Coming soon to a toilet near you: The Manitor (TM)

Okay. My subconscious is a bad stand-up comedian. I know people say their dreams show how weird and special they are, and all that special snowflake twaddle, but my dreams are the equivalent of a bad stand-up comedian trying desperately to get the half-empty bar that is their audience to laugh whilst nervously pulling at the collar of their cheap, un-ironed shirt. Think of it as the Joker pre-chemical peel treatment.

I had this dream that I had invented this new occupation. It was a cross between a man and a janitor: behold, the ManitorTM! He was basically a janitor, except young and exceptionally handsome, thus giving females and males (if they were so inclined) something to look forward to next time they did their business in a public toilets. Eye-candy for those answering nature's call, if you will.

And then, someone questioned me: what about the male janitors? Wouldn't that, in definition, make them a ManitorTM? No, no, you silly, stupid, naive fool, I smile while smacking them upside the head. A male janitor and a ManitorTM are two totally different things. Let me explain:

...

You know what, I don't know either.

In which I over-analyze Rebecca Black's 'My Moment'

I don't think My Moment is really as bad as some people are purporting. It's just hopelessly,  mildly, generically bland. Her voice seems to have been autotuned several times over, and the chorus is repetitive (still better than Friday, not that that's saying much) but how is that so different than what we hear in the usual pop charts? In a way, that actually makes the song worse. Let me explain.

We're not even allowed to like it ironically: no more endearingly low-budget effects or sets. No more confused extras. No more nasal voice or mind-numbing yet super-catchy lyrics. Yet, the song isn't outright hateable - either of which would have filled us with hand-rubbing glee. Sure, the number of dislikes on My Moment outweighs the likes, but the jibes feel half-hearted. How can we make fun of something that has nothing to make fun of? Blandness isn't fun. Blandness is...bland.

Although I'll be the first person to wish it was just as inane as Friday just so I could make fun of it, I suppose I'm glad for her. She's a cute girl with a contagious smile and (against one's resistance) infectious energy; she really could be much, much worse. Rebecca Black is really guilty of nothing more than being a young girl with dreams whose parents were indulgent enough to spend a few thousand dollars on her to have some chubby rapper from a music company of dubious origin write a terrible (-y awesome) song for her.

Yet, she seems to almost be asking for people to mock her mercilessly with My Moment's lyrics. Some of the lyrics essentially amount to: "HAHA! SUCKERS! LOOK AT ME NOW, YOU HATERS! I'M POPULAR AND FAMOUS AND YOU'RE NOT! NYA NYA NYA NYA NYA NYA!" Girl, you of all people should know the internet by now. This is the equivalent of dangling fresh meat in front of their faces. They'll take anything they can get. If you really are so famous and rich, please don't sing about feeling smug in proving the haters wrong. It just makes you look petty. Like, you know, you're sinking to our level. I believe in you, Rebecca. You're young yet. You can do better. You will do better. I say this with the best of intentions.

Regardless. Hopefully she'll be able to find some legitimate fame - as this video portrays her to have. But in the back of my mind, I still hope her next song will be epic of Friday-like proportions...fun, fun, fun, fun!

Random thought

Does anyone else think that 3D TV is extraordinarily pointless?

It's kind of like ordering salad at McDonald's. Not exactly the same metaphor, but a similar feeling. A lot of effort for nothing much.

If I wanted to see things in 3D, I'd just go outside.

Review: The Hangover 2

Today's movie review: The Hangover 2

Oh, how I hate to be writing this. Movie, I was so looking forward to having a good time with you. Enjoyable laughs of the same-old, same-old, with a few elements changed up. How could you have gone so wrong?

I'll have you know, I really liked the first movie; The Hangover was a great example of how a movie from a genre that has certain (low) expectations, if well-made enough, could attract audiences outside its usual demographic. Its premise, structure, and writing were original, funny, and clever. The characters were surprisingly empathetic, and the acting better than a film like The Hangover would warrant.

