anotherdreamer5

I don't know if you all know this about me, but when I am put on Save Mode when I am drunk, I get sober fast. Like, when I need to take care of a super drunk friend, my drunkeness is pushed to a nice, neat little corner while I get them water and food and help them home, and apologize to various people she insults along the way.

Last night started out normally enough: watching the Incredibles on TV and eating Mac'n'cheese on the couch. Then a friend called and I headed to a local bar, where I sat on the roof and drank a vodka lemonade, a shot, and two beers. For someone with my tolerance, let's just say it was good that I didn't finish the second beer before we progressed to the next bar (swaying). My friend, a southern girl I will name Dashboard, was there with her roommate, and my other friend, Barbie, had joined us. We sang popular nineties songs and Dash re-enacted Andy Samburg songs.

At the next bar, drunk, I turned amazing, and found a guy for Dashboard, who had really wanted one, and he wasn't affiliated with the company I work for, which pretty much owns this city. Bonus! They are flirting at the bar. Barbie and I are at the table whisper-gossiping about how much of a match maker I am and how I deserve to have my own song like the one in Mulan. We buy them shots. Pink ones. Guy and Dash had already had a beer and whiskey shot, and Dash had resisted more alcohol, smartly. The last thing she remembers is starting to talk to this guy. Barbie took a whiskey shot with them too. This is also her last memory.

After a few hours, Dash and guy shade off. Barbie and I start talking about her HORRIBLE past, and she validates my life choices while I resist giving her a hug. Then I see cute guys at the table over and join them. We're there for thirty minutes. Barbie is totally blackout and doesn't remember any of this. Eventually I bore of the guys, and say we're going to the bathroom. Barbie is not there when I leave the stall, so I search a bit. A waitress comes up to me and gives me Barb's wallet. This is trouble, as it is covered in beer, and she is not attached to it.

Meanwhile, I get this series of texts from Dash:

"Gr"
"Grfd h"
"Fhhg:

No. These are not part of any acronym-laden secret language we have created. I think she wants to be saved, especially when she calls me from a different bar, so I go there to give her an out with the guy. She is making out with him, a professional tree cutter and amateur hockey player. They are fine. I go back to the other bar and ask the bouncers if they've seen Barbie, cleverly thinking to show them her wallet picture.

They have seen her. She was escorted out after they found her in the men's bathroom. I have been calling her. She has not been answering. The bouncer takes me to talk to the manager at the bar next door (!) who says he asked if she had friends, and she said no. So he put her in a cab as she was stumbling down the main road. I cleverly hold up the wallet to show the folly in that plan. She was put in a cab company that I then call and yell at about how they need to redirect her to my house ASAP.

I begin texting her:

"Where the f are you? I have your wallet"
"Where r u?!!!"
"Seriously. Are you passing out?"
"[Barbie]!"

She does not respond.

Dash calls and tells me to get to the other bar NOW. She is at the front when I walk in, alone, and I think we're going to leave. We do not. She is in love with the tree cutter. I explain that Barbie is missing, but the cab company has my number and will call me when they locate her. We end up sitting on the roof of the bar chatting for a while. Tree Cutter rejoins us (he knows Barbie's grandfather, btw; weird detail). He and Dash end up leaving together.

At this point, I go home and re-call the cab company about Barbie to no avail.

At six-thirty to seven-fifty the next morning I get this series of texts from Barbie that do not wake me up:

6:27am: "Seriously fml"
6:32am: "Do u possibly havn my wattet"
7:52 am: "Holy shit. wtf happened besides me passing out."

I wake up at 7:55am, and notice and call her back, so happy she is not dead. I explain my part, but am interrupted by the background sound and ask where she is. She's catching the bus home from the hospital (!). All she knows is what the police report says (!!): she passed out in the cab and was consequently taken to the hospital, where she refused to tell them her address, but did tell the cops that she had done drugs (!!!). Barbie does not do drugs, so it's even better.

Then I check my e-mail and see that Dashboard has just e-mailed me at 7:58am:

"Hi,
OMG i lost my life last night. I have no phone, no purse, no keys..... NOTHING. Will you please call me ASAP at [phone]. i cant find anything, there was a boy in my bed and im just confused. Whenever you read this call me please so you can help me figure out the night."

