28 February 2015
Phone-a-Dad
27 February 2015
RIP Spock
Wil Wheaton's lovely eulogy for Leonard Nimoy:
Normally, I’m pretty good with words. At the moment, I’m not at my best, for reasons I hope are self evident. However, I’m going to do my best to remember someone who gave more to my life than he ever knew.
I never got to know Leonard Nimoy the way my fellow cast members did, so I can’t remember him in the personal way that they can. I didn’t know Leonard as a friend, or even as a colleague. I can’t tell you what he was like off the set, because I never had the privilege of visiting with him off the set. In fact, by the time he worked on Next Generation, my character was off exploring other planes of existence, and I was a nineteen year-old kid who was stumbling around, trying to figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life.
When you are part of the Star Trek family — and that’s what it is, in ways that are as wonderful and complicated as all families are — you are part of a very small and special group, where news travels fast. Though I never got to be close to Leonard, I knew that he was a wonderful and lovely man, because that’s all anyone ever said about him. I feel that I haven’t earned the right to eulogize him, but a lot of people are asking me to, so if you’ll allow me a few minutes of your time, I’d like to do my best to remember Leonard the way most of us will be remembering him today: as the actor who played a character who was deeply important to all of our lives, because everyone who watched and loved Star Trek is part of our extended family.
When I was a kid, long before I put on Wesley Crusher’s sweaters or piloted the Enterprise, I loved Star Trek. I watched it all the time in syndication on our black and white television, and when the other kids at school wanted to play CHiPs or the A-Team on the playground, I wanted to turn the jungle gym into the Enterprise. On those rare occasions that I convinced my classmates that we were boldly going toward new worlds on lunch recess, one of the Cool Kids would claim the role of Captain Kirk, and I would always happily assume the role of Mister Spock.
I was too young to fully understand why, but as I got older and looked back on those years, it became clear: I identified with Spock because he was weird, and cerebral, and he was different from everyone else. He was just like me, but the things that made me a target of ridicule on the playground made him a valuable and vital member of his ship’s crew. In ways that I couldn’t articulate at the time, I wanted to be Mister Spock because if I was, I could be myself –quiet, bookish, alien to the people around me — and it wouldn’t be weird. It would be awesome.
When I was cast to play Wesley Crusher, and became part of the Star Trek family, one of the first things I got excited about was meeting Mister Spock, and the actor who played him. It never happened, really, so I never got to know the man behind the ears and the eyebrows and the character that meant so much to me. But as I said on Twitter this morning, we in the Next Generation stood upon his shoulders, and we got to explore a universe that wouldn’t have existed without him. I’ve met thousands of people over the last decade, who have told me that Wesley Crusher meant the same thing to them that Mister Spock meant to me, and for that I am eternally grateful to everyone who was part of Star Trek before I was, including Leonard.
Mister Spock made it okay for me to be the weird kid who eventually grew into a slightly-less weird adult, but it was Leonard Nimoy who made Mister Spock live, and who made Star Trek — and every science fiction TV series since 1966 — possible.
Thank you, Leonard, for making it okay to be me, and for making it possible for me to explore brave new worlds, and boldly go where you had gone before. I wish I’d gotten to know you the way so many others did, because everyone says you were as awesome and wonderful as I hoped you would be. Rest in peace, sir.
Normally, I’m pretty good with words. At the moment, I’m not at my best, for reasons I hope are self evident. However, I’m going to do my best to remember someone who gave more to my life than he ever knew.
I never got to know Leonard Nimoy the way my fellow cast members did, so I can’t remember him in the personal way that they can. I didn’t know Leonard as a friend, or even as a colleague. I can’t tell you what he was like off the set, because I never had the privilege of visiting with him off the set. In fact, by the time he worked on Next Generation, my character was off exploring other planes of existence, and I was a nineteen year-old kid who was stumbling around, trying to figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life.
When you are part of the Star Trek family — and that’s what it is, in ways that are as wonderful and complicated as all families are — you are part of a very small and special group, where news travels fast. Though I never got to be close to Leonard, I knew that he was a wonderful and lovely man, because that’s all anyone ever said about him. I feel that I haven’t earned the right to eulogize him, but a lot of people are asking me to, so if you’ll allow me a few minutes of your time, I’d like to do my best to remember Leonard the way most of us will be remembering him today: as the actor who played a character who was deeply important to all of our lives, because everyone who watched and loved Star Trek is part of our extended family.
