L o b a B l a n c a {dot} c o m

Another fracking moron in politics

It’s been a while since I visited this topic, eh? Truth is, there are enough jackasses in the Democratic party that I could do one of these posts every day for the next year…and still be nowhere near finished.

[Don't get all uppity, GOPers...you've got more than your fair share of jackasses.]

Actually, though, today is a bit of a bipartisan effort, since Representative Eric Massa was originally a Republican who switched parties because of his opposition to the latest Iraq war. That’s all well and good. Massa does deserve some respect for standing by his convictions as well as for serving his country (he’s former Navy).

However, his recent behavior chips away massively at any respect reserves he may have previously stockpiled. Massa was part of the 2008 coup by the Democrats to take control of Congress, becoming a freshman representative from New York, that awesome state that’s given us such classic politicians as Rudy “I like to dress in drag and fuck around on my wives (but not at the same time…yet)” Giuliani and recently disgraced governor and winner of the New York Chapter of Hookers and Hos’ 2009 “John of the Year” award, Eliot Spitzer-Swallows.

Anyway. Back to Massa. Again, he’s a freshman representative, which means he’s still in his first term. Most politicians don’t resign after one term. Most should, but most don’t. So, of course, there’s going to be curiosity. Massa gave as his reason for resigning the fact that his previously diagnosed non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma had returned and he wanted to resign and deal with that and spend time with his lovely beard wife, Beverly, and his children.

Problem is that he received this diagnosis back in December. He continued to run for re-election until his resignation on March 3. Dude, that’s slow, even for a politician.

Of course, then Massa changed his mind. It wasn’t really because of his diagnosis. It was because there might have been a teeny tiny little ethics investigation going on pertaining to some of the things that he had been doing during his first term. Just minor things, really. Nothing to get overly concerned or curious about.

“No, no, seriously, it’s nothing! Stop trying to look behind that curtain! Wait, did I say there was an ethics investigation? No, I meant, there should be an ethics investigation! Against all those mean bully Democrats who are roughing me up in between sessions because I wouldn’t vote for Obama’s healthcare reform. They’re terrible and not nice and Nancy Pelosi stole my lunch money and Harry Reid keeps giving me atomic wedgies and so I’m going to take my toys and go home. See? That’s the real reason right there! No need to keep investigating!”

Oh, but wait. Could it be that the real reason that Massa resigned is because of allegations of sexual misconduct involving some of his male staffers? Allegations that include sexually aggressive language about wanting to “frack” a male staffer (or as sexually aggressive as one can be when they include the word “frack” as a part of their vocabulary; seriously, don’t do that…it gives us honest geeks a bad name), as well as this incident, in Massa’s own words on his recent appearance with Glenn Dreck…er, Beck: “Not only did I grope him, I tickled him until he couldn’t breathe and then four guys jumped on top of me. It was my 50th birthday.”

Wow. I may have just vomited in my mouth a little. Oh, and Glenn, you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself when you apologized at the end of this show for wasting an hour of America’s time. Trust me, bucko, this isn’t the first time you’ve done that.

So, there you have it. Yet another desultory ass clown from the American political desert. I’m so glad he switched to the Democratic party before all this came out. Not that there’s really that much difference between the parties anymore anyway, but I always get a warm, fuzzy feeling whenever a Republican politician is found for having sexual proclivities that their party is supposed to be so adamantly against. Now I not only have to contend with the fact that Massa finally imploded after he became a Democrat, but he also is apparently a Battlestar Galactica fan. DAMMIT.

Fracking douchewanger.

A Star Trek/X-Men crossover? Wouldn’t that be the most awesome thing ever?

Actually, no it wouldn’t be. Okay, sadly, I own this book. It’s sitting on my bookshelf right now. Mocking me with its blatant mediocrity. I have nerd shame about very little, but this book sends nerd shivers through my spine. And not the good kind.

Anyway, I whipped this up after random afternoon geek-dreaming in which I tried to figure out a way of fixing the X-Men movie franchise while crossing it over and tying it in with the aftermath of the TNG episode “The Host.” You know, the episode that introduced us to the Trill…and also introduced us to the uncomfortable realization that Beverly and Riker did the nasty, Trek-style (but only after Bev made sure Deanna was down with that).

No one checked with Professor Xavier…er, Captain Picard, though. I suspect he might have been a bit miffed, don’t you?

Like I said…silly geek-dreaming. Of course, this actually sounds better than that shit bog of a third X-Men movie that they actually made.

White Wolf in Snow by Acaciacat (click for link)

One of my ImagiFriends^TM, the multi-talented Tony, wrote the following sonnet for La LobaBlanca.

