Propriety Commands

And...Another One?

2010-07-02T19:10:00.000-05:00

On the Joss/NPH Glee episode

2010-05-19T12:53:00.002-05:00

Joss Whedon. Neil Patrick Harris. My favorite entirely unrealistic show choir fantasy. I have been waiting for this episode for two months.

The verdict: yes and no.

Things I loved: Every moment NPH was on. That man is a god. Some unusually good lines. Idina Menzel and Lea Michel's (or as I like to call her, Little Idina's) show-stopping rendition of "I Dreamed a Dream"--seriously, are they going to do the entire Les Mis soundtrack? I sure hope so. Also, Jesse's back! Hoorah and double-hooray!

Things I didn't love: Arty's treatment of Tina, the weirdly contrived and sped-up plot point about his dreams of dancing--and the crushing of those dreams, ignoring the fact that there actualy are wheelchair dance troupes. Seriously. Professional ones. Also, the bit about Idina being Little Idina's mom--of course it was inevitable, but my quarrel is with the way they did it--what the hell? Contrived and nonsensical. And, most importantly--"Dream On" is NOT a Les Mis audition song. Some kid is going to be very, very disappointed when this show inspires them to try out for Phantom with "Tik Tok" or something.

So in general: I love Joss. I love NPH. I love Glee. I love the music. The plot continues to be completely ridiculous, but isn't that why we watch it?

Eagerly awaiting next week's...Lady Gaga episode?
Yours &c,
E. A. Weatherfield

Forced writing is rarely good writing

2010-05-19T12:30:00.003-05:00

Summer is a strange bubble. It feels terminal--the warmth, the quiet, but mostly the strange freedom. Oh, it's summer, I don't have to get up in the morning, I don't have homework I should be doing. I must be dying. All this reading time--can't be real. I have sideslipped into an alternate reality. I am living in the matrix. This is faerie-land, and if I poke my head out into the real world, I will discover that a million years have passed and everyone I love has died, while I was curled in my papasaun catching up on FABLES.

Too easy to loose ties in summer, too easy to dip into a story, too easy to spend five days under figurative water, lose yourself in the figurative woods. Too easy to overexert or to atrophy. Green season, mean season. Mind-slag.

Time is an illusion. Summer-time?

Some radioactive brain juice to infect you.
Yours &c,
E. A. Weatherfield

On meeting authors

2010-05-05T10:47:00.002-05:00

Last night the fantastic YA author buddies Holly Black and Cassandra Clare came to our area for a reading-signing thing. Holly writes books about faeries and Cassandra writes books about demon hunters. I went with my best friend, because she and I plan to BE these two when we grow up.

The presentation was enjoyable. Holly read from her new book and Cassandra from her upcoming (about which there were proportionally more squeals and whispers than I had altogether expected). Then they taught us the octopus-in-a-coffee-shop con, which is a "family-friendly" version of the dog-in-a-bar con, which is the same as the violin con, which any Neil Gaiman fan should know.

They took questions. I did not ask one. One person asked where they got their shoes, because their shoes were fantastic. One fan raised her hand twice, but mostly told completely pointless stories without questions in them. I learned that, in order to be a moderately bestselling author with a medium-sized but devoted fanbase, I'll have to learn more tact and handle things gracefully. Shame.

There was a long line to get books signed. My friend and I passed the time by headbanging to MUCC. I believe I deeply injured the sensibilities of the small child staring at us shamelessly when my cell phone died and I said "fuck" quite loudly, because what if a life-or-death text message came my way within the next hour?

Our books were signed. We had pleasant conversation with the authors. On our way out we had pleasant conversation with a librarian and the wonderful folk of Pudd'n Head Books, the even more wonderful book store hosting the event.

All in all, a success.
Questions? Comments? Concerns? Slanders?
I'll take 'em all.

Yours &c,
E. A. Weatherfield.

