Actually, if you say the headline as a three-year-old would, you might sound as if you're boasting about bladder control. I've been twoilit, Mummy. As it is, I have a confession: I watched Twilight. Yes. The movie. And... well,I have to say I was impressed.
Impressed in that I have never before seen such a cynically manipulative movie. It is, obviously, aimed at 15 year old girls. Perhaps 15 to 17.
Look at the list: the lonely, not-so-attractive schoolgirl who catches the eye of the absolutely gorgeous deadly dangerous predator, and conquers his most base desires (!) through his inability to read her mind. The quiet, reserved daddy, who's also good-looking in a dangerous sort of way, and who is an authority figure the entire town looks up to. The sudden acceptance of the ugly-duckling kid by all the coolkids at school, and by the really exotic family of the boyfriend that all the other girls want but can't get because he's been bitten - er, smitten - by her charms. Gauche meets louche, and sparks fly.
I'm sorry*. I actually don't think it was a bad movie. I kind of enjoyed it. Until my mind started working. The big unanswered question is this: what would a 110 year old guy possibly have in common with a 16 year old child?
And yes, I'm afraid I'm a reactionary old bastard, who does think that if a person's brain hasn't finished developing, then s/he is still a child. Regardless of the hair in their Jockeys.
* No I'm not. TOA.
Is creepy the new creative? We've all seen the new L & P commercials, which I must say fails on a host of levels. Perhaps I'm supposed to go to the website to catch the virus. But we started off with "That Guy" and the Hellers spots. He's permanently on Creep-o-matic, and that's cool: he makes it work.We also have the creepy fingers on the new Warehouse commercials. And the disastrous new Vodaphone spots, with their odd creeps in a classroom, acting out bad email practices. I can't figure out why the Nigerian is sayiong "Delete". Surely someone should be deleting him? Or at least he should be bellowing out the scamspam so loved by his countrymen... Creepy, creepy, creepy. And about as creative as instant pudding.
Just so you know: my wife is as clever as she is short. And she is very, very short. We've been pondering a problem for a couple of weeks, and she came up with an elegant, creative, non-creepy solution.
LISTENING TO: The soundtrack album from the Bob Dylan bio-movie, "I'm Not There". Right now, I'm blowing my ears out with "The Man In The Long Black Coat", as performed by Mark Lanegan. Cool.
READING: The Slow-Cooker Cookbook, as edited by the Hawera Lionesses. Wintertime, and the slow-cooker comes out. We're going to be currying some topside steak this weekend. Yum.
Senor (Tales of Yankee Power), as done by a chap who calls himself Calexico (sounds like Willy Nelson) is pouring itself into my eardrums. If music could be golden syrup, this'd be the starter for hokey-pokey biscuits straight away.
Wanna Go And See: Robin Hood. I'm all class.
More Paper Heroes:
Not a grave, then.
I’m not dead.
Who is Crusader?
John Prester? Hanno?
There’s a humming sound. I can hear a hard humming sound, I’ve never heard a sound like that before, oh Jesus oh god what is it I can’t move I strain to move my arm I must be dead can’t move but I can feel I can feel, there’s something tugging at my arm, a pressure, and I’m, and I’m..
I’m calm. Calm now. Not dead. Alive, by god. Alive!
What’s this? Greens and browns. A white dress. It’s the farm. The farm. Home. I’ll have to put new shingles on that roof come summer.
Pandora. Who is Pandora?
Maybe I’m dreaming.
Maybe I’m dead.
“Number Five’s showing signs of neural activity.” Cienwyn murmurs to her P-See. It glitters red, querying. “Yes,” Cienwyn whispers. “Prioritise it. Wake the team, leave Charles asleep.” She instructs the P-See briskly, snappishly, quietly. Her honey-velvet voice crackles with excitement. Her hair stands on end, weaving a Celtic knot, rising and falling with pleasure.
Another four days pass. Each of the subjects in the White Room are now displaying occasional frenzied bursts of mental activity, and all have had to be restrained. It is decided to waken them in two separate groups.
9.42am, January 18, 2387.
The sleeping forms are still. There’s no sign of the activity of the past days. The walls are a little brighter now, and it’s harder to make out the doorway. Through the observation window, Cienwyn is joined by Charles, Paulus, and Adam.
Cienwyn’s facial tattoo has vanished. All four are clearskin today; all four are wearing clothing that covers their bodies. Charles is a little uncomfortable: He hasn’t worn so much clothing since he was a child, attending the Prime’s annual dance in Samoa, and the constraints of sleeves and trousers annoy him.
Charles is also sweating nervously. It astonishes him: his em-bots should be controlling this.
He indicates that Cienwyn should start the procedure, and she instructs her P-See. Through the polarised window, the White Room’s light dims, then three figures are separately lit. The light around them changes, and runs slowly through the spectrum, up into the ultra-violet, then down into infra-red and beyond. The sequence is repeated again and again, moving faster, flickering, each one slightly out of sync with the others. Cienwyn darkens the window further against the light, which is now so bright that it would burn her corneas. The four in the control room can feel a faint vibration through the floor: this is all they can feel or hear of the maelstrom of sound in the White Room.