re: neither irrelevance nor home-feeling

(Comments from LiveJournal)

Nicole: I was thinking today, while I was reading said Metro, that I'm surprised there aren't more instances of T-riders beating up T drivers out of rage for what they read in the Metro while they're on the T. I think the Metro is largely to blame. That headline/picture(s) on the front page today was extreme. Every other week it's "they're cutting service and raising prices!" "no we're not!" "yes they are!" I'm kind of tired of getting all worked up over it for possibly nothing. If they do cut nighttime service in half, I will most likely need to find another job. As it is, it takes me 25% longer to get home at night than it does to get to work in the morning...

~*~

I think most people would blame the Metro's tendency to fan the fire before they would blame the T drivers (which is [maybe] why no one has been attacked yet). It's not like the drivers can control their schedule; they can, to a point, so far as efficiency goes, but on the larger scale they have to listen to dispatch. The only time I see anyone get annoyed with the drivers is when the drivers are themselves being rude.

Cutting nighttime service is a mistake on so many levels. I'm not sure how it is on the other lines, but trains on the Newburyport/Rockport line are crowded enough as it is, even later in the evening.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

neither irrelevance nor home-feeling

(Cross-posted to LiveJournal)

The cover of today's Metro is pretty grim for those of us who use public transportation in the greater Boston area. The T has a $160 million budget deficit, and the proposed remedy is service cuts. Brilliant--because if people can't take the T, the MBTA will certainly earn back that deficit. Oh, yeah. That'll work.

More useless complaints:

The T loses money because it's a slow and antiquated system that can't provide service to as many riders as it should (were it faster and more reliable). They spend all their money on cosmetic [stuff] like the Arlington stop (which still isn't finished, though I see workers there every single bloody day), yet the Green line as a whole is entirely defunct--especially at street level. Trains that are beholden to traffic lights and thrown out of schedule by automobile traffic? ... Miserable. You might as well be in a car at that point, and it shouldn't be surprising that some people choose that route instead.

Ugh. And then ...

Entering North Station from the Garden, there were members of the MBTA security handing out fliers of the "See Something, Say Something" variety. Shiny, colourful fliers. I didn't take one. Past the ticket turnstiles, said shiny fliers are crumpled and strewn down the escalator and patching little sections of the floor in glossy scarlet and white, abandoned by their five-second owners. And all I can think is: How much did those cost?

If you see something, don't say something. That takes too long, and whatever it is you're seeing might disappear while you're flapping your gums. Just pummel the perpetrator about the head with a bag (or, you know, whatever's handy). It's faster, more effective, and you'll eventually attract some sort of official attention if you carry on like that.

P.S. If you're the sort of person to actually take my advice, don't really do any of the aforementioned things. I kid. Well ... insofar as safety goes. If someone is physically attacking you on the T (or anywhere else, for that matter), I think you should feel free to pummel away. Self-defense and all that.

...

I also can't help but be reminded of Lovecraft--because I'm still stuck there. Towards the end of "At the Mountains of Madness", the vague allusion he supplies in describing the shoggoth creature is quite recognisable to anyone who rides the T. A man named Danforth, having glimpsed the oncoming bulk of the creature, falls to pieces and the narrator observes his chanting: "South Station Under--Washington Under--Park Street Under--Kendall--Harvard. ..."

We don't say "Under" anymore, but the stops are still there, though Washington is now Downtown Crossing and Charles/MGH has been added to the list.

Anyway, I think the T is a kind of monster--just not as resilient a one as Lovecraft's shoggoth, which is a shame.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

long wait

When I went back to re-read the email that Amazon.com sent me, I noticed the "shipping estimate" for my graphic novels ... September 4, 2008 - September 12, 2008?!

I get that they're low on their stock, but the new stock is coming in (according to the site) during the first week of August. Why the month-long delay? Did the order surge really take them by surprise?

It's not that I don't have other things to read. In fact, I can easily while away more than a month on the amassed unread books around the house. But sometimes you want what you want RIGHT NOW.

Eating wasabi peas is not one of those wants that you should satisfy whenever it springs. Especially not in the morning on an empty stomach.

Ugh.

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I'm already all out of fanfiction this morning. There have been decent ones. There have been pretty awful ones where my suspension of disbelief has threatened to shatter and shred the authors with shrapnel (that's not quite alliteration, but it pleases me).