Review

2010-04-28T15:14:00.002-05:00

Just read the graphic novel BEAST by Marian Churchland. It was fabulous. The art was fresh, beautiful, dynamic, the story an interesting new version of "Beauty and the Beast." In it, a sculptor called Colette is offered a dream commission to sculpt a marble portrait of her benefactor. She arrives at the derelict mansion where she is to do the job and discovers that the subject is to be a strange but (in my opinion) beautiful shadow-creature known as Beast.

Things I liked: extremely appealing aesthetic, well-written, not as maudlin or explicitly laid out as your average Beast update.
Things I didn't like: rather unsatisfying ending, in my opinion.
Verdict: Read it now.

Blurbs

2010-04-28T15:12:00.000-05:00

This is no haiku
That statement is both untrue
And logic'ly sound.

100 Words

2010-04-22T12:37:00.000-05:00

Sir Bedevere knocked on yet another door, hoping it was the last.
“Hello?” a young girl answered, strangely dressed even for this strange decade.
“Good morrow, madam,” said Sir Bedevere, “May I speak with the man of the house?”
“There’s only one man in this house,” she said with amusement, “and he’s not exactly the kind you seek.”
“I would speak with him anon, an’ it please you.”
“Alright then,” she said, grinning snidely. She called, “Bedevere!” and a little mopsy dog came bounding to her side.
“We named him after the Monty Python character,” the girl explained.
“I see.”

In Terra Pax

2010-04-21T18:32:00.002-05:00

My thirteen-year-old cousin's best friend became a fan of "My stomach drops when I think about you being with someone else" on Facebook. Makes you laugh. Then makes you wonder.

Got my first ever publishers' rejection letters today--two brief, messily hand-addressed papers I picked up from the desk in our hundred-year-old English building. They wanted to thank me for submitting, but regretted to inform me that they were unable to publish my stories in our school's student literary magazine.

Had a Freudian slip just then; accidentally typed "punish" instead of "publish."

Today was a barefoot-in-the-clover-patch, cinnamon-soda-that's-rather-flat day for me. How 'bout you?

Yours &c,
E. A. Weatherfield

Tabs

2010-04-20T13:47:00.000-05:00

These are the tabs that are open on my computer right now:

An article about the worst Spider-Man story arcs
A Web Comic
Facebook
Netflix instant player--Firefly
This is for a paper I'm doing
This man is my hero
And this is his new book
South Park Studios, because who has time for cable any more?

A Manly Heart-to-Heart

2010-04-20T13:32:00.002-05:00

"Lance!" Art greeted his best friend, "I haven't seen you in years! Literally. What the hell have you been doing?"
"Well," said Lance, "I slew a dragon."
"Slaying dragons is good."
"And then I had this thing going with this girl Elaine, which was great and all, until she got pregnant. Which might not have been such a huge problem, if it weren't that I didn't like her all that much in the first place."
"Man, that's rough," said Art.
"Yeah, and to make it worse, after she has the baby she kills herself. By floating in a boat. And I feel even more guilty now that I was only with her because she reminded me of my true love, who is unattainable."
"Aw, Lance, don't give me that. You could get any lady you wanted. You're the only Frenchman here, for chrissakes."
"No, not this one. This love is shameful."
"Lance, you know you can tell me anything. Who is this lady?"
"It's your wife."

Your Arthurian-legend-in-context for the day.

The Event of People Making Music in a Room

2010-04-15T12:28:00.002-05:00

I think I never had a better idea than going to last night's Ani DiFranco concert.

Let's start this story at the beginning. I discovered Ani last year, while cruising iTunes, hoping for some new music that wouldn't bore me, that wasn't the same as every other song. I stumbled upon her then-new album Not a Pretty Girl by happy, happy chance. Listened to the clips. Skipped around the house in joy at finding something worth listening to. Bought the album.

