On Saturday Lizz went away to a teacher-training conference. She took the cellphone with her. Ain't no real phone in the apartment. On Sunday morning, the Internet connection stopped working. I hadn't done anything to it. This morning, it started working again. I hadn't done anything to it (well, not anything that had WORKED, and that included restarting the computer and the modem). Ah, sweet mystery of life. I blame gremlins.

I was Internetless for (counts on fingers) three days, which was long enough for some people to get very worried about me. I'm normally such a communicative little mite. It was very strange and dull not to be able to just click or type to whatever webpage I chose; not to be able to look up information on a movie at imdb.com or write an entry here or see what's new and actually not sucky in the Byzantine world of Sailor Moon webpages. And I didn't have most of the usual alternatives: can't phone people, no phone; can't bake, kitchen not equipped for baking as Lizz is not a baking person; can't drive somewhere, not licensed for American roads and Lizz took Jimmy the car anyway. So I sewed my Celena Schezar dress for AX2002, and I watched a schload of DVDs and videos.

The dress is looking pretty good, adapted from a simple Butterick sundress pattern. I had to sacrifice the pockets when it became obvious that Mr Butterick measured a woman (or possibly a teenage boy) with hips and a bottom of roughly the same circumference as her waist. I do not conform to that model, so I had to insert triangular panels in the side seams to flare the skirt a bit. I just need to adjust and finalise the length of the shoulder-straps and hem, which I'll do when Lizz comes home and can help me, because that part of dressmaking is damnably difficult solo and without a dummy-form.

Oh, and work out how to create the shawly bits that fall from her shoulders at the back, but that's another kettle of fish.

Very Odd Thing: If you devotedly collect Escaflowne artbooks, and Lizz does, you can find sketches by Nobuteru Yuuki, Kimitoshi Yamane (that was the mech designer, right?) and, um, whoever did the scenery and furniture and stuff, showing absolutely everything in the world of Gaea. Detail on a level to satisfy Tolkien, or even the Comic Book Shop Guy from The Simpsons. But not a single sketch appears to exist of Celena's Zaibach garden dress, the one I'm attempting to copy. You can find a prototype sketch of Allen Schezar wearing a beret. (Ohohaw, cherie!) You can find a precise diagram of Hitomi's pager, complete with dolphin-shaped pocket clip. You can find Dryden Fassa's signet ring and Hitomi in her underwear. (I'm not telling you where, ecchi.) But not this dress. There's a sketch of Celena wearing Dilandau's shirt and pants; there's a detailed headshot of her; but not this dress. I'm starting to suspect that it wasn't formally designed at all but somehow made up on the fly. Don't know what was going on there. You wouldn't censor an image from an artbook for fear of 'spoilers'; things from right through the series are allowed to be in there. And Celena in her sundress doesn't exactly spoil anything. What gives? I don't know. It's just a challenge in the life of a cosplayer - and a fanfic writer more than usually associated with Celena. I really must hurry to complete my Sock Gaddes doll. His debut is planned for Otakon, in Baltimore this August. It's August, isn't it? Or is it later in July? Doesn't matter, I'll just get in the car when Lizz says we're going.

Sarah checking in. Staying with Lizz is great. We sit up late drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade and watching Law and Order marathon-style by cunning strategic channel-changing. Do you remember an episode of Seinfeld in which Elaine, who happens to have a copy of TV Guide with her when riding on the subway, is accosted by a strange little man who shows her how, by tracking all the different channels that play I Love Lucy, she could watch the show 24 hours a day? You can do that with Law and Order too. Lizz's man is Jerry Orbach. He rocks her world. He did the voice of Lumiere the candlestick in Beauty & the Beast so I think he's cool too. I wish he would sing with a French accent to some of the perps.

But we don't watch L&O 24/7, having plenty of other activities - and even when we have the TV on, we vary it with such healthy viewing as Texas Justice, COPS, MAD TV, Jerry Springer and Sailor Stars.

Let's see, what else do we get up to? We visited puppies at a pet shop! I'm making Sock Gaddes (see Adventures of Sock Ally). The hardest part was hinging his groin (I wimped out and asked Lizz to fix it for me, because I wasn't brought up properly and am not much of a needlewoman) but the most time-consuming part is rooting his hair, which I am doing myself. Root root rooty, I go. We're also working on costumes for the Anime Expo. Lizz's Merle outfit is well underway - she made a kickass tail last night, and today she's putting the spots on the orange A-line dress. The only big things left are the shoulder, wrist and ankle puffs (made from white marabou feathers)and the ears, which will be a Task. Tomorrow, we're going to buy the fabric for my Celena Schezar dress (the one she wears in the garden in Zaibach for her infamous escargot scene, observed by an increasingly unnerved General Adelphos). I was going to be Princess Millerna, but have you tried to figure out her pink blouse? Maybe next year. Celena's sundress is a nice, simple pattern that even newbie me can probably sew without too much trouble. Whee, lookin' forward to wearing the thigh-high green socks (which I will have to dye). The problem with thigh-highs is that they always slide down, no matter how strong their elastic is or how thin your legs are. I plan to stand stock still and yell 'Jajukaaaaaaaa! My socks are falling off!' and wait for someone to come help me *^.^* Or maybe not, because I don't want my friends to ditch me.

I've developed a worrying tendency to sleep till noon. I think the late nights and hard lemonade have something to do with it, and of course you can do that type of thing in summer vacation. However, I don't feel very good about it - it's going to mess up my metabolism and I'm wasting half a day of my life at a time.

Further updates as exciting events warrant.

I'm in Alabama! And pleased to be here!There's something you don't hear every day.

The flight was long, long, long. Well actually there were three flights. The major long haul was from Auckland to LAX. I was lucky (mostly because it was a Monday flight and most people don't fly then, although you get a cheaper rate because, well, it's Monday and they want to tempt you to fill their damn plane so they don't have to take it over to Los Angeles at a loss to pick up the people who want to come home or visit us)and had a window seat with the next two seats empty for my use, so I was able to actually LIE DOWN TO SLEEP, a joy you seldom experience in economy class unless you're a baby who can lie at full length on the cushion of one seat. Speaking of babies, there were either none on my flight or they kept their traps shut, so there was no screaming to keep me awake, also a big bonus. Just the constant roar of the engines. Can they really truly not make 747 engines that run more quietly? Or build 747 cabins with some soundproofing? It'd be nice.