When I was a kid, long before I put on Wesley Crusher’s sweaters or piloted the Enterprise, I loved Star Trek. I watched it all the time in syndication on our black and white television, and when the other kids at school wanted to play CHiPs or the A-Team on the playground, I wanted to turn the jungle gym into the Enterprise. On those rare occasions that I convinced my classmates that we were boldly going toward new worlds on lunch recess, one of the Cool Kids would claim the role of Captain Kirk, and I would always happily assume the role of Mister Spock.
I was too young to fully understand why, but as I got older and looked back on those years, it became clear: I identified with Spock because he was weird, and cerebral, and he was different from everyone else. He was just like me, but the things that made me a target of ridicule on the playground made him a valuable and vital member of his ship’s crew. In ways that I couldn’t articulate at the time, I wanted to be Mister Spock because if I was, I could be myself –quiet, bookish, alien to the people around me — and it wouldn’t be weird. It would be awesome.
When I was cast to play Wesley Crusher, and became part of the Star Trek family, one of the first things I got excited about was meeting Mister Spock, and the actor who played him. It never happened, really, so I never got to know the man behind the ears and the eyebrows and the character that meant so much to me. But as I said on Twitter this morning, we in the Next Generation stood upon his shoulders, and we got to explore a universe that wouldn’t have existed without him. I’ve met thousands of people over the last decade, who have told me that Wesley Crusher meant the same thing to them that Mister Spock meant to me, and for that I am eternally grateful to everyone who was part of Star Trek before I was, including Leonard.
Mister Spock made it okay for me to be the weird kid who eventually grew into a slightly-less weird adult, but it was Leonard Nimoy who made Mister Spock live, and who made Star Trek — and every science fiction TV series since 1966 — possible.
Thank you, Leonard, for making it okay to be me, and for making it possible for me to explore brave new worlds, and boldly go where you had gone before. I wish I’d gotten to know you the way so many others did, because everyone says you were as awesome and wonderful as I hoped you would be. Rest in peace, sir.
Labels: Star Trek
26 February 2015
Baby Boar
25 February 2015
Sleepy Hollow Season Two Finale
Season one of Sleepy Hollow was a whack-a-doodle fun adventure. Season two started out with more of the same, but then got boring. But at the end of the season, they found their footing again. The season two final was great! This is from a review at GiveMeMyRemote:
"Meanwhile, Abbie takes matters into her own hands and pries a nail out of the bench in her cell. Her escape is interrupted when Ichabod’s commander, Colonel Sutton, shows up to make her answer for her crimes.
I have no desire to learn what punishment Sutton has in mind. What matters is that Abbie knows more about close-quarter combat than he ever will. As she beats up an 18th-century colonel, Ichabod watches a video in which he and Abbie attempt to take a selfie and talk about waffles. This scene is the only thing you need to know about SLEEPY HOLLOW. Convinced that Abbie’s telling the truth, he arrives to rescue her, only to find that she’s already got that taken care of. Again, this scene is the show."
"Meanwhile, Abbie takes matters into her own hands and pries a nail out of the bench in her cell. Her escape is interrupted when Ichabod’s commander, Colonel Sutton, shows up to make her answer for her crimes.
I have no desire to learn what punishment Sutton has in mind. What matters is that Abbie knows more about close-quarter combat than he ever will. As she beats up an 18th-century colonel, Ichabod watches a video in which he and Abbie attempt to take a selfie and talk about waffles. This scene is the only thing you need to know about SLEEPY HOLLOW. Convinced that Abbie’s telling the truth, he arrives to rescue her, only to find that she’s already got that taken care of. Again, this scene is the show."
Labels: Sleepy Hollow
24 February 2015
Christina Aguilera's Singing Impressions
23 February 2015
Demanding Proof
From 8 Things Some A$$#ole Says in Every Debate About Sexism at Cracked:
The first and worst asshole technique for arguing against feminism is demanding proof of sexism every single time the subject is raised. It's a popular strategy because it pretends to be in good faith. New claims do require proof. But sexual inequality isn't a new claim. Sexual inequality is almost the entire history of our species. When nearly every social statistic in every country on the planet is evidence of the problem, people fighting it don't have to list them all to justify the discussion.
