naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Naamah Juggernaut)
Shortly after leaving for Oklahoma City and the Nightwish concert with more than an hour to spare, we discovered that the turnpike was backed up for six miles, with no way to get off the goddamn thing. And when I say backed up, I mean that we were creeping along at about three miles an hour for most of it. It briefly opened up halfway through, and we burned it up until we hit another choke point and finally passed the road crew laying hot asphalt.

By that time, we were not just wishing that the people responsible would die, we were wishing that they would die slowly, painfully, in front of their children, and that it would hit YouTube.

I was becoming so enraged that I required enough antilycanthropic serum to make my tongue go numb. No lie. I was deeply glad it was [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva and not me or Sargon who was driving, because I think either of us would have pulled some kind of kamikaze stunt right through the fence on the freeway shoulder and into the trees beyond.

So we got away from the construction, finally, and we realized that we were going to be late. Like, half an hour to an hour late.

"We will never make it," said Sargon.

"Stop saying that," I said.

"I DON'T UNDERSTAND THESE SLOW FUCKERS WHO DRIVE THE SPEED LIMIT IN THE PASSING LANE." [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva said,* and there was promptly a hollow thud as her lead foot hit the floor.

We went about eighty-five most of the way, except for one brief stop to get food, which was made up for by the experience of passing a semi rig in a minivan going about a hundred. No lie.

We were not going to miss the Nightwish signing. This possibility simply did not exist in our continuum, and somehow [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva made the lost time reappear by hauling ass like a Formula One driver carrying medicine to the home for blind orphan puppies with bee stings. It was, indeed, driving like a [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva out of hell.

We got there in the nick of time. The signing was almost over. We were the last ones in line but for two extremely teenage girls and their mom. Close.

The guy ahead of us was, like, 17, and had written the band a letter. It had something Finnish written on it. He had been listening to Nightwish since he was "like, six years old." Thank you, anonymous Okie boy. I need practice feeling old. No, really.

I thanked the band for coming way the hell out here. Seriously, the venue was this . . . this cross between a roller skating rink and a honkytonk bar, with wood floors they use for line dancing most nights. It was really big, but the parking lot was gravel, with empty lots all the way around it and on the other side of the road. Empty lots with, like, yucca plants and shit. Serious boonies. I can only hope that they didn't feel it was too far beneath them. Dear god, the impressions people passing through must have of my state.

Anyway, I got to say hello to Marco, which was all I really wanted, and [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva and I expressed our admiration for Tarot. And that was pretty much all there was time for.

The opening act was a band called Volbeat, a Southern Rock band. From Denmark. That was about as strange as you are imagining. Not my thing.

While we were waiting for them to finish up and for Nightwish to get set up, we ran into [livejournal.com profile] nilesta and co. You know, the peoples who adopted Jack. Jack is apparently doing really well, which is great to hear. It was good to see them, really good.

Nightwish finally came on, and opened with Seven Days to the Wolves. The show was pretty good. Anette was okay. Not bad, but not consistent, and you could hear her bouncing off the limits of what her voice can do. She does not have Tarja's range. I don't dislike her, but I don't think she has enough charisma to make up for the fact that she hasn't got the chops to sing live for a band with as diverse and difficult a repertoire as Nightwish. She did well in the studio for Dark Passion Play, but live she just can't hack it. I have seen other videos. It's not that she's bad, it's just that she's not extraoridnary, and this isn't any ordinary band, this is Nightwish

Marco, who has been in this business for something like twenty-five years, was fucking astounding, and spot-on the entire time. They did The Islander, which sounded amazing.

The band performed Ghost Love Score as an encore, which surprised me (and made me really happy, since I adore that song). Then they astounded me completely and did Wish I Had an Angel for a second encore, which had both [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva and I freaking out. Marco's all sexy growly during that song.

I, of course, howled my motherfucking head off** the entire time. The whole concert. Then double-time during the encores. All that practice in the car apparently paid off. My throat seems okay. Felt really good. Really, really good.

Overall, it was a damn good show on Nightwish's part. Kamelot were better, but fuck, there's no dishonor in that. Kamelot are a class act the likes of which I have never seen.

So I have a signed Nightwish poster, and two Tarot CDs signed by Marco, and a tee shirt.

Major props go to [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva, who carried the day. Really and truly, without her stunt-car driving, we would not have made it in time to do the signing, and I would have been murderous with rage. She also put up with my high-volume howling the whole night. Mostly, I doubt anyone could hear it. That music was LOUD.

