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How is this even remotely excusable behavior?

There's a story in the news that's beginning to catch a lot of attention nationwide these days.  These are the bare facts of the matter: students at Portola Middle School in El Cerrito, California came across a fourteen year old boy and a twelve year old girl having sex in the stairwell.  One student pulled the boy off the girl, the other ran to get help from a school official, and the girl claimed that she'd been raped. click for the thinky thoughtsCollapse )

...Wow.  That ended up much longer than I thought it would.

pertinent link for the Mother Jones comments: Read more...Collapse )

This Weekend I...

1.  Drove to Daly City to hang out with someone I'd never met in person before.
2.  Ate Italian food and watched the first half hour of Raging Bull
3.  Had my first (and last) one night stand, and was left unsatisfied and sore.
4.  Went to the beach and explored an abandoned tunnel.
5.  Drove back home and wondered why the hell I went in the first place.


surprisingly accurate

Here's what astrology has to say about my living preferences:

SAGITTARIUS Sagittarius can live in just about any city -- Moscow, Montreal, Buenos Aires, Beijing -- as long as it's exotic and they know they won't be there forever. The Archer is happiest when they have to go grocery shopping and speak in a language they haven't quite mastered yet. That said, travel-loving Sag wouldn't want to stay in any one place forever.

How very, very true.


restlessness and pseudomasochistic urges

I am enough of a glutton for punishment to play chicken with my list of currently online Facebook friends.

I am not, however, enough of one to actually go through with the thought and IM my birthmom.  I forgive too easily, and when it comes to her, I'd probably be the one apologizing, despite my best intentions to stay firm.

I forgive too easily, and I take too long to forget.  No wonder I dislike staying in one place for too long.  Get tied down, make connections, give away pieces of myself that I'd rather not.

Have that itching under my skin that I get when it's time to pull up stakes and move.  Huh.  So that's where that urge to take a long road trip is coming from.

The greatest thing in the world right now would be complete anonymity in a city far from here.  The longer it takes to get there, the better.  I'd pack a journal and chronicle it all, every empty stretch of road, every greasy spoon diner, every run down motel room.  And when I got to the end -- I'd turn around and do it all over again.

Maybe I'll do it.  Not this month or the next, or even the month after that.  But what a way to ring in the new year.  I can feel the gas pedal beneath my foot already.


a very little thing about Heroes Volume 5

Hey! Pssst!  Yeah, you.  You wanna see my biggest reason for loving Heroes?

...No, it's not a picspam of a certain brain-stealing serial killer (whose storyline got totally jacked up by the writers last season, ugh--though I hold out hope for Volume 5!).  Get your mind out of the gutter.  Sylar will notice, and probably stick his fingers in your amygdala to see what gives.

Ready?  It's Peter and Nathan.


"But kat_songs," you protest, "their relationship is so dysfunctional.  Nathan is a jackass/Peter is annoyingly emo/the two of them, they have Issues."

Exactly!  One of them is a smooth-talking, alpha male, conservative politician who has no problem with manipulating his loved ones to further his ends.  The other is (and I quote you, Dani) "a painfully earnest emo twit" who can't get through an episode without having Serious Emotional Trauma that he has to monologue about to another character.  They are night and day.  They are horrible for each other.

And they're brothers.  And perhaps I've been spoiled by the fact that I have at least one emotionally demonstrative male sibling, but of all the brothers on all the TV shows on or off the air, how many of them actually give voice to the fact that they love each other/would die for each other/treasure each other's existence?

Peter and Nathan could have entire books written on just how screwed up their relationship is -- they bicker, they manipulate, they lie, they fight.  And they don't ever stop loving each other, nor are they "too manly" to admit it.  Oh, boys.

And now that Sylar believes he's Nathan...oh, the possibilities.  What will this do?  Will the writers explore this rich source of episode material without totally ballsing up the Petrelli brothers dynamic?  I shall cross my fingers, and keep them thus until the 21st.

