writer's glacier

it's in no way like a block. blocks are cute wooden things with letters on them. this is a big fat torrent of frozen striated emotions and ideas that (insert famous ice climber name here) wouldn't stick a pickaxe in.

i have these ideas, but for days, hindered and crippled by the emotional torrents in my head and in this hateful life, i've been unable to coherently write more than just journalbabble. i know there is a magic word to transform me into something more - ive yelled it out into the screendoor gray of the sky, hoping for an illuminating bolt of lightning, but so far nada. so. maintenence is the biggest part of life, which they never bothered to tell us in college.

now what?

and the glacier fills the valley...

Numb3rs of Ugly Galactica Anatomy Idol Chefs

i'm quitting all these shows. while i'll miss the humor of ugly betty, its just too tedious for an hour. idol has degenerated into all bizarros and sob stories all the time, galactica is as ponderous as trek, only with bloodier (but prettier) actors, numbers was always on the fence due to rob morrow's two expressions (neutral and scowl-when-confused gear), grey's is so predictable (and the bts gay-bashing is more fascinating - can bigots rehab?) and the injustice of marcel making it into the finals of top chef is on par with jeffrey winning runway. clearly there is no television tribunal dispensing fairness to viewers, and i don't have a holographic cylon in my head to jerk me off while i'm snoozing through these shows. so. i quit.

oblivious to the obvious

so i'm drinking coffee and reading the new astonishing x-men tbp (i can't stand whedon's tv stuff, but his emma frost/kitty pryde dynamic gives me hope for comics in general) and this whole thing illuminates why cyclops could never control his power. as a kid, he decided not to, so that conversely, he would always have to remain in control of his emotions and never really feel them.

too close for comfort, sez i, and i don't posess destructive eyebeams or a ruby quartz visor.