The first hint I had that all was not to go totally smoothly was when I was filling out my Customs and Immigration forms shortly before arrival in LA. Now, my friend Lizz, with whom I'm staying, was going to come to the airport to collect me when I arrived in Alabama. So I didn't need her address to tell to a taxi driver or anything. And somehow my brain had turned this into 'don't need her address' full stop - I had left that bit of paper at home. So for 'contact address in the US' I had to put my foster sister Karen's addy up in Maryland. Karen and I are hoping to touch base and have some fun together while I'm here, but we have no concrete plans yet, so this was a bit of a fudge. (Like they ever check, anyway. You could put '1700 Pennsylvania Avenue' and I bet all they'd register is that yup, there's an address in the space. (And if they got snotty, you could get snotty back and say 'Oh, you have a list of every single one of Chelsea's friends on your little screen there?')

Now this meant that I didn't have Lizz's phone number, which was on the same piece of paper. Well, that didn't matter, did it? It did once I got to LAX, where getting through Customs took so long that I missed my planned connection flight, which should've taken me to Dallas (Fort Worth) and then on to 'bama. Fortunately the nice airport people automatically booked me onto the next connection, but this now meant I went via Memphis, Tennessee and would arrive at 10:30 PM instead of 9:00.

And I couldn't call Lizz and tell her about it. With an hour and a half's difference and me coming on a different airline (Northwest not Delta), there was no way she could find out about the change.

Ohhhhhhhhhhh... dear.

I thought I would be able to make phone calls from the little seat-back phones which I remembered being on board American domestic planes, but my memory was from 2000, and according to my Northwest flight attendant, these have been 'disactivated.' I don't know if this is a 9/11 aftereffect or what, but it really steamed my buns. I just had to sit tight and hope that I would have time in Memphis to make the requisite calls.

I did have time. But I was screwed a whole new way. I have a New Zealand Telecom calling card, which means that I can enter a card number and PIN from any phone in the world (dialling the NZ Direct hotline first) and the cost of the call will be billed to my parents' Telecom account back home. But either I've misremembered my PIN, or because it's been inactive for many months my account has been cut off, because I couldn't get the NZ Direct system to accept what I entered no matter what I did. I was beginning to feel desperate. I needed to phone my mother, who had a copy of Lizz's contact details. At this time of day in New Zealand (I do know the conversion rate) she would still be at work, at Shelly Park School. And the school phone is answered by a machine that gives you touchtone menu options - you cannot get through to a human who will accept a collect call. The AT&T operators couldn't help me, then. I ended up bursting into tears to a NZ Direct operator, who turned wise and kind and through a series of calls back and forth from her own desk, made contact with my mother, and although Wendy didn't actually have the number with her to pass on to me, the operator was able to give her my message to call Lizz when she got home and let her know about the rescheduled arrival. Once that was all sorted out I just went kind of limp. It was easy to go limp in Memphis, Tennessee because it was huuuuuuuuuuumid.

Against all odds I managed to miss Lizz at the airport. I had never heard of an airport where people could meet visitors directly out of the gate, before they went through baggage claim, so I steamed right out of the gate not even looking for her and went straight downstairs for my bigass suitcase. Because I am invisible in public places unless I'm having some sort of embarrassing accident or with someone who is behaving like a wiener, Lizz couldn't see me. She eventually came down and found me sitting in the main foyer with all my worldly goods about me, feeling more forlorn by the half-minute. A bit like Paddington Bear.

But after that of course everything was all right.

Tomorrow, in the late afternoon, I will leave my home and my country and go to start a new phase of life in America.

Yeah, shitting bricks, thanks for asking. But committed to it now and looking forward to a lot of it. It's just the regret of leaving good things behind.

My whole family, for one!

Anyway, this is why I may be difficult to reach over the next few days. Lotta stuff to do.

There are some things that no-one should do. They just shouldn't. It's a bad idea. No good will come of it. There'll be tears before bedtime. But a worrying number of people appear to have thought, historically, and think, contemporaneously, that they are good ideas. For the sake of clarity, and in the hope that in this way I can turn a few sets of feet back to the path of righteousness, here is a small list of things that no-one should do.

- Deliberately breed an animal to be hairless. Or featherless. You are not doing them, or us, any favours.

- Click through all the TV channels when you have been ASKED not to.

- Tamper in God's domain. This includes but is not limited to creating the world, making animals rise out of the ground, talking to people from inside burning bushes and getting them all worked up, and getting other people's fiancées pregnant.

More as events warrant.

Thoughts on the Saturday Morning album.

I think I bought this album in some godforsaken holiday town in the off-season. Tauranga, that was it. It's one of my all-time favourite CDs, full of songs that make me jump around. If there are a few duds that I habitually skip, well, the overall quality of the album is extremely high. Track by track:

The Tra La La Song (One Banana, Two Banana) - Lizz Phair with Material Issue - Terrific opening number which kicks the album into sugar-high purple and orange whizz mode. My father always sings along with this one and I don't really understand why; I think The Banana Split Show was on TV when he was at university, and there may be a banana spliff story behind this, if you catch my meaning. The tra la las are brilliant fun and the enthusiasm is infectious. I think it's important that the first band you hear on the CD don't appear to find the project 'ironic' - they just fling themselves into it and it sounds like they're having fun too.

Go Speed Racer Go - Sponge - More high-energy stuff, driven along by the drums. I can't think of much to say about it except that of course it's old-school anime and while I was listening to this I imagined Van Fanel whining 'Why couldn't I have a cool mysterious long-lost older brother like Racer X!?' Poor Folken; by definition he cannot win. And now I'm imagining a Natalie Imbruglia cover of the 'Escaflowne' theme, and I should get back on topic. Nice race-car noises from the geetars.

Sugar Sugar - Mary Lou Lord with Semisonic - The guy with glasses from Semisonic is hot. I just wanted to say that. I love the whole sound of this song; it helps that I always had a soft spot for the original. The gender inversion works totally unobtrusively (for people going 'huh?' it was originally about a candy girl) and overall it's a real Pink Sugar Heart Attack of a track. Oh great. Now I can see Chibi-Usa and Perle dancing to this.