She hooked up with the guy in her stairway, despite living on the twentieth floor of the apartment building (drunk me, of course, is a work out fiend, so I would have supported this). She realized she didn't have her keys, went to the lobby and cried at the woman at the desk, who didn't let her in. Then she made it in (how is still an unknown factor), woke her sleeping roommate, had sex with the stranger, and passed out. Woke up this morning to the guy trying to cuddle her. By my call to her, a three-way one with Barbie since I love the iPhone, she had told him he needed to leave, and given him a high five goodbye (!!).

And that, my friends, is how to pretend you are still in college.

I'm so sad for the Jackson family. A son and brother lost too soon. It's awful and heartwrenching.

I'm going to write a Stargate Atlantis fic.

And I'm super excited. :)

I don't think it will surprise any of you to know that I am a Pixar fan. I mean, it's so mainstream that it's definitely one of my less dorky tendencies. Toy Story 2 was genius (I was always more incline toward Woody than Buzz), Monsters Inc. was freaking lovable (Boo!), Ratatouille was pretty, the Incredibles showed us heroes, and all these other amazing stories. Wall-E was so well done that I thought I could have watched the little guy pick up trash for the whole two hours.

And then there was Up, which I saw today, and it was the finest film I've seen this year. I don't care that it had dogs that flew planes and a little boy with no neck and an impossible journey to South America. I don't care that a house could not float that way. I don't care about any of that. Because that was a beautiful, beautiful story that made me cry and smile and laugh and feel okay, feel warm. The biker guy sitting in the theater in front of me cried. Not in a Marle and Me way (I haven't seen the movie, but I hear it's as depressing as Million Dollar Baby, which I will never see again). Instead, Up shows you truth. Life. And how big the world truly truly is, if you just take the time to look at it. It shows you the impossible hope of floating away in with a thousand balloons and fifty-year-old dream. And a little wilderness explorer who'll worm into your heart and make it grow ten times.

It wasn't perfect. But it was good. So good.

And so I give you my poll:


Poll #1409627 PIxar and You
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All

If you could live in a Pixar world which would it be?

If you could hang out with any Pixar lead, who would it be?

In a fight, who wins:

Who would you want as your sovereign leader?

If you could have a pet from a Disney movie, it would be:

Favorite Pixar Movie

Old School 2D or Pixar?

Best Prince

So I had strep throat a few weeks ago (like four), took the penicillin, and yet the symptoms keep coming back in horrible circular waves. I changed my toothbrush, but I didn't wash my down comforter. I think that might be the problem. Right? The virus just hanging out there, but now I'm too freaking sick to lug anything downstairs and wash it, so I am just going to sleep for like twelve hours, go to work, then a doctor tomorrow, and figure this shit out.

Yay!

Also: my new OTP: Chloe Sullivan and Bruce Wayne. Yes, I'm serious. I will post stories about how amazing they are in crossovers shortly.

Thoughts as we go:

Why is Bobby so freaking awesome? Oh. Right. Because he speaks truth: “You’re a better man than your daddy ever was.” WORD

( Read more... )

Holy crap. What a surprise. Davis himself was crazy

No, I haven't watched this show since it's like first or second season.

Also, ask me how pissed I would be if my best friend did to me what Clark did to Chloe? Answer: Super pissed. Furious.

KNEEL BEFORE ZOD!

Let's have a chat.

( Let's Discuss Jacob )

I am in love with Kris Allen. Yes, I know he is married. Yes, I know they are adorable. No, I won't actively try to break them up. He's just so pretty.

Okay. A bit of history: the first essay I ever wrote in high school was a "free choice" and it began, "I am a nerd. A Star Trek loving loser of a nerd. This is my confession." The paper--for which I got an A+++--was a blast, and completely true. Star Trek: Voyager (the one most Trekkies hate) was most constant fascination until it went off air.

My dad, knowing this, introduced me to one of his favorite movies: Star Trek IV. It's about whales, and it is awesome. No lie.

So you can tell I was jazzed to see this one. SO JAZZED. And time travel, fr some reason, presents no problems to me. I treat time travel as a constant: whatever happened, happened. It cannot change. And whenever you are in the present, it is the present for you. So I had no issues with that here.