So a few weeks ago I discover that this concert is going to happen. I wasn't sure at first--I don't drive, and neither does my roommate Maria, so I worried about rides, and would the taxi work and would it cost too much, and all of that. But it fell into place; we got a ride, we got tickets, we were on our way.

So last night we arrive at the Pageant, Maria and I in our almost-matching hippie dresses, with our ride Bathsheba, who is 21 and so goes to the other side of the line. Maria and I are not allowed on the floor, but we find that the table closest to the stage is occupied by only two girls, and they have room for us. We are in business. We never learn their names, but they makes us a list of the songs played on a scrap of napkin.

Opening for Ani is the inestimable Buddy Wakefield. He is wigged out. His eyes are wide and he twitches elaborately. He radiates joy. You can feel the audience relaxing. You can feel your shoulder muscles loosening as he speaks. Magic words in rhythm. The diva beat-boxes. We cheer. He introduces Ani, and there is a bit of a wait.

When Ani walks onstage, she is smaller than I expected. Her hair looks unwashed, and she wears loose pants and an army green tank top with no bra. I didn't expect to be better dressed than Ani. She is beautiful. She has a guitar. She plays it like magic, like weaving. Some people sing along. Some people move.

It's cliche to say you've been under a spell, but after two hours of Ani DiFranco's music, this is how I feel. Eating pecan pancakes afterward, the only straight girl at the table, I feel a shimmer behind my brain. The spell lingers now. The knots in my muscles have flown apart. I feel like the breeze is a giant flower petal against my cheek. My concert tee is soft and loose. I have cut off the collar.

Buddy Wakefield signed his CD after the show. He asked my name and then he wrote, "Thank Goodness For Evangeline!" with Spanish upside-down-exclamation-marks. Same to you, Buddy, and Mama DiFranco too.

"Hearts don't break. They bruise and then they heal."

Yours &c,
E. A. Weatherfield

On Pleasant Days

2010-04-14T15:38:00.002-05:00

Warm again today. So warm I had to wear shoes. Nice breeze, and when it hits the trees all the flying petals and leaves and pollen look just like a rainbow snowstorm. The window is open and I can hear someone outside playing guitar or something, but I can't see them. Think about the satisfaction of having more of a paper written than you have left to write, and think about how good a Thin Mint tastes.

Last night after "So You Think Your Story Is Finished? Then Send It To the New Yorker" class, my friends and I forwent our homework session to do a dramatic reading of the infamous story "My Immortal." Again. And tonight is the Ani DiFranco concert. The way I've been acting, it's almost like the crushing workload of Egyptian mythology, creative writing, comic-bookery, Gilbert & Sullivan, Darío, and Bach didn't exist. Horrible.

Today, thinking about places. We discussed them in class, how people collect them and how full of story they are. I remember millionaire castles, cinnamon dust, summer swamp stench, and meningitis prevention medication that turned my friends' pee orange, but not mine. Want to write about everywhere I've been and everything I've done and haven't. I wonder if everyone feels this way, at the very least everyone who writes. I think they do.

My life is a filler of pages, and some days it's not all that interesting.

Yours &c,
E. A. Weatherfield

This is why we allow parents texting

2010-04-13T13:36:00.002-05:00

I just received a text message from my mother:

U have 31 days left of school!!!

My mother is so excited about my semester ending that she's counting the days. There's something almost subversive about that.

I love my mother.

One day I really will start making consistent posts

2010-04-13T12:47:00.002-05:00

When I think I hate Missouri because it's so big and so backwards, I look out the window and see the flowers on the tree, big but weightless, watercolor. It smells so nice this time of year and the grass is so soft. Silly, silly people will insist on wearing shoes, or on my wearing shoes inside the cafeteria. The sky is big bright blue, but that's okay, because it's nicely enclosed by a border of trees.

Re-reading V for Vendetta in my comic book class. This is an interesting experience--I'd forgotten how much better the book was than the movie. More on this after today's class discussion--I'm interested to see it talked about in an academic setting.