A Distributed Denial of Service (DDoS) attack is when multiple sources overload a target computer with requests to prevent it from getting anything done. The Duh-DoS is the organic equivalent, with multiple people asking duh-worthy questions. If the target answers, they're wasting their energy on someone with no intention of listening. If they don't answer, they're accused of admitting there's no real problem. No matter what they do they're at a disadvantage, which is exactly the problem they were fighting in the first place.
It works on more infernal and shittier levels than a Malebolgian leak. It resets every discussion (imagine a basketball forum demanding that the concept of points be re-explained at the start of every thread). It automatically devalues the woman's experience, because her statement that she experienced sexism is invalidated by implication: She must provide external proof. It also elevates the questioner to the position of authority, the ultimate judge who must be satisfied before he'll deign to consider the problem. As opposed to an asshole rando begging for the block button.
The solution? Screw them. Duh-DoSers try to claim the moral high ground by turning you into a human Google. But they don't win when they're ignored. If I stand in the street and start demanding that passersby prove gravity, I'm not a flying wizard when nobody can be bothered.
The first and worst asshole technique for arguing against feminism is demanding proof of sexism every single time the subject is raised. It's a popular strategy because it pretends to be in good faith. New claims do require proof. But sexual inequality isn't a new claim. Sexual inequality is almost the entire history of our species. When nearly every social statistic in every country on the planet is evidence of the problem, people fighting it don't have to list them all to justify the discussion.
A Distributed Denial of Service (DDoS) attack is when multiple sources overload a target computer with requests to prevent it from getting anything done. The Duh-DoS is the organic equivalent, with multiple people asking duh-worthy questions. If the target answers, they're wasting their energy on someone with no intention of listening. If they don't answer, they're accused of admitting there's no real problem. No matter what they do they're at a disadvantage, which is exactly the problem they were fighting in the first place.
It works on more infernal and shittier levels than a Malebolgian leak. It resets every discussion (imagine a basketball forum demanding that the concept of points be re-explained at the start of every thread). It automatically devalues the woman's experience, because her statement that she experienced sexism is invalidated by implication: She must provide external proof. It also elevates the questioner to the position of authority, the ultimate judge who must be satisfied before he'll deign to consider the problem. As opposed to an asshole rando begging for the block button.
The solution? Screw them. Duh-DoSers try to claim the moral high ground by turning you into a human Google. But they don't win when they're ignored. If I stand in the street and start demanding that passersby prove gravity, I'm not a flying wizard when nobody can be bothered.
Labels: equality
16 February 2015
This Used To Be My Life
x
....except I definitely knew when the holidays were, because they affected both store traffic and my bus schedule.
15 February 2015
Synonyms
14 February 2015
A Valentine from Agent Carter
12 February 2015
The Various Ism's
10 February 2015
Paraphrasing Downton
From Tom & Lorenzo, episode 5.06:
Molesley: There’s a telegram for Lady Edith.
Mrs. Hughes: Oh, shit.
Mr. Carson: Oh, shit.
Robert: Oh, shit.
Cora: Oh, shit.
Mary: My hair. Is it alluring enough, do you think?
Bates: Let’s make a baby right here in the kitchen.
Anna: Stop, you silly murd- I mean – uh, mug. You silly mug.
Bates: We’ll have a son and name him after my father, Norman.
Robert: So, Gregson is dead.
Cora: Poor Edith. How did she ta-
Robert: She tore the drapes off the dining room windows in rage and screamed like a banshee in heat. She stabbed Isis with an oyster fork and gave Daisy a black eye before retreating to her charred ruin of a bedroom, where she’s been curled up on the floor, wailing softly to herself ever since.
Cora: Mmm. *goes back to reading mail*
Robert: I feel like a walk.
Thomas: Psst. Baxter. Wanna see something?
Baxter: Dear God in heaven, what have you been doing?
Thomas: Butt injections!
