Where the fuck have I been, anyway?

I think it mostly boils down to the fact that it's summer, honestly. Doing things outside in the sun kind of kills my tendency to sit around and type about my weird little obsessions.

Pretty much any time I AM spending indoors is dedicated to Finally Finishing My Goddamned Book (It's Only Been Five Years Now, For Fuck's Sake).
That, and I finally decked out an office for myself to work in - I've got a kick-ass desk, my stereo, a lamp, all my books, my knick-knacks, my violin, my posters, a giant chunk of lead crystal hanging in the window... this place just needs a futon and another bookshelf and my den will be complete. (I'm told that I'm not allowed to call it a Man Cave because I'm not a man.)

There are certain things I do know, though. I've read 31 books cover-to-cover since starting my new job in February, 99% of which I completed during working hours.
I'm going on a small book-buying/possible futon-purchasing spree tomorrow.
I love summertime, sunshine, and all things not involving the winter.
At some point this week, I may go see X-Men: First Class. I'm told that it's relevant to my interests.

I may or may not be around more often now that my office is done.
TIME MAY TELL!

Nonsense, and stuff.

I'd like to speak, briefly, about the fact that I sympathize with Alan Moore on an creative level.

Does he use rape as a plot device somewhat too regularly? Yes.
Is he capable of waxing poetic at extrrrrrreme length (unitentional pun?) about drawing boobs? Yes, yes he is.
Have some of his comics been creepy as fuck? Again, I can only agree.

But at the same time...

'From Hell' was a good movie, but as an adaptation, it really blew.
'V for Vendetta' was an alright movie, but they butchered THE FUCK out of the adaptation process.
'Watchmen' was a glorious technicolor wonder, and while I'd certainly call it the most faithful of the films, certain things... maybe didn't need to be altered, or left out.

The absolute prime reason, though, that I sympathize with him as a creator?

Is the fact that this:

fucking beautiful example of storytelling, which obviously took a great deal of care on Moore's part** was shot, shat upon, kicked a few times in the ribs, and thrown through a turbine with a generous accompaniment of utter rubbish to produce this steaming pile of disgust:

and that I had to remain stoic when my stepmother told me how much she loved it "because it was fun".

There was something that set this post off.
I can't remember it now.

OH WAIT NOW I REMEMBER!

The complete omnibus of The League Of Extraordinary Gentlemen is out this fall.

** I'm not trying to say that any of his other works didn't take a great deal of care. What I'm trying to say is that it takes a decent amount of talent and deliberation to carry on convoluted storylines about other peoples' characters. Throwing a bunch of random elements into a stew isn't going to work unless you give a shit about it being palatable, let alone fine dining.


I'm also not trying to lessen what a horrendous botch From Hell was, adaptation-wise. I'm just pointing out that it was a quality botch, rather than a crime against humanity. V for Vendetta was only a mild crime against humanity.

This is a post. Make of it what you will.

I was going to write something really, really long and detailed about filmed adaptations of literature.
I was.
I just don't think I have it in me.
I don't have it in me for a whole hell of a lot this week, though. Maybe next week? Maybe in a few days?
That post is coming. Just... not tonight.

I do have something I want to say about books, though, having gotten myself mot of the way through A Storm of Swords. (That's book 3 of A Song Of Ice And Fire, for those of you keeping tabs.)

I think I officially want to hug George R. R. Martin.

Not in a sexual way.

Allow me to explain, and come with me for a moment on a flight of fancy, because I like to imagine that this is what happened.

He woke up one morning, took care of necessaries, and got himself all psyched up for an action-packed day of sitting around writing A Clash Of Kings.
He sat himself down in front of his (typewriter/word processor/computer/notebook/tablet and chisel), took a sip of his tea, and dove right in.
Five lines later, though, he stopped suddenly.
He looked out the window, and a smirk formed on his lips as a mad glint overtook his eye.
Fuck this shit, he thought to himself. I have this brilliantly crafted world populated by these carefully-wrought characters who have built this intricate and devious web of political intrigue amongst themselves, and... just fuck this. I'll finish writing this story, but I am going to make them cringe like nuns if they want to find out how it ends. I shall test them. Yes. This is what I shall do.
And, with a quiet chuckle, he carried on with his day.

That's the only logical explanation I can come up with for the end of the second book and the majority of the third.

And you know what?

 

Anyone who can just straight-up pull some of this weird shit out of thin air, toss it in, and still have me completely plowing my way through the actual story without being too bovvered about it... that takes skill.
He's probably aware of that fact, and just doesn't even care.

(Mr. Martin, if you're reading this? You're one of my heroes now, and also a fabulous troll king. I mean that in the best of ways. Any confirmation or denial of my suspicions would be appreciated.)

The point to this? I keep trying to decide if I actually want to find a way to watch A Game Of Thrones. (I'm violently allergic to paying for cable.)
It looks like it's really well done, and I've heard a number of good things... I just don't think I could stomach it if they tone down the more disturbing moments in the books.

Which, I mean... makes me sound a little bit twisted, sure, but you have to understand that when it's not people (killing/plotting to kill) each other, it's become this hilarious-yet-vomit-inducing horror-show, and I can't get enough.

On a final note, I recommend Texts from Westeros to anyone who is even passingly familiar with the series. (Though I've not watched the series yet, I know who the actors are supposed to be, so it's still magically hilarious.)

In which Turtle is my hero.

This has been one of the worst days that I can personally remember having had.
Fact.
Am I going to detail it here? No, because that would be shitty of me.
Suffice it to say, I've spent 24 hours crying on and off.
Mostly on.

I'll be okay. Really, I will. Everyone will be okay. Things have been dealt with, and life will move along. Wrong things might even be fixed, though time's gonna tell on that much.

But Turtle is a fucking superhero.

I came home from work to find that she'd made me a pie.
A pie. For me.

A pear-Gruyère pie.

Just for me.

Let me tell you something, internets:

Pear-Gruyère pie is just as head-splittingly amazing in real life as I always thought it would be.

Turtle is my favorite person in the whole wide world right now.

 

Think of her as an even hotter version of Anna Friel, and you've

got a rough idea.

So I guess what I'm trying to say here is that cheese baked into pie crusts could solve all major global crises. MAKE THIS HAPPEN, PEOPLE.