Also, I joined a new ship. A ship starvinbohemian and I plan to captain together, like James T. Kirk and Spock. (I am Kirk, who is such a baller!) Friendship beyond friendship. Frick. It felt like the movie was only an hour long when it was two. Such good story-telling.

Loved it.

Okay, that was actually really hard for me to watch.

Imagine two people who were brothers--family, best friends, all they had in the world. Imagine two people who would die for one another (and actually had). Who stayed in crummy hotels and random towns growing up with only the other one because their father was too busy chasing revenge to think about his two young sons. Who only had the other one around which to define themselves--protector, protected. Who both just want to save the other.

It would be different if they didn't still care. It wouldn't be as heart-wrenchingly painful to watch them fight, to hear Dean haltingly call his brother a monster, his younger brother whom he raised--raised and taught and fought for and beside for a dozen years. It hurt. The younger brother's worst nightmare realized with just a little goading. But Dean just wanted to keep his brother from becoming the monsters they had fought their entire lives. He said it aloud, that he'd rather Sam die than become a creature that a whisper of cristo could destroy. Dean, you see, knows about Hell. About what lurks in the dark. He saw it. Gave into it. And pumped holy water through its veins at the command of a twisted anger.

Sam just wanted to save the world. Not to be a hero--never for that; the Stanford Law student hadn't ever wanted glory--but to take the burden from his brother. To be able to take a bit of the weight off Dean's heavy shoulders. He wanted Dean to be proud of him, to trust him, please, after all these years. To stop being the parent and start being the equal, though Sam never really imagines they could be even. Not after everything Dean's done for him--Dean his childhood hero and protector. Sam wants for it all to end, to let their family find some semblance of peace. Maybe things wouldn't have gotten as desperate as they had if Sam were less of an idealist. If he could just realize that one big act won't end all the fighting in their lives. Won't end the desperation or the hunt. Dean should understand that, Sam thinks, because it never occurs to him that Dean loves him more than the world.

But Dean's been different since he returned from Hell. Different since he realized he broke the first seal by giving into the torture. Since he was recruited by angels to stop the Apocalypse. (He never thought he could do that--not really--but for Sam, to keep him from having to fight this battle, Dean will go along with the plan. To save Sam, Dean will give up his freedom and his self and pledge to follow a higher directive.)

Because if they were saving the world, they were saving it for the other. Dean, at least, never expected for this work to end. Sam did. He dared to dream of college and a family. A life that would never be his. It drove him a little mad, and fuels his decisions today.

Imagine two brothers who know each other so well that even when one is doing everything backward, they can find one another in a hotel they would never stay in in a city they had never visited. Imagine two brothers doing everything the other ever feared they would--controlling them, not trusting them, pushing and driving them away--and not understanding that it was all out of love. Even a demon girl would pity the dissolution of that bond. Even Ruby.

And in the background of this darkening story, there is another being told, about a prophet and an angel and orders that cannot be questioned. About a monster at the end of the book who the prophet saw and the angels wouldn't name. For Castiel--the angel of Thursday--leans against a rail in the darkness with sorrow in his sad, azure eyes, clinging to the faith that had sustained him for four millennia. The faith that ate at him as it became smaller and denser. He tried to bury himself in it and make it outshine the guilt he feels as he manipulates a hero who had already suffered too much because that was the only way to make Dean worker for the Greater Good. Because whatever I ask, you seem to do the exact opposite. Because he was walking on the earth now, feet firmly pulled to the ground, and he had to help one brother destroy himself in order to make the other ascend to the destiny he did not want.

He got Dean to say the words, make the vow to God. He'd done a good job. The garrison would be proud. Those who were left would. Later. After. When things were over and the world fell back into place. He had to believe that the orders he had would lead to good, had to ignore the other things he'd seen, the nagging echo in his head You haven't even met the man! The is no will! There is no wrath!. Because he was an angel. That was the only way he knew to define himself, as an Angel of the Lord. (He'd had a brother once to anchor his sense of self and belonging--two actually: one the most beautiful creature in the world and the other the funniest angel in the garrison; so he knew about sacrifice, about watching the beloved fall. He won't follow that path, not even for Dean, not when it meant losing the last of himself. So he pushes it away, the sound of his own voice. No, it isn't -- for the first time, I feel... He never let himself finish the sentence (doubt).)