...Also, the Parkman&Sylar "Fight Club" aspect of the upcoming season?  Sounds so very, very cool.

catharsis with a side of glee

Hot DAMN this is funny stuff. I giggled all the way through the first viewing, then watched it again immediately to reassure myself I hadn't imagined it. Watch! 'Tis hilarity in a box!

HSM2 took my sanity, and I want it back NOW

I like to know what I'm mocking when I choose to mock.  Unfortunately for me, this means actually going forth and experiencing things that make me want to rupture my eardrums with q-tips to MAKE IT STOP OH GOD THE ACTING IS TERRIBLE!  *ahem*  So I used that handy little invention known as bittorrent to further my education in tween inanity, GOD ONLY KNOWS WHY.  It started out as really, really funny (and not intentionally so, Disney, so no props to you).  For instance, about a minute in to the movie, the assembled junior class (or rather, the handful that matter, plus some warm bodies) begins a low chant not unlike what cultists might do over blood sacrifices.  It gets better--or worse.  Jury's still out.  Around halfway through (I think it was Efron's solo number that put me over the top) it just stopped being funny.  It was painful and awkward and I realized that my pseudostepsister Perri, who is EIGHT, is the ideal audience--she LOVES Troy Bolton to an embarrassing extent (fridge magnets with Zac Efron's face, I kid you not).  There's only one actor in the lineup who's younger than me, and I still feel so. damn. old.

I watched HSM2 pretty much for the sole reason of being able to drive Perri crazy by teasing her about her idols when I'm up at my dad's this weekend.  And know what?  I feel like sharing the love, with picspam and my (less than kind) take on the characters.  But never fear!  I have a proposal for the 4th movie that I think will make it all better.

First, THE CHARACTERS (edit: reuploaded the pictures.  maybe they won't disappear on me again.)

This is Troy Bolton.  He's your average high school jock, but with extra flounce (more on that later).  He's the captain of the basketball team--his father's the coach, which in no way makes me think of nepotism, not a bit.  He's kind of a dick, but then, he's a teenage male.  His coachdad is creepy, and gives stunningly bad parental advice.  His hair is disturbingly awful for the entire movie.  His girlfriend is Gabriella Montez.

This is the abovementioned Gabriella Montez.  Rumor has it she's really, really smart (apparently at the end of the third movie, she goes off to the mythical land of liberal sin known as California to attend Stanford).  Sadly enough, little Gabby is not nearly as geeky as any self-respecting smart person should be.  She giggles--a LOT.  And she doesn't say anything remotely intelligent.  She's also way more into Troy than he is into her. (If anyone wants my evidence without inflicting the movie on themselves, ask.  I'll make a list.)

This is Sharpay Evans, go-to drama queen/convenient villain for hire.  She has mental problems like WHOA.  I diagnose this chick as narcissistic and delusional, and possibly on uppers.  She has a big fat unrequited crush on Troy Bolton (see above).  They have complimentary personalities--I believe I mentioned that Troy is a dick--but it is not to be (reasons for why later).  Her parents are obscenely rich.  She has a flock of similarly attired followers, and a twin brother.

This is said twin brother, Ryan Evans.  Ryan is also a drama geek.  He's less annoying, can actually sing/dance/act/etc, and is gay.  Gay gay gay.  Disney's still in the Dark Ages, ergo they think characters explicitly labeled as gay make for a less family friendly movie, ergo Ryan is simply allowed to attempt to out-gay Elton John to his adorable little heart's content, and the audience is left to draw their own conclusions.  He also kicks ass at baseball.

