will kick in and it will hit me hard with the lead pipe of abused characterization. That I haven’t been on patrol in weeks. Followed quickly by the reason why. Assbabies: When no other guilt trip will do! To fill that hole in my life, I’ve taken on a position as a consultant for both Dick and Tim, who take turns patrolling the streets of Gotham, and the League whenever necessary.

I’m getting fat. World’s Greatest Detective on display. I have been thin all my life, and to see my waistline begin to expand with the growth of his child jars me every time I notice it. Well, that’s what having your brain replaced by a hormonal teenager does, yes. I’ll forget about the small bulge only to be forcefully reminded about it again when I lean against a table or counter or when a pair of pants that fit me perfectly the day before begin to pull a little tighter across my stomach. I have Alfred looking into clothing that will accommodate me through the months to come because it’s not something that I’m ready to deal with right now. I’m sure Arnold Schwarzenegger has some tips.

And that’s another adjustment I’ve had to make. I don’t think that I have been this emotional since I was a child, but I just can’t help it. I don’t see how women can do this more than once. At least not willingly. I’m curious as to how someone can make it through this work more than once as well, man or woman.

Between the morning sickness, that has thankfully passed, the mood swings, the food cravings, Marijuana is bad for the baby, Bruce and the exhaustion that never seems to go away, I have felt miserable and I’m sure that I have made the people around me just as miserable. Indeed you have. I just wish someone would make this a movie so I could demand money back This situation has made me appreciate Alfred even more than ever, as he is often the only one I can tolerate being one hundred percent of the time. He has an uncanny knack for being able to distract or mollify me that I would probably find a little more disturbing if I weren’t so grateful for it at the time. Aww, Alfred just wants some Bruce ass.

It’s a sentiment I’m sure that Dick and Tim probably share with me, as they are often on the receiving end of my tantrums. But then I get lollipops, which make it all better. And Clark…well he seems to be as immune to my mercurial moods as Alfred is. I can only assume that Lois gave him Hell at the beginning of her pregnancy so that he already knew to expect the same treatment from me. Or it could just be that he was so grateful that his child was alive Not for long, once the aliens return to claim their new overlord. that he was willing to put up with anything I could possibly dish out to him. And it was expensive china, too. No matter what I said or did, he never complained one bit, and if it wasn’t for how over-protective he’s been, I wouldn’t have cared about him moving into the mansion temporarily. He’s just so good at getting my hair to do the little spit-curl! If the way he has acted so far was any indication of what I could expect from him if he had full access to me, I truly would have killed him by the end of the day. Payment from the audience?

This week away from Clark has been nice. I really didn’t want to resort to shutting him out like that but he left me no other choice. Even after telling him to leave me alone, He is so not my BFF anymore! the phone was still ringing off the hook and he still stopped by several times a day until three days ago. Only then was I able to truly relax and become conscious of how much his stalker routine was really bothering me. Those campers never saw it coming either. I’m feeling much better now and in another day or two, I feel that I’ll be able to handle talking to him about some of the changes he needs to make.

I lay down to take a nap that has become part of the new routine I am slowly becoming accustomed to. And just when I finally manage to find a position that is comfortable for me, Murphy’s Law kicks in and my JLU communicator goes off.

*`*`*

I haven’t been to the Watchtower since I first found out I was pregnant. Again, World’s Greatest Detective, folks.

Clark, in his paranoia, didn’t want me to use the transporter to get there because he was deathly afraid that it would rematerialize the baby and I into a weird hodgepodge of parts I’m sure Jason Todd would have advice on handling that. and he didn’t want to take the chance that the villain of the week I think the Condiment King is penciled in, but I’ll have to check. would show up to shoot down any transport capable of getting me there, so I acquiesced to his request to stay away. Although I have to admit that my reasons weren’t entirely altruistic.

While I did agree to stay grounded in order to ease his mind, the real reason why I avoided coming to the Watchtower is because I didn’t want to be the focus of all the staring and awkward questions The pod people haven’t perfected everything, sadly. that I knew would make up a huge portion of any visit there. But this current situation is serious enough that it will be better to work on it from the Watchtower as opposed to the Batcave. Because I am no longer able to comfortably fit into the Batsuit, Alfred came up with a solution which just happened to involve a mace and a bit of radiation to my uniform and secrecy issues in the form of a rather tasteful black outfit consisting of a slightly oversized shirt to hide the roundness of my belly, pants, and a long black duster with enough pockets to store my small arsenal of weapons Clearly, Alfred is contacting Liefeld for tips., and a mask that is rather similar in style to Dick’s.

Upon arriving at the Watchtower, I am greeted by J’onn, a fact for which I’m grateful, as he is both tactful and respectful of another’s privacy. Because as good as it feels to step onboard the Watchtower, I am still not looking forward to being given the third degree Nah, the out of characterization’s more of a 180, I think. by anyone.

