rm | sundries

Apparently the secret to picnics is going at 4 and staying til 11.

Because I am vain, and it is, in some ways, necessary, I have Google Alerts set up on my name. Having a very uncommon first name, I have one both for my full name and for just my first name. This has, until recently and for YEARS, yielded me almost no false positives.

Then, suddenly, there were models of dining chairs, tables and barstools called Racheline. And a bra. And a children's clothing line. And a Christian blogger. And a few bloggers in Europe. And now, suddenly it's all false positives all the time, because there are a legion of Rachelines. Why? How did this happen? And can I take the blame?

This year's blogathon is now over. I, personally, find blogathon conceptually challenging in that it's clearly a good that raises significant money for multiple causes, and unlike, say, walk-a-thons, produces material of lasting value while still being a challenge. On the other hand, it makes sites like LJ virtually unusable in the way they are intended to be used for some members. With at least three-people on my friendslist involved in a blogathon yesterday, I have NO IDEA if anything else happened on LJ during that time. If it did, let me know. Blogathoners, congratulations, and enjoy your sleep.

Speaking of sleep, I had a dream about Inception which was hot and bizarre and sort of made sense at the time and now I'm like "wait, WHUT?" I do remember I kept asking myself and everyone else "do you remember how you got here?" and people always knew, though. So fuck that.

Because you care: update on the "Wait, what did Tom Hardy say about sleeping with men?" story.

Long for this World: The Strange Science of Immortality.

The rooftop scene at the Gansevoort Hotel. If I wanted to be in LA. I'd be in LA. The idea that these things are the reflection of the true city, even the true wealthy/elite city always strikes me as deeply inaccurate. Not that I won't see if a random bargain wants to come up on Orbitz some day. But I have lived the glamorous life in New York, and I always bristle when people think that should look like Hollywood East or London West.

I find myself moderately squicked by the coverage of Chelsea Clinton's wedding. It's talked about as if it means she's a real person now. Now, arguably, this may be one of the first times people have managed to see her in a light other than the first daughter, so perhaps so, but as much as I like big parties and fancy clothes my feminism always balks at the idea that a moment of this nature matters more than the lifetime in which it is contained.

Before people yell at me: I am not anti-marriage or anti-weddings. I'm just squicked by how the discourse about them tends to go and tends to makes everyone uncomfortable in a myriad of different ways.

TW fic rec: Bucket List by