And you watched something solid and good and strong dissolve tonight with a right hook and guilty conscious. It hurt. Because the worst sort of hurt is the one that comes from so close.

But the battle hasn't even started yet. Our brothers are pawns who have been knighted and given swords to lead armies. And you have to wonder, for all that Dean said he would rather Sammy die than become a monster, if he would have been able to pull that trigger when Bobby failed. He loves his brother so fiercely that it is the strongest thing about him, but he found his line--he one he won't cross--and it's watching that brother die a different way, slowly, willingly, sacrificing himself to evil to save the world and Dean, who would rather the world end.

Imagine two brothers who had been dubbed the Good One and the Bad One from birth, practically, who in a world less evil, hadn't even gotten along. Imagine what it would take for the roles to switch, for them to be pulled apart so slowly and manipulatively that it felt almost natural. Imagine three more seals breaking and two brothers standing on different sides of the same line, fighting to save each other and killing one another in the process.

Game time! I really need to just write something about.. anything, really. And any fandom that I am familiar with. So please, someone ask me for a short piece.

First come, first serve.

And I want to keep writing. To tell a thousand stories locked inside of me that flit between my family. I want to spoon them out of my head like batter from a bowl. I just need a spatula, I guess.

It hits me at the strangest times, my sadness and grief. In meetings with a couple dozen people. Sitting alone in my cube. And sometimes just walking around outside. I think about my eulogy a lot. About the words I spoke and the way my aunt was so grateful for it.

It was good. I know that. It was easy to write about him, and God gave me the strength to say the words, but that doesn't make the fact that he's dead any less painful. It doesn't change the fact that I saw hundreds of twenty-somethings in a church crying for a young man who is now int he ground beside the baby his parents lost and his and my great grandparents. he's in the effing ground.

And I miss him so much.

My cousin died on Easter. Died too young and proud and stupid. Too drugged up and too damn young. Too special. Too fun. Too perfect.

Died because heroine only takes a single time to take a life. Because he made a choice that risked his twenty-three years. Because the world kept rolling by him and he just didn't know what to do about that.

His father, my uncle, died on Christmas. On a Tuesday, like my aunt, who was his sister.

My cousin died on a Sunday like my grandfather, his grandfather.

My family flew in again, to celebrate the life that seemed much longer than just under two decades. To celebrate a boy-turned-man who touched hundreds of lives. Who smiled so brightly and laughed so easily and made people happy.

Who sat with me under the stars in Hawaii this past summer, eating Jack-in-the-Box fries on my father's porch and talking about the future we would share, our kids as close as we were. Talking about the jobs we wanted and the lives we knew we would get. The past we had shared and the way it was so easy for both of us to talk to strangers, the charisma we had inheretted from our fathers, who were brothers, who got it from their dad.

We talked about the legacy we would drive and continue. We sat looking out over the silver ocean under the full moon and for that one moment, we were perfect. Young and happy and full of the joy that comes from being around someone you really love and like.

R.I.P., my friend, my cousin. Save a place beside you; there's an entire family that expects you to greet us when we meet again.

Favorite new show: Kings.

Much like when I fell in love with Jericho, I know that this is a love that cannot last because NBC (like CBS before it) hates good things and puts them in impossible time slots. Sunday at seven central? Seriously NBC?

Kings summary for those that need to watch it:

David Sheppard is a country boy soldier who, after his father and brother were killed in a battle in front of him, took on a tank called "Goliath" and destroyed it on national television, becoming an instant celebrity.

King Silas is a bad ass who was anointed king by God when a crown of butterflies descended upon his head. He, however, has been swayed by the world and veered from God's path. Very sad because the man himself is all sorts of awesome.

As is his crazy, manipulative wife who set up the entire monarchy and has a brother financing it.

That leaves us with the kids: secretly gay Jack, and beautiful awesome Michelle.

Something in this story sound familiar? That's because it's a modern day re imagining of the old testament story of David versus Goliath, even with a preacher named Samuel. And I will let you know that as religious as I am, that has no sway over how much I adore this twisty show that is Shakespearean in its plots, including a secret family for the king and one of the best aids ever seen in Thomasina.

I adore this show and now you should too.