He accompanies me to the conference room where I see Clark for the first time in days and he looks like crap. After continued exposure to the Earth atmosphere, that happens to the pod-born. His face is unshaven, his uniform looks as if it has seen better days, and he has bags under his eyes. Cliché called. It wants its dignity back. But it is the expression on his face that speaks volumes to me. It also can read Shakespeare and play a mean harmonica, I’ve heard. He looks a lot like a kicked puppy I approve, being all about kicking puppies with his hangdog expression and my heart can’t help but go out to him, at which point my arteries attempt to choke him to death. And I almost do to until I remember why he’s in the doghouse in the first place He just couldn’t manage to keep up with those rent payments, and all the cardboard boxes were taken. and I harden my heart against him. Heart attack! Heart Attack! Another moment goes by before he notices my presence and I see his entire face light up like a garbage pile being set aflame at seeing me, as he forgets himself for a second and makes a move towards me. Tsk, tsk. Clark, you’re supposed to smack your wife! Then his memory kicks him in the crotch for being put through this awful tripe in as well and his expression quickly shifts to sullenness and depression. There is no opportunity to start a conversation with him as the last few stragglers show up and the meeting starts. At the end, Clark got an extra-stern lecture for not selling enough cookies that year.

^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^

I am onboard the Watchtower for 12 hours and they are the most exhausting and invigorating hours I have spent in the past few months. Having to restrict what I can physically do, for duties that I was used to doing on my own, has had an unexpected derogatory effect on my self-esteem Really now?. I like to think that I have a fairly healthy mental picture of myself No, that’d be the drugs talking. And they’re discussing cricket scores, if you’re wondering., no matter how many people may disagree with that Most of the planet count?, along with a healthy amount of self-confidence, although some would probably argue that it borders on the side arrogance, but being able to out-think and out-fight most humans, and a good portion of meta-humans, is a feat that I am extremely proud of But can you do it while lobotomized?and is as much a part of me as my mission. So the restrictions on what I can do feel almost like losing an arm or a leg.

It feels like being paralyzed. That would be what happens when someone takes a machete to your brain, yes.

And even though the boys and the League have sought my input on certain missions and cases, it often felt like an act of charity for the ‘crippled’ member of the group Sadly, someone had to play Tiny Tim in the annual Justice League Christmas Carol play, and Bruce drew the short straw., like they were humoring me. Being asked to help coordinate the efforts of various members of the League for several natural disasters that happened simultaneously has reminded me exactly *why* I am the best at what I do, and *why* they need me to be baking cookies in the kitchen like a good housewife. Unfortunately it’s also reminded me why I am no longer suited to work such long hours and that I really need to take a nap. I may also end up having to apologize to some of the members of the League for my snappish attitude towards the end, but I’ll tackle that issue The joke is so obvious I’m just going to insert a placeholder remark. *after* I get some sleep.

I leave J’onn and Mr. Terrific to handle the last of the clean up efforts and go to the quarters I still have onboard the Watchtower, falling asleep almost instantly.

^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^

Pregnancy has not dulled my instincts, but it has strengthened the hold sleep has on me, and sleep has one hell of a neck-breaker so it takes me a moment to register that I am no longer alone in my room. Thinking back, I cannot clearly recall if I locked the door on my way to bed Okay, no snark here. Just, seriously. Batman. Forgetting to lock a door. This is on a level akin to having Lex Luthor prancing through a field of daises singing “The Hills Are Alive.”, giving anyone access that wished to come inside. But it doesn’t matter because there is only one person who would dare to intrude on my privacy, and I open my eyes to glare at him as he sits in the chair directly across from me. Batglare! 6 Hit!

“What are you doing here?”, I growl, letting my irritation finally show in my voice. I think mine’s been showing for awhile longer.

“I just…I wanted to make sure that you were okay. What about me? I had to read this entire thing. You were up for hours helping us and I just wanted to make sure that you were okay. That you were taking care of yourself.” A short pause and then he adds, “I’ll go now.” I watch him stand up to leave and I feel guilty because I know how true his words are. He only wants the best for me Well, as Family Guy taught me, Diamonds: Then She’ll Practically Have To Do Whatever You Want and his baby and although that doesn’t excuse what he’s done, it does make me realize that he’s been punished enough. Can we fire the Kryptonite Boomstick? Please?

I open my mouth to say so, to let him know what the new terms and conditions of our interaction with each will be when I feel a weird fluttering in my abdomen. Month-old microwave burritos can do that to a person.I gasp as I place a protective hand on the spot.

Clark naturally hears me and instantly turns around in a panic, rushing back to my bedside with his hands already out to check for non-existent injuries.

I slap his hands away and sit up as he barrages me with a slew of questions, asking, “What happened? Are you hurt? Do you need to go to medlab? Should I...” Superman. Supposed to be a pretty smart guy, you know. Can’t just figure this all out.

“Shut up? Yes!” And so the story ended with the universe imploding out of sheer disgust. I say as I finally manage to get a hold of his wrists and keep his hands in place. I take a deep, calming breath because I can’t afford to get angry at him right now. Oh, I can cover you. Don’t worry. I’ll even pay the author not to continue. It won’t solve anything and he’ll just look more pathetic and dejected than he does right now. “Clark, you trust me right?”

“Yes.”

