the most uneventful event

I'm.so.bored.

Pastiche hurts my brain. I mean, what's so cool about it, really? Why does it fill me with such glee? Is it just about recognizing stuff? Is all pastiche actually fanfic like that? Is that what it is?

In completely other news, I tried to google for the final verdict on whether or not Edward II was murdered at Berkeley the other day, and, instead, found several flamewars over Braveheart. And, you know, the best bit really is that, when you start a movie with disclaimers about the official histories being written by winners etcetera? Turns out some people will actually take it to heart and use it to support their argument that the randallwallacian-melgibsonian version of the events is more factually correct than, um, anything else. Right? So you don't need to be into RPS to be a tinhat. (You just need to be into RPF.)

And in yet more movie-related news, before Eternal Sunshine of the Etcetera, they showed a trailer for the new Almodóvar movie, which I'm most seriously not going to go see, because I haven't forgiven him for Talk to Her yet. Which also makes my head hurt, because. You know how it is. I'm almost entirely sure I don't think there's any subject you shouldn't be allowed to handle in any way you please in art, so that's not it, but as far as my personal likes and dislikes go - how do I justify enjoying (as much as I do) an aestheticized, idealized depiction of, say, murder, and yet feeling so completely offended by a coy and miraculous little rape. I don't know - I think I'm still missing some vital part of the bigger picture here.

And in conclusion, does Lance do anything besides hang out in Vegas in ugly-ass nose shirts these days? I'm just asking, man, I'm not complaining. I don't need him to do anything else except maybe Justin.

La lala, someone's getting restless.

(no subject)

Sometimes I fear I'm not doing enough to further promote the miracle of tomato soup and cottage cheese (combined and/or separately) - but then again, the fewer people I tell, the more of it will be left for me. Either way, it's storming outside and I have a little basil growing on my windowsill, and altogether it's almost cozy & domestic here right now. Bought the basil from the market this morning. Last Thursday was the night of the arts again, we listened to some choir music and organ music at the Cathedral and the organ player made the big church organ sound like an old amusement park carousel, and then we stood in front of the modern art museum sipping red wine and watching modern dance and feeling most cultural.

And I am. so. bored. I can't read any more, it doesn't make any sense to me anymore. I'd like to talk meta - or things bookish and literary - or such - talk (discuss, have a conversation about), not write - when I try to write these things down in proper order & full extent, it puts even me to sleep. (I'm not myself or anybody these days, and every day, I'm an object, and will remain an object until I decide to become a subject. Decide to become? But I can't, I'm an object. I must be made into.)