Scooby-Doo, Where Are You? - Matthew Sweet - A very mellow, cruisy-sounding rendition of this theme. The lack of Casey Kasem yodelling 'Scooby-Doo, where are you!?' at the beginning is sorely felt. If you can make a criticism of Sweet's handling of the song it's that he hasn't really made it his own; if you listen to the original theme song this is a pretty straight cover and doesn't really retwizzle anything.

Josie and the Pussycats - Juliana Hatfield and Tanya Donnelly - Having a sister, I'm fond of Juliana Hatfield. And I'm all in favour of a song in which a girl band invite listeners to 'groove with us in Bangkok.' Now that's classy. But I really don't get the Pussycat ethos. Listen to the lyrics - 'no time for purrs and pats, won't run when they hear scat.' Clearly they're trying to set themselves up as tough, spunky young women, positive role models for the girl-power generation. In which case why do they wear leopard-print leotards, tails and kitty ears to perform? Confusing. Mm. But I always loved how, in the comic books, Melody's speech bubbles had musical notes in them to show her musical voice. I'm a sucker for typographical play like that in comic books - when Goscinny and Uderzo use Gothic type to show a character is speaking Gothic, or Neil Gaiman and whoever colour Delirium's bubbles rainbow and write Desire's speech in that neat curly text to show that they have special voices, I think 'Right on!'

The Bugaloos - Collective Soul - Maybe it's just because I'd never heard of the Bugaloos before I bought this album, and thus have no affection for the song, but this has never grabbed me. Maybe it's because Collective Soul's raspy vocalist really doesn't suit the innocence of this song. Anyway, it's no ball of fire.

Underdog - Butthole Surfers - I love the histrionic/dramatic/operatic tone this arrangement achieves. And I'm in favour of more superheroes who are dogs. But I don't have much else to say about it. Butthole Surfers, obviously, is a brilliant band name.

Gigantor - Helmet - I practically never listen to this all the way through. It's just messy noise. A guy from the band, in the liner notes, says 'Helmet does "Gigantor" surf-style. It rocks.' Maybe I'm trapped in the 60s but this sounds like punk, not surf, and not even good punk. Also, I don't know jack about Gigantor and I'm happy that way.

Spider-Man - the Ramones - my favourite song on the album, and an interesting older-generation contribution. There is nothing cooler in the world than Joey Ramone singing 'Is he strong? Listen, bud, he's got radioactive blurd.' They drive the song along with a fierce energy that is also what I like about Nerf Herder's theme for Buffy the Vampire Slayer. You can believe that this song is about someone who can kick evil butt. I'm glad life is not a great big bang-up for me but the Ramones make it sound good. It's a crime that this is not on the new movie soundtrack.

Jonny Quest/Stop That Pigeon! - Reverent Horton Heat - Another superb band name. I could have done without the Jonny Quest theme but I love their version of 'Stop That Pigeon!' and have a plan for a very evil Escaflowne music video using it... but I've said too much...

Open Up Your Heart and Let the Sun Shine In - Frente! - This song is really, really weird when you think about it. 'My mommy told me something a little kid should know, it's all about the Devil.' Whoa! Stop right there, little missy. It's bizarre how much emphasis this song lays on that gentleman and his habits, without ever clearly defining the alternative. Sunshine and smiling? That's all we've got against Satan!? At least he doesn't seem too threatening in this song's theology. Really kind of a schmoe - like the devil in that bizarre Mexican Santa Claus movie they did on MST3K. A very cutesy-poo rendition of a very cutesy-poo song. I adored Frente! when I was about fourteen but I have a lower tolerance for that little-girl voice now.

Eep Opp Ork Ah-Ah (Means I Love You) - Violent Femmes - A great song in its own right, well performed. But is this really what pop music is going to be like in the far future? And could George Jetson really play the drums?

Fat Albert Theme - Dig - I don't know about you but I've never really gone in for obese moralistic street kids in my animated entertainment. And I skip this song.

I'm Popeye the Sailor Man - face to face - I admire their restraint in not singing the 'I turned on the heater and burned off my wiener' version. I love this track; they do weird things with a simple tune and push it to its limits. The whistle at the end sounds like an exhausted gasp with good reason. Popeye thrashes.

Friends/Sigmund and the Seamonsters - Tripping Daisy - 'Friends' sounds great, trippy and sandy, but they should have stopped there. I just get very tired of the name 'Sigmund.'

Goolie Get-Together - Toadies - I can never get past this song's title. I know it's a misspelling of 'ghoulie' but in the form of English I speak goolies are testicles. Lame-ass song anyway. 'You'll be glad to know they love you too'? I will? I don't even know these people.

Hong Kong Phooey - Sublime - A true jewel of this album. It's very Sublime in style and it rocks right through. My sister's favourite. I always maintain that Data naming his cat Spot in Star Trek: the Next Generation was a reference to Hong Kong Phooey's sidekick.

H.R. Pufnstuf - the Murmurs - Interesting. The Murmurs sound like they're on witchypoo's side *^.^* 'He can't do a little cause he can't do enough'? Rip off the Indian monkeygod Hanuman, why don't we?

Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy - Wax - This cover of a recent cartoon song is out of place on a CD of old favourites, and I think it should really have been left off. Ren and Stimpy are too postmodern and 'ironic' to sit well with irony-free stuff like, well, nearly everything else on this album. The vocalist certainly gets into the spirit, though.

Tonight we had a girls' night in at Harriet's place. We fed upon KFC and watched a video - we wanted Romy & Michele's High School Reunion but it wasn't available and we ended up renting The Princess Diaries. It was a sweet, entertaining film and the young lead was very appealing, but I must just say that there is something deeply weird about the priorities of a movie in which Mandy Moore and Julie Andrews both appear, Mandy sings, and Julie does not.

There was also a scene in which Anne Hathaway's character gave Mandy Moore's high-school queen bee a richly-deserved trouncing, but her final demolishing line was ruined because she really should have called her a bitch. But it was a Disney family movie. She had to say 'jerk.' We lamented this.