It's way late, so I must go to sleep now. And I do it completely satisfied, which is rare enough that I feel I should take note.

It was a good night.

* If it had been a speech balloon it would have had the wiggly, uneven lines around it, like Agatha in Girl Genius when she gets her rant on.

** I do not scream at concerts, because I am almost 32. I am not a man or drunk, so I can't pull off the drunken "WOOOOO!" So I pretty much have to howl.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Naamah Juggernaut)
Shortly after leaving for Oklahoma City and the Nightwish concert with more than an hour to spare, we discovered that the turnpike was backed up for six miles, with no way to get off the goddamn thing. And when I say backed up, I mean that we were creeping along at about three miles an hour for most of it. It briefly opened up halfway through, and we burned it up until we hit another choke point and finally passed the road crew laying hot asphalt.

By that time, we were not just wishing that the people responsible would die, we were wishing that they would die slowly, painfully, in front of their children, and that it would hit YouTube.

I was becoming so enraged that I required enough antilycanthropic serum to make my tongue go numb. No lie. I was deeply glad it was [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva and not me or Sargon who was driving, because I think either of us would have pulled some kind of kamikaze stunt right through the fence on the freeway shoulder and into the trees beyond.

So we got away from the construction, finally, and we realized that we were going to be late. Like, half an hour to an hour late.

"We will never make it," said Sargon.

"Stop saying that," I said.

"I DON'T UNDERSTAND THESE SLOW FUCKERS WHO DRIVE THE SPEED LIMIT IN THE PASSING LANE." [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva said,* and there was promptly a hollow thud as her lead foot hit the floor.

We went about eighty-five most of the way, except for one brief stop to get food, which was made up for by the experience of passing a semi rig in a minivan going about a hundred. No lie.

We were not going to miss the Nightwish signing. This possibility simply did not exist in our continuum, and somehow [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva made the lost time reappear by hauling ass like a Formula One driver carrying medicine to the home for blind orphan puppies with bee stings. It was, indeed, driving like a [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva out of hell.

We got there in the nick of time. The signing was almost over. We were the last ones in line but for two extremely teenage girls and their mom. Close.

The guy ahead of us was, like, 17, and had written the band a letter. It had something Finnish written on it. He had been listening to Nightwish since he was "like, six years old." Thank you, anonymous Okie boy. I need practice feeling old. No, really.

I thanked the band for coming way the hell out here. Seriously, the venue was this . . . this cross between a roller skating rink and a honkytonk bar, with wood floors they use for line dancing most nights. It was really big, but the parking lot was gravel, with empty lots all the way around it and on the other side of the road. Empty lots with, like, yucca plants and shit. Serious boonies. I can only hope that they didn't feel it was too far beneath them. Dear god, the impressions people passing through must have of my state.

Anyway, I got to say hello to Marco, which was all I really wanted, and [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva and I expressed our admiration for Tarot. And that was pretty much all there was time for.

The opening act was a band called Volbeat, a Southern Rock band. From Denmark. That was about as strange as you are imagining. Not my thing.

While we were waiting for them to finish up and for Nightwish to get set up, we ran into [livejournal.com profile] nilesta and co. You know, the peoples who adopted Jack. Jack is apparently doing really well, which is great to hear. It was good to see them, really good.

Nightwish finally came on, and opened with Seven Days to the Wolves. The show was pretty good. Anette was okay. Not bad, but not consistent, and you could hear her bouncing off the limits of what her voice can do. She does not have Tarja's range. I don't dislike her, but I don't think she has enough charisma to make up for the fact that she hasn't got the chops to sing live for a band with as diverse and difficult a repertoire as Nightwish. She did well in the studio for Dark Passion Play, but live she just can't hack it. I have seen other videos. It's not that she's bad, it's just that she's not extraoridnary, and this isn't any ordinary band, this is Nightwish

Marco, who has been in this business for something like twenty-five years, was fucking astounding, and spot-on the entire time. They did The Islander, which sounded amazing.

The band performed Ghost Love Score as an encore, which surprised me (and made me really happy, since I adore that song). Then they astounded me completely and did Wish I Had an Angel for a second encore, which had both [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva and I freaking out. Marco's all sexy growly during that song.

I, of course, howled my motherfucking head off** the entire time. The whole concert. Then double-time during the encores. All that practice in the car apparently paid off. My throat seems okay. Felt really good. Really, really good.

