snarp’s blog

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We are in Nashville. I have been buying books.

( You like reading lists of purchases, right? )

Random observations:

This is probably my slashiest book-purchasing-spree ever. The manga all have shounen-ai going on, Ethan of Athos is, of course, The Fluffy Slash Planet book, and though I know nothing about this particular book, I have certain *expectations* of Ellen Kushner.

I wonder if Hakkai’s getting kind of tired of hanging around in large, flat spaces containing varying quantities of human remains. This is what, the third time for him? The others have kept it down to two, but Hakkai’s managed to be present for all three crazy death-field incidents; he’s the only one to end up in *both* hypnosis-induced alternate realities. It’s becoming kind of a problem.

I opened Ethan of Athos to three random pages, and Cee was angsting on, precisely, one of them. This is about right, I think.

The Dolphins of Altair is probably going to be the most awesome book ever. Consider this line of the back cover synopsis: “The dolphins had to find allies and strike back.”

DOLPHINS STRIKING BACK.

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Amazon’s improbable phrases in A College of Magics:

“his valise”

“her goggles”

I can almost deal with the valise. I mean, I’m not even sure what one looks like, and anyway “Valise” sounds like the name of the mean girl in some kind of equiphilic YA novel. I don’t know why *women* ever have valises, valises are probably all jerks anyway. I can understand guys not wanting anything to do with the stupid things.

But why don’t women ever get any fucking goggles? What is the *deal*, here, people?! That is just completely out-of-line. Anyone who’s writing or editing a book right now, you’re going to have to slap some feminine goggles in there. Yes, I *am* talking to you, too, Eve Ensler, stop pretending you can’t hear me over your namby-pamby fucking tribal vulva-music. You’re going to *find* a woman who’s wearing goggles, and you’re going to interview her about fucking *something*, or you’re just not welcome on my campus anymore.

And I don’t know how this suddenly turned all hostile towards Eve Ensler. I’m sorry. I mean, I don’t know why anyone would think to go at Eve Ensler like that, it just doesn’t make sense. I don’t even know what the hell I mean by “tribal vulva-music.” If something like that does exist, that’s actually really pretty awesome, and I should appreciate it if you would direct me to a torrent. I mean, Ensler’s still not exempt from the goggles initiative or anything, but yeah, that was pretty random. It’s like hers was just the first name to pop into my head while I had an upset stomach or something.

…okay, right, do we all feel like we’re on track on the goggles thing? No questions? What does this dog want? Go outside! I’ll hiccup really painfully violently at you!

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Books that are awesome recently: the Steerswoman series. Rowan and I are getting married, and neither you nor heterosexuality nor any other force of nature have any say in this, Rosemary Kirstein.

Books that aren’t: An Excellent Mystery, the eight kajillionth or whatever book in the Brother Cadfael series. This book has Sexual Politics, which I’ll talk about under the cut, my whole thing being just one big spoiler. (And I also gratuitously spoil book one (A Morbid Taste for Bones).)

( … )

I took three Cadfael books in the series out of the library, but now this one’s pissed me off enough that I don’t feel like reading the others. I read Cadfael stuff when I’m stressed out - the plots are always kind of predictable and the endings are all happy and Cadfael always gets along with everyone - and, well, they’re basically Mary Sue stories with all the dirty fingerprints wiped off, which is the most soothing type of literature you can get without actually involving puddle duckies saving Christmas.

But this time Peters was apparently out of Windex, and the dirty fingerprints made it to press, and now I know all these things about her that I didn’t want to, and I don’t want to read more of her stuff until I’ve managed to forget them somewhat.

(And that my children is one of the neverending stories of fandom.)

In related news, this dog here is completely retarded. What the hell, why is it you think corduroy would taste good, you retarded dog.

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I decided a while ago that the tablet’s name was Cordelia. It’s just occurred to me that I should make a sticker out of the Vorkosigan seal and stick it on there, so I can pretend like it wasn’t Fujitsu that made it, it was some company Mark owns or something.

…wait, do the Foglios sell Heterodyne seal stickers? Wulfenbach?

“I love the coloration, I think it embodies a lot of the themes of the series. It has a lot of connotations.”

