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So Mr. G and I will often have TV series festivals at home: First, we order up the discs from Netflix, and then we watch them marathon-style while curled up together on the couch, accompanied by copious amounts of wine and popcorn. Within the last year or so, we've gone through a whole lotta wine and popcorn. We've also watched Legend of the Seeker, The Tudors, Torchwood, Castle, The Unit, and House. Then in March it was Downton Abbey, followed by Sons of Anarchy.

Now we're all into Game of Thrones (and I love Arya, Tyrion, and Dany.) I've also noticed that when you watch an entire season of a TV show back-to-back over the course of a weekend, you start noticing some commonly recurring tropes. With that in mind, I give you:

Sons of Anarchy -- The Drinking Game!Collapse )

So Mr. G is currently in final tech week (AKA Hell Week) for his latest L.A. Opera production.  We have to snatch the occasional hour together where we can, so on Friday night I went to one of his personal training sessions with him, because it was about the only hour we could spend together that day.  Cardio, spinning, ab work, core work, kettle bell lifting.

Then on Saturday I took a training and conditioning class with one of the epee coaches at my foil club.  The fellow works a day job as personal trainer, and offers a strength and conditioning class specifically tailored to fencers on weekends.  Dead lifts, assisted chin-ups, triceps exercises, core work, more kettle bell.  Wow, it really all felt great at the time! 

Until I woke up on Sunday morning almost too sore to move.  Srsly. 

I let the dishes and laundry pile up and just lay around reading because I could hardly raise my arms above my waist on Sunday.  On Monday I was much better and took a foil class.  Fenced badly because of the affer-effects of too sore to move, supra.

Ohhh... how do you determine when it's too much?  I'm such a terrible judge of when I'm overexercising...!!!

Mr. G and I will be here:


The Golden Stag New Year's Eve Party

Saturday, December 31, 2011 | 9 pm

The Golden Stag invites you to celebrate New Year’s Eve in roaring-‘20s style.

For one night only in L.A.’s legendary Park Plaza Hotel, return to the glamour, big bands, cocktails, dance, and utter charm of a bygone era. 

Let club owner Stag Jones and his bevy of broads lead you through a whirlwind evening from a gilded patio featuring live performances, an absinthe bar, cigars, and treats to the gorgeous Grand Ballroom, where an eighteen-piece orchestra just won’t quit. Downstairs, VIP Big Daddies and Leading Ladies nestle into the hotel’s speakeasy for private burlesque, hosted cocktails, and untold sultry surprises. When the clock strikes midnight, we’ll throw open the windows for a champagne toast and a fireworks display—and that’s when the evening really gets going.

Featuring Sypher Art Studios, Brent Canter, Elliot Deutsch Big Band, Astra Dance Company, Coconut Grove Girls, Sylphirance Royal, Alice Underground, The Josephina, and more.

Tickets to this one-night-only club are extremely limited. We ask that our guests dress to impress.

Park Plaza | Fellas and Flappers: $50 (includes champagne toast); Big Daddies and Leading Ladies: $150 (includes reserved table service with hosted bar) | Tickets 323 857-6010 or purchase online.

Dear Anne Rice

Hello, my old friend.

I have read many of your books over the years; indeed, Interview with the Vampire and The Witching Hour were formative works back in my teens. Heck, I even enjoyed your porn.

But as regarding your recent comments on the Stephenie Meyer Twilight series? Bitch, puhlease.

Girlfriend, you need to leave all that "My vampire!Stus are better than your vampire!Stus!" bullshit on Fanfic.net where it belongs. Now I'll agree that the Twilight series is silly teenybopper crap. I tried to read the first one and completely lost interest halfway through it -- I couldn't even be arsed to Netflix the movies. I've even lampooned Edward Cullins myself in a twee ficlet and read parodies of it with relish, and think the "And then Buffy staked Edward" t-shirts are pure genius.

Nonetheless, you went over the edge when you talked about how Lestat and Louis would just have to laugh at the sparkly vampires perpetually attending highschool, because at least Ms. Meyer wasn't grandiose enough to feature her vampire!Stu chowing down on Jesus. (Yes, THAT Jesus.)