In regards to recently read Batman fanfic:

Complaints about just one: Clubbing a suspect on the head when he's already apprehended is what is known as police brutality, and the victim of said brutality would probably walk on account. ... It's not up to detectives to determine why or if people are crazy. Change your character's motives, or change her profession. Or stop. Just full-stop. ... And nobody survives being a cop or a detective when they throw a temper tantrum every time a suspects says something unkind. Really.

Also, a general observation--there were apparently a lot of Mary-Sues at Bruce Wayne's benefit for Harvey Dent. Dozens, maybe. I don't know how Chris Nolan managed to dodge all of them, really.

In reading the fanfiction, I definitely get a better grasp of what others perceive about these characters. But, more than that, my own perceptions become a bit clearer to me--what works and what doesn't. What works in the illustrated universe of Batman is not necessarily what works in the animated series, Burtonverse, [then that odd gray period of Batman Forever and Batman & Robin that we like to ignore, though I thought Jim and Tommy did well with what they had], or Nolanverse.

For example, reading fanfiction based on the animated series and using Mark Hamill's Joker--if you try to read it and envision Jack or Heath, it might work. And it might not. Similarly, if you read the recent Nolanverse fanfiction, having Mark or Jack in mind can work some of the time. But if it's fangirl mooning of the PWP variety? Well, you get squicked. Or I do, anyway.

That said, I still can't take Bruce/Joker slash seriously at all. Even with the "you complete me" (which, even the first time around, made me think inappropriately, "I wish I knew how to quit you.") and the "I don't wanna kill you--what would I do without you?" lines. I get it. They're a yin yang, immovable object and unstoppable force, blah blah blah. But I can't see Bruce touching Joker unless it's to clock him silly. Joker/Scarecrow, I've read; and I think it sits better with me because they're both cold-crazy.

But, actually, nothing that paints the Nolanverse Joker as being sexually driven really works for me. The drama/romance/non-con/PWP just doesn't fly, and the writing always goes quickly out of character. Anarchy, the biggest shock, turning stuff on its head--that works, that's believable. And, reading people cite the Joker/Rachel interaction as proof of sexual motives? No. First, he goes after the old man in the scene because the old man sets himself apart by speaking out. He turns his attention to Rachel only because she too chooses to set herself apart by speaking out. The sexual innuendo is merely the sure-fire way to cause the most shock and horror; and he may recognise her as Harvey Dent's girlfriend, so it's also the quickest way to drag the DA out of hiding--which is why they're there, after all.

Tragic and abused? Some writers have taken the story that the Joker tells the mob boss (right before gutting him), as gospel truth about the character, using it to create a more understandable and wounded version of the character (that an OFC will obviously comfort, kiss, and make all better). Except--clearly he's telling stories, as we get an entirely different account of scar-origin during the benefit party. I'm with Michelle in thinking that he probably did this to himself, and just enjoys telling the most effectively horrifying story per whatever audience he has at the time.

OK, enough criticism for now ...


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I recognise people on my commute. And they recognise me. It's a complacently good-natured community.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

pilot leakage

I've been waiting for news about True Blood, because I really enjoy the book series upon which it is based.


And then today I read this on WordPress.

So I checked mininova for providers, and sure enough ... the search results.

I know what I'm doing when I get home.



I've quickly become a fan of the 57 bus. It's about ten minutes faster than the B line, which doesn't seem like very much, but can make the difference of a half hour of waiting at North Station.


Now watching the season finale of The Tudors. It's grim and kind of, well, anticlimactic. In spite of the fact that it's Jonathan Rhys-Meyers--I really hate Henry. But then, that's as it should be.



For the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, visit: masquedbunny.livejournal.com.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

a winning commute

My morning commute ground to a halt at Alston Street. The T driver announced: "There's been an accident at Babcock. We could be here for a while."


OK. Well, I was reading, so it didn't frazzle me too much. Then, after I'd finished my chapter, I looked around and we still weren't moving. So I got off and started walking. I had just reached Harvard Ave. when I saw the train that had been stopped in front of us begin to move. So I crossed the street again just in time to--right, get on my exact same train again.

It only made it as far as Packard's Corner though. "There will be shuttles," says the driver over the intercom. Great. Except that my office is at the next corner. So no, but thank you.

Firetrucks galore, police in squad cars, police on motorcycles, T personnel mulling to and fro, helicopters circling overhead.

Why? Manhole explosion, apparently. And a white SUV rammed into the corner building at Packard's Corner. But this isn't Babcock ... the hell's going on?