The white wolf waits in her cold winter cave
protecting her hoard of wet paints and pens,
knowing the stench of her insipid prey,
biting the vein of what they believe in.
Back in the woods where pollution can not
blacken and spoil the crystal-white snow,
she smiles at the stars children have sought,
litters the ground with perfect pinecone prose.
Other creatures scurry close just to hear
phantoms and fantasies worth embracing.
The delicious tone of her call so clear
giving voice to the continued beating,
the worldly pull of our Mother’s heart,
so full of life, reminiscent of art.

Needless to say, the White Wolf is both pleased and honored. I’ve had a lot on my plate and a lot on my mind as of late, some of which I have kept buried deep inside (the White Wolf is inclined to keep things mostly to herself, which even she knows is a questionable approach at handling life’s rockier terrains). To have received this at all was a delight, but it came at a particularly needed time. So, thank you, Tony. Thank you for thinking that the insanity that I help propagate through various online settings is worthy of such equally “perfect pinecone prose.”

Today’s flashback is just a quick one, denizens. I was going to do one that I’ve been putting off for a while now, but the overwhelming nature of the topic…overwhelmed me. Truth is, though, I think I’ve just built it up so huge in my brain that I’m now frightened of it. Jinkies, it’s just a cartoon after all.

Right. Like Star Trek is just a TV show.

Anyway, so UNO. I’ve already mentioned that I was never really one for board games when I was a pup. But UNO was different. Easy to transport, easy to put together, easy to play on the fly. It was the perfect distraction at recess as we were transitioning out of that age range of monkey bars and merry-go-rounds and heading toward the surly insouciance of teendom.

I remember spending several months of total UNO submersion during the latter part of my elementary school days (I think it was 5th grade, but it could have been 6th grade). Every recess, we would gather under the one tree on the playground and start dealing UNO cards. To this day, I’m surprised that my old school didn’t ban us from playing this game, citing some bizarre mandate that it was akin to gambling and the devil would possess us if we didn’t stop.

One particular game still sticks in my mind, and subsequently still makes me laugh whenever I think about it. We were well into our latest round of games that recess, parked under our regular tree, under the bright spring sky. One girl suddenly called out, “UNO”…and was promptly shat upon by a bird sitting in the tree. Plopped right down in the middle of her skirt.

She ran in and washed up in the restroom, came back for another round, inevitably called “UNO” again…and this time the bird shat on her shoulder.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

Third time’s the charm? This time, when she called, “UNO” the bird hit bullseye right on her head. And oh the screaming that ensued, both from her and from the howls of laughter from the rest of us in the game. It was too perfect a set of coincidences, something so seemingly staged as to be from a movie. Was it something about her voice that had an effect on this poor little bird similar to the way a woman suffered epileptic seizures whenever she heard Entertainment Tonight’s Mary Hart? Or was she simply yelling UNO so loudly that she simply (and literally) scared the shit out of this bird?

Who knows. All I know is that it was my favorite game of UNO that I have ever played. I also know that whenever I get ready to call UNO any more, I always make sure to look up first.

Post-Flashback Follow-up

Um. They make a Star Trek UNO. Most awesome UNO EVAR (until they make a TNG version, and then that will win ).

Dear Scotland,
You don’t know me. I’m just another of the millions of wacky voices out here in teh Interwebz ether, screaming into the winds of egoizing inanity.

Truth is, I don’t really know you either. I mean, I know where you are (I’m not that American that I can’t locate you on a globe or a world map). I know things like you’re part of the United Kingdom, you’re Gaelic (sorry, is that a “don’t ask, don’t tell” topic with you?), and you love thistles, ponies, and men who go commando in their kilts. Oh, and you deep-fry candy bars, which makes you kind of sexy.

What I don’t understand, however, is why one of your residents found me through a keyword search of unimaginable cruelty. An Edinburghian…er, Edinburgher? Someone from Edinburgh found my lair through the keyword phrase “gates mcfadden bad actress.”

You wound me, Scotland, and your wound is deep and painful. Look, you’ve also upset Dr. Crusher.

What did I ever do to Scotland?

What kind of country are you, making the Enterprise’s CMO cry like that?

Bad Scotland. BAD.

[For the record, that phrase never before appeared at the lair in any capacity. Well, except for now, thanks to you, Scotland! I counteract your meanness with this: Gates McFadden Excellent Awesome Super Duper Amazing Spectacular Actress. Ha!]

We have a habit of turning sentimental about celebrities who are struck down—Muhammad Ali, Christopher Reeve—transforming them into mystics; still, it’s almost impossible to sit beside Roger Ebert, lifting blue Post-it notes from his silk fingertips, and not feel as though he’s become something more than he was. He has those hands. And his wide and expressive eyes, despite everything, are almost always smiling.

