To become a Meme....

one just needs blogspace and a really cool concept. Well. I'm 50% there...

Thought I had emerged victorious....

I am tired, and I feel small. This is certainly not my favorite place to be.

But hey... luckily I have a blog for such things. A nice little place where I can freely admit that I acted badly, and complain about my petty misfortunes and issues with the illusion of anonymity... but what the hell, eh? The only people I am aware of that read this I know in person, and my disparaging comments about the conduct of my ex-room mate will likely soon be reaching his ears. Most likely to be viewed as an attack, and retaliated with in kind.
Wondering what happened? If no, best likely just to skip this entry entirely, and go look at this rather amusing website here about ten really cool places you cannot go. (Likely a better read than the following.)

Kept reading? Wow. I wouldn't have...

Ok. So. I'm sure anyone who actually reads this blog knows at this time I am in a bit of a transition. One room mate is moving out, another would like to move in. My situation is this: the alternate roomie has been on hold since December, because the former roomie has been moving the move-out date just about constantly.

This week, that date finally came. He and I had previously had some issues with cleaning. Or, more accurately, I had some issues with how I felt the chores were being allocated. I wont go into specifics, but things were really rather reaching a fever pitch with me. In any case, the conduct of this other person had in many ways been an issue with me. Particularly as recently he has been doing (or rather not getting done) many things.... the main reason? To spite me for not having agreed to give him nearly a hundred dollars to get his things out of my apartment by the end of the month, thus forcing me to continue putting off the nice fella who has been waiting to move in here since December. (Because it is not the 31st, he wants to be pro-rated for the balance of the month. I would likely been more willing to agree if 1) he had been kinder about making that request and 2) if I could spare that kind of money) As it is now March, we can assume my new roomie is rather magnificently patient. (Which seems to be a pretty big requirement for living with me)

I had intended on beginning this blog triumphantly, for I used his own logic to gain myself a small victory in this nasty, passive aggressive cold war we seem to be engaged in. My victory was short lived. The state of my apartment was awful. Filthy to the point that I was actively embarrassed to have people over, and hadn't in any real basis in weeks. Now, one might assume that upon moving out, I would have help getting things ready, but alas, this has not happened. Two days, nearly 50 dollars, and about 11 hours of work have seen the apartment much improved, but still unfinished. I have done all of this alone. This has frustrated me a great deal, particularly in the face of the fact that my ex-room mate has specifically not helped even finish moving his own things out. I have several friends coming tonight to help me get the rest of his things out tonight (four days after the move date) so professional carpet cleaners can come and take care of his room tomorrow. Now, frankly, my conduct here has been less than admirable. I have been stubborn, pig headed, and reduced to yelling at him. Its mean, and its petty, and things have gotten to the point where I just want him to give me my goddamn key, and let us go on with our lives. I'm looking forward to merely being friends, and members of the same gaming group, not room mates. The victory might be saving my new room mate and myself this fee, but will be coming at an interesting cost. Since I wont pay it, the cold war wont end.
Now I just feel nasty. No triumph at my little victory, no feeling of excitement and ease that should come with such, no key... mostly I am just wondering what other mean little things he is going to do, and I am going to retaliate with, before this whole mess is over.

Now a little disclaimer: I do not dislike my ex-roomie. (Enjoying that diplomatic double-negative?) By and large (and he is very large... one of the tallest damn fellows I've ever had the pleasure of meeting) he is an excellent guy. My disagreements with certain aspects of his character do not discount the fact that he is certainly intelligent, and can be a great deal of fun to hang out with.
I am looking forward to the end of this mean little war. I really hope he and his awesome (sexy) girlfriend really enjoy living with each other, and that my new roomie and I get along with this new facet to our dynamic.

I am really looking forward to the time when this small feeling goes away.

And now? A nap.

Only after...

"After they've known each other ten minutes, they will be calling each other sister."
"Women only do that after they have called each other a lot of other things first."
-Oscar Wilde

And now for something completely different.