Last but not least is Chad Danforth, Troy's best friend and Ryan's offscreen boyfriend.  Whoa!  Yeah, I know, he's platonically dating this girl named Taylor (apparently they thought they'd go about it all Victorian style, minus the chaste romancing, which leaves them with nothing a'tall).  He has fluffy hair, is a jock that doesn't come with extra flounce, and he has a thing for Ryan.  There's even a song and dance dedicated to their awkward boy love (kinda).  And after the song they appear in the next scene wearing each other's clothes.  I'm sure Disney has a perfectly innocent reason for this.  I personally think that they screwed around in the locker room and swapped clothes as, I dunno, a way to stay near each other or something sappy like that.  And because it's a kid's movie, they totally respected each other in the morning.


Is actually completely irrelevant, because aside from a few moments where it was almost deliberate camp and therefore fabulous, it was 1 hour and 45 minutes worth of suck.  This gave me lots of time to think of how to screw with their lives post-high school.


Starts with a telephone conversation between Troy and Gabriella.  She's breaking up with him, ostensibly because long distance relationships aren't her thing, but mainly because she wants to lose her virginity sometime this decade (and feels Troy's not quite up for that responsibility), and all the giggling she's been doing to keep him around hurts her throat.  She says all this really rapidly (she's developed a slight addiction to Adderall, but we don't find this out until later) and goes off to join her PETA activist friends in throwing paint on people wearing fur.  Troy contemplates the fact that he's single, but not too deeply, because he's about as smart as your average bran muffin, bless his soul.

Meanwhile, in New York, Ryan and Chad are being awesome together.  Ryan's at Julliard, and Chad's on a sports scholarship...somewhere.  They spend most of their free time avoiding Sharpay, who didn't succeed in becoming a famous actress and instead has ended up as Paris Hilton's protege in how to be a bitchy heiress.  Kelsey the songwriter makes random cameos, because she's cute as a button and I want to give her screen time for whatever flimsy reason I can come up with.

Back in New Mexico, Troy comes to the ever so shocking realization that he's not, in point of fact, straight, which would certainly go a ways toward explaining his solo number in HSM2 (and why he's flouncier than a ruffley skirt).  He has the obligatory freak out and calls his fabulous gay friends in New York.  They are completely unsurprised and kind of amused at his expense.  They post helpful links to gay porn sites on his facebook page.

(Random cutscene to minorcharacterZeke, who has taken his stellar culinary skills to Los Angeles, where he works in soup kitchens.  Because I think that'd be a good thing for him to do, and homeless people deserve a nice souffle once in a while.)

The following things happen, not necessarily in this order: Ryan gets a part in a Broadway musical, Gabriella spends the night in jail for getting too rowdy at an anti-war rally (and there's followthrough on the Adderall thing), Chad plays basketball, Troy plays basketball, Troy takes out a personals ad that's eerily reminiscent of "Kissing Jessica Stein" except less intelligent, Paris and Sharpay get into a catfight and Perez Hilton blogs about it, and Kelsey hooks up with Chad's former beard ex-girlfriend.  And they all live wackily ever after, the end.

My Barbie was a lesbian and other true things

I am a person, a human being, homo sapiens sapiens.  I have five pairs of jeans but only like two.  I like to have yogurt for breakfast.  I have insomnia far more often than not.  I have hay fever.  I like dark chocolate and Irish breakfast tea.  I'm writing a novel.  When I get migraines I prefer to take aspirin rather than Imitrex.  I have small feet and green eyes and curly hair.  I like shows on the BBC better than the ones here in the US.  I'm also bisexual, and though this should not have any bearing on how people view me, far too often it is the most important facet of who I am in other people's eyes.

After staying up all night reading articles on white privelege, sexism in the media, and race relations, I felt an overwhelming need to add to the voices protesting the bigotry that runs rampant through modern society--more specifically, I wanted to tackle the issue of queerness and homophobia.  I wrote an outline of what I wanted to say in a pink Hello Kitty notebook (never let it be said that I have no sense of irony).  It was overarching, ambitious, even somewhat arrogant.  It didn't take long before I realized that what I'd brainstormed had absolutely nothing to do with what I really wanted to tell people.  I have no Ph.D. to back up this post, no graduate degrees in gender studies or sociology.  I'm hardly an authority.  What I am--what I can show for bona fides--is a twenty year old bisexual woman with an unfortunate habit of hopping back in the closet whenever I feel threatened, though I'm getting better about that.