My Lesbian Subtextometer also registered a ping! during the movie. Mia, the heroine, believes that when a girl receives a really meaningful kiss her 'foot pops' - that is, she kicks up one foot behind her, as in a million old movies. Well, there's one scene in which she hugs her best friend Lilly and her foot majorly pops. She's supposed to be falling in love with Lilly's brother, and musters a footpop when they kiss at the end of the movie, but this is slow and shaky. With Lilly, it's instantaneous, spontaneous and full of vim. What, gentle reader, are we to think?

We all thought the brother was cute, though. Like Ringo Starr only less so.

I'm in a bad mood so here is a list of Things That Suck:

- When people try too hard to be clever with the design of their websites and the results work only in their browser on their computer and I'm just guessing about that. In the last couple of days I've kept blundering into sites (the vast majority being anime fandom sites) with frames layouts that Just Didn't Work. They looked beautiful when they first loaded, compact, cute, edgy, but you couldn't get around in them. Scrollbars didn't scroll. Links didn't link. I share the longing to be clever. I share the dream of being able to fit a lot of stuff, functionally, into a relatively small, high-impact interface. I've tried to do it, failed, and had to change to a simpler layout with grumbles of chagrin. Just deal, people. Frames are not reliable. Grr.

- Vacuuming the house makes me hot and sweaty.

- My cat kills birds and brings them into the house and gnaws their heads off, leaving the bodies, and I have to clean them up.

- My hair isn't curly, isn't straight, isn't recognisably wavy. I can never get both sides to either tuck under or kick out the same way, or rather opposite ways so that they mirror one another. Consequently, when it's short, my hair tends to look as if it's saying 'They went thataway!'

- I am too short to get things down from high shelves.

- When I see a photo of me smiling I'm afraid I've just scared all the people I've smiled at in real life because when I smile I apparently look as if I am just thinking of my Evil Masterplan. My mouth curls up at the corners in a really sinister way.

- Ewan McGregor is already married.

- Lladro figurines.

- I want to have a tattoo but don't want to get a tattoo.

- There is no paracetamol in America. Even my cousin Vicki who's a nurse hasn't heard of it.

- Eating my crusts did not make my hair grow curly. (See above.)

- The sight of dead moths inside a translucent light fixture.

- Not only do I have to be constantly aware of the need to use condoms to avoid sexually transmitted disease, on the south/east-bound motorway in Auckland, just by the Remuera Rackets Club, I think, there's a huge anti-meningococcal meningitis billboard saying 'Don't Share Spit.' What, now we're supposed to kiss through dams!?

- Cats can't blow their own noses, so when they get any illness that stuffs up their noses with snot, they tend to die because they won't taste food or water that they can't smell. Worse, they can't blow their noses even if you hold a tissue for them. I really wish cats could blow their noses.

Reety awrighty, I sold my car! 'ray! 'ray!

It's being bought by a nice old coot on the North Shore called Hugh. I'm getting MONEY! I'll be able to DO STUFF! I'll be able to GO!

Kay, things that piss me off:
'fans' with an attitude problem.

This is an email I got today (identifying details removed to protect the guilty):

Um......ok...ok
I just wanted to say that you`re keeping your fans waiting, you really need to speed it up with stars on heart,ok. i sent you an e-mail that said to speed it up(a little bit of yelling in it to) some of us have been waiting for six mouths(i am serious). so speed up.

from your biggest scars and stars on heart fan,

(name)

It's extraordinary the number of people who do not appear to realise that people who write fanfics or maintain fan sites do not get paid for it and are under no obligation to anyone but themselves to keep doing so. These 'fans' appear to feel that we owe them something more because we offered them something in the first place. I write fanfiction for fun. If I don't feel it's fun - if I can't come up with a good idea for the next bit, if I get fed up with the story, if people hassle me about it - I stop, secure in the knowledge that it doesn't matter because, for crying out loud, it is only fanfic. No-one needs to read my stories. The world might be in much better shape if a few more people would sit down and read Dickens, but that's a little beside my point.

What particularly gets me is, 'i sent you an e-mail that said to speed it up(a little bit of yelling in it to) some of us have been waiting for six mouths(i am serious). so speed up.'

What kind of powers does this person think s/he has? Because s/he yelled at me, I should have leapt to my feet and done something? 'i am serious'? Is this a threat? Speed up or else what? This person is taking the whole thing miles too seriously. I regret that people interested in how the story is going to turn out have had to wait, but it's not breaking my heart, and if they have any sense (and any other interests in life) it's not breaking theirs either.

I'm not under contract here. There is no deadline. And the story is truly not good enough to warrant getting upset about.

Friends of mine have had similar experiences; Webmistress Lizzard, who puts an astonishing amount of time, effort, and her own money into maintaining and improving Tsubasa no Kami, has received email abusing her for not updating quicker, not giving out free stuff, not answering inane questions (information the askers could find out for themselves by reading her webpages), all on the same apparent assumption that she owes them something. When she bought a rare and expensive Escaflowne artbook and posted scans of some of its pages, which, again, she didn't have to do and did purely because she wanted to, she was abused for not putting up the whole thing and permitting direct linking, this particular correspondent accusing her for being 'one of the rich fans who want to stop the poor fans getting anything good.' A sense of the socioeconomic injustice of capitalism is a fine thing, but Lizz is not a rich fan, and she is already sharing her stuff. And yet.

I guess what makes me angry is knowing that idiots and jerks are reading my webpages and stories, and presuming to call themselves my fans. I wish I could keep them out. They're embarrassing. And when they try to tell me off for, oh, having had a lot to do in six months such as for example finishing a Master's Degree (First Class Honours I'll have you know), I just want to tell them to stick their heads up a dead bear's bum.

This rant is not aimed at the many intelligent and nice people who have sent me email saying they enjoyed my stories and look forward to reading more. These people, I like very much. I wish them happiness and prosperity. When I do put up a new bit of story, I take pleasure in the thought that it will give pleasure to them. The fact that they're polite to me and not demanding has a great deal to do with this.

Tip to 'fans' - telling an author or webmaster/mistress to hurry up will not make him or her hurry up. You do not have the authority to tell them that. You are not their Mum. Also, asking repeatedly for something they've told you they are unable or unwilling to provide will not make it magically come to you. This is especially maddening when you are asking for something they can't give, under the apparent impression that we would become able to do it if we just wanted to enough.

