This something I idly consider as I sit in my film studies class [seriously]:
Buffy is, in many ways, just like the cowboy hero from westerns. Her specialness, and her adeptness as a hero, come from her potential for success at violence. And like many cowboy heroes she fights for the aims of the community. But at the same time her status as an exceptional person excludes her from really participating in that community in any meaningful way. She has to work at the Doublemeat palace because her Slayer skills won't get her a real job; a social worker questions her ability to take care of Dawn; she can't participate in normal romantic relationships so she ends up with vampires as boyfriends. All of these problems come from her status as the Slayer, the hero; in fact, her special heroic qualities also doom her to a life apart.
"In this situation there are only two things we can do. We need to huddle together, and we need to KEEP MOVING." -the CKUA late-night DJ, on the current weather
"You will be flogged. Then, when we reach Cuba to restock, God willing, you will be flogged again. Then you will spend the rest of your miserable lives as slaves."
"Oooh-- Cuba!" -Hernan Cortez, and Miguel, in The Road to El Dorado
Last week I had a dream that my front teeth had been knocked out. I awoke still running my tongue over the spaces I could nearly feel in my mouth, wondering whether it will ever be possible to harness the evocative power of the human brain as it reveals itself in dreams.
Two nights ago I started reading old letters, but I got angry and put them away. The thing about the past-- a fact that I tend to often forget-- is that it is painful. I'm surprised I'm not a psychotic. The past is full of ghosts, and the present is full of waiting.
My head hurts. Sometimes I think the cold has entered my head. It's the icy immobility of winter, and tiredness of those around me, that leaves me feeling this way.
It has something to do with This Hour Has 22 Minutes. This little gem has been circulating the internet, attributed to Rick Mercer (although who can know for sure):
On behalf of Canadians everywhere I'd like to offer an apology to the United States of America. We haven't been getting along very well recently and for that, I am truly sorry.
I'm sorry we called George Bush a moron. He is a moron but, it wasn't nice of us to point it out. If it's any consolation, the fact that he's a moron shouldn't reflect poorly on the people of America. After all it's not like
you actually elected him.
I'm sorry about our softwood lumber. Just because we have more trees than you doesn't give us the right to sell you lumber that's cheaper and better than your own.
I'm sorry we beat you in Olympic hockey. In our defense I guess our excuse would be that our team was much, much, much, much better than yours.
I'm sorry we burnt down your White House during the war of 1812. I notice you've rebuilt it! It's Very Nice.
I'm sorry about your beer. I know we had nothing to do with your beer but, we feel your pain.
I'm sorry about our waffling on Iraq. I mean, when you're going up against a crazed dictator, you want to have your friends by your side. I realize it took more than two years before you guys pitched in against Hitler, but that was different. Everyone knew he had weapons.
And finally on behalf of all Canadians, I'm sorry that we're constantly apologizing for things in a passive-aggressive way which is really a thinly veiled criticism. I sincerely hope that you're not upset over this. We've seen what you do to countries you get upset with.
I loved the episode of 22 minutes when Marg, Warrior Princess mugged for a picture with Mike Harris and told him, "you're pretty cute for a premier!"
A four-year-old of my acquaintance drew me a picture based on the Disney movie "The Road to El Dorado." My Film Studies professor, it seems, is going to talk about "The Searchers" for the rest of the semester. I fail to understand my credit card bills. Some days are an exercise in futility.
Canya believe it? Pamie is back with her own domain: www.pamie.com. I cantya believe it, and I'm thrilled because I used to read squishy religiously back in the day (random reader of this website: Oh God, she's reminiscing about the "good old days" of the internet... shoot me before she starts talking about usenet)... That was diverting yet pointless. Anyway, you should go read it. Now. Yes. Well, finish reading this entry first, and post me a comment telling me what annoying pretentious thing I do that annoys you the most, or alternately what cute endearing thing I do that endears me to you the most. Then go look at her new website, and think about how happy it is making me.
We're playing a new game called, "It's always about Jocelyn." In this game I prattle on endlessly about myself and everyone else ignores me. Like in Calvinball, you can make up new rules any time. At the end, the person who got kissed by me the most times wins.
Hmm, OK. I'm sorry. I think I'm spiralling rapidly downward in an unhealthy whirlwind of self-absorption and sarcasm about my own self-absorption. Dammit, this has got to end
The internet is broken at my house. The incorrect lights on my modem flicker. The computer sends me messages, like in Sphere: Fix me, Jocelyn. I want to participate in a global exchange of ideas. I want to be part of the ultimate data democracy. I want to look at porn. And I say to the internet: No. I don't have time to fix you. I'm too tired. I have term papers to write and nightmares to wake up from.
So instead I invite anyone who has any interest in being a guest personality on my website to email me, or phone me, and I will tell you the password to my account, and you can make mischief of one kind and another.
I don't think technology is going to save us. It's not going to save me, for one thing, because I am unsaveable. And married to the sea. It's true what they say: a roving pirate queen will always lie to get what she wants.
Robert Altman impresses me. I haven't seen that many of his movies, maybe 4 or 5, but they've been so drastically different from one another. I watched McCabe & Mrs. Miller last night. I know I've been writing a lot about Westerns, and I hope you're not too bored. Actually, let's be honest, I don't care that much if you're bored. This website is very low-commitment. I have a low commitment to impress you, and you have a low commitment to read what I write or care about it. And that, after all, is how the Internet should be.