And tomorrow night is the Ani DiFranco concert at the Pageant that I will be attending with my roommate and about 50 of her friends from the Vagina Monologues cast. This is why I've been waiting for college since I was eight. That, and all the lectures and Shakespeare plays...

And for the record, about half the things on my previous posts aren't true any more. It seems like there's something important in that fact...

Never mind.

Yours &c,
E. A. Weatherfield

On Wishing I Could Delete Previous Posts

2009-11-11T13:15:00.004-06:00

Inspired by the authors whose blogs I stalk, I have returned to this page with the resolution that I will write things worth reading, gain a following, and springboard spectacularly into the world of published cult authors.
This is my resolution. I would also be satisfied with a blog that doesn't embarrass me. My hopes for either of these things becoming reality are slim. But down, cynicism, down! Maybe it's just the natural result of listening to Emilie Autumn.
So, to re-begin: An introduction to my college situation. I've a roommate who dislikes me because I'm apparently too Atheist for her, loud suite-mates (those are the people we share a bathroom with) whose favourite activities include bringing the Drunken Clown Parade through their room at 2 in the morning and leaving passive-aggressive post-it notes on the bathroom mirror, and an Intro to Lit professor who loves nothing more than the sound of his own voice.

Off to eat lunch while reviewing my hit list. Coulter, check...Beck, check...O'Reilly...Gibson...

Over.
Yours &c,
E. A. Weatherfield

I Haven't Posted in a Really Long Time!

2008-10-09T21:41:00.002-05:00

I'm sorry it's been so long, nonexistent readers! What with the start of school and everything, I just got busy and...failed so epically as to abandon lame excuses.
Hmm, what's new, you ask? Well, my cat meows like a small child who has just dropped her ice cream, my dog manages to find a totally pleasant and unstressful way to surprise me every day, and I eat more cheese than is entirely healthy. I am currently obsessed with the
graphic-novel-type works of Alan Moore and Neil Gaiman. If Sarah Palin were a sane vegetarian with a brain, she'd be a moose. I continue not to know what I'm rambling on about half the time. I haven't updated my books-read list in a thousand years. Alexander the Great is the bane of my existence (I'm doing this history presentation...). I have to go to bed now.

NEWGREGORYMAGUIREBOOKSOON!

Yours & c,
E. A. Weatherfield

Ya da dum dum dum...

2008-09-01T22:30:00.002-05:00

What does one do, I ask, when one has attempted to force oneself to go to sleep at 10:30, but finds she can't?
Does she roll over and try to get her obstinate cat to cuddle?
Does she turn on the light and pick up her book?
Oh, no. Of course she has to get up and, not bothering to turn the lights on, do a blog post. Is she aware that this effort is futile, as even though her entire advanced comp class has access to said blog, nobody is going to read it? Theoretically?
Now, that is a difficult question...
Hypothetically speaking, a person whose blog was guaranteed to be read might comment that, say, she wouldn't be able to attend homecoming, as she'd be at her cousin's wedding in New York. She might suggest the amazing movie Hamlet 2 to her classmates, or ask them how they were doing with their personality essays.
However, since I my musings are happily unread, I am in a position to rave about Jane Austen's Mansfield Park, or lament that my friend Bianca STILL has not returned my copy of Jane Eyre (which I want to reread, dammit!). I could even comment that my grandmother's pug puppy, Baby Dinkles, though cute, often behaves like a screaming hell-demon bent on sucking out my soul through my ankles, with no ill effects.
But no one's reading this, so what would be the point?