Dr. Clarkson: AND THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT. Someday in the future, perhaps men who practice butt injections can serve in the military and adopt foreign babies, but for now, you should probably just quietly loathe yourself and plot schemes against people.
Anna: Stop going through my things. You don’t want to know the things I do to stay fresh.
Bates: You bought a lady thingy because you think I’m a murderer.
Anna: That doesn’t even make sense.
Bates: I’m not a murderer.
Anna: I know you didn’t kill your ex-wife.
Bates: Not her. The other murder.
Anna: I’m getting confused. Let me get my notes.
The Dowager Countess: Igor, I found your wife whoring herself out in Hong Kong.
Count Chocula: Clearly, she’s been spoiled for life. Dead to me. Let’s make love on my dirty bed like only octogenarians can.
The Dowager Countess: Oh, you.
Robert: I’m a whiny-ass titty-baby and I’m going to stay right here in this tiny little bed.
Cora: Fine, but you’ll be getting handjobs from chamber maids for the rest of your life if you don’t haul ass back to our bed, Mister.
Robert: On second thought...
Molesley: Daisy, I noticed you can read now. I can read too! Here’s one of my books.
Daisy: I’m not supposed to accept books from strangers.
Mrs. Patmore: You’ve been working with him for 15 years, ye daft bitch.
Mary: Everyone look at my hair!
Cora: Gosh, I wish I was young like you!
Isobel: Brava!
Robert: Your dead sister would be appalled.
Violet: Lesbian.
Rose: Mary, have you met my Jew?
Atticus: I say –
Edith: RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
*runs out of the room, her screams echoing off the walls*
Cora: Poor dear.
Mary: Back to me, please.
Cora: It’s so shiny!
Spratt: Cow.
Denker: Poof.
Lord Sinderby: Hmmph. Nice to jew meet you all. Jew.
Robert: Yes, wonderful to meet jew.
Lady Sinderby: How lovely to see jew again, Rose.
Atticus: Mummy! Don’t I sound just like Prince William?
Lord Sinderby: Like a Jewish Prince William.
Mabel Lane Fox: I’d just as soon see a knife stuck out from between your shoulder blades, but I must say, I admire you for getting a haircut.
Mary: Like everything I do, it was to punish the men around me.
Mabel Lane Fox: You’re fucking awesome.
Mary: I know. Let’s ride.
Mrs: Drewe: You’re just gonna let this stroppy bitch take our daughter?
Farmer Drewe: Know your place, woman. She owns our asses.
Edith: I say, I know this must be terribly inconvenient for you, but you see I feel badly right now and I —
Mrs. Drewe: SHUT UP! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!!!
Edith: Right. I’m off, then. I’ll just be taking this with me.
Marigold: I think I’d rather grow up poor.
Tom: Edith is beside herself with grief and has run away.
Robert: What?!? Why, that’s —
Cora: Oh my God, what’s wrong with Isis?
Robert: ISIS! MY DARLING DOG! SOMEONE HELP HER!
Molesley: There’s a telegram for Lady Edith.
Mrs. Hughes: Oh, shit.
Mr. Carson: Oh, shit.
Robert: Oh, shit.
Cora: Oh, shit.
Mary: My hair. Is it alluring enough, do you think?
Bates: Let’s make a baby right here in the kitchen.
Anna: Stop, you silly murd- I mean – uh, mug. You silly mug.
Bates: We’ll have a son and name him after my father, Norman.
Robert: So, Gregson is dead.
Cora: Poor Edith. How did she ta-
Robert: She tore the drapes off the dining room windows in rage and screamed like a banshee in heat. She stabbed Isis with an oyster fork and gave Daisy a black eye before retreating to her charred ruin of a bedroom, where she’s been curled up on the floor, wailing softly to herself ever since.
Cora: Mmm. *goes back to reading mail*
Robert: I feel like a walk.
Thomas: Psst. Baxter. Wanna see something?
Baxter: Dear God in heaven, what have you been doing?
Thomas: Butt injections!
Dr. Clarkson: AND THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT. Someday in the future, perhaps men who practice butt injections can serve in the military and adopt foreign babies, but for now, you should probably just quietly loathe yourself and plot schemes against people.
Anna: Stop going through my things. You don’t want to know the things I do to stay fresh.