Overall, it was a damn good show on Nightwish's part. Kamelot were better, but fuck, there's no dishonor in that. Kamelot are a class act the likes of which I have never seen.

So I have a signed Nightwish poster, and two Tarot CDs signed by Marco, and a tee shirt.

Major props go to [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva, who carried the day. Really and truly, without her stunt-car driving, we would not have made it in time to do the signing, and I would have been murderous with rage. She also put up with my high-volume howling the whole night. Mostly, I doubt anyone could hear it. That music was LOUD.

It's way late, so I must go to sleep now. And I do it completely satisfied, which is rare enough that I feel I should take note.

It was a good night.

* If it had been a speech balloon it would have had the wiggly, uneven lines around it, like Agatha in Girl Genius when she gets her rant on.

** I do not scream at concerts, because I am almost 32. I am not a man or drunk, so I can't pull off the drunken "WOOOOO!" So I pretty much have to howl.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Lucian Awesome)
Underworld came out in September, 2003.

Note the spike in popularity of Lucian as a baby name around 2004.

Coincidence? I would like to think not.

That reminds me. I need to go sniff my jacket. Yeah. I haven't done that in a while.

Mmmm. Someday, I'm going to have to try to explain the whole obsession with werewolves thing to y'all. Unless, that is, you totally, totally understand.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Lucian Awesome)
Underworld came out in September, 2003.

Note the spike in popularity of Lucian as a baby name around 2004.

Coincidence? I would like to think not.

That reminds me. I need to go sniff my jacket. Yeah. I haven't done that in a while.

Mmmm. Someday, I'm going to have to try to explain the whole obsession with werewolves thing to y'all. Unless, that is, you totally, totally understand.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Lucian Wags)
Jacket 06
This is The Jacket I was so recently fangirling about. I should note for the sake of honesty that my hair does not look nearly that red-gold in person. More's the pity.

Jacket 02
This shot wasn't meant to look like I'm the Mad Flasher, but it does. I assure you, I had clothes on. For once.

Jacket 01
And here we have me looking sceptical. I believe Sargon had just said something waggish. All things considered, this is a very cute picture and I like it a lot. It also features my incredibly wrinkly forehead. I have what several people have called "highly mobile features" which as near as I can tell just means I can make some very silly faces.

There's more in the Flickr photostream, but I thought these three were the most amusing.

It's kind of odd having a real movie prop in the house. I mean, I can put the movie in and bang, there it is on the screen. It's in my icon, even. I hope Michael Sheen would be flattered, and at least a little pleased that the eventual owner of said jacket has a big rack.

And hey. It's the closest I'll ever come to boinking Kate Beckinsale.

. . .

Yeah, take it, you naughty bitch.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Lucian Wags)
Jacket 06
This is The Jacket I was so recently fangirling about. I should note for the sake of honesty that my hair does not look nearly that red-gold in person. More's the pity.

Jacket 02
This shot wasn't meant to look like I'm the Mad Flasher, but it does. I assure you, I had clothes on. For once.

Jacket 01
And here we have me looking sceptical. I believe Sargon had just said something waggish. All things considered, this is a very cute picture and I like it a lot. It also features my incredibly wrinkly forehead. I have what several people have called "highly mobile features" which as near as I can tell just means I can make some very silly faces.

There's more in the Flickr photostream, but I thought these three were the most amusing.

It's kind of odd having a real movie prop in the house. I mean, I can put the movie in and bang, there it is on the screen. It's in my icon, even. I hope Michael Sheen would be flattered, and at least a little pleased that the eventual owner of said jacket has a big rack.

And hey. It's the closest I'll ever come to boinking Kate Beckinsale.

. . .

Yeah, take it, you naughty bitch.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Lucian Wags)
In which I fangirl ridiculously about getting my Lucian jacket.

Feel free to transcribe. I'll be busy. Naked and busy. With leather!

MINE!

naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Lucian Wags)
In which I fangirl ridiculously about getting my Lucian jacket.

Feel free to transcribe. I'll be busy. Naked and busy. With leather!

MINE!

naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Lucian Wags)
Well, I am a confirmed uber-dork. Looky what I won on ebay! Lucian's leather jacket from the first Underworld movie. At this moment, no happier fangirl exists on earth. Seriously. I have so much love for him. Naughty puppy love.

Thank you, [livejournal.com profile] speakerwiggin, for pointing the auction out to me.

Please, [livejournal.com profile] greenjeanz, don't hate me. I promise to let you sniff it or roll on it or whatever you want to do with it.

