sundries

Hot Fuzz Fan Serivce: this is how you do it. Seriously. Funny, good-natured, non-exploitative and misdirection-free.

Soon (by soon I mean by the time I leave for Zurich, so in the next three weeks), I'm going to post some excerpts from ConSweet and an Io Station backgrounder/episode list I'm working on. Then I'm going to let people who want to loose to play on io_station (which is totally blank, empty and not exciting at the moment, I'll get on that too I suppose). Um... yes. This is either one of those really good plans or really bad plans.

According to the Lulu Title Scorer ConSweet has a 63.7% chance of being a best-selling title. Or something. Yay, procrastination.

I am snowed under with everything right now, although I'm digging myself out from tons of stuff, so if I owe you stuff you should get it soon. Patty was very valiant and stayed up late reading last night while I worked furiously on a screwy deadline.

Where's the outrage around here? Man, I've got such a long list of completely angry-making stuff -- it's not even outrage fatigue, it's like a total inability to organize horror into bite-size pieces for your reading pleasure. Um, once I'm not snowed under that shall return. After all, sadly, it's not like the horror is going away.

On the other hand, I promise you some really filthy recs soon too: the Internet is for porn you didn't necessarily know you'd like.

It's about a bazillion degrees in my office. I'm going for some air while I wait on copy edits.

Please let me get this gig on a commercial for this weekend. $100+/hour for not sex-work is my very special friend. Last time I worked on a commercial was my first date with Patty and I wound up getting golden time, missing our date (how lucky am I that she was chill with this?), making scads of money (about 3K, and that at a rate half of what this commercial is) and having a late dinner with her and THEY ALL LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER.

This is the best song. THE BEST SONG.

sundries, really random evening edition

Today, I am a real actor. I am holding my first residuals check. Which seems like as good an excuse as any to email my publisher and find out where my royalties check is that I think was already supposed to be here. I suppose I should use the teeny tiny sum to actually buy a copy of the movie that earned me the thing, yeah?

Can I just take a moment to say how utterly fabulous Keith Olbermann's suit and tie combo is tonight? Yes, yes I can. And yes, yes it is.

I am working on my entry for America's Next Great Pundit RIGHT NOW.

One of the reasons I haven't posted at great length about healthcare and healthcare reform and the utter fuckery of insurance companies and everything else is, to my great shame, the simple fact that I am overwhelmed with rage and horror on the topic, so much so that I don't know how to talk about it.

What do I address first? That my mom had to pay for her own MRI to be sure her cancer was in only one breast because the insurance company didn't cover it? Or that my health is permanently fucked because our system doesn't believe in preventive care or take auto-immune diseases seriously? Maybe I should talk about how as a woman I have to pay higher insurance premiums because of the assumption I'll have children, but when I explain to my carrier that I'm gay and not planning to inseminate, they still won't let me drop that part of the coverage, because apparently they know more about living my life than I do. And none of that comes even close to this, which really encapsulates the utter fuckery of everything right now:

Chelsea Caudle began signing her text messages this summer with a countdown. At 14 years old, she knew no better way to express what was coming. Day Zero was to be Oct. 7, the day Dad left for Army basic training in Fort Jackson, S.C. He was moving 950 miles from their home in Watertown, 950 miles from Mom.

He was leaving, even though Mom was sick with ovarian cancer. Even though he had been at her side through two long, miserable rounds of chemotherapy. Even though she now faced the likelihood of a third.

In fact, Dad was leaving because Mom was sick.

In March, he was laid off from his job as a raw materials coordinator for a plastics company called PolyOne, where he'd worked for 20 years. His severance package had provided several months' salary, but by August the paychecks were winding down. Soon the cost of his family health coverage was going to triple, then a few months after that, nearly triple again. They needed coverage so Mom could fight her cancer.

Dad's solution: a four-year hitch in the Army.

Are you following the equal marriage rights fight in Maine? If you're not, I don't blame you, as this shit is ugly and exhausting and isn't something we should even be having to deal with. But, alas, you should be paying attention since right now the vote looks tight and we don't have enough election history or polling data on this stuff to have a good sense of who misrepresents what to pollsters. What can you do? Visit Protect Maine Equality and donate or give or spread the word as you can.

A similar situation is brewing in Washington state, which is basically a "marriage in all but name" thing, but is waaaaaay better than nothing. darthhellokitty says get your info here.

Everyone else had already commented on these Ralph Lauren photoshopped ads from hell, but I need to comment too. Look, I'm skinny as hell for a number of reasons including a genetic disease, and more or less that means I have privilege because our society treats skinny people better, and that's its own problem. BUT WHAT THE SHIT IS WITH THESE ADS? It's like someone sat around going "Okay, you know those people with skinny privilege? We need to make sure they hate themselves too. EVERYONE MUST FAIL." WHAT THE FUCK?

Okay, so now you're depressed and miserable about the horror of American politics and culture now. I understand. Go read tw_babiez instead. It's just been updated. (OMG, the Jack/Ianto moment on page 36! OMG, so cute!)

That too saccharine sweet for you? Here, have some utterly filthy porn. That's a link to Endotherm a Torchwood fanfic by curriejean. It's Jack/Ianto. It's porn. And it involves an enema, but like Ianto Jones, this fic is discreet and uptight in all the right ways, meaning it's really, really, I promise, not squicky AND totally hot. Just trust me, okay?

Mere text porn not doing it for you? Or maybe you jsut don't trust me because I rec'ed an enema fic. Anyway, regardless, I ask you, do you know about Male Submission Art? Someone or other in Torchwood fandom turned me on to this site, and I love it so much, mainly because it's so eclectic: photography, art, M/F, M/M, threesomes/moresomes, and everything from fully clothed relatively subtle images to really, really naked porntastic, OMG DO NOT LOOK AT THIS AT WORK, stuff. There could be more diversity on the site in terms of race and body types, but there's some and hey, they take suggestions, so if you send them stuff... anyway. Yay Internet.

Hey, does anyone have a link that sums up the various facets of the SFPA fail going on?

"What do you think I fought for at Omaha Beach?"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GrEbJBFWIPk

A WWII vet speaks out on why he initially didn't understand the question when he was asked if he supported the rights of gays and lesbians to marry.

via virginia_fell. Watch and pass on.