- another bad presentation

“Is it possible? No, it is not possible. But is it possible? Yes, it is possible… if you are the living dead.”

- Mr. Smuckles. For internet purposes I think I’m going to call him Mr. Smuckles just for no reason. Thank you for the helpful Mr-Smuckles-quotes email, um, your name is Dr. Andretti now.

(I don’t even remember what the subject at hand was when he started on the zombies like that.)

“I cannot draw fabric. Therefore I will disembowel myself with this BiC mechanical pencil.”

- me, apparently - it’s my handwriting, and it looks like my bad art. I probably didn’t go through with it.

“No one knows for sure how the unicorn was born, but some say the k’i-lin sprang from the center of the earth. It always reaches its destination and, unlike ourselves, never falls into a pit.”

- a book about unicorns that lives on the fifth floor of the library right near the chair I like to sit in. I, myself, fall into a pit just *all the time*. I wish I was a unicorn; then it wouldn’t be such a problem.

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That Woman came up to me after and said, sounding kinda surprised, “That was actually quite good.” Soon I shall feast upon her entrails. Of *course* it was a fucking good presentation. It’s because I am fucking *eight million times* smarter than you, you *bitch*. You are a *shitty art teacher* and I am a *genius* who is such a *sophisticated internet user* that I use *asterisks* rather than CAPS LOCK to lend *emphasis* to *words*.

( Disclaimer: I am a snob and am about to be completely unfair to my classmates. (But not to the professor, I don’t think.) My excuse is that I’ve hurt my foot and my head feels like gnomes are hammering and sparkling their way out of it. But still, take note - I am going to be an asshole here. You might want to go read a Janet Kagan book or something instead if, you know, you’re not into that kinda thing. Eat some chocolate. )

…Okay.

My notes also included a picture I drew of Generica Villainous forcing our hero Casey the Overeducated Berserker to kneel before her, which I maintain is within the scope of the class because it was part of a larger narrative, and that narrative also has a ninja in it, and ninja are Japanese. *Asian narrative art*, people.

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I guess it’s not the most creative Christmas gift in the world, huh.

Hakushaku!

Furanzu!

Peppo…?!

*Yujiniiiii!*

Hakushaku!

Kaa-san?

Makusumirian!

Varenchiin?

Hakushaku!

…Tou-san…
(Edumondu Dantesu!)

*Yuuuuuujiniiiiiii!*

*Heidieeeeeeeeeeee!*

Hakushaku!

Kaa-san…

- Peppo!

*Furaaaaanzuuuuuuu!*

Hakushaku!

When I got up this morning there was a folder in the trash in the bathroom - it was in pretty good shape, all nicely labeled with its owner’s name and the class it was for, and all the papers were still in it. A while ago I saw a girl walking very purposefully in the direction of the the bathroom holding another folder, a different color. It was in the garbage when I went in there a few minutes afterwards.

I guess she was finally done with it. Couldn’t let it stay in her room anymore. No, not even in the recycling bin. It had to go.

When there is urine but no paper in the toilet, does that mean that there has been a dirty man in the ladies’ room? Or merely that there is some problem with the plumbing?

Ginger tea hurts. I don’t recommend it.

-

The Magician, sitting at the table with a book on coin tricks, happened to be looking up when they passed the door. She laid it down and tapped on the tabletop. “My, my.”

The Goon grunted something interrogative. She and Pat were trying to nap on the couches; Pat had taken the blanket, and the Goon had the pillows, one behind her head, the other in her fist in case she needed to throw something.

“Did you see that man with the nasty little mustache? That was Enzi Hant, the Prime Minister of Utsekin. He is an evil dictator.”

Pat looked up with drowsy interest. “Seriously? What’s he done?”

“Assassination of political opponents, sponsoring terrorists in the little republic next door, genocide of tiny peoples whom anthropologists haven’t lived with. Some little chemical weapons projects. The population of Utsekin is under twenty thousand, his talents aren’t exactly stretched. I assumed he was low on everyone’s lists; I wonder why he’d need to come here now?”

Pat asked, “How come you know this shit?”

The Magician smiled and stroked a picture of a coin in her book. “I like to know about little kings. It makes me feel secure.” The Goon pulled the second pillow over her head.