My pronouns are getting mixed up.

Well, in conclusion, if you are waiting for SIX MOUTHS, you'll be waiting a long time.

Oh, just for all the nice people who may be wondering when my stories will come back online - they won't reappear at fanfiction.net, but I am working on my Ouroboros fanfiction showcase site, which will go up sometime soon (I hope) on http://www.airandangels.com. I can't give any firm schedule for this; I ask you to just continue being patient and lovely, and maybe read some Dickens in the meantime, if you feel like it.

If you're old enough to legally drink alcohol, you really should have a look at this online bartender site. It helped me, my sister Kate, and Kate's friend Mel plan an extremely satisfactory evening of Shots, Cocktails and Doughnuts. We are decadent.

I suppose a lot of people would despise our fondness for sweet drinks (not to mention drinks with doughnuts) as typically girly, and to those people I say shove it up your bum, we're girls and we're allowed to like what we like. Who cares if you consider it shows a lack of taste? You don't have to drink it. We are here with our Dunkin' Donuts dozen, our shaker and our kitchen bench groaning 'neath the weight of many, many bottles and we're no trouble to anyone else. Ooh, I'm defensive.

The thing you have to understand is that my family always has a LOT of liquor in the house. It's not that we're dipsomaniacs or attempting to revive the cult of Bacchus. We just enjoy a drink now and again, and we like to have choices. We also think cocktails are great fun, which is why we maintain a supply of odd things like blue curaçao and creme de cacao (they taste orangey and chocolatey, respectively - anyone fancy a jaffa cocktail?) as well as basic necessities of civilised life, such as gin, whiskey both Scotch and bourbon, Bailey's Irish Cream, Kahlùa, and so forth. And vodka. A house without a bottle of decent vodka in the freezer (it should be kept in the freezer, it won't freeze, only go thick and soupy which makes it nicer) is hardly a home, from our perspective.

Anyway, I think Webtender is absolutely neat because you can enter a list of ingredients you already have in the house, and it will give you a list of cocktail and drink recipes from its database that you can make with that stuff. Easy peasy Japanesey. You may want to lay in some more mixers but you don't have to do a big shop.

As it is, we finished off a bottle of Triple Sec and one of Kahlùa. Don't look that way, they were both on their last legs anyway. We tested out various cocktail recipes (me acting as bartender, a role which required taking off my sweater and performing in my bra and singlet, not exactly Coyote Ugly but otherwise I would have overheated), and while we decided that those slags on 'Sex and the City' probably only like the Cosmopolitan because of its familiar salty taste, the major successes of the evening were the shots. We particularly enjoyed Emerald Eye and Flying Monkey, which made me think that it would be fun to have a Wizard of Oz party with themed drinks. Hologram tasted yummy but looked disgusting in the glass. Later in the evening I came to grief with Hillbilly Bob's Mountaindrink, because, fuddled by alcohol and the lateness of the hour, I misconstrued the unfamiliar unit of measurement 'centilitre' to mean '100 mls,' not *10* mls. This produced a large quantity of frankly undrinkable brown stuff and did for the Kahlùa, a sad waste. We called the result Billy Bob Thornton and after a few sips by the daring, put it down the Insinkerator. Well, you can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs, or wasting a few hundred millilitres of Mexican coffee liqueur, not to mention the Bailey's, and everything else was very successful. I'll just have to make sure to write on the recipe card in future what 'centilitre' means before I begin mixing and drinking.

I say drinking is much more fun when there's this element of creativity and experimentation involved; we were looking for delightful flavours rather than merely intoxication, and for the most part we found them.

Bizarre dreams all night, full of random sex and death and betrayal. Giant sea monsters attacking a dliapidated seaside motel. Heart-eating aliens. Not good.

Not that this is a unique subject to choose, but:
First Thoughts After Seeing Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones

- Getting your driver's licence on Coruscant must be sheer hell. Actually, I find the whole idea of Coruscant pretty hellish. An entire planet that's one big city? No parks? No beaches? No mountains, lakes, rivers, forests, deserts, steppes? What's the suicide rate like?

- The shape-shifting assassin was stolen from The Vision of Escaflowne.

- Apparently girls from Naboo have this special quality where their WOUNDS DON'T BLEED. That animal in the arena gives Padmé two enormous scratches right across her back, and they don't bleed! If it was me my nice white pants would've been soaked with my dribbling gore, and I probably would have fainted from blood loss a few minutes later. But Padmé and I don't have much in common, as the next point will demonstrate.

- What kind of shmoop falls in love with Hayden Christensen when Ewan McGregor is RIGHT THERE? Now that's just implausible. Further evidence that Padmé is not human. Any normal girl would've been all like, 'Obi-Wan, I know Annie means well, but he's just a Padawan, and I'd feel so much safer if you were in my room with me... protecting me with your big lightsaber... will you show it to me? Oooh...' (runs fingertips over the hilt as if a little awed, almost frightened, but irresistibly drawn, and bites lower lip guiltily, glancing up at him from under eyelashes)

- Anyone who scratches his butt while hugging you hello is not your real friend. Even if he only needs one of his pairs of arms to hug you and the other two are going spare.

- I don't think it's healthy for a growing boy to hold his father's severed head in his hands. No wonder Boba grew up... angry.

- Words cannot encompass the glory that is Temuera Morrison as Jango Fett. My patriotic pride in claiming the Fett dynasty as good Kiwi jokers is likewise inexpressible. When the Jedi knights are in big trouble, who saves their butts? The Maori Battalion *^.^* I felt a stab of regret and concern when Jango was decapitated that I couldn't have felt for any other character - after all, I know Obi-Wan is going to live to be an old man. I want to look after poor little Boba. But having seen what he came from, I am more certain than ever that he didn't die on Tatooine in Return of the Jedi. Merely being ingested is not enough to slow down a Weet-Bix kid, and a Morrison to boot. Dr Ropata is not in Guatemala now, and he's never looked better. I am so glad he finally got a cool part post-Jake the Muss. Eat poo, Mr Juliana.

- It's redundant to say so, but Christopher Lee rocks the party and if I could pick people to be made immortal I'd pick him. He's Dracula, he's Saruman, on the Discworld he's the voice of Death and to tell the truth I'm kind of hoping he'll kill Padmé in Episode III.