“And you know that I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the life of this baby? Right?” I’ll take $400 for “Ways Science is Catching Up To Mpreg Fic and How To Prevent It”, Alex.

There is a slight pause then he says, “Yes,” in a tone of voice that makes me want to just put those murder plans into motion question whether or not he really does believe that.

I have to admit that I am hurt by his doubt. It’s really not that hard to kill him. I know that I have often pushed myself to the limits, regardless of how much pain I was in, but I thought that he knew me well enough to know I’m pretty skilled at plotting his demise that I would never intentionally do something to reveal this fact to hurt any innocent, let alone this child, but I guess that my old habits and his new fears are making it difficult for him to give me an opportunity to get that shotgun out from under the bed to get over the past and trust my judgment in this situation, trust that I won’t do anything stupid. Although my first impulse I don’t even think he could make this story amusing. is to lash out at him and hurt him like he just hurt me, I’m tired and I don’t want to get into a fight with him, so I change the grip on his wrists so that I can easily slash them with my razor am now holding both of hands in mine. I look down at our joined hands for a moment before meeting his gaze. This is what experimenting with teenage hormones gets you. Ollie spent an entire week picketing the state of Tibet outside the men’s locker room.

“Clark, you know that I am a man of my word and I have never made a promise that I wasn’t willing to keep. So I am telling you that I am not going to do anything that will jeopardize the life of your baby. You are going to have to trust that not only will I keep my word, but that I will also let you know if anything is going wrong. I can’t do this if you are having me followed and checking up on me thirty times a day, and I’d really hate having to raise this baby all by myself because I had to kill his father in order to get some peace.” Again, audience. I’ll take payment in cash, credit, or money order.

He smiles a little at that and I know that we’ll be able to work something out. I’m sure that he’ll still check up on me, but hopefully it won’t be as frequently as it has been for the past three months. There’s another flutter of motion in my stomach The burritos are organizing and demanding healthcare, I hear. and I almost kick myself as I finally realize what it is. The doctors told me that I could expect to feel movement from the baby anywhere between 4 to 6 months, but I’m still thrown off guard by the sheer wonder I feel towards the baby at this moment. Unconsciously I move our joined hands over the spot where the baby is moving and I am rewarded for my instinctive decision as the most brilliant smile I have ever seen graces Clark’s face when the baby kicks both of our hands.

I lay there for an indeterminate amount of time, as comfortable as I can be with Clark’s head resting on my stomach, from where he remains kneeling on the floor, listening to a heartbeat that only he can hear since he got the stronger stuff, and both of us basking in the wonder of his child’s first movements and the after-effects of this entire LSD-induced episode.

Wed, 06 Sep 2006 04:04:37 GMT

First, as promised.

Mainly, though...this fabulous Greg Land piece is making me want to punch babies when I should be reading Journalism. Excuse me, but my spine? Not made out of silly putty. I might 'come hither' for Strawberry Shortcake, if only to give her the number for a detox institute. Dinah!Rainbow Brite next to the Ulti!Sue!She-Ra just add to the total lack of sexiness.

Venom in their eyes!

Fri, 18 Aug 2006 05:36:58 GMT

I'll say: I don't like horror movies. I've seen American Werewolf in London. That's as horrifying as I get. However!

SoaP is seriously just pure awesome transfered to film. If awesome were a drug, it would have been injected into my veins while I was watching the movie. Every single element is a b-movie stereotype, but you don't mind. The actors are all competent enough to make it work, though I'll be damned if I remember half their names. The CGI is sometimes Sci-Fi quality, but that just makes it so much better. There is no way on hell you buy that this movie would work, and you'll be fucked if you're gonna believe these snakes exist.

Funny shit:
- Opening scene is perfect throwback to beach bunny movies.
- The white suit on Eddie Kim reminded me of Ceaser's death in Bound. Do I need a life, or clever reference?
- P. Diddy clone signing breast was just perfect, yet so sad.
- Grace outside the bathroom while couple is getting hot sex? Yet another great moment.
- Snake catching pee in mouth: Officially hilarious and reminded me of kittens. See, SoaP can go with everything, even kittens!
- Mmm...microwave snake.
- SoaP had sporks. That automatically makes it more cool.
- When Sam takes back his gun from the P. Diddy clone, someone yelled "Baby Got Thump!" and the entire theater erupted in giggles.
- And entire theater cheering to everyone's favorite line.
- Landing of the plane: Troy listing off the names to the LAX tower: yet another stereotype moment that just worked because you know they're all giggling after filming it, but they keep it serious on screen.
- The fake ending attack just sealed the deal. You know the entire movie it was happening. It has to. But you still thought, "Wow, they skipped the cliche...FUCK!"
- The director still letting Samuel L. Jackson score with a chick half his age. You knew they had to go away happy somehow.

Remember, kids, don't talk like Samuel L. Jackson or Mom'll have to wash your mouth out with some SoaP.

Thu, 17 Aug 2006 03:36:29 GMT

Huh, I thought I had posted this over here, but looks like I didn't...

