Well, I'm The King Of Brobdingnag About Now

You know who I miss about now?

The Fool from King Lear. He rocked my world. He just knew what to say, and he was never, ever afraid to say it! Also currently loving the idea of playing Regan. I would so rock that role, I can be bitchy, evil, conniving and seductive... well, oh course YOU know dear mockers.

Gotta say, I love how humour and satire can allow you to criticize even the strictest, off with their heads doctrine, because it makes it lighter and veiled. With a joke, you can say anything, things everyone else knows but is too afriad to say. The joke makes you safe.

This probably isn't a healthy way to feel. But when has mind mindset ever been anything that could be considered healthy or sane, darlings? I'm the girl who recently wrote a list of the 150 books I want to read/buy.
What's also incredibly awesome is how the life of a satirist (such as Mr. Voltaire) reads as much a fabulous story of eccentricity and social criticism, as does thier novels-exile,excommunication, debauchery, affairs, theft! Even artists, my pet example being renaissance painter Caravaggio, who murdered someone, multilated his cheating mistress and used drug addicts, the homeless, and prostitutes as models for saints, get in on the madness and the fever of the creation of art. Its like giving birth to something of meaning, rather then condemming another little angel to this uncertain purgetory of self-destruction.

Welcome back to the self destruction bridgade, safe here at the Ministry of Love. Yes, that's a coupling of perfected self hatred and wanton self destruction, a winning combination, a killer cocktail, Molitov in nature, naturely.

Excuse me for my absense, but I'm just getting back to my old happy-go-lucky self after a real seventh circle of hell cold (how weird is it that everyone wants to ask about swine flu, or test for swine flu, but no one will come right out and say it? its like second grade all over again, and I'm running around pretending to be Hermione, and all waiting for my owl, and its He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named! {although I never did finish the last two books....I kinda lost interest})

Lately, I'm so mindless, going through the motions, that everything feels sleepy and eerily unreal, as if it's gone all diseased and blurry around the edges (maybe you have glacoma?)

"'Reality is nothing but a dream we're all having together.''That's deep!'"
- Middlesex, Jeffrey Eudgenies

And that is deep. Right now I am in dire need of some depth.

Question: The protag., Calliope in Middlesex (read it! Its family epic meets curiously ambigious gender! Sing O Greek Muses Of Tradgedy!), who has been living as a girl for fourteen years, and then tries to live as a guy (Cal), observes that to walk as a girl, you sway your hips (which as the would be reincarnation of old film goddesses, I certainly do), and as a boy you sway your shoulders. I've been trying to figure out if this is true.

Any observations?

I met Beethoven a few weeks ago. An impersonator (did anybody see the office episode where they get a Ben Franklin impersonator and get him to act all strippery and talk about scandels?- couldn't help thinking of it) came to my history class, danced for us, screamed in various german accents (the only language in which you can threaten I Love You) and called my teacher crazy and called out my principal on his tendency for useless announcements at nausem.

Cool guy... until at the end he shattered the allusion and spoke in his regular everyday voice and introduced himself as George, a struggling actor and dancer (although a Beethoven impersonator might be an interesting character for a book- with a secret BDSM life after hours)

My history teacher is a legend of eccentricity all on his own. He makes history come alive with interactive demos, role playing, music, fun movie clips (he let us watch Marie Antoinette, which happens to be my favourite movie- in class), and his personal acencdotes- particularily memorable is his meeting with Trudeau on a random park bench, where he didn't know who he was talking to and his love of Michaelle Jean. In my fourth period history class, we've made it a game of counting the interuptions- knocks on the door with surprisevisitors (however ungameshow worthy) or announcements calling students down to the principal, or listing skippers. Usually he just tries to talk over them, getting increasingly angry and loud. Frankly, he is as entertaining as the curiosities he teaches.

Bear, in mind mah-darlings, this is the same man who had us stop the school bus (on a field trip to the ROM and AGO) in the middle of a communter traffic ridden street, and ran down the street after the Mr. Tasti Freeze Ice Cream truck (which by the way are a few of my favourite things). Mere minutes later, he would return with two delectable chocolate vanilla twist cones, for him and the other supervisor, balanced precaroiusly in his hands as he ran like patented Phoebe Buffay running away from Satan (the neighbour's dog). Returning on board the bus, he was greeted by a chorus of premediated and planned slow claps and several thats-just-like-him sighs.

Re-Reading Neil Gaiman's macabre short story book, Smoke and Mirrors, I can't help but compare his PETA story, Babycakes, which suggests that if all the animals disapeared, we would turn to babies, the next most helpless and least vocal population, for food and things like leather, to Jonathan Swift's sartircal essay, A Modest Proposal:For Preventing the Children of Poor People in Ireland from Being a Burden to Their Parents or Country, and for Making Them Beneficial to the Public, while suggests eating them.