Rather than write a high-handed lecture on LGBT issues today, I want instead to convey my personal experiences as a queer person, and to shed some light on what being queer means to me.  When I think about my life in terms of sexual orientation, these are the things that come to mind.

Being queer is playing pretend that my two favorite girl dolls are married.  For my tenth birthday I was given a Barbie doll modeled after Sporty Spice.  When Ken's head fell off I made Sporty Spice Barbie date Malibu Barbie in his place.  I never replaced Ken.  This was fine with me; after all, Sporty and Malibu were in love and Ken's reappearance would only complicate things.

Being queer is being afraid to sleep in case my subconscious gets a little too honest with me.  In sixth grade I had a dream that I was married to a princess and we went off on grand adventures together.  I woke up in a cold sweat, terrified out of my wits.  I wasn't a boy, so why would I dream something like that?  When I dreamed of being chased off a cliff by bloodthirsty tigers the next night, I was oddly relieved.

Being queer is learning to be a politician on the wrong end of a scandal: deny, deny, deny.  I spent all of seventh and eighth grade overreacting to any suggestion/accusation/insinuation that I might not be totally, one hundred percent straight.  The very idea of being "abnormal" was far more frightening than anything the physical world could throw at me.  I hadn't even come out to myself as bisexual then, but I was well versed in self-loathing by the time I did.

Being queer is accepting that I am not acceptable to everyone.  There are relatives that I will never come out to for the simple reason that lying is a far better alternative to being told I'm going to go to hell.  My parents are good, intelligent, liberal people who dutifully voted No on Proposition 8, but coming out to them was an experience I never want to repeat.  There will always be a suspicion in the back of my mind that when they say, "we love you just as you are," they aren't being completely honest.

Being queer is hiding, which is another word for cowardice.  I still remember the time I asked my then-closeted friend if he was gay and seeing the split second reaction of panic in his eyes before he laughed it off and denied it strenuously.  I also remember being too chickenshit to reassure him that it didn't matter if he was, because I understood what being queer and sixteen was like.  I was also too scared of disappointing my parents yet again to continue what could have been a great relationship if only I'd cared less about what my family might think.

Being queer is being more than one person.  I have my "straight" look and my "bent" look--different clothing and hair products and makeup.  I even walk differently.  I flirt with the male baristas when I'm visiting family.  I smile and blush for the girl at the coffee shop when there are no relatives to censor myself around.  Lip gloss and skirts are for days when broad shoulders and five o'clock shadows catch my eye; tee-shirts and ponytails are for days that soft curves and long eyelashes make my heart beat faster.

Being queer is being the target of hostility.  I have run out of fingers and toes to count misguided stereotypes on.  If I'm bisexual, I must be an indiscriminate slut--but that's only if I really am bisexual, because there's no such thing really, only trashy straight girls and self-hating lesbians.  If I date someone who knows I'm bisexual I have to be prepared for the inevitable fear that I'll get bored of what I have and end up cheating.  Rowdy college boys will call me a dyke if I hold hands with another woman in public, and though I shrug it off and pretend it doesn't bother me, I still know that in a less crowded area, at night, those boys might not stop at words.  There are people who truly believe that a "good, hard dicking" is a surefire cure for lesbianism--words cannot accurately describe how frightening this is to me.

Being queer is having patience.  I was told by a relative that she'd accept whoever I choose to marry with open arms, though she'd probably have a private moment of "oh, gross!" if The One for me happens to be another woman.  I took this in the spirit it was intended, that of support and love.  I can roll my eyes and correct my friends when they say "that's so gay" in reference to things that aren't actually homosexual, and though they'll probably say it again I won't hold it against them.  When my mother tries to relate to my queerness with stories of sexism that begin with "from my experience with regular dating", I'm simply glad that she's trying.