This was a comment to an OTF_Wank post, but I like it so much I was a whore and copied it to my LJ. So to the JF it goes!

I despise chick-lit. It's just the Wal-Mart romance novel no one actually admits to buying, but with a cover some graphic designer trained in the fine art of vectors and cliche instead of a Fabio reject with pecs that sweat unnaturally.

So here you are. Chick-lit back blurbs, Mad-Libs style!

Imagine your mother ________ (verb) to _______ (verb) a ______ (item) than ________ (descriptor).

When single-again ____________ (job)_________ ______ (name) announces ___________ __________ ________ ________ (divisive statement), ______ (age) divorcee _________ ______ (name) wishes she could trade her ______ (noun) in for a ______ (adverb) ________ (adjective) ________ (noun).

With only _____ (number that is impossibly short) weeks of left, _____ (name) is happy to try __________ (solution to problem) and starts __________ (solution to problem), a ______ (adverb) ________ (adjective) ________ (noun), ________ _________ _______ (divisive issue).

Her _______ (noun) hot on her __________ (adjective) heels, _______ (cute adjective for job) _______ (noun) breaks all the rules and _______ (verb) _____ __ _________(prepositional phrase). Guilty about _______ ________ ____ __________ (verb phrase), there's a ______ (adverb) _______ (adjective) ______ (noun) in store for ______ (noun) . . .

______ (noun) and ________ (noun) had _______ (adverb) ________ (adjective). Now they're about to ______ __________ (prepositional phrase). Forget about _______ (adjective) ______ (noun), welcome to the _______ (adjective) ______ (noun).

Bite me, publishing industry.

Times are strange...We got a free upgrade for snakes on a plane!

Mon, 14 Aug 2006 17:27:47 GMT

Just really random musing on stuff.

Snakes On A Plane soundtrack is officially a huge bundle of cheesy remix love. As someone whose taste can by summed up as "is it listenable and not Nashville country or gangsta rap," I knew there was no way I could skip out on SoaP, and I am in utter love. While it is mostly remixes, each one is a little bundle of mindless fun with a great beat; even if one has more restrictive tastes, there's at least one song on the soundtrack he or she will be rocking to. Having never heard of Gym Class Heroes before, after "New Friend Request" I'll give them a try; they seem very akin to McChris, and more McChris is always good. Even if one is more exclusive in what they allow to get permanently implanted in their brain when they really need to remember the formula for sines, The soundtrack is still worth it for the random quotes, including the snakes with a MILF fascination and the classic "I dunno how I can say this, but is there anyone here who knows how to fly a plane?"

Finally got off my butt and finished Sh15uya (Shibuya 15). Overall, for a low budget series adapted from a manga, it was really pretty good. Not as much of a surprise as I'd expected, the end still satisfied and, more importantly, made sense. While a bit off-putting at first to see a female cast as the lead male, she really filled out the role admirably. Reading HJU's interview with Mark Musashi helped to shed a bit of light on the direction choices for the series; I was also amused to note that Mishicorp has indeed missubbed Piece as Peace, thus explaining the point of the "final version" of Piece and why each incarnation had a different symbol on his chest.

I am a sad human, however. The entire series I kept thinking, "Wow, if you cosplay Piece your f-ed up wig would be fine." (I seriously don't think they ever even bothered to make it look like anything besides a disused mop.) Plus, Piece really is a ridiculously easy yet recognizable cosplay.

Now, back to making this journal a series of nothing but pretentious sci-fi that tries too had to be funny.

Fri, 11 Aug 2006 03:18:13 GMT

So...Death of the Hero wasn't exactly going famously. I have ideas, but I just didn't have the steam. So I instead wrote out an idea that's been festering in my head for months. Originally it was carthritic, but as I was writing I really wanted to do my first love: vague dialogue where no one talks about the issed at hand with lots of semi-poetic descriptions! So I went in head-first and indulged. I'm not happy with how I had to force the end resolution, but that's something to be solved in revision at this point.

Also, if anyone can spot the technique used, congrats!

A person could fall victim for many ailments, be they minor sniffles of regret or such monumental beasts as overwrought nostalgia. Avery knew better, but the temptation had hung so temptingly, and who could refuse? Perform the graduation speech for the object of four years’ ire?

Damn straight.

---

“You are crazy.”

“In other news, The Weather Channel? Predicting the sun will indeed rise tomorrow.” A finger slipped idly into the mug of coffee, contemplated a rapid retreat when faced with the scalding heat, but hung on. “I’m going.”

“Yes, of course. You’re also forgetting you don’t always have to be the person who left.”

The noncommittal noise displeased the tablemate, but most noncommittal things proved displeasing. At least when the newspaper gave you bad news, it had the good taste to not remark nastily on one’s attitude to the situation. Avery sighed with exaggeration and passed a pointed look along with the jam. “I’ll be right.”

---

The harder one tried to make a school inoffensive, the worse the memories past students would have. Nice bland beige matched with a hint of classy blue tiles, a proud triple flagpole set for inappropriate things to be hung from. Feet still saw the schedule, knew each step and turn, the quick sideways shoulder slip to get around the inevitable crowd of stallers. Cheerleaders never did get tired of block print capitals and the same Crayola approved rainbow, though now they had evolved to a more sophisticated coloring technique. There was an inclination to visit the old teachers, see if students were just as much of a hassle now as before.