That point being made, I am not criticizing the fact this movie is essentially a remake. In fact, it was what I was looking forward to. I wanted to relive the laughs of the first. I suppose part of the reason I look back on the first with fondness is because it subverted my expectations by exceeding them; regardless of its quality, then, The Hangover 2 was probably doomed anyway by anticipatory hype.

At the worst, I hoped it would simply be a forgettable mediocre borefest. What I didn't expect was to walk out of the cinema so angry at the movie. It's not even boringly, enjoyably, forgettably bad. This movie was actively bad, as if deliberately assaulting one's senses and sensibilities, leaving a lingering bad taste in the mouth.

I felt ashamed for the actors. I was incredulous that they were willing to even, after reading through the script, participate. Oh, Bradley Cooper, how could you do this to me? I felt ashamed Thailand even let this movie be filmed there; did not some Thai person read the script? Did not even one person object?

But I'm getting ahead of myself. I have to say, as a Thai person - even after all these years of Westernization, and taking Asian stereotypes in good stride (I love Mr. Chow - he's the one saving grace of the movie!) - I found this movie in offensively bad taste. It just got to a point in the movie I was laughing because I could not believe what I was watching. Calling monks a bunch of 'bald assholes'? I know the lack of classiness is the charm, but there is a difference between crude and just offensive.

I despair of the lack of furore and debate this movie has whipped up; is Bangkok so universally perceived this way? If the movie were to portray some other country or city so negatively, would that somehow be worse?

On the plus side, if all the tweets of people swearing after watching The Hangover 2 to never visit Bangkok are anything to go by, the movie may have actually done the city a favour. For, if those people are stupid enough to believe this movie, with the premise it has, accurately portrays the city, then we'd probably benefit from their absence anyway.

Some jokes weren't even so much infuriating as much as exasperating. Asian women's boob sizes? Ladyboys? Eyeroll, yawn, been there, heard that. Todd Phillips, I expected better. Oh, movie, one thing I really hoped I wouldn't have to put up with you was cliched, tired, stereotypes, but you had them all the same.

Wow, I really did not mean for this to turn into such a self-righteous 'ASIAN PRIDE!!' rant. So, I'll also list other reasons this movie disappointed me:

Essentially, this movie took everything that worked in the first movie and exaggerated it to the point of cringe-worthy absurdity. A good example is the characterization of all the characters: taking the one defining point from their first movie and bombarding us with it. For example, Alan (Zach Galifianakis) is now unlikeably annoying, with no redeeming traits, whereas those same traits were formerly amusing.

Another complaint is the bizarrely dark tone the second movie adopts. The first one was light-hearted and fun, even amid all the debauchery. The Hangover 2 takes itself too seriously in deciding to incorporate a drug-underworld plot. Thus, coupled with the cliched Thai stereotypes, many of the jokes of The Hangover 2 both fall flat and feel mean-spirited.

I think part of the reason I resent this movie so much is that, in changing the setting, race tropes are inevitably going to come into play, whether intentionally or not. The Hangover 2 comes across as nothing more than privileged American white guys doing whatever the hell they want in a country they obviously think of as inferior.

I'd also complain about the contrived, deus-ex-machina-esque of an ending, but I've made my point. Just rewatch the first one instead.

The Lion King a.k.a. Disney nostalgia

Oh, wow. I never truly realized how traumatizing this actually was. This video reduced me to bawling like a baby. Note to all girls out there: don't bother buying makeup remover. Just watch this scene. Just as effective and much less chemicals, although painful to the soul. Very painful to the soul.

It's just...it's that moment you realize, even subconsciously, that that parental figure isn't infallible. If a powerful, idealistic father like Mufasa can be taken from us so abruptly, then what chance do our own fathers stand? BAWWWWW.

After re-watching parts of The Lion King, I can safely say it's my favourite Disney movie. I never truly appreciated how amazingly awesome Disney were during this period. Once again, I must reiterate my love of Hans Zimmer. He really can do no wrong; the soundtrack makes the movie, really.

