Today, I had to travel over 200 miles from Devon to my home-town and meet someone at the other end. I’ve known people arrange to meet up in five minutes ‘at the Supermarket’ and then go to two completely different Supermarkets, at least one of which was all the way outside town. Naturally, therefore, coordinating this little meet-up (on which my ride home depended) was always going to be fucking stressful. I have, however, learned valuable lessons about how to arrange travel plans with people from it, which I will share with you now.
OK, that’s it. That’s all I’ve got. Now I need to have something to eat. Good day to you all.
Hello, world. I’m still in Devon, having adventures. What that means for you is that no, you’re not getting a proper blog tonight. However, I would like to take this moment to express my wonderment over how many of you fuckers there are reading along now- well over 950. That’s impressive going for a blog written by a man who spends most of his writing blithering incoherently and making nob jokes. Bravo me. Thank you all. Now fuck off ‘til tomorrow so I can get some sleep.
So, tonight’s episode of Doctor Who was fucking awesome. Firstly, there’s the fact that I’m really intrigued by regeneration number Twelve: after Eleven’s flailing silliness and general bombast (though that was fun), Moffat and co. seem to be bending over backwards to make Twelve into a scheming, detached, self-loathing bastard whose attempts at heroism are at odds with a pitch-black, amoral persona. He’s tottering on the brink between monster and good man, and it’s wonderful to behold: definitely the most interesting take on the character we’ve been privy to in a while.
Then there’s the fact that this episode contains what may be my favourite Who dialogue of all time:
CLARA: “I’m his carer”
TWELVE: “That’s right. She’s my carer. She cares so that I don’t have to.” (This uttered in the most bored, laconic tones ever employed by a Time Lord. Hilarious.)
So, what have we got? A laconic, often terrifying dark new vision of the Doctor, some of the most entertaining verbal exchanges in the show’s history and… what else? Oh yeah: there’s that business with “Missy”. It remains to be seen of course whether this series arc will live up to its potential, but provided Moffat doesn’t let it fizzle out like he sometimes does (seriously, Moff? One brief conversation in the regeneration episode is the only explanation we’re getting as to why the TARDIS exploded back in Series 5, is it?), then I think we could have something pretty unique on our hands.
My point is this: two episodes into Twelve’s time as the Doctor, and his tenure has already acquired its own distinct and intriguing mood and character and I can’t wait to find out what the series does with them.
In other news, I also went to see Sin City 2 today, but I’m going to need a whole separate entry to write up my thoughts on that at some point. For now, I’ll confine myself to saying that Marv is a precious resource and should be treasured and that, other than that, I could have done with less sex and more inventive violence. Otherwise, good.
See you next blog, folks.
Well, I say “joined the modern world”- that may be overstating the case a bit. I still refuse to call software applications “apps” (except with heavy, bitter irony or when writing about nightmarish futuristic dystopias), I still wear patterned waistcoats and I still subscribe to the merely 11-Dimensional model of String Theory, all of which makes me practically Jurassic by today’s standards. But I’ve “joined the modern world” in one very important sense: I’ve finally gotten Netflix! It’s great: it’s like dodgy downloads but for law abiding people, so there’s little to no chance of finding out that the copy of Man of Steel you just ripped off the web is actually porn, and even less chance of finding a nasty trojan virus knocking about your hard-drive after viewing it. Of course, there’s also not the frisson of excitement that comes from crime, but sod it: my life has enough excitement what with the mild peril routinely created by my own shambling incompetence.
