GalacticMu

It’s not exactly science fiction, unless you count alternate history as scifi. Which I do.

It’s that sad and wonderful time, meatbags, Act III and the final episode of Dr. Horrible.  Go watch them all in succession before they are all gone tomorrow.  Of course they’ll reappear for a fee, but all the world loves a free gleaming jelly.

Two movie posts in one day! I know, but it’s summer blockbuster time which means one thing: getting excited over what is coming out next year.

I’m not ashamed to defend my love of the Terminator franchise, and like any true love I can admit to its failings. The Sarah Connor Chronicles, for example - I’ve never seen a whole episode and while I like the concept, something in me just fails to get a nerd boner. I can wait until they come out on DVD, and even then I’m not going to be breathing heavy all over my Netflix waiting for the Saturday night clock to roll over to New On DVD day.

But imagine my temporary blackout when I learned that Christian Bale was set to not only be John Connor, but to star in a possible trilogy of post-apocalyptic machine-war movies. This! Is! Me! Hitting myself in the head with a nerdstick! There is bad news, as always: the producers have made it clear they want the franchise to become PG-13, unlike the first trilogy, to “broaden audiences.” I like the generous wording of “broaden audiences,” it sounds so much more respectable than “make more money” and “abandon integrity”. But there is also strange news: since The Governator cannot reprise his most famous role due to some conflict having to do with being a politician or something, they’ve hired Roland Kickinger, a Schwarzenegger look-alike. I can’t imagine that someone pretending to be Schwarzenegger pretending to be a robot could be any worse than the original, but time will tell I suppose.

All this aside, this is the story I’ve always wanted to see: the resistance, John Connor meeting his paradox-headache-inducing teenage father, Kyle Reese, GIANT MACHINE ARMIES. You know, the important things.

60-seconds of cruel, teasery cruelness.

This is going to be a hard one.

I’ve known it was coming. But the gulf between preparing one’s self and actually facing the music is a big one.

I’m talking, of course, about Watchmen movie.

Of all the comic book stories in all the world, this is the one that I feel most protective of. This is my giant fanboy experience and if they fuck this up I am going to fall out of love with Hollywood forever. And so it is with the timid, fragile, quivering heart of a teenager that I watch the now-available trailer for Watchmen and think, “It’s not perfect, but … could it be? Good?”

Good?

• Casting looks promising - what was once slated to star both Keanu Reeves and Jude Law now is cast by semi-unknowns
• Effects are pretty
• Rorschach’s mask swirls!
• Yay Archie! It appears they didn’t update Archie into “awesome” Batmobile-level absurdity

Break my heart?

• My favorite character, Dr. Manhattan, looks… too real. Veiny?
• Might just be trailer-politics, but man does it look way overly action-packed
• The Silk Spectres had bad costumes before - and the new ones aren’t any better
• Some scenes appear overly stylistic (giant Dr. Manhattan, for example) and not in keeping with Gibbons’ style of comic realism

Lightly Flashy offical Watchmen website, with trailer.

Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog Part the Second is green.

If there is one thing that moving is good for, it’s the surfacing of long-forgotten sketchbooks.

Exhibit A, c. 2000:

For the non-nerdy, this is Manu Intiraymi, the actor who played Icheb the Borg Drone on Star Trek: Voyager. His is a sad story, but mitigated by my gigantic crush on him. Not Intiraymi, mind you, I had a crush on the Borg:

I think I sketched Intiraymi to hide my Borg-loving shame. I have no such shame now. Hot, ex-hive-mind action. Have to teach him to love again, but also he’d never get all moody on you. Bits of metal. I think it’s a healthy fantasy.

Act One of Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog is now active - Act Two and Three to Following alternating days. Step to it, Earthlings!

Note!  They will be GONE from the internets in FIVE DAYS!

I’m going to file this one under “Apocalypse.”

There I am: 20-something, cute, blonde and utterly and horrifyingly without a Cadillac Escalade. I am, in fact, totally carless.  And I have to throw a giant balloon party in 4 hours. OMG.

The situation is grave, but I’ll just have to call a cab. I mean, have to do whatever you pay them to do.  Stuff ‘em in there harder, Juan!  Or, Aziz!  Whatever!

Well, that worked out just cherry! Let’s be off, Luigi!  What are you - oh, right.  There’s a whole other bundle of balloons.  Um.  I guess, try and put them here - oh, watch out for my Blackberry.  I need that in my hand.

Mhrh Mph!  Hbbt.

(squeak!) Unh, uh, hello?  Oh hi!  Yeah, I’m on the freeway.  Oh, just getting some stuff for the awesome balloon party later.  Where are you?

