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This sucks, don't bother. Or stuff.

The thinking. It's always fleeting itself away right when I think I have it. It's terribly irksome.

Might as well watch more cartoons or read more comix. You read me. Comix.

Fuck, this hand is still acting up? My "checkup" is thursday and my borked hand still aches. I mean, I should prolly be laying off any strain--like work or typing--but I really just can't. It's all too tempting/easy to forget what's good for me.

And that's pretty much been true for me my whole life.

So I've resumed my life's goal of reading all of the underground comic Cerebus. It ran from 1977 to about 2004, and was produced by Dave Sim, who over the course of the comic's 6000 page run, as I've just found out, became some kind of raving nutter/crack genius.

Either way, I started the damn thing about a year ago (?) and never really got around to finishing...I'd sworn then I'd finish all 300 issues by the end of last year. 3 months after that deadline and only just resuming with issue 20. This could take a while.

Interspersed with this are other so-called comix. I want to read all TMNT issues. Ever.

I'm also browsing through a collection of Kitchen Sink Comix and some other small press thingers.

For some reason, these underground comix have grabbed my attention in a way that a lot of mainstream comics just haven't quite managed. Maybe it's the water color gore (?) of  The Melting Pot, or the weird efficiency of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, or the quaint allure of Bone (still gotta start that...), or maybe I'm too hippie-capitalist for DC and Marvel. Who knows.

So Parker and I are barreling our way through the new series of Doctor Who in preparation of the new season this April :D

I really love watching the Doctor with him. It's like we harmonize & complement eachother's reactions. Every freak out he has or each tear I shed is somehow balanced & appreciated perfectly by the other, and vice versa.

Fuck, I love this show so much.

I should go watch more Jon Pertwee--I'm so close to the end of his run!

Meanwhile, our cat-thing-bitch has mostly been good. She used to puke a lot--a LOT--to the point that she lost so much weight I dubbed her Skeletor.  We thought it was furballs, but it turned out it was really some food allergy.

We've fattened her back up just fine, though now she's possibly the most obnoxious bitch ever.

Like, totally sweeter than ever now that she's not about to die or stuff. But seriously. She gets even a bit hungry and the Siamese masked by her Calico cuteness comes out raging hard in terror. Ugh.

Parker is wearing pin stripes. And a red tie. He just met his girlfriend's grandfather, et al. Apparently they all thought he was a figment of Kial's imagination, cuz she apparently basically doesn't date.

I find this amusing and mindfracking, slightly. It's adorable too.

I'm actually struggling to come up with random shit to ramble about. That's as bad a sign, if not worse, than failing so bad at forming a coherent post that I descend into hr sectioned chunks of randomness. Did that even make sense?

Wow, I must be failing at coherence somethin' serious. I guess it really has been too long since I blogged. I'll hafta come back later when my mind is back in the game for this.


Other things that might interest you...

This moment: A tattoo.

So I read Mrs. Dalloway in high school, and it was perhaps the most beautiful thing I'd ever read. One passage in particular, very early in the book, hit me hard with my first experience of the sublime, and stayed with me—and led at last to my first tattoo.
In people’s eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.  (Emphasis added; full paragraph included below. From the full text of the novel as made available by the University of Adelaide.)

The paragraph this is from, the 4th paragraph of the novel, is the 1st passage with the stream of consciousness the book is famous for; although self-limited here, the flow is no less gorgeous. In the passage, Clarissa is walking on a street to get those famous flowers herse…

Losing Doolittle.

I recently got to spend a few days at the lake house my family used to visit through most of my childhood; we no longer own it, and it turns out I missed it more deeply than I realized.

Anthony and I both got the week before NYC Pride off this year, so I contrived to get us a little time there. The cousins who own Greenshore gave Anthony and me permission to relax there for several days rather than just the 1 or 2 I had expected. Good god, I'm grateful for that.

I missed this place. Standing on the balcony, the porch, or the dock and looking out over the lake, I was reminded of the beauty and tranquility this lake represents for me. The meaning and memories, too.

This was always a place of solace and stability for me. We moved around a lot when I was a kid, but we always came back to this place. It had been in our family for generations before I was even born—if we'd been able to keep it, it would have been a solid 4 generations including mine. This was where I figured out I w…

Sarracenia 'Palmerpink.'

So I posted the other day about my rekindled carnivorous plant obsession—I mean, hobby. I mentioned, in passing, that I had "discovered" a possible cultivar, so here's the lowdown on what that means and what I meant.

The term "cultivar" is short for "cultivated variety," and signifies that a particular plant is so desirable and interesting that people want exact copies of it rather than simply seed from it. Some famous American pitcher plant (Sarracenia) cultivars include the legendary Adrian Slack, the massive Leah Wilkerson, and the classic Judith Hindle.

Part of how these come about is that, unlike horses x donkeys = mules and certain other hybrids, Sarracenia hybrids aren't sterile and can be crossed and recrossed without limit. Further, random chance can create crazy combinations of genes such that even hybrids between the same species—heck, even the same parents—can demonstrate quite the variety. More on that elsewhere.

Depending on how easy…