Lungs filled with a burst of car exhaust and it was expelled it with a violent sneeze. Braced against the hard concrete base, eyes watched as the train of vehicles huddled close, a mass of multicolored insects bracing themselves against the outside world. “You should go in.”

“Why will these kids care about what I have to say? They can go home and look at porn all night. I’m not as interesting as porn. Do I look like porn to you?” Concrete still burned when Avery dragged a palm across it, just at the right angle, left behind tiny red furrows cushioned by skin threatening to break under the pressure. Not everything changed.

Adolescent posturing filled the air, empty boasts falling on ears well beyond hearing mere words without meaning. The benchmate leaned over and inspected a white rubber toe cap, then moved on to the laces. Fingers moved deftly to pull them together, but caught upon noticing a series of numbers written in day-glo blue on a leg of the bench. They finished their task then pointed toward the numbers.

“Head cheerleader’s phone number. She’s in Kansas selling insurance.”

“You went to a reunion?” The tone was meant to be light hearted. Avery heard the confusion it really was to contain.

“Google.”

“You should still go in.”

---

“If you were eighteen and eagerly looking forward to vomiting up the contents of your stomach in a few hours, what would you want to hear?”

The backlight disappeared under the light black silhouette, arms caught on the dull metal doorjamb. “That none of this really matters, you’re just getting a meaningless piece of paper, and your liver will last you until you die if you binge drink every day.”

“I think they would appreciate me attempting to inspire them instead of increase their cynicism.” Avery looked back to the shadow, head supported by the rusted metal frame. Chipping paint fell in a little green flake avalanche at the disturbance, splattering against weather-beaten deck.

“What were you thinking about?”

“I’m supposed to remember?”

“No. You’re supposed to have something made up so you can feel better when you’re a failure at forty.” Shadow arms slid down into the greater body, crossing.

Arm leaned languidly on the armrest, Avery pulled at the shadowed skin, pinching it until there was a slight ache, “I’m sorry.”

The shadow grew as its origin drew nearer, coming to dwarf the chair completely. It cast out over the shoulder stretching far beyond the small deck’s confines. “Not everything is grounded in pain.”

---

Exorcism was an unpleasant word. In saying it one signified that there were phantasms one alone could not conquer. And they hadn’t been, not really. Time had simple come and rearranged the furniture, added a rug to cover that nasty wine stain you’d been meaning to get steam cleaned by could just never get around to. But a new coat of paint can’t change the beam structure; a new couch doesn’t fix the cracks in the foundation. “You kept the curtains.”

“I’m old now, don’t you know? Having a powder blue fixture is a requirement to get the senior citizen’s discount.”

Avery scratched at an invisible itch then slid up on the blue laminate countertop set next to the door. “I make everyone an irritable ass, don’t I?”

“No, I just taught you all my tricks.” The smile was genuine, and Avery returned it. “I think I can do without asking what you’re up to now. And why you’re here.”

Effortlessly, the textbook slid to rest under Avery’s hand, fingers arching spider-like around the cover image. Allowing them to splay down effortlessly, a thumb plied at the worn corner, fingers thrummed over worn pages and worked to distract from the topic. Talking about it would simply make it less significant, take away. “You need to quote some Whitman at me. Remind me of the significance of my wasted education.”

“I have British now. I could give you some over moralizing Victorians.” The sign hung in the silence, reverberated across air that had become stale to the lungs, caught between times, “Things are different. There are outlets, places to go. I don’t condone, but I also can’t condemn the past for existing.”

The fingers froze in their strumming and one slid inside the pages, catching between prepositions and gerunds. Palm pressed down hard on the unfortunate appendage. “I know.”

“Avery.”

The grimace of anger made itself known with a derisive snort. A shot of pain lanced up an uncomfortable arm, but Avery held the position, refusing to acknowledge the discomfort. “It just gets you. They didn’t care to do anything then. But now that someone found I had some talent, I gave myself a name, now they want it all back.”

“What's gone and what's past help; Should be past grief.” Punctuated with the chair’s metallic protest, Avery sensed the attention shift.

“Shakespeare. Really, you didn’t have anything more obscure in your arsenal?” The smile was a peace offering, a veneer to soften the raw surface underneath.

“Why do you think he’s lasted so long? Man knew how to get in a person’s head.”

The arm was beginning to enter the first stage of numbness, and the mind rebelled against the unneeded ache. “It’s my damned name. It’s my damned life. But they want my name for their building, their school. They want to put their name on me.”

“What do you want out of them?”

Avery finally gave in to the arm’s demands and removed it from the book, dropping it lifeless against the laminate, “Doesn’t matter.”

“You have to change that statement, Avery. I can’t.”