There was a fight over it at the last minute, but I won. And I'm paying for it with money I made writing bondage ass porn. Sometimes life is just too sweet. Ah, happy, happy, happy! I must now go do the werewolf dance of joy!

(At the writers' meeting. I'm totally late.)
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Lucian Wags)
Well, I am a confirmed uber-dork. Looky what I won on ebay! Lucian's leather jacket from the first Underworld movie. At this moment, no happier fangirl exists on earth. Seriously. I have so much love for him. Naughty puppy love.

Thank you, [livejournal.com profile] speakerwiggin, for pointing the auction out to me.

Please, [livejournal.com profile] greenjeanz, don't hate me. I promise to let you sniff it or roll on it or whatever you want to do with it.

There was a fight over it at the last minute, but I won. And I'm paying for it with money I made writing bondage ass porn. Sometimes life is just too sweet. Ah, happy, happy, happy! I must now go do the werewolf dance of joy!

(At the writers' meeting. I'm totally late.)
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Dude Breakdancing Stripper Emergency)
Yesterday I got my letter from the editor of The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5, complete with check. Actually, I guess that'd be "cheque," since it was for pounds. The girl at the bank goggled at me when I brought it in, and had to call three people for help. At least she knew what pounds were, as opposed to a brainless fast-food cashier I once met who didn't know what to do with a silver dollar, and refused to believe it was American currency. McTwat.

That money should be making its way into my bank account aaany day now. Which is good, because I have almost all of it marked for medical expenses. I have an emergency fund that needs replenishing, too. It's just a shame that I can't use it for the breakdancing stripper kind of emergency.

But I digress. The important part is not the money. It's the fact that I dreamed about riding llamas with Seann Scott all night. It's the fact that Mr Jakubowski asked me to send in something for the new volume. So I, you know, already have. Because I've promised myself that I am just not going to end this year without more sales. The sucky thing is that the only story I have that's eligible was published on a website which no longer exists. I don't think that'll disqualify me, but I still have my fingers crossed.

I also decided that I have stalled enough and printed out the fan letter to Ioan Gruffudd. I altered it a little. It's now slightly more indecent. Yes, my soul is already burning in Hell. Which is remarkably like the post office, actually.

I sent in a pair of 8 x 10s for him to sign. He looks totally hot in one, and like a fashion victim in the other. I adore them both equally.

Because, in the words of some unknown internet Neanderthal, "I'd hit that shit like a truck!"

I tried to be all considerate and send a couple of IRCs along with the letter, to ensure that my 8 x 10s come back to me, only to be goggled at by the woman behind the counter as though I'd asked if she'd stamp my envelope with a live spider. Apparently they quit selling IRCs years and years ago. Which is shitty, if you ask me, because I don't have any convenient way of including exact return postage.

So, denied, I've decided to do what any sane person would do when confronted with such an inconvenience.

I'll just fold a fiver in half, slather it with glitter and perfume, and tell him that I'm a breakdancing stripper.

That way, at least the money itself will be a novelty even if he can't use it for postage because the exchange rate stinks. He can sniff it and wonder where exactly I rubbed it before I stuffed it in the envelope. Hmm. Maybe I should put it in a plastic bag.

My trip to the post office was painful and annoying, as you can see, although I ran into [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva on my way out, which was an unexpected happy thing. I have to go back tomorrow and mail the fan letter, and [livejournal.com profile] shemchadash's box, which is only one day over the day I thought it would be done, but still before my projected "must finish by" date at the end of the month. It looks pretty badass, if I do say so myself.

Tonight I plan on watching Horatio Hornblower movies (Ioan Gruffudd and Jamie Bamber, holy crap!), and possibly something with Michelle Trachtenberg, just for a change of pace, then getting some writing done. Proper levels of medication seems to have tamed my inability to concentrate. Huzzah!
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Dude Breakdancing Stripper Emergency)
Yesterday I got my letter from the editor of The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 5, complete with check. Actually, I guess that'd be "cheque," since it was for pounds. The girl at the bank goggled at me when I brought it in, and had to call three people for help. At least she knew what pounds were, as opposed to a brainless fast-food cashier I once met who didn't know what to do with a silver dollar, and refused to believe it was American currency. McTwat.

That money should be making its way into my bank account aaany day now. Which is good, because I have almost all of it marked for medical expenses. I have an emergency fund that needs replenishing, too. It's just a shame that I can't use it for the breakdancing stripper kind of emergency.