Alrighty, so, it seems St. Patty's Day is upon us again. I am given to understand that this holiday is usually celebrated by green beer, parades, and impressive amounts of behavior which generally doesn't happen as widely on a Wednesday night. Like many holidays, obviously this tradition has gotten a bit skewed. (C'mon... easter eggs? I'm sure the Catholic church wouldn't like to admit that this holiday was moved to correspond to a certain pagan festival to smooth the way for mass conversion... but I digress...)
In any case, an interesting e-book details a great deal of information about this holiday. Here in case anyone would like to take a look-see.
BUT in the true spirit of the holiday as celebrated right at this very moment, I am going to gloss over the facts, wear a green shirt, and although I am not drinking, I can certainly sit back and enjoy the revelers in all their green glory.

For me today has been a great deal more about things other than plastering shamrocks about myself and imbibing impressive amounts of alcohol. Firstly, this morning around 5:00 AM, I got a phone call. A very welcome one (which is impressive, seen as how usually if my phone goes off at this hour I am more likely to react violently than with pleasure). While I certainly doubt that anyone I do not know well reads this little ramble, I will give a bit of context. I am dating my best friend. An occasionally infuriating, arrogant, stubborn, crazy, entertaining, and charming Marine. Right at this moment he is deployed, and has been so for four months. While certainly my lot is not as difficult as the wives of soldiers, it has not exactly been a dance through the daises. Emails are rare, and phone calls are about as frequent as an honest politician. However, I suppose they must certainly exist... for at any rate, I got a call this morning.
He is very very bored. This makes me very very happy. Why? Because it means that he has nothing dangerous to occupy his time.
He also rather excitedly informed me that today marks exactly 4 months since his deployment began, and as such, in another 3 he will be home!
BWAHAHAHA!

On top of that, the mail today brought me a precious parcel purveyed by Amazon and a particularly proficient postman. (Alliteration for the win...) Leverage has arrived! for any theoretical readers who dont know (geeze, have you been living under a rock?) Leverage is a series which has been airing on TNT (holy crap I hope I'm right about that....) and that I have been watching with the magnificent mother of my missing man thing.
The brilliance of this series knows no bounds. Formulaic in the style of the old Bond (pre-hard-body-Dano-Craig-direction) and the A-Team, without being predictable or boring. In point of fact, not once have I been able to predict the outcome of an episode fully. It also makes lovely little nods to the fanbase, referencing Doctor Who and cameo appearances of Star Trek crew (to name a few). Insanely well written and exquisitely enjoyable.
Starring Academy Award Winning (harhar... it was when he was 18... get over it guys) Timothy Hutton, Gina Bellman (also making a stellar appearance in the British show Coupling), Christain Kane (from Joss Whedon's Angel), Beth Riesgraf, and Aldis (whoa.. his parents were not kind) Hodge.
By and large the series runs like a modern Robin Hood, with a crack team of criminals robbing the corrupt and giving back to the people who were screwed over by the scheming scoundrels. Check out the official website (complete with free episodes) here.

Apart from these lovely occurrences, I have spent the balance of my day at work.
I am a personal assistant, and although I admittedly rather enjoy my job, I find almost every stereotype of the occupation to be true. However, that will have to wait for a later blog. My eyeballs are melting out of my head (after waking at 5:00 and running a 9+ hour shift) so I hope everyone has had a wonderfully inebriated holiday. Be safe guys, I have few enough readers that I can't afford to lose a one of you. <3

Now alls I need is a proper cup of tea to restore my normality, and Academy Award Winner Timothy Hutton to complete my green shirt wearin', green beer avoidin' St. Patty's Day.

He who controls Spice....

... apparently can make damn good cookies.

Some time ago a good friend had an idea. A wonderful idea. He hosted a Dune party. This involved not one but BOTH versions of Dune, gobs of delicious food, and one of the most magnificently geeky groups of people I have ever had the pleasure of encountering.
In theory, excellent.
In practice? MAGNIFICENT.
Although I must admit that we did not necessarily faithfully watch every moment, the party was an overall success. And as I did not have a blog then, I am writing from the recollection of a sensory extravaganza, the crowning jewel of which I have decided to share with the world (er, *cough* internet?)
I give you, the secret formula for the recipe of the DUNE COOKIE. Ooy-gooy insides surrounded by crisp and crumbly spiced delicious manifested in cookie form. A triumph of baking, although it is unlikely that use will allow the eater to fold space or time.