Many happy returns,
Yours &c,
E. A. Weatherfield

Breaking Down

2008-08-07T00:16:00.002-05:00

If there is one solid fact that is a comfort to me, it is that every once in a while, a person must make a complete ass of his/herself. It doesn't matter if you told a story you had no idea wasn't funny (did that today--and to a group of people I barely know!), asked a question you had no idea was socially unacceptable (that one gave me a lot of trouble when I was eight), or just did something you wish you could take back. Everyone must make mistakes like this.
Of course, some of these oopsies are more significant than others. Making an awkward remark at a party is a far smaller offense than, say, pulling a Darcy and causing the people of an entire county to mistake you for a highly unpleasant person. It follows, then, that to build up the anticipation of millions of fans worldwide for an entire year, only to completely poop out, bitterly disappointing them, is the greatest offense of all.
Sorry, Stephenie Meyer...you just has one of those assy moments.

Breaking Dawn

2008-08-01T14:58:00.002-05:00

For anyone who lives in a hole under a rock, I offer this information: The new Twilight book, Breaking Dawn, comes out at midnight tonight. I'm going to the Borders release party, and I'm ridiculously excited. I have done my vampire makeup: Made my eyes look big (with dark circles underneath), covered my skin in white glitter, even drawn vampire scars up my arm in solidarity with Jasper. I have painted my nails with images from the covers of the books (an apple, a flower, a ribbon, and a chess piece) and put Edward Cullen's initials on my toenails. I would say I was PUMPED!, if I were the type of person who said that sort of thing. But I'm not. I'm the type of person who listens to Jesus Christ Superstar while dressing up as a vampire. Go figure.

May the Cliche Be With You

2008-07-30T21:08:00.002-05:00

Tonight my mother and I started on our quest to re-watch all of the Star Wars movies in chronological order. Yes, I mean from episodes I to VI. So, tonight was Episode I: The Phantom Menace. I shall give a brief overview...
Higlights: Liam Neeson's existance. Is there anything that man does not totally own? The answer is no. Or, rather, as it is always phrased in the Star Wars universe, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. Also, any scene including R2-D2 was a winner. And Queen Amidala's crazy outfits. Those had me riveted.
Lowlights: Darth Maul. Who does he think he is? He goes into the movie with no lines--just some horns and a scary makeup job--and...just...does nothing but...kills...Liam Neeson...it's too much! I can't take it! I didn't exactly enjoy seeing the 'naked' C-3PO, either.
Generally Speaking: It had Yoda in it. And Natalie Portman, pre/succeeding Carrie Fischer in the royal-who-kicks-arse -and-does-all-the-planning-even-though-the-other -stars-aren't-man- enough-to-admit-it part. A-

Your humble critic,
E. A. Weatherfield

Chipmunk/Vampire

2008-07-30T16:47:00.002-05:00

No matter where you are, no matter who you know, there are certain truths about two professions: Dentists are psychopaths and orthodontists are sociopaths.
Not that I have any quarrel with my tooth-fixated amigos. I'm sure they are perfectly nice, for the most part. Many sadists are.
But why, you ask, do I make these accusations? Trust me, it is not without cause. Take, for instance, the psychopath. A psychopath is someone who kills (or maims or tortures) indiscriminately, for thrills. The dentist fits neatly into this category: they torture more people more excruciatingly, but for briefer periods of time and less money.
The sociopath is a classier, more discerning sadist. A sociopath picks and chooses their victims, hiding the evidence well. The sociopath seems quite nice to their neighbors because they have no sense that they are doing anything wrong. This is the very picture of the orthodontist, whose careful brand of torture is refined down to an art. At first, nothing seems sinister about a bit of metal in the mouth. The victim goes home waving cheerily to their teeth-correcting friend. But, slowly, hour by hour, the teeth become tender to the point of absurdity, until the victim's very existence is excruciatingly painful. The orthodontists even appreciate the little details; they charge an absurd amount, therefore insuring that the victim carries through their course of pain to avoid wasting their money.
The crux of this argument: rubber bands. Little pieces of elastic that simultaneously make it difficult to talk and impossible to yawn, cause pain, make you look like a chipmunk when your mouth is closed, and make you look like a vampire when you smile.
The jury is out. I rest my case.