But I digress. The important part is not the money. It's the fact that I dreamed about riding llamas with Seann Scott all night. It's the fact that Mr Jakubowski asked me to send in something for the new volume. So I, you know, already have. Because I've promised myself that I am just not going to end this year without more sales. The sucky thing is that the only story I have that's eligible was published on a website which no longer exists. I don't think that'll disqualify me, but I still have my fingers crossed.

I also decided that I have stalled enough and printed out the fan letter to Ioan Gruffudd. I altered it a little. It's now slightly more indecent. Yes, my soul is already burning in Hell. Which is remarkably like the post office, actually.

I sent in a pair of 8 x 10s for him to sign. He looks totally hot in one, and like a fashion victim in the other. I adore them both equally.

Because, in the words of some unknown internet Neanderthal, "I'd hit that shit like a truck!"

I tried to be all considerate and send a couple of IRCs along with the letter, to ensure that my 8 x 10s come back to me, only to be goggled at by the woman behind the counter as though I'd asked if she'd stamp my envelope with a live spider. Apparently they quit selling IRCs years and years ago. Which is shitty, if you ask me, because I don't have any convenient way of including exact return postage.

So, denied, I've decided to do what any sane person would do when confronted with such an inconvenience.

I'll just fold a fiver in half, slather it with glitter and perfume, and tell him that I'm a breakdancing stripper.

That way, at least the money itself will be a novelty even if he can't use it for postage because the exchange rate stinks. He can sniff it and wonder where exactly I rubbed it before I stuffed it in the envelope. Hmm. Maybe I should put it in a plastic bag.

My trip to the post office was painful and annoying, as you can see, although I ran into [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva on my way out, which was an unexpected happy thing. I have to go back tomorrow and mail the fan letter, and [livejournal.com profile] shemchadash's box, which is only one day over the day I thought it would be done, but still before my projected "must finish by" date at the end of the month. It looks pretty badass, if I do say so myself.

Tonight I plan on watching Horatio Hornblower movies (Ioan Gruffudd and Jamie Bamber, holy crap!), and possibly something with Michelle Trachtenberg, just for a change of pace, then getting some writing done. Proper levels of medication seems to have tamed my inability to concentrate. Huzzah!
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Word count as of this morning: 31,018.

That's sixty percent done. I'll make you look at the word meter later. Because I'm a sadist like that.

Aaand in other news, Friday was the monthly convocation of geeks and gluttony. I was bitching about the cons of not being able to read aloud, but I feel obligated at this point to remind everyone that there are pros as well; the biggest one is that sometimes, just sometimes, you get to hear some really first-rate stories. And everything read on Friday was a heck of a lot of fun. The kind of night that makes me glad I didn't bring anything.

And on Friday, [livejournal.com profile] spacezombie contributed to the downfall of Western Civilization by providing me with a tool for evil: our Christmas present. A region-free DVD player that can also make sense out of video clips and mp3s. My gratitude will have a high body count, I guarantee it.

I can now play all my internet porn clips on my TV, AHAHAHAHA!!!, and FINALLY watch my prized pirate copies of that Tarzan show with Travis Fimmel that got canceled after only 8 episodes. I have yet to determine if it was a good show or a bad show. I couldn't tell you if he can act. I'm too busy looking at him and wondering how the fuck someone so seraphically gorgeous can possibly be a member of the same species as, say, Nicholas Cage, who looks like his DNA has been combined with that of a katydid.

Anyway, this is all to [livejournal.com profile] spacezombie's advantage, as the longer I spend in front of the TV the faster I will be done with his birthday present. Which I hope he likes, because I think it's pretty damn cool, myself.

So, yes, I spent this weekend in an orgy of Brisco County, Jr. and Justice League episodes, with a heaping topper of Ioan Gruffudd. Yeeeah. Guess what came in the mail last week, prompting gusty shrieks of delight? The Horatio Hornblower super-duper-extreme-ultra-special edition boxed set, complete with *dies* interview footage where he's making no effort to suppress his Welsh accent.

This is the part where I fangirl relentlessly. )

I think I'm done fangirling now, though I could be wrong.

I keep promising BPAL reviews and I will put them up, I've just been re-testing a few scents to see what I think of them on a second run. It's amazing how complex perfumery is. Often I'll get a sniff of something and have no idea what it is I'm smelling, or how to describe it. I have to go rooting around, trying to ferret out individual notes. It's wild.