Siskel & Ebert were my prophets when I was a wee wolf. I remember tuning in to listen to their argumentative sermons on the latest Hollywood offerings, at first always paying obeisance to these scions of cinematic debate, later processing their opinions with my steadily developing disagreeable demeanor.

Gene Siskel’s death broke that magic spell, and I never felt quite right about watching the partially patched ship of Ebert & Roeper. So, sadly, I didn’t even realize at first that Roger Ebert had slipped away from the public eye, his voice lost to a series of surgeries to save his life from the insidious spread of thyroid cancer.

So to see Ebert, profiled in this extraordinary Esquire article, was quite a shock to me. I’m sure it was a shock to most people, since he really hasn’t been seen by the public in almost 4 years. At first blush, we might be tempted to already start eulogizing him in our minds, his surgery-misshapen face and gaunt frame leading us to automatic assumptions that, when we read this article, prove to be greatly exaggerated.

Yes, Ebert is, as the article states, “dying in increments, and he is aware of it.” (Then again, as Ebert points out in his blog, aren’t we all dying in increments?) Not only can he no longer speak, he can no longer eat or drink. His is now a life of many vicarious pleasures. But it is also a life refocused. He has returned to the written word with a vengeance, not only as his sole means of communication but once again to the passion of his prose. He journals profusely, continues to review movies, continues to write books, continues to wield the power of his thumbs like a samurai wields his sword. He is, as the article states most factually, The Essential Man.

I cannot praise this Esquire article enough. Chris Jones has written, not a eulogy, but a tribute of eloquence and intimacy to a man still full of life in all its opinionated glory. Though quite a lengthy piece, I assure you, you will reach the end and be left craving more.

It’s no big secret that I’m a bit of a cheap wolf. My shelves of used DVDs and books are probably the greatest confirmation of this statement. For others, I pull out all the stops. For me? Meh. I’m okay with sloppy seconds.

Wait. That came out so very wrong. What I mean is that I don’t mind buying something that someone else previously owned. I’m a frequent Amazon Marketplace and eBay lurker. If you know how to play the game (and are looking for arcane enough merchandise), you can get really great bargains. Like the still-sealed set of all 10 seasons of Dangermouse I found for under $5, including shipping.

All that being said, sometimes I get these weird urges. Geek desire poisons my blood with its fever, and I start lusting after things that I know I don’t need.

But I want them. Like the Force FX Mace Windu lightsaber replica that I want, not because I give a rat’s ass about Mace Windu…but because it’s purple. Purple, people. I love purple.

And, yes, I do blame the Admiral for this current object of Loba geek lust. Why did I have to touch his lightsaber?!?

Or how about this? A realistic replica of Freddy Krueger’s razor claw, created by RazorGloves.com?

Is there any valid reason for spending that much money on a prop replica? And by valid, I mean something other than the shiver of horror geek joy I felt when I heard the screech of metal on metal that the blades made against this piece of steel. Of course not! But when I see this or the Mace Windu lightsaber replica, I feel this overwhelming urge to hunker over and scurry about hissing, “We wants it, we needs it. Must have the precious!!”

What is this insidious Pavlovian need that seems to dwell within the hearts of so many of my fandom brethren and…er, sistren? Why is it that we are so conditioned as geeks and nerds to lust after these things that “normies” consider silly or pointless? Is it not enough for us to enjoy the shows and movies from which such merchandise was born?

And if it is enough, why then can I not shake the pressing need to somehow acquire one of Dr. Crusher’s blue lab coats? And don’t think for a second that I’m kidding on this one. I would have even settled for that weird-looking first season lab coat she wore. But for more than $1,000?

Sigh. Maybe Gates McFadden has a spare lab coat and one day she’ll find the lair and be so blown away by my undying devotion to her character that she’ll give me said spare.

And right after that happens, Starbuck will find me and ask me to be her wingwolf.

Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go sulk and polish my hypospray. And that is not a euphemism.

Here’s another entry that’s been writing itself in my brain for a while. This is the “British Quad” poster for 2004’s Shaun of the Dead. I figured it was time to showcase the British Quad style of movie poster, and what better way than with a British movie?

So, first, a bit of poster pedantry. Here in the States, most movie posters, referred to as “one sheets,” are designed for a vertical format and are generally sized at 27 inches wide by 40 inches tall (although sometimes they can be 39 inches or 41 inches…I really don’t know why the discrepancy, but 40 is usually the norm). These are the posters that you see hanging in light boxes throughout the movie theaters. These are also generally double-sided, with a mirror image printed on the back. I’ve got several of these posters, and sometimes I like to display them with the mirror image showing rather than the proper side. I’m a little weird like that. The purpose of the double-sided printing is to give the image a bit more substance when the light from the light box shines through (makes the lit-up image look richer than if the back was just white).