Yours &c,
E. A. Weatherfield.

It's Nothing...

2008-07-29T12:02:00.003-05:00

It is my humble opinion that the absolute most amusing phrase a parent can use is "it's nothing, you'll see." This is a very versatile phrase with a number of applications. Is your four-foot-tall, frizzy-haired, history-loving kid worried about cheerleading tryouts? It's nothing, you'll see. Is your kid's favorite cat going to the vet to have a sock and three pennies removed from its stomach? It's nothing, you'll see. Is your kid not exactly excited about going to the dentist to have their teeth pulled--the day after their birthday? It's nothing, you'll see.
Yes, this vaguely positive method of evasion can be used in many ways. However, I must admit I have a favorite use of the all-purpose phrase: To soothe the trepidation (Ooo, vocab word! My former English teacher from hell would be so proud!) of lifelong committment to a daily annoyance. Here's what I mean. When I was about four or five, my mother introduced me to the hygenic wonder that is the toothbrush. She showed me how to run the bristles over my teeth, explaining to me why this rather odd ritual was necessary. At the end of the lesson, I only had one question:
"Mommy, do I have to do this for the rest of my life?"
You'll never guess what she said...
"It's nothing, you'll see."
Considering the year or two it took me to learn to brush my teeth twice a day, every day, with toothpaste, like a normal person...you'll see why I find this phrase so dubious.
Another such incident was when I got contacts. This was, I must admit, quite recent; my eyes decided to follow the route of every one of my family members', miserably and suddenly failing me in the middle of my junior year. I was given my first pair of transluscent nemeses just this summer.
Something you should know about me: I am not one for motor skills, fine or otherwise. In fact, in the alotted hour and a half did not suffice for the whole sticking-a-strange-slimy-thing-in-your-eye-then-pinching-it-out-again-against-your-better-judgement lesson. I had to (cue scary music)...go back a second time!
A week later, when it was still taking me half an hour to get them in in the morning and an hour to get them out again at night, I went to my mother in a state of despair.
"Maybe I should just get glasses," I lamented, "even though they look hideous on me..."
"You'll get it," she assured me.
"I haven't yet," I complained.
"Oh, it's nothing," she said, "you'll see."
So...what do you say when your anal-retentive, perfectionist, academically-oriented high school senior (who has had her sights set on William & Mary since she was 12) expresses her concerns about college applications?
It's nothing, you'll see.
Yours &c,
E. A. Weatherfield.

Debut

2008-07-28T14:57:00.007-05:00

As this is my first blog, I suppose I should start it off with something clever. You know, a real zinger. A regular Dickens of an opening sentence. As an aspiring author, I claim to know the value of a good opener. As for actually writing them, well...easier talked around than done.
Now. As for the blog. As I write this, you may notice my affinity for the word "as." Well, as I've often not said, a word's not overworked till it's overworked. As I wrote that, I started to irritate myself...
Well, since this is my first blog, I suppose I should tell you a bit about whose ramblings you're wading through. I should tell you that I like movies, costume novels, fanfiction, my dog Bilbo, all other animals (except, occasionally, my cat Pudge), books, my PowerBook (her name is Daisy), theatre, clouds, and platypi. I should warn you that I hate tomatoes, forwards, Hemingway, trashy Myspace pictures, country music, boring clothes, spiders and reality shows. I could even tell you that I can currently see a life-size cardboard cutout of R2-D2, a Life of Brian poster, an American Girl doll, a Phantom of the Opera mask, a platypus puppet, and a TV playing Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Of course, I would never really do that; to give you that much information right off the bat would be absurd.
Well, rather than writing more and more in order to stave off the boredom of waiting for my grandmother to wake up, I will cut this blog off to delay the possibility of embarrassing myself by rambling on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on.

And on,
Yours &c,
E. A. Weatherfield.