This is the stuff that keeeps a maudwin life interesting,

From the internet, you learn scary things, like the existence of Carebear BDSM fics. But its from insanity that you learn with bated breath, that you actually want to read it. Its all very rule 34. Think of something, the least sexy thing in existence, like a couch or a ficus- got it? Well, the internet has porn of it. And if it doesn't you are now morally obligated to write it.

Ah, the craziness of modern living- its like a cult of anonymous

I'm starting to think I might possibly be Manic Depressive. It would explain a lot, plus it would let me off the hook for so much transgression. But, while i do fit much of the criteria, I can't help but wonder if I'm just being dramatic and oh so typically hypochondric.

I really hate the word angst through it just seems so dismissive, as if my problems that are making me break down and cry and laugh myself into a frenzy at nothing, are just typical growing pains that no one has to worry about. And whenever, I confess, pained to my mother that I think I have a problem, she just asks me if I'm getting my period. Ironically and unintentionally sexist remarks from my feminist mother.

Another day's work in paradise.

"Scarecrow could only blink at the sight, gripping the arms of his chair in tight fists. Such a sweet child. Vandalising his fear factory. Yes. A sweet child. Were crayons water soluble?"

"There were a selection of tropical fish injected with a special dye that made them glow in various colours. With the club lights down low, they appeared to be glittering sprites moving through the dark water, eliciting delighted gasps from the bevy of young girls, who hadn’t quite shaken off the last remnants of their childhood, however hard they strived."

-Yes, she's got issues. The trouble is I'm wallowing in my childhood where i should be casting it off and declaring my independance.

In truth, books are my opiates and have been since I stopped being concerned with how good they tasted (hey! i was a baby!) and cracked them open to read the wonders of Go Dog Go (I like your hat), Little Miss Sunshine (not the movie! Remember Little Miss and Mister Men?) and Ballerina Bunny. I evolved out of bounds, reading both the books my classmates consumbed like Baby Sitter's Little Sister, Full House, Vampires Don't Wear Polka dots and Mary Kate And Ashley Mysteries at the same time as I consumbed Tolstoy, Steinbeck, Godot and increasingly obscure Shakespeare. Now i read anything and everything sometimes guilty pleasures and beach books, sometimes books to snark at, sometimes books to improve my mind, and increasingly, just to let myself laugh. Books are magic in that they really are doors to another world, where you can slip into a characters skin and have adventures and love, where you realize you really aren't so heartbreakingly alone, after all. Yes, I think it was Matilda that I got that from.

"As for the books she picks out for herself, the Bombshell likes an author who writes about someone like her (with compassion, of course). This is not out of vaniety, but rather because she feels misunderstood. Books about women like her teach her something about herself, about how to be herself, although it is important to realize that this is not narcissism but something more complicated and innocent. She adores Jack Kerouac and the all-American convertible driving blondes he meets along the way. She can relate to a man like Sal Paradise or Cody; they express the wanderlust she feels, too, but can't put into words. She is on her own road. "

- The Bombshell Manual of Style, Laren Stover

This is exately true. While I read Girly books, the Sex and The City of the printed word, like Shopaholic, Meg Cabot, Sisterhood Of The Travelling Pants and Rachel Cohn, it is also a clear indicator that I will love something if it has been in Playboy- you know when it was all 60's-70s pseudo intellectual. Case in point: Mailer, Kerouac, Kaftka, Palahniuk.

I am a book androgeny!

Why is something bad, just as wonderful as something good, if you get into the right frame of mind. I really want to sit down with friends, Mike and Ike's shaped like pills, and snark at Valley Of The Dolls.

What if I named myself Lullaby? These days the idea of picking out a new name, a pen name, a performance name, an alias, is endlessly attractive and tempting to me. I wanna be a suicide girl! I think I'm an exhibitionist. I want people to see me. My only modesty is negative body image, everything else is faked. If I didn't find myself fat and ugly, I wouldn't care who saw me naked.

I have to ask why even in a time that insists equality, even to the point where minorities or discriminatec groups, find themselves seeking superior treatment, a strikng contrast to what they seemed to crave, that a woman with lovers is a slut, while a man with them is just being king. At the same time, the gambling, compulsive shopping, war mongering king is remembered as great, while the Queen is Madame Defecit.

Its enough to start a one girl revolution, says poor Marie Antoinette who bore the brunt of this sexism, and does even still in history classes across the globe.

As a true testament to, times they are a changing, The Simpsons got a new HD intro, which incorporates substatntial nostaglia with remembered characters and references to the early family comedy years when the show wasn't trying to copy family guy for a ratings boost.

Thier classic antenna TV, is now a plasma.

Arent't somethings sacred?

Looking through my Ipod, the songs fit into a perfect call and response:

I Wanna Be Sedated

I Want A New Drug

I Want Candy

I Want Something Else

It's A Christmas Miracle, Star!
Signing Off now, Roger Wilco