Monthly Archives of: April 2010


10 guys, 8 minutes. That doesn’t sound sanitary.


Last night I went speed dating. Because I said I would. And because I had this idea that speed dating (being all face-to-facey and small-talky), would be populated by gentlemen with more social skills than those lurking in the internet.

Bzzt! FALSE!

It was AMAZING, gang! STUNNING. Like the sun glinting off a MASSIVE TRAIN WRECK on a warm spring day. Like baby goats frolicking in a mine field, if the baby goats were ten relatively normal chicks and the mines were ALL COMPUTER PROGRAMMERS, who had clearly never left their mothers’ basements.

Okay, that’s a lie. They weren’t ALL programmers. One of them was a farmer! With a lazy eye. Who asked me, two minutes in, if he could pick me up from work tomorrow. SERIOUSLY, WHO DOES THAT! “Oh, you work at the hospital? CAN I COME VISIT YOU THERE TOMORROW?”

My response made the other six minutes of our ‘date’ kind of awkward. Way to derail our conversation about slaughtering cattle, dude!

A heavily overweight gentleman with a long ginger goatee slapped a spreadsheet down in front of me and spent his eight allotted minutes checking off whether or not I liked his favourite zombie movies. I totally aced that, so he asked me, pen poised, how I felt about watching a dude play Xbox.

Another equally unwashed fellow with dubious facial hair told me about his time seeking out Nazi hotspots in Germany.

Several of them looked confused by all the lights and people, and seemed uncomfortable at being expected to use their mouths to make words. And several of them were tiny and adorable, like little fuzzy mogwai that I kinda wanted to adopt and feed vegetables and introduce to natural light.

 I have nothing against nerds, so we’re clear. I’d hit this. HARD.

Most of them, for unknown reasons, were British. Does this reflect on the United Kingdom as a whole? I do not know!

I wonder about the other ladies in the room, because I can at least hold my own in any given conversation about dragons or spaceships. I have enough nerd points I can spend to pass my conversational time, but I have a feeling anyone in that room with normal interests would have been stuck like a bear in a tar pit. You’re into parties and indoor netball? Is that a speed metal band? Did they have a booth at Armageddon? WANNA WATCH ME PLAY XBOX?

VERDICT: Funny, in an I-maybe-need-to-slit-my-wrists kind of way. Good for a few interesting conversations and some complimentary booze. Guys should definitely look into it, because all the chicks seemed well put together and normal, and the lone dude who appeared to have active social skills will probably make some BANK this weekend.


“Congratulations! You are among those people that have scored the highest number of ‘yes’ votes at any speed-dating event; you have consequently been awarded ‘Elite’ membership status. Only people that attract a ‘yes’ votes from at least 70% of the people they meet achieve ‘Elite’ status.”

AHA. AHAHAHAHA. Life! Why you gotta be so hilar? I can’t even cope!


In the words of R. Kelly…


Hey, you guys! What’s going on? TELL ME STUFF! How’s that thing you did? Is that a new bag? When are we getting lunch?

I have a blog-finishing block. (Life, art. Holler.) I have all these PARAGRAPHS I’ve written you, trusty reader(s), but they don’t go anywhere. They’re not adding up to a cohesive whole. (No, seriously, life, I should set you up with art. You’d get on.)

So… screw theme. Screw narrative cohesion. Here’s some stuff about nothing, apropos of nothing else.


Does anyone remember the late 80s/early 90s Peter Pan series where Wendy could fly too and she and Peter had adventures bouncing on clouds and foiling Hook’s diabolical schemes? I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately and I don’t know why (yes I do: JD McCoy). I was OBSESSED with that show.

This picture is not strictly relevant here, but it would be creepy down below.

My brother and I used to go to an after school programme in our school hall, where I spent my afternoons perched in front of a flickering TV on a lumpy old bed out behind the stage, mushy white-bread sandwich in one hand and syrupy red cordial clutched in the other, YEARNING.

I YEARNED, you guys.

I thought about that show when it wasn’t on. I dreamed about it. I jumped off stairs and roofs and trees, trying to WILL myself into flying. I had adventures with Peter in my head, hiding in the bushes alone at lunch or tucked up in bed at night. I loved it with a passion unrivalled by anything but doing jumps on my rollerblades and pairing bike shorts with slouch socks. I wanted to LIVE INSIDE IT, and I was completely, outrageously unwilling to accept that I couldn’t.

It wasn’t enough just to hang out for a half hour every afternoon: I wanted to know what Peter was doing after dinner. What would happen if the crocodile learned to fly too. What Wendy would find if she snuck aboard Hook’s ship. I don’t think I ever wrote our adventures down, but that’s when this all started, y’all.


I think I was kind of a weird kid. I had the usual quantity of friends and I loved gymnastics and tree-climbing and neon anything, but I spent most of my time inside my own head, hanging out in other, better worlds I’d rather have lived in.

Some of which I made up. And many of which were heavily based on Toy Soldiers, which I can’t explain to you but you get anyway, right?

Joey Trotta and his cross earring made my pre-teen self swoon, not gonna lie.
But mostly, I just wanted to take out some terrorists.


The Sound of Music and Batman mash-ups also featured heavily, although I don’t remember the exact logistics. Also: unicorns. LOTS of unicorns.