99% of the time I refrain from participating in argumentative blog commentary (when I’m not on this here soapbox, I mean) - something about a long string of nasty commenters just shuts my brain off. Lotsa folks, as I am sure you’ve noticed, get quite fired up over the whole thing. I appreciate and respect the medium, if we dare call it that, and simply don’t involve myself. And it is not that I find it abhorrent or anything, but rather that I get so easily roped into these things that I eventually exclude all other forms of creativity. The most recent reminder of this was the Great Boing Boing Shitstorm of ‘08 (as mentioned here, by me): 1000+ on-topic comments that ramped from funny to ignorant to cruel and back again — hundreds of times over — actually gave me insomnia (true!). I just couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Mostly, I find I no longer have the skin for the cruelty. It’s in large part the reason we started this website. With daily meanness contests over at the Gawker megalith, it was high time we created out own kiddie pool.

This brings me to commentary surrounding the internet fame of this gentleman:

© Neville Elder for Bizarre Magazine

First off, I read about him over on Neatorama (who seem like very nice kids), and within the first five comments is :

“ew, why would anyone want to look like that?”

and

“What an ugly idiot!”

It devolves from there.

I immediately had to stop reading. For predictable reasons I feel defensive about anyone calling a tattooed or similarly modified person “ugly” or “stupid”.

There’s a pretty straight-forward psychology that can be unwound here, one where people are startled by something unusual and instead of stopping with “Blech, that’s not for me,” they progress to verbally abusing the person. Of course, the critical ingredient here is that we’re on the INTERNET and lord if there ever were a place to say whatever the hell you felt like saying, then its right here.  Well, not right here right here.  You know what I mean.

Its often remarked on that if people weren’t in a car they wouldn’t behave as they do while driving - that a person cutting another person off on foot is quite likely to turn around and mumble an apology, whereas a driver who cuts you off is just as likely to give you the bird as you are them. In cars we are all steel gladiators capable of running 100 mph. - on the internet we are all invincible.

Rick (aka Zombie Boy) seems like a nice enough guy.  In part of the Bizarre interview he talks about how he’s become a much happier, nicer person since he started getting his tattoos and,

“You’ve got to respect that everyone’s different and has to do what they’ve got to do. I can’t tell you what to do, you can’t tell me what to do – but we can still get along just great. “

I was once interviewed for a friend’s documentary on breast augmentation (she was looking for opinions, not examples), to which I responded something along the lines of, “Whatever you’ve got to do to feel happy in your own body, you should do it.  I would be hypocritical to say otherwise,” and then gestured at my tattoos.  She kindly interjected a question something along the lines of “But what is ‘happy’?  Don’t you think women who get breast implants are just trying to fit into some kind of ‘happiness’ enforced on them by society?”

The short answer is: no.

Humans are social creatures and visual creatures; it would be ignorant to say that the two aren’t linked.  The fitter among us are often considered more attractive.  But the brain is a fussy, weird, unpredictable thing and sometimes merely ensuring that we seem fit and attractive is low on the priority ladder.  I am often asked if I regret being as tattooed as I am (usually by people who want tattoos and are stuck at the “what if I regret it?” stage) and I have so far honestly answered “Nope.”  I try and explain to them that just as their mental image of themselves is probably close to their actual image, so is mine.  I no more see myself as tattooless than I do armless or noseless.  If I woke up tomorrow and didn’t have them, I’d freak out - for a lot of reasons - but one of them would be that in small way I’d not be Sunday anymore.  My identity is not my tattoos, but part of my identity is my physical self, and part of my physical self is how I look.  It reminds me of how often I’ve heard someone overweight remark how they see themselves in a photo or mirror and think, “Who is that fat person?”

This makes me feel that I understand how Rick feels, even if I don’t exactly agree with his execution: we are, in our minds, usually not who we are on the outside.  If you could change that, make them match, wouldn’t you?

Original Neatorama post.

Bizarre Magazine article about Zombie Boy. 

Answer for why that woman in pinching Zombie Boy’s nipple: unavailable. 

I am an enigma.

On one hand, I despise the presence of people, loathe the crush of more than a handful of human beings in visible proximity to myself. I long for silence.

On the other hand I am terrified of spiders and need at least one other person on call to crush them for me at a moment’s notice. I need sushi, prepared by aloof, masterful chefs who don’t roll their eyes or say “Que?” when you say omakase onegaishimasu. I need Super Target.

Back to the first hand, I need a cave, a nest, a quiet abode both spacious and well-lit during the day and quiet, dark and well-protected at night. Surrounded by trees. And puppies.

And then to the second hand again - I need to not feel like I’m an extra in a hillbilly slasher flick when I go out for a hamburger. To not have someone gape and say “Why’d ya wanna go and move away from Seattle for?” when I tell them where I’m from (dear ignorant, blissful hillbillies: your rents here are one third what a person might hope to pay in other parts of the country, so try to enjoy it).

But mostly, both hands won with the following: I am just not getting enough apocalypse adrenaline in my life. Also, we just got evicted from our apartment so a “young professional” couple can move into a brand new condo in a few months.

To the Los Angeles pod, navigator - set a course!