Anyway, over in the UK, they prefer their movie posters in a horizontal format. Queen’s prerogative and all, you see. Actually, I’m not really sure why they like their posters in a horizontal layout, but I do like how most often the U.S. design needs to be altered, sometimes significantly, to fit the quad format, which is 40 inches wide by 30 inches tall (don’t ask me for the metric size; I’m American and my brain simply isn’t that talented).

So, Shaun of the Dead. Right from the start, fans of the zombie genre will recognize that the title is a delightful play on the title of the George Romero classic Dawn of the Dead. Already, we’re clued in to the fact that this is going to be a spoofy take on the zombie flick.

The U.S. design is all right, but there is something so delightful and so intrinsically English about the UK Quad version. We start out with the tagline, “Ever Felt Like You Were Surrounded By Zombies?” in a nice, smooth sans serif font. The entire image is composed of what I’m sure any proper Londoner will immediately recognize as the doors to an Underground train car. The black rubber of the closed doors perfectly bisects the design, and you get the two windows on each side taking up a significant portion of the design.

What I love most about the choice of the Tube setting is the double meaning it gives to the tagline’s “surrounded by zombies” statement. Anyone who takes public transportation with any frequency will understand the figurative take. Sitting or standing in a packed-to-capacity train car, not yet fully awake, surrounded by other still-groggy commuters smelling of coffee, toothpaste, and too much cologne/perfume…it’s the zombie shuffle in its truest form as we worker bee automatons drag ourselves on our programmed daily commutes. All that’s missing are the bloody body parts on the floor and random cries for “Braaaaaainnnnnssss!” (Actually, I’ve had morning commutes that came pretty close to having both…but that’s for another post.)

Here, however, the tagline takes on a more literal meaning as we see this particular train is packed with zombies…and our hero. I love how the most vivid colors on this poster are the blood-red train doors and our eponymous Shaun and his bouquet of flowers. The zombies all have properly pale zombie skin, but even the color of their clothing has been muted. Check the zombie dude in the bottom right corner; his red outfit has been dulled to a muted rust color (I feel like I should be writing “colour” in honor/honour of this movie).

Our eyes are irrefutably drawn to Shaun because of his vivid coloring—the yellow flowers, the red of his tie, the pink flush of his living skin—as well as the wonderful look on his face. Not necessarily a look of fear…more of reserved disquiet. It’s a wonderful “WTF” look if ever I saw one. I also love how Shaun is the only one on the train who isn’t looking forward. All the zombies are pretty much making eye contact with anyone looking at this poster. Shaun, however, is looking at what the rest of us are looking at…all those effing zombies.

We then follow the design down to the title of the movie, again presented in a sans serif font (I know it sounds incredibly nerdy when I point out the font type, but I’m a bit of a font geek and have in fact been accused of font snobbery, an accusation I rather happily accept). This is a nice, bold font as well, quite striking in appearance. It’s been distressed, although the red of the Tube doors makes the title look instead like it’s been splattered with blood. Also, note how the “A” in “Dead” is partially formed by a hand reaching upward in a rigor-mortised claw of classic zombie design. Sweet.

Then comes the second tagline, “A Romantic Comedy. With Zombies.” followed by the movie’s Web site, “www.romzom.com” (which is, sadly, no longer the movie site). I love how the URL has such perfect symmetry as well as plays, perhaps unintentionally, with the fact that we typically hear about “rom-coms,” those schmaltzy romantic comedies that make you feel so close to sugar coma by the end that you get a free shot of insulin as you’re leaving the theater. Here, there’s a bit of an interruption in the rom-com in the form of zom…romzomcom.

This poster gives you everything you need to know about this movie while giving you absolutely nothing. All it tells us is that there are going to be zombies. And romance. And humor. Er, humour. And a guy named Shaun. Oh, and it’s all going to be very British. But, as with previous picks for this series, this poster does its job so very brilliantly. It’s concise, it’s clever, it’s whimsical, it’s well planned and executed, and it gives the proper amount of teasing needed to draw people and make them want to know more.

So, there you go. Our very first Quad poster. Hope you enjoyed it…and if you haven’t yet seen Shaun of the Dead, whatever are you waiting for?