Approximately everyone in the multiverse uses Netflix, and now that I’ve finally got on board with it, it’s easy to see why. There’s no limit to the amount of films you can view for the flat monthly fee (which I’m not paying, incidentally: someone’s just added my profile to their account, which is even better), and they look a whole lot better than anything you can just pull out of the seedier crevices of the web. Then there’s the “Watch List” feature, which I’m particularly fond of. If I happen to remember a film or series I wanted to watch at some point, I can just stick on the list for later. Given that my mind tends to amble aimlessly about when left to its own devices and I tend to forget about things I was going to watch if something else comes up in between then and now, this is an especially useful feature. The computer’s essentially acting as an additional corner of my memory I can store my taste in cheap horror films and creepy psychological brain-probe-o-fests on. Unusually for me, I’m also quite charmed by the thing it does where it recommends TV and flicks I may like based on what I’ve already watched. Normally I hate being marketed too, but the software’s guesswork is frankly uncanny and it has the good sense to only show me its recommendations when I’m looking for something to watch- i.e. when I’m on the Netflix homepage thing but I’m not looking at my watchlist at the top of the page. That’s the exact moment at which tips for what vids I may want to waste a couple of hours of my life on come in handy. It doesn’t spam my inbox, force additional toolbars on me or throw adverts at me when I don’t want them. It’s like a very professional, very good waiter at an overpriced posh-people restaurant, standing just close enough to be helpful if you ask for him and just far enough away not to be interrupting your Gnocci and inevitable dinner table political argument.
What I’m trying to say is, it’s great. But you already knew that, because you already have it. You joined the year 2014 before me- I’ve been sitting around in the Dark Ages, suspiciously eyeing the glimmering light of modern technology and wondering if maybe faery-folk are responsible.
Sorry about the lack of blog update yesterday, folks.The truth is, I’m in Devon- a rural part of the world where the Internet connection is laboriously dragged in by trained sheep pulling a specially adapted sled on a bi-monthly basis.
I’m jest, of course: web access is perfectly serviceable here: I just have stuff to be doing while I’m here so I don’t know how often I’ll be checking in. I will be around, though: just intermittently.
So, my awesome friend fatanarchy is involved with this Body Positive Calendar. It’s an awesome thing- just one of those real ‘feel-good’ moments for Fat Acceptance, and we really don’t get enough of those. It’s also a great way of promoting body positive attitudes in general.
But in order to succeed, it needs your support. You can go support the project monetarily at Indiegogo, just through THIS LINK HERE, or you can posts on reblog from me or fatanarchy. Basically, if you’re involved with Fat Acceptance, this is a good way to lend a hand and I fully recommend you take advantage of it.
So many body positive women have worked for months to make this a reality. Please signal boost and help us out!
Hey, guys: my awesome friend fatanarchy has been involved with this- you should totally take that as your queue to get involved. Reblog, help to fund or promote it: just get on board with it!
A HEAD’S UP BEFORE I BEGIN: I realise that spending five or so paragraphs looking at the people you usually stand with and up for and going “oh for fuck sake” may not be the best way to influence people, but sometimes an idiotic pronouncement is made and I have no choice.
I feel I should clear something up, but given that I have to explain how language works to do it and this is a typed blog, I’m not really sure where to be begin. Maybe I should just mime an explanation using finger puppets, film it and upload the results? On the other hand, I can’t be bothered doing that, so I’m just going to try and explain this as carefully as I can and hope it doesn’t backfire too massively.
You see, folks, there’s been this complaint going around about Fat Admirers. It concerns how, when asked to explain our kink (or preference for those less obsessive than your humble narrator here), we tend to describe fat in terms of how it behaves, what we find attractive about it. The gripe is that this is supposedly dehumanizing because it creates a seperation between the focus-characteristic of our fetish or preference and the people we’re attracted to, thereby devaluing said people. Except that however started the ball rolling on this has clearly missed a fairly important point: when FAs talk like this, they- or we- aren’t talking about the emotional connection they/we have or desire with another human being: we’re explaining why we find a particular physical characteristic in and of itself attractive. We’re talking in abstracts, because the question that we’re answering (the perpetual question: “what do you find so sexy about fat?”) is an abstract. If I was explaining what I love about my girlfriend (who is entirely theoretical at the moment, one relationship having ended another not yet really begun… but I digress), I’d talk about her as a person. I’d describe all the little things she does that make me smile or how she’s one of the few people I can hold a conversation with without wanting to blow someone’s brains out with a paintball gun or how cute she looks when she’s asleep. But that’s not the question FAs have to answer- ‘cause everyone whose ever been in love gets that- the question we have to answer is what’s such a turn on about fat as an abstract physical quality. So rather than focusing on the special people in our lives, we talk about ‘it’ and speak in sexual abstractions. You see how it works? The issue we have to address is what defines the language we use. There isn’t some conspiracy to obsess over the fat and ignore the person: the separation in the language is a naturally-occurring linguistic phenomenon that’s useful in allowing for talk about what FAs find attractive about one particular quality and for discussing sexuality in the abstract without getting all gooey-eyed and romantic about people when all anyone was curious about is basically “er, dude: why you got a boner?