I was talking to my brother yesterday and I asked him what he remembers me being like as a kid, and he said: BORING. But he said it like this:


I used to go to the library with several empty backpacks, so I think he may have a point. I harbour a sneaking suspicion I was only semi-popular because I went to a small school and didn’t eat mud or wet my pants.

(I did eat mud. Much like trying to fly by jumping off stuff, I was pretty convinced that if I SAID a mud pie was strawberry and chocolate, it should taste that way. The fact that it didn’t (and I couldn’t, vis-à-vis flight) only meant I wasn’t trying hard enough. But I was sensible enough to know that I should keep that stuff to myself — at least until it worked. And then, OH, how I was planning to laugh.)

(Wait, I think I still believe this.)


So, thanks, Pete, for introducing me to my imagination, which then swallowed most of my childhood in unproductive make-believe.

Also, your tights were kind of hot. Not Aladdin hot, but I would have hit that.

Just saying.

Let’s not even touch the live-action Peter Pan movie with Jeremy Sumpter, since it came out when I was 20 and still left me with this ridiculous and abiding (and kind of maternal, but don’t think too hard about that) affection for J.Sump that persists to this day. JD McCoy is my favourite Panther.

 I want to feed him cookies and hug it out. Is that wrong?



Back, facts, back in your box!


I have a problem with Google.

I have to know things. I can’t control myself. If I hear about something I don’t understand, even if it freaks me out — actually, especially if it freaks me out — I have to go look it up. This leads to knowing stuff I wish desperately I could un-know, like that it’s not only possible to cut a penis in half lengthwise and have it function, but people do this for fun.

(How did I find this out? DO NOT ASK. It began as valid research, and it got OUT OF HAND. Googling snowballs, like a BLACK HOLE OF INVESTIGATION.)

This morning, I saw a blurb for Human Centipede, the movie that Donna is always raving about. The premise grossed me out so much I had to go and look up the details, and NOW I CAN’T EAT MY LUNCH.

I WANTED my lunch. My lunch is DELICIOUS. But someone made a movie about joining people together mouth-to-anus, and I had to find out how that would work, and now my lunch is FOREVER FUCKING RUINED.

Fuck you too, Google.

I used to think I had to KNOW STUFF because my imagination was worse than reality — kind of the way I had to sit through all of The Hills Have Eyes and the new Unborn, because whatever happened couldn’t be worse than what my mind would decide could have happened — but this is no longer accurate. I regularly find out things that are considerably worse than anything I could ever have dreamed up, and STILL, I GOOGLE.

Hey, I might think — as you do — I wonder if Orangutans ever rape human women? COME FIND OUT, Google croons in my ear. I KNOW. AND I’LL SHARE, IF YOU ASK NICELY. And now I live with the knowledge that not only has this happened, but the husbands of the victims aren’t generally that bothered, since it’s not like it was a person or anything.


I know about cysts with teeth, and that woman who had her face pulled off by her chimp, and far, far too much about serial killers and ridiculous scientific theories about how the world might end… I’ll wake myself up in the middle of the night to Google something I’ve been dreaming about, and I can’t make it through a 22-minute sitcom without the help of imdb.



In other news: I am the biggest character profile nerd ever, and it’s AWESOME. I can’t wait to start playing with these little people. Introduce them, hang out with them, MESS WITH THEIR LITTLE MINDS. So fun! So, so fun. I’m in a writerly happy place this week, and I like it there. I wanna BUILD A NEST so I can stay forever, wrapped up in the snuggly warmth of fantastic things I haven’t screwed up yet. Mmm, possibility. So much sweeter than actual prose.


I didn’t forget you, dear imaginary readers!


Actually, Analytics tells me you’re not all imaginary, but I have NO IDEA where you’re coming from. Comment and say hi, would ya? Especially the visitor from Ethiopia.

Things what occurred in my absence:

— Chuck invalidated my entire last post, but in a way so excellent that I can’t even hate them for it. Also, Supernatural and I made up. It was the fireworks that did it, but Pamela sure didn’t hurt. I forgive you, Kripke. You know I can’t stay mad at you.

— My bestie had a baby! He’s super cute and my new favourite. Many people don’t see the appeal of newborns, prone as they are to a limited repertoire of activities, but this is exactly what’s in their favour: you can cuddle them almost indefinitely, because they have NOTHING BETTER TO DO! Seeing as her other son is now two, and old enough to know he doesn’t HAVE to give hugs on demand, this is a superb development for me. Thanks Rach!

— I read lost boy lost girl by Peter Straub last night, and thought it was fantastically creepy and unsettling, while also being a stonking good read. I’ve been meaning to read Peter Straub’s solo work for years. YEARS! The Talisman and Black House have been two of my favourite books for a large chunk of my life, but somehow I never seem to get around to investigating what Peter Straub does when he’s not pulling Stevie K’s endings up by the bootstraps. And what it turns out that he does is be awesome.

After After After. Which still doesn’t have a better name, but the story and the world and the people who live in it are really starting to come together. Scary. And amazing. Also daunting, overwhelming, terrifying, etc. But then you have that moment, when another piece slides into place and you feel the click as it slots together — and suddenly you’ve got something bigger than you had before, and all these paths open up to creep along, feeling your way blindly until you find the one where the lights flicker on. I love that feeling. That inexplicable, tingly feeling of knowing something is RIGHT. Like I’m not inventing this world — it exists, buried somewhere. I’m just unearthing it, piece by piece, word by word.