---

Fascinating through the ages, holding the keys to the future as they projected to man the distant past it would never truly see, stars hung above. What did little dots of projected light hold that left them a metaphor for, well, everything? Why did they inevitably inspire every crappy saying that ended up on mass produced poster board in a classroom, the little bits of wisdom uttered by long dead souls who really didn’t think they’d become an excuse to inspire kids who cared more about Cosmo than the cosmos.

It really was silly, in the end. The most some of these kids could aspire to be was one of the more positive statistics on a government report. Come to assuage a corpse, but find instead the living dead rose to haunt. Still yet was given was the task of creating for them a world of possibility, and Avery could not deny that it was a desirable world. But it wasn’t the world looked on from this perch. Not that a shuttered strip mall was much of a sight to anyone.

Once it had bustled with activity, held both chains of consumption shrines and little entrepreneurial dreams, houses build on both solid rock and shifting sand. Now it stood on nothing, an eyesore to the community; there was discussion of replacing it with shrines to the ever-present god of residential growth. But it was change. Letting go of the dreams once held, it became a vessel for new visions. Grander, more expensive and well decorated visions, but still visions.

---

Pomp and circumstance. Crepe paper streamed out of the cloaked recesses of the painted plywood surface and dyed flowers flanked the stage in the same badly painted faux urns. Such effort, yet they still used metal folding chairs for the guests. At least Avery would not wait in comfort. The same principal gave the same speech with the same splash of dignity edging his words, but no attention was paid to it. Compulsively, the hand reached out to snap the joint, bring the small snap of discomfort. However, hand falling away, Avery found it was not needed. The state of things had changed.

---

“Sad?”

“No.”

“Angry?”

“No as well.”

“Well?”

“Exhausted.”

“That nervous?”

“Not nervous. Just…exhausted of being in two places at once.”

“You were right.”

“We both were. It just takes me longer to get it through the pain.”

Death of the Hero stuff

Sun, 06 Aug 2006 03:21:45 GMT

This scene is, at this point, just plain weird. I had the idea of doing a philisophical discussion, then it became a discussion while thinking about sex, then it just became a jumble of what, I'm not sure. The only constant is that after this they have sex. Off screen sex, but sex. Set in the second half of the...whatever this is.

Silly. No, silly was really too easy a word for this idea. Ridiculous. That’s what it was. Ridiculous to come when she knew she couldn’t stand the vapid stares, the vultures. Yet she was playing a vulture tonight, and would not admit to enjoying the hypocrisy, instead blanketing it under simple human need. She needed to have a fast, unemotional night to get her mind away from the exhaustion. Hermine, in her head, didn’t call it anger. She simply did not get angry. Instead, she got herself a table in the back corner of a small club with unabashedly retro tube lighting rimming the bar, mirrors over every mirror-able surface, and a minimum of actual light.

Except the tables. Maybe the owner had known better; when one is building courage, one didn’t want to stare at their frightened expression. Hermine dug at a small hole of the table’s surface with her thumb distractedly. A sense of texture, patterns within patterns was what she missed about real wood furniture. Synthesized work could reproduce vaguely ordered randomness, but it was not be made to wear, bend, break; creating items to exist in perpetual futility seemed ridiculous in days of shatter-resistant glass, metal alloys with melting points exceeding the heat of a sun. Thoughts like that had been an attraction, she guessed. It was the heat, however, that finalized the question.

Androgynous, genderless, psychic. Thus, a Kallidaen. It’d taken awhile for Earth language to adapt, but in the end, it had followed the grand tradition of English: rip off someone older than you. ‘Ambo’ became the pronoun for popular use; if one was feeling particularly isolationist, a shit. Some unfortunate habits from the past did refuse to die, after all.

“You know why I’m here, I’m sure. Would you care to enlighten me?’

“I don’t intrude unless people allow me to.”

Setting foot among an uninhibited, inebriated mass of personal agendas, fully on display, left her wondering. “Headache?”

“For a lesser trained person? Massive. Most amusing are partygoers unknowingly attempting to outdo each others’ inebriation.”

“Then I assure you I am perfectly capable of ruining your night. Though I am curious, given what you’ve said to me, why you’re here tonight.”

“Would that not be a bit personal? Hermine.” A brief pause separated the name from the earlier statement, as if ambo had to stop and fish it out of subconscious ooze.

“My brain betrays me, I see.” She knew better than to attempt a grin. Bluffing when playing the game without a card in her hand was always a bad idea. “It’s just like that, you know?” Hermine made quick little circles with her fingertips, unconsciously prompting her tablemate.

“Kamala.”

A concession. Was she coming with a blank hand as well? “Ah. The irony, Kamala: I live in a future man dreamed of for years; a Lensman fable without the distilled cyberpunk cool, veiled optimism, glow-in-the dark hula hoops, and badly sampled techno. And where am I? A stereotypically seedy dive drinking badly synthesized alcohol.” In the back of her mind, Hermine shuffled the deck, fingering each card carefully. There were many key cards, but only a few built a good hand, one to bet on. She needed to get the best cards, lest she be too forward.

“The element of the positive escapes you. Also, I need to thank you. My life is now fulfilled, for I have found someone who actually used the phrase ‘seedy dive’ in serious conversation.”

