I feel the need to explain myself, mostly because I feel guilty. I feel guilty because I feel like I should be doing more.
But I am not marching this weekend. I’m not proud to not be going. It is not an anti- or counter-protest. Beginning tonight, I was actually supposed to be in Atlantic City, as far as humanly possible (mentally, at least) from the world, clocking out for a few days to refuse to take part in celebrating the unqualified bigot who now “leads” us and represents America on the world stage.Continue reading I am not marching this weekend.
In which I have feelings about Halt and Catch Fire and the portrayals of science ladies in media
A few nights ago, I finished season one of Halt and Catch Fire. I first put it on as background noise while I was working on sending out a galley mailing at work, because my Penny Dreadful rewatch was getting a little too NSFW and I forgot that I had meant to watch the apparently awful Fleming miniseries starring Dominic Cooper. And honestly, I expected Halt to be awful, too. I figured I’d watch an episode, get fed up, switch back to Penny Dreadful, and just keep shielding the screen whenever there was too much blood and writhing on the screen to be appropriate for the workplace.
But then, a series of magical things occurred. The First Magical Thing was the title sequence. It was computer-y! It had a super catchy instrumental song! It looked like Tron kinda! The Second Magical Thing was the aesthetic. I’ve been describing it — in my head — as Friday Night Lights meets Tron. It’s all the 80s computer goodness you could want, topped with all the compelling character drama you deserve. And it’s glorious.
The Third Magical Thing should have been Cameron Howe, but she didn’t win my over at the start. She looked like a stereotype, to be completely honest — super short hair and an awful dye job, super ~edgy~ clothes, too-good-for-this attitude. I knew she was the young, tech-savvy ingenue, and I found that boring. I’d seen it in all the commercials, and blah-blah-blah, whatever. All told, it took me probably two full episodes to finally fall desperately in love with and support and pledge my life to Cameron Howe, and I’ll discuss why I hate myself for my initial feelings below the cut.
Ruminations on Boston Comic Con 2015, getting inked, and Agent Carter
By now, it has probably been deleted. But for a few glorious hours on Saturday afternoon, an image of my right bicep existed on Hayley Atwell’s phone.
It began months ago, when my friend Aubrey and I decided that we would take ourselves to Boston Comic Con to see the sights. Somehow, in the midst of the discussions of what to do and where to stay, the first thing we agreed upon and settled was that we would be getting Agent Carter-inspired tattoos. We decided on an image of the already iconic red hat that Peggy wears in the first moments of her very own show, with an old-timey-tattoo ribbon bearing a quotes we would each pick for ourselves.
On fictional ladies and why we all kind of suck at writing them, even when we don’t.
Yesterday, I was discussing with my parents a new book the publishing house I work at recently acquired, explaining briefly the plot and what the process is like to take a book from submitted manuscript to finished hardcover. I basically gave them half an elevator pitch — “The diary of a woman in colonial America” — and talked about how much I’d liked reading the book, and then mentioned that the author was a man.
“But he writes it well?” Mom asked.
I refrained from saying, Duh, obviously. Why else would we have acquired it? And instead, I just agreed and reiterated that I enjoyed the story.
“No, I mean, he writes the woman well? I’ve never understood when that happens.”
“That” being when someone of one gender takes a crack at writing someone of another. And it’s an interesting note to ponder, especially in the world we’ve been raised in. How can a man, fighting desperately to live up to the manly standards of manhood, demean himself to write a dainty little wallflower of a lady? (That is sarcasm, please don’t send me hate.)
I know, I know: “But Katie, you promised you’d only talk about the written word and publishing and superheroes and stuff!” Well, I broke that promise with my second post about a certain hawk-eyed actor, so there you go. (“But Katie, that was at least vaguely related to comic books!” Hush, now, children.)
I don’t watch a lot of current TV. I have a tendency to obsess over my shows and love them with every fiber of my being, only to get into later seasons and have them fail me (looking real hard at you, Walking Dead–redeem yourself, damn it!). Of course, there are exceptions. I largely disliked American Horror Story: Freak Show, but I’ll probably check into Hotel. And the renewal of Agent Carter had me turning cartwheels. Which is no small feat. Because I can’t do a cartwheel.
Anyway, my lack of gymnastic ability aside, one of the shows that has truly made me shut up and listen on Sunday nights at 10pm has been, against all odds, The Lizzie Borden Chronicles. Guys, it’s bad. Like, it’s so bad. It’s ridiculously melodramatic and any semblance of historical accuracy has gone out the window. (To be fair to Lizzie, we were all basically warned about both of those drawbacks with the advent of the TV movie last year, Lizzie Borden Took an Ax.) The characters are largely one-dimensional and the plot isn’t really…well-plotted.