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dragojustineI just discovered Rachel Maddow. I mean JUST, as in two days ago. Why did nobody tell me? She is brilliant and funny and smart and gorgeous and assertive and sharp and...
I am so ridiculously in lust. I mean, I love watching all her MSNBC clips and such, and I love watching her smack down Carlson and Buchanan and I love the little mutual-admiration society she and Olbermann have going on (okay, that's maybe not the best thing to have on a news station, but it's cute). But it wasn't enough to drive me wild. Then I discovered these. They're snippets of commentary on the primary race from last year. And she's hilarious and relaxed and smart and JESUS CHRIST. I just... *flails*
Cause on the one hand, I love her brain and just want to listen to her talk forever and wish I'd known about her when I was somewhere with an Air America station. But on the other hand, I found myself rewinding those video clips over and over just to watch her laugh. And the way she moves, and her smile! And she's so much hotter like that, in her jeans and tshirts and funky glasses and minimal makeup and hair product and so casual and comfortable and obviously enjoying herself so much. And I find myself picturing her, just rolled out of bed with crazy bed-head and chunky glasses grabbed from the nightstand and drinking her coffee in the kitchen wearing boxers and a tshirt and watching the morning shows and reading a couple different papers and already thinking and processing and reacting to the news cycle.
And then I realized I was really picturing it, the tshirt and the boxers and her hips beneath them and her lips on the coffee mug and... Then I felt like a pervert and closed the YouTube tab. But, obviously, it is two days later and I'm still thinking about it.
The only thing that keeps that from being a full-blown sexuality crisis is that obviously, I mostly want to be her but just know I'll never be that awesome.
I have things to say about Whispers, and a ton of SGA plot bunnies and such. But, later.
Kafka on the Shore, by Haruki Murakami.
This is the second book-club book, and I've decided I'm totally in love with this book club. Their selections are awesome, and this selection is something that I just would never have picked up but it's brilliant, and the conversation is truly wonderful.
In any case: magical realism, psychologically fascinating with gorgeous dream logic, highly allusive, an Oedipus retelling with Greek myth and fate and Shinto and pantheism all mixed together, potently sexual without being pornography or romance, full of strange intellectual connections and incongruous cultural mixing, heavily symbolic and full of dopplegangers and dream-logic doubles and parallels, which I kink on like mad.
I do better with SF than magical realism- I love puzzle books but I like when they have answers, and I prefer the rational closure of SF to the emotional closure here any day, but I think this was a good emotional stretch for me as a reader.
Highly, highly recommended.
I am so ridiculously in lust. I mean, I love watching all her MSNBC clips and such, and I love watching her smack down Carlson and Buchanan and I love the little mutual-admiration society she and Olbermann have going on (okay, that's maybe not the best thing to have on a news station, but it's cute). But it wasn't enough to drive me wild. Then I discovered these. They're snippets of commentary on the primary race from last year. And she's hilarious and relaxed and smart and JESUS CHRIST. I just... *flails*
Cause on the one hand, I love her brain and just want to listen to her talk forever and wish I'd known about her when I was somewhere with an Air America station. But on the other hand, I found myself rewinding those video clips over and over just to watch her laugh. And the way she moves, and her smile! And she's so much hotter like that, in her jeans and tshirts and funky glasses and minimal makeup and hair product and so casual and comfortable and obviously enjoying herself so much. And I find myself picturing her, just rolled out of bed with crazy bed-head and chunky glasses grabbed from the nightstand and drinking her coffee in the kitchen wearing boxers and a tshirt and watching the morning shows and reading a couple different papers and already thinking and processing and reacting to the news cycle.
And then I realized I was really picturing it, the tshirt and the boxers and her hips beneath them and her lips on the coffee mug and... Then I felt like a pervert and closed the YouTube tab. But, obviously, it is two days later and I'm still thinking about it.
The only thing that keeps that from being a full-blown sexuality crisis is that obviously, I mostly want to be her but just know I'll never be that awesome.
I have things to say about Whispers, and a ton of SGA plot bunnies and such. But, later.
Kafka on the Shore, by Haruki Murakami.
This is the second book-club book, and I've decided I'm totally in love with this book club. Their selections are awesome, and this selection is something that I just would never have picked up but it's brilliant, and the conversation is truly wonderful.
In any case: magical realism, psychologically fascinating with gorgeous dream logic, highly allusive, an Oedipus retelling with Greek myth and fate and Shinto and pantheism all mixed together, potently sexual without being pornography or romance, full of strange intellectual connections and incongruous cultural mixing, heavily symbolic and full of dopplegangers and dream-logic doubles and parallels, which I kink on like mad.
I do better with SF than magical realism- I love puzzle books but I like when they have answers, and I prefer the rational closure of SF to the emotional closure here any day, but I think this was a good emotional stretch for me as a reader.
Highly, highly recommended.