I'm really happy I grew up when Disney were still churning out amazing 2D animation, instead of the tweenybopper crud the poor children have to put up with today. Ah, childhood. Was it so long ago when you were still with me?

Edward Hardwicke

So I read today that actor Edward Hardwicke passed away of cancer at the age of 78. Alas, the copy of my newspaper was two days old, and I didn't notice. Stupid me. Excuse me while I scratch some dust out of my eye.

But I wanted to say, Edward Hardwicke wasn't my favourite Watson, but he truly was a wonderful one. The affection and warmth he brought to the role was will truly stay with me long after I've watched an episode. For example, that one moment in which he drapes a blanket over Jeremy Brett's Holmes in 'The Devil's Foot' was rather touching, Hardwicke bringing a quiet, calm, dignified concern and caring to Watson. Thank you for helping to dispel with the bumbling Watson, and giving us and him an intelligent, excellent character. Thank you for giving us this Watson, sir!

My comfort is thinking that Jeremy is waiting for him on the other side, with a smile and a hug for an old friend. Rest in peace.

Thankfully, it isn't an actual name.

I had a dream today. Alas, the only words I could remember from it were: "We should ask someone who works in the sex industry!" "But who?" "Why, Sexington, of course!" Hmmm...

Ha ha ha. What a story, Mark

I have an over-enthusiastic fancy for unintentionally bad movies. While of course I'm not in a total minority - the sold-out screenings of The Room at Prince Charles Cinema would indicate a healthy number of like-minded fans - I find that the predilection to watch these movies several times over, laughing and snorting until you can practically recite the lines in your sleep (all with me now: "You are tearing me APART, LISA!") to be less common than I thought.

Perhaps it's my naive enthusiasm that makes me think: how can anyone resist the charm of these bad movies? Some of my friends adamantly refuse to pay 10 pounds to watch The Room, incredulous at the thought that so many people would fork out that sum of money to watch something bad, as opposed to, say, a summer blockbuster. And in one case, the two friends I did bring didn't enjoy it at all, listlessly watching as Tommy Wiseau's pale white ass thrust up and down Lisa's belly-button, horrified, never understanding the comedy value behind it.

No disrespect meant, but they simply do not understand. While I can hope to one day convert them, I suspect the cult of the good-bad-movie is simply like a religion; not only in the sense that we blindly worship its creator and the work itself, but that not everyone will agree to it, nor understand it.

Nevertheless, I will not give up hope. In the off-chance I may convert a non-believer out there somewhere, here's a list of my favourite bad movies. Keep in mind: there are many bad movies out there. Chances are there's a handful of them out in your local cinema now.

What makes these movies special is that they fail in everything: cinematography, writing, plot, acting - you name it, they've fucked it up. Boringly bad movies are depressingly rampant, and just, well, boring. These ones I talk about are special: most are gems, hidden in the mud, languishing in obscurity until picked up and lovingly cherished by, well, people like me.

Another main criterion they need to fulfill is that the movie itself isn't in on the joke. They're charmingly inept, and never ironically so. That's why movies such as Rocky Horror Picture Show or Black Sheep don't hold quite the same charm for me. People like Claudio Fragasso, Tommy Wiseau, James Nguyen - they had a vision, they set out with admirable determination to fulfill it, failed miserably, and they still don't understand - and in that, there is the joke. The rest of us are privy to something the creators themselves aren't. These movies fail so hard, they bounce right back up into the stratosphere of awesome.

The Room

Sure, the story is utterly insipid compared to the rest of these movies, and it lacks the camp factor that makes the other good-bad-movies so entertaining - but The Room more than makes up for it by the sheer star power of its director-producer-writer-actor-walking corpse Tommy Wiseau.

Inexplicably wandering aimlessly from one scene right into another, garbling lines along the way in an accent that even Igor would be ashamed of, the walking mass of vampiric Silly-Putty captivates you every moment he is on-screen.