I continue walking down to Babcock to the sight of even more flashing blue lights and the sound of wailing sirens. Commonwealth Avenue is not having a good morning. A giant black pick-up truck was smashed into the T barrier and straddling the West-bound tracks with one of its sides bashed in. On the other side of the lanes and half-propped on the sidewalk, a small white sports car with its back end crushed and the myriad contents of its trunk scattered across all the lanes.



When I got upstairs, Sandy and Rich were standing in the waiting area beside the elevator watching the carnage from above. A few minutes later my boss also arrived. And now she and Rich have decided to walk down the block and see the other accident at Packard's. I took a picture from the office. Yay.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

die in a fire

This morning's--because it's early, and you never know, the day is long--"Die In A Fire" recipient is ... [drum beat here]

Ugly-Kid-On-T!

We'll call him Ukot.

Ukot can ...

DIE IN A FIRE

What's the story?

I board the train this morning, pay my fare, and sit down. And, as the T starts moving, I start getting bumped in the back of the head. OK, whatever, somebody needs to catch their balance and this will be over soon.

No. The bumping continues past Chestnut Hill Avenue.

Finally, I turn around to find a bag propped against my seat-back, attached to the back of a college kid who is talking to a friend. And, as though sensing the on-coming confrontation, ugly poorly-bearded kid turns his head and looks at me.

Me: Do you mind?
Ukot: Huh?
Me: You're hitting me with your bag, [asshat.]
Ukot: Well, you sat there.
Me: Yeah. It's a seat, [shithead.]
Ukot: There's a million other seats--

And then I turned around and ignored him; because, really, if he wasn't polite enough to move his bag after the initial complaint, arguing isn't likely to convince him. ... Notably, however, these kids did go away after I turned around. So maybe one of them has sense enough not to argue with me this time of the morning, this time of the month.

[Also, "a million other seats"? ... OK, you must be from BC, with math like that... and maybe you should go sit in one of these million seats, since you obviously can't support the weight of your own bag this morning, fuckwit.]

(WARNING: This entry contains expletives and ill-wishing.)

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

I pick things up; I am a collector. And things, well, things--they tend to accumulate.

I should've left earlier than I did yesterday--my own sentiment and Sharon (who generally comes in at the same time I do, and left an hour and a half earlier yesterday afternoon) agrees. Maybe if I had, getting home wouldn't have been such an ordeal.

By 3 o'clock, the trains weren't running between Kenmore and Washington due to electricity problems.

Instead, there were green line shuttle buses carrying sardine-can-squashed passengers from stop to stop in between. I splashed across Comm. Ave. at the last minute--through a foot of sludge--in order to get on one of these shuttles; and, in spite of there being other people behind me who would've liked to get on the bus too, the driver shut the doors and drove away without them.

And when he let us off at Washington to wait for the T to Boston College, the driver parked the bus in front of another slush puddle. Yay.

By the time I got home, my shoes and socks were soaked through and the cuffs of my khakis were filthy and wet. My extremities were basically frozen.

I changed into pajamas right away when I got in the door and spent the rest of the afternoon and into evening thawing.

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No. I didn't vacuum.

But I did help Michelle take apart the lego couch and then put it out on the curb for trash-pickers or garbage-men to take away. And then we moved the futon from her room to the living room. So that was something productive for the evening.

--in addition to chibi-Strife's pants.



I didn't work on them during lunch yesterday--I just kept getting distracted by looking out my window at the snow and sleet coming down. So I had to finish sewing the front panels; cut out, pin, and sew the back panels; and then sew the front and back together. actually, I left the upper seams opem to make it easier to fit the waist. I have it safety-pinned on both sides right now, and I basically know what I'm going to do with it.

Getting him into those pants wasn't as difficult as I'd thought it might be. But I didn't over-stuff his legs, so they're pretty squeezable and will fit just about anywhere with careful handling.

I was split between starting his boots or his gloves today, but I think I'm going to go with gloves. After the 12-piece pants, I'm just not ready to deal with the boot/shin-guard-process yet. But then, those gloves are supposed to be kind of patchy too. Maybe I'll just hem the shirt and pant cuffs today.

Blah. I'll decide what I'm doing by lunchtime.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...

furries ...

In response to the fashion sense of a woman I saw on the T today ...

The hat was just like that one, and this woman was also wearing a furry vest and fur-lined suede leather boots.

Fashion lesson, children: wearing fake fur may be gauche, but wearing real fur is callous and disgusting. Just don't do any of it; there are so many other textures out there, you won't get bored if you avoid the fur.

End of lesson.

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P.S. Yes, I know what actual "furries" are, but the title seemed nonetheless appropriate.

Turn the page ...

Close the book ...