James's new apartment-- and I hope he doesn't mind me sharing this with the world, because normally James is an internet-secret-- is like this dream from 1972. He has an orange couch, and an olive-green armchair. I love his furniture. I think the design world is primed for a 70s revival.
When Court and Meghan get an apartment I hereby swear I will sew them lime-green pillows.
Possible alternative solution: better foreign policy. But this is better for the economy.
The A-channel movie on Friday was The Deep Blue Sea, and I watched most of it. It's as bad as everyone says, and it IS a vehicle for LL Cool J albeit with other actors, but it does have an impressive body count. Hollywood movies are somewhat formulaic, and we come to expect certain characters to live and to die. Samuel L. Jackson getting munched by hokey CGI sharks, for example, was no surprise-- particularly in the middle of a motivational speech. But the hot British doctor? The multi-purpose wimpy-but-sympathetic guy? THE CUTE BLONDE GIRL? This movie defied my expectations by killing off about 80% of the core cast, and for that, I must give it credit. I never saw half those deaths coming.
I also watched Raiders of the Lost Ark, and I think Karen Allen as Marion is my pretend action-movie alterego. She's so great.
I'm writing my newest paper on gun fetishism and the anti-western, and if anyone out there in internet-land happens to have an opinion, you should email it to me. Preferably in MLA style, with a bibliography. And make it about 1900 words.
I bought new boots, and I like to clomp around my house in them.
I went to the Edmonton car show yesterday. If you said that a car show seems a ways away from my usual element, you would be quite right. However, I am not intimidated by blonde women in leopard print dresses and teased-out Vegas hair pointing at race cars, because I am independent women. Also, my dad doesn't like to go to these things alone, and my mom won't go with him. As he says, "I think if anyone saw me at a car show alone on a Saturday afternoon, they would think, 'There goes the loneliest man in the world.'"
What with car shows and "arching" (that one's for Meghan), I would say I've had an experience-expanding weekend.
From the BBC World News: what is planned to be the world's longest concert (639 years) is begun in Germany: avant-garde composer John Cage's organ piece As Slow As Possible begins. Only the first 72 years are planned at the moment. The rest will follow, or more likely, not follow.
here is the official site for the project. Why not send a few deutschmarks (spelling questionable) their way? if they invest it now it will be worth something, in 600 years. While you're at it, send a few my way, too.
I kind of have trouble believing human beings will still be around in 639 years, and not dead or in zoos or living in space, on other, less wrecked planets. I have trouble believing lots of things, though, and they seem to happen nonetheless.
Don't say I never give you any "wacky news," 'cause I won't stand for it.
I think I am really going to enjoy playing Virtual U., a Simcity-esque university simulation game. Why? Because every time I do play SimCity, the only part I like is building colleges, parks and marinas anyway. I think industrial zones make the city so dirty. [thanks to Phil of the pillowfort for the link to the game]
I went to the archery lanes tonight with Meghan, and I have to say, I don't like shooting. I guess I wasn't that bad at it considering it was my first time-- I mean, I didn't shoot any people or office equipment or anything-- but the whole idea of shooting makes me uncomfortable. That's why I'm a University President, not a guerilla or a supervillain or a deer hunter or whoever it is who shoots people for a living.
Money is ludicrously tight, but life is good. Besides being a university president, I'm like a beat poet or something.
I'm scrolling through my winamp playlist looking for songs that are fun to rock out to: Eve, and Joan Jett, and such. At the moment I have no less than 4 versions of "Video Killed the Radio Star" in MP3 format. It's very post-modern.
I'm finally catching up on my nervousness stuff, sending the cheapest first. I slept in my own bed last night, and it was wonderful. Katie gave me nerds. My professors amuse me: "Like the way you feel on Sunday morning, when you spent Saturday night at Red's or wherever the hell you people go.". (My children's lit prof amuses me because he has a gentle antagonism for university students and their lifestyles. He's not mean about it, he just hates us.) Things are going well. On the bus on the way home, I listened to a mixtape from Meghan and enjoying the sun dappling my face, if "dappling" is in fact a word. Also, my parents are buying my hooker boots (thanks Court!)
Speaking of the bus, ETS had a Valentines Day contest I saw advertised in the Gateway. It was entitled "I [heart] The Bus," and it invited people to write in with their favourite bus memory. Well, as appealing as free bus passes are as prizes, I couldn't motivate myself to make anything up. I'm sorry, but what would I say? I could tell a heart-wraming story about all the times I've sat next to crazy/creepy/stinky people? The cumulative hours I've spent waiting for the bus in the fucking freezing cold? My favourite bus memory is the times I get rides from my friends and family and AVOID the bus. They must live in a fantasy world, with Elvis and Elves. Little dancing department-store elves. In green lederhosen.
So, I got a little off-track there.
So. Sarah Michelle Gellar announced this is the last season of Buffy. She's not renewing her contract. Joss Whedon says he may make a spin-off with other characters, though. May I suggest "Spike, the Vampire Who Never Wears a Shirt, Not EVER"?
Confession: I am a postal dork. I registered for Canada Post's online store so I can order decorative stamps and have them delivered to my house, hopefully in unmarked packages, like sex toys or neo-nazi brochures. I don't like bothering the grouchy people at the post office, but I want these pretty stamps. I use them to send things!
What's your secret embarrassment, internet? You can tell me, because you trust me, and we're friends.
the internet is
i am always
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