Of course, there are other classic fails, such as the movie being seemingly made-up of about twenty lines' worth of dialogue incessantly repeated ("O hai", "Don't worry about it", "Johnny/Mark is your/my best friend", "I don't want to talk about it", etc. etc.), plot points and characters that burst in from out-of-nowhere and leave just as abruptly, never to be mentioned again, and just plain bad film-making. Why film atop a perfectly decent rooftop when you could build a set of a fake rooftop, then green-screen the background over it later?

Classic Moment

The two 'o hai's here make up only about 1 percent of all the other 'o hai's that are present in the rest of the movie.

Troll 2

Of course, this really needs no introduction. Troll 2 is simply a classic. It's a phenomenon of its own. Dare I even say it is its own little religion, what with the eating-green-food and annual screenings ? Even the documentary about the film, Best Worst Movie, seems to show a few of the actors of Troll 2 as cult icons; George Hardy (who plays the father), upon turning up at a Troll 2 screening, is lovingly greeted by masses of fans, most of whom seem awe-struck by his mere presence.

With a hilariously tragic and troubled production (that's what you get when you have Italian people telling Americans how to act American, without speaking a word of English) that shows in every second of film, including golden nuggets such as Claudio Fragasso telling poor Michael Stephenson (Joshua Waits): 'No, no, don't act possessed. Too boring. You piss on food' for that one bizarre scene in which Joshua has to get his family to not eat the goblin's food, which would turn them into plants. Or really, just green goo. It's perfectly possible to pick literally any part of this movie and something would be going disastrously wrong. And it's oh-so-delicious. I wouldn't eat it, though. You'd probably turn into...

Classic Moment

...this.

Birdemic

A recently-made movie, and thus a new entry into my list. As internet reviewer Obscurus Lupa put it perfectly: "Birdemic is Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds as directed by Tommy Wiseau, except if Tommy Wiseau didn't know how to balance sound". Seriously, The Room's cinematography and Troll 2's special effects looks decent - dare I say even competent? - compared to Birdemic. It takes a special kind of genius like James Nguyen to screw up even portraying the act of fucking walking.

For once, I am struck speechless. While I can wax lyrical about The Room and Troll 2 incessantly, for the most part, Birdemic is so awe-inspiringly terrible that the movie really speaks for itself. I feel some shame in saying that even extremely inebriated, assisted by a toddler, and with Microsoft Movie Maker, I could still make a better movie than Birdemic. While I am glad for this movie's existence, the fact this movie even got some semblance of funding and actors willing to act in it is so extremely depressing that I couldn't help but weep at the same time.

Classic Moment

But hey, don't be morose! Cheer yourself up. Have a clip of people fighting off .GIF birds with coat-hangers.

Plan 9 From Outer Space

To be perfectly honest, I don't even find this one particularly horrible. Sure, it's spectacularly bad, but the nature of Plan 9's badness I find to be endearing. It is not so much a movie to be jeered and heckled at (unlike some of the other movies up there), but rather, lovingly jibed. I suppose it must be because I've watched too many Star Trek episodes, and am thus more forgiving of vintage special effects (or in this case, lack thereof) and ludicrous sci-fi premises. Also, Plan 9 From Outer Space seems to at least have a vaguely coherent storyline - if not an extremely laughable one - and one or two pieces of decent acting here and there, barring some people, and decent characterization.

Of course, there are certain lines that make you wonder whether Ed Wood was even reading his own script at the time ("Visits? But that would indicate visitors"), the flying saucers are mind-blowingly terrible, and in one scene the boom mic features prominently enough to warrant a credit as an extra.

Classic Moment

Since this movie's in the public domain, you can actually watch the whole thing on YouTube.

I'll point out the beginning narration as my favourite bit, though, with lines such as "We are all interested in the future, for that is where you and I will spend the rest of our lives" and "Future events such as these will affect you in the future". Who knew?