- The young Aunt Beru is cute.

- Are she and Owen living in sin? He introduced her as 'my girlfriend' but she appears to live on the farm.

That's about all I can come up with right now... I would add that I went with three other people from the Auckland Anime Club, none of whom I know properly. They were all boys. It stank being the only girl. Using the power of my vivid imagination I gave myself a date for the evening. Since I took Dryden Fassa to see The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, I decided to bring Folken Fanel to Episode II. It should be noted that for these purposes I use a specially modified version of Folken based on his afterlife-self - twenty-five and gorgeous, but with nice soft floppy hair and two good arms. This is a very important consideration, given that he put his hand on my knee during the growing-romance scenes on Naboo, which effectively distracted me from the leaden awfulness of Anakin's dialogue, although we were both hypnotised by Padmé's heaving bosoms in the fireside scene. Surprising Anakin was able to keep looking at her face; that's Jedi discipline for you. Folken and I have a certain kinship of soul; we winced in unison when Padmé said 'I truly... deeply... love you.' A perfectly fine line ruined by the insertion of a redundant, mawkish adverb. 'I truly love you' would have sounded great. Poor Natalie Portman having to put a nasty thing like that in her mouth.

Unfortunately when Anakin's arm got chopped off, Folken had a bit of an emotional comeover and needed a lot of soothing. I had to drive on the way home; he was still shaky. I'd better put him to bed, the poor lamb.

Just 'cos I know where she lives,
I won't stick around like adhesive
Instead I'll skin my knees
And wait between

She'll tug my imagination
I wait for an indication
Systematic smiles wear thin

She's just so sweet, so fine
So polite too
Sophie I'd like to be for you
But the only, only way I know
Takes so long, so long

Aglow from her aura
From afar I adore her
Think I'll leave this coin
In my pocket

It's 'Sophie' by Goodshirt. You know how sometimes song lyrics really hardly mean a thing - what's a systematic smile, how do you wait between, and what does the coin in your pocket have to do with anything? - but they just GRAB you and make you sing along in the car and try to imitate the guitar hook with your voice? Deenle e-te deenle! Just so sweet, so fine, so polite too...

From time to time I just get a mad crush on a song and at the moment it's 'Sophie,' although I still hold a candle for 'Shining Light' by Ash. It is like having a crush on a person, the way your blood-bubble-level goes way up the instant you recognise the crush-object and suddenly you're ready to sing or fly or rescue a princess. Um, does that happen to anyone else?

And is 'deenle e-te deenle' an abnormal way to verbalise a guitar hook?

Screw this, it's my Free Day tomorrow and I'm havin' doughnuts for breakfast. Oh yes.

Fortunately, I will not be subjecting you to any more Batman-inspired ramblings (see previous entry). I still think the Superman compilation album is a good idea, though. Stuff that's happened since my last entry:

- I have lost at least four kilos on the Ten Week Challenge programme at my gym, which is now five weeks through. I can feel that I'm stronger and slimmer. This is great but I am getting very fed up with the limited nutrition programme and look forward to my one Free Day a week like a junkie to a fix. It's nice to be losing weight and building muscle tone like this but I worry that when the Challenge is over I'm not going to be able to maintain it, even if I do carry on eating moderately and exercising regularly. I'll just slide back up to a size 14 and hate it the same as always.

- As you can see, with the help of Patrick, I finally became able to upload material to my domain www.airandangels.com. The lack of a secure FTP program for the Mac that was compatible with the security system on the server prevented this for half a year. The domain was meant to be my Christmas present from Lizz and I almost didn't get to use it until my midwinter birthday! (Note to Northern Hemisphereans: I'm in New Zealand. June is midwinter.) Patrick had a similar problem because he uses a Mac too, but he didn't have the Birthday Irony, which was making Lizz feel terrible even though it was in no way her fault. Anyway, it's neat to have my sites back up and running!

- I still can't get a proper job and I am really, really sick of my 'temporary' one as a market research interviewer. I am bored to tears. When I am sick of a job I become almost *literally* sick of it - in this case, I've developed a sore throat and a tendency to cough asthmatically, both of which, of course, would be aggravated by a day spent talking on the phone and are a good reason to stay at home. But then I don't get paid. This job is a waste of my time and my talent. I have a Master of Arts degree with First Class Honours in English. I am young and smart and ready to learn and make a big effort in a worthwhile role. I am exactly the person that the Business Community of New Zealand is always complaining leaves the country and they say this is the government's fault. Well, the Business Community of New Zealand will not give me a job, the stupid gonks. I've applied and applied and applied for all sorts of different things and hardly ever even get interviews. This is not the government's doing. And I intend to leave the country.

- I'm applying for a British passport to help me get residence to work there. A friend in Cambridge is scouting a job for me. I love New Zealand but I'd quite like to go and work in a Real Country for a while.

- I hate the thought of some of what this move is going to mean, though. I will have to sell my car, which is a really good car. I can't bring my bed or my computer with me, and I love them both. I can't bring my cat. All my favourite things about my home. Being away from my family doesn't bother me as much, to be honest, because I've done it before and we stay in communication and we're okay. But I've only just got some material things (car, queen-size bed, computer stuff) settled that are useful to take into adult life and where I'm going I can't take them with me. And my cat isn't going to understand what's going on. I worry about her.

I was thinking about Superman. I was thinking, why do so many people write songs about him and his world? Just off the top of my head, I can name the Spin Doctors' album Pocketful of Kryptonite, featuring the very endearing 'Jimmy Olson's Blues' (I got it so bad for this little journalist), that one about 'If I go crazy will you still call me Superman?' that all the ten-year-old boys were listening to at camp in Pennsylvania in 2000, the weird breathy Laurie Anderson song/poem 'Oh Superman,' and now Five For Fighting's teen-angst anthem which was surely composed in return for a kickback from the producers of Smallville, a.k.a. Dawson's Kryptonite.

In fact, it probably wouldn't be hard to put together a complete album of Superman-related songs. You could sell that. To Jerry Seinfeld at least.