Look, Anne, you and Ms. Meyer are both HIGHLY successful authors. You gals are in movie deals and bestseller-lists territory here. Rather than snipe at somebody else's creation, why don't you just review your own income statements for awhile -- that ought to be comfort enough for anybody.

Please get over yourself and stop coming out with unbecoming nonsense like this before I eBay my first edition of Interview in disgust.

Your friend,

And so we became engaged, in the eternal manner of things that seem like a really good idea at the time.

I did all the stupid things women do when they’re freshly engaged, like doodle his name and mine in the margins of notebooks:

Brendan and Katherine Leary
Mrs. Katherine Farrell-Leary
Ms. Katherine Leary
Katherine Margaret Leary
Katherine Leary
Kathy Leary
Kate Leary
Kat Leary
Katie Leary

I still wasn’t sure if I was going to take his name, or keep my own, or use them both, hyphenated. Taking his name was sort of winning, though, as it wasn’t like being a Farrell had ever been such a fantastic thing for me. It felt as though by taking a different name, I might be able to remake myself as someone else; Katherine Farrell, the nose-to-the-grindstone grad student, pusher of menial paperwork, and dutiful daughter would be replaced by Katie Leary, the cool, smart, artsy young English teacher married to a kind, wonderful, gorgeous man who loved her. If I took Bren’s name, now my future students were going to call me Ms. Leary instead of Ms. Farrell – I could get used to that.

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It clocks in at 11 chapters, 296 pages (I compose in 14 point font for eyestrain-prevention purposes; in 12-point font it’ll be shorter) and 110,972 words, all told. Anybody wanna see another chapter?

So I’d been paused in this one place in this one chapter for MONTHS, avoiding it because I couldn’t think of how to finish this ONE mundane little scene, but today I finally sat my ass down and wrote it. ALL DONE! Can’t wait to show it to Mr. G when he gets home.

So this means that the Prologue, Parts 1, 2, and 4 are done, and Parts 3, 5, and the Epilogue are mostly done. I’ve got entire chapters and sections finished in there, but Part 3 is especially difficult for me to write, because I am probably guilty of over-identifying with the characters of Katie and Brendan.

Also – anybody wanna help me name a character?

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In Which That F*@%ing Case is OVER.

Yeah. That one case, man – we finally won it. Initially we lost it, which had me all but clawing at my own flesh because the defendants were TOTALLY not liable and I helped mount an absolutely airtight defense if I do say so my own bad self. (I mean, this was a BRAVURA job of precedent research here, I was genuinely proud of my work in a way that this job rarely affords me.)

And then we lost.

It destroyed me. I almost quit my job thinking I had NOTHING to offer the legal profession as far as competent execution of my work, no shit.

But then we got that decision


DOOD. The decision came down on Friday.

Any of you who’ve ever worked for a law firm know – that NEVER happens. When you lose, you lose. You can spend the money on an appeal, but you’re probably screwed – the appellate court reverses only a teeny percentage of the decisions they review. An infinitesimal percentage. I mean, small.

I love being a statistical outlier. I guess I won't quit my job after all.

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Would you live in the perfect house or apartment rent-free if you found out a brutal murder had taken place there and it was rumored to be haunted? Why or why not?

I've never responded to one of these things before, but this one kinda intrigued me.

OK, I've never claimed to be anything but:

a) an atheist. Despite my love of writing fantasy fiction, I personally am terminally unable to really believe in anything supernatural (my rationalist/materialist/sensualist worldview appears to be as hardwired as my right-handedness)


b) a bit of a goth, who loves the elegantly spooky and macabre.

I don't believe in ghosts, no way no how -- if ghosts really do exist, I'm probably one of those people who oppresses them by my bludgeoning insistence on pure rationality. But still, it would be kinda cool and exciting to be proven wrong... you know?

Plus rent in Los Angeles is effin' 'SPENSIVE. I'd save hellacious amounts of money every year by not having to pay rent.