I know there are others I have yet to see (Manos: The Hands of Fate, here's looking at you), but that's the wonderful thing. There will always be more. And as evinced by Birdemic, they'll always be made. Every generation will have one. All I have to say to this is: keep 'em coming.

WOW.

It has come recently to my attention that the young James Brolin bears an eerily uncanny resemblance to the love of my life, Christian Bale.

Pictured above: Totally not the same person.

Seriously, he resembles this stranger more than he does his own son. Imagine if Josh Brolin looked more like his dad; then, The Prestige might have been filmed more easily! (Or not. I haven't watched that movie in ages. Just wanted to make a clever comment. Erm...)

This, of course, means I must now hunt down all of James Brolin's filmography. Also, if that is what Christian Bale will look like when he's older, I could certainly live with that.

Frankenstein

I would say that the price of the ticket was well-worth the copious amounts of Benedict-bum alone, but that would be purely stupid, because that would imply I even knew he'd be naked for the performance in the first place.

All I can say is: I now know what Benedict Cumberbatch looks like naked. There is no smugness in that, though; he was covered in makeup, foetal in appearance, struggling to his feet, limbs trembling, terrifying, uncomfortable, strange. And also, it was in front of a sold-out audience. Although I suppose I could at least take comfort in the fact my seat guaranteed merely a one-metre radius from him when he'd run down the stairs. Heh.

Could I say it is the mark of a great actor when someone like me, so utterly fangirlish, so utterly shallow, completely forgot about my unhealthy love for Cumberbatch because I was so engrossed in his performance as the monster itself? At some points in time, I did remember: I'm seeing him in person! Awesome! But for the most part, I was captivated by the story.

Cumberbatch truly shone in his role as Frankenstein's monster. As Frankenstein's monster, he was perfectly tragic; brutal, vindictive, bitter, yet never, never unsympathetic or hateful. A creature born pure into the world, only to be rejected by humanity, and hate just as he believes humans do. He plays the creature as similar to that of a child, beginning to grasp concepts of morality, never quite understanding them, attempting to adhere to them, but falling so astray. Even when he debases, you hate him not; rather, you hate what others have made him become. And yet, even then, you realize: in the same position, you would have done the same. You would have shunned him, beat him, cast him out. What does that make us, then?

I suppose it may be in part intentional direction from Danny Boyle, in part my over-analyzing nature, but I found Frankenstein to be so complex, so tragic, touching on many issues (yes, even parenting!). Even typical riddles - 'who is the man and who is the monster?' - were handled in ways that made me applaud internally. How ironic that Frankenstein admonishes his creation as nothing but a failed experiment, barely human, having no rights to anything, yet is later taught by the very creature what love, the most human of all emotions, is?

Money very well-spent. I'd try to calculate how many pounds I paid for every minute of witnessing Benedict's bum, but there certainly are limits to my fangirling.

Royal Wedding Rant.

I have the same attitude towards the royal wedding as I do Christmas.

I don't wish to be mean-spirited; in fact, I wish all the best for the couple. I would never go so far as to hope the marriage doesn't last (as one of my friends grumbled, to my dismay) - no, in fact, I want Wills and Kate to be eternally happy together, to have several beautiful children (of whom none hopefully will marry in my lifetime; one wedding's enough for me, thank you) in whatever the equivalent of a white-picket fence house with water-sprinklers is for the royal family.

The essential sentiment of the thing is something I have no problem with. After all, a wedding is nothing but occasion to be happy about. In this age of budget cuts, political turmoil, war, and natural disasters, the least one can do is to know at least one (very, very prestigious) couple are happily tying the knot, looking forward to spending the rest of their lives together.

Actually, I was rather apathetic towards the wedding in the last weeks preceding it. 'Good for them', I thought. It has only been these last few days that the fatigue has really started to settle in.

