Well, here's to keeping promises. And punctuality. I mean, damn, I'm pretty punctual, what with this being the first post just a couple hours after I started this little project.
Just don't get used to it. It's still entirely possible I'm going to give up on this crazy idea and flee to a new life with the cunning yet gregarious sewer-folk of Ulan Bator. And by "crazy idea," I mean "medical school."
Anyway, what's say we get proud and prejudiced, eh? I'm going to needlessly gender this just for your especial delight. Yes, you know who you are, and yes, I'm doing this because it is ALL YOUR FAULT.
First impressions about the men:
Mr. Bennett - A splendid dude. Rarely have I wanted to say "Oh snap!" after every one of a character's lines, but Mr. Bennett is pretty darn sarcastic - by which I mean, awesome. Plus, always has his nose in a book, and I get that. I do feel genuinely sorry for him that he has to put up with Mrs. Bennett.
Mr. Bingley - I keep picturing him as Paul Bettany for some reason.
Mr. Darcy - Edward Cullen. If he's a brooding dick through this whole book, I'm gonna shove a Book of Mormon down my throat and hope I choke to death.
First impressions about the women:
Yeah, I haven't the foggiest. I know Lizzie is supposed to be the protagonist, but I don't know anything about her yet. Mrs. Bennett stopped being endearingly fussy around page 2 and is now just irritating. Again, I feel sorry for her husband.
Also, does anyone else think it's odd that the prettiest daughter's name is Jane? Y'know, just like the author? Just saying.
Friday, December 25, 2009
It is a truth universally acknowledged
All right you animals, congratulations. You picked #2. Well goddamn done.
A serial literary journal? I know that it was maybe a bit vague as descriptions go, but does that sound to you like the sort of thing that's going to be even remotely pleasant to read or write? Maybe if you're the kind of person who hammers tent spikes up his nose for fun and profit, or thinks pissing on the third rail sounds like a Sunday afternoon well spent. Not to imply that this will be thrilling or harrowing in any sense. Oh, no no no.
I suppose, in a cosmic sense, we've all gotten just what we deserve. Or, at least, we will once I start yammering incoherently about Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. Yes, you read that right. I'm finally going to have to read Pride and Prejudice. Thanks so much. Assholes. As a reward for your kindness, I'm going to be blogging about it too. So tune in here each week to check on the progress of my brutish, flailing assault upon a Victorian literary masterpiece.
I'm going to try and approach this task with minimal (wait for it...) prejudice. My only point of contact with the work so far has been seeing the recent Keira Knightley vehicle, which I promptly expunged from my brain within five minutes of the credits rolling. So put away your pitchforks and your criterion-collection copies of that BBC behemoth I know is lurking out there in the subfuscous thickets of Taste and Culture. Here in my little glen of ignorance, I will approach the work as but a fawn new-begotten, the dew of parturition still damp upon my quavering legs, a momentary paragon of innocence, without preconception.
I can't believe you picked #2.
Granted, #4 would have been worse.
And as for those of you who chose #5 - which was many if not all of you - go fondle a badger.
A serial literary journal? I know that it was maybe a bit vague as descriptions go, but does that sound to you like the sort of thing that's going to be even remotely pleasant to read or write? Maybe if you're the kind of person who hammers tent spikes up his nose for fun and profit, or thinks pissing on the third rail sounds like a Sunday afternoon well spent. Not to imply that this will be thrilling or harrowing in any sense. Oh, no no no.
I suppose, in a cosmic sense, we've all gotten just what we deserve. Or, at least, we will once I start yammering incoherently about Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. Yes, you read that right. I'm finally going to have to read Pride and Prejudice. Thanks so much. Assholes. As a reward for your kindness, I'm going to be blogging about it too. So tune in here each week to check on the progress of my brutish, flailing assault upon a Victorian literary masterpiece.
I'm going to try and approach this task with minimal (wait for it...) prejudice. My only point of contact with the work so far has been seeing the recent Keira Knightley vehicle, which I promptly expunged from my brain within five minutes of the credits rolling. So put away your pitchforks and your criterion-collection copies of that BBC behemoth I know is lurking out there in the subfuscous thickets of Taste and Culture. Here in my little glen of ignorance, I will approach the work as but a fawn new-begotten, the dew of parturition still damp upon my quavering legs, a momentary paragon of innocence, without preconception.
I can't believe you picked #2.
Granted, #4 would have been worse.
And as for those of you who chose #5 - which was many if not all of you - go fondle a badger.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Vote or die
I'm trying something experimental: blogging by democracy. You, fearless reader, get to have a hand in deciding what I'm going to write next. Just post a comment below with the number of your choice by Christmas Eve (December 24). I will tally the votes and then make a semi-arbitrary decision that may or may not correlate with your collective wishes. Think of me as the Electoral College.
Now, in keeping with the overarching character of this blog (i.e. the bland, lukewarm gruel of mediocrity), the candidates have been cast in particularly uninteresting terms. This is on purpose. Some of them may, in fact, turn out to be more savory than you imagine. Others may not. But just like electing officials based only on the strength in their hand-grip and their apparent ability to protect our realm from fen-stalking descendants of Cain (I can't possibly be the only one who does this, can I?), you may be surprised by the kind of politician they turn out to be.
Drum-roll, please:
This blog should next feature...
Nota bene: Anyone voting for Option #5 should be aware that this blog, unlike certain other democracies I could name, does not subscribe to such silly notions as habeas corpus. By voting, you hereby relinquish your right not to be tossed unceremoniously into the dank nethers of my island stronghold's deepest oubliette, where there are guaranteed to be no ancient, withered husks of men who know any forgotten secrets about any kind of fabulous treasure. There are spiders down there. Only spiders.
Now, in keeping with the overarching character of this blog (i.e. the bland, lukewarm gruel of mediocrity), the candidates have been cast in particularly uninteresting terms. This is on purpose. Some of them may, in fact, turn out to be more savory than you imagine. Others may not. But just like electing officials based only on the strength in their hand-grip and their apparent ability to protect our realm from fen-stalking descendants of Cain (I can't possibly be the only one who does this, can I?), you may be surprised by the kind of politician they turn out to be.
Drum-roll, please:
This blog should next feature...
- A political statement, full of quasi-ignorant bombast
- A serial journal of literary exploration
- A not-very-stunning confession regarding the arts
- A work of unpolished creative writing
- Nothing. Your shitty blog should die, and you with it.
Nota bene: Anyone voting for Option #5 should be aware that this blog, unlike certain other democracies I could name, does not subscribe to such silly notions as habeas corpus. By voting, you hereby relinquish your right not to be tossed unceremoniously into the dank nethers of my island stronghold's deepest oubliette, where there are guaranteed to be no ancient, withered husks of men who know any forgotten secrets about any kind of fabulous treasure. There are spiders down there. Only spiders.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Why Bother?
"After sleeping through a hundred million centuries we have finally opened our eyes on a sumptuous planet, sparkling with color, bountiful with life. Within decades we must close our eyes again. Isn't it a noble, an enlightened way of spending our brief time in the sun, to work at understanding the universe and how we have come to wake up in it? This is how I answer when I am asked — as I am surprisingly often — why I bother to get up in the mornings."
— Richard Dawkins
— Richard Dawkins
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