Bates: You bought a lady thingy because you think I’m a murderer.
Anna: That doesn’t even make sense.
Bates: I’m not a murderer.
Anna: I know you didn’t kill your ex-wife.
Bates: Not her. The other murder.
Anna: I’m getting confused. Let me get my notes.
The Dowager Countess: Igor, I found your wife whoring herself out in Hong Kong.
Count Chocula: Clearly, she’s been spoiled for life. Dead to me. Let’s make love on my dirty bed like only octogenarians can.
The Dowager Countess: Oh, you.
Robert: I’m a whiny-ass titty-baby and I’m going to stay right here in this tiny little bed.
Cora: Fine, but you’ll be getting handjobs from chamber maids for the rest of your life if you don’t haul ass back to our bed, Mister.
Robert: On second thought...
Molesley: Daisy, I noticed you can read now. I can read too! Here’s one of my books.
Daisy: I’m not supposed to accept books from strangers.
Mrs. Patmore: You’ve been working with him for 15 years, ye daft bitch.
Mary: Everyone look at my hair!
Cora: Gosh, I wish I was young like you!
Isobel: Brava!
Robert: Your dead sister would be appalled.
Violet: Lesbian.
Rose: Mary, have you met my Jew?
Atticus: I say –
Edith: RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
*runs out of the room, her screams echoing off the walls*
Cora: Poor dear.
Mary: Back to me, please.
Cora: It’s so shiny!
Spratt: Cow.
Denker: Poof.
Lord Sinderby: Hmmph. Nice to jew meet you all. Jew.
Robert: Yes, wonderful to meet jew.
Lady Sinderby: How lovely to see jew again, Rose.
Atticus: Mummy! Don’t I sound just like Prince William?
Lord Sinderby: Like a Jewish Prince William.
Mabel Lane Fox: I’d just as soon see a knife stuck out from between your shoulder blades, but I must say, I admire you for getting a haircut.
Mary: Like everything I do, it was to punish the men around me.
Mabel Lane Fox: You’re fucking awesome.
Mary: I know. Let’s ride.
Mrs: Drewe: You’re just gonna let this stroppy bitch take our daughter?
Farmer Drewe: Know your place, woman. She owns our asses.
Edith: I say, I know this must be terribly inconvenient for you, but you see I feel badly right now and I —
Mrs. Drewe: SHUT UP! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!!!
Edith: Right. I’m off, then. I’ll just be taking this with me.
Marigold: I think I’d rather grow up poor.
Tom: Edith is beside herself with grief and has run away.
Robert: What?!? Why, that’s —
Cora: Oh my God, what’s wrong with Isis?
Robert: ISIS! MY DARLING DOG! SOMEONE HELP HER!
Labels: Downton Abbey
09 February 2015
I Really Should Have Seen this Coming...
I got a smartphone today -- woohoo!
And what did I do? I scrolled through twitter on my phone while I looked through tumblr on my laptop.
Yeah, that sounds about right.
And what did I do? I scrolled through twitter on my phone while I looked through tumblr on my laptop.
Yeah, that sounds about right.
Labels: computers
08 February 2015
Downton What?
07 February 2015
Three in a Row!
04 February 2015
The Real Estate Code
From Sleepy Hollow 2.15 "Spellcaster":
[Abbie & Ichabod are at an open house.]
real estate agent: I know the bedrooms are a tad cozy.
Abbie: [to Ichabod] “Cozy" is code for too small to live in.
real estate agent: And the backyard is a bit rustic.
Abbie: [to Ichabod] Rustic means you’ll need a landscaper. [to the agent] How are the bathrooms?
real estate agent: They’re in their original condition!
Ichabod: [to Abbie] Older than me.
[Abbie & Ichabod are at an open house.]
real estate agent: I know the bedrooms are a tad cozy.
Abbie: [to Ichabod] “Cozy" is code for too small to live in.
real estate agent: And the backyard is a bit rustic.
Abbie: [to Ichabod] Rustic means you’ll need a landscaper. [to the agent] How are the bathrooms?
real estate agent: They’re in their original condition!
Ichabod: [to Abbie] Older than me.
Labels: Sleepy Hollow
01 February 2015
A Joke