Everywhere I walked in London, newspapers screamed 'KATE WON'T OBEY WILLS'; 'WHO DESIGNED THE WEDDING DRESS?'; 'BEER WON'T BE SERVED AT THE WEDDING'; and other equally speculative titles. Union Jack flags seemed to follow me at my every single turn. I couldn't walk past a memorabilia shop (or almost any shop, for that matter) without being greeted by rows and rows of tacky royal wedding merchandise. Teapots, teacups, teabags, cutlery, handkerchiefs...one shop even sold royal wedding cereal (guaranteed to help you lose weight before your own big day). Before you could wonder, 'what next'?, there it was.

That's why I still haven't seen what the royal wedding dress looks like. I'm choosing to do a quiet little boycott, and instead try and get some work done. The most I've seen of the wedding as of now were a few glimpses I managed to catch in my half-asleep daze, when my uncle turned on the TV to tune into the live coverage. I'm sure in the next few days, even weeks, there'll be more than enough talk about it in London. Hopefully, in time, the buzz will peter out, and I'll be able to walk around London free from being bombarded with matrimonial news. I can just imagine the headline months from now: 'WILLS AND KATE ADOPT DOG; ADORABLE'. Shudder.

But this misses the point of my post. What my problem is with, rather than the couple, or even wedding itself, is the reception by the people. I find it utterly bizarre that people could be so emotionally invested in something so essentially removed from them. You have no more input or relevance to the wedding than the next person, and celebrating it won't make you any more important to the royal family. People who have camped out at Westminster Abbey since Tuesday, who have flown in and are staying at hotels with jacked-up prices just for this period, just to watch...all I can say is, I simply don't understand.

I hate that people have exploited what I would consider to be such an emotional event. Like Christmas, the essential sentiment of the occasion has been lost, buried underneath all the mounds and mounds of cheap materialism, knock-off memorabilia, idle gossip, and inconsequential speculation. To me, it speaks of nothing but the fickle, cunning, almost depressingly sly nature of people. Can't we just let the royal wedding be enough in itself? I wonder how Wills and Kate themselves feel about all the attention.

Oh, I don't know. Perhaps I am just too jaded. I certainly feel very much like a Scrooge, out to ruin the spirit of the matter. Prapim, stop being such a party-pooper! Prapim, why so cynical? After all, it's just a time for fun, isn't it? An excuse to go out and experience something wonderful, historic, magical.

Besides, it's not like I haven't celebrated or looked forward to more trivial matters with even more excitement myself. In fact, tomorrow morning, I'll be queueing for about three hours just for a chance to buy some tickets for the last performance of Frankenstein at the National Theatre.

The difference is, I might get to see Benedict Cumberbatch.

Hey. Maybe I do understand after all.

The Improbable Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

Actually, this is kind of starting to turn into a review-blog.

This is mainly because I always have strong opinions about stuff I see, listen to, read, etc. but because nobody as far as I know personally usually has the same interests as me, and even if they did would not want to listen to an in-depth rant, in my head they stay, to brew and cook until over-ripe.

Today's book:


The Improbable Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

Anyone who knows me (even not very well) will know I am a screaming Sherlock Holmes fangirl. Having exhausted all the canon stories - by this, I mean re-reading them, some three to four times - I was itching for something to read. Having been recommended this book by an internet user on...FandomSecrets...the book's blurb boasted mystery, horror, and Sherlock Holmes. What more could I ask for?

My opinion is that a few of these stories are truly excellent. I find most of them start out with intriguing premises that fail to live up to their potential, or were simply above-average, but not excellent. Whether this was because the solution wasn't developed or explained well enough, the climax was, well, anticlimactic, or the characters (even when placed in absurd situations) were too out of character, I found myself wishing I could have changed some parts of the story.

Even tiny details I found inaccurate were enough to annoy me. For example, The Adventure of the Field Theorems has Sir Arthur Conan Doyle calling Watson and everyone else by their first name. Now, if Holmes and Watson, intimate friends, are only on a last-name basis, why would Sir Arthur, a casual acquaintance of Watson's, be on a first-name basis? Perhaps the writer was simply American, and did not notice. Even so, it speaks to me of poor research.