I will profess an undying (heh) love for Zombi, as well as major, major lust for Iago. I see big bottles of both of those in my future, unless I find another rose blend I like better, or something else leather-based that flips my skirt up. Morocco, Scherezade, and The Lion are also beautiful, in a spicy/amber sort of way.

Anyway, enough of my blather. I threatened you with it, so here it is. Behold my word meter.

Zokutou word meterZokutou word meter
31,018 / 50,000
(62.0%)
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Word count as of this morning: 31,018.

That's sixty percent done. I'll make you look at the word meter later. Because I'm a sadist like that.

Aaand in other news, Friday was the monthly convocation of geeks and gluttony. I was bitching about the cons of not being able to read aloud, but I feel obligated at this point to remind everyone that there are pros as well; the biggest one is that sometimes, just sometimes, you get to hear some really first-rate stories. And everything read on Friday was a heck of a lot of fun. The kind of night that makes me glad I didn't bring anything.

And on Friday, [livejournal.com profile] spacezombie contributed to the downfall of Western Civilization by providing me with a tool for evil: our Christmas present. A region-free DVD player that can also make sense out of video clips and mp3s. My gratitude will have a high body count, I guarantee it.

I can now play all my internet porn clips on my TV, AHAHAHAHA!!!, and FINALLY watch my prized pirate copies of that Tarzan show with Travis Fimmel that got canceled after only 8 episodes. I have yet to determine if it was a good show or a bad show. I couldn't tell you if he can act. I'm too busy looking at him and wondering how the fuck someone so seraphically gorgeous can possibly be a member of the same species as, say, Nicholas Cage, who looks like his DNA has been combined with that of a katydid.

Anyway, this is all to [livejournal.com profile] spacezombie's advantage, as the longer I spend in front of the TV the faster I will be done with his birthday present. Which I hope he likes, because I think it's pretty damn cool, myself.

So, yes, I spent this weekend in an orgy of Brisco County, Jr. and Justice League episodes, with a heaping topper of Ioan Gruffudd. Yeeeah. Guess what came in the mail last week, prompting gusty shrieks of delight? The Horatio Hornblower super-duper-extreme-ultra-special edition boxed set, complete with *dies* interview footage where he's making no effort to suppress his Welsh accent.

This is the part where I fangirl relentlessly. )

I think I'm done fangirling now, though I could be wrong.

I keep promising BPAL reviews and I will put them up, I've just been re-testing a few scents to see what I think of them on a second run. It's amazing how complex perfumery is. Often I'll get a sniff of something and have no idea what it is I'm smelling, or how to describe it. I have to go rooting around, trying to ferret out individual notes. It's wild.

I will profess an undying (heh) love for Zombi, as well as major, major lust for Iago. I see big bottles of both of those in my future, unless I find another rose blend I like better, or something else leather-based that flips my skirt up. Morocco, Scherezade, and The Lion are also beautiful, in a spicy/amber sort of way.

Anyway, enough of my blather. I threatened you with it, so here it is. Behold my word meter.

Zokutou word meterZokutou word meter
31,018 / 50,000
(62.0%)
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Suck It)
I know a few of you are in the area. If anyone's out and feels like stopping by to hang or chat, I'll be doing a book signing for Writers of the Future, along with Sargon and [livejournal.com profile] mtreiten. The signing's at Steve's Sundries, from 5pm to 7pm.

Now that's out of the way, I throw two more things at you. First, a recipe for roasted pumpkin seeds, and second, more (huge) pictures of Ioan Gruffudd.

Recipe. )

And, on to the eye candy. Everyone was drooling over these, so I'll just throw the whole set out. Click. You know you want it really, really bad.

Really huge scans of Ioan Gruffudd. Dialuppers beware. )

I've about mined this vein out, so I'll turn you loose for your Halloweeny fun. Costume pictures, people! We demand costume pictures.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Suck It)
I know a few of you are in the area. If anyone's out and feels like stopping by to hang or chat, I'll be doing a book signing for Writers of the Future, along with Sargon and [livejournal.com profile] mtreiten. The signing's at Steve's Sundries, from 5pm to 7pm.

Now that's out of the way, I throw two more things at you. First, a recipe for roasted pumpkin seeds, and second, more (huge) pictures of Ioan Gruffudd.

Recipe. )

And, on to the eye candy. Everyone was drooling over these, so I'll just throw the whole set out. Click. You know you want it really, really bad.

