in which our heroine tries to find something to watch during summer hiatus

Stray thoughts on pilots: Warehouse 13

There are Buddhas, and it’s Washington D.C., so this is a museum, or some post-apocalyptic version of the future where the Chinese took over and then rediscovered religion.  There’s a pretty brunette woman who has big, awkward eyes and wordlessly identifies with a misfit of a middle schooler, so she’s probably smart and socially awkward in spite of her obvious beauty.

There’s a man of mystery sleeping with a blonde woman who doesn’t know what he does for a living.  I bet he gets along really well with serious brunette girl.

A lab tech got blood on an ancient artifact. I’m sure this will work out well for everyone.

Back to the blonde, she makes a snide comment about the Secret Service to a man who won’t tell her what he does for a living, which in T.V. land is akin to bitching about the hard-ass boss that no one has ever seen to the conspicuously laid back dude who for some reason is allowed to lounge around the office with impunity.

Oh look, playboy and brunette don’t get along!  Called it!

Brunette’s name is Micah, or something phonetically similar.  One of the many biblical boys’ names that sounds like a girl’s name, Cf. Elisha.

Male ethnic nameless Secret Service agent, you’re dead. 
Yep.  Dead.

Playboy plays it fast, and plays it loose, and in the end is gonna get burned.  Either that or Sterling Archer is going to blow his cover.

Are inner thigh holsters really a thing?

Supernatural things are happening!

Roommate: “Well, his life is ruined; he might as well have been shot [by brunette].”
Me: “Yes, well, at least [brunette] won’t have to fill out endless paperwork.”

Mystery black woman, burly Asian guy, and Playboy.  This scene is so ethnically diverse!    Aw, Playboy has no human attachments.  Poor good-looking, highly skilled white man.

Brunette: “What am I doing here?”
Roommate: “What is she doing there?”
Me: “She has to balance out his seat-of-the-pants, fly-by-night attitude with her bookish adherence to rules and protocols, which is how she succeeded in a man’s world in the first place.  Also, sexual tension.”

Jane Espenson!

Brunette is an entitled brat.  I hate her.  She probably went to Choate.  She has a Choate neck.

Playboy asks the only intelligent question of the entire scene: “What am I supposed to do here?”

Brunette is dismissive of small-town America.  Her new name is Choate Neck.  She’s also insensitive to her partner’s alcoholism!

Playboy went to Dartmouth.  His new name is Dartmouth!

Oh, Choate Neck has daddy issues.  Shocker.

My inner hipster wants, nay, demands a old-timey typewriter computer keyboard.

Choate Neck is dismissive of domestic violence.  Hate.  Her.

Choate Neck is also terrible at interacting with suspects, or, you know, human beings of any kind in any situation at all, ever.

Defense attorney deflects question with snark, and Choate Neck takes exception: “That was a serious question!”  Oh, so now you wanna take things seriously?!

If I worked alone in a warehouse with a zip line, I would do that all day long.

Choate Neck’s dead lebensborn lover calls her “Bunny,” and if that doesn’t scream “Choate!” I don’t know what does.

WTF is a “Renaissance blowout?”
OK, it’s apparently a bonfire party surrounded by classical columns and a few people dressed in community-theater grade Renaissance garb.


Well, that was acceptable.  I'll probably watch that again.

in transit

Today in statements at once empirically dubious, logically unsound, and morally reprehensible: "Your laptop's not gonna break, lady?  Okay?  'Cause if yours breaks, mine breaks, and mine's A LOT more expensive than yours." -- guy who dropped a laptop on my head trying to shove it into the overhead bin.  He didn't say this to me, mind you.  He didn't say anything to me.  Because he is an asshole.

at the speed of light

In a time long ago, before the internet was a thing that recorded all the other things, ever (I know, because I tried unsuccessfully to google it...unsuccessfully...to GOOGLE IT), some stand-up comedian had a bit that went something like this: "First we had a magazine called Life, and that was pretty broad. Then we had a magazine called People, which was not about all of life, just the People. Then came a magazine called Us. Not them; just us. Pretty soon, there's gonna be a magazine called ME!!!!!!" Today, I think I have that magazine; it's called Facebook.

In other internet news, here is a real conversation:
mikaydee: "wtf is Kingdoms of Amalur? I thought it was a Facebook game."
RM: "I still have no idea."
***
48 hours and one Penny Arcade news post later
***
mikaydee: "So, we have to get Kingdoms of Amalur, right?"
RM: "Oh, absolutely."

Yeah, I'll do pretty much whatever those guys tell me.

in which our heroine finds herself writing about gender issues again

I saw Haywire yesterday, which is a fine movie. And I mean just that. It's fine. It promises to be 90 minutes of watcing a former American Gladiatrix beat up a bunch of really good-looking guys, and it delivers exactly that, plus it managed to actually make me kind of sad when one of those guys died. Pathos, amirite? The only thing that I didn't like about the movie was the guy sitting next to me, who, besides being a BTS (borderline two-seater) was also the kind of person who talks during movies. Not to another person. To the screen. He kept saying "Daaaaamn, this chick's insane!" over and over again, usually in response to her bashing some guy's (very pretty) face into a fixed object. Except, she wasn't insane. Everything she did was quite rational. It was skillful. It was, occasionally, clever. She wasn't insane. He just thought she was insane because she's a woman, and she's being extremely violent. Purposefully, rather than reactively violent. And women aren't supposed to be violent. Not even to save their own lives.

(hot guys)

gender bending over backwards, part deux

(1) An actual conversation about an actual person:
CB: This man is hysterical.
mikaydee: Like, funny hysterical, or driven insane by a uterus hysterical?
CB: Like totally sobbing.
mikaydee: Ah, so, both.

(2) Revelation:
"You're cute when you're angry" is a really just a thing that men say as an excuse to continue making me angry. Oh, am I pissing you off? Well, it makes you more attractive, so that makes it okay, right? No! Hells no! I'm cute when I'm angry? Am I also sexy when I'm crying? That is totally effed up.

in which our heroine confesses her sins

mikaydee: I often confuse Rose Byrne and Rose McGowan, and then I feel really bad.
RM: oh jesus
RM: taste just rolled over in its grave
mikaydee: In my defense, the context is almost always "What?! Rose McGowan would never be in this piece of--...oh wait, Rose McGowan would."

appropos of nothing

Apparently this is old news to some, but male stripping is somewhat unsettlingly aggressive. I went to a strip show last night for, I assure you, culturally appropriate reasons, and to be honest, it was kind of like being trapped in some strange woman's elaborate gang rape fantasy. That is very much not what I want to happen when I call the police, or the fire department, or the U.S. Navy. At one point I tried to be game and help out a friend who was getting (again I assure you) a culturally appropriate lap dance, and for my troubles I got a lap dance of my own "for helping her out." It honestly felt like I was being punished for doing something nice. Which is supposed to be hot? I guess?