But what really struck me as I followed this line of thought was, where are all the Batman songs? You can't count songs that were on the soundtrack of Batman movies, because they were composed and recorded specifically for him. Look at it this way: 'One Week' by Barenaked Ladies namechecks Sailor Moon. This is in the same category as all the Superman songs. But Prince's Batman mix belongs to the same category as, say, the multitudinous Sailor Moon albums (which include an album of instrumental versions of songs from previous CDs, played entirely on the celeste, an instrument with glass chimes extensively used by Tchaikovsky in the Nutcracker Suite) - it doesn't reflect someone out there in The Culture getting spontaneously inspired to include this character in their lyrics.

Incidentally, whoever decided the 1989 Batman movie needed a Prince soundtrack should be hung up by the heels and beaten with wet fish. The only way in which that was cool was that the Joker had that one henchman whose sole job was to carry a boom box and hit the music whenever the Joker wanted to cut a dash. Even so, Prince? I know there's been speculation that the Joker is gay, but how gay is that? But I digress.

Isn't Batman at least as cool and iconic as Superman? Isn't Batman as much of an embodiment of what America takes pride of in itself? After all, he's a capitalist.

Personally, I like Batman better, and here's why. (Oh, you had to know this was coming.) Superman has the Fantasy Setup described by the Cuckoo child in Neil Gaiman's A Game of You. You learn that these dull if worthy people are not your real parents. You are an orphan - romantic and worthy of sympathy. You are an orphaned prince or princess of another planet. You have special powers. Wonderful and terrible secrets surround your birth and your destiny. You will be able to save the world. Of course, because you have to maintain this secret identity, you may never get the appreciation and rewards you deserve, but that won't matter because you'll have the satisfaction of knowing that everything is going to be okay because of what you did. Play your cards right and there could be a cute girl with the initials L.L. in this for you. (Speaking of which, Lois Lane should clearly have married Lex Luthor because neither of them would have needed to change their monograms.)

What does Batman learn? That you can be going home from seeing a movie with your parents, and a guy can come and shoot your dad, and your mum can die of a heart attack from the shock, and there will be nothing you can do about it. That you can have all the money you'll ever need in your life and a secure place in the WASP social uppercrust but you won't be able to bring them back. That the world is full of people who will do terrible things to you for no good reason. That your parents can give you a name like Bruce and not be done for cruelty.

I suppose I like him better because he's just more screwed up. More thoughts on this subject to come.

Thoughts While Staring at the Big South Island Map On the Wall of the Call Centre Where I Work and Today I Was in the Cubicle Right in Front of Southland

The shape of Lake Manapouri, in Southland, reminds me of the Chinese dragon-unicorn creature, the Kirin. It's so gentle that it floats above the ground, so that it won't even crush the grass or step on any bugs. I say 'dragon-unicorn'; it displays characteristics of both. Maybe it's a hybrid. Like my idea for a cat-monkey hybrid, or a cat-gecko cross. Mark Twain reckoned that if Man could be crossed with the cat, it would improve Man, but it would deteriorate the cat. I guess that got me thinking about what you could cross with a cat to the cat's advantage.

I think cats would enjoy having prehensile tails and little hands for paws, or suction-cup feet and a bug-catching tongue. I think the gecko-cat (or gecko-neko, as you could call it in Japanese) would need to have two tongues - uppermost, a normal cat tongue, for lapping milk and grooming fur, and beneath it the gecko tongue. When the cat wanted to catch a bug, the cat tongue would just flip up when the gecko tongue shot out.

A cat should never be crossed with a sloth - the result would sleep 24 hours a day and quickly perish unless it could absorb water and nutrients from the air around it. An animal that is always asleep seems a bit pointless, and would be difficult to breed. A cat crossed with a dog would probably be schizophrenic. Likewise cats should not be crossed with their prey, because of the risk of autocannibalism. You can't run a business that way.

Crossing a cat with a wallaby would be interesting but perhaps inadvisable. Cats that go boing could be dangerous. Speaking of boing, I think my cat's jumper has broken. Either that or she's joined some obscure religion with a commandment about Thou Shalt Not Jump. In the last few weeks, when she's wanted to get up on a chair or a bed, which she used to do with a nimble little leap, she's had to clamber up in an inelegant manner. She looks normal on the outside. I've felt her legs and they don't seem lumpy or sore. She walks and scampers and pounces just like always. I can only conclude that there's a specific little device somewhere in the hindquarters of a cat, labelled Jumping, and hers is on the blink. Perhaps the spring's come unwound, or the fan belt has slipped off, or the teeth on the little gear wheels aren't interlocking properly. It might need oil or water, or possibly antifreeze. Where do I put those in? Should I try to wind her up? Crank her tail?

And if you think those are odd, go just a little way north into the West Coast Region, and you will find yourself at Bonar Knob.

Thoughts On the Death of H.M. the Queen Mother

- An old lady of 101 dies, big surprise. People are calling it a shock. What silly people! The most sensible comment I've heard on it so far came from Sir Paul Reeves, a former Governor General of New Zealand, who said that it is always sad when someone much loved dies, but we can draw a lot of pleasure and inspiration from memories of her life, and as a person of deep faith she would feel good about it being the Easter season when Death has lost its sting. (Alingaling.) I'm not a Christian myself, but I know what they're on about and that was very perceptive of Sir Paul.

My favourite things about the Queen Mother are as follows.
- During World War I, when she was a young girl, she caught a German spy. Honestly. Her family's large aristocratic home was being used as a convalescent hospital for injured soldiers, with medical personnel on hand. With her sister, the young Lady Elizabeth discovered that the dentist treating the soldiers was getting them high on nitrous oxide, then pumping them for military information. When he was apprehended they were offered medals, which Lady Elizabeth declined saying that she didn't want a medal for just doing her duty. (The sister's feelings on this subject are unrecorded.) Now that's a plucky gel!
- Adolf Hitler called her 'the most dangerous woman in Europe.' He meant in terms of how she could inspire loyalty and boost morale, but it gives you a delightful mental picture, doesn't it? Given her experience of outfoxing nasty Germans, perhaps they should have put her in charge of getting rid of Adolf.
- One day at lunch the Queen decided to have a second glass of wine. Her mother said gently, 'Are you sure that's wise, dear? You have to reign all afternoon.'
- She swilled gin, gambled madly, and generally lived in a fashion that in anyone less socially elevated would have been called spendthrift, dissolute and disgraceful. And everyone said she was lovely. I admire anyone who can pull that off until the age of 101.