Really huge scans of Ioan Gruffudd. Dialuppers beware. )

I've about mined this vein out, so I'll turn you loose for your Halloweeny fun. Costume pictures, people! We demand costume pictures.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (SexyI)
Okay. Okay. You all remember this little obsessive episode involving a certain Welsh actor, which almost killed me.

It's not getting better, and now that I find out Ioan's been passed over for the role of Bond, I find myself wanting to soothe him with wanton sex a nice fan letter.

So I appeal to you, the more-fannish-than-I masses: where do I find unsigned 8 x 10 photos, preferably studio, not papparazzi? Google only yields a neverending spurt of revolting candid photo sites and semi-literate digital shrines, but nothing in the way of actual purchaseable photo prints.

And just because I'm feeling generous (or cruel) that way, here. Have a picture.



I wanted to MAKE you look at that one, just to prove a point. You can make a sexy man unbearably hot by putting him near a book. Look. Put him near TONS of books and he becomes EVEN HOTTER. )

The fact that [livejournal.com profile] celticmistress sent me a brand spanking new book about bondage is doing nothing to help the general hormone level around here. Thanks! I think.

I'm off to practice my penmanship and my knots. You never know, right?
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (SexyI)
Okay. Okay. You all remember this little obsessive episode involving a certain Welsh actor, which almost killed me.

It's not getting better, and now that I find out Ioan's been passed over for the role of Bond, I find myself wanting to soothe him with wanton sex a nice fan letter.

So I appeal to you, the more-fannish-than-I masses: where do I find unsigned 8 x 10 photos, preferably studio, not papparazzi? Google only yields a neverending spurt of revolting candid photo sites and semi-literate digital shrines, but nothing in the way of actual purchaseable photo prints.

And just because I'm feeling generous (or cruel) that way, here. Have a picture.



I wanted to MAKE you look at that one, just to prove a point. You can make a sexy man unbearably hot by putting him near a book. Look. Put him near TONS of books and he becomes EVEN HOTTER. )

The fact that [livejournal.com profile] celticmistress sent me a brand spanking new book about bondage is doing nothing to help the general hormone level around here. Thanks! I think.

I'm off to practice my penmanship and my knots. You never know, right?
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (You Fool!)
Sounds like the name of an anime villain. General Crap.

Anyway.

1) Saw Mom. She's doing okay -- on some really good drugs, so she's actually in a very good mood. She's been drawing basically nonstop, it's all she really has the energy for. We don't know what her prognosis is. No matter how they like to pretend otherwise, the medical community basically knows jack shit about what is wrong, so we're just kind of drifting in blissful ignorance. I'm fine with that. The chemo seems to be working, though she's pretty messed up.

She told me about the time her dog peed on a Shetland pony, and did not once bitch at me about anything vehicular or monetary. I can safely say she has not been in a mood this good since I was twelve.

Dad is a cheerful maniac. Ever since they gave us the cat, they have had an influx of vermin. Mathurin was a great hunter, you see, and now that he's gone, rodents have infested the woodpile near the birdfeeder.

My dad spends part of each day up on the balcony with a high-powered air rifle and scope, shooting rats as they come to raid for birdseed. So far he has bagged eighteen. That's confirmed kills, not counting the ones that stagger off to die theatrically and are A) never found or B) found and worried by the dogs into unidentifiability. No, I forbid you to feel bad for these rats. These are not the cute rats that nice folks keep as pets. These are greasy, foot-long disease vectors with truly alarming teeth.

I'm considering making him a chalkboard with "DEATH RECORDS" painted across the top.

I'd worry about his sanity, but he's always been like this. He still talks about shooting rats in Viet Nam with bullets made of soap, because they weren't allowed to use bullets that might actually ricochet off the inside of the bunker and hurt someone.

This is in addition to the stories of his unit's token idiot, who once closed his scrotum in his foot locker.

I love my dad. In case you can't tell, he's where I get my extra-strength crazy.

2) If I could have any superpower, I'd probably pick telepathy/mind control. But second on that list is the amazing superpower that a lot of people on TV have. The ability to make your bath towel adhere to your body so it doesn't slide off or down, or gap open at the side. Now that's an incredible power.

3) Finished watching Angel. Jesus Christ. Every single episode in the last season was a really good episode, and they STILL canceled it. I hope they all get puppet cancer. I have now cried several times over a certain Very Spoilery Relationship. I want to kick Joss Whedon in the balls, except for the part where he's the only decent talent in his field. And the part where if I give him a lethal wedgie, he can never make good on his wrongs.

