“One of the gloves is spinning too fast. I hear it clicking.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying. I think you’re asleep.”
“I’m not talking. It’s the gloves.”
Either my child is a spy and I don’t understand her secret code or she’s experiencing Color Guard withdrawal.
I’m going with spy. Spying is the new hotness.
He: “I’m turning the water off and draining the old tank now.”
She: “Everybody shower. Quickly! We won’t have water for a week. Fill the water bowls. Move it!”
I love home repairs and improvements when they are complete enough for the tools to go back in the cabinets. Getting to that stage is somewhat less than satisfying. Because we live in an old house, there is no such thing as a simple repair or project. One repair ALWAYS means at least three repairs.
“After I got in there, I found out __ was broken, too.”
“I can’t fix it until I re-work the wiring because…”
“Our pipes are too old for this, so…”
As the problems stack up, the monstrosity known only as the “project” bleeds money. So. Much. Money.
The project area has to be cleared of normal contents, so every room in the house ends up cluttered with extra stuff. Supplies and tools are on every surface in the house. Nothing can be found. Nothing can be put away. Can’t sit in chairs because they are full of displaced things. It’s like drowning in clutter. The clutter is covered in layers of construction dust. The sunbeams sparkle with clouds of it. The humans are covered in grime.
Coughing. Sneezing. Headaches. Nosebleeds.
When the project gets to a point that it is functional, work on the project ceases. The huge amount of time that has been spent on the project means that other things are too far behind schedule. Something else is at the top of the urgency queue. No project is ever fully completed, but I always leave a bite of food on my plate and one of the children always leaves a few drops of milk in the carton instead of emptying it, so that’s basically the same thing. Right?
Luke Cage > Daredevil > Jessica Jones > Iron Fist
In a perfect world, all seasons of episodic television would be presented in their entirety on subscription services like Netflix. Watching the full season in one night or spread out over several weeks would be the viewer’s choice. The ultimate reward is knowing that even if there is not another season, there was no cancellation in the middle of the story arc. The end might not be satisfying, but if it’s something you really love, the ending is always bittersweet.
Netflix took several Marvel characters and gave them each their own story. First, they gave us Daredevil. Daredevil was violence as art. It was beautiful, but brutal. Next was the psychological assault that was Jessica Jones. The skin crawling discomfort that makes me rank it below Daredevil is the exact reason other people rank it above Daredevil. I watched Daredevil in marathon chunks, but I had to take mental recovery time after each episode of Jessica Jones.
Luke Cage was the next gift from Netflix and it included a soundtrack of perfection. In every scene of Luke Cage, there was one moment that was the frame from a comic book. The characters in Luke Cage were more real and familiar than Daredevil and more likeable than in Jessica Jones. Politicians as the villains that persist was icing on the cupcake of Luke Cage.
What all three series had in common was a comic book aesthetic that made it fun to watch. Iron Fist forgets that it is a comic book. The street festival and a karaoke scene stood out as missed opportunities instead of the use of colors, sounds and camera angles that they should have been. Iron Fist moves so slow that it is episode eight before there is a fight scene that is worthy of praise. We can’t even use Iron Fist as the launching point for an adult conversation about the cultural fetishism in comic book culture and the general population because most people will have stopped watching Iron Fist after the first episode.
Ultimately, Iron Fist is filler to tide us over until The Defenders. It’s fun, but it could and should have been so much more than the series that lowers the bar for The Defenders to be a success.
If you are buying used books in Knoxville, you go to McKay’s. I’m sure there are other options. I don’t know them. I’m not looking for them either. I’ve been a McKay’s fan since my oldest child was a toddler and that is too many decades ago to break a routine. McKay’s used to be an old house with squeaky, tilted floors. The bookcases were packed in so tightly that you literally rubbed shoulders and backs with the other shoppers. The children’s section was just outside of the old home’s tiny bathroom. If you had a child who sang while they sat, every parent in the children’s area giggled during the solo performances that could be heard in half the store. It was home for book people.
Many years ago, McKay’s moved to a huge two story warehouse. It smelled like metal and glass instead of wood and paper. It’s well lit, the shelves are almost organized and the aisles are wider. Small children play on the elevator instead of clustering together on the floor. After the shock of the change wore off, book people seemed to silently agree to pretend this was the way things had always been. The free books in the bin outside the new warehouse probably don’t reek of cat urine, but as I’ve already mentioned that I am a creature of habit, I’ve been trained to avoid that bin.
All of the other shoppers in McKay’s go to the section they want, pick books off the shelf and look at the jackets until their hand basket or arms are full of books to buy.