I am queer.  After seven years of internalized arguing and bargaining and angsting, I am finally comfortable in my own skin.  It was a hard battle to win, and no matter how much I'd like to camp out in my closet until the smoke clears, I've learned that self-denial is something best left in my past.

This is not the objective and informative essay I'd originally envisioned.  Instead, it's something I'm far more proud of, biography and love song and apology all wrapped into one.  It is honest, it is real, it is me, and I stand by every word.

If this is something that rings true to you, or strikes you as something that ought to be shared beyond the handful of LJ friends who might read this, feel free to link to this post.  Appreciation of diversity is the best kind of love.


where I got my obsession with noses

Because I'm lazy and like to procrastinate--and running on 4 hours of sleep (7:30 to 11:30 this morning)--I decided to go for a walk along the bay in the hopes that even the hint of a sea breeze would relieve the heat wave that's taken over the Central Coast.  It didn't, sadly enough, but it was at least two degrees hotter in my apartment, so taking my chances in direct sunlight was at least slightly worth it.

Sidenote: I hadn't realized it until this afternoon, but I'm so pale I practically glow.  I'm like 2 steps away from being an angsty sparkly vampire.

Sidenote 2:  No I HAVEN'T read the Twilight series, thankyouverymuch.  It's on my list of things to never do, like watch reality television and get frostbite.

Anyway, since the pedestrian/bike path is nice and shady, a lot of people had the same bright idea, and I took the time to get some people-watching done.  Nice variety of folks to surreptitiously stare at: joggers, Navy guys from the school across the street, tired mothers pushing strollers, shirtless hairy guys pushing their bikes, and a pair of brothers with the shared feature of a really bizarre nose that immediately put me in mind of my first celebrity crush.

Sidenote 3: This was back before I discovered Shakespeare and Bacon and Swift and Juvenal, so yeah I had a celebrity crush, okay?  Great.  These days I only fangirl for long-dead authors with enormous brains and scathing wit.

Back in fourth grade (my God, was that really only ten years ago?) a friend introduced me to the phenomenon known as *nsync.  I cannot be blamed for this; I was raised on The Beach Boys, Elvis, and Ella Fitzgerald.  She gave me a copy of their first CD for my tenth birthday and I wore it out by the end of the year.  Sadly, we had a falling out less than a month later due to irreconcilable differences over just which pretty singing boy was the prettiest.  She swooned over Justin Timberlake, I squealed over JC Chasez, and we had the messiest, pissiest row that two ten year old *nsync fans can manage.

Sidenote four: ten year old fangirls can do a LOT of damage when aspersions are cast on their favorite pretty singing boy.  I don't know if her mother ever managed to get that stain out of the carpet.

Anyway, I saw those brothers and immediately thought of JC Chasez, because seriously?  Dude's got a funny nose.  The bridge is on steroids or something; it's crazy how wide his nose is.  Thing is, that's why I thought he was so darn *cute!* when I first laid eyes on his picture on the cover of the CD.  Yeah, I went and got a big old teenybopper crush on him because I thought his nose was just the greatest thing ever.

Sidenote five:  In retrospect, this is probably the point in my life where I developed a fascination with unusual noses.  It's gotta be.  Otherwise that pointy little triangle on Jared Padalecki's face would not amuse me to the point that I break out in spontaneous fits of giggles when I think about it.

I leave you with noses to contemplate.  Aren't they awesome?!


blood test results

Everything came back normalish except for the lymphocyte count, which was just above normal values.  I'm supposed to keep an eye on how I feel (energy, temperature, appetite), and if things get worse I go in for more tests.  I'm also to keep track of my lymph nodes, as they got a bit bigger since my last appointment.  While I'm not thrilled that the answer to what's wrong with me is "wait and see," I'll readily admit that "wait and see" is a whole lot better than being sick enough to need immediate answers.