Dune Cookies
2 cups graham cracker crumbs

1 1/2 cup all purpose flour

1 tsp baking soda

1 tsp salt

1 tsp cinnamon

1 cup butter

1/4 cup white sugar

1 1/4 cup packed brown sugar

2 large eggs

1 tsp vanilla extract

Stir together graham cracker, flour, cinnamon, soda, salt. Set aside.
Beat butter, white sugar, brown sugar until smooth
Beat eggs into butter mixture one at a time, blending completely before adding the next.
Mix in the vanilla.
Combine butter and flour mixtures.
Bake at 350 degrees for 9-11 min

(A picture is not included this time... there were none left to photograph)

Now, with any luck this recipe is not only complete, but correct. Apparently under the influence of these cookies, my handwriting devolved into that of a relatively brain damaged chimp. With three left hands. No, don't ask where the third came from... you don't want to know.
Its ok. I'm better now. In any case, if some mysterious reader actually tries this recipe and finds any problems or improvements, please don't hesitate to share the revelation.
(Credit for the recipe: Ted)

A Beginning

In my overly articulate life I find I rarely have any type of organization. At school all day I talk about literature, philosophy, and history. College is funny like that. One can spend hours upon hours in class talking, and never complete a thought. My goal here is to maintain a medium to share whatever I feel the urge to, with or without readers. I will post ongoing projects, up and coming ideas, recipes, and rants. I hope to enjoy every moment.

To begin, I have a real problem with some of Shakespeare's later work. Where Othello and Makcers (The Scottish play. You know. The cursed one.) show a mastery of characterization, plot, dialogue, and manipulation of poetic faith, others fall completely short. Now, as there are no surviving manuscripts written in good ol' Billy's own hand, and he left us no journal to explain some of his incompletes, thus certain plays may be forgiven. Cymbeline, for instance, was pieced together from many varied sources such as actors accounts, and the journals of various men who chronicled their experience in the theater. Its fragmented and choppy production may be excused.
After James I took the throne, Shakespeare certainly had mastered his trade. His devices are demonstrably deliberate, even when they were meant almost entirely to brown-nose the seated monarch. Mackers, for instance. The Scottish play was written as the reign of James I began. Act 4, scene 1, shows the Scot encountering a procession of eight kings, beginning with the ghost of Banquo, to whom (after about eight generations) James I traced his lineage back to. The eighth apparition carried a mirror, and as this procession of his ancestors crossed the stage, the eighth would reflect good ol' king Jamie's face back to him. (M4.1.112-123)
This act shows beautiful mastery of his craft. Perhaps a nose of a darker hue after the production of this play, but still. With writing this effective, the man had no excuse to inflict certain things on history.

So why, oh why, Billy, did you write Antony and Cleopatra?! This schoolboy buggery of a play drags the audience through hours of will he? Won't she? Why? What? No, damnit Cleo! Antony, pull your head out of your ass! No, dont put her dress on...
Rather than acting as a narrative, or even a cautionary tale, we see once noble Tony as the rope acting out the tug of war between a monochrome Rome and opulent Egypt. Hours of manipulation, constant back and fourth, then everyone dies. The end.
The only moment where even Shakespeare's famous mastery of words shows through lies in act 2, scene two, at Enobarbus' description of Cleo's barge. Her burnished throne burning on the water and the smiling Cupids flanking the infamous queen.
One play cannot ride on fifteen lines in the second act. (A&C2.2.200-215) After this point the poor audience has two options. To leave with the dissatisfaction of the story unfinished, or the entropy which overtakes the limbs and mind as the action drags on and on to its disappointing finale.
And this came from the mind that created the Moor of Venice, the Wives of Windsor, and the lionhearted Henry V. Lucky for Caesar Sr. that he was turned to swiss cheese on the Ides of March. He didn't have to deal with Egypt after she passed her prime. Carpet rolled wench.