So yeah, I'd probably live in said house, but it would really depend on a few factors. There might still be things that would be purely squicky enough to pass on the deal. Like, are there visible bloodstains or bullet holes still in evidence?

And this "brutal" murder -- did some BTK serial killer systematically rape and dismember an innocent person? Or did some battered spouse or child finally empty a .38 into a longtime abuser? Or did some nameless, faceless, sociopathic mafioso or drug lord do away with another nameless, faceless, equally sociopathic mafioso or drug lord who crossed him in some indefensible criminal manner? The first would squick me, but the second and last not so much.

Now if it was a particularly misogynistic crime against a woman, however, I think the negativity that would come from dwelling in such a place would be too depressing for me. I can be moody enough already.

But if "GET OUT" were ever to appear on the wall in bleeding letters -- I'd be gone so fast I'd leave an ion trail. I wouldn't try to stick it out and make the ghost escalate matters; nah, I've seen enough horror movies to know how useless THAT approach is. "OKAY! Calling the movers RIGHT NOW! Sorry to have troubled you!"

For all (kinda random) seasons,


Gimpy!Guernica UPDATE! And it's HAPPY! :-D

So earlier this week I called Domnule Atrenor to tell him what my doctor had said, and that I was going to be out for some time. I was acutely disappointed and upset about being sidelined by an injury, so he did some roughly sympathetic “There there, you will be fine, injuries happen to everyone. It is not the end of the world” pat-patting of me, in his own inimitably taciturn way. Then he told me about the time he got his thumb broken and dislocated during a bout and had to function with a hand cast and take MONTHS off to let that heal, which rather put things in perspective.

BUT, he also had a suggestion: I could still take my usual fencing lessons – but from a wheelchair! Apparently there are Paralympic champion fencers out there, amputees or parapalegics, who do some great fencing from a semi-stationary position in a chair. Since I’m not moving around quite so much and there's no footwork, I asked for an extended double-time lesson as well. Apparently another athlete at the club broke her foot sometime ago, and took wheelchair lessons while she was recovering. Afterwards, her bladework and point control were much improved, he said.

“So you concentrate on your arm for awhile while your leg gets better. It will be good for you,” Coach said. With that -- problem solved, Doamna Guernica. See you tonight as always.

He doesn’t say that much. But I find his matter-of-fact confidence so heartening sometimes.

Our personal trainer at the gym also suggested that I still come in for a training session, but we’ll concentrate on ab work and upper body toning, since I can still sit at a machine and lift weights okay. So it looks like I’ll be hopping in between weights machines this week working torso and arms, but Mr. G promised to help tote me around, rather like a large piece of baggage.

Yeah, he's a big schweetie.

For all (effin' impaired functionality) seasons,

In Which I Work Out Too Much...

So, my current fencing/workout schedule goes like this:

Monday: private sabre lesson, group foil class.
Tuesday: hourlong couple's session with Mr. G and personal trainer.
Wednesday: group sabre class.
Thursday: private sabre lesson, group foil class.
Friday: hourlong couple's session with Mr. G and personal trainer.
Saturday: 2-hour fencing competition skills class, in either foil or sabre depending on who else shows up.
Sunday: NOTHING. Maybe a leisurely bike ride with Mr. G at most. (Girl's gotta have her rest break.)

Or at least that WAS my training schedule, until I started feeling some pain in my left ankle this last week.

Which rapidly turned into a lovely case of full-blown Achilles tendonitis.


This descends to levels of suckitude previously unimagined in the annals of all that is dolorous, unhappy, odious, and in all ways less than pleasing.

I can't fence -- hell, can barely walk. I hop around on my toes, a tight compression band on my foot and ankle, with the assistance of a CANE -- I'm using a f&%@ing CANE! I'm also taking some hardcore anti-inflammatories, and have now been in for an MRI and the first of multiple ultrasound therapies. Luckily tho', my doc says it's just an inflammation injury due to repetitive stress and not a rupture or tear of any kind.

It'll probably be at least a week (if not more) until I can fence again.

Fuuuuuuuck me! *sigh*

For all (I'm SO f*cked) seasons,