Ah, Sweet Thunder. This was my very first “Big Girl” bicycle. It was a classic Huffy “no-speed” with fenders and a banana seat, and those awesome bumpy off-road tires. And its own name and number. The flash kind of washes out the number, but it’s 2. I don’t know why. I also don’t know why the bike was called Sweet Thunder. Or why my parents thought I should have a pink bike. Minus a horrible 6th-grade graduation dress decision made by my mom, involving a pink dress that flared in all the places that a fat girl never wants her clothes to flare, this was the only thing my parents ever gave me that was pink. Well, Pink Panther…but he doesn’t count. He’s supposed to be pink.

My parents bought this bike for me for, I believe, my 5th birthday. Yes, before you even ask, it was way too big for me at the time. But my dad, realizing that his daughter was destined to have massive growth spurts throughout her childhood, knew that I would quickly grow tall enough to handle this wheeled pink fury. Plus, it’s a “girl bike” frame, so I could stand up and pedal without fear of falling on that dangerously pointless bar that “boy bikes” have.

[Boy Bike Tangent: Could someone please explain to me why the bicycle frames built for boys have that bar positioned in such a place that would, I assume, cause maximum damage to any guy who slipped and knocked into it? It makes no sense to me whatsoever. I mean, I get that the reason that girls' bikes don't have the bar is so that we delicate flowers can mount our bikes modestly while wearing our hoop skirts and corsets, but that bar just seems so ill-positioned for the gender with "outtie" bits as opposed to "innie" bits that might fare a bit better in an altercation involving that bar. Were boy bikes designed by some bitter spinster who wanted to hurt any man who rode her creation? Or is it just a stupid piece of metal that someone tacked onto the frame to make sure that dudes knew they weren't riding a girly bike? They were riding a manly bike with a manly, ball-breaking appendage!

Oh, and by the way, I'm still giggling from writing "mount our bikes."]

So when I first got this bike, it definitely needed training wheels. I hadn’t yet developed the enviable balance I have today, which allows me to do things like stand on one foot while unlacing one of my Docs after having way too many margarita swirlies down at Uncle Julio’s. I also think I was terrified by the sheer size of this bike. I was a wee pup when I was 5. The freakish growth spurts (both of the vertical and horizontal varieties) didn’t start to kick in until around 7. So the training wheels stayed on much longer than they should have.

Finally, my dad decided that it was time to call my bluff. He removed the training wheels while I was at school, so when I came home, there sat Sweet Thunder, mocking me with its now only two wheels. Being the pure bundle of stubborn that I am, however, I refused to play my dad’s game.

That’s when the bribery came in.

Growing ever-irritated by the fact that the bike was steadily developing a patina of dust from my disuse, my dad threw down the gauntlet in the form of monetary inducement. If I could ride my bike around our quarter-acre of yard without stopping or falling, he’d give me $20.

Next day, there I was, doing my best to learn how to ride a bike with only two wheels. However, not without incident. We had a holly tree in our back yard. It was a beautiful tree, especially in the snow. Looked very Christmas-y with its dark green leaves and red holly berries. Know when a holly tree isn’t pretty? When you’re losing control of your Huffy and heading face-first into a low-hanging branch full of prickly holly leaves.

Know what makes a face full of holly leaf scratches okay? A crisp 20-dollar bill in your pocket. Yes, sadly, I had to be bribed into learning how to ride a big girl bike.

Through the years, I decked out Sweet Thunder with streamers that inevitably disintegrated, a headlight kit, a bell that at one time had a little Snoopy on top that spun whenever you rang the bell (Snoopy fell of at some point, but you can still see the bell portion on the left handlebar grip), and a little pink basket that had Snoopy’s “Joe Cool” alter ego leaning against a giant strawberry. Oh, that I wish I was kidding on that last part. The only reason that the basket isn’t still on the bike is because the bottom rotted out. They sure made quality bike accessories back in the day!

I rode this bike until Christmas of my 6th grade year (yes, the year of the traumatic pink graduation dress) when my parents upgraded me to a 10-speed. This time, the bike was blue. And I outgrew it in pretty much a year and inevitably had to switch to riding my dad’s 10-speed. Dangerous, those growth spurts.

Strangely, my dad has kept Sweet Thunder in the family. Even during the great detritus dump that my parents did when they moved out of the area, he refused to get rid of my first bike (although I believe he did sell my 10-speed). The Huffy was packed into the moving truck and now lives in my parents’ garage, where the above photo was taken. I asked my dad why he kept this bike, but he just mumbled something about not knowing why and then promptly wandered away to organize his tools or something. I say he’s far more sentimental than he ever lets on, and that’s why my little pink Huffy bike still has a home.

Whatever the reason, it’s sweet. Just like Sweet Thunder.