“Just a simple lapse in my ability to create unrealistically ironic conversation.”

“Yes, I have noticed it. I find it the easiest way to tell if one is a contender: can they suspend a conversation to baffle the normal folk. Are they prepared for the very fallacy of our existence as gods among men?”

“You take a lot of liberty.” Holding the cards close, the Kallidaen played a tight hand. Would she play her advantage? Being caught with not a single defense up and counting the cards like an amateur was never good. It would be supremely bad taste to go in ill-equipped.

“Do I? You have not lived to have your universe revolve around the price of metal refinery stock on Phelan as others do such a silly thing as have a normal life.”

“As much a fallacy as calling yourself a god, normal is a totally relative concept with innumerable factors adding to the personal definition one gives it. If what we do were not considered a galactic dirty secret, I think we’d find it pretty normal.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it a dirty secret.”

“We flex the fancy of personal freedom, liberate them of their liberty.”

“Does bad alliteration come naturally?”

Hermine was caught off guard by seeing the other player fold so early. Has she misjudged? “About as much as this conversation.”
“You as well? I would have thought you more used to it, as a human. Kallidaens need no trappings.”

“I’m a bit surprised you’d be interested.”

Kamala leaned in, chin resting on soft grey skin. “The beast feeds upon its own flesh. It can’t stand the taste of anything else.” Originally, Hermine would have thought she couldn’t get used to the raised eyebrow smile. Faced with it now, she understood how a smile did not fit such a face. “When you are one of three alone in space caught up outside of time, you loose taste for a chase.” The blank look came again, and Hermine was beginning to understand this was when Kalama reached out to touch her mine. “Oh, it’s not that hard. They recede back, if you’re worried.”

“Not as much as miffed. We get nothing so exotic.”

“And you whine at me about relativity. I find hair to be quite exotic, frankly.”

“I don’t come with dual sets of equipment.”

“So you did get that far?”

“Well, it’s bad taste not to be prepared. I was never much of a psychic.”

Hermine was beginning to, in a weird way, like that smile. “Backlash from an overeager partner who never learned self-control makes you regret it in the morning.”

Hermine watched the little concentric circles move outward, brushing up against the glass shore that encased them, simply taking in the vibrations of the room, feeling the music move the room. Little scintilla of light flashed across the surface, kaleidoscoping off to others. When she spoke again, Kamala didn’t look to Hermine but her own little wood worry hole. “We ought to stop talking about it. And just do it.”

Cue the roguish grin and charm. “Everything in life once.”

The adaption you never thought you'd see...

Sat, 29 Jul 2006 19:07:54 GMT

I'm dualposting hardcore these days. Weird.

Adapted from the best-selling book that's read by millions...

It's GOD!! Because kicking ass and taking down names for the 144,000 was never so cool. Don't make him get biblical on your ass.

Ah, I love our local paper's typos.

There will be no hesitation...There will be no confrontation...

Fri, 28 Jul 2006 00:27:47 GMT

I say this journal is to be fannish, but since the quote that started this came from Fandom_Wank, I might as well post it here too.

Originally, there was a great resistance in me to go off on this topic. It's not something people tend to know much about; there's not as much coverage as there needs to be. And damn well if I know I can't resist a good chance to bitch hardcore. As with every rant, the you/we is used because I'm too lazy deal with saying "one" constantly and sound like a research paper.

I really, deep down want to hate the phrase "If you're not angry, then you're not paying attention." Taken in connotation, there's so many ways to misconstrue it. But every time I see a comment about how the media just exists to "scare you," how they don't cover the "important stories," that all they're after is ratings, I get angry. Hulk-smash angry.

And that phrase becomes true.

I despise empty assumptions made by anyone; I most hate it when I do it without thinking about it. So it gets my goat when I see shit like this: "...reveals the media for the pack of lazy, no-originality-having hacks that they all really are. When they're not re-writing press releases, they are trying to remember the last thing people got worked up over and see if they can use that to scare people into reading their paper or watching their program or whatever."

Want to know why the industry is like that? Wonder what happened?

You stopped wanting to see, hear, or read good reporting. The world became faster and suddenly, no one cares about getting a good amount of time spent on a topic. No, we need our information now! We don't need to understand an issue, be given an in-depth view. I just want my five second soundbite, my two basic facts, thank you very much! I still won't be afraid to spout my mouth like I really understand it, I'll just be willingly less informed than before! I'll rail against the media for just regurgitating press releases and wire feeds, but it's not like I'd really even care if they actually had the funds to put a reporter there anyway. I'd still demand they give me the entire event in five minutes or less! There ought to be a money-back guarantee if I'm not satisfied too! That's okay, though. I'll still care more about what variation of brunette Katie Couric is this month over the fact she's talking about people being blown up by tons of sheet metal and explosive.

And then we have the advent of the twenty-four hour news. Ever wonder why it's not always relevant? Why they take the dead horse, put it in a Magic Bullet, and make a deliciously refreshing strawberry horse smoothie out of it?