I’m a PITA shopper who spends so long standing stationary on aisles in the half dozen sections I like, that I hear “excuse me” in every possible tone of annoyance and irritation. I start off looking for the authors on my watchlist. This includes the eternal search for better hard covers of loved paperbacks that are already on my shelves. After that, I look at random book covers of titles that grab my attention. There’s a mood shopping element to this that makes every trip to McKay’s slightly unique. Then, I open the book and look at all the titles in the series. If I’m still interested at this point, I scan the bar code with Goodreads and do a skimmy kind of read to see ratings and the first few words of reviews while trying to avoid spoilers. After this, I compare the cost of the used book to the price of it new. Then, I flip it like a deck of cards to make sure it isn’t excessively scribbled, highlighted or hiding something gross, like an old cookie that’s been squished flat by time. That’s not a random example, btw.
Other than that, I’m a perfectly normal shopper…
except when I realize that I’m singing along with the store’s mood music.
So, who wants to go with me to McKay’s?
“I want a bamboo forest behind the house that blocks out all light and heat.”
“You want a dark forest in our backyard?”
“Will it have the usual inhabitants?”
“Yes, but they’ll keep to the forest. Actually, I want to live in a castle.”
“I’ll get right on that.”
The one year anniversary of my father dying is the end of the year of ‘first time without’ milestones. The veil between reality and memories is threadbare right now. This time last year, he was standing right here. This time last year, we were all watching a movie. This time last year, mom called me. It’s an inescapable torrent of emotions that we all endure in our own ways.
A few days ago, I prepped my planner for the coming week.
Saturday, I spent the day at a WGI event. The entire family was there at the beginning of the day. After A performed, everyone took off to do other activities and my mother stayed to keep me company. Out of the blue, one of the performances had Jonathan Pryce reading Dylan Thomas as their performance music.
I came unglued.
I’m sure their routine was lovely, but I was too busy trying to maintain a false facade to notice it. While we’re all haunted by my father’s ghost, my mother is definitely not on ‘put an extra plate at the table’ terms with the ghost. She’s still constantly sweeping up the shards of her shattered heart. “It never stops hurting.”
So, with my planner as some kind of absurd art therapy, I will get past this week. It will be like walking in two timelines simultaneously, but this too shall pass.
My imaginary Magic 8-Ball currently gives the following answers:
Did you see today’s EO?!
Where’s your hood?
No laundry on the steps!
I’m not giving you my passwords.
Not until your feet stop growing.
Get in the car.
You ate the whole box?
“One of the guys at work said that I act different depending on who I’m with, so he doesn’t know who I really am. I don’t know which is the real me either.”
“It’s all you. You’re very real.”
Friday is PE45’s Inauguration. Until such time as he is impeached, there will be resistance.
As much as it pains me to say it after 33.7K tweets since I joined in June of 2007, Twitter needs to be shut down completely. PE45 is infatuated with Twitter. If he behaved the least bit Presidential, that would be fine. His “unpresidented” behavior on Twitter is more than unseemly. It is a danger to everyone, especially since he uses it to paint a bullseye on any person, company and country that isn’t kissing his ring. For our national safety, his tweeting must stop. He won’t leave Twitter of his own accord. If all of us who recognize the damage he does with his elementary school maturity tweets left Twitter, it would create a bubble of “Yes men.” That would only make things worse. Twitter needs to go.
Until someone wealthy and wise purchases and closes Twitter, there is one thing that everyone needs to learn to do on Twitter. Do NOT reply to or RT PE45. He doesn’t read anyone’s replies. He doesn’t care if the RT is attached to praise or criticism. He only sees the number of RTs and replies he gets. They feed his bottomless pit of attention seeking. Stop feeding the troll. Attach screen caps to your tweets instead.
DO tweet hashtags that are not about PE45 all day Friday. Look at the trending topics and push the ones that are not about the narcissist. Tweet Civil Rights quotes and protest songs. Anything but he-who-loves-to-be-named.
Don’t watch the Inauguration. Don’t think that watching something else will be noticed by anyone either. Turn off the tv.
Embrace the work of artists who are going to put themselves in harm’s way with their political protest cartoons, poems and music. Buy it. Wear it. Display it. Don’t underestimate the importance of this action.
Contact YOUR elected officials
Call and email with specific concerns about the Hatch Act, Emoluments Clause, Anti-Nepotism Laws, Treason and Impeachment.
Vote EVERY election
Don’t vote once every four years. Vote in every election. Care about local politics.
Update: Searching for more ideas or a way to refer to the wannabe gangster? Luvvie has you covered.