Some days you just want to speak in expletives and inaudible noises

Well. The best thing is to pretend that none of this is happening. Because if you admitted to it, then you'd have to explain, or find some way to make it entertaining or interesting. Instead, let's assume that everything is where you left it, and you are momentarily obsessed with that Modest Mouse song.

Vagaries

It's Sunday morning and I am sitting here far too early (can't sleep) with a cup of coffee. The cup of coffee in question is freshly ground and made Kona coffee, $24.99 per measly little pack, and the best proof in this house that I am both a snob and a yuppie. This is unfortunate, since I am also quite poor.

There is something ludicrous about saying that you're poor as you whip out the credit card to buy more Christmas presents, as you sit in your well-situated and comfortably equipped apartment having just paid rent and sipping your expensive coffee. It is even more preposterous as I try (with very mixed results) to raise money to help torture survivors get the care and help they need. There is such a discrepancy between my reluctant fundraising and their predicament. You know, there is something both easier and harder about raising money for people whom you can look in the eye. On the one hand, I see, without the shadow of a doubt, that it matters. That it brightens peoples dark, dark lives. On the other hand, it is much harder to tell a sentimental story to win folks over for your cause; the story is not mine, and to make it sentimental and uplifting deprives it of some of its real hard edges. It's America, people tell me, where you don't want to remind people of unpleasant things when you want their money.

I guess.

It also deprives me of some of my excuses, which is how I get to be fundraising in the first place - I hate fundraising, did I mention that? But when you see it up close, you either do what you can or walk away.

Here's what I don't tell people when I ask for their money: part of why I do this is because these folks I try to help pay, the psychologists and social workers, the whole organisation, they are a bright spot in my life too, proof that there are warm-hearted people who work in a spirit of co-operation, and more importantly, that a hug and some compassion will go a long way toward better things.

But now I feel guilty when I buy a $22 best-t-shirt-of-all-times for the Spouse. Because I could be putting it to better use. Guilt is a bad motivation though, and survivors like fun too. Fun, also when you find it unexpectedly on a Friday night in the form of a Jonathan Coulton concert and you realise that not only are you a yuppie and a snob, you are also a geek. Thanks, Whil Wheaton. Maybe I should donate concert tickets instead.

Glorious geeks

You know, that’s the second time I’ve dreamed about Stephen Fry in the last few weeks. It’s not that I mind dreaming about hanging out with him, he is after all my imaginary best friend, but I am beginning to wonder if there is a deeper psychological meaning to this. What is the signified here?

On the subject of geeks I love in the most platonic of ways, one of my esteemed colleagues got me into following Wil Wheaton on Twitter (in my head it will now forever be Whil Wheaton, like in Not all dogs go to heaven, the best episode of Family Guy of all time, at least the Star Trek bit). Anyhoo, so I was following Whil Wheaton in an entirely legal, non-stalker sense, and it sent me to this post. And I know that I shouldn’t need this kind of validation, but the post made me happy in a number of ways. First of all, I find the whole thing deeply endearing, and Whil Wheaton may reconcile me with the fact that Wesley Crusher always annoyed the hell out of me. Secondly, it makes me feel better about being both really interested in science and really bad at math. Thirdly, it reminds me that I am not the only person for whom popular science books are like a light switch in a very dark place.

Thanks man.

And as for Stephen Fry, I think it just means I need a hug.

Wha?

After that disjointed midnight post, here's a somewhat tipsy and definitely exhausted one.

The word clusterf*ck comes to mind. I need some sleep. TGIF indeed. I haven't felt this tired in a while. So enjoy the Tom Lehrer, enjoy that weekend, and wake me up when it's time for dinner. Well, ahead of Thanksgiving, here're some things to be thankful for:
...love, because without that there is nothing for me...sanity, because you can't take it for granted...the ability to sometimes be sillier than you have any right to be...small shiny things too...and books...Skype...and love again, because it's all there is...and those we love...and who love us.

Where are those vampires when you need them?

I mean, it's nighttime, I can't sleep, and I could use some non-sleeping company, especially if they have a sense of humour, because I get a little loopy after a certain hour. And like someone sleeping badly, I get all tangled up in sheets and loopy thoughts, and then I wake up needing some serious distractions, and I think if only that guy who wanted to start a puppy channel had been able to sell his idea. But wait! There's Cute Overload. Actually, no...this requires something more heavy duty...


see more Lolcats and funny pictures

Yes, I shall now have to use "little box of sadness" in a sentence at least five times before the week is out.

The best thing about this otherwise miserable day with high winds and infinite rain

This is exactly how I feel about Robert Whatsisface and Kristen Whatever. It is also very funny, and perversely makes me want to see New Moose. I mean New Moon.

Under the Christmas tree

Amid her small mountain of tasks, the TDEC ponders Christmas; and by Christmas I mean presents of course. Netflix has let me down, you see. It only has the Lame American Version of Queer as Folk. I don’t want the less controversial version. Most of all, I want Aidan Gillen. He is perfect for the part. Don’t mess with a good thing. Anyway, the bottom line is that I still haven’t seen the rest of the series, and I can’t get it here. I could ask for it for Christmas. In theory. In reality, of course, there is absolutely no way in hell I am going to be explaining Queer as Folk to the Chillun? Look, cute children, it’s a series about men, yes, mostly men, excepting the odd lesbian, which do, well, some very…er…

You see my point.

Never mind that it is fabulous, well-written, well-acted drama. The truth is that when you watch it, you are going to see some serious male nudity, and that part is really the least likely to outrage those thusly inclined.