To be honest, I have no idea how many of the Backfire readers even check out my livejournal for updates, but I thought I would give one nonetheless. I am plugging away at the newest chapter, and I am actually having a really fun time since I have managed to incorporate about a dozen of my OCs from Prelude. Self-centered? Absolutely. Enjoyable? For me.

I like looking at the way the characters would have grown up, the people they would become. Wrightman wasn't really someone I would have known how to get along with in the real world. Sam wasn't either. Tracy and Christine, though? Yeah, I knew girls like them. In fact, the girl after whom I sort of based Christine is still one of my very best friends--confident without trying and just generally fun.

We went out last weekend when I was in LA visiting, and she just marched past the line at a club, yelled teh sponsor's name, adn got a group of six of us in without a problem. It helps of course, that we were a group of girls andthat my friends have a tendency of being very good looking, but it still took a lot of gall to do that.

And she didn't think anything of it, because she is awesome.

If I had to take back any death in the stories that I wrote, it would be hers, but I felt boxed in because the way the character was written, I couldn't see her leaving Harry without any contact at his aunt's, no matter what rules and restrictions were given. I sort of showed that in Anyone.

Anyway, yes, I am writing. And it's fun.

Now I would like someone to explain to me why Twitter is so freaking awesome.

Thanks.

Get this: I liked Heroes last night. Like really, really enjoyed it. Mostly, I enjoyed Claire getting a job, talking to her (awesome) Mom, and the slow morphing of the government into a real, credible threat now that Nathan the wussy is out of the picture.

Loved Sylar's dad, though I didn't buy his switch at the end. That is more like what Sylar's dad should be like.

Loved Matt being drugged and unable to speak (though I love me some Greg Grunberg).

Didn't so much like the obviousness of Nathan standing in front of a window in the blocking for his confrontation wtih Danko, but I appreciated the results, so whatever.

My greatest fear when the camera angle twisted to outside Claire's window was that Wes had returned and was the one carrying Claire at the end. Thank goodness that wasn't the case. And awwww. Her daddy cares.

Angela Petrelli continues to be the most awesome part of the show, however, and boy do I want to see her kick some Danko ass in the upcoming episodes.

And while Claire was perhaps way too tan in many of the shots, I loved her family interaction, including calling HRG.

Of course, my love for Sandra and Lyle knows no bounds, but seriously? Having him just chill on the couch while SWAT guys came in was all sorts of hilarious. I want him to be Rebel so bad. Or at the very least I would like for him to have a conversation with his sister about the insanity that their lives turned into. Hell, he could be evil for all I care and turn against her for it, but imagine this conversation:

Lyle: Good job escaping the bad guys. Again.

Claire: Yeah, it helps that I can't be hurt.

Lyle: Yeah, remember when our house exploded after I was held hostage by those two guys and your hair regrew after you were exposed to radiation? That was crazy.

Claire: Oh yeah. I got shot.

Lyle: Please. You're always getting shot. Mom said an evil puppet master made her shoot you the other day when your bio mom was inexplicably living with us.

Claire: Yeah. Doyle. I just saved his life, actually.

Lyle: Seriously? First you buddy up with Parkman after he shot you, then Elle was your BFF for that unscheduled trip to that company that wasn't Prima Tech. Sis, I think you should consider making friends outside the coven of people who have tried to kill you. I know that's a large group, but it'd probably take the edge off.

Claire: That's your advice? You aren't more freaked out?

Lyle: I roll with the flow.

Claire: ...

Lyle: Me and Mr. Muggles roll like thugs.

Claire: Remember when Dad cheating at Monopoly used to be our biggest problem?

Lyle: Nah, man, that never bothered me. I was always the banker, skimming off the top.

Claire: ... Maybe we should consider group therapy

I sent them Spain on Tuesday--
pink Alhambra roses
and clean Toledo daggers.
I packaged music
from street vendors on blankets
who ran from policia,
added a pinch of Mediterranean sand.
English words rolled
on pink-lined Spanish paper
ripped from a notebook
folded and pressed
with Gaudi and Goya,
clanking flamenco shoes
in white caves with bright lights;
sliding through international air
on the edge of a Euro:
a little paper to carry an epoch
to those who did not want to come along--
but open letters
and stare at postcards
as if they could slide past the gloss
to the cold cobblestone streets
and sapphire sky stooping over La Familia,
where I dance behind my picture
in that place between leaving and loving.