Obviously when we’re actually involved with someone romantically we think of them as a real person and not merely a vehicle for our fetish (well, most of us do anyway: obviously out little sexual subculture has a few dickheads, but so does everyone and everywhere else, so its not like we’re a special case). We just don’t feel the need to discuss the actual romantic, person-based connection when purely explaining or waxing lyrical on the more fetishistic aspects of our sexuality. That’d be like a BDSM enthusiast starting to tell you about why they got off on pain and then pausing halfway through their fascinating and titillating discourse to bore you with irrelevant details about what a lovely person their Soho Dominatrix is when she’s not wearing a gimp-mask and kicking them in the teeth with a high-heeled leather boot and how she helps out at the local charity carboot sales on weekends. Yes, that’s lovely, but its not what anyone wanted to know and at the end of the day, nobody except you gives a fuck, Mr. Ball-Gag, Esq. You see what I’m driving at here?
Before I sign off on this entry, I should probably address the elephant in the room (and if anyone so much as thinks of making a pun, there, I will go Toot Braunstein on yo ass). You see, this allegation that the way FAs discuss fat in the abstract on the web is an indication of how they see people who are fat seems to come most often from fat people explaining why they wouldn’t have sex with FAs. Allow me to be the first to say: IF THAT’S NOT YOUR THING, YOU DON’T ACTUALLY NEED AN EXCUSE. You especially don’t need an excuse as flimsy as the one I just spent three paragraphs explaining away into nothing but the wispy confection of smoke and mirrors it was to begin with you. You can, literally, just go “nope- not into that scene!” and not participate. I have literally no idea why you would deny yourself sexual access to people who are going to think your body is as hot as your mind and personality and instead focus your efforts exclusively on those people who either don’t care one way or the other or are prepared to ignore it, but then I also don’t understand why some people choose to wear stripes with plaid and I still accept it as their inalienable right. I’m not owed an explanation, so please don’t insult my intelligence (and drag the good name of the FA community through the mud while doing so) by giving me one that falls apart the second that I flick it.
So, Peter Capaldi’s first episode as the new Doctor aired a couple of days ago. I probably should have commented on it before now, but what can I say? I never claimed to be efficient.
Anyway, it looks like the Time Lord’s future is in safe hands. Peter Capaldi makes exactly the kind of Doctor you’d expect from his other roles: irascible, a touch manipulative and strangely volatile. He’s a much darker take on the character than Smith’s playful, gregarious Eleven, and that’s no bad thing. I’m in the camp of viewers who rather enjoyed the Eleventh Doctor’s flailing, absurdist, oft-times childish antics, but you can’t really pull that off two Regenerations in a row. A less friendly, more truly alien version of the character is exactly what the show needs to refresh itself right now.
That’s not to say Doctor Who has abandoned wackiness altogether (Peter flirting with a T-Rex is a mental image its going to take years of therapy to scrub out). However, so far it seems to be contextualised within a more serious world, made darker and richer by being seen through the eyes of a more brooding central character (even if he does still get his share of craziness in when the opportunity presents itself).
Perhaps as a result of this darkening of the emotional palette, the sense of threat and danger looks to be far more palpable in this Regeneration than the last. That’s refreshing: as much as I loved the quirky, idiosyncratic tone of Smith’s in the TARDIS, its nice to see some genuine tension making a reappearance.
None of this has reduced the show’s sense of humour or knack for surreal touches either (did I mention the T-Rex?). It still retains a certain off-kilter weirdness, and that’s always a joy to behold.
All of this is based on just one episode of course, so all of this may fall apart in the next episode. But for the time being, the Time Lord’s mantel looks to be safe and sound. Happy Who Day, folks.