In one case, a story was excellent until literally the very end, when Sherlock Holmes utters something so uncharacteristic of him that the rest of the story was ruined for me. Murder to Music had a brilliant solution - with the last notes played on the piano by the dying man a message as to how to thwart the next assassination attempt - but once the identity of the murderer is revealed, Sherlock Holmes does nothing to apprehend him. Now, this wasn't the problem; in many stories, Holmes has let many a murderer or criminal go free before.

However, Holmes says in this case he will not, because to capture the murderer would be an even bigger crime; that is, to music. He then goes on to say that if he had found Watson murdered by this very person, he would not hesitate to dump Watson's body somewhere, never revealing the murderer.

To think that Holmes would be so self-serving, so cold-hearted, is appalling. Holmes, on further readings really has a big heart, and much affection for Watson. In The Dying Detective, he apprehends a doctor even at the expense of a possible antidote to a life-threatening disease being developed, because of all the lives the doctor has killed in the process. To think, of all people, Watson would be one he would be willing to be murdered, is just plain wrong.

This isn't to say they are terrible or bland; in fact, most of these stories are hugely entertaining. I highly recommend this book to any Sherlock Holmes fan with an open mind and the will to suspend your disbelief into strange realms.

Notable stories for me were:

The Horror of Many Faces by Tim Lebbon: I still don't fully understand this story, and I guess I probably won't truly ever. Nevertheless, this story is the one that captured my attention the most, its memory lingering strongly in my mind after having read it. It is one of the few stories that manages to build up such a powerfully evocative, terrifying atmosphere; I could practically see the London fog looming over Baker Street, a terrified Watson trembling in the dark as he grips his weapon, a scream echoing in the distance.

The Adventure of the Dorset Street Lodger by Michael Moorcock: I suppose what I like about this story is it would fit perfectly into the canon. A singularly interesting mystery, well played-out, and with a rather unexpected twist. I also like the little touch in the beginning of Holmes and Watson's domestic troubles finding alternative lodgings, and the leisure-time they enjoy in their new temporary lodgings; it really was quite endearing!

Commonplaces by Naomi Novik: Okay, I'll admit, I'm biased towards this story because it really is pretty much a slash fanfiction. I was surprised myself to find such a story in a mainstream, published book, to be read by non-slashers. Huh. But regardless, beautifully bittersweet, regaling us with Holmes' decision to leave Watson at the Reichenbach Falls. Irene Adler is written very well - a beautiful, strong, clever woman - developing onto Conan Doyle's characterization. I think even non-slashers will find this story enjoyable.

WHAAAAAT.

WHAAAAAAT.

You know, as much as I love myself some fanservice, naked man-thigh doesn't quite have the same appeal as naked woman-thigh. Such is the difference between beefcake and cheesecake.

Especially when it looks likes they've all just finished taking a whizz. Because, you know, nothing's sexier than having just tucked the thing back in from the business.

Granted, this was a Rolling Stone shoot, so they were probably going for some post-modern, ironic thing here in the hopes of establishing themselves as a serious, legitimate band. As serious and legitimate as an image like that can be, anyway.

But I'm pretty sure the question on everyone's minds is: why is Nick's coat so much longer than everyone else's? So much for being the least sexually threatening member...

Backstreet Boys VS. *NSync.

First trivial post. This has been on my mind for a while now.

Backstreet Boys VS. *NSync.

Of course, this is an utterly redundant debate. You may snigger now at the seriousness of which I approach this topic.

Lately, I have been on a binge of nostalgia, and wish to compare. It is no doubt my desperate attempts to hold onto the last tendrils of my youth before they dissipate, and I will hold on tightly as I am able.

There will be no doubt that I will be biased. Me, I have always been one for the Backstreet Boys. But I will be perfectly civil.

Personally, I have never liked *NSync very much - except for that one song, Pop - and a tiny little crush on Lance Bass (hey, come on, at ten your gaydar isn't really well-honed just yet, you know) - nor really wholly understood their appeal, but I can objectively tell you how they are better or worse than BSB.

