I washed the cat today. I thought you should know. He’s good for another year!
Last night, I made up a new term — “Idiot reverb.” I wanted to make sure and write it down so I wouldn’t forget it. Feel free to use it and steal it. I make up things all the time, just give me the TM.
What does it mean? Let me tell you. We went to the Bon Iver show, in Ft. Lauderdale. I know, I know. One day, I’ll stop going to these shows with Jon and a bunch of 19 year olds.
When we go to this particular venue, Revolution, we always go to the second level, the “bird’s nest,” and watch from behind this plexiglass screen. It gives a great view of the stage (you can see the artists before they go onstage, and all the set up by the roadies), and you’re not in the pit with the stinky masses. But you know, I’ve fucking had it with the talking girls. Like the one who plopped beside me last night, with her boyfriend, and proceeded to yack in her girly voice about “Her and him, and then he went there, and I was like, all, whatever, you know he’s her ex, and so then…” blah blah blah, give me a fucking STUN GUN, and then she texted through the whole show on her iPhone. Well, the part I stood there for — I finally got up and left, and found another group of annoying twats! I’m like a magnet for idiots.
Why do you need to go to a concert and sit there and text all night? The chitter chatter, I understand. I don’t like it, but I guess I’m forced to deal with it. You’re 19. You’re socially retarded. But why do you need to TEXT? Are you tweeting? Why? Hey dude, the one sitting there on the floor, reading the Interwebs all night? WHY?
Idiot reverb. It’s all around us, people. I can’t fucking take it. I’m sorry if my language offends. No, I’m not.
Here’s a pretty picture, of the very lovely, the very adorable, the very talented Marce modeling proposal number deux. My deadline, remember, is Friday:
Seriously, yo. With the exception of the slight halo of shadow, that’s the winning proposal picture. As soon as I put it on her, I was like, “Damned, you make it BETTER.” It came out exactly how I envisioned it: A flirty collar to wear over a tank or one of those town gown thingies.
Two more being finished as we speak, unfortunately, I have to model them. The head will be cropped, that’s a promise.
Hey, the summer Knitty is up today, and I have to make a statement. At the risk of becoming the Dame Maggie Smith/E.M. Forster/Frustrated English Major blog, there’s a pattern called “Honeychurch.” As soon as I saw the name, I knew someone was referencing A Room With a View. Hey, great, good on you!
But whatever I might think of the pattern, I really took exception to the description of it and the work that inspired it. I don’t want to write it word for word; that’s not cool. But it said something along the lines of “Lucy Honeychurch manages to find true love despite the interference of her spinster cousin Charlotte.”
Folks, I started reading Forster in the ninth grade, by choice. I have seen both adaptations of A Room With a View, and actually, just rewatched the Merchant Ivory version prior to selling it. I have the book in my bookshelf.
So I feel I can say pretty confidently that cousin Charlotte is a very misunderstood character if the writer of this pattern takes this particular view. Charlotte actually is the catalyst that gets Lucy to realize her love for George by making her remain with his father a little longer in the Reverend’s home before she tramps off with the Miss Alans — she realizes she has missed out on love and is a spinster (an annonying one, albeit) and makes a conscious decision that might not be seen by everyone, but is quite apparent if you read the text, and if you witness Dame Maggie’s marvelously well-modulated performance.
I really encourage a rewatching of the film — perhaps people who are a little younger than me don’t pick up on this. Charlotte’s true nature is perhaps not apparent to the young and über-romantic. Maybe you have to have lived a few years to understand romantic disappointment, and what it can do to a person. How set in their ways they become, and really, how dependent someone like Charlotte was on her relatives for any and everything. We as modern women simply have idea what our foremothers went through to get us to the place we are today, where we can listen to Lady Whore Whore, wear town gowns with no bras, put saucy pictures up on the Facey-space, and tweet all night at a concert. Capice?!
Okay, I’m getting all up on my high horse, and I’m a going to fall off it. Maybe I should be an English teacher after all. Either that or some sort of Maggie Smith scholar, obvs.