Wing Commode.

I’m watching Wing Commander because I can. They so fucked up this film. How I don’t know considering the games are basically movies. Why make so many changes? WFT is this pilgrim shit? No mention is make in universe of being able to manually navigate a jump point, in fact, jump points are just things that you move through like you would a door in space.

On top of this there are some excellent Wing Commander novels that they could  have turned into films but no. They had to make this shit. To be fair, it’s okay, I enjoy it as long as I don’t think about the games or the novels. The novels, most of them, are seriously hardcore stuff. In one an admiral orders her son to ram an enemy battleship with his frigate because the situation is that desperate. Every battle is on a knife edge, people are sacrificing themselves left, right and centre, they’d make awesome films.

Also it’s the Tiger’s Claw, not the Tiger Claw.

Advertisements

This is where we are.

 

 

Also I bought The European Miracle: Environments and Geopolitics in the History of Europe and Asia   for £2 which saved me £20. In similar news I managed to pick up Icarus Fallen  for about £2 also and that arrived yesterday all the way from Tulsa County Library. Obviously the good citizens of Tulsa have no interest in such books because it’s in pristine condition. I think basically I’m slowly denuding America of every intelligent book they have given the number of books on geopolitics, or history or economics, or whatever the hell, that I buy from America. I suspect their cheapness reflects high supply and low demand. 

I’ve nearly finished In the Shadow of the Sword  which I’ve enjoyed, but the Channel Four documentary led me to believe that it would be a meatier critique of Islamic historiography. Unless the last chapter is beefier basically it just points out that there aren’t any real historical sources for the first two centuries of Islam and the historical sources we do have combined with clues in the Qur’an indicate that it was written in Petra rather than Mecca. In fact there is no mention anywhere of Mecca until two centuries after the death of Muhammed. 

So I’ll finish that and then finish off Snow Crash. Got some eclectic reading going on as usual. I was talking to S about it and I got the usual reminder that dictator’s bookshelves are often packed full of high brow non-fiction and nothing but. It indicates a bit of a psychopathic mindset apparently. I’m okay though: I have cheesy sci-fi novels and a whole ton of really good fiction. I’d still make an awesome dictator though. 

I’m really looking forward to seeing S, I’m in full on snuggle mode. I’m not depressed but I’ve noticed that my thoughts increasingly revolve around sleep and I’ve started feeling psychologically cold by which I mean the curious phenomenon of physically being warm enough but feeling the need to do things to make myself warmer. I have this ridiculously thick and massive king sized duvet which is far too warm to use really, but I use it because somehow its comforting because of its weight and thickness; I can really bury myself under it. 

Anyway, off to bed.

 

Banging day.

That moment when your co-worker reaches into a bag of freshly donated bric-a-brac and pulls out a revolver. Yeah. So immediately it was obvious that W wasn’t about to splatter my brains across the back wall but it did run through my mind that this might be the moment that shit goes badly wrong after some dementia addled old age pensioner has decided, for the good of humanity, to donate their loaded service revolver/hand cannon. You know, the one that had been kept under the bed for forty years just incase the Russians or aliens invaded.

Needless to say I calmly sauntered across the room, established that it was not, in fact, loaded, cocked it, squeezed off the action while pointing in a safe area and then peered down the barrel. Turns out that it had been decommissioned. Much yay.

Books.

I’ve noticed this thing. It’s partly amusing, partly annoying, partly gratifying. So I was coming home from creating chaos from order and the train was late so I sat in the waiting room and got my book out. In comes a woman; I know this because I saw the boots, I didn’t even bother looking up.

She sits opposite me across the room. I carry on reading. I’m reading Snow Crash  and I’m engrossed in it but I can feel myself being looked at but I ignore it. It’s announced that the train is even more late, of course it is, it’s the UK, no train has ever been on time in the UK. The feeling of being looked at continues and it’s getting irritating, so I glance up right into the eyes of this brunette as she brushes her hair back with a little bit of a head toss. I do my usual thing, count 1,2,3, keeping the eye contact, no expression, then I go back to my book.

The nagging feeling of being looked at doesn’t go away though, so I look up again and sure enough she’s staring at me.

The general observation, though, is that this is to do with books. This usually only happens if I’m reading a book somewhere in public. If I’m in a coffee shop reading my book sooner or later some woman will stare at me and it’s that long challenging stare which is actually a bit creepy.

 

 

 

Hmmm.

12143320_995820303773972_3177352412856452585_n

Have you read any “romance” novels recently? One of the amusing things, I would almost say a perk, of volunteering in a charity shop is that there’s time to sit back and peruse the vast number of romance novels that we have. They come in two kinds: Rich man forces himself on secretly willing woman and rich man decides to support single pregnant woman when he is not the father.

One of the latter type I was flicking through last week and the plot was that this millionaire stock trader had decided to give up his soulless existence and move to a small town. Here the protagonist was a couple of months pregnant and the father had run out. Of course Mr Millionaire Stock trader steps in and pays all her bills and she rewards him with sex. Another thing you notice about romance novels is the sheer number of them. They outnumber any other kind of book by multiples and on top of those there are romcoms with the same kind of messages as Disney and the romance books.

Now, I’m not a social constructionist, I don’t believe that people’s behavior is caused by messages in the media. I don’t believe that if government took over and made all the books and films about women falling in love with poor men that women would suddenly start falling in love with poor men. I think this kind of thing is rooted in biology. Media expresses biology.

I’m not going to deny that there’s a deep cynicism in me about women and money I’ve just had too many experiences where women have flat out told me that they like me as a person but they won’t start a relationship with me because I don’t earn enough. Don’t feel sorry for me though because I’d probably be dead if they hadn’t told me: my early twenties were a time when I constantly beat myself up for being unattractive and unlovable so when women told me, “Look, it’s not that you’re a terrible person, it’s that I expect to be paid” actually it was reassuring.

I remember M saying to me, just after we’d fucked actually, that when I started a proper career I’d have women all over me and in a couple of years when I get to where I’m going I expect this to be true. “What do you do?” is a make or break question with women; the number of times I’ve watched as women go from being interested, engaged, laughing at everything I say to bored, disinterested, playing on their phone after I’ve told them what I do, it’s routine. These days if a woman asks I respond with, “Oh god, here come the boring chit chat questions. I hate people who define themselves by their job. Better question: what do you read?” which normally fucks them up.

 

Life update.

I’m kinda wondering why I am not plunging into seasonal depression. True, I am more tired and I sleep more, but I’m chipper and upbeat, my self esteem is pretty solid, I’m not beating myself up for anything. I’m doing just fine.

I’m kinda pining a lot for Dakota, I can’t wait to see her. I hate the soft sappery that she provokes in me. I hate that this started the moment I saw her. Someone could ask me when I realised that I wanted her in my life and the honest to God answer would be, “About ten seconds after I first laid eyes on her”. I hate that what I want most is to take her to my cousin’s place over Christmas, cook for her, run baths with smelly stuff and scented candles, wake up every morning with her in my arms and spend all day just talking about everything. I want to hear that sigh she makes when I hold her and stroke her back.