Hmmmm....

[snitched shamelessly from bitogoth because I'm too brain-fried from this "OMG I'm Buying A House" and "OMFG, this new guy is too stupid to use AOL" . . . this has been the Longest Week, Ever]

JULY:
Fun to be with. Secretive. Difficult to fathom and
to be understood.
Quiet unless excited or tensed. Takes pride in
oneself. Has reputation.
Easily consoled. Honest. Concerned about people's
feelings. Tactful.
Friendly. Approachable. Emotional temperamental and
unpredictable. Moody and
easily hurt. Witty and sparkly. Not revengeful.
Forgiving but never forgets.
Dislikes nonsensical and unnecessary things. Guides
others physically and
mentally. Sensitive and forms impressions
carefully. Caring and loving.
Treats others equally. Strong sense of sympathy.
Wary and sharp. Judges
people through observations. Hardworking. No
difficulties in studying. Loves
to be alone. Always broods about the past and the
old friends. Likes to be
quiet. Homely person. Waits for friends. Never
looks for friends. Not
aggressive unless provoked. Prone to having stomach
and dieting problems.
Loves to be loved. Easily hurt but takes long to
recover


What does your birth month say about you?
brought to you by Quizilla

On an utterly unrelated note, Shrek 2 was enjoyable, though the audience laughter wiped out a few lines. Some very clever bits, and, as Salon's review pointed out, it's got some surprisingly mature content as far as relationship dynamics are concerned [and, hey - three chicks at the same time, man]. My only gripe would be Joan Rivers, but that's because I think she'd look better crammed lenghtwise up Donald Rumsfeld's ass.

Bob, you asshat.

["Bob" being Rob't Heinlein, not theonebob]

Just finished "The Number of the Beast," and I'm beginning to wonder if I shouldn't have just stopped picking up books with his name on the spine after being blown away by "Moon is a Harsh Mistress," "Starship Troopers," and "Door Into Summer," because, frankly, between the slapdash, tension-free mess that was "Cat Who Walks Through Walls," and the inexplicable wrapup to "Beast," I'm seriously wondering if there's some kind of surreal disconnect, bordering on outright dementia, that possessed the poor bastard.

Who the fuck is Lazarus Long, and why can't he stay in his own fucking book, instead of hauling his invariably hot, brilliant, and all-powerful coterie of uber-babes (sisters? aunts? his own mother? what the fuck?], along with a whole planet's worth of deus ex fucking machina as far as eternal youth, libido, wealth, and time-travel into every other book? I've discovered that as soon as this joker makes an appearance, the story is doomed. I don't care how engaging whatever book he sprang from, he's worse than the fucking midichlorians everywhere else. When everything is a foregone conclusion in the protagonists' favor, it makes for a dull fucking read, no matter how little the ladies wear. Take your extended, incestuous, genetically-optimized fucking clan and keep it the hell away from my fiction.

If I wanted to listen to improbably hot women recite incredibly horrible dialogue, I'd watch porn. The fact that there's no question that the Good Guys are the most brilliant, most attractive, and luckiest people, ever [hellooooooo, it sucked when L. Ron Hubbard did it in "Battlefield Earth"] means that the only peril is where they're going to have to take a leak, and whether or not they're going to (finally) manage to offend one another before then. It's artificial tension of the lamest sort, and the frank dismissal of the slim element of threat for, oh, the middle three hundred pages of the book [until what essentially amounts to a suicidal cameo on the last fucking page] by the one and only bad guy just leaves a hollow shell, to be filled up with the neurotic obsessing over details that better fiction has the good sense to ignore altogether.

Bunch of over-sensitive, over-intellectualized, over-competent fuckups. -One- ubermensch and a couple of capable assistants, fine. Four of them, trying incessantly to get out of one another's way, while someone else becomes affronted by the slightest slight. . . it's worse than spending Arbor Day with my idiot relatives and non-alcoholic beer.

I want my five dollars and ten hours back.