Because while it was interesting originally, there's not always fascinating stuff going on every hour of the day. But they need money, advertising, ratings? So how to they keep you watching. Hello, yellow journalism! You may not really give a shit about Natalie Halloway, but I can bet you someone in Nebraska without anything better to do won't be able to hoist their television channel petard from the saga of one affluent white girl who got drunk in Aruba and did stupid things. The story may have less meat than a starving rabid dog, but a station needs rating to survive. And pretty people. Can't get your news without commenting on the anchor's unfashionable choice in pantsuitwear.

For the sake of all that's not too holy, look to the Weather Channel. It is physically, humanly impossible to make shots of a radar screen fascinating to the human mind; no one has tested that, but I bet someone will one day fund such research. After a few cartoons of happy suns and angry rain clouds, you're bored. Faced by such a quandary, they resort to the next option: shows about weather disasters. Because nothing gets people watching for a half-hour then forgetting about it a day later is good footage of palm trees playing limbo with hurricane winds.

Wake up at night with a burning desire to get why the news is often about the most random of incidents, all to scare consumers, about fantastic events that really just don't seem to have any weight on your daily life?

Because living in the age of a half-hour a week of news, television stations are still television stations, newspapers are still newspapers. What do this two things have in common? They're businesses, which operate off money. As unfortunate as that is, they can't survive without viewer and/or readership. Yellow journalism makes the buckos. And there's a problem nowadays. No one's reading, less people are watching. Clear Channel controls a third of the radio market, the newspaper industry has over the years been whittled down to larger and larger conglomerates. You know what a conglomerate cares about? It's not deep journalism that requires people to think about the world around them, maybe give them a new perspective on an issue. They want profit, at the sacrifice for quality. Stephen Glass managed to stay on at The New Republic without fact-checking because he managed to manipulate the environment with what he knew what people wanted: tall tales. Just so happened he could tell them.

You want serious, in-depth coverage? Then support organizations who give it. Research the cause behind a change. Understand the world around you.

And if you feel so inclined, get angry. It can help.

She knows there's always a billion sides to an issue, but you just get lots of useless, always marginally informed blather when Arion's A Raving Lunatic!

Fri, 21 Jul 2006 01:03:01 GMT

When I said this would end up as a writing journal, I really wasn't kidding.

Out of a combination of boredom, need for inspiration, and a festering desire, I've composed the first draft of an essay for the "This I Believe" program. They have some tips, and I think I've hit them all in general, but...I'm nervous. SHOCK!, I know.

I'm actually quite happy with it, but I know I've got a snowball's chance in Hell of it actually being accepted. The one thing I think it might actually manage to get in on is the very absurdity of the subject. Either way, it was a fun and interesting exercise.

Attack of the Fifty-Foot Individual

I believe in the twenty five cent comic bin and the one dollar DVD. Housed within it is a treasure trove of high school grade writing, art so bad your eyes demand bleach, weirdness that you are convinced only acid could conjure. I believe in digging around for such goodness as Mike Grell era Green Arrow, horrid pieces of dreck like when Wonder Woman faces Egg-Fu, a giant mustachioed computerized egg. Every time I take the plunge, my parents boggle. “Why waste your money on such crap?” And in one sense, they’re right. Ninja Destroyer is no work of Akira Kurosawa, nor could it have inspired Quentin Tarantino’s next blockbuster; however, its classic essence lies in the incoherency of plot, the bad acting, the Oompa-Loompa ninjas. And in the end, despite how much I sometimes act otherwise, it’s not about what other people say is good. It’s about what you find is worth it. It’s the power of being an individual in discovering what you find entertaining, enlightening.

My choice is a part of me, my individuality. And despite the human tendency to feel forced to homogenize and then glorify those who do not, I’m not so convinced individuality is such a grand ideal. The common image is of standing on a precipice, balancing between the great void of modern American consumerism, and just being you. Yet while there is courage walking the thin line, I find it takes more courage to fall in and still retain who you are. There should be a black hole metaphor here, something on darkness, light, and individual heroism, a deep statement on the meaning of life. But in the average day, there isn’t much black/white, or cerulean/fuchsia dichotomy to muse on; especially so considering I’ve never encountered a metaphorical cerulean/fuchsia dichotomy. I wouldn’t mind discovering one one day, though.

Because that, I find, is what interests to me most. Finding the odd bits in life, signs in the grocery store that spell jalapeno with an h and pi, recognizing the origin of that Chinese-made action figure at the dollar store. I like going to restaurants off the road with funky names like China Bob, owned by locals more often in the red than black, spending hours discussing the deep symbolism of a single page until all the participants are more confused than before.

As I see it, nothing is more important than living your life as you choose to, not as someone tells you to. Despite how hard I’m sure Entertainment Weekly tried to persuade me otherwise, I don’t regret paying seven bucks to see The Core, if only for the scene of dead pigeons dive-bombing Paris. Because I like what I like, watch as I wish, believe as I do. I don’t make my fashion choices based on the taste of Nicole Ritchie’s closet, my playlist certainly doesn’t mirror Clear Channel’s.

I am Hannah. I take care of the place while the Master is away.