So, in the off-chance some die-hard *NSync fan has found this and taken offense, please do not. I am merely listing my extremely personal reasons as to why I prefer BSB.

1. Dance Moves

Okay. This one's pretty much a no-brainer. *NSync are the superior boy-band when it comes to the dance department.

Whilst the Backstreet Boys' dancing chops are adequate enough (you know, especially compared to the utter blandness that is Westlife), *NSync blow them out of the water.

*NSync are slick, professional, they have an energy and cohesion to their dancing that BSB lacks. They're very well-choreographed, their timing's spot-on, as a team their synchronization is pretty much perfect. Even individually, each member still shines.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O6XE1XRiLeY (Embedding disabled)

Watching BSB dance kind of just looks like a bunch of guys vaguely walking in circles, pouting and waving their arms about melodramatically; almost as if they learnt the dance moves about half an hour in advance to the shooting. Although, in this case, I'll forgive Kevin; that half-lidded arm-flapping seems to suit him. Just skip to 4:19; a YouTube commenter notices Brian merely sitting, looking around, seemingly bemused, having apparently forgotten the moves.

Point to: *NSync.

Justification:

Personally, though, I don't really care about how proficient they are at dancing. Sure, it would be nice to be able to pull of some good moves, but I find that if one takes that aspect too far (e.g. most Korean boy-bands...seriously, YouTube some) then it diminishes the importance of the talent and personality of the band itself. You shouldn't necessarily need to appeal by having flashy moves if the personality of the band itself is enough. And for me, BSB has always had more personality than *NSync. (More on that last sentence later.)

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Discussion to be continued later with more points. Yes, I am taking this very seriously. It's important to me.

Purpose. It's that little flame, that lights a fire, under your ass.

I've realized there is, after all, a purpose to this blog.

No, don't roll your eyes just yet. When I talk about purpose in this context, it is not the 'what is the purpose of life' variety, but rather the 'the purpose of toilet paper is wiping bums' sort.

It is for posts too trivial, too shallow, too inconsequential to go into my personal journal. (Musings on life and its intricacies, as well as my PMS-induced ranting go there. Perhaps you'd like to see it one day.)

It is for posts too embarrassing, too awkward, too wordy to go into my Facebook notes. I used to write a lot of notes there many few years ago, but have since realized that a lot of them are basically about things no one gives a shit about. It makes me blush to think I used to write all those things, baring my little teeny tiny soul to the mass that is my friends list, then tag people in them. Gosh.

It is for posts that document what I am thinking at the time, little anecdotes, lists, and random thoughts that I would no doubt find amusing later (forgive my poor little mind and its lack of taste) and would wish to re-read and chuckle about.

In most cases, I would write these things down in my note-book, but I find I am hopeless at dating things, and even worse, writing them in order. That is where this journal comes in.

This journal has a purpose.

It is to entertain its audience of one, its creator.

Onward, ho!

First Post. Epic Grandiloquency Ensues. Or not.

Although the likelihood of anyone stumbling onto this is utterly close to nil, I, in one of those strange fancies that takes me just before I go to sleep, am seized by the sudden desire to create another blog.

Why, I ask myself?

It is partly because I wish to put my rants onto the Internet, in the vague hope that someone out there will read - perhaps even sympathize or relate, or even be entertained by. It's basically the equivalent of a 16-year-old posting about how BAWDIFFICULT and ANGSTY their life is on MySpace. No one will give a shit, but there is at least some feeling of carthasis.

Well, okay. Cut the flowery language. Basically, I want to rant, but don't want to rant on my art blog. So this will be my rant blog. Also, my art tutor did say I had a bit of the skill for, how you say, the writing, and I wish to indulge. Otherwise I may go rusty.

In all likelihood, I'll probably even forget I made this blog in the first place, only to suddenly remember and revisit it a few months later, read this super-uncool post, and hang my head in everlasting shame.

You'll find out.