On the other hand, watching 13 seasons of his shows, I can honestly say that it has shown me a lot about raising the stakes when you're plotting for your characters. Never let them get complacent, and never give them a moment's peace.

After watching 13 seasons of his shows, I have also decided that the inclusion of Christian Kane with tattoos was a Very Good Thing. I'm not sure how to describe the look, though "Boyish Country-Western Satanist" comes to mind. Whatever it is, it pushes more of my hot buttons than anything else I've seen on TV in the last EVER.

Well, there was that episode of Dark Angel where Logan cut that guy's throat with piano wire and then proceeded to fight off the redneck mafia with nothing but a shotgun and a wheelchair. But that's a whole 'nother fetish: Geeky Guys Kicking Ass; to wit, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. Also, Dark Angel was a pretty stinky show, eye candy aside. The worst episode of Buffy could wipe its ass with the best episode of Dark Angel.

I'm rambling, and if I keep it up, I'll just start fangirling, so I'm going to pretend this passes for content and turn the slate over to you guys while I get some much-needed sleep.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (You Fool!)
Sounds like the name of an anime villain. General Crap.

Anyway.

1) Saw Mom. She's doing okay -- on some really good drugs, so she's actually in a very good mood. She's been drawing basically nonstop, it's all she really has the energy for. We don't know what her prognosis is. No matter how they like to pretend otherwise, the medical community basically knows jack shit about what is wrong, so we're just kind of drifting in blissful ignorance. I'm fine with that. The chemo seems to be working, though she's pretty messed up.

She told me about the time her dog peed on a Shetland pony, and did not once bitch at me about anything vehicular or monetary. I can safely say she has not been in a mood this good since I was twelve.

Dad is a cheerful maniac. Ever since they gave us the cat, they have had an influx of vermin. Mathurin was a great hunter, you see, and now that he's gone, rodents have infested the woodpile near the birdfeeder.

My dad spends part of each day up on the balcony with a high-powered air rifle and scope, shooting rats as they come to raid for birdseed. So far he has bagged eighteen. That's confirmed kills, not counting the ones that stagger off to die theatrically and are A) never found or B) found and worried by the dogs into unidentifiability. No, I forbid you to feel bad for these rats. These are not the cute rats that nice folks keep as pets. These are greasy, foot-long disease vectors with truly alarming teeth.

I'm considering making him a chalkboard with "DEATH RECORDS" painted across the top.

I'd worry about his sanity, but he's always been like this. He still talks about shooting rats in Viet Nam with bullets made of soap, because they weren't allowed to use bullets that might actually ricochet off the inside of the bunker and hurt someone.

This is in addition to the stories of his unit's token idiot, who once closed his scrotum in his foot locker.

I love my dad. In case you can't tell, he's where I get my extra-strength crazy.

2) If I could have any superpower, I'd probably pick telepathy/mind control. But second on that list is the amazing superpower that a lot of people on TV have. The ability to make your bath towel adhere to your body so it doesn't slide off or down, or gap open at the side. Now that's an incredible power.

3) Finished watching Angel. Jesus Christ. Every single episode in the last season was a really good episode, and they STILL canceled it. I hope they all get puppet cancer. I have now cried several times over a certain Very Spoilery Relationship. I want to kick Joss Whedon in the balls, except for the part where he's the only decent talent in his field. And the part where if I give him a lethal wedgie, he can never make good on his wrongs.

On the other hand, watching 13 seasons of his shows, I can honestly say that it has shown me a lot about raising the stakes when you're plotting for your characters. Never let them get complacent, and never give them a moment's peace.

After watching 13 seasons of his shows, I have also decided that the inclusion of Christian Kane with tattoos was a Very Good Thing. I'm not sure how to describe the look, though "Boyish Country-Western Satanist" comes to mind. Whatever it is, it pushes more of my hot buttons than anything else I've seen on TV in the last EVER.

Well, there was that episode of Dark Angel where Logan cut that guy's throat with piano wire and then proceeded to fight off the redneck mafia with nothing but a shotgun and a wheelchair. But that's a whole 'nother fetish: Geeky Guys Kicking Ass; to wit, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce. Also, Dark Angel was a pretty stinky show, eye candy aside. The worst episode of Buffy could wipe its ass with the best episode of Dark Angel.

I'm rambling, and if I keep it up, I'll just start fangirling, so I'm going to pretend this passes for content and turn the slate over to you guys while I get some much-needed sleep.

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