Updates, New Classes, Hot Freaking Weather

Blech. Ninety degrees today? You wouldn't think this is September, or maybe I'm remembering incorrectly the way this late summer thing goes down every year. That's funny because Q and I end up arguing every year about when it is precisely that real winter hits here in the frozen northeast. She generally takes the position that Fall sucks here, compared to the sylvan paradise where she roamed as a whimsical little nugget of a queercat, and that it's all over by some time in October. I'm sure she'll correct me if I'm wrong. I, however, being from a less wooded and more...arid and frozen place, find the falls here to be long and idyllic and lovely. Winter, proper, for most of the five years I've been here, doesn't really get going until the beginning of January. Let the weather polling commence, if you have it in you and feel so inclined.

In other news, I finally got the more or less full story about my sister's dogs if you'll be so kind as to remember my fairly recent post on the matter. As it turns out, my mom didn't have the full scoop because she was so relieved when my sister admitted that they were gone that my sister no longer wanted to talk about it. I can get that. My mom has a very utilitarian perspective on animals. Anyway, apparently what had developed over the last few years is that the dogs had been tearing to pieces any other animal they could get their paws on: birds, rabbits, raccoons, the pet hamster, etc. The behavior started very young and apparently just got worse. My sister said that the sheriff had been to their house once, and the health department more than that. The final straw came when they dogs ripped apart a raccoon on their neighbor's lawn. gshhh. The story from this point is that she got in touch with their vet, the Newfoundland rescue people, and so on, and the experts concurred that the behavior had been rewarded and distinctly not corrected for so long that there was no hope for the dogs. She claims she was roundly counseled to put them down before they decided to go after even worse prey--small children? Pet dogs? Basically, it's still their fault. However, I feel bad for her for having to make that decision. It's the kind of thing that I don't think you ever get out from under. If that makes sense. Again, ugh.

Not to close on that note, the new class seems to be going fairly well. I think my students are warming up a bit, and I'm figuring out how to aim my jokes so that they get them. I made a DOMA quip last week that I thought was clever but which fell so flat that the room instantly got quiet. I hate it when that happens. Other news? I'm fighting my sense of overwhelming dread about revising my third chapter. I drafted the bloody thing in July and then let it fester on my computer for over a month. Mostly I don't think it sucks too bad, but, as with everything else, there's still so much to do. No more whining about that for now. You're welcome.

Consolation Prize

With Q off at her brother's ersatz wedding party-celebration thingy, I'm at home moping and trying to make the best possible use of my quasi-single time. Naturally, I'm drinking gin and watching movies that my lovely partner would never ever be interested in watching. The first movie I picked I actually discovered on a recent trip to Hollywood to get The Host for movie night. I picked up the case because of the picture. You should know, I'm a sucker for cover art. Knowing this about myself, though, means that I increasingly second guess myself when trying to pick out largely unknown horror flicks. Things in the industry seem to have changed over the last year five years or so. Used to be, you could tell the low budget, super bad movies simply by the title and the cover art. Thanks to increasingly good graphics, this is no longer the case. Good movies are more and more indistinguishable from bad movies. More to the point, though, is the way in which this ups the ante for the would-be horror connoisseur. It gives me genuine pleasure to know about sort of kick ass out of the way horror films. To get there, though, you have to be willing to slog through a lot of simply bad movies. This, I always contend to Q, is what separates the true horror fan from...everyone else. True horror fans are willing to take risks. Willing to sit through over half an hour of bad bad bad story and effects for just a few interesting and unconventional plot twists.

Speaking of, I rented this: The Thirst. Says Netflix "Clean and sober for the first time in years, Lisa (Clare Kramer) and Maxx (Matt Keeslar) are just beginning to get their lives together when they fall under the spell of the seductive Darius (Jeremy Sisto), the leader of a local vampire clan. Lured into his world, the couple soon finds a new addiction -- blood -- in this darkly humorous gore fest co-starring Adam Baldwin and featuring the music of Rasputina, Jack the Mad and more."


Of BtVS fame, Glory joins a band of vampires led by the fucked up brother, Billy, from Six Feet Under. Jayne of Serenity is also a member of this band, though cunningly here named Laine. In a small role is Andrew from BtVS as a petite dominant-in-training. He gets some of the best lines in the film. In my personal favorite, he informs the straightlaced and annoying protagonist that he has to be led through the s&m club on a leash and give him (Andrew) a blow job. All of this plus Rasputina led me to hope for a lot. I'm sorry to add, not so much in the delivery. It's rather shallow. Very derivative. The best and most flattering analogy I can give it is Modern Vampires meets splatter. I had never noticed how much Clare Kramer looks like Mena Suvari until I saw her without those curly golden locks. Trust me, this is the case. Whatever. Attic Expeditions was better.


Next up? Anatomy 2 .

Give me that good good Franka Potente lovin'. Uh huh.