She appears to have been a nice woman, and I myself don't believe that death is the end of our adventures. I wish her well and I feel sympathy for the surviving family and friends who will miss her. Shocked, however, I am not. My main source of interest in this is, exactly how shat on does Queen Elizabeth II feel? It's her Jubilee year, and first her sister dies, then her mother does. I wouldn't be very surprised if she popped off soon, just because it must be so demoralising. Then we should have King Charles III, and what in the world will that be like? We live in interesting times.

So okay, I had majorly strange dreams last night. I was walking around in Auckland City - at least I believed it to be Auckland City even though it wasn't quite recognisable as such - and I met my friends Duncan the artist and Stuart the gay kickboxing Scottish witch, who has just got back from Japan but in real life I haven't seen him yet. I had a bedspread with me. As I walked along I found this poor homeless woman sleeping on the footpath where it was very cold and windy. I put my bedspread over her and lay down to form a windbreak. Unfortunately I fell asleep there too. When I woke up I became suspicious of her, although she was polite and grateful, and checked my wallet to find that my Eftpos and credit cards had been stolen. I put my knee in her back (she was still lying down) and said that my Scottish friend would break her legs if she didn't give them back (Stuart grinned and said 'I will, too') and she, cowering, returned them, so it was her, the sneaky cow. Anyway all was well. There was something about marching in a hobbit parade on stilts too, but I can't recall that clearly.

In another segment of dream, I was Phoebe from Friends, and I went to a kind of ball at a casino/convention-centre/hotel sort of place, in a crippled friend's wheelchair, because I thought it would be a lark to try dancing in a wheelchair. (I presume the friend had said it was all right to take her chair for the evening. I know I didn't pinch it from anyone.)

Anyway, I met David Duchovny and he was very taken with me. (Note to David Duchovny connoisseurs - trim young first-season-X-Files David Duchovny, not the rather bloated puffy-faced Shatneresque model doing the rounds today.) I immediately felt ashamed of myself and explained that the wheelchair wasn't mine and I could work perfectly well unaided, and he was delighted because that meant we could dance properly together. He was, like, totally into me. I was stoked but also taken aback, and said 'What about your wife Téa, and your little girl Madelaine?' He said that he and Téa hadn't been happy together for years and I was the person he'd needed all along. I was taken further aback, but on reflection realised that this would have been implausible if it were just me, Sarah, but I looked like Lisa Kudrow in this dream, so okay.

There was another segment of dream which was really epic, a whole anime series about a twelve-year-old tomboyish girl, the orphaned daughter of a brilliant engineer and truck-driver (don't ask me), who had something the Emperor wanted, but she didn't know what it was. She was only protected by her own spunky courage, her gruff but affectionate grandfather, and a chap who was a perfect amalgam of Gaddes from Tenkuu no Escaflowne, Jet Black from Cowboy Bebop and Spuckler from the Akiko comics. So picture the movie version of Gaddes, with Jet's artificial arm, and a battered robot assistant like Spuckler's Gax - with elements of all their personalities folded together. My dream man or what? The tomboy-girl (whose name I can't recall) was visually a pretty exact copy of Naoko Takeuchi's Love Witch character, who hasn't yet had her manga début (and Gawd knows we all hope Naoko isn't going to lose interest as she did with PQ Angels, which I liked) but whose picture you can see at the Japanese official Sailor Moon site. I'll make it easy for you: http://sailormoon.channel.or.jp/gensaku/2002_02.html There used to be another Love-chan picture in the gallery section that showed her spunky tomboy side better than this one, but I can't find it any more, to my frustration. Anyway. She was in my dream, only wearing white shorts over a little red leotard, and she was about twelve. There you go.

If nothing else, this demonstrates that my subconscious is a happenin' place to be.

Oh, oh, big big news! I've harvested my watermelon! Now I wish I'd left it a few more days. Oh well.

Would someone like to give me lots and lots of money, please, requiring nothing in return but sincere gratitude and a nice smile? This would solve a lot of my problems. Go on. Think of your karma. Do you the world of good. Pounds, for preference. I like pounds. There's something so satisfying about the word 'pound' for a unit of currency. Dollars don't sound nearly so... orotund. If that's the word I want. It might not be, because I confes I'm not sure what it means. But 'pound' and 'orotund' are enjoyable words in the same way. 'Pound' sounds intrinsically more valuable than 'dollar.' And so it should - one New Zealand dollar (worth about fifty American cents, on a good day) equals roughly three English pounds. Of course Britain doesn't want the Euro. What sort of word is 'euro'? It sounds like a little marsupial or something. In fact I just looked it up and it is a little marsupial, also known as the Common Wallaroo. As its other name implies, it's sort of half way between a wallaby and a kangaroo. Look here:
A page with a picture of a (an?) euro.
What do you say to that, eh? Still think it's such a great, clever idea to call money a name like that, when any fool can put it into Google and find out IT'S A MARSUPIAL?

Even with the Mature Content filter on.

Franc and Lira and Deutschmark and Guilder and things like that are lovely names for money. It is such a shame that economists tend to be joyless bastards with no love of language. And I so missed the bus complaining about this. It's been going on for years. But I thought of it just now, and it's my blog, so what are you looking at? Eh?

So in conclusion, please send lots of money, but no marsupials, because the Department of Conservation would tear me a new orifice for bringing in another bloody marsupial (the trouble we have with possums as it is!) and I have all the orifices I care for. We have enough orifices, and too many marsupials. No more please. No. Take that away. I tell you I don't want it. I will not give you some money. Push off and take your nasty orifice with you. That's better. Honestly!

Tomorrow I think I will journey to Manukau, to poke about in the big Spotlight store (which sells haberdashery, everything you need for sewing, and nearly everything you need for all sorts of handicrafts) for nice odd things, and then over to the mall to the witchy-poo shop called Rivendell for more nice odd things. I don't want to spend a lot of money but I can always do with a few more nice oddities. And I earn the sort of money where it feels like it doesn't make any bloody difference to fritter away a bit on prestige car washes and votive candles and artificial flowers, because even if I didn't I wouldn't have enough for anything I really want.

I do complain a lot. Terrible of me.